#except be harmed over and over and over again

[lvrclerc]

✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company. 

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised. 

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute. 

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger. 

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.” 

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look,  “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment. 

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like  the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh. 

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[hainge]

Fifth Bullet: Where the Fire Left Ashes

cowboy!kaiser x fem!reader pt. 5 (wc 3.6k) from Silver bullets and stolen hearts part IV part VI warnings: MDNI!!!! swearing, violence, gun usage, mature language, mention of death/blood

“Pfft-” Shidou clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders jerking with the effort not to laugh.

“You can laugh. I don’t give a damn,” Kaiser muttered, puffing on his cigar and glancing out the window like he wasn’t hoping for a distraction.

Shidou lost it. “P-PHAHAHAHAHAH! You got all sour and moody over that? That? You sittin’ here lookin’ like a kicked dog ‘cause of some sentimental shit?”

Kaiser’s jaw twitched. He exhaled smoke slow, like it’d calm him. It didn’t. He shot Shidou a glare, then gave him a firm shove off the bed.

Shidou let out a wheeze as he hit the floor with a thud. “Aaah, Mihya, you amuse me,” he said from the rug, grinning like a damn fox. “Makes me feel all poky inside.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Shidou sat up, rubbing his back, eyes glinting. “By the by, mind explainin’ why your calendar’s sittin’ on August of 1885? It’s May, dumbass. It’s actually starting to piss me off”

Kaiser didn’t even look. “Because I was gone for nine months, you nosy ant. Try keepin’ up.”

When he finally glanced Shidou’s way, the bastard wasn’t on the floor anymore. He was standing near the dresser, poking at the neat little pile of art supplies Kaiser had laid out earlier.

“Oooh, what’s this? For lil’ ol’ me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t touch it,” Kaiser warned, voice low.

“These pens,” Shidou said, lifting the box with a twinkle in his eye. “I knew a fella who had these exact ones. Real pedo. Found him facedown dead in a ditch, pens shoved straight up his ass”

“Stop,” Kaiser growled, and snatched the box out of his hands with a sharp motion. “Don’t fuckin’ touch it.”

Shidou threw his hands up in mock surrender, that grin never leaving his face. “Whoa there, sweetheart. I ain’t mean no harm.”

He wandered casually around the room, inspecting the walls like he lived there. “So…this is for her?”

Kaiser didn’t answer. He sat back down, propped his elbow on his knee, and took another drag from his cigar.

“When you plannin’ on givin’ it to her?”

“Hopefully never,” he muttered under his breath.

Shidou let out a snort that turned into a strange wheezing giggle. “What kinda laugh was that?” Kaiser shot him a disgusted look. “You sure you’re not possessed?”

“I might be,” Shidou shrugged, crossing his arms with dramatic flair. “Possessed with secondhand embarrassment, considerin’ how shit you are at apologizin’. Lord, it’s painful watchin’ you try.”

Kaiser narrowed his eyes. “It’s not exactly my strong suit.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’. You hand over flowers like you’re surrenderin’ at war and mutter some half-dead ‘I’m sorry’ like it’s gonna erase the whole mess. Brother, she’s got more reason to shoot you than to hug you.”

Kaiser looked away. “I know.”

“You want her back?”

There was a long pause. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the soft crackle of the cigar.

“…I want her to be okay,” Kaiser said finally. “That’s all.”

Shidou tilted his head. “That ain’t all. You love her. Which means you’re gonna have to grow a damn spine and say what matters.”

Kaiser ran a hand through his hair. “You make it sound easy.”

“‘Cause for once it is, dumbass. Just tell her you’re sorry like a man. No riddles, no dramatics. Just plain words. You’re only makin’ it harder the longer you wait.”

Kaiser didn’t answer. He just stared at the pencils in the box like they might give him courage.

“Can I give it to her?” Shidou asked with a wink.

“Touch it again and I’ll break your wrist.”

Shidou laughed. “There’s my boy.” You sat at the table, eyes fixed on the card as if it might shift or speak if you stared long enough. It had been sitting there for nearly an hour now, untouched except for the crease your thumb had left when you placed it down.

The quiet was broken by the soft jingle of keys at the front door. A moment later, your father stepped inside, boots dusted from the road, his hat in one hand.

“Hello, Y/n.”

“Hi…” you replied, voice low and unfocused.

He walked over to you, eyes filled with the kind of softness only a father could carry. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, warm and steady.

“How’s it going? You feelin’ any better?”

“Huh? Oh…yeah, better,” you said quickly, eyes flicking away from the card. “Better, I guess.”

He gave a small nod, not quite convinced, and turned to head toward the bathroom, talking over his shoulder about the rough ride home and the broken wheel on the wagon. He got a few steps before he stopped, voice dipping just enough to catch your attention.

“You know, Kaiser told me it was just an argument. Said it got a little heated.” His eyes scanned the floor. “Didn’t expect to come home to a broken vase.”

Your stomach twisted. “Ah- I forgot to clean it. Sorry, I…”

You trailed off as he sighed and crouched beside the shattered pieces still resting in the corner.

“I couldn’t think straight,” you admitted, guilt curling in your voice.

“It’s alright, dear. Everything’s alright,” he said gently, gathering the larger shards with care. “You don’t need to apologize for that.”

When he stood again, he glanced at the table and his eyes landed on the card.

“This from me?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Yes. It’s for you.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know…it didn’t say.”

He hummed low in his throat, thoughtful, and took the card into his weathered hands. His eyes scanned the front, but he didn’t open it. Instead, he slid it into his coat pocket.

“I’ll open it later,” he said, voice unreadable.

That made your head tilt slightly without meaning to. There was a shift in the air, subtle, but not unnoticed. Like something unspoken had just taken up space between you.

He didn’t explain. He simply gave you a soft pat on the shoulder and walked into the next room, leaving behind only the echo of that strange, deliberate pause. "…Without any hint of escape…without any hint of escape…" you murmured, barely aware you were speaking aloud. Your gaze lingered on the closed door your father had disappeared behind, but you said nothing. You just thought. And thought. Something in you stirred uneasily, like a clock ticking too fast. You didn’t know what, or when, but you felt it, soon, something would happen. Something that would finally give you a hint. A clue to whatever message that card held, and who had sent it.

"GO, GO, GO, GO, GO-" BANG "HEADSHOOOOOT!" Shidou’s voice cut through the woods like a whipcrack of chaos.

Kaiser exhaled and lowered his rifle. The rabbit lay still, just a few meters away.

"Could’ve gone a little higher," Isagi muttered, adjusting his aim as he studied the next cluster of bushes.

"Like you could shoot a damned thing if your life depended on it, you empty-skulled fool," Kaiser snapped, tossing the rifle carelessly onto the patchy grass. He leaned back against his pale-coated horse and lit a cigar, the match flaring briefly against the afternoon sun.

Isagi rolled his eyes and raised his gun again, more focused on the movement in the brush than on whatever insult Kaiser had thrown his way.

"That one’s mine," Shidou grinned, tongue slipping out of his mouth as he pointed toward the rabbit. "That’ll be my dinner tonight. Hope it ain’t riddled with bone."

Ness, off to the side, stayed quiet, his fingers moving deftly over a pair of disassembled revolvers. He glanced at the sky like it might tell him something.

"What’s our next stop?" Ness asked finally, not looking up.

Kaiser didn’t answer right away. He took a long draw from the cigar, then breathed the smoke into the air like he was tired of everything around him. His voice came low and steady.

"You three go wherever the hell you feel like. I’m headin’ to her place."

Shidou gave a sharp whistle, grinning wide. "Well, I’ll be damned. The Emperor’s finally makin’ a move. You be sure to use some protection, now-"

BANG

Isagi fired again, taking down another small creature without so much as flinching.

Kaiser flicked ash off the cigar, ignoring Shidou’s crude comment, and pulled himself up onto his white horse.

The other three men watched as he settled in the saddle.

"Good luck," Ness offered, his voice dry, but not unkind.

Kaiser rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, then tugged the reins and set off down the trail without another word.

Behind him, Shidou laughed to himself. "Bet he forgot how to apologize properly."

Isagi didn’t even look over. "Bet he never knew how in the first place."

"How much we bettin’?" "Twenty dollars," isagi replied "Deal," Shidou smirked as they watched Kaiser ride off toward town.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the dry dirt road as Kaiser rode his white horse through the narrow path back toward her home. The wind tugged at his coat and ruffled his already-messy hair, but his hands stayed tight on the reins. His lips moved quietly, breath shallow, voice barely audible over the rhythm of hooves on packed soil.

"I can do this…no, I can’t…no, shut the hell up, you’re doin’ it…" He exhaled hard and looked down at the small box tied with a velvet ribbon in his saddlebag, now repacked and neater than when he bought it.

"Just say the damned words…mean it for once…" He slid off the horse as he reached the porch, dusted off his coat, and held the box in one hand. His knuckles were white around it. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the door like it was a firing squad.

Then he knocked.

From inside, you were leaned against the kitchen counter, chewing lazily on a biscuit you had scrounged up, still caught somewhere between aimless thought and bitterness. Then came the knock. Sharp. Intentional. Not impatient, but certainly not casual either.

"Now what in the world…? Better be someone with a damn good reason," you muttered to yourself as you wiped your hands and made your way to the front.

You should have asked who it was.You should have waited.But you didn’t.

You opened the door, and there he stood.

Not a smirk in sight. No swagger. Hair a tousled mess like he hadn’t touched a brush in hours, though his coat was elegant, expensive as always, like he’d made a rushed effort to appear respectable.

"what the hell are you doin’ here?" your voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and rising fury. "I told you not to come near me. Not again. I told you to never speak to me"

"Y/N…" he said, almost like a plea.

"Leave, Michael. I swear, you stay one more second and you’ll make it worse. Dad!" your voice rose as you turned back into the house.

"Wait," he said quickly, stepping forward, though not crossing the threshold. "Please, just…listen for a second. I’m not here to start anything. I’m just..."

You stopped, but your eyes burned.

Kaiser swallowed and looked down for a second, the hand holding the box tightening ever so slightly.

"I am not good at this," he admitted, voice low and steady, but vulnerable in a way you’d never heard before. "Hell, I’ve never been good at it. Never knew the right words, and when I did, they always came too damn late. You were right to be mad. I was wrong, and I was careless. I said things I shouldn’t have. Did things worse."

He finally looked at you, really looked at you.

"I don’t blame you for hating me, not after what happened. I hate myself plenty for it. And I ain’t askin’ you to forgive me. Not now. Maybe not ever. I just needed you to know…I’m sorry. Sincerely. I don’t expect that to fix what I broke, but it’s the only honest thing I got left to give."

He slowly held the box out to you.

"This…isn’t a bribe. It ain’t a trick. It’s just something I picked up, thinking maybe you’d like it. That’s all."

You stared at it, not moving at first. The box was beautiful, the ribbon tied too neatly for someone like him. Suspicion warred with something softer in your chest, and your brows furrowed.

You finally reached out and took it. The moment your fingers touched the box, your arms dipped downward.

"For the love of---what the hell is in this? Rocks?" you muttered.

Kaiser gave a faint chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the heaviness in the air.

"Quality ain’t light, sweetheart," he murmured, then immediately regretted the familiar term and looked away. "Sorry. Habit."

You didn’t reply.

The weight of the box in your hands was nothing compared to the silence hanging between you both. You looked away, completely at a loss for words. Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came. There was nothing for you to apologize for.

"I…will get going. See you," he said, almost under his breath, before turning around.

"Bye…" you murmured, so quiet it barely reached the air behind him.

That wasn’t the Michael Kaiser you’d seen at the bar just a few days ago. There was no trace of that smug confidence, no heavy swagger. Just a tall, tired man with something you hadn’t seen in a long time, remorse. But beyond that, behind the eyes, behind the tension in his shoulders, you still saw the little boy you used to know. You didn’t want to think about that right now.

You turned back into the house, closed the door with a soft click, and looked down at the box still heavy in your arms.

"To my dearest Y/N," you read aloud from the small card tied to the ribbon. Your fingers brushed it once before tucking it against the lid.

Without letting your father hear the stairs creak beneath you, you made your way up to your room, step by quiet step. Once inside, you placed the box gently on your table, hands still unsure, then slowly pulled the ribbon loose.

You didn’t read the card first.

Instead, you lifted the lid and froze.

Shock hit you first.

Inside was a full set of art supplies. Not just a few scattered items, but a careful, curated collection. The canvas you had been saving up to buy today. Brushes, new ones, still bound in paper that matched the exact size and shape of the ones you needed most. A thick leather-bound sketchbooks that practically begged to be filled. Then your breath caught again.

A pair of earrings nestled in a small velvet pouch. Gold. Not plated. Real. Elegant, yet small enough to wear without drawing attention. You blinked.

Your gaze swept lower.

"Are you joking…?" you whispered as your fingers touched a pristine, untouched tin of Faber-Castell pencils. The real kind. Imported. The kind artists dreamed about but never got to hold in their hands.

And there, folded neatly at the bottom, was a single ribbon. Soft, sky-blue, with a delicate floral edge. You ran your fingers along it without thinking, unable to stop. The texture was smooth, almost like silk. So pointless and pretty. You couldn’t look away from it.

Your mouth had gone dry, but still you felt your focus pull in tighter and tighter. The longer you looked at everything, the harder it became to breathe evenly.

This was too much.

Far too much.

And somehow, exactly right. You finally looked over at the card, fingers hesitating only for a second before you opened it. The paper felt thick between your hands. And his handwriting, surprisingly, was beautiful. Elegant, almost aristocratic. A part of him you’d never seen before, like a secret he hadn’t meant to share.

To my dearest Y/n,

I don’t know if you’ll ever want to read this, not after the way things ended between us today. Maybe you’ll tear it up. Maybe you’ll let it sit unread in a drawer somewhere until the ink fades and the corners yellow. But if there’s even the smallest chance that you’ll read it, then I have to write it, if only to stop myself from going mad.

It was stupid, all of it. The arguing, the way I snapped at you. I don’t even remember what lit the fuse, just the way the fire took hold and burned straight through us like dry brush in summer heat. You looked at me different after. Like you were done. Like you’d seen some part of me you didn’t recognize anymore.

And I hated that more than anything.

I’ve been carrying something heavy for a long time now, something I never dared lay down between us. I kept it hidden in my chest like a loaded gun, pointed inward. I figured if I never named it, it couldn’t ruin what we had. But maybe that was foolish. Maybe not saying it out loud is what ruined us instead.

Y/n, I think I’ve loved you since we were kids, long before either of us knew what love meant. You, with your grass-stained skirts and scraped-up elbows, telling me I was being reckless again. You, who always knew when to call me out, when to pull me back. You were the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn’t just wild trouble. You saw something good, even when I couldn’t.

Do you remember the time we raced down by the river, when the water was high and the wind near tore the hat off my head? You laughed so hard you could barely breathe, and I thought right then, God help me, I’d give anything to be the reason she laughs like that forever. I never said it. Never had the guts. And now I wonder if maybe I waited too long.

You were always meant for more than this dust town and the mess of boys who don’t know how to hold onto what matters. I was afraid of that. Afraid you’d outgrow me, leave me behind like boot prints in the dirt. So I kept my mouth shut and let the years pile up, thinking maybe someday I’d be enough.

But today proved I’m not. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know the truth before the silence between us sets in too deep. If this is the last thing I ever get to say to you, then let it be this:

I loved you before I even knew I was capable of it. I love you still, even now, with my pride cracked.

And if you never speak to me again, I’ll understand. But I’ll carry you with me, always, tucked into the spaces between all the things I never had the courage to say.

Yours, Michael Kaiser

You didn’t move. Not at first. You just sat there, the card resting on your thighs, the room silent save for the faint creaking of the old wood beneath your chair.

Your eyes had gone wide without realizing it.

Then, without any warning, a single tear traced its way down your cheek.

Your fingers loosened against the card as your gaze shifted toward the box beside you. You looked at it like it had changed, like the objects inside now meant something more than what they were.

"Michael…" you whispered.

You looked around the room, as if expecting someone to explain it to you. But no one came. And you didn’t know why.

You didn’t know why it hurt.

Or why it didn’t.

Not yet.

You stared back down at the card, unmoving.

It was hard to believe the same boy from your childhood, mud on his boots, reckless glint in his eye, always one bad decision ahead, was the one who wrote this. That’s what made it all the more difficult. That’s what turned your throat tight and your chest hollow.

Maybe that’s what made you feel like crying in the first place.

With a trembling breath, you folded the letter and stuffed it back into the box. You couldn’t deal with this right now. Not this. Not when the walls of your room suddenly felt too small, like they were closing in on you along with your thoughts.

You had no choice but to shove the box under your bed, out of sight. Maybe your father wouldn’t notice. Maybe you could pretend none of this ever happened, just long enough to breathe.

But the moment you stood up, your heart betrayed you.

No, you needed to see him.

Right now.

You didn’t care if it made sense. You didn’t care how badly he’d hurt you just days ago. All you knew was that if you didn’t see his face, hear his voice, something inside you might crack for good.

You bolted down the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet as you made for the door.

But your father’s voice caught you like a rope pulling back.

"Y/n, can I talk to you?"

You blinked. "Hm?"

He was standing near the parlor with a faint look of concern etched into his brow. One hand rested on the back of the armchair, his shoulders stiff like he hadn’t quite figured out how to ask what he needed to.

"Just for a moment," he said, his tone gentle. "It won’t take long."

You stood still, torn between two kinds of weight, your past waiting behind you and your future galloping out the door ahead.

You swallowed.

"...Sure. What’s going on?"

taglist: @jjklover365daysayear @silverwings920 @bach-ira @rroxii@byzantiumhollow @amy-briar03 @ladykamos @emikikus18 @chuua-l0ver

[jkwrites-m]

Another Time (8)

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: soulmates, past life, thriller, smut, fluff, angst

Word Count: 7.4k

Summary: When Y/N and Jungkook begin sharing vivid dreams of each other, their connection feels too real to ignore. When tragedy from a past life begins bleeding into the present, they’re forced to unravel the mystery of love, betrayal, and fate.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+ angst, cursing, name-calling, fighting, physical harm, verbal assault, physical assault, attempted sexual assault, main character death, murder, lying, gore, blood, knives, emotions 💔

A/N: it’s THE flashback so please read with caution guys⚠️. This is a heavy chapter so please pay attention to the warnings 🫶 -m

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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“Y/N?” His voice cracked like dry glass.

Her sobbing paused, not because she’d calmed, but because she’d heard him. Slowly, she pulled away from Jimin and turned her face toward Jungkook.

Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, but it wasn’t the crying that knocked the breath from Jungkook’s lungs. It was her eyes. The look in them.

Hatred.

It was sharp. Foreign. The kind of look you never forget, because it splits your soul in half.

“What happened?” he asked, stepping forward, reaching slightly. “Baby, what-”

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice low and venom-laced. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Y/N... What’s going on?”

Her lips trembled, then curled with disgust. “You’re really gonna stand there and pretend like you don’t know?” Her voice raised sharply. “Do you think I’m that fucking stupid, Jungkook?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, confused, hurt flooding his voice. “I- I just got here- ”

“The coke,” she screamed, her voice raw. “The fucking cheating. The lies. All of it. I know everything now.”

Jungkook's heart slammed against his ribs. “What- what do you mean everything?”

She stepped toward him, each step like a storm surge building. “I saw the pictures. Jimin told me everything. You weren’t careful. You didn’t even try to hide it. All that time I spent trusting you… loving you since we were kids and this is what you do?”

Jungkook was already shaking his head. “No. No, no, no. That’s not true. I didn’t cheat on you. I didn’t- Y/N, I swear to God, I didn’t touch anyone.”

“Liar!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “You’re a fucking liar, Jungkook!”

He flinched, physically stepping back as if the words struck him.

Jimin stood now, positioning himself slightly between them. “You don’t deserve to stand here and act confused,” he spat. “You don’t deserve her.”

“You think I’m going to take this from you?” Jungkook barked back. “You’ve been jealous of us for years. This is what you’ve always fucking wanted!”

“I’m not the one who did lines in a hotel room with two half-naked girls while my fiancée was waiting at home!” Jimin snapped.

“That didn’t happen!” Jungkook shouted. “You're making this shit up! And you know it!”

“Enough!” Y/N screamed, hands over her ears like their voices were knives. “Just shut up! Both of you!”

The room fell into silence except for her sobs. Jungkook took a tentative step forward.

“Y/N,” he said, voice shaking. “You’ve known me since we were kids. You know I wouldn’t do this to you.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” she whispered, tears pooling again. “You’re not him. You’re not the boy I grew up with. You’re not the man I thought I’d marry.”

He fell to his knees.

It wasn’t performative- it was real, painful, raw. Jungkook’s hands reached toward her, palms up, begging. “Please. Please don’t believe him. You’re all I have. I love you.”

She shook her head violently, backing away from his hands like they were fire. “You threw that love away.”

“No- please,” he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m not that person. I swear. He twisted something, he- he framed me, Y/N. You have to believe me!”

“I don’t have to believe anything,” she snarled.

“I’ll go to rehab. I’ll cut everyone off. I’ll do anything, just- just don’t walk away from us.”

She stared at him in silence for several seconds. Then, without blinking:

“Get out.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. “Y/N...”

“I said get the fuck out!” she screamed.

He remained kneeling. “Please... just talk to me…”

“I hate you!” she roared. “I hate you for what you did to me!”

The words were a blade, and Jungkook felt every inch of it. He stayed frozen, his soul bleeding out in silence as Jimin stepped closer to her side.

“Don’t make me say it again,” she hissed.

Slowly, Jungkook stood. His knees popped under the strain of standing with a shattered heart. His shoulders slouched forward like the weight of two decades had just landed on his back. He looked at her one last time, hoping, praying, silently begging for a flicker of mercy.

None came.

He turned, and each step toward the door felt heavier than the last. The silence was deafening, and when the door clicked closed behind him, it sounded like a tomb sealing.

Outside, it had started to rain.

Jungkook stepped into it without hesitation, letting the cold drops mix with the salt of his tears. For the first time in years, the dreams that had always comforted him... were nowhere to be found.

═══════

Jungkook barely made it to the end of the driveway.

Rain soaked him instantly, slicking his hair to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. But none of it registered. He stood there, unmoving, staring at the gravel like it held the answers he didn’t have. His chest heaved, his heart crushed under the weight of her words.

I hate you.

They echoed like gunshots in his head.

But no matter how much it hurt, something deeper gnawed at his insides. A voice, quiet at first, then screaming. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Y/N’s voice in his memory hadn’t just been angry. It had been afraid. Shaken.

And Jimin… the smugness in his face. The way he held her. The timing of it all.

No.

Jungkook turned on his heel.

He didn’t walk back. He ran.

His wet shoes slapped against the porch as he bolted through the door he hadn’t even bothered to lock behind him. Rainwater dripped down his face, fogging his vision, but the moment he stepped back into the house, all sound sharpened like glass breaking.

Yelling.

Not just raised voices. 

screaming.

His blood froze.

“Y/N?” he called, already sprinting toward the back of the house.

The bedroom door was half-shut, light flickering inside. The noises were clearer now, her voice high-pitched, panicked, desperate.

“Jungkook! Help! Please! Stop! Get off me!”

And then he heard her scream.

He didn’t hesitate.

He slammed through the door with his shoulder, the door banging against the wall so hard the handle embedded into the drywall. What he saw made his soul explode in rage.

Jimin was on top of her, pinning her wrists down with one hand, his other tugging at the hem of her shirt. Her legs kicked violently beneath him, her voice hoarse from screaming.

“GET OFF HER!” Jungkook roared.

Jimin barely had time to turn before Jungkook tackled him, launching himself like a missile. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Y/N scrambled back against the bedpost, chest heaving, face pale.

Jimin recovered fast. With a guttural snarl, he reared back and smashed his fist into Jungkook’s face.

Crack.

Jungkook's head whipped to the side. His lip split open.

Jimin didn’t stop- he punched again, and again, fists fueled by something darker than jealousy.

“You ruined everything!” Jimin screamed, spit flying.

Jungkook's body reeled with each blow, stars dancing in his vision.

Y/N screamed again, this time for him. “Stop! STOP!”

Her hand closed around the lamp on the nightstand, the heavy ceramic one Jungkook’s mother had given them. Without thinking, she swung.

CRACK.

The lamp exploded against Jimin’s skull, shards flying as he stumbled forward with a grunt, hands flying to the back of his head.

“You bitch- !” he hissed, staggering.

He turned, wild-eyed, and slammed his fist into Y/N’s cheek before she could move.

She hit the wall hard and dropped to the floor, her hand clutching her face.

“Y/N!” Jungkook tried to move, but his limbs were slow. Dizzy. The world tilted around him, blood dripping from his nose. His head throbbed where Jimin had hit him, the edges of his vision blurring.

Jimin moved to Y/N again, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her backward with a violent pull.

“No!” Jungkook surged up with what strength he had left, pulled back, and let his fist fly.

The punch connected hard, right into Jimin’s nose. The crunch was immediate.

Jimin howled in pain and reeled backward, hands flying to his face. Blood poured between his fingers.

“You piece of- ” he lunged, slamming into Jungkook and sending both of them crashing into the dresser. Jungkook’s back hit the corner hard, but worse, his head struck the mirror behind them with a sickening thud.

His knees buckled.

Everything spun.

Jungkook dropped to the floor, dazed and blinking through what felt like fog. He barely registered Jimin turning back to Y/N.

“No- no-” he slurred, trying to push himself up.

Y/N tried to crawl away, sobbing now, her cheek already swelling, blood staining her lip.

Jimin stood over her, nose crooked and eyes full of madness.

“You should’ve picked me,” he spat.

And then he punched her again.

This time, she went limp.

Jungkook’s vision tunneled in on her body, crumpled, unmoving.

“No...” he whispered, voice broken. “Y/N...”

The darkness crept closer.

═══════

The dim, flickering light from a lone bulb cast long, jagged shadows across the living room walls. The silence was thick, pierced only by the sound of slow, calculated footsteps and the rustle of rope.

Y/N’s eyelids fluttered.

Her head throbbed, her jaw ached, and something was digging into her wrists. She tried to move, but her body didn’t respond the way it should. Her legs were numb, her arms stiff. She blinked hard, tears spilling without permission as awareness crept back in like smoke.

She was tied.

Her arms were bound behind the back of a dining room chair, ropes cinched tight around her wrists and ankles. A strip of cloth gagged her mouth, cutting into the corners of her lips. Her breathing quickened into a muffled panic.

Across from her, Jungkook stirred.

He, too, was tied, his chair placed deliberately to face hers- their eyes met instantly. His lower lip was swollen, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. His left eye was beginning to purple. But what gutted her most was the way he looked at her: with helplessness, horror, and raw apology.

She sobbed behind her gag. He let out a low, strangled sound behind his.

Then a voice emerged from behind them, casual, almost annoyed.

“Oh, come on,” Jimin said, stepping into view between them, the kitchen light throwing his shadow across the room. “You two crying like that... it’s not going to help anything.”

His tone was light, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining weather conditions instead of orchestrating a kidnapping.

Jungkook growled low behind the cloth gag. Y/N flinched, her breathing jagged, head twitching in search of an escape that didn’t exist.

“I really didn’t want it to come to this,” Jimin said with a sigh, dragging a chair into the center of the room and spinning it around so he could sit on it backward, his arms resting on the backrest. “But people don’t listen, do they? Especially when they’re stubborn and selfish.”

He glanced at Y/N, his eyes softening in a sickening way. “I was hoping you’d come easily. After everything I showed you… after what you saw him do... I thought you’d run. I thought you’d come find me.”

She let out a muffled cry, shaking her head wildly.

“You were supposed to,” he whispered, almost hurt. “You were supposed to know. We’re the ones who are meant to be.”

He turned toward Jungkook, who was already straining at the ropes, muscles flexing with futile fury.

“You weren’t even supposed to be a problem,” Jimin said coldly. “Honestly, I thought it’d be easy. Jennie was all in. I didn’t even have to push her that hard. She thought you were hot and rich and probably bored. I told her you liked her, that you were only with Y/N out of pity. She believed it.” He laughed once. “People believe what they want to believe, huh?”

Jungkook's whole body shook from the effort to scream through the gag. His eyes burned with hatred.

Jimin ignored it.

“I thought Jennie would seduce you. I didn’t think you’d actually push her off. I underestimated you there. Maybe you’re not as much of a piece of shit as I thought.” His face twitched, then turned bitter. “Still a piece of shit, though.”

He stood and began pacing.

“I started small, you know? Just casual. Friendly. The guy at work who makes jokes. The one who laughs at your dumb stories. The one who buys the drinks and listens. All while keeping her safe.” He pointed at Y/N again. “Always keeping her safe.”

Y/N was sobbing now, trying to shake her head, trying to scream at him through the gag. He didn’t hear it or didn’t care.

“I brought coke to the bar once. Just a little. I knew you wouldn’t say no if you were drunk enough. And you didn’t. You tried it.” Jimin’s smile curled into something cruel. “That’s all I needed. Just one mistake. All I needed was one picture. Just in case I needed to show her what kind of man you are.”

Jungkook thrashed against the ropes, veins bulging in his neck.

“I built the whole thing,” Jimin continued, breathless now, lost in the fever of his own confession. “Every story. Every picture. Every whisper. Jennie was convinced you loved her. That you hated Y/N. That you were only waiting for the right moment. And when that didn’t work... I made it seem like Jennie was the one stalking you.”

He looked at Y/N again, tilting his head. “Remember the flowers on your porch? The notes? The phone calls? The car that got keyed outside the grocery store? “Mine” in the mirror? You thought it was her, didn’t you?”

She froze, her breath catching in her throat.

“I did all of that,” he whispered. “Me. I watched you. I followed you home more nights than you’ll ever know. You always looked over your shoulder, but never far enough.”

Y/N shook with silent terror, fresh tears pouring.

“I wanted you scared. I wanted you to doubt him. And when you did... when you finally screamed at him and made him leave... I thought finally. I thought you’d see that I was always there.”

He knelt beside her chair now, his face inches from hers, the smile gone. What was left was hunger.

“I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me in sophomore year. You don’t remember it. But I do.”

Her whole body recoiled.

“I’ve waited. Years. I’ve been patient. But you never saw me. It was always him.” His voice was now trembling, with frustration or rage or both. “And I’m done waiting.”

Jungkook’s chair tipped from how hard he lunged forward, his muffled scream furious. But the ropes were tight, expertly knotted.

Jimin stood again, his expression composed now, almost serene. “This didn’t have to be violent. I wanted you to choose me. But you’re not thinking straight right now.” He gestured between them. “That’s okay. We’ll just take some time. Together. And once it’s just us, and he’s gone, you’ll see.”

Y/N let out a moan of pure despair, her body wracking with sobs.

Jimin’s smile twitched.

“I’m going to make us tea. When I come back, we’re going to talk. All three of us. Properly.”

And with that, he turned and walked back toward the kitchen, humming to himself, the sound of a kettle being filled breaking the silence.

Jungkook and Y/N were alone again, chairs facing each other, eyes locked. Both gagged. Both bound. But something electric passed between them.

Desperation.

Love.

Survival.

And rage.

���══════

Jimin returned from the kitchen with no tea in hand. Only a hunting knife.

The blade gleamed under the low living room light, clean, curved, clinical, as if it didn’t belong in the hands of someone who once called himself a friend. But now, nothing felt unfamiliar. Not the madness in his eyes. Not the way he walked with purpose. Not the silence stretching between each step.

He crouched beside Y/N first.

She flinched when his fingers touched her gag.

“Shh,” he cooed. “I want to hear your voice. Don’t scream. It ruins the moment.”

With agonizing slowness, he untied the cloth from behind her head and pulled it free. Her jaw quivered, her lips trembling from the dried blood that had crusted at the corner.

“P-Please…” she rasped.

Jimin’s eyes glinted as if her fear was music. Then he turned to Jungkook, his movements sharper, colder. He yanked the gag from Jungkook’s mouth like tearing tape from skin.

Jungkook immediately spat blood toward his shoes.

“You piece of shit,” he growled, voice hoarse, throat raw. “Let her go. I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Jimin laughed.

Loudly.

It echoed through the room like something unhinged. He backed away, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Oh no. Jungkookie’s mad,” he taunted, tilting his head. “You’re gonna kill me? While tied to a chair?”

Jungkook lunged forward, straining against the ropes. They didn’t budge.

“What are you gonna do, huh?” Jimin sneered. “Cry again? Beg some more? Punch me with your words?”

Y/N’s voice cut through the madness- trembling, quiet. “Please… Jimin. You don’t have to do this. We won’t tell anyone. Just let us go. Please.”

Her eyes shimmered, brimming with both terror and humanity.

But Jimin’s gaze didn’t soften. “It’s too late for that.”

Jungkook turned to her, eyes locking with hers in the dim light.

And suddenly, the rage fell away.

What was left was love.

Unbreakable. Radiant. Honest.

His breathing slowed. His voice lowered.

“Y/N…” he whispered.

She turned to him instantly, her eyes wide, drowning in sorrow.

“I don’t know if we’re going to get out of this,” he said. “But I can’t let you go without saying everything.”

Jimin rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh great, here comes the Romeo monologue.”

Jungkook didn’t stop.

“You shaped who I am,” Jungkook said. “From the moment I met you, I became someone. You are my air. My purpose. Every breath I’ve ever taken that mattered, it was because of you.”

Y/N sobbed, the sound nearly silent.

“I was an idiot,” Jungkook continued, voice unraveling. “I lied about things I thought didn’t matter. I was stupid. I should’ve told you everything, every mistake, every scar. But what I never did- what I never could do- is cheat on you. I would never disrespect you. Never hurt you. You’re my best friend. My everything.”

Jimin began to pace, his smirk faltering.

“You’re my best friend, Y/N. My soul. My constant. I’d burn the world to the ground before I ever hurt you. And I’m so sorry for ever making you doubt it.”

He started crying — real tears, hot and raw, dripping from his bruised face.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much it scares me. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want a life with you.”

“I love you too,” Y/N whispered through her sobs. “You’re my whole world, Jungkook. I believe you. I forgive you. I choose you.”

They looked at each other like the world had narrowed to just them- the ropes, the fear, the madness- all falling away.

Jimin stood still, silent, something unreadable in his eyes.

And then, his expression shattered.

“You’re better than him,” he barked at Y/N. “You know you are. Look at you. Look at what he’s done! And you're still- still choosing him?”

Y/N nodded, slowly, eyes fierce despite the tears.

“Yeah,” she said. “I choose him.”

“Me or him?” Jimin screamed, his voice shaking the walls.

“Jungkook.” She didn’t blink.

Jimin’s hand lashed out.

The slap landed so hard Y/N’s face jerked sideways and her lip split. Jungkook roared from his chair, thrashing until it tipped sideways and he crashed to the floor.

“You dumb cunt,” Jimin snarled, inches from her face now. “You don’t know what you had in front of you. You’re a tease. A bitch. You’ve always been one.”

Y/N whimpered, turning her face away, but he followed.

“He drags you down. He makes you less. And you’re too stupid to see it.”

“Go to hell,” she hissed.

“You ruined your life,” Jimin spat. “And it’s your fault. You could’ve had something better. You could’ve had me.”

Y/N turned her face back to him. Not with fear, but with rage.

“Fuck you,” she said. “I will only ever love Jungkook.”

And that was the end.

Jimin stepped back.

Something inside him broke.

His eyes emptied out.

“Well then,” he said softly, “if I can’t have you…”

He raised the knife.

“…then no one can.”

“No!” Jungkook screamed from the floor, but it was too late.

Jimin lunged forward and plunged the blade into Y/N’s abdomen.

She screamed, a gut-wrenching, primal scream that filled the room and shattered the air.

Blood soaked her shirt immediately.

“No- NO!” Jungkook was screaming, crying, voice tearing from his throat.

Y/N gasped, her body trembling violently.

Jimin pulled the knife out and stabbed again.

Then again.

Three times.

She slumped forward, her breath catching in shallow, broken sobs.

Jimin stepped back, panting, covered in her blood, eyes wild with something feral and irreversible.

Jungkook was screaming incoherently now, trying to push himself upright, his arms and legs still bound, his voice a mix of horror and helplessness.

Y/N whimpered.

Then lifted her head, barely.

Her eyes found him.

And she smiled.

Even as the blood ran from her lips.

“Jungkook…” she whispered, the words a wisp of breath, “My favorite person…”

He stopped struggling just to hear her.

Her voice was shaking, thin, but laced with love.

“We’ve been glued together since we were kids… swapping secrets, racing through the neighborhood, falling in love under those big oak trees…”

Tears streamed down Jungkook’s cheeks, his face twisted in agony.

“You’ve been my best friend… my partner in every silly adventure… my everything…”

“Y/N, please…” he sobbed. “Hold on. Please, just hold on…”

“I want you to know…” she gasped, blood dribbling from her lips, “my heart’s still beating just for you… wild and full…”

She smiled, barely.

“I promise to love you with every bit of me… forever…”

“Don’t go,” Jungkook whispered, his voice crumbling. “Don’t leave me. I need you…”

“We won’t get our big wedding day…” she said slowly, “but we’ve already built a life full of love… and that’s what matters…”

Her head was beginning to slump.

Jimin stood off to the side, motionless.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered, but she forced them open.

“We’ll find each other again,” she whispered. “I know it…”

Jungkook was sobbing now, tied down, destroyed.

“Look at me…” she said, barely audible.

Her breath hitched one last time.

“I’m yours… always…”

She closed her eyes.

“…and I can’t wait to see you again… just past the horizon.”

Silence.

Her body went still.

And Y/N-  Y/N was gone.

═══════

Jungkook’s scream cracked the ceiling.

It wasn’t a sound of rage or defiance, it was the sound of something breaking. A soul splintering. A life unraveling. He shook against his restraints, blood and tears running together as he stared at the woman across from him- the woman who had been everything.

The woman who was now gone.

Y/N’s body slumped motionless in the chair, blood spreading in a slow, blooming pool beneath her. Her eyes were closed, lips parted as if still caught mid-whisper. That last promise, those final words — they echoed through his mind on loop.

“I’m yours… always…”

“NO!” he roared, his voice hoarse, tearing from his throat until it was raw. “NO, PLEASE!”

His chest rose and fell violently. He was gasping, coughing, sobbing all at once. Snot and blood dripped from his mouth. He didn’t care.

“She’s dead…” he whispered. “Oh my God. She’s dead…”

He dropped his head forward, forehead pressing into the rope that bound him. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to claw his way into the floor and disappear forever.

Behind him, Jimin stood frozen.

Knife still in hand. Blood spattered across his shirt and neck. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts. Something inside him flickered. Not triumph. Not relief. Just… silence.

“I…” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean…”

His gaze flicked to Y/N’s lifeless body. The knife clattered to the floor with a metallic clink as his hands trembled.

“I loved her,” he whispered.

But there was no answer. No one to comfort him. No delusion left to protect his mind from what he’d done.

He lunged forward again, not toward Y/N this time, but toward Jungkook.

Jungkook barely moved.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.

Jimin’s fist crashed into his jaw. Then again. And again.

“THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” Jimin bellowed. “She was mine! YOU TOOK HER FROM ME!”

Jungkook’s head whipped to the side with each punch. Blood painted his lips anew. His chair wobbled from the force but didn’t fall.

Still, he didn’t react. He just stared at her.

Jimin let out a roar of frustration, his fists falling limp at his sides. “Say something!” he screamed.

But Jungkook had nothing left for him.

Only her.

“My beautiful Y/N…” he whispered through swollen lips.

His voice was hollow, but full of love. Of memory. Of pain.

“We were just kids when we fell in love, racing through the backyard, whispering dreams under the stars…”

Tears slid down his cheeks like rivers carved through stone.

“…stealing kisses that felt like forever.”

Jimin stood still now, frozen by the sheer weight of Jungkook’s grief.

“You were my best friend, my partner in every wild moment… my whole world.”

Jungkook’s body trembled, wracked with sobs, but his voice stayed soft.

“You slipped away before I could say these vows… and now, with my own time running short… I’m holding you close in my heart… speaking the words I wish I’d said…”

The room fell quiet. Jimin’s breathing had slowed.

Jungkook continued, every word cracking him open wider.

“I promise to love you with every breath I have left. We didn’t get our wedding, but every giggle, every glance, every quiet second we shared was our promise. Our always.”

His gaze never left her.

“I carry you in the breeze… in our favorite songs… in the way the sunlight feels like your smile.”

His lips trembled, blood running over the edges.

“I’m not scared… because I know I’ll see you soon.”

A weak smile crossed his face, more painful than peaceful.

“I can almost hear you laughing, waiting for me… just beyond the stars.”

He inhaled deeply, raggedly.

“Save me a spot, my love…”

His eyes fluttered halfway shut as his head bowed.

“I’m coming to you, ready to hold you again.”

Jimin stood like a ghost in the room.

He didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t speak again.

He walked out.

Just walked out.

Leaving Jungkook bound, broken, but not beaten because even in grief, even in death, love had spoken louder than madness.

═══════

The silence in the room was thick and suffocating.

Jungkook sat motionless in the chair for hours, his wrists raw from struggling, his face caked in dried blood and tears. His eyes had not left Y/N’s body. Not once. He had barely blinked. Her form remained bathed in dim, amber light- her hair matted with blood, her shirt soaked with it. But still, to Jungkook, she looked like the girl who used to draw stars in the dirt with him under their childhood oak trees. The girl who hummed when she braided her hair. The girl who kissed him like he held the universe in his mouth.

The door creaked.

Then-

Clap.Clap.Clap.

Jimin strolled back in slowly, a slow sarcastic applause echoing across the hardwood floor.

“Well…” he said, dragging out the word like a theater critic. “What a performance. That little monologue?” He chuckled. “You almost had me crying.”

Jungkook didn’t move.

Jimin walked a slow circle around the room, then stopped beside Jungkook and crouched down.

“But you know what the problem is?” he said, tapping the side of his head. “I see through you. Always have. You’re not some tragic lover. You’re not this noble, broken hero. You’re a fucking narcissist.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from Y/N.

“You think you loved her?” Jimin spat. “You couldn’t even respect her enough to be honest. You let Jennie throw herself at you  and you didn’t stop it. You let her touch you. She told me everything.”

Jungkook closed his eyes briefly, the memory stabbing at him like broken glass.

“I didn’t…” he muttered. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t have to!” Jimin shouted, rising to his feet. “You liked it. You liked the attention. The flirting. The ego trip. You wanted to keep both of them orbiting around you like some fucked-up little sun.”

Still, Jungkook didn’t bite.

He only whispered again, lips barely moving:

“I love her.”

Jimin’s face twisted. “You don’t know what love is.”

Jungkook’s eyes finally lifted- slowly, painfully- and fixed on Jimin with a hollow kind of defiance.

“I do,” he said, blood running from the corner of his mouth. “It’s her. It’s always been her.”

Jimin snarled, spinning on his heel and pacing.

“Then why’d you cave so easily, huh?” he said. “One drink, and boom- coke up your nose. Y/N asked you to distance yourself from Jennie, and you didn’t even try.”

Jungkook said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Because Jimin wasn’t done.

“You were supposed to be her protector. Her home. And instead you fed your own ego every damn time. You let her wonder. Let her ache. And the moment things got complicated, what did you do?” Jimin gestured wildly. “You buried the truth.”

“She still loved me,” Jungkook whispered.

“She shouldn’t have!” Jimin roared.

Silence again. Heavy. Grating.

Jungkook’s head sagged forward, his voice almost inaudible:

“I love her.”

“You’re a liar,” Jimin spat. “You’re just afraid to be alone. You loved how she loved you. That’s all it was.”

“I love her,” Jungkook repeated.

Jimin kicked the side of his chair hard enough to rattle Jungkook’s whole body. He didn’t flinch.

“You didn’t deserve her!” Jimin screamed, his voice cracking. “She was mine. She just didn’t know it yet. I could’ve given her a life without pain. Without you.”

Jungkook slowly lifted his gaze again, his face battered, his eyes bloodshot and met Jimin’s stare.

“You never knew her,” he said, voice shaking. “She would’ve never loved you.”

Jimin looked stunned for a second, and behind that, something unhinged simmered. He turned and faced Y/N’s body, silent now.

“I knew her better than you ever did,” he muttered. “She just never gave me the chance.”

Jungkook shook his head weakly.

“She gave her heart. To me. You can kill us both. But that truth doesn’t change.”

Jimin stood still.

He didn’t scream again. He didn’t speak.

He just stared into the silence, drowning in it, as the man he hated whispered love like a prayer to the girl he couldn’t have.

═══════

Jimin was silent.

Too silent.

He stared at Y/N’s lifeless body, her blood staining the wooden floor like spilled ink. His hands trembled. His jaw clenched. His eyes shimmered with something broken and wild, not sadness anymore, but fury boiling under the weight of guilt.

Without warning, he turned and punched Jungkook hard in the face.

Jungkook’s head snapped back, pain exploding in his cheekbone. The chair creaked beneath him, groaning under the force. Blood splattered from his lip.

“You smug bastard,” Jimin snarled. “Sitting there… whispering love like it means something now.”

He stormed toward the knife, still glinting under the faint overhead light, resting in the pool of Y/N’s blood.

He picked it up.

It was still wet.

The red clung to the blade like it belonged there.

Jimin stared at it for a moment, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. His breath came in ragged pulls. The moment froze, the grief trying to claw its way through his fury.

And then he snapped.

He turned back to Jungkook with the blade trembling in his grip, raised it and slashed.

The tip of the knife cut a jagged line across Jungkook’s cheek.

“AH- !” Jungkook screamed through clenched teeth, blood instantly blooming from the wound.

Jimin’s face twisted. “You feel that? That’s what it’s like to be alive. Something you clearly forgot.”

Jungkook gasped, his chest rising and falling, the cut burning like fire, blood dripping down his neck. He didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. He just stared back, defiant and delirious, whispering:

“I love her.”

Jimin growled, enraged.

He plunged the knife down again- not into his chest, not anywhere fatal but deep into Jungkook’s thigh.

Jungkook screamed.

His entire body seized, the pain blooming like a lightning strike. Blood gushed from the stab, soaking his jeans instantly.

“Let’s see how much love you have left,” Jimin hissed.

He stabbed him again in the other thigh.

Then his side, narrowly avoiding any organs but ensuring agony.

Jungkook screamed again, the rope tearing into his wrists as he jerked violently.

Jimin stepped back, chest heaving.

Jungkook sagged in the chair, his head lolling forward, blood dripping from every angle now. His skin was pale. His shirt was soaked.

But his lips still moved.

“Y/N…”

Jimin lost it.

He kicked Jungkook’s chair.

Once.

Twice.

Then again- until the chair tipped, slamming sideways onto the floor with a loud crack. Jungkook’s head hit the ground hard, a gasp of pain escaping him.

“You think you're a fucking hero?!” Jimin shouted, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. “You think you’re the victim?”

He dragged Jungkook by the ropes, yanking the chair backward like dead weight.

Jungkook groaned in pain, his body a storm of fire and bruises.

Jimin pulled him into the kitchen, his boots slipping on the blood trailing behind.

The kitchen was colder. Sterile. The tile unforgiving beneath the chair’s legs.

Jimin let go of him and kicked him again, the blow landing in Jungkook’s ribs.

Jungkook coughed- a wet, rattling sound.

The knife was still in Jimin’s hand.

And now, the space between them had narrowed to a breath.

“After everything,” Jimin hissed, leaning down, his face inches from Jungkook’s bloodied one. “She still loved you.”

Jungkook’s eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, looked up at him.

And despite everything… he smiled.

“She’ll love me in the next life, too.”

Jimin screamed.

Jimin screamed- a sound of pure madness, not human anymore.

He hurled the knife across the room. It clattered against the wall and dropped into the sink with a metallic crash. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. For a moment, he stood there, panting, jaw clenched, eyes wild and twitching.

Jungkook lay on the kitchen floor, tied to the fallen chair, barely conscious. His legs were soaked in blood. His face was a mangled palette of bruises and cuts. But through the swelling, he still wore that look- that small, broken, bleeding smile. The kind that said: You failed.

And that broke Jimin further.

“You think that makes you better than me?” he seethed, stepping toward him again. “You think that little smirk makes you her knight in shining fucking armor?”

Jungkook groaned but didn’t respond.

“I was always there,” Jimin hissed, crouching low. “I saw her when you didn’t. I listened when you didn’t care. I watched her fall apart over you. Every tear, every moment you ignored her, dismissed her, made her question herself- I was there.”

He reached down and gripped Jungkook’s hair, yanking his head up so they were eye to eye.

“And she still chose you.”

He slammed Jungkook’s head against the tiled floor.

Jungkook let out a strangled gasp.

Again.

Another slam.

Blood smeared across the tile now, a glistening red halo spreading beneath him.

“Say something!” Jimin roared, shaking him.

Jungkook’s mouth opened, barely.

And then:

“I love her.”

The words were hoarse, cracked, nearly inaudible but they were real. Soft as a prayer. Stronger than the pain.

Jimin roared and stood up. He began pacing, hands clawing through his hair, breath wheezing.

“You think love means this?!” he screamed, spinning toward the body in the chair across the room- Y/N, lifeless and stained with the blood that had once tied the three of them together. “You call that love?”

Jungkook’s eye fluttered, his head rolling slightly as he tried to lift it, just to see her again.

Jimin saw it.

And he snapped again.

He kicked Jungkook’s ribs- hard.

Crack.

Jungkook screamed.

He couldn’t tell if it was pain or grief anymore.

Jimin dragged the chair fully upright and then, with brute force, threw it forward, sending Jungkook crashing against the side of the refrigerator. The metal dented. Jungkook crumpled to the ground again, chair legs splintering beneath the impact.

Blood pooled beneath him now.

But his lips were still moving.

“Y/N… I love you…”

“STOP SAYING THAT!” Jimin screamed.

He ran to the sink, pulled out the knife, and came back, standing over Jungkook, blade trembling in his grip.

“You don’t get to love her anymore,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t get to say her name. Not after you wasted it.”

Jungkook coughed blood and barely looked up, but when he did, Jimin froze.

That look again.

That calm defiance.

That knowledge that even if Jimin killed him, he had lost the one thing he wanted most.

“She’s still mine,” Jungkook croaked.

Jimin dropped to his knees, raising the knife again with a wild, shaking hand.

And this time, there was no threat.

There was intent.

═══════

The kitchen lights flickered slightly overhead, casting harsh yellow tones on the glossy red smears staining the floor. Jungkook lay slumped against the refrigerator, his head lolling forward, blood dripping steadily from his mouth. The broken chair beneath him creaked with every twitch of his broken body. The knife had already kissed his skin too many times. His clothes clung to him like wet bandages, saturated with his own blood.

Jimin stood over him, panting, shirtless now. His face looked hest heaving, skin painted with Y/N’s and Jungkook’s blood. The knife trembled in his grip, the handle slippery with sweat.

“You’re pathetic,” Jimin said, pacing again. “Bleeding out for a girl who saw you as some fucking golden boy. You didn’t even deserve her.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His lips trembled as they tried to form her name again.

“You really think you’re dying for love?” Jimin scoffed. “You’re dying because you were weak. You let yourself be seen as perfect and she believed you.”

Jungkook coughed again- a rattling, wet sound. Blood dribbled from his chin and painted the tile beneath him. He leaned against the fridge, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Then he turned his head,slowly, and caught sight of the wall clock.

1:15 AM.

It etched itself into his mind.

That time.

That moment.

The hour he realized the world had ended.

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to live without her,” he rasped.

Jimin paused.

Jungkook raised his head again, meeting his eyes- bloodied, exhausted, but clear.

“Just kill me,” he begged. “Please.”

Jimin stared at him.

There was silence for a beat, long and heavy. The weight of death hovered between them.

But Jimin didn’t lift the knife.

Instead, he grinned.

“Kill you?” he echoed. “No.”

Jungkook’s head dropped. His shoulders sagged, despair crashing over him like a wave.

“You don’t get to die next to her,” Jimin growled, stepping closer.

Jungkook’s eyes widened slightly.

“You’re not even going to have the privilege,” Jimin hissed, “of dying in the same room as her.”

He leaned in close, mouth near Jungkook’s ear.

“She’s in there,” he whispered, “waiting for someone who deserved her. Not a junkie liar who couldn’t even tell her the truth.”

Jungkook’s whole body shook with pain and anguish, his tears hot as they ran down his bruised skin.

“I loved her,” he gasped. “I still do…”

Jimin straightened again, disgust warping his face.

“She died thinking you were garbage. And now, so will you.”

He grabbed the ropes still knotted around Jungkook’s torso, yanked hard, and began dragging him across the slick floor.

Jungkook groaned,  the wounds in his thighs tearing open again. His side screamed in agony. Blood streaked behind him like a trail of a dying animal.

Jimin dragged him through the hallway, past the living room, past the motionless silhouette of Y/N still strapped to her chair.

Jungkook didn’t even have the strength to reach for her.

He just whispered, as he passed:

“I’m sorry… I love you…”

Jimin pulled him into the guest room at the end of the hallway- cold, dark, impersonal. No trace of memory lived there. No laughter. No love.

Only silence.

Jimin let go of him with a grunt and stepped back. Jungkook collapsed in a tangled heap, head slamming against the floor with a dull thud.

“Die here,” Jimin muttered.

Jungkook rolled onto his back, groaning, blood soaking through every fiber of his clothes.

His eyes found the ceiling.

His lips moved again.

“Y/N… I’m sorry… wait for me…”

Jimin’s eyes twitched.

He raised the knife.

“Go to hell.”

And then he plunged the blade straight into Jungkook’s chest.

Jungkook gasped, hard, as the steel pierced directly into his heart.

His entire body arched violently once then dropped flat.

His mouth opened.

And for a moment, no sound came out.

Then:

A whisper.

One final breath.

“I love you…”

The blood poured from his chest in waves now — hot and fast and final.

Jimin backed away, panting, watching the life drain from his body.

The color began to fade from Jungkook’s lips. His hand twitched, then went still.

His eyes blinked once… then stopped.

The clock in the hallway read:

1:27 AM.

Twelve minutes since he asked to die.

Twelve minutes since he last saw her.

Jungkook Jeon- the boy who once kissed Y/N under oak trees, who made her laugh, who whispered dreams into her skin- was gone.

And in the end, all that remained was silence.

═══════

Silence.

Stillness.

Then-

I gasped.

My eyes flew open and I sat up fast, lungs seizing like I’d just been pulled from the bottom of the ocean. My chest was heaving. My skin drenched. My heart was racing so violently it felt like it would break through my ribs.

I looked around, wild, confused.

Not a kitchen. Not blood-soaked tile. Not ropes cutting into my wrists or the taste of iron in my mouth.

My room.

Our room.

Moonlight washed across the walls. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. The air was cold but it wasn’t because I was dying.

I wasn’t dying.

The clock on the nightstand read 1:27 AM.

And then I felt it.

Warmth. Soft and close.

I turned my head.

She was there.

Y/N was sleeping right beside me,  tucked into the blankets, her face half-hidden in the pillow, lashes fanned across her cheeks. One hand rested near her mouth. She was breathing slow, steady.

Alive.

My entire body broke at once.

A sob clawed its way out of me before I could stop it. I buried my face in my hands, shaking, the tears falling fast and hot. My fingers dug into my scalp like I was trying to peel away the nightmare still clinging to me.

But this wasn’t a nightmare anymore.

This was real.

She was real.

I reached for her before I even realized I was moving. My hand slid across her waist gently, afraid to wake her but needing to feel her- needing to know. Her skin was warm. She shifted slightly under my touch, murmuring something soft in her sleep.

I let out a broken breath and kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “God… I love you so much.”

She didn’t stir.

She didn’t need to.

She was here. And that was everything.

I lay back down beside her, my arm draped around her, holding her close. My heart was still a thunderstorm. Sleep was impossible now. Not after what I saw. What I felt.

It wasn’t just a dream.

I kept my eyes on her face, on her soft breathing, and whispered again, like a prayer:

“I’m yours. Always.”

═══════

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

[existence-is-a-pain87]

EHEM EHEM

.

Rescued AU in the summer where you have a family party and let Sebastian swim in your (now turned saltwater) pool

P.AI.nter is safe inside, watching Bob Ross and demolition videos. And only sometimes hear a terrified young nephew / cousin of ((name)) when they realize Sebastian is napping in the bottom of the deep end.

Hope ya don't mind if I comebine it with another AU of mine. (Basically it's the Dandy's World Monster AU except in this one the MC escaped Gardenview and tried to live life as a human. Unfortunately, Urbanshade caught them and gave them an ultimatum. Get the crystal and they'll frabricate MC a human identity and protection due to their inability to age, or be locked away. You can guess what MC chose.) Also yandere because I'm a sucker for yandere content.

The First Summer Day

Yandere?Pressure x Toon!Reader

Warnings: Surprisingly enough, basically nothing except some fellas being menaces, hehe. This is just fluff lol.

--☆☆☆☆☆--

You were honestly relishing in sitting beneath the sun. Especially in the summertime.

It wasn't even that long ago you were trapped in the depths of Gardenview. And exponentially less time since you were trapped in the Blacksite.

But here you are, living life as an actual human in a peaceful area. Sure it was too close to Gardenview for your liking, but it was across the city. And a private property that's hidden away from everyone.

You can safely return to your Toon form without the risk of being caught, excluding some very specific people who lived here with you. And a certain someone's family.

"Are you just going to stay out of the water the whole time?" Sebastian asks you, comfortably lounging in the saltwater pool.

By giving Urbanshade the secrets of ichor, they agreed to let you release several of the entities trapped in the Blacksite and have them stay with you. This included Sebastian Solace himself.

"I mean, I'm not that good of a swimmer." You respond, "I'm just trying to avoid interacting with Layla's family."

Sebastian snorts, crossing his arms on the edge of the pool as he seems completely bemused. "Not like you have anything to worry about. I can just throw you out of the water if you sink too much."

"You pose a fair point." You reply, "Eh, I'll consider it."

"What's there to consider? There's no harm in just jumping in." Sebastian drawls out, beckoning you in. "You've swam before, haven't you? You can just do it again."

"Hey, stop pressuring me." You tell Sebastian, honestly bemused. "Look, if the kids had their way, they'd shove the funny Toon person into the water with no hesitation. It's only a matter of time till I get drenched."

"Touché." Sebastian replies, before laughing. "Okay, I'll be patient."

You smile, before standing up. "Ima go check on p.AI.nter, be right back."

"I won't go anywhere." Sebastian replies, and you go off, weaving between Layla's various family members as you head inside.

You've never been at a family gathering like this one. You've never been at a family gathering at all. The closest you've been to is a party at Gardenview, but even that is nothing like this.

Here, you don't know many people. And the amount of them who aren't judging you or any of the other stranger folk here is wonderful. Also the fact they're all just peacefully friendly. Not trying to get to know you the most, but not being hateful.

It's wonderful.

"Hey p.AI.nter, what's up?" You ask the AI as you walk into the living room, and p.AI.nter's face flashed onto the screen.

"Watching this Bob Ross guy." They reply, more cheerful than usual. "He's really cool! Wanna watch with me?"

"Oh, sure!" You say with a smile, pulling over a chair and sitting down.

You lost track of time watching Bob Ross with p.AI.nter, and Layla comes over and pokes you on the shoulder.

"Psst-" She whispers to you, and you quickly excuse yourself from p.AI.nter and go with her. "So- uh- Sebastian's asleep at the bottom of the pool and the kids are tweaking out."

"Really? They know he's like... mostly fish?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah, uh-" She shrugs, "Look, I know that you've never really been around and entertaining kids, but can you distract them so they don't try waking up Sebastian?"

"Nah, don't worry. If they're anything like how you were when you were a kid, I got this." You say with a slightly nervous grin, "Trust me girlie, I got this. I'm sure the living Toon can herd children away from a pool."

So off you go to go talk to these children, returning to your Toon form.

"Hiyo there!" You say with a grin, "What are yall doing around here?"

"The fish man is dead!" A six-year old boy says with a miserable expression, and all the other kids look sad or just confused.

"...I think he's asleep." You note, "Hey, let's not wake him up. How about we play hide and seek or something?"

"I wanna play tag!" Another kid speaks up.

"Hide and seek is better!" Another one declares.

"What if we combined the two?" You suddenly offer, "There's a seeker and everyone else is a hider, and the hiders gotta hide. The seeker counts to twenty, and then goes off to find the hiders. If you get tagged, you're also a seeker. But even if you get found, you're still a hider until you get tagged. Whoever's the last hider wins."

"Okay!" All the kids say, with a few others less enthusiastic but still agreeing.

"I'll be the first seeker." You offer, and no one complains. "Okay, I'm gonna start counting now!"

So you start counting, and then when you finish, you go seek. It goes fairly well, until you find a kid hiding by the pool who panics and pushes you in before you can tag her.

You cough a bit as you stick your head out of the water, and the girl panics.

"I'm sorry!" She squeaks at you.

"Ha! It's fine!" You tell her, giggling. "You're still a hider, anyways. Go hide again!"

She nods and runs off, and you wheeze a bit as you try to scrabble out of the pool.

"Made a big splash, didn't you?" Sebastian murmurs to you, clearly being woken up by you being dumped in the pool as he helps you get out.

"I believe I did." You reply, laughing a bit. "Heh, now I'm drenched."

"Well, now you can't put up a fuss for being dry next time I ask you to hop in." Sebastian says with a bemused smile, "Go have fun now."

"Hehe, on it!" You say with a smile, before scampering off.

"Best thing I've ever met..." Sebastian mutters to himself, before peacefully resuming his nap.

[swaggerkami]

I am thinking of Persona 4 again

I think the appeal of this game vs the other persona games is how fleshy and real it is. The characters really do get hurt, they have to hide their armor under their clothes, they get tired and have to skip school when they go too hard in the tv world. In Persona 3 and Persona 5 there's a big to-do about "the other world" and how it's kind of rooted in or projected from the subconscious but in Persona 4 they have to uncover that the tv world is the subconscious reflection of Inaba and connected to the larger subconscious of humanity. Whereas in Persona 3 and 5 it's made clear from the start that "the other world" is connected to human psychology. In Persona 4 it's a mystery that needs to unraveled and the kids are doing this while being chewed up and destroyed for real in the tv world, their lives are unequivocally in danger.

I think that's why players respond to Persona 4 so much there's so much implied agony and bodily harm in the game that just isn't there in 3 and 5. I really hope that the HD remake doesn't screw that up.

Of all the persona protagonists Yu is supposedly the one that experiences the least amount of angst, which gets pointed out a lot, but he's also the protag that a lot of players respond to the most and I think it's because of that the implied isolation and abandonment. Yu has to rise to the occasion, he doesn't have an easy time making friends and he's in an environment that could turn on him really easily (the stress of having your shadow exposed and put on display for public entertainment) whereas other protagonists are more like from superhero movies almost. They do have aspects that players can connect to obviously but I don't think they're as obviously human as Yu is. Minato is mired in depression and trauma, Akira has the mystique of being a Phantom Thief, and then there's Yu who is just...some guy. The right man in the right place at the right time.

Like despite him having the "banchou" reputation he's still the one that hurts and bleeds the most through out the course of the game. His losses and struggles are a lot more personal because of the grounded setting where the world is not at stake. Yu has a humanizing lifeline in the form of Nanako and the game makes it clear that he takes after his uncle much more than he does his mother or his biological father. By giving Yu a family that he grows closer to over time the audience connects to and humanizes him (and that's why they did the "found family" thing again in Persona 5. Not a criticism because Futaba and Sojiro are great characters and I love their dynamic with Akira, it's just important to note that Persona 4 discovered how well that works.) Despite the Investigation Team winning the day there's the implication of tragedy undergirding the whole thing. Yu is destined to be separated from his family and the people he loves the most except this time he has to be the one to leave instead of being left behind.

Persona 5's ending makes me cry every time but it's also clear that the gang is going to stay in touch with Akira. And then Persona 5 Strikers shows they're dedicated to keeping up with him and even take him on a road trip where their world expands quite a bit meeting an adult persona user and such (I still haven't played Strikers). Whereas for Yu, his isolation crashes back into the setting on the heels of his triumph. He is forced to leave Inaba. Thankfully the sequels have him coming back to visit so not all hope is lost but it's not the same as the Phantom Thieves rescuing Akira from the doldrums of his home life (whatever they may be, whether his parents are abusive, clueless/checked out, or just people that we didn't get a read on during Persona 5.)

Persona 4 has a theme of sadness and loss under everything where you can sense the doom even while there are victories. Nanako is saved, Adachi is being prosecuted for murder (and eventually has character development in the Arena games), and Yu has made a family from his friends and uncle + his cousin. But no matter what happens the year will end. Yu has to go back to Tokyo. Nanako's mother cannot come back to life, Adachi's actions cannot be undone, and Namatame will have to live with the fact that he put several people in danger and put Mayumi Yamano in the spotlight that lead to Adachi fixating on her, to the point Namatame had to watch her die and could do nothing to save her.

That's why the first anime is so incredibly perfect and I'm still in lesbians with Kili's analysis of it up on AO3. Because Kili decoded how important the anime is to Yu's development as a protagonist in the eyes of fanbase.

The final episode where Yu faces down Izanami demonstrates his conflict in full: no matter how perfect and tough Yu may seem, he is still a wounded and lonely young man that is terrified of being alone and losing everyone he loves, because he has suffered through it before. And then he watches his friends die in front of him and he ends up being put under by Izanami because he is the scapegoat for her wrath from a betrayal that happened thousands of years before he was born.

Like there are consequences and terror in Persona 4 that doesn't exist in the other Persona games. Not that P3 and P5 don't have their horrifying moments like when the Phantom Thieves are wiped out of existence and they have to watch each other melt. But that's also a bit of a one off in P5 unless you deliberately get the bad endings. In Persona 4 the fear, terror, and emotional/physical violence are always present. And the Investigation Team has to actively choose to go back into the tv world to face those horrible consequences. In Persona 5, there's always an insistence that a lot of the danger they face is a projection of psychological problems, just given a metaphysical form thanks to the fuckiness of urban fantasy. Violence in 3 and 5 is carefully segregated.

Persona 4 is just a different beast. The emotional and physical violence are out of focus until Nanako is kidnapped but that just makes it hit harder because the tv world and its consequences have finally broken through into the waking world. There is no more separation between them, no wonder the fog starts leaking into their every day world and the Investigation Team has to watch Inaba descend into paranoia, fear, and malicious cruelty. Inaba is effected over the long term and it takes the Investigation Team a while to put everything right, they have a series of battles and fights, not a big climactic battle soon after the bleed through like in Persona 3 and Persona 5. It takes time to put things right, they get hurt and take painful hits along the way, Nanako almost dies, Adachi's nihilism wants to open a hole into the screaming subconscious of mankind so that humans are eaten by the truths that they hide from as those truths (the Shadows) come crawling out of the tv world.

And I think that's why players respond to Persona 4 the way they do. There's just no other game like it.

[youn8ss-2]

Literally gay men got it way worse than lesbians throughout all of history so idk where you’d get that. Lesbians purposefully distanced themselves from gay men to appear as the good kind of gays and save faces with heteros, thats why they made a big deal about lesbians helping during the aids crisis when they got *hired* as paid nurses. Religions, hate groups, dictatorship,… they all targeted gay men predominantly to exclusively and allowed lesbians to live freely. Yall will do anything but actually and objectively read history. Women are NOT the ultimate victim of this society.

As it pertains to op

The fetishizing of gay men is more insidious than that of lesbians because people don’t recognize it as harmful and fetishism, yet again they just infantilize women and take away their responsibility as if its just girls playing. Literally rn you have grown big adult women giggling about lavender marriages as if its a casual joke and throw that at gay men’s esp young gay men’s faces as if thats a positive symbol for gay men and not the symbol of having to survive in a homophobic world that yet again alienate you from who you are and prevent you to live your life freely as your true self treating you yet again as inadequate out of sheer survival and suffering, which shows how unhibited and comfortable women are with fetishizing gay men, exercise homophobia, harass them and retraumatize them by mentioning something that wouldnt even include them to begin with just because they expect every male individual and their male attention to be theirs just because they’re women and only live thru heteronormative and heterosexist lenses in life purposefully making themselves yet again the stewards of homophobia and pro c.therapy rhetoric. Men aren’t throwing lavender marriages as a passing comment under lesbians’ posts online.

Idek why yall always plays oppression contest esp when its bound to be biased. Yall don’t respect gay men’s history at all cus i have never seen a gay man question a lesbian over how she feels over her own oppression but yall do it all the fucking time to gay men.

And idek why thats even a subject when people who fetishize lesbian and the whole corrective rape scenario usually fetishize gay men too in that same manner. except we get it from everyone whether straight men or women or bi men or women, hell even some ‘lesbians’ do it when i have never seen gay men fetishize them.

My first and only stalker was literally a straight girl following and mocking me in middle school while i was 11yo and she was 13/14.

They see gay men as sex objects in general, grindr is literally riddled with straight women and couples and thats been like that for over 10 years now theres even more women on these apps cus they trans out and sexually harass gay men online and it has become even more socially acceptable to target us just like it was just a few years ago.

Before the ban tumblr was riddled with c.therapy fetishist accounts focusing on gay men (to the point they made edits using gay men faces on straight prn screenshots and sending it to those gay men) who are still up btw and have migrated to twtter and no social media platforms delete their profile despite it being actual hate speech. Theres online forums and rings of people spreading misinformation about supposed gay men and x performers hunching women w the 1st time narrative esp when none of it is true just because they want this narrative to exist irl so fucking bad to the point (they even lie about straight men and claim them as gay that were ‘turned’) my last years on twtter were dedicated to debunking that and exposing the fact that these ewhores are bi men and still to this day screenshots of my conversations are shared in these forums cus i still tried to get them banned accross several platforms. It literally destroyed my psyche and made my ocd so much more worse to the point of no return cus this narrative no matter how inaccurate, wrong and damaging, was still being spread and was part of mainstream culture and perception of gay men and even in liberal progressive countries like the one i live in and that theres nothing we can really do except speak up and reject it. Theres no imdb list of movies where lesbian characters fuck a guy but theres countless list for the opposite w gay male characters cus its a common running trope and even platforms like imdb refuse to delete them. Its normalized everywhere.

One of the many reasons why gay men want gay clubs IS because women harass gay men in their own spaces and make it unsafe for them and when gay men complain they’re somehow made to be wrong when they’re the victims here.

Women were literally bragging about the fact that a woman dressed up as a man and went to a dark gay sex club to successfully rape gay men which also inspired an x movie btw since we’re on the subject. Women are also known to exercise homophobia and bigotry when its at their advantage and know that if a gay man refuses their forceful advances they can out themselves which in return they can weaponize against them and use ‘patriarchy’ to their advantage once again. Also to think women can’t rape gay men means you believe every women is a frail little thing while every men is strong and big. Thats just kiddie pool dumbassery.

Women are transitioning too to access gay male spaces and gay men’s bodies hell there was a thread a few weeks ago about a tifs making sure she never tells guys she is female until they’re about to undress to use social pressure to rape them to the point that she herself acted like she didn’t understand how fucked up she was for that and why gay men had such a strong virulent reaction to a rape by omission situation she orchestrated. Last week you yourself was talking about how fucked up that UK ‘gay’ dating tv show was to include a woman in their cast. Tifs seek gay men specifically. Theres literal women on gay dating apps talking about being there because they want to give a gay guy his first time w a woman so we can’t even escape women and heterosexism in our dedicated spaces both online and offline. Idk why yall see women/tifs do the same shit as tims and still somehow think one is worst than the other.

How is that the truth when its not accurate, everything you mentionned are what gay men go thru too and it fundamentally can’t be more insidious than gay men’s when gay men’s fetishization isn’t treated as harmful or damaging or traumatizing. What the fuck is wrong with yall.

Yet again y’all treat shit women do as less worse under no basis other than they are women. all i quoted was bad enough but thats also just what happens in the progressive western part of the world so i can only imagine how bad it gets in other areas of the world. Shoutout to Iesbians for always pitting themselves against gay men, thats totally how we got our rights 👍👍

I wanted to reply to this on twitter but I think what I have to say is too long so i’ll say it here.

I do feel for gay men having their sexuality fetishised, but the way lesbians are fetishised are much more insidious.

‘Lesbian’ porn is one of the most popular porn categories IN THE WORLD largely watched by straight men. This leads to the fetishisation of us in real life. For example when I was outed at school, boys would go up to me and say “You’re a lesbian? How do lesbians have sex? I bet it’s hot” I was 14. We are the ultimate fantasy for them. They see us as objects for their sexual gratification. Dating apps are full of men who set their preferences to women and are looking for a threesome with their bi gf. Men look for lesbians because they think it will be hotter if we are fully gay (although of course a lesbian wouldn’t entertain a threesome with a man).

Men harass us at clubs, not taking no for an answer when we tell them we’re lesbians as they think they can ‘turn’ us.

Men are also more of a physical threat to women, women harassing gay men couldn’t take them in a fight and I doubt they’d rape them too but men do this to us.

This isn’t to mention the het AGP males who are ‘transitioning’ en masse because they find the idea of being a lesbian hot. And they’re always looking for a lesbian to validate them. I’ve seen them say they don’t want a bi gf because then she might not see him as a woman. But apparently a lesbian will? Lesbians aren’t interested in males with estrogen moobs and a disgusting ‘girlcock’ between their legs. Not to mention everything else that comes with being a disgusting pervert male.

I’m sorry gay men, but lesbians get fetishised worse and in more insidious ways than you do. This isn’t me saying you don’t struggle, it’s just the truth.

[mostlyvoid-partiallyflowers]

I just think it’s really sad that after Andrew gets the call from Pig Higgins, he gets asked what he did, all the blame on him when what happened to him is not his fault, has never been his fault.

[the-devil-less-known]

Can you forgive someone who has wronged you, or do you seek revenge?

Moral Questions for a Villainous Character

"...Ahh, that's a question that needs to be broken down into parts if you want a satisfactory answer," he says, tilting his head back to think on it. A long time ago, Charlie had asked something similar, but it had been about the sinners directly and if they were worth being redeemed, which had been another matter entirely in Lucifer's mind.

But forgiveness...

"Well, forgiveness is less for the wrong-doer and more for the wronged, don't you think? People don't need forgiveness to change and be better, that's something that can be done at any time. The victim, on the other hand, lives with the consequences of what had been done to them, when they forgive it, it's them finally coming to peace and no longer allowing it to fester and grip them with bitterness... And they never have to tell that to the one that hurt them in the first place."

The concept, as he sees it used or framed to be used by the 'righteous' just feels like virtue signalling by others uninvolved being Uncomfortable... or the wrong-doers wanting to be released from their guilt or from public shame, rather than genuinely care about how any of it affects the person wronged. One could apologize, and it was always great to acknowledge and validate the feelings of others harmed...

But when it became a social expectation of morality, of 'taking the high road', to be a good and quiet victim... That wasn't forgiveness, anymore, that was coercion and being a martyr for a pointless cause that will never serve you. A performance of virtue only for the benefit of those looking in.

But everything else? That was a gift, not a gurantee.

Revenge, though. That was an interesting topic.

It makes him think of someone in particular.

"I think any reaction could be classified as revenge if it bothered the other person enough to interpret it that way. Even when you do nothing but try to live a good life without their input," this is said with a degree of bitterness, thinking back to his younger days... How hopeful he had been in the beginning of Hell.

Before the Great Flood. Before the Bubonic Plague.

Before Heaven took it as a revolt for simply trying to have a sense of community in shared imprisonment.

"But for the victim, it goes back to forgiveness. How much they let that pain of being wronged hold over their life. How much they let it corrupt them into wanting to make the other Understand the harm they had done, to make them pay... Or to never speak with them again or give the other 'closure' so the wrong might haunt them enough to improve, if they were think on it at all... Revenge is just a choice, whether or not it's intended with anyone else in mind, that others attribute to being done to enact some kind of Justice."

Lucifer gives you a smile, faint and polite. "Now, if you are asking me personally, on what I have forgiven or not, sought revenge or not as others would define it, then you will have to be more specific, since you now know how I would personally qualify those things."

[lxnarphase]

━ ❝ OH, IT'S MINIKUNA ! ❞

✮₊‧⁺...content: heian era!sukuna x wife!reader, fluff, mentions of childbirth, sukuna is an overly proud father, sukuna is whipped for his wife

✮₊‧⁺...lunar's note: based of this little blurbie and this one too !! needed some fluff with kuna bc he would love having a baby girl idc what anyone says !!! also i did my best describing the birthing process in a time accurate period but it's definitely a bit inaccurate because...i have never had a baby LOL

no one has ever seen sukuna ryomen, king of curses, wince before.

not until today, at the wrath of his pregnant wife who somehow got a hold of his fingers instead of his hand.

one of the nurses did warn him to not give you his finger and to ensure you always hold his hand. but by the gods, he swears you almost ripped his finger off.

it's cute to him, however, when you attempt to curse him out.

'gods, sukuna, i despise your entire being!'

'i know, my wife.'

'i should've never let you get me pregnant, you animal!'

'you begged for it, my wife.'

'i am never letting you bed me again, use your hand for the rest of your existence!'

'you can't keep your hands off me, my wife, no need to lie.'

but the sigh of relief, the way you instantly look down and coo once the sound of wailing filled the air...it makes him melt just a little bit.

he can't deny, seeing you in pain made him heated. it took everything in him not to kill every midwife, nurse, and lady-in-waiting in your birth room for not being able to make this process completely painless.

except chiyo. he would have to reward your personal physician for preparing you so well for this...

what did the old hag like again? wines, meats, gifts for her grandchildren back at home?

hm, yes, that would be great for her. of course, he'll say it was from you. the king of curses shows gratitude for no one.

he's pulled out of his thoughts at the hushed whispers once the other women exam the baby before following your unspoken request to hold your child.

"d-do you think lord sukuna will harm our lady for this...?"

"i hope not, surely he can make an exception, t-they both are still young and can always try for more!"

"but he's the king of curses, t-there no way he won't have a reaction!"

before he can demand what they find so important to discuss in front of you, chiyo hushes the girls with a wave of her hand, ushering the girls to help wipe off your sweat, tears, and clean off the baby—gentle like it's the finest glass, she instructs—before turning to sukuna with a knowing smile.

"well, your greatness...congratulations on having a healthy and gorgeous little girl," she hums, wiping her hands with a clean cloth before going to rinse her hands to help stitch any rips and clean you up.

the room falls silent aside from your soft little coos and the wails of your daughter as you brush the wet, fluffy hair on her little head.

all the women in the room continue to work, but it's clear they are silently waiting for his outburst.

everyone knows that a proper heir to any throne is a boy...but now, sukuna's first born child is a girl.

but rather angry, yelling, and threats to your and your child's life, the room is filled with Suku's booming laughter, which practically shakes the entire room.

instead of an enraged expression, pure delight, and excitement are painted on his face as he sits next to you on the soft cushiony bedding on the floor, his hand caressing the rounded cheek of your newborn.

"so, you've given me a girl," he hums in delight, all four of his eyes narrowing. "this will be the one who takes over my throne once i decide to step down?"

this thing, this tiny, itty bitty baby...came from you both? it's almost laughable how small this baby is compared to his hand, that something so little could be related to him.

she's...nothing short of perfect. "absolutely divine...she will not just be beautiful like her mother, but as powerful as both of us."

he's so proud of you and your child. he would shower your daughter with riches, love, and anything she could ever want and ask for.

but, he couldn't lie.

she's a damned fat baby, big head and all.

"sukuna, watch your mouth!"

he can't help but laugh, not realizing his thoughts came out of his mouth. "what, it's a good thing! means she's healthy," he boasts with a grin, leaning down closer to see her better.

"she looks strong already. as soon as she is able, i will personally teach her how to be a truly malevolent little princess, how to properly slit the necks of her enemies, how to—!”

oh, he is so excited, it's adorable.

“sukuna, shush, i just gave birth to a child with a massive head like yours, give me a moment," you say with a light laugh, your smile still reaching your clearly tired eyes.

“…apologies, my wife.”

chiyo can't help but laugh with you she finishes applying the healing ointment on your lower body, using a bit of her cursed energy to speed up the healing process to help you skip any serious pain.

after all, nothing but the best physician for you in sukuna's palace.

"always such an excitable boy, my lord, ever since you were a young man," she hums, helping one of the midwives properly wrap your baby in the soft, clean cloth.

"be gentle with her," you instruct him, gently moving your arms toward him so he could take the little bundle. he's...nervous, but he hides it well.

you place your daughter in his arms and he looks down at her, suddenly conscious of how loud he's breathing. she's got his hair, still a bit wet but soft and fluffy. it's pink, just like his.

a pleased rumble vibrates his chest, and he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

but then...her eyes open.

both sets.

he almost didn't notice it at first, they're just so small, but they're there. the same color as yours, pretty and big, filled with so much life.

his eyes burn, vision getting blurry. no words come to his head, he can't think of anything to say. he's so caught up in his thought he doesn't even notice chiyo ushering the other girls in the room out and shutting the door before quietly tending to you with water or food.

she knows that look, you do as well. she's been around longer than uraume to know her master, knowing the king of curses since his young years as the unwanted child of the village, abandoned by his mother for his 'horrid' appearance.

she was lucky to have found him before the villagers got to him, torches, axes, pitchforks and daggers in hand to take care of the child who they believed to have brought misfortune to their home.

getting him to safety was one of the best decisions she'd ever made, king of curses or not. no child deserved to be abandoned like that. and now, he's seeing himself in that tiny little being in his arms right now...chiyo can only imagine what he's feeling.

so, out of respect, she keeps her gaze averted, pretending she does not see the misty gaze he gives your daughter. this is a moment for you and him, and she does her best to make all her movements as quiet as possible.

all sukuna can think about in this moment is how he used to be just as tiny as this. he was just as vulnerable in his mothers arms. he couldn't talk, couldn't speak, couldn't fend for himself.

yet, his parents looked down at him just like this and decided he was an abomination and didn't give him a chance.

but now?

sukuna knows he would never, ever let anything happen to this little bundle in his arms. he would rather destroy the entire planet before letting anything happen to his baby girl. no one would make his little one suffer and live to see another day.

he flinches just a little, feeling your soft hand rubbing his bicep. "it's okay, my love," you softly coo at him, reaching up to wipe a tear from his eye before it had a chance to drip down his cheek. "she's going to grow up feeling loved and cherished because she's got a great father."

"hmm..."

a smile crosses his features as he looks back down, looking at the squirming baby so makes a little noise before calming down when he strokes her little, chubby cheek again to keep her from crying again.

"and she's got a great mother. she'll be the most wonderful princess in all of history," he says with a toothy grin, chest rumbling with a laugh.

"aww, my love, that's so sweet..."

"seriously, though, how in hells did you squeeze this thing out of ya? thing's got the head of a watermelon."

"sukuna, give me back my baby, and chiyo? get this man some food to stuff in his mouth before he says something to warrent the rage of a new mother."

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[yeagersss]

Sukuna x f!Reader

In which Sukuna brings home child Uraume — 1

next —>

You rubbed your eyes in disbelief as you stared at the child hiding behind your husband's legs and peaking at you.

Sukuna didn't pay attention to your questioning stare, he simply sauntered in to your shared home and tossed the meat he had hunted on the table. As if it was just an average day for the two of you.

Except it wasn't because there was a child right next to him.

"Um... Love?" You questioned softly.

"What?" He grunted.

"Mind telling me who... that is?"

Sukuna crossed his upper arms while resting his lower on his hips. He shrugged. "Our ice house is no more. This child can create ice so I brought them home."

Of course he did. Leave it to your husband to replace an actual functioning cooler with a literal child.

Speaking of a cooler...

"The icehouse is broken? I swear it was perfectly fine when I went there this morning..." You mused.

But a quick glance outside the window confirmed that it was indeed broken. Crushed by a tree and blood splattered everywhere from the meat stored inside of it.

And just one look at the fallen tree, you can tell what—no, who was responsible for this destruction. There was a large, clean cut right at its base.

You turned to your husband with an accusing frown but he opted to not look at you. He knows that the moment he locked eyes with you, he'll have to face your wrath and.... He'd rather not.

You sighed and shook your head before walking over to the child who stepped away from you the moment you got closer.

You stopped, keeping your distance and smiled kindly. "It's okay. Don't be afraid, little one. I won't hurt you."

Your voice was soft, your eyes were kind so when the child looked up at Sukuna and saw the way he was looking at you, they knew you were trustworthy.

And yet...

"You won't harm me but... I can harm you." Was what the child spoke.

Your heart sank at their words and the way they looked away. Their gaze was an empty and distant void. This poor child...

But the King of Curses scoffed at their words. "Go to her. As long as I am here you cannot harm her."

You were surprised at how this child had came to trust Sukuna that they took his word and slowly stepped over to you. Besides you, no one else in this land would ever dare trust him. Then again, your husband never gave them a reason to.

You went down on your knees to be at the child's level. A small, loving smile graced your features as you reached over to brush your fingers against their cheek.

Ice cold.

But that didn't stop you as you brushed their hair in comfort. "You poor thing... Just what have you been through?" You asked softly.

The child kept quiet, their eyes gathered with unshed tears. They closed it to stop them from flowing down. And then, very very tentatively they leaned into your touch.

"...You're warm." They mumbled.

Your heart warmed at those soft words. You were happy that this child had found comfort in you.

Despite being the King of Curses' wife, you loved children. You always wanted one of your own. You had even managed to convince your husband to have a child together.

But those dreams were far gone when you found out you were infertile.

It took a while but you had gotten over it. Though part of you still wished that you can have that. A small family with your husband.

So when you looked up at Sukuna, that's when you noticed his gaze. A look that was only reserved for you. Tender, soft and... loving. But there was another meaning behind it...

This is my gift to you.

Your heart leaped and you felt tears gathering in your eyes. The smile you gave him was nothing short of radiant that had him looking away from you. But you knew he was flustered just from the red tint on the tip of his ears.

You laughed softly and got on your feet, gently pulling the child close to you. "What's your name, little one?"

"Uraume."

You hummed. "Uraume... What a beautiful name. Are you hungry, Uraume?"

Uraume felt their stomach grumble just then so they softly nodded.

"Very well, then I'll get started on dinner."

Uraume looked up at you, their pinkish eyes staring at you with a curious glint. "Can I help?" They asked.

You smiled, running a gentle hand through their white hair.

"Of course."

next —>

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Ok so I’ve had this question for a while and I feel like you’ll be able to give me a good answer. I understand that we’re absolutely not supposed to support anything JKR does monetarily and I never intend to do so. However is engaging with Harry Potter media *at all* also something I should not do or is it only things that give her money?

Like, would there be anything wrong with me playing Hogwarts Legacy if I pirated it? Is fanfiction and fan art ok to consume? Or is engaging with the IP at all going to be harmful in a way that I don’t see atm?

Thank you for your time!

I don't really think a cis person is the right person to ask about this, but I also know that trans people are sick to death of having to field these questions so I'll do my best to answer this, if everyone who reads my answer will promise me that you will NOT use anything I say in this post as an annoying argument against a trans person who has a different opinion on the matter. Remember whose opinions are actually important here.

And look, number one, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Nobody can stop you. If you, in yourself, in your soul, feel morally comfortable consuming Harry Potter by some convoluted method of Ethical Consumption™, then go and do that, and own it, and have the strength to be judged for your decisions.

Trans people might not trust you - hell, I'll probably not trust you either. They might get angry at you, and criticize you, or roll their eyes and call you a fucking loser. If you have the moral conviction that what you are doing is right, and that you are acting in accordance with your beliefs and you are not doing harm, then stand by that conviction and face the consequences. Have that strength of character.

But if you feel the need to go around posting and arguing that it's unfair, that you shouldn't be judged, that you should get to be a special exception and people are unreasonable when they get mad at you... then that is evidence, proof positive, that you are a fucking loser. That you are cowardly, and you don't actually believe that what you are doing is right, you just want the world to affirm your fragile ego while you enjoy your little treats.

To be clear, I am not accusing you of doing this (you seem to just earnestly be asking for guidance), but there's a hell of a lot of people who do do this, and you don't want to be one of them.

So that's number one. Do whatever the fuck you want, and face the consequences with a spine.

Number two is... just fucking drop it. That is my earnest advice to you. Just fucking drop Harry Potter. They are children's books from the early 2000s, they just are not that fucking good or important. The Hogwarts Legacy game is live service slop; the movies are passable at best and their quality comes from the actors being better than the source material. Just drop it. Harry Potter has nothing to offer that you can't get elsewhere from better media with better authors, or problematic authors who have good grace to at least be dead.

Don't waste your life thinking about complicated ways to circumvent the moral problem of JK Rowling's rancid transphobic hate-aura at the center of the franchise, don't waste your finite time on Earth trying to thread that stupid needle. Harry Potter isn't worth this. Rowling is old, and shriveling from hate and mold fumes, at the very least just wait for her to fucking die, and for her political project to fail, before you pick that world back up again.

I speak as someone who read the first book at age 11, hyperfixated on relating to Harry, and whose entire cultural life was consumed by the franchise for over a decade. It is not worth it. You don't need it, you don't need the stress of trying to navigate how or whether to engage with it ethically. You almost certainly have an enormous backlog of other books, games, movies and TV shows you've been meaning to get around to, so just go do that instead. I promise you it will be infinitely more rewarding, and infinitely less compromised by stress and guilt and cognitive dissonance.

And while you're at it, send some money to a trans charity and go scream invectives at a transphobic politician some time.

[nephynes]

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

• wc: 28k

• content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

• a/n: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

• nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

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You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

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•taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

[mssishipi]

devil in disguise — sjy

— anon asked: infidelity with jake would go crazy bro like he’d be saying “you’re so disgusting” and it’s true it disgusts him how his bestfriend’s pussy milks his cock

warning: cheating, jake is an asshole, explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, degradation. MDNI.

It was almost laughable—how you always clung to Jake's side, no matter what he did, no matter how much trouble he got himself into. It was as if loyalty blinded you, shielding you from the truth everyone else could see so clearly.

You were an angel, the one his parents adored, the soft-hearted girl who couldn't even bring herself to harm a fly.

Polite, gentle, the kind of person who would apologize even when someone else stepped on your foot.

It was hilarious how you always had an excuse for him, always a justification on the tip of your tongue every time he do something.

Like that time when he got into a fight because of some fraternity nonsense. His parents had been furious.

And yet, there you were, standing in front of them, your eyes wide, your voice trembling with conviction.

"Jake defended me!"

Except that was a lie.

Jake hadn't been defending you. He don't care. The guy had simply pissed him off. He always did. It had nothing to do with you, but you refused to see that. Maybe it was easier that way—to pretend Jake had some noble reason, that his fists weren't just another weapon he wielded whenever he felt like it.

It was almost amusing—the way you always listened to him, how you followed him around ever since the two of you were kids.

You were the kind of best friend who never strayed too far, always orbiting around him, always there. He wasn't sure if he should find it endearing or just plain irritating. Maybe a bit of both.

He could do the most questionable things, and without fail, you'd always have his back.

"Thank you, Jaeyun-ah! You know I don't like Jungwon—he's always ranked first. He deserves to be caught cheating."

You grinned at him, clutching your notebook to your chest as if he had done you some great favor. But Jake hadn't done it for you. He hadn't even thought of you when he slipped that answer key into Jungwon's bag. He was just bored, looking for something to break the monotony. Watching the teachers drag Jungwon to the disciplinary office had simply been an added bonus.

"It's okay, Jaeyun-ah! What you're feeling is valid. I'm sure Yuta deserved that punch—he's a creep."

You had been so quick to reassure him. But Yuta wasn't a creep. Jake had made that up on a whim, an excuse to put the guy in his place, to see him crumble. Because he was bored.

It was almost amusing—how you, of all people, always knew the difference between right and wrong. You were kind, the type to preach fairness, to stand up for what was just.

And yet, when it came to him, all of that fell apart. You always had an excuse, always a justification ready on your lips, as if his actions existed outside the rules that applied to everyone else.

Sim Jaeyun had you wrapped around his finger so effortlessly, it was pathetic.

And honestly, it was disgusting.

"Jaeyun-ah!" you squealed, your voice breaking into a moan as your fingers dug into his back, clinging to him. Your breath hitching as he hit that spot over and over again.

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex. His phone buzzed relentlessly on the bedside table, the screen flashing with his girlfriend's name. Over and over, the call came, the shrill ring cutting through the muffled sound of skin slapping against skin. But neither of you moved. Neither of you cared.

It was disgusting—how easily you spread your legs for him, how willingly you became his escape whenever she couldn't satisfy him. You never hesitated, never even flinched when he came to you, already knowing what he wanted.

He still loved his girlfriend. With everything he had. But she could never give him the kind of mind-numbing, toe-curling release that you did.

"It's in a man's nature, Jaeyun-ah," you had whispered to him once, your fingers lazily tracing patterns over his bare chest, your body still warm from the aftermath of what you had just done. Your voice always had been soft and sweet. "Men have needs. It's only natural to seek satisfaction elsewhere when she can't give you what you want."

Jake remembered those words vividly, the way you had said them with such certainty, as if you truly believed them. As if your presence in his bed, tangled in his sheets, was anything but a betrayal.

"Maybe it's even her fault," you had added, tilting your head to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "She should know better. She should do better. If she really loved you, wouldn't she try harder to make you happy?"

Your justifications were always so effortless, so convincing. You never made him feel guilty, never accused him of being selfish or cruel. Instead, you framed it like you were the only one who truly understood him, the only one who could give him what he needed without judgment.

It was painfully obvious that you were in love with him.

And it disgusted him.

Every longing glance, every adoring smile, every saccharine word that spilled from your lips—it all made his skin crawl.

Yet, despite the repulsion twisting in his gut, he kept coming back. Again and again. Because at the end of the day, you were the only one who truly understood him. The only one who never judged, never asked for more than he was willing to give.

"I said don't give me marks!" Jake growled as he grabbed your wrists, prying your hands off his back where your nails had been sinking into his skin.

Without giving you a chance to react, he shoved you down, caging you beneath him. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, trapping your limbs against your sides as his weight pressed into you. His knees planted firmly on either side of your thighs, bracing himself as he drove deeper, making you take every inch of him.

The bed creaked beneath you, the room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your ragged breaths mixing with his.

And despite the way he loathed the way you looked at him, despite how much your affection disgusted him—he still couldn't stop.

"You love fucking like this?" Jake growled into your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he drove into you with unrelenting force.

"Yes! Fuck, I love your cock inside me, Jaeyun-ah! Fuck me harder!" you sobbed, your voice breaking with each thrust. Your mind was drowning in the pleasure he ruthlessly forced upon you.

Jake exhaled sharply, his breath ragged as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His arms tightened around you, locking you in place beneath him. He didn't give you a second to breathe, because your body was nothing more than a means to chase his own satisfaction.

Jake groaned as he felt you clench around him, your walls tightening, desperately trying to keep him buried deep. The way your body surrendered so easily, so pathetically. It was hilarious, how little self-control you had when it came to him.

"You fucking disgust me," he sneered. His thrusts never slowed as he tilted his head slightly, watching the way your face twisted in pleasure, eyes glazed over, lips parted as broken moans spilled from your throat.

"Getting off on your best friend’s cock? That’s just pathetic."

You shook your head wildly, fingers clawing at his back, legs trembling around his waist. "I don’t care!" you gasped, "just want you, Jaeyun-ah! Just want your cock—please!"

Jake let out a breathy chuckle, "Of course, you don’t," he muttered. His teeth grazed your shoulder before he bit down, hard, marking you. Your body jerked beneath him, a sharp whimper escaping your lips as he tightened his grip on your waist, pressing you impossibly closer, molding you against him like you were made to take him.

Your tongue traced the ridges of his collarbone, wet and hot, leaving a trail of saliva as if you wanted to claim him just as much. Jake hissed, his muscles tensing beneath your touch, his pace turning brutal. His name tore from your lips in screams, your body writhing, thrashing, but his arms locked around you, keeping you exactly where he wanted.

And then, without warning, your orgasm crashed over you—sudden, violent, leaving you gasping, eyes rolling back as your body went rigid beneath him. No slow build-up, no warning. Just raw, overwhelming pleasure that left you completely undone.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm pulsed through you, leaving your body trembling beneath him, Jake didn’t slow. If anything, he fucked you through it, dragging out every last bit of your high until you were left whimpering, overstimulated, body twitching against his pace.

"Look at you," he scoffed as he watched your fucked-out expression. "Completely ruined over your best friend’s cock. What would your parents think if they saw you like this?"

Your lips parted, but only breathless moans escaped.

Jake chuckled darkly, his pace faltering just long enough for him to grab your chin, forcing your dazed eyes to meet his. "And what about my girlfriend?"  he mused, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "She has no idea you’re spreading your legs for me every time she turns her back. That you’re nothing but a cheap fuck whenever she can’t satisfy me."

For a split second, he saw that pathetic flicker of sadness in your gaze. But Jake didn’t care.

Because he knew you. Knew the way you worked. No matter how much he degraded you, no matter how cruel his words got, you would always come crawling back. Always.

Because that’s who you were.

Jake pulled out abruptly, leaving you gasping at the sudden emptiness. His hands were rough, impatient, as he flipped you over, manhandling you into the position he wanted. You barely had a moment to react before he shoved your face down against the mattress, pressing hard against the back of your neck, keeping you in place.

"Stay still," he muttered, his other hand gripping your hip, lifting your ass high in the air.

You barely had time to process the shift before the sharp buzz of his phone filled the room again, the sound coming from the bedside table. His jaw ticked in irritation, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he lined himself up with your entrance, cursing under his breath.

Then, without warning, he thrust back inside.

Another scream tore from your lips, your fingers scrambling against the sheets, trying to ground yourself as the force of his movements sent shocks of pleasure and pain coursing through you. Your walls fluttered around him instinctively, struggling to adjust to the new angle, but he didn’t slow down.

"Tighten up," Jake growled. "Feels like I’m just fucking my fist."

You clenched around him immediately, an attempt to please him, but the effort only made your body tremble harder. Your vision blurred as fresh tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks, soaking into the sheets beneath you.

Jake noticed. His fingers tangled into your hair, yanking your head up, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes were glassy, lips trembling, breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

"Aww," Jake cooed mockingly, tilting his head as his grip on your hair tightened. His fingers twisted cruelly in the strands, yanking your head back until your neck arched, forcing your tear-streaked face into view. "Is my sweet angel hurt?"

You sniffled, trying to steady your breath, but the way he kept thrusting into you made it impossible to think, let alone speak. Your fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles turning white as your body rocked in time with his brutal pace.

And then you smiled—soft, sweet, broken. The kind of expression you knew would make something dark flicker in his eyes.

"I don't care, Jaeyun-ah," you whispered, your gaze met his, unwavering despite the tears threatening to spill. "That's my purpose, right?"

His reaction was instant. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and without hesitation, he shoved you back down, pressing your face into the mattress. The force knocked the air from your lungs, but you still moaned.

Jake cursed under his breath, his grip on your hips tightening as his thrusts turned erratic. You could feel it—the way his cock twitched inside you, the way his breath grew uneven, muscles tensing. He was close.

"Fuck, I trained my angel so well," he grunted, punctuating his words with a harsh slap to your ass. The impact stung, a sharp burst of pain that made you whimper. His moans were growing louder, more desperate, the telltale signs of his impending climax.

"That's right, Jake!" you cried out, voice breaking. "Make yourself cum in me—your fucking boring girlfriend could never!"

The second those words left your lips, his hand shot forward, slapping over your mouth and muffling your moans.

"Shut the fuck up," Jake growled. His other hand dug into your hip, his grip so tight you knew there’d be bruises tomorrow. "You don’t get to talk about her. Don’t fucking ruin my orgasm by running that filthy mouth of yours."

A sharp, burning twist coiled in your chest at his words. But at the same time, the thick drag of his cock against your cervix make your walls clamped down around him, squeezing so tight it forced a strangled moan from his throat.

"Fuck—" Jake groaned, his head falling forward against your back, breath ragged, body tensed as his thrusts turned erratic. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you locked in place as he chased his release. "I'm gonna cum, angel."

A strangled sound tore from his throat, his grip bruising as he drove himself deep one last time. And then, with a low, guttural moan, he spilled inside you.

The heat of it, the way he pulsed and twitched against your walls, sent you spiraling instantly. Your orgasm hit violent, all-consuming, crashing through you with no mercy. Euphoria flooded every nerve, burning through your veins, leaving you boneless beneath him.

You gasped, lips parted in a silent cry, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure wracked through you. It felt endless, like falling through space with no ground to catch you, no way to stop.

Jake groaned again, feeling the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him, milking every last drop from his spent cock. He twitched, giving a few more lazy thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you, pushing past the oversensitivity that made your thighs shake and your breath stutter.

Slowly, his pace lost momentum, his thrusts turning shallow, sluggish, until finally, he stilled. His weight pressed against you as he exhaled heavily, letting the last remnants of pleasure fade into exhaustion.

The room was filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the sweat cooling on your flushed skin, the lingering heat of what you’d just done.

And then, as the high began to ebb, as the last shocks of pleasure melted into nothingness, the emptiness settled in.

A hollow ache replaced the euphoria, leaving you nothing more than a trembling, used mess sprawled out beneath him.

Jake let out a slow, heavy breath as he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, his body still humming with the remnants of release. The warmth of you still clung to his skin, but he didn’t spare you a glance as he pulled out, leaving a mess between your trembling thighs.

Grabbing his phone from your bedside table, he stared at the screen, scrolled through the flood of missed calls and unread messages. The screen illuminated his face, jaw tightening slightly before he sighed, thumbs moving quickly to type a response.

Your gaze followed him, watching as he moved around the room without hesitation. He didn’t look at you—not even once—as he grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor, slipping his jeans back on, adjusting his belt with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

The scent of sex still clung to his skin, and he knew it. Without pause, he reached for the bottle of cologne he always carried, spritzing it over himself, masking the evidence of what had just happened between you.

You were still sprawled out on the bed, your chest pressed against the damp sheets, your body aching, marked, used. 

"I gotta get home before she starts getting suspicious," Jake muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

But before leaving, he paused at the door, casting a dark stare over his shoulder. His expression hardened, his voice colder.

"Shut your mouth. You already know that, don’t you?"

You swallowed thickly, throat tightening as you forced a small, obedient "Yes."

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence stretching between the two of you, thick and suffocating. Then, as if flipping a switch, Jake’s entire demeanor shifted. A slow, sickeningly sweet smile spread across his lips as he turned back toward you.

Walking over, he crouched slightly to meet your tired gaze, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your face before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. The gesture was soft—mockingly so.

"See you next time, angel. Don’t do something stupid, hmm?" His voice was gentle, almost affectionate, like he actually cared.

And like the fool you were, you smiled at him, nodding eagerly despite the rawness in your throat, despite the soreness in your body.

Jake exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as he watched you. "My good girl."

Leaning in once more, he pecked your lips, his touch featherlight, almost tender. But beneath it, there was nothing. No warmth, no real emotion. Just obligation.

It was a role he played, a meaningless act that kept you tethered to him. And seeing you smile so sweetly, so utterly oblivious—it made his stomach twist with something akin to revulsion.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Jake let out a slow, irritated breath, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off something unpleasant.

Without sparing a second thought, he pulled out his phone, thumbs scrolling through his girlfriend’s messages.

You had always stood by Sim Jaeyun’s side—through every mistake, every decision, every selfish impulse. You defended him when no one else would, gave him everything without hesitation. It didn’t matter what he did; you always understood, always forgave, always stayed.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, nails digging so deep into the fabric they nearly tore through it. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

You stared at the door he had just walked out of, the one he never even bothered to look back at.

You let a quiet breathy laugh—before it bubbled up into hysterical and unhinged. Tears streamed freely down your face.

"His angel, my ass."

The words dripped from your tongue. a wicked little smile curling on your lips.

You had always been there for him. Always the loyal one. Always the perfect, obedient little toy he could use and toss aside when it was convenient. You had let him take and take and take.

Your gaze flickered to the ceiling, to the tiny red light blinking faintly in the dark.

You were his angel, after all. His good girl. So predictable, so harmless.

How cute.

You tilted your head as your nails dragged lazily across your own thigh, smearing the mess he left behind.

You almost felt bad for him. 

Because, Sim Jaeyun did not, in fact, train his angel well.

[zephyrchama]

Lucifer with a habit of fussing over you in slightly sadistic ways. He's a busybody who cannot stop working. When he does have free time, he needs something to fill it, and you are the perfect target.

He isn't excessive about it. Any being worth standing next to the Avatar of Pride is already exceptional in their own right. He trusts your judgement, he knows you're more than capable. You've proven that time and time again.

Yet there's something about you that he just can't leave alone. The feeling that fills Lucifer when he sees you is almost as strong as his sin. It's magnetic and addicting.

Lucifer combs lint off your clothes and fixes even the most minor parts of your appearance. You are a source of his pride, after all.

He'll give you accessories, charms. Anything in his color that marks you as his. He won't be upset if you refuse to wear them, though he will feel the need to show others that you belong to him in other ways.

He likes to catch you off guard, to suddenly loom over you just to brush a stray leaf off the back of your head. Your flustered expression always brings a mischievous smile to his face.

He'll turn your face towards his and lean in, so close that the smell of his breath fills your nose, just to inform you that "you have a bit of sleep next to your eye. Wipe it off."

He seems like the perfect gentleman, escorting you and guiding you out of harm's way. It's a ploy to keep you in arm's reach. With a single tug he can drag you away from danger and straight to his side. Whether it be a passing vehicle, a stray spell shooting through the air, or a sudden downpour. Or maybe he just likes to make up excuses to hold you against him.

You'd be most safe with his arms wrapped around you in a private room locked from the inside, but this much should be sufficient in public.

[alpali]

You didn’t necessarily know what your relationship with Kei was.

If it was up to labels probably friends with benefits or a situationship.

You never really knew.

Neither of you have ever brought it up. But your reasoning was solely because you liked him and you were convinced he was only in this for the sex.

A drunken night was what spurred this up and after that the you both couldn’t stay away. A booty call away, a late night text message.

You were half expecting him to come tonight but you weren’t up for doing anything. You were tired. Physically and mentally.

In a cower of your own thoughts, you confessing like a normal human being didn’t please as an option for you. So you thought pushing him away was better. You knew things would end like this. In one person getting hurt. And since you assumed he wouldn’t have feelings for you, you’d rather be the first to leave.

As you lay in your bed, the moonlight makes its way through your curtains. The chill of the night caressing your face. You felt yourself slipping away.

Yet your door opens and you already know who it is. His tall figure casts a shadow in your room. The moonlight hitting his face so perfectly he looks heavenly. He slides in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His big hand gliding across your tummy.

“M not in the mood Kei.” You whisper.

Your heart is beating rather fast and you’re sure that he could feel it. His movements freeze for a moment but he continues.

“That’s ok.” He whispers against the rim of your ear.

You shudder, your body not knowing whether to warm up or tense. You’re a little shocked that he stays, full heartedly expecting him to leave. You cast a glance behind you and he opens an eye.

“What?” He grumbles, closing his eye once again.

“You’re not gonna leave?” Which you agree sounds terrible but you didn’t mean any harm.

“Jeez, do you want me to?” He perks up and you shake your head.

“No. Sorry. I just thought you’d want to.”

His brows furrow.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I don’t know I figured you’d just wanna have sex.”

Now he’s definitely confused and even offended.

“Is it really that weird for me to just stay over?”

You purse your lips, embarrassment getting to you.

“A little yes. You’re always gone by the morning.” You mumble.

“Because I have practice.” He says softly.

You sigh, your malicious thoughts getting to you. You both fall silent. Both of you to far in your head.

“Did you really think I just came to fuck?”

You gulp.

“Yea.”

Your voice is soft. Kei probably wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t next to you. But he does and that confirmation hurts him.

“Why?”

You’re growing a little frustrated or maybe it’s the embarrassment getting to you.

“I-I don’t know. We never talked about what we were so I just assumed you didn’t want anything serious.” You sigh.

“I do want something serious with you. But yea, we never really brought it up.” He blinks.

“Ugh you’re being confusing! How can you say all of this with a straight face.” You pout.

He sits up, looking down at you. He motions you to get up as well and he pulls you on his lap. Your cheeks are redder than ever, your eyes scanning everywhere except him.

“Look at me.” He says softly, cupping your cheek.

You meet his golden eyes, his glasses set on your table so you’re able to really look at him. Your arms wrap around his neck, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

“I like you, I’ve always have.” He whispers, a faint smile on his lips.

But you’re finally able to see it. The softness and adoration in his eyes.

All of it.

Just for you.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, letting his lips linger. He pulls away just enough that your noses graze eachother.

“I’ll take you out tomorrow after our classes. If my words aren’t enough.” He mumbles.

“It is enough Kei but I’m not opposed to you taking me out.” You smile so big and he looks relieved.

“There you are.” He laughs, meeting your lips in a sweet kiss.

[spookyji]

make me juno! c.sb

nsfw + mdni. so like… we are all in agreement that this man needs to breed?

o-oh, soobin whines, one more, princess, please, his voice raspy with lust, hips sloppily rutting into yours, drunk on the absolutely lewd mess he’s made, legs thrown over his shoulders, exposing your creampied cunt, swollen folds absolutely drooling his cum, from how many loads? one, two, who knows, soobin doesn’t,, ‘cause all he can think about is how he’s filled you up so full of his cream, milky white in ropes over your thighs and seeping from your pussy, no matter how much he’s pushed it back inside with his massive cock, tip flushed cherry with inexplicable need, surely there’s… evidence to say he’s bred you up,, but there’s an urge deeper that begs for more, just one more, one more load and soobin will be satisfied, won’t he? need you ‘s bad pretty girl, can’t help it…

oh, how good it feels when his tip taps against your swollen pussy, barely pushing in and you’re whimpering. mhmm, can take it, s-soobin, there’s no harm if you’re knocked up… with his baby. oh, f-fuck, gonna let me give you my baby? his sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead, soobin’s heart shaped lips spilling barely coherent strings of swears when your pussy’s sucking him in, in a lewd squelch of arousal and cum, your whimpers going to drive him so insane,, little bulge in your tummy and his hands gripping your hips so desperately, ‘til soobin’s stuffed you full, down to the last inch of his massive length, looking so pretty when you’re connected like this, yeah?

beg him to give it to you, when soobin’s messily ramming his hips into yours, each thrust so deep, dick must be hitting your womb, hmm? fucking incoherently, down to the raw need of breeding, buried his face in the crook of your neck as he pants like a dog against your skin, desperately gasping for air like no tomorrow, mhmm, gonna make you all round and swollen with his baby, let everyone know what he’s done to you, make it so obvious you’re his. one of him is cute, but two?

so pussy drunk… only pulling back to look down at you with lovesick eyes when soobin cums, hot cream filling you up with a rush of heat, clinging to his wrist cause it’s the only thing keeping you grounded, fresh tear streaks and drool on the corner of your lips, can’t think straight anymore, can you? except to whine his name as soobin slowly thrusts a little more, so deep.

binnie, ‘s full— you whimper, feeling him lie against your skin, pressed up to every inch of your body, exhausted and not wanting to pull out… sorry, baby, ‘m making sure, his arms lazily wrapping around you as if it was possible to be even closer,, kissing apologies on your neck as a sweet sorry… oh, just wait until the morning, surely… you’ll let him do it again?

no time like 4am to finish drafts from last year :>