thesundys

[thesundys]

wow just combusted

- Nerd, Interrupted -

enhypen masterlist

my wattpad

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down bad!bully!park sunghoon x nerd!reader | enemies-to-lovers | teasing → in love | slow burn | rom-com with emotional depth | size difference | mutual pining | filthy smut| shy but smart reader | possessive, whipped male lead |

summary: You’re a shy, pretty, and inexperienced nerd with a habit of reading smut and wearing skirts a little too short for your own safety. Sunghoon, the tall boy who won’t leave you alone, bullies you — but only because he’s completely in love. What starts as teasing slowly burns into something deeper and more dangerous. You were never clueless. He was never playing. And once your thigh highs come out… so does the truth.

warning: sexual tension, explicit smut, degradation kink, praise kink, non-harmful bully x nerd dynamics, obsessive behavior, voyeuristic undertones, emotional vulnerability, inexperience themes, filthy language during smut, possessive male lead.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

You always sit in the same spot.

Far left corner. Second floor. Behind the dusty encyclopedia shelves no one touches anymore.

You have your own little universe up here: a corner chair with a sun-warmed armrest, a power socket you guard with your life, and your annotated copy of Modern Chemistry: Foundations and Applications resting in your lap, pages marked with violet flags and smudged with highlighter. Your dark lipstick is freshly applied, a glassy wine-red sheen against your otherwise plain, focused expression. You’re the kind of girl that makes people nervous — pretty, but quiet. Reserved. Always looking like you’re about to ace the exam you didn’t even know was happening.

It’s not that you like being alone. You’ve just learned how to be very good at it.

But peace is a fragile thing.

Especially when Park Sunghoon finds it amusing to ruin yours.

“Wow.” His voice drops behind you, a smooth mix of mock surprise and low amusement. “Didn’t think nerds came in high definition.”

You don’t jump. But your fingers tighten around your pen.

He leans against the bookshelf beside you — tall, broad, arms crossed like he owns the place. Which, socially speaking, he kind of does. He’s one of those boys: the effortless popular kind, sharp jaw, smug smirk, and a voice you hate how well you recognize. Every word he says to you is laced with that same I-know-I’m-hot venom that makes your chest buzz in a way you can’t stand.

“Let me guess.” He nudges your book with the tip of his knuckle, voice dripping with mockery. “Reading ahead for a test no one cares about?”

You keep your eyes on the page. “I care.”

“Aww.” He drops into the chair beside you like he has any right to. His leg knocks into yours — long, warm, uninvited. You freeze. “That’s cute.”

You stare at your book harder. You don’t respond. You know how this goes. The moment you give him attention, he triples the chaos. He’s not a traditional bully — he doesn’t push you into lockers or throw things at you. But what he does do is worse: he whispers things in class to make you blush, calls you Professor Tits behind your back loud enough that it echoes, and steals your pens only to leave them on your desk the next day with hearts drawn on them in black sharpie.

And now? He’s in your library chair. With his freakishly long legs brushing yours every time he shifts.

You tuck your skirt more tightly around your thighs.

Sunghoon notices.

“Mm.” He hums, eyes glinting as he tilts his head. “You always wear those skirts, huh? No shame for a nerd.”

You snap your gaze up.

He grins at your flushed expression. He’s so tall, even while slouching, his frame dwarfing the little space between you. You hate how your stomach turns, not with fear — but something stupid and fluttery and hormonal.

“I’m not ashamed,” you mumble.

“Oh, I know,” he teases. “You love attention. Don’t pretend you don’t. Always sitting like that, all innocent, pretending you’re just here to study when you know every guy in the building wants to bend you over that desk.”

You gasp, scandalized — cheeks burning. “Sunghoon—!”

“What?” He says your name like it’s a joke. “Am I wrong?”

You try to push your chair back, but he stops you — one long leg swinging casually over yours, boxing you in.

“Relax.” His voice softens. Too close. Too smug. “You’re just fun to mess with. You make the best faces.”

“Go away.”

“Make me.”

You narrow your eyes, lips parted in disbelief. “You’re such a child.”

He leans in a little — face tilting down to meet your height, his mouth just slightly crooked.

“And you’re such a virgin.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He doesn’t say it like an insult. He says it like he knows — like he’s been thinking about it. A lot.

“I—” You stammer, but nothing coherent comes out.

Sunghoon watches you fumble with your pen, your breath catching, your hands trembling slightly, and something shifts in his face. He looks… satisfied. Like he’s won something. Not the conversation, but something deeper. Something that sinks into your skin and makes your heart race.

“I’m right,” he says lowly.

You want to slap him. You want to vanish. You want to throw him off the building. But most of all, you want to understand why your heart is hammering in your ears like this. Why your thighs are clenched and your mouth is dry and your brain is filled with the memory of the way he looked at you just now — like you were some kind of puzzle he’s dying to tear apart.

Instead, you grab your bag.

“I’m going to class.”

“Class isn’t for twenty minutes.”

You shoot him a glare. “I need to study.”

He lets you go. Doesn’t stop you. But his eyes trail down your legs — slow, lingering — and when you walk away, you feel his gaze, thick and unrelenting.

⸻

Elsewhere on campus, your best friend Yunjin is waiting under the shade tree by the courtyard steps, arms folded and eyebrows raised.

“You have that face again.”

You adjust your bag. “What face?”

“The Sunghoon harassed me again but I don’t want to admit it made my stomach flutter face.”

You sputter. “That is not a real face.”

“It is when you wear it every day.”

You groan and flop beside her. Jake walks by with a protein bar in his mouth, shooting you both a casual nod. Sunoo is sitting backwards in a chair nearby, eavesdropping like it’s his job.

“Did he quote one of your smut books again?” Sunoo asks.

You freeze.

Yunjin leans forward, scandalized. “Wait, did he?”

You bite your lip. “…He might have.”

Sunoo squeals. “Girl, you need to stop reading those in public. That man is waiting for you to drop a page so he can sniff it.”

“He’s just an asshole,” you grumble.

“He’s a hot asshole,” Yunjin corrects.

“I don’t care.”

They both snort. Because they know you care. You just won’t admit it.

And neither will he.

Not yet.

_________

It starts as a normal day.

As normal as it can be, anyway, when you wake up with your heart already pounding from a dream you don’t want to talk about. Not even to yourself. Not even to your pillow.

It was about him again.

Not that anything happened. Not really. Just flashes — long legs brushing yours under the library desk. That smug mouth curling as he whispered something filthy in your ear. The heat of his hand almost, almost resting on your knee. The dream didn’t even go further than that. It didn’t need to. You woke up hot and bothered, thighs pressed together, breath coming in short little bursts like a broken whisper.

You hate that he gets under your skin like this. Sunghoon. The tall, annoying, gorgeous bane of your academic existence. You hate his jokes. His smirks. His stupid boy perfume that lingers behind every time he walks past your locker.

And you especially hate that the dreams started around the same time he found out you read romance novels.

You’d been so careful. You read on your tablet in class, the screen tinted to look like a textbook. You marked your place with clean little sticky notes that matched the color scheme of your physics binder. You never highlighted the dirty lines.

But last week, somehow, he found one of your paperbacks in your bag. It was just sitting there when you returned from the bathroom, pages slightly open, your highlighter tucked inside.

He hadn’t said anything then. Just raised his brows at you like he’d unlocked a cheat code.

You’d prayed he forgot.

He did not forget.

⸻

The next day, after class—

You’re minding your own business in the campus courtyard, tucked under a tree with a book in your lap — a different one this time. Something safer. Something classic. Jane Eyre. Which, to be fair, still has some intense longing scenes, but at least it doesn’t have phrases like “his tongue mapped the inside of her soul”.

You turn a page, ink-smudged fingers tucked under your chin, knees drawn up under your skirt — when a shadow falls over you.

“Didn’t peg you for a Brontë girl,” a voice drawls.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Try to remain calm.

“Go away, Sunghoon.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he drops down beside you on the grass, legs sprawled out carelessly, like this patch of campus is his kingdom. His uniform is slightly rumpled — tie loosened, sleeves pushed up to reveal tan forearms that look entirely too smug for a Tuesday.

“What, no sexy warlocks today?” he teases, eyeing the cover. “No vampires with six-packs? No ‘his length twitched at the sight of her’? Or did you leave that one in your bra again?”

Your entire soul exits your body.

“You went through my bag?”

“You left it wide open,” he shrugs. “I was doing you a favor. What if someone else found out you read fanfic with plot?”

You slam the book shut, face burning. “It’s not fanfic.”

He leans closer. “So you admit you read it.”

“Sunghoon,” you say warningly.

He reaches out and tugs your book away, ignoring your gasp. You lunge to grab it, but he’s holding it way above your reach. Which is criminal, really. Freakishly tall bastard.

You scramble to your knees, trying to claw it back. “Give it!”

“Nope.” He grins, flipping through the pages. “Let’s see where Professor Tits left off…”

You gasp. “Don’t call me that!”

He flips to a bookmarked page and clears his throat.

“‘She whimpered as he pinned her hands above her head, his mouth devouring her neck with possessive hunger, whispering filth into her ear she’d never heard before.’”

Your entire soul evaporates into steam.

“SUNGHOO—”

“‘Her skirt bunched around her hips—’” he reads, eyes flicking to your actual skirt for one shameless second, “—‘his hands branding her skin like fire.’”

You lunge for him, tackling him in the grass, trying to snatch the book back with a strangled yell. But he’s stronger than you. And obnoxiously amused. You’re half on top of him now, your hands clawing at the spine while he just laughs, breath warm against your cheek as he reads:

“‘Please,’ she begged, ‘I can’t—’”

“‘You will,’ he growled—’”

You yank the book from his grip, flush a shade of crimson not even found in nature, and scramble back into your spot, face hidden behind your knees.

Sunghoon props himself up on his elbows, still lying in the grass, watching you with a boyish smirk.

“You know,” he says lazily, “you don’t need a book for that kind of thing.”

You slowly peek at him through your fingers. “What?”

He shrugs, lashes low over those sharp eyes. “Someone like you? Pretty. Shy. Always sitting with your legs crossed like a good little girl. You don’t think some guy’s dying to—”

“Stop talking.”

He sits up, amused. “Why? I thought you liked dirty talk. You highlight the good parts.”

You fling a leaf at him.

Sunghoon dodges it with ease, smirk growing. “You’re lucky I like nerds.”

“No, I’m lucky you have no shame.”

He clutches his chest like he’s wounded. “Ouch.”

You glare at him, trying not to laugh. Trying.

He pushes up from the grass with an easy, languid stretch, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough for you to catch a glimpse of sharp hip bones. You look away instantly. Too late.

He notices.

“See you tomorrow, Professor.”

You don’t answer.

You just flip open your book again — to a very different page — and pretend he didn’t just make your thighs ache for reasons you’ll never say out loud.

⸻

Later that evening—

You’re studying with Yunjin and Sunoo in your room. The usual setup: flashcards, open laptops, snacks you’ll regret, and Yunjin’s playlist of girl group bangers in the background.

“He read your book?” Yunjin shrieks.

Sunoo nearly chokes on a gummy worm. “Out loud? In public?! Oh, he wants you. He wants you so bad it’s illegal.”

You groan into your pillow.

“It’s not like that,” you mumble.

Yunjin snorts. “Babe, he has a whole sexual harassment arc planned out in his head. The slow burn? The enemies to lovers? He’s living your smut fantasy.”

“He’s annoying.”

“He’s obsessed.”

Sunoo hums. “You should ask yourself why you’re not, like, really mad about it.”

You go quiet.

Because that’s the problem. You should be mad. You should hate how he always corners you, always flusters you, always finds the one button to press and presses it until you break.

But a small, stupid part of you…

Wants him to keep pushing.

_______

It starts with your name on the projector.

Not in a good way.

You’re sitting front row, highlighter poised, when your chemistry professor clears her throat and says, “Alright, we’re pairing off for the next lab cycle. Each of you will work with your designated partner for the next two weeks. Names are on the board. No switches.”

Your eyes flick up.

You scan the list. Fast. Already mentally preparing to work with someone quiet, maybe even someone you can control a little — because group work, for you, is like handing a toddler your thesis.

Then you see it.

Your name.

Next to his.

Y/N L/N × Park Sunghoon

Your soul leaves your body.

You blink once. Twice.

Surely there’s been a mistake. The universe wouldn’t be this cruel. You’ve done nothing to deserve this. You recycle. You use turn signals. You highlight with restraint.

But there it is. Burning bright on the projector like a death sentence.

You barely hear the professor’s next sentence. Something about goggles. Safety. Don’t blow up the lab. Whatever.

Because behind you, a voice says low and delighted:

“Well, well, well. Look who finally has to play nice.”

You squeeze your pen so hard the cap snaps.

⸻

Ten minutes later, at your lab table—

Sunghoon strolls over like he’s auditioning for a fragrance commercial. He smells like clean soap and something boyish and warm that makes your stomach do inappropriate things. His lab coat is open, his ID badge hanging crookedly from the collar, and he leans on the counter with both arms like it’s his personal modeling platform.

You pretend to be invested in the periodic table.

“Don’t worry, nerd,” he murmurs, dipping close. “I’m great with chemistry.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t touch anything.”

He grins. “Yes, Professor.”

You hate him. You hate him.

Mostly because he’s so tall that he has to bend way down to look you in the eye. And when he does, your whole body reacts like it’s being dragged across a live wire.

“I mean it,” you say, elbowing him lightly. “This is my GPA. Don’t ruin it.”

He leans in even closer — just enough to make your breath catch.

“Would never ruin you,” he murmurs, too soft, too intimate.

Your heart stutters.

You look at him. He’s not smiling now. Not really. His expression is unreadable — some strange mix of amusement and something heavier, darker. Something… unfamiliar.

You shove the reaction away.

“I’ll take the measurements,” you say quickly, pulling the graduated cylinder toward you. “You just… don’t get in the way.”

“Whatever you say,” he drawls, shifting behind you.

And then he’s right there — standing behind your shoulder as you pour, his body heat brushing yours, his breath disturbingly close to your ear.

You fumble.

A few drops spill over the edge of the cylinder.

“Careful, nerd,” he says. “You’re trembling.”

You are. Just slightly. But it’s not because you’re scared. It’s because his voice is low and thick and way too close, and his chest brushes your back when he leans forward to glance at the beaker.

And because for some reason…

You don’t move away.

⸻

Half an hour later—

The lab smells like antiseptic, alcohol, and the faint tang of lemon cleaner. The experiment is simple: titration. Measure. Pour. Record. Repeat.

And yet somehow, this is the hardest hour of your life.

Because Sunghoon won’t. Stop. Hovering.

Every time you shift, he shifts too — close enough that his thigh bumps yours, his arm brushes your elbow, his breath tickles your neck.

And every time you ask him to “stop doing that,” he just says “doing what?” in the smuggest voice known to man.

It’s a miracle you haven’t broken a glass.

“Write down the value,” you mumble, pushing the log sheet toward him.

He leans over, his shoulder nudging yours, pen scrawling across the paper in lazy, cocky handwriting.

You try to ignore how broad his chest is. How his fingers are ink-stained and long and stupidly hot. How your knees are practically touching now.

And then he drops the pen.

Right between your feet.

You freeze.

He crouches, slowly, almost dramatically — his head disappearing under the desk as he reaches for it. And when he rises back up, something shifts. His eyes. His smirk. His voice.

“Nice panties.”

You whip around, eyes wide.

“What?!”

He smiles. “Lace, huh? Classy.”

You want the ground to eat you alive.

“I’m—” You stutter, mortified. “I’m wearing shorts under my skirt!”

“Sure you are.” He grins, tossing the pen onto the desk. “Didn’t say I saw skin. Just said I liked the color.”

You die inside.

He chuckles, picking up your notes.

“And here I thought you were innocent.”

You blink. Your voice is quiet now. Honest. “I am.”

He glances at you. Stops.

For one beat, he doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Just looks at you.

You expect him to make fun of you. But he doesn’t.

He just says, quieter than before: “…Yeah. I know.”

And then the teasing glint returns.

“But I bet your books aren’t.”

You groan, shoving your face into your arm.

Sunghoon laughs — really laughs — the sound of it echoing off the sterile walls like sunshine cracking through the ceiling. You kind of hate that it sounds good. You kind of hate that it makes you want to laugh.

But most of all…

You hate that your hand is still tingling from when his accidentally brushed yours.

⸻

After class—

Jake is waiting for you outside the science building.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes flicking over your flushed face.

You nod too fast. “Fine. Lab stuff.”

“Did he mess with you?”

You hesitate. “Not really. Just being… him.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You sure?”

You nod again. “Yeah.”

He walks you to the café without another word.

But behind you, across the lawn, Sunghoon is leaning against the stair rail. His hands are in his pockets. His hair is messy. His smirk is gone.

He’s watching you.

And he doesn’t look amused anymore.

____________

Your locker is always clean.

Not obsessively, but neatly — like everything in your life, it’s arranged to keep people out. Pencil cases stacked by color. Books lined up in subject order. A lavender air freshener clipped to the top shelf. Even your emergency snacks are sealed in Ziploc bags, labeled with sticky notes like Don’t Touch (Yunjin) and Mine (Still Yunjin, don’t lie).

You don’t trust easily.

You especially don’t trust people like Sunghoon.

Which is why the moment you see your locker door slightly ajar after third period, your stomach drops like a stone.

You stop walking.

Yunjin keeps going — then pauses and doubles back, noticing your frozen stance.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. You just reach out and pull your locker open.

The inside looks… the same. Sort of.

But your notebook — your private notebook — the one you use for doodles and little diary entries and the occasional steamy paragraph you don’t want to admit you wrote — it’s not where it should be. It’s not under your folders. It’s not behind your lab manual.

You blink once. Twice.

Panic prickles under your skin.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

Yunjin leans over. “Wait—what’s missing?”

You don’t answer.

Because that’s the thing. You know what’s missing. You just don’t want to say it out loud.

⸻

Two hours later—

You find him in the art wing.

Sunghoon’s sitting alone in the back row of the photography lab, long legs stretched under the desk, flipping through something that definitely doesn’t belong to him.

Your notebook.

Your fucking notebook.

You march in before you even think it through, yanking it from his hands so fast he lets out a low, surprised laugh.

“Easy, nerd. Might tear a page.”

You hold it to your chest, face burning. “You broke into my locker?”

“Wasn’t locked.”

“That’s not the point!”

He tilts his head, annoyingly calm. “You dropped your schedule the other day. I figured you’d come here to yell.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs.

“I—what the hell is wrong with you?” Your voice is high now, trembling with embarrassment. “That’s private, Sunghoon. That’s my notebook. There’s—there’s—”

“Scenes?” he says casually. “Plots? A character who definitely isn’t based on me?”

You freeze.

Oh no.

He read that part.

The scene you wrote during math last week. The one you swore you’d delete. The one where a tall, smug male lead corners the innocent bookworm in the school stairwell and says something along the lines of “Tell me how many times you touched yourself thinking about me.”

Your soul detonates.

“You weren’t supposed to see that—”

He stands.

Slowly. Deliberately.

You instinctively take a step back. He doesn’t touch you — doesn’t have to. He just moves into your space with the kind of lazy confidence that should be illegal.

“So you have thought about me,” he says, eyes dark and unreadable.

You clutch the notebook tighter. “That was fiction.”

He smirks. “Was it?”

“Obviously,” you snap. “You’re not even nice to me!”

He tilts his head. “You think I’d be nice if I got you alone?”

Your throat tightens.

You hate him. You hate that he has this effect on you. That you’re still standing here. That your fingers are shaking. That you want to kiss him just to shut him up.

“I’m not… I don’t…” You swallow hard. “I don’t do stuff like that.”

He studies you.

Not like he’s judging you — but like he’s learning you. Filing away every detail.

“I know.”

You blink.

“I know you don’t,” he says again, this time softer. “You blush when someone touches your hand. You flinch when someone calls you pretty. You get scared when people ask if you’ve dated. I know.”

Your breath catches.

And for a second — a split second — you think he might say something real. Something honest. Something that would shatter the stupid rhythm of your days.

But then his smirk returns.

He steps back. “But you write like someone who wants to.”

You burn.

He walks out.

You stand alone, clutching your notebook, your heart pounding in your throat.

⸻

Later that night—

Yunjin and Sunoo are sitting on your bed, watching you pace.

“He read it?” Sunoo gasps. “Like really read it?”

You nod, dying slowly.

“And then quoted it back to you?”

You nod again, collapsing into your blanket.

Yunjin’s jaw is on the floor. “Babe. That is not normal bully behavior.”

Sunoo raises a brow. “That’s ‘I have a secret folder of pictures of you’ behavior.”

You bury your face in a pillow. “I want to vanish.”

“But like,” Yunjin leans closer, “was he mean about it?”

You hesitate.

“No,” you admit. “Just… smug.”

“So,” Sunoo concludes. “He’s into it.”

“I’m going to die.”

Yunjin hums. “No, babe. You’re going to wear a short skirt next week and finish him off.”

You laugh — just a little.

Because you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

But soon?

Maybe.

_________

The day you wear the short skirt is just a regular Thursday.

At least for you.

You didn’t mean to cause anything. You didn’t plan a thing. You’re wearing the same style of outfit you always do — a black pleated skirt, mid-thigh, soft cotton; thigh-high socks with lace trim; and a fitted cardigan buttoned up to your collarbone. Hair tied with a little black ribbon. Gloss dark and shiny. You’re still you.

Just a little cuter than usual.

Maybe you were tired of blending in. Maybe you needed a confidence boost. Or maybe you just liked how the outfit made you feel — pretty, in a way that was yours and yours alone.

You walk into the library, as always, twenty minutes before your study group meets. You take the back corner chair again. You plug in your tablet. You open your book.

Everything is normal.

Until you hear the scrape of a chair behind you.

You don’t even have to turn around.

“…Sunghoon.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

You glance back.

He’s standing just far enough to look casual. But something’s… different.

His expression is unreadable. His usual smirk? Gone. In its place is something still. Quiet. Controlled.

Too controlled.

You tilt your head. “What?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, his eyes drift — deliberately — down your legs. Your skirt. The sliver of bare skin between your thigh-highs and the hem of the fabric.

And they stay there.

For a second too long.

You shift uncomfortably, crossing your legs. “What?”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He just exhales — slow, quiet, a sound that barely escapes his chest — and then he drops into the seat beside you.

But this time, he doesn’t sprawl like usual. Doesn’t lean in close to tease. Doesn’t say anything at all.

You peek at him.

His jaw is tight.

His fingers are tapping once, twice, then curling into his palm like he needs to stop.

You blink.

“You okay?”

Sunghoon turns slowly to look at you. Eyes heavy. Face unreadable.

“You wore that on purpose.”

Your breath hitches. “Excuse me?”

“That skirt.” His voice is low. “Those socks.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

You sit straighter. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

The intensity in his voice makes you shiver.

“Sunghoon, I dress like this all the time.”

“Not like this.”

You stare at him.

He looks… wrecked.

His fingers twitch on his thigh. His knee bounces. His teeth grind against the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a war with himself.

“You’re acting crazy,” you whisper.

He laughs. But it’s not funny. It’s hollow. Pained.

“Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

You feel your cheeks go hot.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t,” he snaps. Then softer, more raw: “That’s the worst part.”

You blink, startled.

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice comes quieter now, not directed at you — more like a confession to the floor.

“I’ve spent months trying not to touch you. Not to lose it. I thought it was funny at first — teasing the nerd. Getting a reaction. Watching you get all shy and breathless.”

Your throat tightens.

“But then I started wondering what your lips tasted like. Wondering if you’d cry if I kissed you. Wondering if you’d let me ruin you if I was just a little nicer.”

You don’t move.

“I’d close my eyes and see you. Skirts riding up. Little notes with hearts. The way you lick your gloss off when you’re thinking.”

He laughs again — a sharp, miserable thing.

“I thought I was just horny. I thought it would pass.”

You swallow. “And did it?”

He looks at you.

And the look in his eyes answers the question before he even speaks.

“No.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he says softly. “I think about you all the time. In class. In the shower. In my fucking sleep. I can’t stop.”

You feel like the world has tilted.

“I didn’t mean to make you—”

He cuts you off, sharp. “Don’t apologize.”

Silence settles between you like ash.

You’re not sure what to do. What to say. You’re still the shy girl. Still inexperienced. Still figuring out what it means when someone looks at you like they want to set the world on fire just to keep you warm.

And Sunghoon?

He’s not teasing anymore.

He’s unraveling.

“You should go,” he mutters suddenly, standing too fast. “Before I do something I won’t come back from.”

“Like what?”

He looks down at you.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — he looks scared.

“Like fall in love with you.”

_________

It starts with silence.

You don’t see him for two days.

Not in the hallway. Not in class. Not even during free period when he usually appears behind you like a bad idea dressed in perfect skin.

Just—nothing.

At first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

You can finally think straight. Finally read without blushing. Finally open your locker without wondering if something’s missing — or added. You tell yourself it’s better this way. Clean. Quiet.

You almost believe it.

Until the third day.

⸻

Thursday. Late afternoon.

You’re walking down the old north stairwell — the one behind the drama wing, tucked between forgotten bulletin boards and scratched-up banisters. You only ever use it when you want to avoid crowds. It’s usually silent. Deserted.

Today, it isn’t.

Because at the bottom of the landing — leaning against the railing like he’s been waiting for hours — is Sunghoon.

He doesn’t look smug.

He looks like he hasn’t slept.

Hair a mess. Tie loose. One hand in his pocket, the other gripping the stair rail like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this hallway.

Your stomach flips.

You slow down. Carefully. Eyes locked on his.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you say, trying to keep your voice level.

His jaw clenches. “I had to.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

You descend the last few steps — slow, cautious. The moment you reach the bottom, he straightens up.

And then — very quietly — he says:

“You wore those socks again.”

Your breath catches.

He takes a step toward you. Then another.

You don’t move. Can’t.

“They drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs.

Your back hits the wall. He’s close now. Not touching you, but there — his heat pressing into your space, eyes low and dark and dangerous in a way that isn’t scary, but devastating.

“I asked myself why you’d wear them again,” he says, tilting his head. “If you meant to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you?” His voice drops to a whisper. “Didn’t you want me to lose control a little?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He leans in.

“You think I don’t notice every little thing about you? The way your thighs squeeze when I sit too close. The way you flinch when I say something dirty but never really tell me to stop.”

Your legs tremble.

“I don’t mean to—”

“Yes, you do.” His voice is low and raw. “And that’s what kills me. Because I want to ruin you so badly it hurts. But I know you’re not ready.”

His fingers lift. Hover. They don’t touch you. Just trace the air beside your cheek like he’s memorizing your shape.

“But you will be,” he whispers. “Soon.”

You shiver.

“You want to know what I did when you left the library the other day?”

Your eyes dart up to his.

He smiles — soft, broken, almost bitter.

“I went home and lost my mind.”

You swallow.

“I kept thinking about how your skirt slid up when you sat down. How the top of your sock curled right above your thigh like a fucking invitation.”

He’s breathing heavier now, close enough that your lashes flutter with each exhale.

“I locked my door,” he says. “Tore my belt open. And I came so hard thinking about the way you looked at me when I said I was in love with you.”

You gasp.

He grins — slow, dangerous.

“You thought I was lying?”

You can’t speak.

“You think this is just lust?” He laughs — dark and quiet. “No, baby. Lust would’ve faded. Lust wouldn’t make me go insane when another guy so much as looks at you.”

Your knees nearly give out.

“Sunghoon…”

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he breathes. “Trying to be patient. But every time I see you like this — pretty little skirt, those shy eyes, lips glossy like you want me to kiss you — I lose it a little more.”

His hand lifts again — and this time, he does touch you.

Just a finger under your chin.

He tilts your face up. Your pulse skitters.

“I’ve been waiting for the moment you ask me to stop.”

You don’t.

You just look up at him, trembling.

And he smiles like a man who’s finally found something holy.

“I knew it,” he whispers.

_________

You don’t go to class after that.

You sit in the old stairwell for ten full minutes after he leaves — heart in your throat, knees shaking, hand pressed against your chest like you can stop the echo of his voice still ringing in your bones.

“I came so hard thinking about the way you looked at me…”

“You think this is just lust?”

“I’ve been trying to be good.”

You can’t breathe.

Not because you’re scared — but because every single thing he said was real. And it’s the realness that messes you up.

You thought he just liked teasing. That maybe he thought you were hot in a condescending, look-at-the-nerd-with-nice-legs kind of way. But this? This was deeper. Unfiltered. Borderline feral.

And underneath all that hunger…

You saw something else.

Worship.

⸻

The next day

You sit at your desk in homeroom, trying to focus on your notes.

You fail.

Mostly because Sunghoon hasn’t looked at you once. Not even when he walked in. Not even when your pen fell to the floor and you reached down to grab it, thigh-highs on display like a death sentence.

He’s silent. Still.

Too still.

You glance over.

He’s doodling on his paper — eyes dark, jaw clenched, hair falling into his lashes. You almost think he doesn’t care anymore. Until he shifts just slightly and you see it.

His hands.

Fists.

Trembling.

He’s not calm. He’s trying to stay calm.

You bite your lip.

And then you do something that surprises even you.

You write something on your sticky note.

Just a few words. Neat handwriting. One line.

“What would you do if I said I don’t want you to be good anymore?”

You slide it across the desk.

He reads it.

Still doesn’t look at you.

But his chest moves — sharp and sudden, like someone just punched the air out of him.

You wait.

One beat. Two.

Then he writes something back and slides it to you.

“I’d ask if you meant it.”

You stare at the words.

Then — heart pounding — you scribble your reply:

“I don’t write things I don’t mean.”

When he reads that, he closes his eyes.

Like he’s praying.

Or begging himself not to get up and ruin you in the middle of class.

⸻

Later that day—

You’re in the hallway after seventh period when it happens.

You’re walking to your locker. Yunjin and Sunoo are behind you, bickering over something dumb — whether Sana from class C has extensions or not — when a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you behind the science building.

You gasp.

“Sunghoon?!”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just cages you against the wall, breath shaky, hands gripping the bricks beside your head.

“You really meant it?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I meant it.”

“Say you want me.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

“I want you.”

He exhales — like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

“You have no idea what that does to me,” he whispers.

“Then tell me.”

He blinks.

You tilt your head. “You act like I’m the only one losing my mind. But you’re the one jerking off to the way I looked at you. You’re the one memorizing my skirts. You’re the one quoting my fake smut like it’s a Bible.”

He lets out a short laugh — half turned on, half stunned.

You step closer.

Braver now. Still nervous, still innocent, but not fragile.

“I’m not as clueless as you think,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know you liked me that much.”

He stares at you. Really stares.

And then he says it.

The one thing that makes your entire body flush with heat and something dangerously close to affection.

“I’ve liked you since the day you corrected the teacher and didn’t even realize you were being a show-off.”

Your lips part.

Sunghoon leans in.

“Since the day you wore that tight black sweater and glared at me for calling you ’Professor Tits.’”

You choke.

“And every day since,” he breathes. “Even the days I hated myself for it.”

Silence.

You meet his eyes.

There’s a weight to them now. Not just lust. Not just teasing.

Longing.

You don’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But you step close enough that your chest brushes his — that he feels the way you tremble.

“Then stop hating yourself,” you say quietly.

“Because I’m starting to think I’ve liked you this whole time too.”

_______

It’s past sunset when it happens.

The campus library is nearly empty — just the buzz of overhead lights and the soft click of a librarian’s keyboard echoing in the silence. You sit alone in your usual corner, tucked beneath the frosted glass window, your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your book.

You’re not reading it.

You haven’t turned a page in the last ten minutes.

Your heart’s too loud.

Because you know he’s coming.

You texted him two words: “Come here.”

And he answered with only one: “Okay.”

You didn’t know what would happen. You didn’t plan it. But now you’re sitting in the spot where he first called you “Professor,” wearing that same gloss on your lips and a soft black cardigan that buttons at the top and opens just enough at the bottom to tease the shape of your skirt.

You hear the footsteps before you see him.

Sharp. Measured. Deliberate.

And then Sunghoon rounds the corner — all long legs and loose sleeves and unreadable eyes. His hair is still messy. His tie is gone. His mouth is set in a line that betrays none of the fire you saw in him before.

He stops in front of your table.

Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak.

You stare up at him.

The silence feels like it stretches forever.

Then you ask, barely a whisper:

“…Are you going to kiss me?”

His jaw ticks.

“I shouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just walks around the table. Slowly. Carefully. Like a hunter circling prey he doesn’t want to startle.

You turn in your chair to face him.

Your knees touch his thighs.

Your breath trembles.

Sunghoon lowers to his knees in front of you — not teasing, not dramatic. Just soft. Grounded. Like he’s doing something sacred.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

His fingers come up — tentative — and hover near your cheek, barely brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You lean into it.

That’s all he needs.

He leans in slowly, one hand still cradling your jaw, the other braced on your thigh like an anchor.

And when he kisses you — finally, finally — it’s nothing like what you expected.

It’s not wild. Not fast. Not filthy.

It’s gentle.

His lips press to yours like a secret. Like a question. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he kisses too hard.

You melt.

Your hands curl into his sleeves, your mouth parting instinctively. He doesn’t take advantage. He just stays there — lips soft, breath warm, fingers trembling slightly against your jaw like he can’t believe he’s allowed to do this.

He pulls back. Just enough to speak.

His voice breaks.

“…Been dreaming of that.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper.

He lets out a breathless laugh. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“Baby, if I touch you the way I want to—”

You lean in.

“Then touch me.”

He exhales — like he’s been waiting for that.

________

His breath is already hot against your cheek when you whisper it—

“Then touch me.”

It breaks him.

Sunghoon’s hand trembles where it rests on your thigh, fingers flexing like he’s fighting the urge to grab, to grip, to mark. His other hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. You’re still sitting in the library chair, but he’s on his knees between your legs now, eye-level with your mouth, and something about the position—him below you, both of you breathless—makes your stomach twist.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispers.

“I do.”

His eyes search yours.

Still waiting for you to back out. Still waiting for this to be a dream.

And then you part your lips, slowly, dragging your tongue over your gloss and whisper:

“Touch me like you dream about it.”

His head drops—chin to chest, exhale rough and ragged, like he’s been holding it in for months. You feel his breath on your thigh and shiver.

When he looks up again, his eyes are gone—glassy, dark, the pupils blown wide with something between reverence and hunger.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

And then he’s kissing you again—harder now, no more hesitation.

His mouth devours yours, warm and slick and open, tongue stroking past your lips in a desperate, wet slide. His hand tightens on your thigh—really grabs now, fingers spreading wide, pulling your leg apart so he can fit closer between them.

You gasp into his mouth.

That sound—your sharp, high breath—makes him groan, low and filthy in the back of his throat like he’s starving.

“Keep making that noise,” he pants against your lips. “I swear to God—”

He kisses you again—sloppier this time, breath hotter, grip firmer.

Your fingers are buried in his hair now, tugging. He moans into your mouth when you do—moans, like it does something to him, like he likes it messy, likes being grabbed, needed.

“You’re so soft,” he breathes, kissing down your cheek, your jaw. “So fucking soft, baby. I can’t think when I’m near you.”

You whimper when he kisses under your ear, and his hand immediately slides up your thigh in response, like a reward.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Say it again. Let me hear you.”

You try to muffle the sound. He doesn’t let you.

His hand grabs your chin, not rough, but firm—tilting your face so you’re looking right into his eyes.

“I want to hear what I do to you,” he whispers.

You’re panting now, chest rising and falling fast. He can see it—the way your cardigan pulls at the buttons with every breath, how your thighs twitch under his grip. He watches you fall apart like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Then he leans in—presses a kiss just above your collarbone, lips lingering there, breathing you in.

“You smell like fucking vanilla and library pages,” he groans.

You laugh breathlessly. “That’s not a real—”

“Yes it is.” He kisses you again. “It’s you. It’s driving me insane.”

His hand slides higher—over your skirt, thumb dragging across the top of your thigh-high sock. He’s still on his knees. Still between your legs. Still gripping the edge of your chair like if he lets go, he’ll do something unholy.

“Can I?” he asks. “Can I touch you here?”

You nod—shaky, unsure—but your hips shift forward on their own, and his jaw drops.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, voice breaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He palms your thigh slowly, dragging his hand up until it brushes under the hem of your skirt, and he moans—visibly, eyes fluttering shut like your skin hurts to touch.

“You’re so warm,” he pants. “So fucking warm and perfect—how are you real?”

You gasp when he mouths at your neck again, lips dragging down until he finds your pulse—and sucks. Not hard enough to mark. Not yet. But the intent is there.

You clench around nothing.

He pulls back, breathing hard now.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

His eyes find yours again—glassy, red at the corners, pupils massive, breath completely gone.

“I’ve never wanted anything like I want you,” he admits. “Not once. Not ever.”

_________

You’re not sure who breathes louder—him or you.

But your thighs are trembling.

And his hands haven’t even done what they’re desperate to do yet.

Still kneeling, Sunghoon stares up at you like he’s praying to something. His hair’s falling into his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and damp from how hard he kissed you. And then there’s his eyes—those glazed-over, black-hole pupils swallowing the soft brown whole.

“I need to see you,” he whispers. “Right fucking now.”

Your breath skips. “What—what do you—”

His hands slide under your skirt.

No warning this time. No hesitation.

And when his fingers meet the soft cotton of your panties, he groans. Loudly.

“Fuck, baby—”

You arch.

He hasn’t even touched you properly yet. Just his palm over your underwear. But he feels everything—the heat, the softness, the way you twitch under him.

He leans forward and moans into your thigh.

“You’re so wet, and I’ve barely even done anything. You’re shaking for me already?” His voice cracks, trembling at the edge of his restraint. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You gasp when he presses his whole hand against your pussy through the fabric—fingers spread, applying pressure like he wants to memorize the shape of you.

His eyes roll back slightly. He bites his lip.

“Ohhh, my God—” he growls. “I’ve thought about this. Every. Fucking. Night.”

You can barely breathe. Your head tips back against the chair, legs falling wider apart without you realizing, and he notices.

“Oh my fucking god, baby,” he groans, voice desperate. “You’re opening up for me.”

You try to speak—say something smart, something sexy—but then his thumb rubs you in a slow, firm circle over your panties and you gasp, loud and sharp, legs jerking.

“There she is,” he pants. “That’s my girl.”

You whimper.

His hand flexes—his other one gripping your thigh, thumb dragging over the skin where your sock ends like he’s about to lose it over the lace trim alone.

“I’m not gonna finger you yet,” he mutters. “Not here. Not until I can take my time. You deserve more than two fingers in a library.”

You moan softly.

“But I’m gonna get you close, baby. I’m gonna make you fucking drip for me.”

He presses harder.

You’re soaking through your panties now—you know it, because you feel it, and from the way his jaw drops when he cups you again?

He feels it too.

“Jesus fuck,” he whispers. “You’re soaked. Fuck, fuck—you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You’re writhing now.

Tiny, helpless gasps leave your mouth with every motion—your eyes fluttering, your head rolling slightly to the side, hands gripping the armrests of the chair like they’re the only things keeping you from floating away.

And then he leans up.

Still between your legs. Still palming your pussy with one hand. But now he brings his mouth to your ear and whispers:

“Do you want me to grind on you, baby? You want me to fuck against your pretty little panties like a pathetic virgin?”

You moan—sharp, high, helpless.

And that destroys him.

He practically growls. “Yeah? That get you off? You want to feel how fucking hard I am just from watching you squirm?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—please—Sunghoon—”

He stands.

His hands go to his belt.

You watch—frozen—as he undoes it fast, the click of metal loud and vulgar in the quiet library. Then he’s shoving his pants down just enough, groaning softly when the pressure eases, and—

Fuck.

He’s huge.

Thick. Red at the tip. Leaking.

You choke.

He strokes himself once—twice—then looks at you like he’s about to eat you alive.

“Pull your panties to the side.”

Your hands shake.

“Let me see you,” he adds, quieter. “Just a little. Please.”

And the “please” wrecks you.

You do it.

Panties tugged gently aside, your thighs trembling, your whole body flushed and aching. You can’t look him in the eye.

But he can’t look anywhere else.

“Oh, my fucking god.”

He strokes himself slowly, lining up with your folds—not pushing in, just grinding against you, head dragging up your slit as he holds your hips steady with both hands.

You cry out.

He moans—deep and raw—like the sound of you is something holy.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s what you do to me. You made me this hard. You’re gonna make me come just from fucking against your soaked little cunt.”

You grip the chair tighter, eyes wide, mouth open—because he’s grinding now, slow and filthy, his cock sliding up and down your folds, teasing your clit every pass, his head catching just slightly on your entrance each time he rocks forward.

You’re not even being fucked.

But it feels like it.

Every time his tip drags up your clit, you shake. Your moans are getting louder—higher—your body twitching beneath him.

“You gonna come like this?” he growls. “You gonna come just from me humping your little pussy like a fucking pervert?”

You nod desperately.

And then he moans, forehead pressed to yours, sweat building on his temples.

“I’m gonna make you come, baby,” he pants. “And then I’m gonna ruin you for real.”

_________

Sunghoon’s hips are grinding into you now—slow, desperate thrusts that drag the thick head of his cock up and down your soaked folds, catching on your clit with every pass. The friction is filthy—wet and hot and perfect, the head of his cock gliding against your slickness like he was meant to be there.

And the sounds he makes?

Devastating.

Every rock of his hips earns a moan—guttural, shattered, like he’s falling apart just from being this close to you.

“You feel that?” he pants against your ear. “You feel how hard I am for you, baby?”

You nod frantically, fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls. “I’m not even inside you and you’re dripping—Jesus, you’re making a mess.”

You are.

The fabric of your panties is soaked, your thighs sticky, your whole body trembling like you’re about to break.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m gonna come just from rubbing against you—oh my god, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and erratic.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop—”

His thrusts get faster, more frantic.

Each grind rubs right over your clit, dragging the swollen head of his cock across the sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right amount of pressure. You’re whining now—sharp, high sounds that make his rhythm stutter.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me hear you. Let me fucking hear you—”

You moan louder.

And his whole body jerks.

“Oh my god, I’m so fucking close—”

You are too.

Your hips twitch against his, meeting each thrust, chasing the friction that’s making your stomach coil tighter and tighter.

“Come for me,” he gasps. “Come on my cock, baby. Please—please, I need to feel it.”

You cry out.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—sharp, blinding, a full-body tremble that makes your legs lock around his waist, your back arch, your nails dig into his skin.

“Ohhh fuck—baby—yes, that’s it—fuck, fuck—”

He loses it.

His hips jerk once, twice—and then he moans, loudly, voice wrecked as he comes. Hard. The hot, wet pulse of it spilling against your soaked folds as he ruts through it like he can’t stand to stop.

His whole body shakes.

His mouth is open, eyes squeezed shut, breath shattered as he gasps through it.

“Holy fuck,” he moans. “You just made me come so fucking hard—fuck, baby—”

You hold him.

And he doesn’t pull away.

⸻

The Aftermath

You’re both still trembling.

His head is buried in your neck, his breath sticky against your skin, his hands gripping the back of your chair like if he lets go, he’ll fall to pieces. Your skirt is hiked up. His pants are open. You’re sticky. Sweaty. Spent.

And neither of you moves.

For a long, breathless moment, it’s just… quiet.

Then, slowly, Sunghoon exhales.

He lifts his head.

And when he looks at you?

His eyes are glassy.

Not just from pleasure. Not just from lust. But something else—something softer. Something terrifyingly tender.

He reaches up and brushes your hair from your face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, breath catching.

He leans in—kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I’ve never,” he murmurs, “ever… felt anything like that.”

You bite your lip.

“I liked it,” you whisper.

He smiles, small and stunned.

Then he bends down and presses his forehead to your chest, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s never letting go.

“You’re mine now,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

You nod.

And you let him hold you.

Because in this moment—sweaty, messy, heart still pounding—you’ve never felt more wanted.

Or more safe.

_____

You don’t know how long you sit there with him.

His arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Your legs still parted over his hips. The library’s overhead lights hum softly above you, casting a pale glow over his messy hair, his swollen mouth, the pink flush still dusting his cheekbones.

And for once—just once—he isn’t teasing. Isn’t cocky. Isn’t even speaking.

He’s holding.

He’s breathing you in.

As if this moment is something sacred.

You card your fingers through his hair, gentle and slow, and he sighs like it’s the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the air.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t let go.

You glance down and realize his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against your chest. And you swear—swear—he looks like a boy who just found peace for the first time.

Eventually, he murmurs into your skin:

“You make me feel like I don’t have to be the asshole anymore.”

Your heart clenches.

You press your lips to his forehead and whisper:

“You never were. You were just scared.”

He laughs softly. Choked. Like that truth finally freed him.

And you know, in that moment, whatever comes next—he’s yours.

And you’re his.

Not just in lust.

But in everything.

____________

i love me some pathetic YEARNING men 🙏🙏

THANK YOU FOR READING LUVS <3

© si3rren 2025. all rights reserved.

[thesundys]

just cried, screamed, and cheered all at once

#heesmilesily #imquakingthiswassogood

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[thesundys]

this was so good i’m dead

━━━FALLEN ANGEL 18+

Gang Member!Nishimura Riki x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: mean!niki, soft dom!niki, innocent!reader, gang violence, angst, stabbing, blood, reader is a crybaby, one sided enemies to lovers, needy!reader, unprotected sex, fingering, finger riding, cum eating?, marking, lots of kissing, dry humping, praising, dirty talk, p in v, cowgirl, creampie, fluff

inspired by the anime/manga “tokyo revengers” !!

♡ you were his softest secret in a world full of violence. and even bleeding out, he still only wanted to hold you.

.ᐟwc: 9.1k

You were sixteen the first time Niki made you cry. Not that he saw it. You waited until you got home for that. But his words stuck to your ribs like glass. “You don’t belong with us,” he’d said, eyes sharp beneath bleach-blond bangs. “Stop trying.” He hadn’t even said it loud. Just low enough for you to hear. Just close enough to make sure it hurt. You’d just met them then—Niki, Kota and Haru. Boys who bled and fought often. Boys who were already too dangerous to be that young. The gang they ran with wasn’t some high school joke—it was real. Brawls in alleys. Turf disputes. Knives tucked into jackets. Bruised knuckles and busted ribs like trophies. They were known for throwing hands first and talking later. And they were good at it. Especially Niki. He was fast. Cold. Precise. Never got too worked up, never played dirty—but always walked away the last one standing. Even older guys wouldn’t pick a fight with him unless they were looking to lose teeth. He was always the quiet one. The one who didn’t say much unless it cut. And for some reason, you still couldn’t stay away from him.

The air smells like ramen and cigarette smoke. You’re leaned against the wall of a 7-Eleven, half-listening to Kota and Haru bicker over who should’ve driven tonight. Niki’s here too, off to the side in a black hoodie, dark baggy jeans, Chrome Hearts rings clinking quietly as he messes with his lighter. He hasn’t looked at you once. He never does anymore. Not really. Still, you always end up here. With them. You’re not in the gang, not officially, but they let you hang around. And he never tells you to leave. “You want anything?” Kota calls from the door. You shake your head, sipping from a half-warm ice tea. “I’m good.” you said.“Course she is,” Niki mutters, voice low but sharp, “Wouldn’t want her to actually pay for anything.” You blink. Your grip on the can tightens, and the other two go quiet. You glance at him. He’s still not looking at you, just stands there, calm and careless like he didn’t just humiliate you in front of your friends.

“You’re such a fucking asshole sometimes.” you whisper. He hears that, and finally looks up. “What was that?” he snaps. His eyes are cold. Hard. The kind that don’t let you lie to yourself anymore. “I said you’re an asshole.” You don’t yell it. You don’t scream. But the hurt in your voice betrays you. Niki straightens up, tossing the lighter into his pocket. “Then why the fuck are you still here? You think you matter? You’re just a dumb girl who can’t take a joke. No one asked you to hang around.” The words land heavy. Cruel. You weren’t expecting them to hit that deep. You feel your throat tighten, breath catching before you can stop it. The burn behind your eyes shows up before you can blink it away. You turn and walk. And this time, you cry before you even get around the corner.

The second you’re gone, the silence feels heavier. Even the usual buzz of Tokyo traffic sounds muted in the air between them. Kota kicks at the pavement. Haru lights another cigarette. Nobody says anything for a moment. Niki stays where he is—still, jaw clenched, gaze fixed on the spot where you disappeared. He’s good at acting like nothing touches him. But tonight, he doesn’t move fast enough. “…Bro,” Haru says eventually, “You seriously went too far.” Niki scoffs, trying to brush it off. “She’s too fucking sensitive.” he says. “She cried, man.” He snaps, “She always cries” sharper than before. “That’s her thing. She plays sweet and innocent and everyone’s supposed to feel bad for her.” Kota cuts in, “You think she plays that shit?”, stepping forward now. “She’s been around for years, Niki. She’s seen us come home half-dead and still stuck around. You think that’s for fun?” Niki doesn’t answer.

His hands are shoved deep into his hoodie pockets now, rings cold against his knuckles. His jaw is locked tight, lips pressed into a hard line. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t say you’re just another girl. Because you aren’t. You never fucking were. He remembers the way your voice cracked. Remembers the way you didn’t yell—just… broke. Quiet and honest. It felt different this time. It felt real. And now you’re out there, alone. Not in their part of town. Dangerous streets. Drunk men. Rival crews. People who don’t ask questions before they hurt. “…Shit.” He pushes off the wall, already walking. “Where you going?” Kota calls after him. He doesn’t answer, just pulls his hood up and disappears into the night.

You didn’t go far. He finds you a few blocks down, sitting on a low concrete barrier near an old vending machine. The neon glow hums beside you, too bright for how you feel. Your head’s down, arms wrapped tight around yourself, your drink still in your hand, barely touched. You don’t hear him right away. But he’s there, a few feet away, watching. “You done sulking?” he says, voice low. You flinch. You don’t look up. Typical. Cold. Detached. Like nothing he said back there meant shit. Like you didn’t cry over him—for him. He exhales through his nose, then shifts his weight like he’s uncomfortable standing still. “Didn’t mean to piss you off that bad.” It’s not an apology, not really, but for Niki—it’s something. It’s more than you’ve ever gotten before. You stay quiet, lips pressed together, eyes locked on the pavement. “…Come on,” he mutters.

“I’ll drive you home.” You finally glance up. He’s not looking at you. Just standing there in his hoodie, earrings catching the light as he fidgets with his lighter again. “Why do you care?” you ask, voice hoarse from holding back tears. That makes him freeze. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, then, quietly, “Don’t.” Just that. Just one word. Like if he says more, he’ll give himself away.“…Get on the bike before someone else finds you out here.” You stare at him for another second. You could say no. You should say no. But you don’t. And the way his voice sounded, just a little softer, a little unsure, it makes your chest twist. You stand up and walk past him without a word. He falls into step behind you.

The ride is silent. You sit behind him on the bike, arms wrapped around his waist, the heat of his body cutting through the wind that rushes past. Tokyo blurs around you, neon lights, empty streets, the occasional honk of a taxi, but you don’t say anything. Neither does he. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. You don’t ask why he came after you. You just hold on, and he lets you. When he pulls up outside your building, he kills the engine but doesn’t move right away. His hands stay on the handlebars, head tilted down like he’s thinking, like he wants to say something. But whatever it is, he swallows it. You swing your leg off the bike, your feet hitting the pavement softly. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice low. He nods once, almost like a reflex. Then he’s gone—engine growling back to life, black hoodie catching the wind as he disappears down the street without another word. You watch him until the sound fades. Then you turn and head inside.

The three of them are outside the konbini again—same corner, same neon lights humming in the humid Tokyo air. You spot them as you round the corner, your phone clutched in one hand, your other hand adjusting the soft curls falling over your shoulders. Your dress clings to your frame just right—pretty, delicate, way too innocent for this part of town. Kota looks up first and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You look good tonight.” Haru grins beside him, nudging your arm as you approach. “You gonna break hearts tonight?” You smile shyly. “Shut up.” They laugh, but Niki—leaned against the wall in his usual black hoodie and silver jewellery—lifts his head slowly. Eyes narrowing just slightly. “For what?” You pause. Kota throws him a look. “Bro. She’s got a date tonight. You didn’t know?”

Niki’s gaze flickers to you again, this time longer, sharper. You can’t read him. “Tch. Hope he likes fake bitches.” The words hit harder than they should. You blink. Your smile fades. Kota stiffens. “The fuck, man? She looks good. Say something nice for once.” But Niki doesn’t say anything else. Just flicks open his lighter, jaw tight, like he’d rather set the whole street on fire than admit he cares. You try not to let it show. Try not to look at him again. “I’ll see you guys later,” you mumble. They both nod. “Text us when you get home safe, yeah?” You nod back, and walk off. You don’t see the way Niki watches you disappear down the street. But the boys do.

You’re five minutes early when you get to the meeting spot—an empty side street near the arcade, lit only by a single flickering streetlight. The guy said to meet him here, but it already feels wrong. And then, before you can react, you’re shoved hard against the wall. “Took you long enough,” a voice sneers in your ear. You turn, heart leaping into your throat. It’s him. But he’s not alone. Four others step out from behind the dumpster and across the street, all wearing the same jacket patch—the symbol of a rival gang you’ve heard Haru mention before. They don’t look friendly. “She’s pretty,” one of them laughs. “Too pretty to be that dumb.” “You thought he actually wanted to date you?” Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

One of them grabs your chin roughly, tilting your face up. “Pathetic. You think hanging around them makes you untouchable?” You flinch. And then a hand strikes your face—sharp, loud, your head snapping to the side. Tears blur your vision immediately. You choke on a breath. “A little crybaby, huh? Bet you act all high and mighty around them, but one slap and you’re falling apart.” You shake your head, trembling. “Please, I—” Another one grabs your wrist. They’re surrounding you now. You’re not strong enough. You’re not fast enough. But then, someone yells. “Get your fucking hands off her.” The voice hits like a bullet. You barely turn your head before everything explodes. Niki’s fist connects with the closest guy’s jaw so fast you don’t even see it wind up. The guy drops, knocked cold before he hits the ground. Kota’s already grabbed the one holding your wrist and slams him into the brick wall. Haru drives his knee into someone’s ribs, the crack audible. Niki’s on fire—pure rage, silent and deadly. He doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t need to. Every hit is precise, brutal, merciless. He moves like he’s been waiting for an excuse to do this. Like hurting you was the one thing they never should’ve done. In less than a minute, all five are down. Breathing, but barely.

Your back is still to the wall, your legs too shaky to move. Your eyes sting from crying, your cheek throbs from the slap, and your hands tremble even as you try to hide it.Niki turns on you. “What the fuck were you thinking?” You flinch. He steps closer, shoulders tense, breathing hard, voice sharp. “You went on a date with him? With that guy? He’s our enemy, are you fucking stupid?” he yells. “Niki—” Kota starts, but Niki cuts him off. “You could’ve gotten kidnapped. Or worse. And for what? You wanted to play dress-up and feel special?”Your throat tightens. You shake your head. “I didn’t know—” He grabs your arm. “You never know,” he spits. “You just do whatever you want and expect us to clean it up after. You always cause trouble—” “Niki!” Haru snaps. “Stop.” But he doesn’t. His grip tightens on your arm, fingers digging into your skin, he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s holding you.

“You think this is a fucking game? You could’ve died tonight—” “Let go,” you say, voice cracking. He doesn’t. “Niki, you’re hurting me.” That stops him.His eyes widen slightly, his grip loosens instantly—but not before you both notice the way your skin’s already turning red under his fingers. A bruise, forming fast. He pulls his hand back like it burned him. Stares at it. Then at you. And for the first time tonight, he looks shaken. “Shit.” He steps back, jaw clenched, turning away like he can’t look at you anymore. Kota steps between you, checking your arm gently, his voice low. “You alright?”You nod, even though you’re not. Haru glares at Niki. “What the hell is wrong with you?” But Niki doesn’t answer. He just stands there, fists balled at his sides, breathing hard, like he wants to scream or punch a wall or run. And you don’t know what hurts more, the bruise on your arm or the one he left in your chest.

You don’t show up for three days. No konbini hangouts. No rooftop meetups. No texts. Not even the occasional check-in that used to be your excuse to be near Niki. You needed space. After that night—his grip bruising your arm, the way he yelled at you like it was your fault—you just couldn’t be near him, not yet. Not until the sting faded from your chest. You ignore the texts from Kota.

yo you good? haven’t seen you in a while.

u mad at us or just him lol.

You answer the next day.

i’m ok just busy

It’s a lie. But it’s better that way.

Meanwhile, he notices. Niki doesn’t say anything to the others. But the second day you’re gone, he’s not himself. More silent than usual, more pissed off in fights, more reckless with his hits, like he’s looking to get hurt on purpose. He asks once, when Kota lights a cig, “She stop coming around or something?” Kota shrugs. “Guess she’s just laying low.” Niki doesn’t respond. But that night, when he gets home with blood dried on his knuckles, he scrolls through his contacts with his jaw clenched. He doesn’t message you. Just looks at your name and locks his phone. A few days later, you run into Haru. You see him outside a small café, squatting on the curb and sipping on a can of pepsi. His eyes widen when he sees you walking past. “Yo. Look who decided to come out.” You laugh quietly. “I’m not hiding.” “You kinda are.” You sit beside him on the curb. The street’s calm here—no tension, no fights, no Niki. Haru eyes you sideways. “He’s been acting weird, y’know.”You glance down at your hands. “He’s always weird.” you say. “Nah. Not like that.” He shifts, lowers his voice. “He’s been picking fights like crazy.” Your chest tightens. You want to say it’s not your fault, but part of you knows it is. “…I needed space,” you murmur. Haru doesn’t push. Just nods and finishes his pepsi. “You still part of this, though, right?” You pause. Then nod once. “Yeah.” That night, your phone buzzes. A text from Niki. “u done being dramatic or what” You stare at the message for a long time, but you don’t answer. You go to sleep instead.

It’s Haru who convinces you. He texts you that afternoon, casual but insistent.

come out tonight. we’ll be at the rooftop.

niki probably won’t even be there, tbh.

You know it’s a lie, but you show up anyway. It’s not because of Niki. It’s because Haru and Kota still feel like home. The rooftop is quiet when you get there—soft wind, the smell of sea air drifting in from the water. The boys are already lounging on the cracked concrete, passing around a half-empty bottle of beer and laughing about something stupid. You climb over the railing and land softly, brushing your skirt down. Kota sees you first. “Ayy, look who showed.”“Bout time,” Haru adds, already scooting over to make room. You smile a little, “Miss me that much?” you say. “Nah,” Haru grins. “We just needed someone to bring snacks.” You drop a small bag of chips and drinks in front of them. The boys cheer, and then you hear it. Footsteps behind you. Your heart sinks. You don’t even have to turn around, you already know. Niki’s here. He walks past you without a word, dropping down beside Kota like it’s nothing. Designer jeans, Chrome Hearts rings gleaming on his fingers as he lights a cigarette, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him. But the tension wraps around your neck like a wire.

You sit a little farther away than usual. Not close enough to be part of the group, not far enough to be unseen. Haru keeps talking, telling a story about some dumb fight Niki and Kota got into the other night—something about a baseball bat and a broken vending machine. You nod along, laugh when you’re supposed to, but your body is tight. You can feel Niki’s presence like heat on your skin. Every shift of his leg, every flick of his lighter. He still hasn’t said a word. Eventually, Kota offers you a drink. You shake your head. “I should head out soon.” Kota frowns. “You just got here.” he says. “I’ve got stuff to do.” You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. That’s when Niki finally speaks. His voice is low, sharp. “You really gonna act like I’m the only one who fucked up?” Your breath catches, the rooftop falls silent. Haru mutters under his breath, “Bro…” You turn slowly to face him. He’s leaning back against the wall, cigarette between his lips, one brow raised like he’s waiting, daring you to say something. You step closer, just enough for him to see your face clearly. “I never laid hands on you.” He freezes. The cigarette burns down between his fingers. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. Kota and Haru exchange a glance, quiet and awkward. You shake your head, heart pounding, and step back toward the railing. “Don’t worry, Niki. I won’t cause you any more trouble.” You climb down from the rooftop without another word. That night, he doesn’t text you, but he doesn’t sleep either.

It starts raining right as you turn the corner toward the train station. It’s a cold, heavy rain that soaks straight through your clothes in seconds. You don’t have an umbrella, you didn’t check the forecast. And now, water clings to your lashes, your shoes are slipping on the pavement, and your bag is starting to leak through. You keep walking anyway. You’ve already been avoiding Niki for days, and this walk home—this soaking, miserable walk—is still better than being close to him right now. But of course. The low purr of an engine hums from behind you. You don’t turn around, you don’t have to. You know that sound by now—his stupid expensive motorcycle cutting through the street like it owns the night. The engine slows and he matches your pace, trailing you. Still, you don’t look at him. You grip your bag tighter, fingers trembling, rain dripping off your chin. “Get on.” His voice is calm, but the growl in it is unmistakable. You bite the inside of your cheek and keep walking.

He lets out a small breath—like he’s tired of you already. “I said get on.” he repeats, a little louder. You turn finally, arms crossed, soaked to the skin. “I’m fine.” He glances at your wet hair, your shivering shoulders, the way your lips are already starting to turn pale. “You’re not,” he mutters. “I don’t need your help.” He kicks his foot down on the kickstand and climbs off the bike, standing in front of it now. Water drips off his Denim Tears hoodie, silver jewelry gleaming like it’s untouched by the storm. He takes off the hoodie without a word and holds it out to you. A plain white t-shirt underneath. You don’t move. You just stare at it. He doesn’t drop his arm, still waiting, still offering it—stupidly, stubbornly—like this one act of kindness could erase all the times he made you cry. “You’re gonna get sick,” he mumbles. You don’t answer, but your fingers twitch, and finally, you reach out and take the hoodie. It’s warm, soft on the inside. Smells like something expensive and a little like smoke. And him. He gets back on the bike without saying anything else.

The rain’s still pouring as you climb on behind him. It takes you a second, like your body forgot what it feels like to be this close to him again. You hesitate, then rest your hands lightly on his sides, just enough to stay on. The moment your fingers touch him, you feel it. The tension. He doesn’t speak until the bike starts moving. The ride is short, but it feels so long. You feel his body in front of you—solid, warm even in the cold, rain sliding off his helmet and hitting your cheeks. The wind presses your chest against his back, but your hands never move from his sides. You wish you weren’t so aware of him. But you are. You always are. When he finally stops near your building, he doesn’t get off the bike right away. He sits there for a second, hands tightening on the handles. You sit there too, silent, heart pounding. Then, so quiet you almost miss it, “Why do you always look at me like that…even after everything?” Your breath catches. You blink, raindrops slipping into your lashes. “…What?” He still doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead.

“Like I’m not the one who hurt you.” His voice is low, tired. Not mean, just real. Maybe more real than you’ve ever heard it. “Like I’m not the reason you cried last week. Like I didn’t leave bruises on your arm. Like I didn’t scare the hell out of you.” You open your mouth, but no words come out. He finally turns his head and looks at you over his shoulder. “Why do you still look at me like you love me?” That breaks you. Your throat tightens, your lips tremble, and you hate him—you hate him for saying it, for noticing, for pretending like he’s the victim in all this. You don’t answer. Instead, you slide off the bike. You take off his hoodie and toss it into his lap without looking at him. “Thanks for the ride.” you murmur. He watches you go, doesn’t stop you. He just sits there in the rain, dripping wet, clutching his hoodie like it’s the only proof you were ever there.

You didn’t know about the fight. They made sure of that—Haru, Kota, even Niki. Nobody said a word. You would’ve begged them not to go. You would’ve shown up and gotten hurt. And that was the last thing they wanted. But war doesn’t wait for anyone. It happens fast—midnight, in the middle of an abandoned lot on the edge of Tokyo. Concrete and metal. Shadows and fists. One hundred against one hundred. No rules. No mercy. No room to breathe. The rival gang brought brass knuckles, knives, steel rods. But Niki—he had something personal. He finds him in the chaos, the one who laid hands on you. And everything in him snaps. “You think you can touch her?”Niki grabs him by the collar, slamming him into the ground so hard his head bounces off the dirt. “You think you can fucking touch her and walk away?” The guy spits blood, tries to crawl back, but Niki shoves him down with his foot to the chest.

“If you even look at her again, I’ll cut your fucking dick off and feed it to you.” He’s seething. Blind. And that’s when it happens. Behind him, another guy, face half-covered, something glinting in his hand. Haru sees it. Too far. Kota turns. Too late. The blade sinks deep under Niki’s ribs. His breath punches out of him. He stumbles back, hands instantly red, drops to his knees, then the ground. “Niki!” Haru and Kota tear through the swarm, fists flying, feet kicking, rage spilling out of their throats. They get to him, one on each side, grabbing his arms and pulling him away. “Fuck—fuck—fuck, stay awake, bro—” Haru’s voice is shaking as he drags him behind a crumbling wall. Kota presses both hands hard on the bleeding wound. “Call an ambulance.” Haru says.“No.” Niki’s voice is weak. “No cops. No hospital.” Kota hesitates. Then, he calls you. You almost don’t pick up since It’s late and you’re still pissed from earlier. But when you see Kota’s name flash on your screen, something clenches in your stomach. “Hello?” His voice is strained. “Don’t panic. Just listen. There was a fight. A big one. Niki—he got stabbed.” The words barely register.“What?” you say. “It’s bad,” he responds. “He’s alive, but—fuck, I didn’t know who else to call.” The phone drops from your hand.

Your legs move before your brain catches up. You’re out the door, running as fast as you can. You find them behind a rusted shipping container on the edge of the lot. The fight still rages somewhere nearby—screams, grunts, fists on flesh. But all you see is him. Niki. On the ground. Pale, breathing shallow, blood soaking the hem of his shirt, pooling in his hands. “Oh my god—Niki—” You drop to your knees beside him, already tugging open your bag for the bandages you brought on instinct. Your fingers are shaking too much to tear open the antiseptic. “You shouldn’t be here.” he rasps. You ignore him. You press a cloth to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but your hands are slippery. You’re crying so hard you can’t see straight. “I thought—I thought I was gonna lose you.” you choke. Kota puts a hand on your shoulder. “We’ll go. You stay with him. If he gets worse—”“He won’t.” Your voice cracks, but you say it again, louder. “He won’t. Go. Fight. Win. Just—go.” They nod and disappear into the smoke and screams. And then it’s just you and Niki, and your hands on his chest, and the weight of every second you never told him how much he meant to you. You clean the wound. You press a bandage to his skin.“You stupid asshole,” you whisper. “You always do this. You always make me care too much.” He tries to speak, but stop him.“Don’t say anything. Just stay awake. Please.”

The blood won’t stop. Not completely. You’ve pressed down with everything—cloth, bandage, your shaking hands—but it still seeps through in slow, angry pulses. And Niki’s skin is cold now. Too cold. “Stay awake,” you whisper again, voice cracked and hoarse. “Please—please, don’t do this to me.” You’re bent over him, forehead nearly touching his chest, your hands clenched into his bloodstained shirt like you can hold his soul in place if you just try hard enough. And then he coughs. His body jerks. Your entire chest caves in. “No—no, no—Niki—please—!” You burst into tears. No more holding back. No more trying to be strong. You’re sobbing, fists pounding weakly against him. “Why would you do this?! Why would you go without telling me?! I can’t—I can’t lose you—!” Your voice breaks into silence, shoulders trembling. And then, his hand moves. Calloused fingers rise slowly, wobbling, clumsy, and cup your cheek. Blood smears across your skin. Your breath catches. “Niki…?” His eyes flutter open, barely. He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he can’t believe you’re real. Then—suddenly, without warning—he grips the back of your head and pulls you down. And crashes his mouth onto yours. It’s messy. Desperate. His lips are cracked. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth. But none of it matters because he’s kissing you. He’s fucking kissing you like he’s about to die and needs one last taste of heaven.

You freeze, just for a moment. Then your hands fly to his jaw, holding him, grounding him, pressing back just as hard. You pour everything into the kiss—your love, your anger, your terror. Your tears slide down your cheeks and onto his face, mixing with his own. When he finally pulls away, he leans his forehead against yours. “Why do you always look at me like that…even after everything?” The same question again. His voice is barely a whisper. He sounds wrecked, broken, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. “Because I’m in love with you,” you breathe, your voice trembling. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He closes his eyes. His chest rises, shaky. “Fuck.” He sounds like he’s in pain, but not from the wound. “You’re gonna be okay,” you say quickly, brushing the hair out of his face. “I’m gonna take care of you. Just stay with me, okay? Stay awake.” But he’s already slipping. His grip on your neck loosens. “Niki—hey—don’t you dare—” You shake him gently, panic flooding your veins again. And he opens his eyes one last time. “If I die, I want it to be after kissing you.” Your heart cracks in two.

Haru arrives breathless, skidding to your side with scraped knuckles and blood on his nose. “We have to move him.” he says urgently, glancing at Niki’s still-bleeding side. You nod, wiping your face quickly. Together, you carry him—arms locked under his shoulders and legs, trying not to jostle the wound too much. He groans once in his unconscious haze, but doesn’t wake. Every sound he makes tears through you. You get him into his apartment—dark, silent, untouched. Haru lays him down on the bed, and helps you wrap new bandages around Niki’s waist. “I have to go back,” he mutters, already heading for the door. “We’re not done yet. You—stay with him, alright?” You nod wordlessly, and the door closes behind him. Silence. You’re left in the dim bedroom, lit only by the streetlight bleeding in through the blinds. You sit down on the floor beside the bed, too numb to move. Your arms rest on the edge of the mattress, your forehead pressed against the comforter. The smell of blood clings to everything, your throat burns from crying. You don’t even know how long you sit like that—sniffling, occasionally hiccuping from how hard you sobbed earlier. Could be an hour now. Just listening to the faint sound of Niki breathing. Then—“…Y/n?”His voice is hoarse, soft, barely audible.

Your heart lurches. “Niki—” you gasp, sitting up instantly. His hand shoots out, seizing your wrist with surprising strength. You freeze, staring at him. He’s pale. Sweat clings to his skin. But his eyes are locked on you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. And before you can say a word, he pulls you forward—hard—and you stumble, falling onto the mattress. Right on top of him. Your hands land on either side of his shoulders, and you’re suddenly straddling his lap, eyes wide. “Niki—I’m gonna hurt you—what are you doing—?” But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he sits up just enough to crush his mouth against yours again. This kiss is messier. More desperate. There’s no caution, no pause. His hands curl around your back, dragging you down onto his chest like he needs you closer.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for you his entire life. When he finally pulls away, his forehead stays pressed against yours. “I thought I was gonna die tonight.” You shake your head, eyes shining again. “Don’t say that—”But he cuts you off. “And all I could think about was you.” Your breath catches. His hand cups your cheek. His thumb brushes a tear away. “The way you looked at me back there—like I was worth something. Like you loved me even when I didn’t deserve it.” His gaze burns into yours. You don’t answer right away. You just hold his face in your hands, brushing his hair back as if touching him will somehow ground you both. “I can’t lose you,” you whisper. “You won’t,” he murmurs. “Not ever. I’m yours.” His lips ghost over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. His voice is low. Possessive. But it’s not cruel like the other times. Not careless. It’s the voice of a boy who’s loved you in silence for too long. A boy who almost died without ever telling you.

He kisses you hard—like he’s trying to claim every breath you have left. His hand slides up, fingers curling lightly around your throat, just enough for you to feel him. To know he’s there, even after everything. Your breath catches. His lips part from yours, just barely. And then he says it. “I love you.” Your eyes go wide. You don’t move, don’t speak. You just stare at him, stunned, as your heart slams against your ribs. You’d imagined him saying those words before—maybe, in some perfect version of the future where things weren’t so bloody, so dangerous. Where you weren’t crying in his bed with his blood on your shirt. But never like this. Never with his hand around your throat. Never when you could still feel the echo of his near-death between you. Your lip quivers and your eyes flood with tears again. He watches them fall with a slight smile. “Why are you crying, baby?” he whispers, voice rough. You shake your head, unable to speak. “You didn’t know?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss beneath your eye. “You’ve had me wrapped around your finger since high school.”

He kisses you again, harder this time. Less hesitation. More hunger. His hands slide down your body—fingers gripping your waist, then curving lower until they’re full on your ass, squeezing hard. You gasp against his mouth, and he groans, like he’s been waiting years just to hear that sound. “You’ve always looked at me like I mattered,” he mutters against your lips. “Even when I treated you like shit. Even when I pushed you away.” Another kiss—open-mouthed, searing. “You never stopped looking at me like that.” You barely manage to whisper, breathless, “Because I love you Niki…So much.” That breaks him. He groans low in his throat and kisses you with everything—years of repressed desire, years of silent love, the terror of almost losing you tonight. His hands grip your hips like he’s grounding himself. You feel his body under you—still trembling slightly, still recovering—but it doesn’t stop him from pulling you flush against him, deepening the kiss again and again until it feels like you’re sinking into him.

He sits up more in bed, wincing slightly from the wound, but he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. You’re still straddling him, your thighs clamped around his hips, your hands tangled in his hair as he drags you closer, chest to chest, lips crashing against yours again and again. You try to pull back, panting. “Niki—your wound, I’m gonna hurt you like this—” you whisper. “I don’t fucking care.” he growls, voice wrecked, hand sliding back to your throat as he kisses you like he’s starving. Your gasp gets swallowed in his mouth. He pulls you down harder onto his lap, his grip on your hips tightening as he grinds you slowly against his crotch. You can already feel him—half-hard and growing harder by the second beneath the thin fabric of his sweats. The slow drag of your body on his has him groaning into your mouth, hips twitching upward to meet your movement. His lips break from yours only to trail down to your jaw, then your neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses, wet and messy. He sucks a mark just under your ear, then another lower, his breath shaky and fast.

“Always wanted to do this…” he mutters, biting down lightly on your collarbone. You shiver. His fingers dig into your skin. His mouth reaches the bruise on your arm—the one he gave you earlier when he lost control. He slows down. His lips press gently against the purple bloom on your skin, a soft, almost reverent kiss. You look down at him, startled by the shift, by the sudden tenderness in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against your arm. “For this. For everything.” But before you can answer, his hands move again—back to your hips, dragging you against him with more pressure now. His cock is fully hard beneath you, straining up into your heat through your thin panties and his sweats, and the friction is dizzying. “You feel what you do to me?” he rasps, voice low and filthy, breath hot on your skin. “You’ve been driving me crazy for years.”

He’s rocking your hips on his lap, forcing you to feel every inch of him beneath you—how hard he is, how desperate. “Say you want this,” he whispers against your throat. “Say you want me.” And all you can do is nod, dizzy with how good it feels, how real this is. “I want you, Niki,” you breathe. Then—his lips ghost over your ear, voice deep and raspy. “Good girl,” he whispers. You let out the softest, shuddering whimper. Your panties instantly getting wetter. Your whole body reacts—your spine arching slightly, your thighs squeezing tighter around his hips. He must feel it, how much that did to you, because he slips his hands beneath your shirt. You gasp as his fingers brush over the bare skin of your stomach, rough fingertips dragging slowly up your soft sides. He explores you with a kind of reverence, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin, feeling every inch like he’s memorizing it.

His lips never stop, kissing, biting, breathing you in like he’s addicted. And then, you guide him. You take his wrists gently, and with trembling fingers, you lift his hands and press them to your chest, right over your tits. You swear he stops breathing for a second. “Fuck…” he whispers, voice wrecked. His palms cover you completely, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt. He squeezes lightly, groaning into your mouth when you whimper at the contact. Your body jolts forward, grinding down again, right over the thick bulge straining in his sweats. The pressure on your clit makes your head drop back, eyes fluttering shut. “You have no idea,” he pants, “how long I’ve wanted you like this.” Then his mouth is on yours again—hot, messy, and deep—while his hands slide under your shirt fully, thumbs circling your nipples now, teasing you. “Take this off.” he commands, tugging at the hem of your shirt, already desperate to see more of you.

You lift your shirt over your head with shaky hands, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with every breath. The second your bare skin is exposed, Niki’s eyes darken. He doesn’t even give you time to think. His hands fly to your waist, holding you still on his lap as he leans in—mouth latching onto your nipple like he’s starved. “Niki—” you gasp, your head tipping back. His tongue swirls around your sensitive peak, sucking hard, his teeth scraping just enough to make your hips jolt in his lap. You grind down by instinct, moaning when his dick presses right into your clit again. He groans against your skin. “So fucking soft…” he breathes, hot and low, his voice muffled as he kisses down the curve of your breast. Then his mouth moves to the other—sucking even harder, switching between gentle licks and rough sucks that make you writhe in his grip. He starts leaving hickies everywhere—on the undersides of your tits, in the dip between them, over the swell of them and down to your ribs.

Each kiss is messier than the last, wet and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging along your skin as he claims you over and over.“Mine…” he mutters darkly, almost to himself, between kisses. “Mine.” His hands squeeze your ass, pushing you harder against his cock as he sucks another mark right above your nipple. You cry out softly, your body already feeling too hot, too sensitive. Your fingers tremble as they reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging gently. Niki pulls back just enough to glance down at your hands, then up at your face—your lip caught between your teeth, eyes wide with something between desperation and awe. Without saying a word, he leans back slightly and yanks the shirt over his head with one swift pull. Your breath catches. His chest rises and falls steadily, faint scars slashing across his muscles—some old and faded, some fresher, still healing. His abs are hard and flexed beneath his shallow breaths, and thin lines mark his skin. And you just want to worship every inch of it.

Your hands move slowly, palms ghosting over the rigid lines of his abdomen, scared to hurt him but unable to stop yourself. His stomach twitches under your touch. His eyes never leave you. Then, barely breathing, you lean in, pressing one innocent kiss to the side of his neck, lips soft and sweet against skin still tasting faintly of blood and sweat. He exhales hard through his nose. You pull back just slightly, breath catching in your throat, lips swollen from his kisses and heart thudding hard in your chest. Your eyes lift to meet his—soft, doe-eyed, and full of adoration. That look makes something snap in him. His hand shoots up to grip your jaw firmly, tilting your face toward his. “You’re so fucking cute.” he growls, voice low as his eyes drink you in like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Then he kisses you again, rough and desperate, tongue sliding past your lips as he drags you back onto him like he can’t get enough. His hands drop to your hips, gripping them tightly before slipping lower, fingers sliding beneath the hem of your little skirt.

He palms your ass through your panties, groaning into your mouth when he feels how soft you are under his touch. “Fuck.” he mutters against your lips. “Wearing this tiny skirt around me all the time…you don’t even know what that does to me.” You whimper, hands clutching at his shoulders as he tugs at your panties, snapping the waistband slightly against your skin. And then he moves. One hand snakes around to the front, fingers slipping between your thighs until they press against your clothed clit—slow, teasing pressure that makes your breath hitch. “You’re already wet,” he smirks against your ear. “So fucking needy for me…” You try to hide your face in his neck, embarrassed, but he doesn’t let you. His hand grabs your jaw, holding you in place, forcing you to look at him while he toys with you. “Look at me.” he says, voice harder now. “Don’t go all shy now, baby. You’re the one grinding on my dick like that.” His fingers rub small, slow circles through the damp fabric, watching your expression with dark, hungry eyes.

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face against the side of his head as you tremble slightly, overwhelmed by the feel of his fingers teasing your clit and the heavy weight of his eyes on you.“Need you…please.” you whisper. So soft, so broken, like you’ll fall apart if he doesn’t touch you properly. And it breaks him. A sharp breath leaves his chest. His hand tightens on your hip like he’s trying not to lose control. “Fuck…” Without another word, he shoves your panties aside, his fingers slipping between your folds to finally feel just how soaked you are. “You’re dripping.” he mutters, almost like he can’t believe it. His fingers glide through your slick slowly, spreading it, feeling every little tremble of your body against him. “All this for me?” Your only answer is a needy whimper, your hips bucking forward instinctively, grinding against his fingers. “You want me to fuck you this bad?” he groans, mouth right next to your ear. “You’re this fucking wet just from kissing me?”

He cups your pussy fully, rubbing his fingers through your folds, teasing your entrance but not giving you what you need just yet. He’s savoring it—how soft and sweet and desperate you are for him. “Say it again.”You gasp softly, barely able to breathe as you clutch onto him. “Please…Niki, need you…” And suddenly his fingers sink into you. Two long fingers push past your soaked entrance and fill you up slowly, the stretch making you gasp out his name, clinging tighter to his neck. He curses again, watching your face the entire time, loving how you fall apart so easily for him. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good fucking girl. Taking me so well already…” His free hand stays on your waist, keeping you still as he fucks his fingers into you, slow and deep, curling them to find every sensitive spot inside you.

You kiss him again desperately, lips parted, soft little whimpers spilling into his mouth as your hips begin rocking on their own, grinding down on his fingers. He groans into the kiss, one hand tightening in your hair while the other stays buried inside you, letting you use him however you need. “That’s it,” he mutters between kisses. “Ride my fingers, baby. Just like that.” Your hips move on instinct—slow, needy rolls against his hand, chasing the friction as the heel of his palm rubs perfectly against your clit with every motion. He watches you with that dark, hungry look in his eyes, his chest rising and falling under you as he leans back slightly to take it all in. “You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice low and strained, “Making a mess on my hand…fuck.” Your whimpers grow louder as you keep grinding on his fingers, your lips brushing against his, breath shaky, thighs trembling. “Niki… I— I can’t…” You’re close, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way your walls clench, the way your body shakes in his lap, how you moan his name so helplessly. He leans in again, voice sharp and possessive against your ear. “Don’t hold back.” And then his thumb presses harder against your clit, just the way you need it, as his fingers curl inside you deep and slow. “Cum for me, angel.”

Your body jerks, head falling against his shoulder as the orgasm rips through you, hot and dizzying. Your pussy clenches around his fingers as you cry out softly into his neck. He holds you through it, his lips brushing your cheek and ear. “That’s it… that’s my good girl… fuck, you’re so sweet when you cum.” Your breaths come out ragged as you slump against him, your thighs shaking, heart pounding against your ribs. But then, slowly, he pulls his fingers out of you, slick and glistening, and brings them up to your lips. ���Open.” You obey without thinking, wrapping your lips around his fingers and sucking them clean, soft moans escaping your throat as your tongue swirls around the taste of yourself. His eyes darken watching you. “My dirty girl.” He kisses you again, messy and wet, the taste of your arousal on both your tongues. As he deepens it, your hips roll again—unconsciously grinding your bare, oversensitive cunt against the hard bulge in his sweats. You whimper into his mouth at the friction, overwhelmed but needing more.

Your fingers trail down, hesitant but aching for him, until your hand finally lands on his bulge. You palm him softly, feeling the heavy weight of him under your hand, and he groans—low and guttural, hips jerking up into your touch. “Fuck, baby.” He pulls back from the kiss to look at you, chest heaving, his hand still resting on your waist, thumb brushing your skin. You look up at him with wide, tear-glossed eyes, lips swollen, still panting. He leans in closer, mouth grazing just beneath your ear, voice low but gentle. “You want my dick, pretty girl? Hm?” Your breath catches and you nod quickly, eager, needy, eyes wide and full of want. He hums, clearly pleased, and presses a warm kiss to your cheek before whispering, “Good.” Then you feel his hands move between you, slowly tugging the waistband of his sweats and boxers down his hips. Your eyes trail lower instinctively and your breath catches again when his cock finally springs free—big, thick, flushed pink at the tip, so heavy it rests against his lower stomach for a second before falling against his thigh. You can’t help it, your lips part a little in awe. He’s so pretty it almost makes your head spin.

Your hands slipped down to your hips, and with a soft breath, you slid your panties down your thighs and tossed them aside. One of his hands stayed firm on your hip, grounding you. The other wrapped around himself, and he rubbed his tip along your folds, slow and teasing. You whimpered, already so sensitive, your thighs twitching from the contact. “Niki!” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders, your voice trembling. He smirked softly and locked eyes with you as he lined himself up. “Breathe, baby.” he said, voice low. And then he slowly pushed in. You gasped, burying your face in his neck as he stretched you open inch by inch. His grip on your waist tightened protectively, fingers digging into your skin. Your breath hitched with every inch, your thighs shaking around him, but he didn’t rush. Just deep, slow, patient movements, wanting you to feel everything.

When he bottomed out, he let out a soft groan, forehead resting against yours. You were so full, so warm around him, it made his head spin. He stayed there for a second, just breathing, letting you adjust. “You okay?” he asked, quieter now, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. His tone was raw, barely hiding the emotion underneath. You nodded, shaky. “Y-Yeah. I just…I really love you,” you whispered, eyes glassy. His jaw clenched, and he kissed you hard. Your hips move faster, driven by how good he feels inside you, how much you’ve needed this—him. Every inch of him fills you so deeply, your soft moans spilling into his neck as you cling to his chest, your fingers curling against his warm skin. “Niki…” you breathe, your voice catching, overwhelmed by the way his hands grip your waist like he never wants to let go. You’re moving faster now, your movements desperate and full of need. His lips find your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can touch, kiss, claim. “Look at you,” he pants against your skin, his voice raspy and low, “So needy for me…” You whimper again and nod, forehead pressed to his as you ride him, his name whispered like a prayer between shaky breaths.

Your thighs tremble from the effort, your pace faltering . Your hips start to slow, each bounce growing more uneven. The moans spilling from your lips get breathier, softer, your body struggling to keep up with how much you want him. You cling to his shoulders, dizzy from pleasure and effort, your head falling against his neck. “I…I can’t…” you whisper, barely able to speak through your panting. But Niki’s hands slide firmly around your waist. “I’ve got you.” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. Before you can even catch your breath, his grip tightens, and he starts lifting you and dropping you back down onto him—harder, deeper, faster. A choked gasp leaves your mouth as you’re overwhelmed by the sudden rhythm, his strength making your body bounce on him like you weigh nothing at all. “Niki—!” you cry out, burying your face in his shoulder, your fingers clawing into his back. He groans low, thrusting up to meet every movement, the sounds between you loud and shameless—wet, skin against skin, your soft whimpers, his ragged breathing.

“So cute,” he says softly, dragging his mouth against your jaw. “So fucked out already. Can’t even ride me without help, huh?” You only whimper, too lost in the feeling, too full, too sensitive. His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing slow circles that make your entire body jolt. He keeps bouncing you on his cock with deep, precise thrusts, each one hitting that sweet spot again and again. The pleasure overwhelms you, floods you, and your moans turn high-pitched and breathless, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “Niki—! I-I’m gonna—” you pant. “Let go f’me,” he groans into your neck, voice low and gentle. “Be a good girl and cum.” You break with a cry, walls tightening around him so hard it makes him moan. He thrusts one more time, deep, sharp, and then he’s spilling inside you with a low, drawn-out curse, your name on his lips.

Both of you stay like that, panting, clinging to each other, your chests pressed together, skin slick and warm. He kisses you softly, lazily, holding you close. After a moment, he gently lifts your hips off him. You twitch at the overstimulation, thighs trembling. Niki glances down between your legs, and his grin grows wide, cocky. His cum is leaking out of you, slow and warm, and when he sees the embarrassed look on your face, he chuckles low in his throat. “Aww…don’t be shy, angel.” he coos. “Niki…” you whimper, trying to close your legs. But he tuts playfully, grabbing your thigh to keep them spread. “Don’t hide, baby. You look so pretty like this.” Then, before you can even react, he slides two fingers into you again, pushing his release back in, slow and deep. You gasp, back arching just slightly. “Gotta keep it in, yeah?” he murmurs teasingly, voice low as he leans down to kiss your cheek, soft and lingering.

You whine, burying your face in his neck from how sensitive you are, and he finally pulls his fingers out, his hand moving to your waist as he pulls you into his chest. For a while, neither of you says anything. He just holds you there, warm arms wrapped around your back, and you bury yourself into his bare skin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the storm inside you. Eventually, he shifts, helping you lie down beside him. His arm stays around your waist, tugging you close, and you rest your head on his chest. Listening to the soft rhythm of his heart beneath your ear, you finally let your eyes fall shut, comforted by the warmth of his body and the safety of his hold. You fall asleep like that—wrapped in the arms of the boy you’ve always loved.

© guliexe

[thesundys]

that was majestic af

a/n: first time I wrote smth this long,, almost 6k words guys,, I cannot believe it??? stepping out of my comfort zone?? are we cheering?? anyway, I hope you guys enjoy. please do reblog, comment and let me know how you enjoyed it 🫶🏻

CW: f! reader, fake dating (publicity stunt), rough sex, degradation, dubcon vibes, slapping, spitting, hints at possessiveness, toxic dynamics, creampie, breeding kink, mentions of jealousy, harsh language, verbal humiliation, obsession/control, impact play, spit kink, idol/public image pressure, jungwon is mean and rude, reader is also mean but not that much

The door slams.

You don’t remember opening it for him, but somehow he’s inside your apartment again—breathing hard, jaw tight, sweat still glistening from rehearsal. His hoodie hangs off one shoulder like it’s daring you to tug it off. His eyes are sharp, electric, fucking furious.

“You done being a brat?” he snaps.

You toss your water bottle down. “You done running your mouth ?”

You slam the water bottle onto the table a little too hard. Jungwon’s reflection is already in your mirror, leaning against the doorway like he owns the room. Again.

Jungwon’s already closing the space between you, heat radiating from him like a storm. "Did you really think it was a fucking genius idea to flirt with my members when you and I are supposed to be in a relationship?"

His hand wraps around your wrist firmly, tugging you close to him, fingers digging into your skin. "Do you have any idea what impression the public will get even if it is a stupid publicity stunt?? Be a fucking whore in your own time. But if anything happens to my reputation I sw–"

You poke his chest. “You think you’re the center of everything—”

He scoffs. “Me?? What about you?? You’re just a media puppet. You smile, pose, post—like your entire personality is manufactured in a lab. You don't care about the people around you. In your own stupid little selfish world.. god, you really are a bitch'

“At least I don’t fake humility every time a camera turns on. Your entire brand is pretending you’re not full of yourself.”

You’re toe to toe now, chests rising, breath short. His eyes burn into yours, and it’s not just anger. It’s worse. That thing between you. That unspoken, throbbing charge neither of you will acknowledge out loud.

He laughs under his breath, low and dangerous. “Big words from someone who dances like they’re trying to fuck the camera. Maybe that’s why the fans like you.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bastard—”

“What?” he steps closer, nose nearly touching yours. “Truth too sharp for that little ego?”

He doesn't move. Doesn’t blink.

Just stares down at you, eyes raking over your face, your heaving chest, your lips. The tension thickens—buzzes—crackles between your bodies like lightning waiting to strike.

"Admit it.. you're just jealous that some of your members might have had a taste of my pu-"

“Say one more word,” he warns, voice low, “and I swear I’ll shut you up so thoroughly you’ll forget your own name.”

You smirk. “Try me.”

That’s all it takes.

He crashes into you like a wave hitting concrete. Mouth on yours, messy and hot and mean, all tongue and teeth and no care for gentleness. He kisses you like it’s a fight, and you respond in kind, biting his lip hard, dragging your nails down his back as he forces you up against the couch.

Your head spins with the taste of him. He groans into your mouth, lifting your thighs up over his hips, grinding his bulge against your clothed heat with enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

“You wanna act tough?” he growls against your lips. “Then fucking take it.”

He unzips, cock already hard, flushed dark and glistening with arousal. You barely have time to breathe before he’s got your panties shoved to the side and he’s slapping the heavy weight of his cock against your pussy—smack, smack, smack—loud, filthy, obscene.

You gasp, hips jerking up, chasing him, needy.

He chuckles. “So wet. You always talk this much when you’re soaking my cock before I even slide in?”

“You’re not in yet,” you snap, breathless. “Big talk for someone who’s scared to put it inside.”

“Oh?” He leans down, eyes dark, thumb circling your clit just once—just to make you gasp. “You think I’m scared of this pussy? Baby, I own it.”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds again, coating himself in you, but never giving you more. Every thrust forward is a fake-out—just enough pressure to make your body scream, then he pulls back again.

“Beg,” he says, licking his lips. “Beg for my cock like the pathetic bitch you are.”

You grit your teeth. “Choke on your dick, asshole.”

He laughs, truly laughs, before reaching down and slapping your pussy again, a little harder this time, a wet sound echoing through the room.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way your hips roll helplessly. “You’re creaming for nothing. Not even inside yet and already acting like a whore.”

Your hands dig into his shoulders as you pull him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Shut up and touch me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna do more than that.”

He tugs your shirt up, lifts your bra, and his mouth is on your tits in seconds—sucking one nipple into his mouth like he’s starving, groaning as his tongue flicks it rapidly, then bites down hard enough to make you gasp.

He switches to the other, hands gripping your sides as he sucks, bites, licks like it’s his only purpose. He doesn’t worship them like something sacred—he devours them like something he possesses.

“You walk around like you’re better than everyone else,” he growls, licking up a bead of sweat between your breasts. “But I know the truth. This body—” he slaps your tit harshly, eliciting a whining scream from your lips, sucking it into his mouth again, “—melts for me.”

Your eyes flutter, lips parting around a moan you refuse to give him.

He pulls back, panting. “Still got that attitude, huh?”

He yanks you off the couch suddenly, spinning you around and pressing you back-first against the wall. His cock grinds into your stomach as he looks down at you, hair messy, lips swollen.

“Hold on.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts one of your legs, holds it around his waist, and thrusts in.

You cry out—your body arching, arms wrapping around his neck on instinct as he buries himself to the hilt, stretching you so deep you can feel him in your ribs.

“Fuck,” he grits, voice breaking. “You take me like you were made for it.”

You want to insult him. You want to claw his back, spit something cruel.

But all you can do is feel—his cock dragging in and out of you, hitting all the spots he shouldn’t know but does. His grip on your ass is bruising, his breath harsh against your neck as he fucks you into the wall with brutal rhythm.

“Still think you’re in charge?” he pants. “Still wanna act like a bitch when I’m balls-deep inside you, fucking you so hard you’re gonna be dripping me for hours?”

You bite his shoulder, hard, and he moans shamelessly—slapping your ass in return.

The anger and frustration you harbour for him, overwhelms you, paired with the pain and pleasure that was coursing through your body. Not knowing what to do, how to express, how to channel it.. you kiss him again—sloppy, desperate, breathless—tongues tangled, teeth clashing, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths like it hurts not to kiss.

The pace quickens. You’re close... so close it burns.

“Come on, princess,” he growls. “Cream this cock. Show me how much you hate me.”

Your orgasm hits fast, violent, body shuddering against him as your walls clench around his cock.

He groans; deep, possessive, and keeps thrusting through it, chasing his own high.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “So deep you’ll be leaking me during your next schedule.”

He comes with a low, broken moan, burying himself to the base, hips twitching as he spills inside you.

For a moment, the world is quiet—just the sound of heavy breathing and your heart pounding in your chest.

He stays buried inside you, cock twitching, cum already leaking around the base, and still .... still, he doesn't stop.

Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t give you room to breathe. Just breathes in your ear, teeth scraping your skin as he rolls his hips, slow and taunting.

“You fucking ruined my night,” he snarls against your throat. “And you think I’ll let you walk away like this? Nah, baby. Not after I’ve dumped a load so deep you’ll taste it in your throat.”

You’re gasping, your body wrecked, skin flushed and soaked in sweat. You try to speak, but your jaw trembles.

He grabs your chin, forces your eyes to meet his.

“Don’t look at me like you didn’t fucking love it,” he growls. “I felt this pussy choking me. Like you were begging me to breed you.”

Your lip curls. You spit at him—actually spit, slick and defiant, hitting his cheek. “You talk too much for someone who came in what... thirty seconds? okay fine.. I'll be generous, two minutes.”

He laughs. A real laugh. Twisted and sharp, as he wipes the spit with two fingers and smears it across your mouth.

“You’re lucky I let you come at all,” he mutters. “Desperate fucking whore, moaning like you’d die without my cock. You were dying for it. Don’t lie.”

You snarl, yanking his shirt, dragging him back toward you. “That cock? I've had better... that too from your band mates. You just have a god complex because no one else has the guts to tell you you’re replaceable.”

He growls, pressing you back against the wall, holding your jaw tight enough your lips part, and spits into your mouth. You swallow without flinching. Smirking.

“Keep lying to yourself,” he hisses. “You cream all over me, bite my fucking shoulder, moan like a bitch in heat, and then act like you’ve got the upper hand?”

He slaps your tit—hard. It stings. It sends another pulse of slick between your legs.

Your laugh is breathy and brutal. “Jealous I don’t sob for you the way the others do? I hate you. You’re not special.”

He leans in, tongue licking a stripe up your neck, voice low and wrecked. “You hate me, huh? Then why the fuck do you let me fuck you like I own every inch of your body?”

You grab his hand and shove it between your legs, letting him feel the mess—his cum still inside you, slick everywhere.

He groans, feral.

“Next time,” you whisper in his ear, venom sweet, “You’re gonna get on your fucking knees and beg to taste yourself leaking out of me.”

His fingers twitch. His cock twitches.

Then he grins—teeth, tongue, evil in his eyes.

“I’ll do it with a smile,” he growls. “And I’ll make you sit on my face until you cry.”

He finally pulls out of you with a filthy, wet drag, your body giving one last clench as his cock slips free—coated in cum, swollen, throbbing.

He doesn’t look away from you as he spits on your inner thigh and smears it in.

“Better clean yourself up,” he mutters. “Before someone mistakes you for a professional.”

You step toward him, still naked, body glistening, and smirk.

“And you better pray no one finds out you couldn't keep it in your pants for a pathetic bitch like me.. remind me how long did it take you to cum like a fucking virgin? one minute.... or was it thirty seconds?

His mouth twitches, zipping up his jeans.

“Keep talking, baby,” he mutters. “Next time, I’ll fuck the words out of your throat.”

Then he leaves, slamming the door behind him. Might as well had left some money with how he had used you and walked away.

You lean against the wall, cunt dripping, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh—already throbbing for the next time you get to destroy each other.

© hoondrop | 2025

[thesundys]

Um i need this tattooed on my brain???

priest vampire sunghoon plsplspls

P: VampirePriest!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (18+)

Warnings: Mature Themes, Explicit Content, Blood, Power Imbalance, Religious Themes, Obsession, Moral Dilemmas, Vampirism, Temptation, Forbidden Desire, Profanation, Blasphemy, Suggestive Content, Touchstarved!Sunghoon, Stalking, Supernatural Elements, Seduction, Emotional Turmoil, Hints Of God Complex, Gothic Elements, Feral Behaviour, Body Worship, Begging, Corruption, Death, Destructive Obsession, Slight Smut (munch!hoon), Implied Mind Control, Dirty Talk, Sadistic Behavior, yall hes messy.

Synopsis: A summer visit home becomes a tempting mistake when you're dragged to church and meet the priest, Sunghoon. Mysterious and cold, he ignites a dangerous desire within you, drawing you closer. But what you don’t know is that he’s barely holding himself back from worshiping you with the hunger of centuries. After all, it’s been lifetimes since he let himself corrupt someone so divine.

a/n: For all my fellow girls who crave to be desired in a way that’s inhuman, proceed.(Commentary and reblogs are appreciated! MDNI!!!)

now playing : night crawling by miley cyrus | judas (80s ver.) by gabriella raelyn | oxytocin by billie eillish | take me back to eden by sleep token

Desire is a dangerous thing. It is the ache in the pit of your stomach, the throb beneath your skin that no logic can quiet, no reasoning can soothe. Everyone knows it, in one form or another of this insatiable yearning, this quiet hunger that stirs within, threatening to consume all that is good, all that is right.

It begins innocently enough, a glance, a word, a touch—but once it takes root, it grows like a vine, winding its way around the soul, suffocating the senses. Desire doesn’t come with warnings. It doesn’t come with kindness or restraint. It doesn’t care about the fragile nature of human hearts or the sanity of minds. It is a predator, relentless and cunning, knowing that the weaker the will, the more easily it can take hold.

Humans were made to want, to need, to crave—but it is those who are already broken, or those who have yet to understand the depth of their own weakness, who fall hardest. Once it has taken root, desire doesn’t fade. It doesn’t relinquish its grip once it has tasted blood. It grows, claws its way deeper, burrowing into the marrow of a person’s soul until they are left nothing more than a hollowed shell, a slave to their own longing. And the more it pulls them in, the more they fight against it, the stronger it becomes.

The mind, fragile and worn, will betray the body, and in the face of such overwhelming need, there is no escape. When desire has settled its claim, it will never leave, not until it has destroyed everything in its path. It is relentless, unforgiving, and it promises only one thing: satisfaction, at any cost.

With no summer plans in sight and a quiet ache for the familiar, you didn't hesitate much to spend your vacation back home. The long, warm days seemed endless and devoid of anything exciting, and the thought of retreating to your childhood home, where everything was comfortingly known, felt like a relief. Yet, as you pulled into the driveway, something felt off.

The house, once a place of chaotic warmth, was now adorned with crosses—large, ornate ones hanging on every wall, their dark wood contrasting sharply with the usual homely decor. The smell of incense was heavy in the air, cloying and thick, almost suffocating. It curled around the doorway like a persistent, invasive presence.

The familiar sound of your parents' voices calling your name from within was the same, but there was a coldness to it, an undercurrent of something...different. You paused, your hand resting on the doorframe, taking in the unfamiliar sight of your own home, now draped in the symbols of something you hadn't thought about in years. Something that made your pulse quicken, though you couldn’t quite place why.

You shook off the strange atmosphere that clung to the house, ignoring the overpowering incense and the rows of crosses in favor of hugging your parents, who were as warm and welcoming as always. Their smiles, though slightly strained, put you at ease for a moment.

You escaped to your old bedroom, which, thankfully, hadn't been changed. The faded posters on the walls, the cluttered desk, the soft bed you used to sleep in—it all felt like nothing had shifted, like you were just a kid again. You unpacked quickly, not giving the house or the unsettling changes much thought. It was easier to pretend everything was the same.

After a quick change into something more comfortable, you decided to head out into town, hoping to clear your head and reacquaint yourself with the familiar streets. You hadn't been back in years, and the nostalgic idea of revisiting old hangouts, grabbing a coffee at the local café, and catching up with old friends seemed like the perfect way to ease into your summer.

But when you stepped into the small town, the reality felt different. The streets were quieter than usual, and as you passed by the few pedestrians, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle detail that seemed almost... unnatural. Almost every person you passed had a cross hanging from their necks, large and prominent, some of them shining with a strange intensity under the sun. It wasn’t just one or two people—it was almost everyone. The sight of the crosses clashed with the warm familiarity of the town, making your skin prickle with unease.

You didn’t know why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t like people hadn’t worn crosses before, but this... it felt wrong. There was something in the way they wore them—too purposeful, too synchronized. The way they all seemed to move in the same rhythm, eyes cast downward or forward, never meeting your gaze. It felt as though the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something. And you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were the outsider, the one who didn’t belong.

The longer you wandered through the town, the more that strange feeling grew in your chest, like something was tightening around your ribs, constricting your breath. You couldn't ignore it. Something had changed in this town. Something... off.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, you started searching for a familiar face. Someone who could shed some light on the unsettling shift in the atmosphere. That’s when you spotted Wonyoung, one of your old friends, lingering by a jewelry kiosk in the mall. She looked the same but there was a certain distance in her eyes, a coolness that hadn’t been there before.

You walked up to her, and her face lit up with recognition. The reunion was warm, like slipping into a favorite sweater, but something felt strange in the way she held herself, how she glanced around the area before speaking.

"I didn’t expect to see you back here," she said with a faint chuckle, her eyes flickering nervously to the others in the mall, all of them with crosses around their necks.

You couldn't hold back any longer. "Wonyoung, what’s going on? Everyone... everyone is wearing crosses, and they all seem so... strange. Why? Is there something happening here I don’t know about?"

Wonyoung hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the cross around her own neck before meeting your eyes. There was something in her expression—reluctance, maybe fear—that set off another alarm in your mind.

"It’s... the church," she finally said, her voice low, as though speaking louder might draw unwanted attention. "The local church. We got a new priest a few months ago. And after he came, it’s like the whole town shifted. More than half of the town became his parishioners, and they all started wearing these." She tugged at the chain around her neck. "It wasn’t like this before. People didn’t used to... worship like this. Not so openly."

You frowned, trying to process the information. "So it’s the priest?" you asked, trying to connect the dots. "What’s so special about him?"

Wonyoung shifted uncomfortably, as if the words themselves were heavy. "I don’t really know, but he... he’s different. The way he speaks, the way he looks at you—it’s like he’s pulling you in, making you want to... believe, to follow. People feel like they need to be closer to him, like he’s some sort of... beacon."

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, "What about you, Wonyoung? Are you one of his followers?"

Wonyoung shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, her fingers playing nervously with the chain around her neck. She seemed torn, as if battling with something inside her before finally looking up at you. “I really wasn’t at first,” she admitted, her voice quiet, almost apologetic. “I mean, I didn’t really believe in all of it. But... after my parents dragged me to one of his sermons, things started to change.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts, her eyes drifting downward. "At first, it was just like any other service, but there was something about the way he spoke. The way he looked at everyone—it felt... different. He has this presence, like he sees right through you. It made me feel... seen, in a way. And then, it wasn’t just the sermon—it was the people. The congregation. They all seemed so... together. Like they were all part of something bigger than themselves, something important. I guess I started to like that feeling. The idea of belonging.”

Her voice trailed off, and you could see the conflict on her face—the way she was fighting against her own admission. You could tell she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the path she had found herself on, but there was also a longing in her eyes that made it clear she had been drawn in, just like everyone else. It was as though this priest, this man, had found a way to pull at something deep inside her, something she didn’t even realize she was missing.

���It’s not just about religion anymore, though,” Wonyoung continued, her words more hesitant now. “It’s more about... him. And how everyone around him seems to glow with this... certainty. He makes you believe. Not just in God, but in him. It’s... unsettling, but it’s also... comforting.” She swallowed hard, her gaze flicking back up to yours. “I know it sounds strange, but I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t want to become one of his followers. But now I don’t know if I can walk away.”

You couldn’t ignore the chills creeping up your spine. There was something in the way she spoke, in the way she seemed almost resigned to it, that made you realize how deep the grip of this man had taken hold.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but something’s wrong here,” you whispered, your stomach twisting. “Do you think... do you think he’s changing people?”

Wonyoung blinked at you, then let out a soft, incredulous laugh—as if you’d told her the punchline to a joke only she didn’t find concerning. “Changing?” she echoed, shaking her head. “What are you talking about? How would he? That’s crazy.”

Her tone was light, but there was something behind her eyes—something flat and unreadable, like a door that had quietly shut.

“Listen,” she continued, brushing her hair behind her ear, her fingers still lightly grazing the cross around her neck. “If you saw his sermons, you would know. He’s not dangerous. He’s...” She paused, her eyes softening, distant. “He’s everything this town needed.”

That struck you more than anything else she’d said. There was a strange calm in her voice, too smooth, too rehearsed. You looked at her—really looked—and suddenly it hit you. Wonyoung was different. Not just in the way she spoke, but in the way she carried herself. There was a quiet rigidity to her posture, a steadiness to her smile that hadn’t been there before. She looked like Wonyoung, sounded like her—but something underneath had shifted. Subtle. Deep.

You felt a chill curl up your spine, but you didn’t press it. Something in your gut told you not to.

Instead, you forced a weak smile and nodded. “Yeah... maybe you’re right.”

Wonyoung smiled back, satisfied, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed at all. But as you watched her turn and walk away, slipping into the slow, measured crowd moving through the mall like a school of sleepwalkers, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just spoken to someone who was no longer entirely herself.

With a hundred questions, zero answers, and a gnawing curiosity you couldn’t quiet, you made your way back home. The air outside was cooler now, dusk creeping across the sky, soft shadows stretching long over the sidewalks. The town looked normal—peaceful, even—but everything felt off.

When you finally stepped inside your house, hoping to decompress and rest before you started investigating whatever was happening around you, you were immediately met with your parents standing in the hallway. Their faces were calm, expectant.

“There you are,” your mother said, smoothing down her blouse like it mattered. “Go get dressed, we’re leaving soon.”

You blinked. “Leaving? Where?”

“Church,” your father replied. One word. Final. “We don’t want to be late.”

Your stomach turned. “Church? Now? It’s almost dark.”

Your mother offered a thin, practiced smile. “Evening mass. It’s a special service tonight. Father Park asked everyone to attend.”

Father Park. That had to be him. The priest. The one Wonyoung had talked about with such unshakable reverence. The one who had supposedly arrived just a few months ago and already had the town in his grasp.

You hesitated, your pulse picking up slightly. “Since when do you go to church at night?”

Your father’s expression didn’t shift, but there was something steelier behind his eyes. “Since he came. Evening masses are more... intimate.”

You stared at them, a thousand protests forming behind your lips, but none of them made it out. The weight of their stare, calm but expectant, like they already knew you’d say yes, made it feel pointless to argue. So you nodded slowly, feeling like your body moved on its own.

You stared at them, a thousand protests forming behind your lips, but none of them made it out. The weight of their stare made it feel pointless to argue. So you nodded slowly, your limbs moving before your mind could fully catch up, as if something unseen had already been decided for you.

You slipped into your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. For a moment, you just stood there, your back against the wood, the silence of your childhood bedroom pressing in around you like a cocoon. You exhaled shakily, trying to shake the eerie numbness clinging to your skin.

You hadn’t planned for this. You hadn’t packed for church. Especially not church at night.

Dragging your suitcase onto the bed, you rifled through the contents with vague frustration. What did people even wear to mass now? Especially one led by a priest who seemed to have the entire town wrapped around his finger?

Eventually, your fingers landed on a dress—simple, dark, soft to the touch. It wasn’t overtly modest, but it wasn’t scandalous either. It hugged your figure in a subtle way, with a neckline just high enough to be respectful. Pretty, but not loud. You threw a cardigan over it for good measure, telling yourself it was just for warmth—but you knew it was more than that. You didn’t want to stand out.

As you slipped it on, brushing down the fabric, you caught your reflection in the mirror.

A beat passed. Then two. And for the first time since coming home, you felt it settle inside you.

Anticipation.

You didn’t know what was waiting at that church, but some part of you—some reckless, curious part—wanted to find out.

You did your final touch-ups in the mirror—lip balm, a quick brush through your hair, and a spritz of the perfume. Just enough to feel composed. Presentable. Your heart beat a little faster than it should’ve as you stood, smoothed down your dress, and stepped out into the hall.

The moment your parents saw you, they lit up—not in the way parents usually do when they’re proud, but more like they were relieved. Like your compliance had sealed something.

“You look nice,” your mother said, adjusting a curl behind your ear, too gentle.

Then your father opened the door and gestured out. “Come on. We have to walk. Father Park hates lateness.”

You blinked. “Walk?” you echoed, eyes flicking toward the car parked in the driveway. “But the church—”

“No time,” your mother cut in, already nudging you outside with a gentle but firm hand on your back. “It’s a beautiful night. You’ll see.”

You wanted to protest, to at least ask why, but something in their tone—their urgency masked as casual suggestion—made your words die in your throat. So you didn’t fight. You just started walking.

The three of you moved in near silence. The only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas in the trees. Your parents walked on either side of you, not speaking, not even glancing your way. They didn’t seem nervous, but their stillness made you feel like you were walking through a dream. One that didn’t entirely belong to you.

As you moved farther from the heart of town, the houses became more spread out, the streetlights dimmer, the woods thicker on either side. The church sat near the outskirts—always had. Nestled close to the forest line, surrounded by whispering trees and low stone walls draped in ivy. You’d walked this path before, years ago, but it felt different now. Hollowed out.

You remembered the church from before. The old building was nothing fancy—a faded wooden structure with white-trimmed windows and a creaky steeple bell that only worked half the time. The sanctuary had always been small but warm. The former priest, Father Yoon, had been kind, if not a little pushy. He talked too long during sermons and tended to ramble about the “youth losing their way,” but there had been nothing sinister about him. Just an old man trying to hold on to something that was slipping from him.

But as the forest began to thin and the roof of the church came into view, you felt a cold pull in your chest.

This wasn’t the same church anymore.

Visually, it had changed. The building was larger now, its structure taller, more imposing, a solid black silhouette against the night sky. The wood, once faded and weathered, now seemed sleek and unnatural, as if it had absorbed the very darkness around it. Thick, twisted vines crawled up the sides of the church, their tendrils blackened by the night air, creeping like living things—like they were trying to claim the building, wrap it in an unsettling embrace.

The tall doors of the church stood wide open, as if welcoming the town. And the people, those same figures you had seen earlier, drifted in one by one, filing through the entrance with the same slow, synchronized steps, their faces unreadable. The flickering lights inside cast long, eerie shadows across their faces, but none of them looked at you as you approached. They simply moved forward, as though they were part of something that had already begun, a ritual too far gone to interrupt.

You didn’t know when you had started walking slower, but now you found yourself frozen at the edge of the churchyard. The old feeling of comfort was gone. All you could feel was the weight of the place, pressing down on you. The church, once a simple, humble place, now seemed like a fortress. And the vines—those strange, living things that clung to its walls—looked almost alive in the moonlight, as if they were growing in time with each passing moment.

You took a deep breath, your feet moving almost involuntarily as you stepped into the building. The moment you crossed the threshold, a heavy stillness settled over you. It was different from the church you remembered—much different. The walls, once simple and light, now held a dark, polished sheen, reflecting the pale light of the lamps that hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room. The flickering light from the lanterns seemed almost too warm, too intimate, but it did little to chase away the cold feeling crawling up your spine.

The large windows, once clear and bright, now let in the moonlight in sharp slivers, casting long beams that split the room into dark patches and pools of light. The entire space felt like it was bathed in an eerie glow, the pale light falling onto the rows of benches, now arranged neatly and facing forward. It felt more like an arena than a place of worship, the rows of seats rigid and orderly, leaving no room for deviation, for choice. All eyes would be on the stand, on the pulpit where the priest would stand, a figure of unquestionable authority.

You instinctively looked toward the altar, but your gaze was pulled away by something else. To the side, there was a confession booth, much larger than the one you remembered, and something about it made your skin crawl. It seemed too close to the shadows, too hidden in the corners of the room. But it wasn’t just the booth—it was the staircase that caught your attention.

A spiraling staircase that curved both up and down, disappearing into the dark, unknown spaces above and below. You could feel the weight of it—the spiral seemed endless, its steps disappearing into the shadows like they led to places you weren’t meant to see. The stairs felt wrong—too grand, too foreboding, and there was an unsettling sense of movement in the air, as if something was waiting there.

You stood frozen for a moment, your heart beating harder in your chest, fighting the overwhelming urge to flee. The place felt like a trap, as if it was waiting for you to step further into its embrace. Your parents were already sitting quietly in one of the pews, their faces serene, unbothered by the strange atmosphere. You wanted to join them, to blend in, to pretend nothing had changed.

But before you could take a single step, the tall entrance doors groaned shut behind you.

You turned just in time to see a woman—dressed in long, flowing black robes with a white veil pinned tightly over her hair—close and latch them with practiced ease. Her movements were graceful, reverent. You guessed, by her modest attire and solemn expression, that she must be a nun. She gave no one a second glance as she walked forward, past the rows of silent, seated townspeople, her footsteps echoing in the heavy stillness.

Suddenly aware of your own lingering presence at the back, you scanned for an empty seat. Your parents were far ahead, already facing the altar with their heads slightly bowed. Everyone else sat perfectly still, their posture straight, their gazes fixed downward. There was no room beside them, and no time to hesitate. You slid into an empty space near the back, away from the eyes of the crowd, trying to quiet the unease gnawing at your spine.

The nun reached the front and turned to face the congregation. Her voice rang out, soft yet commanding.

“Please rise for Father Park.”

At once, the room responded. People stood with eerie synchronicity, the sound of movement uniform, mechanical, almost rehearsed. You stood too, though slower than the rest, feeling out of step, like a foreign body in a ceremony that wasn’t meant for you.

And then you saw him.

He emerged from the spiraling staircase behind the altar, rising slowly from the depths of the church as though he had been waiting below, nestled in the dark. You held your breath as his figure came into view—and your breath caught.

He was beautiful.

But not in a way that felt safe.

Tall, composed, with black hair slicked back from his forehead, his pale skin nearly luminescent under the flickering lanterns. His features were sharply drawn—angular jawline, high cheekbones, and a mouth set in a line of quiet, unreadable discipline. His eyes scanned the room with unsettling precision, dark and penetrating, like they were cataloging every soul in the pews.

Young. He was young—too young to be the man everyone had spoken of with such reverence. He looked more like a model than a priest. And yet, every inch of him radiated power. Control.

He reached the altar without a sound, his long black coat brushing the floor as he moved. When he lifted a gloved hand and made a simple gesture, the entire room sat down as one, the wooden pews groaning softly beneath the movement.

You hesitated, then sat too, your eyes never leaving him.

The gloves. Black, elegant, and tight over his fingers. He wore them as though they were part of his uniform, but something about them struck you as... odd.

His gaze swept across the hall like a blade, slow and calculated, dissecting each face with unnerving precision. When he began to speak, his voice carried easily through the church—deep, smooth, laced with an unfamiliar accent that made his words drip like honey and iron all at once.

He spoke of sin.

Of temptation.

Of how the human soul was weak by design, always yearning, always reaching for things that could destroy it. He spoke of how one must repel sin, reject desire, cast away pleasure in favor of purity. His words should’ve been cold, should’ve sounded like warning bells—but they didn’t. They drew you in, low and rhythmic, like a lullaby sung too close to a flame. There was something dangerous in the way he spoke, something addictive in every syllable that left his lips.

“Sin does not scream,” he said softly, walking slowly behind the altar, gloved hands moving with controlled grace. “It whispers. It waits. It watches until your soul is quiet... and then it moves.”

But then—he looked at you.

And everything stopped.

His voice halted mid-sentence, mid-thought. His eyes locked onto yours across the room like a vice closing around your throat. You felt your heart skip, then stumble. You swallowed hard, unsure why his gaze felt like it had pierced straight through your skin, straight into your spine. He didn’t blink. He didn’t look away.

You didn’t notice the way his chest rose with a sharp inhale, like he’d caught scent of something he hadn’t expected. You didn’t see how his hands tensed, knuckles pressing through the leather of his gloves, the sound of creaking fabric just barely audible. You didn’t hear the quiet swallow as he forced down the sudden pooling of saliva in his mouth.

But you did notice when he spoke again.

Because he didn’t look away from you when he did. Not once.

“And yet,” he began again, his voice lower now, richer, like wine left to darken in the bottle, “the greatest danger of sin… is not when it arrives like a beast at your door.” He took one slow step forward. “No. It is when it comes softly.” Another step. “When it wears beauty like a mask. When it makes you want it. When it looks you in the eye and asks if you’re still strong enough to say no.”

Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the bench, a strange heat crawling up your spine.

“It is not the devil who is hardest to resist,” he murmured, eyes still on yours, voice barely above a whisper, “it is the angel… with blood on their hands.”

His words struck something deep inside you—so quiet yet so thunderous it echoed in your bones. The air in the church shifted, thickened, like every person in the room had collectively forgotten how to breathe. But he didn’t break eye contact. Not once. As if the rest of the congregation had vanished, as if the sermon itself had been for you all along.

Your breath hitched. Something deep in your stomach twisted—not out of fear, but something stranger, something heavier. His voice, his presence, the way he spoke of sin as if it were a seduction rather than a warning… it lit a fire under your skin. One you didn’t know you’d been carrying.

He finally looked away, but the spell didn’t break.

You barely registered the rest of the sermon. His voice faded into the background, low and reverent, but you heard none of it. All you could think about was the way he had looked at you—like you were something he’d been waiting for. Like he knew things about you that even you hadn’t admitted.

When the final prayer was said and the congregation rose to their feet, the room began to shift back into motion—shuffling feet, quiet murmurs, coats being pulled on, doors creaking open. You stayed seated longer than you meant to, but your parents found you quickly, their smiles gentle, as if nothing about tonight had been strange at all.

“We’ll head home first,” your mother said softly, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “You should go introduce yourself to Father Park. He’s always eager to meet new faces—especially returning ones.”

Your father nodded in agreement. “He'll appreciate it. And it’s only polite.”

Polite.

That word rang hollow in your head as you hesitated, watching them disappear out the church doors without another word. The crowd had thinned fast, most people filing out with the same calm, synchronized rhythm they’d arrived with. And up at the front, near the altar, Father Park still stood.

Tall. Still. Unmoving.

He wasn’t addressing anyone. He wasn’t pretending to be occupied. He simply stood there, watching the people as they passed him with slight nods or murmured goodbyes. His hands remained behind his back. His presence was quiet, but it filled the entire space, commanding without effort.

You swallowed hard and made your way down the center aisle, your footsteps softer than they’d ever been. Each step forward felt louder in your ears than it should have, like the church was holding its breath again just for you.

He wasn’t watching the others anymore.

His head turned the moment you approached, and then—his eyes found yours again. And this time, they didn’t leave.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even pretend not to stare.

His gaze stayed locked on you, dark and unreadable, and something about it rooted you in place. There was no smile. No welcoming gesture. Just a long, piercing silence and that look—like he’d been expecting you long before you ever stepped foot in this building.

And then, finally, in a voice like velvet stretched tight over steel, he spoke. “I’ve never seen you around before.” His words weren’t a question, but a quiet observation. His voice carried no warmth, but it wasn’t cold either. It simply was, like truth laid bare. You felt it settle in your spine, low and humming, as though your name were perched on the tip of his tongue without ever being spoken.

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of how small the space between you felt, despite the cavernous size of the church. “I’m just visiting,” you said, doing your best to sound composed. “I came back for the summer. My parents—” you glanced toward the doors, “—they still live here.”

He hummed softly, a low, thoughtful sound that sent a ripple of heat down your neck.

His gaze drifted down your figure and slowly returned to your face, unapologetically. Not lewd. Not hesitant. As if he had every right to look, to see. The weight of it made you feel exposed, like you were standing beneath a spotlight instead of the flickering lamplight of the altar.

“I see,” he said finally, tone unreadable. “The summer.” He repeated it like the word itself was strange on his tongue. Like it was new. Or irrelevant.

There was a long pause, the kind that might have been awkward if not for the sheer gravity of his presence. You had the strangest feeling he wasn’t just studying your appearance—he was studying your soul, peeling back the layers of your thoughts, tasting your fear, your curiosity, your desire.

You shifted slightly under his gaze, unsure of what to say next.

“Well,” he said, voice just above a murmur, “then I hope you plan to stay a while. Summer can be... transformative.” The way he said it—low, the faintest touch of something darker beneath his words—sent a jolt through you. His tone wrapped around your spine like silk and thorns, and before you could stop yourself, your thighs pressed together instinctively, your body reacting before your mind caught up.

You hoped—prayed—he hadn’t noticed.

But he had.

Of course he had.

Father Park’s eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t change. He didn’t smirk, didn’t taunt. His expression remained perfectly composed, his features carved from something cool and ancient. But deep beneath the surface of that carefully maintained mask, he had felt it—that flicker of want in you, the smallest tremor of hunger responding to his voice.

And he savored it.

Not outwardly, no. That would be undignified. Unrefined. And if there was one thing Father Park had mastered over the centuries, it was control. He had honed it like a blade, sharp and precise, learning to curb his desire, to bury his hunger beneath layers of stillness and sacred words. But even the most disciplined predator knew when to watch, when to wait. And now, watching you struggle to keep your expression neutral, your posture steady, he knew—you felt it too.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said softly, as if it were nothing more than a polite gesture. But beneath those words, there was a deeper pulse, something that stirred the air between you like a warning… or a promise. His eyes lingered just a second longer than they should have. Then, he tilted his head slightly, voice dropping even lower—intimate, like confession. “If you ever find yourself burdened,” he said, “if you ever feel your demons clawing at the edges of you… come to me.” A pause. “I can help you repel your sins. I’ll guide you. Cleanse you.”

The words sent another chill down your spine, but not out of fear. There was something in his tone that suggested he already knew your sins. Or worse—that he was ready to create them.

You swallowed the dryness in your throat and nodded—silent, unsure of what else to say.

He studied you for a moment longer, unreadable behind the perfect stillness of his face. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. Just that unshakable calm, carved into him like stone.

Then, without a word, he turned.

His footsteps were silent, impossibly so, as he moved through the dim light of the altar. The shadows clung to him, rising like smoke, curling around his figure as if they knew him—as if they welcomed him back. And just like that, they swallowed him whole. One blink, and he was gone.

You stood there, motionless in the now-empty church. The last few traces of candlelight flickered low on the walls, casting long, twitching shapes across the pews. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was thick. Watchful. Like something in the walls was still awake.

Only when your chest began to ache did you realize you were holding your breath.

You exhaled and turned, slowly making your way toward the doors. Each step echoed louder than it should have. Louder now that the room was empty… or nearly empty. You didn’t dare look back again.

The moment the heavy doors creaked open, the cold night air rushed in to meet you, sharp and clean against your flushed skin. You stepped outside, pulling your cardigan tighter around you as the chill seeped through the fabric.

You took one final glance over your shoulder, eyes drawn back to the church.

It loomed, silent and black against the sky, its sharp steeple cutting into the clouds like a blade. And there, just faintly visible under the pale shimmer of moonlight—you saw them.

Ravens.

Perched in a loose cluster along the roof’s edge, their glossy feathers barely shifting in the breeze. Unmoving. Watching.

Dozens of them, gathered like sentinels.

You stared, unease curling in your gut. It was too late for birds. Too cold. Too quiet. And yet they remained, still and silent, like they, too, were part of whatever lived in that church now.

You turned away.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

You didn’t go to the next sermons.

They were all held at night—just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, as if darkness itself were a requirement for gathering. That alone felt peculiar, unsettling even, though no one in town seemed to question it. Your parents asked you, more than once, voices soft and hopeful, if you’d join them again. “Father Park mentioned you,” your mother had said one evening, her tone casual, but her eyes too careful. “He’d be happy to see you return.”

You only offered a weak smile and the same excuse each time: “I’m not feeling great.”

They didn’t press, but they always left looking disappointed.

The truth, though—you wanted to go.

God, did you want to go.

Not for the sermons. Not for the hymns or the words meant to lift your soul. You wanted to go for him.

For Father Park.

The man who had looked at you like you were a secret he’d been waiting centuries to uncover. The man who spoke of sin like it was sacred and watched you like he knew exactly what kind of thoughts had crept into your head at night. Thoughts you shouldn’t have about a priest. Especially not one so young. So sharp. So... seductive.

He didn’t belong in a place like this. Not in a pulpit, not with scripture in his mouth. He belonged in smoke, in silk, in shadows.

He was a contradiction. A temptation wrapped in control. And he was a change.

Something new in your otherwise familiar world. You came back to this town to revisit old memories, to walk down quiet streets and remember who you were before everything got complicated. You didn’t come here to be unraveled. To ache for something you couldn’t name. To feel seen in a way that scared you.

And that—that—was what compelled you to stay away.

Because you knew if you went back, if you looked into those eyes again…you wouldn’t leave untouched.

And maybe that was what terrified you most—how ready a part of you already was. How your thoughts betrayed you late at night, imagining things that had nothing to do with salvation. Things that didn’t belong in pews or beneath stained glass windows.

Things that had everything to do with him.

You told yourself you were doing the right thing, that distance was control. That ignoring the magnetic pull you felt was a kind of strength. But each night you stayed home, while your parents filed into that dark church along with the rest of the town, you couldn’t help but wonder what you were missing.

Was he thinking of you?

Did he look toward the door, expecting to see you slip in late, breathless and repentant? Did he preach the same way, with the same quiet hunger in his voice, now that you weren’t there to watch him?

You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know. Because deep down, you were afraid of the answer. Afraid that yes, he was waiting. And worse—that if you returned, he would welcome you with open arms and fire behind his eyes.

So, you stayed away.

But every time the sun dipped low and you saw your parents put on their coats, every time you watched the quiet procession of neighbors walking in unison toward that looming black church at the forest’s edge, your heart thudded with something shamefully close to longing.

You weren’t avoiding temptation. You were circling it. Waiting for it to notice. Waiting for it to come find you.

But temptation was hungry. Temptation was patient.

It lingered in corners, nestled in silence, waiting for your resolve to thin like parchment under fire. It didn’t need to rush. It knew your name. It knew the rhythm of your breath when you dreamed of things you wouldn’t dare say aloud.

Temptation could be salvation or damnation—depending on how you knelt for it. Temptation could whisper like a prayer or choke like a curse. Temptation could wear holiness like a mask and still be made of sin. And temptation… could take any form wanted. Any form needed. Any form desired.

And desire—desire was the real sickness. The quiet rot that lived inside every person who ever wanted something they couldn’t have. Desire could bring a weak-willed human to their knees in a second. Strip them bare, not of clothing, but of reason, of restraint. It was intoxicating, relentless, and it never asked for permission.

And you weren’t built to resist it.

All it would take was one push. One glance. One word spoken too low, too close to your ear. Just one carefully timed breath against the hollow of your throat, and you’d fall.

Because temptation knew how to play the long game. And desire, when tangled in the hands of something eternal—something ancient and starving— wasn’t just dangerous.

It was fatal.

It didn’t knock. It seeped in. Through cracks in the walls, through dreams you barely remembered upon waking. It laced your thoughts, curled itself around your tongue when you tried to speak of anything else. It made the air taste different. It made silence feel watched.

And so it came for you, not with violence but with a whisper. A scent. A memory that didn’t belong to you.

The feeling of velvet against your skin though you hadn’t touched anything. The echo of your name when no one had called it. The pulse between your legs when you hadn’t even been thinking of him or maybe you had.

You told yourself you were strong. That distance was protection. But all the while, temptation waited, watched, just beyond your reach.

Because you could avoid the church. You could dodge the sermons. You could pretend not to miss the way his eyes burned through you like holy fire. But you couldn’t hide what was already inside you. And he knew that. He didn’t need to chase you. He only needed to wait.

Because something like you... something soft and full of quiet hunger would come back on its own.

The question was never if.

It was when.

And after all… you could only be strong for so long. Restraint was a thread—thin, fraying, stretched tighter with every passing day. And deep down, you knew it: your resistance was a performance. A little show you put on for your own conscience.

Because you were weak. Not for everyone. Not always. But for pretty men in black, with sharp eyes and sharp tongues. Men who wore their darkness like a second skin, who carried danger in their posture and poetry in their voice.

You were weak for men who spoke softly but left bruises on your thoughts. Especially when they looked at you like you were the answer to their own damnation.

And Father Park... He was every one of your weaknesses stitched into a single man.

A priest who dressed like a funeral. Who spoke like sin was an art form. Who gazed at you like you were both temptation and redemption wrapped into one trembling body.

He made holiness feel obscene. He talked about purity while looking at you like he wanted to ruin it. He spoke of sin in that velvet voice, low and reverent, and you found yourself wondering, how would that same voice sound pressed against your ear? Whispering not scripture… but filth?

It was a thought you tried to smother. But it grew. Festered. Bloomed in the dark like something unholy. And no matter how far you stayed, no matter how long you avoided the church, the truth was simple:

You were already halfway on your knees. All he had to do… was reach.

And reach he did...

It was late—later than you realized. The clock had long slipped past midnight, and the house was silent, wrapped in the kind of stillness only small towns knew. Your parents had returned from the evening’s sermon hours ago, murmuring softly about the beauty of the night’s message before retreating to their room like obedient sheep. Unlike you who was still awake, you could not sleep. Not when your thoughts were so loud. Not when his voice still echoed in them, warm and sinful and patient.

So you sat in the dark, curled on the couch in nothing but an oversized T-shirt, the TV screen casting dull flickers across the room as some late-night program droned in the background. You weren’t watching it. You were just existing, caught somewhere between dread and longing.

And then came the knocks. Three sharp raps at the door.

You froze, breath caught in your throat. Who the hell would be knocking this late? Your parents were fast asleep. There were no lights on in the neighborhood, no cars passing by. The silence outside was thick, unnatural. Brows furrowed, you rose slowly, bare feet silent against the floorboards as you made your way to the door. For a moment, you hesitated. That strange, gnawing pull gripped your stomach again—like you already knew, on some instinctive, animal level, what waited on the other side.

Still, your hand reached the handle. Still, you turned it.

And when you opened the door—you stopped breathing.

Father Park stood there. Still cloaked in black. Still composed. Still devastating.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d been walking through wind or shadow or both. The collar at his throat was pristine, every inch of skin covered, but something about him felt more… real this time. Less untouchable. Or maybe it was just the absence of the altar between you.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice soft—too soft for the hour.

You stared at him, heart hammering wildly, words stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “What are you—” you began, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze sweeping over your face, down your bare legs, pausing just long enough to make your skin prickle before returning to your eyes. His look wasn’t vulgar. It was far worse.

It was intentional.

“I noticed you haven’t returned,” he said, the hint of something unreadable in his tone. “And I was... concerned.”

Concerned.

A priest concerned for his wayward sheep. That’s what he wanted it to sound like. That’s how it should have sounded. But it didn’t. It sounded like a warning. Like a whisper against the skin. Like the first drop of blood in the mouth of something that had waited too long.

You swallowed hard. And still, you didn’t shut the door.

Instead you cleared your throat, trying to mask the tension in your voice. “I… I haven’t been feeling well,” you offered, casting your eyes slightly downward, pretending the floorboards were suddenly fascinating. It was the safest excuse you could manage. Safe, distant, neutral.

But he didn’t budge. Didn’t even blink. Instead, he tilted his head slowly, eyes still locked onto you, his expression unreadable—but focused. Focused in a way that made your skin warm and crawl all at once. “It’s been two weeks, my dear,” he said smoothly, almost scolding, but with something far too tender laced into the words.

My dear.

The way he said it—it shouldn’t have meant anything. Just a phrase. A polite gesture. But your heart stuttered anyway, and you felt your fingers twitch at your sides. You didn’t respond right away. Just shrugged, feigning indifference, as if the simple petname hadn’t sent heat straight to your core. As if you didn’t want to lean against the doorframe and let him call you that again.

You didn’t notice the shift in his shoulders. Didn’t see how the leather of his gloves creaked slightly from the force of his grip behind his back. How his fingers were curling into fists, nails biting into his palms through the fabric. He had to resist. He had to.

“I see…” he murmured, voice low now, laced with something darker beneath the calm. “Are you feeling any better now, then?”

The question was innocent on the surface, but it didn’t feel that way. Not in the way he said it. Not in the way he was looking at you—like your answer might decide everything.

You met his eyes again, slower this time. And you saw it—just for a second.

The restraint.

The tension under the surface. The crack in the porcelain. Like he was holding something back. Barely.

And for the first time since you opened the door, you wondered:

What would happen if he stopped?

He looked so put together. Always immaculate, always composed—like nothing ever touched him. Not the heat, not the dark, not even desire. Everything about Father Park was controlled, from the way he spoke to the way he moved to the way he watched you with eyes that never seemed to waver.

But you wondered… what if he did waver?

What would he look like when ruined? Would his voice shake? Would his breath hitch the way yours did around him? Would those hands tremble if you let them touch you?

Would he beg?

The thought—so sudden, so shamefully vivid—made your lips part slightly. Your gaze softened, glassy, as your mind drifted somewhere far less innocent than the front door of your parents’ home. You didn't even realize you'd spaced out, lost in fantasy, letting the silence hang too long between you.

And to him, it was a gift. You weren’t looking. Weren’t guarded.

So he inhaled.

A slow, silent breath through his nose—deep, indulgent, hungry.

And God.

You were divine. The scent of you—warm skin, subtle perfume, something sweet and alive underneath it all—it hit him like a revelation. His chest rose with it, and for a brief, uncontrollable second, his eyes flashed—deep crimson, glowing beneath the surface like dying embers stoked back to life.

But you didn’t see it. You were still in your head, still dreaming. And the moment passed quick, the red bled away, and when your eyes finally flicked up to meet his again, he looked the same.

Put together. Unshaken. Holy. At least on the surface. But beneath the surface, temptation was coiling tighter in his chest, aching beneath layers of practiced restraint. His voice remained calm, smooth as silk, as he asked, “May I come in?”

The question lingered in the air like incense—faintly sweet, quietly intoxicating.

You blinked, lips parting slightly. The question shouldn’t have caught you off guard, but it did. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the hour, maybe it was the way he looked standing there—too composed for someone knocking on a door past midnight. Or maybe it was just the way he asked, like it wasn’t really a request at all.

“...Why?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended, uncertain. You didn’t mean it to sound suspicious, but it did. And not because you feared him. No, that wasn’t it. You feared yourself. Feared what yes might mean.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tilted his head—just slightly—and looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was deciphering a language only he could hear, or quietly marveling at a puzzle he'd already solved. The silence between you stretched, but it didn’t feel empty.

Then, finally, he spoke—soft, measured.

“You seem… restless.”

You swallowed, throat dry, fingers tightening on the edge of the door. You couldn’t tell if it was a guess or a confession. You didn’t know how he knew—but he did.

You shrugged, brushing off his so-called concern with forced nonchalance. “I’m fine,” you muttered, eyes flicking past him like the night beyond the porch suddenly held something worth seeing. “Just haven’t been sleeping well. That’s all.”

He didn’t press. Of course he didn’t.

Father Park never needed to press.

Instead, he nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on you a heartbeat longer than necessary, like he was waiting for something—an opening, a flicker of doubt, a confession you weren’t ready to give. But when none came, he simply straightened his posture with the grace of someone who was never truly off-balance.

“The doors of the church remain open for you,” he said, voice smooth, patient. “Should you ever feel the weight of your sins… should you ever need to speak them.” His eyes seemed to gleam then—not with judgment, but with something deeper. Something hungrier.

Then, without warning, he murmured something else. The words rolled off his tongue in a language you didn’t understand, soft and ancient. Latin, you guessed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for your ears to grasp—it was meant for something older. Something listening. And then he bowed. A slow, elegant dip of his head—formal, reverent. Like you were the altar.

“Good night,” he said simply, his voice velvet and dusk.

You barely managed a faint reply before he turned and walked off into the night.

Only… it didn’t look like walking. His steps were too fluid, too quiet, like his feet barely touched the ground.

You remained in the doorway, frozen, watching his figure slowly disappear down the street. The night swallowed him in pieces—first his silhouette, then the glint of his collar, and finally the memory of his voice, still echoing softly in your ears.

You closed the door. But the heat he left behind stayed with you.

He hadn’t fed in awhile.

The hunger coiled in his gut like smoke—writhing, gnawing, whispering to him in the dead hours of the night. A low, constant hum beneath his skin. He was used to it by now, the ache, the restraint. It was part of wearing the mask. Part of being Father Park.

An alias. A role. A cage.

Sunghoon had worn many names before this one, walked through centuries with different faces, all while pretending to be something he wasn’t. He never stayed anywhere long. It was too dangerous, too exposing. And, frankly, too lonely.

He hadn’t had a home since the one that mattered burned to ash, centuries ago—its scent still carved into the deepest parts of his memory: smoke, blood, charred skin. After that, he stopped trying to belong. He didn’t need comfort. He needed survival.

When he found this town—small, crumbling, reeking of hollow faith and rotting piety he hadn’t planned to stay long. Just long enough to feed. To satisfy the ache. The church had already been dying, its sermons empty, its people desperate. The original priest had been pitiful, really. A man praying on his knees outside the chapel, begging his silent God for a miracle.

And a miracle had come.

A miracle with crimson eyes and hunger in its mouth.

Sunghoon hadn’t hesitated. He’d stepped out from the trees like an answered prayer, calm and quiet, then ripped into the priest’s throat with such force that the man didn’t even have time to scream. He’d fed under the cross that night, blood soaking the soil like a new form of baptism. By dawn, he wore the collar.

And just like that, Father Park was born.

It was supposed to be temporary. A few weeks, maybe a month. Just long enough to drain the desperate faithful who wandered in, seeking salvation. He would give them a taste of something divine, and take so much more in return.

But then you appeared.

He hadn’t expected you.

The first time he saw you walk into his church, he felt it—the stillness, the hum beneath his skin sharpening into something feral. The hunger shifted. Changed. Focused.

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t hollow. You weren’t praying for salvation. You were temptation incarnate.

And worse—you didn’t even know it.

You smelled like warmth and sin. Like something he had no right to touch, and every right to take. Every moment he looked at you, listened to your voice, watched your eyes flick toward him like you couldn’t help it—he unraveled, just a little more.

He couldn’t leave. Not now.

Not until he had a taste of you.

Just one taste.

But he already knew one would never be enough. No. He couldn’t have just one simple taste.

Sunghoon knew himself too well. A taste would never satisfy. A drop would only drive him mad.

He needed the whole meal.

He needed your blood on his skin—hot, slick, divine—trailing down his throat, staining his clothes, slicking his chest. He needed it under his claws, beneath his tongue, between his teeth. He needed to taste you completely, until you were part of him, until no part of you was untouched, unclaimed.

He needed to feel you everywhere—your scent in his lungs, your warmth pressed to his cold flesh. You on his lap, your thighs trembling around him. You under him, breathless and pliant. You over him, riding out his hunger like it was your penance. You on your knees before him—not in worship of something above, but of him. Only him.

You’d pray for salvation, and he’d answer with ruin.

He wanted to hear it—your voice cracking, your pleas faltering, his name spoken like a hymn and a curse. He wanted you to whisper it like he was your God, and scream it like he was your undoing.

He could only imagine how sweet you’d taste, how delectable your innocence would be on his tongue. It wasn’t just hunger—it was need. An ache in every cell of his body to feel your heartbeat where his had long gone quiet. To wrap himself in your warmth, where he was nothing but cold shadow.

Sunghoon didn’t pray. Not really. But for you? He would.

He’d pray for your soul, not to save it—but to make sure it was pure. So when he sank his fangs into your throat, when he dragged you into the abyss with him, it would mean something. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else. To mark you so thoroughly the idea of another even looking at you would be laughable.

He’d pray for your goodness. So he could be the one to strip it away.

And once he did. You wouldn’t want to be saved. You would want to be worshipped. By him.

And he would worship you in ways no God ever could. With lips, with teeth, with devotion carved out of centuries of hunger. He would fall to his knees not for salvation—but for you. His altar. His sacrifice. His sin.

You were his undoing. His Armageddon.

He, who had survived kingdoms rising and burning, lovers dying, centuries of silence and solitude—you were the one thing he couldn’t survive. The one soul too bright, too soft, too dangerous.

And he wanted to ruin you the way you had ruined him.

He wanted to crack you open like you’d done to him. Take your name in his mouth like blood and never spit it out. Fill your veins with him until there was nothing left of the girl who opened her door in a T-shirt and bare thighs, blinking sleep from her eyes like she wasn’t already calling down a monster with her softness.

And yet... Even as he hunted, prowling the woods for a young couple who had dared to scoff at his sermon, dared to turn away from his church—he felt it. That snap deep inside him. That shift.

The taste of their blood was warm. Familiar. Easy.

But it was wrong.

They didn’t satisfy him. Not even close. He drained them quietly, quickly, like routine. Left their bodies beneath the roots of an old oak and stared at the sky, blood drying on his hands.

Something had changed. Something in him had broken the moment he first caught your scent. And now… he realized the truth.

He needed you more than he needed blood. More than he needed to feed. More than he needed to survive.

You had become his only craving. Not the chase. Not the kill. You.

And he would starve before he tasted anyone else.

You didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way the night air had felt heavier lately. Maybe it was the dreams—warm hands, whispered words, lips that never touched but always hovered too close. Or maybe… maybe it was just him.

But the next sermon, you went.

You didn’t protest when your parents knocked gently on your door, their voices laced with hope. You just nodded, and they seemed surprised. You didn’t explain. What could you even say?

That you were going for God? No. You were going for something much more dangerous.

This time, you dressed differently. Carefully.

White. Soft. Lacey.

A dress that clung in just the right places, short—but not too short. Modest enough for the occasion, yet just enough bare skin to invite attention. You told yourself it didn’t matter if he noticed. But you wanted him to. You needed him to.

The church was already full when you arrived, the lanterns burning low, casting golden light that made the air feel thick, like honey. Your parents found their usual spot near the middle, but you lingered further back, sliding into a pew alone, heart quietly pounding.

And then he entered.

The moment his black-clad figure emerged from the shadow of the spiraling staircase, the room fell into reverent silence—yet somehow, it got louder in your chest.

His gaze swept over the congregation like always. Calm. Composed.

Until he saw you.

His eyes locked onto you like a pin striking the center of a map. Unblinking. Unmoving.

And you held your breath—just for a second—waiting for something. A flicker. A shift. Something.

But his face didn’t change. Not a twitch. Not a blink. His expression remained carved in stone, as unreadable and perfect as ever.

And to your surprise… you felt a flicker of disappointment.

He didn’t react. Not to the dress. Not to you. Not to the white lace you chose deliberately to contrast everything he wore.

But what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was the way his jaw clenched behind the collar. How his fingers twitched once at his side. How his fangs pressed, achingly, against his gums.

You only saw the mask. Because he was practiced. He was patient.

But inside?

He was scorching.

It was worse than the burn of sunlight on his skin— that searing, instant agony that blistered through every inch of him when he miscalculated the rise of dawn. Worse than the sting of silver slicing through flesh like butter, hissing and smoking as it left behind angry, rotting welts. Worse than the pain of holy water splashing across his face during a too-close encounter with the faithful fool—his skin peeling, his body convulsing in silent fury as he choked down the scream.

Worse than all of it.

You were worse.

Because this burn was deep. Slow. Consuming.

You sat there in white lace like a vision sent to torment him, thighs pressed together, your lips slightly parted as your eyes searched his face, so eager to find a crack in his armor. You didn’t know it, but you were glowing in that pew—like the church light was drawn to you, wrapping around your shoulders, kissing the hem of your dress, illuminating the softness of your throat.

You didn’t know what you were doing. Or maybe… you did. Maybe some part of you wanted to be his undoing.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw tighter, forcing the sermon to fall from his lips like scripture—fluid, measured, and holy. But behind the collar, behind the mask of Father Park, he was falling apart.

His gaze lingered on your legs longer than it should have. Drifted higher. Imagined.

He imagined that lace torn. Imagined you beneath him, arching into his mouth, crying out for a God that wasn’t listening—because he was already there. Your God in black.

And still, he did nothing. Even if he wanted to do everything.

He remained still, stoic, and composed—while inside, he was chaos incarnate.

His mind conjured the most sinful visions: You, back arched beneath him, lace torn and forgotten. Your breath hitching as his tongue traced devotion into your skin. You on your knees, flushed and desperate, whispering his name like a prayer—like a plea.

His control tightened like a vice.

He couldn’t let his fangs elongate—not here, not now, even if the hunger ached in his jaw, even if he could already taste the phantom sweetness of your blood. He couldn’t let his claws slip free, though his fingers twitched inside the leather of his gloves, aching to grip you, to drag you closer and feel your pulse flutter beneath his hands. He couldn’t let the growls building in his chest rise to the surface, those low, guttural sounds that threatened to betray him—remind the room, remind you, that he was not a man preaching salvation, but a predator resisting collapse.

And most of all—he couldn’t let his eyes shift.

He couldn’t let you see the way his irises burned when his hunger overtook him. That deep, infernal red that gave away every secret, every need. You weren’t ready for that.

But God, how close he was to unraveling.

He was a storm held in human shape. A monster beneath silk and scripture.

And you, sitting there in white—unknowing, or perhaps too knowing—were dragging him to the edge of something he hadn’t felt in centuries.

Not just lust. Not just hunger.

Obsession.

And if he gave in.. if he so much as slipped once..

There would be no sermon. No prayer. No salvation.

Only him. And you. And the ruin that would follow.

Sunghoon's voice didn’t falter as he continued preaching, but every word tasted like ash in his mouth. The scripture meant nothing now—it was noise. Hollow syllables meant to distract from the war inside him. Each verse a chain he tried to wrap tighter around himself, each sacred word a blade digging into his tongue to keep the monster in check. Because if he let himself slip—if he gave in to the need that had been festering since the moment he first laid eyes on you—he wouldn’t just taste you. He’d devour you.

He’d press your hands together like prayer and kiss the blasphemy into your skin. He’d feed from your throat and moan into your mouth. He’d drag you to the altar and make you his, body and soul, until even your shadow belonged to him. Until you forgot what it meant to be untouched.

You weren’t just a passing temptation.

You were his trigger. His fall. His holy, aching obsession.

And still, he stood there, perfectly composed, delivering holy words with a voice that belied the beast underneath. Every syllable burned on the way out, and every breath he took felt like it could be his last if he didn’t have you soon. Because this was no longer hunger. This was starvation. And all it would take was one moment—one crack in his restraint, one slip of your voice, one glance too long—and the leash he’d kept wrapped around his nature for centuries would snap.

And God have mercy on you if it did.

Because he wouldn’t.

When the sermon ended, Sunghoon didn’t linger.

He didn’t offer his usual soft nods or faint smiles to the congregation. Didn’t shake hands or murmur blessings. Didn’t wait at the altar as the people filtered out in quiet, orderly lines, looking to him like he was the answer to all their empty prayers.

He left.

The moment the final word left his lips, he stepped down from the altar, black robes whispering behind him like smoke. You watched him move, confused at first by the sudden shift in routine. Usually, he stayed. Usually, he was still as stone, watching over the exit like a shepherd guiding his sheep home.

Not tonight. Tonight, he moved like a man about to come undone.

He disappeared behind the velvet curtain at the side of the altar, the shadows greedily swallowing his form. You blinked, your heart thudding like a warning in your chest. Your parents stood beside you, speaking in hushed admiration about the sermon, the scripture, how powerful his words had been tonight. You barely heard them. Your eyes were still locked on the altar.

You hadn’t missed it.

The way his voice had deepened just slightly when he looked your way. The way his gaze lingered a second too long. The slight tremor in his hand when he turned a page of his Bible. He had been holding something back.

You felt it.

And now he was gone. Vanished behind the curtain before anyone could ask anything, before anyone could see the cracks in that perfect mask.

But you’d seen enough. You weren’t just imagining it anymore—the tension, the flicker in his eyes, the near-tremble in his voice. No man, priest or not, looked at someone like that without wanting.

And Father Park wanted you. Even if he tried to bury it beneath scripture. Even if he ran.

That only made you more certain.

You stood in the pew, still and silent as the congregation began to file out around you, their murmurs dull in your ears. Your parents were already gathering their things, already walking ahead, already assuming you’d follow.

But your gaze stayed locked on the curtain he’d vanished behind.

You hadn’t come here just to look pretty in white and hope. You had dressed for him. And if he thought slipping away into the dark would shake you loose from whatever was blooming—slow and burning—between you, then he didn’t understand you at all.

You weren’t going to give up.

You wanted him. In every forbidden, dangerous way. And judging by the way he fled the altar tonight, he was closer to breaking than you’d even hoped.

So fine.

If he was going to retreat, you’d step up your game.

Push harder. Closer. Deeper.

Until the mask cracked for good.

From the moment the moon climbed high to the edge of sunrise, Sunghoon lived in torture.

He writhed on the bed deep beneath the church—his sanctuary and prison both, far from the sun’s reach. The underground chamber, cold and lightless, echoed with the ragged sounds of his breath. The stone walls were marked from past nights like this—scratches, splinters, the stains of restraint shattered.

The bedding beneath him was torn to shreds, clawed apart in a frenzy of desperation. The mattress hung in ribbons, shredded fabric and stuffing tangled with broken seams and the scent of him. His sweat soaked through what little remained of the sheets, dripping from his pale chest, his collarbone, pooling on the bedding beneath him. He was burning, despite the chill that filled the air.

And his fangs—those cursed, aching things were fully extended, sharp and gleaming, bared as his jaw hung open in a soundless snarl.

Drool slid messily from his parted lips, thick and sweet-smelling, rolling down his chin, his throat, streaking the length of his bare chest like a mark of surrender. His hands gripped the remains of the bedding, nails tearing through again and again as if punishing it for not being you.

Because all he could think about was you.

Your thighs, trembling and slick against his hips. Your voice breaking into the quiet with breathless, needy whines. Your mouth, your neck, your blood—oh, your blood, how it would coat his tongue, how it would taste running warm into his throat. You, crying out his name like a prayer he didn’t deserve. You, arching into him, full of trust and ruin.

He was in heaven and hell at once. Your name repeated in his mind like liturgy, every syllable a curse.

The chains of his control, the very chains he had forged over centuries were shaking, screaming, cracking under the pressure. He tried to breathe, tried to think, but all that came was you. That white dress. That skin. That scent.

His crimson eyes snapped open in the dark, gleaming like embers, then rolled back into his skull as his body jerked with the weight of his need. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, echoing through the stone chamber like a dying vow.

He was unraveling.

And he couldn’t hold on much longer.

Not when his control only worsened with time.

Because now—you came to every sermon.

Without fail.

And each time, you came dressed like temptation in human form. Sweet, sinful contradictions that made his restraint decay piece by piece. Dresses too soft, too clingy. Skirts that danced just above your knees when you walked. Delicate lace, bare collarbones, slivers of skin that shouldn’t have meant anything… but drove him mad.

It wasn’t what you wore, really. It was the intention behind it. The subtle awareness in your gaze when you met his. The faint, knowing curl of your lips when you caught his stare.

And God, the scent of you.

It filled the church before you even stepped inside. Honey and something warmer—something ripe. It clung to your skin, to the air, to the wooden pews long after you’d left. It filled his lungs with every breath he took, poisoning his sermons, tainting his prayers. Every time you passed him, it wrapped around his throat like a noose made of silk and sugar.

So after each sermon—each torture—Sunghoon would retreat. Down the hidden stairwell. Past the flickering lanterns. Into the cold black of his underground chamber where God couldn’t see him anymore.

And there he came undone.

Every. Single. Time.

He ripped the bedding to shreds. Tore the covers from the mattress. Clawed at the stone walls until his knuckles bled, fangs bared and glistening, chest heaving with curses that echoed like a demon trapped in a confession box.

The scent of you lingered on his clothes. In his hair. In his mouth.

And he would groan into the silence, bucking into the ruined sheets, imagining you—imagining your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails raking down his back, your breath stuttering against his ear as you begged him for more.

He couldn’t preach purity and self-denial when all he wanted was to ruin you—to bury himself so deeply in your body, your blood, your soul, that not even heaven could pull him free.

And with every passing sermon. He got closer to doing it.

His breaking point was simple. Almost laughably so. Not a scream. Not a mistake. Not a betrayal.

Just you. Walking into his church at eleven o’clock at night.

He should’ve known. Should’ve sensed it the moment you stepped through the doors. But he didn’t need to. Your scent announced you before your footsteps even touched the stone. Sweet, warm, ripe—a siren’s call dressed in sinless skin.

He had grown used to you tormenting him during sermons. Used to your stolen glances and your skirts that clung just a little too tightly when you knelt. He could survive those moments—barely.

But now?

You came during confessional hours. Late. Alone. When the church was dark, when no one else came but the desperate and the damned.

From your parents, you knew he offered confession every Sunday at 11 p.m.—something about it being “quiet and intimate.” They told you proudly how devoted he was, how even the most broken souls found healing in his presence.

But you didn’t come to be healed. You came for something else.

You slipped into the church like you belonged there—soft, silent, sinful—and made your way straight to the confessional booth. The air inside was cold, the wood old and dark, polished by centuries of secrets whispered into velvet shadows. And on the other side of the screen, he waited. You knew it. You felt it.

That he was alone. That he was listening.

The thought made your heart flutter.

You stepped inside your side of the booth and sat slowly, letting the silence stretch. Letting it build.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you unbuttoned your coat. And tossed it aside—carelessly, deliberately, like it meant nothing.

He heard it hit the wood. Soft. Thoughtless. Reckless. And it broke him.

On the other side of the thin wall, Sunghoon’s body tensed so hard it hurt. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, the leather of his gloves creaking as his knuckles went bone-white. His breath hitched, shallow, audible. His fangs pressed painfully against his tongue. His eyes burned, pupils thinning to slits, then bleeding red as the image formed in his mind—you, shedding your coat like you were undressing in front of him. Like you knew he was listening. Like you wanted him to hear every move.

The monster inside him—starving, frantic, unhinged pulled its leash.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, trembling from the force of restraint.

The booth was too small. Too quiet. The air thick with your scent and something far more dangerous—intention. He could hear everything—the soft rustle of fabric, the creak of wood beneath you as you shifted, the exhale you let out like a tired confession in itself.

And then, you sighed. Soft. Slow. Purposeful.

His fingers twitched where they lay.

Through the latticed screen, shadows danced across your outline, just enough for his eyes to catch the movement as your hands drifted over your bare thighs. You rubbed slowly, absentmindedly, like you were comforting yourself—or enticing him.

Then your hands moved higher, subtly gathering the hem of your dress, pulling it up inch by inch. And though he couldn’t see much, he felt it. Knew it.

And when you leaned forward, close enough that he could hear your breath against the screen, only a sliver of wood separating you from the thing you were daring—you spoke.

“Forgive me, Father… for I have sinned.” Your voice was a whisper soaked in honey and fire, and it made his stomach twist violently.

His fangs throbbed. His claws pushed against the inside of his gloves. His thighs pressed together, muscles locked, as he tried desperately not to make a sound.

You continued, slower now. “I’ve had… thoughts. Wicked ones. Cravings. I think I’ve been tempting someone who shouldn’t be tempted.”

Your fingers brushed higher.

Sunghoon’s mouth parted, but no words came. Only the sharp sound of his breath through gritted teeth. His entire body was burning.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And he was seconds away from doing everything you wanted.

All it would take was one more word. One more movement. One more sin.

And Father Park would be gone, replaced by something far darker. Far hungrier.

He felt his fangs grow, aching and full in his mouth, sharper with every word you spoke like scripture meant to break him.

He went through the motions—his routine—voice low and even, asking softly, “What a burdensome sin you feel, child.” But the word child caught in his throat, tasted wrong when applied to you, who sat on the other side of the screen not as a lost soul seeking guidance… but as a devil in white lace, seducing him with every breath.

And you just hummed, as if the very idea of confession was sweet on your tongue. You kept up the act, voice dripping with falsified guilt, your thighs pressed together, breath hitching as you spoke of impure thoughts and shameful dreams. Of desire.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

He didn’t care now. He didn’t care that drool was sliding down his chin, that it dripped from his parted mouth like he was starving—because he was. He didn’t care that the leather of his gloves had ripped where his claws had pushed through, splintering through the seams with sharp, glistening hunger. He didn’t care that the scent of you was driving him insane—warm, slick, sweet, like sin and innocence tangled together. His eyes were red now—fully glowing, animal and furious, wide and locked on the screen that separated you. The only thing keeping you safe.

And even then, barely.

He inhaled, deeply, shamelessly, like your scent was holy. His shoulders shuddered, lips parted around the weight of the groan he bit back.

He could hear your heartbeat.

Louder now. Faster. Racing.

He could feel the pulse fluttering in your neck, between your thighs, in that trembling, lusting heart that beat just for him in this moment. You wanted him. You wanted him to break. And that knowing—that truth—drove him to the edge of madness.

He saw your sin. He felt your want. He tasted your need in the air like blood.

And Sunghoon was barely a man now. Barely a priest. Barely holding on. Because the thing that sat on his side of the booth… wasn’t thinking of salvation anymore. It was thinking of you—under him, crying, clawing, moaning, begging.

“Is it normal to have impure thoughts, Father?” Your voice was breathy—soaked in false innocence, laced with heat. “I feel so hot all the time around him… I dream of his hands on me. His lips on mine. I dream of sin, Father. And I like it.”

He gripped the edge of the booth, knuckles bone-white. The wood groaned beneath his strength, cracking under the force he tried and failed to temper.

Your voice dripped into him like poison, thick and slow, coiling around his restraint. Every word you spoke was a match. Every sigh, a spark.

Then you leaned back. Then you spread your legs.

And then—

You whined.

Soft and wanting, a sound made for him, like a prayer that could only be answered in blood and broken vows. The growl that left his throat was deep, inhuman.

Something snapped.

The confessional shook as the door of his booth was ripped open, hinges groaning in protest as it slammed against the wall. You barely had time to gasp before your door was wrenched open, light from the altar flickering against the silhouette in front of you.

Sunghoon stood in the frame like a fallen angel, hair disheveled, his black clothes rumpled and hanging off his frame in that terrifying, unholy way that made him even more beautiful. His chest rose and fell with shallow, furious breaths. His eyes burned—glowed—with that feral crimson that no longer tried to hide what he was.

His fangs were out. His gloves were ruined, claws fully bared. And his perfect, stoic face was twisted in hunger.

The silence between you stretched, thick with heat and the scent of your arousal. He looked down at you, seated, legs parted, lips slightly parted in surprise, and the sight broke something in him for good.

"What... what are you?" you whispered, breath catching in your throat. There was fear there, yes—but not enough to make you move. Not enough to make you run. Just enough to make the air around you feel electric.

He stood before you like something carved from your worst and sweetest fantasies—towering, trembling, no longer hiding what he was. His eyes glowed like blood spilled beneath moonlight, locked on your throat, your chest, the heat between your parted legs. His jaw twitched, and slowly his tongue slipped out to trace along one of his fangs. He licked the drool from his lips, but more spilled from the corners of his mouth, thick and obscene, stringing down his chin in slow, shining ropes.

And then he smiled. Not kindly. Not softly. Predatorily.

“Something that should’ve left this town the moment it saw you,” he said, voice low, trembling with want. “Something that should’ve let you stay innocent.”

The scent of incense still clung to his robes, now tainted with sweat and the raw edge of his hunger.

“But you kept coming back…” he continued, tilting his head slowly. “Kept looking at me like you wanted to be hunted.” He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the unnatural cold radiating off his skin. His lips hovered just beside your cheek, and the thick, wet drip of his drool landed hot against your collarbone as he whispered:

“I haven’t fed in weeks.” Another breath, sharp through his nose, shuddering. “And you smell better than blood.”

You gulped, throat tightening around the weight of your breath, your fear, your want. You hadn’t even realized you were trembling—not until you felt it, the sharp contrast of him: Sunghoon’s bare, cold hands sliding over your warm skin.

At some point, he’d rid himself of the gloves. There was no barrier now. No mercy. Just the sharp drag of claws over flesh.

You gasped—head snapping back, spine arching as his claws gripped your thighs, too tight, too possessive. The points knicked your skin, slicing clean without hesitation. Blood welled up instantly, dark and warm, trailing down your thighs like liquid sin. It hurt. But it hurt so good.

A choked sound left your throat—half a cry, half a moan.

Sunghoon leaned in, lips brushing your ear, breath cold and heavy against your skin. And then he spoke.

“Little angel… I’m about to taint you.”

His voice was not human. It rumbled deep in his chest, echoed through your head, vibrating along your spine like a voice buried beneath the earth, rising just for you. It clung to your skin like a brand, a vow, a curse.

And then he kissed you.

No—he devoured you.

His lips slammed into yours, fast and brutal, a messy clash of fang and tongue and desperation. The sharp points of his fangs cut your lips, your tongue—thin lines of blood mixing with the flood of his own drool, slick and thick between your mouths like a dangerous, heady concoction.

You tasted copper and heat, the cold of him, the burn of you. There was no rhythm—just need. Raw, unholy need.

His kiss wasn’t something that asked. It took.

Your mouth, your breath, your will.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like every second his mouth wasn’t on you was agony. His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, your waist, sliding up your back and down your front, trembling from the force of restraint unraveling inside him. You could feel the cold of his skin and the sharp scrape of his claws dragging against your flesh, reverent and ravenous all at once.

And then he broke the kiss, only to trail his mouth down your jaw, to your throat, to your collarbones, lips slick with blood and spit as he tasted every inch like it was sacred. His breath hitched against your skin, cool and shaking.

You barely had time to gasp before his hands slid beneath your dress, gliding up your torso with possessive ease, fabric pushed away carelessly. The chill of the air hit your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of him—the cold weight of him lowering, dragging you closer.

And then, without a word, he dropped to his knees.

You felt your breath catch. Felt the confession booth spin. He knelt like you were divinity. Like you were the altar.

Strong hands yanked you forward until you were perched right at the edge of the seat, and before you could even process it, one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder, the position intimate—vulnerable. You could feel his breath on your inner thigh, your skin sticky with the blood still dripping from the earlier cut.

And then you saw it, saw how his gaze lifted—locked on your neck.

His mouth was open, drool now running freely down his chin, and his fangs—those inhuman fangs—were fully bared, far too long, far too sharp, glistening with saliva that dripped in slow, heavy strings onto your skin. And suddenly, he started to beg.

“Please…” he whispered, voice cracked, hoarse, ruined. “Just a taste. Just a taste, I swear.” His lips kissed down your leg, slow, wet kisses that made your toes curl, that made your heart beat harder. With every inch downward, he whispered again:

“Let me taste you, little angel…” Another kiss. “Let me worship you…” Another, slower this time, his tongue flicking out, collecting a drop of blood from your skin. “I’ll be good. I’ll serve. Just let me have it…” He sounded mad—feral—like a deity cast out of heaven, crawling back to the altar on his knees.

His breath ghosted hot against your inner thigh, wet from his lips and heavy with need. He nuzzled into your skin like a beast trying to burrow into warmth, his nose brushing your pulse point, his red eyes lifted to yours—dazed, wild, pleading.

Tears rimmed the corners of his glowing eyes, but they didn’t fall. They shimmered, catching the low light of the church like broken glass. His tongue peeked out again, dragging slowly along your thigh, tasting the copper tang of your blood with a choked sound of reverence. “Please…” he whimpered again, voice slurred, almost drunk. “Just a taste, angel… just a drop.”

You could only stare—caught between horror and something far darker, something that twisted low in your gut like a forbidden thrill. Your breath caught, chest rising and falling as you whispered, barely audible, “You’re the devil…”

He smiled against your thigh, fangs glinting. “For you?” he rasped, voice thick with devotion and lust, “I’ll be anything you want, angel.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the seat beneath you, white-knuckled. And then—without thinking, without hesitation—you leaned down, your lips ghosting near his ear, your whisper a challenge, a surrender, a summon.

“Then come and taste…”

You barely got the words out before he pounced.

There was no hesitation, no hesitation left in him—he moved like a storm unleashed, like a starving wolf tearing into paradise. One of his clawed hands flew up to your head, gripping your hair, tilting your face to the side—exposing your throat.

You gasped—no, whimpered—as his mouth moved to your shoulder.

And then—he bit.

Fangs pierced deep, sharp, brutal, slicing into muscle with terrifying ease. Your body seized as white-hot pain bloomed and then instantly melted into something blissful, devastating.

You screamed. Not in fear. Not in pain. But in ecstasy.

His mouth latched to your shoulder like he belonged there, sucking greedily, desperately, the wet, obscene sound of feeding filling the confessional like a hymn to madness. He groaned into your skin—low and feral, the sound vibrating through your bones. Your blood filled his mouth, spilling over his lips, slicking down his skin, and still—he didn’t stop.

He drank like it was salvation. You moaned like it was rapture.

And somewhere, buried in the pain and pleasure and ruin—

You realized the truth:

You had given yourself to a monster. And loved it.

When he finally pulled back, there was nothing holy left in him.

His entire front was soaked in your blood—neck to chest, sleeves to stomach. The white shirt beneath his unfastened cloak was ruined, stained crimson and clinging to his skin. His lips glistened, smeared with red, and he licked them with a guttural groan, head tipping back as his eyes rolled into his skull, overwhelmed by the taste of you.

“Delicious…” he murmured, voice heavy, cracked open in pleasure.

You lay slumped back against the booth, limbs trembling, twitching, eyes fluttering as your chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. Your skin was pale now, damp with sweat, mouth parted as you stared up at him—ruined and still wanting more.

And Sunghoon hadn’t had enough. Not nearly.

He looked down at you again, this time with hunger that had shifted—deepened. Not just starvation now. Not just thirst.

Possession.

He bent low again, pulling both of your legs up and over his shoulders, wrapping them around him with a strength that made your breath catch. His mouth descended on your thighs—hot, open-mouthed kisses pressed into the softest skin, slow and searing.

Marking you.

Over and over, he kissed, groaned, let his fangs drag lightly across the surface, each scrape making your toes curl. And then he bit again, not deep, not like before, just enough to break the skin, to draw small, perfect wells of blood. He sucked, moaning against your leg as if your taste was the holiest thing he'd ever known.

And you let him. You wanted him to.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking it hard, making a mess of the usual slicked-back strands. He groaned when you did it, hands gripping tighter at your thighs, claws dimpling your skin.

“Sunghoon…” you whined, breathless, head thrown back. The way you said his name—like a curse and a prayer—made him shudder against you.

Sunghoon kissed you like a man who had never known softness, only hunger—like your thighs were the first silk he’d ever touched and he meant to devour every inch. Each kiss turned sloppier, more feverish, his tongue dragging over your torn skin, mixing blood and spit and sweat in hot, open-mouthed reverence.

You held him there—gripping his hair tight, not just guiding him, but claiming him, like he belonged between your legs, on his knees, feeding from your body like it was divine.

And to him, it was.

You felt it in the way his fangs pressed teasingly to your inner thigh, not biting—threatening. Testing how far you’d let him go. How far gone you were.

And you were.

You were drunk on the feel of him. On the low, guttural groans that rumbled in his chest every time your fingers yanked harder, every time your breath caught when he sucked just right. Your head lolled back, body lax, shivering and twitching from blood loss and arousal, but you didn’t stop him. You opened your legs wider. Arched your hips up. Let him bury himself deeper against you.

He growled—an animal sound vibrating against your skin.

When he finally pulled back to look up at you, his mouth was smeared with red. His eyes were blown wide, pupils sharp and crimson and starved. “Mine,” he declared, voice hoarse, blood-wet.

And with his fingers tightening on your thighs and his lips finding your skin again, you knew this wasn’t about sin anymore. There was no church, no cross, no God above that could save you now.

Not from him. Not from yourself. And not from whatever you’d just become together in that confessional. Because you hadn’t just given him a taste. You’d offered yourself up.

Sunghoon moved with a suddenness that stole your breath. One moment, his mouth was still worshiping your thighs, fangs grazing your trembling skin and the next, he was lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

Your gasp was swallowed by the heat of his body pressed against yours.

One arm hooked securely beneath your thigh, the other gripped the curve of your ass, claws digging just enough to make you gasp again. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, body clinging to him as if it were instinct—as if you’d always been meant to fit there.

He didn’t speak. Just turned and carried you from the booth, footsteps slow but purposeful, like he was parading you through his house of worship, defiling its silence one step at a time. The church was silent and sacred and wrong around you both, your blood still hot and damp between you.

And you—bold, trembling, ruined—took your chance.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Your lips found his in a desperate, messy collision. You didn’t care about the blood, about the taste of iron or the heat of his tongue claiming yours. You kissed him like you were starving for him too. Your hands cradled his face, fingers sliding through his hair, tugging, pulling him deeper into you as he groaned into your mouth.

The kiss was violent and wet, his lips parting around a breathless moan as you dragged your teeth over his bottom lip. He pressed you harder to his chest, clawed fingers flexing around your thigh as he kept walking.

Down the aisle. Past the altar. Toward the hidden stairwell cloaked in shadow.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, breathless against his lips, “Where are we going?”

His eyes locked with yours—red, wild, glinting like polished garnet in the dark. “To where I keep what’s mine,” he answered.

The door creaked open with a groan, heavy and ancient, like it hadn't welcomed anyone but him in centuries. The air that met you was cold, dense, and rich with the scent of stone, old incense, and blood.

Sunghoon stepped through the threshold without hesitation, and the moment the door sealed shut behind him, the world above might as well have ceased to exist.

This space—this dark, secret chamber was his. And now, it was yours, too.

He crossed the room and lowered you onto the bed with reverent ease, like you were the most sacred offering he'd ever laid eyes on. Your back sank into the ruined, claw-torn mattress, the scent of him surrounding you—musk, blood, devotion, lust.

And then he was on you.

His body hovered above yours, his frame broad and trembling with hunger as his lips found your neck again. He kissed your pulse, slow and open-mouthed, tongue tracing the spot he’d already bitten, teeth grazing, not biting—not yet.

Then lower. To your collarbone. To your chest.

You shivered beneath him, your hands reaching to grip his arms, nails dragging against the fabric of his ruined shirt as he slid the hem of your dress further down your chest, exposing more skin to his mouth, his touch, his worship.

His breath was ragged as he muttered something against your skin, the words rolling off his tongue like silk—Latin, dark and fluid, foreign but intimate. Each syllable was reverent, hushed, like a prayer or a curse meant only for you.

You didn’t understand a word of it. But the way he said it. The depth in his voice, the possessive tremble, the soft growl. It made your breath catch. It made your thighs clench. It made you need.

He caged you beneath him, hands on either side of your head, his body pressing down just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the danger of him—fangs inches from your throat, breath ragged with restraint and desperation. "You're mine now," he murmured lowly, switching back to a voice you understood, though his lips still brushed your shoulder. “Body… blood… soul. Mine.”

And though you should’ve felt fear, all you felt was heat. And you didn’t dare deny it.

Sunghoon pulled back, breathless, a string of blood-slick saliva connecting his lips to your collarbone before it snapped and dripped onto your chest. His eyes never left yours as his fingers went to the buttons of his bloodstained cassock, undoing them slowly, one by one, like he wanted you to feel every second of his unraveling.

And when the last layer fell from his frame, you could only stare.

His body was sculpted—inhumanly so. Pale, marble skin stretched over muscle, defined and taut, like he had been carved by the hands of something ancient and cruel. His chest glistened, smeared with your blood and his drool, both clinging to every line, every dip of his torso.

Your mouth parted in awe.

Sunghoon tilted his head, red eyes shining like molten garnet as he leaned closer, his voice low and thick. “I need another taste…” he growled.

Without hesitation, you tilted your head, baring your neck for him again, breath catching with anticipation. But he paused, a slow smirk ghosting over his lips.

“…No,” he murmured. “Not there.”

Confusion flashed in your eyes for just a moment—until you saw where he was looking.

Down.

His gaze burned past your collarbone, over your stomach, lower, darker, hungrily until it settled between your legs.

Understanding bloomed like heat in your gut.

“I need to taste every part of you, little lamb,” he whispered, reverent and possessive, like he was claiming you not just as prey but as sacrifice. “Every inch.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you met his gaze. And then—silently, shamelessly—you spread your legs for him, slow and wide, offering yourself fully.

A holy gesture, turned sinful. An invitation no demonic creature could ever resist.

Sunghoon’s eyes rolled back for a second, fangs bared, and he let out a sound that was almost a purr—but too low, too broken, too hungry. And then he lowered himself between your thighs like a worshiper before an altar. Ready to make you his religion.

He descended between your thighs like a man starved of meaning, of warmth, of purpose—and now he had all three in the form of you.

You, trembling beneath him, blood-slicked and bare. You, spread open like an offering laid at the altar. You, who smelled like sin and salvation tangled together in skin.

Sunghoon didn’t rush. No, he savored.

His claws, still stained slid along your thighs as he lowered his mouth, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive skin. You felt it, the way his nose brushed you, how he breathed you in, groaning like your scent alone was enough to unravel the centuries he’d spent chained by control.

And then his mouth was on you.

It wasn’t gentle.

His tongue was hot and soft, but his hunger was savage. He licked into you with slow, devastating intent—then faster, greedier, dragging obscene sounds from your lips. His fangs grazed delicately near where you were most sensitive, not biting but always a threat, a promise.

Your hips bucked and he growled, arms locking tighter around your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you right there.

Like he was feasting. Because he was.

Between each lash of his tongue, he whispered against your heat, voice low, words murmured in Latin again—litanies not meant for the divine but for the damned. You didn’t know what he said, but your body answered, arching into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, sobbing out his name like a prayer.

He moaned against you, the vibrations deep and devastating, and then finally he bit. Sharp. Precise. Deep enough to make you cry out not in pain, but in rapture. Blood welled again, and he drank from you there, tongue lapping it up like nectar, like he was tasting divinity.

“So sweet…” he groaned, face buried between your thighs, voice ragged and soaked in lust. “I knew you’d be sweet everywhere.”

Your vision blurred, your moans dissolving into whimpers as your body trembled, flooded with heat, with loss, with bliss. He didn’t let up. He didn’t stop. He worshipped you with his mouth like a man who had been denied heaven and finally found a Goddess willing to open the gates.

Summer didn’t last long. Of course it didn’t. Nothing that sweet, that intense, ever did.

But Sunghoon wasn’t something that faded with the season. He was yours. Fully, endlessly, eternally and he planned to stay that way. If you returned to the city, he’d follow. If you crossed oceans, he’d swim through them. If the sky cracked open and swallowed the world whole, he’d hold your hand through the flames. Convenient, really, when your boyfriend was a centuries-old vampire willing to follow you to the ends of the earth with nothing but a hunger for your blood and a hand on your waist.

You loved him. God, you loved him.

He was everything from your wildest dreams—beautiful, obsessive, dangerous. And it didn’t help that he looked at you like you were made of stars and sin.

And maybe, maybe… you liked to tease him.

A lot.

Even if it did end up biting you—hard—when he finally snapped and ruined you for hours after, leaving you trembling and marked in places no one else could see.

But you couldn’t help it. Teasing him was too easy.

You abused the fact that he couldn’t step into sunlight, casually opening the curtains in your room and lounging in the beam just to watch him pout in the shadows, shirtless and fanged, like a wounded predator denied his prey.

You abused the fact that silver burned him, which just so happened to become your new fashion statement. You wore a silver ring to bed and rested your hand over his chest as he hissed, and you only giggled when he snarled and bit your neck for the fourth time that night. You even got a dainty little silver necklace with a charm that sat right above your cleavage, just to make him snarl every time you leaned forward.

And oh… you abused the oldest rule of them all.

He couldn’t enter a house without an invitation.

You’d wait at the threshold, in nothing but lace, smirking as he stood seething outside your door, clawing at the frame like a beast denied his prey.

“Let me in.” “Say it.” “Little lamb, I swear—”

And you’d smile, thighs clenched sweetly, looking pretty, and purr, “No.”

Until the minute you finally gave in, invited him in with a smirk and a raised brow, was when the teasing always bit you back. Hard.

Because the moment you whispered “Come in,” he’d pounce. You’d end up ruined, spread and marked and soaked in the kind of pleasure that only something eternal could give. There was no waiting, no warming up. You barely had time to blink before your back hit the mattress, your clothes were halfway gone, and your wrists were pinned above your head by hands colder than ice and stronger than steel.

His mouth would find your throat first—always. Like a ritual. He’d kiss the places he’d bitten before, tongue tracing the scars he’d left like ownership, like a collector admiring his finest piece.

And then?

He’d ruin you.

You’d end up sprawled, legs trembling from being held apart too long, thighs marked up in crimson and violet from his claws, his lips. Your body ached—in the best, filthiest ways. You’d be soaked, not just in sweat, but in drool, blood, and his obsession. The sheets damp beneath you. Your voice hoarse from the screaming he always pulled out of you.

Because Sunghoon didn’t just take. He overwhelmed. He made you feel like nothing existed outside of him—nothing could.

“Still feel like teasing, little lamb?” he’d whisper, fangs dragging across your collarbone as you writhed beneath him.

You’d try to answer—but your voice would be wrecked, your mind hazy, your lips swollen, breath catching in short, desperate gasps. Your hands would still be buried in his hair, sticky with sweat, and your thighs would tremble from the aftershocks of how he broke you.

And yet—he was never done.

Because the part you loved most? The part that made your core throb and your heart race, no matter how many times he did it?

Was when he got you down on your knees.

When he’d pull you gently—almost lovingly—from the wreckage of the bed, guiding you to the floor like you were porcelain and his. And you’d go, obedient and dazed, letting your knees hit the ground as you looked up at him.

That look he gave you.

Sunghoon would stare down at you like a king before his throne, chest heaving, pale skin streaked in your blood, lips parted, fangs still glinting wet in the low light. His ruined shirt would hang half off his body, exposing the way his abdomen flexed with restraint and need. His eyes—red and blown with hunger would lock onto yours as you sat there, breathless, bruised, waiting.

And God, the power in it.

Because no matter how strong he was, how ancient or monstrous—he looked at you like you were the one who held power. Like you were the altar now. Like he wanted to fall to his knees, too. (Sometimes he would.)

He’d trace a claw along your jaw, tilting your head back just a little more, and say in that low, velvet voice, “Look at you. Perfect. On your knees for me, just like you should be.”

And you’d smile—slow and wicked—because the teasing always came back around. Because the moment you looked up at him with parted lips and that gleam in your eye, you knew he was about to lose control again. Sunghoon was the devil—not in name, but in nature.

And you... You were his corrupted angel.

You sat perched on his lap, back arched sweetly, fingers curled into the fabric of his ruined shirt, head tilted like you still wore some semblance of grace. From a distance, you looked almost pure—like a painting brought to life, divine and glowing under the flicker of candlelight.

But purity had long left you. Your eyes told the truth. So did your hips.

Because your lower body was moving—slow, deliberate, rolling against him in a rhythm you both knew too well. Every grind made him groan low in his throat, hands gripping your hips, guiding you, matching you, until your movements became one long, drawn-out act of sin.

There was nothing innocent left in you.

Not after the blood. Not after the nights of screaming his name beneath holy arches. Not after the way you let him bite, let him break, let him own.

Whatever innocence you had once carried, whatever glow had lived in your chest, had long since been stripped, blackened, burned out like soot. A ghost of holiness now cloaked in the ashes of delightful depravity.

And he loved you for it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, mouth brushing your shoulder, his voice rough from worship and want. “You used to be so pure… Now you ride me like you belong to the dark.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body moved—grinding deeper, slower, tighter said enough.

You did belong to the dark. You belonged to him. And in his lap, corrupted and worshiped, you found heaven again, carved from hell.

The best part of this new life—this life soaked in crimson and devotion—wasn’t just the power, or the ruin, or even the sin.

It was him. After feeding.

When Sunghoon returned from the hunt, he was a different creature entirely. Not the composed, cold priest with honeyed words. Not the teasing, obsessive lover who knelt between your thighs and murmured prayers into your skin.

No—this version of him was feral.

His front would be soaked—chest and jaw smeared in blood, dirt clinging to the folds of his coat, hair wild, eyes glowing brighter than any flame. His movements were sharp, precise, a predator fresh from the kill, buzzing with adrenaline, with dominance, with the high of power surging through immortal veins.

And that was when he didn’t take any of your teasing. Not a single smug look. Not a lifted brow or sarcastic hum. Not even the hint of your bratty tongue.

Because the moment you opened your mouth with anything other than submission, he’d be on you—fast, like a strike of lightning, slamming you into the nearest surface with a growl in your ear and his claws already tearing at your clothes.

He wouldn’t ask—he’d take.

And you loved it.

You loved the way your body responded—how it knew when he came through the door like that. You loved the force, the hunger, the way he’d drag his bloodied hands along your skin, leaving marks that stained just as deep as his fangs.

“You wanna tease me now, little lamb?” he’d snarl into your throat, voice ragged as he rutted against you like he’d die without it. “Go on. Say something smart. See what happens.”

But you wouldn’t. Not then.

Not when his hand was around your throat, when your legs were thrown over his shoulders, when your voice was already breaking from moans and whimpers. When the only words you could manage were his name, over and over, as he ruined you with reckless, starved precision.

That was your favorite version of him. Not holy. Not gentle.

Just yours. Bloody. Breathless. And starving for you.

So screw you. You loved yourself a ruined vampire.

Blood on his chest, sin in his eyes, your name always on his tongue—sometimes in reverence, sometimes in warning, always with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You loved the way he shattered control when it came to you. How centuries of restraint, of silence, of cold detachment melted into madness the second your fingers tangled in his hair or your voice dipped just enough to tempt him.

You loved how he kissed like he was still starving, how he touched you like he feared you’d disappear, how he whispered filth into your skin like a prayer—your name his only gospel.

And you didn’t care that he wasn’t human. Didn’t care that he’d killed. That he burned in the sun. That he fed on the blood of the unfortunate.

Because he knelt for you. Because he would burn the world for you.

What more could you really want?

You had a vampire who worshiped your body, ruined your soul, fed from your love like it was his last salvation. You had a monster who touched you like you were the only thing left that mattered in an eternity of rot and ruin.

So yeah.

Screw purity. Screw salvation.

You’d take your blood-drenched, snarling, fanged lover over any mortal fantasy.

Because you didn’t need heaven. You had him. And he was hell in the best way possible.

a/n: this was supposed to be short and only suggestive, but screw it..

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[thesundys]

my only goal in life is to experience shotgunning tbh

𝓘n 𝓨o𝑢𝐫 𝓛a𝑝, 𝓘n 𝓨o𝑢𝐫 𝓛u𝑛𝐠s ─── .ᐟ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

park sunghoon 𝓧 sim jaeyun 𝓧 female reader

sh4r1n0t3 ᪄ a couple of months ago I had fucking frot rot and frotting was all I could think about... this is my contribution to that... also I love jakehoon x reader fics so uhm... sue me! I'm sorry :0 this is my first time incorporating mxm themes so be nice to me abeg! ၃ ִ

snyp: or... where sunghoon and jake put on a show | wc: 2.09k | cw: usage of drugs (weed) • frotting mlm | mxm themes (they kiss and they rub dicks hooray!) • oral (f) • fingering (f) • cockwarming (f) • pet names • needy | whiny reader • slight dry humping • shotgunning crack | fluff at the end • smut | mdni .ᐟ

wiplist. masterlist. requests.

you only get like this when you're needy... you're unusually hushed—whining with your bottom lip jutted out into a pout. the dim lights blur in your peripheral as you sit perched on jake's lap. his scent is familiar—warm and comforting, the smell of amber clings to his hoodie which swallows your frame. it only fuels your desperation.

your thighs are sticky, your panties damp. you just can't help yourself... not when he looks so alluring, his head thrown back, manspreading with smoke curling around his figure. "you're so sensitive, baby." he exhales, voice reverberating against your neck as you rock back and forth on his bulge.

sunghoon sits on the other end of the couch. he's busy—long, dexterous fingers tucking and rolling. "she's so needy..." he grins lazily, watching you feign embarrassment as you dip into jake's neck. the other man laughs cordially. his hands squeeze at your thighs, pawing his way up to knead at your ass. jake nuzzles against your temple, "aw, baby..." he picks your head up.

"don't be so shy, 'hoonie's only teasing..." sunghoon chuckles, finally twisting the end of his joint before feeling around for his lighter. "I know what you want, y/n." jake's lips are plump, grazing your own before he leans in, pecking at your lips. he nods over at his best friend... silently drawing him near.

with the same fingers he used to roll, he grips your chin, kissing you sloppily and swallowing all of your sounds. in his other hand, he holds the blunt propped between his two fingers—tossing jake his lighter as he clicks the little piece of metal, igniting it.

you grind harder against his lap, lost in the feeling of sunghoon's lips molding against yours. when he pulls away, you're breathless, antsy—eager as your hands cup his face, chasing an embrace. you turn to jake, pouting with swollen lips "jakey..." your fingers tangle against the fabric of his shirt. "shhh... I know, baby. 'you'll get what you want," he bucks his hips against your aching, pany clad center. "'just be patient."

beside you, sunghoon takes a long drag. smoke swirls around the three of you as he leans back in. "there you go..." jake redirects your attention, "say ah for him, sweetheart." the younger's hand lightly wraps around your throat, applying light pressure as his lips graze your gaping mouth. then, he blows.

a steady stream of smoke breaches past your lips. you choke back a whine, feeling extremely hot. the man beneath you taps at your thighs. "all of it, y/n." he's firm, eyes darting between you and sunghoon as he sighs out the last bit of smoke. "good girl." sunghoon clicks, eyes flickering to jake with a fucked-out smirk plastered across his face. "what?" he inches even closer, "need me to treat you too?" he takes another drag—short but just as intentional before grabbing jake's face, squeezing just hard enough to make his lips purse.

you watch dazed as they shotgun, feeling yourself grow impossibly wet. you can't help but to notice sunghoon's protruding bulge—heavy, prominent through the grey fabric of his sweatpants. the sight makes you whimper, your hand creeping slowly to the waistband of your panties. you press at your clit, swallowing a gasp as jake's grip tightens on you. "that desperate?" he cocks his head back towards you. "I think she's too far gone." sunghoon grins, placing the half-smoked joint between your lips. "I think she likes it when we kiss." you nod fervently, incapable of denying the men. "mmm..." jake hums, tracing shapes at your sides before deciding.

he carefully hikes his hoodie over your body, gently picking you up from his lap and placing you down on the edge of the cushion. his eyes catch on the sight of your hardened nipples as he trails down your body. "she's soaked." the two examine the wet patch on display leaking through your underwear.

sunghoon brought two fingers to prod at your hole through the cotton material—digging into the ruined fabric, watching you squirm. "you want us to keep going?"

"y-yes, fuck! please, please k-keep going." he nodded at jake who was already peeling his shirt over his head. he did the same. you stared in awe as they stripped themselves down, exposing the toned muscles of their stomachs and the curves of their biceps. sunghoon patted his lap, signaling for jake to climb atop of him—their cocks stood hard, flush and leaking against each other. "touch yourself," he commanded, sparing you an ounce of his attention before turning back to jake. "and don't you cum before smoking that all the way out." the man smirked against his best friend's lips, his hand sinking down jake's chest to firmly hold their dicks together.

you tested the waters, dipping your fingertips inside to collect any slick before dragging them up to smear your clit in the stickiness. you rubbed in small circles, enamoured by the sight in front of you. the two men moved their mouths against one another with a tender passion, sunghoon's hand wrapped around jake's as he thrust both their cock's between their fists. "agh..!" you mewled, slipping two fingers between the walls of your cunt—inhaling, taking a deep breath and allowing smoke to curdle and sting your lungs.

"fuck, man..." jake swears, sunghoon's thumb tracing over his tip whilst he breathlessly laughs. "'feels good, right?" he groans, tightening his fist as they continue to frot. jake's throat bobs, his adam's apple poking as he throws his head back.

you take another puff, slipping in a third finger and gasping at the stretch. one of your hands tweaks at the hard peak of your nipple, your back arches as you shove your fingers deeper. your flushed knuckles brush your entrance, your fingertips stretch to reach your g-spot. you curl them tightly, thumbing at your clit as the knot in your stomach tightens.

their cocks rut against one another—the friction is delicious, precum drips, spilling past the barrier of their joint fist. you swear you can see sunghoon's tip angrily throbbing, jake's weeping everywhere. "s-sunghoon," jake exasperates, rolling his hips. "dude, ser—agh! seriously... fuck!" he chokes on his words, abdomen flexing as his orgasm nears. "look..." he grins. "fuck, you're so hard." sunghoon bucks a little faster now, his lip twitching as his eyes shut tight.

you pinch your clit, taking one last drag at the joint between your lips before watching as the glowing orangey-red end fades to grey. finally. "mmpf!" you thrust one final time before cumming. slick lathered around the base of your fingers as you cream everywhere. "ah, ah..! 'jakey... 'hoon." you gasp their names watching as thick ropes of hot cum spurt from their tips. drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, head foggy as you watched the way it dripped down their stomachs—rising in falling in rapid spurts.

without another word, jake swiped his fingers across the man's abs, collecting his cum before leaning over and replacing the butt with his fingers. "suck f'me, baby... there y'go." your lips enveloped his fingers, sucking them clean as you basked in the salty taste of their semon. you swirled your tongue between the two muscles, opening your mouth with your tongue out so he could see.

not a drop left.

"'so nasty." sunghoon chimed. he stood from the couch, walking behind you. "'you enjoy that?" he whispered against the shell of your ear. you shivered, dumbly nodding as his hands came down to knead your breasts. "you looked so pretty when you came," jake kissed at your neck. "such a good girl..." he purred. "'even finished this," referring to the joint sunghoon had rolled he grinned. "just like 'hoonie asked you to."

"I think she deserves a reward." sunghoon carefully lifted you from the couch, a small damp spot left behind in your place. "what d'you think, sweet girl?" you nodded, pecking kisses across his face as he laughed. "hm... what 'bout you, jakey? up to treating our baby?" with no hesitance, he nodded, sitting up as he let sunghoon reposition you.

he brought you around to hover above his lap. he fisted his cock, lazily stroking until it stood once more before slowly pushing into your sore cunt. "o-oh my god..." you whined feeling the stretch of his shaft as he bottomed out. "it feels... 'feels good, m'so full, ssshit." you babbled. sunghoon carefully parted your thighs, making room for the eldest to sneak between your legs on his knees. "yeah? jakey's 'gonna make you feel extra good." he spread your folds, watching his friend's eyes blow out at the sight.

"sound good?" jake murmured, trailing kisses from your trembling knees to your thighs. you nodded. "speak." sunghoon slapped at your clit, your jaw falling slack in a silent cry. "y-yes! sounds good... so good, p-please." was all it took—he was buried in your cunt... as far as he could get, at least with sunghoon's cock buried deep inside of you. he lapped at your clit, puckering his lips as he made out with your cunt. "mm... jake!" your hands tangled into his hair, he groaned feeling you yank on his scalp.

"he's doing so good isn't he?" sunghoon groped at your chest, fondling the swell of your boobs as you squirmed on top of him. jake sucked up your juices like a madman starved of water, slurping around the base of his friend's cock to collect your slick. "taste like heaven." his words echoed, vibrating against your pussy and making you clench.

the knot returns—your body trembling as waves of pleasure threaten to crash over you. you cum with sunghoon's cock still nestled deep inside of your, your jaw slack and your eyes foggy and white. jake, still buried between your thighs continues his assault. lips dampened by slick and spit. you nails dig harder into his scalp as your orgasm pulses through you. jake carries you through your high, finally pulling away in a pussydrunk daze as he wipes his mouth. "look at you..." sunghoon coos, pulling your hair back as he leans into your neck.

"s'full of me," he trails soft kisses across your jaw before pressing his palm flat on the bulge poking through your stomach. jake slides his sweatpants up to hang loosely around his hips, tossing sunghoon's shirt along with his pants. "took it so good." he grabs your jaw, placing a kiss on the bruised swell of your lips. "you too," he grins, winking at jake who flops down on his back beside you.

"'can't feel my legs." he murmur against his jaw, tired and lazy. "you're high, baby." jake smiles, pulling his hoodie back over your head as sunghoon ride his sweats up his thighs. "'couldn't stop squirmin'... so pretty," he kisses your lips before falling back down across the both of your laps. "don't tease me," you playfully hit him, giggling when he clutched his chest theatrically. "he's not teasing, sweet girl." sunghoon squeezed you tight from behind in a warm hug.

"damn... I really want some cereal." jake churned. you looked down at him in genuine disbelief. "cereal? right now?" he nodded, staring up at you and 'hoon. "I could go for some too, honestly."

"what are you two talking about?"

they erupt into a conjoined laughter. "y'know like..." jake trails off, thinking. "cinnamon toast crunch, cold milk... a big ass spoon too." he points. you roll your eyes, leaning back into sunghoon's chest. "that does sound good." the other man chimes. you zone out for a minute, jake poking at your thigh. "you made a mess." he chuckles. "stop it," you grimace, slowly standing and plopping between the two. you felt relaxed as sunghoon's large hands came up to knead the aching flesh of your thighs, jake's fingers absentmindedly combing through your hair.

"okay, but seriously. snacks..." you open your eyes, turning to jake who's now been hit with what seems to be a serious hunger induced by his high. "I want hot chips," you glance over at sunghoon. "and sour candy, oh! and soda." he nods, turning over to jake. "you already know what I want man." cereal. he hikes his pants all the way up, tying the strings of his sweatpants before reaching for his shirt. "clean up while I'm gone, yeah?" the both of you nod, agreeing to shower and clean up while sunghoon goes out to pick up your snacks.

"thanks, 'honnie." you flash a quaint smile, nudging jake in the ribs. "thank you!" he mimics your sickeningly sweet tone.

"whatever, you guys are lucky."

[thesundys]

Lassie ily

Power Play pt.2

sub!boss Jake x co-worker!dom reader (ft.jay)

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut!, sub Jake, dom reader, needy sub attitude, power play, sexual tension, worship/mommy kink, toys, edging, cum denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, premature climax, degradation play, rope, fluff and romance (what should i say i'm a romantic...),yapper Jake is my shit, feat Jay my love !!

WORDCOUNT ↠ 11k~ (no proof reader yet !)

Part 2 of Power Play is here!! 💥 I rushed this one out early just for @ri4-lovesenha, @raven-unkind & @bambiihee I promised, more sub!Jake 💗 It’s freakier than Part 1 since they’re in a full sub/dom dynamic now

It’s been two months since Jake Sim — golden manager, corporate darling, quiet wet dream of half the women in the building — officially became yours. Not yours in the polite, romantic, LinkedIn-appropriate way. No. Yours in the real, stripped-down under-the-table kind of way. Yours like : “get on your knees and don’t speak unless I let you.” Yours like: “you’ll cum when I say so — not a second before.” And he’d thanked you for it. Every fucking time. His eyes glossy, mouth open, gratitude pouring off him like sweat.

You’re dom and sub now. Officially! And the active kind, not the online-inspo-board, “I call him sir on weekends” kind. You’d made it clear from day one that if you were going to do this, it would be structured, with intention. You’re a professional after all. PowerPoint-level organization, calendar reminders, one session per week— minimum—On Friday night. Penciled between boardroom battles and email chains that could kill a man.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about rules. Because Jake... Yeah, Jake freaking Sim was not just a perfect boss. And not just a needy sub begging to be ruined. He also was—and god help you— one of the cutest men alive.

You noticed it one Sunday, when he spent twenty quiet minutes fidgeting with your nails, a dumb smile on his face, while you both watched a documentary on Roman history. Then again the next week, when he curled up against you with a book in one hand and the other idly tugging at your hoodie string like a cat in a sunbeam. And don’t even get started on the nipple thing. It was endearing until it wasn’t—until one night he got so carried away stroking and pinching slowly harder and harder, that your tits actually hurt the next morning, and you had to ban him from even looking at them without explicit clearance. He apologized with a handwritten note and home somthings that looked like breakfast. You accepted.

So yes, it’s… domestic. Comfortable. The line between scenes and real life began to blur in the softest ways. Now, it’s a habit—to eat together after a particularly brutal night. To shower together and split the loofah like sinners trying to cleanse their sins. You don’t cuddle. Not officially. But he sleeps better with his head on your lap or your belly and your fingers carding through his hair... So you let him.

And at work? Nothing’s changed.

Jake is still the picture of leadership — polished, poised, too damn polite for his own good. And you? You’re still you. Frost-edged, perfectly put together, politely untouchable. But now, he belongs to you. Which makes things easier. Especially on days like today.

Days like this.

flushed like he’s about to combust, back to the wall, eyes wide. You’d texted him mid-meeting, one line, no emoji.

You’ve got four minutes, meet me in the west wing bathroom... Women’s

And he obeyed. Because he always obeys. He slipped in like a shadow, breath already shaky, pupils blown wide with anticipation.

You follow heels sharp on the tile, sliding the lock with a metallic click that might as well have sealed his fate. You don’t speak. Just turn around and corner him, pressing close — so close your chest brushes his tie, your perfume curling around his brain like a noose.

“Pants,” you murmur, voice soft but razor-sharp.

He obeys. Too fast. Belt unbuckled, zipper down, trousers around his knees. You catch a glimpse of the tip — flushed, already leaking. Boxers thin and helpless, no barrier at all.

And then you lean in.

Your hand slides between you — slow, casual — until your palm cups him through the fabric. And god, he whimpers.

Your fingers flex around his cock, pressing, not stroking — just reminding him who owns it. Who decides what he gets, and when. He jerks in your hand like it’s the first time anyone’s ever touched him.

You lean closer, lips against the shell of his ear, and smile.

“You think I brought you in here to suck you off like you were good?”

He twitches. “I—I thought—”

“Oh, baby,” you purr. “You’re so far from good.”

From your bag, you pull out a device — a sleek little ring of black silicone and a small chrome design, smooth and sexy. Jake recognizes it immediately. His breath stutters. He looks like he might cry from hope.

“Boxers off.”

They hit the floor instantly. You kneel, slide the ring over his cock and balls in one practiced motion. And he gasps high and wrecked, nearly collapsing against the stall door. Then you reach into your bag again and lift your phone — screen glowing, the app already open.

His eyes blow wide.

“You’ll wear it through the rest of the day,” you say, tapping the setting labeled 'steady pulse', watching him twitch in real time as the gentle hum starts low. “Meeting starts in ten. If you can hold it together...”

You glance up from beneath your lashes, smile wickedly.

“Dinner’s on me.”

He blinks, almost breathless. Gasping at your finger working the app.

“And tonight,” you whisper, licking your lips just to fuck with him, “you can ask for anything.”

He nods too fast, “Anything?”

You smile.

“Anything your little broken brain can think of, mr. Sim.”

You kiss the tip of his cock, just once to tease him. Enough to make him moan through his gritted teeth.

“Then pull it together,” you whisper, stepping back. “And fix your pants. You’re late.”

Then you leave him there, red-faced and straining, cock caged, soul on fire.

And at 4:05 sharp, Jake Sim enters the conference room with his tie too tight, his glasses perfectly straight, and his eyes locked on the PowerPoint like it’s the only thing keeping him from whimpering.

And you? You take your seat across from him. And just before the first slide clicks onto the screen, you reach for your phone.

Tap.

And watch him flinch. Like he lives for it.

Jake lasts.

Somehow.

Through the entire finance review, even when you tap the “pulse” setting mid-sentence while asking for clarification on Q3 projections — his voice hitching slightly, just enough for only you to notice.

He even makes it through the all-hands. Barely. Sweat beading at his temple, legs clenched tight, knuckles white where he grips his own wrist under the desk like he’s seconds from buckling. You watch him like a hawk, occasionally flicking your phone open just to see that tiny icon still glowing in the corner of the screen. Active. Synced. Steady.

At one point, you accidentally hit the "randomized wave" setting while stirring your coffee. His pen snaps. Just cracks in half, ink bleeding onto his neat notes, a quiet fuck under his breath that no one but you hears.

By the end of the day, he’s twitchy. Soft-eyed. Glazed.

The moment 6:04 hits, your phone buzzes.

🕛 Mr.Sim Jake (Work): I’ll wait in my office Please

No “Miss.” No punctuation. Just that one word, begging inside its own silence. Please.

You don’t respond. Just close your laptop, smooth your blouse, reapply your lipstick like you’re heading into a negotiation — because in a way, you are. He thinks this is his reward. That he’s about to be used, broken, maybe allowed release if he grovels right.

But you’re not done yet.

You step into his office without knocking, and what greets you nearly makes you laugh.

Jake Sim — polished, professional, always composed — is on the fucking floor.

On. The. Floor.

Suit jacket gone, tie loose and twisted, hair disheveled, pants unbuckled, boxer-briefs pulled taut around his thighs, cock flushed violently red and still caged in that perfect black ring. He’s clutching the carpet like it’ll ground him, gasping, hips twitching like he’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

And the second he sees you?

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Pathetic.

You shut the door behind you and tilt your head like a curious cat.

“You couldn’t even wait on your feet?”

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I just— I can’t—”

You wave a hand. Dismissive. “No time for that, baby. I still have work.”

He blinks, like you slapped him with math.

You walk past him — slow, commanding, letting your heels click like a countdown to chaos — and sink onto the couch near the side wall, crossing your legs as if you’re just here to decompress.

From your bag, you pull a slim folder of papers.

“Come here,” you say, tapping the floor in front of the coffee table. “You’re still my superior, aren’t you? Gotta review these before I file.”

Jake crawls.

He actually crawls.

And kneels beside the low table, hands resting obediently on his thighs, lips parted as if he might start panting again. His cock twitches visibly in its ring — red, aching, wet at the tip. You ignore it.

Open the folder.

“You’re going to validate each paragraph for me, Mr. Sim. Verbally.”

He nods quickly.

You start reading aloud. Slowly. Bored, almost.

“Based on the Q2 metrics, we project a 12.4% increase in productivity following the onboarding of—”

“Yes,” he breathes.

One paragraph down.

You scroll your thumb across your phone. Vibrations hum through him.

Next one.

“The reduction in turnaround time aligns with adjusted expectations from last quarter—”

“Yes—” he gasps. A little too breathy.

And then you flick to a new setting. One you’ve been saving.

You hit “Voice Sync Mode.”

Jake twitches violently.

“Oh, right,” you say casually, tapping again. “Almost forgot. New feature. Vibrates based on… voice modulation. Funny, huh?”

You lower your tone, let it dip low and rich.

Jake bucks. Just slightly. Eyes wide, mouth open.

“Say yes for this one.”

“Yes,” he moans.

It triggers again. His hips stutter.

You keep reading. Keep your voice smooth, varied, slightly sing-song in parts just to fuck with him. Every line, every syllable — translated into chaos below the belt.

And he starts losing it.

“Yes,” he pants after every paragraph. Louder. Shakier. More breath than voice now. His hands twitch off his thighs, one dragging toward his cock before he jerks it back with a choked sob like he knows the rules.

By paragraph five, his voice cracks. By seven, he’s humping the air — subtle at first, then not. His head drops to your thigh like it’s the only safe place left on Earth, and he starts rubbing his cheek there. Like a cat in heat. Like a man desperate for grounding in a world that’s unraveling by the second.

You keep reading.

“Final page. If you can make it through—”

But he can’t.

He shudders.

One strangled, broken cry leaves his throat, and you feel the warmth of it — the twitch, the helpless thrust — and then he’s gone. Cumming in his briefs, thick and shameful, whimpering into your thigh, his whole body trembling like a fault line.

You don’t say anything.

Just gently stroke his hair.

Let him breathe.

Let him twitch and shake and sigh into the afterglow like a man who just gave up every ounce of pride he had left and didn’t even want it back.

And when the silence settles, heavy and warm, you finally speak — voice soft, back to that dangerous kind of care that feels more intimate than any orgasm ever could.

“You tried your best,” you murmur, brushing his hair off his forehead. He nods against your leg, ruined.

“Good boy.” Another whimper.

You glance at the clock. Pick up your folder.

“I’m heading home,” you say lightly, gathering your things. “Sleep. Hydrate. Lock the door if you’re gonna clean up here.”

And then you left him there kneeling, soaked, still wearing your ring, like the good little office pet he is.

You couldn’t play on Saturday.

Not because you were too busy, or tired, or felt the shift in the weather deep in your bones — though the forecast did have the nerve to threaten rain just as you left the office. No. You couldn’t play because Saturday, in some inconvenient act of cosmic irony, was your birthday.

A day you kept quiet. Deliberately. Not out of shame, or fear of getting older — god, no. You wore your age like you wore everything else: sharp, polished, with just enough bite to make people hesitate before asking anything too personal. You didn’t need celebration. You had plans to do absolutely nothing. Maybe a glass of wine. Maybe an orgasm. Maybe both at once. Alone.

But Jake, your painfully attentive, painfully eager, painfully good boy Jake… caught on.

You didn’t tell him.

He just knew.

And on Sunday, he asked if you’d still be willing to play. But — and this was where it got suspicious — he asked if you’d have dinner with him first. “Before the session,” he said, too casually. “Just us. I’ll text you the address.”

You agreed. Not thinking much of it.

Until you got there.

Until your heels clicked down the pristine marble hallway of a hotel that had no business being that opulent on a Sunday evening, and the concierge greeted you by name.

Until the elevator opened onto a private suite, and the door — already slightly ajar — creaked open with a whisper.

And there it was.

The dining table, perfectly set beneath dimmed golden lights, with soft music curling through the room like warmth in smoke. Low candles. A bouquet of white orchids. A bottle of red you’d once mentioned liking, twice, months ago. And at the center of the table — a cake. Small. Elegant. Iced in cream. With a single candle.

Jake stood by the far wall, hands behind his back, nervous in a way that didn’t suit him — cheeks pink, eyes flicking toward you like he’d been rehearsing this and still thought he’d fuck it up.

And then.

He sang.

Voice soft, slightly off-key, barely above a whisper — like it wasn’t meant to echo off the chandelier or the crystal glasses. Just for you. Just between the two of you.

Happy birthday to you.

You blinked once. Then again. A breath caught somewhere near your collarbone.

He smiled when he finished. And when you didn’t respond right away, he stepped forward, one hand awkwardly lifting the cake toward you like a shy waiter on his first day.

“It’s got that cream you like,” he said quietly. “Not too sweet. Just—like you.”

And you laughed. You had to. Because this man, this man who moans at your feet with your heel on his throat, just called you not too sweet like that was a compliment.

The dinner was incredible, of course. Not because of the food — though it was excellent — but because of him. Because Jake was attentive in a different way tonight. Still soft. Still sweet. But a little... lighter. He let himself be funny. Made you laugh twice so hard you had to cover your face. His hands trembled when he refilled your glass.

And when dessert came — after the cake, after a gentle toast, after your walls had lowered inch by inch without you realizing — he handed you a gift box.

Long. Sleek. Heavy.

You opened it, and froze.

Thin, stiletto-pointed, patent black high heels.

The expensive kind.

The fucked-up expensive kind.

The kind you’d once pointed at in a store window, laughed, and said, “The only way I’d justify those is if I was allowed to use them to stomp on someone. Otherwise, that price tag is a war crime.”

Jake hadn’t forgotten.

“I remembered,” he said, eyes wide and proud and so goddamn hopeful. “I know it’s kind of dramatic, but you—you said it. And I thought maybe…”

You raised a brow.

“You bought me shoes so I’d step on you?”

He flushed. “N-not just that. I mean—yes. But also… I thought you’d look good in them.”

You stared at him. At the shoes. At the man sitting across from you in a tailored shirt and a slightly shaky smile like he just handed you his throat in a velvet box.

And then you laughed. Low. Delighted.

“Oh, Jake,” you sighed, sliding one heel out of its bed of tissue paper. “You’re so easy.”

His breath hitched.

“You want me to try them on?”

He nodded. Fast. Almost trembling.

So you did. Slowly. Letting the heel dangle on your finger like a weapon before lifting your leg, extending it toward him under the table.

He didn’t even have to be asked. He slid to his knees beside your chair and took your foot in both hands — reverent. Careful. Slipping the shoe on like a prince in a fucked-up fairytale, except he was the one being ruined.

The heel clicked against the floor when you set it down.

He shuddered.

“Do the other,” you murmured, tone already turning silkier, darker.

He obeyed. You leaned back in your chair, legs crossed, watching him fumble slightly with the strap, his breath shallow, fingers lingering just a little too long at your ankle.

You reached down — ran your fingers through his hair, soft and slow — and he melted into the touch like you’d blessed him.

“You’re so predictable,” you whispered, dragging a nail against his scalp. “You see me in new shoes and your first thought is: God, I hope she steps on my cock with them.”

He whined. Whined.

“You’re disgusting,” you added, voice lowering to that tone that made him squirm. “And I’m going to ruin you for thinking you deserved them.”

His eyes fluttered shut and his lips streached in a soft smile. But your fingers didn’t stop stroking. Didn’t stop soothing.

They moved gently through Jake’s hair — soft little passes, nails grazing his scalp. And he leaned into it without thinking, without pride. Just instinct. Like his head was meant to be there, pressed against your thigh, like your hand had become some sacred thing in his world—the thing that settled him, grounded him, reminded him he was owned.

You watched him breathe.

Watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the trembling hush in his chest — like he couldn’t tell if this was aftercare or the beginning of something worse. And quietly, without words, something warm started to bloom beneath your ribs.

It wasn't just the usual heat and lust. Not the thrill of control you usually fed off of. No, this was quieter, closer to peace. And it wasn't the first time the past two month...

Like, somehow, this— the candlelight, the new shoes, his mouth against your thigh— was exactly where you were supposed to be.

You almost thought it aloud... But no... Nevermind...

Instead, you hummed softly and let your other hand trail down to his cheek, tilting his chin up so he is forced to look at you. He did. Of course he did. Eyes wide and glassy, like something holy had cracked open inside him and spilled out right onto the hotel carpet.

“Remember what I said on Friday?” you murmured. “About rewards?”

Jake blinked, dazed. “Y-yes." His lips parted.

“I said if you were good, you could ask for anything.”

He nodded quickly, eager, already breathing faster.

“And tonight?” You smiled. “You were very, very, very good. Jake.”

Jake’s breath caught, fuck he loves it when you drop the mr. Sim act.

His hands— those shaky, fidgeting, obedient sexy hands— lifted toward his own lap, smoothing his pants like he was trying to behave, trying to stay calm, but already failed. His gaze dropped. He tried to keep eye contact, you know, tried to stay confident. But the moment you gave him permission— real permission— to speak his wants out loud?

He cracked.

“I… um… if I’ve really been good,” he whispered, voice a little pitched, “C-can I…” He hesitated. Swallowed, his eyes on your thighs adjusting himself like it prevented you from seing his hard on. “Can I eat you out again? it's been ages... I want to make you cum, like before. But like, now. On the floor. Or the couch. Or the bed. Wherever. Please—I'll be good, I promise.”

You raised an eyebrow, and smile streached.

“Is that your first wish?” He nodded hesitant. But then his mouth opened again.

Of course...

“And maybe—maybe I could wear the collar? While I do it? Like... Just the collar and nothing else... Like your—your birthday toy.” Y-you can even put me on a leash if you want— please, I’ll be good, I won’t hump your leg unless you let me—”

You bit your bottom lip, just to keep from smiling even more. Man, his brain had slipped its leash the second you gave him permission. It made you wet straightaway.

“And can I… can I touch myself? Not cum, just—just stroke while I do it. Just feel how hard I get from tasting you. And when I finish, you don’t even have to let me cum, you could just—just spit in my mouth and call me your good little fuckhole—”

You didn’t answer. Just kept petting his hair. But he can read you better than you do to him. You don't realise how turned on your face is. Even your grip on his fluffy hair got harder. Fuck, Jake loves you.

Yeah... I love you. Jake bit his lip.

“Or—or you could make me jerk off onto the floor while you watch, and make me beg to make love with you. Like I’m disgusting. Like I don’t even deserve your attention unless I earn it—Or maybe… if I’m really good—”

He stop.

You press your fingers to his lips and he trailed off, eyes fluttered. slidding your finger inbetween his shy plump lips. It was like even saying it was too much. Like he didn't already write the whole fiction of tonight in his head.

“Tell me, Jake.”

He looked down again, cheeks flushed, voice almost too small to hear.

“Can I... Call you Mommy tonight?”

Silence. Tense. Heavy. Drenched in anticipation.

"I know it's not really your thing..." he blabered, "But I was wondering—if maybe... We could try tonight.

Then—

You leaned in, brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, and smiled.

“Oh, my cute puppy,” you purred, letting the word drag like honey down your throat. “You’re going to get everything you asked for.”

He whimpered. Like the word alone undid him. His breath came hot and shaky against your palm. His eyes looked up at you, fully gone — feral, hungry, a little stupid with need. Like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and beg for permission to exist there.

You sank back into the chair like it was your throne — one leg draped over the other in a lazy cross, elbow resting along the back like you had all the time in the world, like you weren’t already wet just from the look on his face — and without a word, you lifted your foot, the sharp new heel catching the light as it hovered by his lips, until he opened up like a trained thing and started mouthing at the pointed tip, desperate, reverent, like kissing your shoe might earn him oxygen.

“Jake, take off your clothes.”

He scrambled.

Shoes. Shirt. Pants. Everything peeled off with frantic sexiness, like each layer was an offense to the role he was meant to play — until he was kneeling there, naked and flushed, chest rising fast, ears pink, cock already half-hard from nothing but the sound of your voice.

And fuck, his body — God, his body — lean and sharp like he was carved from something meant to bleed for you, muscles smooth but defined, not bulked but taut beneath skin that showed every line, every ridge, every twitch. His back, deceptively broad, flexed as he shifted onto his knees, and you caught the way his arms looked almost too toned for someone who claimed to be helpless— the way his veins ran like threads of promise down to those shaking, obedient hands. And when he reached into his bag— of course he brought it, because your good boy always comes prepared— and pulled out his collar without being asked, you nearly sighed, because it was all too much.

Too perfect. Too fucking yours.

He held it out like an offering. And you put it on him. You dragged your heel along his shoulder. He shivered.

“You wanted to worship Mommy tonight?”

He nodded, mouth agape. “Then come show me, be a good dog.”

And when he crawled forward on hands and knees — panting, eyes blown wide, mouth open — you knew : You were going to let him have everything.

Because you loved seeing him like this, loved it... Your game... You... loved him ?

Maybe...

He reached your knees. And then he groaned. Loud and wrecked.

Your panties — soaked. He buried his face in them immediately, moaning into the fabric, licking you through it like he’d been starved for days and finally stumbled upon a feast. You stayed still, head tilted, watching him degrade himself with quiet fascination.

And then he used his teeth — gently at first, then not — dragging the lace aside, tearing holes in the delicate fabric just to get to you, to taste you raw, no barriers, no patience.

The moment his tongue touched your pussy, he let out the most pathetic sound — a sob disguised as a moan — and you saw it in his whole body: the way his arms trembled, the way his shoulders rolled forward, the way his hips twitched helplessly against the carpet.

Like worship was killing him.

He licked with hunger first. Frenzied. Like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth moved fast — messy circles, tongue flattening, then curling, lips sucking at your clit with zero grace. No rhythm. Just need.

You almost laughed. “Jake,” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair. “You’re making a fucking mess.”

“M’sorry,” he panted. “Tastes too good. Can’t stop—can’t—”

You yanked his head closer in answer. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he didn’t.

He buried himself deeper, tongue working in tighter, sharper patterns. He found rhythm then. Purpose. His hands came up, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider. He let your heel rest against his shoulder, the other curling behind his neck like a leash, and you let yourself fall back against the couch with a long, low moan — head tipping, mouth parting, hips beginning to twitch.

You were close. Too close.

And he felt it. The tension in your thighs. The way your breathing shifted.

So he slowed.

The fucking bastard slowed.

“Jake,” you growled, but he just hummed into your clit, tongue drawing soft little circles now — featherlight. Infuriating. And then, just when you were about to command him again—

He sucked. Hard.

You came.

Fast. Violent. A sharp, hot surge that slammed into your spine and rolled through your body like a goddamn earthquake. You moaned, bit your bottom lip to keep from crying out, hips stuttering against his face as your hands fisted in his hair like you were drowning.

And he didn’t stop.

Not for a second.

He groaned into your cunt like it fed him. Like your orgasm gave him oxygen. He sucked through it, licked every aftershock, every twitch, every whimper that escaped you. And then — when your thighs trembled and your hips tried to retreat — he shifted.

One hand — previously gripping your thigh like a man clinging to salvation — slid down.

Between your legs.

And without asking, without hesitating, he pressed two fingers against your soaked entrance, teasing first, just circling — and then he shoved them in.

You gasped — hard.

“Jake—”

He curled them immediately. Like he knew. Like he’d memorized the blueprint of your body and knew exactly what would shatter you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just fucked his fingers into you fast and deep, knuckles slick with your first orgasm while his mouth stayed latched to your clit, sucking like a man possessed.

Your body jolted — thighs trying to close, hips stuttering against his face, your hands flailing for something to grab, anything — the armrest, his hair, your own wrist.

“Jake, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he mumbled, voice low and hot and buried in your cunt. “Let me. Please, Mommy—let me make you come again.”

And fuck, you did.

The second orgasm ripped through you — louder, messier, wetter — your walls clenching around his fingers as he kept driving them into you, his palm slick, heel of his hand grinding against you as you moaned so hard it felt like you might pass out.

"Holy fuck—" you cried, legs spasming.

But he still. Didn’t. Stop.

Your voice broke. "I said stop—"

He pulled back from your clit for one second, just long enough to moan against your folds, "I'll make you feel good—"

Then went right back to it.

His fingers curled harder now, precise, brutal. Three now — you didn’t even know when he added a third — but you felt it. Deep. Full. Your body couldn’t tell where the pleasure ended and pain began, everything smearing together into one long, mindless scream that echoed through the room as your third orgasm crashed into you like a fucking freight train.

You shoved him off, finally — heel pressing into his chest just enough to make him stumble back, fall onto his ass, panting and glassy-eyed and soaked with your slick. He blinked up at you like he didn’t even know where he was.

You were still shaking, legs trembling from the overload, breath ragged. You sat there — limp, fucked, worshiped — and stared at the man who’d just made you come like that with nothing but his tongue, and fingers and a death wish.

You’d never felt this safe. This powerful. This wanted. And he crawled back forward. Pressed his cheek to your thigh. Didn’t say anything. Just breathed against you.

You reached down and pulled him into a kiss — wet, sloppy, tongue-first and desperate, all teeth and spit, and god, he melted into it. Of course he did. You were still soaked from what he did to you, thighs a mess, cunt twitching with aftershocks — and he was the one trembling.

You pulled back and let your palm curl around his cock, rough and flushed and leaking across your fingers like it had been hurting for attention. He hissed when you touched it, and then groaned — loud, helpless — when you dragged your heel down, pressing it gently at first into his balls before slowly, firmly, crushing down.

“Mm. You look like you’re suffering right there,” you murmured, voice all syrup and sin.

He nodded, panting through clenched teeth.

“Is eating me out really getting you this excited?” you purred, cocking your head like it actually surprised you.

He nodded again. Hissed when you pressed harder with your heel. “Yes, Mommy—fuck, yes—it’s so much, I can’t—”

You let go of his cock.

“Touch yourself.”

He froze.

“I didn’t say you could cum,” you added lazily. “But I want to see you do it. Look at you. A grown man on the floor, balls bruised, begging for permission to jerk off in front of the woman who just came on his face.”

Jake’s hand moved fast — too fast — and you could already tell he was on edge. He gripped himself tight, started stroking, sloppy and aching, cock bobbing under his own frantic rhythm. But his eyes were locked on you.

You leaned back, legs still spread, panties ruined somewhere under the couch, slick still glistening on your thighs.

And you smirked.

He whimpered.

“Oh, god—” he gasped, jerking himself harder. “Please, just—just watch me—watch me, Mommy, please, I want you to see me—”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

He blinked. Swallowed.

“Say it.”

“Because—” he choked, “because I look pathetic—and… you’re still so perfect and I’m just here, jerking off on the floor like a freak—”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over him slowly, from his flushed face to his slick stomach to the veins in his arms flexing with every stroke.

“You think I’m enjoying this?” you asked flatly, voice bored. “You think I want to see you make a mess of yourself like some shameless animal?”

He moaned.

“I—I hope s—”

“You hope so?”

He bit his lip. His hand never stopped. He was panting now, eyes burning into your body.

“And you like being watched?” you asked. “Even like this?”

He nodded, voice breaking. “I like when you see how bad I want you. How stupid I get. I-I-I want you to know what you do to me. I want to look at you and see your thighs and your cunt and your attitude and know I’m not allowed to have any of it—unless you let me.”

You hummed.

“And what do you want me to do to you, Jake?”

His eyes glazed over. “Everything—” Hips jerking.

“No. Be specific.”

He whimpered.

“I want you to hit me when I cum—open palm, across the face, hard enough that I feel it later. I-I-I want you to spit in my mouth again, like last time, and tell me I’ve earned it. I want you to put that heel back into my cock until I’m shaking—until I can’t move without permission. I want you to laugh when I beg, call me pathetic, make me say what I am. I want you to choke me—tight—long…hng… Long enough that I have to ask to breathe—and wh-when you let go, I want to thank you. I want your slick on my face, dried down my neck, smeared over my mouth like a collar—and I want to sleep in it. Don’t let me clean up. Make me keep it…”

You watched him stroke harder, hips twitching, spit almost sliding down his chin from how hard he was panting.

“I want you to ruin me and then hold me after… I….  Want to make you cum again and again until I cry. I want you—to never… Never stop looking at me.”

You leaned forward. And he shuddered. You didn’t say a word. Just watched.

And when he came — loud, messy, too fast and too much — he cried your name. again. and again. and again.

You reached down and pulled him into a kiss — wet, tongue-first, needy. Sloppy and lost. And he melted. Of course he did. His mouth opened instantly, like instinct, like prayer. His lips were soaked from your cunt, and yours still tasted like his worship, so the whole thing was just spit and sin and heat. He groaned into it, soft and broken, like the kiss alone was enough to undo him.

You were still a mess — slick between your thighs, muscles twitching from the high he forced out of you, panties ruined and forgotten — and yet he was the one shaking. 

shit it felt good !

You broke the kiss first, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth until it snapped free. Then your hand dropped — right to his cock. Hard. Leaking. Angry-red and trembling in your palm like it had been hurting for you. You curled your fingers around it with practiced ease, thumb smearing his mess along the head just to make him whimper.

And then your heel dragged between his legs. Slowly.

You pressed into his balls — lightly at first, then firmer — until he gasped, jaw tightening, hips frozen like he didn’t know whether to rut forward or flinch.

“Mm.” You let your voice drip with amusement. “You look like you’re suffering right there.”

He nodded fast. Too fast. Shoulders tense. “Yes, Mommy—yes, it hurts—but it’s so good—I need more—please—”

You gave his cock a lazy stroke. Nothing to write about but enough for him to jolt.

“Is eating me out really what did this to you?” you murmured. “Made you this hard?”

He nodded again—practically whining.

“Mommy, it’s you, it’s always you—I get like this when you look at me, when you talk to me—fuck, fuck, fuck, even your voice makes my cock hurt.”

You smiled. Let go.

“Touch yourself.” He froze.

“You don’t get to cum,” you added, like an afterthought. “You cum without permission, and I walk out of this room. Leave you like this. Understand?”

He nodded, mouth open, eyes wet. “Yes. Yes, Mommy.”

He reached for himself instantly—like he’d been waiting hours for that command. His hand wrapped around his cock and started stroking hard, fast, filthy. His other hand trembled on his thigh, like he didn’t know what to do with it. His whole body was tight, twitching, sweat glistening down his chest and veiny arms. You could see every muscle working just to keep himself upright.

But he was looking at you. Your body, your gaze. Never looked away.

You leaned back into the couch, legs still spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Slick still shone between your thighs. You didn’t say anything. Just watched, and played with the sound your own wetness.

Jake moaned immediately. “Please—please keep watching—please, I—I want you to see me like this—”

“Why?” you said flatly.

He swallowed, hard.

“Say it.”

“Because—because I look like a mess,” he whimpered, stroking faster without thinking. “Because I look fucking pathetic, and it’s only for you—you did this to me—your pussy, your voice, your fucking eyes, everything—”

You tilted your head.

“You think I enjoy watching you jerk off like some pathetic little mutt on the floor?”

“I—I hope you d—” he gasped. “maybe I hope you don’t—maybe I hope you think I’m disgusting. Because I am, Mommy. I’m a disgusting pervert for you. No one else gets to see me like this. No one can. Just you—Just you.”

You exhaled slowly, like you were watching an experiment spiral into something deliciously ugly.

“And what do you want me to do to you, Jake?”

His hips jerked forward like the question alone hit his prostate. “Everything,” he moaned.

You narrowed your eyes. “No. Be specific.”

He looked up at you like he was about to cry.

“I want you to slap me when I cum,” he whimpered, “hard. Across the face. Make me feel you for days. I want you to spit in my mouth again—please, like last time—while I’m begging. I want you to wear those heels and step on me. Make me thank you while you do it. Tell me I’m nothing. Laugh when I fuck you and swear to me.”

His stroking grew faster — slick, loud, hips twitching like he was fighting to stay in his body.

“I want you to choke me until I have to ask to breathe,” he gasped. “And when you let go, I want to thank you. Like a good boy. Like your property.”

He was shaking now.

“I want to sleep in your slick. Face coated in it. Neck wet. Chest marked. Don’t let me wash it off—please, I want to wear it. Like a collar. Like a proof.”

You said nothing. Just stared. And he broke.

“I want you to ruin me. And then hold me after. Kiss my forehead like I’m not broken. Make me make you cum again until I’m crying from how much I need you. Mommy, I swear to god—” he sobbed, “no one else can do this to me. It’s you. It’s always been you. I’m think of you—your body, your voice, your pussy—I want to live under you—”

your thighs were twitching. His breath was ragged. His whole body trembled like it was about to shut down.

“Please look at me when I cum,” he begged, “please—please see me—please, I need you—”

You nod and almost moan in your breath, And he came.

Loud. Raw. A broken, choked sob of your name as cum spilled over his knuckles, painting his abs, his thighs, the floor. He kept stroking through it, messy and wild, eyes locked on yours even as tears welled up in them. He looked wrecked. Ruined.

He cried out again. Your name again. and again and again. Whispered like a prayer, repeated like a compulsion — quieter each time, like he couldn’t stop saying it, like it was the only thing left tethering him to reality. And when the last of his orgasm spilled over his wrist and onto the floor, his body simply… slumped.

Collapsed at your knees now closed.

Shaking, silent, mouth open but not speaking anymore — breath coming in little broken bursts as if the air around him had gotten too thin. And for a moment, you just watched him. Not as a dom. Not as a goddess. Just… watched the boy you adored fall to pieces in front of you.

Then you moved. You slid down from the couch to the carpet, kneeled in front of him — with him — and reached out. He flinched at first, not from fear but fragility and maybe self consciousness.

But you cupped his face anyway. Held him gently, thumbs brushing across his hot, damp cheeks, and leaned in to press a soft kiss just under his eye.

“Shh,” you whispered, voice low. Warm. Real. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Jake’s eyes fluttered shut. His body leaned into yours like gravity had given up. And then — quietly, barely audible — he sniffled.

“I’m sorry,”

You froze. “Why?”

He swallowed hard. Still wouldn’t open his eyes. “For saying too much. For… being too much of a sub.”

You pressed your lips to his forehead. Then his temple. Then his cheek.

“You weren’t too much,” you said, kissing between words. “You were honest. Perfect. Mine.”

He whimpered— a small, broken sound— and then his arms wrapped around your waist, so tight, so desperate, like he didn’t care about the mess or the sweat or the fact that he was naked and half-crying on a hotel room floor.

You held him. Stroked his hair. Kissed behind his ear. Whispered things only he was allowed to hear.

“My good boy.” “My perfect thing.” “You did so well for me.”

Minutes passed like that. Or hours. You weren’t sure. The quiet felt infinite, like the world had shrunk down to the warmth of two bodies pressed together under dim light and the soft scent of sex and sweat and trust.

Eventually, he pulled back — reluctantly — just far enough to look at you. His eyes were sleepy, still red. But he smiled, small and exhausted.

“…Can we—” he hesitated. Bit his lip looking at you. “Can we sleep here?”

You raised a brow. “We don’t have anything packed.”

“I know.” He blinked. “I just don’t want you to leave. Not tonight. I wanna fall asleep with you... Please.”

You looked at him for a moment. Then nodded.

“Okay,” you said softly. “But first, let’s clean up.”

Jake followed you wordlessly to the bathroom, still trembling a little, wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe you were really going to stay.

The water ran hot, steam blooming fast as you stepped under it together — skin on skin, sticky and marked, your bodies pressed close in the quiet rush of heat.

You reached for the soap, lathered slowly, and started with his chest.

He gasped — not from the temperature, but from the way you touched him. Like he was something precious. Something yours.

You washed him soft. Careful. Thumbs running down his ribs, lips brushing over his shoulder once, twice. His hands stayed on your hips like he didn’t know what else to do — until you turned, smiled lazily over your shoulder, and offered him the bar.

“Your turn.”

He took it like a gift.

And then his hands were on you — warm and slow, fingers sliding over your skin like he was worshiping you in silence, like rinsing the sweat and slick off you was the most important job he’d ever been given. He kissed your neck. Your shoulder. Your lower back. You felt it in your knees.

By the time the water turned lukewarm, he was panting softly behind you, hard again without a word spoken, cock brushing your thigh like a question.

You didn’t answer it. Not yet. You just turned, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Bed.”

And he followed you, lifting you, dripping and obedient, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

He didn’t let go of you, not even when you reached the bed. You both collapsed into the blankets, half-covered in nothing but the weight of each other.

And then — quiet giggle in his chest, warm kiss on your neck — Jake tugged you closer. And called your name.

You smiled into his collarbone. “Hmm?”

“…Can I fuck you sweet?”

You looked at him. He looked nervous. Flushed. But serious.

“…Not rough. Not a scene too. Just… I wanna make you feel good. Wanna be in you. Close.” His eyes did that triangle thing that made you smile.

Ans your heart did a weird thing in your chest. You didn’t say anything, just kissed him. Slow. Deep.

He slid into you like it was meant to happen in silence. No teasing. No commands. Just soft hands and warm breath and your legs curling around his hips, pulling him in like he belonged there— Oh he did.

You moved together like something practiced.

His forehead pressed to yours. His eyes never left your face. It wasn’t the kind of sex that left bruises. It was the kind that stayed under your skin for days.

And when you both came — whispering each other’s names, holding on like sleep might take you too soon — you didn’t bother separating. Just tangled yourselves up tighter under the blankets, legs and arms everywhere, breath syncing until the air went quiet.

Jake fell asleep first from exhaustion . Still inside you. Face tucked into your neck, hand resting on your hip and over your head, smile barely there.

And you followed. One last kiss to his hairline. One last thought, whispered only in your head.

Maybe I love you, Jake.

🕰️

Monday came too soon.

The city clicked back into motion like it hadn’t been on its knees three nights ago — like you hadn’t spent the weekend riding high on power and orgasm, like Jake Sim hadn’t buried his face between your thighs and cried your name like it was a gospel, like nothing in your bed had shifted something irreversible between you. But here you were. Blazer sharp. Hair tied up like a noose. Coffee in one hand, to-do list in the other. Face clean. Voice calm. And Jake?

Jake was perfect. Of course.

Golden manager. Corporate fantasy. Tie straight. Shoes polished. Smile polite, crisp, neutral — as if he hadn’t begged to sleep in your slick two nights ago. As if his mouth hadn’t broken you open like prayer.

He passed your desk at 9:02. On time. Silent. But his eyes flicked toward you — fast, hot, reverent — like he was starving for permission to even look.

Yeah. Not subtle.

The week dragged. Deadlines. Briefings. Emails that made you want to cry. A dozen little brushes of Jake’s arm at meetings, a few too-long looks across the conference room. Nothing said. Everything felt.

And then Wednesday came. And Jay walked in like a plot twist.

Jay — from the international branch. Jay who hadn’t changed a bit except in jawline and confidence. Tall, lean, just the right amount of cocky, with that you-can-trust-me grin and rolled-up sleeves that said he wasn’t here to play humble. You knew that walk before he even reached your side of the office. And you smiled before he even said your name.

“Holy shit,” he laughed, arms open, warm and loud and exactly the same. “Is that you?”

You stood to greet him, surprising the whole office, and for a second it was easy to forget anything else existed.

Jay had been your twin at your first job — the only rookie who matched your speed and fire, the one who helped you learn the ropes while you taught him how to cheat the system without getting caught. You’d shared too many late-night reports and too many energy drinks in parking lots to pretend this wasn’t real.

You hugged. Tight. No hesitation. His hand curled behind your neck like he’d missed you properly. “Good to see you.” he whispered.

“I didn’t even know you were stationed here,” you said into his shoulder.

“Temporary,” he replied, pulling back, smiling like trouble. “Two weeks. Project lead on cross-regional integration. Had to say yes when I heard who was running one of the teams.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Still charming.”

“Still bossy,” he said, looking you over with a spark you didn’t bother flinching from. “God, you look good.”

Across the room, Jake watched the whole thing, leaning on a co-worker desk for a review. And if there had been a heart rate monitor clipped to his tie, it would’ve flatlined.

To everyone else, he looked as normal as the rest of this office watching. But his jaw was tight. His hand had stopped scrolling his subordinate mouse. Because Jay wasn’t just some regional project lead— he was Jake’s old friend. One of the few people he trusted, who knew things about him from years ago, who used to sleep on his couch in between overseas rotations and share shitty bar ramen and management rants.

And now he was here. Shaking your hand. Pulling you into hugs. Looking at you like he’d found something. And worse — you looked happy to see him. Not performative-happy. Not polite. Actually happy. You leaned in to talk. You laughed, like… Twice.

Jake couldn’t hear the conversation. He didn’t know Jay had just told you that Jake was famous in the international branch — that half the floor still referred to him as “the one who doesn’t fuck up.” He didn’t know that you’d laughed and said, “He’s still like that,” or that you’d softened when Jay said, “Honestly, I’m not surprised you two haven’t killed each other. You always scared me a little more than him anyway.”

Jake didn’t know that your giggles weren’t flirtation. They were about him.

All Jake saw was the closeness. The familiarity. The way Jay’s hand brushed your arm when he made a point. The way you didn’t flinch. The easy rhythm between you. And then, just to gut him further, Jay turned around during a meeting break and dapped Jake up like a brother.

“Still as stiff as ever,” Jay said, grinning, leaning against Jake’s desk like no time had passed.

“Still can’t read a brief without fucking the formatting,” Jake shot back. They laughed. It was real. Jake wanted to be happy to see him.

But his eyes kept flicking past Jay’s shoulder. Back to you. Because even if Jake and Jay were old friends — you and Jay looked like something else.

Jay invited the team to dinner that Friday. Said it was casual. Team bonding. International-branch hospitality. You said yes before Jake could even pretend to be indifferent. Like postponing your session was nothing.

Jake sat through the rest of the week in silence. Smile plastered on. Voice tight. His keyboard clicks a little too sharp. His jaw clenched every time Jay walked past your desk.

It wasn’t that he thought Jay was a threat. It was that you seemed… open around him. Relaxed. Familiar. The kind of open Jake had only seen when you were half-naked, straddling his thigh, calling him names while riding his face.

And now?

Now you were laughing at another man’s joke. Jake spiraled. Quietly. Painfully.

🕰️

By the next wednesday morning, Jake was unraveling like a ribbon since you texted him.

Cannot make it this week… Let's wait for next friday, mr. Sim

Mr. Sim ?? Mr. Sim ??

You called Jay by his first name even in the office. Joking about his korean name, in team dinners. But even in texts Jake stayed “Mr. Sim”, if it wasn’t a scene you never called him Jake. If it wasn’t in a bedroom, never let him touch you like Jay did.

He was mad. 

Oh, he hid it well — always did. The tie still sharp, the voice still calm when he led meetings like a man who hadn’t spent the week watching you share private smiles with someone who knew you from before he did. Someone you hugged without hesitation. Someone who called you by your first name with that easy kind of familiarity Jake had only ever earned through submission.

You weren’t ignoring him. Not really. But you weren’t touching him either. No texts. No sexy glances. No little cruel reminders of what he was to you. Just distance. Controlled and professional. Like the weekends together hadn’t happened.

And Jake? Jake was starving for the leash. And your presence, he missed the intimate you. 

So when the elevator opened that morning, and you stepped in, followed by two project leads and someone from HR, he took his chance.

Jake slipped in last. Stood at your side. And said nothing, even after exchanging cute eye contact with him.

The numbers ticked up. Floors grew away. One by one, everyone stepped out.

Until it was just…  You and him.

He stepped closer. Just a little too close. You didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet. Cause recently it had been hard on you pretending you weren’t in love with him. Pretending in front of his long time friend and yours there was nothing between you two. But you felt it — his body tight with restraint, his breath catching just a little louder than it should.

“I-I don’t care if you don’t want me recently,” he said, voice low, barely audible.

Your brows lifted about to turn around but he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“You’re still my Mistress.” 

You turned then, expression unreadable.

He didn’t flinch. He exhaled. And then—he took your hand. Just your fingers. Slipped something cold and small into your palm and curled your fingers shut around it.

A key. You stared at it. Felt the weight.

“Friday can’t come fast enough,” he whispered, voice shaking just a little now. “It’s already hurting. I can’t stop thinking about you. I put it on last friday night. Haven’t touched myself since. Not even once.”

Your eyes snapped to his desperate, hot, worshipful bulge he made you palm, moaning to the contact of your unsure fingers, his forehead falling on yours.

He almost smiled — a little unhinged.

“I locked myself for you. Because I needed to remember. Because I needed you to own me.”

The elevator chimed. He stepped back. Straightened his tie. Smoothed his jacket.

Turned to you like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into your hand.

“I’ll be waiting until you want me again Mistress,” he said, voice calm again, composed. Just a touch sad.

Then he walked out. And left you there. Alone. With the key to his cock clenched in your fist.

And the knowledge that he’d caged himself for you, for days, just to suffer in silence until you decided he was worth your attention again. Fuck only holding it made you wet.

🕰️

Jake caught Jay by the coffee machine an hour after that— late enough in the day that the fluorescent lights made everything look a little harsher, even your name in conversation.

“Hey,” he said, low, casual. Actually not casual at all. “You and… her.”

Jay turned slightly, brow raised. “Yeah?”

Jake swallowed. “You’re not—” his voice caught, and he rolled his shoulders, tried again. “You’re not trying to… go for her, right?”

Jay blinked, the idea of playing his naive ass dying after one second of thinking,  then he smiled — not sharp, not smug. Just knowing.

“Nah, man. She already said no.”

Jake stilled.

Jay took a sip from his paper cup. “Told me she’s into someone else, a complicated situationship.”

That should’ve settled it. Should’ve made something inside him untwist.

But it didn’t.

Because Jay glanced over his shoulder, toward the open floor where you stood— and added, tone lower now, not cruel, just honest: “If it were me, I’d stop hiding behind roles and secrets and all that shit going on and just tell her. Straight up.”

Jake didn’t move.

Jay looked at him again. “She’s into you, bro. That’s obvious… From what I understood.” He clapped Jake’s shoulder once — firm, not teasing. “Only thing left is whether you’ve got the spine to stop waiting for her to drag it out of you.”

🕰️

Fuck.

Jay was right.

This thing between you — the structure, the sessions, the rules he clung to like they made him safe — it was never meant to hold forever. It worked because it was clean. Controlled. Because you both pretended it didn’t mean more, didn’t bleed more. But Jake had already gone too far, and every time he knelt, every time you touched his jaw and made him beg like something sacred, he fell harder into something that wasn’t just powerplay anymore — it was love. Messy. Real. Suffocating.

And now?

Now he couldn’t stop thinking.

What if you started dating someone?

Would he still get his sessions — or would you say it wasn’t “appropriate” anymore?

Would you let him keep watching you from across the meeting room — or would he have to pretend you were just his superior again, like you hadn’t screamed his name while grinding on his face four nights ago?

Would he be allowed to touch you? At all? To kiss your ankle while you read? To hold your thigh under the table just because he needed to feel you?

Would lazy Sunday mornings in bed be cancelled — would the books, the wine, the home-cooked meals and terrible documentaries turn into someone else’s life with you?

Would he still be allowed to look at you the way he did?

To smile at you like you were the only thing that had ever been his?

Or would you pull away the next time he leaned in?

Would Jake go back to “Mr. Sim”?

Would your voice lose that edge when you said his name?

Would you take your laugh with you? Your eyes? Your mouth?

That smug little smirk when you wore heels that bruised his ribs and made him say thank you for it?

That cold, commanding tone that shattered him?

That soft, dangerous warmth when you licked his tears off your knuckles after he came shaking in your lap?

What if it all disappeared?

What if he lost not just the kink — but you?

All versions. The hard one. The gentle one. The funny, brat-taming, snack-sharing, throat-grabbing, book-reading, leash-holding, rule-breaking you.

What if he lost the one person who saw all of him — and didn’t flinch?

What if he had to start calling you “miss” again, just to keep from saying mine?

No.

He wasn’t going to survive another week of pretending. Not another goddamn day of acting like giving you his body wasn’t also handing you his heart.

It had to be tonight.

He texted you one line, with a pin to the address:

“Come here tonight. 9PM. Please.”

You arrived right on time.

And the address — when you reached it — wasn’t a hotel. Wasn’t a suite. Wasn’t the clean, clinical setting where you usually got him on his knees and made him sob.

It was a house.

His house.

You blinked.

Then walked in.

Jake opened the door like he’d been pacing behind it for an hour — sweater soft, hair undone, eyes wide and helpless and shining like he had no idea how you were going to respond to any of this.

The first thing you noticed was how expensive everything was — the dark wood, the subtle lighting, the quiet warmth of real money used by someone who didn’t need to show it off. The second thing was his dog — tail wagging, greeting you like you’d been here a thousand times before.

The third?

Family photos.

Jake as a kid. In school uniforms. With his mother in Seoul. With classmates. With some awful international branch birthday cake, and that smile — the smile, just smaller, softer, untouched.

You turned slowly. Took it all in.

He watched you like a man watching a dream walk through his bedroom.

“You like it?” he asked, unsure.

Your answer was in your eyes — in how slowly you moved, in how carefully you touched the edge of a frame, in the way you smiled and looked back at him for detailed comparaisons.

“You’ve never let me in here,” you said. “That's… New.” you smiled.

“Yeah,” he murmured. That was the problem. he thought. 

Dinner was tense. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything was shifting — plates warming your hands while your eyes stayed fixed on his face, red wine sweet on your tongue while you waited for the dam to crack. 

Jake broke first. “It’s not homemade,” he said, sheepish. 

“Unless you want to end up in the hospital.” 

You laughed. And then — you turned to him, voice like a knife sliding in slowly.

“Are you really wearing it?”

He swallowed. His jaw twitched. Then he nodded half looking at your reaction.

“I bought a smaller one,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit. “The one that hurts when I get hard.”

You didn’t blink. Just tilted your head, like the predator you were.

“And when did you?”

Jake leaned forward, voice raw, fingers twitching by the number of times he passed them through his hair before hiding in his palm?

“Monday,” he said. “When you wore the heels I gave you” then he whispered, “I remembered the way they left marks on my back while I tasted you— I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was hard all day… It ached.”

You crossed your legs, slowly. Grin flickering.

“Wednesday, I saw your thighs,” he added, faster now, like he couldn’t hold it in. “Bare under your skirt — just a glimpse, but I kept wondering where they stopped. If they were warm. If they were sticky with someone else’s mouth.”

Your breath hitched, but your face didn’t change.

“T-thursday,” he said, almost breathless, “when I saw you smile at Jay, and I wanted you to snap. I wanted you to pull me by the collar and spit in my mouth in front of everyone just so I could feel claimed.”

And then softer.

“Y-yesterday… I thought about kissing you in the hallway. About grabbing you and just… giving it away. Not caring who saw. Not hiding anymore.”

You let it hang.

Then:

“What?”

Jake’s hands trembled.

“I was jealous,” he said. “You looked so comfortable with him. Like he was allowed to see parts of you I only get when you’ve got your hand around my throat. And I couldn’t say anything — because I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not your partner. I’m just the guy who comes when you tell him to. If he’s lucky.”

You leaned in, voice cool and soft.

“And?”

He met your gaze like it burned.

“And I thought maybe… I wasn’t worth more. That everything I’ve shown you — the crying, the leash, the begging — maybe that made me… disposable.”

Silence.

Heavy.

You stared at him like you were looking at something precious. Fragile. Real.

Then you smiled.

Blush blooming over cheekbones, hidden behind the wine glass.

“What should I do, Jake…” you said, low, sultry, devastating. “You made me too ruined to date anyone else now.”

Jake made a sound. Half-sob, half-laugh, and really looked at you, your validating beautiful eyes. Then, he stood. Walked over. Grabbed you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he waited one more second.

And kissed you like it hurt.

“I love you,” he breathed against your lips. “I’m in love with you.” He kissed again, “I’ll give you everything.”  kissed again, “I’ll let you ruin me for the rest of my life and beg for more, I swear.”

You laughed in his embrace and looked at him with sudden dare.

“Prove it Jake.”

He stripped for you like he was peeling away fear itself. and you did the same messily kissing.

Quiet obedience. Until he stood naked inch from you, flushed, forehead against forehead, trembling, cock caged and faintly purple, swollen from days of frictionless ache. It looked smaller, pulled tight by metal and denial. Beautiful in its own way — his way. His whole body looked like it was waiting for permission to feel again, all veiny and hot.

You dropped to your knees.

Unlocked him with the little silver key.

And the second the cage clattered to the floor, he moaned — not from pleasure. From pain. His cock sprang out — red, angry, twitching like it didn’t know if it was free or dying.

You reached forward, wrapped your hand around it, and he came instantly.

“F-fuck—Hng, no, no, no—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—please—” he gasped, whole body convulsing, cum spilling down your wrist in helpless pulses. “I didn’t mean to—it’s been d—I didn’t want to—please—”

You smiled. God, you loved it. all cruel and loving on him.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, rising to kiss his cheek. “That was just the appetizer.” And he kept coming with slow strokes on your thighs now like it was his first time.

In his bedroom, you tied him up with smooth, sure hands— wrists to headboard, thighs wide, legs restrained too with ropes he prepared— and then climbed on top of him 

He was still trembling. Still leaking. Still whispering your name like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then, just when he thought he might get softness —

You leaned in and blindfolded him. And your voice made him tremble.

“Jake,” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Do you think Jay would’ve made me scream like you do?”

His breath hitched. You grinned.

“Do you think he’d eat me better than you?” you asked, tongue flicking against his earlobe as he twitched under you. “Would he cry when I ride his face? Would he beg for my spit too?”

Jake whimpered. His cock jerked. You pressed down harder against him.

Moaning in the most outrageous way.

“Would he fuck me better than the boy leaking into his sheets right now?”

“Stop—please—no,” he gasped, face trying to find your lips with shame and heat.

You laughed. Gently.

“Then make me never want to find out,” you said. “Be a good boy. Show my pussy, Jake.”

And he did. You pulled on the ropes and realized him.

He fucked you like a man possessed. Getting inside your wetness in one go. Like a man breaking out of something. Like he’d die if you didn’t keep screaming his name. He thrust with raw need, face twisted in love, in agony, in fucking reverence.

He came again. And again. Still hard. Still inside you. Still trying to earn you with every snap of his hips. His cum painted your thighs, your cunt, your stomach — you didn’t want to stop. And he didn’t stop.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you[...]” He kept moaning on  your lips, in your neck, mouth at your tits.

And when he finally collapsed into you, ruined, panting, completely undone? You kissed him and whispered : 

“I love you too.”

🕰️

You did it on the floor next.

Then against the wall.

Then the window. Then the shower. Then the kitchen table while his dog slept soundly in the living room like nothing sacred was happening in the next room.

No rules. No safe words. No games.

Just “I love you” in every thrust, every bite, every knot of fingers in hair and bruises bloomed in the shape of home.

You didn’t fuck like dom and sub that night . You fucked like people who’d been starving for each other in plain sight — and finally broke the lock.

Thank you so much for reading Part 2 of Power Play 🖤 Our sub!Jake and boss x co-worker chaos has officially evolved—now it’s not just a dom/sub dynamic... it’s real romance too💗

I’d love to hear what you thought, so don’t be shy—drop your feedback, scream with me, anything!!

P.S. Yes, Part 3 is already in the works… get ready 😏✨

xoxo ©Lassiie

TL : @heekolazz @shariasweet @heeseungsbm @monoidol @v1shwa-xo @thesundys @xiaoszone

[thesundys]

i’m dead

Power Play.

sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut, sub Jake, dom/sub dynamics, dominant reader, needy sub Jake, strong depiction of fantasies, power play, sexual tension, worship kink, consensual power exchange, denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, degradation play, slight violence, fluff (what should i say i'm still hella romantic in a way...)

WORDCOUNT ↠ 8k~ (didn't proof read the way i wanted...)

MDNI / Before you dive, read the warnings. don’t like it, don’t read.

Yours dearly, Lassie

Jake Sim is the human equivalent of a TED Talk on professionalism — all pressed suits, smiles, and PowerPoints that make managers almost tear up. Three months since his transfer from the overseas branch and the office still hasn’t recovered. They call him golden boy in the group chat — half-joke, half-worshiping honestly. Because, fuck, he’s too perfect. Too polite. The kind of guy who probably apologizes to doors after walking into them, and makes you forget he’s your boss.

And you? Poor you…You’ve been paired with him as his second in executive, which should've felt like a promotion. But didn’t even scratch the surface of your indifference. You didn’t need to sparkle like him to command attention. You’ve earned every inch of your place with blood, sleep deprivation, and the kind of ruthless efficiency that doesn’t beg for recognition. The office knew how you were : nice but ice-edged. They knew not to interrupt when you’re typing, not to hover near your desk unless summoned, and not to try you with weak jokes or wandering hands unless they’re craved the kind of career-ending evisceration you delivered to the last manager, as you buried him six feet under and salted the earth.

But still, interns loved you. You took good care of your team, made sure everyone was at ease, comfortable and heard in any situations. which bringed respect.

And Jake? Jake saw you long before you saw him.

First time was one of those insufferable corporate mixers, drowning in stale champagne and fake smiles, where you emerged across the room, wrapped in silk, fine jewelry and sharp liner. You were flawless that first time, you were impossible to ignore. And all the others too, actually.

You didn’t glance his way more than two to three times, and that cold distance only made you more magnetic, to Jake—the kind of woman who moves through rooms like no one deserves to know her but somewhat not mean. And Jake ended up eyes on you every other gathering, everytime a step further, a bit more small talk, a glass of champagne offered, his eyes fixed on your silhouette like it was a masterpiece he’d never be worthy enough to touch, let alone own.

Then that promotion opportunity came. So he transferred because he worshiped you, because you were the kind of woman who made him want to kneel, to be the loser he always wanted to be for his woman. For the impossible humiliating chance to breathe in your orbit every day, to stand beside you in meeting rooms pretending he’s your equal. But in his mind, you're not just his colleague. And he’s not even your superior. Oh babe, you're his goddamn sovereign. And he’s never felt more alive than when, in his thoughts, he’s kneeling, mouth open, waiting for commands you’ll never actually give.

He tried to act normal, pro, detached. But every clipped instruction from your lips feels like a test of endurance, every click of your heels across the floor a reminder. He watched : How you open his water bottle at meetings without sparing him a second glance, like he was a child. How you hand him reminders post-it like you’re feeding a dog out of habit, never cruelty—but never kindness either. It devastates him. Your effortless dominance. Your divine neglect. How you were a natural.

And it only got worse.

He started to make mistakes in your presence—every misplaced file, every stammered report, every too-long pause before answering your questions or request—was laced with intent. Because he wants you to be disappointed in him. He needs you to sigh, to call him out, to scold him with that glint in your eye that says you could gut him with a sentence if you wanted to. 

In his dreams, you’re pulling him into his office by the tie, shoving him to his knees, using him like something cheap and temporary—like a thing. He imagines you telling him he’s beneath you, that he’s useful for nothing but kneeling. Most of the time, like three hours ago, he ended up beating his meat in a bathroom stall, panting and low moaning those fantasies, agreeing, sobbing, begging you to ruin him in front of the team, to make an example of him. He imagines you laughing as he licks you beneath your desk, sobbing because it’s not enough.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just… 

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately. 

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—” Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it. 

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did. 

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or  half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP. 

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?” 

SLAP. 

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly. 

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now. 

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared” had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance. Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing. 🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X. Gag – X. Cuffs – X. Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches. Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him? The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Author’s Note: Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it... But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗

@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~ Hope I didn’t disappoint! Don’t just lurk, darling. Reblog it. Leave a comment. Let me feel you. Your silence is not nearly as thrilling as your reaction. So go on... show me you're watching.

© Lassiie

[thesundys]

coco never misses

request !! 𓈒ིུ ❤︎ ˖ ݁

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

“In which basketball player bf Euijoo is obsessed with shoving his fingers down his girlfriend’s throat”

‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x ej, established relationship, basketball player bf! ej, soft dom! ej, finger sucking, unprotected sex, dirty talking, public sex, short drabble.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked !! likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

The gym was deserted after the game, the lights on the polished floor. Euijoo’s breath was rough against your neck as he pressed you against the cold wall, his hands never leaving your body. You could feel the tension in every muscle, the power radiating off him like heat. He wasn’t this rough always, but tonight was different, like everytime he won.

He didn’t say much, just the way his fingers slipped inside your mouth told you everything you needed to know. Two fingers, steady and commanding, exploring with slow precision as your lips wrapped tightly around them. You sucked eagerly, desperate for the taste of him, the connection, the dominance.

His other hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, your body arching into him. His hips pushed forward harder, the force of him driving deep and fast, every slam sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. His cock was thick and pulsing inside of you, every inch of your soaked walls clenching around him perfectly while you moaned every time he slammed against your ass, hot and wet skins against each other. 

He hadn’t even took his uniform off, just slid down his shorts enough to free his cock and sliding it inside of you.

“God, you’re so fucking good, princess” Euijoo murmured, voice low and thick with need. “You take me so well. You like it when I fuck you like this, huh?”

You nodded, words lost beneath the wet, overwhelming sensation of his fingers and his cock pounding inside you, against your g-spot over and over again. Your hands gripped his arms, holding on for dear life as his pace grew merciless, his hips grinding in time with the slap of skin against skin.

He slid one hand lower, fingers tracing a fiery path down your stomach before dipping beneath your waistband. The cold snap of the gym air against your bare skin mixed with the heat of his touch, sending you spiraling. His fingers pressed firmly against your sensitive clit, teasing and stroking while the other two remained in your mouth, keeping you tied to him completely.

“Look at you,” he growled, “so fucking hungry for me. This is what i deserve after every win, this perfect pussy around me.”

Your moans swallowed around his fingers, breath ragged as he kept up the brutal rhythm, the overwhelming combination of sensations pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Then, just when you thought you might break, his voice dropped even lower.

“Come for me,” he ordered.

And you did, shaking and trembling with every inch he gave you, every sound filling the silent gym, every stolen breath tethering you tighter to him.

[thesundys]

This was one of these best works i’ve ever read on this platform holy fuck💔

MAMA, I'M IN LOVE WITH A CRIMINAL P.JS

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 24k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚criminal ! jay ៹ rival family ! kang ! reader ᧁ;smut ˒ angst ˒ violence ˒romeo and juliet au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut body worship fingering (in a church) angst graphic depictions of violence dark themes (i’m being serious) kidnapping held captive death injuries forbidden romance romeo and juliet au some toxic religious beliefs small town vibes ft taehyun (txt) ft yunah (illit) ft felix (stray kids) made up names for jay's parents fictional death of real life idols

in which ୨୧He was a mystery. One you didn't know if you could solve. Hidden behind the shadows of his past and his duty to his family. He was no man for you, no. You needed a good man, a man that could provide and you knew that. So why did you want him so bad? No matter how dangerous, no matter how wrong.

★ ! rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . lord. I seen a tiktok edit to Britney Spears 'criminal' with jay and I literally couldn't stop thinking about it. I'm a sucker for Romeo and Juliet type of stories and jay is so perf for this. Also; I hope you guys will understand the ending to this — i tried to make it clear that i was not romanticizing the things that happened in here but also make it known that not everything is black and white in the world; sometimes decisions are more complex than just simply right or wrong. If you have any questions on my intentions with the ending; feel free to respectfully ask and i’m more than happy to explain. There will be no part two. THIS IS A REPOST.

The chapel smells like old pinewood and older secrets. You sit between your brother and your mother, stiff in your Sunday best, your spine straight as the hymnals stacked behind the pew. The stained-glass windows cast slivers of color across the congregation, blood reds, bruised purples, the blue of a cold winter sky. Light falls like confession, quietly and without permission. You are not paying attention to the sermon. You never do.

The pastor drones on at the pulpit, words like smoke dissolving into the high beams of the chapel ceiling, but your mind drifts toward the murmuring of silk dresses and the creak of wooden pews, toward the undercurrent of small-town theater playing out in god’s house. Your father sits to your left, a statue carved of stone and pride. You feel the tension in his body like a heat source; silent, simmering, the kind of rage that has long since been iced over by responsibility. Your mother holds Minji in her lap, fingers curling gently around your little sister’s arm, but her eyes are watching everyone else in the church. 

The pews smell of lemon oil and something more human, powder and old perfume, the sweat of people trying to look holy. Minji starts kicking the pew in front of you, gently at first, like she’s testing the patience of the wood. Tap, tap, tap. Then harder. Thud. Your brother, Taehyun, flicks her a warning glance, but says nothing. You lean over, whispering sharp and low, like the way your mother does when guests are over “Minji. Stop.”. She glares at you with the full offense of a seven-year-old wronged. Her lip trembles. You already know what’s coming before she opens her mouth. 

She starts to cry; loud, wet, dramatic sobs that echo off the vaulted ceiling like thunder in a quiet storm. Heads turn. A few old women in floral skirts give sympathetic glances; others look annoyed. The pastor doesn’t pause, but you feel the church shift, the way it always does when something unscripted happens. Your mother turns to you, lips tight, voice sweetly cutting.  “Take her to the bathroom,” she hisses, her nails brushing your wrist like a warning. “Now.” You nod, standing and tugging Minji’s hand. She follows, sniffling, dragging her feet like she’s on the way to execution. You step out into the aisle, heat rising in your cheeks from the attention; most eyes pretend not to watch, but you feel them. You always feel them. Small towns are built on watching. You rush to the bathroom in the very back of the church, closed off and muggy. Surrounded by a long hallway of doors upon doors with who knows what in them. 

The bathroom smells like baby powder and old tile, the kind of sterile clean that never truly feels clean. Minji is humming a made-up song to herself behind the heavy door, the sound broken now and then by the rush of the faucet and the scrape of her shoes against the floor. You lean against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking across the narrow hallway that leads deeper into the back corridors of the church; the kind of place children are told not to wander and adults forget to remember. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. You can still hear the low cadence of the sermon through the walls, like a heartbeat underwater. But underneath that; there. A sound. A sharp rustle, then a low thump. Muffled. Human. 

You stiffen. For a moment, it’s nothing. Could be a broom falling over, could be the wind sneaking through the stained glass seams. But then it comes again: a grunt, quick and strangled. Another thud. You glance toward the end of the hall, where a door hangs slightly ajar. Beyond it, darkness pools like ink in the corners of the church’s storage room. A place for old hymnals, broken nativity statues, forgotten folding chairs. You shouldn’t move. You know this. Every instinct in you, trained by caution, by family, by a lifetime of walking straight lines, tells you to stay planted, to wait for Minji and return to your seat and never speak of what you thought you heard. But curiosity, you’ve learned, is a quiet rebellion. A whisper that grows teeth. 

So you walk. Slowly. Barefoot-quiet in your heeled shoes. You reach the door, place your palm on the wood, breath hitched in your throat like a prayer waiting to break. You lean in, ear to the crack. Another grunt. And a voice; feminine, breathy, choked with a sound you’ve only ever heard behind closed doors in dramas you weren’t allowed to watch. You flinch, but your hand betrays you, fingers curling around the handle like it belongs to you. And then you open it. 

The light from the hallway slashes across the room, carving shadows into skin. You freeze. Park Jongseong. His back is bare, muscles flexing like a marble sculpture brought violently to life. His shirt is bunched around his waist, and his hands are on a girl. A girl you recognize, barely. Yumi. Her mouth is open in a gasp that doesn’t get the chance to leave. Her dress hiked up like it never belonged to her in the first place. Their limbs are tangled, their sins so vivid it feels like you're watching a sacred text being burned. Jay looks up. His eyes catch yours like a knife catches light. They widen, not with guilt, but with recognition — you, of all people. The breath leaves your lungs like glass shattering on cold tile. You slam the door so hard it rattles the frame.  

You’re trembling, though you don’t know if it’s from shame or shock or some strange cocktail of both. You spin around, heart thudding a war drum in your chest. Minji is just stepping out of the bathroom, drying her small hands on her dress. She doesn’t notice the way your hands shake as you reach for hers. Doesn’t see the way your eyes are wide, unfocused, filled with something that shouldn’t be there. “We’re going back,” you say, voice too high, too sharp. She doesn’t argue. Just nods and follows you, humming again, a tune too sweet for the ruin in your chest. 

You walk back into the sanctuary like a ghost in a girl’s body. You sit beside your mother, folding your hands in your lap like nothing happened, like you didn’t just see sin spill in a place meant for salvation. Your father doesn't glance at you. Taehyun doesn’t notice. But your mother turns slightly, just enough to give you a once-over; the kind that sees everything and says nothing. She thinks the crying was too much for you. She thinks you’ve been startled by your sister’s fit. And maybe she’s right, in a way. You’ve been startled. You’ve been unmade. 

And across the church, hidden in the shadows of holy silence, you feel him. Jay. And it’s not just what he did. It’s not just the shame of seeing it. It’s the way he looked at you. Like you were the one caught. Like he had nothing to hide. You stare straight ahead at the altar, but your mind stays in that room, with the taste of heat and velvet breath and the raw burn of a boundary shattered. You were innocent. Now, you’re aware. And awareness, you’re beginning to realize, is the beginning of every great tragedy. 

The service ends with the gentle hush of murmured amens and the rustle of Sunday clothes brushing past one another like leaves in a breeze. The congregation begins its slow migration out of the pews, a tide of polite smiles, handshakes, and the same conversations they’ve had for years, wearing different dresses. Your mother and father slip easily into their places; your father all firm nods and clipped words, your mother like a practiced socialite, her smile painted just perfectly at the edges. You, Taehyun, and Minji remain behind, lingering in your spot like the forgotten echo of a hymn, three children carved from the same silence. 

Minji swings her legs, her little shoes knocking against the pew in soft rhythm. She’s already forgotten the earlier outburst, too busy playing with the lace trim of her dress and watching Soojin across the room with an expression that flickers between curiosity and envy. Taehyun leans back, arms crossed, eyes roving lazily over the crowd. You try not to look for him. Not for Jay. But your eyes betray you like they always do, wandering before your mind gives them permission. And there he is. Standing by his mother, tall and lean like a shadow at sunset, too sharp around the edges to be beautiful, but too striking to ignore. Jay. His hands are in his pockets, posture relaxed, but there's a glint in his eye, dangerous, knowing. His mouth tilts into a crooked, unbearable smirk when his gaze meets yours. 

Like a match lit in the back of your throat. He knows. He knows you saw. You look down instantly, cheeks burning, staring at your shoes as though they can explain how to erase memory. But there’s no forgetting the picture burned into your eyelids. No way to smother the sound of that half-stifled breath, the friction of skin, the fall of a name not yours. You hear your name drift through the air like a ripple over still water. “Come here, sweetheart,” your mother calls, her voice sweet enough to sting. You rise on instinct, smoothing your skirt with trembling hands, and walk the long aisle toward her like you’re walking a tightrope, each step balanced between ruin and restraint. 

She stands with Jay’s mother, who is dressed in pastel pink, too pristine for the venom coiled beneath her voice. Their conversation is coated in sugar, but you can hear the brittle underneath; like porcelain tea cups about to crack. “Oh, she’s grown so much,” Jay’s mother says, her smile wide and empty. “Just lovely.” Your mother laughs, high and bright like wind chimes in a storm. “Time goes fast. I can barely keep up.” 

You can feel their words curling around you like ivy, decorative and choking. You nod, bow your head politely, try not to flinch as Soojin skips up to Minji and pulls her by the hand to the patch of grass outside the chapel. They giggle, bright as birdsong, unaware of the blood history buried beneath their fathers’ names. And beside them, like a wolf in Sunday clothes, stands Jay. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. He looks at you like he’s still in that room. Like he can still see you there, wide-eyed, breathless, trembling at the threshold of something you shouldn’t have witnessed. His smirk deepens, lazy and cruel, and you feel it all the way in your stomach.

Your skin prickles. “What the hell was that look?” Taehyun mutters behind you, his tone low, edged with suspicion. He nudges you sharply with his knee, and you nearly stumble. You keep your eyes on your feet. “Nothing,” you say, too quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”

Taehyun narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. He knows you. He knows when to wait. You stand there, between your mother and your enemy’s mother, with your hands clasped and your mouth sewn shut, while your past, your present, and your sins walk the churchyard outside; laughing like children, smirking like boys who don’t believe in consequences. You think maybe you don’t either. Not anymore. 

The conversation begins to wilt, as all forced things do; smiles sagging at the corners, eyes flicking elsewhere in search of escape. Your mother and Jay’s mother trade the kind of compliments that glitter like broken glass: delicate, dazzling, and meant to cut. Behind them, laughter ripples from the church lawn, where Minji and Soojin chase each other in slow, dizzying circles, their dresses fanning out like blooming petals, too young to know the soil they’re rooted in. You glance once toward Jay, who leans against the edge of the wooden steps with his hands still buried in his pockets, his dark hair curling slightly at his temple, his expression unreadable now, less amused, more distant, as if even he feels the weight pressing down from generations above him. And then your father arrives. 

He moves through the crowd like a tide against stone, unyielding and deliberate. The chatter quiets a little wherever he steps, the way air thins before a storm. You feel him before he speaks; a presence that coils around your ribcage and makes your breath shallow. His eyes are sharp beneath the brim of his hat, and when he stops beside your mother, you see the brief flicker of something harden in Jay’s mother’s posture. “Mrs. Park,” he says, voice even, smooth, but cold in the way marble is cold. “Where’s your husband this fine morning? Too busy for the Lord?” 

She blinks once. Her smile holds, but only just. “Business,” she replies. “He’s out of town, dealing with a shipment issue in the city.” Your father’s silence stretches just long enough to make everyone feel it. “I’m sure he is,” he says finally, the words slow and heavy, like stones dropped into a still pond. The implication hangs there; thick, clinging, undeniable. 

You feel your stomach twist. Even the sun seems to dim for a moment, slipping behind a lazy cloud as if to shield its eyes. Your mother steps in like a practiced violinist interrupting a wrong note mid-performance. Her hand grazes your father’s elbow with the familiarity of a thousand such interventions. “Well,” she says lightly, too brightly, “we should be going. The roast will overcook if we linger much longer.” She turns to Jay’s mother with that polished grace only women in battle can master. “It was so lovely catching up. Truly.” 

Jay’s mother nods. Her smile has slipped further now, the edges brittle. “Of course. Always.” You’re ushered away quickly, your mother’s hand at your back firm and urging, her pace brisk as she gathers Minji from the grass, calls for Taehyun, and pulls your family together like a shepherd herding sheep out of a lion’s den. No one speaks until the church doors are behind you, the air suddenly cooler, less suffocating.

You’re nearly free. The gravel of the church path crunches beneath your shoes as your family moves forward, a cluster of matching postures and purposeful steps, like soldiers retreating from a battlefield dressed in Sunday best. The weight begins to lift from your chest, bit by bit, with every step away from those lingering glances and brittle conversations. You tell yourself you’ll forget what you saw, that it was an accident, a fleeting mistake swallowed by stained glass and holy silence. But just as you pass the old oak tree near the chapel gate, a hand snakes out and closes around your wrist. You freeze. The world seems to narrow into a pinprick.

Jay. His fingers are calloused, his grip strong; not enough to hurt, but enough to root you to the spot like a nail through your spine. He’s close. Too close. His face is calm, cold, carved from the same shadows that seem to cling to him even in the daylight. There is no trace of that smirk now. No mischief. No boyish charm. Just steel. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw,” he says, low and sharp, each word slicing into the quiet like the snap of a branch underfoot. “Or you’ll regret it.” 

There’s no drama in his voice, no raised tone, no overt threat. Just certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Your breath lodges somewhere beneath your ribs. You can’t even muster a word, only a nod, small and trembling, as your heart begins to stutter inside your chest like it’s trying to run ahead of you. He lets go as suddenly as he appeared, melting back into the periphery like a sin you can’t prove you committed. The imprint of his touch remains, hot and phantomlike, as you hurry back to your family with your head down and your thoughts unraveling at the seams. You slip into step beside them just in time to hear your father’s voice break the fragile calm. 

“If I ever catch you talking to the likes of Park Jongseong,” he says, without turning his head, “I will ship you off to a convent so fast you’ll be reciting rosaries before supper.” The words hang in the air, stark and heavy as thunderclouds. “Yes, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice a breath against the wind, your eyes fixed on the ground. And that’s it. No argument. No protest. Because even if you wanted to fight, what would you say? That you didn’t talk to him? That his hand found yours, not the other way around? That he threatened you? That you saw something you can’t unsee?

No. You say nothing. You bow your head like the good girl you’re supposed to be. Like a daughter dressed in obedience and stitched with silence. But beneath your skin, something writhes. Something that feels a lot like shame and a little like fear, but more than anything, like curiosity warped by danger. And as the chapel disappears behind you, you realize this is how it begins. Not with a kiss. But with a warning. 

That night the dining room is warm with the scent of roast chicken and buttered root vegetables, the table laid with modest care, linen napkins folded neatly, wine glasses filled just a touch too high, as though the evening itself demanded the illusion of celebration. Outside, the crickets begin their song beneath the veil of twilight, and the house hums gently with the quiet rituals of family: chairs scraping wood, silverware clinking like distant bells, Minji humming to herself between bites of mashed potatoes. 

You sit across from Taehyun, who nudges your foot under the table once, curious, wordless, but you give him nothing. Not yet. Your mother, dressed in her favorite pale blue blouse, cuts her meat with careful precision, while your father, ever the figure carved from unyielding stone, sips from his wine like it's an act of judgment rather than indulgence. The conversation flits from the mundane to the mechanical, your father talking about a shipment delay, your mother noting the fundraiser next month, Taehyun making a dry comment about work. You listen halfheartedly, moving food around your plate, your thoughts wandering back to the church, to the oak tree, to the ghost of a hand still wrapped around your wrist. But then your mother says it. 

“So,” she begins lightly, as though she’s offering a dessert menu instead of kindling a fire, “Jiyo invited us to dinner next Saturday.” The clink of your father’s knife against his plate is immediate. A small, sharp sound that lands like a gavel. 

“She what?” he says, his voice too calm, the kind of calm that thins the air. Your mother waves her hand, trying to dismiss the storm before it forms. “Just a friendly gesture. She said she’s wanted to reconnect. It’s been years since we’ve sat down like civilized people.” Your father laughs, but it’s humorless, a short, cutting sound like a blade being tested. “And you said yes?”  

“I said I’d think about it.” 

He sets down his fork, dabs his mouth with a napkin, and leans back in his chair like a man preparing to deliver a verdict. “You know how I feel about Chul. That woman chose to build her life beside a snake. What makes you think we owe them the performance of kindness?” 

“She’s not her husband,” your mother says, her tone still soft but no longer passive. “She’s always been sweet to me. To the kids. Especially when you were… gone.” The word lingers — gone — and you feel it hit the table like a dropped stone. Your father’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing sweet about a woman who lays down with scum and lets him poison the earth around him.” 

“Well,” your mother says, straightening her back, her voice sharpening to a whisper-thin edge, “then I suppose I must be just as rotten. I married a man who once made deals with him too, didn’t I?” The silence that follows is deafening. Your father turns slowly to her, his expression unreadable but his eyes like winter; the kind of cold that doesn’t melt come spring. “Say that again?”

Your mother holds his gaze for half a second longer, a war trembling behind her lashes. But she looks away. She says nothing. Only returns to her plate and cuts her chicken in silence. And that’s it. The conversation dies. No one breathes too loudly. Minji doesn’t notice, she hums and chews and swings her feet. Taehyun reaches for the salt, eyes flicking to yours with quiet warning. Your appetite vanishes like mist in morning sun.

Outside, the wind brushes the windows like fingers trying to get in. Inside, you realize that your family is not made of glass, but of iron, bent into shape by betrayal, rusted over with resentment. And some metals, you think, cannot be reforged. Only buried. 

The night unfurls like silk, cool and gentle, stitched with stars. The backyard hums with crickets and the distant rustle of trees whispering secrets to one another in the dark. You’re curled on a poolside lounge chair, the spine of your book bent beneath your thumb, but your eyes have glossed over the same sentence three times. The page is just a veil now; something to hide behind while your mind wades through the wreckage of the day. The pool glows a soft, pale blue beneath the surface lights, and Taehyun slices through it like a blade through water. His strokes are steady, strong, the kind of motion that speaks of routine, of something he’s learned to rely on. You envy that; his ability to push everything down, to lose himself in rhythm and breath and the sound of water folding in on itself. 

You sigh and adjust your legs, the night air cool against your skin. Sometimes, in rare hours like this, you let yourself believe Taehyun might be the only one who truly sees you. The only one who knows how to read the pauses between your words, the weight behind your silences. Besides Yunah, who is far away tonight, it's always been him; your confidant, your reluctant protector, your brother. He swims one final lap, then glides to the edge and pulls himself out in a single fluid motion, water streaming off his skin in rivulets that catch the dim light. He grabs a towel from the back of a chair and rubs it through his hair, gaze flicking toward you, unreadable but searching. You wait. You know it’s coming. 

He sits at the pool’s edge, legs dangling in the water, shoulders still rising and falling from exertion. The silence thickens, until finally he breaks it. “What was that today?” he asks. “At church. Jay looked at you like…” He pauses, frowns. “And then he grabbed you. What the hell was that about?” You close your book slowly. The words don’t come easily. They never do when shame tangles them first. But this is Taehyun. If there’s anyone you can give them to, raw and imperfect, it’s him. 

“I saw something,” you begin softly. Your voice is barely a whisper, as if the night might shatter if you speak too loudly. “In the church. When I took Minji to the bathroom.” His eyes don’t leave your face. “There were… noises. From one of the storage rooms. I thought someone was hurt,” you say. “But when I opened the door, it was—” You hesitate. “It was Jay. With some girl. Yumi, I think. They were…” 

Taehyun groans, dragging a hand down his face before you can even finish. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, hugging your knees to your chest. “I slammed the door shut. I didn’t even mean to see it.” 

“And that’s why he grabbed you?” Taehyun says, his voice laced with disbelief and anger, a storm gathering behind his words. “That’s why he gave you that look; like he was daring you to open your mouth.” You nod. “He told me not to tell anyone. Said I’d regret it.” 

Taehyun curses again, sharper this time. “What a goddamn asshole.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically rid himself of the thought. “He treats people like shit. Always has. He walks around like the world owes him something for the family name he was born into. I don’t care how tragic his little story is; his dad screwing over ours, his mom pretending to be sweet, he’s just as rotten.” 

The silence stretches again, heavy with unspoken fears and the slow bloom of something darker. “He’s sick for doing that in a church,” Taehyun mutters, his voice low and hard. “And then threatening you about it? He’s lucky it was you who saw him and not me.” You glance at him then, at the way his jaw clenches, his hands balled into fists against his thighs. It should comfort you, the fierceness in him, the way he leaps to your defense without question. But instead, it only deepens the ache inside you. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much your brother’s fury burns bright and righteous, there’s a whisper in the back of your mind that still wonders what it is about Jay Park that makes your heart stutter like that.

“I won’t talk to him,” you say quietly, more to convince yourself than him. “Good,” Taehyun says, looking over at you. “Because that boy doesn’t just bring trouble. He is trouble.” And yet even as the stars blink overhead and the pool water laps gently against tile, you feel the echo of Jay’s voice coil around your spine like smoke. You know what you saw. And worse; you know what you felt. You tuck your head against your knees and close your eyes, wishing the night could swallow the memory whole. But some things, once seen, never go quiet again. 

The house is still, cloaked in the velvety hush of after-hours, when dreams drip slow like honey and silence wraps around the walls like an old lover. The moon hangs low outside your window, its pale light slanting across your bedroom floor like an invitation, or a warning. You wake to something — not a dream, no — but the low hum of voices bleeding through the stillness, muffled and sharp, like the scrape of metal under cloth. Your breath catches. You sit up slowly, ears straining. The clock beside your bed reads just past three. The voices murmur again. 

You slip out of bed on bare feet, the cold floor biting against your skin as you tiptoe to the door. The hallway yawns long and dark before you, stretched like a corridor in some haunted chapel, the air thicker here, like it's been keeping secrets of its own. You hold your breath and follow the murmurs, each step soft, careful, barely there. The kitchen glows faintly ahead. dim yellow light spilling out like spilled whiskey beneath the doorframe. You press yourself to the wall and lean forward just enough to see. Your father stands near the table, sleeves rolled up, a glass untouched by his hand. Taehyun leans against the counter, arms crossed, face grim, eyes flickering toward two men you’ve never seen before, older, stern, the kind of men who carry weight without needing to raise their voices. They speak in hushed tones, but the tension rides every syllable, thick and bitter. 

“…can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments,” one of the men says, low and urgent. “If Chul gets wind of it, he’ll burn this town down to find the leak.” Your heart jolts. Shipments? Leak? “They already suspect something,” the second man adds, fingers drumming against the table like a metronome counting down to disaster. “That little punk, Jay, he robbed one of our guys. Sent a message. You know what that means.” 

Your father’s face is carved from stone. “Of course I do.” Your stomach twists. Jay. “He’s getting reckless,” the man continues. “Acting like he’s untouchable. We don’t deal with people like that.” 

Taehyun’s voice is calm, but edged like a blade honed too long. “He can try,” he mutters. “If he comes near our side again, I’ll handle it.” Your blood runs cold. There’s no hesitation in his tone, only the promise of violence. Your hand flies to your mouth, breath trembling through your fingers. The room spins slightly, your body suddenly too small, too quiet for the weight of what you've just heard. The world feels different now, fractured. You’d known there were histories buried beneath this town, old grudges and whispered deals that had sunk roots deeper than the oak trees. But this — this was something else.

They weren’t just rivals. They were at war. And Jay, whatever he was to you, whatever strange heat curled around your being when you thought of him, was in the center of it. 

You back away from the doorway, heart racing, afraid they’ll hear the thunder of it. You scurry down the hallway like a ghost retracing its steps, back into the sanctuary of your room where shadows feel safer than light. You close the door with trembling hands and slide down the back of it, sinking to the floor. Your mind echoes with voices; dangerous, sharp-edged voices and Jay’s name spinning like a coin tossed too high. Sleep does not find you again that night. Only questions. And fear. 

The morning slips in on golden threads, soft and unassuming, the kind of light that warms the wooden floorboards and dapples the countertops in sleepy patches. You haven’t said a word about what you heard the night before those heavy truths folded into the silence between heartbeats but they thrum beneath your skin like a second pulse. Still, when your mother calls you down the hallway, brisk and bright, you answer as if nothing inside you has changed. “Put on something nice,” she says, her voice already trailing off into the kitchen. “We’re heading to the bake sale. Church is raising funds for that wedding coming up. Sohiya and Heeseung, bless them.” 

You pause with your hand on the stair rail, her words wrapping around your throat like ivy. Sohiya. She was your age, sweet and soft-spoken, with delicate wrists and laughter like wind chimes. And Heeseung, kind-eyed and quiet, the type who always held the door open and bowed his head when he prayed. The idea of them marrying, so young, so sudden, presses strangely on your chest. You dress in silence, the pastel linen of your skirt swishing against your legs like a lullaby as you smooth your hair, your reflection half-faded in the antique mirror on your wall. Outside, the town is already stirring, the sleepy streets of your village slowly waking, touched by the scent of sugar and cinnamon wafting through the breeze. 

At the town square, white tents have been strung with bunting, and tables bow beneath the weight of confections, pies with latticed crusts, sugar cookies shaped like doves, and cupcakes topped with icing roses that seem too delicate to eat. The air hums with the soft murmur of neighbors, laughter bubbling here and there like springwater. It is all so pleasant, so falsely perfect, like a painting trying to forget the shadows in its corners. You spot Yunah by the jam stall, her dark braid swinging as she waves you over with a grin, her mother deep in conversation with someone about flour prices and wedding favors. As soon as you reach her, she grabs your arm and leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Have you heard?” she whispers, the kind of tone that makes your stomach drop before you even know why. “Sohiya’s pregnant. That’s why the wedding’s so rushed.” Your brows lift in quiet shock. Yunah nods, savoring your reaction like a bite of forbidden cake. “I heard it from my cousin who heard it from Eunju, who heard it from her older sister. Her parents found out last week and demanded the wedding happen before anyone else starts talking.” 

You glance across the bake sale and find Sohiya near the lemonade stand, her hands wringing the hem of her blouse, Heeseung standing beside her like a ghost, present, but hollow. She looks tired, like someone who’s been carrying a secret too long, her smile wilting at the edges every time someone congratulates her. Your heart aches in the quiet way only girlhood understands. You’re the same age. You’ve braided your hair the same, sat in the same church pews, hummed the same hymns. But now she’s stepping into a life that feels ten years too soon. A house. A husband. A child. 

“I couldn’t imagine,” you murmur, voice soft and low, “being married right now.” Yunah shrugs, biting into a shortbread cookie. “You and me both. But you know how this town is. A scandal like that?” She shakes her head. “It’s either a wedding or exile.” You nod slowly, eyes lingering on Sohiya, on the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder like the whispers might catch up to her. The same way you feel the breath of last night’s secrets still clinging to yours. Beneath the sugar and sunlight, the square feels brittle. Like one wrong word could make it all shatter. 

It happens suddenly, like thunder splitting the hush of an approaching storm. One moment you’re nibbling on a vanilla cupcake and nodding along as Yunah whispers about scandalous bridal fittings and strict seamstresses, and the next, the air warps; sharp, brittle, buzzing like a struck wire. The shift is instant, the kind of moment that bends the bones of a quiet afternoon and sets hearts galloping. You hear it first; a voice, sharp and raw with fury. Then the low, sickening thud of someone being shoved against a wall.

Your head snaps toward the commotion, and the whole bake sale ripples with the echo of gasps and stilled conversations. Tables tremble, frosting smears, and parents clutch their children a little closer. Near the corner of the community center, just beneath the old iron sconce where flyers for choir practice flutter weakly, Jay is pinned; pressed against sun-warmed brick by another boy, taller, angrier, eyes gleaming with betrayal. It’s Felix. You know him. Sweet-talking, easy-laughing Felix who works at the town’s little mechanic shop and always smells like motor oil and mint gum. His voice is raised now, ragged and venomous. 

“You fucked my girlfriend, you sick bastard!” he roars, his arm slamming across Jay’s chest, voice loud enough to slice through every inch of sugar-sweet air. Yumi is there too, her mascara running like rivers down her cheeks, her hands fluttering uselessly in front of her as she pleads with Felix, voice breaking like porcelain in her throat. “It wasn’t like that, please,” she cries, grabbing at his arm. “Please, stop. It was a mistake — he didn’t mean—” 

But Jay only stands there, infuriatingly calm. There’s a half-lidded smirk painted across his lips, smug and gleaming like polished obsidian. “Relax, Felix,” he drawls, voice thick with venom-laced honey. “I didn’t know she was yours. She didn’t exactly say no.” The words are a match. Felix snaps. His fist connects with Jay’s jaw in a brutal arc, a punch that sounds like thunder cracking bone. Gasps scatter like doves taking flight. Yumi shrieks, and a cupcake tray crashes to the ground somewhere nearby, frosting splattering like a pink and white wound. 

Jay stumbles back from the blow, hand flying to his cheek but then he laughs. Actually laughs, a low, taunting sound, wild and cruel and so full of gall it steals the breath from your lungs. “You hit like a fucking choir boy,” he spits, blood blooming on his lower lip like a rose in ruin. People rush in, pastors, parents, volunteers with gloved hands and worried brows pulling Felix back, dragging Jay away, trying to stitch dignity back into the seams of a moment too far undone. 

The crowd swells, then parts. Jay is being hauled out by a man in a navy windbreaker and a church elder with trembling hands. But even bruised, even bleeding, Jay looks untouchable; smirking like he owns the goddamn town. And then he sees you. Eyes dark as ink, wild with something you can’t name. He meets your gaze across the chaos, across the bodies and ruined cakes and shattered calm. He winks. It’s slow. Intentional. And it sets your spine on fire. You forget how to breathe. He disappears into the crowd, the echo of that wink burning behind your eyes like the sun. 

Your heart is still galloping when the crowd begins to settle, when the ripples of scandal soften into murmurs and murmurs dissolve into sugared distractions. Parents usher children away with tight smiles and tighter hands, as if sweetness could scrub away the memory of fists and curses. Jay is gone, at least from sight. But not from your mind. “You know,” Yunah says beside you, folding her arms, her voice sharpened with knowing, “he’s no good. Just trouble in designer clothes.”

You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. What you’re expected to believe. What every decent girl in this village is raised to fear. But inside you, curiosity blooms like a slow-burning match, small and dangerous. You mumble something about needing the bathroom and excuse yourself before she can press further, her eyes already narrowing in suspicion. The church looms behind you as you slip away, its whitewashed walls glowing warm in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sun-baked frosting and wilted roses. But beneath it — just barely, you catch another scent. Smoke. Acrid, earthy, wrong. 

You follow it. Each step feels reckless, like dancing barefoot on a chapel floor. Like carving your name into a hymnbook. The scent grows stronger as you round the corner of the church, your breath catching in your throat like a moth in a jar. And there he is. Jay.

He leans against the wall like he was born to break rules and balance on the edge of forgiveness. One foot propped behind him, head tilted back, the collar of his shirt loosened and stained with a drop of blood near the seam. His cigarette glows like an ember in the low light, the curl of smoke rising from it like a ghost ascending. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. In fact, he barely even glances your way. Just takes a drag, exhales slow, like the chaos he caused hasn’t even nicked his soul. Like the fight, the punch, the girl, the whispers, none of it mattered. 

“Didn’t think you’d come looking,” he says finally, voice low, almost bored. But there’s a thread of something else underneath; taunt or tease, you can’t tell. “You don’t seem the type.”  You should leave. You should turn around, march back to the bake sale, and pretend you never followed smoke down a church wall. But your feet stay planted, heart hammering as loud as the chapel bells. You don’t say a word. You just watch him, silently, like he’s a puzzle carved from shadow and sin and the ache of wanting something you know you shouldn’t. 

Jay flicks ash onto the gravel path, his eyes cutting toward you through the smoke, one brow raised lazily. His lip is split, a bloom of red painting the edge of his smirk. “You see something you like?” he asks. And for one terrible, breathless moment you don’t know the answer. The question drips from his mouth like smoke, slow, curling, coaxing. Not crude, not exactly. But not innocent, either. It lands somewhere in the charged space between your ribs and your throat, where breath gets tangled with hesitation.

You should scoff. Roll your eyes. Offer him the same disdain he so casually invites from the world. But you don’t. Because there’s something about the way he looks at you; like you’re not just another girl in a white dress and soft shoes, but someone he sees through, into. Like he knows your name and the weight it carries. Knows the walls you live behind, and the cracks that run silent and deep beneath your polished smile. You step closer without meaning to, arms crossed loosely, trying to look like the kind of girl who doesn’t care what boys like him say. But your voice comes softer than you mean for it to. “I didn’t come looking for you.” 

Jay chuckles, low and dark, like gravel skimming the bottom of a stream. He doesn’t believe you. That much is clear. He drops the cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the heel of his boot, the smoke hissing away like a secret being silenced. “No?” he says, stepping just slightly forward, head tilted. “Then why are you here, church girl?” You flinch a little at the nickname. It’s not mean. But there’s weight in it. A reminder of everything you’re supposed to be. Everything he isn’t. 

“I heard… noise,” you mumble, eyes darting away, to the cracked siding of the church wall. “From earlier. I just… I wanted to see if you were okay.” Jay scoffs this time, straightens, stretches the muscles in his shoulders like a wolf rising from slumber. “You mean after I got punched for screwing some girl who cried over it?” 

He says it like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. Like none of it, the punch, the drama, the girl, was anything more than a flicker in the dark. And still, the wound at the edge of his lip glistens like it wants to be noticed. You hesitate, then speak quietly. “That was cruel. What you did.” 

He watches you now, like your words are more interesting than they have any right to be. “Probably,” he agrees, not flinching. “But she knew what it was. I’m not the one playing pretend.” The words settle over you like dust, heavy and old and aching. You want to hate him. You really, truly do. You want to believe he’s everything your father says, that he’s rotten at the root, grown from betrayal and greed and the same sharp-edged steel his father used to cut yours down. 

But he looks at you then, and there’s something in his expression, not smugness, not bravado; but something rawer. Wearier. Like he’s been fighting a war so long he’s forgotten what peace feels like. You find your voice again, softer now. “Why do you act like this?” Jay blinks slowly, like you’ve asked him a question no one’s ever dared to. Then, in a voice barely louder than a confession, he says, “Because people already made up their minds about me a long time ago. Figured I might as well give them what they want.” It slices through the silence like a nail through silk.

You swallow, the wind tugging at your skirt, the chapel bells tolling in the distance; calling the faithful back inside, as if to protect them from boys like him and girls like you who linger too long in the gray. Jay takes a step back, pulling another cigarette from the pocket of his jacket, but he doesn’t light it. Just rolls it between his fingers like a habit he hasn’t learned how to quit. “Run along now,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Before your daddy comes lookin’. Wouldn’t want you shipped off to a convent, would we?”

And this time, when he smirks, there’s no cruelty in it. Just something almost sad. You hesitate one more breath, just one, before turning, your footsteps light on the gravel, your heart anything but. But as you leave, you can feel his gaze still on your back. Burning. Etching your outline into his memory like a prayer he’ll never speak. 

You scurry back around the side of the church, fingers fumbling with the hem of your dress, your breath still tinged with the ghost of smoke. The sun presses down hard now, warm and high in the sky, yet you feel cold beneath your skin, as though the truth of that boy has left a frostbite behind, unseen but pulsing. The bake sale has resumed its sugary rhythm, laughter bubbling from ladies with sunhats and teenagers handing out lemonade like the world isn’t slowly unraveling around you. As if it’s all sweet and simple, and boys like Jay Park don’t burn holes in the script you were meant to follow.

Yunah finds you with a look that speaks volumes, one brow raised, lips pursed slightly like she already knows you’ve done something that would make your parents spit their tea. She doesn’t say anything, though. Just hands you a paper plate with a melting brownie on it and raises her eyes toward the sky like she’s giving you a silent prayer. You offer a small, guilty smile and fall in step beside her. But your thoughts are no longer here. They wander, wild and unbidden, to the shadows of last night. 

To your bare feet on the cold wood floor, the whisper of your nightgown brushing your ankles. The hush of the house heavy around you as you crept down the hallway, drawn like a moth to the faint hum of voices in the kitchen. You hadn’t meant to listen. But once you’d heard, you couldn’t unhear it. The names, the threats, the implication that beneath all this civility was something far darker. Something like war. “We can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments.” — “That little punk Jay needs to be dealt with.” — “He can try,” Taehyun had said, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it, like a blade honed under moonlight.

Your father, standing there like a general. Cold. Unmoving. He hadn’t even flinched at the suggestion of retaliation. Of vengeance. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, but there it was, your family wasn’t just at odds with the Parks over pride and betrayal. There were stakes hidden deeper than Sunday sermons and fake smiles at bake sales. Stakes that bled and burned. Stakes that made boys disappear and fathers never come home. Jay. A name spoken like venom in your house, a boy your father swore was born from rot and ruin. A boy who had dared to look at you today with something that felt like a challenge. Or a warning.

Your fingers tighten around the paper plate in your hands, the brownie trembling on the wax paper like it knows it doesn’t belong in your grip. You don’t belong here, either. Not really. Not with your head full of cigarette smoke and secrets. Yunah is saying something beside you, but the words slip past like water on stone. You nod when you’re supposed to. Smile when expected. But inside? Inside, you’re still standing at the edge of that hallway, hearing the words that changed everything. Inside, you’re still by that church wall, staring into the eyes of the boy your father would rather see buried than anywhere near you. And worse than all of it is the ache that curls low in your belly because you don’t know if you’re scared of Jay… or of how much you want to understand him. 

That night, the air in the house is thick with something unsaid. Like storm clouds gathering just out of sight, grumbling low and slow in the distance. The walls creak with old secrets and the whispers of generations past, all of them watching, waiting. You lie in bed, the covers tangled around your legs, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows stretch like spiderwebs. But sleep doesn’t come. Not when your mind is still caught in that kitchen, when you still hear your father’s voice like thunder and Taehyun’s like flint striking stone. 

The question gnaws at you, small and sharp and relentless: what did they mean? What are they doing, what is Jay tangled in that your family feels the need to speak of him like a threat, like a ghost they can’t quite kill? So you get up. The floorboards are cold under your feet, the hallway dim save for the light spilling beneath Taehyun’s door, a golden sliver cutting the dark. You hover there for a second, unsure, your hand paused mid-air. Then you knock gently, once, twice. 

“It’s open,” his voice calls out, slightly muffled. You step in and find him hunched over his desk, textbooks spread like wings, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up at you, blinking like he’s surfacing from underwater. “What’s up?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely. “Don’t tell me you need help with trig again.” 

You close the door softly behind you and step further into the room, suddenly unsure how to phrase what’s been burning in your chest for the past twenty-four hours. So you just say it, straight and small:

“I heard you. Last night. You and Dad.” His entire body stiffens like wire pulled taut. He leans back in his chair, pen dropping from his fingers as his face darkens with something between disappointment and dread. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he says, his voice low, more exhale than sound. “Conversations like that aren’t meant for young girls.” 

You bristle. “I’m only a year younger than you.” He gives you a look, half warning, half weary affection. “And that year makes a difference.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” you insist, crossing your arms. “I’m not a child, Taehyun.” He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair, frustration flashing across his face like lightning. “You think being an adult is about age? It’s about what you’re ready to carry. And you’re not ready for this.”

“Then help me understand.” Your voice is soft but steady. “Help me understand why everyone talks about Jay like he’s poison. Like he’s something to be eliminated.” The name slips out before you can stop it. Jay. A matchstick against stone.

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t —” you start, but the lie tastes bitter. He stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. “You do care. Don’t lie to me.” 

You look away, your heart pounding like it wants out of your chest. “I saw him today,” you admit. “At the bake sale. We didn’t talk long. I just —” 

“You talked to him?” Taehyun’s voice cracks like a whip. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“He didn’t hurt me—” You started. 

“That’s not the point,” he snaps. “You don’t know what kind of shit he’s involved in. What his family is capable of. This isn’t some schoolyard rivalry, alright? This is blood and business. He’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t get to tell me who to talk to,” you hiss, your hands trembling. “You’re not the boss of me.” His jaw clenches so tight you swear you hear it grind. “Actually,” he says slowly, icily, “I am. Until you know better, I am.”

That does it. The fury rises in you like a storm tide. You don’t shout. You don’t cry. You just spin on your heel and stalk out of his room, your footsteps like gunshots down the hallway. Behind you, Taehyun doesn’t follow. He just lets the door click shut between you. And you, you retreat to your room with your chest heaving and your thoughts in shambles, torn between the brother who wants to protect you and the boy who might just ruin you.

But wasn’t that what drew you in the first place? Not the danger.The possibility. The proof that something — someone could make you feel something real, even if it burned.

The bell above the shop door tinkles faintly as you step out into the embrace of night. Mrs. Chen waves at you from behind the counter, her fingers still dancing with a needle and thread as the lamplight paints golden halos around her silver hair. You smile, small and tired, the weight of the day settling in your bones, and close the door behind you. The sky outside is bruised with twilight, bleeding violet and blue as the sun disappears behind the hills that cradle your little town. The street lamps blink on one by one, flickering like hesitant stars, and the cobbled road that winds through the town glows amber in the gathering dark. 

You wrap your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, feeling the press of the cool evening air against your skin. The walk home isn’t far, just fifteen minutes down roads you’ve known since childhood, roads that smell of lilac and woodsmoke and safety. Roads that always, always felt like home. But tonight, something feels different. It begins as a whisper at the base of your neck. That sense; not quite sound, not quite sight but the ancient, instinctual knowledge that you are no longer alone. Your footsteps echo a beat behind yours, too steady to be wind, too light to be mere imagination. 

You glance back. A man. Far enough that he could still be a coincidence, close enough that your pulse begins to drum faster. You turn onto a narrower lane, hoping to lose him in the winding streets, past Mrs. Lee’s bakery now shuttered for the night, past the small chapel with its bowed iron gates and flickering candles in the windows. Your footsteps quicken. So do his. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing; just a late walker, a neighbor maybe, but your hands are starting to shake. Then you hear it. 

The scrape of shoe leather quickening. The sound of breath, heavy, sharp, close. Panic surges like a tide inside you. You break into a run, your feet pounding the pavement, your breath catching in your throat, heart clawing at your ribs like a wild animal. But you don’t get far. A hand slams over your mouth. Another arm snakes around your waist, yanking you back so fast your heels lift off the ground. You try to scream, but your voice is strangled by a palm that tastes of sweat and cigarettes, of something sickly and metallic. The world tilts. You’re dragged, stumbling, into the shadows of an alley.

The narrow passage smells of rust and rot, wet stone and old things. Your feet scrape against gravel, your knees buckle, and still he drags you like you’re nothing more than a sack of flour. “Shhh,” he hisses into your ear, breath hot and rank, “make a sound and I swear to God—” But you’re fighting now, kicking, flailing, desperate not to disappear into the black corners of this town like a ghost no one will remember. Your mind reels. You think of Taehyun. Of your mother’s soft hands. Of Jay’s cigarette smoke curling like a warning. You think: not like this. Not like this.

You are a wild thing now, thrashing and clawing like some animal pulled too soon from the womb of safety, a fledgling bird tossed mid-air and told to fly. His arm is like iron around your chest, squeezing until breath is no longer breath but gasps made of salt and fear. You kick. You scream. The sound doesn’t even sound like you, it's raw, primal, jagged like broken glass tearing up your throat. Then instinct, burning desperate inside your veins, you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard. Hard enough to feel flesh give, to taste copper and skin and filth. He howls, a sound not quite human, and in the next heartbeat, his hand rears back and strikes your cheek with such force that the world spins. White-hot pain blossoms beneath your eye like a cruel flower, petals blooming in shades of red and violet.  

You fall. Hard. The gravel bites into your palms, your knees scream, but nothing compares to the kick to your stomach that follows. A boot, sharp and merciless, lands right where your breath lives. It punches the air from your lungs and leaves you folded on the earth like a broken prayer, stars exploding behind your eyes, nausea clawing up your throat. He’s above you now, shadowed and snarling, and there’s a moment, a single, stretched-out beat of time, where you wonder if this is how the story ends. A foot raised. The night around you holding its breath. Your body too stunned to move. 

Then it happens. A blur. A sound like thunder colliding with flesh. The man is ripped away from you in an instant, tackled to the ground with such force that the cobblestones rattle. You hear the grunt of fists meeting ribs, the dull wet thud of a punch, another, another, bone against bone, like a drumbeat played by fury. Jay. He’s on top of him now, all sinew and violence, his face carved in rage, lips peeled back like a wolf in the final act of warning. His fists fly like they’ve waited their whole life for this moment, no technique, just raw, vicious instinct. The man beneath him sputters, tries to buck him off, but Jay is unrelenting. There’s blood, somewhere, someone’s and it paints Jay’s knuckles like war paint. 

“Touch her again,” he growls low, venom slithering through each syllable, “and I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.” He says it not like a threat, but like a promise carved in stone. You can’t move. You can barely breathe. You're crumpled on the cold ground, blinking through pain and fear and disbelief. But through the haze, you watch Jay stand, chest heaving, jaw clenched, the man groaning at his feet like something discarded. But Jay doesn’t stop. 

His knuckles keep rising and falling like thunder crashing on a cursed shoreline, relentless, wild, each blow drawn from something deeper than fury, a darkness that lives in his marrow, in the cracks behind his eyes. The man beneath him is coughing now, spitting blood between laughter, a cruel, rasping sound that haunts the alley like a specter. And Jay, jaw set like a guillotine, grabs the man by the collar, shoving him harder against the wall, until the bricks groan and dust spills like ash. “Who sent you?” Jay spits, voice sharp enough to cut air. “Who do you work for?” The man just chuckles, a hideous, broken sound leaking out of a bruised throat. His lip splits wider with every word, but still he smirks like a man with nothing left to lose. 

“You think I’d ever tell you?” he sneers, coughing through blood. “You’re just a kid playing gangster.” Jay growls low in his throat, an animal sound, and the next punch lands with such weight it echoes. The man gasps. You flinch. The wind shifts and carries the scent of blood and cigarette smoke into your lungs like smoke from a funeral pyre. 

You push yourself up, your limbs trembling, bones whispering protest. Pain blooms in your side where his boot struck, your face throbs, but still you crawl forward, palms scraping against gravel and broken glass. You reach them. Jay’s crouched like a storm about to strike, the man limp but still smirking like he knows some secret that Jay doesn’t. “Stop,” you say, voice hoarse, barely a whisper, like something stitched together with threadbare breath. “Jay, stop. You’re going to kill him.”

He doesn’t even look at you at first. His eyes are locked on the man, flame-red and feral, his chest rising and falling like the sea before it devours a ship. Then slowly, he turns, and there's something broken in his face, something wild and bitter and unspoken. “Good,” he says, teeth gritted like steel on steel. “He deserves to die.” The words fall heavy in the dark, sharp as glass in a chalice. You reach out, your fingers barely grazing his shoulder and shake your head, a tremble chasing the motion. “Please,” you whisper, not sure if you’re begging for the man’s life or for Jay’s humanity to return. “Please… just stop.”

He breathes in hard. For a moment, the silence stretches too long, pregnant with violence and decision. But then something flickers behind his eyes, a light sputtering back to life, weak and shaking, but there. Jay lets go. The man crumples to the ground, groaning, blood trailing from his mouth like ink from a broken pen. He stares at Jay, equal parts terrified and awed, and then stumbles to his feet, sways like a drunk ghost, and bolts into the dark alley without another word, just the sound of his heels slapping pavement like a heartbeat fleeing death. The world is quiet again. But not peaceful.

Jay turns to you, breath ragged, hands stained red. His jaw twitches as if he’s trying to say something, but the words dissolve before they can take form. He just steps forward, closing the space between you and reaches down, hand outstretched. “Come on,” he says, voice quieter now, softer, not sharp enough to cut but still trembling from what it almost became. You stare at his hand for a moment, at the boy who just fought like a monster to save you. And then, with shaking fingers, you let him pull you up from the wreckage. 

He looks at your face, and something flickers in those storm-dark eyes of his; something close to concern, but too buried beneath bravado to fully surface. His fingers ghost the edge of your jawline, not quite touching but close enough to feel like lightning waiting for the right tree. He tilts your chin ever so slightly, examining the swelling beneath your cheekbone with an expression that makes your stomach twist. “That’s going to bruise,” he mutters, voice low and sandpaper-rough. You nod, slowly, wincing as the movement stirs pain. “Why did you help me?” 

The question hangs in the cool night air like incense in a chapel, sweet, uncertain, sacred. He shrugs, a movement so nonchalant it’s maddening. Like he hadn’t just saved your life. Like the blood on his knuckles wasn’t still drying into his skin. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes flickering away like they don’t owe you the truth.

You stand there, aching and trembling and furious at the way your heart stutters beneath your ribs. You should be scared. You should be disgusted, shaken to the bone from the violence, from the pain still blooming like a bruise across your ribs. But all you can feel is warmth curling in the pit of your stomach, uninvited and undeniable. “Thank you,” you whisper, unsure if it’s gratitude or confession. 

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting his gaze back to yours. “Don’t thank me.” His tone is firm, but not cruel. It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t want to be a hero, who’s been told too many times that he doesn’t deserve kindness. And maybe he believes it. Maybe that’s why he can’t take your thanks, because it tastes too much like absolution. He glances down the road, toward the dim golden lights of town, and then back at you. “I’ll walk you home.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” he cuts in, already moving. So you fall into step beside him, the silence between you stretching long and strange. Your body aches with every step, and yet you feel like you’re floating, disconnected, dazed, and tethered only by the steady rhythm of Jay beside you. Like gravity shifted the moment he touched you, and now you orbit around him whether you want to or not. When your house comes into view, a knot tightens in your chest. The porch light is still on, like an accusation. You can already imagine your father’s face, already hear the questions wrapped in thunder and expectation. Jay stops at the edge of the walkway, still cloaked in night. 

“When your father asks,” he says, voice low, “don’t tell him I helped you.” 

You blink. “What?” He looks at you, unreadable. “Make up a lie. Say you fell or something. Just don’t bring me into it.” 

There’s no warmth in his voice, no smile, not even the smirk you’ve come to expect from him. Just a quiet, raw kind of resolve, like he’s asking you to keep a secret that might burn you both if it ever saw daylight. You nod. “Okay.” Jay lingers for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, like maybe this night changed something in him, too. But whatever it is, he swallows it down and turns away without another word. 

You watch him go, his silhouette swallowed by the dark, and then you push open the door and step into the light of your home, where lies are stitched as easily as hems and truth is just another thing buried beneath silence. The bruise blooms like a purple flower across your cheekbone. The door clicks shut behind you with the hush of finality, as if the night itself is sealing the pages of its most brutal chapter. But there is no rest in this kind of silence, only the jagged inhale of your mother’s gasp as she turns from the hallway and sees your face under the dim foyer light. 

Her slippers skid against the wood as she rushes to you, hands fluttering like frantic birds, afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Oh my god — what happened? What happened to your face?” Her voice is thin, stretched like silk pulled too tight. You flinch as she brushes your cheek with trembling fingers, and just like that, the whole house stirs. Taehyun barrels in from the kitchen, his voice already rising. “What the hell happened?” 

Your father follows in his shadow, his presence larger than the room, chest puffed with immediate anger and the bitter scent of panic barely masked beneath the cologne he always wears. “Who did this to you?” The world tilts slightly as all eyes converge on you, their questions digging at your skin like teeth. You open your mouth and close it again, suddenly aware of how fragile the truth is, how it quivers in your throat, aching to be spoken but dangerous to free. 

So you breathe in, steady and slow, and choose the half-lie with the cleanest edges. “I was walking home from Mrs. Chen’s,” you begin, voice carefully pitched between tremble and calm. “There was a man… I didn’t recognize him. He followed me, grabbed me. I fought back. I bit his hand. He hit me, but then —” You hesitate, careful not to look in the direction of the window, of the dark where Jay had disappeared only moments before. “He must’ve gotten spooked. He ran off. I don’t know why.” You lower your gaze as the lie coils around your tongue, heavy and sour, but necessary. 

Your father’s fists curl at his sides, his jaw set so tight you wonder if he’ll ever speak again. “A man did this to you?” he growls, like the words themselves are fire in his throat. “He laid hands on you?” Taehyun mutters a curse and kicks the wall, hard. The sound cracks through the air like lightning, loud enough to make Minji stir upstairs. Your mother’s hand moves from your cheek to your arm, guiding you to the couch with the reverence of someone handling broken porcelain. She’s whispering something now, prayers, you think. Or maybe just the names of every saint she knows. 

“I’ll find him,” your father says, voice flat and cold. “I don’t care if I have to turn over every damn rock in this town.” 

“Dad —” you start, but he’s already storming toward the back office, barking orders to no one and everyone at once, a storm given form and fury. Taehyun sits beside you, anger still rolling off of him like heat. He watches you with eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Did you really not see who it was?”

You shake your head, slowly. “It was dark. It happened fast.” He exhales through his nose, not convinced but not ready to argue. “I’ll walk you from now on,” he says. “No more being out late by yourself.” You nod, grateful and guilty all at once, because what you’ve said isn’t the truth, but neither is it a lie that came easily. And somewhere, in the places they cannot see, your body still carries the memory of Jay’s arms, of his rage not directed at you, of the unspoken promise that lived briefly between the blood and bruises. You fold your hands in your lap and lower your eyes, letting your family whirl around you with worry and vengeance and vow. And inside, you tuck your secret into the hollow behind your ribs, where all your dangerous truths now live. 

The church bells toll in the morning like an old warning, iron-voiced and hollow, their echoes slipping through the mist that clings to the town’s narrow streets. You walk beside your family in silence, each step heavier than the last, as though shame itself has taken root in your heels. The church rises before you in its usual whitewashed sanctimony, but today it feels more like a stage and you, unwilling, have become the play. You step inside, and instantly, the weight of a hundred unspoken things crashes over you. The air is perfumed with lilies and incense, but beneath it, there's the acrid tang of gossip, hushed tones curled behind cupped hands, eyes flickering like candle flames in your direction. You feel them long before you see them: judgmental, narrow gazes that prick against your skin like nettles. Their stares are veiled in piety, but you know better. You've been raised in a house of wolves pretending to pray. 

“They say her daddy’s sins are catching up with him.”

“She was always going to be a target with a name like his.”

“Poor thing — pretty won’t protect you from retribution.”

You don’t hear the words exactly, but they ripple through the wooden pews like ghosts, rising and falling with the organ's song, threading themselves between hymns and halfhearted smiles. It’s in the way they glance at the bruise blooming on your cheek like a crushed violet, in the silence that stretches too long when you pass, in the pity dressed up like politeness. You lower your head, eyes fixed on your polished shoes, hands clasped demurely in front of you, but your pulse hammers in your ears. You don’t dare look around. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of it all pressing down on you like a stone in your chest. The truth you swallowed last night has soured in your gut, bitter as wormwood. 

And then, you feel it. A gaze unlike the others. Heavy, direct. You look up instinctively and your eyes lock with Park Chul; Jay’s father. He is sitting two rows ahead with his family gathered close, looking too much like a king among snakes, his tailored suit flawless, his posture regal, and his smile; oh, that smile, it slithers across his face like oil on water. It doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s nothing warm there. Just calculation. Recognition. He sees the bruise. He knows what you’ve left out. The smile he offers you is slow, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

You blink once and look away, your heart suddenly loud in your ribs. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the pew as you sit down beside your mother, who is already lost in prayer. Your father doesn’t notice, he’s too busy glaring across the aisle at Chul, his disdain worn proudly like a second suit. Jay is there, too, seated beside his sister and looking maddeningly unaffected. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. But as the choir begins to sing and the congregation rises, you catch it, just the flick of his eyes toward yours, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turns his head away like nothing ever happened. 

You stand, too, murmuring the first verse of the hymn without really hearing it, the sound a dull hum in your ears. And even though your lips are moving, your mind is far from holy things. Because something is shifting. And though you can’t name it yet, can’t shape it into something solid, you know, deep in the marrow of your bones, that the bruise on your face isn’t the last mark this war will leave. The sermon drones on, words thick with dust and self-righteousness, echoing off vaulted ceilings like old warnings written in blood and parchment. You sit in the pew like a ghost in borrowed skin, present in body but floating elsewhere. The preacher’s voice is meant to be comforting, commanding, divine, but today it’s just noise, a hum beneath the cold stares and whispered rumors still clinging to you like static.

Another glance. Another hushed voice behind a lace-gloved hand. You feel it before you see it, someone’s eyes skating down the bruise along your cheek like it’s a badge you chose to wear, like you’re not already burning beneath their judgment. Your heartbeat climbs, fluttering in your chest like a caged moth. The walls feel too close, the pews too narrow. You can’t breathe. You rise, a breath of movement in a still room, and excuse yourself softly. Your mother doesn’t look up. Your father is lost in thought, your brother staring ahead like he might kill a man with his eyes. You slip out the heavy doors like a shadow, letting the sun kiss your skin again, warmth meeting chill. Outside, the world is quieter. Calmer. Honest. 

The church steps are cool beneath you, stone soaked in centuries of rain and repentance. You hug your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them, and try to slow your breathing. The air carries the faint scent of roses from the cemetery down the hill, and further still, the faintest trace of last night’s terror still lingers behind your ribs. Footsteps behind you, Soft but certain. Crunching gravel. You whip around, heart climbing into your throat. But it’s only Jay. Only. 

He stands a moment, watching you with that unreadable expression of his; half smirk, half storm and then lowers himself beside you without a word. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t lean in close. Just sits, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the steps, the church, the whole damn town. You open your mouth to thank him again, to tell him you haven’t stopped thinking about the way he pulled you up from the darkness like a ghost from the grave, but before you can speak, his voice cuts across the silence. “Don’t,” he says. Not cruel, not cold, just… tired. Like he doesn’t need your gratitude weighing down what he did. Like it was inevitable.

Then, quieter, more tentative: “Are you okay?” Your heart stutters at the question. You nod, slow. “Yeah. I think so.” He scoffs, not at you, but at everything. The town. The church. The bruises on your face and the venom on their tongues. “Fuck what those hypocrites in there think,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the stained glass windows above. “They’d rather pray for sinners than help them. Would’ve left you bleeding on the street if it meant saving face.” 

A breath of laughter slips from your lips. Not out of humor; more like release. Like someone finally said what your heart couldn’t. And something shifts. The air between you thickens. No longer easy, no longer innocent. It crackles now, like a wire pulled too tight or a sky just before thunder. You turn to him, and he’s already looking at you, really looking, like he sees through the bruises and the silk dress and the good-girl smile you’ve worn like armor for years. Like he sees the fire buried beneath the ashes. And before you can think, before you can flinch, he leans in. 

His mouth is warm and certain on yours, and everything slows. The birdsong quiets. The breeze stills. Your breath catches, trembling in your lungs, and for a moment you forget where you are, who you are, just lips and heat and the wild drumbeat in your ears. It’s your first kiss, and it doesn’t feel gentle or hesitant. It feels like a match struck against stone, sudden and bright and dangerous. He pulls back, just slightly, and his eyes hold yours with something fierce and searching. As though he's not sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all.

And then, with aching softness, he leans in again and places a second kiss on your lips, quieter this time, reverent almost. A kiss like a secret. A kiss like a promise or a threat. You don’t know which. Then he stands.

Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t look back. Just runs a hand through his hair and strides back into the church as if nothing just happened. As if he didn’t just turn your world on its side. And you sit there alone, the stone still cool beneath you, the taste of him still on your mouth, your heart trying to decide if it should beat faster in fear or in longing. And for once, you don’t feel like a girl waiting to be told what to do. You feel like a match still burning. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, still as breath in a cathedral, the stone steps beneath you holding the echo of his kiss like holy ground. The air around you feels different now, touched by something raw and shimmering, like the hush after lightning splits the sky. Your fingers brush your lips, still warm, still tingling, as though they remember him better than your mind dares to. You’re not sure if it’s madness or magic, but whatever it is, it’s lodged in your chest like a second heartbeat, louder than the church bells, steadier than the sermon inside. Eventually, you rise, legs stiff from sitting too long, and drift back into the chapel’s shadow. Inside, the congregation is standing, voices rising in a hymn that scrapes the heavens, all sharp harmony and practiced devotion. You slip into a seat beside Yunah, whose gaze flickers toward you. There’s something unreadable in her eyes, not judgment, not surprise, just knowing. She doesn’t ask, and you don’t tell. Some moments are too fragile for words, too wild to be captured without breaking. 

The service ends, and the tide of townsfolk washes out of the church, trailing perfume and rumors behind them like smoke. Your family is gathered near the front steps, your mother speaking softly to the pastor’s wife, your father speaking not at all, his eyes like twin flints scanning the crowd for any spark of danger. Taehyun stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching Jay with the wary contempt of a guard dog who’s seen the wolf smile. You don’t say anything as you fall into step beside them. Your father reaches for your shoulder like a shield, and you let him, though you feel the ghost of Jay’s touch burning on your skin. The day unfolds like it always does in towns like this, slow and sun-soaked, filled with the scent of pies cooling on windowsills and the soft echo of children’s laughter skipping down cracked sidewalks. But inside you, something is stirring. Something restless and wild and hungry for the unknown.

At home, lunch is quiet. The clink of cutlery against porcelain plates sounds louder than usual. Your father doesn’t ask again about last night, he simply studies you, the way a man might study a cipher he doesn’t like not knowing how to read. Your mother fusses over your bruises with gentle hands and worried eyes, placing a cold compress against your cheek as though she can will the world to be kind with the sheer force of her care. Taehyun is brooding beside you, silent but heavy, like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to stay or roll in angry over the hills. But even with their eyes on you, even with their questions unasked but still hanging in the air like incense, your thoughts are elsewhere. 

You think of the alley. The press of fear. The sharp, unforgiving sting of a slap and the curling pain of a foot against your ribs. You think of the man’s laugh, hollow and fearless, and how Jay’s fists had answered it like judgment. You think of Jay’s eyes, dark as spilled ink, and how they’d searched your face like he didn’t want to miss a single flinch. How he kissed you like he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. You think, absurdly, foolishly of what it would be like to kiss him again. And that thought terrifies you.

Because you shouldn’t want him. You shouldn’t even know him. He is every warning your father ever gave you made flesh. He’s trouble written in bold letters across your stars, a promise of ruin in every glance. But still… you want to read him. You want to open that book and trace every redacted page with trembling fingers. That night, you sit on your bedroom floor, your journal cracked open in your lap like a confession booth. You don’t write his name. You don’t dare. But you write how it felt to be seen. To be saved. To be kissed like the world had stopped spinning for a heartbeat. You write it down not to remember, but to prove to yourself it happened. That it was real.

Outside, the moon hangs low, a silver eye watching you from behind thin clouds. And in the silence, your body aches, not from the bruises or the fear, but from wanting. From wondering. From knowing that something has shifted inside you, and nothing will ever be the same again. You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it might whisper answers to your questions. You close your eyes, but sleep does not come. Only his face. Only that kiss. Only the fire you didn’t know could live in someone like you.

The night presses against the glass like a velvet shroud, moonlight sifting through your curtains in soft, trembling strands. The tapping begins like a whisper too shy to speak, delicate and insistent, a beckoning on the other side of the veil. Your heart jolts, caught between sleep and something more primal; something curious, something afraid. Barefoot and cautious, you cross the cool wooden floor, each step light as breath, each movement threaded with unease. When you pull the curtain aside and see him; Jay, standing beneath your window like some starless phantom, your pulse skitters. He’s bathed in silver, his jaw sharp in the moonlight, a shadow of rebellion scrawled across the lines of his face. His hand lifts, two fingers beckoning you closer, not like a thief in the night but a boy who’s lost and desperate and burning with something too big for words. 

You lift the latch. He climbs in without ceremony, without sound, landing like wind on the floorboards. The air shifts the moment he enters, and suddenly your small, worn bedroom feels like a world away from everything else; everything loud, everything righteous. You barely whisper his name before his hands find your face, cradling it with a hunger that feels like grief and something more dangerous. He kisses you like he’s been drowning since birth and your mouth is the first breath of air he’s ever tasted.

It’s urgent, almost clumsy in its passion; his fingers lost in your hair, your hands curled into the cotton of his shirt, anchoring yourself to something that shouldn’t feel safe but somehow does. He walks you backwards with care disguised as chaos until your knees hit the edge of your bed, and you sit, breathless, dizzy. He follows, mouth never straying too far from yours, until the world disappears around you. But you pull away, gentle but firm, your palms pressed against his chest like a barricade made of hope and confusion. “What are you doing?” you whisper, your voice trembling not from fear, but from the storm gathering beneath your ribs.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for absolution in your gaze, something holy to balance the weight of whatever he carries. Finally, he breathes out, low and rough. “I needed to see you.” You sit in that truth for a beat, the quiet humming between your heartbeats. “Is everything okay?”

Jay looks away for the first time. His jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “No,” he says, simply, honestly. “But it doesn’t matter.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “My father wants something I don’t want to give him.” You nod, not asking, not pushing. There is so much you don’t understand yet, but you understand him. The way he sits next to you with shoulders heavy and breath uneven. The way his fingers find yours again like it’s instinct.  

Your hand finds his cheek. It’s a quiet gesture, a lullaby without words. “You can stay,” you whisper. He exhales, and there’s something sacred in the way his forehead falls against yours. The kiss he places on your lips this time is different; softer, deeper, unhurried. It tastes like gratitude and confession, like the first pages of a book too dangerous to read aloud. His hands settle at your waist as if anchoring himself in you, and yours curl around his shoulders. You don’t speak again. Not for a while. You let the silence fill the cracks, the breaths between kisses soft and slow, the kind that linger and promise without saying anything at all. 

And when he finally falls asleep beside you, his head resting against your shoulder, you stay awake a little longer, watching the way the moonlight rests on his lashes. You think of what it means to keep a secret this delicate. What it means to fall for someone forged in the fire your family fears. You don’t have the answers. But for tonight, you have him. And that is enough. 

Dawn unfolds like a sigh across the sky, the pale blush of morning slipping between your curtains and brushing the walls in hues of gold and rose. The world is still hushed in its waking breath, and for a moment, it feels as though time itself is holding its inhale, reverent of the quiet magic nestled between tangled sheets and slow, secret heartbeats. You stir, not with the abruptness of alarm, but the gentle unraveling of sleep's cocoon. There’s warmth beside you, not the abstract kind, but the tangible, breathing presence of someone tethered to this moment with you. Jay lies on his side, propped slightly on an elbow, his gaze fixed not on the window, nor the ceiling, but on you. 

There’s something unguarded in the way he looks at you; no smirk, no mask, no carefully constructed armor. Just eyes like storm clouds caught at sunrise, soft and searching. It startles something in your chest. You blink sleep from your eyes, voice still laced with dreams as you ask, “What time is it?” His lips quirk, that familiar crooked grin ghosting over his features as he leans closer and murmurs, “Almost six.”

Then, without waiting, without asking, he presses a kiss to your lips, slow and deep and reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he’s tracing every fragile thread that tethered last night’s chaos to this quiet intimacy. You kiss him back, languidly, until the haze lifts just enough for reality to set its feet back down. You pull away, breath brushing his cheek, and whisper, “What are we doing, Jay?”

There’s a pause, a brief flicker of hesitation across his brow. His hand, warm against your hip, stills. “We’re having fun,” he says at last, like it’s simple, like it’s something that doesn’t ache to hear. You sit up, the sheets slipping from your shoulders like petals falling in protest. There’s a steel note in your voice now, a tremor wrapped in resolve. “I’m not just some girl you kiss in the dark,” you say, eyes catching his. “I don’t do this. I don’t just… fool around. I believe in love.”

He’s quiet for a heartbeat too long. Then he sits up, too, crossing the small distance between you with one hand gently cupping your jaw. The air stills. His thumb traces the edge of your cheekbone as his eyes search yours. “You’re my girl,” he says, voice low, like a promise soaked in shadow and light. “If you want to be.” The simplicity of the words catches you off guard. No grand declarations, no silver-tongued poetry. Just that raw and real and something you can hold. 

A blush colors your cheeks like the blooming of first spring after a cruel winter. You nod, your voice a thread of warmth, “I want to be.” And then you’re kissing again, with a new kind of urgency, not born from fear or secrecy or rebellion, but from the aching sweetness of something finally named. His hands cradle you with more care this time, reverent, as if he knows what you’re giving him. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him, anchoring yourself to the weightless gravity of this moment. 

It grows heated; breath against necks, hands skimming skin, whispered sighs and unspoken want. But there is no rush, no need to chase the edge of desire. You pause, your forehead pressed to his, and he doesn’t push. He stays. He breathes with you. And in that moment, it feels like the world, with all its judgment and fury, has fallen away. There is only this morning. Only this softness. Only the boy who held you under a bruised sky and the girl who believed, still, in love. 

His kisses continue softly, his hands still like steel on your hip — grazing the skin where your pajama top rose slightly. “Jay..” You trailed, breathless. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He looked at you with heavy eyes, a dopey smile on his face. You were playing with fire here — suiting up to get burned. This was dangerous, who knew what your father and Taehyun would do if they knew Jay was in here with you, kissing you. It could very well be the end of him as you knew it. Your hands found Jay’s chest, pushing slightly to give yourself room. 

“I’m worried.” You say, your voice small. “My family hates you —” 

“Who cares?” 

“I do.” Your voice was stern. You wanted him to know you were serious. That even though you sometimes hated how protective they were, you still loved them, respected them. And what you were doing right now in your room was forbidden, it was wrong. A part of you didn’t care. You felt free from the shalkes tied to your life for the first time and you’d do anything to keep that feeling. But an equal part of you felt ashamed at the lying. You were not one to lie. Especially to your family. 

“They can’t tell you what to do.” Jay’s tone is soft like he knows this is a delicate topic. He’s using his kid gloves on you and you hated it. 

“They don’t.” You huffed. Jay’s eyebrow lifts slightly, like he doesn’t believe you in the slightest. “Fine.” You sigh. “They do.” 

“Don’t let them.” 

“It’s not that easy Jay.” 

“It can be.” He argues. “Just do whatever you want.” 

“You try doing that with a father like mine.” The words slip from your lips before you could stop them, before you could think. Because Jay did have a father like yours; they were one in the same no matter how much they hated each other. Jay looked at you like he understood your slip up. He said nothing further, he didn't need to. It was an unspoken agreement between you too. 

“Jay?” You asked warily. Jay hums, returning his lips to your collarbone as he leaves feather-like kisses over the skin. “What did your father want you to do that you didn’t want to?”

You don’t miss the way his entire body stiffens like a statue made of clay. You don’t miss the second he takes to answer and the shift in his tone. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay?.” He says, a smile on his face. You stay silent and he doesn’t elaborate, instead reattaching his lips to your neck once again. Maybe in distraction, or maybe because he really didn’t care — either way, it worked. 

You allowed him his freedom to roam your body as he pleased. and you enjoyed it, god help you — you actually enjoyed it. You craved more and like the devil himself took over you, your lips parted only a sigh leaving “Please.” 

What were you asking for? Were you ready to have sex? To lose your virginity? and to Jay of all people? You weren’t sure. It was like Jay could sense your hesitance, his head shaking no as soon as the words left your lips. “You’re not ready, baby.” He whispered into your temple. and he was right. You weren’t. So instead he stayed in your bed. Not much longer but long enough for you to really miss him when he left. 

It was barely seven am when he decided it was time to climb out the window he came from the night before leaving only a whisper of himself and the memory of his lips on your own. It was a hollow feeling, one you couldn’t show when the rest of your family awoke and crawled out of their beds. You had to act normal. Like the enemy wasn’t right under their noses only a door down for the entirety of the night. 

The morning light was pale and indifferent, stretched thin across the sky like a faded lace curtain, and you watched your father and Taehyun disappear down the long gravel drive, their figures swallowed by the dust trail of the pickup truck and the unspoken weight of their business. You didn’t need to be told anymore, it was stitched into the sharp glances exchanged over dinner, into the coded conversations that dropped into silence when you entered the room. “Shipments,” they called them. But you were no longer a child swayed by misdirection and empty euphemisms. You had lived enough in shadows now to know when men spoke in half-truths and loaded words. Still, you said nothing. Because silence, you were beginning to learn, was its own kind of survival.  

Your mother bustled through the house like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, gathering Minji’s shoes and packing a tin of the sweet bean buns Mrs. Lee down the road had brought over. You watched her from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, half-lost in your thoughts until she mentioned she’d be taking Minji over to the Parks’. “To play with Soojin,” she said, not looking up from her careful wrapping. Her voice was light, casual, like it was nothing more than an errand, like the name Park didn’t hold tension in your bones and a sudden, blooming heat in your chest. “I’ll come,” you said suddenly. Your mother looked up, startled, brows slightly lifted. “You want to come?” Her voice held a delicate edge of suspicion, like she couldn’t decide if she’d misheard you or if you were up to something you hadn’t yet put into words.

You nodded, steady. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for your coat. “I’d like to see Soojin.” That was the lie you chose. And to your surprise, your mother offered no protest, just a quiet, searching look and then a simple, “Alright then.”  The drive to the Park house was quiet, save for Minji’s soft humming in the backseat and the rhythmic turning of tires on dirt. The landscape rolled past in sepia tones, fields dotted with brittle grass, fences leaning like tired old men, the occasional burst of gold where the last stubborn wildflowers refused to bow to autumn’s chill. And then, the house appeared, grand in its own weathered way, with its wide porch and flaking paint and the lingering ghost of old money, old power, clinging to its bones. Soojin ran out to greet Minji, her laugh a bright trill in the cold morning air, and your mother excused herself inside with Mrs. Park, Jiyo, with a container of red bean buns tucked beneath her arm like a peace offering. 

You lingered on the porch, pretending to straighten Minji’s jacket, pretending not to scan the windows, not to listen for footsteps. The air was thick with anticipation, though nothing had yet happened. That was the trouble with secrets, you carried them even when no one asked you to, let them soak into your skin until they colored everything. And then there he was, Jay, stepping out from around the side of the house with that same easy, careless gait, a cigarette between his fingers and mischief in his gaze. He was the storm you had let into your room, into your lungs, and now he lingered like the scent of smoke in your pillowcase. You didn’t speak, not yet. Just held his eyes as he approached, the ground between you crackling with everything unsaid, everything that was coming. And in the quiet beat before words, before explanation, you realized you hadn’t come here for Soojin at all. You’d come for this, to stand in the belly of the lion’s den and feel the pulse of something forbidden, dangerous, and real. 

The sun was yawning low over the tree line, casting molten ribbons of gold across the Park’s backyard where Minji and Soojin chased each other in dizzying circles, their laughter rising like wind chimes caught in a summer gust. You watched them through the gauzy screen door, a ghost on the threshold, your arms folded across your chest like you could contain the gnawing question that kept pressing against your ribs: Why had you come? Inside, your mother and Jiyo sat in the sitting room with glasses of white wine that caught the light like glassy honey. Their voices rose and fell in polite crescendos, dulcet tones masking whatever quiet rivalries or histories they once shared. You could see the familiar curve of your mother’s mouth as she smiled too much, nodded too often. The room felt warm and distant, like a dream you weren’t quite invited into. 

You didn’t feel like staying downstairs, didn’t feel like sitting with women who spoke in codes and closed-lip smiles. “Excuse me,” you said softly, stepping into the living room. “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?” Jiyo looked up and gave you a generous nod, her hand gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Upstairs, last door on the right,” she said, then turned back to your mother with the easy grace of someone who had already forgotten you were there.

You climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath your weight like a warning whispered through wood. The house above was hushed, muffled by carpet and secrets. You passed doors half-ajar, the sterile scent of lemon cleaner and aging wood perfuming the air. But when you reached the top of the stairs, something stirred in you, an itch, a pull, the unmistakable gravity of curiosity. You didn’t go to the bathroom. Not at first. You wandered. 

It started as a glance into rooms left ajar. A study with a too-clean desk, a guest room with a bed so stiffly made it looked untouched by any soul. And then, Jay’s room. You knew it without needing to be told. The door was slightly cracked, and the air that filtered through was familiar, cologne and cigarette smoke, sweat and something wild, something him. You pushed it open. The room was dim, cluttered but lived-in. A guitar leaned against the far wall, strings dusty but taut. Sketches littered the desk, some crude, some startling in their intensity. A record played softly in the corner, a crackling blues tune that seemed to slow time. You stepped further in, eyes skating across his world, your fingers itching toward the mess.

You told yourself you weren’t snooping. But then you saw them. A pair of sneakers shoved halfway beneath the bed, saturated with dried blood, crusted around the soles. Beside them, a shirt, rumbled and wrinkled, with a maroon stain blooming like a dying flower across the chest. The sight of it stilled the air in your lungs. Your mind raced. You knew that shirt. Or thought you did. It haunted the edges of memory, like a face seen once in a dream or a name heard in a half-slept conversation. Your fingers hovered above the fabric, not quite brave enough to touch it, not quite smart enough to turn away.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke across the room like thunder ripping through a still sky. You spun around. Jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved in shadow, his face unreadable and hard. The kind of hard that wasn’t born overnight, it was forged, sculpted in fire and violence and too many buried truths. “I — I was just —” you stammered, your throat drying like sand beneath sun.

“You were just what?” he growled, stepping forward. “Looking through my shit?” His eyes blazed with something you didn’t recognize. Not anger exactly, something deeper, more wounded. Betrayed, maybe. Or scared. You opened your mouth, tried to explain, tried to make it sound innocent, but the room felt like it was tilting, spinning around the bloodied cloth and your thundering heart. He was inches from you now, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice low, like gravel and regret.

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” But even as you said it, you knew sorry wouldn’t fix this. You stiffened, the air around you charged like the moment before a summer storm breaks, still, electric, heavy with the promise of thunder. Your fingers twitched away from the shirt just as his voice split the silence again. “I was looking for the bathroom?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jay said, his voice cutting through the space between you like a cold blade. “You weren’t looking for the bathroom.” You turned to him, spine straightening like iron pulled through a fire, and lifted your chin. You took a breath, steadying your pulse, willing your voice not to tremble. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you said quietly, firmly, like a line drawn in the sand. “I asked you not to.” 

He blinked, thrown off by your calm. His chest rose sharply with a breath he hadn’t meant to take. For a heartbeat, the fire between you crackled without direction. Then you reached down, hand hovering once more above the bloodied shirt, and asked the question that had begun clawing at your ribs since the moment you saw it. “What is this, Jay?” Your voice wasn’t accusatory, just soft, curious, laced with something more dangerous than suspicion. Concern. “Why is there blood on this? Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the shirt, then back to your face, something stormy building behind his lashes. Without a word, he stepped forward and yanked it from your hand with a violence that wasn’t meant for you but sliced through the moment all the same. “Mind your own damn business,” he growled, gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Don’t touch my things.”

The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressing in. Your stomach twisted, not in fear, but in hurt. The air between you, once filled with charged possibility, now choked with something unspoken and ugly. “I care about you, Jay,” you said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If that blood’s yours, if you’re hurt, I deserve to know. I want to know.” He looked at you, really looked, his features warping with conflict. And then, so quietly it was almost a breath, he admitted, “It’s not mine.”

You waited, searching his face for more; anything. But his jaw locked, and his eyes shuttered, and you knew he was already pulling away from you. “Then whose is it?” you asked.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Jay —”

“I said I’m not telling you.” There was finality in his voice, a wall thrown up in a single breath. The boy who kissed you on the church steps, who tapped at your window like a lover from a poem, he was gone now, replaced by something harder, colder, cloaked in silence. Something broke in you. Not loudly, not with fireworks; but quietly, like frost spreading across glass. “Fine,” you said, each syllable clipped and cool. “Keep your secrets.” 

You turned and walked past him, your shoulder brushing his as you stormed through the door. His scent lingered; cologne and smoke and something wild, and you hated how your body still ached for him even as your heart folded in on itself. You didn’t look back. Not even when you heard him sigh behind you. 

The hour was brittle with sleep, the kind of silence that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. Your room was bathed in pale moonlight, the only sound the hum of the summer night outside; until the tapping began again. First gentle, like fingertips brushing a memory. Then louder. More insistent. A quiet desperation dressed in knuckles against glass. You curled tighter beneath the covers, clutching the edge of your pillow like it might anchor you to the dreamless dark. You didn’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not after that. Your heart was still bruised from the words he’d thrown like stones, from the blood he refused to explain, from the locked vault of his silence that you could not pick no matter how softly you knocked.

But the tapping wouldn’t stop. You hissed under your breath, casting a panicked glance toward your door; no footsteps yet, no flickering hallway light. If your mother woke, if Minji stirred... you’d never hear the end of it. Gritting your teeth, you kicked off the covers and padded to the window, throwing back the curtain with a fury that masked the fluttering inside your chest. There he was.

Jay. Like some bruised ghost conjured from a fever dream, standing half-shadowed in the night. But the moment your eyes landed on him, all that anger, the sharp, glittering shards of it, melted away like ice against fire. His face was a tapestry of pain: lip split, eye swelling, blood at the corner of his mouth. There were scratches across his neck, and he was holding his side like something inside him was broken. You pushed the window open without a word and stepped back. He climbed in slowly, like every movement cost him something. And when his feet hit your floor, his strength gave out, he sank onto your bed with a groan, his head tipping forward, hair falling over his eyes.

“Jay,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers ghosting along his arm. “What happened?” He winced, jaw tightening. “Don’t ask.”

“Jay —” 

“I can’t tell you,” he said, voice raw and quiet, like something torn. “Just — don’t ask.” And for once, you didn’t. You swallowed your questions, letting them die inside your throat. Because the way he looked, beaten, broken, and showing up at your window anyway, was answer enough for now. You fetched the first aid kit you kept hidden in your drawer, remnants of scraped knees and childhood falls, and returned to him. The bed dipped under your knees as you leaned in close, the soft sound of tearing wrappers and unscrewing ointments the only conversation. He hissed as you dabbed antiseptic across a gash on his temple, his hands gripping the bedsheets so tightly his knuckles went pale. But he didn’t pull away. 

You worked in silence, your touch gentle despite the chaos churning inside you. There was a sacredness to the moment, a kind of intimacy that didn’t need words, just breath, and closeness, and the quiet permission to fall apart in front of someone. You brushed the blood from beneath his nose, cleaned the dried smear along his jaw. Your fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the unbearable tenderness that unfurled inside you. He looked at you then, through one bruised eye and one clear, his lips parted like he might say something. But nothing came out. 

You could’ve leaned in. You could’ve kissed him right then, let him forget the pain with the press of your mouth. But you didn’t. Instead, you cupped his face, thumb stroking gently beneath the bruise that bloomed like a violet shadow under his eye. “You didn’t have to come here,” you whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” And your heart cracked wide open. 

Jay turned his face toward you, and for a moment, he looked unbearably young. Not the smirking boy with chaos on his tongue, not the ghost who haunted alleyways with fists and fury, but just a boy, lost in something far bigger than himself. The confession was quiet, barely more than breath, but it landed heavy in the hollow of your chest. You looked at him for a long moment, searching the shadows in his face for something, fear, regret, guilt. You didn’t find it. Just sorrow. And a strange, bitter tenderness. 

There was a silence, then. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind that stretches its limbs across a room and curls up beside you like an old friend. Your fingers found his beneath the covers, roughened knuckles grazing your softer skin, and for a time, you just breathed together, matching rhythm for rhythm, heartbeat for heartbeat. But then it spilled out of you, like water through a cracked dam. “I hate the secrets,” you said, voice catching. “I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like I’m being kept away from something real.” 

He turned to face you fully, his brow furrowed. “They’re not to hurt you,” he said. “They’re to protect you.” You scoffed lightly, the sound bitter on your tongue. “That’s just another way of keeping me in the dark.” Jay reached up, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingers were still trembling slightly from whatever hell he’d crawled out of, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

“There are men out there,” he said slowly, “much worse than the one who grabbed you in that alley. Men with no soul behind their eyes. Men who would burn down your world just because it’s beautiful. If they ever came for you…” His jaw tightened, that fire lighting behind his gaze again. “I’d burn the whole fucking earth down first.” Your breath caught. There was no poetry in his words. No soft metaphor. Just pure, raw promise. And it hit you harder than any poem ever could.

Your chest ached with a tenderness so sharp it almost felt like grief; for the boy in your bed, for the pain in his silence, for the thousand versions of himself he had to bury just to survive in the daylight. And in that quiet ache, you leaned in. Your lips met his like a secret, like a prayer. Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just two souls pressing together in the quiet lull of honesty. His hands cupped your face with reverence, as if you were something sacred he wasn’t sure he deserved. You kissed him again, and again, letting the silence slip away with every touch. This wasn’t heat. It wasn’t the chaos that had sparked between you before. This was slower, deeper, an unraveling.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he whispered something you couldn’t quite make out; maybe your name, maybe a plea. You didn’t ask. Because for now, this moment was enough. 

The night seemed to stretch on forever, suspended in the quiet hush that followed whispered promises and half-spoken truths. The air in your room was still, yet it hummed with something electric and unspoken; like the pause before a storm or the moment just before a symphony begins. Jay lay beside you, his fingers threading gently through yours, his gaze roaming your face as if memorizing it, committing it to something deeper than memory, carving it into bone, etching it into breath. You turned to him, eyes wide and open like the night sky, and he met your gaze with the same soft wonder. No more walls. No more masks. Just two young hearts aching for something real in a world built on silence and shadows. “I want this,” you said, voice no louder than a falling feather. You were ready to give yourself to him; completely. 

Despite the lord's word of marriage before intimacy this felt right. At this moment you couldn't think of anything more perfect than this. He didn’t ask if you were sure. He saw the truth written in the way your hands trembled as they found his face, in the way your breath hitched not from fear but from anticipation, from a kind of reverent awe. The kind that settles between two people who have never done this before; who, even if one of them had, had never done it like this. 

There was no rush. No fumbling urgency. Just slow hands and soft sighs, as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment; the curve of your cheek beneath his touch, the shape of your name in his mouth, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Outside, the night pressed close to the glass, the moon a silver sentinel watching over the hush of your room, the silence of surrender. When you gave yourself to him, it wasn’t with hesitation; it was with trust, wrapped in candlelight and starlight and the unspoken understanding that nothing would ever be quite the same. Not after this. And in that moment, you weren’t the daughter of a man wrapped in danger. 

“Oh my god.” You sighed out as he thrust into you with a decadent ease. His touch light, his hands roaming your body like he owned it. And tonight, he did. Your moans were quiet — not to disturb your mother and sister. The soft thump of the headboard against the wall only slightly worrisome to your otherwise clouded judgement. Tonight, He wasn’t the boy with blood on his hands and secrets behind his teeth. You were just two people, breaking open beneath the weight of something delicate and real. 

He held you like something precious, like a wish whispered into the dark, and you clung to him like a prayer. And when it was over, when your bodies stilled and the world exhaled around you, you lay in his arms with your heart thudding softly against his chest. Not afraid. Not uncertain. Just full. And maybe that was the real miracle. Not the act itself, but the way you both emerged from it; still whole, but changed. Softened. Strengthened. As if love, in its quietest form, had found you in the dark and called you home.

Morning came like a whisper you didn’t want to hear; pale light creeping through your curtains, unwelcome, stirring you from the warmth left behind on your sheets. You reached instinctively for him, for the imprint of his body beside yours, but your fingers met nothing but the cool quiet of an empty bed. Jay was gone. You sat up slowly, sleep still crusted in the corners of your eyes, the remnants of last night clinging to your skin like faded stars. It wasn’t disappointment that he’d left, he was never the type to stay but a hollow ache bloomed in your chest all the same, tender and unnamed. You didn’t know if you expected a note, a goodbye, or even a lie wrapped in sweetness, but the absence spoke louder than anything. And still, you weren’t sorry. 

Your house felt changed when you walked through it; heavier, like the walls had swallowed some of the night’s truth and were trying to keep it secret. Your father and Taehyun had returned, the sound of the front door slamming earlier than sunrise pulling you halfway from sleep. Now they were back and the air was different, taut like a fraying wire. You didn’t know what had happened during their absence, but Taehyun carried the shadows like a second skin. He moved through the house like a ghost with a fuse in his chest, snapping at your mother over nothing, brushing past you with glass in his eyes, his hands shaking when he thought no one could see. You stayed out of his way. The silence between you two felt sharp and uncertain, like the edge of something waiting to be named.

Dinner that night was a ritual gone wrong, a prayer said with a mouth full of venom. You sat at the table, poking at your food, the warmth from your mother’s cooking doing little to ease the unease curling in your stomach. Your father, red-cheeked from whatever he’d been drinking, leaned back in his chair like a king on a crumbling throne, waving his glass with a crooked smirk. “That bastard Chul still thinks he can outplay me,” he muttered, voice thick with contempt. “His whore of a wife putting on fakeness like she’s better than the rest of us. And that boy of theirs... that Jay. Arrogant little shit. You can see the rot in him from a mile away.” 

You stiffened. The words felt like claws scraping against your skin, peeling away the quiet you’d wrapped around yourself. You looked up, your fork frozen in your hand. “He’s not like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but it rang clear through the room like a church bell cracking. “You don’t know him.” The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating, like the house had stopped breathing.

Your father’s face twisted, his eyes going dark in an instant. The chair groaned as he shoved it back and stood, fists curling like thunderclouds. “Don’t you ever defend him again,” he snarled, the words spit like poison. “Do you hear me? If I ever hear you say that bastard’s name in this house again, I’ll lock you away so tight you’ll forget what sunlight feels like. There is nothing about that boy worth defending.” Your breath caught in your throat, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Your mother said nothing, eyes fixed on her plate like it could save her. And across the table, Taehyun stared at you; not with anger, not with disgust, but with something else. Something unreadable. Suspicion, maybe. Or worry. Like he was trying to put together a puzzle that suddenly had one too many pieces. 

You looked away first, throat burning, fingers shaking under the table. The warmth of last night felt galaxies away now, replaced by the cold realization that you were dancing with danger on a threadbare stage. And everyone around you was starting to notice. 

Sunday returned like clockwork, draped in solemn hymns and ironed dresses, as though the week’s secrets hadn’t been dragging behind you like chains. You found yourself sitting in the same pew as always, hands folded politely, head bowed beneath the weight of a hundred stares that whispered like ghosts behind you. The church was beautiful in that way all cages are, ornate, holy, and full of silences no one dared name. Incense curled like serpent smoke in the air, clinging to your lungs, your clothes, your bones. Jay was there. He always was. 

But today, he looked like the devil in disguise, ink-black suit pressed sharp enough to wound, and that crooked halo of hair that caught the light like it knew exactly how to tempt. He didn’t sit near you, didn’t look your way. Not really. But you felt him, his presence a gravity that tugged at your pulse. You couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think right, not when the ghost of his mouth still lingered on your skin like last night had never ended. When the time for confessionals arrived, you rose slowly, walking the familiar path toward the booths. The red velvet curtain felt like blood between your fingers, and the small wooden seat creaked beneath your weight. You bowed your head, ready to whisper into the lattice the half-truths you’d rehearsed in your mind. But then you heard it. 

The rustle of fabric. The soft push of the curtain behind you. The scent of cigarette smoke and something darker, familiar. Before you could turn, Jay slid into the booth beside you, his body too close, his knee brushing yours in the dark. “What are you doing?” you hissed in a breathless whisper, heart already rioting in your chest like a church bell rung wrong. 

He didn’t answer at first. The space was small, too small, like a secret made physical. You could feel his breath at your temple, the heat of him seeping into your skin. “Forgive me, Father,” he murmured, voice low and sacrilegious, “for I am about to sin.” You turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. But in the dark, you could barely make out his expression, just the glint of something wild in his gaze. His hand found yours in the stillness, fingers threading through with the quiet urgency of someone drowning. 

Jay—” you tried to protest, but he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, and the world tilted. “I want you so bad.” he said, softer now, like a confession. “I couldn’t help myself.” Your breath caught, and suddenly you weren’t in a church anymore. You were in a storm. You were in a dream. You were in that fragile place where you didn’t know where faith ended and he began.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though you didn’t really want him to go. 

“I know.” His hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “But I had to see you. Had to let you know that you’re still mine.” His lips brushed yours like a prayer, slow and reverent, and you kissed him back, like you were trying to absolve every wicked thought in your head, every rule you’d ever followed, every chain you were ready to break. The booth was a confessional, ye; but what you whispered into each other’s mouths were not sins. They were truths. Unholy. Beautiful.

You hear a rustle next to you — the priest had entered the booth beside you, ready to hear your sins. Your eyes widened with a mix of panic and excitement. You were not the type of girl who hopped into confessionals with their boyfriend. You weren’t the type of girl to rebel in anyway, it seems like lately that's all you've been doing. 

“Good morning.” Father Lee sighed from the otherside of the confessional. “I will begin with a prayer.” Jay’s fingers danced delicately along the lines of your dress, pulling the hem up slightly. Your eyes are wild as they shoot to his face. Jay only sends you a smirk in response, his thumb ghosting over your panties. 

“Dear heavenly Father..” Father Lee starts the prayer but his words fall on deaf ears, the only thing you can concentrate on is the way Jay’s fingers feel over your clothed clit. Circling his thumb like a bird on prey. “We’ve come here today to atone for our sins..to seek forgiveness… —” 

Jay’s moves your panty to the side; now ready and bare for him. Your breath shutters in your throat as a moan threatens to spill past your lips. You let out a squeak as Jay’s fingers found your sensitive nub rubbing slowly up and down. Jay looks at you with a devious smile, lifting his unoccupied hand to shush you with a finger against his lips. Your eyes narrow in his direction. This was so wrong. So so very wrong. How could you let him do this? How could you like? 

“We ask you, our lord, to bring peace unto us. To help us prosper —” Your hand grips Jay’s shirt, a sigh leaving your lips as he dips one single finger into your entrance. 

“Oh god —” You let slip out. A wave of panic washes over you. 

“Yes.” Father Lee hummed. “Call onto our lord and our savior..” Jay adds another finger his pace quickening along with your breathing, your chest heaving and moans knocking at lips begging to be set free. 

“Yes, god.” You whimpered, moving your hips to better aid Jay’s fingers. “Yes, yes, god.” 

“That’s it.” Father Lee nods. “Call unto him, as he is the only one who can judge you.” You feel your orgasm building in your belly, clutching onto Jay’s shirt and the arm chair you sat in; the small booth becoming hot and humid. Luckily your chants had been mistaken for prayer — something you knew you’d be ashamed of once the haze of Jay’s magnificent fingers faded. 

“I’m–” You whispered low, so close you’re not even sure Jay had heard you. He continued his movement inside you catapulting you closer and closer to your end. 

“Do you accept this prayer and are you ready to confess all your sins?” Father Lee says as a closing statement. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, pleasure coursing through your veins straight to your belly. You convulsed around Jay’s fingers withering under  his touch. 

“Yes! Yes!” You chanted “Oh my god.” Your breathing was uneven. Father Lee shuffled beside you. “We can begin..” He trailed off. 

“Tell me, what would you like to confess?” Your eyes find Jay’s once again as your breathing slows. What did you just do? Jay flashes you a smile, a shit eating grin that you can’t help but send back. You were in trouble with him, you were falling in love with him. And nothing good could come from that. 

The morning opened soft and unsuspecting, wrapped in the perfume of maple syrup and brewed coffee, the clink of cutlery on porcelain playing a quiet lullaby in the kitchen. You sat across from your mother at the table, a gentle spring of sun dripping through the curtains, casting golden bars across her cheekbones. She looked peaceful, almost angelic, eyes trained on the television in the other room, the morning news murmuring low and steady in the background. Minji giggled somewhere down the hall, her laughter like bird song, but your focus remained tethered to the screen, distant, detached, until you heard the name. “Breaking this morning,” the anchor announced, her voice dipped in solemnity, “the body of Lee Felix, was found submerged in Blackwater Lake just after midnight…”

You froze. The fork slipped from your fingers and clattered against the ceramic plate, a jarring sound in the otherwise delicate quiet of brunch. Your breath caught like fishbone in your throat, your entire body leaning unconsciously toward the screen, as if proximity could rewrite the story you were hearing. The screen flickered. A photo filled the frame. Felix.

Smiling in that too-cocky way he had at the bake sale, his cheek bruised, his eyes alight with some reckless thing. But it wasn’t his face that rooted you to the ground like a gravestone. It was the shirt. The unmistakable burgundy fabric. The fraying collar. The splash of print along the bottom edge. The shirt you’d held in your hand just days before, trembling with unspoken questions, stained with blood and too many terrible possibilities. Felix was dead. The shirt was his. You couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, a tremor leaking into the quiet air. Your mother looked up in surprise, her brows creasing with maternal concern. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You were already moving, scraping your chair back so violently it nearly tipped, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear her through the static in your head. You mumbled something, a headache, a book you left at the shop, you weren’t sure. Lies came too easily these days. 

You didn’t wait for her permission. You ran. Out the door, down the walk, across the street. The wind caught at your hair like fingers trying to pull you back, but you didn’t stop. The streets blurred around you, faces passing in a smear of color, sunlight too bright and air too thick. Every step closer to Jay’s house was like descending deeper into a question you weren’t ready to ask, but couldn’t leave alone. You didn’t hesitate to slam your knuckles against the front door, the sound thunderous in the quiet morning, like something wild had come knocking. The door opened too slowly for your frayed nerves, and Jay’s mother stood on the other side in a lavender cardigan and confusion painted across her face. 

“Oh… hello, sweetheart,” she said, blinking at your expression. “Is everything all right?” 

“I need to see Jay,” you said, your voice sharp and breathless, like it had been carved from ice. She flinched slightly at the urgency, but stepped aside, her brows drawing together. “He’s upstairs…” You didn’t wait for further instructions. You moved past her like a wave breaching the shore, like fury given legs and purpose, charging up the stairs that once felt so intimate, so safe. Each step was a scream. Each breath a question with no answer.

His door was closed. You didn’t knock. You pushed it open with trembling hands and a pounding heart, ready to wield truth like a blade. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, thumbing through a worn paperback, the early light painting soft shadows along the cut of his jaw. He looked up, startled, and then he smiled. “Hi, beautiful. What a surprise.” You could have wept. For a moment, you could have let the lie of his voice fold around you and lull you into peace again. But the pain sharpened you, drew you back into the wound he left open. 

“Cut the bullshit, Jay,” you snapped.

He blinked, the smile faltering. “What’s going on?”

You stepped further into the room, the space between you tightening like a noose. “Felix,” you said, your voice trembling at first, but hardening with every syllable. “They found his body. He’s dead, Jay. And he was wearing that shirt, the one I saw in here. Don’t lie to me again.” Confusion flickered across his face for the briefest second. A hesitation. Then a breath. Then something darker took root behind his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking abou — ” 

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked like thunder. “Please don’t lie to me again.” A long silence stretched between you, thick with guilt, with ghosts, with things unspoken and too dangerous to name. Finally, Jay stood. His hands trembled. “I didn’t want to,” he whispered. “But it wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“So it’s true,” you breathed, your heart crumpling like paper inside your chest. Jay looked at you then, really looked at you. Not with the charm he wore like a second skin, not with that crooked smile, but with a hollow kind of desperation. A boy unraveling in front of the girl he swore to protect. “My dad…” he began, his voice thick. “He wanted to send a message. He made me follow Felix after the bake sale. Said we had to scare him. But things got out of hand. I — he — ”

But his confession never found its end. Because in the next moment, there was a hand. It covered your mouth. Strong. Cold. Reeking of cologne and iron. You tried to scream, but it caught like thorns in your throat. You thrashed, but the grip was vice-like. Jay’s face drained of color. His eyes widened, not in confusion, but in shame. In knowing. He didn’t move. From behind you, a voice like oil and gravel poured into your ear.

“Good job, son,” it said, calm and cruel. “Right where we wanted her.” You couldn’t see him, Jay’s father, but you could feel the venom in his smile. The triumph.

Your blood ran cold. You looked at Jay. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t fight.

And that was the worst part of all. The boy who once held you like he could protect you from the world now stood silent as it swallowed you whole. Everything went black. The last thing you remembered was his eyes. And how he didn’t even blink. 

The world came back to you slowly, like a fog lifting, like a dream turning to ash in the light of dawn. The first thing you noticed was the ache. Not just in your limbs, which were bound tight and cold against the wooden arms of a chair, but deep in the soft animal center of you, where all tenderness used to live. There was a throb behind your eyes, a ringing in your ears that ebbed and pulsed like the ocean, but no comfort came with the sound. Just dread. Just the realization that this wasn’t a nightmare. You were really here. The room was dimly lit, bare walls stained with time and secrets. The air smelled like mildew and something sharper, gasoline, maybe, or the acrid ghost of sweat and fear. Your heart pounded in its cage as your vision cleared and faces came into focus.

Chul was there. So were two men you’d never seen before, both cloaked in the quiet violence of people who had done unspeakable things too many times to remember. One was smoking, the other cracking his knuckles absently, like he was waiting for permission to break something. You realized with a start that the "something" was you. And then there was Jay.

He stood a little apart from the others, like the guilt itself had pushed him away. His eyes were on the floor, fixed on a crack in the tile like it was the only thing holding him to this earth. Not once did he look at you. Not when you stirred. Not when you cried out his name. Not when you whispered, “Jay?” as if saying it softly enough would undo everything. You struggled against the ropes that held you, panic rising in your throat like a scream half-formed. “What is this?” you demanded, voice raw and hoarse. “What the hell am I doing here?” 

Chul stepped forward, all easy menace and slick suits, the kind of man who wore his power like a second skin. His mouth curled into something that was almost a smile, but not quite. “Payback,” he said simply, like that single word explained the rot in the walls, the bile in your throat, the betrayal eating you alive from the inside out. He crouched beside you, eyes level with yours, and you hated how calm he looked, like this was just business, like you were nothing more than a bargaining chip on a bloody chessboard. 

“Your father,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “has been a real thorn in my side. Took down nearly every operation I had on the east side. Raided our shipments, turned men against me. You know how much money I’ve lost because of that self-righteous bastard?” You stared at him, your mouth dry, your stomach turning over with nausea and fury. 

“You’re lying,” you whispered, but the words held no weight. “Am I?” Chul chuckled. “You’re just a pawn, sweetheart. Your old man declared war, and war always has casualties. You just happened to be the most… convenient.” Your gaze darted to Jay again, desperate, pleading. But still, he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He stood there, carved of stone, spine rigid, jaw clenched.

“How could you?” you asked him, voice shaking, eyes burning. “Jay, please… how could you?” But something in your question broke him. Or maybe it simply exposed what was already broken. His shoulders heaved once, and he turned abruptly, storming from the room without a single word. The door slammed behind him like a sentence passed. Your heart shattered in real time. The betrayal settled into your bones like frost. You were alone now with wolves.

Chul clicked his tongue, rising back to full height, then nodded toward the men beside him. “Don’t worry, princess,” he said. “We’re not gonna kill you… yet. But if your daddy wants to see you again, he’s gonna have to cough up something big. Otherwise?” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. They left you then, all of them, the door groaning shut with finality and locking behind their footsteps. The silence that followed was unbearable. You sat there, in that cold, empty room, and the sob that broke from you was ragged and deep, a sound pulled from the belly of something ancient and wounded. Tears fell hot and relentless down your cheeks, carving rivers through the dust on your skin, baptizing you in despair. 

You had loved him. With the kind of reckless tenderness that only a heart untouched by betrayal could offer. And he had handed you over like a gift-wrapped threat. You didn’t know what was worse, the fear of what was to come, or the ache of what had already been lost.

Four days passed like smoke curling in a dark room, slow, choking, shapeless. Time didn’t pass so much as it bled, drop by drop, down the walls of your confinement. There were no windows in that room, no clocks, no way to mark the hours except by the grumble of your stomach or the ache in your spine. You lived in the rhythm of silence broken only by the door creaking open, just once a day, when she would come. Jay’s mother.  She entered like a ghost, quiet and grieving, her eyes rimmed with something too deep for sleep to ever touch. She carried with her a tray of food, a bowl of water, a cloth to wipe the bruises blooming across your face like cursed flowers. She said little, only the softest of whispers falling from her lips, prayers to a God that seemed to have turned His back on this house long ago. She would kneel before you, brush the hair from your face with fingers trembling as if your pain were a flame she longed to touch but could not bear to hold. “I’m sorry,” she’d murmur, like a litany. “I’m so sorry.” Then she would rise and vanish once more into the dark.  

Jay never came. Not once. And that betrayal festered like a splinter lodged too deep to remove, its pain dull and constant, until it owned you. But the fifth night was different. You felt it before it began, an electricity in the air, a crackle in your bones. The door opened like a breath being drawn, sharp and final, and in stepped Chul with the air of a man who enjoyed drawing blood from stones. His suit was immaculate. His smile, not.

“Well,” he said, striding toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “Looks like Daddy dearest doesn’t want you back after all.” The words crashed over you like waves too high to rise above. You gasped, shook your head, tears leaping unbidden to your eyes. “No,” you whispered. “No, you’re lying — he wouldn’t — he —” Chul crouched, one hand on the arm of your chair, the other cupping your chin with mock gentleness. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, tone slick with venom. “This is what happens when you pick the wrong side.” And then the slap.

It came like thunder, a sudden crack of bone against bone that left your ears ringing and your vision swimming. Your head snapped to the side. The copper taste of blood bloomed on your tongue. You barely registered the movement beside him until a voice, hoarse, breaking, cut through the din. “Stop!” Jay shouted, lunging forward, only to be yanked back by one of the other men. “Don’t touch her!” Chul’s laughter was a bark, cruel and sharp. He turned to Jay and struck him hard in the stomach. Jay doubled over, coughing, and Chul’s voice hissed through the room like smoke curling from a fire.

“You idiot. You love her?” he spat. “You really think that means anything here?” Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But his eyes oh, his eyes, finally found yours. And in them you saw ruin. You saw remorse painted in broad, bleeding strokes. You saw a boy unraveling beneath the weight of his choices. A boy who had built his house upon the sand and now watched the tide take it all away. Chul pulled out his phone, leaned down, and took a photo of your face. “Let’s send this to her dear old dad,” he sneered. “Maybe this’ll make him reconsider.” 

You tried to turn your head away. You tried to disappear into the corners of the room, to become so small the violence couldn’t find you. But the blow came anyway. Sharp, final, slicing through your mind like lightning through a tree. The force of it sent your chair tilting, your cry echoing like a bell rung in mourning. “Stop it!” Jay shouted again, voice ragged with desperation. Chul raised his hand for another strike, and then the world changed.

The gunshot split the room in two. It was not the loudness that startled you but the silence that followed. A breathless, unnatural stillness, as if even the air had forgotten how to move. Chul’s eyes widened in shock before his body pitched forward, collapsing like a house gutted from the inside. Blood pooled around him, red as prophecy, thick as grief. Behind him stood Jay. Still. Gun in hand.

Smoke rising from the barrel like a spirit torn from its shell. He didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, his expression hollow and carved from something beyond pain. He looked older in that moment. Not like a boy. Not even like a man. Like something ancient. A myth unraveling in real time. Then he dropped the gun, and it clattered to the floor like a broken promise. He rushed to you, hands trembling as they touched your face, your shoulders, your bindings. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, again and again, as if the words could erase the hurt, the betrayal, the pieces of yourself that now lived in a place too dark to name. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know — I didn’t know how to stop him. I should’ve — God, I should’ve…”

And for the first time, you saw him for what he truly was. Not your savior. Not your villain. But a boy who had been used like a blade and turned back to find himself stained in the blood of everyone he loved. Jay’s fingers worked at the ropes in frantic desperation, his breath uneven, ragged with panic and something else, grief, maybe, or guilt so deep it had built a home inside his lungs. The ropes gave with a rough snap, and your hands were free, your legs unbound but the weight that clung to your chest, to your soul, was not so easily unknotted.

And then the world broke open. The thunder of boots against tile. Shouts reverberating down the hall like echoes from a war long lost. The door burst open in a flurry of violence and authority, police in black and navy, weapons drawn, voices commanding surrender. Behind them, a storm of familiar faces: your father, his jaw set in stone, and Taehyun, eyes wide with something between horror and relief. And in the center of it all, your body still trembling, Jay standing before you with blood on his hands, his father’s, and maybe his own. They pointed the guns at him. They shouted at him to step back, hands up. 

He did. Quietly. No resistance. Just a soft exhale from lungs that had been holding the moment too long. His eyes flickered toward you once more, and something like peace passed through him, fleeting and fragile. The cuffs clicked around his wrists like fate locking its teeth. “No!” you cried, stumbling forward before your knees could give way. “Wait — wait!”

The officers halted just long enough for you to cross the room, pushing past your father’s grasp, past Taehyun’s startled call. You stood in front of Jay, close enough to feel the heat of him, the sorrow radiating from his skin like the fading warmth of a star long burned out. He blinked at you, the shimmer of unshed tears catching on his lashes like morning dew. You reached up, took his face between your hands as if to memorize it, every angle, every flaw, every beautiful, broken piece. And then you kissed him. Fiercely, tenderly. Like the world was ending, because maybe, in some way, it was.

Your forehead rested against his when you finally pulled away, breath mingling with breath, time halting between heartbeats. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words shattering against your skin. You didn’t say it was okay. Because it wasn’t. Not really. Not ever. But you let him hold your gaze, let him see that despite the betrayal, despite the blood and the lies, despite everything, you still saw him. Beneath the wreckage. Beneath the boy who had chosen wrong and tried, far too late, to make it right.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking. “I love you.” And then they took him. Through the door and out into the blinding blue morning. The house echoed with the quiet that follows storms, shattered glass and distant sirens, your own pulse pounding in your ears like a drum. You stood there long after he was gone, your wrists red and raw, your heart half in your chest and half walking away in a squad car under the watchful eye of justice and tragedy alike. Your heart is split open like a wound that hasn’t quite healed. Like a prayer said to a god who may or may not be listening. You carry him with you, in the silence between breaths, in the spaces love once occupied. Some nights, when the wind howls just right through the trees, you swear you can hear the echo of his voice.

Not calling for forgiveness. Not even for understanding. Just saying your name like it was the only true thing he ever had. And somewhere out there, the world goes on.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[thesundys]

Hey mama

hello huzz\(^U^)/

[thesundys]

I fear this changed the trajectory of my life

GOLDEN BOY!

golden boy hard dom!Jake x masturbation addict f!reader

ENHA HARD HOURSSSSSSSSSSS 18+ MDNI: masturbation so much of it, really not suitable for work, weed smoking, temp play, filming, ass play, vibrator. this is the filthiest shit i have ever written in my life type shit. but also fluffy so its fine. plot? what plot

your mornings follow a strict routine: wake up. Ignore your alarm. Spread your legs and ruin yourself to the thought of Jake Sim. he doesn’t know you exist. star student, always on time. you stumble into class late, wrecked, barely holding it together. you get paired up for a project. when he figures out why you’re always late? you’re fucked.  literally.

You woke up soaked. Literally, fucking soaked, the sheets beneath you damp with sweat and slick from how hard you’d been grinding against them in your sleep. It was always like this—an unbearable need that gripped you before you were even fully conscious. And you knew exactly who caused it.

Jake Sim.

The moment your hazy mind conjured up his name, your pussy gave a hard throb, as if your body was starved for him. It didn’t matter that you’d never even held a real conversation. All that mattered was that he existed—perfect, unattainable—and you were so pathetically desperate for him that you’d turned it into a daily routine.

With a shaky sigh, you slid your hand under the thin waistband of your panties, fingers pressing into the sticky mess already pooling there. You hissed out a curse at how sensitive you were, thighs twitching as your digits smeared your own arousal around your clit.

“Fuck,” you whispered, voice breaking, as your eyes fluttered shut and your mind fed you the same filthy fantasies it always did. In them, Jake was every bit the cocky bastard you imagined him to be—towering over you, smirking with that lazy confidence, telling you to spread your legs wider so he could see just how ruined you were for him.

You could practically hear his voice:

“That’s it, baby. Show me how wet you are.”

A guttural moan fell from your lips. Your fingers trembled as you sank them deeper, sliding between your folds until you were massaging the swollen, throbbing knot of nerves that made your back arch off the mattress. Every movement sent sparks racing up your spine, and you chased the friction like a fucking addict—because that’s exactly what you were: addicted to the thought of him.

Your other hand fumbled for your phone, nearly dropping it on your face in your clumsy rush. The screen glowed to life, and you immediately opened that private folder. The nerve-wracking thrill of seeing your own explicit videos made your pulse throb.

Your finger hovered over the most recent one for half a second, heart hammering. Then you pressed play.

Instantly, the room filled with the ragged sounds of your recorded moans. On the screen, you were splayed out, hips rolling in a shameless rhythm as you fucked your own fingers like your life depended on it. The memory of that moment made your cheeks burn, but it also made you fucking wetter.

“Jake… please… fuck—” your recorded voice whimpered, your cheeks flushed and your tits bouncing with each thrust of your own hand.

The real you let out a choked noise, clit pulsing under your insistent fingertips. You drove them harder against your flesh, trying to match the frantic pace you’d seen in the video. A filthy squelch echoed in the room, your soaked folds giving you away, and you bit your lip to stifle a cry.

God, you were so damn desperate. It made you feel dirty as hell—and yet, you couldn’t stop. In your mind, you pictured Jake looming over you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. He’d probably sneer down at you, that smug grin twisting his gorgeous mouth, telling you how pathetic you looked, cumming all over your own damn fingers just for him.

“Such a fucking slut,” you imagined him saying, and your body convulsed.

You rammed your fingers harder against your slick heat, each drag of your knuckles sending you spiraling higher. Your recorded moans continued to play on loop, mixing with your real ones until you couldn’t tell which was which. Every muscle in your body tensed, bracing for the orgasm that was cresting in your gut like a tidal wave.

“Jake,” you whimpered. It was a half-sob, half-prayer. “Jake, oh God—”

And then it hit.

Your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wrenching. Your hips jerked off the bed, your thighs squeezing around your hand so tightly you could barely move. A harsh, broken sound tore from your throat as your body locked up, wave after wave of bliss rippling through your core. You ground your fingers against your clit one last time, milking every second of the high until you thought you’d black out.

Finally, you collapsed, trembling, onto the mattress, breath sawing in and out of your lungs. Your vision blurred with unshed tears from the sheer intensity. Slowly, the quivering in your limbs began to subside, and you eased your damp fingers from between your legs, wincing at how oversensitive you already were.

For a moment, all you could do was lie there, the sticky remains of your orgasm coating your inner thighs, your mind still buzzing with echoes of Jake’s name. You felt disgusting, you felt euphoric—you felt alive in a way that made you crave more.

But reality crashed down the second you glanced at the time on your phone. Fifteen minutes until class started.

“Shit,” you whispered, bolting upright so fast your head spun. Your legs wobbled when you tried to stand, a dull ache centered between your legs reminding you of just how hard you’d gone. You grabbed the first hoodie you saw, yanked it over your head, and fished around for a pair of rumpled jeans from the floor. There was no time to shower, no time to even catch your breath.

As you dashed out of your room, the remnants of your orgasm still clung to your thighs, a humiliating reminder of why you were late in the first place. You couldn’t help but picture what Jake would say if he ever found out the real reason you stumbled through that lecture hall door every day, hair a mess and cheeks still flushed from your obscene morning routine.

He’d probably smirk, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t get enough of me, huh?”

The thought made your cheeks flare with shameful heat as you tore across campus, trying not to trip over your own feet. You’d never let him find out—you were certain it would kill you. Yet, a tiny voice in the back of your mind wondered what it would be like if he did know. If he whispered filthy praise in your ear about how you were always late because you were too busy drenching your sheets for him.

Your core clenched at the mental image, and you forced yourself to shove it down. There was no time for daydreams—you were late enough as it was, and your professor was already on the verge of losing his patience with you.

Still, no matter how many times you told yourself you couldn’t keep doing this, you knew you would.

Tomorrow morning, you’d wake up soaked again, thighs trembling, and you’d inevitably plunge your fingers back into that slick warmth while moaning Jake’s name. The filthy cycle would continue, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it, because nothing else felt as good as imagining him breaking you into a moaning, dripping mess.

As you reached the lecture hall, panting and disheveled, you couldn’t help but wonder: what if—just what if—Jake Sim ever saw exactly how bad you had it for him?

But that was a thought for another day, another dirty, mind-shattering morning.

Because you both knew: this wouldn’t be the last time you came undone at the mention of his name.

-

You were already a mess when you stumbled through the lecture hall doors, breath ragged and heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You were late. Again. The professor’s disapproving glare followed you as you practically crashed into your usual seat in the back row, muttering a hastily whispered apology under your breath.

God, you probably looked like you’d rolled straight out of bed—which, let’s be honest, you basically had. Not that you’d been sleeping. No, you’d spent your precious morning minutes rubbing out a frantic orgasm, fueled by thoughts of Jake Sim and all the ways he could ruin you if he ever laid a hand on your needy, desperate body.

Your clit still throbbed with the memory.

You tried to steady your breathing, force your mind to focus on the lecture happening around you. But your professor’s words were just a dull roar in your ears. You caught phrases like “group project” and “semester-long assignment,” but your brain refused to process them, still half-fogged from the wave of pleasure you’d torn out of yourself not fifteen minutes ago.

Then the professor called your name.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze just in time to see that he was pairing you off with someone. The rest of the class fell silent, heads turning toward you as you awkwardly cleared your throat, cheeks warming under the sudden attention.

“Jake Sim,” the professor said, scanning the attendance sheet. “You and Jake will be partners for the entire project.”

Your entire body stiffened.

Jake Sim.

Jake fucking Sim.

Your clit gave a punishing pulse at the mere mention of his name, so strong it sent a hot jolt of need straight through your core. You barely managed to swallow a gasp, thighs clenching under the desk as if that might calm the ache.

Across the room, Jake lifted his head. He had been taking notes, or maybe doodling—hell if you knew. He looked up when he heard his name, and his eyes flicked briefly over to you. He didn’t seem particularly surprised or amused. He just…nodded. Like it was no big deal.

Meanwhile, you sat there, completely frozen, trying not to let your face betray the fact that your cunt was literally fluttering at the prospect of spending hours—hours—with him on this project. Your mind spun with a million frantic thoughts: how were you supposed to look him in the eye when you had fingered yourself that same morning while moaning his name?

You almost wanted to run.

But there was nowhere to go, and the professor’s gaze was still locked on you, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. So you forced a nod, swallowing hard, your pulse thundering in your ears.

When class finally ended, you practically bolted up from your seat, gathering your things in a clumsy rush. All you could think about was escaping before you did something mortifying—like spontaneously combusting from the intensity of the situation.

But you weren’t fast enough.

Jake Sim stood waiting for you in the aisle. You noticed, with a sinking sensation in your stomach, that he was even taller up close, shoulders broad under that signature hoodie, a slight quirk to his full lips as he watched you fluster about.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but clear in the post-lecture murmur. “Guess we’re partners, huh?”

Your heart just about crawled up your throat and died there. You couldn’t form coherent words. Instead, you let out some pathetic sound halfway between a squeak and a cough.

Jake’s brows rose a fraction, and that quirk at the corner of his lips deepened. “You okay?”

No. Absolutely not. Your palms were sweating, your cheeks were on fire, and your core was still buzzing with the aftereffects of your morning orgasm. Knowing he was so close—close enough to smell the faint hint of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodie—nearly made your knees buckle.

“Uh, yeah,” you managed, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Just—tired.”

“Tired,” he echoed, giving you an appraising once-over. “Rough morning?”

You swallowed, a traitorous flush creeping up your neck. He had no idea just how rough.

“Something like that,” you muttered, pretending to rummage in your backpack to avoid meeting his gaze.

Jake shrugged. “Well, we should probably figure out a time to meet up for the project. Professor wants a proposal next week.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, so…normal. Meanwhile, your head was spinning because you were about to be in a room alone with him, studying economics, while your body screamed for him to fuck you senseless.

“Uh, yeah,” you repeated, feeling like a malfunctioning robot. “We…should definitely do that.”

God, you wanted to slap yourself. Could you be any more awkward?

Jake tilted his head, brown eyes flicking over you again, a subtle curiosity in his gaze. “How about tomorrow? Afternoon?”

Tomorrow. That meant you had less than twenty-four hours to get your shit together—to not end up a quivering puddle of arousal at his feet. Less than a day to build up some sort of immunity to his existence.

But you nodded anyway, because what else could you do? “Sure. Works for me.”

He gave a little smile, just a quick curve of his mouth, but it was enough to make your stomach tighten painfully. “Cool. I’ll, uh—text you, I guess?”

“Yeah. Text. Right.”

Your tongue felt leaden and stupid, and your heart hammered wildly against your ribcage. You wondered if he could hear it—wondered if he’d notice the pulse beating in your throat or sense the way your entire body vibrated with the memory of your morning orgasm.

But Jake just nodded again, hands sliding into the pockets of his hoodie. “See you tomorrow, then.”

He turned and left, effortlessly blending into the crowd of students filtering out the door. You stood there like an idiot, your mind replaying the conversation, analyzing every second for hints of pity or amusement on his part.

He didn’t seem weirded out. Didn’t seem suspicious of why you were so…flustered. He’d probably forget about you the moment he headed to his next class.

Meanwhile, you?

You tried to breathe, leaning heavily against one of the desks as you clutched your notes to your chest. Your thighs pressed together, a pitiful attempt to quell the ache that refused to leave you alone. It was as if your body recognized him on some primal level and refused to let go of the fact that he was standing right in front of you.

He had no idea how badly you wanted him—no clue you literally jacked off to his name almost every morning, that you were always late because you were too busy chasing orgasm after orgasm in a delirious haze of lust.

Well, now you’d have to fake it—pretend that you were normal, that you weren’t some perverted mess drooling over him in secret. You just hoped you could keep it together, especially once you were locked in a study room together, going over spreadsheets and supply-demand curves while your body screamed for something entirely different.

And worst of all, you had the sinking feeling that tomorrow’s routine wouldn’t be any different. You’d probably still wake up, still stroke your throbbing clit to the thought of Jake’s voice, Jake’s hands, Jake’s cock…

But maybe, just maybe, you’d manage not to be late this time.

Fat chance.

-

Studying with Jake Sim was a fucking nightmare—in the filthiest, most torturous way possible.

He had this infuriating habit of showing up in the laziest outfits imaginable, usually some combination of sweatpants and a hoodie. You might’ve thought the casual attire would make him look approachable or less intimidating, but it only did the opposite. He wore those gray sweats like a second skin, settling into his chair with an ease that bordered on sinful. His legs spread obscenely wide, claiming space that shouldn’t be his to claim.

The hoodie was somehow worse. It clung to his broad shoulders, emphasizing the sharp line of his collarbones and the solid build of his chest. And since he always—always—rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, you were treated to the tantalizing sight of his forearms: faint veins tracing a path over lightly tanned skin, muscles shifting whenever he flexed his fingers or picked up a pen.

It drove you insane.

Every time he tilted his head in thought, his hair would slip across his forehead, drawing attention to the dark, intense eyes beneath. Sometimes he licked his lips—absently, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it—and every time it happened, a low, pulsing heat rippled through your stomach.

But the worst part? Jake had a thing for tits.

You first noticed it in the little stuff: the way his gaze drifted south whenever you leaned over your notes, the split-second hesitation in his voice if your shirt happened to be cut too low. His eyes would flick to your chest, then dart away so quickly you’d think you’d imagined it—except the slight tension in his jaw proved otherwise.

He tried to hide it. Tried to keep himself polite and focused on the assignment, but the more you studied together, the more obvious it became. He had to physically force himself not to stare, clenching his jaw or gripping his pen with a little too much force whenever your shirt shifted in just the right way.

Eventually, you decided to test him.

One night, you showed up at his place wearing a tight little tank top—no bra underneath, of course. The fabric hugged your curves, thin enough that your nipples peaked through whenever the room got too cold. You pretended to be completely oblivious, scrolling through your laptop as though there wasn’t a very obvious reason Jake’s gaze kept snagging on your chest.

His reaction was immediate. The second you walked in, his eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they betrayed his interest. He coughed, cleared his throat, and busied himself with the project notes, but he couldn’t hide the subtle tremor in his voice when he asked, “So, um, ready to start?”

You dragged a chair up to the small desk, taking care to sit opposite him so he’d have an unobstructed view. For a while, you both pretended to work—typing away, sorting through textbooks, exchanging random facts about supply and demand. But every time you spoke, his attention drifted down, no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on your face.

Your heart pounded every time you caught him looking. Desire coiled low in your belly, and your nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric, practically begging for him to notice. Your entire body thrummed with this heady mixture of confidence and need, and you couldn’t help but push it further.

“Ugh, it’s so hot in here,” you sighed dramatically, arching your back to stretch. The movement sent your breasts straining against the tank top, and you saw Jake’s jaw clench, the tendons in his neck standing out as he forced himself not to stare directly at you.

He tried to keep his cool, but his next words came out more clipped than usual. “I can open the window.”

You shrugged, letting the straps of the tank top slide a fraction of an inch down your shoulder. “Nah,” you said, voice laced with feigned innocence. “Don’t worry about it.”

The tension in the air was palpable, an almost electric charge crackling between you. Your thighs pressed together beneath the desk, desperate for some kind of friction. You could practically feel his gaze lingering on your chest when you looked away, fueling that simmering warmth between your legs.

Finally, Jake snapped.

“You do that shit on purpose, don’t you?” he muttered, voice pitched low and tight enough to send shivers skittering down your spine.

You fought the smirk threatening to curve your lips. Your stomach flipped with excitement and arousal. “Do what?” you asked, feigning obliviousness, even though your heart was about to hammer out of your chest.

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the tank top that was barely containing your chest. “You know what,” he ground out, then made a visible effort to calm himself, dragging his gaze to your face.

It took everything in you not to let out a triumphant laugh. You could see the frustration warring with desire in his dark eyes, saw the way his fingers curled into fists as if he had to physically restrain himself. There was a fine tremor in his forearms—those fucking forearms—that made your insides clench with a perverse satisfaction.

Your own arousal pulsed, nipples practically aching as they brushed against the fabric. There was this suffocating urge to crawl into his lap, to press your tits against his chest and see just how fast you could break that composure. But you held back. Because that wasn’t the plan. Not yet.

“I’m just trying to study,” you said, tone as sweet as sugar, batting your eyelashes in an overdone performance of innocence.

Jake’s stare hardened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something brash—something that would make the air sizzle. But he merely set his jaw, took a long, measured breath, and turned back to the notes.

“Right. Study,” he mumbled, jaw working like he was trying to chew through nails.

You bit your lip to smother a grin, your pulse still thrumming in your ears from the pure, uncut tension between you. Your nipples were so stiff they practically throbbed; you had to shift in your seat to accommodate the constant, nagging ache in your core.

Nothing else happened that night—no heated kisses, no tangled limbs—but it didn’t need to. The filth was already there, simmering beneath every glance, every roll of his shoulders, every suppressed flick of his gaze toward your tits. You could sense the unspoken hunger radiating off him like heat waves, matching the relentless heartbeat pounding in your own chest.

And that was more than enough to leave you soaking by the time you finally left.

-

You woke up with a pounding need at the base of your spine. It was deeper than usual, an ache that gnawed at you relentlessly, demanding satisfaction. The worst part? You already knew exactly who you were going to picture to take the edge off:

Jake Sim.

Every nerve in your body thrummed with anticipation, remembering the way he’d looked at you during your last study session—eyes flickering from your face down to your chest, jaw clenched like he was fighting some internal battle. You’d left his dorm with slick thighs and your mind racing, your entire body aflame.

Today, you wanted to push your usual routine even further. Your fingers alone wouldn’t cut it. With your teeth worrying your bottom lip, you slipped out of bed and rummaged through your nightstand until your hand closed around the small, discreet vibrator you’d impulsively bought a few weeks ago. It was sleek, silicone-coated, made for exactly the kind of play you were craving.

You bit back a trembling sigh and grabbed your phone, propping it against a pillow at the foot of your bed. The little red light began to blink, capturing you in all your messy, unmade-bed glory—hair tangled, cheeks still carrying the warmth of sleep, and a fiercely determined look in your eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the imaginary version of Jake you conjured whenever you got off.

But you didn’t hesitate. You shed your oversized T-shirt, tossing it aside to expose bare skin. Your nipples peaked in the cool air, and you ran a hand over one breast, giving it a light squeeze before trailing your palm down over your stomach. You settled into the pillows, propping your hips up slightly so the camera had a perfect view.

“Jake,” you murmured, letting your thighs fall apart, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your free hand teased your clit, already slick with arousal, while the other clutched the vibrator. The buzzing anticipation in your veins intensified as you clicked it on, feeling the soft hum rattle against your palm.

Normally, you’d sink it straight into your cunt, but today, you were craving something more depraved. Your breath hitched at the thought of that taboo stretch you barely ever indulged—your ass. The mere idea of Jake guiding it inside you, watching you squirm as you took it deeper, was enough to send a fresh gush of heat through your body.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, heart hammering as you angled the toy behind you. “Jake, I want you…want you here.”

Carefully, you smeared your own wetness over the silicone, letting your middle finger gather some of the slick so it’d slide in smoothly. A gasp broke from your throat the moment you pressed the vibrator’s tip to that tight ring of muscle—just the tiniest bit of pressure made your nerves light up like a live wire.

You couldn’t help the shameless moan that echoed off your bedroom walls. Even though it was just the tip, the sensation had you delirious. You spread your cheeks with one hand, guiding the buzzing silicone in a fraction of an inch, your body tensing and then relaxing around it. A ragged whine tore from your lips.

You could almost feel Jake’s hands there, big and warm, whispering filth in your ear:

“Relax. You can take it. Just like that—fuck, look at you…”

Your other hand found your clit, rubbing messy circles that turned your moans into broken sobs of pleasure. Each slow push of the vibrator inched deeper, stretching you in a way that made your eyes roll back.

“Nngh—Jake, please,” you babbled, voice shaking as you tried to push it just a bit further. “Wish it was your cock…wish you’d pin me down and shove it all the way in…”

You couldn’t hold back. The pressure and vibration melded into something explosive, your clit throbbing under your frantic fingertips. Every muscle in your body coiled tighter, lungs seizing as you hovered on the precipice. The camera recorded it all—the sweat beading at your temples, the flushed curve of your cheeks, the wet, filthy sounds filling the room.

Then it hit. Your orgasm came crashing down, ripping a strangled scream from your throat. Your legs shook, your ass clamping around the toy, your cunt pulsing in sympathy. You writhed against the sheets, half-blinded by the force of it, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming relief.

It felt like forever before you could breathe again, the buzz in your nerves slowly receding. You eased the vibrator out, wincing at the hyper-sensitivity, then stopped the recording with a trembling hand. On the screen, the thumbnail showed a glimpse of you with your mouth open in a silent cry, body arched off the bed, pure rapture etched on your face.

Fuck. If Jake ever saw that…

But there wasn’t time for guilt or second thoughts. A glance at the clock made your heart plummet—it was late, and you had to scramble to get to class before your professor threatened to fail you for tardiness. Again.

You only managed a quick wipe-down, barely rinsing the toy and tossing it in a drawer, before you yanked on clothes and sprinted out the door, phone still warm in your pocket from the video you’d just recorded.

The lecture hall was already half-full when you snuck in. You found your seat, cheeks still hot from both the run across campus and the memory of the vibrator filling your ass less than an hour ago. You avoided Jake’s eyes completely, which was easy because he was focused on the front of the class—though you could still feel the tension that seemed to magnetize you whenever he was close.

Throughout the lesson, your mind wandered, replaying the moment of penetration, the hum of the toy, the fantasy of Jake’s hands gripping your hips. You clenched your thighs under the desk, wishing you could burn the images out of your head.

Little did you know, in just a few hours, your world would implode in the filthiest way imaginable.

That evening, you met Jake for a study session in his dorm. The room was small but cozy, a lived-in space with a single bed in the corner, textbooks piled on the floor. He greeted you at the door, wearing a fitted T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that made your pulse flutter.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside so you could walk in. “Let’s try to knock out the rest of the research tonight.”

You nodded stiffly, mouth dry. You were always too aware of him—his scent, the way the muscle in his jaw worked when he concentrated, the slight furrow of his brows. It didn’t help that you’d spent your morning taking a vibrator in your ass, moaning his name like you were possessed.

You settled at the small desk with your laptop, while Jake sat on the bed flipping through a shared Google Doc on his phone. The tension was thick enough to taste. Sometimes you swore you caught him watching you from the corner of his eye, but every time you glanced over, he was scrolling or typing, expression neutral.

After about twenty minutes, the soda you’d chugged on your way over came back to haunt you. You needed the bathroom—badly.

“I’ll be right back,” you muttered, closing your laptop’s lid but not fully locking it. Nerves and bladder pressure made you forget the simplest precaution: you’d left a minimized window open from transferring your new “vibrator video” into your private folder.

Jake just nodded. “Sure. Down the hall, last door on the left.”

You slipped out of the dorm, heart still fluttering, mind on autopilot. The hallway was dimly lit, and you disappeared into the bathroom, exhaling a relieved sigh once the door clicked shut.

Alone in the room, Jake glanced at your laptop, noticing the faint glow beneath the lid. Curiosity—mixed with something deeper—bubbled in his chest. He’d been suspecting something was up with you, ever since you arrived late looking thoroughly wrecked every morning. The tension you carried around him was obvious, and he’d caught glimpses of…subtle clues.

With a swift move, he lifted the laptop’s lid. The screen flickered back to life, revealing a folder half-tucked behind your research notes. A folder labeled something simple, but ominous: “Private.”

He should’ve stopped. Should’ve told himself it was none of his business. But a stubborn, electric thrill spurred him to open it. A series of video files stared back at him, each with a plain name—things like “Vid001,” “Vid002.” And the most recent one? Time-stamped that morning.

His heart thudded. He clicked on it.

What loaded made his blood run hot.

You. Naked. Bent back on your bed with a vibrator in your ass, face scrunched up in a mix of pain and pleasure as you eased it deeper. The audio kicked in, and Jake’s eyes went wide when he heard your moans:

“Jake…God, I want you so deep in me…wanna be stretched by your cock…”

His pulse roared in his ears. The image on the screen was so explicit it felt like a punch to the gut. You whimpered, back arched, your hand working your clit with desperate speed, all while the vibrator buzzed between your spread cheeks. And the filthy things you were saying—how you wanted him to shove it all the way in, how you wished it was his cock instead of cold silicone.

Jake’s cock twitched in his pants, heat pooling low in his gut. He watched, transfixed, as your face contorted in a mind-blowing orgasm, your body jerking, thighs trembling. You were screaming his name through it all.

A low, shaky exhalation left his lips. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Sure, he’d suspected you had some kind of thing for him, but this? This was on another level. You were a wrecked, filthy, ass-play-obsessed mess, and all of it was for him.

He paused the video at the peak of your orgasm, hand nearly trembling with adrenaline. Blood pounded in his ears, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Part of him wanted to keep watching, to see every second of your depravity, but he had to be quick. You’d be back any minute.

With an almost reverent care, he closed out of the folder and gently lowered the laptop’s lid. Then he dragged in a ragged breath, trying to get his heart rate under control.

His mind raced. You were a shy presence at times, stumbling over words, blushing whenever he looked at you too long. Yet behind closed doors, you were filming yourself stretching your ass with a vibrator, moaning his name like he was the only person in the world.

Jake could barely contain the predatory thrill that coursed through him. He tried to shove the arousal down, adjusting his position on the bed so he didn’t look painfully hard if you walked in that second. But there was no ignoring the fact that everything had changed.

You had no idea what you’d just handed him, and Jake was more than ready to see how you’d squirm now that he had proof of just how desperately you wanted him.

-

You barely made it through class without combusting.

Your skin felt too hot, every nerve in your body on edge, a lingering burn still coiled between your thighs from the morning’s routine. As if that wasn’t bad enough, every time Jake so much as shifted in his seat, your body reacted—trained by weeks, months, of late mornings spent getting yourself off to the very thought of him.

And then, class ended.

The moment you stepped into the hall, still shaken, still barely holding it together, Jake was waiting for you.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking infuriatingly calm while you felt like you were on the verge of collapsing. His dark eyes flicked over you, a slow drag, lingering just long enough to make your stomach tighten. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was studying you, examining you, as if piecing together a puzzle that had finally clicked into place.

A slow curl of heat unfurled in your belly. Something about the way he held your gaze, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, made you feel exposed. Laid bare.

Something was wrong.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, breath uneven as you tried to keep your face neutral. “What?” you asked, attempting to sound indifferent, but your voice betrayed you, cracking slightly on the single word.

Jake didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, dragging his tongue over his lower lip in thought. His fingers twitched against his arms where they were crossed over his chest, and his gaze dipped lower—not just over your body, but like he was seeing straight through you.

Your stomach clenched. He knew something.

“Didn’t sleep well?” he finally asked, voice deceptively casual.

Your heart lurched. He was playing with you.

You forced yourself to scoff. “What are you talking about?”

Jake hummed, tilting his head slightly, and your stomach sank at the knowing glint in his eyes. You felt yourself locking up, body screaming at you to flee, but it was too late.

“I wonder…” he mused, tapping his fingers against his arm. “Is that why you’re always late?”

The world tilted beneath you.

Your throat closed, fingers twitching at your sides, because he didn’t say it like an accusation—he said it like a revelation.

Jake took a step closer, and you swore your knees almost buckled.

“You’re always late,” he murmured, voice smooth as sin, laced with amusement. He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours as he leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Always looking like you’ve just been fucked.”

Your breath hitched. Your pulse roared in your ears.

“What—” Your voice barely worked, caught between panic and something even deeper—something raw, electric, dangerous.

Jake’s lips curved, dark amusement flashing across his face. “You get off before class, don’t you?”

Your entire body went up in flames. Your thighs clenched so tightly that you swore he could see it, see the way his words wrecked you from the inside out.

Jake didn’t wait for you to answer. He already knew. He had proof.

The realization crashed into you like a truck. The video.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your laptop. The folder. The fucking recording from that morning.

The vibrator. The way you moaned his name. The way you begged for it to be him.

Jake had seen it.

Oh my god.

He had fucking seen it.

A low chuckle vibrated from deep in his chest, his lips twitching upward at the sheer horror that must have been written all over your face. His eyes darkened, filling with something lethal, something triumphant.

And then came the final blow—the words that shattered you, sent that familiar ache between your legs into something unbearable.

“You could’ve just asked me to help, baby.”

Your stomach dropped. Your knees almost buckled.

You were done for.

The world tilted on its axis. Everything else around you—the bustling students, the muffled sounds of conversations, the faint scraping of chairs against tile—blurred into meaningless background noise. All that existed was him. His smirk. His words. The absolute certainty in his voice that left no room for denial.

Your mouth opened, some kind of weak protest forming on your tongue, but Jake moved closer, shutting you down before you even had a chance to breathe. His presence was overwhelming, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, his scent—clean, musky, laced with something so distinctly him—filling your senses, making your knees weak.

“You get off before class,” he repeated, softer this time, almost teasing, like he was savoring the confession he had yet to hear from your own lips. His voice dropped lower, becoming something dark, possessive. “And you think about me when you do it, don’t you?”

Your lungs seized. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Jake tilted his head, studying you, watching the way your fingers twitched at your sides, the way your lips parted in a silent gasp, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively—as if that would do anything to stop the inevitable, the brutal ache between your legs that he had just made ten times worse.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” His voice was smooth, dripping with mocking confidence, because he knew you couldn’t.

Your brain scrambled for an escape. For an excuse. For anything that might get you out of this, because if you admitted it—if you said it out loud—there would be no turning back. You’d be his. Completely. Utterly.

Jake was too close now, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear, his tone taunting. “What is it, baby?” His fingers ghosted along your wrist, not quite touching but close enough to drive you insane. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you too busy thinking about the way you spread your legs for me every morning?”

Your breath left you in a shattered gasp.

You shouldn’t have reacted. You knew better. But your body betrayed you—your thighs clenched harder, your nipples tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, your entire core clenched around nothing, desperate for the friction you had been denying yourself all class.

Jake saw it. He saw everything.

He chuckled, voice dark and satisfied. “Oh, you really are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”

Your body burned.

Jake smirked. His fingers—strong, veined, perfect—finally reached you, just the barest brush of his knuckle against the inside of your wrist, but it sent a violent shudder through you.

And now, he fucking knew it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said smoothly, turning away like he hadn’t just left you a trembling, soaking mess in the middle of the hallway.

-

You spent the entire day in a state of absolute wreckage.

After Jake’s confrontation in the hallway, after his words had wrapped around you like a noose, you had barely functioned. Your thoughts were a mess, your body useless, stuck in a constant loop of shame, arousal, and anticipation. He had seen it. He had seen you—spread out, stuffed full, moaning his name like a desperate, filthy thing. And now, tonight, you had to face him again.

Your stomach flipped violently as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror, gripping the sink, forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths.

You had to get it together. You had to act like you weren’t already falling apart before you even stepped into his dorm.

But the problem was—you were. You so were.

The moment you let your mind wander, it all came rushing back. Jake’s voice, low and taunting. His gaze, dark and knowing. The way his fingers had hovered so close to your skin, how he had whispered filth into your ear like he already owned you.

And now, tonight, he would.

Your breath shuddered. Your thighs clenched.

You couldn’t go to him like this, already weak and needy. You needed to take the edge off, just enough to think clearly, just enough to face him without completely unraveling the second he looked at you.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts before you could think twice.

You sighed, the relief instant as your fingers slid through the ridiculous mess between your legs. You were soaked, soaked, had been all day. It was humiliating, how little it took. The heat, the tension, the memory of him catching you—it had left you dripping, thighs sticky and aching since the moment he walked away from you in that hallway.

But tonight, you needed more than your fingers.

Your eyes flicked to the cool bathroom sink, and your breath hitched.

You turned around, hands bracing against the counter, angling yourself just right before slipping your fingers behind you, dragging them through your folds from the back, teasing your entrance in a way that made your legs tremble.

A gasp ripped from your throat as you pressed two fingers inside, stretching yourself open while your hips rocked forward, grinding your clit against the cold, smooth porcelain. The sensation was overwhelming—the deep, slow stretch inside you paired with the delicious friction against your swollen, aching clit.

“F-Fuck,” you whimpered, forehead pressing against the mirror as you humped the sink, fingering yourself deeper, imagining it was Jake standing behind you, one big hand on your hip, the other sliding down between your legs to keep you in place while he filled you up.

Your breath came ragged, hips stuttering, thighs quivering as you rode the edge, grinding your clit down harder, fucking your fingers deeper, thinking about how Jake would hold you still, how he’d groan against your ear, whispering, “You’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

Your stomach tightened, the orgasm coiling, building, about to—

And then your phone buzzed.

You froze.

Your heart stopped. Your stomach plummeted. Your fingers stilled immediately, guilt crashing over you in suffocating waves.

You scrambled for your phone, unlocking it with shaking hands.

Jake: Don’t. Touch. Yourself.

Your blood ran cold.

You swallowed, staring at the text, heart pounding as another one came through.

Jake: You’ll do that when you’re here.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, thighs clenching involuntarily at the absolute authority in his words. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only sit there, fingers still buried inside yourself, aching, trembling, waiting.

Then—

Jake: And when you get here? You’re going to show me just how much you need it.

Your entire body shuddered.

Your clit pulsed beneath your untouched folds, but you didn’t dare move. Not now. Not when you were seconds away from finishing, and Jake had just ripped that privilege away from you.

Another text buzzed onto the screen.

Jake: If you’re even a second late, I’ll make you wait even longer.

You swallowed a whimper. You had to go. Now.

Your legs felt like they barely worked as you stumbled up from the sink, heart hammering, stomach twisting into knots of frustration, anticipation, arousal so thick you could choke on it.

You had no idea how you were going to survive this night.

-

You hesitated outside Jake’s door, hands clammy, thighs pressed together so tightly it almost hurt.

Your body wasn’t over it.

Not even close.

The bathroom incident had left you on the brink, your body still buzzing, still needy, still aching for something you weren’t allowed to have until you stepped inside. You could still feel it—the cool sink against your clit, the way your own fingers had stretched you open from behind, the way Jake’s texts had snapped you back to reality at the worst possible moment.

And now you were here.

You wiped your palms on your thighs, forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to knock even though every part of you screamed run.

The door opened almost immediately.

Jake stood there, leaning against the frame, one hand braced above his head, the other resting casually in the pocket of his sweatpants. His eyes raked over you, scanning your body like he already knew what kind of state you were in.

Like he could smell it on you.

You swallowed hard, barely holding back a whimper.

“Come in.”

His voice was smooth, deep, dripping with something dangerous. He stepped aside, leaving just enough space for you to squeeze past him. The second you moved, his hand brushed against your lower back—a simple touch, barely even there, but it felt like a brand.

Your breath hitched.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You were alone with him now.

The air felt thick, suffocating, charged. You could hear your own pulse pounding in your ears, the faint sound of your breath coming in quick, uneven puffs. Your nerves were a mess, anticipation tangling with embarrassment because—

You knew why you were here.

And so did Jake.

You took a shaky step forward, barely processing the way Jake moved behind you. Slow. Calculated.

“So,” he murmured, the heat of his breath suddenly right at your ear. “Are you gonna tell me how close you were?”

Your entire body seized up.

He wasn’t touching you—not yet—but his presence alone was suffocating, pressing against you like a heavy weight.

You licked your lips, swallowed hard. “W-what?”

Jake chuckled.

“Don’t play dumb, baby.” His fingers ghosted over your hip, just enough to make you tremble. “I told you not to touch yourself. And yet…”

You sucked in a breath as his other hand trailed up, dragging two fingers over your exposed throat, pressing just lightly enough that your head tipped back on instinct.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Your thighs clenched.

His touch was barely there but it was too much. Too much, because you were already soaked, already aching, already at the point where you’d do anything—

But he wasn’t giving it to you.

Not yet.

Instead, he pressed his fingers just a little more firmly against your throat, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look at him. His dark eyes held yours, and the corner of his mouth curled.

“Be honest with me.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your thighs.

Jake’s fingers brushed down your throat, slow, teasing, until they rested just beneath your collarbone. His thumb dragged lower, just barely dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt.

You could barely breathe.

You shouldn’t have been this turned on just from a few words. Just from the way his thumb traced your skin, from the way he was looking at you like he already owned you.

But then he leaned in, so fucking close, lips just barely brushing against your ear as he whispered—

“How close were you when I told you to stop?”

A whimper escaped you before you could stop it.

Jake groaned, low and satisfied. His fingers tightened, just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your body scream for more.

“I bet you were close.” His breath was hot, his tone mocking. “I bet you were right there, fingers dripping, about to make a mess of yourself.”

You bit your lip hard enough to sting, trying to stop the truth from slipping out.

Because if he knew the full truth—if he knew what you’d actually been doing—

Grinding against the bathroom sink, rubbing your clit against the cool porcelain like some desperate, shameless thing—

You’d die on the spot.

Jake must have sensed it. Felt it. Because his fingers curled against your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes searched yours, his smirk deepening, his voice dropping even lower.

“What else?”

Your pulse skipped. “W-what?”

His lips nearly brushed yours. “You were doing more than just touching yourself, weren’t you?”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Your silence was a dead giveaway.

Jake chuckled, dark and knowing. His grip on your chin tightened. “Tell me.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I—I…” The words got stuck in your throat.

His smirk widened. “You’re gonna say it out loud, baby. Or I’ll make you.”

Your breath shook, your entire body on the verge of collapse. You wanted to fight it, wanted to pretend you still had some dignity left, but Jake’s gaze was relentless.

And he wouldn’t let you go until you gave him what he wanted.

A deep, humiliating heat spread over your body as you finally whispered, “I—I was…grinding against the sink.”

Jake inhaled sharply, his entire body going still.

His grip on your chin tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might snap. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just processed what you’d just admitted.

Then, slowly, so deliberately that it made your stomach flip, he let out a low, dark chuckle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his free hand flexing at his side. “That’s what you were doing?”

You nodded weakly, shame pooling in your stomach.

Jake exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching, and suddenly, his hand slid from your chin to your throat, holding you there—not squeezing, just keeping you still.

“You’re a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Jake smirked, something dangerous flashing in his gaze, something calculated.

“You’re gonna show me,” he murmured. “Later.”

Your breath hitched.

“And I’m gonna take a video.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

Jake sat back on his bed, legs spread wide, leaning against the headboard with an ease that only made the situation worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. His hoodie was gone, discarded somewhere in the room, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin, the sharp lines of his collarbones, the toned muscles of his chest, and the faintest trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

But what really ruined you was the bulge straining against the soft fabric of his grey sweats.

It was… big. Heavy. Obscene. The kind of size that made your stomach clench with something dangerously close to desperation. He wasn’t even touching himself, wasn’t even adjusting—just sitting there, watching you like he had all the time in the world.

And then he did something that made your breath stutter.

He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with a single flick before tilting his head at you, smirk lazy, expectant.

“I’m filming this,” he murmured, voice dripping with authority. “Start stripping.”

Your stomach flipped.

Your body burned.

You should have hesitated—should have felt embarrassed, should have tried to argue—but the only thing you felt was a deep, thrilling pulse between your legs.

You didn’t even question it.

Your hands moved before your brain caught up, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt, peeling it up slowly, dragging it over your stomach, higher, teasing yourself as much as you were teasing him. The air felt thick, charged, electric as you bared more skin, the camera recording every second.

Jake hummed approvingly. “Good girl. Keep going.”

The shirt hit the floor. You reached for your shorts next, hooking your thumbs into the waistband, dragging them down inch by inch, knowing exactly how much of a show you were giving him.

By the time you stood before him, stripped down to nothing but your soaked panties, Jake’s smirk had sharpened into something dangerous.

“Lose those too,” he ordered, tilting the phone slightly to capture your every movement.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop.

You slid your hands down, curling your fingers beneath the waistband, peeling them down agonizingly slow, letting the fabric drag over your thighs before stepping out of them completely.

Now you were bare.

Jake exhaled through his nose, pleased. His free hand dragged over his own thigh, fingers flexing, his grip tightening the moment you stepped forward, fully exposed, completely his.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Let me see what you do when you think about me.”

You obeyed instantly, trailing your fingers over your stomach, your thighs, your hips—everywhere but where you needed it most. Your breath came in slow, teasing gasps as you let your fingers finally slip lower, grazing your clit, a sharp whimper escaping as you made contact with the aching heat between your legs.

Jake groaned, the sound low, filthy.

“Louder.”

You whimpered, fingers pressing deeper, moving slower, dragging the pleasure out just to tease him, just to see how long he’d let you keep control.

“Louder,” he said again, voice darker this time. “I want to hear every filthy little sound you make.”

Something inside you snapped.

You moaned. Loudly.

Then again. And again.

It was like you couldn’t stop. The moment the first shameless, desperate noise slipped past your lips, your mouth wouldn’t close, your voice wouldn’t stop spilling every thought you had.

“Jake—fuck—I think about you all the time—”

Your fingers slid deeper, your hips rocking into the pressure.

“I think about your hands, how big they are, how rough they’d feel on me—”

Jake let out a low, ragged groan, his fingers twitching against the bed.

“I think about your mouth, how you’d ruin me with it, how you’d hold me still and make me take it—”

Your breath hitched as you spread your legs wider, rubbing yourself faster, your mind a mess of filth.

“I think about your cock,” you gasped, your fingers slick, sliding in and out shamelessly. “How big it is, how you’d stretch me open, how you’d fill me so fucking deep—”

Jake exhaled sharply, his jaw locked, his knuckles turning white against his thigh.

Then, in an instant, he moved.

You barely had time to react before his hand wrapped around your throat, gripping firm, dominant, unrelenting as he dragged you forward. Your breath caught, a choked gasp escaping as he pulled you right into his lap, forcing you to straddle him, the heat of his body pressing against you.

His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it.

“Stop pretending,” he growled, his breath hot against your lips, his other hand pushing between your thighs, feeling how soaked you were. “You want to act like a shy little thing? Like you’re so innocent?”

His fingers dragged through your slick, making you tremble, making you whimper as your hands gripped his shoulders for support.

“Enough of that.” His thumb pressed against your throat, tilting your head back, his gaze dark, dangerous. “Start acting like the filthy little slut you actually are.”

Something in you broke open.

You whimpered, thighs clenching, your fingers digging into his skin as your hips rolled forward, grinding against his sweatpants, against the huge, heavy bulge pressing against you.

Jake groaned, his grip on your throat flexing, his lips twitching into something darkly amused as you completely fell apart for him.

“There she is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted.”

Your mouth ran wild, the words spilling before you could stop them—

“I want you to ruin me, Jake—”

You rocked against him, panting, desperate, his hand tight in your hair now, keeping you in place, making you take it.

“Want you to spread me open—make me take every inch of you—”

Jake groaned, low and wrecked, his hands gripping your hips, holding you against him as you rubbed yourself raw against his cock, soaking his sweatpants with how desperate you were.

You did exactly that.

You pulled your fingers out, spreading your slick between them, before shifting positions—

Turning around.

Bending over.

Spreading yourself open for him.

A sharp, gritted curse came from behind you.

Jake’s fingers flexed against his thigh, his entire body going rigid as he took in the sight before him—your ass up, your fingers teasing at your entrance, the shameless, dripping mess you were making of yourself.

He let out a slow, heavy breath, one that sounded so ragged, so fucking strained, that you almost moaned just from hearing it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, voice low, wrecked.

And that was the moment you knew.

Jake was going to destroy you.

Jake let the silence stretch, let the weight of his gaze sink into you, let you feel just how much he was holding back—barely.

You were still bent over in front of him, still spreading yourself wide, still waiting, dripping, panting, desperate, while he sat back and took his time.

His voice, low, rough, taunting:

“You think this is how I’d fuck you?”

Your stomach plummeted.

Jake exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his jaw before shaking his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.

“That’s cute, baby,” he murmured, shifting forward until you could feel his heat against you, his presence looming over your back, his breath hitting your spine.

But then—

He grabbed your hips, both hands firm, controlling, and yanked you back against him. Your breath hitched, a choked gasp slipping from your lips at the sudden contact—your bare, slick heat pressing against the thick, hard outline of his cock.

Jake groaned, low, deep, wrecked, his fingers tightening, his chest heaving as he held you there, perfectly still, completely at his mercy.

“First mistake,” he muttered, voice rough against your ear. “You wouldn’t be in charge of how fast or slow I fuck you. That’s my job.”

A shudder ran through you, your hands clenching against the sheets as Jake’s grip ground you against him, making you feel every inch of his cock through his sweatpants.

“Second mistake?” he continued, dragging his fingers over the curve of your ass, featherlight, teasing. “You think I’d let you touch yourself first?”

Your breath caught as his hand moved lower, closer, his touch just barely skimming over your soaked entrance, not enough, not even close, just a tease.

His fingers—elegant, veined, strong—dragged through your slick, gathering it, smearing it over you, spreading you open, making you tremble.

“I’d have you like this first,” Jake murmured, voice silk and gravel, his breath hitting the nape of your neck as his fingers teased, circled, prodded, but never gave you what you needed. “Dripping. Begging.”

His fingers brushed over your tight, untouched entrance, slicking it up with your own mess, and you whimpered, hips jolting forward on instinct, trying to escape the sensation—

But Jake just chuckled.

“Oh?” His tone was mocking, amused. “That got your attention?”

Your whole body seized, heat flaming through your spine, burning at your core, because—

He was still teasing your ass.

Just barely, just the pad of his fingertip, smearing your slick in slow, lazy circles, pressing, nudging, teasing, but not pushing inside.

And he wasn’t letting you run from it.

His free hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you right where he wanted you, keeping you spread, exposed, open.

“You think about this too?” he murmured, voice dark, edged with pure sin. “You think about my fingers stretching you out?”

Your throat closed, your body burning, your breath hitching in a desperate, humiliated whimper, because—

Yes.

Yes, you did.

Jake chuckled, pleased, tilting his head as if piecing it all together.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, his fingertip pressing just a little more insistently, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just threatening to. “You should’ve seen yourself.”

Your pulse pounded.

“I bet you don’t even know how messy you looked,” he continued, mocking, condescending. “Whimpering, drooling all over your pillow, fucking yourself open for me.”

Your entire body jerked, because you knew exactly what video he was talking about.

Jake just laughed under his breath, slow, deliberate, dragging it out.

“I don’t even think you knew what you were saying, baby,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, like he was reminiscing. “Kept whining about how you wished it was my cock stretching you open, stuffing you full.”

A wrecked, desperate moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Jake groaned, low, pleased.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

His finger pressed harder, circling, coaxing, never giving you enough—just teasing, just pushing your body past what it thought it could take.

His other hand moved.

His fingers found your clit, pinching, rolling, flicking over the swollen bud with zero mercy.

You gasped, your legs nearly giving out, your moan high, broken, utterly wrecked.

Jake groaned at the sound, his own restraint hanging by a thread, but he wasn’t done yet.

“Stick your tongue out,” he ordered, voice deep, commanding.

You barely had time to process the words before your mouth obeyed, tongue slipping out, slick and needy, desperate for whatever he’d give you.

Jake exhaled through his nose, satisfied.

He shoved his fingers inside your mouth.

You whined, head tilting back as he pressed deeper, letting you taste the salt of his skin, letting you soak them, letting you understand exactly what he was about to do.

“Suck,” he murmured, and you did, your lips wrapping around his fingers, your tongue laving over them, your moans vibrating through your chest.

Jake cursed under his breath, his cock twitching hard beneath his sweatpants, his control hanging on by a fucking thread.

He pulled his fingers out, slick, wet, dripping with your spit.

And then he shoved that same finger inside you.

Your whole body jerked, your breath stuttering, your mind blanking completely as the wet stretch burned, as your body took him, clenched around him, pulled him deeper.

Jake groaned, his free hand slamming onto your lower back, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.

“God,” he muttered, voice strained. “Look at you.”

His finger slid deeper, fucking into you, spreading you open, filling you slowly, deliberately, ruining you.

“You were made for this, weren’t you?” he murmured. “Made to be filled.”

Your moans shattered, your legs trembling, your hands gripping the sheets, your whole body unraveling under him.

Jake just smirked, watching you come apart.

“That’s okay, baby,” he murmured, his lips curling against your ear. “I’m gonna make sure you take it better than that next time.”

Your stomach dropped.

Next time.

Jake just smirked.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice lethal. “And don’t forget—I’m filming the next one.”

Jake had had enough.

Enough of teasing, enough of waiting, enough of holding back while you squirmed, while you whimpered, while you dripped all over yourself without him even needing to try.

Now he was going to ruin you.

His fingers slid out of you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of the slick drag, letting your body clench around nothing, aching, desperate for more.

You whined, shifting, pushing back instinctively, chasing friction, but Jake’s hands were already on you, pushing you down, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion.

Before you could even catch your breath, he was on you.

His grip locked onto your thighs, spreading you wide, forcing your legs apart so you had no choice but to bare yourself to him completely.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

Jake exhaled slowly, his eyes dark, hungry, his gaze locked onto the messy, dripping heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers flexing against your thighs, holding you open like you belonged to him.

Your stomach flipped. Your breath hitched. Your body throbbed.

“Be a good girl and show me how bad you want it.”

Your brain blanked.

You knew what he meant. Knew he was testing you. Knew he wanted to see if you were still pretending, still holding back, still playing shy when you were already dripping for him.

He would stop.

He would kick you out.

His voice was low, slow, unforgiving when he spoke again. “If you don’t act like the whore I know you are, I’m gonna stop. And I’m gonna make you leave.”

Your breath shattered.

The weight of his words hit you like a slap to the face.

No more hesitation. No more nerves. No more pretending.

Your whole body flushed hot, heat spreading from your cheeks down to your core as you swallowed your pride, swallowed your shame, and did exactly what he asked.

You let your thighs fall even wider, your hands sliding down your stomach, past your hips, until your fingers spread yourself open for him, letting him see everything.

Jake’s breath left him in a ragged curse.

“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself. “There she is.”

His mouth latched onto you immediately, tongue dragging through your folds, hot and wet and messy, licking up every bit of slick that had spilled from you since he started his torment.

You screamed.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, pulling, gripping, holding on for dear life as Jake ate you alive.

He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core, making your hips buck, making you writhe beneath him.

But Jake was ready for it.

His arms hooked under your thighs, locking them over his shoulders, his hands gripping your hips tight, pinning you down as he worked you over with his tongue, messy and relentless, like he was trying to drown in you.

“Oh my fucking—Jake—”

You gasped, sobbed, choked on your own moans, because he wasn’t just licking you,

He was devouring you.

Sucking, flicking, rolling his tongue over your clit, dipping lower to fuck you with it, groaning into you every time your walls fluttered around the slick muscle.

Your body twitched, overwhelmed, shaking under the pressure of his grip, the raw, unrelenting pace of his tongue.

He was merciless.

No teasing. No holding back.

Just Jake, consuming you, controlling you, wrecking you.

Your thighs tensed, your stomach tightened, your breath coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, and Jake fucking felt it.

He knew you were close.

So he got mean.

He pulled away just enough to whisper against your swollen, drenched folds—

“Make a mess of my face, baby.”

Your stomach dropped.

He sucked your clit into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it hard.

Everything snapped.

Your whole body bowed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your vision blurring, blanking, as pleasure slammed into you, violent and unforgiving.

You came hard, your body convulsing, your legs trying to snap shut around his head, but Jake just held you there, kept you wide open, kept his tongue right where you needed it, licking you through it, dragging it out until you were a shaking, sobbing mess beneath him.

When it finally became too much, when your whimpers turned into soft, wrecked sobs, Jake eased up, pressing slow, teasing kisses against your oversensitive clit before finally pulling away.

Your chest heaved, your skin flushed, your whole body buzzing, as you blinked up at the ceiling, completely wrecked, ruined, destroyed.

Jake sat back, grinning, his lips and chin shiny, slick, messy with you.

His voice was smug, satisfied, when he finally spoke.

“That’s my girl.”

You were still panting, still trembling, your body wrecked from the brutal pace of his tongue. But Jake wasn’t done with you yet.

Not even close.

Before you could recover, before you could even think, his hands were on you again, flipping you onto your stomach with zero effort, pressing his weight down against you, his body hot, heavy, overwhelming.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt it,

The thick, hot length of his cock pressing between your thighs, dragging through your slick, coating himself in the mess he’d made of you.

Your whole body shuddered.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice dark, dangerous. “You ready for me, baby?”

You barely managed to nod, your hips tilting up, your back arching, offering yourself up to him in the filthiest display of submission.

Jake groaned, his breath shuddering against your shoulder.

“Yeah, you are,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’ve been ready for me since day one.”

Your breath hitched when he pulled back, when you felt him shift, when you felt him line himself up,

You felt it.

The thick, heavy weight of his cock sliding between your folds, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance, spreading you open inch by inch, but not pushing in yet.

You whimpered, a wrecked, frustrated sound, trying to push back, trying to take him, but Jake’s hands were on your hips immediately, holding you still.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice taunting, smug. “You feel that?”

Your whole body tightened as he dragged himself over your entrance again, so close but still not giving it to you.

“Feel how big I am?”

You nodded furiously, eyes blown wide, unfocused, needy, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of his cock stretching you open already before he was even inside.

Jake chuckled, one hand leaving your hip, gripping the thick base of himself, dragging the fat, swollen head against your entrance over and over, smearing your slick across his length.

“Bet you thought about it, huh?” he murmured, his free hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you further into the mattress. “Bet you imagined how deep I’d be.”

A wrecked, whiny little moan tumbled from your lips.

Yeah. You had.

And now you could feel it.

Jake was thick. Heavy. Long enough that you knew he was going to ruin you completely.

The head of his cock was flushed a deep, angry red, already slick with precum and the mess you’d made of yourself. A thick vein ran down the underside, pulsing against your entrance as he dragged himself over your folds again and again, teasing, taunting, letting you feel every single inch of what was about to wreck you.

Your thighs shook, your hands fisting the sheets, your whole body fighting to stay still.

Jake smirked.

“Want it that bad?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering, pressing back against him, desperate to be filled.

Jake groaned, low, dark, lethal.

He spat directly onto your asshole.

Your whole body jerked violently, your breath choking out of you, a sharp, desperate gasp breaking from your throat at the filthy, messy sound of it.

Jake chuckled darkly, rubbing the wetness into you with his thumb, spreading it over your tight entrance, teasing, circling, smearing it with your own slick.

“Thought about this too, huh?” he murmured, pressing just the tip of his thumb against it, making your thighs tremble, making your stomach flip, making you whine.

But he didn’t push in.

No—he dragged his spit-slicked thumb down, tracing it between your folds, pressing it against your clit in a slow, taunting rub just as he finally—

Pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open in a wrecked, silent scream, your entire body going taut, because Jake didn’t ease in.

He split you open.

A long, low groan rumbled in his chest, his fingers tightening on your hips, his breath shaking as he forced you to take every inch.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed, his voice strained, wrecked, strained as he buried himself to the hilt. “So fucking tight.”

Your fingernails dug into the sheets, your legs shaking, your breath completely gone, because the stretch was unbearable, overwhelming, perfect.

Jake didn’t move right away.

He let you feel it.

Feel how deep he was, how full he made you, how there was no more space inside you for anything else but him.

He pulled back, 

And slammed back in.

Your whole body jolted forward, a sharp, shocked moan spilling from your lips as Jake set a brutal, punishing pace immediately.

“You’re gonna take it like a good little slut, yeah?” he growled, his voice low, rough, filthy. “Gonna take it just like you do in those videos?”

You sobbed, whimpered, nodded frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to breathe.

Jake groaned, watching you fall apart, watching you drool all over his cock, watching your mouth fall open in perfect, wordless pleasure.

He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear, his pace never faltering, pounding into you so deep you saw stars.

“Push back on it,” he ordered.

You barely even registered the command—just obeyed immediately, rocking back against him, meeting every thrust, taking him like you were made for it.

Jake growled, his grip tightening, watching the way his cock slid in and out of you, watching the way you took every inch, watching the way you spread yourself open for him completely.

“Good girl,” he gritted out, sweat dripping from his temples, his breath ragged. “That’s it, baby. Show me what a good little whore you are.”

His fingers slid back down, toying with your clit, rubbing it in tight, filthy circles, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, meaner.

Your vision blurred.

Your body shook violently.

“Jake—fuck—I can’t—”

He chuckled darkly, leaning over you again, his lips brushing your ear as he ruined you completely.

“Yes, you can.”

“Be a good girl and come all over my cock.”

Your whole world shattered.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and everything filthy you’d just done.

Your body was still shaking, your limbs still boneless, every nerve still buzzing from the way Jake had just completely, utterly wrecked you.

His hands were on you again.

Gentle.

You barely registered the shift at first—too dazed, too exhausted, too blissed out to notice the way Jake’s grip had softened, the way his rough, dominant touch had turned into something careful, careful, careful.

You blinked, still coming down, still floating, as Jake slowly eased himself out of you, hushing you immediately when you whimpered at the loss.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to the filthy, merciless way he’d been talking to you minutes ago.

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

Because Jake sounded different.

You barely had time to process it before he moved, scooping you up effortlessly, pulling you into his lap like you were the most precious fucking thing in the world.

Your stomach flipped.

“Jake—”

“Shh.”

His lips brushed your forehead.

Your heart skipped. Your breath caught.

Because Jake had kissed you.

For the first time. But not on your lips.

Not yet.

His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles over your back, his voice a quiet murmur against your skin. “Are you okay?”

You blinked at him, completely thrown. Because what the fuck?

Where was the cocky, filthy-mouthed Jake who had just spent the past hour ruining your entire existence?

Where was the smug, insufferable bastard who had made you beg for it, who had spat on your ass, who had laughed while you drooled all over his cock?

Because the guy holding you now? Was someone else entirely. His hands were warm, steady, grounding. His gaze was soft, searching, real.

Your lips parted, still stunned, but before you could say anything, Jake let out a quiet, almost nervous chuckle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at you. “I should’ve kissed you first.”

Your breath hitched.

Jake exhaled, shaking his head. “Before all of that.” His fingers traced light, delicate patterns up and down your spine. “Didn’t want the first time I kissed you to be during sex.”

Something in your chest ached. You didn’t know what to say.

Because this wasn’t what you expected.

Jake had spent weeks taunting you, teasing you, pushing you past your limits— Now he was holding you like he never wanted to let go. You swallowed, watching him carefully, studying him, trying to understand.

“Why?” you whispered.

Jake’s lips curled into a small, almost sheepish smirk.

His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Because I wanted it to mean something.”

Your entire body stilled. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Jake held your gaze, serious now, voice soft but firm.

“I don’t share,” he murmured.

Your stomach plummeted.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Jake tilted his head, his fingers sliding up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, so gentle, so intimate, so fucking real.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” he continued, his voice low, steady, certain. “I don’t want you fucking anyone else.”

Your breath shuddered. Jake’s eyes flickered down to your lips, slowly He finally kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Consuming.

And just like that, you knew you were done for.

-

Jake’s words from that first night still haunted you.

“You’re gonna show me later.”

You were.

The bathroom lights were dim, the mirror already fogging up from the heat of the room, but none of that mattered. Not when Jake was standing behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other holding his phone, recording every filthy, desperate second.

Your palms were pressed against the edge of the sink, your body bent forward, the cold porcelain digging into your clit as you grinded against it, mimicking exactly what he had caught you doing before.

Only this time, Jake was fucking you through it.

His cock dragged in and out of you, slow at first, deep and deliberate, splitting you open, making you feel every thick, devastating inch as you rocked your hips forward, rubbing yourself against the sink just like you had before he ever touched you.

Now, Jake was watching.

Now, Jake was inside you.

His breath was hot against your neck, his free hand trailing up your spine, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades, pushing you further down against the sink, making you spread your legs wider, making you take more of him, making you completely his.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice wrecked, low, approving, his free hand digging into your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “Just like that. Just like you did for me before I ever fucking touched you.”

Your moans were high, gasping, desperate, bouncing off the tile walls, growing louder and louder as Jake’s thrusts grew faster, sharper, filthier.

“Look at yourself,” he growled, angling the phone so you could see the reflection—see the way your face was contorted with pleasure, see the way your tits bounced with every thrust, see the way his cock disappeared inside you, stretching you wide, filling you completely.

You locked eyes with him through the mirror, and something snapped.

A slow, wicked smirk curled on your lips, and suddenly, the whimpering mess you had been was gone.

You arched your back further, pushing your ass back against him, grinding onto his cock, fucking yourself onto him even harder, your mouth spilling filth without hesitation.

“You see that, baby?” Your voice was thick with sin, sultry and commanding. “See how good your cock looks inside me? Stretching me open like I was fucking made for it?”

Jake groaned, dark and wrecked, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Oh, you like that?” you cooed, deliberately clenching around him, making him hiss through his teeth. “Like watching me fuck myself on you?”

He gritted his teeth. “Jesus Christ.”

“Thought about this for so long,” you purred, rolling your hips. “Thought about you taking me like this—filming me—showing me what a good little slut I am for you.”

Jake cursed under his breath, his thrusts growing harder, faster, deeper, his control shattering as he pounded into you, forcing you against the sink, making you feel every fucking inch.

“You wanna keep talking, baby?” he gritted out, his hand snaking up to grip your throat, making you hold his gaze in the mirror. “Or do you wanna fucking come?”

Your moan broke, your whole body trembling, your legs shaking violently.

“I—I want both,” you gasped, a shameless, breathless mess. “Wanna come all over your cock while you fucking record it. Wanna make the dirtiest fucking video for you—so you can watch me fall apart over and over—”

Jake groaned, his restraint snapping completely.

His hand slid between your thighs, rubbing you mercilessly, his cock slamming into you faster, harder, filthier, and before you could even process it—

You were screaming, your orgasm ripping through you violently, your whole body convulsing, shaking, breaking apart.

Jake got every second on video.

-

Jake liked to smoke weed after long days.

He liked to do it while wrecking you.

The air was thick with smoke, the room hot, hazy, suffocating in the most intoxicating way. You were sprawled out on his bed, your thighs spread wide, your wrists pinned beside your head as Jake’s tongue dragged lazy, filthy circles over your clit, lapping at you with zero urgency, completely unbothered by how fucking desperate you were getting.

In his free hand? A joint.

Burning slow. The smoke curling through the air, weaving between your tangled bodies, seeping into your skin, into your mind, into your bones.

Every nerve in your body was on fire. Every slow, teasing flick of his tongue felt magnified, every inhale he took deepening the fog that was swallowing you whole.

You moaned, squirming, your fingers digging into the sheets as your hips lifted, chasing his mouth, trying to get more, but Jake just chuckled darkly, pinning you down, refusing to let you take control.

He lifted his head slightly, blowing a long, slow stream of thick, warm smoke over your drenched, swollen clit.

Your body jerked violently, a sharp cry breaking from your throat, the sensation too much, too overwhelming, too fucking filthy.

“Fuck—Jake—”

He groaned, lazy, satisfied, licking his lips before dragging his tongue through your folds again, so slow, so teasing, so fucking unbearable.

“Sensitive, baby?” His voice was thick, taunting, dripping with amusement. He took another deep inhale from the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs, letting his fingers slide through your wetness, teasing, circling, rubbing—but never giving you enough.

He exhaled another thick, slow drag of smoke, letting it roll over your heat, watching as the wisps curled around your trembling thighs, your stomach, your completely wrecked, ruined body.

A wrecked, filthy moan spilled from your lips.

Jake smirked against your inner thigh, watching you twitch, tremble, shake, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, watching the way your fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate for more.

“You like that, baby?” he murmured, his fingers sliding deeper, pressing inside you so fucking slow, dragging against your walls, curling just right.

You whimpered, back arching off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—”

Jake hummed approvingly, the sound low and sinful, his lips dragging over your inner thigh, nipping at the soft flesh, teasing, taunting.

He did something unholy.

He brought the joint down,

And pressed the burning tip directly to your clit.

It didn’t hurt—it was barely a graze, the heat of the ember just close enough to send a violent shockwave of pleasure-pain through your entire fucking body.

You screamed, your legs snapping closed around his head, but Jake just growled, gripping your thighs and spreading them wide again, forcing you open for him.

“Ah, ah,” he tutted, bringing the joint back to his lips for another slow, deep pull. “Keep those legs open, baby.”

Your chest heaved, your mind spinning, every part of you hypersensitive, overstimulated, teetering on the fucking edge.

Jake watched you, eyes blown, hungry, dark, as he reached between your thighs again, his fingers finding your swollen, overstimulated clit, rubbing messy, lazy circles, smearing your slick, keeping you right there, right on the brink.

He exhaled another cloud of smoke, letting it roll directly over your heat.

Your moan broke, a sharp, wrecked sob, your body tensing, shaking, fighting the unbearable pressure building inside you.

“Oh, baby,” Jake mocked, his voice thick with sin, his fingers never stopping, never slowing. “You’re gonna fucking come just from this, aren’t you?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering, writhing, your whole body fighting to hold itself together.

Jake’s lips twitched, his cock straining against his sweats, his own control slipping as he dragged the joint over your soaked folds, rubbing the tip against your clit, watching you jerk, watching your legs tremble, watching you fall apart for him.

You said it.

Your voice was high, wrecked, desperate.

“Please, Daddy.”

Jake froze.

He let out a deep, low groan, something dark flashing in his eyes. His grip on your thighs tightened, his body tensed, his restraint snapping completely.

His voice was rough, strained, wrecked beyond recognition.

“Say that shit again.”

You whimpered, grinding against nothing, teetering right on the edge of something violent.

“Please, Daddy,” you repeated, voice syrupy sweet, dripping with sin. “My pussy wants a hit too it needs it. Need you to make me come so fucking hard I forget my own name—”

Jake growled, his entire body shuddering, his control obliterated.

He took another slow inhale,

He pressed the joint back to your clit, the heat searing, shocking, sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

Your legs spasmed, your stomach tensed, and suddenly you were gushing, soaking his face, his chest, the sheets beneath you, every single muscle in your body seizing as you squirted all over him.

Jake groaned loudly, his hand gripping your thigh bruisingly tight, his tongue lapping up the mess you made, drinking you down, humming against your dripping folds like he’d just found his new favorite way to get high.

Jake took the joint, still damp from where he’d pressed it against your soaked heat, brought it back to his lips, and took one final, slow hit.

His exhale was slow, deep, pure sin as he looked down at you, wrecked, spent, twitching beneath him.

He leaned in, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you.

Filthy. Deep. Destroying.

Smoke still lingered on his tongue, on his breath, invading your lungs, intoxicating you more than any drug ever could.

His teeth tugged at your lower lip, his hand gripping the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

And as he pulled away, leaving you breathless, ruined, completely fucking gone, he grinned against your lips, voice nothing but a low, wrecked murmur.

“Bet you taste even better than the high, baby.”

-

The bathroom was already steaming, condensation rolling down the glass shower door, the air thick with humidity—and the sounds of Jake fucking you senseless.

Your body was pressed against the glass, the cool surface a stark contrast to your feverish, flushed skin, your nipples dragging against it with every brutal thrust, leaving streaks of your desperation across the fogged-up surface.

Jake’s hands were everywhere—one gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your throat, holding you in place, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Fucking lethal.

“You wanted this, huh?” he growled, his breath hot against your ear, his cock slamming into you from behind, deep, ruthless, unforgiving. “Wanted Daddy to take you like this?”

You whimpered, your forehead pressing into the glass, your nails scraping uselessly against it, because you had no control over anything anymore.

Jake wasn’t just fucking you. He was owning you.

His hand on your throat tightened, forcing you to lift your head, making you stare at your own fucked-out reflection in the glass.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his tone condescending, filthy, dripping with amusement. “You see yourself, baby?”

Your mouth hung open, your lips puffy, swollen, wrecked, your body shaking with every deep thrust, your nipples dragging against the slick surface of the glass, leaving desperate little streaks with every movement.

Jake chuckled darkly. “So fucking dumb for me, huh?”

You tried to speak—tried to say something, anything—but all that came out was a wrecked, helpless little sob.

Jake groaned, his free hand sliding down, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to keep looking.

“You wanted to fuck me in the shower?” he mocked, his hips snapping forward, burying himself so deep you saw fucking stars. “Now you can barely even stand.”

Your whole body convulsed, your walls clenching tightly around him, and Jake felt it.

Felt how fucking wrecked you were.

Felt how close you were.

And he wasn’t having it.

Not yet.

His thrusts suddenly slowed, the brutal, relentless pace shifting into deep, slow, torturous rolls of his hips, dragging his cock out of you so slowly, before slamming back inside.

You sobbed, the glass fogging up from your panting, helpless gasps.

“Oh, you don’t like that, baby?” he taunted, his grip on your jaw tightening, his thumb pushing into your mouth, forcing it open. “Thought you wanted Daddy to fuck you. What happened, huh?”

You whimpered around his thumb, your tongue lapping at the rough pad, sucking instinctively, needing something to hold onto before you fucking lost your mind.

Jake groaned, his pace picking up again, faster, harsher, filthier, his cock hitting deep, devastating spots inside you that made your legs buckle beneath you.

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, high, gasping little cries that bounced off the tile walls, mixing with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the shower running, the heavy panting of both of you completely fucking falling apart.

Jake leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hand on your jaw sliding down, wrapping fully around your throat.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he murmured, low, dark, dangerous.

You nodded frantically, whimpering, your hands bracing against the glass, leaving messy little fingerprints in the condensation.

Jake groaned, watching you lose yourself, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled, the way you fucking fell apart for him.

“Go ahead, baby,” he murmured, his thrusts turning erratic, ruthless, brutal, perfect. “Come for me.”

Your whole body snapped.

A shattered, broken moan spilled from your lips as your orgasm slammed into you, your walls clenching, pulsing, milking him, your body shaking violently as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Jake cursed, his grip tightening, his own breath shattering against your ear as he thrust into you a few more times, then he buried himself deep, groaning through gritted teeth, coming inside you, his body tensing, shaking, completely fucking wrecked.

The only sound left in the room was your panting breaths, the steady patter of the shower, the faint creak of the glass as your bodies pressed against it, spent, ruined, completely fucking gone.

Jake’s hands slid to your hips, his grip softening, pulling you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.

A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped him. “Damn, baby.”

You laughed, weak, fucked-out, completely ruined.

“Next time,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You’re riding me.”

-

Jake had never been gentle.

Not really. Not when it came to you.

Because you pulled something reckless, desperate, uncontrollable out of him.

Tonight was different.

The candles flickered softly, the scent of warm vanilla filling the air, mixing with the faint traces of Jake’s cologne on his sheets. The playlist he made for you played quietly in the background, soft, slow, achingly sweet.

Jake was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

His hands were slow, careful, reverent as he traced your body, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin, leaving shivers in their wake.

He hovered over you, his gaze heavy, intense, the way he always looked at you when he was about to ruin you.

Tonight, he was going to love you.

“Happy one month, baby,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours, soft, teasing, unbearably tender.

Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down, needing more.

Jake chuckled against your mouth, letting you kiss him, letting you taste the slow, burning affection behind every drag of his lips.

“You always so needy for me, huh?” he teased, grinning against your mouth, teasing but soft, always so soft.

You pouted, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, slower.

Jake groaned, his body pressing into yours, his warmth wrapping around you, completely engulfing you.

And when he finally—finally—pushed inside you, it was the slowest thing you’d ever felt.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, your head falling back as Jake’s body sank into yours, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you completely.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.

You clenched around him, your thighs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing more,

But Jake just smirked, shaking his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw.

“Not rushing tonight, baby,” he murmured, voice low, gentle, soothing, but firm. “Gonna take my time with you.”

Your chest ached, your breath shaking, your fingers sliding down his back, gripping onto him, holding him close.

Jake moved slowly, agonizingly so, rolling his hips into yours in long, deep strokes, his body pressed flush against you, his lips tracing every inch of your skin.

It was everything.

The way he whispered against your lips, soft, teasing, murmuring about how perfect you felt, how much he loved being inside you.

The way he kissed you between every word, slow, messy, deep, like he needed you to feel every bit of how much he wanted you, adored you, fucking loved you.

The way his hands caressed your body, memorizing every inch of you, fingertips dragging over your waist, your ribs, your thighs, like he needed to burn you into his skin.

It was soft.

It was overwhelming.

It was Jake, giving you every single piece of himself.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, raw, his lips pressing against your temple, your cheek, your jaw, before finding your lips again.

And when he finally—finally—pushed you over the edge, it was like drowning.

Your orgasm hit slow, deep, all-consuming, your whole body melting into his, your fingers gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth.

Jake followed right after, burying himself deep, shuddering, groaning into your mouth, completely fucking lost in you.

When you were spent, ruined, completely wrapped up in him, he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t let you go.

Instead, he cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek, soft, tender, adoring.

He kissed you.

Slow. Lingering. Perfect.

“I Love you,” he murmured, lips still pressed against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped.

Your breath hitched.

When you whispered it back, Jake smiled against your mouth.

-

Jake had been staring at you for a full ten minutes.

Not subtly. Not in passing. Full-on, pouty-lipped, arms-crossed, lovesick puppy-dog-eyes staring.

You had noticed, of course—you always noticed when Jake was desperate for attention—but you had been trying to see how long he would hold out before cracking. You scrolled through your phone lazily, sipping from your water bottle, pretending to be completely oblivious to the fact that your boyfriend was sulking next to you like you had just broken his heart.

A deep, dramatic sigh.

You smirked, tilting your head just slightly to catch him in your peripheral. Sure enough, he was still pouting, still glaring at you like you had done something terrible.

You raised a brow. “What?”

Jake let out another, even heavier sigh, rolling onto his side to face you, his arms curling around your waist, pulling you against him like you were his last source of oxygen.

“You haven’t kissed me yet,” he muttered, muffled against your shirt.

You blinked. “What?”

Jake lifted his head, his expression pure devastation.

“You haven’t kissed me,” he repeated, dead serious.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in your throat. “Jake—”

“Jakey,” he corrected, pointing to his cheek expectantly.

You bit your lip, eyes glimmering with amusement, but leaned in anyway, pressing a soft, slow peck to his cheek.

Jake let out the happiest sigh, his lips curling into the softest, sweetest little smile, eyes fluttering shut like he had just been granted salvation.

“Mmm,” he hummed, squeezing you tighter. “Better.”

You shook your head, laughing softly, trailing your fingers through his hair, but before you could pull away, he was tilting his chin up, tapping his other cheek.

“Missed a spot.”

You rolled your eyes, but indulged him, pressing another gentle kiss to his other cheek.

Jake sighed even deeper, his hands tightening around your waist, his grin growing even wider.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in.

You bit your lip, heart melting at how soft, sweet, and completely in love he was. Jake had his moods—he could be cocky, insatiable, dominant, but this? This was your favorite.

He nuzzled against you, sighing softly. “You know, I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”

Your breath hitched. “Oh?”

Jake just nodded, his smile so content, so blissful.

“Yeah. I’ve got it all planned out,” he mused, tilting his chin up expectantly again.

You smirked. “What?”

Jake pointed to his lips.

You giggled, leaning down, kissing him slow, savoring the soft little hum he let out, the way his fingers curled tighter into your sides.

When you pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot.

“Okay, so,” he started, eyes glimmering. “It’s gotta be on a beach. You in some flowy-ass dress, looking like a literal angel.”

You smiled at the thought, pressing another kiss to his temple.

Jake sighed, eyes slipping shut for a moment, his body completely relaxed, completely wrapped up in the idea.

“And our honeymoon?” he continued, his voice getting even softer, even dreamier. “Bora Bora. Or the Maldives. Somewhere I can keep you in bed for a whole week.”

You gasped, swatting his chest playfully. “Jake—”

“Jakey,” he corrected again, glaring immediately.

You sighed dramatically, leaning down and pressing a peck to his nose.

Jake sighed, so blissed out he could barely speak for a second.

“God, I love you,” he murmured, pressing tiny kisses to your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.

You smiled against his skin, your lips still ghosting over his temple. “Love you too.”

Jake hummed, shifting so he could press his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back.

“You know,” he started, his voice lower, softer, full of something even deeper. “I was thinking three kids. Two boys, one girl.”

You smiled. “Oh yeah?”

“Or,” he continued, grinning, “what if we get twins? Like, one of each?”

You kissed his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jake huffed, tugging you closer, burying himself into your warmth. “Not ridiculous. Just in love.”

He closed his eyes, sighing. “You’re gonna stay home, right? Take care of the house, the kids, let me take care of you?”

Your chest tightened. “You’d be okay with that?”

He snorted, pulling back to look at you like you had lost your mind. “Baby, I’d love that. I’d spoil you rotten.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Think about it,” he murmured, his voice turning lower, teasing. “You, waiting for me when I come home, wearing one of my shirts, telling me how much you missed me.”

You felt hot all over.

He smirked. “God, you’d be the best little housewife.”

You pressed your face into his chest, flustered, overwhelmed, completely wrapped around his finger.

Jake just laughed, holding you so tight, so safe, so his.

“And the house?” he murmured, squeezing your waist. “We need something big, but cozy. A huge kitchen—‘cause I know you love to cook. A fireplace, maybe? A backyard for the kids. A big-ass bed so I can keep you all to myself.”

You whined, squeezing your eyes shut. “Jake, stop.”

Jake grinned. “Jakey,” he corrected one last time, tapping his lips.

You rolled your eyes but leaned down anyway, kissing him slow, soft, deep.

He sighed into it, his fingers curling into your hair, holding you there, kissing you like he had all the time in the world.

And when you pulled away, breathless, hearts pounding, he whispered against your lips, “You’re gonna marry me.”

Your chest ached.

You couldn’t wait to. “Yeah, Jakey. I’m gonna marry you.”

-

The morning had started innocent enough.

At least, as innocent as waking up naked and tangled with Jake Sim could be.

You were supposed to get up early. You were supposed to go to class on time for once. But then Jake shifted, his warm, bare skin pressing into yours, his breath heavy against your ear, his hand already sliding between your thighs before you were even fully awake.

“Morning, baby,” he murmured, raspy, teasing, completely unbothered by the fact that you were already running late.

You lost all track of time.

Jake didn’t need to touch you to ruin you.

Sometimes, all it took was his voice.

“You’re not gonna make it to class, are you?” he mused, low and smug, his lips brushing against your ear.

You shuddered, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your thighs together, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to just his words.

Jake chuckled, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you like he was already planning how much worse he was going to make it. Slow, teasing, torturously confident.

“You always do this,” he murmured, tracing lazy patterns along your stomach. “Pretend you’re gonna leave. Act like you’re strong enough to walk away from me.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the sheets, your chest rising and falling too quickly.

Jake smirked. He noticed.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was taunting, almost sympathetic. “Already shaking and I haven’t even touched you yet?”

You exhaled sharply, squeezing your legs tighter together.

Jake tsked. “Oh, sweetheart.”

His hand ghosted down, his fingers dragging over your hip, down the outside of your thigh, barely there, completely teasing.

“You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, biting your lip, refusing to answer.

He hummed, shaking his head. “So easy for me.”

You turned your head, hiding your face against the pillow, but Jake wasn’t having that.

“Look at me,” he murmured, low and firm, the kind of tone that made your stomach flip.

You hesitated, but turned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy, filled with pure amusement.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, running a finger down your cheek, his voice turning softer, but still full of that unbearable smugness.

You swallowed, trying to keep your breathing even, but Jake could see right through you.

“You don’t wanna go to class,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your jaw, so soft, so slow. “You wanna stay right here, let me ruin you all over again.”

Your fingers dug into the sheets.

“Say it,” he coaxed, his hand sliding lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. “Tell me you’d rather be late.”

Your lips parted, your breath shaky.

Jake smirked, running his nose along your cheek, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

“You wanna be good for me, don’t you, baby?”

You whimpered, your resolve crumbling.

And that’s all it took.

Jake chuckled, shifting over you fully, pressing you back into the mattress.

“That’s my girl.”

-

By the time you both finally dragged yourselves out of bed, you were already doomed.

Jake smirked as you struggled to stand on shaky legs, his grip on your waist firm as he steadied you, smug as ever.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured, biting his lip as he took in the mess he had made of you.

You shoved him, grumbling under your breath as you pulled on your sweater, knowing full well that no amount of adjusting was going to hide the way you looked thoroughly ruined.

Jake didn’t even try.

He pulled on the first hoodie he could find, rubbing a hand through his already-mussed-up hair, his lips still swollen from kissing you senseless.

By the time you actually left, you were beyond late.

Your professor narrowed his eyes immediately.

Jake grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders like it was no big deal, guiding you to your seats with zero shame, zero regret.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” your professor said dryly, crossing his arms, glancing between the two of you.

You swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah, sorry,”

Your professor raised a brow. “You both look… disheveled.”

You felt your entire body heat up, shifting in your seat as Jake just smirked.

“Must’ve been the wind,” Jake said smoothly, kicking his feet up under the desk, looking completely unbothered.

Your professor wasn’t convinced.

He squinted, glancing at you, then at Jake, then back at you.

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “The wind.”

Jake grinned wider.

Your professor exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

You nearly collapsed in relief, but Jake?

Jake was having way too much fun.

He leaned over, whispering in your ear, his voice low, teasing, smug.

“Baby, I think we’re getting too obvious.”

You resisted the urge to kick him under the desk.

From then on, every time you and Jake showed up late to class, looking like an absolute mess— Your professor just sighed, shook his head, and looked the other way.

fin.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @naurwayyyyy @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @annybah @zzhengyu @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex

[thesundys]

but there was you ─── ⋆˚࿔

⋆˚꩜｡ you’re my only target

riki nishimura x fem!reader wc: 4k [angst, smut, fluff]

based off events from mr. and mrs. smith - 2000

makeup smut ⊹ not too graphic bc i don’t got that experience ⊹ mentions of weapons ⊹ killing ⊹ themes with emotional trauma ⊹ crying ⊹ p in v (characters are married and both over 21) which means hubby riki :))) ⊹ swearing ⊹ mentions of weapons ⊹ petnames

library 𓂃۶ৎ reblog for a big kiss!

You should’ve known.

The years of silence, those lingering feelings pressed between soft words that ached you to your core, now felt so evident before you could even open the door of your home. It’s too quiet, not in the rhythm you swore to follow all this time as protocol, but in the kind that tells you he knows. 

You aren’t sure what ignites you even more, the fact he knew before you, or the fact that he chose to play along.

There’s no music, no static from the television, barely a hum from the kitchen. Just the hush of your house and night echoing the click of your key in the lock. He always leaves something on; he always makes noise, like too much silence might swallow him whole if he lets it. Your grip tightens on the doorknob as you make your way inside. Cautiously you kick off your heels and place your duffel onto the couch. The lights are dim, the kitchen is left untouched, and a half-full glass of water sits on the counter like a ghost. It’s proof that he was here but left in a hurry. Or maybe he didn’t finish what he started.

Your mission itself was short and down to the point. In and out, minimal interference. But it still clings to you like the scent of smoke in your clothes. You only found out what enemy had challenged your assignment after it had all crashed and burned, disappointment enraging your instincts. Those same instincts you’ve spent years sharpening couldn't settle as you came to learn that very enemy lived in your own home.

Your heart is thudding in your chest, not from the strain of the day, but from the dishonesty he held inside like it was nothing.

“You’re back early Sweetheart,” comes a voice from the hallway. It’s low and welcoming, scripted per usual.

You turn.

Niki leans against the doorframe of your bedroom, toned shoulders supporting his weight.  He’s wearing a tight black shirt, the one he knows you can’t stand. His jaw clenches with something you don’t want to get into, but feel the conversation bubbling in the pit of your stomach. His eyes are the only feature you can’t seem to read. They’re glossy, not quite guilty. Not quite tense. But not calm.

“So are you, baby,” you say.

He shrugs. Doesn’t move, Doesn’t smile, even after hearing his pet name from your soft lips. That always makes him quirk a grin at the very least.

“I got reassigned.” He says as if his measly cover-up for a job even allows for such a kind of action. You raise your brow, stepping closer to his frame still unbothered. His chin angles as he looks down at you, like if you just moved a little closer you could-

“That doesn’t happen to you.” You whisper, watching the way his eyes dart between yours.

He gives you another shrug, and you know he’s lying. Not just in what he says, but in the way he says it like his body is braced for something, so now he’s trying too hard to look like he’s not.

“How was your day?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod.

“It was fine. They wanted confirmation on a secondary issue, so now I suppose I’ll have to do a write-up.”

Not necessarily a lie, only a fraction of the truth like always. You leave out the part where you were assigned to protect the “Secondary issue”, but let it all fall apart after feeling watched the entire time, eventually piecing together that it was his eyes on you. That silhouette on the rooftop across from yours, just a shadow of a lean body you almost wanted to run to, was his.

Niki watches you like he knows.

You move past him toward the bedroom without touching him, noses dangerously close to grazing, and somehow it feels more intimate than if you had.

The water of the shower scalds your skin. You want it that way.

You scrub the mission off you, but the edge in your bones doesn’t fade away, it scars like the shadows of his touch from the last time he felt comfortable enough to. Was that on your wedding night? You don’t even bother to remember. It’s still there when you dry off, slip into one of his shirts, and drop into bed with your favorite book. You expect him to join you, check a few emails before mustering ‘goodnight’ and turn his back to you like he always does. Most of the time his eyes stay open for a few minutes, pondering thoughts about who knows what, maybe work, maybe you. You know his routine even if you can’t see it, because you do the same thing. Tonight however, he doesn’t even join you in your bed. He’s in the living room. You can hear his steps, pacing back and forth.

You stare out at the wall, trying to focus on today's mission, and it's backfires. Frame by frame you pick apart what went smoothly, how it could’ve gone better, and who in particular interfered. You remember your entry point. How it was secure, the target visible with his ID confirmed. Your position was set. No order to kill this time, only to protect. You then remember the call, unannounced and urgent, demanding to place the mission on hold, standby at a time as dangerous as this. You caught a shape moving across the building beside you, not enough to get a good look, but enough to get a feeling. A shadow that knew exactly where to stand so that you couldn't shoot. Someone just as trained as you.

Someone like him.

It makes your blood run cold.

You shift the covers off you only ten minutes later, moving quietly down the hall. The office approaches and you scan it briskly. There's nothing out of the ordinary, but a feeling pulls at you. Something's off and you're not sure if that tug is in your heart or your gut. The bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, his drawer. It isn’t fully shut, and lawfully as his wedded wife you have access to your shared spaces in your home. You crouch down and slowly open the drawer, knowing the hinges squeak if you move too carelessly.

A folder sits at the top of the pile. Not hidden, but not left out either. It is suspiciously normal like he had no point in even hiding anything from you anymore after the events of today.

It’s stamped with a red seal, CLASSIFIED: INTER-AGENCY OPERATIVE MISSION. You open the folder, and Your breath hitches even though your suspicions were proven true hours ago.

Target Name: CONFIRMED MATCH.

Assigned Operative: Riki Nishimura

Objective: TERMINATION.

Your heart hammers. Same target, but different orders. You were sent to protect, and he was sent to kill the damn bastard.

“Looking for something?” you hear from behind you, but you don’t turn.

“You knew.” You whisper, almost viciously.

“So did you.”

“For how long?” you snap. Finally standing, facing him. You stomp over to his figure, noticing how it grows as you approach. He doesn’t answer. His jaw clenches, and that’s all you need to know.

“So what was the plan?” you ask. “Wait until I step in front of him? Take the shot anyway? Or were you going to shoot me too?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he growls. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

You laugh dry, humorless as your gaze changes to the floor for a split second, before you find your way back to him. Somehow you can’t seem to look away from him for too long, and you hate it.

“You already did.”

He steps forward, slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal. Or something just as dangerous.

“It must’ve been a test,” he says. “They wanted to see what we’d do.”

“So you lied.”

“So did you,” he says again, a little harder this time. “You didn’t tell me what your mission was either.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” You sarcastically apologize. “I wasn’t expecting to be protecting the same man you were assigned to kill.” Your fists clench. He’s closer now, and you want to scream at yourself for the way it still does something to you. The way his voice sounds when it’s low, the way his gaze drops to your mouth, then snaps back up like it never left.

You visibly lean back as your head falls into your hands, bordering on an emotional breakdown.

“What do we do now?” you whisper, face still held by your palms.

He only takes another step toward you. Close enough to feel the heat of him.

“We finish what we started.”

Your breath catches as his fingers brush your wrist. It’s barely a touch, but it sends goosebumps down your body. 

“And what is that?” you ask, your voice quieter now, wondering if he’s even talking about the mission anymore. You know him well enough to predict his thoughts at this point.

His eyes flick down, then meet yours again.

“You. Me. This.”

You fight his grip even as he removes your hands from your face so gently, leaning down just a little so that his face is leveled with yours. His eyes are half-lidded, but there's emotion behind it. It almost looks as if he’s looking at you with something deeper than insincerity. He takes his fingers and tugs your chin to look at him, to look at him. You hate this, hate that even though he's taller, more muscular, whenever something serious between you two occurs he always brings himself to the same level as you, to speak, to fight on an even battleground. It makes your blood boil, it aches you deep in your heart.

It’s rare for Riki to sound so sentimental, so you’ve come to understand that when moments like this arise, he must mean it with the entirety of his heart. 

“We do this together.” And as he looks between your eyes for approval, you don’t stop him as he leans in. You let him. Because for the first time in years, Riki says it like he’s been holding it in. Like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. He finally sounds like this is exactly where he wants to be. His eyes search your face as your lips come apart, waiting for you to push him away or call him a liar again. Spit something venomous and final that would make this whole thing easier to walk away from. But he knows you, knows how deep down you don’t want him to leave either. And when you don't push him away, from being so tired of pretending you don't want this anymore, he confirms it.

You’re tired of the anger hiding what’s underneath. His hand grazes your hip, slow and deliberate, but like it belongs there. You don’t stop him, but your breath catches. Lips parting just barely, and his eyes flick down again, eyebrows furrowing with what looks almost like care. Before his eyes glare with irrevocable emotion.

His mouth crashes against yours like a dam breaking, flooding out everything he’s been holding this in for too long. He hasn't felt this alive in years. Maybe since the first time you met, he thinks, when you loaded your gun hidden on the side of your garter as you shook his hand.

Your fingers fist the fabric of his shirt as he backs you into the wall, hands on your hips, sliding up under the hem of his shirt you’re wearing. He smirks into the kiss, almost proud that after all this, you're still his. Your teeth hit, his tongue finding its way to yours, followed by gasps from broken emotion. You feel every inch of him pressed against you, but it still doesn’t feel close enough.

“You’re still mad,” he mutters into your mouth, breath ragged.

“You’re still a liar,” you whisper back, tugging his shirt off over his head.

His lips brush the corner of your jaw down to your neck. Hot, open-mouthed kisses like he’s mapping the places that might still forgive him.

“Say you hate me,” he dares, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “I know you want to.”

His forehead pressed against yours, and you should, You really should say it to him. But tonight he’s much more controlled, like his heart cares for how you feel and he’s afraid to mess things up.

Instead, you breathe, eyes glaring up to meet him. “Shut up.” You kiss him again, he doesn’t refuse. How could he ever?

This time it’s slower, hungrier. You grip the back of his neck like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go, threading your fingers through the base of his hair. He groans as he presses you harder into the wall like it’s the only way to keep his own hands steady, to keep his mind still from every thought dizzying him at the moment. There’s heat now, you feel it in the way his hips press against you, not aggressively, but enough to make you want more. It builds fast between your bodies, a low ache curling in your stomach. His hands roam beneath the fabric you’re drowning in, and every brush of his fingertips feels like a match struck on your skin.

He lifts you, quite effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around his waist without thinking. It makes him growl into your mouth as your lips find a shared rhythm. He carries you through the hallway like he’s done it before in all the dreams he swore he’d forget. You barely even process that you reach your bed until the door slams behind you. Riki’s hands glide down your thighs, placing you on the bed like it’s your last safe place in the world. Then he stares.

He takes a long good look at you, face a bit flushed, hair unkempt from his grip. The fabric of his shirt silhouetting your figure perfectly. You're so gorgeous and he couldn't stand it, he couldn't not mark you up with every raw emotion pent up inside. 

He leans over you, pressing both arms beside your head as his nose touches yours, “You’re not just a fucking mission to me,” he says. It’s sudden, hoarse from the way his breath is still caught in his throat, and it catches you off guard.

You sit up a little, heart in your throat. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He swallows. His voice cracks.

“If I told you… you might’ve left.”

“You thought this was safer?”

“No,” he breathes. “But at least if you didn’t know the truth, you’d still come back to me every night.”

That does it. The fight drains out of you, not because you forgive him, not yet. But because no one has ever admitted to needing you like that. You’re so over being the one who feels more, so you reach for him again, not holding back.

Your shirt is gone within seconds, or his you should say. His hands are careful, but feverish, as if he’s memorizing the way your skin feels beneath his palms. You lie back against the pillows as he leans over you, and for a second, everything is quiet again. You can’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable in silence. Just the sound of your breathing and his thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re pissed off,” he murmurs. His fingers hook around the band of your underwear as he lowers them down your leg, but his eyes don’t budge from your face.

“And you’re so handsome when you’re not talking,” you counter, voice rough. His grin breaks through then. It’s a real one, crooked and tired, and only for you. Then his mouth is on yours again. The kiss deepens fast. Hips aligned, fingers tangled, heat thrumming through your veins. He kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, lower. His lashes are damp as they brush your skin. And it brings tears to your own eyes as you ponder just how strong he's been all this time. Every kiss feels like a question he’s begging for an answer to: Are you still mine? Can I still touch you like this? Will you let me stay?

You answer without words, nails in his back, lips at his ear, your whole body arching to meet him like it’s answering instinctively. He makes you feel undone, but not weak. Wanted, not owned. You wonder just how Riki’s able to make you come undone every time.

He makes every second count, true to his agent upbringing. The rhythm of your bodies are messy at first. You’re both too desperate while trying to let go of the pent-up anger you’re both still holding onto. But then it syncs, the kind of rhythm only two people with unwavering passion and overlapping scars could ever find. His fingers lace with yours above your head, holding your hands to the mattress as he moves inside you, and the way he looks at you at that moment is almost unbearable. Like he never wants to forget the way you look when you let go.

“I should hate you,” you whisper against his jaw.

“I know,” he breathes, moving his face from your collarbone back up to the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“But I don’t.” You manage to muster between soft moans.

He kisses after every place he sucks, eyes still watching, observing just how stunning you look for him. “I don’t think I ever could.”

His rhythm quickens as he starts to lose himself, moving into you at an unsteady pace. And it’s when he grabs your jaw, directing your face to look right at him that you break together. Breathless, shaking, your names tangled in the love you knew was still roaming in the air. And you think for a second that maybe this war between you has finally surrendered.

You aren’t sure if It’s late at night or early in the morning. The clock on your nightstand blinks red, but you can’t exactly make out the time. You lie tangled in the sheets, back against his chest with his arm slung over your waist like a lock. He’s holding your hand, and it dampens your eyelashes once again. His skin is warm and steady, breathing deeply like he hasn’t slept in days.

Neither of you has moved in almost an hour, haven’t spoken since the moans that escaped both your lips. And still, Riki hasn’t let go.

You could say something. You should, but it’s easier to stay like this, caught in the in-between where the past doesn’t matter and the future doesn’t exist. Where your hearts are slow enough to beat in sync. Your teeth clench, uncomfortable in the passion you missed so dearly. Quietly, you feel his body shift, it makes your breath hitch, and you realize then that you don’t want him to let go. 

“You’re shaking,” hei whispers.

You stiffen. You didn’t realize you were.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

His hand slides along your side, slow, grounding.

“Don’t do that.” But he doesn’t say it angrily, it’s more broken.

“Do what?”

“Lie to me like we’re still pretending.”

You inhale through your nose. Exhale out your mouth. His fingers settle over yours again, gentle but protective.

“We can’t stay here forever,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“They’ll come looking.”

He shifts his face closer. Lips brushing the back of your neck as his words tingle through your body. 

“Let them.”

His hand comes up to turn your chin, leading you to roll over and face him again. Just yesterday looking him in the eye would’ve been no problem, but tonight you’re seeing the real him, the vulnerable man you fell for so long ago. It makes you nervous just to face his direction.

“Don’t shy away from me now baby. Not after you came undone for me like that.” He chuckles, not making fun of you,but with admiration.

It’s too dark to see him clearly, but you can feel the shape of him. His broad shoulders, messy hair over his forehead, and lashes fanned low. He looks younger like this. A little wrecked. Like the version of himself, no one else ever gets to see.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” you murmur.

“So did you.”

“We’re both burned now.”

He nods slowly. Don’t look away. “We’ll deal with it.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“No,” he says. “I say it like I’ll do it with you.”

Your chest tightens.

You want to believe him. God, you do. But all of this feels like standing on the edge of a cliff too high. And if you fall, it won’t just be your position at the agency on the line this time. It’ll be your heart.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” you ask softly, eyes searching for him.

Riki doesn’t answer right away, but he lets out the truth when he does.

“Because I knew you were watching.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” you comment.

“It wasn’t the same before.” His voice cracks. You hate that it hits you so deep in your heart.

“You’re not a weakness,” he says suddenly, like he’s trying to convince himself just as much. “They think you are. I let them think that. But you’re not. You’re the reason I still know who I am.”

Your breath catches. “Riki,” you whisper.

He leans forward, forehead pressed against yours. He repeats his words quieter than a bullet in the dark.

“You’re not a weakness. You’re the one thing I don’t regret, I swear.”

You close your eyes. A tear slides down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb like he knew it was coming.

You should pull away, but Instead, you whisper “Stay.”

His breath hitches. A small, tender smile grew on his face. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

“Not just tonight. I mean…” You swallow hard like you’ve swallowed poisonous words that still feel unfamiliar to your tongue. “Stay. With me.”

You feel him go still.

Then his hand slides up and rests over your heart.

“Again,” he murmurs.

“Stay, please.”

And this time, when you say it, you mean everything. Not just your bed. Not just your home. Not just this brief, stolen moment of safety. You mean the chaos and the consequences. The fallout and the parts that don’t make sense. You mean all of you.

He doesn’t answer with words, he answers with the only way he’s learned to show you just how much you affect him. The way he knows you understand on a level no one else can. He kisses you softly this time. Slow and tired and full of every unsaid feeling he can’t quite express. And when you finally fall asleep in his arms, for the first time in years, you don't dream of running anymore.

[thesundys]

I deadass think i just ascended to a different astral plane reading this

P: PsycopathArtist!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark Themes, Obsession, Psychological Manipulation, Isolation, Stalking, Artistic Objectification, Voyeuristic Undertones, Implied Murder, Body Horror, Body Worship, Suggestive Content, Drug Use, Slight Manhandling, Possessiveness, Power Imbalance, Noncon turned Dubcon, Humiliation & Degradation, Choking, Chasing, Emotional Coercion? Dead Dove: Do Not Eat!!

Synopsis: Getting accepted as the assistant to Ni-ki, the world’s most brilliant and reclusive artist, was the opportunity of a lifetime. But Ni-ki isn’t what you imagined. Cold. Attentive. The longer you stay, the more the outside world seems to disappear. Then you find the secret behind his hauntingly lifelike sculptures. The truth about his upcoming masterpiece. And now he’s not going to let his muse go. Not when you were always meant to be his.

Wordcount: 16,2k

a/n: Read at your own discretion!! (Requested by @arclviie & following the legacy of @faeyun brilliant sunghoons fic <3) Reblogs and comments are highly valued!

now playing: teeth by 5 seconds of summer | control by halsey | flesh by simon curtis

Since you were a child, you had always been drawn to the world of art, anything poetic, beautiful, or hauntingly expressive felt like home. You didn’t just enjoy it, you lived for it. Art wasn’t just a hobby, it was the path you chose, the identity you built. You dreamed of making a name for yourself, of having your work admired, remembered. But reality came fast — the art world was ruthless. Without the right connections, talent alone wasn't enough. So when you graduated from art school, hungry and hopeful, you didn’t hesitate to send your resume to every renowned artist you could find, desperate for a foot in the door.

With your flawless grades and growing portfolio, you received a handful of positive responses from established artists — some even eager to have you on board. It felt validating, thrilling even. But none of them quite compared to the letter that changed everything.

You hadn’t expected anything from Nishimura Riki.

You’d sent your resume to him half as a joke. He was a legend. A sculptor so brilliant and enigmatic that even critics tread carefully when speaking his name. Wealthy. Respected. A little feared. His works stirred controversy and awe in equal measure, and yet… he was a ghost to the public. Reclusive. Unreachable. He lived in seclusion behind the high iron gates of his estate, rarely seen, never interviewed.

So when his personal letter arrived — sealed, formal, and stamped with an elegant wax insignia, your were shocked.

An acceptance.

No interview. No phone call. Just a single line written in clean, precise ink: “You’ll begin at once. Instructions follow.”

You didn’t hesitate. The other offers were discarded without a second glance. This was Ni-ki. And if this was the door, you were already stepping through it.

It all happened fast after that. A black car arrived the next morning, exactly at 10:00 a.m., just like the instructions had said. The driver did not speak to you, no music was turned on. Just silence.

You watched quietly as the cities and endless stretches of forest and fog blurred past. The road wound like a ribbon of silence, until eventually, through the trees, you spotted it, wrought-iron gates taller than any you'd seen before, guarding the entrance to a grand, grey manor that looked more like a mausoleum than a home.

When the gates opened for you, it felt like a one-way passage. Like once you were in, you weren’t meant to leave.

Ni-ki didn’t greet you at the door. Instead, one of his staff, quiet, pale, and tight-lipped led you inside with a nod. The halls were filled with sculptures. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All unnervingly lifelike. So much so that you could have sworn some of them were breathing.

You didn’t see him until hours later.

He appeared like a shadow, tall, graceful, wearing black like it was stitched to his skin. His gaze landed on you like a blade. He said nothing at first. Just studied you, like he was deciding whether to speak or sculpt.

“You’re the new assistant,” he said at last, voice smooth and cold as polished stone. Not a question. A confirmation. You nodded hesitantly.

He stepped closer — not rushed, but with a kind of slow purpose, like every movement was deliberate, choreographed.

“I don’t repeat myself,” he said. “You’ll listen. You’ll obey. You’ll keep quiet when told. Do that, and you’ll be useful to me.” Then, a pause. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You’ll also stay on the east wing. Never the west. Understood?”

You tried to ask what was in the west wing, your curiosity nearly slipping out but his gaze cut the thought short.

“Questions waste time,” he said flatly. “And I don’t waste time.” With that, he turned and walked away, coat sweeping the floor like a shadow with its own life. You were left in the grand hallway, silent marble figures watching you from every corner. Their expressions were delicate. Too human. Too knowing.

You kept walkling around the manor, unsure if you were exploring or being quietly swallowed whole. The corridors twisted like they had no end, each lined with door after door, leading to God knows where. Some were locked, others slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of dim rooms with furniture or canvases.

There were sculptures tucked into every corner — some posed like they’d just turned their heads to look at you, others mid-motion, hands reaching for something unseen. Their details were so precise it felt like if you blinked, they’d move.

The walls were painted in deep tones of charcoal and wine, and though everything was pristine, (not a single speck of dust, not even a cobweb) the air felt heavy, like it had been holding its breath for years.

You passed paintings, too. Some abstract, a few were portraits, faces you didn’t recognize, but something about their eyes made you pause. A few looked young.

You hadn’t seen anyone since Ni-ki disappeared down the hall. Not since the silent staff member greeted you. Not another soul.

So when you inevitably got lost — which you knew had to happen in a place like this — there was no one to ask. The silence was total. Swallowing. The only sound was your footsteps, echoing too loudly on the polished floors.

You started opening doors — only the ones that weren’t locked. Room after room, each stranger than the last. Some were filled with blank canvases stacked against the walls, others with shelves of anatomy books and jars of charcoal, brushes, broken tools. One room had mirrors on every wall, all covered in sheer cloth. Another had a single chair in the center, surrounded by sketches scattered across the floor. But the more you looked at them, the more familiar they seemed.

You weren’t sure why it unsettled you so deeply.

But none of the doors led to the bedroom the staff had told you would be yours during your stay. And the longer you wandered, the more the corridors began to blur together, same wallpaper, same carved sconces, same hollow-eyed sculptures watching your every step.

Your skin began to prickle. As if the house was... aware of you. Rearranging itself. Making it harder to leave.

You tried to retrace your steps, but nothing looked the same anymore. The light felt dimmer. Your heartbeat a little too loud. You weren’t panicking — not yet — but something in your chest tightened with every wrong turn.

Then, at the end of yet another unfamiliar corridor you finally saw movement, the first sign of life since you’d arrived.

A figure stood quietly in the corner, dusting one of the many sculptures that lined the halls. They moved slowly, carefully, like touching something sacred. It was a woman — older, dressed in simple black, hair pulled into a tight braid.

Relief crashed over you, sharp and sudden. You rushed toward her, careful not to startle.

“Excuse me— I… I think I’m lost,” you said, voice slightly breathless.

She looked up, and the moment her eyes met yours, something about her expression made you falter. Not unkind. But cautious. Almost… apologetic.

“The house is easy to lose yourself in,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. Her voice was accented, gentle. “It does that. Especially to new ones.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by that, but before you could ask, she was already turning. “This way.” she said, beckoning silently with a nod of her head.

You followed, almost too quickly, desperate for the safety of something familiar. As you walked behind her, you glanced at the sculpture she had been dusting — a young man, mouth parted, eyes mournful. So lifelike. Too lifelike.

You followed the woman in silence, her footsteps nearly soundless against the long stretch of polished floors. The manor didn’t seem as cold with her leading the way, but the halls were still too quiet, too still.

After a few winding staircases and corridors that all looked exactly the same, she finally stopped at a tall wooden door with a brass handle.

“This is yours,” she said simply, then turned without another word, vanishing down the hallway before you could even thank her.

You stood there for a second, hesitant, almost unsure if you were dreaming. But then you opened the door, and the tightness in your chest eased.

Your suitcases were there, untouched, exactly where you'd left them that morning. The room was modest compared to the rest of the manor, but warm in its own way. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and shut the door behind you, locking it out of instinct.

The next hour passed in quiet relief. You unpacked slowly, taking your time while folding clothes into drawers, placing your sketchbooks on the desk. You even lit one of the little candles set beside the window, its flame dancing gently in the fading light.

And yet something lingered.

A faint feeling, like you were being watched, even though the door was locked and the curtains drawn. You chalked it up to exhaustion, nerves, and the strangeness of the day.

If only you’d looked a little closer. If only you’d paid attention to the massive painting hanging directly across from your bed.

At first glance, it was beautiful — dark and tragic. A man, draped in shadow, cradling a limp woman in his arms. Her head rested against his chest, her hair flowing like ink down his lap. It seemed romantic in a haunting sort of way, perfectly fitting for the manor's unsettling charm.

You didn’t question it. Just another piece of Ni-ki’s moody, masterful collection. But what you didn’t see was the truth just beneath the paint.

That the eye of the man in the portrait — the one shaded just enough to seem still — shifted. Only slightly. Just enough to blink.

If you had stood close enough, long enough, you might have noticed the faintest shimmer of reflection in that one painted eye. The way it followed you. Watched as you unpacked, as you wandered around the room barefoot, brushing your hair back from your face.

And behind that canvas, carefully cut into the plaster wall, was a small peephole. Perfectly placed. Perfectly hidden.

A narrow tunnel carved between the walls, just wide enough for someone to stand and watch. It smelled of dust and old wood, the scent of age clinging to the dark. Faint footsteps echoed now and then through its length, soft as breath, careful as hands tracing silk.

Still as a statue. Patient as death.

Ni-ki watched as you moved through the room unaware, touching things that now belonged to him simply because they had touched you. Your hands brushing over the fabric of the bedspread. Your body curling beneath the sheets. The way you chewed your lip when reading the instructions left on the desk.

You weren’t his assistant yet. Not really. You were still a visitor in the manor, naive and bright-eyed, thinking you’d been chosen for your resume.

But that wasn’t why he picked you.

He watched you brush your hair in the mirror, the way your fingers lingered at your throat when you were thinking. Watched as you changed clothes, unaware of how closely your silhouette was being memorized.

You hadn’t seen his private studio yet.

The one below the manor, hidden below locked floorboards and layers of lies. No one was allowed down there.

In fact, no one even knew it existed. Not the house staff, not the few art world elites who dared visit him in person. The studio upstairs — the one filled with scattered tools, a few unfinished sculptures, and just enough mess to look lived-in was a performance. A decoy.

His real studio was underground. A room kept cold on purpose, to preserve the materials. To keep things from decaying.

That was where his truest work began. Where obsession took form and marble met madness. And there, on a long wooden table stained with clay, laid the first sketches of his next masterpiece.

He had to perfect it. Perfect the lines. The shadows. The smallest, most delicate curves.

Eventually, you were called to dinner.

A quiet knock at your door startled you, and a soft-spoken staff member bowed politely before leading you down another winding corridor. The manor was endless, a maze of oil paintings, velvet-draped windows, and antique sconces that bathed everything in amber light.

When the grand dining room doors opened, the scent of roasted meats, herbs, and freshly baked bread washed over you like warmth after a long chill. The table was long. Ornate. Meant to seat a dozen, at least but only two places were set. One at each end. A strange, dramatic symmetry.

Ni-ki was already seated at the far end, his eyes lifted the moment you stepped inside, sharp and unreadable but they softened, just slightly, as they landed on you.

Then, to your surprise, he stood. A small, almost ritualistic gesture quiet respect, or something older. It made your breath catch.

You approached, hesitant and took your seat. The chair beneath you was velvet-lined, too comfortable. Your place setting was made of real silver.

“You finding everything satisfactory?” he asked, voice smooth like poured ink.

You nodded, unsure what to say. Unsure why your chest felt tight despite the warmth, the food, the civility of it all.

He sat again with a subtle motion, fingers folding neatly over the linen napkin beside his plate. His posture was perfect. Not rigid but sculpted, like the rest of him.

Then he smiled, faintly. “I trust you will sleep well.”

You forced a polite smile, reaching for the water. “As well as I could in a place like this.”

His head tilted, just slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

After dinner, you excused yourself politely, offering Ni-ki a small nod of thanks before the same quiet staff member appeared at your side once more. Without a word, they led you back through the hushed corridors, your footsteps softened by thick rugs and velvet drapes that whispered as you passed.

When you reached your room. The staff bowed once, murmured a quiet, “Good night,” and disappeared down the hall like smoke.

You closed the door behind you and locked it with a soft click, not out of fear, you told yourself, just habit. The manor was old, unfamiliar. It made sense to take precautions.

The room looked the same as earlier. Lavishly furnished. Cold in a way no fire could chase away. That massive painting still hung on the wall across from your bed, its shadowy figures half-swallowed by the dim lighting. You didn’t look at it for long.

Changing into your pyjamas, you crawled under the heavy silk sheets. The bed was enormous, too soft, like sleeping in the center of a storm cloud. You pulled the covers up to your chin, letting your tired body sink into the warmth.

The silence pressed in, thick and absolute. But you were too exhausted to care.

Your thoughts faded — blurry shapes of dinner, of Ni-ki’s eyes, of the way his gaze lingered for a second too long on your mouth when you smiled. You didn’t see the shadow behind the wall shift. Didn’t hear the faintest creak of a floorboard. Didn’t notice the softest exhale from behind the door.

You only slept. Peaceful. Dreaming. Unaware. Breathing slow. Deep. Lost in sleep.

You didn’t hear the faint sound of the lock turning—not picked, but unlocked with a key that was never meant to be duplicated.

Didn’t stir when the door creaked open, just wide enough for a figure to slip in and disappear into the shadows of your room.

He moved like a ghost. Silent. Barefoot. Dressed in black that clung to him like a second skin. Ni-ki stood at the edge of the bed, watching you.

His eyes swept over you slowly, drinking in every detail — the way your lips parted with your breath, the delicate curve of your waist under the silk sheets, the way your hair had fanned out across the pillow like something from a painting.

He knelt beside the bed. Close. Too close. And with a touch so light it barely existed, his fingers hovered above your skin. A ghost of a trace. Along your arm. The curve of your shoulder. The edge of your jaw.

Memorizing. Mapping.

No sketch, no photo, no stolen glance could compare to this, to being right here, with you soft and vulnerable and his.

You shifted slightly, and he froze, breath caught.

But you didn’t wake.

He exhaled, slow and quiet.

He stood silently, casting one last look over you, eyes burning with something far too deep to name.

Then he turned, soundless as shadow, and vanished back into the darkness, the door clicking shut behind him.

You didn’t officially start as Ni-ki’s assistant until a whole week later.

Your tasks were simple — almost mundane for someone who had just landed a position under the most elusive artist in the world. You spent your mornings organizing scattered charcoal pencils and sketchbooks in his office, which somehow always felt untouched despite being full of things. You dusted the surfaces, replaced dulled blades and dried brushes, and signed off on the regular clay deliveries that arrived in massive crates.

Occasionally, you’d have to run into town to pick up special art supplies — imported pigments, rare resins, the kind of materials only someone like Ni-ki would use without blinking at the price. You never saw where most of it ended up. It disappeared somewhere within the manor’s locked corners.

In the evenings, you’d help the staff clean up after dinner, gathering the silverware and folding linen napkins with shaking hands not from fear, necessarily, but from how cold Ni-ki’s eyes could be across the table. Always watching, always polite, never lingering long enough to accuse.

You also began managing what few appointments he allowed. Rare, elite visitors — usually high-end artists or gallery curators — who came for private viewings. Most stayed for no more than an hour. None were ever allowed beyond the guest wing.

You were starstruck at first. Some of the artists were people you had studied in school, people whose work hung in the very museums you once dreamed of visiting. They shook your hand, complimented your diligence, even gave you autographs when you shyly asked. You kept them all tucked in a notebook, a small but glittering consolation for your strange new reality.

But even with the thrill of recognition, there was one glaring truth: You rarely saw Ni-ki. Only during dinner.

He didn’t appear at breakfast — not once — and the staff always claimed he was “working” or “resting” depending on the time of day. No one questioned it. No one even searched for him.

It was like he wasn’t part of the house at all — just a presence that appeared and vanished just like that.

And that made you watch the shadows just a little more closely. Listen for footsteps that weren’t there. Lock your door a little earlier each night. Even if you didn’t want to admit why.

So you didn’t expect it — not at all — when Ni-ki suddenly appeared from around the corner and stepped directly into your path. You had been on your way to the library, arms full of books you intended to study, mind elsewhere. His sudden presence was like slamming into a wall of ice.

You stopped just short of crashing into him, a startled breath escaping your lips as your body jerked to a halt. Your nose had nearly brushed his chest.

His height always caught you off guard. His gaze dropped to you — cool, unreadable — and he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the near-collision.

“I need your help,” he said calmly, voice low and even. “To model.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Model?”

He didn’t elaborate. Just turned and began walking without another word, fully expecting you to follow.

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your mind catching up with the moment. He wanted you to model for him? He’d never asked before, never even hinted at the idea. You were just the assistant. Just someone to dust his shelves and sign for his materials.

Still stunned, you trailed after him, quickening your pace to keep up with his long strides.

It was only when you glanced down at yourself that the embarrassment hit. You were wearing plain clothes — a soft, oversized sweater and fitted jeans. Comfortable, sure, but hardly anything you’d want the most famous sculptor in the world studying up close.

You cringed inwardly. Maybe he hadn’t meant a serious modeling session. Maybe it was just for a sketch. Just a pose reference.

But that hope withered the moment he led you down an unfamiliar corridor and stopped in front of a tall, iron-handled door. Without a word, he turned the knob and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you enter first.

You hesitated — just for a second — before stepping through.

The room beyond was cold and quiet, lit only by a few overhead bulbs and a tall window half-curtained by dark velvet. The air smelled of graphite and dusted charcoal, faintly metallic. You took one cautious step further in.

The walls were covered in sketches. Dozens of anatomical studies. Every page pinned or taped with precision, corners curling from age, some overlapping. Each figure was posed differently: arms stretched, torsos twisted, muscles flexed. Some bodies were mid-motion, others limp. A few had faces blurred or scratched out entirely. Latin terms were scribbled in the margins: sternocleidomastoid, scapula, carpi radialis. Dissected in ink, limb by limb.

Your eyes traced a particularly detailed back sketch, the shoulder blades shaded to look nearly real as Ni-ki walked past you.

At the center of the room stood a small pedestal. Simple. Circular. Clean. In front of it, a wide drawing board rested on a stand, stained from hours of use. He took his seat behind it and, without sparing you a glance, reached forward and tore the unfinished sketch taped to it from the page.

You flinched at the sound of paper ripping.

He crumpled it wordlessly, tossed it into a bin already filled with failed attempts. Then, looking up at you for the first time, he spoke with sharp clarity. “Take off your shirt.” A beat passed. “And stand on the pedestal.”

Your heart jumped, thudding somewhere uncomfortably behind your ribs. “Wait—what?”

His expression didn’t flicker. His tone was flat, but firm. “Your shirt. Off. I need the shape of your upper body.”

It wasn’t a request.

His hand hovered over a fresh page, pencil poised. “I don’t need your modesty,” he added coolly. “I need accuracy.”

You looked at the pedestal. Then back at him. Then down at yourself. The sweater you wore suddenly felt like a barrier but also a shield. You hadn’t signed up for this. Not really. But his eyes were fixed on you now, expectant, already studying the way the fabric clung to your frame like he could see through it.

And deep down, some part of you knew if you said no, he wouldn’t get angry. He’d just never ask again. He’d never look at you again. And somehow, that was worse.

Swallowing, you hesitated—just a moment—then reached down and slowly tugged the hem of your shirt up. The fabric slid over your arms and head, soft and reluctant, revealing the simple, comfortable bra you had underneath. The air hit your skin and prickled across your arms like a whisper of cold.

You folded the shirt neatly, more out of nervous habit than care, and set it on the nearby bench. Then, without looking at him, you walked to the pedestal. Your steps felt heavier than they should have. Like you were walking into something you didn’t fully understand.

When you stepped onto the pedestal and looked up, you found Ni-ki already watching. His gaze wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flustered, or polite. No, it was technical. Dissecting. His eyes roamed your exposed skin like they were measuring it, calculating every line, every hollow, every rise and fall of bone beneath flesh.

Like you were something to be solved.

“Now pose,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “Pose… how?”

He didn’t answer right away. His pencil hovered over the page, his head tilted slightly.

Then, finally... “Turn slightly. Right shoulder forward. Arm loose. Chin up.” He gestured, sharp and precise. “Like you’re tired. But beautiful.”

You shifted. Adjusted. Tried to mimic what he wanted. It felt awkward, unfamiliar but the moment you moved, you felt his attention sharpen like a blade. The scratch of graphite began on paper almost immediately, fast and controlled.

He didn’t speak again for a while. Just sketched. The only sound in the room was the swift rasp of his pencil moving in sharp, confident strokes.

And all the while, you stood still, spine tense, skin burning under the weight of his gaze. You could feel it everywhere, like invisible fingers ghosting over your body. You tried not to shiver. You tried not to think about the way he looked at you like you were already his.

Not an assistant. But raw material.

The minutes bled into each other, and his commands came steady, low, always calm.

“Turn your head.”

“Raise your arm higher.”

“Arch your back—just slightly.”

“Hold that.”

Each time, you obeyed. You weren’t sure whether it was the sheer authority in his voice, the way his eyes flicked up to you like he expected you to follow without question, or the deep, uncomfortable desire to not disappoint him. Whatever it was, you moved. Posed. Shifted.

He sketched with feverish precision.

The pages piled up beside him, each one a version of you — sprawled, twisted, reaching, soft. You tried not to look at them, but you could feel them there. You could feel him looking at you through them, even when his eyes were on the page.

And the longer it went on, the more his gaze changed.

At first, it had been detached. Professional. Focused.

But now… now it lingered. It held too long. Followed the slope of your collarbone too slowly, paused on your ribs, your waist, the inside of your thighs. The scratch of the pencil slowed sometimes, like he was savoring it. Memorizing the view before translating it into lead.

You swallowed hard, your arms beginning to tremble from holding the same position too long.

“Still,” he said without looking up. “You’ll ruin the line.”

“I—I’m trying,” you whispered.

He paused. Lifted his eyes to you.

And for the first time, something like warmth crept into his voice. “You’re delicate,” he murmured, gaze dragging across your form. “Symmetrical. Do you know how rare that is?”

You didn’t answer.

He stood slowly, setting the sketch aside. Another finished piece. Another image of you.

“You shouldn’t ruin it by shaking.” He moved toward you, and instinctively, your breath hitched. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then without warning his hands touched your hips. Firm. Slow. He guided your body like clay, tilting you slightly, adjusting your arms. His palms were large and warm, fingertips ghosting against your spine as he shifted the curve of it, just so.

“Better,” he said, almost to himself. His hands lingered. One on your waist. The other brushing your rib.

You could feel every point of contact, feel how close he was standing. His breath near your ear. The silence wrapped around you both like silk.

He stepped back only when satisfied. Then sat down again. And began sketching anew.

You stood frozen in the pose, heart pounding, skin burning under his touch long after it was gone.

The room was quiet except for the sound of pencil against paper. But it wasn’t soothing — not anymore. It scratched against your nerves, dragged over your spine like something invasive. You could feel the intensity pouring off of him in waves, concentrated on you like a predator watching prey hold still.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

Sketch after sketch. Page after page. You didn’t know how much time passed. At some point, your legs began to ache. Your shoulders trembled again, too tired to stay still. You shifted without thinking—just a fraction.

The pencil stopped.

You felt his stare return, cold and unblinking.

“I didn’t say move,” Ni-ki said softly, but there was no warmth this time.

“I—sorry, I—”

He stood.

Your breath hitched.

But he didn’t speak. He only walked toward you again. His fingers reached out and pressed lightly against your knee, guiding it back into place. Then your wrist, your chin. His touch wasn’t cruel but it wasn’t gentle either. It was clinical, like you were something he was adjusting into perfection.

When he finished, he didn’t move away. Instead, he stood there in front of you, too close. His eyes trailed over your face, your body, his gaze no longer masking the hunger behind it. Not artistic. Not curious. Possessive.

“You’re going to ruin everything if you keep trembling,” he murmured. His voice was low now, dark velvet. “You need to learn to be still.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

His thumb reached out, brushing just under your collarbone. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“But you will.”

He didn’t lower his hand. His gaze held yours, dark and unreadable, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”

You shook your head, barely a movement. “No…”

A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips, like he’d known your answer before you gave it. “Good.” His fingers ghosted down your sternum, tracing the hollow where your ribs met. “Because disappointment ruins the lines. The shape. That soft tension in your muscles when you’re trying to behave, trying to be still…” He breathed out. “That’s what makes you perfect.”

You couldn’t speak.

“You were made for this,” he continued, stepping back just enough to take you in again. “To be studied. To be captured. I’ve had muses before… brief ones. But none of them had your symmetry. Your stillness. Your potential.”

You could feel your knees threatening to give out, not just from standing too long but from the weight of his words. The way he looked at you like you weren’t a person, but a canvas with breath. A sculpture not yet carved.

“Be still,” he ordered softly, picking up his pencil again. “Be a good little muse.”

And like some invisible thread tied you to his voice, you obeyed. Not because you were told, but because you had to. Something about his gaze made it impossible to move, like he’d turned you to stone with a glance. Like Medusa, if she were a man with charcoal-stained hands and a voice that could whisper obedience into bone.

The pencil scratched again. He didn't speak for a long time. He just watched. Drew. Devoured you with his eyes.

Eventually, he pulled away from the sketchpad and studied his work in silence. You dared to lower your gaze for just a second, catching a glimpse of the latest page.

It was you — but not how you saw yourself. It was intimate. Obsessively detailed. You didn’t look like a person.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he said finally, standing and stretching his shoulders, the long lines of his body moving like something fluid. Predatory. “You can put your shirt back on.”

You reached for it slowly, your fingers trembling slightly as you slipped it over your arms. It felt almost wrong now, like covering up something he’d already claimed.

But as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“You were beautiful today.”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

He looked up from cleaning his pencils, his expression unreadable. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said flatly. “So don’t make me repeat myself.”

You opened your mouth to thank him, but he wasn’t done.

“Beauty isn’t permission,” he added, tone quieter now. “It’s responsibility. Mine to display.”

You froze.

He walked over to you, closing the space between you. His height, his presence, made everything else feel smaller. The air thinned when he was this close.

“I shaped the way I see you,” he murmured. “And now that I’ve started, you don’t get to hide that from me.” His hand lifted, just hovering beside your cheek, just enough for you to feel the heat of it. “If you walk into my studio, you belong to the art. To me. Understand?”

You nodded slowly, your throat tight.

“Good girl.” He turned away again, casual as ever, like he hadn’t just spoken words that branded themselves into you. “Now go. Rest. I need your body steady tomorrow.”

And you left silently, head spinning, unsure whether to feel fear or flattery.

The next morning came heavy with fog. Outside the manor windows, the world looked like it had been erased in soft ash.

You were summoned early. One of the staff gave you a short, unreadable nod before leading you to the studio again. You walked in to find Ni-ki already seated at the drawing board, sketchbook open, pencil poised.

Without looking at you, he said, “Shirt off.”

His voice wasn’t sharp, but it didn’t need to be. You moved automatically, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. The chill of the room swept over your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way his eyes finally lifted to meet yours.

But then— “Pants too.”

You froze, your hands hovering near the waistband of your pants. “I—”

Still seated, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if your hesitation was more interesting than anything he could draw.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’d rather not.”

He stood, slowly. The stool creaked as it was pushed back. And with those soundless steps he was in front of you, tall, elegant, and cold like stone. But when he touched your jaw, it was gentle. Careful even. He bent slightly, lowering himself until your faces were nearly level. “Why not?” he asked, his tone soft. The sweetness in his voice rang hollow, a mimicry of care. “Are you embarrassed? Ashamed?”

You couldn’t answer. The way his eyes searched yours made your skin prickle.

“I see your body in sketches more than you see it in the mirror,” he whispered. “You forget that it already belongs to the art.”

Your silence stretched. You didn’t want to disobey him. Something inside you curled with heat and confusion, a reluctant thrill mixed with hesitation.

He sighed, the sound almost affectionate. “I won’t ask again. Take them off…” He stepped closer, gaze dark. “Or I will.”

The threat wasn’t cruel. It was calm. Controlled. He didn’t move to act on it, just waited, giving you the choice. The illusion of one, at least.

Your fingers shook as you pushed your sweatpants down, revealing your lacey underwear, a decision you regretted now, with how intently his gaze fixed on it.

He didn’t speak. Just hummed — pleased, satisfied. Then he turned from you, moving back to his seat, and gestured at the pedestal.

You climbed onto it, heart pounding.

But this time, he didn’t order a pose.

He approached again — and without a word, began to adjust your limbs himself. One hand on your wrist, another guiding your hips, his fingers surprisingly gentle but firm. The entire time, he didn’t meet your eyes. He was sculpting you in flesh, not marble.

And you stood there, breathing shallowly, caught somewhere between fear and fascination.

A muse. A masterpiece. A possession in progress.

The session stretched on, slow and deliberate. Ni-ki’s hands were everywhere — tracing, mapping, claiming. His huge palms moved over your skin like dark shadows, smudging the charcoal as he worked, staining you in the rawness of his art. Every curve, every line, was a secret only he knew now.

He was rough, but not careless, firm fingers pressing into your waist, sliding down your sides, pulling you closer when you tried to stiffen. His touch was an ownership you couldn’t deny. When he cupped your throat lightly, thumb grazing along your jawline, your breath hitched. He hummed as he made you meet his gaze. There was no kindness there, only a unyielding control that rooted you in place.

“You belong to this,” he murmured, voice dark and hypnotic. “To me.”

You wanted to pull away, but the truth was, part of you didn’t. The power he held over you, the way he commanded every movement, made your chest tighten.

Why did it feel so good to let go? To surrender?

Your heart hammered as he guided your hands to rest where he wanted, forced your body into impossible angles, sculpting you in ways you never imagined.

And every time you caught his eye, there was that same hum of approval, like he was marking you, claiming you beyond just the sketches.

Your mind spun, tangled in a web of desire and submission you weren’t sure you wanted to unravel.

Because even in the silence, under his dominating gaze, you realized you craved this. His control. His possession.

The charcoal was darker today. Maybe it was the way the light filtered in through the curtained windows, but everything felt heavier, as if the air itself had thickened.

You stood in your pose, eyes trained on a point on the far wall, spine held straight like Ni-ki had molded it himself. Your shirt and sweats had long since been discarded — a ritual by now. But today, he hadn’t even asked. He’d simply looked at you. That was enough. You peeled them off in silence.

You told yourself it was professionalism. That you were just doing your job. That all great artists were intense. But when he came toward you, large hands warm and steady, adjusting your hip with a possessive sort of patience, your heart skipped a beat. He didn’t ask for permission. He never did. He didn’t need to — not when he already knew you’d obey.

His fingers brushed along your collarbone, smudging your skin in gray as he adjusted the tilt of your chin. His thumb grazed your lower lip, staining it as if marking you with his signature. Every touch of his hands felt like both a threat and a worship.

“You hold tension in the wrong places,” he murmured, stepping back. “You’ll ruin the lines.”

“Sorry.. I’m really trying,” you said, voice low.

“Try less,” he said. “Just let me move you. That’s what muses do.”

Muse. Not partner. Not assistant. Not even person. Just a subject. A figure for his twisted devotion.

Still, you stayed. You always stayed.

Sometimes he touched you as though you were fragile marble, and other times like you were already his—shaped, claimed, carved into what he wanted. His fingers dragged across the slope of your waist, up the delicate curve of your spine. You told yourself it was part of the process. That it was art. That it didn’t mean anything.

But your breath still hitched every time.

He made you feel small, but not insignificant. Like something to be possessed. Like a masterpiece that only he could understand.

“You hold yourself well,” he said suddenly, gaze flicking up as his pencil paused. “But even strength has pressure points. Yours are just hidden deeper.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t dare. Not when his voice had dipped so low, like velvet laced with iron.

He tilted his head slightly, watching the way your chest rose and fell with your quiet restraint. “Tell me…” he asked, softly, “does it thrill you? Letting me see you like this?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

A slow smile curved on his lips, something knowing. “You do.”

Your nerves fired, tense and confused, your body caught in the contradiction of fear and fascination. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t what you came here for. You were supposed to gain experience. Make connections. Learn from a genius, not become his personal muse… or whatever this was.

And yet…

You hadn’t stopped him. You hadn’t even told him no. Why hadn’t you?

Because a part of you—buried deep and dark—thrilled at the attention. At the way his eyes never left you. At the way his hands could reduce you to breathless silence with just a touch. You’d always wanted to be seen, hadn’t you? Truly seen?

But this… this wasn’t being seen. This was being dissected.

Your logic screamed at you—this was wrong. This wasn’t mentorship. This was manipulation wrapped in artistry, control disguised as inspiration.

Still… your feet never moved from the pedestal.

You told yourself it was just the opportunity. That you couldn’t afford to lose this job. That this was temporary. But your body knew better.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until Ni-ki stepped back, sliding his pencil down with a soft click on the edge of the desk.

“That’s enough for today,” he said. His voice was calm. Unbothered. As if the tension in the air hadn’t been choking you.

You didn’t dare look at what he’d drawn.

“Get dressed,” he added, already turning away, eyes focused on the fresh page he’d begun to sketch on—this one, not of you, but of something abstract. Something warped.

You gathered your clothes in silence, your hands trembling slightly. You held them close to your chest, clutching the fabric like it could somehow shield you. Your breath stayed shallow, unsure if you were holding it in out of tension… or shame. Your eyes lifted, almost unconsciously.

He was still at the drawing board, head bent, pencil dragging smoothly over the page. But then he stopped. He could feel your stare. Slowly, he looked up. His gaze met yours. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just… watching. As if he was still studying you. Still sketching you with his eyes.

The silence stretched between you like a pulled string. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You weren’t sure what you wanted from him. An explanation? An apology? Permission to hate him, or permission to stay?

But all he did was tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. His voice came low, smooth. Dangerous only in how calm it was. “…Is there something you want to say, little muse?”

You swallowed thickly. The lump in your throat ached. Your mouth opened but nothing came out.

He smiled, faint and cold. “That’s what I thought.” Then he turned back to the paper, dismissing you like a scene he’d already memorized.

Your feet stayed planted for one more second. Then, without another word, you walked out of the studio, clothes still clutched to your chest, your skin still warm with the ghost of his hands. And your mind, still caught between the urge to run and the ache to be seen again. To be wanted. Even like that. Even if it breaks you.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat quietly at your end of the long, polished table, silverware clinking against porcelain in an almost rhythmic pattern, your eyes locked firmly on your plate. You hadn’t said a word since you sat down. You didn’t have to. His presence filled the room enough.

And you could feel it. The weight of his stare. Burning. Unrelenting. Even without looking, you knew. He was watching you. Not just with interest. Not with idle curiosity. With possession.

You picked at your food, your fingers tense around the fork. Every movement you made felt rehearsed, careful. Because you knew—if you lifted your gaze, if you so much as glanced up and met his eyes—you wouldn’t know what to do.

Would you flinch? Would you fold? Would you like it?

The thought made your skin prickle.

You’d never been looked at like this before. Never been sought out with this much… intensity. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even obsession. It was deeper than that, like he’d already claimed you in his mind, and now he was just waiting for you to fall into place.

And the worst part?

Some twisted, shameful part of you liked it. Liked the idea of being wanted that deeply. Of being important to someone—even if it was dangerous. Even if it was him.

You shifted in your seat, trying to push the thought away. Trying to keep your breathing even. You could still feel the way his hands had touched you earlier, how his voice had curled around your nerves like smoke. Your thighs clenched without meaning to.

Across the table, he took another slow sip of his wine. “Eat,” he said suddenly, quietly. A command.

You flinched, your fork freezing midair. And then, slowly, you obeyed. You didn’t look up. But you knew he was smiling.

The more time you spent in the manor, the stranger everything became.

At first, it was subtle. A missing face here or there—a maid who used to clean the sculptures, a gardener who always greeted you in the morning. You assumed they were on leave, maybe reassigned. But then there were fewer footsteps in the hall. Fewer voices. Until one day, you realized you hadn’t seen another staff member at all.

Only silence.

You still saw Ni-ki, though less and less. Sometimes not for days. He no longer joined you for dinner. Meals were brought to your room, quiet knocks left unanswered when you opened the door. The food always tasted fine, but you noticed how little you were eating. How your appetite had vanished.

And your strength along with it.

At first, you blamed it on burnout. On stress. It made sense—you were in a new place, around someone as intense and unpredictable as Ni-ki. Of course you’d feel exhausted.

But this wasn’t normal exhaustion. You would wake up feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. Your arms heavy. Legs like stone. You could barely climb out of bed some mornings, and when you did, you clung to the walls just to steady yourself. You even began skipping meals entirely, not out of choice, but because you simply couldn’t bring yourself to get up.

The worst part? Some part of you didn’t even mind. You almost liked it—the soft haze of your thoughts, the way time slipped like water between your fingers. How easy it was to just… stay in your room. Stay still. Stay good. You chalked it up to illness. Or nerves. Or something vague and harmless.

You didn’t question the way your dreams had started changing. Didn’t question when you would wake up feeling a phantom touch on your body. Fingertips trailing over your waist, a thumb brushing beneath your ribs. A pressure at your throat so delicate, it made you shiver in the dark. You’d lie there in the morning, heart pounding, eyes wide open. Paralyzed not by fear, but by the frightening familiarity of it.

Because you swore you knew those hands. You’d felt them before. Guiding your hips into poses. Lifting your chin with bruising care.

You told yourself it was your imagination. But you never checked the locks. You never asked yourself why the sheets always felt shifted when you woke up. Or why you never heard footsteps, and yet still felt watched.

Because deep down, something in you was…waiting. And worse.. something in you was craving.

Much more so now that Ni-ki had stopped calling you. No more orders to pose. No more hushed compliments spoken as if you weren’t meant to hear them. No more hands guiding your limbs into position like you were something fragile and precious.

And now that it was gone, the absence made you ache.

You told yourself you were fine. That this was what you wanted. Distance. Clarity. Space to think. But instead of clarity, you only felt emptier. Like you were made of glass and he had taken the light with him. You found yourself drifting through the manor like a ghost. Listening. Waiting. Hoping. You wandered past closed doors. Past the studio, where the light was always off now.

Your chest grew tight with a feeling you couldn’t name. You didn’t want to admit it — not even to yourself — but his silence was worse than his intensity. You missed being looked at. You missed being needed. You missed the way his attention wrapped around you like a net. Unnerving. Suffocating. Addictive.

And you hated how every hour that passed without him made you feel more forgotten. More irrelevant.

You began lingering near the halls he used to take. Sitting in the drawing room, half-hoping he’d appear. You wore softer clothes. Brushed your hair differently. You told yourself it was for comfort. But you knew better.

Eventually Ni-ki did end up calling for you.

The sound of your name spoken by one of the remaining staff jolted something alive in you. You didn’t hesitate. You barely breathed. You followed the familiar halls, heart tight in your chest, steps quiet but quick. The luxurious living room loomed ahead, gold-framed windows casting late afternoon light across the polished floor, as he stood there, tall and composed.

Your breath caught as you stepped in. But before you could speak, he simply said, “There’s a delivery coming. Accept it. I don’t want to be disturbed.” The words landed like stone. Cold. Distant.

You blinked, the tension in your chest unraveling into a slow, hollow ache. Still, you managed a nod, gaze dropping instinctively. “Of course,” you murmured, almost too quietly.

But before you could step back, fingers curled around your jaw, firm yet careful. Your face was tilted upward, gently and there he was again. Watching you. His gaze was too intense. Too knowing. Like he saw every thought you were too afraid to say aloud. “You wanted something else,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

You swallowed, unsure what answer was safe. His thumb brushed along the line of your cheekbone, too slow to be accidental. “It’s alright,” he added. “Desire isn’t shameful… not when it’s directed properly.”

Your pulse stuttered. You couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then he let go. Just like that before he stepped back.

“Be good and do as I asked,” he said without turning as he left.

And you stood there, touched and dismissed, heart racing, unsure if the weight in your chest was humiliation… or need.

The delivery arrived with the quiet rumble of heavy wheels against the polished floor.

Two large men, expressionless and efficient, wheeled in several crates, boxes, and bags stacked high with clay and other materials. Their presence was imposing, their movements methodical, no small talk, no smiles.

You stepped forward, clipboard in hand, ready to sign off on the delivery. As you checked the list, your eyes widened. The sheer volume was staggering, more crates than you’d ever seen delivered at once, enough clay to fill an entire studio several times over. You hesitated for a moment, heart flickering with an odd mix of curiosity and unease. Why so much? Was it for a massive project?

You signed your name with a steady hand, trying not to show your surprise.

The two men stacked the crates neatly before turning wordlessly toward the exit.

You stood frozen after they left, eyes locked on the stack of crates. They looked almost absurdly large in the opulence of the hallway, towering, sealed shut with thick nails, marked with labels you didn’t recognize. What could possibly require that much?

“Do they meet your standards?”

The voice came from just behind your ear — low, quiet, far too close.

You startled, breath catching in your throat as you instinctively stepped forward, spinning around. Ni-ki stood there, unbothered by your reaction. Calm as ever. His dark eyes held yours, unreadable. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked pleased.

“I—” you blinked, pulse still quick from the shock. “Yes. I mean—yes, everything’s here.”

He didn’t acknowledge your answer. Just stepped around you slowly, his gaze dragging across the crates before landing back on you. “I’ll begin soon,” he murmured. “Make sure no one touches these. Not the staff. Not even you.” His tone left no room for questioning.

And yet you did. “All of this… for one project?”

He tilted his head. “You ask too many questions.” The way he said it wasn’t harsh. It was almost… fond. But the message underneath was clear. Then, just before he turned to leave, he paused, his gaze flicking down your form and back up again. “It’ll be my best work yet,” he said softly. “You’ll see.” And with that, he disappeared back into the shadows of the corridor.

Too exhausted to even think, you shuffled away from the crates, your limbs heavy like soaked cloth. The ornate hallway blurred at the edges of your vision as you made your way to the living room.

You barely registered the plushness of the wide velvet sofa beneath you as you collapsed onto it, the weight of your body sinking deep into the cushions. With a flick of the remote, the television buzzed to life, lighting up the dim room with flickering colors. You didn’t even care what was playing. Some old movie. The voices were a distant murmur, a lullaby you weren’t listening to.

Your eyelids fluttered shut.

The tension you carried slowly melted into the silence, the low sound of the TV wrapping around you like a warm, blurry cocoon. Your breath evened out, limbs relaxing as sleep crept in faster than you could fight it. And before you knew it… you were gone. Curled into the sofa like a discarded doll, unaware of the flicker of movement at the edge of the doorway. Unaware of the soft creak of leather shoes against marble. Unaware of the eyes that never truly left you.

He didn’t rush.

He never did.

The soft flicker of the television painted your face in shades of light and shadow as Ni-ki stepped into the room, silent as a breath. You were asleep, deeply, peacefully, just as he’d intended. The slow rise and fall of your chest told him the dosage had been perfect. It always was. He was careful like that.

Cautious. Patient.

He inched closer, footsteps deliberate on the rug-covered floor, stopping just short of where your legs curled up beneath you on the couch. You looked so small like that. He admired how long it had taken to get you to this point, to stay this close, to stop questioning every strange thing, to grow used to the quiet.

You were doing well. So well.

Ni-ki tilted his head, watching the way your hand twitched in sleep, how your brows furrowed slightly perhaps from a dream, or maybe a memory trying to resurface. It didn’t matter. You wouldn’t wake up.

The medicine in your dinner was never strong enough to harm you, just enough to wear you down. Little by little. He didn’t want you broken all at once. That would be too easy. No, this was about shaping. About keeping you too tired to go wandering, too unfocused to question, too dependent to leave. Until staying felt natural. Until being close to him wasn’t a choice, but the only thing that made sense.

You were already so close.

He knelt beside the sofa, the fabric of his clothes rustling softly as he moved. For a moment, he simply stared, memorizing the shape of you under the gentle light of the television. Like a painting that finally made sense.

Then, slowly, he reached out.

His fingertips brushed your cheek—barely a touch, more like a breath of air. You didn’t stir. Not even the flutter of an eyelash. He watched the way your skin warmed under his hand, and a wave of calm washed through him. You were still. Exactly as he needed you.

His hand moved downward, tracing the line of your jaw, then to the soft curve of your neck. There, his palm rested for a moment, just feeling the steady thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers. Your body was quiet, pliant, unaware. And it soothed something deep, deep inside him.

He exhaled slowly, letting his thumb follow the line of your collarbone, never hurried, never harsh.

You didn’t move. You stayed asleep, still as marble.

He leaned closer, whispering—not loud enough to stir you, just enough to fill the space between you. “You’re almost ready,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “You just don’t know it yet.”

And with that, he withdrew. Standing, stepping away, casting one last look at your sleeping form before vanishing again into the hush of the manor.

Waking up in the middle of the night was a heinous feeling for you. Like your body wasn’t fully yours, like you were drifting between layers of consciousness that refused to align. Your limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as though wrapped in lead. It took everything in you not to sink back into the couch, not to let yourself be pulled under again by the haze still weighing on your thoughts.

With a low groan, you rubbed at your eyes, the blurry glow of the television still flickering across the room. One glance at the ornate clock on the wall told you it was close to 2 a.m. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, forcing your legs to move as you shuffled toward your bedroom.

The manor was quiet, unnaturally so. The air felt different. Still.

You moved on instinct, guided by routine—or at least, that’s what you thought. Until your eyes finally focused, and the hallway around you came into full clarity. Your breath caught in your throat.

This wasn’t the way to your room.

The corridor was darker here. The walls more ornate, with deep burgundy tones and gold-framed portraits you’d never seen before. The doors were carved with a different motif, heavier, older. There was no sign of the familiar sculptures or tapestries you usually passed. Everything was unfamiliar—yet unsettlingly pristine.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Your fingers curled slightly, your heart picking up speed as the realization settled in your chest like a weight. You’d wandered—somehow, unknowingly—to the forbidden wing of the manor. The one place you were told never to enter.

You wanted to find your way back to your bedroom, the safety of your familiar sheets, but the halls twisted around you like a maze you didn’t remember entering. Every turn led to another unfamiliar door, another passage that felt too long, too quiet.

The staff had left hours ago. That much you knew.

You tried to think. To reason. To piece together how you’d ended up here. But your thoughts were grains of sand in your palms—running, slipping, impossible to catch. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t hold onto a single, solid idea. Disoriented and growing uneasy, you reached for the nearest door, fingers curling around the brass handle. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a large, dimly lit bedroom.

One look, and your stomach dropped. You knew exactly where you were.

This was his room.

Ni-ki’s private quarters.

The one door you were never meant to open.

But he wasn’t there. The massive bed sat undisturbed, the sheets smoothed to perfection. Not a wrinkle, not a trace of warmth or sleep. The pillows fluffed just right, untouched. It was eerie in its neatness, its museum-like stillness. It felt… staged. As if no one had slept in it for a long time. Or as if someone wanted it to appear that way.

You closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment too long. You didn’t want to open another door. But you couldn’t stay still either.

Your feet carried you forward, cautious, slow, until you stopped in front of another tall door with a carved crest at the center. You hesitated only a moment before turning the handle.

This one wasn’t a bedroom. It was an office. Or something close to it.

The room was drenched in elegance, black wood panels lining the walls, golden inlays glinting in the soft light from the chandelier above. A towering bookshelf stood against one wall, filled with thick volumes. An antique globe sat in the corner, beside an ink-stained writing desk that looked like it belonged to someone centuries older.

Every item had its place. Nothing out of order. Nothing casual. Even the chair behind the desk sat perfectly aligned. Like no one had touched it in days. Or like it was only touched in precise, controlled moments.

You stepped inside, your fingers brushing the edge of the desk as your eyes swept over it. There were no scattered notes. No pens left askew. Just a closed journal resting dead center. You didn’t know why, maybe curiosity or instinct, but your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up.

The journal opened with a soft creak, the spine cracking like it had been opened regularly. The first page was filled edge to edge with clean sketches—anatomical references, the human body drawn in intricate precision. Muscles labeled in Latin. Bone structures dissected in obsessive detail.

You flipped to the next page. Then another. The sketches became more specific. More… familiar.

There were figures posed just like you had been. Knees bent. Arms curled. Spine arched. Every angle exact. Some were circled with notes in Ni-ki’s handwriting—measurements, proportions, tiny comments like “hold this longer” or “better lighting next time.”

Your chest tightened.

And then, the sketches began to change. There were still figures, but the anatomy began merging with something else, symbols, charts, and what looked like... chemical formulas. Equations scrawled in the margins. Molecular breakdowns. Dosage estimates.

You stared at a note scribbled along the bottom of one page: "Maintaining docility. Progressive doses. Natural compliance follows physical fatigue."

You froze.

The room didn’t feel elegant anymore. It felt clinical. Sterile. Like a controlled environment. A testing ground. You turned another page with trembling fingers. And there—you saw it. A sketch of your profile. Unmistakably you. Eyes closed. Mouth parted slightly. Sleeping.

Underneath, in his meticulous writing. “Nearly perfect now. Just a bit more.”

You closed the journal slowly, the metallic taste of nausea rising in your throat. Your back pressed hard against the cold bookshelf as you fought to steady your breath, the room spinning just enough to make your knees weak. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Your eyes drifted over the rows of books—mostly anatomy, physiology, medical texts. Every spine a reminder of the cold precision with which Niki studied the human body.

Then, something else caught your eye.

A book that didn’t belong. A worn paperback with a cracked spine, its cover familiar. You’d read this one before, a twisted romance about a criminal and their captive, a story you’d even owned yourself at one point.

Curiosity ignited again despite the sick knot in your stomach. Your fingers brushed the cover, sliding it free from the shelf. As you did, a faint click echoed softly. Behind the book, pressed into the wooden frame of the shelf, was a small lever.

Your pulse quickened. Without fully thinking, you reached out and pulled it.

The entire bookshelf shuddered, then began to move aside, revealing a dark opening—a narrow staircase spiraling downward.

A hidden passage.

Your breath hitched.

Swallowing hard, you stepped forward, toes brushing the edge of the hidden stairwell. Cold air drifted upward, curling around your ankles like invisible fingers. It smelled faintly of dust and metal… and something else. Something more sterile. Like a hospital.

You hesitated—just for a second.

Then you took the first step.

Each creak of the wooden stairs echoed like a scream in the silence. You kept one hand on the wall, steadying yourself as you descended slowly, your heart pounding harder with each step into the dark.

The deeper you went, the colder it became.

And quieter.

So quiet that all you could hear was your own breathing and the faint rush of blood in your ears. It felt like descending into something ancient, something not meant to be found. The kind of silence that held its breath with you. That waited.

At the bottom, you reached a plain iron door. No lock. No handle. Just a smooth, seamless surface… and a faint hum behind it. Low and rhythmic. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling, before you pushed.

The door gave way with surprising ease—opening into a room lit with a low light. And what you saw shocked you. Desks cluttered with countless sketches, each one capturing you in painstaking detail. Some hung pinned on the walls, delicate lines tracing every curve and shadow of your body in every angle, your expression caught mid-thought, your hands, your throat, the bend of your spine. There were even pieces focused solely on your mouth and your eyes.

In front of you, a narrow hallway stretched deeper into the shadows, disappearing into darkness. The faint glow of the light didn’t reach far, and an odd smell wafted from within—a strange chemical sharpness mixed with a cold, metallic tang that made your skin prickle, almost like.. blood.

You hesitated, heart pounding, but curiosity and something darker compelled you forward.

Step by step, you moved deeper into the unknown, every instinct screaming caution, every muscle taut with a mixture of dread and fascination.

The hallway ended in a chamber—vast, echoing, and ice-cold.

You froze.

Bags of clay were stacked in the corners, some torn open, their contents spilling out in thick, gray piles. A medical examination table stood in the center of the room, its sterile steel frame glinting under the dim light. Nearby, a wide board was pinned with tools—scalpels, chisels, bonesaws, forceps, even syringes each meticulously arranged. Graphs covered the walls, overlapping with torn pages from anatomy books and sketched outlines of muscle, bone, nerve.

Barrels stood in a row along the back wall, lids half-sealed.

And around the room… statues.

At first, they looked like masterpieces, unfinished busts and full-sized sculptures. But as you stepped closer, heart in your throat, you noticed something that made everything in you still.

Bones.. Protruding ever so slightly from beneath the layers of clay, ribs, fingers, fragments of a jaw. They weren’t statues.

They were vessels.

Your knees nearly gave out.

Then, a noise. A door, heavy and metallic, creaked open from the far end of the chamber.

You panicked.

On instinct, you ducked behind a large stone pillar, breath caught in your throat, chest heaving soundlessly. You dared a glance.

Someone entered.

Clad in a full white hazmat suit, faceless and quiet. They dragged a heavy black bag behind them, its bottom thudding dully against the concrete floor with each step.

A hand slipped out from the opening of the bag. Limp. Human.

You pressed a fist to your mouth to muffle the scream trying to escape.

The figure then moved with eerie precision. The hazmat suit was unzipped slowly, the thick material falling away with a rustle. You saw the glint of dark clothes underneath, and when the head covering came off, your heart all but stopped.

Ni-ki.

He slicked his hair back with one hand, looking unbothered, focused, as if this was just another day in a studio, not a nightmarish chamber hidden beneath the manor. His expression was calm, eyes sharp and calculating as he pulled on a pair of heavy-duty gloves. Then he reached for a pair of forceps on a sterilized tray.

Without hesitation, he walked to one of the barrels and pried the lid open. The scent hit even from your distance—chemical, acidic, and unmistakably foul.

You watched, paralyzed, as he plunged the forceps inside and carefully extracted what looked like bleached, cleaned bones. He placed them onto a nearby table, aligning each piece with chilling familiarity. Not like an artist admiring his work. But like a craftsman assembling it.

Then Ni-ki moved to what looked like a rack—like a drying line—and unclipped something from it with both hands. You strained to see through the dim light, squinting at the limp sheet of… something. And your stomach dropped.

It was skin.

Ni-ki laid it carefully on another table under the lamp. His gloved hands smoothed it out like fabric, inspecting every inch. And then, methodically, he lifted it and brought it to one of the unfinished busts. Clay, half-sculpted, stared back blankly.

He began melding the skin over it. Like a mask. A second layer. Covering something once living over something man-made.

You clung to the pillar, your knuckles white against the stone, heart thundering against your ribs so loud you were sure he’d hear it.

But he didn’t.

He just kept working. Carefully. Lovingly. And as the skin began to take shape over the bust, you finally understood. The realization hit like a crashing wave—drowning you in cold horror.

That was why his sculptures looked so lifelike. Why there was something uncanny in their eyes, their muscles, the very texture of their skin. It wasn’t just talent. It wasn’t just skill.

It was real.

Real bone, real skin, real people.

That was his secret.

You could barely breathe as you watched Ni-ki walk back to the bag he had dragged in earlier. With the same calm efficiency, he unzipped it further, then reached in and pulled out an arm.

Just an arm.

You pressed your fist harder to your mouth to stop the sound clawing its way up your throat.

With no ceremony, no hesitation, he carried it to the open barrel and dropped it in. A thick, wet slap echoed through the chamber, followed by the soft bubbling of whatever solution in the container.

Your stomach lurched.

You nearly doubled over, bile rising, but forced yourself to stay quiet. To stay still. You couldn’t be found.

He turned away from the barrel, casually wiping his gloves off with a cloth before walking back to his table, like this was just part of his nightly routine. Like he hadn’t just dismembered someone. Like this chamber of horrors wasn’t buried right beneath the place where you had laughed, eaten, slept.

You shrank tighter behind the stone pillar, your breath shaky, chest tight, heart hammering in your chest as Ni-ki’s movements continued. You dared not make a sound, barely dared to breathe as you watched him shape, mold, and assemble the pieces with an eerie devotion.

Then, unexpectedly, he moved to something draped with a heavy sheet in the corner of the chamber. Slowly he pulled it away.

Your breath caught, and you nearly collapsed against the pillar.

There, unfinished but hauntingly clear, stood a statue of you. The delicate curves of your lower body were carved with an unsettling precision, and beneath it, your name etched in cold stone.

But what froze you was what clung to that form.

A finished statue of Ni-ki, positioned below, looking up at where your face would be. The expression carved into his face was a tortured mixture of agony, love, and desperate desire.

His sculpted hands gripped your lower body so tightly the clay bent and creased under the pressure—an eternal hold, frozen between obsession and worship.

You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the raw, obsessive devotion frozen in stone, both beautiful and terrifying. You wanted to look away. But something deeper, darker, rooted you in place.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of moisture somewhere deep in the chamber. You stayed frozen, eyes locked on the haunting statue of yourself until a voice cut through the stillness.

“Do you like it?”

The words hit you like a blow.

You whipped your gaze away from the cold stone figure to find Ni-ki standing a little away from the statue, his eyes intense, already fixed on you.

Your heart lurched in your chest—he had noticed you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there.

“I was wondering,” he said softly, voice like silk drawn over a blade, “how long it would take you to find this place.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to scream—but nothing came out. Your thoughts were a jumbled blur, your body torn between flight and freeze.

Ni-ki tilted his head slightly, watching you like an artist does a subject, measuring every twitch in your jaw, every tremble in your hands. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he added, almost as if he were disappointed. “But… maybe it’s better this way. No more pretending.”

You took a step back, but the stone wall was at your spine. Trapped. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. “What… what is this?”

He glanced over at the statue like it was something sacred. “A masterpiece in progress,” he murmured. “Our final form. You and I, forever preserved.”

His eyes found yours again. “Don’t look so frightened,” he said, stepping toward you slowly, carefully, as if you might break. “You’ve already given me so much of yourself. Your time. Your trust. Your body… even if you didn’t realize it.”

You slowly inched backward, your breath catching in your throat, but he matched your every step, never breaking eye contact. His voice dropped to a low, almost hypnotic murmur as he continued.

“You think this is madness, don’t you? But it’s art—my art. You’re part of it now. Every curve, every line, every shadow of you is captured forever. You can’t escape what you’ve already become.”

His gaze bore into you, relentless, and you felt the weight of his obsession pressing down like a physical force. “You belong here—with me, in this creation. You don’t have to understand it all.. Just stay, help me finish..”

You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks, the weight of it all crashing over you. Your voice caught in your throat as silent sobs shook your frame.

But instead of softening, his voice grew even smoother, more insistent. “Shhh, don’t cry. It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid. You’re safe here—with me.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper that barely masked the control behind his words. “You think you have a choice, but really… you’ve already given so much. And the more you resist, the more I need to protect you from yourself.” His hand reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek, his touch tender and possessive. “You don’t have to understand it now. Just trust me. Let me guide you.”

Too exhausted to resist, your body slumped against him as he gently pulled you closer. Your tears continued to fall, but his soft shushing and steady hands rubbing your back began to calm the storm inside you. The warmth of his body and the rich scent of his cologne, clouded your thoughts and muddled your senses.

Your vision blurred, the edges of the room fading as exhaustion overtook you, and before you fully realized it, you fainted, collapsing gently into his arms.

When you woke up, your body felt like lead—heavy and unresponsive. Moving felt impossible, so you didn’t even try. You just laid there, eyes half-closed, letting the silence wrap around you.

The door creaked open, and you watched as Ni-ki entered, carrying a tray of food. He moved toward you with that same quiet grace, his voice soft and low as he cooed, “Good girl… so patient, so still.”

His words made your chest tighten with comfort and unease.

He sat down beside you, gently setting the tray on the bed. Without waiting for your consent, he lifted a spoonful of food toward your lips.

You pulled back at first, shaking your head, but his voice dropped to a low, cold whisper. “Eat now.” His words cut through your defenses like a knife. Hesitating, tears beginning to blur your vision, you opened your mouth and took the food he offered.

As the tears slipped down your cheeks, he brushed them away with unexpected tenderness. “Don’t cry so much,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “It only puffs your eyes up. You need to look perfect for me.”

He kept feeding you slowly, praising every small bite you took. “So delicate… so perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “You’re doing so well. I knew you’d be good for me.”

When the plate was finally empty, he leaned in close, his fingers gently brushing strands of your hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch should have been comforting, but a strange wooziness was settling in your limbs, dulling your senses.

Your eyes drifted to the empty plate beside you, suspicion flickering like a shadow. Carefully, you lifted your arm, hesitant, only for Ni-ki to catch your wrist. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “The medicine is starting to kick in now. Just relax… I’m here.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, a swirl of confusion and helplessness crashing through your foggy mind. The warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours felt like chains—gentle, but binding all the same.

You wanted to pull away, to scream, to run, but the heaviness in your limbs made every movement sluggish and distant. His voice, soft and commanding, echoed in your ears like a lullaby.

“Just let it take over,” he said quietly, almost tenderly. “You’re safe with me.”

You tried to find your voice, to protest, to push him away but the words caught in your throat. Before you could say anything, his hand closed firmly around your jaw, tilting your face up.

His lips crashed onto yours in a harsh, demanding kiss—leaving no room for refusal.

Your body tensed, caught between resistance and the strange, dizzying pull of surrender. The taste of him, the force of his kiss, stirred a chaotic storm inside you, one you didn’t understand but couldn’t quite escape.

Ni-ki groaned softly into the kiss, deepening it with a slow, intense pressure that overwhelmed your senses. Before you could fully process what was happening, he gently pulled you into his lap, holding you close.

Your breath hitched, caught between resistance and a strange, reluctant surrender. His hands rested firmly on your waist, steadying you, as if anchoring you to the moment. You wanted to pull away, but your body betrayed you, frozen under his touch.

Ni-ki’s voice was low, almost a whisper against your lips, “Just stay forever. With me.”

You whimpered softly, your voice barely more than a breath as Ni-ki’s lips traced a slow path down your jaw, then along your neck, where he pressed small, lingering kisses that quickly blossomed into dark, tender hickeys on your collarbones. Each mark was like a quiet claim, a reminder of the power he held in that moment.

You tried to pull away, heart pounding, but his large hand came up, curling gently yet firmly around your throat. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but just enough to catch your breath and make your pulse race. You gasped sharply, the sudden pressure sending a confusing rush through you.

Every time you moved or tried to resist, his hand tightened just enough to remind you who was in control, making your breath hitch with a panic and something darker you didn’t want to admit. But the moment you stayed still, obedient and silent, his grip would slacken, almost like a reward for your submission.

Slowly, your body went fully slack in his hold, the tension draining from your muscles as if you were sinking deeper into his control. Your skin was already marked, like bruised petals across your collarbones.

“Beautiful,” Ni-ki murmured, his voice low and filled with dark admiration. He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss that made your breath catch. His groan rumbled softly against you, and you couldn’t help but whine—a soft, helpless sound that slipped from your lips despite the swirl of confusion inside you.

Counting the moments as the sun slipped below the horizon and the moon rose high, you realized with a numb shock that you had been trapped in that bedroom for nine full days. Nine days of being spoonfed by Ni-ki’s steady hands, nine days of the silent staff lady who came in without a word to clean you, bathe you, dress you in lavish gowns, and style your hair and makeup with meticulous care before she quietly took her leave.

You had no energy left to resist. Your body felt heavy, broken down piece by piece, but your mind clung to every detail of the routine. You memorized the sounds, the footsteps by your door, the way the quiet footsteps softened as they passed. You were figuring out an escape plan, slowly, desperately.

You needed to get out.

This couldn’t be your life. Could it?

One early morning, just before the sun began to rise, you did something you hadn’t done in a long time—you got out of bed on your own. Your legs wobbled beneath you as you stumbled toward the door, weak and unsure.

It was locked, as always, but your fingers found the small key you’d managed to nick from one of the staff who had come to change your sheets. With trembling hands, you slid it into the lock, and to your surprise, it turned. The door creaked open, and you stepped quietly into the dim hallway.

Leaning against the cool wall for support, you made your slow, careful way toward the manor’s front entrance. Your heart pounded as you found your shoes by the door, slipped them on, and unlocked the heavy front door. The moment it swung open, a rush of fresh air hit your face, sharp and clean, filling your lungs with hope.

You stumbled forward into the forest surrounding the estate, the dark trees whispering above you. The soft earth beneath your feet felt real—alive. With each shaky step, you moved closer to the front gate, to freedom, to everything you’d been craving.

By the time you reached the front gate, the first golden rays of sun were stretching across the sky. Your breath was ragged, your body aching with exhaustion, but you knew there wasn’t much time before Ni-ki would realize you were gone.

Without hesitation, you clung to the cold metal of the gate and hurriedly punched in the code for the small side door. It clicked open, and you stepped through, relief flooding you.

But then, a cold voice crackled through the gate speaker, stopping you in your tracks. It was Ni-ki’s voice, calm and chilling. “Running away?”

You looked up, eyes wide in panic, and muttered a sharp curse under your breath. You had completely forgotten about the cameras that were now trained on you, recording your every move. Your escape was no longer quiet or unseen.

Ni-ki’s voice came through the speaker, smooth but laced with cold disappointment. “Really, I expected more from you,” he said, each word slow and designed to cut deep. “I thought you’d understand your place by now.”

Your knees trembled, threatening to give out as you forced yourself to stay standing. You glanced up at the camera, feeling his gaze through the lens like a physical weight pressing down on you.

“Why don’t you wait right there,” he continued, voice darkening with cruel amusement, “like a good girl? I’ll come for you soon enough… and then, well… I can punish you properly.”

Your breath caught in your throat, every instinct screaming to run, but you froze, caught in the pull of his words and the fear curling deep in your chest.

"Yes, that’s good," Ni-ki’s voice purred through the speaker, calm but threatening. "Stay right there. Don’t anger me now."

You swallowed hard, tears slipping down your cheeks despite yourself. Slowly, you lowered your gaze to the long, winding road leading toward the town. By car, it would take an hour. By foot—especially in your fragile state—it felt impossible.

You glanced down at yourself. The white, lacy silk dress that barely reached above your knees, the delicate white bow tied in your hair, the sparkling diamonds resting at your neck felt all so out of place. The marks he had left on you—hickeys trailing from your throat to your collarbones, as well as the clearly visible ones on your thighs made the idea of being seen in public feel humiliating. Ridiculous. Vulnerable. And yet, you knew you couldn’t stay there.

With one sharp glance back at the camera, you started backing away, your heart hammering in your chest.

“What are you doing?” Ni-ki’s voice snapped through the speaker, sharp and angry.

You clenched your fists tightly, refusing to answer. Instead, you turned and sped away, your feet barely touching the ground as you broke into a run down the road.

Behind you, Ni-ki’s enraged voice echoed off the trees and pavement, calling after you with promises of terrible consequences. “You’re in so much trouble when I find you! No punishment in the world will be enough to make up for what I’ll do when I get you back!”

But you didn’t stop. You didn’t look back. All you could do was run. Your breath came in ragged gasps as your legs pumped harder, each step pounding against the cold, unforgiving road.

You stumbled and fell more than once, your palms and knees scraping raw against the harsh asphalt. Pain bloomed sharp and fierce, but exhaustion clawed harder at your muscles, threatening to drag you down. Each time you hit the ground, you fought the urge to stay there, forcing yourself up with trembling limbs.

When the road felt too exposed, you veered off, slipping into the shadowed forest beside it. The thick underbrush scraped at your arms, branches snagging your dress, but the dense trees felt safer than the open path. Here, you hoped, Ni-ki couldn’t find you so easily.

You finally reached the edge of the town, exhaustion and fear warring in your chest. Without hesitation, you shakily stepped into a nearby clothing store. You needed something real—something to hide the traces of your ordeal. Luckily, the shopkeepers recognized you and, without question, let you put the purchase on Ni-ki’s tab.

Dressed in plain clothes that made you feel invisible for the first time in days, you made your way to the train station. Your hands trembled as you bought a ticket to anywhere but here. You needed to get far away, to find space to think, to plan your next move.

But before you could gather your thoughts, you almost crashed into two men.

“There you are!” one said with a grin that made your blood run cold. “Mr. Nishimura has set out a search for you. Come with us and we’ll take you back to him.”

Your throat tightened as you looked up at them. Behind them, the train you had planned to take pulled into the station, its doors sliding open.

“Come on now, don’t do anything stupid, miss. You need to get back to him so he can take care of you,” the other warned, reaching out toward you.

“No... I can’t... I won’t...” you mumbled, shaking your head.

Before they could grab you, you slipped past their outstretched hands and stepped onto the train just as the doors closed. You pressed yourself against the glass, watching the furious expressions on their faces as the train started moving.

Relief swelled through you — you were finally moving away.

You sat on the train, your body still trembling from the adrenaline and fear. The events you’d just escaped felt unreal, like a nightmare you couldn’t fully wake from. But the truth was heavier than any nightmare.

No one would believe you. Ni-ki’s reputation was untouchable—his art, his charm, the carefully crafted image of a genius no one dared to question. If you tried to tell anyone, they’d call you crazy, maybe even have you committed. And even if someone did believe you, you knew how he worked. You’d seen it before—how he silenced rumors, crushed anyone who dared to speak out. Those people vanished without a trace, their voices erased before they could be heard.

You realized then you had no choice but to keep running. To survive, you needed to disappear, to live on the edges of a world that didn’t know you. Staying in the country was impossible. You needed out—far away where Ni-ki’s shadow couldn’t reach.

When you finally reached your home, you hurriedly packed everything you still had there—the few belongings you hadn’t brought with you when you first started working for Ni-ki. So much was lost forever, and regret twisted inside you as you glanced around the empty space. There were things you wished you could have back, but it was too late now.

You booked a plane ticket to another country, a flight leaving in just a few hours. You were almost ready to leave it all behind. But as you opened the front door, you froze.

There he was. Ni-ki, standing in the doorway, eyes wild and crazed. “You really were going to leave me, baby?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You screamed and stumbled backward, giving him time to step inside, close and lock the door behind him.

“You can’t leave me,” he said, his tone low and trance-like. “I told you—you belong to the art, and the art belongs to me.”

He hit his chest, emphasizing every word. “That means you belong to me. Me! No one else!” He reached out to grab you, but you twisted away, shaking your head fiercely. “I don’t belong to you!” you shouted.

His voice dropped even lower, almost a warning. “Now, now… good girls don’t step out of line like that.”

You shivered, fear tightening your chest.

A crazed desperation sank through his voice as he stepped closer, towering over you. “You think you can just walk away?! After everything I’ve done?! After all the time, all the trust I forced you to give me?!” His breath was heavy, voice trembling with need and anger.

You shook your head, voice trembling but firm. “I don’t belong to you! I never did! You can’t control me!”

A twisted smile curled on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Control? No, no, it’s not about control. It’s about us. About what we are. And you—you’re already mine, whether you admit it or not.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, almost pleading, “You can’t run from this. Not from me.”

You took a shaky step back, heart pounding, but your eyes never left his. “I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s to own.”

His face twisted, the desperation bleeding into something darker. “You’ll see. You’ll understand. Eventually.” He loomed over you, the room closing in, his presence suffocating.

His voice softened, almost breaking, as he stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you up. “Without you… I have nothing,” he whispered, stepping closer. “You think I’m strong. That I’m in control. But I’m hollow without you—like the statues, incomplete, useless!”

You felt your resolve flicker under the weight of his words, a strange pull tugging at your heart.

“You’re the only piece that makes me whole,” he said, voice low and almost pleading. “You’re the art, the muse, the life I can’t live without.”

Slowly, your strength began to wane, your breath catching in your throat as his words wrapped around you like chains—silent, invisible, but heavy.

He reached out, fingers barely grazing your arm, and whispered, “You belong with me. Not because I said so… but because without you, I’m nothing.”

You shook your head fiercely, voice trembling but firm. “No… you’re crazy! You’re a murderer!”

For a moment, his face twisted—hurt and fury mingling in his eyes. Then, his voice dropped to a cold, quiet threat. “Fine… if that’s how it’s going to be…”

Before you could react, he lunged at you. Your scream ripped through the air as he forced you down onto the ground. Your struggles were desperate but weak against his strength—your resistance barely registering as he manhandled you, holding you tightly, as he pulled a pair of cold, metal handcuffs from his pocket. Before you could fully process what was happening, he fastened them around your wrists with a harsh click.

You struggled, but the cuffs held firm, restricting your movements. Ni-ki leaned down, his voice low and chilling. “Now, you won’t be going anywhere.”

Pulling out a syringe, he popped the cap off. You screamed and writhed but nothing affected him, and before you could react, he pressed it into your arm. A sudden warmth spread through your body, and your vision began to blur, edges softening and spinning.

His voice echoed softly as you slipped away, “These clothes don’t fit you… You need something that shows your beauty.”

The last thing you felt was the heavy pull of unconsciousness, dragging you under.

Waking up, you found yourself lying in the same bed in the manor. Your body felt unbearably heavy, as if every ounce of strength had been drained away. Silent tears slipped down your cheeks, hot and bitter.

You were back. All your desperate attempts, all your hope—it had been for nothing. Who were you kidding, really? Ni-ki was too powerful, too wealthy, and far too obsessed to ever let you go. This was your life now.

So when the door creaked open and Ni-ki stepped inside, your body instinctively reached out, trembling and fragile. Your hands stretched toward him, desperate for something familiar, for something to hold onto in the heavy fog of your fear and exhaustion. The moment he saw your outstretched arms, his eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he closed the space between you in long strides, until he was standing right beside your bed.

You were barely able to keep yourself upright as he leaned down. The tears still streamed down your cheeks, your sobs shaking your entire body, and you clung to him weakly, your voice breaking as you poured out apologies. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... I won’t run away again. Please, I won’t... I swear.”

Ni-ki said nothing at first. Instead, he simply listened, holding you close as your apologies spilled out, his arms steady and unmoving around your trembling frame. His silence was almost unsettling as he let you have the space to pour your guilt and fear into words, absorbing every shaky breath and tearful whisper. Gradually, as your sobs slowed and your voice softened, he brushed your hair away from your face and leaned in close.

His voice dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper against your ear. “I forgive you,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “But you still owe me a punishment. Running away, disobeying me, you know I can’t let that go.”

You nodded slowly, your voice barely more than a whisper, “Yes, yes. I deserve it.”

Ni-ki’s smile curved into a smirk, and he leaned in closer, brushing his fingers gently against your cheek. “Yes, you do… and I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” His lips found yours softly at first, tender and warm, as he wiped away the tears that had been falling without control.

The kiss lingered, growing more intense as you instinctively leaned into him, your hands trembling as they reached up to rest against his chest.

When he finally pulled back, his breath mingled with yours. "Cause only good girls," he murmured, his voice thick with dark affection, "are good muses..."

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers traced the delicate curve of your lips, then slowly slid down to rest on your throat. The pressure of his hand tightened just enough to make you gasp, your chest rising and falling unevenly. You tried to speak, but your voice failed you completely—caught and swallowed by the lump of fear lodged deep in your throat. You felt yourself shrinking beneath his stare, powerless but utterly captivated.

“I’ll shape you, mold you… just like my art,” he whispered, a promise and a warning wrapped into one. “And every mark, every touch will be a part of the masterpiece only I can create.”

You tried to swallow, desperate to clear the tightness, but your throat rebelled, dry and uncooperative. Drool gathered at the corner of your mouth, and before you could try to wipe it away, it trickled down your chin in slow, warm rivulets. The sight, the sensation, should have embarrassed you, but it only left you feeling more fragile and exposed—completely at his mercy.

Ni-ki’s dark eyes flicked down briefly, noting the small trail of drool with a slow smile. It didn’t bother him at all. Instead, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, messy kiss that swallowed every sound you wanted to make. His mouth was warm and demanding, his breath mingling with yours as he held you tightly against him.

The kiss was neither gentle nor rushed, it was full of raw, twisted affection that overwhelmed you. You felt your resistance slipping away, replaced by a dizzying mix of fear and a strange longing. When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, and his eyes shone with a dark triumph. “I will finish my artwork... and it will be perfect.”

You couldn’t answer him. Your throat still too tight, your body too weak, only able to gasp and shudder beneath his hold. If you were to disappear here, in his grasp, at least you’d be remembered.

Immortalized. Beautiful. Eternal.

a/n: oh good heavens. I am NOT okay.

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