#too raw for something so...polished | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nephynes · 2 months ago

Text

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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gojosconsort · 6 days ago

Text

what happens in the car, stays in the car !? // nanami kento

𓂃୨ৎ you're the young intern who's been fantasizing about your stoic coworker, nanami, and he's the older, unhappily taken man who finally breaks, pinning you down in his car after drinks to fuck you senseless.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x coworker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. oral (both receiving), fingering, deep throating, spanking, bondage (seatbelt), edging, age gap, overstimulation, cheating (nanami has a girlfriend), gagging (with tie), creampie, drunk driving (don't do that! it's more of a plot hole), car sex

you’re sitting at the bar, the dim lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood counter, the faint hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. it’s been a long week at the office, and you and nanami, your coworker who’s somehow always got that tired look in his eyes, decided to hit this place to unwind.

he’s in his early thirties, a bit older than you and more experienced in your job, but tonight his tie’s loosened, top button undone, and there’s a slight flush on his cheeks from the whiskey he’s drinking.

you’re in your early twenties, still figuring out the corporate grind, and maybe that’s why you’re drawn to him—his steady presence, the way he carries himself like he’s seen it all but hasn’t let it break him.

you’re both a little buzzed, the kind of buzz that makes your laughter come easier and your shoulders relax. the bar’s crowded, but it feels like it’s just the two of you in this corner, elbows brushing on the countertop. he’s telling you about some client who botched a deal today, his voice low and rough, and you’re leaning in closer than you need to, catching the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, woody, grounding. you make a snarky comment about the client, and he chuckles, a rare sound that makes your stomach flip.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” he says, his eyes flicking to yours, a playful edge to his tone that’s not usually there. he’s got that half-smile, the one that makes him look younger, less burdened. you grin, nudging his arm with yours, your skin lingering against his for a second too long.

“me? trouble? you’re the one who’s been scowling at spreadsheets all week,” you tease, sipping your drink, the burn of alcohol warming your throat. your knee bumps his under the bar, and you don’t pull away. neither does he.

he shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “you make it hard to stay focused,” he mutters, almost to himself, and you catch it, your heart doing a little stutter.

he’s got a girlfriend, you know that—someone he’s been with for years, someone he talks about in passing but never with any warmth. you’ve seen the way his jaw tightens when her name comes up in conversation, the way he changes the subject. it’s none of your business, but you can’t help wondering what’s keeping him there when he looks so damn miserable.

“what, i’m a distraction now?” you say, leaning closer, your voice light but your eyes searching his. you’re treading a line, you both know it, but the alcohol’s got you bold, and the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to care.

he tilts his head, his fingers brushing against yours as he reaches for his glass, and you swear it’s not an accident. “something like that,” he says, his voice softer now, almost dangerous. his thumb grazes your knuckles, just for a second, and it’s enough to make your pulse race. you laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm, and you’re pretty sure he notices.

“careful, kento,” you say, using his first name like you’ve done a hundred times at the office, but here it feels different, heavier. “don’t want to get too friendly.” you’re joking, mostly, but there’s a challenge in your tone, and he picks up on it, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“too late for that, don’t you think?” he replies, and there’s something in his voice—something raw, unguarded—that makes you wonder how long he’s been holding back. his hand shifts, resting on the bar near yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin. you could pull back, keep it safe, but you don’t. instead, you let your fingers brush his, just enough to feel the spark.

the bartender slides another round your way, breaking the moment, and you both laugh, the tension easing but not disappearing. you talk about work, about the idiots in upper management, about anything that keeps the conversation flowing. but every now and then, your eyes meet, and there’s something unspoken there.

your drinks are running low, and you’re feeling reckless, the kind of reckless that comes from too much whiskey and the way his knee keeps brushing yours under the bar. you’re the one who suggests it, half-joking, half-daring. “wanna play a game? make this night a little more fun?”

he raises an eyebrow, that half-smile creeping back, and you can tell he’s intrigued. “what kind of game?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s already expecting trouble.

“truth or drink,” you say, smirking, tapping your glass with your fingernail. “answer the question or take a shot. no dodging, no bullshit.”

he leans back, considering, his eyes flicking over your face like he’s weighing the risks. “alright,” he says finally, his tone almost challenging. “you first.”

you grin, leaning closer, your elbows on the bar. “okay, kento. what’s the one thing you hate most about your relationship?” it’s a cheap shot, and you know it, but you’re curious, and the alcohol’s making you bold.

his jaw tightens, just for a second, and you think he’s gonna drink. but then he meets your gaze. “she doesn’t see me,” he says, voice quiet but heavy. “not really.” he doesn’t elaborate, just takes a sip of his whiskey anyway.

your heart does a little twist, but you keep your face neutral, nodding. “fair enough. your turn.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “what’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done for someone you wanted?” his eyes are locked on yours, and you feel the question like a hook, pulling you in.

you laugh, but it’s nervous, and you grab your drink, stalling. “that’s a loaded one,” you mutter, but you don’t drink. instead, you lean in, voice dropping. “snuck into a guy’s apartment at three a.m. just to leave a note on his fridge. didn’t even know if he’d see it.” you don’t mention it was a dumb college crush, not worth the effort. you just watch nanami’s reaction, the way his lips twitch, almost impressed.

“bold,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle. “my turn.”

the game goes back and forth, questions getting sharper, flirtier, the shots piling up. you’re both laughing, but it’s tense, like you’re circling something dangerous. you ask him about his first kiss; he asks you about the last time you broke a rule. he’s loosening up, his usual restraint cracking, and you’re eating it up, every brush of his hand against yours sending a jolt through you.

then it’s your turn again, and you’re feeling bold, maybe too bold. “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to try but never had the guts to do?” you ask, your voice teasing, but your eyes are daring him to cross a line.

he pauses, longer than before, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath, and says, “something like this.” before you can process, he grabs a shot from the bartender’s tray, holds it up, and says, “new rule. you hold the shot. i take it.”

your brain short-circuits, but you’re too far gone to back down. “what, like, in my mouth?” you say, half-laughing, half-challenging, but your heart’s pounding.

“exactly like that,” he replies, his voice so low it’s almost a growl, and his eyes are burning into yours, no trace of a joke.

you hesitate, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s starving—makes you nod. you take the shot glass, tip your head back, and let the tequila pool in your mouth, the burn sharp against your tongue. you’re hyper-aware of everything: the bar’s noise fading, the heat of his body as he stands, the way his hand brushes your jaw as he tilts your face up.

he doesn’t break eye contact, not once, as he leans in, his lips hovering over yours for a split second, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath. then his mouth closes over the edge of the shot, his lips brushing yours, soft but deliberate, as he takes the tequila, his tongue grazing the corner of your mouth just enough to make your knees weak. he pulls back, swallowing, his eyes dark and unreadable, but the tension’s so thick you could choke on it.

“your turn,” he says, voice rough, sitting back like nothing happened, but his hand’s still near yours, and you know you’re both in way too deep now.

the tequila’s hitting hard now, your head buzzing, the world softening around the edges. you and nanami are slouched closer together, the bar’s noise a distant hum, like it’s just you two in this hazy, charged bubble. your thighs are pressed together under the bar, and you’re not sure who leaned in first, but neither of you’s pulling away. the empty shot glasses are piling up, and your laughter’s getting looser, sloppier, every touch lingering longer than it should.

he’s got that look again, intense, like he’s trying to figure out how far this can go before it breaks. the game’s still on, but the questions are getting reckless, dangerous. it’s his turn, and he leans in, elbow on the bar.

“what’s your biggest fantasy in bed?” he asks, no preamble, no hesitation, his eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to flinch. it’s filthy, the way he says it, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your breath catching.

you laugh, but it’s shaky, and you take a sip of your drink to buy time, your cheeks burning. you could dodge, take a shot, but the alcohol’s got your guard down, and the way he’s watching you—hungry, unguarded—makes you want to match him. you lean closer, your lips curling into a smirk, and say, “you.”

it’s out before you can stop it, hanging in the air like a spark. his eyes darken, and he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. he just stares, his gaze heavy, like he’s imagining it right there. “careful,” he murmurs, but his voice is thick, and you catch the way his hand tightens around his glass. “you don’t know what you’re starting.”

you’re dizzy, from the drinks or him or both, but you don’t back down. “maybe i do,” you say, your voice softer now, teasing.

you’re both drunk, past the point of pretending this is just friendly, his tie long gone, sleeves rolled up, and your hair’s falling messy around your face. his hand’s been creeping closer all night, and now it’s resting on your thigh, warm and heavy through your skirt, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race.

“you wanna know why i don’t get along with my girlfriend anymore?” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. his hand tightens on your thigh, sliding up an inch, and it’s enough to make your whole body go weak, your breath hitching. “yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper, “tell me.”

he’s so close now, his lips almost brushing your ear, his fingers digging into your thigh like he’s anchoring himself. “it’s her,” he says, low and rough, the words spilling out like a dam’s broken. “she doesn’t want me. not the way i need. i want—fuck, i want someone who’ll let me take control, who’ll give themselves up to me, let me push them to the edge and beg for more.”

your knees are jelly, your head spinning, and you’re gripping the edge of the bar to keep yourself upright. his words are filthy, raw, painting pictures in your mind that make heat pool in your core. his hand’s still on your thigh, higher now, his thumb brushing slow circles that send shivers up your spine. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, “kento…”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him. but you don’t. you can’t. you’re too far gone, your body leaning into his touch, your lips parted, and he sees it—the way you’re unraveling under him. “you get it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, his hand sliding up another inch, bold and possessive.

you’re weak, completely undone, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. his face is inches from yours, and you’re drowning in the scent of his cologne, the weight of his hand, the promise in his words. you know you’re crossing a line, but right now, with him this close, you don’t care.

he leans back suddenly, his hand slipping from your thigh, leaving your skin cold where his touch had been. “you wanna get out of here?” he asks. it’s not a question, not really; it’s a dare, and you feel it in your bones.

your heart stumbles, but you don’t hesitate. “yeah,” you say. you slide off the stool, legs shaky from the drinks and the way he’s looking at you, and follow him out, the cool night air hitting your skin like a shock.

his car’s parked a block away, a sleek, dark mercedes that screams understated money, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence beside you, his hand brushing your lower back as he guides you through the crowd. neither of you speaks, the silence heavy, loaded. when you reach the car, he unlocks it but doesn’t open the door right away. instead, he turns to you, backing you against the passenger side, his body close but not quite touching, caging you in.

“last chance to walk away,” he says, but you catch the strain in it, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. his eyes search yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s itching to touch you.

you don’t walk away. you tilt your chin up, defiant, wanting, and that’s all it takes. he closes the distance, one hand cupping your jaw, firm but not rough, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

his lips are hot, demanding, and you melt into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer. the kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, the taste of whiskey and tequila mingling, and you’re drowning in it, in him.

you arch into him, desperate for more, your body pressing against his, but he’s in control, and he proves it. when you push up on your toes, chasing his mouth, he pulls back just enough to make you whimper, his thumb brushing your lower lip, teasing. “slow down,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver through you. “we’re doing this my way.”

you’re panting, your body trembling under his gaze, and he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every reaction. his hand slides to your waist, pinning you against the car, and he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring it.

you try to arch again, to press yourself closer, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his lips hovering over yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “patience,” he says, and the word alone makes your knees weak, his control wrapping around you like a tether you don’t want to break.

you’re trembling, caught in the push and pull of his restraint, the way he keeps you teetering on the edge with every calculated move. his hand on your waist tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp, and you feel the hard line of his body against yours.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost amused, but there’s a hunger in it that makes your stomach flip. his thumb traces a slow line along your hip, slipping just under the hem of your shirt, grazing bare skin. “nervous?”

you shake your head, defiant. “not nervous,” you manage, your voice breathy, betraying you. “just… want you.”

his eyes flash, something dangerous sparking in them, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you again, devour you right there. but he doesn’t. instead, he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, his voice a low growl, each word sinking into you like a promise. “but you’re gonna find out.”

before you can respond, he pulls back, his hand leaving your waist to open the passenger door. “get in,” he says, not a request, and the authority in his tone makes your knees weak. you slide into the seat, your pulse racing, and he shuts the door with a quiet click that feels final, like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. he rounds the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and the silence between you is heavy, charged, as he starts the engine.

he doesn’t drive far—just a few blocks to a quieter street, where the city lights are dim and the world feels smaller, just you and him. he cuts the engine and turns to you, his gaze heavy, assessing. “still with me?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still laced with that control that makes your skin prickle.

“yeah,” you breathe, leaning toward him, your hands itching to touch him. you reach out, fingers brushing his jaw, but he catches your wrist, his grip firm, stopping you. your breath hitches, and he smirks, like he’s enjoying how easily he can unravel you.

“not yet,” he says, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, making your whole body hum. “you don’t get to touch until i say.” he releases your wrist, but his hand slides to your thigh again, higher this time, his fingers spreading possessively over your skin. you arch toward him, desperate, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his eyes never leaving yours.

“kento,” you whisper, half-pleading, and he leans in, finally kissing you again, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re whimpering into his mouth. his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, and you’re melting, completely at his mercy, every nerve sparking under his touch. when you try to press closer, he pulls back again, just enough to make you chase him, his lips curling into that infuriating, controlled smirk.

“good girl,” he murmurs, the words hitting you like a shockwave, and you’re done for, your body trembling, ready to give him anything he wants, right there in the dark of his car.

“you’re so responsive,” he murmurs, like he’s savoring every reaction he pulls from you. his hand slides higher, fingers slipping under the edge of your underwear, and you gasp, your hips jerking instinctively toward him. he pauses, his gaze sharpening, and you feel the weight of his control settle over you like a blanket. “stay still,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “you move when i tell you to.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation as his fingers brush against you, teasing, not quite giving you what you want. he’s slow, deliberate, exploring you with a precision that makes your head spin, his touch light but purposeful, building a pressure that’s almost unbearable. you’re already slick, desperate, and he knows it, his lips curling into that smirk that drives you wild.

“you’re so needy,” he says. his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, slow, teasing, brushing the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your core. you’re already aching, slick and hot, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet. “but you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? gonna let me take my time.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling as his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging it aside with agonizing precision. the cool air hits you, and you gasp, hips twitching instinctively, but his other hand presses firmly on your thigh, keeping you still. “what did i say? don’t move,” he orders again.

his fingertip grazes you, feather-light, just along the edge, and it’s torture, the barest touch sending sparks through your nerves. he’s slow, methodical, circling your entrance, spreading your wetness with a deliberate stroke that makes you clench. “so ready,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes flicking to your face, drinking in the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves. “but i’m not letting you have it that easy.”

you whimper, your hands gripping the seat, nails digging in as he presses one finger against you, not pushing in, just resting there, letting you feel the pressure. “kento, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking, but he shakes his head, his thumb brushing over you, teasing your clit for a split second before pulling back.

“patience,” he says, his voice a low growl, and then he’s finally giving you something, his finger sliding in, slow, so slow, the stretch deliberate as he pushes past your entrance. you feel every inch, the way he curls slightly, testing, exploring, his knuckle brushing against your walls as he sinks deeper. your head falls back, a moan slipping out, and he pauses, just holding there, letting you adjust, letting you feel him.

“look at me,” he commands, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, dark and intense, as he starts to move, pulling back almost all the way before pushing in again, deeper this time, his finger curling just right to hit that spot that makes you gasp. when you start to rock your hips, chasing more, he stops, his finger still inside you, and you whine, tears prickling your eyes.

“i said don’t move,” he repeats, his voice firm, his free hand gripping your thigh harder, pinning you in place. “you come when i let you, understand?” you nod, desperate, your body shaking, and he rewards you with a second finger, pushing in alongside the first, the stretch fuller now, making you bite your lip to stifle a sob.

“please, kento,” you beg, your voice a broken whisper, tears spilling over as the pleasure coils tighter, your body screaming for release. he leans closer, his lips brushing your cheek, his breath hot against your skin.

without warning, his pace shifts, his fingers thrusting harder, faster, the rhythm brutal and unrelenting. the wet sound of his movements fills the car, obscene and overwhelming, as he drives into you with a force that makes your whole body jolt.

each thrust is deep, his fingers curling sharply to hit that spot inside you that sends white-hot pleasure shooting through your veins. you cry out, your head falling back against the seat, your hands clawing at the leather as you struggle to hold on.

“kento—fuck,” you sob, your voice breaking, the intensity too much, too good, your body screaming for release. his fingers are merciless, pounding into you, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure that make your vision blur. you’re a mess, trembling, sweating, your hips twitching despite his orders, desperate to meet his brutal pace.

“please, kento, i can’t—i need—”

“no,” he cuts you off. “you’ll wait.” his thumb presses hard against your clit, circling roughly, and you scream, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. he’s pushing you to your limit, his fingers relentless, driving into you with a ferocity that leaves you sobbing, your body completely at his mercy.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he keeps up his punishing rhythm. “crying for me, so desperate. you’re mine right now, aren’t you?” his fingers twist inside you, hitting that spot again, and you nod frantically, tears falling freely, your body shaking as you cling to his words, to his control.

you’re right there, teetering on the edge, the pleasure so overwhelming it’s almost unbearable, your walls clenching tight around his fingers. tears stream down your face, your breaths coming in broken sobs, and you’re so close, so close and he knows—reading every shudder, every gasp, and just as you feel the first wave start to crash, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and aching.

you cry out, a raw, desperate sound, your body shaking, leaving you a panting, trembling mess. your thighs are slick, your underwear soaked, and you’re practically sobbing. “no, no, please.”

“i told you,” he says, “you don’t come until i say.” he shifts, his hands moving to his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking loud in the quiet car. your eyes widen, your breath catching as he undoes it with slow, deliberate movements, the leather sliding through the metal with a soft rasp.

“get over here,” he orders, his voice sharp, and you’re moving before you can think, your body obeying on instinct. you lean across the center console, your hands trembling as you reach for him, but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“not your hands,” he says, his eyes burning into yours. “your mouth.” he undoes his pants, freeing himself, and you swallow hard, your mouth watering despite the ache still pulsing between your thighs. he’s hard, thick, and the sight of him makes your already shaky resolve crumble.

he guides you down, his hand firm on the back of your neck, not rough but unyielding, and you lower yourself, your lips brushing against him. you’re still reeling, your body screaming for release, but you want to please him, need to, and you take him into your mouth, slow at first, your tongue tracing the length of him. he groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, guiding you with a steady hand, setting the pace. “take it all.” you do your best, your lips stretching around him, your head bobbing as you try to match his rhythm, but he’s in control, his grip firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

every time you try to speed up, desperate to please, he pulls you back, slowing you down, making you feel every inch of him. you’re a mess, tears and spit mixing, your body still trembling from being left on the edge, but you’re lost in him, in the way he’s using you, in the way he’s watching you with that dark, hungry gaze.

“deeper,” he says, his voice a low growl, thick with want, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer. you relax your throat, taking a shaky breath through your nose, and he pushes you down, slow but relentless, his cock sliding deeper until it hits the back of your throat.

you gag slightly, your eyes watering, but he doesn’t let up, his hand steady, holding you there as you adjust. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough but steady, his thumb stroking the back of your neck like a reward. “take all of me.” your throat constricts around him, the sensation overwhelming, and you’re struggling to breathe, your hands gripping his thighs for balance. he’s so deep now, filling your mouth completely, and you can feel the pulse of him, hot and heavy, as you try to keep up.

he pulls you back just enough to let you catch your breath, your lips slick and swollen, but before you can fully recover, he pushes you down again, harder this time, his hips shifting to meet you. you choke, a muffled whimper escaping. his groans are louder now, raw, and you can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his control is fraying just a little at the edges.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice tight, and he thrusts into your mouth, shallow but firm, making you take him deeper with each push. his hand in your hair guides you, relentless, and you’re a mess, spit dripping down your chin, your body still throbbing.

you can feel him tensing, his breaths coming faster, rougher, and the way he’s throbbing against your tongue tells you he’s close, so close you can almost taste it.

just as his hips stutter, a low, guttural sound escaping him, he yanks you back by the hair, hard enough to make you gasp. your scalp stings, and you’re panting, spit-slick and dazed, as he holds you there, his eyes blazing with intensity. “not yet,” he growls, his voice rough, strained, like he’s fighting his own edge as much as he’s controlling yours. “you don’t get it that easy.”

your chest heaves, your lips trembling as you try to catch your breath, but before you can process, he’s moving and gestures to the backseat. “get back there,” he says. you scramble over the center console, your body shaky, skirt still bunched around your hips, and he follows.

he doesn’t give you time to settle. his hands are on you, pushing you down face-first onto the seat, your cheek pressed against the cool leather, your knees tucked under. you hear the soft click of the seatbelt being pulled, and then his hands are on your wrists, yanking them behind your back. the seatbelt strap loops around them, tight and unyielding, binding your hands together.

“stay down,” he orders, his voice low, dangerous, as he kneels behind you, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned. you can feel the weight of him, the heat of his body, and the rustle of his clothes as he shifts, his other hand trailing down your spine, slow and deliberate, making you arch despite yourself.

without warning, his hand lifts, and then it comes down hard, a sharp smack against your bare ass that makes you yelp, the sting blooming hot and sudden across your skin. your body jolts, but his other hand keeps you pinned, unmoving, and the mix of pain and pleasure sends a shockwave through you, making you clench instinctively. “fuck,” you gasp, your voice muffled against the seat, and you hear him chuckle, low and dark, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“you like that,” he says, not a question, his voice rough with control as he delivers another smack, harder this time, the sound echoing in the cramped backseat. your skin burns, the heat spreading, and you whimper, your hips twitching despite his orders to stay still.

he pauses, his hand resting on the stinging flesh, fingers kneading lightly, and you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and assessing. “answer me,” he says, his tone sharp, demanding. “have you thought about this? about me, your coworker, fucking you?”

your breath catches, your face burning as much as your ass, and you’re too far gone to lie, too wrecked to pretend. “yes,” you admit, your voice shaky, barely audible against the leather. “all the time.”

he hums, low and approving, and delivers another sharp spank, this one making you cry out, the sting blending with the throbbing need between your thighs. “good,” he murmurs, his hand lingering, soothing the burn with a slow stroke that makes you tremble. “because i’ve thought about it too. bending you over my desk, making you scream my name.”

he shifts behind you, his hand on your lower back easing up, but the reprieve is brief. “spread your legs,” he orders, and you obey instantly, your knees parting as far as the cramped backseat allows, exposing yourself completely.

without warning, his mouth is on you from behind, his lips and tongue diving into your slick heat with a hunger that makes you cry out. it’s sloppy, relentless, his tongue lapping at you, broad and rough, no trace of gentleness in the way he devours you.

he’s so mean about it, sucking hard on your clit, his teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, the sensation sharp and overwhelming. “kento—fuck,” you whimper, your voice breaking as you squirm, but his hands grip your hips, pinning you in place, his fingers digging into the tender flesh he spanked raw.

“stay still,” he growls against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave through your core, and you moan, your bound hands twisting uselessly against the seatbelt. he’s merciless, his tongue plunging into you, licking deep, then pulling back to suck and nip at your clit, the wet sounds of his mouth obscene in the quiet car. spit and your arousal mix, dripping down your thighs, and he laps it up, greedy, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin.

he knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing you right to the edge, his lips closing around your clit, sucking hard, then releasing just as you start to unravel, only to dive back in, harder, meaner. “please, kento, i can’t—” you sob, tears spilling down your cheeks, your voice muffled against the seat as the pleasure becomes too much, too intense.

“you can,” he says, his voice muffled but firm, and he doubles down, his tongue fucking into you, fast and deep, his lips smacking wetly against your skin. it’s too much, the sloppy, relentless assault driving you wild, and you’re done for, the coil snapping as your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you.

you scream, your body shaking uncontrollably, your hips bucking against his face despite his grip, and he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you’re a whimpering, oversensitive mess, your thighs trembling, slick and spit coating you.

he finally pulls back, his breath heavy, as he watches you quiver, still bound, completely at his mercy. “that’s one,” he murmurs. you barely have time to catch your breath before you feel him shift, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, pulling you up just enough to position you how he wants.

without a word, he lines himself up, and before you can brace yourself, he thrusts into you in one swift, brutal motion, his thick cock stretching you so suddenly that you scream, the sound raw and loud in the confined space.

he’s big, impossibly so, filling you completely, and the sensation is overwhelming, your still-sensitive walls clenching around him as your body struggles to adjust. your juices coat him, slick and dripping, making the slide easier but no less intense, and you’re loud, too loud, your cries echoing in the car.

“quiet,” he snaps, and you hear the rustle of fabric before his tie is suddenly at your lips, shoved into your mouth with a quick, firm push. the silk muffles your moans, tasting faintly of him, and you whimper around it, your eyes watering as you bite down, trying to obey.

his hand grips the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping your face pressed into the seat as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. “i said stay quiet,” he growls, his tone low and dangerous, sending a shiver through you even as his cock pulses inside you, buried deep, unmoving for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him.

his hips pull back, slow and deliberate, then slam forward, hard, the force rocking you forward against the seat, your muffled cry stifled by the tie. he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep and relentless, his cock stretching you, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice tight, his hand still firm on your neck, keeping you pinned as he fucks into you, hard and mean. “take it all.” your body is helpless, bound and gagged, completely under his control.

your mind is a haze, completely cockdrunk, lost in the relentless, brutal rhythm of nanami’s thrusts as he fucks you hard into the backseat. the tie in your mouth muffles your moans, but you’re still loud, whimpering and choking around the silk as his thick cock stretches you to your limit, slamming into your cervix with every deep, punishing thrust.

your wrists strain against the seatbelt binding them, your body rocking forward with each movement, face pressed into the sweat-slick leather, your juices dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you in a sticky mess.

the car is a furnace, the windows fogged up, condensation beading and streaking as the air grows heavy with heat and moisture. sweat clings to your skin, your hair sticking to your neck, and nanami’s no better—his shirt clings to his chest, damp and rumpled, his breath coming in loud, guttural grunts that fill the space every time he drives into you. the sound of him, raw and primal, mixes with the wet slap of his hips against your ass, obscene and unrelenting, making your head spin.

“fuck,” he growls, his voice rough, almost feral, as he pushes in again, deeper, harder, his cock hitting your cervix with a force that makes you see stars. he’s relentless, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure they’ll bruise, pulling you back to meet each thrust, his grunts louder, more desperate, as he loses himself in you.

“look at you,” he growls, his voice rough as he leans over you, his breath hot against your neck. “so fucking dumb on my cock, aren’t you? just a messy little slut, taking it all, crying for me.” his words hit you like a spark, making you clench around him, a muffled sob escaping as the pleasure spikes, sharp and overwhelming.

he slams into you harder, his hips grinding against your ass, and you feel him hit your cervix again, the pressure so intense it’s almost painful, but you’re too far gone to care, your body craving every brutal thrust. “bet you’ve been dreaming about this,” he snarls, his cock throbbing inside you. “getting fucked stupid by your coworker, my fat cock stretching you out, making you drip all over me. you’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

you’re shaking, your mind blank except for his voice, his cock, the way he’s claiming you completely, your walls clenching around him, and he feels it, his grunts getting louder, more desperate. “fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his control fraying. “gonna fill you up, make you take every drop. you want that, don’t you? want me to cum deep inside this perfect little pussy?”

his words, the raw hunger in them, send you spiraling, and you’re done for, the coil in your core snapping as another orgasm crashes through you. you scream into the tie, your body convulsing, your walls clamping down around him so hard it pulls a guttural moan from his throat.

he’s right there with you, his cock pulsing as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep. “fuck,” he growls, and you feel him cum, hot and thick, filling you, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you, drawing out every shudder, every pulse.

you’re both trembling, panting, the car a haze of heat and sweat, his cock still buried inside you as you both come down, your body limp, completely spent, his cum and your juices mingling, dripping out around him. he leans over you, his breath ragged, his hand stroking your hip, possessive and grounding, as you both try to catch your breath in the sticky, fogged-up confines of the backseat.

he shifts, and you feel him move, his hands gripping your hips again, possessive but slower now. “good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost hoarse, and before you can process it, he’s pushing into you again, his softening cock sliding through the wet, nasty mess between your legs. it’s sloppy, the slick sounds obscene as he thrusts in, slow and deep, the sensation overwhelming your raw, sensitive walls.

you whimper, high and broken, your body jerking at the overstimulation, every nerve screaming as he fills you again, his cum and yours making everything wetter, messier.

“shh,” he says, but it’s softer now, less a command and more a coaxing, his hands kneading your hips as he rocks into you, lazy but deliberate, savoring the way you clench around him. your whimpers are constant, muffled by the tie, your body trembling uncontrollably, too sensitive, too full, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch back into him, craving the feeling despite the intensity.

he leans over you, his chest pressing against your bound arms, and you feel his lips on your back, soft and warm, kissing a slow trail down your spine. “so good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low, almost tender, as he kisses lower, his lips brushing the curve of your back, grounding you in the haze of overstimulation. “look at you, taking it all, so fucking perfect.”

his thrusts slow, becoming more of a grind, his softening cock still buried deep, and you’re trembling, your body a live wire as he kisses down your spine one last time, his breath warm against your skin. he finally stills, his hands stroking your hips, your thighs, soothing the trembling as he stays inside you, letting you both catch your breath.

the car is quiet now, save for your muffled whimpers and his heavy breathing, the air thick with the aftermath, the windows fogged, the leather slick. he presses one final kiss to the small of your back, soft and reverent, before pulling out slowly, leaving you empty, spent, and utterly his in the hazy, sweaty confines of the backseat.

#—amy writes : kento nanami ★#nanami kento smut #nanami smut #kento smut #nanami x reader smut #kento nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x reader #divider by cafekitsune

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cheollollipop · 27 days ago

Text

pole position. | k. mingyu

genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.

wc: 10.6k

content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)

🏎️ author's note!

f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.

There are some names you never really outrun.

In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.

"YN's back?"

As if I were a curse.

It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.

It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.

And yet

I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.

The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.

Kim Mingyu.

I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.

An invitation.

It's not the first time he's tried.

Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.

He doesn't take rejection well.

He never has.

But this... this is different.

This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.

God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.

But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.

He wants to be a legend.

And legends always come with ghosts.

I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.

"Monza

Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.

Come see what a real legacy looks like."

– M

My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.

Deep, amused, cocky.

Come see what a real legacy looks like.

What a bastard.

I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.

I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.

Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.

He knows what it costs.

Knows what it takes.

Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.

I miss the sound.

The roar.

The rush.

I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.

And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.

Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.

I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.

I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.

I'm YN.

Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.

Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.

Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.

And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.

Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.

⸻

I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.

Nostalgia is dangerous.

So is desire.

I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.

And there he is.

Kim Mingyu.

Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.

He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.

A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.

"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.

He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.

"And I thought you'd keep running."

I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."

But the way he looks at me.

Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.

That's the problem.

That's what will ruin us both.

The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.

It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.

I shouldn't have come.

I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.

The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.

"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."

I don't look at him.

"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.

"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.

"Temporary lapse in judgment."

He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."

I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."

His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."

I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.

We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.

The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.

I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.

"You really trust her?" I ask.

Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."

"Big words."

"Big machine."

I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."

"I don't make them."

That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."

His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."

"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."

"You think that's me?"

"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."

We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.

Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."

"I don't."

He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"

I shove past him without answering.

⸻

The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.

Of course they are.

He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.

Petty.

Arrogant.

Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.

But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.

He's so fast.

Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.

He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.

Jesus.

I hate how impressed I am.

Worse. I hate that I expected it.

Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.

I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.

This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.

And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.

⸻

After practice, I stay put.

I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.

The door swings open.

He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.

"You came," he says simply.

I nod. "You drove."

He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"

I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.

"You're fast," I admit, finally.

He grins.

"But you already know that."

"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."

I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."

His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.

"I do," he says quietly.

It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.

"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."

He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"

"I know it is."

"I think it's something else."

"Let me guess. Fate?"

"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."

My throat tightens.

He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.

"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."

I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."

"But not me."

I don't answer.

Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.

The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.

"YN?"

A voice I half recognize. I turn.

It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.

"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."

"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.

"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."

I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."

More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.

"What brings you back?"

"You working again?"

"Writing a piece?"

"You here with someone?"

I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.

"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."

They nod like they understand. They don't.

Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

"Drivers, to your cars."

Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.

I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.

Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.

The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.

And then there's him. Car #9.

He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.

The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

And then

Out.

The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.

Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.

It's lap seven when he starts his climb.

A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.

A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.

Pole.

Just like that.

The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.

When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.

Pole position: Kim Mingyu.

Time: 1:11.330

The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.

I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.

The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.

And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.

Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.

His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.

I don't move.

I don't clap.

Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.

Because I know exactly who he's looking for.

And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.

⸻

I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.

He finds me anyway.

"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.

"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."

He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."

"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"

He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."

"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."

"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"

"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."

His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.

But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.

"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.

"You still talk like you're untouchable."

"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"

"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."

That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.

But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.

"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"

"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."

He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."

The words slice, even though I see them coming.

I stand straighter. "Don't."

His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."

"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"

"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."

I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.

He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.

"You remember Spa?"

Of course, I remember Spa.

The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.

He thinks bringing that up softens me.

It doesn't.

"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."

"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."

"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."

"You didn't."

"I should have."

"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."

"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."

He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.

But I don't now.

Not in this one.

I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."

"Not for me."

I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"

"You weren't exactly stingy with them."

"You had one good overtake."

"It was beautiful, and you know it."

"It was reckless and nearly illegal."

"That's how I knew you'd notice."

The air tightens between us.

He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.

"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."

Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."

I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.

"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."

I freeze.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."

"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."

That hits harder than he expects.

He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.

"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."

Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.

Because the worst part isn't that he's good.

It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.

And worse, how much of me would go with him.

⸻

Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.

Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.

I almost don't come.

But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.

Not a date. Not really.

Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.

Including Kim Mingyu.

I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.

Good.

I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.

Petty? Maybe.

But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.

I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.

So, I slip away.

Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.

It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.

I close my eyes.

"You like bringing someone new to every event?"

I don't turn around.

"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"

His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.

"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."

I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.

"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."

He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"

I cross my arms. "He's harmless."

"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."

We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.

Then, softer

"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."

I freeze.

It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.

"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."

"Not a great excuse."

"I know."

I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.

"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."

"Then what does?"

I look at him.

"You."

That wasn't supposed to slip.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.

Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.

"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.

I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."

"I'm not."

"You will."

"I won't if you stay."

"I'm not staying."

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

He takes a step forward. "You're not."

"I can't do this."

"We're not doing anything—"

"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"

I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."

"That wasn't—"

"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."

He flinches.

"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."

He's quiet. Too quiet.

And the silence is suddenly unbearable.

"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.

"YN—"

But I don't stop.

I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.

⸻

I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.

Three missed calls. Five unread messages.

MINGYU:

I shouldn't have let you walk away. Can we talk? Please. You still there? I didn't mean to hurt you.

I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.

The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.

I shouldn't have said that.

I shouldn't have said any of it.

But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.

By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.

I know this circuit like muscle memory.

I know Mingyu better.

He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.

He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.

I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.

But when they go out...

He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.

Lap after lap, he's off.

Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.

And that's what scares me.

"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."

"Tyres won't last at this rate."

I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.

"Box, box, box," comes the call.

He doesn't answer.

On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.

When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.

"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."

"I'm not—"

"He asked."

I don't ask why.

The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.

He won't look at me.

Not once.

He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.

The pit wall murmurs.

"His sector time dropped again."

"Something's wrong."

No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.

I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.

"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.

I press a fist to my lips.

This is my fault.

I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.

Because it does.

And I know that. I've always known that.

Lap 42.

He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.

Barely.

The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."

Silence.

My heart thunders like a race start.

The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.

This isn't about the race anymore.

This is about me.

I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.

He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.

It punishes.

It ends careers.

It took my father.

And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.

I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."

The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."

"Then make him."

He hesitates.

I close my eyes.

"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."

The air in the garage is suffocating.

I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.

He's going to crash.

Lap 65 of 78.

Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.

He still hasn't responded to strategy.

Not since Lap 42.

Not since he saw me in the garage.

I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.

"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."

"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."

Silence.

Again.

They're running out of options.

I'm already moving before I realize it.

The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.

"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."

There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.

I don't wait.

My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.

"Mingyu."

Nothing.

"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"

Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.

"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"

A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.

I close my eyes. Lower my voice.

"I know why you're doing this."

Sector one—green.

He's pushing harder. Too hard.

"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"

"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"

My voice wavers.

"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”

"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."

The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.

"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."

I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.

"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."

A breath.

Then, finally, after laps of nothing—

"You had me at Mingyu."

His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.

I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.

Lap 73.

He steadies.

His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.

Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.

He's back.

He's himself again.

"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."

"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."

Lap 76. The fight is on.

I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.

Final lap.

The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—

—and that's when it happens.

A puff of smoke.

"Yellow flag, Sector 1."

I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"

"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."

My knees nearly give out as I see it.

Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.

He's still fighting.

My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't need to.

He's never stopped.

And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.

The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.

But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.

He heard me.

He stayed.

But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—

What if I hadn't said anything at all?

Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.

And then I see him.

Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.

P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.

He hasn't seen me yet.

He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.

I should leave.

This is his moment. Not mine.

But I can't move.

I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.

And then he turns.

Our eyes lock.

Everything else goes silent.

He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.

I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.

Then he starts walking toward me.

The crowd parts for him like it knows.

Suddenly, I can't breathe.

His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.

He stops.

Too close.

He doesn't speak.

So I do.

"You didn't even flinch."

He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."

I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."

"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."

My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."

"I was trying to win a race."

"And almost died doing it."

His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.

"Worth it."

I shove his shoulder. Hard.

He doesn't budge.

"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."

His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.

"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."

"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."

"It did."

The words slam into me.

He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.

"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."

My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.

"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."

I blink.

And blink again.

"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."

His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"

I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.

I step closer.

"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."

He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"

He cuts off.

I stare up at him.

He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.

And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.

"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."

"I know."

"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."

I clamp my mouth shut.

But he hears it.

God, of course, he does.

Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.

"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."

He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.

"I've been in love with you since Spa."

I suck in a breath.

"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you'd spit it back in my face."

"I probably would've."

He laughs under his breath.

I can't look at him.

But I also can't not.

We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.

"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."

"I know," he says softly.

And then, finally, he steps back.

The space between us is unbearable.

"Find me later," he says.

I don't answer.

But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.

The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.

I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.

I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.

"Rough night?"

I don't even have to turn around.

The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.

Julius.

"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.

He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.

"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."

I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."

I roll my eyes and push past him.

He follows, of course.

"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"

I stop short.

"Don't call him that."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"

My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."

"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."

I see red.

"Excuse me?"

"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.

But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.

Mingyu.

Standing just across the paddock.

Watching.

For a split second, our eyes lock.

And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.

Because all he sees is this.

Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.

I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.

I move.

Fast.

"Mingyu—"

But he turns.

Gone.

Just like that.

Shit.

I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"

He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"

"I'm not playing games."

"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."

I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.

"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.

Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.

"You always were more fun when you were angry."

I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.

I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.

⸻

I don't remember getting back to the hotel.

I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.

The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.

That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.

Again.

I grabbed my phone.

Can we talk?

No response.

Please.

Still nothing.

I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it.

It rang once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

I hung up before it could finish.

The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.

But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.

I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.

On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.

Is he there?

A pause.

Jinho: Rooftop. But... maybe don't push it tonight.

I stared at that for a long moment.

I'm already on my way.

The rooftop was quiet.

Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.

Mingyu.

He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.

He didn't have to. He knew it was me.

"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.

Still nothing.

"But I needed to explain."

"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.

"I want to."

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.

"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."

Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.

"I saw him touch you."

"I didn't touch him back."

"But you didn't pull away."

I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."

His stare didn't waver.

"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."

"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"

That cut deep.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.

"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't say it back."

I froze.

"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."

I stared at him.

He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

He waited.

The silence stretched between us, unbearable.

"I can't," I whispered.

He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"

"Say it."

"Why?"

"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."

"It's already real."

I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."

"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."

My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.

He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."

I shook my head. "I'm scared."

"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."

I blinked, eyes stinging.

He stepped in.

His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.

"Say it," he whispered.

I couldn't.

So he kissed me.

Hard.

No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.

I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.

"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."

I didn't answer.

I just took his hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.

Like this was enough.

We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.

Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.

We stepped inside.

The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.

There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.

"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."

I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."

The elevator dinged.

He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.

Room 1427. Keycard. Click.

The door shut behind us.

And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.

I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.

"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"

"Yes," I breathed.

He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.

"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."

I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.

Then he stepped back.

And stared.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."

I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.

"Then touch me."

That broke him.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.

He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.

Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.

"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."

"Mingyu—"

"I know," he said. "I know."

He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.

"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."

"You never had to."

Then his mouth was on me.

I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.

"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."

I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.

He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.

"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."

"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."

He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.

When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.

So did he.

"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."

We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.

Deep, intentional, raw.

Each thrust was a confession.

Each moan, a word I couldn't say.

"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."

I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."

He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.

"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.

"I'm—Mingyu—"

And then I shattered.

I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

When it was over, we stayed there.

Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.

His forehead rested against mine.

"I'm still scared," I whispered.

He kissed me softly. "Me too."

"But I'm here."

His arms wrapped tighter around me.

"Good," he said. "Stay."

He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.

"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.

I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."

Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.

His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.

"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."

"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."

He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.

Only feeling.

He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.

And I let him.

"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."

"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."

When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.

His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.

He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.

"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."

Tears stung my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."

"Say it now."

My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.

"I love you, Mingyu."

His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.

I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.

The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.

"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."

He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.

And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.

"You mean it?" he asked quietly.

"I've never meant anything more."

He smiled,messy and perfect.

He kissed me again.

Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.

I was.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.

"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.

I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.

He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.

I let the silence settle.

Until I whispered, "What happens now?"

He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."

That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.

"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."

I looked up at him.

He met my eyes. Serious now.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."

I waited.

"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."

I nodded. "I know."

"But I also know it scares you."

My throat tightened.

"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."

"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.

He didn't flinch.

"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."

I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.

And then it broke.

The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.

"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.

I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.

"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."

"You can't promise that," I whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.

"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."

I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.

He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."

I nodded, voice too broken to speak.

And he held me like he'd never let go.

Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.

I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.

And this time, I didn't dream of losing him.

I dreamt of staying.

⤷ network tags: @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

#k-films #blossomnet #seventeen mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x y/n #mingyu smut #seventeen smut #f1 au #seventeen fic #seventeen

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jaesblogstuff · 12 days ago

Text

Four Reflections

The mirrors in this room don't spare a chance. (probably the nastiest thing I've written)

The hotel wasn’t your usual run-down military stopover. It was expensive—elegant even. All soft lighting, marble floors, and quiet hallways that smelled like bergamot and polished glass. Too clean. Too pristine. Almost like it wasn't supposed to be touched.

But the mirrors? Too many, in places that made you raise a brow.

One across from the bed. One on the wardrobe. One even on the ceiling, slightly tilted. And a fourth, slim, vertical, tucked behind the armchair.

You’d scoffed when you walked in.

“Who the fuck needs that many angles?”

Simon just looked around, slow and deliberate, then dropped his pack by the armchair with a quiet thud.

“Maybe they expect you to appreciate yourself more.”

You snorted. “For what? Sleeping?”

He didn’t answer. Just smirked. That half-lidded, barely-there curl of his mouth. You hated when he did that. Like he already knew something you didn’t, and was waiting for the exact second it’d hit.

You didn’t know it then, but you’d be crawling away from that room by the end of the night. Sore. Boneless. Legs trembling. The outline of his hand still warm on your jaw because you’d gone limp after the second orgasm, and he wasn’t having that. Not tonight. Not when he had four fucking mirrors and weeks of need to make up for.

“Word.” His voice, low and serious now. A shift.

You blinked. Swallowed. “Simon… we are not— "

“Say it.”

Your throat bobbed. You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“Caraway.”

His breath ghosted against your jaw. Warm. Controlled. And then,“Good girl.”

Because when Simon made you say it first, it wasn’t hesitation. It was a warning. A quiet, deliberate signal. That tonight, he wasn’t going to let you off easy. No softness. No careful teasing. Just all of him. Raw, focused, and starving after weeks away. Every touch tonight would be to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

Mirror 1: The Wardrobe

He bent you over the bed first. Facing the long mirror across the room, the one on the wardrobe.

Your dress was peeled off. Your knees sunk into the mattress, thighs spread. His hands were already on your hips. You caught your own reflection. Ass in the air, back arched, mouth open, your own hand bracing the headboard like it could save you.

Then he entered you. One smooth push. All of him.

You gasped—half from stretch, half from the sheer depth. He didn’t stop to let you adjust, just grabbed your hips and started thrusting, slow and deliberate, like it had to be this angle. This view.

“Look at that,” he grunted, one hand trailing up your spine to grab the back of your neck. “Look how you take me. Every inch.”

You locked eyes with your reflection. You looked wrecked already—barely a minute in. Hair sticking to your temple. Drool threatening at the corner of your lip.

“Can see you squeezing me,” Simon muttered. “Greedy fuckin’ cunt. Like you missed this cock, huh?”

You whimpered something incoherent.

“Use your words,” he said, hand tightening on your nape. “You want it?”

“Y-Yeah—”

Wrong answer. He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in so hard your body jolted forward. Your palm slipped. Your knees slid.

“Yes, Simon. Say it like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Your body convulsed. “Yes! Yes, I want it—want all of it—please—”

“Good.”

You came like that. Clenching, choking, crying into the sheets as he forced your eyes back up to the mirror and made you watch your own body shudder around him.

Mirror 2: The Chair

You didn’t even have time to recover. He dragged there by the wrist, kissed you open-mouthed, laid you back with your legs over the arms, open, exposed. Like a fucking centerpiece.

The armchair was solid, high-backed, real wood. And the mirror behind it? Narrow, full-length. Just tall enough for you to see everything.

He sat on the floor in front of you, spit-slicked fingers dragging over your clit like he was memorizing it all over again. He made you watch that too—head tilted just enough to see his shoulders flex between your legs in the mirror.

You tried to catch your breath, tried to slow things down.

“FUCK—”

Your knees buckled, but he held you. Made you sit there, thighs wide, impaled, shivering.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he said, calm as hell. “Right here. Wanna see your face when it happens.”

And he watched. Watched the way your mouth opened. Watched your body fold over him. Your head leaning too far backwards to the rear of the arm chair.

“Keep your eyes open. Head up”

“I—can’t—”

Slap. A sharp one. Not cruel. Just enough across your pussy to make your eyes snap wide again. His hand cupped your jaw after.

“You can.” His voice was lower. Meaner. Firm. “You will.”

You choked out a sob. Then came again, legs locking, hips spasming over him. But he wasn’t done. And when you tried to shift away, he grabbed your thighs and held you in place.

“No. Not done yet.”

Mirror 3: The Ceiling

By the time he carried you back to the bed, you were already trembling. Arms limp. Vision fuzzy. But Simon didn’t lie.

“Still with me?” You whimpered something weak. He grinned. Nuzzled into your temple. “Attagirl.”

Then he grabbed your thighs and folded you. Pressed them up to your chest until you were bent in half, feet in the air, knees near your ears.

Your eyes lifted. Mirror three stared back. Ceiling. Angled.

You saw your face. Your soaked pussy spread wide around his cock. Simon looming over you like a goddamn force of nature.

He slammed into you.

“F-Fuck—Simon—” Your head lolled to the side. “Simon, no more."

“Yes you can. Look.” He grabbed your cheeks between one big hand and forced your face up. “Look at what I’m doin’ to you. You see that?”

You did. The wet slap of his cock pushing in and out. The arch of your back. Your mouth open in a silent scream.

“Feel me?” You nodded helplessly, already close again.

“Then fuckin’ take it.”

You came hard. You didn’t even hear yourself. Just the sound of his breath, harsh and heavy, telling you you were so good, so fuckin’ tight, that’s it, take it all, just like that—

But still...not done.

Mirror 4: The Wall

You were limp, boneless and dazed, trying not to sink into the sheets.

Simon gathered you up like it was nothing, carrying you to the foot of the bed where the last mirror waited. Your body barely held form in his arms. Thighs trembling. Eyes unfocused. Every nerve frayed and raw.

“One more, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips grazing your shoulder, voice gentle and firm. “Just one more. You’ve got it.”

You made a sound. Wrecked, breathless. Somewhere between a sob and a plea. Agreement? Protest? Even you didn’t know. But Simon didn’t need an answer.

He didn’t start with a thrust. He just held you there, buried deep, unmoving. The sheer fullness of him made your breath hitch. He pulsed inside you, heavy, almost overwhelming, and your body responded instinctively clenching, aching, trying to draw him even deeper despite having nothing left to give.

His hand pressed flat to your stomach— grounding you.

Then he rolled his hips.

Once. You shattered.

The sound you made was raw and involuntary, torn straight from your chest. Your entire body seized, belly twisting in violent aftershocks. You clawed at his thighs beside you, not to pull him closer— but to stay upright. But it was useless.

You broke apart in his lap, twitching, whining, completely unraveling between him.

And the mirror made you see it.

What he’d done to you.

How you trembled, wrecked and soaked, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. How your belly jolted every time he moved. Your hair stuck to your face. Jaw slack. Eyes wide and glassy. Nothing left to hide.

And behind you—Simon. Silent. Composed. Watching you fall apart with the intensity of someone who owned it. Owned you.

He didn’t say a word. Just tightened his grip around your waist, locking you against him while your orgasm rippled through you like lightning under skin.

And then, he let go. A low, brutal groan spilled against your throat as he came, cock twitching deep inside you, hips rolling in slow, drawn-out thrusts— each one just enough to make your stomach clench again. Just to feel you. Just to listen to the way your breath caught and stuttered, so used up and soft.

You couldn’t take it. Couldn’t hold yourself up anymore.

Your body began to fold forward, boneless and wrecked, but he caught you instantly— his arm sliding across your stomach, pulling you back against him with that steady, possessive strength.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, right against your ear. “Lean back, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you did.

You gave in completely, head falling against his shoulder, back collapsing into his chest like your spine had given out. A choked, breathless laugh tumbled out of you, half-sob, half-release, your body still twitching from the aftershocks.

He held you like you were something precious and ruined. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced over your thigh, fingers still gripping like he never planned to let go.

His chin rested on your shoulder. His breath was warm at your ear. And in the mirror— you were both still.

Ruined. Perfect.

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mill3rd · 1 month ago

Text

LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

#remmick x reader #sinners 2025 #remmick sinners #althea writes #remmick #jack o'connell #mill3rd

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abbotjack · 2 months ago

Note

jack seems to be so composed in your writing, especially during sex. is there ever a scenario you could see him maybe losing control/composure during?

Oh, definitely—Jack’s composure isn’t just habit, it’s armor. But under the right pressure? He’ll break. And when he does, it won’t be loud or reckless—it’ll be raw. Quiet.

Here’s where I think he’d lose control—physically, emotionally, or both. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: rough sex, deep emotional repression, emotionally charged confessions, unprotected sex, dom/sub energy without labels, messy pacing, loss of control, clingy post-sex silence

1. When He Thinks He’s Losing You

You shouldn’t be here.

Not after what you said. Not after the door slammed. Not after you’d spent the past few nights curled under someone else’s blanket on someone else’s couch, trying to forget how his voice sounded when he didn’t ask you to stay.

But it’s raining, and you’re here. And Jack opens the door like he knew you’d be on the other side.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

His gray curls were tousled, flattened at the sides like he’d been dragging a hand through them too many times. The shirt he’s wearing is soft, white, the collar stretched, the hem sitting uneven over a pair of sweats. He stood still, but not at ease—his weight angled slightly, one leg bearing just a little more than the other. The prosthetic stayed grounded, subtle in its silence, like something his body adjusted to without thinking—something you’d learned to notice only when he was this still.

He looks tired.

He looks like he hasn’t been able to stop thinking.

You speak first. Quiet. “Can I come in?”

He nods, barely. His jaw twitches like it pains him not to reach for you.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway. The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle you left half-burned in the kitchen—still faint in the air, like the memory of your warmth hasn’t fully left.

He closes the door behind you. Doesn’t move.

The silence between you presses down—thick and unfinished.

“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” you say first. Voice quiet. Uncertain.

Jack huffs through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

Your voice drops. “I didn’t come to keep fighting.”

“I didn’t think you did,” he says. Then, after a pause: “But you did leave.”

You nod, once. “I left. You shut down. Not that different.”

It lands. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just stands there, still, eyes locked on yours like there’s more he wants to say but no good way to say it. He breathes out, sharp at the edges, and you know—it got through.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.

You nod again. “Neither did I.”

It hangs there for a moment—we hurt each other. We didn’t mean to. But we did.

Then finally, you say it. Not softly, not dramatically. Just truthfully.

“I missed you.”

And that—that—is what breaks him.

His hand’s in your hair before you can breathe. His mouth finds yours—desperate, uneven, like the words he didn’t say are still stuck in his throat and this is the only way to let them out. Not polished. Not careful. Starving.

He's everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the small of your back—like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first. His body crowds into yours, chest to chest, thigh slipping between yours without finesse, without warning. It isn’t about sex. It’s about contact. Closeness. Like he’s trying to fit both of you back into the same breath.

“Jack,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Hey—”

He kisses you harder.

“I can’t—” His voice breaks at your throat. “I can’t do that again. I can’t watch you leave and pretend it didn’t fucking gut me.”

Your hands find his chest first—flat against the worn fabric, fingers curling into it like you’re trying to steady both of you. He’s burning beneath it. You slip your palms beneath the hem, not tugging, just touching, just wanting—a wordless way to say me neither.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

That’s when something in him gives.

He grabs the back of your shirt and pulls it off, fast and clumsy. His own shirt’s gone next—tossed to the floor. You catch a glimpse of the scar trailing along his ribs, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow.

His hands move to your waistband, not asking. Just moving. Just needing. He drags your pants down with both hands, catching your underwear with them, tugging hard until they’re off and forgotten on the floor. Then his hands are back on you—raking up your thighs, gripping the curve of your hips.

You start to reach for him, but he’s already gathering you into his arms—like instinct took over before thought could catch up. You cling to him without hesitation, arms winding around his shoulders, legs locking at his waist. He carries you down the hall without a word, without pause, like getting you to the bed is the only thing anchoring him now.

He lays you back on the bed and follows you down.

No teasing. No pause.

Just Jack—pressing into you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself between your legs. You’re already wet. Already open. And when he pushes in—deep, slow, all at once—his breath leaves him in a broken exhale.

He stills.

Not to tease. Not to hold back.

Because it wrecks him.

He lowers his head, jaw clenched tight, arms shaking with restraint. You feel him tremble above you—one, sharp tremor—and then he starts to move.

Not rhythmically.

Not smoothly.

Just fucking desperate.

Every thrust is erratic, forceful, like he’s been holding this back for days, weeks. He can’t find a pace. He can’t breathe through it. He’s rutting into you like it’s the only way to stay grounded. Like it’s the only place he knows how to be.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow down. He presses his forehead into your neck—sweat damp, teeth clenched. He makes no sound. But you feel it.

The unraveling. The shudder in his hips. The way he drives deeper, harder, chasing something even he doesn’t have words for.

And when he comes—he doesn’t curse. Doesn’t groan.

He just breaks.

Whole body locking up. A silent, shuddering gasp against your skin. Hands gripping too tight. Hips stuttering through the aftershock.

And then stillness.

He stays inside you.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes—shallow and wrecked—his weight braced against your chest like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling further.

2. When You’re in Control—And He Didn't See It Coming

He’s lying on the bed, propped against the headboard. Bare chest rising slow and steady like he’s trying not to let the day get to him.

And then you crawl into his lap.

No warning. No words. Just your body over his, thighs straddling his hips, your skin barely covered by the oversized shirt he left folded on your side of the bed. His shirt. Still carrying his scent.

His hands move automatically—to your waist, to the back of your thigh—but you push them back. Gently. Firmly.

“Let me,” you whisper.

His brow lifts—only a little. The only sign of tension is the flicker in his jaw, the way his thigh shifts beneath you. But he doesn’t stop you.

You lean in, kiss his collarbone, run your hands over his chest, the scars and the muscle and the years of wear he never talks about. You don’t rush. You don’t ask. You just slide your hand lower—over his stomach, beneath the waistband of his sweats—and wrap your fingers around him.

That’s the moment he falters.

His head drops back against the headboard. His mouth falls open. One of his hands fists the sheet beside him, the other grips your hip—tight, like he needs something to hold onto. He bucks up into your hand once, twice, breath caught in his throat.

“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t tease.”

You do.

You stroke him slow, deliberate, watching the tension build in every part of him—his abs flexing, his breath shortening, the way his eyes shut like he’s fighting not to give in. You feel him throb against your palm, hot and heavy and helpless in your grip. He’s panting now, voice shredded when he tries to speak.

And when you finally slide down onto him?

He gasps—sharp and strangled. His hips jerk upward and he catches himself on instinct, trying not to lose it too fast. But you ride him with control, your hands braced on his chest, grinding down slow and deep until he’s twitching inside you, his voice stuck in his throat.

His hands fly to your hips again, gripping hard, trying to hold you still. You lean down, brush your mouth against his ear.

“Let go.”

And he does.

He flips you onto your back, his mouth crashing into yours, and drives into you with everything he’s been trying not to feel. No rhythm—just need. His voice is raw when he breaks, forehead pressed to yours, thrusting so deep you swear you’re going to come undone from the inside out.

“You wanted to see me lose it,” he growls, breathless. “Here.”

And he fucks you like it’s not just sex—it’s relinquishing. It’s him, undone.

3. After a Day That Nearly Broke Him

He doesn’t say a word when he comes in. Just shuts the door, tosses his keys somewhere near the counter, and disappears down the hallway like the house is too loud, even in silence. You hear the shower.

By the time the mattress dips behind you, you’re barely awake.

But then you feel it—his hand. Heavy. Flat against your thigh beneath the sheets. He doesn’t trail it up, doesn’t ask, just presses. Like he needs to know you’re warm. Real.

You shift toward him, barely murmuring his name—and he’s already on top of you. No words. No preamble. Just his body moving over yours like a weight he can’t hold anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first—open, hot. Not a kiss. Just breath and teeth. Desperation.

His hands work fast. Pulling your sleep shorts down, dragging your legs apart with his palms wide on the inside of your thighs. Breath stuttering as he fits the head of his cock between your folds.

And then he pushes in.

Deep. All the way. In one solid thrust that stretches you wide and makes your whole body jolt. You gasp, clutching his forearms—but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just stays. Buried to the base, forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

“Jack…” you whisper.

His jaw is clenched tight. Breath shaking. His hands grip your hips hard—too hard—but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You know this isn’t about rhythm or foreplay. This is him trying not to break.

And then he starts to move.

It’s not fast. Not sloppy. It’s intentional. Each thrust deep and full, grinding into you like he’s trying to anchor himself inside your body. You feel every inch of him dragging slow and thick through your cunt, your breath catching every time his hips meet yours.

His arms cage you in. His mouth is at your throat, hot and wet and lost. Not saying anything—just making small, broken sounds against your skin.

You moan his name again, and that’s what shatters him.

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the sound obscene, wet, raw. You cry out. He doesn’t pause.

Again. Harder.

He’s shaking now—his abs tensing under your hands, his breath rasping in short, uneven bursts as he fucks you harder, deeper, wrecklessly, like something gave out inside him and there’s no pulling it back.

You feel him pulse inside you before you hear the sound he makes—low, guttural, broken. His whole body tightens, chest pressed to yours as he comes hard, buried deep, cock throbbing with each wave as he empties into you, mouth open against your collarbone, completely silent now.

He stays inside you. Breathing. Not moving. One hand slides up your side and stays there.

You don’t ask what happened at the hospital.

You just hold him like he’s still unraveling.

Because he is.

4. When You Break Him With Words

He’s already fucking you when it happens—slow, deep, focused. Jack above you, heavy with control, arms braced tight on either side of your head. His chest brushes yours with every roll of his hips, thick and steady, cock sliding in slow and hot with the kind of precision that only comes from someone who never lets himself get carried away.

He doesn’t talk much during sex. Just the occasional sharp breath, a low curse when you clench around him. Mostly silence. Measured. Like everything else he does.

His body covers yours completely—his weight, his warmth, the subtle difference in how he shifts to keep balance—but there’s nothing hesitant about the way he moves. He knows your body, knows how to make you fall apart. He just rarely lets himself need it.

Tonight’s no different.

Until you say it.

“I love the way you fuck me,” you breathe—first, casual. And he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, pace unchanging.

But then: “I love you.” “I mean it.” “I want all of you.”

That stops him.

Not entirely. His hips stall mid-thrust, chest tight against yours, his jaw locked so hard you feel it in the weight of his breath. His cock throbs inside you, thick and full and unmoving.

You cup the side of his face—fingers slow, tender—and say it again.

“I mean it, Jack. I want you. All of you. Not just this.”

He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Like he’s trying to fight the way that lands. You feel it in the way his arm flexes. In the way his cock twitches inside you, untouched and aching.

Then suddenly—he moves.

Faster. Rougher.

He drives into you like something cracked, like if he keeps fucking you hard enough, he can shake the words out of his head.

But it’s too late.

They’re already inside him.

He fucks you with his whole body—thrusts rough and deep, every stroke dragging moans from your throat as he hits you just right. Your thighs are hooked around his waist, back arching into him, nails raking down his shoulders as he starts to unravel.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he mutters, voice hoarse and close to ruined.

“I do,” you gasp, holding onto him tighter. “Jack, look at me.”

He does.

And his rhythm falters the second your eyes meet.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole body stutters.

He growls—actually growls, low and guttural—as he drives into you harder than before, pace snapping, control slipping completely. You feel him start to lose it—his hips jerking, cock throbbing so deep inside you it makes your vision go white. He’s there, on the edge, and trying not to be.

You dig your heels into his back and pull him closer. “Don’t hold it in.”

His eyes flutter shut. His mouth crushes to yours, desperate, brutal, all tongue and teeth. His thrusts go ragged—sloppy and devastated—until he buries himself fully and groans, deep and wrecked, as he comes inside you.

You feel every pulse, hot and thick, his cock twitching deep inside your cunt as his whole body jerks. His arms are shaking. His breath is gone.

And still—he doesn't move.

Just stays there, pressed full length against you, forehead buried in your neck like if he lifts his head, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

#request #anon request #the pitt #jack abbot #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #the pitt hbo #smut #shawn hatosy

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beautifulplaceofyouth · 4 months ago

Text

AN APPLE A DAY KEEPS THE DOCTOR AWAY

Synopsis - Your boyfriend is tired after a long day of work and you have been impatient all day, just to have him inside you again but then the apple foreplay starts. You don’t know if you want to ride him harder or smack him with that in the face. (6.8k) Pairing - Caleb!possessive!boyfriend x Needy!Reader Warnings - (nsfw 18+) He’s being playful sadistic tease, lap riding, orgasm edging, unprotected raw vaginal sex, a lot of kisses, creampie, a little handjob, slight nipple play, apple foreplay, dirty talk, pet names(baby, buttercup, pipsqueak, brat, pretty girl, little seagull, Miss Apple) - He is sweet but such a big flirt, I can't. - Their sexual chemistry is off the charts here. Don’t judge, okay? (And sorry Zayne, the apples are really keeping you away while Caleb is in charge-sorry, had to say it, haha) Hope you will enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

The warmth of the shower still clung to your skin as you padded through the apartment, his oversized t-shirt doing little to conceal the anticipation thrumming beneath. You loved the way his clothes swallowed you whole, a tangible reminder of his presence even when he wasn't there. But he was home now, or at least, that's what the click of the automatic lock had signaled, a sound that usually heralded a greeting, a kiss, a moment of reconnection.

But silence hung in the air, a stark contrast to the usual boisterous energy he carried. Frowning, you followed the sound of your own bare feet against the polished floor, drawn towards the bedroom.

The sight that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Caleb was a study in contrasts. The crisp lines of his uniform, usually immaculate and imposing, were softened by the loosened tie and the undone buttons of his shirt, revealing a glimpse of the powerful chest beneath. He sat on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide, a posture that usually radiated confidence and control. But his head was bowed, his eyes closed, and the lines etched around his mouth spoke of exhaustion. He looked utterly drained.

"Caleb?" you murmured, your voice soft, laced with concern. He was a man of steel, a protector, a force to be reckoned with, but even steel could bend under pressure.

His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice, a flicker of recognition sparking within the deep purple depths. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a slow, weary curve that tugged at your heart.

"Hey, baby," he rasped, the sound rough around the edges, a testament to a long and arduous day.

Instinct took over. You moved towards him, drawn by an invisible cord of affection and worry. Dropping to your knees on the soft rug by the bed, you nestled between his legs, pressing your cheek against the solid warmth of his thigh. The familiar scent of him, a mixture of leather, gun oil, and a hint of something uniquely Caleb, filled your senses, grounding you. Your hands gripped his other leg, anchoring you to him, seeking reassurance in his physical presence.

"You okay? You look tired," you asked, your voice a soft murmur against the fabric of his uniform.

His gaze softened, the weariness momentarily receding as his eyes focused on you, dressed in his old t-shirt. It was several sizes too large, completely swallowing your frame, the fabric draping around you in a way that highlighted your delicate features. The effect was undeniably cute, a disarming vulnerability that contrasted sharply with the fierce, independent woman he knew you to be. It made him forget, for a fleeting moment, the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. The sight of you, so sweetly nestled against him, so readily offering comfort, stirred a primal protectiveness within him. It also ignited a spark of desire, a hunger to devour you whole, looking so tempting and innocent in his oversized shirt.

His hand reached down, his fingers threading through your hair, the touch gentle and possessive. He separated the strands, feeling the silky texture against his calloused skin, the contrast both soothing and stimulating. He cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, his thumb tracing the curve of your lips, a silent invitation.

You parted your lips for him, a subconscious act of surrender. He didn't hesitate, slipping his thumb past your teeth, the pad of his finger rough against your tongue. You tasted his skin, the faint tang of sweat and the underlying scent that was uniquely his, a scent that always sent a shiver of arousal through you.

"Oh, you know, the usual," he drawled, his voice regaining some of its usual playful edge. "Just a normal clean up tonight. Nothing crazy."

"Then why do you look like you're about to fall asleep any second now?" you managed to ask, your words slightly muffled by the presence of his finger in your mouth.

He pressed deeper, exploring the sensitive flesh behind your teeth, teasing and tantalizing. You widened your lips, granting him greater access, your saliva slicking his finger like a glaze. He watched you, his eyes hooded, a mixture of weariness and desire swirling within their depths. A tired chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"The fleet work has been hectic lately," he admitted, his voice laced with a hint of resignation. "But seeing you waiting for me at home is worth it."

The heat bloomed in your cheeks, a flush of pleasure and embarrassment. You playfully nipped at his finger, a silent protest against his teasing. His eyes glinted with amusement. "What are you up to now, pipsqueak?" he said, his voice a low purr. "Don't pretend I didn't see that pink peek under my shirt."

You whined softly, unable to form a coherent sentence, your thoughts already scattered by the sensation of his finger dancing against your tongue. He made you suck on it a few more times, drawing out the pleasure, coating it in a glistening sheen of your saliva.

Finally, relenting, he withdrew his finger, sliding it slowly along your lips, leaving a trail of your drool in its wake. He waited, his gaze fixed on your face, watching the play of emotions flitting across your features. Your eyes were glazed, your breath coming in shallow pants, and your attention was clearly drawn to the burgeoning bulge straining against the fabric of his trousers. He was already hard, fueled by the simple act of you sucking on his finger, and the knowledge of your desire sent a secret thrill through you.

You loved his cock. You always had. It was the perfect shape, the perfect size, designed to fit you like a glove, to fill you completely, to drive you to the brink of madness with pleasure. The mere thought of it throbbing inside you, of feeling your clit pulsing in anticipation, sent a wave of heat crashing through your body.

As if sensing the direction of your thoughts, he spread his legs wider, increasing the angle of your view, making his arousal even more prominent beneath his pants. He looked impossibly large and imposing, the uniform adding to his aura of masculine power.

"Well, now," he murmured, a wicked smile curving his lips. "Looks like someone's got a little… itch they need scratching."

He reached out, his fingers smoothing your hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Say the words, buttercup," he whispered, his voice a husky invitation. "What do you need?"

You were too far gone to resist, too consumed by the burning need that had taken root deep within your core. Shame flickered across your face, a brief and insignificant spark against the overwhelming tide of desire.

"I… I need your cock," you breathed, the words a soft, desperate plea, your face burning with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.

He chuckled, a low, predatory sound that vibrated through you. “Need it, do you? Well, I’ve got plenty to offer. Where do you want it, baby? Do you want to taste me first? Beg for it?” He watched your face, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “In your mouth, making you choke on it? Buried deep in your ass, stretching you until you scream? Or do you want it throbbing inside your tight pussy?” he mocked, the words a low, husky rasp that sent shivers dancing down your spine. His voice held a playful cruelty, a deliberate goading that both thrilled and terrified you. “Tell me. You need to be more specific."

Each syllable was a spark, igniting a firestorm within you. You leaned closer, driven by a primal need that overrode any sense of shame. He watched, his eyes narrowed and glittering with predatory interest as you rubbed your face against his crotch, inhaling deeply. The scent of leather clung to him, a familiar aroma that always seemed to intensify when he was aroused, mingling with a musky, undeniably masculine scent that was uniquely Caleb. It was a heady blend, an intoxicating cocktail that stripped away your inhibitions and left you craving more. You felt like a pet, a creature starved for affection and finally presented with its favorite, most forbidden treat.

"In…in my pussy," you whispered, the words barely audible, a fragile offering into the heavy silence. You felt the immediate backlash, the sharp tug as his fist clenched in your hair, yanking your head back. The sudden movement stole your breath, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He looked more alive than you'd seen him in weeks, the dull apathy that usually veiled his features replaced with a sharp, almost feral intensity. Yet, the lazy, knowing smirk that perpetually played on his lips remained, a tantalizing contrast to the hunger burning in his eyes. It was a dangerous combination, a promise of pleasure laced with pain, of control willingly surrendered and boundaries ruthlessly tested. In that moment, he looked like he could devour you whole and revel in the aftermath.

"Your pussy?" he hummed, the question laced with amusement. His gaze flickered down your body, a slow, deliberate appraisal that made your skin prickle with anticipation. "Did she miss me?"

"Yes," you confessed, the single word a testament to the ache that had consumed you during his absence.

His smirk widened, twisting into a sardonic grin that sent a shiver of apprehension down your spine. You knew that look. It meant he was ready to torment you, to play with your desires as a cat toys with a mouse. His ego was undeniably stoked by your desperation, by the knowledge that you had been counting the minutes until his return, aching for his touch. He practically lived for your vulnerability, for the power he held over you.

"Did she now…" he murmured, the words a low, possessive growl. He released your hair, bracing himself against the bed on his elbows. His chest expanded, a silent invitation, "Take my clothes off, first. We don’t need any distractions along the way, do we?”

Your hands trembled, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his uniform jacket. His eyes never left yours, pinning you beneath their intense scrutiny. Each movement felt amplified, each rustle of fabric echoing in the sudden silence that had descended upon the room. Once the jacket was off, you moved to his shirt, your ears ringing with the sound of each button being undone. The room was silent save for your harsh breathing and clumsy movement.

Caleb was clearly enjoying your distress. He remained perfectly still, comfortable in his position, his expression a mask of amused detachment. That small, teasing smile remained etched on his face, a silent challenge that dared you to break his composure. For a fleeting moment, you wanted to wipe it off, to shatter his control and unleash the beast that lurked beneath the surface.

When his shirt was finally off, revealing the sculpted lines of his muscular waist, the defined pecks and abs that rippled with every breath, his biceps on full display, you bit your lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. The sight of his body, so familiar and yet always so intoxicating, sent a wave of heat crashing through you.

His hand moved with surprising speed, his thumb pressing against your bitten lip, gently but firmly preventing you from inflicting further damage. He clicked his tongue in displeasure, the sound sharp and disapproving. "Don't bite your lips. You know I hate it when you hurt yourself."

You nodded, your eyes fixed on his. You licked the blood from your lip and his finger, savoring the taste of him, the subtle hint of his skin. When he pulled away, you didn't hesitate. You went for his pants, your fingers clumsy but determined. The task proved more difficult than anticipated. His erection strained against the fabric, a thick, hard bulge that threatened to burst free. It was a miracle you didn't snag him with the zipper in your haste.

His chuckle was low and humorous, laced with a hint of smugness. "Careful, little seagull. If you want my cock, don't break it before I'm inside you."

You glared at him, your frustration momentarily eclipsing your desire. You yanked his pants open, the fabric tearing slightly at the seams. He laughed again, the sound a deep rumble in his chest, helping you pull them down his strong, long legs. When they were piled on top of the other discarded clothes, you licked your lips, your gaze lingering on the outlined length beneath his underwear. A wet spot was already forming, a testament to his own arousal.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. "Someone definitely missed me."

Caleb breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. He dropped his head backwards, his smile lazy and predatory. "Guilty," he admitted, his voice a low, husky rasp that sent shivers down your spine. Lowering his eyes back to you, he nodded towards his crotch. "Go on. Keep going. I need to see how much you want it"

The jerk was seriously enjoying this too much. You leaned over him, your breath hot against his underwear, and carefully, you pulled his briefs down. His cock sprang free, slapping against your face in its eagerness.

"Oh…" Your breath hitched, the familiar sight of his engorged shaft sending a jolt of electricity through you. You squirmed on the floor, still kneeling between his legs, your own desire intensifying with each passing second. It was already pulsing with need, pre-cum oozing from the tip like it was desperate to be inside you.

Caleb stroked your cheek, his eyes glazed with his own escalating desire. "Go on, baby."

Lifting his hips slightly, you tugged his underwear down, freeing him completely. And then, he was beautifully, gloriously naked.

Your gaze travels the length of him, lingering on the thick, throbbing veins that pulse beneath his skin. The head of his cock is slick and engorged, a testament to the raw power that lies within. He's magnificent, a sculpted masterpiece of muscle and desire, and he's all yours, at least for this moment.

He watches you, his eyes burning with an intensity that could melt steel. He’s close to the edge, you can feel it in the tremor of his hands, the raggedness of his breath. The knowledge that you hold him in this state, poised on the precipice of oblivion, is a heady rush, a potent aphrodisiac that fuels your own desire.

A slow, deliberate smile spreads across your face. "You think you're in control, don't you?" you whisper, your voice laced with a playful malice.

He doesn't answer, his gaze locked on yours, his body a taut bowstring stretched to its breaking point.

Reaching out, you grasp him firmly, your fingers encircling his shaft. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your bones. You squeeze gently, testing his limits, and he bucks against your hand, his hips lifting off the bed.

Even that first touch was making him thicken, the slick head, full of arousal as it pulsed in your hand like it has a mind on its own.

"You’re so hard," you murmur, your voice a silken caress as you lick your lips. The sight of him, so engorged and ready for you, sends a shiver of desire coursing through your body. Your folds clench in response, aching to be filled.

And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, you climb into his lap, straddling him with a possessive hunger. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as you grind against him, the friction igniting a firestorm of sensation.

"Tease," he groans, his voice ragged.

"Only because you like it," you retort, leaning down to kiss him, your lips brushing against his.

The kiss is slow, sensual, a deliberate exploration of each other's mouths. You taste his hunger, his desperation, his raw need, and it only fuels your own. You deepen the kiss, your tongues tangling in a dance of dominance and submission.

Caleb's laughter morphed into a low growl. He reached up, tangling his fingers in you hair, tugging your head back just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Those goddamn eyes. Piercing purple, they held a dangerous glint, a promise of delicious torment. "And you, pipsqueak, are a brat."

You stuck your tongue out, a childish gesture that earned you a sharp, playful slap on the ass.

"Hey!" You protested, but the sting only served to heighten the awareness already thrumming through you. Your body was a traitor, responding to his touch with an eager anticipation that bordered on embarrassing.

"You love it," Caleb murmured, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine. "You love when I take control, when I remind you who's in charge." The words were laced with a possessiveness that ignited a fire deep within you.

You shivered, your nipples hardening into tight peaks under the shirt you were wearing. “Yes,” You whispered, the admission barely audible. The air between you both crackled with unspoken desires, a silent conversation of wants and needs.

Caleb’s eyes burn into yours, and you feel like he can see straight through you, right down to the core of your being. He knows exactly what you want, what you crave, what makes you tick. And he's not afraid to use it against you. Or, rather, for you.

“Then let me remind you who owns you,” he says, the words a promise and a challenge all rolled into one. It's a declaration of intent, a signal that the games are over and it's time to get down to business.

With that, his hand moves to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to leave no doubt about his intentions. He lifts you, just slightly, guiding you, positioning you with a deliberate precision that sends a fresh wave of heat washing over you. The anticipation is almost unbearable, a delicious torture that you wouldn’t trade for anything.

You feel the tip of him against you, a spark of electricity that ignites every nerve ending in your body. He hesitates for a moment, savoring the anticipation, letting you feel the promise of what’s to come.

And then, finally, he surged forward, slamming you down on his thick cock, forcing his way through like it was nothing.

He sank inside, dragging every inch, and you were lost. Utterly, completely, irrevocably lost. There was no thought, no reason, only sensation. The feeling of him filling you, stretching you, possessing you. It was primal, visceral, and utterly intoxicating. He slid inside, bottoming out, burying himself to the hilt, making you almost gasp for breath, feeling that familiar stretch which always made you wet. It was a deep, resonant chord that vibrated through your entire being.

You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his back. He kissed your neck, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent shivers of pleasure cascading down your spine. He knew exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to tease. He was a maestro, conducting a symphony of sensation on your skin.

"That's it, little brat. Ride me, just like that." Each stroke was a slow burn, building the tension, tightening the coil of anticipation within you.

You did as he commanded, your body moving in time with his, your hips meeting in a slow, torturous rhythm. With each thrust, you felt him slide inside you, filling you completely. It was maddening, the way he held back, taking his time, savoring every moment. He was a sadist with a PhD in pleasure.

A familiar warmth radiates from his skin, a heat you've known for as long as you can remember. He's always been there, a constant in the ever-changing landscape of your life. He knows you, perhaps better than you know yourself.

He knows about the way you devour your food, a whirlwind of messy enthusiasm that leaves traces of your meal scattered across your face and fingers. He's seen you with chocolate smeared across your cheek, a testament to a stolen midnight snack. He remembers the endless supply of napkins he’d have to procure, a silent offering to your sweet-toothed chaos.

He's witnessed the aftermath of your showers, the trail of glistening droplets that marked your path from the bathroom to your bed. He's seen you, hair plastered to your face, completely absorbed in the glowing screen of your phone, blissfully unaware of the damp patches forming on the sheets beneath you. He'd sigh, but a fond smile would tug at his lips. He knew you. The carefree, sometimes oblivious you.

And he definitely remembers the summers, the inevitable scraped knees, and the dramatic tears that followed. The way you'd recoil at the sight of your own blood, a picture of pure, unadulterated distress. He'd be the one to clean the wound, his touch gentle and reassuring as he applied the antiseptic and bandaged you up, murmuring soothing words until your sobs subsided. He knew your vulnerabilities, your little fears, the things that made you uniquely, endearingly you.

But right now, those memories fade, replaced by the intensity of the present. Your breath hitches, a ragged gasp in the quiet room. You’re completely vulnerable, stripped bare of any pretense. You are willing, utterly and completely willing, to surrender to the sensations that flood your body. You are his to command in this intimate space.

You clench around him, your muscles contracting in rhythmic waves. You feel him harden even further, a testament to your effect on him. A moan escapes your lips, a sound that is both desperate and exquisitely pleasurable. You beg him, a whispered plea that is barely audible, but he hears it, every syllable etched into his memory.

You look up at him, your eyes wide and pleading. Your face is flushed, your lips parted, your expression a mixture of pain and ecstasy. You are dripping around him and that makes him even more crazy about you. You are beautiful, breathtakingly so, in your vulnerability.

He knew exactly what he was doing to you, the way he was driving you insane with need. And yet, even as you begged him to let you come, he only chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. The bastard.

"Begging already, little brat?" he taunted, his free hand moving to cup you breast under the shirt, teasing your nipple. "You're going to have to do better than that if you want me to let you come."

You whimpered, your body trembling with the effort to hold back your release. You wanted to come so badly, but you also wanted to please him, to earn his praise. The push and pull of desire and obedience was intoxicating.

And so, you tried again, your voice pleading as you begged, "Please, Caleb. Please, let me come."

But still, he held back, his thrusts slowing down even more, the teasing becoming unbearable. He was deliberately dragging out the agony, savoring your frustration. And just when you thought you couldn't take it any longer, he reached for a red apple on the nightstand. An apple. Seriously? He took a bite, the juice glistening on his lips as he continued to torment you with his maddeningly slow movements. He had the audacity to make eye contact while chewing. You swear, you almost lost it right then and there.

Caleb was a masterpiece of sculpted muscle and arrogant grace, and right now, he was pure, unadulterated torment. His dark eyes, usually alight with amusement, held a predatory glint as he took another deliberate bite of the crisp, red apple. The juice glistened on his lips, a stark contrast to the strained expression you had sure mirrored on your own face.

"Enjoying the view?" he drawled, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that traveled right through you, intensifying the sensations already firing in your core.

Enjoying? It was a complex cocktail of pleasure and agony. You were straddling him, naked, your thighs burning, your breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands, strong and calloused, gripped your hips, guiding your movements with ruthless precision. He was a symphony of control, and you were dancing to his tune.

"Caleb," You managed, your voice a choked whisper. "Please."

He smirked, holding the apple just out of my reach. "Please what, pretty girl? Please may I continue to admire the…scenery?" He punctuated the last word with a suggestive squeeze of your hips, making you arch your back.

He knew what you wanted. He knew exactly how close you were, how desperately you were clinging to the edge. And he was relishing every second of your struggle.

With agonizing slowness, he brought the apple to your lips, the sweet scent filling your nostrils. Your mouth watered in anticipation. Finally, a taste of something other than the burning ache that consumed you. You leaned forward, ready to sink your teeth into the crisp flesh, but at the last moment, he pulled it away.

"Almost," he whispered, his breath ghosting across your ear. "But not quite."

A frustrated groan escaped your lips. "You're a sadist," You accused, but the words lacked any real heat. You were too far gone to muster any genuine anger.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Only for you, buttercup." He took another bite of the apple, the sound amplified in the close confines of the bedroom.

The sheer audacity of it! He was eating the apple, savoring it, while you were practically begging for release. It was infuriating, and yet… a strange sort of thrill ran through you. This was Caleb. This was the man you had fallen for, the man who pushed you to your limits, who challenged you in every way imaginable.

"You know," he said, his voice laced with mock innocence, "they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Perhaps you should have one." He offered the apple again, and again, snatched it away just as you reached for it.

"Caleb, I swear…" You started, but he cut you off with another bite.

“Mmm, delicious,” he murmured, savoring the flavor. “Tart, sweet, just the right amount of crunch. Almost as delicious as… certain other things I’m experiencing right now.”

He dragged his length inside you, each thrust deliberate and deep, hitting every nerve ending with agonizing precision. His size was both a blessing and a curse, filling you completely, stretching you to your limits.

Your frustration mounted, threatening to spill over into tears. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” He feigned innocence, but his eyes betrayed him. “Perhaps I’m merely showcasing my appreciation for apples. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I thought you enjoyed a little… torture.”

He knew you too well. You did enjoy it, in a twisted sort of way. The knowledge that he held all the power, the exquisite anticipation, the feeling of being completely under his control… it was all part of the intoxicating allure of Caleb. But tonight, his teasing felt… excessive. You didn’t know if you wanted to ride him harder or smack him with that same apple he was enjoying it so much. The sadist.

“Caleb, please,” You repeated, your voice cracking. “I can’t… I’m so close.”

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Such a pretty little thing, begging for me.” He took another bite, the juice dribbling down his chin. He let it linger there for a moment, before slowly, deliberately, licking it away. The movement was obscene, provocative, designed to push you over the edge.

“Caleb!” You cried out, your voice cracking. You bucked against him, desperate for release, but he remained frustratingly still, a solid, immovable force beneath you.

He finally lowered the apple, holding it just inches from your lips. The scent was intoxicating, a sweet, tangy promise. “Open,” he commanded, his voice husky.

You obeyed instantly, your mouth parting in anticipation. He brought the apple closer, the skin brushing against your lips… and then he pulled it away, again!

Your teeth snapped shut on nothing but air, frustration bubbling up inside you like a venomous poison. He wrapped his fingers around your throat and pushed his thumb against your pulse, bending your neck back. It lifted your face up, completely under his mercy.

His smirk was wide and predatory as he resumed eating the apple himself, savoring each bite with theatrical relish. The juice dripped down his chin, a crimson trail that seemed to mock your unfulfilled desires. He was teasing you, taunting you, pushing you closer and closer to the breaking point.

"Such impatience," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "You wound me."

You glared at him, your frustration mounting by the second. "You're such a jerk," You hissed, but the words were half-hearted, your anger quickly turning to desire as you watched him eat the apple, his eyes never leaving yours. The symbolism wasn’t lost on you. Temptation, forbidden fruit…he knew exactly what buttons to push.

The apple scent fills the small space between you, a sweet, tart aroma contrasting sharply with the musk of your exertion. He's savoring it, each bite deliberate, his dark eyes hooded as he watches you. You're catching your breath, trying to regain some semblance of control after… well, after everything.

His gaze flickers down, amusement dancing in their depths, and you groan. What now? You’re already a mess, pleasantly exhausted and decidedly undone. Surely he can't be thinking of continuing this particular brand of delightful torture.

Then you see it. His black phone, sleek and modern against the rumpled, fresh cotton of his bedsheets. He picks it up with the same hand he's using to hold the apple, somehow managing to balance both. You watch, confused. Too much already, too much sensation, for any more of his nonsense.

"What are you doing?" you ask, your voice still thick with pleasure and just a hint of irritation.

His smirk is evident, even in the dim light filtering through the curtains. He angles the phone so its back is facing you, the red apple charm dangling from the side, mocking you with its innocent sweetness. It swings gently, a tiny pendulum counting down the seconds until… what exactly? You’re not sure, but you know, instinctively, that it won’t be boring.

"Keep riding me, pipsqueak," he says, his voice low and laced with teasing. "You look too pretty not to take a picture.”

Your cheeks flush. "Don't you dare," you manage, but the words lack conviction. You know he will. And a part of you, the part that's still humming from the aftershocks of his touch, wants him to.

Just then, he thrusts up, his cock grazing your stomach, hitting that precise spot that sends shivers down your spine. You yelp, a small, involuntary sound of pure feeling, and in that very moment, he captures it. The flash illuminates the room for a fraction of a second, freezing your expression in time. You’re sure you look ridiculous – mouth slightly open, eyes wide and glassy, a sheen of perspiration on your skin.

He doesn’t stop there. He takes more pictures, experimenting with angles and lighting, capturing every detail of your flushed and vulnerable state. You want to protest, to grab the phone and delete the evidence, but you're also completely captivated, paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze and the lingering sensations rippling through you. You roll your eyes back when he pulses inside you, twitching like he would cum inside any time soon. It triggered an orgasm in you which wanted to be let free but still he forced it back.

“Caleb…please…” You beg, desperate for a release. Anything to stop this torture.

“Yeah...that's it. Beg me. Fucked stupid on my cock. Seeing you so desperate for me...Fuck...baby," Caleb groans at your debauched state, grinding his hips, his phone almost slipping from his fingers but he uses his evol to keep steady.

Finally, satisfied with his impromptu photoshoot, he tosses the phone onto the bed, the soft thud barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He turns his attention back to you, the apple still clutched in his hand.

When you whimpered, seeking fraction, Caleb just laughed, a low, seductive sound. He tossed the apple core aside, his hand moving to hold your hips steady as he finally took control, his thrusts becoming harder and faster, driving you wild with need.

You closed your eyes, fighting back tears. He was toying with you, pushing you to your limit, and the realization was both humiliating and… exciting. You hated him for it, and yet, you loved him for it too.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice softening slightly.

You reluctantly opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. The amusement was still there, but there was something else too, something akin to tenderness.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your cheek. “So beautifully desperate. Show me how much you want it," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Ride for me, baby."

And you did. You rode him until your muscles screamed, until your lungs burned, until your vision blurred. Each thrust was deeper, harder, more insistent than the last. You could feel him, all of him, and the sensations were almost overwhelming.

You clenched around him, tighter and tighter, trying to pull him over the edge with you. You could feel the tension building in his muscles, the accelerated rhythm of his breathing.

"You're killing me," he groaned, but there was no complaint in his voice. Only raw, unadulterated pleasure,” So tight,” he groaned, his voice laced with desperation. “So fucking wet for me.”

He started to buck beneath you, his movements growing more frantic. Each slap of skin echoed in the room.

"Caleb," You gasped, your body convulsing. "I'm going to…"

He cut you off with a guttural roar as he reached his own climax. His body went rigid, his muscles contracting violently. He surged deep inside you, pumping furiously into you and you cried out as the wave of pleasure washed over you. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. He held you there, gasping for breath, his heart pounding against you ear. And then, just when you thought the moment couldn't get any more perfect, he tightened his grip around at the back of your neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know who was in control. A primal growl rumbled in his chest as he came, abs clenching as rope after rope of his cum flooded your pussy, the sound, the feeling of its warmth sending shivers down your spine.

His shaft throbs painfully inside your used hole, pumping the last hot load deep inside, your mind drunk on him as you start to drool with your lips parted, too stimulated to even make a sound.

You come at least two times, the feeling of being so full triggered your orgasms without a warning.

You clung to him, your body trembling, completely spent. The world seemed to spin around you, the only constant the feel of his strong arms holding you close.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his breathing began to slow. He loosened his grip slightly, but he didn't let you go. His hand remained firmly planted on the small of your back, possessive and grounding.

You could still feel the faint tremors running through his body, the lingering aftershocks of the storm you had weathered together. He was still pulsing, his semi-hard cock still buried deep inside your pussy, each twitch sending a fresh wave of sensation through your exhausted body.

Time seemed to warp and bend, stretching into an eternity of shared breaths and whispered sighs. Finally, a low groan rumbled from his chest as he shifted, his muscles coiling with renewed strength. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to reawaken every nerve ending in your body. He pulled your hips up, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a shiver of awareness through your exhausted body. The friction was exquisite, a burning reminder of the pleasure you had just experienced, and the potential for more that still lingered between you.

Then he slipped out, the loss sudden and sharp. The heat that had been contained within you dissipated, leaving a void, a feeling of vulnerability that made you instinctively tighten your muscles. Your spent leaked out, a slick, glistening testament to the raw intensity of your passion, a visible manifestation of the pleasure you had just shared.

He shifted you slightly, just enough so he could observe you. "Look at that mess," he smirked, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent a fresh wave of heat through your veins despite your depleted state.

Nestled in his lap, you couldn't deny the tableau before you. His abdomen and the length of his partially erect cock were slick with your essence, a glistening testament to your shared passion. The sight was both explicit and undeniably arousing, a stark display of your complete surrender and his unyielding power.

A blush crept up your neck, a complex blend of embarrassment and a defiant sense of pride.

Pulling you closer to his chest, he nuzzled his face into you hair, his voice a low murmur against your ear. "Well, that was… fruitful."

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. Even now, even after all that, he had the nerve to mention that. His obsession with apples were maddening sometimes.

"You're impossible," You mumbled, your throat dry.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "But you love it."

He knew you too well. You did love it. You loved the teasing, the torment, the intensity. You loved the way he pushed you to your limits, the way he made you feel alive.

He pulled back slightly, his purple eyes sparkling with amusement, less intense.

“Speaking of fruit, I believe I promised you an apple pie. Perhaps we should get started on that?”

You swear, the man has no sense of timing. Like, seriously? Apple pie? After the apple-as foreplay stunt he just pulled? You glared at him, trying to summon up some semblance of indignation, but all that came out was a breathless giggle.

Caleb was an amazing cook. It was a fact known and revered by all who had the good fortune to taste his creations. His apple pie was legendary, a masterpiece of flaky crust, cinnamon-spiced apples, and buttery goodness. The same went for his chicken wings, a fiery, flavorful explosion that could reduce grown men to whimpering, grateful wrecks. And despite everything, despite the teasing, the torment, the sheer exasperation he often inspired, you knew in your heart that he would make you the best damn apple pie you had ever tasted. He poured his heart into everything he did, and you knew that even something as simple as baking a pie was, in his own way, an act of love for you.

"You're serious?" you asked, your voice still shaky with a mixture of arousal and amusement. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to handle.

"Absolutely," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch sending a fresh wave of warmth through you. "Although, I might need your… assistance. Someone has to peel the apples, after all."

You sighed, a small smile playing on your lips. He was infuriating, maddening, and utterly irresistible. He had a way of pushing your buttons, of challenging you, of making you laugh even when you wanted to strangle him. And somehow, you wouldn't have it any other way. He was your chaos, your comfort, your perfectly imperfect partner in crime.

"Fine," you said, leaning down to kiss him softly, a lingering, playful brush of your lips against his. "But you're doing the dishes."

He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that resonated through your body as he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. "It’s not like you would do them anyway. You know that you like to use me any chance you can get.”

You pouted, feigning hurt with an exaggerated frown. "That's not true! I can do house chores any time I get free time." You knew it was a flimsy argument, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control in a situation where you were happily, hopelessly outmatched.

Caleb shook his head, his eyes filled with affection. “And you still like to slack off and it ends with me spoiling you rotten, little brat.” He pinched your cheek playfully, his touch gentle and teasing.

You playfully pushed him, your laughter bubbling up again. “And you still do it.” You knew he enjoyed taking care of you, spoiling you with small gestures and acts of service. It was his love language, and you were fluent.

He kissed your neck, nuzzling it affectionately. The scent of his skin, a musky blend of sweat and apples, filled your senses. “That’s because you’re my princess, Miss Apple.”

#caleb x mc #caleb x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb fluff #caleb x you #lads #lads Caleb #caleb fic #love and deepspace fic #lads smut #lads fluff #otome game #lads zayne #his love for apples #i love him

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saetoru · 2 years ago

Text

RATE MY PROFESSOR! — GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU.

kinktober day one — threesomes ; find masterlist here

synopsis. you’re professor gojo’s TA—the catch? you both are romantically involved. what do you do when professor geto happens to accidentally walk in on you giving a blowjob? let him fuck you so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t tell a soul, of course

length. 5.1k words (deep, big, heavy sigh)

contents. minors do not interact, fem! reader, college au, teacher-student relationships, prof! satoru + suguru, TA! reader, power imbalance, age gaps (reader is early twenties and satoru + suguru are early thirties), semi public sex (at campus in satoru’s office), suguru walking in on you and satoru, threesomes, fingering + blowjobs + hair pulling + throat fucking + cum swallowing (satoru), male masturbation + edging (suguru), unprotected sex + (one) clit slap + creampie (suguru), pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel, princess, pretty girl, good girl), not proof read—i am a raw dog kinda gal

notes. i would highly discourage having intimate relations with a professor—but….if your professor looks like gojo or geto, i’m blind babe. i ain’t see nothing. i won’t tell a soul

“you guys wanna get lunch?” nobara hums, “we’re all here.”

megumi, as always, looks like he’s about to say no—he probably wants to go home as quickly as possible. but that’s not an option because before he can, yuji has already piped up with an enthusiastic, “yeah! i’m down.”

you fiddle your fingers nervously—how are you supposed to get out of this one? you’d just used the excuse of grading assignments for satoru yesterday, and surely you couldn’t possibly have a fresh pile of them to grade again within twenty-four hours, right? it’d be a suspicious excuse, especially one for nobara, who seems to sniff out a lie a little too easily.

it’s not that you don’t want to hang out with your friends, you love them. really. but you promised you’d be in satoru’s office in fifteen minutes—and you’re not about to keep him waiting, so lunch will have to wait for another time.

you’re still thinking of a usable excuse when she turns to you herself, unimpressed as she dryly says, “i assume you have some midterm review to help him polish or something,” she grumbles, “gojo is so lazy,” she scoffs.

oh—well, that wasn’t very hard. she’s just made it ten times easier for you. nobara has handed you the perfect excuse right in the palm of your hand, and before you can even play it off casually, yuji cuts in and distracts her. bless yuji, you think to yourself.

“hey, professor gojo is a great guy! we all passed with an A! isn’t that great?”

“everyone gets an A in his class, dumbass,” megumi grunts, rolling his eyes, “not getting an A in his class practically means you’re deliberately trying to do poorly.”

on campus, professor gojo is a fan favorite—his rate my professor score is a perfect five stars, and most of the students around campus rave about him. why? because he gives out the letter grade A+ like it’s candy. anyone would love a professor like that.

he doesn’t ever take attendance or knock your grade down when you skip class, his assignments are always easy to google answers to, and the quizzes have unlimited time and attempts. his tests are straightforward enough that even if you never pay attention, doing the review he uploads is sure to help you cram enough to pass. and what’s better? he always adds a generous curve. not only that, but professor gojo is a friendly guy—he loves talking to his students, loves to ramble away if you stop him in the halls or visit during office hours, loves to listen to your stories and nod along in interest, loves to crack jokes and have a good laugh.

everyone loves professor gojo. and when they leave his class with an A+, they love him even more.

you had an A+ in physics yourself when you took his class—and you hate physics. you hated it in high school, and you hate it now. but for gojo satoru? you’re almost a physics enthusiast. professor gojo—or rather, satoru, as you call him now, takes a liking to you. a very…strong liking, if you will.

it all starts on a fateful monday afternoon two semesters ago—it’s one thirty pm, the busiest hour on campus. sometimes, it feels like everyone takes classes at one pm—and as such, getting a table in the university coffee shop is almost impossible. you’re just about to give up and leave with your coffee and sandwich after scanning the place when a wave of a hand catches your attention.

it’s professor gojo.

need a seat? he asks you, gesturing at the chair in front of him at his table—it’s a smooth, amused little drawl, the way he talks. it’s almost always a borderline teasing tone, and his voice is low enough that it sounds oddly enticing. you’ve heard enough girls lust over his voice in class to know you’re not the only one who sometimes appreciates the sound.

you try to insist that you wouldn’t want to intrude, but professor gojo is a nice guy; always looks out for his students and helps them out. so, when he insists that he doesn’t mind you taking the spare seat as he grades a few assignments, well…you decide to sheepishly thank him and sit across from him, finally having somewhere to sit and eat before you’re off to your next class.

and then it begins.

every now and then, you sit across from your physics professor in the crowded coffee shop on campus as you enjoy a cold brew and a sandwich before your next class. somehow, he always manages to snatch a table, and somehow, you always manage to find him. you like to ramble to him sometimes—how professor nanami is a bit too strict for your liking (he giggles at that), how professor ieri always seems too tired and miserable to be here (he nods and agrees), and how professor geto is nice, but he takes literature pretty seriously (he gives you an amused look at that as he hums.)

somewhere along the line, he asks you to be his TA for the following semester—and somewhere further along that line…well, perhaps the one-on-one talks as you sit together at a table for two felt a little too close to something of a romantic setting because you and professor gojo kiss in his office while he calls you in to explain your TA responsibilities.

that was never supposed to happen.

you don’t even remember who leaned in first, or whose arms were the first to wrap around the other, or who tugged who closer, but you both kiss. and then some. and then it happens again, and again, and again—and, well…you’re professor gojo’s, or better yet, satoru’s best kept secret.

you go to his office to grade assignments for him—in between if he steals a few kisses, who’s to know? sometimes, he’s a bit riskier, likes to spread his legs and free his cock and have your hand stroke him as he eyes the door. it’s always a nice view to watch him unbutton a few buttons of his shirt and bite back moans. other days, he likes to slip his hand past your waistband and toy with your clit—the amused glint in his eyes, as he tells you not to get distracted and keep grading when you gasp always, earns him a sharp glare.

it’s like that for the semester, just you and him in his little office where you can break the rules in the safety of secrecy.

that is, until now.

admittedly, this isn’t the best time to be doing this—professor geto likes to have lunch with satoru around this time, and you know you’re cutting it close…but he just looks so pretty like this, head fallen back against his chair as his lips part with a soft gasp.

you’re on your knees, looking up as you suck on the tip of his stiff cock before taking him down your throat, bobbing your head up and down. it’s a rewarding position to be in—to have the hot, loved, campus favorite professor that everyone thirsts over falling apart in your mouth, hands gripping the arms of his chair as he pants harshly above you.

he looks pretty—always does, always looks good enough that you can feel the ache between your legs get worse. the messy strands of his hair stick to his damp forehead, and his lips are always so pink and plump when he bites them like that, and who can forget the way his eyes turn just a shade darker of that bright blue?

you hum around him, making him groan as he mumbles, “f-fuck, you’re so good, sweetheart—always know how to make me feel good.”

you press a kiss to his tip, smearing the bead of pre cum leaking from his slit along your lips before licking them clean—he closes his eyes and groans at that. you can’t help but giggle, can’t help but press more kisses along his hardened length until you’re at the base of his cock.

“pretty little lips,” he hums, reaching to rub his thumb over your bottom lip as you open your mouth, letting him slip into your mouth—he hums approvingly as your tongue swirls around the digit, sucking slowly. “‘s like you were made for taking me, huh?”

“‘course i was,” you grin cheekily—and then you’re back to sucking on his cock, tongue rubbing over that thick vein you love to trace and reaching a hand to play with his balls. he moans—it’s low but still whiny enough that you can’t help but feel so proud at how needy he is, how desperately he always wants you. no matter the risk.

except the risk is probably not the wisest one to test today because just as satoru lets out a particularly loud whine when you swallow around him, the door clicks open and…

oh.

oh no.

this…this isn’t good—this is terrible, in fact. this is the worst possible outcome to the worst possible thing you’ve done, and now you’re screwed. entirely destroyed, in fact—the both of you. here goes your admission and your progress on your degree, and here goes satoru’s entire career and everything he’s worked for, and all because you couldn’t help but give him a blowjob in the middle of his office with the door unlocked where his best friend can walk right in and get a full view.

and worse? this best friend of his happens to be another professor on campus who you happen to have had just last semester. you’re sure he knows you; you’re his former student, after all, and he must certainly know his best friend’s TA.

professor geto blinks—his eyes go back and forth between you and satoru and the still-hard cock between his legs that’s glistening with your spit as you sit on your knees. yeah—there’s no explaining this one.

“well,” he says blankly, “i guess that’s on me for not knocking, huh?”

“suguru,” satoru grumbles, “some of us are busy y’know? can’t you come back later?”

you turn to satoru in shock—how can he be so normal about this? how can he just casually act like this is some random hook-up his friend walked in on instead of a (very illegal and very unprofessional) teacher-student relationship that could get the two of you in more trouble than you can comprehend?

but professor geto doesn’t seem even the slightest bit concerned. there’s no look of disgust or panic or even anger at you and satoru for your unprofessional habits. there’s no alarm at the distasteful activities you’re doing in the middle of a university office where anyone could potentially walk in on. and then there’s satoru—he doesn’t even bother making himself decent or pulling you from your knees.

no, instead, he looks at professor geto in slight irritation as the latter stands there.

“so this is what you’re always busy doing in your office, huh?” professor geto hums, chuckling in amusement, “i have to say, you at least have good taste, satoru. she’s excellent in and outside the classroom, it seems.”

“yeah, she’s a keeper,” satoru hums, cupping your cheek as he grins down at you, “now if you don’t mind, suguru, we’re in the middle of something.”

“and what do you plan on doing if this gets around?” professor geto raises a brow, unimpressed.

you look at him in panic at that—surely…surely he can’t mean that he would be the one to spread this around, right? surely he wouldn’t throw his best friend under the bus, correct? if not for you, then for satoru’s sake, he’d never let this information find another soul. otherwise…otherwise you’ll both lose everything. all the hard work and progress you’ve made, all of satoru’s experience and years building his career, and all the future opportunities you had coming up—all of it will be for nothing if professor geto says one word.

people wouldn’t have a hard time believing it either, you think. sometimes your own friends like to poke fun at you themselves.

you’re always with him, are you sure you’re not in love with the guy at this point? nobara always likes to snort at you.

why does professor gojo even keep you around? you’re too lazy—you must give good head, megumi tends to tease as he raises a brow with amused eyes.

with how often you’re in professor gojo’s room, you might as well have a crush on him, yuji sometimes giggles.

surely, with how often you’re seen in the coffee shop with him as he grades papers and how often he likes to tease you when you show up to his classroom sometimes to drop off papers, students would certainly take the rumors and spread them like wildfire if professor geto says even the littlest thing.

you look at him with wobbly lips as you whisper, “please don’t tell anyone,” you sniffle, “i…maybe there’s something we can do…to keep you from…”

the two of them look at you in shock—they stare at you for a moment, stare at the crystalline tears welling up in your eyes, at the soft little tremor in your lips, at the sweet little sniffles you try to hide. then, as if in sync, their eyes meet each other’s before finding you once more.

“oh, that’s precious,” professor geto chuckles, “she really is a keeper, satoru—she even looks pretty when she cries. i’m almost jealous.”

“don’t look for too long, suguru,” satoru grumbles—and then, “listen, sweetheart, you don’t have to worry. suguru’s not gonna—”

“well, if there is something you’d wanna do for me,” professor geto cuts satoru off, his voice a low drawl as he walks closer, hand cupping your jaw as he tilts your face up, “i suppose i can keep my mouth shut.”

“anything,” you nod quickly.

you’re so eager to please, he thinks—so perfect and sweet and pliant, that suguru thinks he might actually really be jealous that somehow, it was satoru who caught your attention. how did this all start? when did it start? how long has it been going on? do you have real feelings for each other? or is it just a pleasurable business kind of deal? do you meet up outside of campus? does he take you to the next town over to freely walk around with you on dates? do you kiss sweetly sometimes instead of with hunger? have you ever spent a night in his bed? do you sleep better beside each other, wrapped in the other’s arms?

there are so many, many questions suguru wants to ask. the potential answers to all of them make him a bit more unhappy than he cares to admit. something in him wonders how things might’ve had to play out in order to land you in his office instead—but…but if you’re offering anything, why not take advantage of the offer?

“anything?” he asks, looking at you amused, “you know, princess, anything is a dangerous offer. what if i asked to join? what if i asked to fuck you here in this office so your secret is safe?”

you blink up at him for a moment at his words—they’re a bit shocking. professor geto…doesn’t think this is wrong? clearly, he doesn’t if he’s willing to take part. but that doesn’t sound half bad. not even in the slightest.

they’re a popular pair: professor gojo and geto are all people on campus ever talk about. those two professors who happen to be best friends. they’re not much older than you either—can’t be past their early thirties, even if they don’t look a day over twenty.

did you know they used to go to college together? i heard they’ve known each other since high school. apparently, they applied to work here together and only took the offer up once the other agreed. it’s all people ever gossip about when they mention them both. it’s always about how close they are, how deep their bond is, how there is never one without the other. and then, of course, there are those…the less than appropriate comments you occasionally hear the other girls make. i bet professor gojo gives the best head—he’s always sucking on some lollipop. i’d let professor geto do nasty things to me while i read his literature books out loud to him—he’s too fine. i can take both of them—and i don’t mean their classes.

it’s…not exactly a bad offer that he gives you, you think to yourself. it’s an enticing one, in fact. you get to have them both—professor geto isn’t any less attractive than satoru and…and well, you’d really like for him to keep this a secret, so it’s a bit of a win-win. plus, you’re sure he wouldn’t risk spilling such delicate information when it would put his career at risk, too—it seems like the perfect leverage.

you look at your old literature professor with a nod as you murmur, “then i’d say you should make sure to lock the door this time—we don’t want to make the same mistake twice, do we?”

his eyes sparkle in amusement at that, a low chuckle falling from his pretty lips as he shakes his head at you—you’re even better than he expected. satoru is so, so lucky he’s got to have you to himself all this time. it’s criminally unfair.

“hey,” satoru pouts from behind, still sitting in his chair and still painfully hard as his throbbing cock sits between his legs unattended. “you both are forgetting about me,” he whines.

professor geto—or rather, suguru, you suppose, only looks at his best friend in amusement. “now, satoru—what have i always told you about sharing? here—” he walks over and pulls satoru to stand before taking the seat himself and patting his thigh as he looks at you with a sly grin, “why don’t i get to feel your pussy, and satoru can have your mouth like before? then we both get what we want.”

“bossy as ever, suguru,” satoru chuckles, but there’s something in his eyes—something darker and more excited than you’ve ever seen them.

“get her ready for me,” suguru hums, fingers making quick work to unbuckle his belt and free his hardened cock. you can’t help but stare, can’t help but watch as he wraps his fist around his hardened length and runs his thumb through his slit with a low moan.

he’s not as long, but he’s thicker than satoru—you can easily tell he won’t be any easier to take. you watch attentively as he traces the thick vein along the side of his cock with this thumb as he strokes upward, rolling around his tip before stroking down and squeezing at the base. you watch his lips tug between his teeth, a soft moan ripping from his throat as he touches himself in the way he likes best.

you’ll remember what he likes, you think—you can sense this might not be your first and last opportunity to see suguru like this. and next time? well, next time, it’ll be your hand touching his cock and pulling those pretty little sighs and groans from him instead of his own.

“eyes on me, sweetheart,” satoru hums, pulling you to stand before gently guiding your back to fall against his desk, fingers looping into your waistband and pulling your pants down your legs. you can hear the sharp inhale suguru takes as soon as the wetness of your folds is on display, as soon as your puffy clit and dripping pussy are there for him to see so clearly. “watch carefully, suguru,” satoru grins, “she’s pretty when she cums.”

“i can imagine,” suguru muses, “alright then. show me.”

instantly, satoru’s fingers are intruding into your cunt—it’s familiar, the sensation of his digits bullying past your folds and curling against your sweet spot. he’s already knuckles deep, already pressing the tips of his fingers into the back of your walls as far as they’ll go, spreading you open and scissoring you apart. it feels good—it always does, and when his palm rolls across your clit? you can’t help but let out a whiny moan that earns a groan from suguru as he fists his cock tighter.

“god, she even sounds so pretty,” he pants, watching as satoru’s fingers slip in and out of your pretty cunt, at the way it all but sucks them in itself as it flutters around him. everything about you is perfect—but your face is by far suguru’s favorite. the way it twists with pleasure as satoru slams his fingers against your spot mercilessly with every thrust of his wrist has him fighting off his orgasm—his fist slowing down to a teasing edge as he grunts at the way he lets his pleasure die down for the sake of really feeling you.

“that feel good, angel?” satoru asks, grinning down at you.

you nod quickly, head thrown back against the wooden desk as you stutter, “y-yes…s-so good, toru.”

“toru?” suguru asks, “do i get a nickname too? make sure you come up with one for me, yeah?”

it’s almost like you don’t hear him, too busy on the way satoru drags along your walls with every time his fingers sink into you. “toru, toru—s-slow down, ‘m g-gonna…”

“slow down?” satoru gasps—his pace only quickens at that as he gives you a mocking pout, “you want me to slow down, sweetheart? you never ask me to slow down, it’s always faster, toru. faster, please! from you. you don’t wanna give suguru the wrong idea, do you? he’ll think i haven’t taught you how to take it like a good girl.”

suguru snorts at that, slowly dragging his hand up and down his sensitive cock—it’s red at the tip, flushed, and leaky enough that it’s easy to tell he’s aching for release.

“hurry up, satoru,” he grits, biting his lip as he fights back another orgasm and stills his hand, keeping it tightened around the base of his length, “we haven’t got all day.”

“can’t rush making my pretty girl cum, suguru,” satoru gasps, “she deserves the best. look at this pussy—” he gives pulls his fingers out to give your clit attention, rubbing your slick over the sensitive bud as you gasp, writhing over his desk, “—see how perfect it is? you gotta treat it like that too.”

as if from his words alone, as if you get off on the way satoru praises your cunt to his best friend who watches you get stuffed to the brim with his fingers, you whimper before cumming—your pussy fluttering around nothing, walls spasming and dripping with slick as he toys with your clit.

“toru—toru, ‘m cumming…cumming—oh,” you babble, thighs quivering as his thumb doesn’t let up from your abused clit, watching as your hand reaches for his wrist weakly to halt his movements. “‘s too much,” you sniffle.

“too much?” suguru gasps, “how will you take me, then, princess? don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?”

“nah,” satoru grins, chuckling, “she’s got plenty left in her. she can take it.” with that, he hooks an arm under your waist and helps you sit up, leaning down to kiss you softly as you let out a muffled whine against his lips. “you’re ready for suguru, aren’t you, baby? prepped you nice and good to take him, didn’t i?”

you nod, mumbling a soft, “uh huh,” in agreement.

“that’s my good girl,” he coos, grinning as he presses a wet kiss to your forehead.

suguru, patient as ever with a stiff, aching cock standing between his muscled thighs, holds an arm out for you as he murmurs, “c’mere then, princess. can’t back out of our deal yet, can you?” you walk over to him on wobbly legs, letting him pull you to sit on his lap, back flush against his chest as his hands guide your hips. he taps the head of his cock against your clit as he lines your entrance up with his length before pulling you to sit, slowly inching you down on him bit by bit as he gasps at the way you squeeze around him instantly. “h-holy—fuck, such a tight fuckin’ pussy. ‘s like i can barely even move,” he grunts, chin resting on your shoulder as he pants.

satoru walks over, staring down at you as you’re seated on suguru’s lap before cupping your cheek and rubbing over the soft skin with his thumb. “you can take both of us, right sweetheart? you’re just too good not to, aren’t ya?”

you nod eagerly, letting the tip of his cock tap against your lip, tongue moving to lick across his slit and make him groan. he’s painfully hard—cock swollen and neglected for so long, you almost forgot that he’s been waiting for your mouth to take him again after being interrupted. your jaw slacks as you let him thrust his hips and fuck his length into you, tip hitting the back of your throat as you choke around him.

“fuck,” satoru hisses lowly, biting his lip as his hands grab your hair and keep you in place while he ruts into your mouth, “fuck, baby. never get tired of how good this mouth feels—takes me so fuckin’ well. jus’ love feelin’ me down your throat, huh?”

you can’t do anything but let out a muffled cry, feeling the fat tip of suguru’s cock nudge against your sweet spot—it’s just as effortless: the way he finds your most sensitive part. just as effortless as satoru. maybe that’s why they get along so well, maybe they’re connected in that way.

“oh, princess,” suguru moans, panting against your ear as he lets out a breathy moan, “fuck, that’s good—so, good. can hardly move with the way you’re squeezing me. greedy little pussy, isn’t it?”

you whine as you feel his arm wrap around you, finger rolling over your puffy clit as his hips snap upwards and fuck into you, cock dragging along your walls and stretching you enough that you can hardly think straight. he’s big—it feels like he’s almost splitting you open with his girth as his hips roll up and sink him deeper into your cunt.

“she’s…she’s perfect,” suguru pants, “keepin’ this all to yourself? how selfish of you, satoru.”

“she’s mine,” satoru whines, cock pushing past your lips as he speaks, the way your tongue glides along his vein making his cheeks flush as his eyes flutter shut and his mouth falls open with a breathless moan. “she’s too good to share with you. you d-don’t deserve her.”

“yeah? and you do?” suguru chuckles—it sounds more like a labored pant, his breath harsh as he groans into your neck when you flutter particularly tightly around him, forehead falling to dig into your shoulder, “she’s suckin’ me in. think she wants me. don’t you, pretty girl? you want me to cum inside you, right? make you mine too?”

“y-yes,” you mewl, popping off satoru’s length as you whimper when suguru chuckles and gives your clit a light slap, back arching against him as he pushes his cock past your folds again, “yes, wan’ it. wan’ it so, so bad—need it.”

“see,” he raises a brow towards satoru, “knew it.”

you can see the way satoru’s cock twitches at that—at the way you fall apart on suguru’s lap as the latter digs his head into your shoulder as he breathes harshly, chasing his release desperately as he ruts into your slick pussy. you can see the way satoru’s tip is flushed a harsh red, leaking with pre cum as he aches to spill cum down your throat, so you let him push past your lips once more—but not before giving his tip a delicate kiss.

“she’s my girl,” satoru grunts, “mine, mine, mine—knows how to make me cum. kn-knows how to take me so good, right baby?”

and as if to answer him, you suck around his tip, swallowing around his length and making him groan as his hips stutter and cum paints your throat white as it fills your mouth. you try to swallow every drop, try to take what he gives you as he fucks into you desperately and chases the pleasure of his high. thick, hot ropes of cum spill from the corners of your lips as satoru fucks his load into you, panting as his hips sloppily roll and work himself through his orgasm.

“that’s right, sweetheart,” he groans lowly, “take it, yeah? god—fuck, feels so good, baby. ‘m c-cumming.”

you make a sound between a choked whine and sharp gasp as suguru’s thumb rubs harshly against your swollen clit, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he groans, hips just as sloppy as satoru’s in his pace that it tells you he’s close too—and then he twitches into your pussy, cock burying into you once, twice, three more times before he groans too.

“gonna cum, princess? ‘cause ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum—fill you up and make you mine. you want that right? want me to—f-fuck, fuck ‘m close, so close,” he cuts himself off with a gasp, letting out a needy whine into your skin before spilling into you. you can feel hot, thick ropes of cum paint your walls as his tip nudges back into you and pushes his load as deep as he can.

and you fall apart too, coming undone a second time as your walls hug around him tightly, head falling back as you mewl a high pitched, “s-sugu—c-can’t…’s too much—”

“you can take it, pretty,” he hums, “know you can. you’re too precious not to, right?”

it’s messy—it’s downright filthy, in fact, the way his cum and your slick mix and drip along your inner thighs, making a mess on satoru’s chair. you pant as your pussy pulses around him before coming down from your high, falling slack in his arms against his chest as he chuckles and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“fuck,” he breathes, “you’re something else. who’d have thought my favorite little student from a previous semester could do all that?”

“isn’t she a dime?” satoru chuckles proudly, reaching for the corner of your mouth with his thumb, collecting a stray drop of cum and pushing it back past your lips and onto your tongue, humming approvingly as you swallow. “precious, isn’t she?”

“of course,” suguru nods, with a grin, leaning to peck your shoulder, “so, tell me. which professor would you take again?”

satoru purses his lips as he glares. “this isn’t rate my professor, suguru. and don’t get used to thi—”

“well,” you hum, interrupting as you bat your lashes sweetly at both of them, “why i can’t just take both of you again?”

guess who’s posting their october first kinktober fic literally 40 mins before it’s october second ?? if it’s not procrastinated, it’s not reached its full potential

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strawberryys-stuff · 2 months ago

Text

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY | LN4

Lando Norris x reader

summary: Lando hates when you are upset but loves how you look when you cry

includes a bit of obsessive behavior

next part

Lando never said it out loud—not to you, not to anyone—but there was something about you when you cried that left him utterly, disturbingly entranced. It wasn’t concern that gripped him in those moments. It wasn’t empathy. It was desire. Deep, hungry, and hard to look away from.

He hated himself for it—truly, he did. Because it wasn’t fair. Not to you. Not when you were hurting, unraveling, barely holding yourself together.

But fuck, the way you looked when you were breaking—it undid him.

He’d never seen anything more painfully beautiful.

You didn’t know, of course. How could you? You never noticed the way his breath hitched when your voice wavered, or how tightly he gripped the edge of the couch to keep from brushing your tears away with his thumb, just so he could feel them. You never caught the way his gaze lingered on the curve of your mouth when it trembled, the rise and fall of your chest when your sobs shook through you.

Your face, flushed and damp with tears, transformed into something almost otherworldly. Your lashes clumped together, casting soft shadows against your cheeks. Your skin, streaked with salt and glistening under the softest light. Your lips parted just slightly, swollen with the weight of words you couldn’t say. Your voice, thick and cracked, lingered in his mind long after you fell silent.

But it were your eyes—those red-rimmed, glassy eyes—that did him in. So full of emotion. So undone. They weren’t eyes that begged for help or comfort. They were eyes that stripped him bare, left him unsettled and hot. He’d catch himself staring, transfixed, tracing the path of a tear from your lash to your jaw with his gaze, imagining what it would feel like to follow it with his finger, or his lips.

You never knew that he saw you as art in your worst moments. And not the kind you hang proudly in a hallway—but the kind locked away, hidden, because it made people feel too much.

You looked breakable when you cried. And maybe that’s what made it worse—what made it feel so wrong and yet so irresistible. Because in those moments, you weren't polished or composed or hiding. You were raw. Unfiltered. And beautiful in a way you never were when you smiled. He didn’t want to fix your sadness, he wanted to watch it. Memorize it. Be close to it.

There were times he would imagine it again later, alone—how you looked with your face crumpling, your breath hitching, your hands trembling in your lap. He’d remember how your mascara smudged faintly beneath your eyes and how your voice dragged like velvet soaked in wine. Sometimes, he swore you didn’t even realize how devastatingly pretty you were in those moments. How intoxicating.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe that’s what gave him permission, in his own mind, to look. To want.

He knew it would shatter something if you ever found out—not because he was cruel, but because it was the kind of truth that tasted like sin. A quiet addiction he never meant to nurture, but couldn’t let go of. Because when you cried, Lando didn’t want to fix you. He wanted to keep you that way.

Just for a moment longer.

It was nearing midnight when you showed up at his place, knuckles white around a half-empty bottle of vodka. There was a heavy flush to your cheeks, the kind that came from alcohol and cold.

Clearly another pathetic attempt at a date.

Lando stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame in a tight black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, not even pretending to hide the way his gaze flickered over your face. Your clothes were soaked, as well as your hair, strands clinging to your skin and water dripping from the sleeves of your jacket. However, he didn't move aside to let you into his warm, cozy apartment.

His eyes were busy tracing the paths of tears and raindrops, unashamedly savoring the view. That gaze was unholy, exhibiting eagerness to cause trouble, irreversible damage. His hand reached for your cheek, a place he loved to caress with utmost delicacy.

But instead of drowning your skin in gentle touches, he grasped your chin to pull you forward.

"God— you look so fucking pretty when you cry."

His lips crashed against yours in desperation, his composure crumbling. You tasted of salt and cheap booze. His other hand hugged the bottle neck of the forgotten vodka as soon as he felt you melt into the kiss, your body suddenly growing heavy. And you let him take it, mind occupied with something else entirely.

He pulled you inside his apartment and shut the door with his foot, refusing to separate your lips now that he had you right there, finally satisfying his filthy little desires.

It was twisted—you were highly aware of that—but you just couldn't resist. It was addicting, thrilling. You sought the need to be seen, worshipped, in the wrong places. You chose to chase men who refused to see beyond your appearance.

You chose to ignore the one man who was willing to tear the world apart, just for you.

How stupid of you.

#lando norris #lando x reader #lando x you #lando x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1

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chrissssssmut · 21 days ago

Note

Can i request eunchae smut when turn to adult now

LATE NIGHT PRACTICE

Eunchae x Male Reader

It started with a text.

[Eunchae 🐣]: u still at the building?

You looked at the screen, surprised. It was already past 11 PM. The practice rooms were mostly empty by now, save for a few die-hard trainees or idols polishing choreo for the hundredth time.

[You]: yeah, just packing up. why?

She replied instantly.

[Eunchae 🐣]: wait there. don’t go.

You blinked.

[You]: ??? okay

You weren’t sure why your heart picked up a little. Eunchae had always been a friend first—chaotic, loud, a little bratty sometimes. But lately... lately she’d been acting strange. Or maybe you were the one who noticed her differently now. The way her voice dropped when it got late. How her gaze lingered when you passed her water after dance practice. The time her hand brushed yours on the couch and neither of you pulled away.

She arrived five minutes later, hoodie up, hair in a messy ponytail, cheeks flushed from running.

"You're still here," she panted, chest rising and falling.

"You told me to wait."

Eunchae stepped inside and closed the door behind her, flicking the lock. That part wasn’t normal. That part made the air change.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you lock the—”

“I didn’t want anyone walking in.”

“Why? You got some big secret you wanna tell me?” you teased.

Her eyes didn’t break from yours. “Maybe.”

You froze for a second, her tone too serious. Too heavy. Too unlike the usual Eunchae.

She stepped closer, biting her lip.

"Why do you always look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're pretending not to want me," she said, voice a whisper now, eyes darting between yours.

You couldn’t answer. Your heart was hammering too loud in your ears. Her hoodie slipped down her shoulder slightly, revealing the curve of her neck, a small mole you'd never noticed before.

"You’re the one who keeps teasing," you murmured. "Always crawling onto my lap when we’re with the others, calling me ‘oppa’ in that tone—"

"Because I do want you," she snapped softly, stepping close enough for your bodies to touch.

Her hands clutched your hoodie. You could smell her shampoo—something sweet, peachy, a little floral. Your restraint cracked.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you said roughly.

“I’m not a kid, oppa,” she murmured, standing on her tiptoes. “You know that.”

You kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t delicate. It was raw. Built-up tension from months of pretending. You backed her into the wall, her breath hitching as your hands found her waist.

She gasped into your mouth when you lifted her slightly, her legs wrapping around your hips instinctively.

"You really waited this long to touch me?" she whispered as you kissed down her neck. "You must be so fucking stupid."

"Or just respectful," you growled, biting down gently where her neck met her shoulder. She moaned.

You carried her to the mirrored wall, propping her against it.

“Take it off,” she breathed, tugging at your shirt. “I wanna see.”

“You’re bossy.”

She smiled darkly. “And you like it.”

You pulled your shirt over your head, and she immediately reached to touch your chest, fingers brushing down your abs, slow and curious. “Damn,” she whispered, half-laughing. “I had no idea you were hiding this under your hoodie.”

You tugged hers off in return, revealing a black sports bra clinging to her skin, damp from sweat. Your eyes traced every inch.

"Eunchae..."

"Say it again," she whispered, cheeks flushed. “My name.”

“Eunchae.” You cupped her jaw, leaning in. “You sure about this?”

Her hands slid down to your waistband. “Do I look unsure?”

Your lips crashed again. The rest of her clothes came off in pieces—shorts, bra, panties—each time she moaned your name, half-giggling, half-desperate. The mirror behind her fogged as her back hit it, her bare skin arching when your fingers trailed over her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re already soaked,” you murmured, pressing two fingers against her folds. “You wanted this that bad?”

“I thought about you so many nights,” she confessed, breath shaky as you slipped a finger inside. “In bed. After practice. In the dorm when I touched myself. Always you.”

You growled softly, working her slowly. "Show me how loud you can get."

Your thumb circled her clit while your fingers pumped in rhythm. She moaned, legs trembling around your waist, body arching into you as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” she gasped, grinding on your fingers. “I’m so close—”

You pulled out.

“Oppa—!” she cried out in frustration, gripping your arms. “Why?!”

“Because,” you smirked. “I’m not letting you finish unless it’s around my cock.”

Her expression turned wild—desperate and hungry. “Then fuck me already.”

You freed yourself from your sweats, your cock already aching as you lined up between her legs.

“I’ll go slow,” you whispered, eyes meeting hers.

“Don’t you dare,” she said through gritted teeth. “I want all of it. Now.”

You thrust in.

She gasped, nails digging into your back. Her tight heat clenched around you, warmth consuming, unbearable in the best way.

“Fuck—you feel…” you groaned, gripping her hips. “So fucking good—so tight—”

Eunchae whimpered, rolling her hips. “More, oppa. Please—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

Your rhythm grew harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the practice room along with her cries. Her hands slid up the mirror, back arching beautifully as you kissed down her chest, sucking one nipple into your mouth while your hips snapped forward.

She screamed your name.

“I can’t—I can’t—” she babbled, head thrown back. “I’m gonna cum—oppa—I’m—!”

She shattered around you, legs shaking, voice breaking as she came, clenching around you like a vice.

You groaned, the tight pulsing of her orgasm dragging you to the edge.

“I’m close,” you warned, panting. “Where—?”

“Inside,” she moaned, pulling you closer. “Cum inside me. I want all of it. Please.”

You buried yourself to the hilt, growling her name as you spilled into her, twitching deep inside. Her body jerked with aftershocks, thighs trembling around your waist.

For a long moment, you both just breathed—your forehead pressed to hers, sweat glistening on both your bodies, the mirror behind her slick with condensation.

Then she laughed softly.

“That was... intense.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

You kissed her cheek. “You’ll live.”

She slid down slowly from your arms, wincing. “Okay, maybe not.”

You helped her into her hoodie again, the two of you slowly gathering clothes, limbs tangled, lips still brushing every now and then.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked casually, lips tugging into a smirk.

You stared. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I’ve waited way too long to stop now.”

#smut story #smut smut smut #smutty smut smut #smutty fanfiction #girl group smut #female idol smut #kpop smut #smut #eunchae smut #smut tag #smut stories #smut scenarios #smutty month #smut x reader #le sserafim smut #idol smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fic #kpop girls

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papayainsectorone · 21 days ago

Text

tomorrow, i’ll be sober

summary: in the electric aftermath of oscar’s first f1 win, what begins as a celebration spirals into something unexpected, a moment of honesty shared in the quiet between the noise. you’re not used to being seen the way he sees you that night and when morning comes, you're left wondering if it meant as much to him as it did to you.

content: kissing, mutual pining, coffee-related accidents, soft!oscar, drunk!Oscar, drunk!reader, slow burn vibes, hoodie sharing, emotional tension, post-race kiss, light angst, workplace rule-breaking

word count: 5,6k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: the quote that inspired this is from a old movie The Dreamers, never watched it but the quote hits lol

a´s masterlist

The champagne hadn’t even dried on the back of your neck before you were being shoved into a crush of bodies backstage—papaya t-shirts, camera flashes, the sound of your name called over and over, somewhere between congratulations and “Can you get him for one more shot?”

Oscar stood on the top step of the podium like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. Not in disbelief, exactly. More like he was still catching up to the fact that this was real. That it was happening now.

The trophy gleamed in his hand. The light caught on the curve of his jaw, the line of sweat and champagne running down his neck.

But what really struck you—what wouldn’t leave your mind even hours later—was his smile.

Not the press smile, that you knew all too well. Not the polite, quiet curve he gave in interviews or even the rare, playful smirk he sometimes gave during media day hell.

This was wide. Unfiltered. Raw happiness spilling out of someone who always tried to keep the lid screwed on tight.

He was glowing.

And you felt it in your throat, in your ribs, in the way your hands trembled as you pressed the shutter of the camera.

It wasn’t like you usually went out. Not with the team, not after races. You were Mclaren PR—your job was to keep things clean, polished, appropriate. But someone had grabbed your wrist, handed you a drink, and said, “C’mon, one night. Everyone is a part of the win today.”

So now, hours later, you were leaning against the bar of a club too exclusive for your credentials, your orange team polo traded for something black and slinky. Your skin still smelled faintly like champagne.

The place was all glass and gold and smoke. Bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat. Oscar had disappeared into the crowd with a handful of engineers and Lando not long after arriving. You nursed your drink slowly, fingers curled loosely around the condensation.

You were only a few sips in when someone’s hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here,” came his voice—familiar, tired, giddy.

You nursed your drink slowly, condensation slipping down your fingers as the music pulsed warmly through the club air. The ice clinked with each slow sip, your eyes scanning the crowd just beyond the rim of your glass.

Around you, more of the PR team had gathered—laughing over photos, recounting the chaos of the pit wall, teasing each other about who had cried when Oscar crossed the line. It was easy company, full of the post-race glow and secondhand euphoria. A few people had already told you how good your pictures looked on the socials. Someone had toasted to “team effort,” and even though you weren’t one to usually go out after races, tonight it felt right. Good. Like you were part of something worth celebrating.

You were already a few drinks in—warm, happy, a little soft around the edges—when a familiar hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here.”

The voice was low, slurred ever so slightly, and unmistakable.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Oscar. Flushed. Lit up.

His cheeks were pink from the heat or the alcohol—or maybe the sheer weight of a win finally sitting in his bones. His curls were damp at the temples, his shirt unbuttoned one more than usual, collar wide and loose. He looked electric and a little out of place and exactly like he belonged.

There was something in his posture too—looser than you’d ever seen him. Like the sharp lines of focus had softened just enough to let something else slip through.

His grin was crooked when your eyes met, and his words melted together like honey on the rim of a glass. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You shrugged, sipping again. “Even PR has to celebrate sometimes.”

He leaned in just a bit closer—not touching, but near enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Good. ‘Cause I was starting to think this night couldn’t get any better.”

Your heart skipped.

The line might’ve been cheesy. Hell, it was cheesy. But it didn’t sound rehearsed coming from him. It sounded raw. Tired and giddy and honest in the way only someone slightly drunk and completely unguarded could manage.

“You don’t usually come,” he said, words a little round at the edges, eyes trailing down to your hand still curled loosely around your glass.

You blinked, one brow rising with a smirk. “Well,” you said slowly, already tilting your head, “that’s one way to start a conversation.”

Oscar’s face flushed, an even deeper pink now blooming across his cheeks. “I meant—shit.” He laughed, sheepish, tipping his head back like it could shake the words back into order. “Out. With the team. After races.”

You leaned a hip into the bar, shoulder brushing his just slightly. “You don’t either,” you said, smiling into your drink.

“Right,” he echoed. His eyes flicked to yours again, and something softened in them. “Guess we both broke tradition.”

For a while, it was just the two of you—carved out in a little pocket of stillness against the noise. The crowd moved like static around you, music pounding and lights flickering overhead, but none of it quite touched the space you shared.

It wasn’t deep conversation. Nothing serious. Just the kind of back-and-forth that existed in that perfect in-between: light, easy, just this side of flirty. You joked about the chaos in the garage, the pre-race panic over the telemetry glitches, the way Lando tried to soak everyone—and somehow just you—in champagne. Your laughter came easier than usual, loosening like a ribbon pulled free. Oscar laughed too, head tipping slightly to the side every time you surprised him.

There was something charming in how his smile lingered longer than it should have. Like he wasn’t quite ready to look away.

You noticed the way he swayed, just barely, as he stood. He wasn’t stumbling or slurring, but his sharpness had gone soft at the corners. Eyes a little glassy, posture a little relaxed. His shirt had shifted slightly—creased at the collar, unbuttoned just low enough to suggest the hour—and you had the sudden, strange thought: he looks like someone who just stepped into himself. Like he’d finally let the pressure fall from his shoulders and just was.

You felt it too—less guarded than usual. Maybe it was the drink, or the lights, or the thrill of the win still echoing through your ribs like a held breath. But talking to him didn’t feel like navigating PR, like scripting moments for cameras or plotting timelines. It felt... normal. Easy. Nice.

Then the music surged again—bass rolling deep and sticky through the floor—and a pack of people pushed between you. Laughter and bodies and half-sung lyrics wrapped around you like a wave, and you blinked, just for a second—

And he was gone.

The crowd thinned, and your shoulder no longer brushed his. Your drink was empty. Your hand felt colder.

You turned your head, scanning—but no flash of his brown hair, no crooked smile in the crowd.

You stayed at the bar for a while longer, the buzz of celebration still humming in the walls, even as the crowd began to thin. Your heels pinched at your toes with every shifting step, the skin behind your knees aching from standing too long. The warmth from the drinks had softened the edges of your thoughts, made everything feel loose, detached. But beneath the fog of champagne and music, something lingered—something unsettled. A sense that the moment you’d shared with him hadn’t quite ended, even if the space between you had.

Eventually, you slipped away. The rooftop was nearly empty now—only a few stragglers clinging to their drinks, talking in low murmurs. The cold hit your skin immediately, biting through the fabric of your dress and raising goosebumps along your arms. The air was crisp and strange after hours of warm bodies and sticky dance floors. Above, the stars blinked faintly against the dark sky, distant and impossibly clear, like they’d only come out for nights like this.

You leaned against the brick wall of the building, the roughness scraping faintly through the thin fabric at your back. You closed your eyes. Just for a breath.

Then—

Footsteps. Not hurried. Not cautious. Just there.

A breath behind you. Familiar.

“Oscar?”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He stepped fully into view, clearly more unsteady now, his gait loose and his balance lagging just slightly behind each step. His hands were jammed deep into his pockets, his curls damp with sweat and night air, cheeks still flushed from inside. When he heard your voice, he turned his head and smiled, slow and crooked like it had to climb up his face.

“I thought you already left,” he said, words sticking just slightly as they left his mouth. Then that smile stretched, wider now, like he was amused by his own honesty. “Needed air. Didn’t expect you here.”

He came to a stop beside you, shoulder just barely brushing the brick wall where yours rested. You could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the chill. His breath made small clouds in the air. His eyes were glassy—not lost, but softened, his guard dropped just enough to let something else through.

You glanced at him sideways. The moonlight picked out the edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth. You could still smell whatever citrusy drink he’d had on his skin—sharp and sweet. His breathing had slowed now, more even, but still deep like he hadn’t fully caught it all night.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked. Not the kind of glance you’d shared during briefings or behind-the-scenes shots. Not the polite, practiced gaze of someone used to being seen. This was something else. His eyes were fixed on you like you were a question he’d just realized he needed an answer to.

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

He laughed, low in his chest. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. You felt it—buzzing in the stillness between you. That quiet shift in gravity, the part where everything hung just a second too long. The unspoken edge of something waiting to tip forward.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on yours. “You’re really beautiful, you know.”

You gave a soft snort, not quite prepared for that. “You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved, but the words stayed clear. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m drunk. But you’re beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober.”

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the words to settle.

“But you’ll still be beautiful.”

The air left your lungs all at once, and for a second, you didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Your heart hammered against your ribs with something sharp and sudden. His face didn’t flinch—there was no joke in it, no teasing grin. Just that quiet, open look that felt more naked than anything else all night.

Then, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, he leaned forward. The space between you closed to nothing. And he rested his forehead gently against yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a question.

It was just... there. A fragile press of warmth, of breath shared, of something honest in the silence.

And then—Lando’s voice cut across the rooftop, yelling something about shots and being next up at the bar.

Oscar’s head lifted. He grinned again, lopsided and tired.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just walked backward a few steps, still facing you, that same smile soft on his face.

Then he turned, disappearing back into the noise and lights.

And you stayed where you were, staring at the door he’d vanished through, the stars still burning quietly above your head, like they knew something you didn’t.

The hotel room is too bright.

Harsh daylight slices through the narrow break in the blackout curtains you forgot to pull shut, lighting the room in slanted lines. You groan and roll deeper into the bed, burrowing your face into the stiff hotel pillow. The cotton smells faintly of detergent and the faintest trace of your perfume—warmed into the fabric after last night when you all but collapsed face-first on top of the covers.

You hadn’t even taken off your clothes.

Your dress is still half-on, bunched at the waist. Your phone is dead somewhere on the nightstand. One heel is toppled near the bathroom door, the other nowhere in sight.

Your head throbs—not a sharp pain, but a dull, wet pressure just behind your eyes, like your thoughts are too swollen to move properly. You lie there for a while longer, motionless except for the steady rise and fall of your breath and the occasional twitch of a muscle that wants to get up but can’t quite remember how.

Eventually, your body overrides your brain. You peel the dress off with slow, clumsy fingers and shuffle barefoot into the bathroom.

The tile is cool beneath your feet. You turn on the shower and wait until the steam starts to fog up the mirror. The water is hotter than usual when you step under, but you don’t flinch. You let it burn a little, let it drag the ache from your limbs and the film of sweat and smoke and champagne off your skin.

Your head leans against the wall for a moment, the water rushing around your ears. Your eyes close. The memory of Oscar’s flushed cheeks and soft slur of voice floats up, uninvited. You see his smile again, the one that didn’t feel rehearsed, and the words—you’ll still be beautiful—echo in your head louder than the spray.

You exhale.

You don’t know what that was, or what it’s supposed to mean now, in daylight.

Wrapped in a towel, you pad across the carpet, gathering your things slowly. Your dress gets folded and stuffed into a corner of your suitcase. Makeup bag zipped. Chargers coiled. You find your missing heel behind the armchair, of course. Your phone finally comes to life as you plug it in, buzzing faintly with missed texts and one blurry photo from the night before—Oscar, mid-laugh, drink in hand, someone’s arm around his shoulders. He hadn’t seen you take it.

Your stomach flips.

When everything’s finally packed, you sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, palms braced on your knees. You’re not ready to leave, but staying won’t solve anything.

So you stand, grab your suitcase handle, and head down to the lobby.

The lobby is too bright—marble floors gleaming under morning light, too clean, too loud in its stillness. You step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, fresh from the shower but still not entirely present. The weight of sleep clings to your shoulders, and last night feels half-dreamed, half-lost.

Then you see him.

Oscar.

Sitting low on a leather couch by the windows, hoodie slouched over his head, water bottle untouched on the table in front of him. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers absently picking at the hem of his sleeve. He looks like he feels exactly how you do: run through, hollowed out by celebration and too many hours without real rest.

And for a second, you pause.

Because you remember. The rooftop. The cold air. The smell of citrus and sweat. His words, slurred but certain: "I'm drunk. But you're beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober. But you’ll still be beautiful."

Your stomach flutters—but then he lifts his gaze, meets yours with a tired sort of smile. Easy. Blank.

No flicker of recognition.

Your heart drops a little. Of course. He was drunk. You were too, to be fair. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it didn’t even land.

Still, you smile back. Casual. Friendly.

“Morning,” you offer.

“Hey,” he says, voice raspier than usual. He clears his throat, sits up slightly. “Rough one?”

You nod, dragging your suitcase closer. “Could’ve been worse.”

He chuckles faintly. “Could’ve been better.”

There’s a pause where neither of you says much—just the faint murmur of voices near the doors as the team filters into cars. Then:

“You heading to MTC?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Few of us from PR are reporting in later this week.”

He nods, gaze flicking toward the spinning doors. “Same. I’m going back with the engineers though.”

You nod too, chewing your lip like you might say something else. But what would you even say? Hey, remember calling me beautiful like it was the most honest thing you’ve ever said? You don’t.

“See you there, then,” you offer instead.

He lifts his water bottle in a mock-toast. “Yeah. See you.”

And just like that, the moment passes—quiet and unacknowledged. You pull your suitcase away with a faint tug of regret trailing behind you. Maybe it meant more to you. Maybe he really doesn’t remember.

The MTC feels colder than usual.

Not the temperature—though the glass-walled corridors always carried a clinical chill—but something else. Something in the way people move, fast and focused, laughter from the race weekend now just a faint echo in the past.

You’ve been back for hours already. Meetings, debriefs, emails stacked like bricks in your inbox. It’s the first real pause you’ve had, and you find yourself at the café corner of the atrium, hands wrapped around a paper cup of burnt coffee, eyes scanning the light-dappled water outside but not really seeing it.

And then you feel it.

Not quite a sound. Not quite a shadow.

Just the shift of the air when someone enters the space. When he enters the space.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around right away. You don’t have to.

You can sense him—quiet but not unnoticed. He’s standing across the room, near the vending machines, shoulder tilted against the wall, deep in conversation with a mechanic you vaguely recognize. He’s wearing black MTC gear, arms folded, curls pushed back messily from his face.

Your heart skips—just slightly.

You see it then. The way his eyes flick across the room. Just once.

You force yourself not to read into it. Not to linger.

Instead, you push off from your seat, paper cup in hand, notes clutched to your chest as you make your way toward the corridor. Your mind’s already halfway to your next meeting, shuffling bullet points and strategy when you round the corner—and crash directly into someone.

Coffee sloshes violently from your cup, splattering across your notes. Papers flutter like startled birds. You gasp, stumbling back, and then:

“Oh shit—sorry, I didn’t see—”

Oscar’s voice. Closer now.

You look up, eyes wide.

Of course it’s him.

He’s already crouching, long fingers chasing runaway pages with quick, fumbled movements. “That’s my fault,” he mutters, brows knit. “I wasn’t watching—”

“No, I wasn’t,” you rush to say, kneeling across from him. Your fingertips touch the same page, and you both freeze for a beat too long. “Really. I should’ve—”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quieter now. Closer. “I’ve made bigger messes.”

He offers a sheepish smile, holding out a soggy corner of your schedule. You take it carefully, your fingers brushing his.

You both glance up at the same time. And you’re too close.

For a heartbeat, no one says anything.

Then:

“You alright?” he asks. Gently. Sincere.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. You?”

He gives the smallest shrug, looking down again. “Could be worse. I didn’t get scalded by your coffee.”

Then, Oscar clears his throat, gesturing vaguely at your front. “I, uh… kinda spilled coffee all over you.”

You blink. Look down.

Oh.

The pale fabric of your blouse is soaked, clinging to your skin in places and already browning along the seam. You inhale sharply, suddenly aware of how bad it must look.

“Shit.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, eyes wide, hands sort of frozen in midair like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. “I—I have a small office, just around the corner. There’s a sink in there. If you want, I can try—like—washing it out? Before it stains?”

You hesitate. He looks so earnest. So mortified.

“…Now?” you ask, a little tentative.

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” he says, already turning slightly, motioning you to follow. “If you’re okay with it.”

You glance again at your ruined shirt and sigh. “Yeah. Okay.”

The short walk is quiet. Tense, but not uncomfortable—just that thick kind of silence where neither of you knows what to say first. His office is small and clean, papers stacked in careful piles on the desk, a grey MTC hoodie slung over the back of the chair. He holds the door open for you.

“I’ll, um…” He gestures toward the sink tucked into the corner, then back to you, clearly scrambling. “If you want to give me the shirt, I’ll try rinsing it.”

You raise a brow. “Right. Just like that.”

He laughs, but it’s nervous. “I mean—not just like that. I’ll use soap.”

You stare at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—just if you want. You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say slowly, fingers already moving to the buttons, more out of instinct than thought. “You’re probably right. It’ll stain.”

Oscar turns a little to the side as you undo the blouse, the damp fabric peeling off with a soft tug. You’re left in your tank top, suddenly hyper-aware of your bare arms, the chill of the air conditioning, him just a few feet away.

He turns back too soon.

His eyes catch on your exposed shoulders—just for a second—but it’s enough to make his throat bob with a quiet swallow. “Uh—I have a hoodie. If you want.”

You nod quickly, covering yourself instinctively with the now-offending blouse.

He grabs the one from his chair, crossing the small space in two strides, and holds it out. You duck your head as you take it, the soft cotton brushing your arms, his scent already warming through the fabric.

As you pull it over your head, your fingers tangle in the sleeve—and before you know it, he’s stepping in, helping untwist it.

And suddenly, you’re close.

Too close.

His hands fall to your wrists, steadying the fabric, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

The hoodie settles over you with a quiet finality.

You glance up at the same moment he does.

Neither of you moves.

The silence presses in again, thicker than before. But there’s something fragile in it now—something that feels like it might break open, or shift everything, if either of you leans an inch further.

“I’ll just… rinse this,” he says, voice lower now, as he gently takes the blouse from your hand.

You nod, still watching him.

And for a long second, even as he turns to the sink, he doesn’t let go of your wrist.

He lets go of your wrist finally, almost like he had to remind himself to do it.

You don’t say anything as he turns, sleeves pushed up, and starts running water over the blouse at the small sink. The room is quiet except for the faint hiss of water and the rustle of fabric. He’s careful with it, more careful than you expected, using the gentlest bit of soap and his thumb to work at the stain.

You lean back against the edge of his desk, the hem of the hoodie curling against your thighs. It swallows you whole—warm, soft, his.

“Didn’t think I’d be hand-washing someone’s clothes in my office today,” he says after a beat, not looking back.

You laugh softly. “Didn’t think I’d be half undressed in someone’s office either.”

He freezes for a split second—shoulders tightening—then glances over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “We’re really breaking McLaren protocol, huh?”

You smile, fiddling with the edge of the sleeve that still smells faintly like his cologne and worn cotton. “Rebellious.”

He turns back, attention fixed on the blouse like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. The water runs soft against the fabric, soap swirling through the fibers. His movements are steady, but you see it—the slight tremble in his fingers, the faint flush that climbs up the back of his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he says after a moment. His voice is soft, almost lost beneath the sound of the water. “I think I probably already broke a few McLaren rules last weekend.”

It’s not a joke—not really. He laughs a little, but it’s uneven. Nervous.

You don’t answer, not yet. Not while he keeps scrubbing at your blouse like it’ll save him.

“I just…” he hesitates, the fabric slack in his hands now. “I didn’t know if I should bring it up. Or if you even remembered.”

The silence stretches, but only for a heartbeat.

“I do,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you expected, your voice caught between surprise and something gentler. “I remember.”

That makes him turn. Not just his head this time, his whole body pivots slowly toward you. His hands still drip with water, your blouse hanging limp in his grip like a peace offering he doesn't quite know how to present. His hair is a little messy from the steam. His eyes, though—those are wide. Searching.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “If that was weird. Or if I was weird. Or—God—when I was awkward. Or when I obviously broke rules.” His words tumble out too fast, falling over each other. “I mean, I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t mean to say it like that. But…”

He finally meets your gaze.

“I meant what I said that night.”

The words settle into the quiet like a landing. Not jarring, but solid. Sincere.

You look at him—really look at him—and you can tell how long he’s been carrying this around. How much of that night has played on repeat behind his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t just alcohol that loosened his tongue. Maybe it was something heavier, older, waiting.

You stand slowly, the oversized hoodie shifting over your frame as you do. His gaze flicks down for the briefest second, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying his best not to mess it up this time.

You step a little closer.

He sets the blouse aside carefully and takes a small step forward, like he’s afraid to break the spell. But you don’t move away.

You just keep looking at each other.

The air between you hums, charged but quiet like something sacred lives in the pause.

You tilt your head just slightly, chin tipped up as you look at him, eyes steady. “You were really drunk,” you murmur, almost teasing, but not quite. It’s gentler than that, softer around the edges. A reminder, maybe. Or a question.

His mouth lifts at one corner, but it’s a fragile sort of smile—like he knows what he’s about to say matters.

“I was,” he admits. His voice is low, careful. “Maybe that’s where I got the confidence.” He breathes out, eyes never leaving yours. “But like I said… I’m sober now. And I still think you’re beautiful.”

You feel it then, the subtle shift in the space between you—the way it tightens like a held breath, like something long-held is about to give way.

A strand of hair slips forward, falling across your cheek. His hand moves before you even register it, fingers brushing the strand back, his touch so featherlight it sends a quiet thrill down your spine.

He doesn’t drop his hand.

Instead, his palm finds your cheek, warm and tentative, thumb resting just beneath your eye. You lean into it, instinctive, breath catching slightly in your throat.

His gaze flickers, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes again.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asks. A whisper, almost.

You nod before you even realize you’re doing it, your voice caught somewhere between the thud of your pulse and the heat blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you breathe.

And then he leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, like he’s trying to memorize the moment just before and when your lips meet, it’s not rushed. It’s not sharp.

His thumb lingers for a second along your cheek before his palm settles there fully, grounding, steady.

It’s not fireworks or breathless urgency.

It’s soft, like a secret. A question more than an answer.

His lips find yours in a kiss that feels... delicate. Not unsure, but intentional—like he’s been carrying this moment for days and wants to make it last. You lean into it slowly, fingers curling around the fabric of the hoodie at your waist, pulling him just a little closer.

The room is quiet around you. The only sound is the distant hum of the building. But here, now, in this tiny office with a damp blouse forgotten on the desk and your heart thudding beneath borrowed cotton, it feels impossibly warm.

When he pulls back, barely, your noses still brush. His voice is quiet.

“I thought about that night more times than I probably should’ve.”

You exhale, your forehead touching his now. “I did too.”

His smile is small. Shy.

Weeks passed. The season rolled forward. Races, travel, press—it never stopped. But neither did the small, steady gravity between you.

Sometimes, he would find you during lunch breaks just to sit beside you, knees brushing beneath the table. Other times it was a shared coffee left on your desk with a little note tucked under the lid. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud.

Just him. Just you.

You had moments. Lots of them.

Like that night, after a chaotic media day, when he knocked softly on your hotel door and said, barely above a whisper, “Can I come in?” You didn’t need to ask why. He came in, curled beside you under too many blankets, and said, “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re near.”

And then there was the photo from the garage—the first one he posted with you half-visible in the corner, his caption not about the race, but a lyric. One you recognized.

One that made your heart twist, in the best way.

But maybe the clearest moment came months later.

Another win.

You were already pressed against the barriers, camera in hand, lens trained on the blur of papaya as he crossed the line. The crowd roared around you—mechanics yelling, pit wall erupting. It was chaos, joy, adrenaline wrapped in noise. But your world narrowed to the frame in your viewfinder.

Oscar.

You tracked every movement—the way he slowed the car, waved at the grandstands. The way he unbuckled with practiced hands, climbed out of the cockpit, raised his fists to the sky like the moment might lift him off the ground.

Then he jumped down, helmet tugged off, hair damp against his forehead.

And that’s when you saw it.

The way his eyes scanned the crowd—not aimless, not distracted. Searching. Intent.

For you.

You lowered your camera just in time to see him take the last step.

There he was.

Closer than you'd expected, already in front of you. He didn’t stop. Just folded you into his arms, sweat and heat and joy pressed against you in one breathless second.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his voice low, husky, wrecked from shouting.

“Feels like I’m drunk,” he said. “And you’re still beautiful.”

You blinked up at him, startled, a laugh caught in your throat.

“Osc, babe—everyone is watching” you whispered.

But he was already pulling back, just enough to look you in the eyes, that same glint from the rooftop all those months ago—only now clearer, grounded, real.

And then he kissed you.

Right there, over the barrier. Pressed his lips to yours like the world had gone still. Like nothing else mattered.

Cameras flashed.

People screamed.

The team lost it behind you, Lando somewhere yelling “Are you kidding me?!” and someone else whooping, and photographers already elbowing each other for the angle.

But you didn’t notice any of it.

You kissed him back.

And that was it.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri #op81 #𓊆papayainone𓊇

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