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vampzwon · 14 days ago

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this was insanely poetic, wow i am in shock

saw you first | yjw

synopsis: in which you try to run, jungwon lets you—just to remind you that you’ll always belong to him.

genre: chainsaw man au

pairing: chainsaw man!jungwon x barista!reader

warnings: yandre!jungwon, some unwarranted touching, toxic!jungwon, so incredibly delusional!jungwon, forced proximity, forced relationship, reader is basically held hostage, dub/non con, oral (f.rec), unprotected p in v, breeding kink, jungwon wants to baby trap reader, chocking, manhandling…i think that’s it…

wc: 23.3k+

a/n: i am once again proving that i can write plot! this was originally supposed to be a mere 12k words… i got a bit carried away with plot and i knew that if i left it as is then people would b asking for a part 2 so i just decided to bless yall w a fat one. anyways..hope yall enjoy! notes, reblogs and comments r always appreciated! enjoy :]

taglist: @won1yoiz @fancypeacepersona @betda @starry-eyed-bimbo @theothernads @wonzzziezzzz @yeonmuse @rikifordmiami

@pinkiwinkiminki

⛧⃝

fear has distinct shape.

that's what they say now at least. not metaphorically, not in poetry or horror films—but literally. fear became real the moment it was fed into our minds enough. when the world collapsed under the weight of its own nightmares, that fear grew legs, claws and mouths. and then it started eating people.

devils took over slowly, like mold growing in the walls of an abandoned house. first the animals disappeared, then the kids and then the sunlight.

cities fell, corpses rose and when the governments failed, public safety stepped in. an army of hunters built on contracts, blood, and desperation took over and now every city is its own kind of hell.

and you?

you make cappuccinos in seoul sector 3 where the devils are meaner, the streets rot faster, and no one comes to help when someone cries out into the night.

you took the job at 'sublime café' because it was small, unassuming, and just far enough off the grid to keep trouble at bay—or so you thought. in your 7 months working here, you hadn't ran into any devils. so you allowed yourself to relax, to let your guard down—until you remembered why it was up in the first place.

a dented metal shutter protected the windows at night, a reinforced steel door led to the back alley. the owner stocked a baseball bat under the register and holy water near the tea bags.

you know, just in case.

it was mostly quiet, with not many lurking on this side of the city. your regulars were all a little dead behind the eyes, the kind of people who'd seen someone's head pop like a balloon and still come in for an iced americano.

you got used to it. you stopped flinching when the ground trembled or when blood ran between the pavement cracks. you told yourself you weren't important enough to be hunted, no one wanted you enough to lurk around in these areas.

until the night he showed up.

it was late, your shift was almost over. the rain had thinned to mist, clinging to the windows and softening the streetlights outside. you were behind the counter, counting cash and humming to yourself, when the sky split open with a crack like thunder—but deeper, wetter.

you stilled, then came the scream. not human—guttural. a sound that clawed at your spine and made your heart drop straight into your gut.

you moved before you could think, hands fumbling for the emergency switch behind the register. the lights dimmed to red and the steel shutters started to roll down over the windows, screeching like rusted bones.

too late.

the front wall exploded inward. shards of glass flew like it was raining knives and the floor cracked beneath the weight of something enormous slamming into the café. limbs twitching, body slithering like oil-slick muscle. the scent hit you next: rot and metal. spoiled blood, something not meant to be inhaled.

it loomed in the wreckage, a pulsing, unnatural shape that twitched and writhed in the corner of your eye. your brain struggled to give it form, it shifted with every blink. too many legs, too many teeth and an eye—one massive, unblinking orb that locked onto you like a spotlight.

"little human," it gurgled, voice like wet stone dragging across your skin. "what flavor does your fear come in?"

you couldn't move.

your breath caught in your throat and your legs were numb. your entire body was frozen—as if the fear had seeped straight into your bones and stiffened your body. the devil laughed, the vibrations of his heinous voice causing the walls to shiver.

and then a scream, not yours, echoed the small café. something or, someone, sliced through the devil's body like a buzzsaw through meat. a red blur exploded through the wall behind it, tearing through flesh, bone and sinew. a scream of chains and fury, loud enough to rattle your teeth. blood sprayed the walls like a firehose. chunks of flesh splattered across the freshly cleaned espresso machine and counters.

you stumbled back, heart slamming against your ribs, vision full of red. he stood there—in the middle of the carnage.

a boy.

your age, maybe younger. head bowed, shoulders trembling with steam rising from his back like smoke from a freshly doused fire. a chainsaw jutted from his arms, coated in gore.

his chest rose and fell like he had just run a marathon. he was drenched in blood, chunks of devil flesh clung to his clothes and his blonde locks. his hands twitched at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. the chainsaws that had morphed out of his his skin stopped buzzing now that there was nothing left to kill.

the devil was gone, eviscerated. there was nothing left but a pulp of its remnants and silence.

he looked up and for a moment, the café was dead quiet—no chainsaws, no screams, just the tick... tick... tick of blood dripping onto tile.

his eyes met yours and something in his face broke. his body relaxed, the saws slid back into his skin with a thick, wet noise, like knives sinking into flesh. he took one step forward, then another—slow, cautious, like he was afraid of startling you.

his face...was beautiful. soft jaw, lips chapped and bitten raw and a scar cut through his brow. but his eyes, his eyes were what scared you most. they looked at you like you were holy.

"you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and silky. it almost made you laugh at the stark contrast of his actions and his now demeanour. you nodded before your mouth could catch up. "y—yeah." your voice cracked, your shirt was soaked in someone else's blood. your hands were shaking, you were not okay—but somehow, telling him that didn't feel like an option.

he stared at you, then he smiled. soft, warm, terrifying. "you smiled at me," he whispered, his gaze still stuck to you like glue. your brows knit in confusion, "what?"

"just now. you... smiled. after i saved you."

you opened your mouth to correct him—you hadn't smiled, had you? maybe it was a nervous twitch. a reflex. maybe it was just shock—"no one's ever done that before," he said, like he was telling you a secret."not even the people i saved. they always scream. run. cry." his voice was getting quieter, more distant. like he was somewhere else and no longer present with you.

"but you looked at me like i'm—" he cut himself off. his head tilted slightly to the side, blood dripped from his chin. he was still staring at you, but now his gaze felt thicker, heavier. like it was sinking into your skin and wrapping around your lungs.

"what's your name?" you didn't answer. he took another step forward and you scrambled back—your back hitting the wall.

"i'm jungwon," he said simply. "i'll see you again." your eyes twitched at his confidence and you didn't know if you should take his words as a promise or a threat.

and just like that—he was gone.

no footsteps, no exit. just a blur of motion and silence, and then the night swallowed him whole. you stood there for a long time, long enough for the adrenaline to crash. long enough to cry, long enough to wonder if anyone would believe you when you told them that chainsaw man had saved your life—and smiled like he wanted to keep it.

keep you.

⛧⃝

you didn't tell anyone. except your boss, not the police, and not the shriveled old priest who came by every week to toss holy water on the café floor and mutter things in dead languages.

how do you explain that chainsaw man, the chainsaw man, public safety's blood-slick myth, devil hunter of devil hunters—saved your life, then whispered your name like he wanted to wear it?

you couldn't. so you didn't. you cleaned the blood off the tiles. replaced the windows, sanitized the counters and scrubbed devil guts out of the espresso machine. and then tried to convince yourself it was over, that you'd go back to normal.

but a week passed, and you started noticing things. small things, at first. on day 3, the café door rattled after closing, no one was there but you could feel an almost familiar presence. on day 4, your apartment window was unlocked when you got home—and you never forget to lock it. on day 5, someone left something on your doorstep. a devil's tooth, still wet and wrapped in a receipt from 'sublimez.' your name circled in red ink with a small heart right next to it.

you stopped sleeping after that, you told yourself it wasn't him. couldn't be. jungwon was a devil hunter, he saved people. he didn't... follow them? he didn't stalk them through alleys and leave parts of what he killed as gifts.

but part of you knew that it was him. you remembered the look in his eyes and the way he said your name. like he wanted to keep it in his mouth forever.

you saw him again on the 7th night. it was after closing and the streets were nearly empty. mist clung to the ground like spilled breath. you'd taken the long way home—just in case. your feet ached and your breath fogged the air. you didn't notice him at first. but when you passed the alley across from the café—you felt it. a prickle up your spine, like being stared at for too long.

you turned around, your body shaking in anticipation and your legs positioning in fight or flight mood. although you seriously doubt you'd be able to outrun him, you'd take your chances. he was standing in the dark, his blonde hair peaking at you—taunting you.

jungwon.

half-hidden behind a wall of shadow and brick, but you could see his eyes. bright, sharp and tracking you. he didn't move, but you did. fast.

you didn't run, not yet, but your heart picked up with your pace hitching as you turned back toward the main street and kept walking. hands in your coat pockets, head down. don't look, don't run, don't let him know you're afraid.

"you're out late," his voice came from right behind you. you spun around in shock only to come face to face with him, he was close, too close. no chainsaws this time, no blood. just jungwon, in a torn hoodie and scuffed boots, looking at you like you were still glowing in his memory. you stepped back and he followed closely.

"you haven't been smiling lately," he said, voice soft. curious. "did something happen?" your throat closed, he had been following you. "jungwon," you said, stiff but politely. "what... are you doing here?" his head tilted and his lips curled into something like a smile but it was too calm—too fond.

"i wanted to see you," he said it like it was obvious. like it was inevitable."you smiled at me, remember?" he begins, watching your face carefully. "and i haven't stopped thinking about it." you didn't answer but your fingers tightened in your coat pockets. you could feel your phone, but you knew you wouldn't be able to move fast enough. not with him this close.

"people don't smile at me," he went on, voice gentler now. like he was trying to soothe you, like he knew what was going on in your head. "they scream. they call me a monster. they run." his gaze softens, his eyes glistening slightly as he stares down at you. "but you—" he takes a step closer. "—you looked at me like i was real." he stepped closer again, you hit the wall behind you. a dead-end.

he didn't touch you he just leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek, voice so low it trembled against your skin. "so i wanted to see what your fear looks like, too."

your breath caught in your throat. "don't worry," he murmured. "i won't hurt you." your still on edge but for some reason his words put you to ease, your body relaxing for a split second before seizing up again. "not unless you run."

his voice didn't rise, his body didn't shift. he didn't growl or flash those chainsaw blades. but somehow, it was worse this way. the calm, the softness. like he was already imagining peeling you open.

"jungwon," you whispered. "please don't—" "i'm not gonna hurt you," he repeated. "i just... want to be close." his fingers brushed your wrist, you flinched. he didn't pull away—if anything, he grew bolder. his touch moved up slowly, curling around your forearm. gentle, but firm—measured. like he was memorizing the shape of you. learning where your bones sat. how your pulse felt under his thumb.

you tried to step aside but his body blocked yours. he didn't shove—just leaned in, crowding you against the wall. his hand rose up, 2 fingers ghosted your cheek causing you to stiffen. his eyes studied your face like it was a scene of violence he wanted to relive.

"you're shaking," he murmured. "i wonder..." his gaze darkened slightly, his thumb brushing your bottom lip—slow, like a question. "is that because you're scared of me... or because you remembered me?" your stomach turned, you pressed yourself harder against the brick, trying to shrink into nothing.

"you haven't smiled again," he murmured. "why?" he looked visibly upset, you failed to understand why it mattered as much as it did to him. "i didn't mean to smile," you said, voice brittle. "it was... i don't know. adrenaline. shock."

he blinked, then his smile fell. he looked hurt, "so it wasn't real?" you said nothing. "you didn't mean it?" he pressed, quieter this time. "you didn't really see me that way?" the weight of his body shifted. not threatening , not yet, but you could feel it. the invisible line between mercy and obsession starting to bend.

"i've never had someone look at me like that," he said, voice tight. "not once," he pauses for a moment. "i dream about it, you know. your face. your eyes," his voice softens, and his body relaxes slightly. "you were scared, but you still looked. like i was something more than a weapon."

his hand was still on your face, still gentle. but there was pressure now—the kind that warned you not to pull away. "so if it wasn't real..." his forehead pressed against yours, you didn't breathe. "should i make it real?"

he didn't kiss you, he just hovered there—close enough to taste the heat of your skin, close enough that you could see the bloodstains still caked under his nails. his breath was soft, steady and patient. but he was waiting, and the look in his eyes showed that he he was willing to wait.

"say it again," he said quietly. "say you didn't mean it. say it to my face this time." you stared at him, you couldn't. you wouldn't. your mouth moved, but nothing came out. and maybe that was your answer.

his hand slid lower—over your jaw, down your neck, his fingertips just barely tracing your collarbone now. the pressure wasn't painful but it wasn't innocent, either.

"i knew it," he breathed, voice trembling with something dark and pleased. "you were meant for me," his eyes flicker down to your lips briefly before they jolt back up. your eyes widen at his words, to afraid to correct his delusions. how you wish you had.

his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and for a second, his whole body relaxes—as if touching you settled something wild in his blood.

he didn't let go, and he never will.

you stayed there for a long time trapped between brick and breath, trying not to move. when he finally pulled back, the air felt heavier without him—but not safer. "i'll walk you home," he said.

"no," you responded almost immediately. he tilted his head, blinked, then smiled again. this time much softer, more patient. "okay," he said. "maybe tomorrow." he didn't threaten you. didn't chase. didn't even touch you again. he just turned and walked back into the shadows like he hadn't just carved himself under your skin and stitched you in place.

⛧⃝

you wake up to the sun shining through your iron clad windows and the smell of coffee. not burnt and not cheap. something warm, deep—the kind you only get when someone really knows how to make it.

it was the aroma that hit you when you walked into work, however, you could never replicate that smell at home without the help of expensive machines and high quality grounds.

but you live alone, you sit up too fast. your head spins as you look around your room in suspicion. the room is still, the curtains are open and sunlight glows through the dirty glass. your room looks the same as when you fell asleep last night. everything looks normal, untouched.

except the door to your bedroom is open and you're sure you closed it last night. your ear perk up when you hear something unfamiliar, someone's humming. your throat goes dry, you push the blankets back slowly. your hand already reaching for your phone on the nightstand, but it's not there—the charger's empty.

your heartbeat kicks up. you step into the hallway like you're walking into a war zone, barefoot and barely breathing. the humming grows louder, it's familiar. sweet. soft. wrong. you turn the corner, and he's there.

jungwon. chainsaw man. him.

he's standing by your kitchen counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand holding a steaming mug while the other scrolls casually through your phone like it's his.

"you slept late," he says without turning. "your alarm went off three times." you don't speak, you can't. he finally looks over his shoulder. his smile is soft—too soft. for someone who had essentially broken into your home and was now making himself comfortable, he looked harmless. "i made coffee," he says, his eyes darting to the second mug placed on the counter.

your mouth moves before your fear can catch up, "how did you get in?" he blinks, slow—like the question doesn't make sense. "you were tired. you left the window open." you didn't, in fact, even if you did he wouldn't be able to get inside. you took the extra precaution to get metal bars installed.

"don't worry," he adds quickly. "i locked it behind me." he places your phone on the counter, "you should update your passcode." your stomach flips, "jungwon," you say and this time your voice shakes. "you need to leave."

he tilts his head like a confused dog. like a child being scolded for something he doesn't understand. "why would i leave?" he asks innocently, his bottom lip jutting out before he takes a small sip of his own coffee,

"because this is my apartment." his eyes narrow. something in his face twitches. the stillness in him turns sharp, like the surface of a knife just before it cuts. "and?" he scoffs. "you let me in. you smiled at me," he continues, staring at you as if you had grown 2 heads. "you wanted this."

"no," you whisper. "i didn't. you're not supposed to be here." the mug in his hand shatters and the ceramic hits the floor in a wet, violent crash—coffee splashing up your legs. you flinch, he doesn't. "don't say that," his voice is flat now.

quiet and cold. like the warmth got stripped out of him in a second. "you don't get to say that after what you did to me." you look at him baffled, "what did i—"

"you saw me," he snarls. "you looked at me like i was human. like i could be... something else. and now you're pretending it didn't mean anything?" he steps forward. you back up instinctively, but the hallway behind you is too narrow, too short. there's nowhere to run without turning your back to him—and you know better than that.

"i said leave—" "don't," he growls. "don't tell me to leave like i'm some stray." you look at him wide eyed, the once soft spoken man had long disappeared. "you don't get it," he breathes, getting closer. "i've killed for less than that look you gave me. i've torn devils apart for breathing wrong in my direction."

"but you..." he paused. "you smiled." his hand snaps out and you flinch, but he doesn't hit you, not yet at least. his fingers wrap around your wrist, tight. bruising tight. he presses you into the wall, "so don't lie to me now." his face is inches from yours. you can see blood on his collarbone. dried, not yours—not yet.

"you're scared," he whispers, voice softer now—too soft. mocking. "but you're still looking at me." his grip doesn't loosen and his body crowds yours. his other hand comes up, brushing your jaw, then sliding lower, pressing lightly at the base of your throat.

your breath stutters. "you're lying," he says again, almost lovingly. "but your body remembers me." his hand is still at your throat, not squeezing. but the weight of it is a warning. "say it," he murmurs. "say you didn't feel anything. lie to my face again."

your heart is pounding so loud you can barely think. your whole body is tensed—wired for flight, though you know there's nowhere to go. not like this, not with him so close.

"jungwon..." you try. "please. you're scaring me." his expression twitches, he blinks. then slowly, his hand drops. but the pressure in the room doesn't. "scared?" he echoes, voice tight. "of me?" you nod, breath hitching as you look at him with caution.

"good."

he doesn't move for a long moment. just stands there too still, too quiet—like the air before a building collapses. then he turns away and your breath starts to come back. just slightly, like maybe he's leaving. but then you hear it, his chainsaw arm erupts with a wet, mechanical roar. the sound is inhuman and deafening—like bone grinding against steel, metal tearing from muscle.

you scream when jungwon slams it into your kitchen wall. the entire cabinet explodes in splinters. wood and tile crash to the floor in pieces, your dishes shattering like glass bombs. the wall crumbles halfway inward, revealing the hollow space between drywall and insulation.

he doesn't even flinch. "i didn't want to scare you," he says, low. "i wanted to protect you." he rips the blade free and the whine cuts out. blood sprays across his shoulder—not yours. he turns around slowly, breathing hard, skin flecked with debris. his voice is shaking now, like he's losing control, "i killed for you. i came back for you."

"do you know how many devils i could've gutted instead of sitting outside your building every night, just to make sure nothing touched you?" your throat locks at his confession. he steps closer again, no blade this time—just him.

"and you're scared because i came in the window?" his eyes are wild now—not fully devil, but not fully human either. something in between. something ruined.

"you should be grateful."

you try to move, to slide away from him, but he grabs your arm and slams you back into the wall. your head spins. not from the force but from the rage in him, the heat. his face is close again, not tender this time—unhinged.

"you think anyone else would survive seeing what i really am?" he hisses. "you think anyone else could stand in front of me, still breathing, still beautiful, and not end up in pieces?"

"no one else gets this," he breathes, almost reverent. "but you do. i saw it in you. i felt it." his hand trails down your side, slow and heavy—the weight of it not fully threatening, but not right either. not safe, it makes your skin crawl. "you smiled," he whispers. "you gave me something."

he presses his forehead to yours, teeth gritted. "and i'm not letting it go." his voice is trembling now—with fury, with hunger, with something darker. "so run, scream, cry, whatever you need. but you're not getting away."

you can feel it now, not just the obsession. but the need. violent. desperate. terminal.he doesn't see you as a person anymore. you're a purpose—a prize. a promise he's decided belongs to him.

"you're mine," he says finally. "you just don't know it yet."

⛧⃝

you can feel him watching you. all morning, it's like your skin is too tight. like your body knows something you're trying to ignore. you nearly drop 3 orders. keep checking the café windows like a girl being hunted—because you are.

and finally, around noon, you see him. standing across the street. still. expressionless. face half in shadow beneath his hoodie. not moving, not blinking—just staring. you freeze mid-pour, the milk spilling over the lip of the cup.

"hey...you okay?" your manager, seoyun, glances at you, eyebrows knit. she's young, sharp, not someone who misses things.

you swallow hard, "yeah. yeah, i'm—" but you glance back toward the window. jungwon's still there, like he never left last night—like he just waited. you lean closer to seoyun, voice low. "can i tell you something? and you promise not to freak out?" seoyun blinks, "...sure."

"you know that guy who saved me? when the devil attacked the other day?" seoyun nodded carefully, still confused, "the one with the chainsaw arm?" you nod, "his name's jungwon." her brows lift, "okay?"

"he's been following me. i woke up and he was in my apartment." she stiffens immediately, "what the fuck."

"he said i smiled at him. that i made him feel human. now he... he won't stop showing up," you feel sick saying it out loud. like giving it breath will make it worse, make him hear you somehow. "do you want me to go out there?" she offers. "i'll tell him to back off."

"no—!" you grab her arm, panic rising in your throat. "don't go near him. he's not like normal people, seoyun. i don't know what he'd do." you couldn't risk your bosses life, you knew what jungwon was capable of.

she stares at you for a long moment then nods. "i'll walk you home tonight. he tries anything, i'll scream bloody murder." you nod, then continue on with your shift—trying to ignore the blonde boy who followed your every move from outside.

he follows the whole walk. never close enough to touch you but never far enough to feel safe. you don't look at him once, but you feel him—across the street, pacing your steps, his gaze like heat at the base of your spine.

seoyun doesn't say anything. she just walks beside you, phone gripped tight in one hand. at your door, you fumble with your keys. "you gonna be okay?" she whispers, her brows furrowing with concern. "i'll text you," you say. "just... don't talk to him. promise me."

she nods, "lock your windows this time, dumbass." they are..bolted down.

you laugh a little, your eye twitching. but your stomach's still twisting as you watch her walk away. jungwon doesn't follow, he just stands there. across the street, backlit by the streetlamp—not moving.

you close your door, lock it. deadbolt it. pull the curtains tight. you try to breathe but your heartbeat dulls in your chest. the next thing on your mind besides your safety was a steaming hot shower.

the heat fogs up the mirror, the hiss of water drowns out the city. for a minute, you almost feel normal. and then you hear it, the wet sound of metal grinding. flesh splitting. bone tearing. a mechanical rev like a scream from inside the walls.

you freeze. you barely have time to grab a towel when the lights go out. the door to the bathroom creaks, you grab the edge of the sink to stay upright. he's here.

"you really let someone walk you home?" his voice is low, too calm. "you let her touch you. talk to you. stand between us," the door groans open. he's a silhouette in the steam—broad shoulders, soaked hoodie, a jagged red glow from the chainsaw arm humming low by his side. blood drips from the blade onto your floor. your heart drops at the sight, the blood looked fresh.

"you think that's okay?" he steps closer. you step back,"jungwon, don't—" "i told you," he snarls, "you don't lie to me. you don't hide from me." he had a crazed look in his eye, a look you had only seen when he was slicing through the demon when you had initially first met him

"i saw you," he breathes. "i claimed you. and now you're pretending like you're scared? like you didn't give yourself to me that day with just one smile?" he lunges at you. you gasp as he slams you back into the tiled wall, water still running, towel barely clinging to your body. the chainsaw arm doesn't touch you, but it's close—humming by your shoulder, hot and slick with blood.

his other hand grabs your jaw, "you're mine," he growls. "say it." "no—" his eyes flash and the chainsaw kicks up with a roar. you scream when he slams it into the floor beside you. tiles explodes, the blade missing your foot by mere inches.

"say it," he hisses. "or next time, i don't miss." you're shaking. you can feel the blood heat on your skin, the vibrating metal, the weight of his body pinning you in. his eyes are wild, mouth curled into a snarl—not because he wants to hurt you, but because he needs you. needs to own you. and every second you deny him, it eats him alive.

"say it," he breathes, leaning in. "say you're mine and i'll make the rest of the world disappear." you say it, you don't mean it. but you say it, "i'm yours." and jungwon—drenched in blood, blade humming inches from your skin, just stops.

his hand loosens around your jaw. the chainsaw groans once, then shuts down, the sharp teeth sinking back into his skin with a sickening crunch. you watch as the flesh heals over, smooth again like it never happened—like he was normal.

he looks at you, breathing hard. wild. then...he smiles. and it's worse than the blade, because it's soft, gentle. like he thinks this is love, "i knew you'd come around," he murmurs, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. "i knew you were just scared."

you don't answer, you can't. your whole body is frozen—not from fear now, but from the realization that you've passed some kind of line. that there's no going back. he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. it's warm and your stomach turns. "go dry off," he says. "i'll clean up." you do. not because you trust him—but because you're scared of what he'll do if you don't.

when you come out in an oversized shirt, the mess is gone. the blood on the floor, the shattered tile—gone. like it never happened. jungwon is in your kitchen, his shirt off. back turned, casually eating one of your apples, his chainsaw arm completely gone now, like it was a dream.

"i threw out your coffee," he says, like he lives here. "you drink too much of it. not good for your nerves." your throat tightens, "you need to leave."

he turns around, smiles again, "i just got here." he walks past you, slow and confident, already settled—and drops onto your couch like it belongs to him. "you can take the bed tonight. i'll stay here." you blink owlishly, "you're— staying?"

"of course," he says, like it's obvious. "you said you're mine. that means you're safe now. no devils. no one else. just me." you stare at him as he's making himself at home.

pulling his hoodie off. throwing his boots by your door. opening your fridge like it's his. your skin crawls, but you nod. "okay," you whisper. "just tonight." he watches you, his eyes narrow slightly. then softens again. "you'll come around," he says. "i know you will."

you turn, heart pounding, and walk to your room. you shut the door. lock it, as if that'll do anything. you sit on the edge of your bed and cry silently, hands over your mouth, too afraid to let the sound slip through.

outside, jungwon hums to himself. the floor creaks as he walks back and forth. at some point, you hear him in the hallway. opening the linen closet. the bathroom. checking every room. making sure nothing else lives here but him. he stops at your door, your breath catches.

tap. tap. tap.

his knuckle against the wood. "goodnight," he says softly. "you're mine now. you don't have to be scared anymore."

the next morning, your apartment is quieter than it's ever been—too quiet. you wake up and immediately check your bedroom door. it's unlocked. you're sure you locked it. you step out slowly, heart pounding in your throat—and stop.

your living room is clean, too clean. like it's been rearranged. your favorite blanket is gone, your books are stacked neatly in color order, two of your framed pictures are missing. you find jungwon in your kitchen again. he's making eggs.

"morning," he says, without turning. "your knives were dull. i sharpened them." he slides a plate in front of you and smiles. you sit down slowly, he sits too—across from you. he doesn't eat, just watches you. like it makes him feel full. "where's my blanket?"

"it smelled like someone else," he says simply. "i burned it." you stare at him as blankly as you could, afraid that if you showed to much he'd lash out. he cocks his head, "you don't need it. you have me."

you open your mouth and then close it. your throat's dry. you try to focus on your plate. you need to get through breakfast, keep him calm.

but then your phone rings, a soft vibration on the table. you reach for it but he grabs your wrist mid-air. gently but firm.

"don't."

you peer down to see the name on the screen, a sigh of relief escaping your parted lips, "it's just seoyun—" "you don't need to talk to her," his voice stays calm and level. but there's something else under it, something dangerous. he looks you in the eyes, "you're not hers. you're mine."

you swallow hard, "jungwon..." he lets go of your wrist. then picks up your phone, stares at it for a second and drops it into your full coffee mug.

it sinks. the screen sparks once and goes black. "i'll get you a new one," he says. "you don't need distractions right now." you stare at the cup, black coffee rising around the ruined screen.

"what if i need to call someone?" your mouth moves before you realize. he raises an eyebrow, "why would you?" you feel it, the panic building in your chest. the slow horror of how normal he's making this feel.

you stand, too fast, "i'm going to shower." he nods, "leave the door open." you pause, stare at him like he was crazy. which, he was. "what?" "just a crack," he says, smiling. "so i know you're safe."

you don't argue, you go to the bathroom. close the door, but you don't lock it. you don't dare. when you get out, one of your favorite hoodies is missing from the hook. you find it later—folded neatly in jungwon's bag.

the next day, you notice more things gone. a pair of heels you wore once on a date. your perfumes, a small photo of you and your old coworker—who happened to be a guy. that's gone too.

jungwon's in your bed that night, curled up beside you like it's the most normal thing in the world. he's warm, his arm drapes over your stomach like a belt. you're stiff, staring at the ceiling, too afraid to move.

"you're softer when you sleep," he whispers, breath warm against your neck. "like you're not fighting me anymore." you shut your eyes tight and he pulls you closer. "i know you're scared," he murmurs. "but i'm going to take care of you. even if you hate me for it."

you don't respond and he presses a kiss to your shoulder, "you'll learn to love me. i'll make sure of it."

the next morning, he makes you breakfast again. you find your closet rearranged, the tighter dresses folded at the back and the sweatpants you love? gone.

"you look best in soft things," jungwon says, brushing your hair back. "like someone i want to keep." you ask him to leave, "just for a day. i need space." he smiles calmly, the same smile that caused shivers to run down your spine. "why would you need space from the person who loves you the most?"

you push, you say you want time to think. his expression shifts and for just a second, the smile falls. his jaw tenses and his eyes go cold. but then—he laughs. "okay," he says. "i understand."

"really?" you look at him dumbfounded. "of course. take all the time you need." he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple. "just don't be mad when i come back." you don't breathe until he's gone. you rush to the door, you try the locks—they don't budge. you mentally curse yourself for having bolted down windows at this point. you check under the sink for your emergency phone—it's gone.

and then you hear it. a low, grinding rev. metal screaming and flesh tearing. you run to the hallway and stop dead. the door to your apartment is now marked. deep, jagged gouges— a chainsaw blade dragged in a heart shape across the wood.

inside the heart? one word, carved clean through.

MINE.

⛧⃝

you wait until he's asleep. his back rises and falls steadily beside you with one arm tossed around your waist, face buried in your neck like you're some stuffed animal he can't let go of.

you hold your breath. slowly, gently, you slide out from under his arm. his fingers twitch, but he doesn't wake. you slip into the hallway and grab your shoes. your heart pounds like it's trying to break out of your chest. you're halfway to the stairwell when you hear it. click.

a soft sound, your bedroom door opening. "baby?" your blood freezes. his voice is low. hoarse from sleep. confused.

BRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMM.

the chainsaw roars to life behind you. you run. barefoot. down the stairs, through the lobby— slamming the building door open so hard the hinges scream. you don't stop. you run into the street, across the empty road, into the alley behind the café. panting. crying. shaking.

you hide behind the dumpster with your hands over your mouth. the smell makes you gag, but you don't care. anything to stay hidden. then you hear it, slow footsteps. not running. not chasing.

just coming, "you're faster than i thought."

you squeeze your eyes shut, his voice is closer now. "but you really thought you could run away from me?" the chainsaw hums. so much louder out here, so much louder when it's not a dream. "i forgave a lot, you know," his tone is soft. eerily calm. "you were mean to me. ignored me. locked me out. but i still protected you. still stayed. because i love you."

you don't move, you don't breathe. "and now you're out here... in the dark... like prey." you flinch when he stops walking, right on the other side of the dumpster. you see his boots, splattered with old blood. "so," he says, chainsaw purring. "do you wanna come home like a good girl?"

silence.

"or do i have to drag you?"

you start crying, soft—silent. but he hears it, of course he does. he steps around the dumpster fast and grabs you by the wrist. you scream, but it's cut off as he pins you to the wall.

"you said you were mine," his face is right there. eyes glowing in the moonlight. hair wild. the chainsaw still buzzing at his side. "you lied to me." "jungwon—" "no," he snarls. "you don't get to say my name like that after running." you try to push him off but he presses his body into yours— not to hurt. but to hold, to trap.

his mouth grazes your ear, "say it again." you look up at him with glossy eyes, confusion swirling through them, "w-what—" "say you're mine." you hesitate, he lifts the chainsaw and lets it rest just beside your cheek. not cutting, not yet. but close enough to smell the metal.

"say it," he whispers. "i'm—i'm yours," you stutter back, your chest heaving heavily as you break eye contact with him. he exhales, you could feel his grip on your poor wrist loosen. the blade shuts off, the weight of it disappears from your face.

he presses a kiss to your lips, soft. sickeningly sweet. "good girl."

he brings you home.

your knees scrape the concrete as he walks you backwards the whole way—never taking his eyes off you. never letting you fall too far behind. he carries you up the stairs and sets you gently on your bed. pulls the blanket over you like a lullaby, his voice is low—affectionate. "you don't run again," his voice is low with warning but his face remains sweet. "o-okay..." he kisses your forehead, "not ever."

"you don't need anything else but me," he lies down beside you again, arms tight around your waist. you don't sleep, you can't. you just stare at the wall, breathing slow—pretending. pretending this is love, pretending you chose this.

you learn quickly, how to smile when he walks in. how to eat every bite of breakfast, even when your stomach turns. how to say "thank you, wonnie," like you mean it. he lights up every time, like you're the sun.

like nothing else matters, "see?" he says, wiping your mouth gently after breakfast one morning. "you're perfect when you listen." you smile but your hands shake under the table.

he leans in and kisses your cheek, "i knew you just needed time." you nod and he leaves your room for a few minutes. you finally breathe, you're surviving. you're obeying. you don't ask about your phone. you don't ask to go outside. you don't bring up your missing manager, or the way jungwon keeps your blinds drawn at all times.

you play your part. his perfect girl. because you're going to get out, eventually.

he brings you a new hoodie one night, your favorite color. "i bought it for you," he says, holding it out. "wanted you to have something soft again." you take it with a small smile, "thank you, wonnie."

he beams, "see? we're so good like this. no lies. no running." you nod and let him kiss you. soft. slow. like he's not the same boy who held a chainsaw to your face. his hand grazes your thigh and you freeze up. "i've been patient," he murmurs, voice dipped in honey. "but you know i want more than just cuddles."

you tense, he notices. but smiles like he doesn't. "don't worry," he says, brushing your hair back. "i won't take anything you're not ready to give." you let out a small breath of air you didn't know you were holding, "...okay."

"but if you ever lie again... if you ever try to leave me..." his hand tightens on your leg and his eyes darken. "i won't be gentle." he doesn't say how, he doesn't need to.

days pass, you shower with the door cracked. eat every meal he gives you. you sit on the couch while he lies with his head in your lap, fingers curling around your wrist like a leash. sometimes he talks about normal things like his childhood. the first devil he killed and how lonely he was before he found you.

"they only ever wanted the chainsaw," he says, eyes flicking to you. "not me." you stay quiet, listening to him intently. "but you smiled at me. before you knew what i was." he leans in, "you saw me."

you wonder what would've happened if you hadn't. if you'd just screamed like anyone else. would he have let you go? or would he have chased you anyway?

"you were mine the second i saw you," he whispers. "you just didn't know it yet.”

⛧⃝

you find a cracked tile in the kitchen and behind it, tucked into the wall—your emergency phone. hidden and dead, but there. you tuck it in your hoodie pocket when he's not looking. and you smile a little wider the next time he brings you tea. you're getting closer.

"you're different now," jungwon says one night, curled beside you in bed. "calmer. softer. like you were meant to be mine." you press your face into his chest, his heart is steady. but you feel it beneath the surface—the storm always ready to break.

"i think we should go away," he says softly. "somewhere quiet. just us. no one else." your breath hitches, dread filling you instantly, "wonnie—" "someplace with no devils. no people. no café. just you and me." he strokes your cheek lovingly, "you'd like that, right?"

you nod, slow and obedient. his grip on you tightens, "say it." you whimper, his hold on you becoming increasingly stronger, "i'd like that." he grins, "say you want to be mine forever."

"i want to be yours forever." he kisses you and somewhere deep inside, you start to wonder if this is your life now. if pretending long enough becomes real. if loving your captor ever stops feeling like pretending.

⛧⃝

you should've hidden it better.

you knew the moment he walked in—the air around him colder, thicker, like it held its breath the second he did. he doesn't speak, not right away. he just stands in the doorway, one hand clenched at his side, the other holding something loose and familiar by the cord.

your phone, dead—cracked. but found.

"baby," his voice is even, quiet. like someone controlling their rage just enough not to shatter the walls. "is this yours?" your mouth goes dry, you don't answer. you don't need to, he already knows. "i asked you a question."

"...it was just—i didn't use it, i swear—" he throws it, hard. it hits the wall beside your head, plastic bursting into shards that scatter across the floor.

you flinch, he doesn't like that. "you lied to me." he stalks toward you, you back up. "you smiled in my face. you said all the right things. you fucking cuddled me," he snarls, his persona shifting rapidly. "wonnie, please—" he grabs your arm and yanks you forward. "i gave you everything. i let you live. and this is what you do?"

"i wasn't going to leave—" you begin. "—you were planning it." he throws you onto the couch, your back hits the cushions hard. your head whips back from the force. he's on you in an instant— knee between your thighs, hand around your throat. not tight, yet.

"you think this is a game?" he breathes. "you think i won't hurt you?" his smile is gone, the softness is gone, all that's left is heat. sharp and cracked and pulsing behind his eyes like a storm about to explode.

"you promised," he hisses, dragging his chainsaw across the carpet behind him, metal teeth glinting. "you told me you were mine."

"i—I am—" you cry out. "then act like it," his grip tightens on your throat. just enough to remind you who's in control. just enough to make your vision swim. "if you lie to me again," he whispers, lips brushing your ear, "i'll cut your legs off."

you choke, his thumb caresses your cheek like he's trying to soothe you—like he didn't just threaten to cripple you.

"then you won't be able to run," he presses a soft kiss beneath your eye. your tears catch on his lips. "you'll still be pretty," he murmurs softly, his eyes running down your face as tears spill from your eyes like a faucet. "and i'll carry you everywhere. like a doll. my little pet."

he releases your throat. you gasp, broken—and curl into yourself. he kneels down and brushes your hair back. "do you understand now?" you nod. "say it," he grits, his mouth pulled into a soft smile. "i—I understand."

"say you're sorry," his dimples appear, his fingers threading into your hair like a threat. "i'm sorry, wonnie." you swallow harshly, "say you'll never lie again."

"i'll never lie again." he kisses your forehead, smiling genuinely now. soft again, like none of it happened. "good girl," and with that he pulls you into his lap and rocks you slowly. like you're just scared, like he's the one keeping you safe.

you don't eat that night and he doesn't make you. you lie in bed, numb—while he watches you, brushing your hair behind your ear like you're still his favorite thing. you close your eyes, not to sleep but to disappear.

you wake up to sunlight and soft sheets, and jungwon. already awake, already watching you. "you slept so long," he says, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. "you looked peaceful." you nod, you don't feel peaceful. your body still remembers the bruising grip of his hand around your throat and the weight of the chainsaw across your floor.

but you smile. because that's what he wants, he beams back. "you've been so good lately." he kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. lingering.

"i was thinking..." he murmurs, kissing your jaw now, trailing down your neck. "maybe we're ready for more." your breath stutters, he pauses. "i'm not asking for much," he whispers. "just a little more. just... let me touch you." you freeze, "wonnie..."

"you trust me, don't you?" you nod. his hand slides beneath your shirt, palm warm against your stomach. he doesn't go further. just stays there, thumb brushing softly. "see?" he breathes."you're okay. you're doing so well." you want to push him off. but he's smiling again, glowing like the sun.

"you don't have to do anything," he says, lips grazing your ear. "but you want to make me happy, right?" you nod again, your mind racing. "then just let me hold you. touch you a little. i've been so good, haven't i?"

his hands roam—slow and restrained like he's controlling himself. like he's earning this, and you let him. because you don't know what happens if you don't.

he takes you into the kitchen later, arms still around your waist like a leash in disguise. "you look so pretty when you let me take care of you," he says, kissing your shoulder. "you're finally acting like mine."

you try not to flinch when he says it, you try not to cry. "you want to wear something cute for me today?" he asks, digging through one of the bags he brought home. "i got you new pajamas. soft ones. you'll like them." you nod carefully, because it's easier than saying no. because maybe if you give him this, he won't take more.

but he always wants more. at night, he pulls you into bed. spooning you from behind, face buried in your neck. you could feel him, feel him push into you his hands explore again but softer this time, tracing your ribs, your hips.

his voice low and warm, "i think about you all the time," he whispers into your ear, his cool breath fanning the shell of your ear. "even when i'm out killing devils, i think about you. about how warm you are. how soft you sound when you say my name."

you don't say anything. "you make me feel human," he murmurs."no one's ever made me feel like that before." his hand dips beneath your waistband and you tense.

"wonnie—" he stills. "...it's okay," he says, voice gentle again. "i told you. i won't do anything you don't want." he kisses your shoulder and withdraws his hand. you let out a small breath, your eyes shutting in relief.

but his breath is heavier now, his chest rising faster against your back. "soon, though," he whispers. "you'll want it. i know you will." his arms tighten around you, "because i love you. and no one will ever love you like i do."

you sleep like that—caged in his arms, heart racing and you wonder how long you can keep this up before your own body betrays you.

because he's careful, he's patient and he's so good at making you feel safe right before he breaks you again.

⛧⃝

you've barely spoken all morning, you keep your head down and your answers short. you keep your distance, well, as much as you can when you're trapped in a small apartment with someone who watches you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

you feel it building. the way his jaw twitches when you look away too long. the way he starts pacing, slow and controlled. and when you finally say the words. soft, trembling, like a match against gasoline, "i need some space, wonnie."

everything ignites.

"space?" his voice cracks like a whip. "what the fuck does that mean?" you step back but he follows. "after everything? after i saved you? after i've been patient and sweet and, fuck—soft with you?" you try to explain, voice small, "i just—i need to clear my head, that's all. just a day or two—"

"you don't get a day or two," he slams his hand into the wall beside your head. not touching you—but close enough to make your ears ring. enough to make your heart stop. "you don't get to push me away. not after how hard i've tried. not after how good i've been." his eyes are wild and glassy. he's breathing hard.

"you smiled at me," he says, broken. "you kissed me. you told me i made you feel safe." you don't know what to say. because you meant it, initially. you just didn't mean for it to become this. "you made me hope," he whispers, a sharp kind of pain in his voice. "you made me think you loved me."

"i—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" he cuts you off, "you did." he grabs your shoulders—hard and pulls you close, forehead pressed to yours. "don't make me beg, baby," his voice drops, desperate. "don't make me fucking beg you to stay."

you feel his body shake, you're not sure if it's from rage or heartbreak. maybe both. his lips brush yours, "say you love me," he whispers. you hesitate, just for a second. his hands tighten, "say it."

"i love you," you breathe, barely audible. his whole body stills, then softens. he exhales like he's been holding his breath for years. "there's my girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "i knew you didn't mean it. i knew you were just scared."

he lifts you—literally picks you up and carries you to the bedroom like he's claiming what's his. "you don't need space," he says, laying you down. "you need me." he kisses you, slow and deep and wrong. his hands slide under your shirt again. but this time, you don't stop him—you can't. because you saw it, the split-second flicker behind his eyes.

the one that said: if you leave, i'll burn the whole world down.

⛧⃝

you wake up before him, you think. jungwon's arm is around your waist, heavy and warm. his breath tickles the back of your neck. you stay still for a moment, heart pounding.

then you slowly slip out of bed, he doesn't move.

you crush the sleeping pills into powder and stir them into the yogurt he left out for you. he always makes your breakfast now, always waits for you to eat the whole thing while he watches.

but today, you insist he eat it instead.

"you're always taking care of me," you say with a soft smile. "just let me take care of you for once, okay?" he melts and kisses your hand. "you're getting so sweet," he whispers lovestruck.

he finishes it all and now you wait. you watch the weight of sleep start to drag down his eyes. and when he slumps forward on the couch, arms loose, breathing heavy—you run.

you don't bring your broken and smashed up phone. don't bring clothes. you don't even grab your shoes. you just run barefoot, wild, breath sharp in your chest—through streets that still smell like blood and ash.

you don't know where you're going, you just know you have to be gone. but somewhere, hours later, in a small alley behind the metro station— you stop.

because it was too easy, you look behind you and feel sick. because there's no way jungwon would let you go that easily. he should've woken up. should've chased you.

you feel the shift before you see him, the air goes still—cold. and then: "you crushed the pills too fine." his voice is behind you, calm. close. "slipped into the yogurt perfectly though. smart girl." you turn and you see him leaning against the wall like he's been there all day. no chainsaw, no blood. just that same soft hoodie and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"i wanted to see where you'd go," he says softly. "who you'd run to." he steps closer, you step back. "but you didn't call anyone," he laughs. "you didn't have a plan."

he tilts his head, staring down at you with an unreadable expression, "you just... ran." you say nothing and he smiles. "i should be mad," he moves closer again, voice lower now. "but honestly, it just makes me love you more." his hands slide into his pockets, "i mean, you didn't even really want to leave, did you?" he cocks his head to the side, "you're scared. confused. but deep down, you know you belong with me."

your throat feels tight, "why are you here?" you whisper. "because you're mine," he shrugs. "and i figured i'd give you a head start. make it feel real." you feel yourself shake as you watch jungwon straighten up his posture, "but you're done now."

he closes the distance completely and presses his forehead to yours, "game's over, baby." you don't remember the walk back but you remember the pressure of his hand wrapped around your wrist. you remember the silence, tight and eerie—as jungwon guided you home like you were sleepwalking.

no yelling, no chainsaw. just a soft, lingering disappointment that cut deeper than violence ever could. "i gave you everything," he murmured once, almost to himself. "and you still ran."

back inside, the world feels smaller. every corner watched and every door locked. he sits you on the edge of the bed like a doll, crouches in front of you with his hands on your knees.

"it's okay," he says, almost as if he was trying to sympathize with you. "you're scared. i get it." he cups your cheek with aching tenderness. "you don't trust yourself yet. but i do. i always have." you stay still, silent.

his smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore, "so i'm going to help you," he whispers. "from now on, no more decisions, okay?" his hands slide down to your thighs, thumbs stroking softly. "you don't need to think anymore."

"i'll think for you."

he's not gentle that night. not with his kisses, not with his grip, not with his touch. he doesn't force you, never crosses that final line, but he doesn't ask either. he undresses you slowly, holds you down like a possession being reclaimed.

"you're mine," he says into your skin. "and i'm going to make sure you remember that." he kisses your stomach, your hips. then dips a brush into black ink and paints his name in neat hangul letters just above your heart.

"jungwon," he says, smiling like it's a wedding vow. "belongs to." he stares at it for a long time, then at you. "i'll do it permanently soon," he whispers.

"carve it if i have to."

the next morning, your phone is gone. your shoes are gone. "just until you stop panicking," jungwon explains while brushing your hair. "you'll thank me later." you don't speak, you don't dare look at him in the eyes.

"you're doing so well," he says sweetly, his voice chirpy. "you're already so much more obedient." he kisses your shoulder, "soon you won't even want to leave." and somehow, that's what scares you the most. you wake up in his bed again, it was no longer yours. but this time, the warmth is gone. the sheets are tucked tighter and jungwon is sitting in the corner of the room—watching.

his eyes are soft, his smile is small but something in the air has shifted. you know he's not going to ask anymore. "did you sleep well?" he says softly, you nod. your throat is dry and the feeling of dread consumes you slowly. "good," he murmurs, standing slowly. "because we're starting over now."

he walks toward you with slow, steady steps. "the way i see it..." he sits beside you, brushing hair behind your ear, "you weren't ready to make decisions. so i'm taking that pressure off you." he leans in, "you don't need to think anymore," he smiles at you, like he was making your life easier. "you don't need to want anything. i'll do all that for you."

you feel the weight of it settle in your chest like stone, but you nod.

he doesn't leave the house that day. or the day after. he cooks for you, feeds you, bathes you— always watching. the door stays locked, your phone is gone and the television plays static or nothing at all. every time you hesitate, he tilts his head and says: "are you forgetting what happened when i let you choose?"

and every time, you swallow your pride and obey.

on the third day, you cry. quietly, in the bathroom, with the sink running, he knocks once. "are you done?" his voice had began to suffocate you. "or do you need me to come help?" you wipe your face and open the door. he kisses your temple like you've done something good. "see? progress."

at night, he holds you like you're his peace. arms wrapped tight, breath steady on the back of your neck. "i forgive you, you know," he whispers. "for trying to run." you stay still, you stay quiet. "but you'll never get that chance again," he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "next time you try to leave, i won't be this gentle."

you stop counting the days. at first, it was just survival—getting through one morning, one meal, one long, quiet night curled up in jungwon's arms like a prisoner pretending she wants to be held. but soon, it gets harder to remember how long it's been.

the clocks have disappeared from the walls and jungwon's answers when you ask what time it is, what day it is— always come with a soft smile. "does it matter?" he'd say. "you're safe now. that's all you need to know."

he brings home clothes for you now. long skirts. soft sweaters, white lace trimmed with ribbons. you'd flush a deep red when you'd discover the lacy and raunchy undergarments you'd find at the bottom of the bags.

"you look better like this," he murmurs as he zips one dress up slowly behind you. "like you're already mine." he takes your picture, just one and prints it and pins it to the fridge. "our beginning," he whispers. "the real one."

you don't ask what that means but he keeps calling this the start of something. keeps saying you're going to be so happy soon.

he cooks every meal himself, won't let you touch the knives. won't let you wash dishes, he says the soap dries out your hands. you sit at the table and eat the food he plates for you, always arranged into little shapes—hearts, stars, flowers made from rice or sliced fruit.

"i want everything around you to be soft," he tells you one afternoon. "no more sharp things. no more running." his hand comes down gently on your thigh. "you don't need the outside world. you don't even like it out there, do you?"

you hesitate, his grip tightens slightly. "do you?" his voice carried a warning. "...no," you say. he smiles, "good girl."

at night, he talks about the future. his voice is warm, sweet, dangerous. "we'll get married soon," he says, fingers playing with yours beneath the covers. "it doesn't have to be legal. just real. just ours."

"i can fix up the spare room. make it a nursery, maybe. or just a space for you to paint. you like painting, right?" you don't answer, you're not sure anymore. "and when you're ready..." he leans in closer, breath fanning over your cheek, "i want to give you a baby."

you flinch but he doesn't react.

"you'd be so good at it," he murmurs. "i'll take care of everything. you won't have to lift a finger." he continues, "you'll never have to be afraid again."

you try to keep track of your thoughts. you write on napkins and hide them under the mattress. little scraps of memory: my name is __ he has a chainsaw. no. he is the chainsaw i don't want to be here not safe but by the next morning, they're gone and jungwon is extra affectionate that day. "you were talking in your sleep again," he says while brushing your hair. "sounded like you were having a nightmare."

his hand cups the back of your neck, "i got rid of it for you." you nod, because what else can you do?

one night, after a particularly quiet dinner, he asks if you're feeling okay. you nod, he studies you. "you're not lying to me, right?" he asks, his brows scrunching in concern. "you'd tell me if something was wrong?" you hesitate for half a second too long and just like that, the softness slips. he grabs your chin, not hard, but enough to make you freeze.

"i need to know you're happy," he whispers, voice trembling with something sharp and volatile beneath it. "because if you're not, then i must be doing something wrong. and i can't—i won't fail you again."

his pupils are blown wide, his breath stutters. his hand shakes slightly as he releases you. "...say you're happy." you swallow the lump in your throat, "i'm happy."

he exhales like he just pulled you back from a cliff. he pulls you into his lap and holds you tight. "see? i knew you'd feel it eventually."he presses a kiss to the side of your head, "we're just getting started."

it starts small, a hand on your thigh when he's reading beside you. a kiss on your shoulder before bed, lips lingering longer than before. fingers brushing the curve of your spine when he helps you change clothes.

"you're so soft," he whispers one morning, hand tracing your bare leg under the blanket. "i never get tired of touching you." you stay still, your eyes on the ceiling.

he doesn't go further, well, not yet.but the weight of his desire hangs heavy in the air now. like heat in a locked room with no windows.

he lets you bathe alone for the first time in days. but when you come out, towel wrapped tightly around yourself, he's standing in the doorway with a folded nightgown and a smile. "you forgot your clothes," he says sweetly.

you take the time to look at him, blonde fluffy hair, porcelain skin, dimples, a warm smile and doe eyes. if things were different and he wasn't a delusional psychopath then maybe jungwon would've been your dream man. however, he is a delusional psychopath and this is a nightmare.

"you must've been distracted," he cooed softly. you try to take the gown from him, but he steps in close. slowly, carefully—he starts dressing you himself. like you're porcelain, like you'll shatter if he moves too fast. his fingers graze your bare skin, your collarbones, your hips.

he doesn't touch where he shouldn't, but he touches everywhere else. "you're so good for me now," he murmurs. "so quiet. so calm. i can feel it...you're finally starting to love me." you open your mouth—to object, maybe. or scream. cry.

but nothing comes out and jungwon just smiles. "that's okay. you don't have to say it. i already know."

that night, he holds you closer. one arm locked around your waist, the other trailing slow circles over your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your chest through your shirt.

"this is mine," he says softly, his fingertip dancing right over your chest. "every part of you is mine." you flinch when he presses a kiss just below your ear—gentle, reverent. but he doesn't stop.

"i could make you feel so good," he breathes. "you don't even have to do anything. just... let me." his hand slips beneath your shirt, warmer now. firmer. but still slow, still soft. he's waiting for a word, maybe a sound—anything.

and when you don't give it, he pauses. just for a second. "not yet?" he says, like he's disappointed in himself. "that's okay. i can wait. i'll wait forever if i have to." he nuzzles into your hair, kissing the back of your neck. "but one day," he murmurs, voice lower now—dangerous. "you're going to want it."

the next morning, you wake up to find he's changed all the sheets. the house smells like vanilla and warmth. breakfast is waiting with your favorite drink sitting by your plate.

"i want today to be special," he says, glee present on his handsome face. "you've been so good lately." you force a smile, but your hands shake when you hold the glass. you know what's coming, you can feel it.

he's not going to stop until you say yes. and you're starting to wonder what will happen when you finally do.

the day turns out to be quiet, something you weren't expecting—but you weren't complaining.

no chainsaw noises from the basement. no news playing in the background. no scraping of locks or clattering of breakfast dishes.

just silence.

and the faint scent of jasmine in the hallway. you step out of the bedroom cautiously, bare feet on the cold wood floor. the apartment is different, candles line the floor, flickering soft gold. petals—real, crushed, pink and red are scattered like breadcrumbs from your room to the living room.

and in the center of it all—jungwon. in a clean white shirt, hair brushed, lips pink. smiling at you like you're the sun returning after years of rain.

"happy honeymoon," he says gently.

you don't answer. you just stand there, frozen, trying to make sense of what's real. "i know it's silly," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, "but i wanted to do something special. you've been so good for me. i wanted to thank you."

he walks over slowly, reaching for your hand. you let him take it, because what else is there to do? "sit down," he murmurs. "let me take care of everything tonight."

he serves you dinner at the table. pasta—your favourite, garlic bread, wine and dessert. you don't ask how he got it all and you don't dare ask if it's drugged. you just eat and he watches with stars in his eyes.

"this is what i always wanted," he says. "just us. no fear. no noise. no one getting in the way." he reaches across the table and laces his fingers through yours. "don't you feel it now?" he asks softly. "how good we could be, if you stopped pretending you didn't want me?"

your throat closes. he's still smiling—but it's tighter now. thinner. "i know you want me," he says again, a strange look on his face. "you've always wanted me." his hand slides over your knuckles, slow and steady."even when i scare you. even when i hurt people for you. even when you try to run."

"you always come back."

you want to pull away, but he's already standing. "don't worry," he whispers, bending down behind your chair. "i won't rush you." his hands slip onto your shoulders and his lips find your neck. you freeze. "you're mine," he murmurs against your skin. "every piece of you. and tonight, i want to show you what that means."

you don't remember how you get to the bedroom. but suddenly you're there—lights low, sheets fresh, jungwon kneeling at the foot of the bed. "take this off for me?" he whispers, brushing your shirt. "please?" you hesitate, he tilts his head.

"i said please," he repeats. "don't make me beg." his voice is still soft—still velvet. but there's something under it now, something sharp and heavy and impatient. you reach for the hem of your shirt with shaking fingers, he watches every movement like it's holy.

"that's it," he breathes. "that's my girl." you pause when it's off—bra still on, arms crossed hiding what you can. he doesn't push, just leans forward and presses a single kiss to your ribs.

"i won't do anything you don't want," he says gently. "but you do want me, don't you?" your silence hangs too long and jungwon sighs—quiet, frustrated, before leaning up and kissing you fully on the mouth.

slow. wet. deep.

he tastes like wine and something unplaceable—warm, overwhelming, dangerous. when he pulls back, he whispers: "you're lying to yourself."

that night, he touches you everywhere but where you dread. hands tracing over your stomach, your thighs, the backs of your knees, your spine. he worships your body like it belongs to him—like you've always belonged to him. and when he finally falls asleep beside you, arms locked tight around your waist, you realize something terrifying: you almost leaned into it.

for just a second, you wanted him to keep going. not because you love him, not because you're ready. but because it would be easier than saying no again.

your eyes are still open when he stirs beside you, the warmth of his breath hitting your shoulder. "can't sleep?" he whispers, voice thick with softness and sleep. you don't respond, his arm tightens around your waist, tugging you closer. you can feel the weight of his chest against your back—steady, calm, alive.

"you're tense," he murmurs. "i can feel it. right here—" his hand glides over your stomach slowly, resting low, too low. you swallow hard. "i want to help you," he says. "let me?"

you shake your head, barely a movement—barely even a sound. but he catches it, "shh, it's okay. i'm not asking for anything. i just want to make you feel good." he kisses the back of your neck—slowly, reverently.

"you've done so much for me," he whispers, each word like silk against your skin. "you've been so brave. so patient. you let me love you even when you didn't know how." his hand slips lower and you tense—not quite fighting, not quite yielding. "you deserve to feel safe," he breathes. "to feel... pleasure. let me give that to you. just once."

his fingers toy with the waistband of your shorts. "i won't ask for anything back," he promises. "i won't even kiss you unless you want it." suddenly your no longer on your side when jungwon spooning you. he's looming over you now, his blonde locks falling over his face as he cages you between his arms.

he shifts to kneel between your legs, gently nudging them apart—slowly, like you're breakable. you don't stop him, you don't say yes either.

you just lie there, frozen in place, as he pulls your shorts down and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, reverent, desperate. you hold in the urge to squeeze your legs together in attempts to hide yourself from his gaze. you could tell how pleased he was, the evidence was poking the back of your thigh. you saw his tongue jut out to wet his lips, his eyes never leaving the thin lace material that covered you.

"i've wanted this for so long," he whispers. "to taste you. to feel you fall apart for me." he leans down, his stomach on the bed and his hands gripping your thighs—prying them apart. his breath fans over your core, and you flinch but still don't move. he glances up at you once, dark eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

"you're shaking," he murmurs. "it's okay. i've got you." he lands a soft kiss where you felt it most, over the fabric. you stiffen at the feeling, your core throbbing as you watch jungwon push your panties to the side.

then, he leans in. his mouth is warm, soft, slow. he doesn't rush. his tongue slides down your slit, grazing your clit ever so slightly. you tremble, pursing your lips to hold back any moans from escaping. your eyes roll to the back of your head when he pushes your thighs back completely and begins to, what you coukd only describe, as making out with your cunt.

he kisses like he's praying—like every flick of his tongue is an offering. his tongue laves against you, sucking after ever kiss and swipe of his tongue. he doesn't allow his attention to fall anywhere else, focusing on your clit.

he hums against you when your hips twitch, when your thighs tremble. "that's it," he breathes. "just let go. just for me." you couldn't help but let soft moans escape your mouth, mentally cursing yourself.

you gasp, quiet, helpless—fingers curling into the sheets. you could feel the knot in your stomach begin to tight with every flick of his tongue. and he moans like he's the one coming undone.

"so sweet," he mutters. "so fucking mine." when your legs close around his head, he lets them and doesn't stop. he just holds you there, mouth relentless, tongue deep and slow, devouring like it's the only way to live.

you cry out when you feel your high wash over you, your body shaking and jungwon moans into you—helping you ride it out. when you finish—shaking, breath caught in your throat, he doesn't say anything at first. he just lays his head on your thigh, breathing hard.

"i love you," he says softly. "even if you don't say it back. i'll wait." he kisses the inside of your knee. "but one day... you will."

⛧⃝

you stop noticing the time. you don't know if it's morning or night anymore, because the lights are always dimmed, the curtains always drawn. outside, the city could be burning and you wouldn't know. inside, jungwon touches you like he's trying to make you forget it exists.

he doesn't ask anymore.

not for permission. not for your attention. not even for your affection. he wakes before you most days, tucked warm under the blankets, mouth already between your legs—worshipping like it's a habit. like it's his version of good morning.

and you don't fight it, you barely even flinch. you just stare at the ceiling, mouth dry, fingers limp in the sheets while his tongue works you open with slow, languid patience. sometimes he moans when you twitch. sometimes he whispers things, sweet, sinful things—into the skin of your thighs.

"that's it, baby..."

"let me taste what's mine..."

"i love waking you up like this. you're always so wet for me..."

he never asks you to touch him in return, never forces your hand. never begs for more. but the way he looks at you after, wide-eyed, breathless, expectant—makes your skin crawl. like he's waiting, like he's trying not to snap.

you catch him staring more, when you're reading on the couch. when you're brushing your hair. when you laugh a little too long at something on TV. he watches like he's memorizing every detail, but not out of love—out of fear.

fear that you'll slip away. fear that you'll wake up and run. fear that what he's built here, this dream, this trap—will shatter.

"do you like it here?" he asks one night. you nod, because you have to. because your voice doesn't work the way it used to. "you're quiet lately," he adds, brushing your cheek. "you used to fight more." you glance away, "i miss that fire," he says softly, lips brushing your ear. "but this version of you... i like her too. soft. obedient. mine."

you feel something hollow open in your chest.

you try to plan, when he leaves for a supply run. when he showers with the door locked. when he naps after eating you out until your legs give out. you think about doors, windows, stairwells. you think about timing, about pills, about hiding money in the lining of your coat.

you think about running, but then you remember the chainsaw. you remember the way he looked, blood-drenched and smiling—the night he saved you. you remember the sound it made when he turned it on, and how easily it tore through bone.

"you're mine," he had whispered that night. "you smiled at me first. you don't get to take that back."

sometimes, when you lie awake pretending to sleep, he wraps his arms around you and murmurs things into your hair. "i know you're still scared," he says. "but one day you'll understand this is love," he continues. "one day, you'll thank me for saving you."

he kisses your neck, "you'll see. you'll see. you'll see—" and you lie there, still as death, wondering if maybe you never smiled at all.

⛧⃝

you start with small things. a bottle of water hidden behind the back panel of the bathroom cabinet. a wad of cash that you had gathered from around the house tucked beneath a loose floorboard by the bed. a sweater rolled tight and pushed into the gap under the couch.

jungwon doesn't notice, he still looks at you like you're the only thing in the world worth breathing for. like your smile was the last good thing left in a ruined city.

and so you smile, you kiss him goodnight. you let him between your thighs when he wakes up needy. you even tell him he tastes sweet when he presses soft kisses into your skin and hums like he belongs there. "i love when you say things like that," he whispers, licking his lips. "you're finally getting it."

but he doesn't notice the way your hands shake when you cook. he doesn't notice the extra pills you keep hidden in the lining of your hoodie pocket. he doesn't notice that this time—when you crush them into his tea you don't take his advice.

you don't make it fine, you make it heavy—potent. enough to keep him down. "you sure you don't want any?" he asks, sipping the tea, eyes soft. you shake your head, "already brushed my teeth." he laughs and taps your chin with his thumb, "so good for me now."

he falls asleep earlier than usual. his breathing turns deep, chest rising and falling with slow, heavy rhythm. you wait, 20 minutes, then 30. then another 10, just to be sure.

you press your fingers to his neck, pulse thick and sluggish. he's out. you move quickly, silently. coat. money. water. shoes. you skip the sweater under the couch—too risky. your heart's hammering in your chest as you step over the threshold, fingers closing around the doorknob, twisting it slowly—

click.

the door creaks and you freeze. jungwon doesn't stir. you slip into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft click. you don't breathe until you've made it down the first two flights of stairs. the city is cold tonight, silent. the kind of quiet that makes you feel watched.

but you keep going, you don't look back. 2 blocks down, you finally stop. your hands are shaking and your legs are numb. but you made it, you got out. just before you could do your happy dance, your dreams shatter.

"where are you going, baby?"

your blood runs cold. his voice was soft, gentle, sweet—floats in from the mouth of the alley behind you. you turn, he's standing there in the shadows, hands at his sides. still in his sleep shirt, barefoot and smiling.

"you didn't really think i drank it, did you?" he asks. he takes one slow step forward. "you think i'd sleep through you slipping around like that? hiding things from me? lying to me?" his tone doesn't rise, he doesn't shout. he doesn't need to. he just looks at you like you broke his fucking heart.

"i let you go," he whispers. "i watched you walk out. i gave you a chance." another step."and now i know." you step back, shaking. "now i know you'll run from me every time." he tilts his head, voice dropping. "so i'm not gonna let you anymore."

then, his arm shifts. you hear the click and suddenly, it's there. the chainsaw. not in his hand—but part of it. the metal gleams under the streetlight, slick and humming.

his smile is still soft, his voice is still calm. but there's something in his eyes now—something raw, betrayed, unhinged. "you said you were mine," he says. "even if you didn't say it out loud, you let me inside you. you let me love you." he lifts the chainsaw—not revving it, just holding it. like a warning, like a leash.

"so now you're not leaving," he says. "i'll make sure of it." you don't scream, even as jungwon grabs you by the wrist. even as he yanks you into his chest, cradles your head, and whispers, "it's okay, i've got you." even as the cold metal of the chainsaw brushes against your side like a threat he doesn't even have to say aloud.

"you're shaking," he murmurs, brushing your hair back. "are you cold? scared? don't be. we're going home." he's gentle, that's the worst part. he doesn't drag you down the alley—he guides you, arm wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder like this is all just some sad misunderstanding.

"i gave you everything," he breathes. "i touched you like you were sacred." you don't reply, you can't. he smells like warm skin and blood and something sharp, like metal. "and you still ran from me."

he doesn't say another word until the door shuts behind you, your coat is stripped off. your bag is kicked aside and then you're in the living room again—where the lights are too dim and the air smells like stale sweat and sleep and him.

he lets go, lets you fall onto the couch like a dropped doll. you sit there, frozen. he disappears into the kitchen, comes back a moment later with the tea cup you'd drugged. "this," he says, holding it up, "was cute." he sets it on the table in front of you, "you really thought that'd work again?"

he crouches in front of you, slow, fluid, tilting his head like he's studying you. "you've been lying to me," he says, not angry but hurt. "smiling. moaning. kissing me back. and it was all fake." you open your mouth to deny it, but he grabs your chin fast—firm but not rough.

"don't," he snaps. "don't lie again. not now." his hand shakes. "you let me taste you," he whispers, eyes shining. "you let me fall in love with your body. your sounds. the way you twitch when i kiss your clit just right," you flinch at his words. "and then you tried to disappear."

his voice breaks, barely above a whisper and he leans in closer. "do you have any idea what that does to me?" and for the first time in weeks—you see it. not the softness, not the sweetness. but the madness underneath it.

he kisses you suddenly—hard, desperate, messy. like he's trying to prove something. "you're never doing that again," he mutters against your lips. "i won't let you run. i won't let anyone take you." his hands skim your sides, up your ribs, pressing too tight. you shove at him and he freezes. he looks at you, really looks at you. like he wants to be good, like he wants to stop. but then he closes his eyes, breathing hard, and says: "you made me like this."

and then he gets up disappears into the hallway. comes back with a knife in hand—still silent, not pointed at you, but there. a threat. you failed to understand why his weapon of choice was a knife and not his arm, the chainsaw.

he sets it on the table, right next to the tea cup. "i don't want to hurt you," he says, voice soft again. "but you don't get to hurt me either."

that night, you sleep in the same bed. his arms around you, his breath warm on your neck. the knife flat against the nightstand like it belongs there. he didn't want to use himself as a weapon against you, it made sense to you now.

and in the dark, as he kisses the back of your shoulder and murmurs "mine, mine, mine" into your skin—you realize something.

you're not planning your next escape, you're planning his destruction.

he falls asleep fast. one arm around your waist, face pressed between your shoulder blades, murmuring quiet, broken apologies into your skin like he thinks he deserves forgiveness just for feeling sorry.

"don't leave me again."

"you belong with me. you know that."

"i'll be good. better. just stay."

but you're not listening. you're watching the knife where it rests beside the bed. the quiet metallic hum still rings in your ears. his arm is normal, it doesn't glow, doesn't breathe, but it feels as if the chainsaw is there and alive. like a part of him that can't ever really be turned off. you wonder if he'd use it on you if you tried to run again, he had threatened you with it before. why not now? will he again in the future? you wonder if he'd cry afterward.

i let you go. i gave you a chance.

you close your eyes, breathe. you've never felt more trapped. there's no one left to call. your parents are dead, your phone is still gone. your coworkers think you're in love and the city outside is worse than he is—filled with devils that eat humans whole.

jungwon saved you from that, he reminds you of it every time he eats you out in the morning. every time he kisses your throat and whispers, "i'm the only reason you're still breathing."

and the worst part? he's right.

but tonight, you feel something shift. the numbness doesn't feel so hollow anymore. it feels like stone1-something you could carve a plan into, something hard enough to carry hate. you lie still for hours, eyes open, mind racing. you imagine stabbing him in his sleep, burning the apartment down with him inside.

you picture it all—every version of his death. you imagine your hands slick with his blood and your heart finally beating without fear. but there's a problem, you don't know how to kill a devil.

especially not your devil. the next morning, you smile. you kiss him when he wakes you up by sliding under the sheets and parting your thighs like it's his god-given right. you moan when his mouth closes over you. you say thank you when he finishes, even though your chest is hollow and your eyes don't match your lips.

he doesn't notice. he nuzzles into your side like he's proud of himself, like he thinks love still lives here. "you're so good for me now," he murmurs, kissing your ribs. "knew you'd come around."

you stroke his hair and you start to lie. not the small lies, the ones he's used to. but new ones. cold ones. dangerous ones. you start to ask questions with wide eyes, "what would happen if you got sick?" or "are chainsaw people immune to poison?" and "how does the chainsaw part work again?"

he answers them, slowly—suspiciously. but you're careful, you let him eat you out whenever he wants. you cook for him, you hold his hand. you say "i missed you" when he comes home even though you never left the apartment. "i'm happy now," you tell him one night. "i think i was scared before. but i'm not anymore."

he watches you closely, he doesn't believe you—not fully. but he wants to and you let that desire blind him. because underneath your smile, your skin, your warmth—you're already planning the kill.

"baby," he says, voice low from the kitchen, "come sit." you don't hesitate. not even when you see what he's made—pancakes, eggs, sausage. your favorite, but that's not what matters. it's the two plates on the table, identical. his and yours but he hasn't touched his yet and he's watching you.

"i thought you'd be hungry," he murmurs, running his fingers along your chair as he pulls it out. "figured you needed something warm. grounding." you sit and you thank him. he sits too—and then folds his hands. he's not eating, you pick up your fork. "go on," he says, smiling. "i made it with love."

your stomach tightens, he's testing you. because of the pills, because of that time you cooked. you glance down at your plate, it smells fine, it looks perfect. but that's what he said about you once. you chew slowly, you swallow. he watches every bite.

"you've been so sweet lately," he says after a moment, eyes soft. "it's nice." he picks up his fork. takes one small bite from his own plate. chews, swallows, sets the fork down again. "but you know what they say." he leans forward. "sweet girls can be liars."

you smiles—soft, demure, every inch the broken little thing he thinks you are now."i'm not lying." he grins, "mm." he tilts his head. "then prove it." you blink, he reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small vial—clear liquid. viscous. almost glowing.

"this is devil toxin," he says, voice still gentle. "you only need a drop. just one." your chest turns to ice. "you want to show me you're loyal?" he sets the vial beside your cup of tea. "drink it." you stare at it, "jungwon—" his grin gets wider, "i'll suck it out of you if it hurts," he whispers, smiling too wide. "you know i'll take care of you. don't you trust me?"

no. never: but you can't say that. you wrap your hand around the teacup, the vial sits beside it like a promise. he leans in, "prove it," he whispers again. your heart hammers in your throat and slowly—so slowly, you lift the vial and tip one drop into the tea.

it hisses, even smokes a little. but doesn't change color, you drink. you smile; you don't die.

he exhales and you know two things immediately: 1. it wasn't enough to kill you. 2. next time, it might be.

"good girl," he says, voice filled with something almost tender. "you're getting so good at being mine." he kisses your temple, you hold your breath. and you think: i have to kill him first. the knock comes mid-morning, you're still shaking from the tea—not because of the toxin, but because of what it meant.

jungwon had to see you drink it, he wanted to watch. your loyalty, served hot. and now he's humming in the kitchen like he didn't just force you to poison yourself. the knock comes again, "package," a voice calls through the door. "from the devil patrol."

you flinch, jungwon wipes his hands on a towel, glancing toward the door. "ah. that's the neighbor." neighbor? you didn't know you had one. he opens the door and greets him like they're friends. "yo," jungwon says, too casual. "thanks. was wondering when that would come."

"no problem, man." the guy is young, tall and lean wearing a battered jacket with the devil patrol emblem stitched to the chest. "i figured i'd drop it off personally. lots of freaks running around this district lately."

you step closer, jungwon doesn't look back—but he knows you're there. you can feel it in the way his body stiffens. "she's cute," the neighbor says suddenly, peeking past him. you freeze, jungwon doesn't. he laughs, a soft, too-sweet laugh.

"yeah," he says. "she's mine." his. not my girlfriend. not my partner. just mine. the guy raises his hands, "damn. got it."

but you make eye contact with him, just for a second. your eyes plead and your hand trembles. and you manage to take one single step forward before jungwon subtly presses a hand behind his back—where you know the chainsaw can come out, just out of view.

the guy pauses, his eyes flicker between you and jungwon. he opens his mouth—then closes it again. "take care," he mutters, handing the box over. "she's lucky to have you."

jungwon smiles and slams the door shut, the silence afterward is unbearable. you turn, but he's already behind you. smiling, still smiling. but it's not real, not this time. "you looked at him," he says softly. "like i wasn't standing right here."

you swallow, "jungwon—" "did you want him to help you?" he steps forward. "was that your plan?" you immediately shake your head, "i didn't—"

"or was it just fun?" he grabs your face, gentle but unyielding. "flirting like that in front of me? after everything i've done for you?" his voice stays even, calm—like this is just a conversation. but his fingers press harder against your jaw. "i let you live," he says quietly. "i let you eat, sleep, breathe."

"you said you loved me—"

"i do." his voice breaks slightly, but his eyes don't. "and i'll kill for you. i'll kill you, if you make me." you don't cry, you don't flinch, you just stare. because for the first time, you understand— jungwon isn't trying to win you over anymore. he already thinks you belong to him.

now he's just making sure you don't forget it. "i let you eat, sleep, breathe," his voice still echoes in your head. he's watching you now, silent, the way a storm watches a city before it floods. you sit on the edge of the bed, he hasn't moved since the neighbor left and you haven't either.

until finally, "get up," he says. "on your knees." you blink, "jungwon—" "you wanted him, didn't you?" his voice is deceptively soft, like he's sad. like you hurt him. "you looked at him like that on purpose. i'm not stupid."

you shake your head, "no—i didn't—" "then prove it." he takes a step forward and you tense. he crouches in front of you, kneels down, and cups your face with both hands. his thumbs brush under your eyes like he's checking for lies. "say sorry." you do, but it's not enough. "mean it." "i do—"

he tsk's, "then make it up to me," his voice dips. low, needy, possessive. "you're mine. you said it. you live here. you sleep in my bed. so act like it." he pushes you back onto the mattress—not rough, but assertive. it happens so fast you barely register it. his hands go under your shirt, he mouths at your neck and you shiver. "i don't want anything from you," he whispers, breath hot against your skin. "i just need to feel you. need to know you're still here. still mine."

his mouth moves lower, "you're not allowed to want anyone else. you understand that, right?" you nod. he doesn't see, so you say it. "yes."

"say you're mine."

"i'm yours."

"say you'll never leave me again."

your heart stutters, his tongue is already sliding between your thighs. "say it."

"i won't—i won't leave you." he groans like your promise is something holy. "good girl," he whispers, voice dark. "then take it." he doesn't ask for anything in return, not tonight. but his mouth is relentless—all-consuming. obsessive. he makes you cum twice, never breaking eye contact. every twitch, every moan, every desperate gasp is proof that you're his.

after, when you're limp and shaky, he pulls you into his lap and strokes your hair. "see?" he murmurs. "you don't need anyone else." you don't answer and you don't sleep. because you know now—he's getting too comfortable.

you were always a prize, but now you're a possession and there's no version of this story where he lets you go.

⛧⃝

it starts the night he falls asleep with his arm over your waist, breath warm against your neck, fingers curled loosely around your wrist like a shackle he forgot he was holding. you stay still until his breathing evens out. until the weight of his presence stops pressing and starts simply existing.

then, slowly, carefully—you slide out of his hold. your bare feet hit the floor without a sound. the apartment is silent except for the ticking of that damn broken clock on the kitchen wall. the one jungwon refuses to fix. "i like how it always says 3 a.m.," he told you once. "feels like time stops when we're together." you believed him then, now you're not so sure.

you pull on one of his oversized shirts—not because you want to, but because your own clothes are gone. thrown out weeks ago after your little 'drugging my tea' incident.

"you don't need them," he said. "you look better in mine." the kitchen is cold, your fingertips skim the edges of drawers, cabinets, picture frames. you don't know what you're looking for until you find it. a panel behind the bottom bookshelf — barely noticeable, like someone meant to hide it. you pry it open.

inside: a leather-bound notebook, pages yellowed, brittle, ink smudged with time. you flip it open. "chainsaw devil sighted in busan. not a contract. a merger." your blood runs cold. page after page, detailed logs from a devil hunter. someone who knew what jungwon became, someone who saw it happen.

"the chainsaw devil doesn't just make pacts," one entry reads. "it devours. it possesses. it feasts on obsession—especially the kind that pretends to be love." you keep reading, "once the host gives in emotionally, there's no going back. the only way to break the bond is through emotional rejection —but it has to be real. the host has to willingly sever the tie. anything else just strengthens it."

your hands shake, jungwon didn't choose this. he wasn't born like this, he was consumed. maybe still is. you think of the way he touches you now—like he's entitled to it. like your body is a ritual, not a person. you think of waking up with his mouth already between your thighs, his eyes glassy with need, saying: "you're the only thing that keeps me human."

you think of how your skin feels like it doesn't belong to you anymore. you snap the journal shut. and then—"baby?"

you freeze, his voice is sleepy. rough. too close. you turn and see that he's standing in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing his eyes. there's a red imprint on his cheek from your pillow.

"why're you up?" he murmurs. "bed's cold." you grip the notebook behind your back. "i couldn't sleep." he steps closer, you keep your expression neutral. "i missed you," he says, gaze soft but unreadable. "come back." you smile, it's fake, but it's practiced.

"yeah. okay." he kisses your temple and leads you back to bed. he wraps himself around you like he never plans to let go. and you think: he won't. you clutch the journal tighter, you have a weapon now. you just don't know how to use it yet.

"what were you doing in the kitchen last night?" you freeze mid-pour, the sound of tea spilling into your mug suddenly too loud. jungwon's voice is quiet—not soft, not this time. it lingers in the doorway like smoke, head tilted just slightly, that permanent kind expression resting too gently on his face.

you don't look up, "i thought i heard something," you answer. "like... rattling. maybe the wind." you pray he buys it. jungwon hums, the sound low, almost thoughtful. he moves to stand behind you, arms sliding around your waist, cheek resting against your temple. you're not comforted. "funny," he murmurs. "i didn't hear anything."

"you were sleeping," you try to brush off. "i always hear you." you tense, barely—but he catches it. "you're lying to me, aren't you?" your heart stutters, you try to laugh, force a small smile. "seriously? i got a glass of water." he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. there's something flat in his stare now, calculating.

"didn't i tell you before?" he whispers. "if there's anything bothering you, you can tell me. i'll take care of it." you just smile softly, "i'm fine." he doesn't look convinced, his brows furrowed, "hm." he lets you go, but his gaze lingers.

you're more careful now. you return the notebook the next morning when he goes out to the market —nestling it back behind the false panel, just as you found it. you wipe the edges of the bookshelf, brush your hair. smile when he returns, arms full of fresh fruit and tofu and the cheap little candies you once told him you liked.

"you remembered," you say, voice light. "of course i did." that afternoon, you read in the sunlit living room while he showers. you turn a page, eyes scanning the text—but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

he didn't believe you, you know it and worse—you saw him change. not visibly. not all at once. but the way his fingers twitched against your wrist, as if resisting the urge to tighten. the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes when you lied to him. the way he kissed your neck that morning, slower than usual, lingering like a warning.

he's spiralling, and so are you.

later that night, you pretend to sleep. jungwon moves around the apartment in near-silence. you feel him pause by the bookshelf. hear the low creak of wood shifting. the telltale scrape of the false panel opening. you keep your breathing steady, shallow. you wait, your heart beating in anticipation.

there's a long pause, then the soft thump of the panel sliding closed. a few heartbeats later, he climbs into bed beside you. his arms wrap around your middle again. same as always.

but his grip? it's just a little tighter now.

⛧⃝

the day feels too normal.

jungwon makes you breakfast again—eggs over rice, scallions chopped thin, pickled radish on the side just how you like it. you catch him watching you between bites, but when you look up, he only smiles. "you're quiet today," he says. "so are you."

he frowns at your retort, "but you're the one i worry about." you don't answer but your throat feels thick, tight with the weight of what you know. that notebook, those pages and the truth of what's inside him—what's maybe controlling him, even if he thinks it's love.

he cups your cheek gently and brushes your lower lip with his thumb. "you've been sleeping better, right?" you nod, because that's what he wants. his smile softens, "good. you deserve to rest." he clears the table, washes the dishes without a word. there's something so human about it—the way his shoulders hunch, the way his sleeves get wet. he even hums a little, under his breath, some tune you don't recognize.

and for a second, you forget. for a second, you almost let yourself believe this is what it looks like. normal. safe.

it's hours later when he comes to you. you're curled on the futon, eyes half-lidded from the heat, body loose with stillness. jungwon slides down beside you wordlessly, head resting on your thigh. his fingers graze the bare skin above your knee. "do you remember," he murmurs, "the first time i saw you?" you swallow, "yeah."

"you smiled at me," he looks up at you now, chin resting on your leg, gaze dark. "you were so soft. so kind. even when everyone else was screaming." he traces a slow line down your calf. not threatening, not yet. "i thought maybe you were sent to save me." you laugh, but it's empty, "i'm not the saving type."

"no," he whispers. "you're not." he shifts up slowly—arms bracing on either side of you, eyes searching your face. he looks so gentle, too gentle. "but you're mine." his kiss is quiet at first—feather-light, pressing to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your throat. then deeper, hungrier. his hands are slow, reverent, brushing beneath your shirt like he's asking even though you both know he won't stop if you say no.

"let me take care of you tonight," he breathes. "just... let me do this." you don't say yes but you don't say no. you don't stop him when he pushes your thighs apart. don't flinch when he kisses down your stomach, mouthing against the soft skin just above your core like it's holy. like it's his last prayer. "i just want to taste you again," he whispers. "just this. nothing else."

his hands tug down your pajamas, his eyes glassy as he admires your soft skin and the panties the he had bought you. his fingers grace the lacey fabric softly making you shiver, seeing your reaction—he smirks. he pulls down the thin fabric next, his pupils dilating before he's jutting his tongue out to wet his lips.

he's careful, at first. tongue slow, touch restrained. one hand anchored against your inner thigh, the other curled tight in the blanket as if he's holding himself back from something darker. your breath catches and your hips twitch.

his tongue glides down your slit, gathering your slick before swirling it around your clit. you shudder when you feel him blow softly against your sensitive bud, your stomach tightening at a dangerous rate. "there you go," he murmurs, mouth warm against you. "that's it. that's my good girl."

he doesn't ask for anything in return, but you feel it—how close he is to needing more. how the restraint is slipping, how his fingers keep flexing, like he's debating whether to grab your wrists. to pin you open. to make you beg.

you cum. but he keeps going like he wants to pull another one out of you with devotion alone. and when he finally stops—lips slick and eyes glassy, he kisses the inside of your thigh, then crawls back up to hold you close. "you belong here," he whispers against your hair. "with me." you say nothing, you don't move.

your skin still tingles. but inside your mind, all you can hear is the notebook's warning: "it devours. it possesses. it feasts on obsession—especially the kind that pretends to be love."

he's softer the next morning, arms wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed between your shoulder blades, breathing steady. you pretend to be asleep. you've gotten good at that. he shifts slightly, you feel the faintest press of his lips against your back. "you were so good for me last night," he whispers, barely audible. "you let me love you."

and just like that, your stomach knots. you sit with it for hours. the notebook's words echo over and over, carved into your thoughts like scripture. "the chainsaw doesn't just destroy devils. it becomes what it's fed."

"it hungers for love. for ownership. for submission."

"feed it the illusion. let it believe you belong to it. and when it's full... strike."

your hands shake as you pour the tea, he kisses your temple and doesn't notice.

it starts that night. you wait until he's tucked into you again, his body curled around yours like armor. "jungwon," you say quietly, he freezes—just for a second. he always does when you speak first, "hm?"

"you want me, right?" and his breath stutters. "don't ask stupid questions," he says. "you know i do." you pause, "then show me."

he's still, "you're not just saying that?" he asks carefully, eyes locked onto yours. "you're not trying to trick me?" you smile—soft, sweet, practiced. "i want to be yours." and that's all it takes.

his hands tremble at first. not with nerves but with restraint. he touches you like he's still afraid you'll disappear if he pushes too fast. but you open for him willingly, wrap your arms around his neck. kiss him with something close to hunger.

he swears softly, "you're finally mine," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "you're finally letting me—" you pull him in and silence him with your lips. his pants are half-off before he even realizes you've taken control of the pace—the kiss deepening, your legs parting, hips rising to meet him.

"slow," you whisper. "go slow." one hand wraps around your throat while the other reaches down to push down his boxers, his girth slapping his stomach—painfully hard.

you let him help you shimmy of your pants and panties in one go, his fingers tracing over you but you stop him. "no, i want it in me. please wonnie."

jungwon swore he could cum right there in that moment, he pushes in like he's savoring every inch—breath ragged, one hand cradling your face, the other gripping your waist like he'll break you if he holds any tighter. "fuck," he whispers. "you feel like... you were made for me."

you make a soft noise in response—the kind that makes him kiss your throat, your shoulder, your chest. desperate little worships between thrusts. his rhythm never falters. deep, deliberate. devotional. you moan for him, just enough. his eyes flutter shut and he doesn't realize that you're watching him.

doesn't realize that you're memorizing every weak spot. every place his mind drifts too far into the illusion—where he forgets to guard himself. where his heart starts to override his instincts. he doesn't realize this is the first time you've truly felt powerful since he pulled you into his world.

and it's not power in the way he wants it, it's yours.

jungwon's moaning into your ear, his thrusts getting impossibly deeper as he speaks gibberish. "s-so close, let me cum inside," he whines. you feel your throat tighten, you want to say no. "okay—okay. cum inside me, wonnie. m'wanna feel you." you could feel jungwon twitch at your words, "m'gonna fill you up. g-gonna make you swell with my kids," he hisses softly before he falls apart.

you shudder when he finishes, you feel full. his cum thick and warm, coating your insides perfectly. after, he wraps you in his arms like you're something sacred. he breathes against your temple, murmuring things you don't care to hold onto.

his cock is still soft inside you, his heartbeat is loud and his mind is quiet. for once, you stare at the ceiling and you begin to plan.

he hums while brushing your hair, it's barely morning. the sun filters through the curtains in narrow strips of gold, and you're seated in his lap, head tipped forward while he runs a comb through your hair like it's the most sacred task in the world.

"you were so good last night," he says. "i've never felt that close to anyone before." you don't respond, you don't need to. he's content to speak for both of you now. "i know it's different for you. i know you're still... adjusting. but i can feel it. i know you're starting to love me back."

you turn your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to brush against his shoulder. "i'm trying," you whisper, he kisses the top of your head. you've learned how to say what he wants to hear. when to touch him, when to flinch. everything is calculated now, the act has become second nature.

you start keeping track of his habits, what time he sleeps deepest. where he leaves his coat. how long his showers last. how sharp his chainsaw arm looks after he cleans it. you cook for him, you sit close. you let him take you apart with his mouth at night, even when you don't want to. especially when you don't want to. because the closer he thinks you are to surrender, the more careless he becomes.

"i love making you feel good," he mumbles one night, face buried between your legs. "i don't need anything else. i could stay here forever." and you stroke his hair like you believe him.

the notebook is tucked beneath your mattress, wrapped in one of his old shirts. hidden, but close. you flip through its pages when you're alone, studying the margins where someone—maybe someone like you—had scrawled desperate notes in tiny handwriting.

"don't resist too obviously. it confuses it."

"the chainsaw doesn't want a pet. it wants a partner. fake that."

"the moment it believes it's loved, it softens. that's when it can be hurt."

"but if you get it wrong—if it knows you're lying, it will never stop."

you read the last one twice, and then again.

he starts asking questions after a few days, "why were you up last night?" you blink at him over your tea, "i wasn't." he looks at you with an unreadable expression, "you were. i heard you in the kitchen." you feign confusion, "i thought i heard something outside. it was nothing."

he watches you for a moment too long, his hand finds yours, "you'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" you squeeze back, "of course."

that night, you put the notebook back exactly where he left it. he checks in the morning and you hear the rustle of paper. the silence that follows, then his footsteps. "you moved it." you look up from the couch, play dumb. "what?"

"the book. it wasn't where i left it," your pulse quickens—but you don't let it show. "i bumped into the shelf while cleaning. maybe it fell." he doesn't speak, you can feel his eyes scanning you, hungry and suspicious all at once. then his shoulders relax. "you should be more careful," he murmurs. "some things shouldn't be touched."

you nod, you smile. and you tuck the warning away like another page in your survival manual. you read the book every moment you can. the cursed one—warped at the spine, its pages always warm, like flesh. it calls to you, louder than jungwon's voice, more constant than his touch. it tells you things he never did. things you were never supposed to know. how the devil inside him, the chainsaw—isn't a parasite. it's a pact, a bond sealed in blood and want. and like all devils, it feeds off something.

not just fear. not just violence but obsession, love. and then, you find the rule. to summon the chainsaw devil, to separate it from the host—he must truly believe you love him. your breath catches and you understand. you can't fight him physically, you can't outrun him you can't outsmart him—not forever. but if you can trick the devil, if you can make jungwon believe he's won—you might get one chance. one moment to call it by name, to break the bond, to be free.

so you act.

you hold his hand when he offers it, you smile when he kisses you. you let him touch. let him whisper things in your ear like "you're the only thing keeping me sane." you play the part. when he brings you breakfast in bed—eggs shaped like hearts, toast carved with your initials —you giggle. when he curls around you in the middle of the night, you kiss his forehead and whisper i love you into his hair. he believes it, he has to.

every time you press your lips to his skin, you taste iron. the chainsaw inside him purrs, satisfied.

it takes weeks, weeks of laying beside him while bile rises in your throat. weeks of burying the nightmares, of faking softness, of giving him everything he wants just short of your soul. he gets softer, relaxed and his guard slips. his need to control you shifts into smugness—the way he watches you fold laundry like a housewife, the way he smirks when you crawl into his lap with big, empty eyes.

he thinks he's won and that's when you start preparing. because you've done your part. and soon—the devil will do his. you don't sleep anymore, not really. even when your body gives in—even when the sheets are warm and jungwon's arms are around you, breath steady against your neck, you never sink. you float, tethered to the ceiling, watching yourself from above. waiting.

waiting for him to crack, waiting for yourself to. so when he leaves for supplies, humming under his breath, you don't hesitate. you kneel in the center of the living room, floorboards creaking under your weight, and whisper the name that's been echoing in the back of your mind ever since that night.

"chainsaw man."

the lights flicker, then die. the room goes dark. too dark. a thick, suffocating black that swallows everything whole. and then it answers, it looks like jungwon at first. same face, same build, same sweet voice.

"you called me?" but the eyes are wrong, too wide, too still. no breath fogs the air around its mouth. its smile is too sharp—the kind that feels carved in. you swallow, "you're not him."

"i'm not. but i wear him well, don't i?" its voice warps mid-sentence, glitching, like too many mouths are speaking at once. it moves closer. "you've seen pieces of me. the things that wake you up at night. the parts of him that don't feel quite human." you stand your ground, "what are you?"it grins, "obsession. hunger. need. he made a deal and i made him whole."

"and the cost?" your voice trembles. "you," the word lands like a slap. "he didn't know it then," the devil adds, tilting its head. "but the moment he wanted you more than he wanted freedom, i had him." you feel sick, but you force the question out. "what if i give myself up instead?" silence, then the smile fades. "you're offering yourself... in his place?" you nod once, "take back what's yours. let him go. i'll give you everything."

the devil steps forward—slow, graceful. almost reverent. "tempting," it murmurs. "but he won't let go. not now. not ever." your head spins, "i'll convince him."

"you're welcome to try."

and then the door slams open, "what the fuck are you doing?" you turn, he's in the doorway, fists clenched, chest rising fast. his bag drops to the floor. his eyes are wide, and then they change. iris to ember, white to blood. and his arm—his arm rips open, bones cracking, metal grinding as the blade splits through his flesh, unfurling like a jagged bloom.

"you were going to give yourself to it?" the chainsaw roars to life and the floor trembles beneath your feet. "after everything? after me? after what we've shared?" you step backc "jungwon—" he cuts you off immediately, like his name out of your mouth burned him. "don't call me that," he snaps. "don't fucking pretend you still get to say my name."

the devil, still behind you—watches silently. amused. "i pitied you," you whisper. "i tried to love you. i tried to believe this was something real. but you turned it into a cage." he freezes and for the first time, he doesn't speak. his face crumbles, eyes too bright. blood trickling down his arm where the chainsaw roots into his shoulder, still whirring like it's hungry.

"you never loved me," he says, not a question—not even angry. just broken, "you lied." and the bond—the one you never agreed to, the one that kept your mouth shut and your hands folded, splinters. the devil behind you exhales and the air sharpens.

jungwon takes a step forward, you don't run. the chainsaw devil lingers in the room like a sickness—sprawled in the corner, grinning wide, eyes glowing red as it watches everything unfold like a stage play made just for him. jungwon is on his knees in front of you. blood smeared across his arms, jaw trembling, mouth moving faster than his mind can keep up.

"you love me," he whispers. "you do. you just... you forgot for a second. but it's okay, i can remind you—i can make you feel it again." you don't answer, you can't. the silence stretches and the devil laughs from the corner. a low, guttural sound like rusted machinery trying to breathe.

"oh, poor little dog," it drawls. "still begging." jungwon's head jerks toward it—chainsaw arm twitching, sparking but then he turns back to you, softer again. desperate. "don't listen to it," he pleads. "you know it's lying. you know we're real. all those nights, everything we shared... that was real, right?"

you swallow, your lips part but nothing comes out. and in that moment, he knows. his eyes darken, jaw clenching so hard you hear his teeth grind. he stands slowly, the weight of the truth sinking into his bones. "you used me," he says, voice flat. then again, louder—uglier. "you fucking used me." behind him, the chainsaw devil laughs louder, almost delighted.

"she played you like a goddamn fiddle," it says. "and you sang." the floor cracks beneath jungwon's feet as the air shifts. the chainsaw on his arm roars to life, screaming into the walls, sparks flying like a storm. his other hand slams into the wall beside your head, pinning you there —his face inches from yours, twisted in betrayal.

"was any of it real?" he growls. "did you even feel anything when i touched you? when i begged for you?" his voice breaks, but his grip doesn't and the devil leans forward, licking its lips. "this is my favorite part," it murmurs.

"you made me think we were in love," jungwon spits. "you made me believe it. you—" he drags the saw across the floor, leaving a deep gash in the wood. "you ruined everything." you flinch, breath shaking. your back hits the wall harder as he cages you in with his body. the heat of the saw burns close to your thigh, but he doesn't press it —not yet.

"say you love me," he snaps. "say it now. fix this. fix me." you stare at him and maybe he sees something in your eyes—not fear, not even hatred. just... exhaustion. you don't answer, you won't lie, not anymore.

he screams. loud, guttural, animal. the chainsaw slams into the doorframe beside you, sending chunks of it flying. and the devil? the devil just grins, red eyes gleaming like fire. "go on," it says. "show her what you really are." jungwon's breath shakes. his forehead presses against yours, and for a second, he's quiet again.

"we were supposed to be forever," he whispers. you don't move. you can't. and somewhere deep inside him, that final thread—the one holding him together, finally snaps. the chainsaw devil laughs like it's been waiting for this. it echoes through the room like a sickness, bouncing off the shattered windows, crawling up your spine like cold hands. smoke coils from the broken floorboards. blood seeps into the cracks. and in front of you, jungwon is no longer jungwon.

his chest rises and falls in jagged rhythm, chainsaw arm sputtering to life with a roar that shakes the walls. where his eyes used to hold tears, they now burn red-hot—not just glowing, but lit, like a furnace. his skin splits in places, veins pulsing black with whatever poison the devil's poured into him.

you don't see the boy who brought you breakfast in silence. you don't see the boy who begged for your love with a whisper. you see the devil's chosen vessel, "you lied to me," he snarls, voice cracking open. it's his voice, and something deeper. layered. possessed. "you fucking lied."

he steps forward and the air drops ten degrees. his saw-drenched arm whines as it revs again, teeth spinning like a threat, bright with heat. the tip grazes the ground, carving a line as he walks, sparks flying at your feet. behind him, the devil lounges lazily against the crumbling wall, watching like a cat with a caught bird. "ah," it says, almost purring, "my little host finally wakes up."

"shut up," jungwon growls without turning. he's trembling—not from weakness, but barely-contained rage. grief. betrayal. "i gave you everything," he says, jaw clenched so tight you hear it crack. "i gave you every part of me. i made you mine. i—" his voice breaks and his hand slams into the wall beside your head again, harder this time. the plaster cracks.

you flinch but you don't cry, you don't beg. you just stare and that's what finally does it. something shifts behind his eyes—something that unravels the last thread holding him together.

he screams, the chainsaw arm explodes to full power, carving the wall beside your head in half. the devil laughs, delighted, as jungwon's body convulses, more rage than reason. his other hand finds your throat but he doesn't squeeze, not yet. just holds, like he's trying to feel if your pulse still stutters for him.

"say it," he chokes. "say you love me. say it now and i'll stop. i'll put it away. i'll let you go." your lips part but nothing comes out and that's when he really loses it. he screams, not your name. not even words anymore—just raw, furious noise, ripping out of him like a chain being yanked from a throat.

the chainsaw arm slams into the wall beside your head, this time carving clean through it. drywall bursts apart, smoke thick in the air, and the heat of the blade is close enough to burn. his body shakes with rage, teeth bared, eyes wet and bloodshot—but they never leave yours. like even now, even after everything, you're the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

"was it all fake?" he pants, voice shredded. "every kiss, every look—? you let me touch you. you let me love you." you try to speak, to move but he's too close. his hand presses to your chest, flat and rough, right above your heart—feeling it beat. too fast. too scared.

"you wanted me," he whispers. "i know you did. your body never lied." you flinch and the devil cackles, still hunched in the corner like a grotesque shadow. "love me," jungwon snarls. "love me, or i swear to god—" his voice breaks and something in his posture crumbles. his body jerks once, and the chainsaw sputters, stalling—teeth clicking uselessly mid-air like a dying thing.

you watch it, watch him. you don't say anything, not because you're scared. but because you're done, done with the fear, done pretending. and in that silence, the refusal—he knows. his knees buckle slightly, just a moment. like the weight of your indifference is heavier than any chainsaw could be. his hand drops from your chest, not out of mercy—out of loss. you see it in his face, that he knows he's already lost you.

"...i would've killed for you," he says, so quiet it's almost nothing. "i did." the devil stirs, its head tilts, grin sharpening. "don't be shy now," it purrs, eyes glowing hotter. "she's right there. and you've already ruined her, haven't you?" jungwon turns to it, slowly. his eyes hollow. you barely catch the movement before it happens—a shudder that starts in his spine, rippling outward like static and the chainsaw flares back to life, screaming.

he's not even looking at you anymore, just the devil. "get out," he says, voice shaking and the devil blinks, confused. "...what?" jungwon's arm snaps—blade pointed directly at it, trembling, firelight dancing off blood-soaked teeth. "get out of me." the devil snarls. "you ungrateful little—" but it doesn't finish. because you say it again—quiet, deliberate: "jungwon."

his head jerks, your voice cuts cleaner than the chainsaw ever could and something shifts. the light in his eyes flickers, behind him, the devil stares at you. like it knows, like it feels the bond fracturing. the room begins to shake, you don't stop. "you're not it," you whisper. "you're you. come back." for a second, one impossible second—the chainsaw dies down again. but this time, the devil screams. a sound so loud it cracks the walls.

and suddenly, jungwon is shaking—teeth clenched, hand twisted in his own hair, the saw jerking erratically as the devil fights to keep hold. his body writhes in place, caught between two fires. and you know, this is it. either he wins, or the devil does. your voice cracks as you say it again, stepping forward even though your knees nearly give.

"jungwon. come back to me."

he looks at you—and this time, he chooses. his eyes meet yours. for once, there's no bloodlust behind them. no rage. no hunger. just jungwon and for a moment—he's back. his mouth parts like he wants to say something but the chainsaw devil inside him roars instead. the scream tears through his throat, shaking the whole room. he drops to his knees like he's being pulled down by something inside him, clawing at his chest, his arm, like he's trying to rip it out. sparks spit from the chainsaw—it jerks wildly, carving into the floor, the walls, the air.

and behind him, the devil stumbles backward. eyes wide, furious. "don't you dare—" it snarls, smoke curling from its mouth. it tries to surge forward, but it can't. it's tethered to him, chained through him. and you? you're breaking that chain.

you step toward jungwon slowly and kneel beside him. he's still trembling, gasping like his lungs are full of ash, blood dripping from his nose, his mouth, his fingertips—but he looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him here. his hand twitches toward yours, desperate, scared, small. "don't let it take me," he breathes. "please." your throat closes up and you touch his face, gently. his skin is burning hot, too hot. like something inside him is boiling over but he leans into your hand.

and you say the only thing you can, "then let go." he shakes his head—violently, panicked. "i can't— it'll kill me—" "it'll kill everything," you whisper. "me. you. what's left of you. is that what you want?" his breath catches, he looks at you like you've stabbed him and maybe you have. his lips part. "...no." and then with a shudder that cracks the floor beneath him—he lets go.

his body seizes once, twice, and the chainsaw arm explodes in a burst of steam and fire. the room lights up like a furnace, heat licking the walls, and the scream the devil lets out isn't human. it's a beast dying slowly, violently—its voice splitting like a dozen rusted engines tearing apart at once.

"no—" it wails. "you need me—!" jungwon doesn't answer he just closes his eyes and breathes. behind him, the chainsaw devil cracks, splits down the middle like a mirror hit with a hammer. its body tears itself open from the inside, light and ash spilling out like a dying sun. and in the silence that follows—it's gone. you watch silently, your body numb.

the room goes still and jungwon slumps forward into your arms. burned. broken. bleeding. but human. you hold him for a long time, long enough for his breath to slow. his eyes flutter open just once and he whispers your name like he's saying sorry.

you don't speak, you just hold him tighter until he falls asleep.

you leave the next morning, quietly—carefully.

you don't look back, and on your way out as the door shuts behind you—you don't see it: the faint glint in the cracked floorboards. a single, jagged chainsaw tooth, left behind.

still warm, still waiting.

⛧⃝

you find him months later. no one talks about what happened, the city forgets quickly—blood fades, bodies rot, buildings fall and no one remembers the screams.

but you do, you always will.

he's not dead, you knew he wouldn't be. he's somewhere out past the edge of the city—where the devils don't go, where the silence hums louder than anything else. an old shack with no doors, just shadows. no lights, just him.

you step inside, heart in your throat. he's waiting, sitting on the floor like he never left it. legs pulled up, arms resting loosely over his knees. his head tilts when he sees you, "you came back," he murmurs. not a question, not surprised—but like he always knew.

you don't answer, he looks the same but dimmer. like the light was cut off from inside with only traces of red burn behind his eyes now, smoldering like coals. quiet. patient. lethal.

"i thought you hated me," he says. "i did," you say back, your eyes searching his. "still do?" you hesitate, and that's enough. he smiles, slow and sharp. "it's okay," he says softly. "you don't have to lie. you were always good at pretending." you take a step back but he doesn't move. just watches you—like a predator that already knows you're too tired to run.

"did you really think it'd be over?" he asks, head tilting again. "that killing the devil would kill me too?" his voice is calm, but the air vibrates around it. something unnatural, something wrong.

"you played the game," he says, eyes narrowing. "but you forgot the rule." your breath catches and his grin grows wider. "you don't kill a devil with love," he leans forward. "you feed it."

your fingers twitch, the old instinct to run kicking in too late. he stands—slow, deliberate and walks until he's close, too close.

and then he whispers, right into your ear: "you're never escaping chainsaw man's clutches."

your blood runs cold, behind him, in the shadows, you swear you see something twitch. teeth. blades. smoke curling like fingers reaching out again.

and still, he smiles—because he knows. because he's still in there.

because you let him in—and now he's never letting go.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

#someone make ts a movie #HELLO????#chainsawman jungwon save me save me

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vampzwon · 22 days ago

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GRACE I MISS YOUUUU 😔😓

JDSHUHFGJGUFGH screaming squealing feeling very loved

june is a very hectic month for me .................................................... ill try to come back.............................. i rpomise................

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vampzwon · 1 month ago

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now why do we have enha in bdsm gear.

#enha x reader #enhypen fic #EIJUOHAIFH;OFGIJRF #JUNGWON LET ME GIVE YOU THE MOST MIND BLOWING HEAD EVER

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vampzwon · 2 months ago

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WHAT I HAVE 150 FOLLOWERS??????????? guys............ stop tysm i feel so famous im cryinf ily guys i didn't even know..

im working on stuff, i promise! it's just life has been weirdly eventful and it's really hard for me to write fanfic when life is actually eventful i have no idea why TT i promise i am working on something though! the sunghoon piece and other stuff, but the sunghoon piece might take awhile because it's gonna be LONG. like longer then much ado about nothing......

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vampzwon · 2 months ago

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양정원 ✸ — silence where heavens speak !

ⓘ; the man you’d once swore you’d least likely fall in love with, now you spend your days chasing and teasing in the gardens, and your nights kissing and cuddling up too. no one ever said marriage would be easy- but with him, you realize that your union isn’t just about romantic love—it’s about building something far greater: a family, a legacy of care, and a lifetime of shared, unbridled joy.

i. ⊹”mlist.

﹏ ⌗ 𝓹airing: 𝓎!jungwon x 𝒻!reader ❨2963❩

⏖’ 𝑔enres, fluffflufffluff. historical. hints of angst ?

𝓦arnings: formal english, mentions of parent death, proximity, kissing, crying, just super emotional :,)

𓏵-, 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒. was smiling like a mf idiot writing this ohhhh royal jungwon save me save me i #needthat jokes aside woah i got emotional writing this made me think of children all over the world who don’t get nearly as much as i do and i had to stop writing and think for a moment. reblogs and likes r much appreciated tysm for reading🤍

⌗𖹭.ᐟ “for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?” — much ado about nothing, william shakespeare.

“𝓟ass me the pliers, please,” You huffed, gloved hands deep in rich soil. You crouched behind a freshly blooming rose bush, patting your sweat away with your forearms in true unladylike fashion as you busied yourself within the opulence of the royal gardens. “Unless you’d rather I rip the wire out with my teeth.”

Lingering somewhere beneath, your husband chuckles softly, breathing ever so slightly labored with the heat of the summer sun.

“You do realise you are, by all accounts, a baroness,” Jungwon drawled, reclining lazily on the shaded edge of the stone path, arms propped behind his head. “There are approximately twenty-seven servants within a ten-yard radius. Any one of them could assist.”

“And yet here I am, my lord,” you replied without glancing up, voice flat with mock boredom, “elbow-deep in mulch, while you lie about like a particularly handsome-yet-useless sack of flour.”

“You find me handsome?” He grinned, obviously completely missing your point.

“I said particularly.” You pointed a fallen, dead rose, thorns navigated his way. “Don’t you get cocky.”

With an amused hum, he rose and walked over, shadows of rose leaves flickering over his crisp sleeves. He handed you the pliers wordlessly, then stood watching you—forearms streaked with soil, lips pursed in determination—as though you were a rare painting he could not place, but could not stop admiring.

You felt his gaze and looked up with narrowed eyes. “If you’re going to hover and gawk, at least be useful. Hold this wire while I fasten it.”

“Ever the romantic,” he murmured, but obeyed.

Minutes passed in companionable silence, save for the distant rustling of wind through the hedges and the occasional hum of bees. Once the roses were secured and thus cleaned up, you peeled off your gloves, brushed off your skirts, and marched back toward him.

He looked up from his lounging chair and invited you towards him with nothing more a warm smile. He barely had time to think before you lowered yourself unceremoniously into his lap with a contented sigh, back pressing to his chest as your fingers then found their usual place over the buttons of his shirt.

Circles. Always slow, thoughtful little circles. You’d stare at your fingers tracing against his warm skin, for hours at a time. He’d stay as still as a statue, letting you use him as pleased:

“I do adore a man who lets me use him as furniture,” you whispered with a giggle, eyes wincing with the waves of unbeatable sun, cheek now resting on his shoulder as you looked up at him. The sun highlighted slight stubble, and brightened his eyes even more, if that were even possible.

“And I adore a woman who can disarm a man with both a glance and a gardening tool,” he murmured back, placing his chin atop the crown of your head with a sigh. You laughed softly, hitting the pane of his chest teasingly. “Are you flirting with me, Husband?”

He grinned, the sound of it blooming in his chest beneath your cheek.

“Why, yes,” he replied, smug as ever. “It seems I’ve quite the affinity for pretty girls who talk back and smell of roses and dirt.”

You let out a scoff, though your lips curved despite you. “Then I fear you’ve married a menace.”

“A beautiful menace,” he corrected easily, fingers drumming a gentle pattern over your waist. “The most beguiling one of the whole estate. Dare I say, the nation?”

“I must warn you, my Lord, that flattery does not have it’s way with me.”

“Liar.”

“Flatterer.”

“That isn’t even a word!” He exclaimed through laughter, his head tipping back as the sound rang out across the hedgerows.

You lifted your chin with exaggerated grace. “And yet, you understood me perfectly. Curious, isn’t it?”

He regarded you with a look that was both fond and entirely exasperated. “Heavens preserve me,” he muttered, pulling you closer into his lap. “I married a woman who invents words to win arguments.”

“And I married a man who thinks he’s won one.”

That made him pause, grinning. “Touché.”

You smiled smugly, fingers tapping idle patterns across his chest as the breeze rustled through the garden, heavy with the scent of roses and late-summer warmth. He sighed wistfully, fingers ringing around your hair-ribbon, another one he’d gifted you. You let your hand rest over his heart, thumb brushing absent-mindedly through the thin fabric. “You’re hiding something.”

He grinned, the action wide and inviting. “Perhaps I plan something.” He exhaled, one hand curling gently around your waist, and then a wink. Two winks. You groan, rolling your eyes before you wack him square in the stomach. “Do not jest with me, man, I am impatient in nature.”

He wheezed a laugh, doubling ever so slightly as he caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. “Impatient, violent, cunning—what a jewel I have secured.”

You arched a brow. “A jewel with excellent aim, I might remind you.”

“That, woman, you needn’t remind me.” He murmured cheekily, making you wack him once again. He laughed harder, his chest rumbling beneath your palm as he caught your hand for a second time. This time, instead of kissing it, he pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart.

“Careful, or I’ll think you’re trying to beat some sense into me,” he said, breath still light with laughter. “Though I fear it’s far too late for that.”

“You were doomed the moment I agreed to marry you,” you retorted, tilting your chin high with mock pride.

“Agreed? Oh, my lady, you pleaded.” He grinned annoyingly, and you huffed, but allowed yourself to lean further into him, your cheek resting just over his shoulder as your legs tangled together lazily beneath the creeping sun.

“You jest,” You scoff, looking up at him with the hardest glare you could muster (which wasn’t much with the sun in the way. “You’re the one obsessed with me.”

“Hopelessly,” he said without hesitation, the word leaving his mouth like a vow. You blinked.

He turned his head slightly, brushing his nose along your temple. “Tragically. Madly. Devotedly obsessed.” A pause, and then he shrugged, as if it were common knowledge. “It’s quite humiliating, really.”

A soft snort escaped you, though you tried to hide it behind a scoff. “Then you’d best keep humiliating yourself, husband. I find it terribly charming.”

His hand wandered up your back, slow and lazy, dragging gloved fingertips over the ties of your blouse. “I think you’d find your surprise ever the charming, too.”

“Does it involve your poetry?” you asked, barely opening one eye.

“No.”

“Gardening?”

“No.”

“Does it involve you feeding me strawberries by hand while serenading me with a live band?”

“No, but that idea is now brewing.”

You smiled against his shirt. “Then I suppose I’ll allow it. But only if it involves cake.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Everything with you involves cake.”

“Because I’m a woman of sense and culture.”

“And because you never eat your breakfast.”

“Hush, and let me daydream, Husband.”

“Do whatever it is you please, Wife.”

Sitting there beneath the climbing roses, sun-warmed and soil-speckled, your legs draped over his and your hands drawing endless circles on his chest, it was easy to pretend you were simply two people in love, not nobles, not anything extraordinary. Just him, just you, and the promise of tomorrow.

The carriage rocked gently over the cobbled path, wheels clicking beneath you in a steady rhythm that should’ve been predictable by now—except, of course, for the fact that you were very much blindfolded.

“Are you certain I won’t be led directly into a river?” you asked flatly, arms crossed, lips twitching with amusement as the ribbon tied around your eyes tightened slightly with the sway of the ride.

“I’ve considered it,” came his easy, far-too-casual reply. His voice was low, teasing, and completely unrepentant. “But I thought today, perhaps, I’d keep you.”

“You’re a menace.”

“A menace you married.”

You scoffed. “Out of pity.”

“And for my poetry,” he added quickly.

“That was one poem. And it was about your boots.”

“They were very clean.”

You both laughed. It echoed in the small cabin like sunlight might echo off glass—light, effortless, real.

Eventually, the carriage slowed, the reins clicked twice, and the world outside seemed quieter. Still blindfolded, you felt him shift beside you. Then warm fingers took your hand, drawing it gently to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Stop that. You’re making me feel all fluttery.” You whined, prodding at his arm weakly. You let him help you down, careful steps guided by his steady touch, your gloved fingers wrapped around his forearm. The breeze was sweet, familiar somehow. The air held something soft.

He paused behind you. And with the gentlest whisper, “Now,” he untied the ribbon. Your lashes fluttered beneath the soft pull of silk, and when the ribbon finally slipped free, your breath caught.

Before you stood a modest estate—not quite a grand palace, no—but warm and old and full of charm, wrapped in ivy and laughter. The front gates were open wide, the sound of children tumbling through the garden drifting in the breeze.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

It hit you like a sudden wind, all at once and everywhere. The scent of summer soil. The swing creaking gently in the corner. The soft, melodic sound of little shoes tapping against stone.

An orphanage.

You grew up an orphan. You had no idea what parental love felt like—only the stories other children whispered about warm hands and lullabies and mothers who braided their hair with patience. But alas, you did not live under the brutal thumb of the institutions meant to care for those like you. You were spared that fate.

Privileged, in a sense. Fortunate enough to be raised within the quiet walls of your uncle’s estate—a man of strict order and rigid affection, who clothed and fed you and ensured your posture was proper and your laughter raw with genuine.

These children had never known privilege. No gentle homes. No warm kitchens filled with the smell of bread or a bed to call their own. You’d heard the stories growing up—tales of cruel matrons, hunger that ached like bone-deep winter, and the way children learned to stay quiet, to stay small, just to survive.

And even in the comfort of your uncle’s halls, even as you dined beside nobility and wore the silks of a life you hadn’t asked for, you never forgot. You’d always spoken on it—at dinners, in letters, in furious debates with guests twice your age. You had a fire in you for those children. For what they deserved.

“Oh,”* you whispered, your voice breaking before the thought could form.

Jungwon stood beside you silently, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted as if to study your expression like fine art. There was no grin now. No teasing remark. Just his eyes—so full of reverence it made you ache.

“I’ve been working with the board for a few months now,” he said softly. “A quiet restoration. Better staff. New funding. There’s a tutor coming next week. A physician, twice monthly.”

You turned to him slowly. “You—”

“I remember the way you spoke about them,” he said. “You didn’t grow up in one, no—but you saw enough. Heard enough. Knew enough to hurt for them. That was enough for me.”

Tears stung the corners of your eyes. “You rebuilt it.”

He nodded. “For them. And for you.”

You turned fully now, looking up at him, a slow, breathless disbelief colouring your features. “You wonderful, ridiculous man—”

He barely had time to laugh before you threw your arms around his neck, hugging him like the world might disappear if you let him go. “I love you,” you whispered into his collar, the words trembling on your lips.

“I know,” he whispered back. “But say it again. I’ll never grow tired of hearing it.”

You pulled away, just enough to look at him. “I love you.” You kissed his neck. “I love you.” You kissed his cheek. “God, I love you.”

Your lips crashed onto his with such a ferocity it knocked the breath right from both your lungs. He held you like you were something sacred—his hands framing your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn’t even realised were falling. There was nothing restrained about it. Nothing courtly or composed. And weirdly enough, that’s exactly the way you liked it.

He rested his forehead gently against yours, his breath fanning across your lips in a rhythm as steady as his heartbeat beneath your palm. His eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable to everyone else, were soft—utterly open, utterly yours.

With one final, grounding breath, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Come, my love.”

His fingers threaded through yours, firm and warm, and with that he led you forward—through the creaking orphanage doors and into the soft amber-lit halls that smelled faintly of ink and milk bread.

The matron met you at the door with a knowing smile and a gentle nod before stepping aside, ushering you both into the sun-drenched hallway lined with little shoes and soft laughter.

And there—just past the corridor, seated on a rug beside a basket of wooden blocks—was a small girl.

She was no older than two. A quiet thing with inky black hair that curled at the nape of her neck and deep, thoughtful eyes that made her look startlingly like him—and, in some odd, inexplicable way, like you. Her cheeks were round, lips plush and pink, and her tiny mouth curled into a hum as she looked up at you with curiosity.

“She’s…” You couldn’t finish the sentence.

Jungwon knelt beside her, offering a soft smile as she toddled toward him and leaned against his knee. His hand found her back instinctively. “She’s been here nearly a year. They told me she doesn’t speak much, but she listens. Observes. I met her during the restoration. She wouldn’t let go of my coat.”

You knelt too, fingers trembling as you reached out—and she waddled right into your arms, resting her head against your chest like she’d always belonged there. Your throat tightened. A child, so vulnerable and quiet— running right to your arms as if you held the answers to the universe. You sobbed.

Jungwon’s hand came to your back immediately, grounding you as your entire world shifted in the span of a single heartbeat.

She stayed still, pressed to your chest, impossibly small in your arms—yet the weight of her, the warmth of her, felt like something ancient and long-destined. As though the space she now filled in your heart had always been carved out for her. As though you had simply been waiting.

You stroked the back of her little head, her hair softer than anything you’d touched, her breathing steady against your collarbone. “She’s so quiet,” you managed, voice thin and wavering.

“She’s strong,” Jungwon murmured beside you. “You said once that quiet doesn’t mean weak. She watches everything. I think she’s just been waiting to feel safe enough to speak.”

You looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, lashes brushing the tops of her round cheeks, and a tiny fist was curled loosely in the folds of your gown. She made a faint, squeaky hum—something like contentment, something like a sigh—and the sound sent a fresh tear sliding down your cheek.

“Is she ours?” you whispered.

Jungwon looked at you with eyes that glowed with something deeper than joy. Something reverent. “If you want her… then yes. She’s ours.”

You kissed the crown of her head, voice trembling as you whispered, “Hello, my darling. We’ve been waiting for you.”

She nestled closer at that, tiny arms wrapping clumsily around your neck, her warm cheek pressed to your shoulder like she’d always known the shape of you.

Jungwon’s hand found the small of your back as he leaned in, resting his forehead against your temple. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell—unsteady, as though the moment was too much, too big, too precious to contain. “You’ll be so loved,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse, “for every day of your life.”

You nodded, unable to speak, brushing your fingers through her soft curls. She made a tiny noise—a sleepy little sigh—and your heart broke and rebuilt itself all at once. “You’ll be strong,” Your voice wavered with the weight of your emotion. “Even when you don’t feel like it.”

“And you’ll be so adored,” Jungwon finished gently, his voice barely above a breath as he tucked a curl behind her tiny ear. “Even when you think you don’t deserve it.”

The child blinked slowly, then gave a small squeak, burrowing herself impossibly closer into your chest. She made no sound beyond that, just the soft hum she always gave when she was content, as if she’d found the exact place she was always meant to be.

Jungwon pressed a kiss to your hair, then to hers, his arm wrapped around the both of you like he’d never let go.

“You’ll never go without,” you whispered against her temple, eyes brimming again. “Not food. Not warmth. Not love. Never love.”

She yawned then, her lips forming the softest little pout, her hand reaching instinctively for your collar as though she knew this was home. And in that moment, surrounded by everything that had once only been a dream, you looked at Jungwon with tears in your eyes and the whole world in your arms.

Because this was the family you’d never imagined you’d have, but would now fight for with every living heartbeat and every lasting breath.

taglist @wonys-won wow i have such an emotional connection/attachment to this jungwon idk how i will ever move on from this.. thank you guys for reading my baby💘

©VAMPZWON

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vampzwon · 2 months ago

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양정원✸ — much ado about nothing !

ⓘ; lord yang jungwon is the most bothersome lord you’d yet to encounter. he is equal parts charm and arrogance, wit and infuriation—wrapped in finely tailored coats and a mouth far too quick with replies. and worst of all, he knows exactly how much he gets under your skin. so when rumours of impossible love spark between you both, it is with great annoyance—and even greater denial—that you attempt to extinguish them. but as pride begins to diminish under the weight of something foreign and tender, the truth becomes much harder to ignore: perhaps the rumours weren’t so impossible after all.

ii. ⊹”mlist.

﹏ ⌗ 𝓹airing: 𝓎!jungwon x 𝒻!reader ❨12820❩

⏖’ 𝑔enres, e2l. historical. romance. slow burn. fluff. angst !

𝓦arnings: formal english, mentions of infidelity and parent death, smut 18+ MDNI, consent, slight body worship (?) jungwon boobie enjoyer, unprotected sex (don’t do it), creampie (?) conversations of marriage and children.

𓏵-, 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒. omg my first fic and smut here!! be kind. keep in mind this isn’t proofread!! man i love shakespeare.. happy reading! feedback, likes n reblogs much appreciated! ^^

⌗𖹭.ᐟ “i will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes” — much ado about nothing, william shakespeare.

"𝓦e are expecting guests, my dearest." When you hear your uncle's soft, smooth voice ring out from the garden below, you sigh to yourself. Of course.

You were quite content as you were. Sat in a creaking wicker chair (though, built more like a swing) you sipped lightly on some fresh wine, basking in the beauty of the sunlight. It was quite the day already. What need it more?

Earlier that morning, your cousin- though, you called her sister- Jiyoung had all but begged to braid your hair. She’d claimed it was a crime to let it go wild on such a lovely day. You’d resisted, of course. Insisted that no one was coming, that there was no one to impress, that you liked it better unruly. But Jiyoung, with her puppy eyes and relentless fingers, had already begun weaving before you finished your protest.

Afterwards, she roped you into wearing one of her sun dresses—the pale ivory one with the low back and embroidered yellow flowers along the hem. The one she always claimed made you look “like you stepped out of a poem.” You scoffed at the time, but secretly, you didn’t mind it.

Then, you'd danced around in the kitchens with her—Jiyoung, with her hair tied back in ribbons, her laughter bright and sticky like honey, and you pretending not to enjoy yourself as much as you did. The two of you spun and stirred and reached past one another in a flurry of hands dusted with flour and sugar, a pie crust half-formed on the counter, spices scattered like confetti.

You should’ve anticipated it then.

You were cooking quite a lot for someone who only helps out “when needs be.” And when did you ever volunteer yourself to whisk cream or knead dough unless there was an ulterior motive—or, more dangerously, an atmosphere that required distraction?

With him being such a prominent, well-known, and relentlessly charming figure, it really wasn’t much of a surprise. People liked Jungwon. The uncles thought him respectable. The aunts adored his manners. The younger cousins followed him like ducklings. He was good with names, always knew who liked lemon in their tea, who preferred cream in their soup, who secretly couldn’t stand parsnips.

He was beloved. And there lay the most unfortunate truth of all.

Because no matter how many times you rolled your eyes at his words, or outwitted his smug little remarks in front of the family, or claimed he was no more interesting than wet parchment—Yang Jungwon remained a constant guest.

Always invited. Always welcome. And somehow, always arriving just when you thought you could breathe. Brushing your flour-dusted hands over your apron, you froze at the familiar sound. Low, rumbling. Arrogant, careless and all the more carefree. A laugh.

Yang Jungwon.

Your mood instantaneously had soured. With a huff, you brushed your hands against your apron with such fevour it made Jiyoung blink in pure confusion, before you leaned over the wide windows of the kitchen. And there he stood.

Jungwon, with that familiar lazy posture, hands tucked into his pockets like he owned the very concept of leisure. His shirt was too crisp. His smile too rehearsed. And yet, laughter bubbled out of him, smooth and effortless, as he chatted with Sunghoon and the others.

You scowled.

The last time you spoke, he said your debating skills could be bested by a fruit fly with a head cold.

The time before that, you may or may not have implied that he’d never pleased a woman in his life.

And yet somehow, despite all odds, your uncle still insisted on inviting him to everything.

You'd hoped—perhaps foolishly, perhaps vainly—that war would have changed him. That the months away would have dulled that smug glint in his eye, grounded his floating confidence, taught him some humility.

But there he was. Untouched. Unbothered. Still too clean. Still too Jungwon.

You winced as your uncle clapped Heeseung on the back and pulled Jaeyun into a firm, fatherly hug. But when he moved to Jungwon, you had to glance away entirely.

You didn’t want to see it.

Didn’t want to see your uncle’s face soften with affection, didn’t want to see Jungwon’s return of it—warm, even sincere. That part always confused you. Because for all the wit and biting remarks, Jungwon was... well, good. At least where it counted. He remembered names. He held the door for elders. He kissed your aunt’s hand and helped the kitchen boy carry crates in the rain.

And that was what made it so unbearable.

Because it would’ve been easier to hate him if he were only arrogant.

An old habit by now, hands furiously roped through the unbraided ends of your hair, a silly effort to ground yourself. It was impossible grounding yourself around him. He was infuriating beyond measure. You had to remember that.

"You seem... perturbed." Jiyoung managed as her eyes peered over at Jaeyun with all the interest in the world.

"Even melign isn't too crude a word enough to detail him." You huffed, tone borderline petulant as you crossed your arms. Jiyoung, more then used to your antics by now merely laughed, her warm hand grabbing yours. "Come, come. We have guests to greet."

You didn’t bother hurrying.

Jiyoung, as always, moved like joy incarnate—bounding down the stairs with the kind of energy that made even sunlight seem slow. The white of her dress flared behind her like a wave caught mid-crash, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume.

You followed sulkingly, each step deliberate, measured, weighed down by the knowledge of who was waiting below.

She smiled—radiated, really—as your aunt pressed a kiss to her forehead, murmuring some soft motherly praise only daughters ever heard. You watched from the landing as Jiyoung slipped behind her father with all the grace of someone who’d never once known doubt.

Then your aunt turned to you.

She laughed the second she saw your face.

“Gracious,” she tutted, brushing her hand against your cheek with practiced affection. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time with the gardeners.”

You grunted. “And yet, the plants don’t talk back.”

Jungwon groaned when Heeseung told him where they were going.

“The L/N residence?” he muttered, voice thick with reluctance. “What sin did I commit to deserve this?”

Jaeyun raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You’re acting as if the place is some sort of dungeon. It’s a grand estate. With food, music, and a beautiful garden.”

Jungwon shot him a dry look. “And a niece who is as cruel with her words as the sharpest dagger. What joy.”

Heeseung snorted, adjusting his coat with a proud smirk. “You’ve not met many women, have you? That sharp tongue is why they all adore her. The L/Ns have a way with conversation. A little bite, a little wit.”

Jungwon groaned again, rubbing his temples. “More like a venomous bite. The last time I spoke with her, she had me rethinking every syllable I uttered as if I were a fool.”

“Of a lady!?” Heeseung exclaimed, his voice a mix of mock horror and genuine amusement. But he couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Jungwon, scared? My, that’s a new one.”

Jaeyun burst into laughter, shaking his head in that playful way that made Jungwon almost want to shove him into the nearest bush. “Oh, I wouldn’t say scared. But, tell me, Jungwon, can you imagine someone who talks more than you?”

Jungwon’s eyes narrowed, a wry smile curving his lips. “You’re right. I do think it would be a challenge. But you, Jaeyun, only speak when you’re certain there’s something ridiculous to say.”

Jaeyun pouted at the effortless insult, as Heeseung laughed, patting the two on the back. "Come on, you two. Behave yourself."

"I wonder that you will still be talking, Lord Yang. You see, no one marks you." You almost yawn, passing the comment as if it were general knowledge. He scoffs at the audacity.

He reels back slightly, mouth parted in disbelief. “No one—marks me?”

You don’t even turn your head, eyes set ahead as you reach for a plum from the polished wooden bowl on the veranda table. You cradle it in your palm like a precious jewel, admiring its skin before taking the smallest bite. You speak with your mouth full, deliberately uncaring.

“Not unless you’re trying to be tiresome,” you hum. “In which case, then yes—your talent is quite unmatched.”

“Ah,” he says, voice light, “but perhaps I speak only in the hopes that you’ll have, by some miracle, learned the art of silence.”

You blink. Then you laugh—short, sharp, delighted.

“Silence? From me? And here I was thinking you enjoyed the sound of my voice.”

He smirks, taking a step closer until you can smell the faint trace of lavender on his collar, no doubt from some overzealous maid. “Enjoy is a strong word. I’d say I endure it—like one endures a summer storm. Loud, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning ever so slightly forward, the plum still cradled in your hand like a weapon. “And yet,” you murmur, “you always stand in the rain.”

That draws a pause. The smirk falters—just barely. His mouth opens, but he shuts it again with a faint click of his teeth, as if weighing his next move with care.

Then— “And you always think yourself clever when really, you’re just loud.”

You gasp in mock offense. “You wound me!”

“No,” he says smoothly, eyes glinting. “You wound yourself with all that talking.”

An enraged flicker of fire sparks in your eyes—hot, brief, and unmistakably real. The kind of flare that would’ve scorched him, had it not been so quickly extinguished by the sound of your name being called.

"Y/N!"

Jungwon’s gaze flicks over your shoulder, instinctively alert. There, at the edge of the garden path, stands a young man—tall, sun-kissed, with a jaw sculpted like he’d been carved straight from the marble steps of your family estate. The gardener. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with dirt and sweat, and he waves at you with all the casual confidence of someone who knows he's admired.

Jungwon watches—expression unreadable—as your entire posture softens. Your lips curl into something gentle, radiant even. You wave back, that same warmth lighting your features.

And then—just as quickly—it fades. You turn back to him, the moment gone, but not forgotten.

“Well,” you sigh, feigning boredom as you tilt your chin upward, “I’m off.”

Jungwon’s jaw tenses ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as you step away.

You pause, turning just enough to throw over your shoulder with a syrup-sweet smile, “Try not to finish off my family’s harvest with that stomach of yours.”

He scoffs, lifting his chin with the smallest hint of a grin. “Worried I’ll eat you out of house and home?”

You flash him a wicked smile. “Only that you’ll forget what manners are, again, and start grazing straight from the vine. Akin to a pig.”

He laughs—sharp, short, but it’s real. “You think yourself clever,” he calls out as you walk away.

“I know I am!” you call back, not even bothering with a glance over your shoulder.

Men are boring.

You've been saying that your whole life. No one ever believed you.

Jiyoung, for starters, was an example. She danced with Jaeyun with such a bright smile it could've been blinding. Whatever it was that seemed to blossom between them within a couple of days, it was real. She was glowing, flushed from dancing and happiness alike, as Jaeyun stood close beside her, fingers brushing hers whenever they thought no one was looking.

You sighed—loud enough that your current partner took mild offense.

“My lady?” he asked, clearly hoping you’d flatter him into thinking he was fascinating.

“Oh, forgive me,” you said, smiling sweetly. “For a moment, I thought I was asleep.”

You left him mid-turn. Let him spin alone. He’d recover.

You were halfway to the terrace for a breath of fresh, unperfumed air when a figure in deep navy stepped into your path. A black mask covered half his face, but it did nothing to hide the sharpness of his jaw or the faint curve of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t need to see more to know it was him.

That perfect, infuriating hair, those eyes too clever for their own good, that smug set of his shoulders like he already knew you were going to say something insufferable.

Jungwon.

You took one long, slow look at him—and then blinked with all the innocence you could muster.

“Oh,” you breathed. “A stranger. How thrilling.”

You had to try your very best to bite back a laugh at the stupidity of the man before you. But then again, you'd known him long enough to expect it.

He tilted his head, lips twitching beneath the mask. “A stranger indeed,” he said, his voice barely disguised, rich with restrained laughter. “Might I ask for this dance?”

You pressed a hand to your chest, mock-gasping. “You sound familiar. But I suppose it’s only that I’ve recently suffered a headache.”

He offered his hand wordlessly.

You took it.

The music rose again. You joined the flow of dancers, letting him lead as your gown swept across the floor like water, effortless, elegant. And then you struck. Ruthlessly, a small grin dancing on your moonlit face. “I must say,” you began airily, “you remind me terribly of someone.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side as he spun you by the waist.

You nodded. “Yes. A Lord Yang. Dreadful sort. Always under the illusion that people enjoy his company.”

Jungwon’s lips parted slightly beneath the mask—you couldn't see it, but you surely heard the pause of this heavy breath. You pressed on.

“He has this habit of always saying the last word,” you sighed. “Very irritating. Talks like he’s composing a letter to... well, himself.”

“I’ve heard,” he said dryly, “that some find his conversation rather… engaging.”

You scoffed. “Then ‘some’ clearly have more tolerance than I. Or less sense.”

His hand tightened at your waist, just briefly. “Strange. I’ve heard you mentioned in equal measure. Something about a woman who treats a man’s opinion as if it were a crumb to be swept underfoot.”

You beamed. “That’s generous. I usually just ignore it.”

You spun, your fingers brushing his shoulder as you came close—close enough to see his eyes flash with something that looked dangerously like fondness. But you weren’t done yet.

“I can’t imagine anyone loving such a man,” you murmured, mock-conspiratorial. “Too self-important. Likely never pleased a woman in his life.”

Jungwon let out a quiet, incredulous laugh—half scandalized, half impressed.

“And you?” he asked, voice low, teasing. “What would it take to please you, my lady?”

You looked up at him slowly, lips parted just enough for him to wonder whether you’d speak at all.

Then you smiled.

"None that a man can."

Jungwon was fuming.

He stormed through the corridors just beyond the ballroom, one hand tugging at the knot of his cravat like it had personally offended him. His mask dangled from two fingers, forgotten.

“She thinks herself so clever,” he muttered to the air, pacing the stone floor. “Mocking me in front of half the nobility—again. And for what? Because I had the misfortune of asking her to dance?”

He scoffed. Loudly. Bitterly. “Her words are knives with ribbons on them. Decorative, but still meant to wound.”

He turned back again, boots echoing against the stone.

“She treats my name like a stain she can’t scrub off her glove. And yet—yet!—she always has something to say to me, doesn’t she? Never a moment of peace when she’s near.”

His voice rose with each pass, frustration spilling out of him like wine from an overfull goblet. “She could just walk away, but no. No, she lingers. She provokes. She—”

"Loves him." He stills as he hears a voice in the distance.

And there they were: your uncle, Jaeyun, and Heeseung, gathered on the garden terrace as if they just so happened to be talking at full volume right where anyone might eavesdrop.

“Oh, it’s tragic, really,” your uncle said dramatically, clasping his hands behind his back like a man retelling an ancient war story. “She’s completely besotted with the boy.”

Jungwon’s brows furrowed. His lips parted ever so slightly.

Heeseung gave a very poorly concealed snort. “Y/N? In love with Jungwon? I thought she’d rather choke on a grape.”

Jaeyun gasped with theatrical flair. “Ah, but it’s always the ones who fight the most. Her wit is just her armor! Why, I heard she keeps a lock of his hair tucked into her prayer book!”

Jungwon’s mouth opened fully now. What?!

Your uncle didn’t even flinch. “She mocks him because it is all she knows. Her feelings run deeper than the Danube.”

“Isn’t that a river? Isn't the metaphor supposed to be linked with the ocean?” Jaeyun asked, clearly going off-script.

Heeseung elbowed him. “Shut up, she’s in love.”

“Oh, right, right. She'd said,” Jaeyun added with the tone of someone barely holding in laughter, though his voice also seemed to waver with extraordinary emotion “that she dreams of him. That she wakes with her pillow damp with tears because she cannot say what’s in her heart.”

“Because if she does,” Heeseung said solemnly, “she fears he’ll laugh.”

“She’s so vulnerable, poor thing,” your uncle sighed.

Jungwon, now blinking like a stunned animal, slowly sank down into a crouch.

His thoughts were spiraling.

She loved him? All this time? She—she thought of him? Dreamed of him?

A hand to his chest.

Had she really once written “Lady Yang” in the corners of her notebooks?

His heart was thudding.

“She’s proud,” Jaeyun added, tone syrupy. “But if he were to say even one kind word, I think she’d melt like snow.”

Your uncle nodded. “A single look from him would shatter her composure.”

Heeseung sighed wistfully. “I do hope he sees this. Poor lad has no idea.”

Oh, not only did he see it. He heard it. All of it.

The words echoed in his head like a drumbeat, but when they finally settled into his chest—when he truly heard them—Jungwon collapsed. His knees buckled, and he sank down into a crouch, hands gripping his hair like a man trying to keep himself from shattering entirely.

She loves me?

It felt too impossible to comprehend, like a riddle with no answer. The world spun around him, the heat of the ballroom, the low hum of laughter and chatter, all of it faded into a dull, ringing buzz as the revelation hit him harder than anything he had ever experienced before.

His breath came shallow, ragged.

“She… LOVES me?” he whispered aloud, staring blankly ahead, as though hoping some divine force might correct this absurdity.

His fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands like he could pull the confusion straight from his skull. His chest felt tight, the weight of it all almost unbearable. There was no denying it now. They—they—had all heard her words, seen the signs he had so badly missed.

And now he was left reeling, struck by the idea that every word she had ever hurled at him—every barbed quip, every sharp retort—hadn't been out of spite. She hadn’t hated him. She had been dancing around it, pretending she didn’t care, fighting the feelings that had been bubbling beneath her teasing surface. For a moment, he just sat there, lost. Then, in a small, quiet voice that held the weight of a thousand unspoken things, he muttered:

“Why didn’t she just say it?”

A beat of silence passed.

“Wait—does she think I’m a fool?” he muttered again, raking his fingers through his hair, pacing in tight circles. “Why didn't she just—damn it!” He kicked at a stone, though foolishly tripped over it instead. He hissed in pain, before he swore at the stones and lords above.

Whatever could he do now?

You huffed as you bounded down the halls. Your ears ringed with the faint click-clack of your heeled sandals, arms holding onto your much-too flowy dress in efforts to ensure nothing would get in the way.

You had a mission. One you most certainly would have to partake, against your very will.

You’re not sure why your aunt told you and only you to fetch Jungwon for dinner. Perhaps she just likes to see you in your element. Hating.

Your steps heaved with exasperation, your pace sharp—until you caught sight of him.

Jungwon stood leisurely in the sun-dappled corridor, back resting against a stone pillar, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. And, curiously, for a man who used to bristle at the mere sight of you, he was smiling.

Worse—he was smiling at you.

Your steps slowed. “What,” you asked flatly, “is wrong with your face?”

His grin widened.

You narrowed your eyes. “You look like someone who’s just been gifted a country estate.”

He pushed off the pillar and stepped forward, all slow confidence and unbearable amusement. “My lady,” he said softly, with the kind of faux reverence that made your skin crawl. “You’ve come to fetch me?”

You raised your chin. “I’ve come under duress.”

“Oh, I’m certain,” he said, bowing just slightly, the gesture playful. “And yet, here you are. Glistening like a summers’ sunset.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Are you well?”

“Perfectly,” he said with a shrug, walking beside you now, far too casually. “It’s just… there’s a certain glow about you this evening.”

You stopped in your tracks and turned to him, deadpan. “Have you been drinking?”

He only smiled, eyes glinting with something far too pleased. “Not yet.”

You gave him a once-over, suspicious. His shirt was just slightly unbuttoned, the locks of his hair soft and perfectly unruly, his whole demeanor far too warm. Soft. Like he’d woken up in love with the world.

It was absolutely disgusting.

You stared at him, suspicious. “You’re smiling like someone who knows something I don’t.”

He tilted his head, feigning thought. “Perhaps I do.”

“Then it mustn’t be very important,” you said coolly, brushing past him.

But he followed, steps leisurely, shoulders rolled back as if he had all the time in the world. As if he belonged here, hands behind his back. “You wound me. Is it such a crime to be in good spirits?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence between you was thick, brittle, and full of suspicion—on your part, at least. After a few more paces, you glanced sideways at him. “I’m only here because your presence has been requested at the table.”

“Ah,” he said with faux solemnity. “Then I suppose I must oblige.”

You stopped at the stairway. “Then why aren’t you moving?”

He looked at you, then at the staircase. And with all the grace of a man enjoying a daydream, he said: “…No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He smiled again—that smile, insufferably charming and entirely unwarranted. “I don’t believe I will.”

You stared at him, mouth parted in disbelief. “You’ve gone quite mad.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, tilting his head, curls falling over his brow. “But I find I rather enjoy your company more when it’s just the two of us.”

Your eyes narrowed. “There won’t be two of us, because I’m leaving. And I will tell them you refused.”

“Tell them anything,” he said, now leaning against the banister with criminal ease. “Tell them I’ve taken ill. Tell them I’ve been struck by lightning. Tell them I was too enchanted by a certain sunset-lit lady to join the meal.”

You stared at him. Then made a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You’re sure you were born without difficulty?.”

He winked. Winked. “And yet, you came looking for me.”

You spun on your heel before you could strangle him with your own shawl.

Down the stairs, you went, muttering furiously.

When your aunt asked where he was, you didn’t even pause.

“Dead in a ditch, hopefully.”

Love.

A conundrum in itself.

You didn’t think you knew what it felt to love. Perhaps as a baby you loved your late mother and father. Perhaps you didn’t. You didn’t have any memories of the two. You’d been an orphan your entire life.

And still, you were told, “You are loved.”

You were loved by your uncle. By your aunt.

But it wasn’t the same. Not that kind of love.

The kind that made people foolish. Made them write poetry and lose sleep and act like they’d misplaced their own hearts.

The kind that Jiyoung had found.

You smiled despite yourself, plucking a stray leaf from a bloom.

Jiyoung had practically floated through breakfast that morning. Ever since Jaeyun returned from the war and thus proposed for marriage, it was as though her life had been cast in gold. The way he looked at her—like she was a secret he was trying not to blurt out too soon—and the way she blushed around him, her usual grace replaced with nervous smiles and hopeful glances… it was all nauseating. And oddly moving.

You didn’t think you’d ever have that.

Or want it, if you were being honest.

Love, to you, felt like an overgrown grape vine—sweet, yes, but far too soft. It bruised too easily. It turned sour the moment you looked away. And so, you gardened.

Your hands, gloved and soil-streaked, moved carefully through the rose bed. You liked gardening. It was predictable. Gentle. The roses, at least, had the decency to bleed when they hurt you.

You pressed your fingers into the soil, easing a stubborn root free. The morning sun painted the garden in a soft warmth, the breeze tugged at the hem of your sleeves, and for a moment—just a moment—you had peace. You felt—

“Heartbroken.” Jiyoung’s soft voice rang out before you, slow and syrupy, just stood adjacent to the grape vine. “Poor Lord Yang. He must simply be heartbroken that my dear cousin does not love him back.”

You heard a muffled tut of agreement. That one was surely your aunt.

“I don’t understand, mother,” Jiyoung sighed, the sound largely heavy and contemplative. “Jaeyun and I have but found ourselves together. Why must Lord Yang and Y/n dance around their feelings rather then be wed?”

You choke on nothing. It is growing quite hot. Perhaps the weather is playing mind tricks with you.

“He is obsessed, Mother!” Jiyoung continues, and you just barely see the flourish she walks with. “He follows her with his eyes like a deer to light! Yesterday he walked into a door—a door!—just trying to watch her argue with the stable boy.”

You slowly, silently sat back on your heels, covered in dirt, utterly still. Your hat slipped sideways. You did argue with the stable boy yesterday. He was treating the horses with such brute force you felt it unethical not too. Whatever could be so attractive about that?

“Y/n has no idea,” your aunt replied mournfully. “Too clever and proud for her own good. But he’s mad for her.”

“Do you think she suspects?” Jiyoung asked with a mock gasp.

“Oh, heavens no,” your aunt declared. “She’s far too busy pretending not to notice the way he stares at her like she’s some goddess carved from starlight.”

You were going to throw a rose bush. Your hand gripped your trowel with white-knuckled fury. Perhaps it wasn’t just the sun messing with you. Maybe it was the whole universe, above and beyond.

“Did you hear about the poem?” Jiyoung whispered—loudly. “He tried to write her one! Burned it the moment he finished. Said it was unworthy of her.”

“Oh, how romantic,” your aunt sighed. “Our poor Jungwon, pining for a girl who’d sooner bury him under a tree than kiss him.”

That must’ve been the only thing they’d let slip from their mouths that was remotely true. You would sooner bury him under a tree. Happily. With flourish.

And yet, your heart still swirled. Uncomfortable. Foreign.

You thought about it. You thought about it a lot.

You stood slowly, the ache in your knees forgotten as you stared blankly into the thick, reaching thorns of the rosebush before you. The petals curled gently in the sunlight, soft against the brutal barbs. Much like him, in some twisted, infuriating way.

Because deep down—beneath the smug grins and verbal duels, beneath the way he looked at you like a challenge, like a chess match he was winning—Yang Jungwon was attractive.

He was infuriatingly attractive.

He was sharp. Witty. A strong man, yes, but never cruel. Even when he teased you past the point of reason, even when he said things that made your blood boil, he never once looked down on you for it. He matched you. Word for word. Flame for flame.

And worse still—when you caught glimpses of him alone, unguarded, smiling at someone with real warmth, or speaking softly to the servants, or offering his arm to your aunt without a second thought— He looked like someone who could be good. Not just to others. To you. And you hated the thought.

You hated it so much that your hands clenched again, fingernails biting through your gloves.

“Stupid,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant for him, or for yourself.

Probably both.

You needed a walk.

Or a cold bath.

Or perhaps a lobotomy.

“There is something quite odd about her,” Jungwon thought aloud, staring at your distant figure.

You stood tall, tray in hand, lips pursed as you arranged fruit and bread on the table, utterly unaware—or pretending not to be—that you were being observed. Your hair was down, long and wild, bellowing softly in the spring wind, catching the sun like threads of true gold.

It was unwise, truly. To look for too long. But Jungwon found himself unable to do anything else.

“Good God,” Heeseung laughed softly under his breath.

“What is so funny to you, brother?” Jungwon scowled, straightening his back whilst pulling at his suit buttons.

“Perhaps your ability to profess your unweilding love for Y/n only when she cannot hear.” Heeseung chimed with a soft, knowing grin on his wise features.

Jungwon scoffed. “I do not—”

“You do,” Jaeyun piped up from behind a bowl of grapes, far too delighted, lighting up with puppy like excitement. “Every time she’s in earshot, you become a walking storm cloud. But the moment she leaves—suddenly you’re quoting poetry with merely your eyeballs.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” Heeseung said simply, pointing with the pear. “Just now. I watched it happen. If your eyes had hands, I figure they’d have written her a ballad and braided her hair.”

Jungwon’s face darkened. Embarrassment or bewilderment, he did not know. “You two are insufferable.”

“Ah,” Jaeyun nodded solemnly. “A classic deflection. Must be love.”

“You will both be silent,” Jungwon gritted through his teeth, adjusting his cuffs like that could restore his dignity. “You know nothing.”

Heeseung leaned back, smirking. “Oh, we know everything.”

Jungwon huffed. The movement was stupidly petulant, and incredibly embarrassing in hindsight, but then, in the distance, as he watched you tend to the maids’ children with such an attention-grabbing, charming smile, he wondered how it would feel to have you look at him that way.

Perhaps, with love.

You were moving in such a rush, you were so sure your body and soul were seperate. You figured your soul was floating somewhere above, watching in judgment as you darted between baskets and dishes, dress snagging at your ankles, hair already frizzing from the kitchen heat.

“Move!” someone barked.

“I’m trying!” you called back, hands gripping a covered tray far too wide for the doorway. You stumbled backward in the chaos, muttering a curse—and collided squarely with a body. A very solid, very familiar one.

You froze, tray still in hand, feeling the slow intake of breath behind you. Warm breath. Ticklish. Familiar.

“Careful,” came the low murmur, laced with far too much amusement. “You’ll bruise. We don’t want that, do we?”

You turned—awkwardly, unwillingly—and looked up.

Jungwon. Of course. You could only sigh.

He stood impossibly close, hair unruly from the breeze, eyes unreadable as they flicked down to your hands and back up again.

His gaze landed on your palm, where a small cut had opened, a tiny bead of blood trailing down the line of your skin.

Without a word, the playfulness in his expression immediately fell away. His brow furrowed, lips parting as if he were about to speak, but hesitated. The shift in his demeanor was so stark that you almost couldn’t believe it was the same man.

“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly, his tone stripped of all the usual teasing. He reached for your hand, his fingers gentle as he examined the cut.

You pulled back instinctively, but not before noticing the seriousness in his eyes, the way his hand lingered, and the faint worry that twisted his usually confident features. It was almost… startling.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, wiping your hand on your apron as if to dismiss it. You didn’t want his concern. Not now, especially not with him so close.

“Don’t be daft,” Jungwon said, his voice low, now filled with something completely foreign—care. “You’re not fine.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asked, a small smirk playing on his lips again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His hand was still poised near your palm, as if unwilling to let it go. “The next thing you’ll tell me is you’ve broken your leg too, and that I shouldn’t worry.”

You shifted uncomfortably, looking at the floor. “It’s a small cut. Really, it’s nothing.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightened for a second before he let out a breath, clearly making an effort to calm himself. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieving a small handkerchief. His fingers were deft, careful, as he pressed it against the cut with the precision of someone who had done this before.

You watched in stunned silence, your heart beating just a little too fast.

“Let me,” he said softly, as if apologizing for his insistence, but the warmth in his voice was undeniable. “It’s better this way.”

The kitchen felt suddenly too small, too warm. Your breath was shallow, a flurry of conflicting emotions washing over you. You wanted to pull away, but for some reason, you couldn’t. He was so close, his face just inches away as he finished tending to your hand.

When he finally pulled back, his expression had returned to its usual cocky calm, though there was still an edge of something softer. Something unfortunately unreadable.

“There. Better?”

You blinked, looking down at your hand, which now felt a little lighter. You couldn’t say why, but it did.

“Better,” you muttered, trying to hide the heat rising to your face.

“You shouldn’t just be in the kitchen. When are you all going to eat?” The furrow in his eyebrows only deepened, peering around at all the maids running around with bewilderment.

You shrugged, shifting your weight between each of your sore legs. You watched as his broad shoulders moved softly, up and down as he softly inhaled and exhaled the kitchen fumes, and for a soft, fleeting second, you found yourself weirdly entranced.

Perhaps he is a male-witch.

Perhaps you’ve been bewitched.

Perhaps, you don’t mind.

The wind was warm today. Which was a little weird if you thought about it, seeing as wind, scientifically, is supposed to be the latter. Maybe it was the way Jungwon was practically skipping that made it whip onto his face in a way that made his cheeks flush up.

Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t seem to get you out of his head.

He walked in the middle of Heeseung and Jaeyun, the chatter between the three of them flowing easily as they wandered through the grounds. It was a peaceful day—sunlight dappling through the trees, the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers filling the air.

And as if he were cursed by the Lord and Heavens above, allocating you as some sort of personal annoyance, there you were.

It wasn’t enough that you had somehow infiltrated his thoughts, wrecked his composure. No, now you had to appear at the most inopportune moment, right when he was least prepared for it.

There you were, laughing lightly as one of the children tugged at your sleeve. You held a small flower in your hand, showing it to the others with an easy grace, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for you to be surrounded by the warmth of others.

It wasn’t just the fact that you took care of children so well— children that weren’t part of the estate. Poor. Lower class. And yet, you entertained them as if they were equals.

You took the littlest one into your lap with the warmth of a mother’s touch, and handed it the daisy with such softness Jungwon had to do a double take.

The little girls’ eyes were round with awe as her tiny hands took the flower appreciatively, before she peered up at you. Eyes wide, filled with awe— like you were the most fascinating thing to grace planet Earth.

You smiled kindly, brushing the girls’ hair behind her ears. Despite that image you put up, you surely were soft at heart. With a pensive expression, you spelled out the word, “Daisy,” ushering the little girl to repeat after yourself. It took the little one but a few tries— for her confidence still hadn’t bloomed, but after she did it, you pulled her in the air triumphantly, watching her wriggle with soft giggles, before cascading her with prompt kisses on chubby cheeks.

The sight made his heart physically hurt. Like it had swelled with adoration just at the very sight. It was such a domestic scene, it made a feeling swirl in his stomach, coupled by his own fleeting thoughts. What if that were you both? He imagined. A girl, maybe. With your full lips and his sharp eyes.

The image was too vivid, too real in his mind’s eye. His chest tightened, and for a moment, it felt like everything was closing in on him.

It wasn’t just the sight of you with the children that had him so rattled. It was the possibility. The idea that, maybe, one day—just maybe—it could be you and him. And that thought alone was enough to send his mind spiraling.

And just like that, it hit him.

You were impossible.

You had always been this thing that he couldn’t quite reconcile. You infuriated him to no end—always sharp, always a little too smart for your own good. Yet, in this moment, as he stood there, transfixed by the soft, unguarded way you interacted with the children, he felt something unfamiliar stir inside him. Something entirely uninvited.

God, he thought, feeling the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks, how did she manage to do this to me His body tensed, his hands twitching at his sides.

Heeseung and Jaeyun continued walking, oblivious, their conversation light and carefree, rather detailing the intricacies of Jaeyun’s wedding with Jiyoung.

“Jungwon?” Heeseung called out, noticing his friend’s strange stillness. He gave him a curious look, but Jungwon couldn’t muster the strength to respond. He was too caught up in the image of you, glowing in the sunlight, completely unaware of his sudden conflict. It was maddening.

He sighed. He knew words would fail him. It wasn’t like he could explain the mess of emotions swirling inside his chest. Instead, he just swallowed his frustration and forced himself to move forward, pulling his gaze away from you.

It wasn’t enough, though. No matter how hard he tried, you remained there in his thoughts, sitting among the children, radiant in a way he couldn’t understand.

As if the universe had decreed he would be forever cursed by your presence, just as surely as the day he met you.

God help me, he thought. I’m losing my mind over someone who thinks I’m a nuisance.

“He’s a nuisance,” You mutter aloud, giving no thought to your careless words. Your fingers worked through her hair as you sat behind her on the marble patio-balcony, focused on the task at hand.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows against the so colourfully vibrant garden and the distant murmur of maids working on wedding preparations seemed to fade into the background.

Your cousin. Your sister. Your best friend since diapers. Married. Gone.

The thought really did not settle right with you— you were happy for her, of course you were, but it all seemed to be happening too fast. Jaeyun, though irrevocably kind, also had a knack for being quite daft, and for the two to be wed in such a short time? The words left for you to articulate surely weren’t pleasant.

But she’s happier than ever before. Even now, sat at the mercy of your nimble fingers, she buzzes with quiet excitement.

“An afterthought. Akin to a dead fly.” You continue as a gruff grumble. She replies with a short laugh.

“Can a dead fly attract the ladies as does he?”

You promptly smack her lightly on the shoulder, eliciting a short laugh. “What? Do I lie, cousin?”

You merely scowl, nudging her shoulder with your own as you plop beside her comfortably.

“You’d have to be a woman gone insane to find him attractive.”

Jiyoung raises an incredulous eyebrow at your words, and just as you open your mouth, perhaps to tarnish the certain lord’s name a little more, you’re promptly cut off by a series of giggles from the garden below.

Jungwon.

He was walking across the sun-dappled grounds, carrying five boxes of apple crates with effortless ease, his posture straight, shoulders relaxed. It was almost annoying how easily he carried them—each box stacked neatly, no visible strain. His white shirt clung to his skin, slick with sweat, but he wore it with that casual, confident smile that somehow made him even more unbearable. The maids nearby noticed him, their gazes following him as he moved, their whispers filled with admiration and a touch of longing. You could hear the soft tittering, the giggles. “So strong, so handsome,” they murmured.

You felt your chest tighten—familiar irritation and something else you weren’t ready to acknowledge. Your eyes followed him across the garden, watching how effortlessly he moved, like he was the star of some play and everyone else was simply a supporting role. The worst part? You knew they were all right. He was the type of man who could walk into a room, and the world would stop for him.

The worst part was, you hated how much it bothered you.

You tried to ignore it, turning your attention back to Jiyoung, but your mind kept drifting.

You had always been able to dismiss him as an arrogant nuisance—until now. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he went and did something like this. He was impossible to pin down, impossible to ignore. And you hated the feeling that was beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach, a mixture of frustration and something else.

You looked back out at the garden again, just in time to see Jungwon flash that smile, that self-assured grin that was way too charming for his own good. The maids sighed as he passed by, practically swooning.

It’s sickening how attractive he is.

Perhaps he is more to you than a dead fly.

Feeling both happy and sad at once is an emotion you’d yet to discover. And now, stood behind your dear cousin, graced in the most beautiful wedding dress money could offer, your heart swelled with it.

Emotion is one weird thing.

Jiyoung was radiant. Her smile could split the sky. And despite the ache in your chest that had lingered all morning—some mix of nerves, and melancholy, and maybe a bit of dread—you found yourself smiling.

And then your gaze found his.

Jungwon.

He stood on the groom’s side, tidy in his formal attire, hair brushed neatly, face calm. His eyes met yours across the crowd, and something shifted. The air between you changed. It softened.

You smiled.

And he smiled back.

His eyes, usually so sharp, now filled with quiet warmth, crinkled at the sides, and his thin pink lips curled up at the corners. He brushed a hand through his thick, dark hair.

It wasn’t mocking, nor smug. It was small. Private. Real.

Immediately, you mentally reprimanded yourself and straightened your back as strong footsteps echoed against the marble floors of the church hall.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew those steps.

Jaeyun. The groom. The man Jiyoung was supposed to marry in the next hour.

She smiled widely, and you squealed beside her, before adjusting her veil hurriedly, but just then— a hush fell.

His expression was unreadable—stone-set jaw, eyes dark with something more than just anger. Beside him, Heeseung moved with equal purpose, lips pressed into a tight, grim line. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the outside world like something would happen— something the world would dare watch.

Jaeyun’s gaze swept the room before falling squarely on her. No smile. No warmth.

Jiyoung’s smile slowly dropped as she took just a step closer to him, as if testing the waters. “Jaeyun?”

“I was told,” he said, voice clear and cutting through the silence, “that my bride-to-be has been less than loyal.”

You could feel the words stab into her. Into the room. You could hear your aunt’s hand fly to her mouth in a gasp. Jiyoung flinched, her fingers digging into yours as she looked up at him, wide-eyed and shaking her head. “No—I don’t know what you mean, I haven’t—Jaeyun, I swear—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. His voice didn’t raise. If anything, it got quieter. “I’ve heard enough. I didn’t want to believe it. But when Heeseung heard it from multiple mouths…”

Heeseung remained silent behind him, eyes darting toward you for only the briefest second.

You opened your mouth to speak—to fight—but Jiyoung moved first.

She took a step forward, tears streaming now, and clutched at the lace of her sleeves as if trying to hold herself together. “Please, you must know me better than this—Jaeyun, I haven’t— I would never—”

“Then why,” he asked, voice tight, “would so many say the same thing?”

Your heart cracked.

And then, like glass shatter—Jiyoung broke.

Her knees buckled beneath her. You caught her before she hit the ground, lowering with her slowly as she collapsed into sobs once more. Her veil slipped off her head, pooling around you like silk water. You held her fiercely, lips pressed to her temple, trying not to let your own despair show.

Tears brimmed hot at your lashes, but you forced your voice steady. “She’s telling the truth,” you said, sharp and certain, voice raising with the injustice of it all.

But Jaeyun had already turned his back.

At the sight, Jiyoung scream sobbed into your chest. The sound tore through the hall, raw and unrestrained, a sound so heartbreakingly human it made your heart stutter in its place.

You held her tighter, arms wrapped around her shaking frame as if your touch alone could anchor her. But even as you whispered her name, again and again, she only trembled harder.

Your eyes brimmed with ushered tears. One slipped free, carving a hot, silent line down your cheek. And then—she fell limp in your arms.

“No, no—Jiyoung—!” you gasped, shifting to cradle her, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her lips moved, mouthing something soundless, her body slack, utterly spent.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sorry sight, and your tears flew much more freely now, blurring the edges of the world around you. Jiyoung’s body remained still in your arms—so soft, so heartbreakingly still. Her sobs had quieted, but her breathing came in small, desperate gulps, like she was trying to hold herself together by will alone.

You looked up.

And through the blur of salty tears and sorrow, your gaze found him.

Jungwon.

Beside him, Heeseung had already turned his back too, and expectantly, the two men looked toward him to make some decision—some movement, some word that might break the tension. But Jungwon didn’t move. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his eyes still locked with yours, but they flickered now—torn between duty and something else, something much harder to define.

You looked up at him from the floor, Jiyoung in your arms. Your eyes pleaded. Please. Don’t follow them. Please.

You slowly nodded no, words failing to leave your trembling lips, a silent begging, pleading for him to stay. For him to believe. Your chest heaved with heavy emotion as your eyebrows furrowed pleading, yet alas—

Jungwon turned his back.

A choked little sob left your lips, and you swore you saw him hesitate in his step as his hands bunched into fists. You whimpered into Jiyoung’s hair as panic began to settle in, but your eyes couldn’t move from his figure, disappearing into the distance.

And the church fell silent but for the broken rasps of breath of a bride that would not be wed.

Men are, in fact, disappointing.

You know it. Everyone knows it.

And yet, as your eyes helplessly searched for Jungwon within the cathedral, he just about proved your point.

It only sucked so much because you truly believed he was different.

You truly believed he was kind. A man with integrity, with a heart full of warmth and made of steel. And yet, when you watched him turn just as the others did—without a word, without even meeting your gaze—your heart cracked in a way you hadn’t known it could.

You sat curled on the cold stone bench in the garden, surrounded by the rosebushes that you’d always loved. Nothing seemed to make you feel better.

Your face was buried in your hands, your shoulders trembling with every stifled sob. The air was warm, fragrant with crushed petals and damp earth, but your chest felt hollow. Stretched. Bruised.

You hadn’t even heard his footsteps.

Only felt the shift of weight beside you, the quiet creak of the bench as Jungwon lowered himself to sit next to you.

Silence.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just sighed. Long and low and full of everything he couldn’t yet say.

You whimpered as you wiped your tears away with trembling fingers, trying desperately to smooth your features. To look strong. Even now. Especially now.

Then, wordlessly, you turned your back to him—just slightly. Just enough to make the distance between you feel bigger.

It worked.

Because when he spoke, his voice cracked like it hurt to use. Because when he spoke, it was no longer with pride or poise or wit.

It was just a boy. Breaking.

“Say something,” he begged, his voice cracking, thin with desperation as he turned to face you. “Curse me. Hate me. Just—say something.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. You only turned and pressed your face into his shoulder, finally, finally letting yourself fall into him as the sobs overtook you once more. They came from somewhere deep, and guttural, your whole body shaking with them.

Jungwon sat there, barely breathing, his hands flexing uselessly in his lap as he stared at your back. At the fine tremble in your frame. At the way your fingers gripped at his crisp suit as if him himself were the only thing keeping you anchored to the world.

Jungwon flinched like your pain, especially that in your voice had physically struck him. His arms moved slowly—like he wasn’t sure he had the right—but eventually wound tightly around you, holding you close. As if trying to protect you from a storm he helped create. “I’ll fix it,” he proposed weakly, pleadingly, his big hands rubbing against your back in a pathetic attempt to make you feel better.

“No,” You began, sitting up straight. Your fingers faltered against his suit, as you sniffled weakly, looking at the ground. “I’ll fix it myself.” You grunted, gruff and calculated. Your jaw clenched.

“I’ll kill him,” you spat suddenly, your voice trembling with rage as your eyes burned into the earth. “I swear to God, Jungwon—I’ll kill Jaeyun. I’ll use my own hands, I’ll—” You stopped, gasping through the ache in your chest. “I’ll bury him myself, right here in this garden.”

You spoke so passionately, hot with pure fury, and yet, you still didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold you, or tell you to breathe, or insist on logic and honor and sensibility like you thought he might.

He just went still.

And then, softly—so softly—you heard his voice. “…Please. Look at me.” He began, voice weak with emotion and wavering with tears. “I can’t stand it. Please.”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want to let yourself fall back into that softness you swore to abandon.

But you looked.

And when you did—he shattered all over again.

Your eyes were red and glassy, your cheeks stained, your lip bitten raw. You looked like someone who had given too much. Trusted too hard. And still carried love in your chest like a burden.

And so he did the only thing he could.

He kissed you.

Not out of victory or pride or triumph—but like a man begging for forgiveness with his whole body. His lips trembled against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed to the small of your back as if holding you was the only thing keeping him upright.

It was a kiss that hurt. A kiss that healed. A kiss that said everything his words could not.

And for all you could,

you kissed him back.

You sat at your vanity, brushing through your hair slowly, the bristles snagging on tangles you were too tired to care about. The lace at the back of your nightgown had come half-undone, trailing like wilted ribbon. Candlelight flickered in the mirror, softening your features, making the furrow in your brow look less like grief and more like longing.

But the ache was real. Deep. Gnawing.

You sighed.

The brush stilled in your hand.

You missed him, and it was disgusting.

When you’d last seen him, he’d left with his eyes dark; jaw set, and whispered lowly of fixing everything. How he could fix a broken heart, you didn’t know.

Even more disgustingly, you were worried. Undeniably worried, about a man you certainly cared for far too much for your liking.

You frowned at your reflection. The skin beneath your eyes was puffy, your lips swollen from too many bitten-back sobs. You looked every bit the tragic heroine you’d once sworn you’d never become.

How pathetic.

You set the brush down. Somewhere in the still of the night, an owl called. A branch scraped against the windowpanes. The wind rustled the curtains gently, And then— thud.

Your head snapped toward the window. Another thud. More insistent. You rushed to the latch, heart already leaping in your chest—because you knew. And when you pulled open the frame, your breath hitched.

There he was. Jungwon.

Bloodied, battered, sweat-matted locks of dark hair falling over his brow. His shirt was torn, and a shallow cut marred the line of his cheekbone, but his eyes—his eyes were still warm. Still full of you.

“A hand?” he said hoarsely, gripping the ledge with one arm and eventually lifting himself the rest of the way.

You stumbled back to give him space, and he collapsed with a grunt into your room, knees buckling slightly before he righted himself.

His eyes were clouded with haze. And yet, still, full of love they remained. He paced towards you slowly but surely, a slight wobble in his step— and instinctively you reached out, arms stabilising him by his broad shoulders. You frowned, hands dusting over his face with such care he could only melt into your touch.

And through it all, he looked only at you, his eyes piercing into your own. The top of his eyebrow marked with a sharp cut of a blade, the plain of his cheek dirtied ever so slightly with blood, you frowned at his state.

And then you smacked him.

Hard. On the arm.

“You idiot!” you hissed. “Are you out of your mind?!”

“I missed you too,” he muttered, eyes crinkling despite the gash above one of them.

“You’re bleeding!”

“You should see the other guy,” he winced.

You didn’t laugh. Instead, your fingers found his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the mess of his cheek. You wiped at a bit of dried blood with the edge of your sleeve. He let you. Silently. Still as statue, eyes never leaving yours.

You should’ve expected it. Him to duel Jaeyun.

Jungwon was many things—proud, infuriating, endlessly stubborn—but coward was not one of them. And if there was one thing he couldn’t let sit, it was injustice. Especially when it came for those you loved. Especially when it came for you.

You should’ve seen it in the way his jaw clenched when you sobbed into his shoulder. The way his arms tightened around you like he was already vowing retribution in your very name.

But there’s a difference between knowing someone would go to war for you and watching them actually do it. And worse, he didn’t tell you. Not a single word before vanishing into the night like some knight of old.

Now here he was—half-wrecked and full of some odd, boyish resolve—at your window, lips on your palm like you were something holy.

“You didn’t have too,” Your voice wavered with emotion as he kissed the palm of your hand which was cupping his cheek again. “But I did,” He whispered with such softness the contrast between his tone and his appearance was stark. “And I don’t regret it.”

“Is he..?” You begin contemplatively, your other hand brushing up his broad chest to his shoulder. He looks away. You push his face back towards yours.

Those lips.

You have kissed them now, once before. And yet, it still doesn’t feel enough. Your fingers trace over them as he sighs warmly, pressing his lips against the tips of your fingers. His eyes bore into yours with such attentive demeanour it makes you dizzy.

“It was a tie,” He grunts, as if the fact that he, Lord Sim Jaeyun’s best friend and fellow soldier, didn’t just duel him for your sake. For Jiyoung’s sake. “I worked things out with them both. Someone orchestrated quite the lie against your dear cousin, and Lord Sim seemed to take the bait.”

You roll your eyes. Typical. “I saw that one coming.” You weakly laugh, and he chuckles too, as if an unexplainable weight has been lifted off his shoulders as it has yours.

“Turn around,” Weakly, suddenly, he commands, and you? Willingly, you oblige.

You give him a little twirl, a soft flourish in your step. You smile as he sits on the edge of your bed and admires you as if he’d never seen a woman in his life before. “I must ask though, my lord, why must I twirl for you?”

He laughs. Deep. Husky. Warm. Dangerous. “You needn’t if you’d prefer not too,” He begins, rolling his shoulders as the cuffs on his sleeves are adjusted. “But you seemed perfectly willing to oblige, my lady.” He grins, one hand supporting himself on the bed, the other motioning you to come closer.

Closer you go, until you’re stood right before him. Your breathing grows heavier as you notice all the smaller things about him you really ought to notice before— like the way his Adam’s Apple bobs with every movement, or how his legs are spread widely enough to welcome you on his lap.

“Turn around,” He commands yet again, and this time, you laugh. “Perhaps I want not to. What’d you do then, my lord?” You poke at his shoulders with a teasing smile.

“I’d do this,” He begins, spinning you in one fluid movement. You yelp. “And then this.” He pulls you into his lap.

You stop breathing. Because suddenly, you can feel him in ways you’d never felt him before.

You fuss in his arms, wriggling around through laughter to conceal the fluttering in your stomach, as he laughs, pressing ticklish little kisses onto the crevices of the smooth skin on your neck. You squeal, shimmying his large hands off you. “You’re cold!”

“And you’re warm,” He hums lowly into your neck, coupled with a sultry chuckle. That makes you close your legs tightly, an unexplainable fluttering arousing.

His hands dance over the intricacies of your back before they crawl up towards your hair. Large, warm hands toy with it appreciatively, fingers wringing around the burgundy of the ribbon you wore.

“You wear the ribbon I gave you?” He looked at you from over your shoulder with such sincerity it made your heart stutter. Suddenly, the ceiling appeared very interesting.

A large hand. It cups your chin, and faces your head towards him. He opens his mouth to speak, and yet, the words die on his tongue; as if struck by your very beauty as the moonlight shines through your wide windows. Instead, he closes his eyes, and pushes his lips onto yours.

You let out a little hum of both content and surprise, as he lifts you off his lap and you raise your hips, he turns you to face him. His hands, mottled in bruises and scratches, roam around your body with such quiet reverence for a moment truly, you feel special. Irrevocably special. That you are his, and that he is yours.

He lets out a low sound in pleasure as one hand pulls your ribbon off your hair gracefully, before stroking through your hair softly, as if one wrong move could make you break.

And as you just about manage to break away, still his eyes only find yours.

He chuckles weakly, lips kissing your now held hand before moving upwards, resting at your shoulder. He closes his eyes for a pause, as if nothing is as comfortable as being in your arms is. In turn, now it is your hands that brush through his hair. “Fatigued?”

“No. Just content.”

“Well, I am glad you are as happy as I am, my lord.” You breathe, a soft smile blessing your face. He cups it in return.

“This nightgown,” Jungwon whispers, hands toying at your back where the lace lies. “It’s ever the flattering on you.”

“So you say,” You tease. “Or perhaps you say this seeing as it is easy to remove?”

He laughs, the corner of his eyes wrinkling with amusement. “I fear you know me far too well, my lady.” He hummed appreciatively as he dug his nose into your hair, closing his eyes. “You smell quite so pleasant.”

“You think so?” You asked, fidgeting with the coarse material of his suit.

“Very much so.” He replied simply, a hand fitting onto your waist. The way his hand had sat on your waist was as if it belonged. You sighed, resting your chin on his shoulder tiredly, as he kissed your head warmly. “I figure perhaps you’re the one fatigued, Y/n.” His voice raised lightly, as if reprimanding you— though his tone remained soft, showing he was really just jest.

“Maybe I am, Lord Yang.” You clap back teasingly, and to that, he laughs heartily, before flipping you onto the plush silk of your bed. You squeal, hands flying to his shoulders to stabilise yourself, and in return, he kisses your cheek.

You didn’t ever think you’d find yourself underneath him. You, yourself, personally always thought you were always above him. Now it was clearly proved wrong. Your breath caught in your chest, your teasing smile melting into something more sincere.

His hair hung before his dark eyes, hazy with a cryptic look that made you squirm. He grunted softly as he rested on one side, propping himself up on one arm— just to watch you.

“My, you are odd.” You giggle, looking up at him with a gummy smile.

“Oh, really?” He challenges softly, his free hand tracing from your waist to your neck. Slowly. Teasingly. Like you could feel every atom of his being dancing on your goosebump-ed skin. “You think im odd, do you, Y/n?”

You, unintentionally and unconsciously, swallow on nothing. He picks up on it, a soft kiss followed after he buries his face atop your throat. It’s ticklish, and you want to laugh, but the sincerity in his eyes and the soft certainty in his touch made you feel only want. Raw, aching want.

He went silent just as quickly, rather staring at you with a longing look of love, his hand ghosting near your breasts. His lips were slightly, ever so slightly parted, and the tiniest trickle of sweat traced his jawline.

“You can touch me, you know.” You chortle lightly to hide just how flustered you are. You grin lightly, but when you look into his eyes, when you feel the severity of whatever it is he is feeling, it fades.

“Can I?” His voice breaks, his hands still ghosting above your breasts, though now daring to move closer just the slightest. “Can I, Y/n? Because once you say yes, I’m telling you, you’re stuck with me.”

Your lips part.

Suddenly, it’s very hot in your chambers.

You look over at your window, and then back at him. You swallow again, though this time you know it— in efforts of mitigating your now-dry throat, but it’s all to no avail.

Hot, aching need. You nod before you let out a tiny sound, a mix of a whimper and a wanting whine, and he sighs in a way both impatient and very much patient all at once.

“Words, my beautiful,” He chimes, his hand tracing your jawline. In one, croaky, breathy movement, you grace him with the words he clearly were waiting for. “Yes, Jungwon. A million times yes.”

And with that, his lips found yours again. It was much less softer this time, but all the more passionate. He moaned into your mouth as his free hand grabbed at your jaw tighter, as if you’d disappear the moment he let go. Still, he rested up on his other arm, and as you broke the kiss to actually breathe, you rested your forehead against his. “Are you sure?” He whispered, his free hand brushing your unruly hair, matted with sweat, behind your ears.

You could only nod, so clouded with lust and fatigue that even words couldn’t portray what you felt. You fell rag doll-limp in his arms, your own arms slowly snaking around his neck, as both of his arms effortlessly propped your back off the bed.

One hand held you up, the other pulled the strings bonding your nightgown together at the back. You merely threw your head back, and at that invitation, his lips made its way to your neck. Then they danced down to your collarbones, teeth grazing ever so slightly as he looked up at you for any sign of discomfort.

Instead, your eyes were peacefully closed, lips parted to allow your soft, breathy moans to escape. He sighed, pulling the dress down your shoulders, kisses tracing around your breasts. You whined, back arching ever so slightly into his touch, and in response he merely chuckled, lying you down as he propped himself up above you.

“So gorgeous, aren’t you?” He cooed softly, his lips finding your left nipple, and his hand finding the right. At the sudden movement your chest jerked ever so slightly, a long whimper falling from your lips. “Jungwon,” You barely managed as he hummed, looking up at you from where he contentedly rested at your chest. “Yes, my love?” He hummed, letting go with the lightest little “pop!”

You closed your legs and squirmed. It was getting too much now. Stickily hot and insatiable— all you needed, truly, was.. well, him.

“I need you,” You sighed, melting into the pillows. He raised an eyebrow teasingly, unbuttoning his shirt as you fiddled with the stupidly-annoying metal buckle of his pants.

“Oh, you need me?” His voice raised with amusement as you scowled playfully, slapping at his now bare shoulder lightly. He took your hand and kissed it instead. “You do demand me so, my lady?”

“Yes. I do so.” You huff in mock-petulance, before you both laugh, his larger figure leaning before you yet again.

“And you can do so from beneath me, I figure?” He hums, as his hand grips the base of his length lightly. It’s dizzying. You pretend to not notice, not even as he softly spreads your legs or pushes them against your stomach, and instead, you smile lightly.

But as soon as you open your mouth to say something, probably just as smart back, the warmth of his leaking tip brushes against your clit, and you moan almost immediately, head throwing back onto the soft fabric of your pillows.

You hiss as he rubs himself against you softly, up and down, slower, slower. You whine, nails digging into his back.

And instead of giving it to you, he peers down at you with a triumphant grin. “Hmm? What was that, my lady?” He teases softly. You breath heavily, watching as a prompt kiss is pressed to your wrist as he slowly pushes himself in.

The words you had prepared suddenly died on your tongue, replaced with a loud, sudden moan of his name. “Jungwon!”

He groans in response, throwing his head back as he pushes himself in just as fair as he can manage. Tears prick at your eyes as his tip pushes the boundaries of your cervix, a pain you’d never felt— but one you were seemingly prepared too.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, beautiful, I promise,” He whispers, kisses dusting over your face, even over your tightly weilded-shut eyelids. “We have all the time in the world, my love,” he hummed through kisses. “There’s no rush, hmm? If it hurts too much, just tell me.”

You cry out a strangled moan as your eyes roll closed at the unfamilar, yet incredible feeling. He sighs comfortably, one strong hand lacing into yours against the duvet.

“My lady,” he sighs, nuzzling his nose against yours. “So perfect. So beautiful. So smart.” He begins as he pushes himself in just a little, little more. You sob out, hands flying all around his back, as he lovingly shushes you, kisses pressed to the tip of your nose or the plain of your forehead.

“Would you marry me, my lady? Hmm?” He whispered, kissing around your ear, as if to distract you from the pain. “Would you like that?”

You could only nod, though now, your eyes could slowly flutter open; and could take him in for all of his glory.

His dark hair was matted with sweat against his forehead, as his broad, bare chest heaved with the energy of keeping himself above. “You’d stay a L/n, or you’d take my name? Hmm?” He hummed, pressing kisses to your lips between his words.

“Can I have both?” You weakly whisper, though you laugh, and he laughs too, slowly moving himself out. Then, he rams himself back in, and you almost scream, rolling your eyes closed as you practically see stars. You moan into your hand as he throws his head back in pleasure. “God, you feel so good.” He manages, voice wavering as his thrusts grow in pace.

You cry out in pleasure, the pain now subdued. “You suit ivory,” He manages with heavy breath. “You’d look quite exquisite in your wedding dress, wouldn’t you?”

You let out a strangled cry, burying your head into the pillows. He groans, rolling his lips forward smoothly, and you moan into the pillows uncontrollably.

“Oh, Jungwon!” You sigh shakily, your voice stuttering with the fevor of his sharp thrusts.

He moans in response, pushing your legs against your stomach just a little, little more. You both moan together as he hits your cervix again, before you find him again in a messy kiss.

Lips, tongue, teeth, all of it. At this point, it doesn’t really count as a kiss in the first place. But that’s the last thing on your mind. All you can think about is an unfamiliar, pressing coil building at the pits of your stomach, biting your lips in efforts to conceal your noises just a little more.

“God, I love you,” He moans, his pace fastening enough to make that very coil snap. Your body jerks with the movement and you can’t help it— you whine, the sound long and low, and he throws his head back as he feels you release around his length.

“Just a little more, my love,” He spoke between moans, and you sobbed from the overloading stimulation all of this was giving you. “You’re doing so well. I love you, my beautiful.” You took his lips onto yours again, and with one final, harsh thrust— one that had you screaming into the kiss, his warm seed filled you up, a feeling so fulfilling you arched your back at the very sensation.

He crashed beside you on the bed with a groan, as if the weight of his day had finally caught up with him. But then he turned toward you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you flush to his side. You sighed softly, burying your head against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Are you hurt?” you eventually asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper as your fingers grazed over his cheek. His eyelids fluttered under your touch.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” he murmured.

A beat of serene silence passed.

Then, with the kind of gentle, hopeful courage only he could muster, he asked, “What kind of ring would you want?”

You blinked. Pulled back just slightly to look him in the eye. And then you laughed. “Whatever it is you can afford.”

“My, do you mark me as poor?” He raises a weak hand to his chest jokingly and you laugh, voice laced with growing fatigue. You curled into his chest even more, though you weren’t sure that was quite possible, and sighed contently.

Silence.

The rise and fall of his broad chest, cricket-song, and silence.

You simply lay there in the hush of the night, bodies pressed close, breaths synchronising, hearts slowly catching up to the quiet. You stared at the curve of his collarbone, at the cuts and dried blood near his shoulder, remembering all the pain and rage that had passed through the two of you to get to this very moment.

And weirdly enough, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Then he sighed, fingers drawing soft circles on your bare back. “And what would you want?” he asked, voice barely audible now. “As a child.”

You paused. Thought about it. The image came so vividly, it almost surprised you.

“A girl,” you answered without a pause.

He blinked slowly. “Hmm?”

“So I can raise her,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his chin. “To be the strongest a woman can be.”

He let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh, and fully overwhelmed. “She’d be impossible.”

“She’d be loved,” you replied, eyes fluttering shut. “She’d never think twice about her voice. She’d know how to wield it.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” He smiled, the words brushing against your temple like a kiss.

You felt it more than heard it—the pride in his voice, the adoration in his tone. The way he said it, like it was the highest compliment he could ever give. Like he meant it with the very bones of him.

You sighed softly, your body loosening completely in his hold, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, his voice low, soothing, meant only for you. “She’d have your fire. Your kindness. Your wit. God help me if she ever learns your temper.”

You laughed, soft and muffled against his skin.

“She’d be so loved,” you murmured, voice laced with quiet fatigue.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering as if trying to seal the moment in place forever.

“As are you, my beautiful.”

man i wish shakespeare was alive i xouldve rawdogged him from the back as a personal thank you for much ado about nothing

©VAMPZWON

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vampzwon · 2 months ago

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hey hoes

both pieces will have smut cuz im a whore

#enha x reader #enhypen fic #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen #gracie’s works #enhypen au

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vampzwon · 2 months ago

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over 700 on this is real fuckin insane too? tbh it’s crazy how i wrote this after having the idea in a dream and actually the eggs part was inspired by my breakfast that day. (i hate eggs but i still eat them. it’s weird, i know.) thank you everyone🤍

박종성 ✸ — truth hurts !

ⓘ; marrying jay was the best decision of your life— since the very moment you said “yes,” married life with him was an absolute daydream. but of course, with all positives come it’s negatives, and no one ever said married life would be easy, not when two people with two seperate lives and two different personalities merge to one.

﹏ ⌗ 𝓹airing: 𝓅!jongseong x 𝒻!reader ❨4059❩

⏖’ 𝑔enres, angst. fluff. reconciliation. smut.

⊹”mlist.

𝓦arnings: angstangstangst, lack of communication, jays just depressed atp lmao, crying, kissing, proximity 18+ MDNI dry humping

𓏵-, 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒. guys i wrote thus on a road trip wnd i needed to piss SO badly likenit was crazy painful but then i had a nap and then i woke up with this idea so.. yeah. my dreams r in favour of my tumblr career it seems

Jay hated eggs.

Not in a casual “I’d rather not” way—no, it was a bone-deep, soul-level aversion. The smell, the texture, the way the yolk stared up at him like some runny, golden eye. Scrambled, poached, sunny side up—didn’t matter. They all made his skin crawl.

But you, unfortunately, loved them.

Soft-boiled, hard-boiled, over easy—eggs were your go-to comfort food. You’d hum to yourself as you cooked them, barefoot in one of his old shirts, swaying to whatever playlist was humming through the kitchen speaker. You always said there was something hopeful about breakfast, even when the world outside felt unkind. A perfect way to start a perfect day.

He used to tease you for it.

“You’re romanticizing a chicken’s reproductive cycle,” he’d say, scrunching his nose as you giggled, letting him backhug you as you melted into his hold. “Romanticizing or not, it’s all I can make. Now eat.”

He’d grin into your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your shampoo, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. “Guess I married you for your looks, then.”

You’d roll your eyes and feed him a bite anyway. He’d grimace like he was in pain, overact dramatically, then chew with a resigned smile—just to make you laugh again.

Perhaps the pain that came with consuming egg left when they were made with your own very hands.

That was the difference, he realized—not the egg, not the seasoning, not even the way you overcooked the yolk just a little because you knew he hated it runny.

It was you.

It was always you.

Something about the way you cracked the shell with that little flick of your wrist, the way your brow furrowed as you tilted the pan with practiced precision—like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He could eat eggs when you made them because they tasted like you’d poured your loving all over him— and that? He could die in it. Live in it. Drown in it.

This morning, the eggs taste of nothing.

Not even disgustingly creamy, or rubbery and stubborn in that way they used to be. They tasted of emptiness, of a space where something should be but painfully wasn’t.

He prodded at it with his fork, staring into the marble of the kitchen counter emptily, the cloth of his work attire suffocatingly tight against his throbbing chest. He looked down at his briefcase, right beside his stool at the counter, and then at the front door, where you hastily tied your shoelaces with nimble fingers.

You used to look at him every morning. Really look at him. With that mischievous grin playing at your lips and that soft, unfiltered way your eyes scanned him up and down like he was the best part of your day.

“You look sexy in a suit, Mr. Park,” you’d say with a mock-whisper, even though no one was around to hear. “If you’re late to work, it’s your fault for looking that good.”

You used to kiss him harder before he left—like goodbye wasn’t just goodbye, it was a promise. A see you later.

You used to always ensure you said bye, refusing to leave until you heard him reply— and now, you left first. Always. Without so much as a glance, without a trace of the warmth that used to cling to your touch.

“Do I still look good in a suit?” He croaked out weakly, under his breath, loud enough for him to hear, but certainly not loud enough for you. You had already left in one fluid motion, the door swinging shut with a soft click that felt louder than any argument you’d ever had.

Jay sat there for a few seconds longer, frozen in the kind of silence that hums in your ears when you’ve just been left behind. He stared at the now-empty entryway, his shoulders slumping with insecurity he didn’t recognise.

He exhaled shakily, one hand tugging at the knot of his tie as if loosening it would somehow help him breathe better.

He sighed into his hands, elbows braced on the edge of his desk as his monitor flickered to life. The screen glowed too bright, the same spreadsheet from yesterday blinking back at him like it had never left.

The same monotony.

Click. Log in. Pretend.

The office buzzed with quiet conversation and the hum of printers. People moving with purpose. Like their lives made sense. Like they’d all kissed their partners goodbye this morning without feeling their heart sink to the floor.

Jay exhaled through his nose, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. He groaned under his breath tiredly, offering his colleague, Minjun, sat beside him a friendly smile. “Morning.” He offered quietly.

Minjun was already halfway through his coffee, chair leaned back just enough to look like he wasn’t trying to work yet. He glanced at Jay and grinned.

“Rough start?” he asked, tapping a few keys before swiveling slightly in his chair. “You look like you barely slept.”

Jay huffed a laugh through his nose, scratching the side of his jaw absently. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Minjun nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.

“How’s the missus?” he asked, casually—like it was a question about the weather. Like it wasn’t a dagger to the gut.

Jay hesitated.

His smile faltered just a little.

He looked down at the wedding band on his finger—still there. Still shining under the fluorescents. Still supposed to mean something.

“She’s…” he started, then trailed off. He cleared his throat. “She’s busy. Work’s been crazy.”

Minjun nodded like that explained everything. “Yeah, my girl’s been swamped too. Gotta love being married to a working, bossy woman, huh?”

Jay forced a chuckle. “Yeah.”

Minjun merely nodded and turned back to his monitor, as if he didn’t understand jay really meant we haven’t really looked at each other in days or I think I miss her more when she’s right beside me than when she’s gone.

Jay lied. He doesn’t love being married to a working woman.

He doesn’t mind the bossy bit—never did. In fact, he loved that. The way you talked with your hands when you were passionate about something, the way your voice sharpened when you were standing up for what you believed in, the way no one could ever, ever get the last word when you were in the mood to win. That was you. That was part of what made him fall in love in the first place.

As selfish as it sounded, as wrong as it felt to even think it, there were mornings he wished you’d just stay. That you’d sit across from him again with your silly egg puns and tangled hair and bare feet on the cold kitchen tile. That you’d press a hand to his chest and smooth out his tie, kiss him without looking at the clock.

He was proud of you. God, he was. He saw how alive you were in your field—how you lit up when you talked about projects, ideas, the rush of doing what you loved. You were brilliant. Ambitious. Unstoppable.

And yet… he missed the version of you that used to hold his hand under the table. That used to crawl into his lap when the nights got too quiet. That used to ask him to stay in bed five minutes longer, like the world could wait just a little. He missed being your priority.

Not with flowers or flashy gifts—though he’d do that too, if he thought it would make you smile like you used to. No, Jay wanted to pamper you in quieter ways. Gentler ones.

He wished you didn’t have to wake up to an alarm that sounded like a threat. Wished you didn’t have to pull your hair back so tight, or lace your voice with authority just to be taken seriously in boardrooms that didn’t deserve your brilliance.

He wished your hands weren’t always tired. That your eyes didn’t carry shadows even concealer couldn’t cover.

He wished you didn’t have to work so hard.

Not because he thought less of you—but because he wanted to be the one to give you rest. To be your peace when the world demanded too much. He wanted to run you baths and rub your feet and bring you silly, overpriced coffee just because he passed your favorite spot on the way home. He wanted to see you in soft clothes, curled on the couch, telling him about your dreams instead of your deadlines. He wanted to take care of you the way he used to—the way you used to let him.

With a lump garnering the back of his throat, he forced himself to look at his monitor, but first, he leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering to the corner of his desk where a framed photo of you two smiled up at him. It was from a vacation a year ago. Greece.

The photo was still there. Still smiling.

You, leaning into him, skin sun-warmed and glowing. Him, arm slung around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Wind in your hair, his sunglasses crooked on his nose, both of you laughing at something the camera didn’t catch. A beautiful candid, a raw picture of the love that so quietly, yet easily flourished.

He wondered if you remembered that trip the way he did. The way he still did—every time he looked at that photo, every time he closed his eyes and pictured you in that white dress, laughing as the sea breeze played with the hem.

His thumb brushed the edge of the frame gently. Like touching it would bring you back.

The heating wasn’t working again.

Jay clicked the thermostat again, watching the light blink uselessly. Nothing. He exhaled through his nose, rubbed the back of his neck, and thought to himself to give the gas company a call tomorrow morning.

The apartment felt colder than usual tonight. Not cold enough to see your breath or anything stark like that—just enough of a chill that it crept under your clothes and made everything feel a little too still. A little too quiet.

He crawled into bed with a sigh, the sheets cool against his goosebumped skin. He didn’t bother calling for you. You were still getting ready in the bathroom, your nightly routine running longer these days—more work to catch up on, you insist.

He lay flat on his back, eyes tracing the same crack on the ceiling he always ignored. One hand tucked beneath his head. The other just sat there on his stomach, useless.

The room echoed with nothing. No laughter. No music. Just the dull hum of pipes and the faint clink of you rinsing out your mouth.

And then you came in. No words, no eye contact—just a tired grunt as you slid beneath the covers beside him, the mattress shifting with your weight.

Another long day. Another night of backs turned and unspoken words crowding the dark.

You didn’t mean to be cold.

He didn’t mean to stay quiet.

But somewhere along the way, this had become normal.

Tired silence. Distant bodies.

Jay stared up at the ceiling. That stupid crack again. Suddenly it seemed the most interesting thing in the world.

He didn’t move when you pulled the blanket over yourself, didn’t reach out like he used to.

It was too cold.

And it wasn’t just the lack of heating.

He sighed. Suddenly, the space between the both of you felt raw, more painful then it already was. And before he knew it, a sharp, aching intake of breath left his lips.

You frowned.

At first, you thought maybe he was clearing his throat. Maybe his breath had caught on the dry, cold air. But then another came. A soft, whimpery exhale. So quiet, it sounded like it wasn’t meant to be heard. And then it shattered.

A sob. A small, helpless, heartbreakingly real sob.

You froze.

Your husband doesn’t cry.

Not when he’s frustrated. Not when he’s exhausted. Not even when he’s hurting. Jay holds things in. That’s just how he’s always been—quiet in grief, steady in discomfort, the kind of man who folds his pain neatly and tucks it away where no one can see it.

The last time you saw him cry, really cry, was in Greece. A dead turtle on the shore. He tried to brush it off, made some dumb joke about how its little shell looked, but when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d turned away, eyes shining, lip trembling. He’d cried for five minutes and then kissed your shoulder like nothing happened.

This wasn’t five minutes.

This wasn’t quiet.

This was months of silence catching up to him. A thousand missed kisses. Every time your hand slipped out of his. Every breakfast shared in silence. Every time he forced himself to scarf down an egg. Every “have a good day” muttered instead of kissed into his collar.

Jay was crying like he’d forgotten how to stop.

Your eyes went wide in the dark as your body turned toward him on instinct. “Jay…?”

He didn’t answer. He wept.

The sound was raw, torn straight from his chest—ugly and aching and real. He turned his face away from you, burying it into the pillow like he couldn’t bear to be seen, like letting you witness this would break him even more.

You gasped, helping him sit up against the bed frame as he hiccuped with pain, as his back hit the frame with a quiet thud, head tipping back against it as if even holding it upright was too much.

His eyes—God, his eyes—bloodshot and glassy, swollen from crying, stared ahead blankly. Not at you. Not at anything. Just gone somewhere far.

You knelt between his legs, hands trembling as you reached for his face, brushing hair back from his forehead, smoothing it down like you used to during those spontaneous instead of going to work cuddles.

“Jay…” you whispered, your heart absolutely wrecked. You winced, the pain in your chest bordering physical.

You reached for his face again, holding it between your palms even as he kept his eyes downcast.

“Talk to me. Please.”

You hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad. You’d known things were off—of course you had. The silence. The quick goodbyes. The skipped dinners and missed texts. But you thought it was just a phase. A rough patch. Something that would smooth itself out once the deadlines cleared, once the meetings slowed, once life calmed down.

You didn’t realize he was hurting. Not like this. Not this deeply.

And now, sitting here with him shaking under your hands, unable to look at you, sobbing like a boy lost in the dark, you felt shame crawl up your spine. How did I miss this? How did I let this happen?

He let out a sad little sniffle, the kind that clawed its way out of his throat and didn’t even try to hide how pathetic it sounded.

Then, he shrugged your hands away.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just tired. And it was heartbreaking.

His eyes flicked toward the bedroom door to the left, avoiding yours. Dismissive, like he was over it. Like he didn’t care anymore.

But you knew better.

You’d loved this man long enough to recognize the lie in his body language. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitched against his thigh like they were fighting the urge to reach back for you.

He didn’t want to end the moment.

He didn’t want to shut you out.

He just didn’t know how to say what he needed.

Your voice softened into a whisper, almost unsure. “Jay…”

He didn’t look at you, just let out a shaky exhale through his nose. “Do you love me, still? Y/n?”

The words were quiet. Too quiet. Like they’d been buried inside him for weeks, maybe months, and had finally clawed their way out.

Your breath caught. Like it physically stopped in your throat.

“What?” you breathed, stunned. “Jay, of course I do—“

But he flinched. Not away from you—but inward, like even your answer might hurt too much if it wasn’t the one he needed to hear.

“You don’t look at me like you used to,” he said, voice hoarse. “You don’t even touch me. Not unless I’m crying in bed like a child.”

“Jay—”

“I don’t say this to guilt you,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “I just need to know. Because I feel like I’m loving you alone.”

Your hand flew to his cheek, your thumb sweeping under his eye as your forehead fell to his, desperate to find a connection. A single tear trickled down your cheek.

“You wake up before me,” he said quietly, voice trembling. “You’re out the door before I can kiss you. You come home late. You don’t smile at me the way you used to. You don’t…” His voice cracked again. “You don’t see me.”

He stopped for a second, and then let out a laugh—watery, small, a sound that twisted your stomach because it wasn’t joyful at all. It was hollow. “You don’t even touch me,” he said, voice barely holding together. “Do I… disgust you? Do I not please you enough?” He added, his voice pensive, but so small and insecure it knocked the air out of you. “What—Jay, no. What are you talking about?”

His eyes flashed to yours—finally, fully—and you wished they hadn’t. Because all you saw was pain. Deep, aching, starved-for-love pain.

“I lay beside you every night, inches away, and it feels like I’m in another room,” he said, breath catching. “You don’t reach for me. You don’t even flinch when I don’t kiss you goodbye anymore. You just let it happen.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Because he was right. Not because you didn’t love him.

But because somewhere along the line, you started surviving instead of living. And he was the one who paid for it.

“I thought maybe you were tired,” he continued. “Or stressed. But then it kept happening. No kisses. No holding hands. Not even a passing touch in the hallway. And I thought… maybe you don’t want me anymore. Maybe I stopped being someone you see that way.”

Your eyes welled. “Jay, I—God, I never wanted to make you feel like that.”

“Then why did you?” he whispered.

You paused for a second.

And then—you did the only thing your body remembered how to do when words failed you.

You sobbed. A broken, trembling breath ripped through your chest, and you surged forward, cupping his face like it was the last thing tethering you to this earth.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and tear-stained and soaked in apology. But it was real. Every part of you screamed into that kiss—I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t give up on me.

At first, he just sat there. Stunned. Frozen.

And then, slowly, his hands gripped your wrists, pulling you closer, kissing you back with something just as shattered.

He gasped against your mouth like he’d forgotten how it felt to need you like this. To be needed. To be wanted.

And when you pulled away, your foreheads pressed together, breaths tangled, he whispered, “Please don’t stop loving me.”

You shook your head, tears slipping freely now.

“I never did,” you whispered. “I just forgot how to show you.”

He gasped for air as he cried into your neck, shoulders shaking with each broken sob. You held him tighter, like your arms could sew the pieces of him back together. Your hands moved instinctively—rubbing slow, smooth circles over his chest, right over his heart. The place he loved you from the most.

Each hiccuped breath he took shattered you a little more.

“My poor baby…” you murmured, your voice barely holding steady, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “So touch deprived, huh?”

He nodded, fast and desperate, like a child needing comfort. Like someone who’d been waiting for this—for you—for too long.

Your hand slid up to cradle his jaw as he clung to you, thumb brushing away the fresh wave of tears. “You don’t have to beg for it anymore,” you whispered. “I’m right here. I’m so sorry I left you starving for me.”

His arms squeezed around you like he didn’t believe you’d stay. Like if he loosened his grip, you’d slip away again.

“You can touch me whenever you want,” you murmured against his temple. “Hold me whenever. Kiss me whenever. You don’t have to ask.”

He looked down at you hopefully, eyes blurred with hazy tears. “So can I kiss you now?” He muttered hopefully.

“You never have to ask me that question again, my jongseong.” Your voice cracked on his name—soft and reverent, whilst his eyes searched yours, still teary, still unsure, like he was waiting for the part where you’d vanish again.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

And you meant it.

And before he could spiral back into silence, you kissed him.

Fierce. Needy. Deep enough to tell him every word you didn’t know how to say. That he was loved. Wanted. Chosen.

He gasped softly against your lips, but this time it wasn’t from pain—it was from the overwhelming feeling of relief. Like your kiss was oxygen, and he was coming back to life for the first time in months.

Your hands threaded into his hair as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, grounding himself in your warmth.

He kissed you back like he was remembering it all—how to hold you, how to crave you, how to feel safe in your love again.

He hummed lowly as you suckled on his tongue, hands bruising into your waist as his length slowly grew hard. You groaned at the feeling, rutting your clothed clit over his bulge.

He broke the kiss simply to moan— a sound so desperate, but certainly long due, as your manicured hands roamed his chest warmly, pulling his shirt off attentively.

He groaned, throwing his head back as he pistoned his hips upwards, moaning softly at the friction after months of being void of it all. “Fuck, my Y/n. I missed you.” He managed between shaky breaths— from pleasure or crying, you’d no clue.

His moans grew louder, just so slightly, and the pool in your panties grew too. You moved against his bulge faster, with growing ache. You forgot how touch deprived you were too, when this distance grew. How you ached for your husband and him only.

With a resolute, high pitched whine, he slumped against the bed frame, a sign that he came already, and you laughed softly, kissing his cheeks softly as you rutted yourself against him just a little faster, a little harder. He fidgeted with overstimulation, but too tired to protest, he merely buried his head in your neck, hands fussing with your pyjama shirt.

With a moan you pathetically released in the simple cloth of your panties, slumping beside him tiredly.

He threw your shirt to the side carelessly, instantaneously burying himself right in the valley of your breasts. He sighed contently, breathing you in as if there were no better place for him to be.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp in the way you knew always made his shoulders loosen. He melted into it without hesitation, arms still looped tight around your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

His breath hitched—just once—but it wasn’t from sadness anymore. It was from peace.

You stayed like that, forehead resting against his hair, your thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles into his back.

“I missed this,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your collarbone.

You smiled softly, your hand stilling in his hair to cradle the back of his head. “I missed you. All of this. And I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

He nodded into you, his hold relaxing just enough to let you shift, but not enough to let you go.

“Promise?” he whispered.

You simply tilted his head up and kissed him again—light, yet heavy with passion, weighing down with hope.

“Promise.”

oh inlove him how could anyone break his pretty lil heart💔reblogs n likes much appreciated! ty for reading<3

©VAMPZWON

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vampzwon · 2 months ago

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700 notes is insane? much ado about nothing means a lot to me honestly, i’m very proud of this work and it makes me so happy to see how much attention it is getting, i love jungwon so much it hurts 😕😕 thank you again everyone for reading this i am greatful beyond words, it might not seem like much to anyone else but it means the world to me. mwah<3