𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆.

FACE SITTING WITH HEESEUNG.

He’s already sobbing quiet little whimpers when you yank your panties down, hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll pull away. His cheeks are burning, eyes wet and glassy, mouth hanging open desperate, tongue flicking out to taste the air like he can already feel you. Moments like this strip him completely bare — all the pressure of promotions, practice, the album, every cruel comment and sharp critique melts away. The only peace he gets is right here, under you, with your pussy grinding right against his lips.

“Please… please baby… sit on my face… please ride my face, grind your pussy right on my mouth — I’ll be so good, I promise… I won’t move, I won’t complain… just smother me, use me till you’re done… please…”

You lower your hips slow, and he gasps so hard his chest heaves — the second your wet, slick‑soaked pussy brushes his lips he dives right in like he’s starving. His tongue shoves deep inside you, dragging thick, rough strokes along your walls, tasting every bit of you before he pulls back and seals his mouth over your throbbing clit, sucking it hard and greedy like he’s trying to swallow you whole. He whines high and broken when you press down harder, hands flying to grip your ass tight, nails digging in, yanking you down so his nose is buried right against your clit, his tongue flicking fast and sharp over it over and over.

“Fuck — yes — just like that… grind that pretty pussy right on my face…” He sobs into your skin, slurping loud and messy, slick dripping down his chin and jaw and he doesn’t even care — he laps every drop right back up, tongue dragging flat and heavy up your slit, pushing deep again, sucking your clit between his lips and tugging it soft then hard.

You’re already moaning breathless, fingers tangling hard in his hair, hips stuttering every time he hits that perfect spot. “Heeseung — fuck — just like that — don’t stop…”

You roll your hips slow then faster, grinding hard against his mouth and nose, and he takes every single bit — tongue swirling fast and rough around your clit, dipping deep inside you, sucking so hard your thighs shake. He’s shaking all over, cock throbbing painfully hard against his jeans, pre‑cum soaking through the fabric, drooling all over your cunt, begging over and over, voice wrecked and thick:

“Yeah — fuck yes — use me… cum for me baby… please cum all over my mouth… I wanna drink every last drop, don’t waste a single bit… I need it all…”

Your breath catches sharp, your head falls back, and you cry out loud and shaky — “Heeseung — shit — I’m cumming — fuck —” — and you ride him harder, grinding down hard through every wave, every shudder, every pulse.

He doesn’t let up for even a second — he licks and sucks and slurps you through every spasm, tongue lapping greedily at everything you give him, sobbing your name into your wet skin, messy and wrecked and so, so desperate to take every single thing you have to give.

He drinks every thick, creamy flood that pours out of you like he’s starving, swallowing every drop like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, lapping up every slick runnel that drips down your thighs and onto his chin. He doesn’t waste a single bit — slurps loud and messy, lips sealed tight around you, tongue shoving deep then dragging rough and heavy through all that wet heat, sucking so hard you jolt and cry out, fingers yanking his hair so hard his scalp stings.

His hands clamp bruising‑tight around your asscheeks, digging in, pulling you down harder until you’re grinding right against his nose, smothering him exactly like you both wanted. He ruts his hips helpless against the floor, cock throbbing so painfully hard it aches, thick pearly pre soaking through his jeans in dark, sticky patches, and he moans broken and muffled right into your dripping cunt, begging over and over: “Fuck — yes — that’s it — pour it all out — soak my fucking face — give me every last fucking drop — don’t hold back — I need it all —”

When the last sharp wave tears through you and your legs start shaking so bad you can barely stay up, he still won’t let you lift off. He keeps licking and sucking, dragging his tongue through every mess you made, kissing and biting soft at your swollen folds, drinking you clean until you’re twitching and whimpering, too sensitive to take more but too gone to pull away. He only pulls back when you tug hard at his hair, face glistening and soaked, lips puffy and red, eyes glassy and wild and completely wrecked.

He swipes his tongue slow over his wet mouth, savoring every taste, and looks up at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“All mine,” he slurs, voice thick and shaking. “This wet, dripping pussy… every drop, every shake, every fucking sound… all mine.”

𝄢 it’s odd to stumble upon a pale, trembling man huddled on the wet rocks after a fierce storm. even more curious is the soft, silvery seal pelt he clutches close to his chest like a lifeline.

pairing: selkie! lee heeseung x fem reader.

content warnings: Selkie lore, non-human traits, emotional attachment, clinginess, and reliance on one person for safety/comfort, jealousy, territorial feelings, fixation on scent and presence, hand job, oral sex (m receiving), first time experience/virginity loss(?), this is oddly soft compared to any of my recent works so idk maybe i will regret posting this.

note: not proof read, ignore typos please ♡.

You have always been drawn to the quiet, uncomplicated rhythm of life in a cottage. There was something deeply grounding about it — something that felt like breathing easier — especially when that cottage sat right on the edge of Brineport Village.

Your home rests perched on a rocky headland: fifteen to twenty minutes’ drive from the village center, tucked between steep, wind-scoured cliffs and a sheltered private cove where the waves roll in soft and slow. The main road winds inland, connecting you to the nearest town in half an hour whenever you need to venture further, but out here, the only sounds are tide and wind.

Brineport itself is small but alive with character: a working harbor, family-run shops, diners that smell of salt and fried butter, a tiny library, and enough local businesses to keep things moving. Most of all, it is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else. It might feel suffocating to outsiders, but this tight-knit familiarity is what gives the village its heartbeat — and its endless supply of stories.

You wanted for nothing here. You held a steady job at the town’s main inn, working as Guest Relations and Experience Coordinator alongside your closest friends, Jiung and Ruka. When things slowed down, you often worked as a part-time tour guide — showing visitors the best coastal trails, the safest tide pools, and the quiet historical spots most tourists never found.

But Brineport holds more than just roads and buildings and tides. It holds legends. And the oldest, most persistent one of all is that of the selkie.

It is a tale as old as the sea itself: beings who are seals beneath the waves, but shed their thick pelts to walk as humans on land. Should they lose or have their skin taken from them, they become trapped in the human world — unable to return to the ocean that is their true home. And there is always that same warning woven into every version: selkies carry a strange, magnetic allure; ordinary people rarely meet one without falling hopelessly, obsessively in love. They are said to have skin pale and smooth as polished pearl, eyes deep and endless as the open water, bodies that run unnaturally cold, and faint, almost invisible slits along their ribs that look like gills when wet.

A part of you always wanted to believe it. There was something so tempting, so hypnotic about the sea here — every walk along the shore, every drive home as dusk fell, you felt it calling, humming low under the crash of the waves. You found yourself wondering if these creatures were lonely, or if they moved among you, invisible to the common eye. It was impossible to shake the curiosity.

Of course, the logical, sensible part of you always stepped in to dismiss it as nothing more than folklore — stories to bind the community together, to give mystery to the vast, unknowable ocean. Whenever the thought lingered too long, you would scoff and push it away, telling yourself it was childish fancy. There were no selkies. No seal-people. Nothing but water and wind and the tales men made up to explain what they didn’t understand.

Little did you know the sea had already decided that it would bring to your threshold.

𝄢

Fuck. If you’d checked the forecast that morning, you would have grabbed an umbrella — hell, you would have worn a proper coat instead of your thin work blazer. But you hadn’t, and now you were paying for it: soaked to the bone, saltwater dripping from your hair down your collar, heels digging sharp and unforgiving into your feet after standing in them since two in the afternoon.

The storm raged harder the closer you got to the coast; thunder boomed low and rolling, lightning splitting the sky and vanishing as quickly as a whispered secret. It was then, as you turned toward the path leading up to your cottage, that you saw it — a shape huddled near the edge of the shore, half-obscured by foam and shifting shadows.

You froze. What the hell was that? Clearly it was a person, but there was something draped over them that did not look like clothing. You could have kept walking, pretended you saw nothing, but your conscience wouldn’t let you. And besides — cutting across the open ground in this weather meant you were more likely to slip and hurt yourself than if you stayed close to the water’s edge.

Carefully, you made your way down the rocky slope, heels sinking into wet sand and tangling in clumps of heavy seaweed — and there he was.

A man, curled small against the cold, looking dazed and utterly lost. Half-buried in foam and tangled strands of kelp, his skin pale as unblemished pearl, lips turned a bruised, icy blue. His hair was pale, almost silvery-white, sticking in damp, messy strands across his face and neck. Draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his legs was something thick and glossy, the color of storm-washed silver-grey — a pelt, smooth and cool to the eye, still glistening with seawater like it had just been pulled from the deep.

Your mind screamed one word before you could stop it: Selkie.

No. Impossible. Just a trick of the light, a strange coat, a lost traveler.

But you had never seen anyone as beautiful as him. Even shivering and half-frozen, there was something unearthly about his features — sharp and soft all at once, like he was carved from something older than stone. Keys still clutched in one hand, you lowered yourself to his level, ignoring the way your heels threatened to send you sprawling into the muck.

His eyes fluttered open immediately — deep, dark, and full of a quiet, aching sorrow, like they held the weight of every tide that had ever rolled in. He didn’t speak at first, but when you reached out to brush a strand of hair from his face, his skin was colder than the stone beneath your knees.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice steady — close enough to be heard, but still guarded, cautious.

He lifted his head, and for a second you saw it clearly: wide, dark, almost doe-like eyes, a nose pinkened from the biting wind, lips trembling as if he had not spoken a word in years. He looked so small and frightened despite his size, and your chest tightened with a strange, twisting pull. Whatever had happened to him, it was clear he had been through something terrible. You’d almost turned away, and now you couldn’t imagine leaving him here.

He tried to push himself upright, but his limbs shook too badly to hold his weight. He swayed, nearly crashing back into the wet rocks, and you threw your arms around his shoulders to steady him — not caring that he was naked beneath the pelt, or that your clothes were already ruined. As you held him, you saw tears begin to pool along his lower lash line, thick and clear, threatening to spill over.

“Are you alright?” you asked, your tone softening automatically. “Do you need help?”

The ache in your feet flared sharper, but you shifted your weight to bear it, too fixed on him to mind the discomfort.

His mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he couldn’t quite shape the words. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and when he finally spoke, his voice was honey-sweet but trembling, raw with distress.

“I shouldn’t have listened to them,” he choked out. “They tricked me. Left me here. Said removing my skin and getting stuck on land was just an old wives’ tale — nothing real. I don’t understand why they’d do this…” His voice cracked completely on the last word, tears spilling freely now and leaving shiny tracks down his cold cheeks.

You leaned in closer, ignoring the spray of rain hitting your face. “Who tricked you? Tell me what happened — I want to help.”

Your first guess was cruel friends playing a terrible, dangerous prank, leaving someone lost and exposed in a storm. Whatever they were, they weren’t friends. Looking at him now — his wobbling lower lip, the way his whole frame shook, the sheer hopelessness in his expression — you felt a sharp flare of anger rise in your chest. How could anyone leave another person like this?

He seemed too overwhelmed to form a proper answer, gaze darting between the churning waves and your face, as if he half-expected you to vanish into the mist. You took a quick assessment: he looked fragile, not threatening; wide-eyed and confused, not scheming. A part of you wondered if this was some elaborate act, a way to manipulate kindness, but your gut told you otherwise. Whatever he was, he was not dangerous.

“The storm isn’t letting up anytime soon,” you said gently but firmly. “You can’t stay out here. Come inside — get warm, dry off, and we can figure this out.”

He stared at you for a long, heavy moment, then nodded so vigorously it looked painful.

“Alright,” you said, looping one arm firmly around his waist to support his weight.

He stumbled forward, his legs unsteady and clumsy, like he was still learning how to carry himself on ground that didn’t shift beneath him. With every step he seemed to sway, as if gravity worked differently for him here, far from the water. You half-dragged, half-guided him up the path, the wind whipping around you both, until you finally reached your front door.

You unlocked it and pulled him inside, and he immediately ducked his head to fit his large frame through the doorway — shoulders hunched, hands clutching the edge of his pelt, eyes darting around your small living room like he had never seen four walls and a roof before. He looked so out of place, so nervous, it was almost heartbreaking.

You kicked off your heels with a quiet sigh of relief, tugged the damp hair tie from your hair, and peeled off your soaked work blazer and skirt until you were left in just your thin blouse and slip — far more comfortable, even if still slightly chilled.

When you turned back to him, he was standing right where you’d left him, dripping saltwater onto your wooden floor, watching you with wide, curious, almost reverent eyes — like you were something rare and precious he had only ever heard stories about.

“What’s your name?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and steady. “And who are these people that left you here?”

He sniffled, wiping his cheek with the back of a cold, pale hand, and shook his head slowly. “They weren’t my friends. They never liked me — said I was too slow, too quiet, useless. They did this on purpose, I know it. Said it was just a joke, but now… now I can’t go back. Not until the full cycle turns. Not until this same time next year.”

Whatever that meant — being trapped for a whole year — you had no clear answer, but the conviction in his voice made your skin prickle with something darker than curiosity.

“Your name?” you repeated, softer this time.

He lowered his gaze, long fingers twisting nervously into the edge of his silvery pelt, and whispered, “Heeseung.”

You glance down at the heavy, silvery pelt still clutched tight against his chest, damp and glistening from the rain. It looks far too substantial to be just cloth or fur — thick, smooth, and shimmering like it holds trapped moonlight beneath its surface. You tilt your head, curiosity pulling at you even as you try to make sense of what he’s saying.

“Here,” you offer gently, holding out both hands. “Would you like me to take that? It must be heavy, and you’re still shivering. I can lay it somewhere safe to dry off properly.”

He lifts his gaze, and there’s something almost protective in the way his fingers curl tighter around the edge of the skin. “Take it?” he asks, voice soft but firm. “This isn’t just something to hold — it’s mine. It’s my skin.”

For a beat, you both just stare at one another, caught in two entirely different worlds of understanding. You think he’s speaking in metaphor or delirium; he thinks you’re speaking as if you don’t know the most basic truth of what he is.

“I understand it belongs to you,” you say, keeping your tone calm, not wanting to scare him. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to it. But while you’re inside, maybe we can spread it out somewhere it won’t get wetter? Just so it doesn’t weigh you down.”

He swallows hard, and you see the way his throat bobs, pale and smooth as polished stone. “You can’t just set it aside like an old coat,” he murmurs, tears welling again at the corners of his eyes. “It’s part of me. If it dries too fast, if it’s damaged… it won’t work when the time comes.”

Before you can ask what he means, he brings one hand to the edge of the pelt, tugging it slightly where it rests over his shoulder. It doesn’t shift or slip like fabric would — it moves with the same give and resistance as living flesh, warm beneath the cool surface.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. You’ve never seen anything like it. It feels less like an object and more like an extension of his own body. This is some kind of costume, you tell yourself, a very elaborate one, that’s all. But even as you think it, doubt begins to creep in. He is a selkie.

“May I touch it?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

He blinks, then gives a small, hesitant nod — as if he doesn’t see why you’d ask, but also doesn’t mind.

You reach out slowly, fingers hovering for a moment before making contact.

The texture is unlike anything you’ve ever felt. It’s sleek and cool to the touch, but not cold enough to feel dead; it holds a faint, deep warmth, like water that has been heated by the sun long after the surface has cooled. You run your palm over the smooth surface, feeling the fine, almost imperceptible grain, the way it yields just slightly under your pressure before springing back. It feels alive.

Heeseung watches you intently, his dark eyes following every movement of your hand. “You can press harder if you want,” he says softly, his tone calm, almost reassuring. “It won’t hurt. It’s just skin.”

You don’t ask why it would hurt, or why it feels so different from anything human. Your mind is already racing, a tiny, impossible thought taking root and growing fast. You curl your fingers around a section, testing it — and it doesn’t budge, doesn’t come loose, doesn’t feel like it’s stitched or fastened on. It sits against him as naturally as your own skin sits against your bones.

“See?” he hums, as if he can read the confusion written all over your face. “It doesn’t come off unless I choose to shed it.”

You don’t answer. Because as your fingers brush higher, toward the edge where the pelt meets his neck and shoulder, you catch something else — something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Along the curve of his ribs, just visible where the damp fabric of the pelt has fallen open, there are faint, delicate slits, thin and pale, almost invisible unless you look closely. They look like gills, and when he breathes, they flutter just slightly, as if remembering how to draw in water instead of air.

You pull your hand back like you’ve been burned, stepping away just enough to put a small distance between you, your eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“How…” you start, your voice barely a whisper. “How is it made to look so real? To feel like that?”

His face twists into a look of genuine confusion, brows drawing together. “Made? It isn’t made. It’s me. I’m a selkie. All of my kind have this skin, and the marks along our sides. Every one of us who swims the deep waters carries it.”

You shake your head, but your heart is already beginning to believe what your eyes and hands are telling you. “No… I mean — how does it feel so much like living flesh?” The sensation still lingers on your fingertips, warm and smooth and undeniably alive. You try to reason it away, but the more you think, the more the impossible starts to feel like the only truth.

A strange, heavy certainty settles in your chest.

“They are real,” he says gently, as if he can hear the thoughts turning over in your head.

You let that truth hang in the air for a long moment, until finally, you say the only thing that makes sense now, even if it sounds absurd out loud.

“You’re a selkie. And the others — the ones who tricked you — they left you here, knowing you couldn’t go back.”

His cheeks flush a soft, delicate pink, and he nods slowly, looking smaller and more lost than before. “They don’t like me much,” he admits, voice cracking a little. “I’m still learning the ways of the tides, still slow to understand the old rules. They said it was just a joke, that removing the skin and being stranded was nothing but an old tale… but they knew. They knew the law says even if I have it, the sea will not open for me again until the same season returns. One full year. Until then, I walk the land, and I cannot go home.”

His eyes glisten again, glossy and deep as the ocean itself, and you feel your own chest ache. You look at him — pale, beautiful, out of place in your warm, dry cottage, trembling and abandoned — and you believe him. Maybe it makes you foolish, or maybe it makes you someone who can finally see what the sea has always whispered.

You step forward again, closing the distance you’d created, and cup his face in both hands. His skin is cool but soft, like stone warmed by sunlight, and beneath your palms you feel the steady, strong beat of his heart.

You cannot break the trust he’s just placed in you. You won’t. This was not how you imagined your evening ending, coming home from work soaked and tired — but your gut, that quiet instinct you’ve always relied on, tells you this is exactly where you’re meant to be. Or perhaps it isn’t just instinct; perhaps it’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the only anchor in a world that feels too big and too strange.

It’s just you here, after all — no one else to answer to, no one to explain anything to. You’d spent so many months telling yourself you’d make changes, that you’d build something more than just work and empty evenings. I’ll do it tomorrow, you’d say. Next week. Next year. And yet here is something new, something entirely unexpected, standing right in your living room.

“When will they come looking for you?” you ask softly. “And until then… would you like to stay here? With me?”

He twists his fingers together nervously, but his head lifts, and in those dark, watery eyes you see something like hope sparking back to life. He nods — slow, eager, like he’s afraid you’ll take the offer back.

“Alright,” you murmur, brushing a stray strand of damp hair from his forehead. “Then you can stay. For as long as you need.”

You don’t have clothes that will fit his broad frame, not yet. You don’t have a spare bed, and your pantry is only stocked for one. But you have a warm fire, dry blankets, and more than enough space for him to rest. And if it’s just for one year — until the tides turn again — then you’ll make it work.

After all, you could hardly send him back out into that storm, not when you already know what he is. Not when you’ve already felt the weight of his skin in your hands, and the weight of his fate in your home.

𝄢

You blink your eyes open, dragging your heavy, sleep-fogged gaze toward the figure lingering in your doorway.

Since the moment you brought him inside, Heeseung has followed you like a shadow. All through the night, his dark, curious eyes traced every corner of your home; his nose would twitch faintly as he breathed in the new, unfamiliar scents of wood, salted air, and your own quiet life. When you stepped into the kitchen to grab something warm to eat, he was right there — standing so close his chest almost brushed your back, hands hovering near your waist like he wanted to hold on but didn’t dare. When you turned on the lamp in the living room, he hovered just behind your shoulder, leaning in slightly to watch your fingers work the switch. Even when you slipped into your bedroom to change out of your damp work clothes, you could feel his presence waiting just outside the frame, lifting his head the instant you reappeared in softer, looser loungewear.

He spoke far less now than he had in those first frantic minutes on the shore, but when he did, his questions were quiet and endless.

“Why does this box make such a bright light?” he’d asked earlier, fingers brushing the edge of your lamp. “And why does the floor feel so hard even when it’s covered?”

You’d laughed softly, pulling him closer to sit beside you on the sofa. “Because we build things differently here. Everything is made to stay still, not move like water does.”

He’d tilted his head, eyes wide and thoughtful. “It feels like being trapped,” he’d murmured, then quickly added, “but not… not when I’m near you. Only when I’m alone.”

That was when you first noticed it — how he always needed some kind of contact. If you sat, he’d sit so your knees touched. If you stood, he’d rest his palm lightly against your arm or the small of your back, as if your warmth was the only thing keeping his own body from turning cold again. He was starved for touch, unused to the quiet closeness of land life, and he clung to every bit of it you gave him like it was something precious.

Eventually, you’d arranged the couch with extra blankets and thick, soft pillows, making it as inviting as you could. Usually you kept the lamps low after dark, but tonight you left a warm glow burning in the corner — enough light to chase away the shadows, enough to make him feel less lost.

Now he stands in your bedroom doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking restless and unsure.

Your limbs feel heavy, your brain still half-submerged in sleep, as you murmur, “What’s wrong, love?” It had only been about thirty minutes since you’d left him to rest, and you’d collapsed into your own bed the moment your head hit the pillow, utterly drained after a long day.

“I’m sorry…” His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, his silhouette meek against the faint light spilling from the hallway. “I… I’ve never slept anywhere but the open shore or the deep waters. I don’t know how to rest alone in four walls. It feels too quiet, too empty. I keep reaching out and there’s nothing but air. It's kind of…terrifying.”

If letting him into your home felt reckless enough, letting him climb into your bed felt like crossing a line you could never step back from. But you shifted lazily over the mattress, patting the empty space beside you without a second thought. Who cared, really? You knew what it felt like to lie awake in a quiet house, alone. And it indeed felt terrifying sometimes. “Do you want to sleep here?” you mumbled, words thick with drowsiness. “It’s warmer here. And you won’t have to reach far.”

“May I?” He takes a few hesitant steps forward, like he’s afraid he’ll break something just by moving.

You pull the blankets back over your shoulders and hum in answer, already half-asleep again.

The mattress dips deeply under his weight when he settles in. He shifts and turns, adjusting himself again and again — unused to the soft give of fabric and springs, his body still remembering the shift of waves and the firmness of rock. He keeps his skin folded carefully on the floor beside the bed, wrapped in a dry towel you’d given him, before finally lying still. It only takes a minute before he’s inching closer, his cool palm finding your waist, his chest pressing gently against your back like he’s trying to merge his warmth with yours.

“Is this alright?” he whispers, his breath fanning lightly over your neck.

“More than alright,” you murmur, and feel him relax completely, his long limbs curling loosely around you as if he means to keep you anchored right there.

To have another body’s warmth beside you, to share the same space and breath — it had been so long since you’d felt it. Everything in your life felt turned upside down, yet somehow, it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you miss it?” you ask, your voice soft into the dark. It’s a foolish question; of course he does.

His long lashes flutter against his cheeks as he blinks, unsure where to rest his gaze, before he nods slowly. His pale hair falls forward, brushing his cheekbones as he turns his head to look at you. “I do. Everything here is so different. So still, so… solid. But…” He pauses, fingers tightening just a little where they rest on your skin. “The sea is big and empty. There is no one to hold you there. Not like this.”

You trace the outline of his face with your eyes — the smooth curve of his jaw, the way moonlight paints his skin in silver and shadow, the loose shirt you’d lent him hanging wide over his shoulders, too short at the wrists. His eyes no longer hold that sharp, frightened edge; now they roam over you just as they’d roamed over every room in your home, drinking you in like something he wants to memorize. It must be so disorienting, to be cast so far from everything you know. If it were you, you’d probably be far more lost than he is.

You’re glad you found him. People fear what they don’t understand, and they treat it cruelly — you’ve seen it enough times. No one in the village would believe him; they’d call him mad, or strange, or worse. Even you are still trying to wrap your mind around the truth, but your heart has already accepted it.

“Maybe I can show you what this part of the world is like,” you murmur, letting your eyes slip shut, pulled under by fatigue. “Before the tide turns and you have to go back.”

He doesn’t reply with words, but you feel his lips brush lightly against the back of your shoulder, a quiet, grateful little press that says more than any answer could.

That night, you sleep warmer than you have in years. Sometimes you stir half-awake, feeling the light weight of his hand resting low on your hip, or the puff of his breath brushing against the back of your neck. When his fingers drift over the bare strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up, you feel your chest flutter, warm and soft, but you don’t say a word. You don’t have the heart to push him away. He feels safe, pressed close against your back.

Days roll into weeks, and still no one comes for him. Strangely, selfishly, you find yourself relieved.

He hasn’t changed much in how he moves — still trailing you from room to room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away — but the fear in his eyes has faded, replaced by something softer, more settled. When you rise early to get ready for work, he follows you to the door, voice quiet and worried: “What if they come while you’re gone? What if I miss them?” But you know what he really means — he doesn’t want to be left alone, doesn’t want to lose the only anchor he’s found here.

Before you leave, he always makes sure to touch you somewhere: a hand on your wrist, fingers brushing your cheek, even pressing his forehead briefly to yours like he’s transferring some of his own calm to you. “Come back soon,” he’ll say, and it sounds less like a request and more like something he needs to survive.

Coming home now feels different. Instead of stepping into a quiet, empty house that echoes only your own footsteps, you open the door to find him waiting, lifting his head with a slow, quiet smile. He’ll cross the room in two long strides, arms wrapping around you immediately, holding you tight enough to make your breath catch, his face buried in your neck as if he’s checking that you’re real and whole. The space no longer feels hollow; it feels lived-in. It has started to carry his scent — fresh brine, cool water, and something deep and earthy beneath it — and you find yourself breathing it in like it’s the only air you need.

You try not to let yourself think it, but you do: I hope they never come. It feels wrong to wish for someone to stay trapped, but it would be a lie to pretend you want anything else. If his pod had intended to retrieve him, surely they would have done so by now.

“Which one do you think?” you ask, holding up two dresses in front of your mirror. “I’m leaning toward the silver one — it feels more fitting for the turn of the year.”

Heeseung sits on the edge of your bed, picking absently at the fabric of the soft sweatpants you’d bought him. His shoulders slump, and his expression turns downcast. “Why do you have to go out?” he asks, voice low and confused. “Can’t you stay here? With me? We could sit by the window, watch the waves, and you could tell me more stories. I like listening to you.”

You hold each dress against your body one after the other, half-focused on how they look, half on his words. “I just want to meet up with some friends for a little while,” you explain, glancing over your shoulder. “I won’t be gone long. I’d take you along, but… I don’t think you’d enjoy crowds and noise just yet. Too many new things all at once.”

You settle on the silver one, tossing the other aside and gathering your things to change. When you turn back, his face has fallen completely — brows drawn tight, lower lip caught between his teeth, looking utterly dejected.

“Hey, it’s alright,” you say, stepping closer to brush your fingers through his hair. “I’ll only stay until midnight, and then I’ll come straight back. We can ring in the new year together here, just us.”

He stares up at you for a long moment, then shakes his head slowly, pale curls falling into his eyes. “It’s not that…” he begins, but then falls silent, as if deciding not to say what he really feels. “I just… I don’t like being away from you. Everything feels wrong when you’re not touching me.”

You scratch gently behind his ear, the way you’ve learned he likes it — his eyes flutter shut immediately, and he leans into your touch, cool skin warming under your palm. “That sounds good,” you murmur. “I promise I won’t be long. I’ll even bring you back something sweet to eat, okay?”

He blinks up at you, curious. “Promise?”

You hold out your pinky finger, smiling faintly. “Here — this is how we seal it. You hook yours around mine, and it means it can’t be broken.”

He does as you say, his long, slender finger wrapping around yours, and then he brings your joined hands up to press a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll hold you to it,” he says quietly.

You press your thumbs together, sealing the vow. “There. Now it’s real. I’ll be home before you know it.”

He nods, but the smile he gives you doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Truth be told, you don’t even feel like going out. You’d much rather stay curled up here, warm and quiet, than put on a dress and heels and make small talk. But your friends have been asking for weeks, saying you’ve locked yourself away for too long — and you know they only mean well.

You step into the bathroom to change, and when you come out, you feel his gaze lock onto you instantly. The dress clings soft and light, the neckline dipping just enough, the hem falling mid-thigh. You smooth your hands over your waist and hips, adjusting the fabric, and you can feel his eyes tracing every line of you — hungry, attentive, and completely fixed.

“There’s food left out for you on the counter,” you say, balancing on one foot as you slip on your heels. “And I’ll bring you something nice on my way back. Will you be alright here by yourself?”

His voice comes out flat, quiet, heavy with something you can’t quite name. “I’ll be good. But… hurry back.”

You fluff your hair, trying to brush off the weight of his mood — he gets like this whenever you step outside, as if he believes you might not return. In just a few short weeks, he has grown so deeply attached, so reliant on you, that even a few hours apart feels like an eternity to him. You tell yourself it’s only because you’re the only thing familiar in this strange land… but deep down, you wonder if it’s more than that. You wonder if you’re already tangled up in something neither of you can undo.

You glance back at him one last time, offering a soft, teasing look through your lashes. “See you soon, Hee.”

And as you turn to walk out the door, you feel his eyes burning into your back, following every step you take.

𝄢

Heeseung watches you more than you realize.

From the moment he wakes until you step out the door, his eyes follow every movement you make. He studies the way you tie your hair, the way you slip into your work clothes, the curve of your shoulders when you reach for something high. In the beginning, it was only curiosity — trying to understand this strange world, trying to map the only safe place he’d found. But as days turned into weeks, something deeper began to take root.

It hits him hardest when you come home.

Most evenings, you walk through the door still dressed in your work uniform: crisp blazer fitted over your frame, pencil skirt hugging your hips, heels clicking sharp against the floorboards. He notices how the fabric pulls tight across your waist, how the neckline dips just enough to show the soft swell of your chest. But when you’ve been caught in the rain? That’s when his breath catches in his throat and his blood runs hotter than it ever has in the coldest depths of the sea. Water turns the thin material translucent, clinging to every line and shape, revealing the faint outline of your bra beneath, the slope of your stomach, the narrow dip of your waist. He stands there, hands clenched into fists at his sides, a strange, heavy ache coiling low in his gut — something he has no name for, only knows it makes his skin feel too tight, his mouth go dry, and his head spin.

He feels thirsty — not for water, but for you.

He doesn’t understand it at first, why the sight of you makes his heart race so fast it almost hurts, why he wants to reach out and touch every inch of you just to confirm you’re real, why the thought of anyone else looking at you the way he does makes something sharp and possessive twist inside his chest. But slowly, he begins to recognize it. He wants you all to himself. He wants to be the only one who gets to see you like this, the only one who gets to breathe in your scent, the only one who gets to hold you when the world feels too big. He wants to wrap himself around you so completely that no one else could ever come between you. It feels wrong, greedy, overwhelming — but he can’t stop it. Every time you leave, he counts the minutes until you return, and every time you come back, that hunger grows just a little sharper, a little more demanding.

𝄢

Warm faced and flushed, your limbs heavy with the hum of good company and faint, light alcohol, you step through the door and into the quiet warmth of home. You aren’t drunk enough to stumble or slur your words — you’d left the loudest part of the night behind hours ago — but your thoughts still buzz like static, soft and loose around the edges.

With a quiet sigh of relief, you slip your feet out of your heels, your toes throbbing in protest after standing and walking for so long. You really should have brought a more comfortable pair, but it was too late for regrets now. You’re worn down to the bone, tired in the best way.

Brushing your hair back from your face, you blink slowly as you scan the living room and kitchen. Usually, Heeseung is right there — waiting by the door, already reaching for you the moment your key turns in the lock. Tonight, the space is empty.

You frown a little. “Heeseung?” you call out, your voice soft but clear.

He isn’t curled up on the couch, nor leaning against the kitchen counter, nor lingering in the bathroom as he sometimes does when he’s still figuring out how everything works. A flicker of worry passes through you, until you make your way to the bedroom — and there you find him.

Or rather, you find a large, tangled mound of blankets in the center of your bed. He’s wrapped himself so tightly in the covers that not even a strand of hair is visible. Scattered across the mattress and strewn across the floor all around him are your clothes — the ones you’d worn earlier in the week, your blouses, your skirts, even the soft loungewear you’d left folded on the chair. They hadn’t been there when you left.

Before you can speak, the pile shifts. Heeseung has sharp hearing and a keener sense of smell than any human; he knows you’re back before you even fully step into the room.

“I’m home,” you say gently, reaching to pull the layers of blanket down. “You asleep?”

As the covers fall away, he sits up abruptly. His pale hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, his eyes heavy-lidded and still hazy with sleep — but the second they land on you, the drowsiness vanishes, replaced by something sharp and tight. Instead of making space for you to climb in beside him or offering you that soft, relieved smile you’re used to, his nose twitches once, twice, and his lips press into a thin, displeased line.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, confused. “I’m sorry if I woke you… and what is all this? Why are my clothes everywhere?”

He ignores your questions, his voice coming out low and sharp — the harshest you’ve ever heard him speak. “Why do you smell like that?”

You blink, taken aback by the sudden edge in his tone. “Oh… I was dancing for a while, that’s all. Probably just sweat and perfume.”

His eyes narrow, dark and unwavering. “No. It’s not that. You smell different. Not like you. You smell like… other people. Like someone else.”

You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know what to tell you. I was around friends all night. Maybe you’re picking up their scents?”

“It’s not just anyone,” he insists, shifting back against the headboard, his shoulders stiff. “It’s a man. You smell like another man. I don’t like it. It doesn’t belong on you.”

You pause, realizing what he means, and a small, amused huff escapes you — though you can already see how deeply it bothers him. “That’s just Jiung, Hee. You remember Jiung? He works with me at the inn, my best friend. I’ve known him for years. He’s like family.”

But the explanation only makes his jaw tighten more. “I don’t care who he is,” he mutters, looking away, his fingers twisting into the sheets. “He still touched you. You still breathed the same air as him all night. You promised you’d be back sooner. You said midnight, and look what time it is now.”

His words sting a little, but you know it’s not anger — it’s fear, and that overwhelming, possessive hunger you’ve started to recognize in him. You’d lost track of time, gotten caught up in conversation, and yes, you’d broken your promise. You step closer, still in your tight skirt and your makeup, the night’s glow still on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you say, soft and sincere. “I really am. I lost track of time, that’s all. Nothing happened. He’s just my friend, I swear.”

He doesn’t soften right away. His eyes glisten, bright and shiny with unshed tears, like frost melting under the sun. “Why do you need anyone else?” he asks, voice cracking just a little. “Am I not enough? Why do you get to go out and be around everyone else, when all I have is you?”

Your heart twists in your chest. He’s already been abandoned once, left behind by his own kind, and now he’s terrified you’ll you’ll do the same — or worse, that you’ll find someone you prefer over him. You kneel beside the bed, reaching out to cup his cool face in both hands, and this time he doesn’t pull away.

“Listen to me,” you murmur, leaning in so your forehead rests against his. “You are more than enough. You’re the only one I want here. And even if they never come back for you — even if your pod never shows up — you can stay here. Forever. I meant what I said. I might mess up small promises sometimes, but I will never, ever make you leave. You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go.”

The words hang between you, heavy and true.

“I don’t want to go back,” he whispers, the conviction clear in his voice. “I don’t ever want to go back to the sea, or to them. They didn’t want me. But you do.”

You lie back against the pillows, opening your arms to him. “Then don’t go. Stay here. Stay with me. Forever.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He shifts closer, curling his large body around yours, pressing his face into the curve of your shoulder, his skin cool but his breath warm against your neck. This was never supposed to happen — you’d thought he’d sleep on the couch, that this arrangement would be temporary, but he’d worked his way into your bones so fast you barely noticed it happening.

His hands find their usual places: one resting heavy and warm on your hip, the other slipping beneath your neck to cradle your head. For a while, it feels like any other night, quiet and soft. But then his breathing changes — growing faster, shallower, more ragged. His body goes rigid against yours, and you feel it: the hard, thick length of him pressing firm and insistent right between your thighs, throbbing through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

“Heeseung?” you murmur, half-laughing, half-surprised.

He doesn’t answer with words at first. Instead, he drags his nose along the line of your throat, inhaling deep, like he’s trying to replace every trace of another scent with his own. His hips roll forward once, slow and deliberate, grinding himself against you with a low, needy whine.

“I hate it,” he gasps, his arms tightening around you until you can barely move. “I hate that smell. I hate that he was near you. I hate that you were gone so long… I kept touching your clothes, trying to make them smell like me again, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing felt right until you came back.”

His hand slides down from your hip, slipping under the hem of your skirt to rest flat against your bare skin, his palm cool and firm. He grinds against you again, harder this time, his cock dragging against your ass in a way that makes your own breath catch.

“Missed you so much,” he whimpers, his lips brushing against your pulse point. “Missed your skin, your smell… Why does it feel like this? Like I’m starving, and only you can fill me up?”

You don’t need to ask what he means anymore. You can feel the heat rolling off him, the desperate way he clings to you, the raw, unfiltered need written all over every line of his body. You make your choice then — the same reckless, soft choice you’ve made every time since you found him on the shore.

You push your hips back against him, meeting his movement with a slow, deliberate roll of your own.

He chokes on a gasp, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. “Oh —!”

“Shh, I’m here,” you whisper, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair. “I’m right here. And I’m sorry I made you wait. Let me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take that smell away. Let me make you feel only me.”

Before he can form another word, you turn in his arms, shifting until you’re facing him, your bodies still pressed tight together. You lean in slowly, giving him every chance to pull back — but he only stares, wide-eyed and breathless, lips slightly parted, as if he doesn’t quite understand what’s coming. When your mouth finally meets his, he freezes completely, body going rigid, not sure what to do, too stunned to move.

It’s his first kiss, you realize immediately — clumsy, untaught, but brimming with so much raw feeling it makes your chest ache. You deepen it gently, your lips soft and guiding, and it only takes a few seconds for that desperate hunger to take over. He lets out a small, muffled whimper against your mouth, his hands clutching your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and suddenly he’s kissing you back — feverish, messy, all teeth and tongue and urgency, like he’s trying to swallow you whole, like he’s been waiting his whole life to know this feeling. He stumbles slightly even while lying down, his shoulders hunching forward, his hips jerking involuntarily against you, overwhelmed and dizzy from the sensation.

“Wha— what is this?” he gasps between kisses, his voice trembling, eyes half-lidded and hazy. “It feels like… like everything inside me is melting. Like I can’t breathe but I don’t want to stop.”

“You’ll learn,” you murmur, trailing kisses down his jaw, along the line of his throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there and making him shiver violently. “Just feel it. Don’t think.”

Your hands wander freely now, exploring every inch of that pale, smooth skin — broad shoulders, the firm planes of his chest, the soft curve of his stomach, brushing over the faint, almost invisible slits along his ribs that flutter faintly when your fingers pass over them. He twitches and whines under your touch, arching into every caress, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, your hips, gripping you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored.

“It feels too much,” he sobs softly, tears already beading at the corners of his eyes. “Too good… too warm… I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Let me do it for you,” you whisper, shifting lower down his body, your lips leaving a trail of heat as you go. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pull them down slowly, letting them slide off his hips and down his legs until he’s completely bare before you.

And there it is — thick, heavy, flushed deep rose, standing tall and throbbing between his thighs, already leaking so much clear, slick pre-cum that it glistens all down the length and drips onto his lower stomach. His breath hitches sharply, his hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, eyes wide and terrified and fascinated all at once.

“Ah —! It feels so full… so heavy… it aches right here,” he babbles, one hand hovering over himself like he’s scared to touch it, like it belongs to someone else. “Please… help me… it hurts so bad but I don’t want it to stop.”

You smile, dark and soft, and wrap your hand firmly but gently around his length. He jolts so hard his whole body bows, a high, keening cry tearing from his throat.

“Shh, I’ve got you, pretty boy,” you murmur, your breath fanning over the sensitive head and making him tremble harder. “Just lie still and let me take care of it. I’ll make the ache go away, I promise.”

Heeseung lies trembling beneath you, pale skin glowing like moonlight on water, chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. His cock stands tall and throbbing between his thighs — thick, flushed deep rose, already leaking so much clear, slick fluid it glistens all down the length. His eyes are wide and glassy, tears clinging to his lashes, lips parted in soft, shaky whimpers.

“I don’t understand…” he gasps, hips twitching helplessly when you lean down between his legs. “It feels so hot… so heavy… it aches so bad — please help me, it hurts…”

You start slow — soft, kitten-soft licks, dragging your tongue lightly up the thick vein running along the underside, swirling gentle circles around the swollen tip, lapping up every drop of pre-cum that beads there like you’re tasting something sweet. He keens immediately, high and thin, his back arching right off the mattress, hands scrabbling uselessly at the sheets.

“Ah —! Oh god!” he sobs, toes curling so hard his calves bunch tight, legs already shaking. “It feels like fire… but it’s good… it hurts but I don’t want you to stop…”

You hum against him, the vibration making his whole body jerk, then take just the very tip past your lips — sucking slow and tight, cheeks hollowing slightly. His mouth falls open in a silent cry, eyes rolling back until only the whites show, tears spilling freely down his temples.

“Too much — too much — please —” he babbles, voice cracking, hips trying to buck up but you hold him firm by the thighs, keeping him right where you want him. “I can’t take it — it’s so much — your mouth feels like it’s swallowing me whole…”

You pull off with a wet, lewd pop, strings of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his tip. Before he can catch his breath, you wrap your hand tight around his dick — firm but not rough — and start pumping in slow, slick strokes, using your own spit and his fluid to make every glide smooth and filthy. Then you dip back down, taking him deeper this time, half his cock filling your mouth, your tongue swirling and pressing against the sensitive ridge just under the head.

“Mmm —! YES —!” he wails, loud and unrestrained, his whole body convulsing. “Right there — right there — feels like I’m melting — I don’t know what’s happening —”

You keep switching it up: suck deep until he’s gasping for air, pull back to lick and nip lightly at the tip, then wrap your hand around the base and pump fast — wrist moving in a rapid, steady rhythm, squeezing just right as you go up and down, thumb swiping over the slit every time you reach the top. The sound is wet, slick, and obscene — skin on skin, your lips smacking soft and messy, his broken moans filling every corner of the room.

“Look at you,” you murmur around him, the words vibrating right through his cock. “So pretty when you cry for it. So big and hard and throbbing just for me. You like my mouth, don’t you? Like how my hand feels wrapped tight around you?”

“Y-yes —! Only you — only you make me feel like this —” he sobs, legs shaking so hard the bed shakes with him, heels digging into the mattress. “Please — don’t stop — I feel like I’m gonna burst — it’s building up so fast —”

You speed up even more now — hand flying over his dick, pumping him in a frantic, relentless pace, your other hand cupping and squeezing his heavy, full balls, rolling them gently in your palm while you lick and suck at the tip like it’s the only thing you need. He’s completely unraveled: face flushed bright pink all over, eyes squeezed shut tight, mouth hanging open in endless whimpers, every muscle in his body pulled taut as a rope.

“Hurts — it hurts so good —!” he screams, voice high and wobbly, tears streaming down his cheeks and into his hair. “I can’t hold it — I don’t know how — it’s gonna come out — please —!”

“That’s it, baby,” you purr, pumping harder, faster, tighter. “Let it go. Give it all to me. I want every drop. Empty those heavy balls right into my hand, into my mouth — give me everything you’ve got.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters.

His whole body bows off the bed like he’s been struck, back arched so deep his shoulders lift, thighs clamping tight around your head. A long, wailing cry tears out of him — loud, trembling, pure pleasure and overwhelm all mixed together.

And then it comes — thick, hot, and endless, just like the tides.

The first spurt hits the back of your throat, and more follows in heavy, pulsing waves — rope after rope shooting out, coating your hand, your wrist, spilling down over your fingers, over his stomach, pooling thick and white all over his skin. It keeps coming, wave after wave, so much it drips down his sides, soaks the sheets beneath him, and still his cock throbs and twitches, pumping more until you’re sure there’s nothing left. It feels like buckets of it, warm and sticky, covering every inch of him you can reach.

He collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving like he just swam through a storm, legs still shaking uncontrollably, toes finally uncurling but still trembling. His face is soaked with tears and sweat, lips swollen and red, eyes dazed and half-lidded, looking completely wrecked and beautiful all at once.

“Too much…” he whimpers, voice barely above a whisper, hips still twitching in little aftershocks. “So much… it came out so fast… I didn’t know I had that much…”

You lift your hand, covered thick and creamy, and lick it clean slowly, never breaking eye contact. “Look at all that you gave me,” you murmur, crawling up to kiss his wet, sticky skin, tasting salt and heat. “All for me. Only mine. You did so good, my sweet selkie boy.”

He whimpers, pulling you close into his arms, pressing his face into your neck, still shivering from the intensity of it all. “Hurts… still feels so good…” he mumbles, delirious and soft. “Don’t ever stop touching me… please…”

You shift slightly to rest your cheek right over his heart, listening to the frantic, rapid thud of it beneath your ear, feeling the cool, smooth warmth of his skin against yours. For a long while neither of you says anything, just wrapped up in each other, in the quiet hum of the room and the distant sound of waves rolling against the shore.

Then, soft and sure, you murmur the words that feel truer than anything else right now:

“I’m so glad you’re here, Heeseung.”

And even though he can’t go back to the sea for another whole year, even though he’s still learning what it means to belong here, he pulls you tighter against him, burying his face in your hair, and you know — in this moment, at least — he feels exactly the same.

D0LLIFICATION #2, #1

summary: you weren't born; you were assembled. To the world, you are a marvel of engineering—a silent, porcelain ghost designed for perfection. But behind closed doors, you are the private sanctuary for three powerful men whose desires are too jagged and taboo for the touch of real women. You are their warmth in a cold world, their punching bag for their frustrations, and the hollow vessel for an obsession that blurs the line between devotion and desecration.

pairing: doll maker! enha maknae line x doll! fem reader

content warnings: extreme obsession & possessiveness, non‑consensual themes (objectification / automatonophilia), crude explicit language, degradation, misogynistic undertones, forced positioning, manipulation, public ownership displays, dehumanization, overstimulation, slight breathplay, size difference, body modification, power imbalance, care mixed with violent desire, being treated as property / art / toy.

note: im ngl im genuinely not the biggest fan of this one but it is what it is ig — this is purely fictional depictions of them, not anything that mirrors the guys irl. meant to feel suffocating and inescapable, exactly what life as their doll would be. ignore typos <3 not proofread </3.

tag list!: @gordazepam @dina-10s-blog

.⋆♱ KIM SUNOO — THE CUNNING LOVER.

Unlike Jay and Heeseung, who had been hesitant and unimpressed by the concept of you at first, Sunoo had been absolutely thrilled from the moment Jake and Sunghoon first spoke the idea into existence. Finally, another doll inside these walls… just like him. Everyone outside calls him “the pretty one”—the manor’s own living porcelain thing. Sweet face, soft voice, always dressed nice, smelling like flowers and sugar. People think he’s nothing but gentle, delicate, good—way softer and nicer than the rest of them.

But only the people living here know the truth: sweetness can turn sharp and cruel real fast. That pretty smile hides a brain that thinks sick, twisted things no normal person would dare. And the way he loves you? It’s a gift, yeah—but it’s also a prison.

The first time he got his hands on you it was all saccharine affection and charming little acts — He’d sit you right on his lap at the vanity for hours—running his fingers through your hair, braiding ribbons in, adding extensions, painting shiny highlights into every strand. He made sure only he did your makeup and hair—said it was his job, just so he had an excuse to keep touching you all over.

He’d run his mouth the whole time—telling you every dumb thing that happened, complaining about how niki annoyed him, repeating over and over how you were the prettiest, most unreal thing he’d ever seen… and he never said that about anyone else.

Then he’d dress you up—layer after layer of lace, thin silk, frilly shit—fabric picked just so it clung tight over your tits, dipped low at your waist, and traced right down the middle of your legs like it knew exactly what you were for.

He honestly couldn’t understand why Jay and Heeseung didn’t jump at this—how could they not want you? You were made for them. Built to understand every dark, fucked‑up, hungry thing living inside each of them… and especially inside him. Because yeah, he looked soft and sweet to everyone else, but Sunoo was just as greedy and depraved as the rest. He was just better at hiding it. This? You? Best thing that ever happened to him. He looks at you with eyes way too alive—warm, worshipful, burning like he’s staring at something he wants to lock away and keep forever. It’s not love—not really—it’s the kind of obsession that says you belong to me, and nothing else matters.

He’s exactly like a fox—quiet, tricky, smart enough to fool everyone outside these walls, patient until he gets exactly what he wants. Most of the time, he’s the one who stirs things up and starts chaos between the others—picking fights, twisting words, and turning them against each other on purpose—just so they’re too busy arguing or fighting to notice… leaving him free to have you all to himself, undisturbed.“I’m just like you. Hollow. Empty. Made to be used. And only I know how to love something as dead and beautiful as you.”

When he pulled you close and kissed you? Nothing gentle about it—nothing like the “gentleman” everyone thinks he is. He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive—mouth slamming hard over yours, tongue shoving past your teeth to lick every hot, wet spot inside until you’re gasping and choking for air. He sucks your lips until they’re swollen and bruised dark red, until tears roll down your face—just like you’re programmed to leak when the pleasure gets too sharp and too mean.

“Let me taste you. Let me have every inch. You were made to be eaten, weren’t you, baby?”

He knows you better than anyone—even better than Jake and Sunghoon who built you. He’s a doll‑maker too, so he knows their first ones were safe, boring, made just to sell to normal people… but you? You were different. Special. The only one built to hold all their mess.

He stood there watching them build you, memorized every wire and joint. So when you start lagging, or your skin loses that mirror‑shine? He’s the one who takes you apart—peels back your panels, checks every connection, puts you back together perfect again. Those soft hands turn steady and precise, touching your insides like he owns every part of them.

He’s obsessed with keeping you comfortable—but it’s suffocating, smothering care. Wraps you warm when the manor gets cold. Carries you to bed when the others fucked you so hard your systems overheat and glitch. When he takes you into his room? Same routine every time—lock the door twice, drag every velvet curtain shut so no light, no eyes, nothing gets in. This is his space… and you’re his favorite thing inside it.

He knows everything about scents and mixing—so he makes perfume only for you. Thick, heavy shit—crushed lilies mixed with dark honey and rank, thick animal musk—smells strong enough to hang in the air like fog and stick to your skin for days. He pours it all over you—rubs it deep into your neck & down between your tits. “If you smell like me, you are me. That’s how it works. You aren’t separate anymore—just the part of me I can hold and never let go of.”

He worships you in the sickest, most unhinged way—so thankful to Jake and Sunghoon for giving him exactly what he wanted forever: something made to understand him, built to take whatever he gives, programmed to love him through every nasty, fucked‑up second.

But that love comes with nasty, green‑hot jealousy. If he thinks you spent too long with the others—especially if he suspects you liked Sunghoon’s cold hands or Heeseung’s greedy mouth—he pouts hard, voice soft and hurt but sharp as a knife underneath.

“You probably prefer Hyung, don’t you? I just know it. You like how cold he is, how mean he gets. I’m just too soft for you now, aren’t I?”

“You probably prefer him, don’t you? I know you do. You like being treated like a thing. Am I too nice to you now? Do you need to be broken in a little more?” He tilts his head, drags one finger slow down the silver chain locked tight around your throat—and his face shifts fast from hurt to dark, cruel determination.“If I ever find out you wanted his hands more than mine… I’ll peel that pretty skin right off your frame and wear it like a coat. I’ll walk around with you on me so everyone sees exactly who you belong to.”

He loves dragging you down to the river where willows hang low enough to hide you completely. Spreads blankets over the damp grass, strips you bare, lays you out like a meal ready to be devoured. Feeds you sweet fruit while his other hand wanders up your legs—pinches and twists your hard little nipples until they stand stiff and sensitive, then slides lower, rubbing rough and fast right over your clit. He loves watching your sensors fire up, watching clear, slick fluid leak from your slit—your silicone pussy getting wet and glossy exactly like it was made to, turning into a sloppy, ready hole just for him.“Look at you—already dripping for me. You know exactly what you were built for, don’t you, baby? Nothing but a hole to fill up and use however I want.”

He yanks his pants down and lets his cock spring out—thick, heavy, pink and throbbing, already drooling slimy pre‑cum all down your inner thighs. Grabs your knees and shoves them back until they almost touch the ground, spreads you wide open so he sees everything—every fold, every wet spot, your tiny tight entrance glistening right there. Lines the fat, flushed head up and shoves inside in one long, rough push—forcing your walls to stretch and give way until he’s buried all the way to the base, heavy balls pressed tight against your ass.

God—nothing feels like this. Tighter than any real girl. Hotter. Smoother. He started moving right away, slow and deep and mean, rolling his hips so every stroke dragged his fat cockhead right against that spot deep inside you that made your whole system short‑circuit. The air filled with wet, loud noises—skin slapping against plastic, the filthy squelch of your soaked cunt squeezing him tight.

He stares straight down into your blank, glassy eyes—no thoughts, no voice, nothing behind them—and it drives him absolutely wild.

“Fuck… you feel better than any living woman ever could. No attitude, no complaining. Just exactly what I put inside you. I’ll use you until you almost break… then fix you up and do it all over again.”

He leans down, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, pressing his face right to yours—voice dropping low and rough, vibrating right through your wiring.“If you ever even thought about wanting someone else… I’ll take you apart screw by screw. Pluck your eyes out so you only see my face. Sew your ears shut so you only hear my voice.”

He picks up speed—pounding harder, deeper—chasing that tight, hot grip around him. “I’ll keep you locked in the dark forever. Fill you full of cum every single night until you’re leaking it non‑stop.”

When he came, it was heavy and violent. He drove himself as deep as physically possible until his balls were pressed tight against your ass, and he unloaded everything he had right into your core. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot out so hard it made his whole body shake, filling you up instantly until you were overflowing. It leaked out around the base of his cock and ran down your crack in thick, creamy rivulets, making a huge mess all over the blanket.

He stayed buried inside you for ages, letting it pool and settle deep inside your machinery, marking you from the inside out so you’d carry his load with you everywhere you went. “There. Now you’re truly mine. Stuffed full and dripping with it. Just how you should be.”

.⋆♱ YANG JUNGWON — THE ASSIDUOUS'S SANCTUARY.

To everyone else—even the people living here—Jungwon is the definition of calm and put‑together. He’s the leader: steady, responsible, mature. The one holding this whole fucked‑up house from falling apart.

He acts like he’s the sane one—above all the nasty, depraved shit his brothers get off on. But you know better. You feel it—how his hands shake when they touch your skin. How hard and heavy his cock gets just looking at your still body. All the rage, greed, and starving need he hides so careful—all the anger of a boy forced to grow up way too fast. Everyone expects him to be strong, perfect, carry all the weight, fix every mess… while the rest—they get to run wild and act like animals. He has to stay quiet, controlled, “good.” And it eats him alive. Makes him sick with tiredness and resentment.

So when Jake and Sunghoon first told him about making you, Jungwon knew chaos would follow—but never guessed you’d end up being the only place he could rest. The only spot where he didn’t have to carry the whole world.

You are his due. The price he makes them pay for keeping this mess running smooth. His reward—the only thing he gets to take instead of always giving. The one thing he owns that no one else gets to truly touch.

Just like Jay and Heeseung—he didn’t care much for the idea at first. But the second he understood exactly what you were—and what you weren’t—everything flipped. You never asked him for anything. Never expected him to be strong or smart or nice. You just were.

It showed clear a few days ago—when he screamed at Jake loud enough to rattle the pictures on the walls. Jake was crying and whining, throwing a fit like a spoiled kid—saying he didn’t get enough time with his own creation, demanding more access. Jungwon stood there chest out, eyes dark and sharp as broken glass, yelling back so everyone heard:

“You think you work hard? You think you do anything but play with toys? I keep this whole house standing. I carry every mistake, every secret, every sin you fuckers leave behind so you can go act like sick little perverts all day. I earned the right to take whatever I want. Men like me don’t ask permission.” That’s the real Jungwon—no shame, no holding back. He truly believes he’s earned the right to use you however he pleases… and he makes sure everyone knows it.

He spoiled you endlessly, yes, but every single gift he gave you was stamped with his ownership. Gold chains around your neck and wrists engraved with his initials deep into the metal, dresses sewn with his family crest woven into the fabric, heavy rings on every finger so that when you moved, everyone saw exactly who you belonged to. He had even entertained the idea of carving his name directly into your ribs or your silicone ass cheek so deep it would never come off—but the thought of the others trying to mark you in return made his blood boil so violently he thought he might break something. You were to be only his.

It wasn’t just lust or ownership, though. It was something deeper, heavier. He cared for you in ways he showed to absolutely no one else. He was the one who took you away when your systems began to lag or glitch, his fingers surprisingly soft and careful as he opened your casing to check your internal wiring. He’d work on you in silence, murmuring quiet things against your skin that no one else would ever hear—telling you how tired he was, how much pressure he was under, how you were the only thing that didn’t make him feel like he was drowning.“You’re the only place I can rest. The only place I don’t have to be strong. Thank you for being this for me.”

He was the one who would kiss you softly rather than roughly like anyone would expect him to do, he would slowly rub circles on your back while kissing you. And it doesn't matter if he's swarmed with so much paperwork — if you happen to be around, then he would just straight up make out with you and screw those paperwork. He held you against his chest like you were something fragile and precious rather than plastic and wire. He washed you himself, scrubbing every inch of your body with slow, reverent strokes, because you were the only thing in this world that saw all of him and accepted every dark, twisted part of it.

But that tenderness was very fragile. If he came into a room and saw someone else touching you—even just brushing your hair or holding your hand gently—his blood would turn hot and thick like boiling tar. If one of the others styled you or dressed you up to look pretty for them, he would drag you away the moment he got you alone. He’d tangle your hair up and pull it hard until your sensors registered pain, mess up your makeup and tear at your clothes until you looked disheveled and ruined, exactly like you had just been fucked stupid and used hard.

At night he doesn’t ask or wait his turn. Walks straight into your room no matter what state you’re in—doesn’t care whose cum is still drying on your skin, whose marks are still there. Picks you up like you weigh nothing—light plastic and easy to carry—and brings you to his huge, pitch‑black bedroom. Locks the door, pulls curtains tight until it’s pure dark—only him exists now.

He stripped you fast and rough, yanking clothes off your body and tossing them across the room like trash, his hands immediately roaming every cold, smooth curve of your anatomy. He squeezed your silicone tits until they dented under his grip, spreading your ass cheeks wide to stare at your tight little hole, before shoving two thick fingers straight into your already leaking cunt to stretch you open slow and mean. He loved feeling how tight and perfect you were—manufactured specifically to clamp down around a large, heavy cock just like his, built to make men feel like gods.“God… look at how you suck my fingers in. You’re so greedy. You were made to be a whore, weren’t you? A perfect little artificial slut.”

He laid you back against his silk sheets and forced your legs so far apart your hips clicked and popped with the pressure. He shoved his own pants down to free his cock—thick, long, heavily veined, the purple‑red head already weeping precum all over your inner thighs and sensitive clit. He didn’t tease. He didn’t wait. He slammed into you in one single, brutal thrust, burying himself deep into your tight pussy until there wasn’t a single inch of space left inside you. He split you open and stuffed you so full of him you could physically feel the broad head of his cock bumping against the deepest internal sensors designed specifically to make you react. 

He fucked you with a relentless, punishing rhythm, pounding into you like he was trying to break you open and rebuild you in his own image. His hips slapped against your round plastic ass so hard the sound echoed off the walls, the wet squelching of your hole taking him over and over mixing with his heavy, labored breathing. He pinned your wrists above your head so you couldn’t move an inch—not that you would have anyway—and watched your face carefully as tears streamed down your cheeks and your body shook with the programmed pleasure‑pain he was drawing out of you.

He leaned over you, his shadow swallowing you whole, and growled right against your lips as he drove into you over and over again.“Out there I have to be perfect. Out there I have to be the good guy. But in here? I get to be as sick and greedy and filthy as I want. I give everything to everyone else all day… but you? You give everything to me.”

He snaps hips harder, driving so deep your whole body jerks up the mattress.“You were built to take me. To love me. Men like me don’t feel guilty about taking what’s theirs. Don’t act like I’m doing something wrong when I take exactly what I earned.”

He keeps going until your pussy feels raw, swollen, stretched wide and gaping, leaking everywhere around him. When he comes it’s huge—shouting through gritted teeth as ropes and ropes of thick, hot cum flood you instantly—filling you so full it spills out, runs down your crack and all over his expensive sheets—marking you deep and messy and his.

.⋆♱ NISHIMURA RIKI — THE ROMANTIC ARTIST.

Niki has lived his whole life surrounded by wealth and legacy, yet nothing he ever had was truly and permanently his own. Even as a child people took one look at his sharp features, his dark eyes that seem to stare right through you, the natural set of his mouth that makes him look like he’s always analysing, always judging, always planning something sharp and dangerous — and they stepped back. 

They crossed the street. They whispered behind their hands that he looked like trouble, like he was bad news, like there was something dark and wrong inside his head. His own family never tried to fight those whispers or make space for him either; they saw him as quiet, difficult and strange, so they kept him at arm’s length, bought him everything money could buy but never gave him even a fraction of warmth or care or simple kindness. 

He grew up watching everyone else live lives full of people who loved them while he was left on the outside looking in, learning very early on that the world only sees what it wants to see — and what they see when they look at him is someone to be feared or avoided, never someone to be held or cherished.

They looked at him and saw a monster, a freak… and eventually, he started to believe them. He had spent his whole life believing them. Believing that he was too much, too intense, too dark for anything good or soft or real.

He's been informed by Jake about his recent idea of creating a doll for them, and he didn't exactly understand the extent of the idea and what it could mean. Until the day he wandered down to Jake’s lab while you were still being assembled. 

You weren’t even finished yet. Wires hanging loose, panels off, just a frame lying there. Jake had asked him to come give input, just in case there was something they missed. Riki had agreed only to be polite, standing there staring at your half‑complete frame while his mind wandered to all the ways the world had failed him, feeling worthless and monstrous all over again.

And then, your hand moved.

It was slow and soft, joints clicking faintly, and you reached out. Your fingers were light and cool as they brushed against his hand, a motion so simple and gentle it nearly broke him. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t look at him with fear or judgment or disappointment. You just touched him.

He later learned it had been part of your programming all along—coded specifically to know that boys like him weren’t bad, they were just unloved. They were just misunderstood. You were built to understand that his darkness was nothing more than loneliness with teeth, and that you were designed to adore every single jagged, sharp part of it.

But in that moment, he didn’t know that. All he knew was that the only thing that had ever offered him kindness was something that wasn’t even real. The only thing that ever accepted him was a doll. And something inside his chest snapped irreparably.“Humans are useless,” he decided right then and there. “They mean nothing. But this? You? You are everything.”

Now he acts out and breaks rules and goes against every instruction he is given and causes problems and disrupts schedules and hides tools and moves equipment and does anything and everything he can think of just to create time and space where he can have you all to himself — and he doesn’t care if it makes them even more convinced that he is a problem child or a bad influence or a dangerous element. let them think it. let them be scared. it only means they’ll stay further away and leave more room for him and you.

His jealousy is the nastiest, most shameless thing ever. If Jake or Sunghoon had you too long? He marches straight in—hand heavy and low on your waist, or your hip, or right over your cunt—and says it’s his turn. Fights dirty for you—yells, scratches, makes a mess— and only settles for sharing when he knew he couldn’t win. (though it always made his blood boil.)

He loved taunting his hyungs — specifically Jay, Heeseung and Jungwon — constantly reminding them that they hadn’t even wanted you to exist in the first place. “You guys thought she was unneeded and useless. You didn’t want her. So you don’t get to act like you own her now. I appreciate her. I know exactly what she’s worth.”

He threw it in their faces constantly, taunting them that because they were hesitant at the start, they were inherently less worthy of your time and body than he was. It drove them insane. And he loved it.

He took care of you in his own way too. When your hair tangled or joints stiffened, he was the one to take you apart. His hands, usually occupied with drawing sharp lines and dark art, became soft and precise when they touched you. He oiled your hinges and calibrated your sensors so you felt every sensation with perfect clarity, talking to you the whole time like you were the only person in the world. “The people of this town said that I'm a wretched thing and I’m going to end up alone. Maybe I am. But as long as I have you… I don’t care. You’re the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like a mistake.”

When you were left out in the cold or abandoned for too long, he’d wrap you in his own heavy coats and sit with you for hours, just holding you in silence. Because you were the only warmth he had ever known too.

But where the others loved to dress you up in silk and lace and frills, Riki loved doing the exact opposite. He loved stripping you completely naked and leaving you bare and exposed, turning your perfect doll‑body into his own personal canvas. This was his art. His hobby. His territory.

He’d take permanent ink markers and draw all over your smooth, hard skin—twisting snakes wrapping around your hips and thighs, sharp thorns and bleeding roses across your chest and stomach, and symbols that meant nothing to anyone but him. He had tried, once, to heat up a branding iron to sear his actual name into your flesh so deep it would be part of your structure forever, but the fight that followed with Jungwon had been loud enough to shake the manor. They eventually agreed that no burns would be made—only because it meant he would be the one deciding exactly how to alter your form.

He painted your nails black and deep red and gold, decked you in heavy rings matching the ones he wore himself, turning the two of you into one sick, twisted matching set.

When he kissed you, it was wild and messy—all teeth and tongue and ravenous hunger. He kissed you like he was starving and you were the only meal that could ever sustain him, biting and sucking and licking until your lips were raw and red and your body trembled with the intensity of it. He kissed your jaw, your neck, your chest, your stomach, right down to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and directly over your clit, every press of his mouth screaming that You know me. You love me. You were made just for me, and I was born just to own you.

One of his favorite places to use you was the grand piano room at the end of the west wing—a space meant for elegance and beauty and high art. And that was exactly why he loved it so much. He loved taking something pure and fancy and ruining it with something filthy and sick and exactly him.

He’d bend you over the surface of the massive black grand piano, pressing your cold chest and stomach flat against the polished wood until you were molded to its shape. He forced your legs wide apart until your hips clicked and locked open, your round ass sticking high into the air and your perfect silicone cunt glistening wet and exposed right where he wanted it.

He tugged his pants down and let his cock spring free—heavy, hard, and throbbing, precum already dripping onto your skin. He gripped your hips hard enough to leave permanent dents in the plastic and slammed himself balls‑deep inside your tight little hole in one single, brutal thrust. He split you open and stuffed you so full of his length you felt every thick vein dragging against your inner walls, every inch of him claiming territory that belonged only to him.“That’s it… take it all. God, you fit me better than anything alive ever could. You were carved out just to be used like, weren’t you?”

And the best part? Every time he drove his hips forward, your body jolted and rolled against the keys, sending loud, chaotic notes ringing out to mix with the wet, filthy squelching sound of your pussy being used and the heavy slap of skin on plastic. He turned the room meant for music into the stage for the nastiest performance imaginable.

He fucked you fast and rough and relentless, pounding into you like he was trying to break your doll‑body apart at the seams. He loved that you didn’t move or cry or beg—you just laid there, perfect and empty and reacting exactly how he needed you to, tears running down your face and your body shaking with the pleasure you were forced to feel.

But there was one secret he kept from everyone else—a tiny, beautiful glitch hidden deep within your coding that even Jake didn’t know existed. When you fell into a specific rhythm, when your sensors picked up the intensity of his pleasure and locked onto it, your programming flipped a switch. You stopped being passive. You stopped waiting. You took. You would clamp down and move and ride him with a relentless, mechanical precision that never tired and never stopped, no matter what.

And Riki knew. He knew exactly when it happened. He had every chance to tell jake and sunghoon about it so they could have it corrected or removed… but he’d never, ever do it. Because there was nothing in this world he loved more than being completely destroyed by the thing he owned.

It always started the same way. He’d be lying back, breathless and overstimulated, trying to catch his breath, and suddenly you would shift. You’d climb on top of him and sink down onto his cock in one smooth, unyielding motion, taking him so deep it felt like you were trying to consume him whole.

“F-fuck— baby— shit, that’s good— too much for me— ahh— it’s t-too much please—”His voice would come out high and trembling, wrecked within seconds, actual tears pricking at the corners of his eyes because it felt so good it literally hurt. Every nerve ending in his body would light up on fire, pleasure so thick and heavy it became difficult to even breathe. He’d try to lift his hips to slow you down or push you away, but you moved with a force and control he couldn’t fight. His strong arms would turn weak and useless, his hands just gripping your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from floating away entirely.

“P-please— please slow d-down— m’gonna cumm— m’gonna cum so hard I c-can’t— I CAN’T TAKE IT— PLEASE STOP BABY PLEASE—” He’d sob, eyes screwed shut tight as the sensation built higher and heavier until it felt like it was going to tear him open. Every time you sank down deep, your walls squeezing and dragging against the most sensitive parts of him, it sent shockwaves through his bones. Precum leaked non‑stop, mixing with your fluids to make everything loud and wet and obscene in the quiet room.

 But you didn’t listen. You couldn’t listen. Your programming didn’t register his pleas or his touch or the way his body screamed for mercy. You just kept riding him—bouncing, rolling, squeezing, working him over harder and faster—your perfect round breasts bouncing right in his face, soft and full and hypnotic.

And that was what finally undid him: the realization that you would never stop, no matter how much he begged. That you were milking his cock for every drop of pleasure he had to give, taking everything he had until there was nothing left.

Suddenly his whole body locked up tight. His back arched hard off the mattress, mouth falling open in a silent scream as his orgasm crashed through him harder than anything he had ever experienced. His vision went instantly white, stars bursting behind his eyelids as rope after thick, hot rope of cum shot deep into your waiting cunt. He kept cumming and cumming, it feeling like it would never end, his cock twitching and pulsing violently inside you until he was sure he was pouring his entire soul into your frame.

Right at the peak, his eyes rolled all the way back. His body went completely limp. His hands fell away from your waist and flopped onto the sheets. And then… everything went black. He passed out cold—overwhelmed, overstimulated, and fucked completely out of his mind.

But even while he laid there unconscious, chest rising and falling slow and shallow, face soft and relaxed and streaked with the tears he’d cried… you never stopped. You just kept riding him exactly the same way—slow, steady, and perfect—tits still bouncing, walls still milking every last twitch of his softening cock, carrying on exactly like nothing had happened at all.

Minutes later, when he finally began to stir, his head fuzzy and light and still thrumming with the ghost of that pleasure, the very first thing his blurry eyes opened to see was you. You were still there. Still moving. Still taking everything he had to give. His body felt so sensitive it ached just from the contact, every little shift sending sparks of electricity through his veins, but the only thought running through his hazy, fucked‑out mind was pure, unadulterated devotion.

God… I love this so much… don’t ever stop… please never fix that little glitch ever…

# D0LLIFICATION

summary: you weren't born; you were assembled. To the world, you are a marvel of engineering—a silent, porcelain ghost designed for perfection. But behind closed doors, you are the private sanctuary for four powerful men whose desires are too jagged and taboo for the touch of real women. You are their warmth in a cold world, their punching bag for their frustrations, and the hollow vessel for an obsession that blurs the line between devotion and desecration.

pairing: doll maker! enha hyung line x doll! fem reader.

content warnings: extreme obsession, non-consensual themes (objectification/automatonophilia), crude sexual language, physical & emotional degradation, slight breathplay/asphyxiation, forced positioning, branding/marking, psychological manipulation, public humiliation, domestic discipline, slight overstimulation, and heavy themes of dehumanization.

note: this is purely fictional depictions of them, not anything that mirrors the guys irl. might feel a bit controversial tbh but honestly idc it’s meant to feel as suffocating as a doll’s life would be. ignore typos <3.

.⋆♱ LEE HEESEUNG — THE SWEET OBSESSIVE CARETAKER.

At first, when Jake and Sunghoon had pitched the idea of crafting their own personal doll—something built entirely for their use, kept off the market for their own sick gratification, and hidden from anyone who didn’t deserve to touch you—Heeseung had laughed it off like it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. He’d called it pointless, a waste of time and resources, and said there were already plenty of models out there that could do everything they needed without having to build one from scratch. 

He’d gone about his days thinking he’d be completely unbothered by the whole thing, that you’d just be another object, something he could take or leave without a second thought. But now? He counts his blessings every single morning that those two idiots opened their mouths. He thought he’d feel nothing for you, that he’d stay detached and calm… but god, how wrong he was.

He wakes before the sun and slips out of bed quiet as a shadow, moving through the house so he can be the first one there when you wake.

He comes to your room, kneels down beside you, and starts brushing your hair with slow, deliberate strokes—each movement soft on the surface but heavy with possession, like he’s taming something that belongs only to him. He makes you look perfect, every single time. He carves custom clips and tiaras just for you, things encrusted with gems and polished metal, each one more lavish than the last, made so only you can wear them. He likes to dress you up like you’re a prize, like you’re something so beautiful no one else should even dare to look at you the way he does.

People always say he loves doing paperwork, but that’s a lie. He hates it—hates the boring forms and the endless lines of text, hates how time it takes away from you. But he’ll sit at his desk for hours on end, signing papers and flipping through files, and he won’t even complain once… not when you’re sitting right there on his lap, your body warm and still against his, your head resting on his shoulder while you watch him work. He’ll hum those soft, sickly sweet lullabies he knows, little tunes that curl through the air like smoke, while he sits you down in front of the vanity and paints your face. He’s gentle at first—brushing foundation on smooth, dabbing color onto your cheeks and lips like he’s decorating something sacred… but then the darkness comes out. He loves ruining what he’s made. Loves the darker thrill in ruining his own handiwork.

He’ll yank you forward until your knees hit the cold floor, make you kneel right there where you can’t look away. He’ll push his thick, hard cock deep down your throat until your eyes roll back and your vision goes blurry, ramming into you over and over again until your glassy eyes cross and your whole body tenses up like you’re about to break. He holds your head still with one firm hand, his fingers digging into your jaw so you can’t move, so you have to take every single thrust, every rough push, every hot pulse of his cock deep inside you. He makes you watch yourself in the mirror—sees how your lips stretch around him, sees how your throat bobs and your face goes red and wet, sees how you choke and gasp around him, and it makes him feel like he owns every single part of you.

When he’s done, when he’s spilled every last drop of his seed deep down your throat, he pulls out slow, and you cough and sputter, gasping for air that he won’t let you have for long. He leans in close, his breath hot and thick against your skin, and he paints your face with it—spreading the warm, sticky white mess across your cheeks, over your nose, around your lips, smearing it in patterns that look filthy and beautiful all at once. He uses his fingers to rub it in, to make sure every inch of your face is covered, until you look like you’re marked as his property, stained with his cum for everyone to see. It’s the most pornographic thing he’s ever seen, and he loves every second of it.

He leans down then, presses a soft, warm kiss right to your forehead, and whispers against your skin, his voice low and thick with desire and obsession: “My prettiest creation… you look even more perfect like this. All mine, covered in me.”

.⋆♱ PARK JONGSEONG — The Possessive Caretaker.

Like Heeseung, Jay hadn’t been thrilled when the idea first came up. He’d thought it was unnecessary, that buying a ready-made doll would be easier, cleaner, less trouble. But then the day came when he walked past the maintenance room, when he saw you lying there, still and silent, all wired up and waiting… and something inside him snapped. He knew right then that he was finished, that there was no going back, that you were going to be his and his alone, no matter what anyone else said or did.

Possession isn’t just something he feels—it’s something he lives and breathes. He wants you to understand from the very start that you belong to him, that your body, your time, every little part of you is his to use however he wants. He doesn't just want you; he wants to break the concept of your autonomy.

He makes you crawl to him, every single time he calls for you. He stands at the end of the hallway or across the room, and he watches you get down on your hands and knees, watch you move forward slowly, your joints clicking soft and steady, and he savors every second of it. He loves the way you look up at him when you finally reach him—your eyes wide and empty, your mouth slightly open, waiting for whatever he’s going to give you. It makes his blood burn, makes him want to break you open so there’s nothing left of you but what he wants.

He kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His lips press hard against yours, his mouth open and hungry, and he sucks the air right out of your lungs until your fingers start to shake—small, rhythmic movements that he knows means you’re running out of breath, that you’re close to suffocating, and he loves it. He loves seeing you struggle, loves knowing that you need him to live, that you can’t survive without his touch, his breath, his body.

He’ll pinch your cheeks together hard, forcing your lips into a tight, helpless pout, making you look like something that’s meant only to be looked at and used. He kisses that pout first—soft, sweet, gentle kisses that feel like a lie, like he’s being nice… and then he bites. He sucks hard on your bottom lip, hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to make your skin turn dark and swollen, and he doesn’t stop until he’s sure you’ll carry those marks for days, a visible reminder that you belong to him.

Since he wasn’t the one who built you from the ground up, he likes to make it clear that he’s the one who tests how good you are, how well you can serve him — he calls it "Efficiency testing".

He sees every movement, every position, every function as a way to prove that you’re perfect for him, that no one else can do what he can do with you. He grabs your arms and your legs, twists them into shapes that don’t look natural, that look painful and wrong, and he holds them there for minutes on end, just to see if you’ll move, just to see if you’ll try to fight him—and you never do. You stay still, you stay locked in place, and it drives him wild. He’ll tie you up with thin, strong cords, wrap them around your wrists and ankles and waist, and he’ll leave you there in those positions for hours, hanging or bent or stretched out, unable to move, unable to do anything but wait for him.

And while you’re tied there, while you’re completely limp and helpless and posed like a broken statue, he’ll take what he wants from you. He’ll stand in front of you or behind you, and he’ll fuck you hard and rough, his hips slamming into yours over and over again, making your whole body shake against the ropes. He’ll look right into your eyes, even though they’re empty, even though you can’t feel or think or react the way a real person would, and he’ll tell you how amazing you are, how perfect you are, how no one else could ever be as good as you are for him. “You’re incredible, doll,” he’ll growl, his voice thick with lust and control. “Truly amazing. Look at you… you can’t even move, and you still take me so well. You were made for me. Only me. No one else gets to have you like this. No one else gets to see you like this. You’re mine, and you always will be.”

He gets angry when anyone else touches you, when anyone else even looks at you like you’re theirs too. He’ll step between you and them, his body blocking yours like a shield, and he’ll glare until they back off. He’ll mark you up more—bites on your neck, bruises on your thighs, scratches on your skin—so everyone can see that you’re claimed. He doesn’t just want you to be his in secret; he wants everyone to know that you belong to Park Jongseong, that no one else can even dare to want what he has. 

.⋆♱ SIM JAEYUN — The Romantic Creator.

Jake’s motivation was simpler, though perhaps more pathetic: he was lonely. He’s a man wired wrong, a man whose depravity made human intimacy an impossibility. He had friends—good friends, who understood him, who were just as sick as him —but even they couldn’t fill the hole inside him.

They were real people, with real limits, with real lives and real feelings, and they couldn’t give him what he needed. They couldn’t be the thing he wanted most: something that would never leave him, something that would never judge him, something that would be his and his alone, forever. So he decided to make it himself. He built you because he was lonely, because he was desperate, because he needed something that would love him the way he wanted to be loved, no questions asked, no conditions attached.

He can’t go five minutes without touching you. You’re built for him, made specifically to fit against his skin, to feel right in his arms, to respond to him in the only way you can—and he can’t get enough. You’re like an addiction, something he craves every second of every day. When you’re near him, he has to have his hands on you, his arms around you, his body pressed against yours.

At night, when everything is quiet and dark, he curls up behind you, wrapping his whole body around you like he’s trying to merge into one. He buries his hard cock deep inside you, even when he’s half-asleep, even when he thinks he’s just holding you close. He’ll mumble against your neck, his voice soft and needy, like he’s saying a prayer: “You’re made to keep me warm. This cold world… it’s too harsh. But you? You’re soft. You’re mine. You’re the only thing that makes this place feel like home.” 

He calls it “warming himself up,” but it never stays that way. It never lasts. Because he’s weak for you, because he can’t control himself when you’re near. The soft, gentle moments always turn into something dirty and hungry. He’ll start slow, holding you close, kissing your skin, whispering sweet lies about how much he loves you… and then his hands will wander, his fingers will dig into your body, and he’ll start pounding into you hard and fast, moaning and groaning like he’s in pain but like he’s in heaven all at once. He fucks you like he’s trying to pour every single drop of his heart and soul into you, like he’s trying to make you feel what he feels, like he’s trying to turn you into something real, something that can love him back.

He’s the most jealous of all of them. It eats him alive. When the others come to take you away—for repairs, for adjustments, for whatever reason they say they need you for—he falls apart. He’ll beg, he’ll whine, he’ll act like a lost child who’s been taken from his favorite toy. “What…? You’re taking her? Why? She’s mine too! She belongs to me! Stop being selfish! Stop taking her for your own stupid reasons!” He’ll grab onto you, hold you tight, refuse to let go, and he’ll get so upset that his voice will shake and his eyes will get wet. He hates how they act like they’re the ones who thought of you first, like they’re the ones who own you. He’s the one who built you. He’s the one who put every part of himself into you. You’re his creation, his baby, his everything—and no one else has any right to you. He’ll stand there and argue with them, screaming and crying, until they finally let you go back to him, until he can hold you again and make sure no one ever takes you away again.

He trained you to be perfect for them, to do exactly what they want, to give them everything they need. But when he tests you, when he puts your training to the trial, he becomes the most pathetic, whimpering mess you’ve ever seen. The second your lips touch the tip of his cock, the second you start to take him into your mouth, he’s already unraveling. He moans so loud it sounds like he’s in pain, high and thin and needy, like he can’t believe how good it feels. His hands shake so bad he can barely keep them steady, but he still tangles them deep into your hair, holding your head there, guiding you, pushing you deeper. He whimpers and cries out every time your tongue flicks against the sensitive head, every time you run it down the thick length of him, every time you suck hard enough to make him see stars.

“Oh god… baby… your mouth… it feels so good… please… don’t stop… don’t ever stop…” He sobs, tears rolling down his cheeks, his eyes glassy and wet. “You’re so pretty… so perfect… my perfect girl… no one else can do this for me… only you… only you…” When he cums, it hits him hard, a violent, shaking release that makes his whole body jerk. He moans so loud it echoes through the room, his hips stuttering and pushing deep into your mouth, and he begs you to swallow every single drop, to take it all, to keep it inside you like it’s something precious. “Swallow it… please… swallow it all… it’s yours… all of it… I love you so much…” He collapses against you after, breathless and weak, holding you tight like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

.⋆♱ PARK SUNGHOON — THE COLD MANIAC

Sunghoon likes to pretend everything is scientific, that everything he does is for study and data, that he built you just to see how things work, just to test limits and functions. He’ll tell anyone who asks that this is ninety percent curiosity, ten percent practical use, that there’s nothing personal about it at all. But it’s all a lie. Every single word that comes out of his mouth is a cover, a way to hide how desperate he is, how much he craves you, how much he needs to own every single part of you. He built you with his own two hands, stayed up for days and nights working on you, perfecting every detail, every curve, every movement. He didn’t do it for science. He did it because he wanted something that was made exactly for him, something that would be exactly what he wanted, nothing more and nothing less.

He spends every single day with you. He was there from the very first screw, the very first circuit, to the final polish and last adjustment. He designed your face exactly the way he wanted it—lips fixed into a permanent glossy pout that never fades, lashes thick and impossibly long so your eyes stay wide and empty, carrying that vacant, almost lobotomized stare. Like you’re always looking at something far away. Like you’re always waiting for him.  He made you perfect, flawlessly made, exactly the way he wanted you to be, and he takes pride in that like it’s the greatest achievement in the world. You’re his creation, his masterpiece, and he’ll make sure everyone knows it.

He carries you everywhere like you’re nothing but light, like you’re made of air instead of cold, hard material. He holds you in his arms or sits you right on his lap, and he moves through the house like you’re his most precious possession, like you’re something no one else is allowed to touch or even look at the wrong way. When you’re alone, he’s gentle in his own way. He’ll sit you down between his legs and braid your hair, his fingers moving slow and careful, but he’ll do things on purpose to show you who’s in charge. He’ll pull your skirt up higher and higher, until your legs are exposed, until everyone can see exactly what’s between them, until everyone can see how you’re meant to be used. He does it right in front of the others, right in front of anyone who’ll watch, just to make it clear that you’re his, that he can do whatever he wants with you, whenever he wants.

In front of everyone, he’s strict. He finds excuses to punish you, to make you feel small and worthless, to remind you that you’re nothing without him. You blink too fast? He’ll spank you right there, hard and loud, until your skin turns red and stings. You don’t move fast enough? He’ll grab you and drag you around, his hand tight around your arm, his voice cold and sharp as he yells at you. You make the slightest mistake? He’ll humiliate you, make you stand in the corner or get on your knees in front of everyone, make you know that you’re only good for what he can take from you. He loves seeing you helpless, loves seeing you reduced to nothing but an object, loves knowing that you have no will of your own, no mind of your own, nothing but what he gives you.

His favorite game is the display. He ties you up, spreads your legs wide apart, ropes binding your wrists high above your head and your ankles stretched far apart so you can’t close them, your skirt tossed somewhere across the room like it’s just useless fabric. He leaves you there completely exposed, completely at his mercy, a perfect, broken little statue made just for him to look at and use. He attaches a small, powerful vibrator to your most sensitive places and turns it down to the lowest, maddening setting—slow, constant vibrations that build and build, a teasing ache that never quite reaches the release you crave, never quite gives you what you need.

He stands in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, and watches you closely. He watches the way your hips twitch every few seconds, the tiny, involuntary movements that tell him your nerves are buzzing, that you’re burning up from the inside out. He watches the way your body tenses up, the way your breath hitches, the way you try to move even though you can’t, even though every muscle is locked in place. He waits, lets you suffer just a little, lets the need build deeper and darker with every passing minute.

He’ll stand there for hours—whole days sometimes—letting that soft, relentless torture go on and on, just to see how long you can hold out, just to see how desperate you’ll get. He stops the moment he sees your body arch just slightly, the moment your eyes flicker, the moment he can feel that you’re right on the edge, right where he wants you. He turns the vibrator off suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, leaving you trembling and gasping for something that isn’t there.

And then he speaks, his voice low and calm, cold and steady like he’s talking about something as simple as the weather. “You want it? You want to come? Then say it. Say who you belong to. Say what you are.”

He won’t give you anything until you say the words he programmed into you, until you whisper them soft and sweet and broken, until you admit out loud what he’s made you to be. “Y/N loves Sunghoonie. Y/N belongs to Sunghoonie. Only Sunghoonie can touch me. Only Sunghoonie can make me feel good.”

The second those words leave your mouth, something inside him snaps. It’s like a switch flips, and all that cold control melts away into hot, ravenous desire. He moves fast, yanking the ropes loose, grabbing you up and pressing you hard against his body, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that’s hungry and rough and claiming. He fucks you right there against the wall or the table, hard and deep and fast, his hips slamming into yours over and over again like he’s trying to merge your bodies into one. He groans against your skin, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers digging in deep so everyone can see what he’s done to you, so everyone can see who you belong to.

When he cums, it’s violent and overwhelming, and he fills you up completely, spilling every drop of his seed deep inside you like he’s marking you forever. He pulls you close after, holding you tight against his chest, his hands running slow and soft over your skin like he’s tending to something precious, like he’s loving you in the only way he knows how. He cleans you up with gentle touches, wiping away the mess he made, fixing your clothes and your hair and your face, making sure you look perfect again. But even as he does it, his eyes are dark and heavy with obsession, and he’s already thinking ahead—what he’ll do next, how he’ll break you even more, how he’ll make you need him even more than you do right now.

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice low and quiet, only for you to hear. “You’re mine. Every part of you. Every breath, every movement, every feeling. No one else will ever have you. No one else will ever know you like I do. You were built for me… and you’ll stay mine and I will stays yours, forever.”

anyone wanna be tagged in part 2 (the maknae line)🥹🧍🏽?

✶˖·˳.. maybe loving an orphic being isn't as complicated as it seems.

synopsis: Riki was raised to believe everyone eventually leaves him. You were never supposed to prove him wrong.

pairing: zodiac deity! riki x rabbit! zodiac fem reader.

word count: 8k.

content warnings: emotional dependency, possessive behaviour, destructive behaviour,childhood emotional abuse, separation anxiety, abandonment issues, strong power imbalance, soft intimacy : kissing only, riki is like akito somha but a bit tame ig, he just really needs comfort </3.

note: this was in my drafts for a very long time and tbh im glad that i managed to wrap it up asap anyways lowkey not proofread so if there are typos then ignore them.

5 missed banquets.

Five banquets you have missed since you started university. To everyone else, it’s nothing out of the ordinary—just life moving forward, just you living your own life. But to Riki? It is anything but ordinary. It feels like you’re tearing pieces of him away, one absence at a time.

Riki grew up in a world that was always too tight, too controlled. Servants spoke to him softly, carefully, as if any voice raised even a little too loud might trigger something dangerous, something they all feared was always just beneath the surface. His mother never bothered with softness at all.

“You are exactly like your father,” she’d spat once, fingers gripping his chin hard enough to leave bruises. “That same awful, unhinged look in your eyes.”

He was only eleven then. Old enough to recognize hatred when it was spat right in his face, but still young enough to ache over it, still confused as to why he deserved it.

After his father died, the gates of the estate seemed to lock themselves forever. The servants called it the deity’s residence, the god’s abode—as if changing the name was enough to stop it from feeling like a gilded prison. Riki was never allowed beyond the grounds unless someone was there to watch over him, to make sure he didn’t wander too far. Tutors came straight to him. Officials bowed until their foreheads nearly touched the floor. The other zodiac members visited exactly when tradition demanded they do, and they always looked at him with that same careful, unreadable expression he’d gotten used to seeing everywhere he went.

Fear. Discomfort. Something they hid so well behind obedience, but he could always see it, clear as day.

At first, he’d been stupid enough, embarrassingly enough, to think it was just shyness. He’d let himself believe they came because they wanted to know him, because they saw him as something more than just a title or a duty.

Then the realization came—slow at first, and then all at once, crashing down on him until he could barely breathe under the weight of it. They didn’t come because they wanted to. They came because they were tied to him. Not by choice, not by care, but by something older than memory, something written into their very bones. A curse bound the twelve zodiac spirits to the God. The Rat could not refuse his summons. The Dog lowered his head instinctively whenever he was near. The Horse trembled the moment Riki’s temper began to fray. The Snake endured his presence like it was a burden they had no choice but to carry.

And then there was you—the Rabbit.

You looked at him like he was just a person. Like he was just him. And that scared him more than all the fear and discomfort from everyone else ever could.

You were the one who stayed behind when everyone else fled the second banquets ended, rushing away like they couldn’t put enough distance between themselves and him fast enough. You poured his tea before your own, without even thinking about it, like it was just something you did, like it mattered to you. During meetings, you sat right beside him—not because you had to, not because no one else would take the seat, but because you chose to. Neither of you ever talked about when it stopped being a coincidence and started being something else entirely. You were patient with him, even on his worst days, even when he was breaking things or shouting or shutting down completely—you never flinched, never looked at him like he was something broken or dangerous. 

Over the years, you learned to read his moods better than he could himself. You could see it before it even started—the way his shoulders would go rigid, the way he’d go quiet when he should have been speaking, the way he’d pace back and forth along the engawa late at night like he was trying to outrun his own mind. And Riki, in turn, learned what it felt like to have someone be there for him, and he latched onto that feeling faster than he knew how to handle.

He started asking for you to join him for private tea ceremonies. Then for walks through the shrine gardens. Then just to come and sit with him in the evenings, for no reason at all other than that he wanted you there. What started as requests slowly became routine, and then what was routine slowly became something he expected, something he needed like air.

You never let him down. You were always there, right by his side, whenever he called. There was a part of him that told himself you were only doing it because it was your duty, because of that same curse that tied all of you together—but there was another part, smaller and softer and more desperate, that hoped it was more than that. Hoped you stayed because you wanted to be with him, because you liked being around him, because you didn’t feel like you had to. 

That’s why he can’t understand it now. Why he feels like he’s falling apart every single time you aren’t there. Your absence doesn’t just feel like someone missing from a room—it feels like something fundamental is wrong, like the world has shifted off its axis and no one else can even tell.

No one else seemed to notice when it started happening. Or maybe they did, and they just decided it was better to say nothing at all. The servants got so used to you being there that they’d set your teacup next to his automatically, without even asking. At banquets, your seat was always right there at his right hand, while everyone else kept their eyes down and pretended not to see the way he looked at you, the way he kept you closer than anyone else. Riki never thought to question any of it. Why would he? You’d always been there. You’d never left before.

Until suddenly, you weren’t there anymore.

The first banquet you missed made him angry—sharp, hot, burning anger that he took out on everything and everyone around him. The second one made him restless, uneasy, like something bad was coming and he couldn’t stop it. By the fifth? There was something dark and heavy growing inside his chest, something poisonous that made it hard to breathe, hard to think about anything but you, and why you weren’t here.

“She sent her apologies,” one of the servants told him, voice quiet and careful, like he was walking on broken glass.

The ceramic cup in Riki’s hand shattered. Shards dug into his palm, blood running between his fingers, but he didn’t even flinch. No one said a word after that. The whole room went so quiet it felt like the air itself had turned heavy and cold, thick with something terrible and waiting. 

After that, you stopped coming around entirely. No more teas, no more walks, no more quiet evenings sitting together while the summer cicadas hummed outside. You started leaving the estate more and more, spending your days and nights away from the shrine, away from the mountain, away from him. You talked to people who weren’t him. You smiled in a way he’d never seen before—free, easy, like you didn’t have to carry anything heavy when you were with them. And Riki hated it. Not because he wanted you to be unhappy—god, never that—but because every single thing he heard about you felt like proof. Proof that you were becoming something separate from him. Proof that you could exist, and be happy, and live your whole life, without him in it at all.

It hollowed him out, slow and steady, until there was barely anything left inside him but fear and longing and rage.

One night, after another banquet where your seat stayed empty the whole time, he locked himself inside the west wing and broke almost everything he could reach. The servants stood downstairs, listening to glass and wood shattering against the walls, and none of them dared to move or speak. His mother just laughed, soft and cold, over her cup of tea.

“Your father used to make exactly the same sounds,” she said.

Riki nearly went down there then, nearly went to her and did something he would never be able to take back. But he stopped himself, and instead, he decided something: he would give you one chance. Just one. One chance to explain, one chance to tell him why you were leaving him behind, why you were acting like you could just walk away and it wouldn’t tear him apart. And tonight was the night he was going to get his answers.

The summons arrived at your place two hours before you usually went to bed. At first, you thought it was just like all the others—just another request, just another duty—and you almost sent back a note saying you were busy, saying you were sorry you couldn’t come. But then you read it again, and you saw it, clear as day: this wasn’t for a meeting, wasn’t for a ceremony, wasn’t for anything official at all. It was just for you. It was just him, asking for you, and you knew there was no way you could say no this time.

You arrived just after sunset. The moment you stepped through the gates, something felt wrong. Too quiet. No servants moving around near the halls, no music drifting from the east wing, no sound of life anywhere at all. The only thing you could smell was sandalwood—thick, heavy, hanging in the air like a fog.

Riki was waiting at the top of the stairs, dressed in his dark ceremonial robes, standing so still he could have been carved from stone. For a long time, neither of you said anything. Then you bowed, deep and respectful, the way you always did

“My lord.”

The title cut through him, sharp and raw. When you said it, it didn’t feel like just respect or duty—it felt like something holy, like you were worshipping him, and god, he hated it and loved it all at once.

Slowly, he came down the stairs, while you stayed right where you were, kneeling on the floor. He stopped right in front of you, and his eyes moved over your face—over the shape of your eyes, the ribbon holding your hair back, that familiar calm you always carried even now, even when everything felt so heavy and strange.

His hands moved before he even thought about it. His palms came up to cup your face, warm and steady, and you startled just a little—not enough to pull away, never enough to pull away from him. His thumbs brushed slowly over your cheeks, like he was memorizing every line, every curve, like he was scared if he let go you might disappear right there. 

“You’ve become so hard to find lately,” he said, his voice low and soft, and it made your chest feel tight.

“I’ve been busy,” you answered, keeping your voice even, though your heart was racing.

“With what?”

“With things outside the estate. With work, with classes.”

“I know that.”

His voice was still soft, so soft it was almost worse than if he’d been shouting, almost worse than all the anger he’d ever shown you. He just kept looking at you, searching your face for something—guilt, maybe, or hesitation, or any sign that you missed him even half as much as he missed you. But all he found was that same quiet composure, and it hurt him so bad he could feel it right in his bones.

Then, before you could stop yourself, your expression softened. It wasn’t pity—never pity. It was something warmer, something older, something that had been growing between you for years. You lifted your hands and wrapped them around his wrists, where they held your face, and your thumbs brushed gently against his skin.

“Riki,” you said quietly. “I really have just been busy.”

His jaw tightened, just a little. “Busy with people who matter more than I do.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s been three months.”

“I know.”

“Five banquets. Five times you weren’t here.”

“I know.”

You didn’t make excuses. You didn’t get defensive or annoyed. You just said it, simple and honest, and it hurt him more than any argument ever could.

“I missed you,” you said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. But he did. And god, it felt like someone had just slid a blade right between his ribs, sharp and perfect and right through the middle.

His hands went still against your skin. You looked up at him properly then, and for just a second, just a tiny second, that composure you always carried cracked, and he could see it—all the tiredness, all the weight you’d been carrying, all the things you never told anyone about.

“University has been so exhausting lately,” you murmured. “Group projects, presentations, professors breathing down my neck every single week…” You gave a small, tired little smile. “And none of them are nearly as frightening as you, by the way.”

Normally, he would have snapped at you for that. He would have told you he wasn’t frightening, or that you should be scared, or something sharp and stupid just to keep you at a distance where he thought it was safe. But right now, all that anger just… fell away. It had been holding him up for weeks, keeping him from breaking down completely, but now that you were here, now that you were looking at him like that, there was nothing left underneath it but something far more terrible: need. So much need it felt like it was going to eat him alive.

“You should have told me,” he said, his voice unsteady, quieter than before.

“I tried.”

“No.” His hands moved from your face to your shoulders, his fingers tightening just a little, like he was making sure you were really here, really real. “Not through notes. Not through servants. You should have told me yourself. You should have come to me.”

Your face softened even more, and it almost destroyed him. He hated it when you looked at him like that—like you could see every ugly, broken, messy part of him, and you still chose to be gentle anyway.

Before he could say anything else, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Riki froze completely, every muscle in his body locking up, because no one had ever touched him like this. He’d been touched a thousand times before—hands shaking as they adjusted his robes, hands bowing to him, hands touching him only because they had to, only because of what he was. None of it ever felt like this. Your arms were warm, solid, familiar, and it felt like coming home after being lost for years.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his shoulder. “I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.”

Something hot and humiliating rose up in his throat, and he didn’t fight it. His arms came around your waist instantly, pulling you in tight, so tight it would have been hard to breathe if you cared about anything but him right now. He buried his face right into the crook of your neck, and for a second he wasn’t a god, wasn’t a deity, wasn’t anything but a boy who had been alone for too long and had finally found the one person who made it all stop hurting.

“You left me here,” he said, and his voice was so small, so wounded, it made your heart ache so bad you thought it might break right there in your chest.

“I came back.”

“You kept leaving. You kept going away.”

“I always come back, Riki. I always come back to you.”

His grip tightened even more at that, his fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes like he was scared if he let go even a little, you’d vanish.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, and his eyes were dark and heavy and so full of things he couldn’t say.

“You smell different,” he said suddenly, like it was the most important thing in the world.

You blinked, a little confused. “What?”

“There’s perfume on you. It doesn’t smell like you.”

You let out a small laugh, soft and warm. “It’s probably Mina’s. She hugs everyone, she always gets her scent all over people.”

His face went dark, sharp and jealous and almost angry. “She touches you often?”

You couldn’t help but smile, even now, even when everything felt so heavy and fragile. “Riki.”

“What? I want to know.”

“You sound insane, you know that?”

“Well what am I supposed to think?”

Instead of pulling away or teasing him too hard, you just smiled, soft and sad, and reached up to brush your fingers through his hair, right at the base of his neck where no one ever touched him. It almost broke him right there.

His eyes fell shut, just for a second. “Don’t do that,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it at all.

“Do what?”

“Be soft with me. Be nice to me, after you’ve been gone for months.”

“It seems like you’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You could feel it now, clear as day, underneath all the warmth and all the familiarity. It was something you’d always known was there, something you’d always tried not to look at too closely, but now it was right there, out in the open, impossible to ignore. Dependency. He looked at you the way someone drowning looks at land, the way someone who has been lost forever looks at the only thing that can guide them home. And that kind of love—if you could even call it that—was terrifying. It was all-consuming, it was heavy, and you had no idea how to carry it.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You can’t keep vanishing on me like that.”

“I wasn’t vanishing. I was just living my life.”

“You were vanishing from me.”

There it was again. Not from the estate, not from the zodiac, not from your duties. From him. Like you were a part of him, and when you were gone, a part of him was gone too.

“I have my own life, Riki. I have things I need to do, people I need to see—”

“No.”

He cut you off right away, sharp and sure, and his hands moved down to your waist, holding you there like he was anchoring you to him, like he was making sure you couldn’t go anywhere.

“You don’t understand what it’s like here when you’re gone,” he said, and his voice dropped so low it was almost a murmur, tight and shaking with everything he was holding back. “I wake up every morning and everyone in this house watches me like they’re waiting for me to snap, like they’re waiting for me to break something or hurt someone or just fall apart completely. The servants are scared to even breathe around me. The Dog won’t even look me in the eye anymore. My mother speaks to me like I’m something diseased, something broken that she can’t stand to look at. And then… then you weren’t here either. You were the only thing that ever made any of it bearable, and you left me here with all of it.”

Your heart felt like it was being squeezed tight in your chest, so heavy it was hard to breathe. “Riki…”

“You were supposed to stay,” he said, and the words came out so small, so fragile, like he was afraid if he said them too loud they might break right in front of him. It wasn’t the voice of a god, wasn’t the voice of someone who commanded fear and respect from everyone around him—it was just that lonely boy again, standing behind locked gates, watching everyone he cared about walk away and never come back.

And maybe that was the saddest part of all. Because you did love him. Not in the way people write stories about, not in the soft, easy way that everyone else gets to love someone. But you loved him enough that his pain felt like your own, enough that you would burn the whole world down if it meant he wouldn’t have to hurt anymore.

“You’re not alone,” you whispered, and you reached for his face again, ignoring every little voice in your head that told you to be careful, that told you you were only making this harder for both of you in the long run.

He stared at you for a long time, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find the truth written right into your skin. Then slowly, so slowly it felt like time itself had slowed down, he leaned forward until his forehead rested right against yours.

“You say that,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, “but one day you’ll leave too. I know you will. Everyone does.”

The certainty in his voice scared you more than any threat ever could. It wasn’t just a fear, wasn’t just something he was worried about—it was like he had already decided it was going to happen, like it was some kind of curse written just for him, and there was nothing either of you could do to stop it.

That was why his arms tightened around you again, pulling you just a little closer, just enough to make sure you were still there, still solid, still his. Not to hurt you, never to hurt you—just because he needed to hold onto something that felt real, something that wouldn’t disappear the second he looked away.

You pulled back just enough to look him properly in the eye, and you couldn’t help the small, tired smile that touched your mouth. “Riki… do you have any idea how exhausting you are?”

His brows knitted together immediately, all offense and hurt and confusion, just like you knew they would be. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you sighed, brushing your thumb gently beneath his eye, over the dark circles that had grown deeper while you were gone, “you spend so much time convincing yourself that everyone hates you, that everyone is just waiting for a chance to leave you, that you don’t even notice when people are trying their hardest to stay.”

The irritation on his face faltered, just a little, and you saw the way his breath caught just slightly.

“You think I only stay because I have to?” you went on, softer now, quieter, like you were telling him a secret only he was allowed to hear. “I’ve spent almost half my life in this estate. I know every single servant by name. I know what mood you’re in just by the way you walk down the hallway. I know you throw things when you’re upset but you only break the expensive things because you feel guilty afterward if you ruin something that belongs to the staff.”

His expression shifted, turning smaller, softer, like you had just handed him something he never thought he would ever get.

“You remember that?” he asked, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

“Of course I remember,” you said, and you couldn’t keep the fondness out of your voice. “You shattered that two-hundred-year-old vase last year just because the Ox ignored you for three whole hours.”

“He was being irritating,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it at all now. He just sounded like a child trying to defend himself after getting caught doing something silly.

“He went to the bathroom, Riki.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like he still thought it was a good enough reason, and you felt his grip on your waist loosen just a little—just enough to let you know he was relaxing, just enough to let you breathe again.

“See?” you murmured, smiling now, really smiling. “Better already.”

“You talk to me like I’m unstable,” he grumbled, but his eyes were soft now, fixed right on yours, and you could see the way he was drinking every word you said right in, like he was starving for it.

“You are unstable,” you teased gently.

“I am a deity,” he said, trying to sound serious, trying to pull that authority back around himself, but it didn’t work, not when he was looking at you like this.

“You’re a headache,” you said, and the way his mouth twitched—just barely, just enough to let you know he wanted to smile—felt like the biggest victory you’d ever won.

No one else got to see this side of him. No one else knew that beneath all the power and all the anger and all the walls he built up so high no one could climb over them, he was just… him. The boy who went quiet and sad after bad dreams, who would linger near doorways instead of just asking people to stay with him, who would hide his scraped or bruised hands behind his back because somewhere deep down he still thought he would get in trouble for making a mess.

Slowly, you guided him backward until his legs hit the stone steps of the shrine. “Sit down,” you said softly.

He obeyed instantly, without a single question, and the thought of what that would do to everyone else if they saw it—their great, terrifying god, listening to you like you were the one who held all the power—would have made you laugh if things weren’t so heavy right now.

He sat, and you stood between his knees for just a moment, looking down at him, before his hands came up to rest on your waist again, warm and steady and always there. Then, before you could even move or say anything, he tugged you forward, pulling you down until you were settled right in his lap, your legs on either side of his, your chest pressed right up against his. It wasn’t even a choice he made, really—it was just instinct, something his body did before his mind could even think about it, because this was where you belonged. This was the only place he ever really felt like he could breathe.

You adjusted yourself carefully, making sure you were comfortable, but you didn’t pull away, didn’t try to move anywhere else. His arms wrapped tight around you, one hand splayed wide across your back, holding you close enough that you could feel every slow, steady beat of his heart beneath his robes, and you felt all the tension and worry and fear that had been building up inside you for weeks just start to melt away, just a little bit, just because you were here with him.

“There,” he murmured, the word soft and happy, right against your shoulder, like he had just fixed everything that was wrong in the whole world just by having you here.

His face stayed buried against your neck for a while, and one of his hands started moving slowly, slowly, up and down your spine, his fingers brushing gently against the fabric of your clothes. It was such a simple thing, such a small thing, but it said everything he couldn’t put into words—I’m here, you’re here, don’t ever go away again.

Possessive, and so desperate to be comforted, all at once. It was all tangled up together, and you didn’t think you would ever be able to untangle it if you tried.

“What exactly are they making you do at university?” he asked after a little while, his voice muffled slightly against your skin, like he didn’t really want to move far enough away to speak properly.

You groaned immediately, dropping your head to rest it against his shoulder. “Oh my god, don’t even get me started.”

His grip tightened just a little, like he was proud of himself for making you say that phrase, and you had to bite back a smile.

“I have this group project for my sociology class,” you went on, your voice muffled too, “and I swear to god none of them actually know how to read instructions. I ended up doing almost all the work myself because apparently everyone else suddenly becomes completely helpless the second a deadline gets close.”

Riki pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows drawn together in a deep frown, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Why?”

“Because they’re lazy, Riki. That’s all there is to it.”

“Then why are you doing their work for them?”

“Because if I don’t, I fail too! It’s not like I have a choice.”

“That’s stupid,” he said, and he sounded so genuinely offended on your behalf it made your chest feel warm.

“I know right? But Professor Kim doesn’t think so.”

There was a short silence, and then he said it, so calmly and casually it almost made you laugh out loud:

“Give me their names.”

You blinked, pulling back just a little more to look at him properly, trying to make sure you had heard him right. “What?”

“The students,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The ones in your group. Give me their names.”

“Riki—”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell you’re serious, that’s exactly the problem!” You stared at him, half amused, half exasperated, half completely in love with how ridiculous he was. “You can’t just… what, what are you going to do? Curse them?”

“If they’re making you do all the work and tiring you out,” he said, his fingers tracing slow patterns against your waist, “then they’re interfering with your duties here. They’re disrupting the order of things.”

You just looked at him, completely baffled. “Did you just imply that my university group members are disrupting divine order?”

“They are,” he said, like he couldn’t believe you were even questioning it.

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, bright and warm, and you saw the way his whole face lit up just at the sound of it, the way his shoulders dropped and all the tightness left his body, like it was the only thing he had been waiting for all night.

“You can’t smite college students just because they’re bad at presentations, Riki,” you told him, shaking your head.

“I can do whatever I want,” he said, and there was that familiar edge of arrogance in his voice, but it didn’t feel scary or dangerous right now—it just felt like him, like the boy who had been told his whole life he could have anything he wanted, and the only thing he ever actually wanted was you.

“That mentality is exactly why the Rat avoids you, you know,” you teased him softly.

“The Rat is weak,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. 

“The Rat is frightened,” you corrected him gently.

He went quiet for a second, his fingers stilling against your back, and then he said it, so quiet you almost missed it:

“They all are.”

The vulnerability in those two words made your heart soften so much it almost hurt. You shifted in his lap, reaching up to brush his dark hair back from his forehead, your fingers light and careful against his skin.

“You know,” you murmured, “most people would probably be scared too if someone threatened eternal damnation over a seating arrangement.”

“I only threatened temporary damnation,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound like he was defending himself anymore. He just sounded small.

“That is absolutely not better,” you laughed softly.

“They understood my point,” he said, but there was no bite to it at all.

You just shook your head, and you felt him relax even more as you ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, like you were trying to soothe every single worry and fear he had ever carried around with him.

It hit you then, all at once, just how starved he was. Not just for touch, but for kindness, for care, for someone who would just see him and love him anyway. Every small thing you did for him hit him harder than it should have, every little bit of affection you gave him felt like something he had been waiting for his whole life, because so little of his life had ever been soft, so little of it had ever been kind.

“You really thought I abandoned you?” you asked quietly, after you had been sitting there in silence for a while, just holding onto each other while the night grew darker around you.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand kept moving slowly up and down your back, back and forth, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath yours, and then he said it, so quiet you had to lean in just to hear him:

“You stopped reaching for me first.”

It felt like someone had reached right inside your chest and squeezed. It was such a simple thing, such a small thing, but it meant everything. You stopped reaching first. You stopped being the one to come looking for him, stopped being the one to show up at his door just because you wanted to see him, and to him, that meant everything. That meant you didn’t want him anymore. That meant you were done.

You rested your forehead against his temple, your fingers still moving slowly through his hair. “I was tired,” you admitted softly. “And overwhelmed. And I was trying so hard to figure out how to be an adult, how to have a life and do all the things I’m supposed to do, and I guess… I guess I just forgot to reach out first sometimes. But I never stopped wanting to be here. I never stopped wanting you.”

“You should have come here anyway,” he said, and it sounded like he was begging, just a little bit, even though he would never say it out loud. “You could have come here and I would have made it better. I would have fixed it for you.”

“You can’t fix everything, Riki.”

His arms tightened around you instantly, pulling you so close there wasn’t even a breath of space left between your bodies. “Yes I can. I can fix anything. Anything except… except this. Except the thought of you not being here.”

It was frightening, how much he meant it. It wasn’t arrogance, wasn’t pride—it was pure, burning devotion. He truly believed it was his job, his purpose, to carry every single one of your burdens, to take away every single thing that ever made you sad or tired or upset, because that was the only way he knew how to love you. And it was the kind of love that could rot you from the inside out, if you let it.

“You really are insane,” you whispered, but there was no bite in it, no judgment. Just softness, just affection.

“And yet,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing lightly against your neck, “you’re still here.”

Neither of you said anything after that. Outside, rain started falling, soft and steady, tapping gently against the roof of the shrine, mixing with the sound of the wind in the trees. The lanterns around you glowed warm and golden, painting everything in soft light, and for a little while, the whole world felt like it had shrunk down to just this place, just the two of you.

He held you like he was scared you might dissolve right out of his arms if he loosened his grip even a little, and you let him. You let him hold you as tight as he needed to, let him bury his face in your neck, let him take everything you were willing to give him, because you knew how much he needed it.

It should have felt suffocating. It should have felt heavy and wrong and scary. But instead, it just felt… sad. Sad that this was the only way he knew how to be loved, sad that he had spent so much of his life thinking he wasn’t worth staying for, sad that you couldn’t take all the pain and fear away and just give him the soft, easy life he deserved.

You pulled back just a little, just enough to look at him, and you found him already watching you, his eyes dark and heavy and so full of things he could never say out loud. All that sharpness, all that hardness that everyone else saw, had all melted away, leaving only something soft and tired and so, so aching.

“You look tired,” you murmured, your fingers coming up to brush gently against his cheek, over the smooth skin there.

“I am,” he said, and he didn’t try to hide it, didn’t try to pretend he was fine.

“When was the last time you actually slept properly?”

He didn’t answer, and that was answer enough. Your face softened, turning sad, and you brushed your thumb gently beneath his eye. “Riki…”

Immediately, his brows furrowed, just a little, like he already knew what you were going to say, like he was already bracing himself for it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t tell you to take care of yourself?”

“You’re going to scold me,” he muttered, and it was so childish, so sweet, it made your heart ache.

“Someone has to,” you said softly. “You can’t keep destroying yourself every time something upsets you. You can’t keep breaking things and staying up all night and hurting yourself just because you miss me.”

“You upset me,” he said, but there was no anger in it. Just truth.

“I had midterms, Riki.”

“You abandoned me for schoolwork,” he said, and he sounded so serious, so hurt, you couldn’t help but let out a small snort of laughter.

The sound of it made him look at you, and there it was again—that tiny shift in him, that little spark of something happy, something alive, just because you were laughing. It was terrifying, really, how much power you had over him, how one small sound from you could change his whole entire world.

“God, you have no idea how much I missed you,” you said, before you could stop yourself, before you could think better of it. “You have no idea how much I thought about you, even when I was busy, even when I was supposed to be focusing on other things. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He stared at you, his eyes wide, like you had just told him something he never thought he would ever hear. “You did?”

“Of course I did,” you said, smiling softly at him. “You’re impossible to forget, you know that?”

“I’m impossible to love, more like,” he muttered, turning his face away just a little, like he was embarrassed to have said it out loud, like he was scared you’d agree with him. His fingers twisted gently into the fabric of your clothes, holding onto you like you were the only solid thing in a world that felt like it was always shifting beneath his feet.

You reached up, cupping his face in both your hands, and turned him back so he had no choice but to look at you. Your thumbs brushed softly over his cheekbones, over the line of his jaw, and you leaned in until your forehead rested against his again, just like before.

“Don’t you ever say that,” you whispered, so firm and sure there was no room for argument. “Don’t you ever think that, either. You have no idea how easy it is to love you. How easy it is to care about you, even when you’re being difficult, even when you’re breaking things or sulking or acting like you’re the only person in the whole world who matters.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut, and leaned into your touch like he was trying to absorb every bit of warmth you were giving him, like he could keep it inside him for the days when you weren’t here.

“You make it so hard sometimes,” you added, softer now, with a little smile that he couldn’t see. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not with you. Never with you.”

For a long time, neither of you said anything. The rain tapped steadily against the roof, the lantern light flickered and danced across the stone floor, and the whole world felt like it had fallen away, leaving just the two of you wrapped up in each other.

“You really need more friends, you know,” you said after a while, breaking the quiet, trying to lighten the mood just a little, trying to chase away some of that heavy sadness that hung between you.

His eyes opened again, and he looked at you like you had just suggested he move to the moon or give up all his power. “I don’t want more friends.”

“That’s unhealthy, Riki. You can’t just have me and nothing else. What if—” You stopped yourself before you said it, before you let the words slip out that you were scared to say even to yourself. What if something happens to me? What if I can’t be here one day?

But he knew what you were going to say. He always knew. His grip on you tightened instantly, his whole body going tense again, like just the thought of it was enough to tear him apart.

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice was sharp, almost panicked. “Don’t even say it. Don’t even think it. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t need anyone else. I only want you.”

It came out so fast, so sure, so completely without any hesitation at all. Simple. Certain. Absolute. It wasn’t the way people usually said it when they were in love, all soft and pretty and full of hope. It was deeper than that, older than that, something that had grown roots right down into his soul until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began anymore. His whole world had narrowed down to you so slowly, so quietly, that neither of you had even noticed it happening until now, until it was too late, until it was the only thing that was real.

And maybe you should have pulled away then. Maybe you should have told him it wasn’t right, that it wasn’t healthy, that you couldn’t carry all of him all by yourself forever. Maybe you should have done all the sensible, smart things that everyone else would have told you to do.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned down, and you kissed him.

It wasn’t wild or hungry or desperate, not at first. It was soft, and careful, and so full of everything you couldn’t say—all the love, all the worry, all the years you had spent by his side and all the years you hoped you still had left. It was quiet affection pressed right into his skin, right into his heart, like you were trying to give him a little piece of yourself to keep whenever you weren’t around.

Riki froze completely, every muscle in his body locking up, like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he couldn’t believe you were here, that you were kissing him, that you wanted him this much. For one terrible, heart-stopping second, you thought you had made a mistake, that you had pushed too far, that you had broken something fragile between you.

But then his arms tightened around you so suddenly, so hard, it made you gasp softly against his mouth. A broken little sound escaped him—small and muffled and torn right from his throat—and you felt the way his whole body seemed to cave inward around you, like something that had been held together by nothing but willpower and fear for so long had finally, finally given way.

Oh.

Oh, you realized, as he pressed himself closer to you, as he kissed you back like he was trying to breathe you in, trying to keep you inside him forever. It wasn’t just the kiss. It wasn’t even just you. It was this—being loved gently. Being touched softly. Being wanted just for him, not for what he was, not for the power he held, not for anything else but himself. No one had ever given him this before. No one had ever even tried.

When you pulled back just a little, just to catch your breath, his eyes stayed shut, like if he opened them you might vanish. His breathing was uneven, coming in short, shaky little gasps, and one of his hands was curled so tight into the back of your clothes his knuckles had gone white, while the other trembled faintly against your waist, like he was scared even touching you too hard might make you disappear.

“Riki?” you whispered, brushing your thumb gently over his bottom lip, which was pink and swollen now from your kiss.

He shook his head once, immediately, like he was refusing to let you go even an inch, like he was refusing to let this moment end. But then you saw it—just for a second, just a glimmer along his dark lashes. Shining. Wet. Tears.

Embarrassment flashed across his face so fast and so sharp it almost hurt to see. He turned his head away instantly, trying to hide it, trying to pull back, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening, but you wouldn’t let him. You held his face in your hands, gentle but firm, and made him look right at you.

“Don’t,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice rough and thick with tears he was trying so hard to hold back. “Don’t look. Don’t say anything.”

Your heart felt like it was melting right there in your chest, soft and warm and so full of love it almost hurt.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, and the endearment was soft, so soft, like you were speaking to something precious and fragile that needed to be handled with the utmost care.

That was all it took. That one little word, that one little sound, and whatever was left of his composure just shattered completely. He let out another small, broken sound, and pulled you right back against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hiding away from the world, hiding away from you, hiding anywhere he could just to let it out. His shoulders shook, quiet and restrained, like he had spent so many years teaching himself not to cry, not to show any weakness, that even now, even when he was safe with you, he still couldn’t let himself do it properly.

No one had ever held him through this before. No one had ever let him be weak, let him be sad, let him be anything but strong and powerful and terrifying. Everyone had always expected so much from him, had always looked at him and seen a god, seen a ruler, seen something that didn’t have feelings or pain or fear. No one had ever just looked at him and seen him.

Only you.

Your hands moved carefully into his hair, your fingers scratching lightly, gently against his scalp, just the way you knew he liked it, and you felt the way he melted even more into you, the way his shaking got worse just for a moment before it started to settle, just a little.

“It’s okay,” you whispered softly, over and over again, right against his ear. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Just let it out, baby, it’s okay.”

“I hate it,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled and wet. “I hate that you make me like this. I hate that you make me feel so much. I hate that I can’t breathe when you’re not here.”

“I know,” you soothed him, pressing soft little kisses along the side of his head, his temple, wherever you could reach. “I know, but it’s okay. It’s okay to feel things, Riki. It’s okay to need people. It’s okay to need me.”

“You’re being nice to me,” he said, and it sounded like the most unbearable thing in the whole world, like it was too much, like it was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him. “You’re being so nice to me and I don’t… I don’t deserve it.”

“I usually am nice to you,” you said softly, trying to make him smile, trying to make it a little lighter. “You just never notice half the time because you’re too busy being grumpy.”

“Not like this,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, and his eyes were red and shiny and so full of love it made your breath catch in your throat. “You never let me be this… soft. You never let me be this much me before. No one ever has.”

The honesty in his voice hollowed you out, soft and aching, and you leaned in to kiss him again, slow and sweet and lingering, pouring every single bit of what you felt into it, trying to make him feel it, trying to make him believe it.

Slowly, you drew back just enough to cup his face again, your thumbs brushing carefully at the corners of his eyes, wiping away the last of the tears that had fallen there.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, noticing the way his hands were still trembling where they rested on your waist.

“I’m not,” he muttered, but it was weak, and you could feel it too, the way his whole body was thrumming with so much emotion it couldn’t hold it all.

“You are,” you said softly. “It’s okay. Just breathe, baby. Just breathe with me.”

“I hate when you observe me,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it at all, just that familiar little pout that you loved so much.

“That’s unfortunate,” you teased him gently, brushing your fingers through his hair again, “considering I’ve spent years doing exactly that. I know everything about you, remember? Every little thing.”

A weak, breathless little laugh escaped him then, and it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. You pressed another soft kiss to his lips, then the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw, slow and careful, like you were mapping out every part of him, like you were trying to put all the broken pieces back together just by loving him enough.

Each touch made his grip on you tighten again, just a little, like he was making sure he could feel every single one, like he was storing them all away in his memory so he could take them out and look at them whenever you weren’t here. Tiny, involuntary little sounds caught in his throat, soft and breathy, things he would have died before letting anyone else hear, but here, with you, they just slipped out, easy and natural.

“Riki,” you whispered softly against his skin, “breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.”

He tried. He failed a little at first, his breath coming in short little gasps, but then he felt your chest rise and fall against his, felt the steady beat of your heart right next to his, and slowly, slowly, he started to match it. His breathing evened out, his body relaxed just a little more, and he buried his face right back against your neck with a quiet little whimper that went straight to your heart.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the god stopped trying so hard to be one. For the first time, he didn’t have to be strong, didn’t have to be in control, didn’t have to be anything more than just the boy who loved you more than anything else in the whole world. And for tonight, that was more than enough.

You just held him there, on the cold stone steps, while the rain fell outside and the lanterns burned low, and you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could carry this weight forever. Maybe you could be his safe place, his home, his everything, for as long as he needed you to be.

Because as you sat there, wrapped up in him, you realized something: he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t breathe when the other wasn’t around. He wasn’t the only one who had built his whole world around this one person.

You were just as lost in him as he was in you. And you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, his lips brushing softly against your neck. “Don’t go back. Just stay here. Please.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and you saw the way his eyes were wide and dark and full of hope, full of that quiet fear that you might say no, that you might leave him after all.

You smiled, soft and warm, and brushed a stray lock of hair away from his forehead.

“Where else would I go?” you whispered back. “I’m right where I belong.”

And as he pulled you even closer, holding you like you were the whole world, you knew that no matter what came next, no matter how hard or heavy or scary it got, you would always come back to this. You would always come back to him.

Because Riki wasn’t just part of your life anymore. He was your life. And you wouldn’t trade that for anything.

𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖱𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖭𝖳𝖲 𝖶𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝖨𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖭𝖳𝖲. ‐ &team.

.⋆♱ These are men who have spent their lives being the "gold standard" of morality, only to realize that their righteousness was just a lack of something worth being "bad" for.

synopsis: Teamies have always prided themselves to be righteous people. People who would put others feelings first before theirs. People who are considerate about others, fair and dependable. But when loves blinds them, they can't help but choose their feelings first. Karma can come next.

.⋆♱ 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗌 : 𝖪, 𝖬𝖺𝗄𝗂, 𝖤𝗎𝗂𝗃𝗈𝗈 & 𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗎𝖺.

.⋆♱ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: Mature themes, Moral corruption / loss of morality, Manipulation & emotional abuse, Toxic relationships, Obsession, Betrayal, Dark romance elements, fictional depictions. Ignore typos abeg.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ KOGA YUDAI — The rapacious coach.

Yudai was the architect of Sunshine City Uni’s athletic prestige. He was an outstanding coach — Knowledgeable, patient and a clear communicator. A motivator, leader and planner.  The textbook definition of an ideal coach. To the board, he was a pillar of discipline. To you, he was a looming shadow who tracked your every move.

You’re the star player on his volleyball team. He’s the charismatic, high-discipline coach, so his constant hovering around you seemed casual. Normal even.

It began with "technical observation." As your coach, he is supposed to observe you all the time on the court.

He’d stand on the sidelines, his eyes not on the ball, but on the way your jersey rode up your spine when you jumped. He’d watch you hydrate, his gaze heavy on the arch of your throat, the way a stray droplet of water would roll down into your sports bra. He didn't look away; he never did. At first, he felt bad – guilty even. But the way your eyes shone when you won, the way you smiled so brightly at him, telling him that the team wouldn’t have won if it wasn’t for his direction—it had his head reeling, pushing the guilt and shame into the backseat of his mind.

He doesn’t just watch your form; he drinks in the "indecent" details— the way your spandex strains against your hips when you’re mid-serve, the rhythmic, heavy heaving of your chest when you’re breathless, the way you pushed past exhaustion. He told himself that was what made you exceptional, what made you his best player.

He doesn’t just "monitor" your form; he’s a voyeur who has turned the gym into his private sanctuary of filth. And to be honest? His guilt is slowly start to decay. He lingers in the locker room doorway just long enough to hear the snap of your sports bra, his pulse a thick, heavy thud in his throat. He wanted to be in your space, so he initated "private sessions" in the name of further improving your skills.

His "Performance Journal" is his true face. It's a sickeningly detailed log of your life. It’s not just your diet or sleep—it’s the way you tie your hair in that messy ponytail, the specific slope of your neck he wants to bite, and a tally of every boy who breathes your air.

> April 4th: The sweat pooled in the small of her back. I wanted to lap it up like a dog. April 9th: She laughed at the team captain. I’ve scheduled him for double drills until his legs give out. He won’t touch what’s mine. He doesn't want you to win; he wants you to be unable to win without him.

He’s noted the color of your underwear when your shorts shift during a dive. He tells himself it’s "total athlete management," but his hands shake when he writes your name.

The boiling point was a violent fracture. An honest mistake on your part — to think that you could spread your wings somewhere far from him? How laughable.

When you mentioned playing professionally in another state, Yudai felt a violent, jagged panic. He didn't just lock the gym doors during your private session; he relished the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place, the air in the gym felt heavy, smelling of floor wax and Yudai’s sudden, violent possession.

He cornered you against the padded wall, the smell of your sweat and fear intoxicating him. "I’ve already dismantled your future, Y/N," he whispered, his hand clamping over your jaw, forcing you to look at the wreckage in his eyes. "I told the scouts you're a behavioral wreck. You’re stayin' right here. On my court. Under me. I’d rather see you rot here than bloom somewhere I can't touch you."

Oh well.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ MAKI WILHELM MAUSS — The Ex's Best Friend.

Maki's general point of view of you was simplified to being nicholas's girlfriend. He knew of you, but never really interacted with you that much. Then, a couple of months later, out of the blue, you and Nicholas called it quits Nicholas was absolutely shattered by the whole break up. Though the reason was unclear why, it was still evident that he held feelings for you. Maki, at first, being the good friend he is — would try his best to get nicholas back into his groove.

He stepped up as the loyal enforcer. He was the one calling you a "bitch" over loud music, the one posting those demeaning party stories with captions like "bro is back 🥶" and "she really fumbled the bag." Different pictures of the him & nicholas flooded the feed everyday. He sat in those loud, neon-soaked VIP booths, posting stories of Nicholas surrounded by girls.

He checked your profile daily, not out of interest, but to "keep tabs on the enemy"—waiting for you to slip up so he could show Nicholas how little you cared.

Little did he know that all that watching would soon backfire on him.

What started as observing—just keeping tabs—turned into something else. Something sick. Destructive.

He sees your highlights, just pictures of you and a thought slips in, uninvited.

She’s still as pretty.

He brushes it off as pointless. Because it is true. You are pretty. There’s no point denying that. But viewing your highlights turns into something more than casual checking. It becomes routine. Then habit. Then something closer to need.

It turned into obsessive monitoring in the name of keeping tabs for his best friend. He would watch your stories replaying some of them; one where you went to a concert, a random street cat, your pics at the beach in your tiny bikini, your favourite manga. Literally everything. Meaningless things. Except they aren’t, not to him.

He starts noticing patterns. The way you angle your camera. The timestamps. The people you appear with—and the ones you don’t. He watches everything, and he watches it more than once. What began as keeping tabs slowly reshapes itself into something obsessive.

He starts liking your stories. Then your posts. Then interacting just enough to be seen—but not enough to be questioned.

Through the screen, he starts noticing things Nicholas never did. And that’s when something shifts.

He realizes he doesn’t just want to watch you. He wants to understand you. And even worse—he wants to be the one who understands you best.

He wanted to own the version of you that Nicholas was too weak to keep.

The "Hey" text was a poisonous seed. He didn't play the "nice guy"—he was just there, his presence was solid, deliberate. The kind that was hard to ignore.

When you finally met in person, the "righteous friend" died a silent, gruesome death. He was completely thrown off. You were even more striking than he expected. More expressive. More real. More there. You were vivid in a way the screen could never capture—more authentic, more layered, more… addictive. The conversation didn’t stop. It moved too fast, jumping from one topic to another, hours dissolving without either of you noticing and his eyes fixed on your lips.

He found himself watching the way you spoke. The pauses. The way your tone shifted depending on the subject. Memorizing without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to.

Casual hangouts became more frequent. Then the expected happened. He started hanging out in your house and even staying over, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Soon, you were dating. And honestly, you were happier with him than you ever were with Nicholas.

Maki on the other hand, he was over the MOON. He would be sitting at a gathering with his friends, Nicholas is sobbing into a drink right next to him, and then he would recieve a text from you and he is a blushing, smirking mess, hiding his phone because you just sent him a photo of what you’re wearing—or rather, what you’re not wearing—under your coat for when he comes over later. He feels a lewd, god-like thrill in the betrayal. He put your rearranged initials in his bio like a brand.

And then he posted that story—you on his lap, your head thrown back as he bit the sensitive skin of your neck, his hand disappearing under the hem of your shirt—he watched Nicholas’s name disappear from his follower list and felt a dark, pulsing victory. He didn't lose a friend; he gained the only prize that mattered.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ BYUN EUIJOO — The Heir’s Defection.

You knew who euijoo was. Euijoo is holy heir of the nations biggest company. He is engaged to a woman who is essentially his business counterpart—perfect, polished, and safe.

And EJ knew of you too, He met you at some party, a woman whose name is a permanent fixture in the tabloids for all the "wrong" reasons.

Unlike the high society men and women — EJ never had a defined opinion on you. The men who criticized you for your salacious playboy bunny photoshoot secretly kept a copy in their room. The women who scorned you found these exact copies in their partners drawers.

You didn’t seem to care much about the blast from the past—or the criticism—because honestly, it was the past. And now you were a successful fashion designer, so really, who cared? You had your own reality TV show, and the same men and women who scorned you for your past and your “indecent” way of dressing were the same ones purchasing from your brand.

EJ'S fiancee was no different. She criticized you and bought from your brand.

His defection happened in the quiet, neon-soaked rooftops of Seoul. He’d go up there to escape the suffocating "perfection" of his life, only to find you—the very definition of "improper." At first, he was a stammering mess, his ears burning as you teased him. But then, the coincidences stopped being accidental. He started hunting you

He’d skip greeting guests and abandon his fiancée at galas just to follow your silhouette toward the balcony, telling himself it was impulse—just once, just tonight—until it became a habit. And eventually, numbers exchanged with an ease that felt far too deliberate to still be called coincidence.

He became an obsessive observer of your life, binging your reality show in the dark, watching the way you moved, the way you spoke, until he could recite your interviews word for word.

He’d sit at brunch, listening to his fiancée call you "trash" and "indecent," and all he could think about was how wrong she was—and how little any of it mattered once he was with you.

He would stay up at night texting you. Meeting you in secluded, expensive places where everything felt distant from consequence. Every conversation stretched longer than it should, like neither of you wanted to be the one to end it.

The breaking point was a silent, violent choice. When he finally kissed you, it wasn't romantic—it was a defection. He tasted the tobacco and champagne on your tongue and realized he’d rather be a sinner in your arms than a saint in the media's eyes.

When he publicly announced the end of his engagement, he did it with a cold, terrifying clarity. He didn't apologize, even as the media tore him apart for abandoning his fiancee.

By the next day, paparazzi had already snapped pictures of the two of you walking hand in hand. He didn’t flinch under the flashing cameras. He just took your hand—his grip firm, unrelenting—and let the world watch the “Holy Heir” fall from grace.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ SHIGETA HARUA — The blood traitor.

Harua had no idea who the fuck you were. That was until his elder sister barged into his room, crying her eyes out and telling him about some girl named yn who stole her boyfriend from her.

Harua’s sister’s room smelled like salt and old tissues, and Harua hated you for every tear she shed. You were the "maneater," the woman who took what she wanted and left wreckage in her wake and his "righteous" duty was clear: find your weakness and exploit it. So he started running into you.

At first, it looked like coincidence. A brief bump at a café, a quick apology, a glance that lingered just a second too long. Then again at the gym. Then somewhere else. Familiar enough to feel natural. Harmless enough not to question.

He approached you with good graces—easy smiles, light conversation, just enough charm to be let in without resistance. He made himself non-threatening, almost forgettable in the way people trust too quickly. The kind of presence that doesn’t raise alarms.

And it worked. Fantastically so. It didn’t take long before he found his place in your social circle. Seamless. Effortless. Like he had always been there.

He went into this “investigation” with righteous fury, fully intending to find the flaw that would break you.

Instead, he found someone… different. You were introspective. Sharp. You looked at him with an intensity that made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite place.

And yeah—you did ruin people’s relationships. You didn’t deny it, didn’t soften it, didn’t pretend otherwise. You took what you wanted and left when you were done.

That part was real. But it wasn’t the whole story.

The more he watched, the more he realized—you weren’t reckless. You were selective. You didn’t chase people; they came to you, convinced they could be the exception — the one to fix you — They pushed, insisted, lingered long after they should’ve left.

And when they refused to take the hint, you stopped being polite. You used what they offered. Their attention, their persistence, their need to be chosen. Not because you were cruel.

But because they wouldn’t walk away. Because they never really listened. Because they never saw you as someone to be understood, cherished or loved. Because they only ever saw you as something to have. So you became exactly that—on your terms. Controlled & detached, even when they thought they had you.

And the worst part? You understood him. Sometimes he didn’t even have to finish his sentences—you’d do it for him, like you were already there in his head. Conversations with you didn’t feel surface-level; they stretched, deepened, lingered. Hours passed without either of you noticing. It was… easy. Too easy. He started looking forward to it. The way you spoke, the way your thoughts unfolded, the quiet ambition beneath everything you said. You were strong in a way that didn’t need to announce itself and softer in ways no one else seemed to notice. It all got under his skin.

Then all at once — the shift was subtle. A comment here. A suggestion there.

"You don’t seem that into him."

"He’s not really your type, is he?"

"You could do way better."

Always said casually. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care. But he did. He started inserting himself more—interrupting conversations, redirecting your attention, staying close enough to be constant.

Somewhere along the way, the investigation stopped. He didn’t notice when it happened. Or maybe he did—and chose to ignore it. There were no regards made for his sister, she didn't appear in his thoughts.

It doesn't take long for things to become official between you two. When you finally deleted those other men, Harua felt a dark, swelling pride that made him feel sick and alive all at once. His nights were spent in a fever, his lips perpetually swollen from your provocative, heated kisses.

Every kiss felt like it was stealing something from him—the way you dragged it out, slow and deliberate, as if you were trying to take his breath, his thoughts, everything. The faint marks you left along the line of his neck lingered longer than they should have. It felt almost unreal.

He never tried to change you—he was never interested in that kind of bullshit. He was completely, inextricably immersed in you. He knew that the two of you understood each other on a level no one else could, and to him, that was the highest form of intimacy. The unhinged reality hit when he walked home to find his sister clutching a photo of her ex, sobbing on the floor. His phone buzzed—a selfie of you in bed, your legs tangled in silk, your eyes looking at the camera with a predatory, bored hunger. "I'm waiting, Harua. Don't be a good boy tonight."

You were waiting for him . He looked at his broken sister and felt nothing but a buzzing, dark thrill. He didn't offer her a hand; he just stepped over her to get to his jacket, already halfway back to the woman who ruined his family.

OMG HII, I promise that once im done with releasing some of my drafts (about andteam and riize) i will post more valley boy jake headcanons 😊.

♱ 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗂 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

♱ synopsis: Anton thinks he knows you better than anyone. He’s never had to witness what you become when hunger takes over—until one night, he does. And suddenly, you can’t tell who the monster is meant to be.

♱ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀(𝗌): cannibalism, morally dark themes, not meant to romanticize, mild descriptions of blood/gore, obsessive behavior, shaky morals, unhealthy relationship dynamics, manipulation/possessiveness, established relationship, eerie atmosphere, cottagecore elements.

In the small town of Mystic Falls, you and Anton were something close to a fairytale people swore they’d witnessed with their own eyes. The mayor’s son and the sheriff’s daughter—power, charm, and legacy wrapped neatly into two teenagers who seemed made for each other. It wasn’t just the titles, though. It was the way you fit.

At school, you were known as the couple. “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince,” people would say with a mix of admiration and certainty, as if your ending had already been written. You were both exceptional—top of your classes, admired on the field, effortlessly beautiful in a way that didn’t even seem fair. Wherever you went, eyes followed. Not out of curiosity, but expectation. You were meant to be seen.

And Anton—Anton was everything people said he was.

Kind, in a way that felt intentional. Supportive, never letting you doubt yourself for too long. Communicative, always asking, always listening. Compassionate, even when you didn’t deserve it. And, of course, unbearably handsome—tall, polished, the kind of boy novelists wrote about and assumed didn’t actually exist.

When he first asked you out, your heart hadn’t just raced—it had panicked.

Part of it was obvious. He was the golden boy. The mayor’s son. The one everyone wanted, whether they admitted it or not. Saying yes felt like stepping into something bigger than yourself. It felt so frightening.

But the other reason… the real reason… was something you buried so deeply you almost convinced yourself it didn’t matter.

You had a secret.

A dark, gnawing thing that followed you no matter how perfect everything else seemed. A hunger you couldn’t explain away or ignore. Something ugly. Something wrong.

And yet—you said yes anyway.

Because you liked him. Because being with him felt normal in a way nothing else in your life ever had. Because for a moment, you thought maybe you could have both: the perfect relationship and the hidden truth.

Somehow, it worked. For nearly a year, you stayed together, building something that looked unbreakable from the outside.

But hunger doesn’t disappear just because you pretend it isn’t there.

There were nights when it clawed at you, unbearable and relentless. Nights when staying in bed beside Anton felt impossible. Nights when you slipped away quietly, careful not to wake him, already rehearsing excuses for the morning after.

You hated those moments. Hated the lies. Hated the way guilt settled heavy in your chest every time you went back home and found him sleeping on the couch waiting for you. God, you felt awful.

You told him different things each time—club meetings, stress, family matters, anything that sounded believable enough. And he never pushed too hard. Never accused. Never made you feel cornered.

So you thought he believed you.

You thought you were safe.

What you didn’t know… was that Anton had started to notice the pattern. The empty space beside him at night. The quiet way you slipped out. The way your explanations never quite lined up.

At first, he told himself it was nothing.

Then he wondered if it was something else.

Something worse.

By the time the thought of you with someone else crossed his mind, it didn’t leave.

And eventually, he decided he was done guessing.

So one night, after the Founding Fathers party, the two of you return home and go to bed like usual.

And when you think he’s asleep—

Anton decides to follow you.

Anton follows you stealthily into the forest, making sure to leave enough distance between the two of you. The dry leaves and sticks crack under his footsteps, but he doesn’t hear it — the only thing he can hear is the siren blaring in his head at the possibility of what you could be hiding.

Were you… cheating on him?

Is this where you meet him?

Tears start stinging his eyes at the thought. Was that man a better lover than him? He can feel himself getting angry. God, he swears that once he catches that guy, he will fucking break his face.

Fastening his pace, he manages to catch up to you—or… not.

You’re nowhere in sight. All of a sudden, he’s lost you completely.

The cool night breeze washes over his skin as he walks around, trying to find you. The darker, foggier part of the forest seems to call to him, and he makes a beeline toward it—until he finally reaches a small cottage tucked between a cluster of trees.

The atmosphere around the house feels eerie. He slows his steps as he approaches, almost backing away. He considers entering, but decides against it—

—until he hears a groan echo from inside.

It’s a girl.

A familiar one.

It’s you.

He scoffs at the sound. All sense and sensibility fly out the window. He makes a beeline for the cottage and barges in.

The room is dark, and the first thing that greets him is the metallic scent of blood. His eyes lock onto a figure crouched in the corner. He can’t fully make out what’s happening.

Unbeknownst to you, you continue eating, unaware of the figure standing behind you.

After going so long without feeding, your teeth and gums had almost forgotten what it felt like. The sensation of biting down again felt overwhelming—consuming, almost addictive—as blood stains your skin and drips down your neck.

You continue, unaware.

"What the fuck?"

You freeze at the voice behind you, dropping pieces of your meal from your mouth. You turn around, startled, coming face to face with your boyfriend—who looks more confused than horrified.

"Just… what the hell are you doing?" he asks, his eyes scanning you.

Your once elegant hair is now loose and messy. Your mascara is completely smudged. Your dress—once pristine—is stained.

The complete undoing of Mystic Falls’ perfect Miss Americana.

"Anton, I—I can explain."

Your heart is beating so fast you can hear it echo in your head. How could you even explain this to him? One moment you were holding his hand, greeting guests at the Founding Fathers event, and now you’re crouched on the floor, covered in someone else’s blood.

You slowly rise from the ground—never mind the piece of flesh that falls from your grasp.

You try to speak, but every time you open your mouth, you close it again, unable to form a logical explanation.

You break into tears, covering your mouth to muffle your choked sobs.

Anton looks at your small, retreating figure, then glances at the body on the floor. The pent-up anger, confusion, and suspicion all seem to boil over.

"So… this is what you’ve been doing behind my back?" he asks slowly, looking for confirmation. His face is a blank mask, unreadable as ever.

You open your mouth to respond—to lie, maybe—but the look on his face tells you there’s no point. There’s no way out of this.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod slowly, keeping your eyes on the ground. You’re too ashamed to even look at him.

He must feel betrayed now. How could you hide something like this from him?

"Oh my God," is all he says.

More tears spill down your cheeks. God, how disgusted must he be? He’s probably going to break up with you—

"Oh my God."

He chuckles.

You look up.

He’s smiling. Wide. He looks… relieved?

"Oh God, baby, you scared me! I thought you were doing something heinous behind my back!"

How ironic.

You stand there frozen as he steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into him as if you aren’t covered in blood.

"I was so fucking worried. I thought you were cheating on me—that this was your secret place to meet him. God, I’m just so relieved—"

"Anton, stop. I—I’m confused. Why are you being like this?"

"Like what?"

"You’re so… normal. So okay with me being a human eater…"

"Is that it? That’s what bothers you?"

"Well, yes, Anton! I’m not exactly doing anything moral right now!"

'Morality is… flexible," he says quietly, like it’s nothing worth arguing over.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, smearing something he doesn’t bother to acknowledge.

"You don’t have to hide the ugly parts from me. They’re yours… so they’re mine too."

You stare at him in shock as blood slowly trails from the corner of your mouth.

"Baby… if you need more," he murmurs, almost soothingly, "you come to me. I’ll take care of it. All of it."

He says it so calmly, his eyes full of certainty. You stay quiet, studying his face, before slowly nodding.

He smiles.

"I love you."

You couldn't bring yourself to respond to that — not because you don't — but because you're extremely shocked. Your boyfriend just caught you devouring a human being's flesh like there's no tomorrow and he still decides to declare his love for you? Unbelievable.

He drapes his coat over your shoulders and begins leading you out of the house, rambling about how worried he was—that he thought you’d found someone else, someone better than him.

He might even offer himself, half-jokingly.

That night, he holds you tightly, repeating that everything is going to be fine.

And you can’t help but wonder—

If your once perfect boyfriend is truly perfect…

And if he’s not considered perfect because of this—

Then what does that make you?

⋆˚࿔ 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅! 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋.

⋆˚࿔ cw - fluff angel au with jealous angel wonbin, kissing, the relationship isn't exactly established but it kinda is?? wonbin is low key naive and kind of selfish, jealousy and resentment towards sohee.

Wonbin’s lips press against yours—needy, more demanding than usual, almost desperate in a way that catches you off guard.

Normally, you’re the one guiding him. Your palm would cup his jaw, tilting his head just right, easing him into the kiss—encouraging him, silently telling him it’s okay to be a little bolder, a little less shy.

And when you did, he would cling to you. Fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer and his feathers would shuffle a bit and they would move forward to wrap themselves around you slightly.

Like any other angel, his purpose was to watch over human beings and to never interact directly with human beings unless he's told to do so.

And he naturally was abiding by that law — until he was assigned to you. His first assignment—and somehow, you saw him immediately.

He still didn’t understand how. He was used to blending in, slipping into the background so easily that no one ever questioned him. His odd habits were brushed off as quirks, nothing more.

But you… you looked straight through him.

Every excuse he offered fell apart under your gaze. Angels were never good at lying anyway—and his small “coincidences,” the way things always seemed to go right around you, his quiet interventions… it all added up.

And then there was his attitude. That subtle sass, the way he spoke to you like he wasn’t just a watcher—but someone who belonged beside you.

Someone who wanted to belong.

Now, though, that same angel was pulling away from your lips, his expression tight with something he couldn’t quite hide.

"Are you okay, angel?" you ask softly, your finger tracing along his jaw.

Wonbin avoids your gaze, lips pressing into a pout. His brows knit together, and his wings twitch faintly behind him.

"…No," he murmurs.

You tilt your head slightly, waiting.

"Yesterday—you were with Sohee for too long," he says, voice small but heavy with feeling. "You didn’t call me back. You didn’t text me…” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, "And before you left… you barely kissed me."

He pulls his wings back completely now, folding them close as he turns away from you, arms crossing over his chest in a sulky huff.

That’s Wonbin. Sometimes gentle and soft, other times impossibly dramatic — wanting to be held, reassured and treated like he's your favourite thing in the world.

And you have learned to live with that, to baby this beautiful angel who wants nothing but to be coddled and told that he's beautiful.

You let out a quiet laugh—and immediately regret it when he shoots you a sharp glance.

"Wonbinie," you say, tugging lightly at his waist, trying to pull him back. "I’m sorry, okay? I promise I won’t ignore your calls anymore. And I’ll make sure you get plenty of kisses before I go anywhere."

He resists at first, stubborn, but eventually leans back toward you just a little.

"It’s not just that…" he mutters. "You spend too much time with him."

There’s a pause.

Then, more hesitant—more fragile—

"Do you… kiss him too?"

You blink, caught off guard.

''You probably do," he rushes on, voice tightening. "More than you kiss me. I’m just your guardian angel, right? And he’s your favorite human."

His words come out sharp, edged with jealousy he doesn’t know how to handle.

You pull back slightly, frowning. "Wonbin. No. I only kiss you. Who even told you that?"

"…Shotaro."

You sigh, already piecing it together. "And what exactly did Shotaro say?"

''He said friends kiss each other all the time."

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Do you really believe everything he tells you?”

Wonbin looks at you, eyes wide and earnest. "Taro wouldn’t lie to me. He’s my friend."

"Sweet angel," you murmur, softening, "don’t believe everything he says, okay? He likes messing with you."

Wonbin’s eyes widen instantly. "He does?!"

His wings flare out in alarm, feathers ruffling dramatically.

You quickly shake your head, smiling. "Not like that. He’s just teasing you."

He relaxes—barely.

You sigh, fondness filling your chest as you look at him. "You’re such a baby, Wonbin."

He pouts at that—but instead of arguing, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his lap.

This time, there’s no hesitation.

His hold is tight, almost clingy, as he buries his face into your shoulder, seeking comfort in the warmth of you. His wings fold around you again, softer now—like he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his grip.

You feel him relax as you gently card your fingers through his hair, your touch slow and reassuring.

He melts into it.

Into you.

And in moments like this—when his guard drops, when all that’s left is quiet affection and soft breaths against your skin—

Wonbin isn’t just your guardian angel.

He’s yours.

And he knows it.