𝗱𝘂𝗯𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘂𝗴𝘆𝘂ッ

For him showing up to your door anyway with some lame excuse involving needing to make sure he’d cleared everything that was his out of your apartment.

For you being dumb enough to let him in, falling into those dream boat doe eyes and pigmented tattoos.

You felt like you had a million reasons to palm the side of his face, but it was a shame that you couldnt. The way that he held both of your wrists above your head in his less dominant hand ensured that.

Your ex pinned you to the couch underneath his lean muscular body, your shirt carelessly pushed up, the cups of your bra haphazardly pulled down just enough for him to tease your nipples several minutes ago. It was like a dream the way one moment you were fully clothes, mouthing off to him after he’d asked you a personal question, then his tongue was suddenly in your mouth and your hands were yanking at his zipper.

Typical.

Jungkook pulled back from smothering your lips with his to watch as your tits bounced to the pace of him fucking you. He had the nerve to look this good, his abs contracting as he curved his core effortlessly. His tip kisses your cervix in a particular way that makes you shiver, and your teary eyes burned with frustration at his fucked out expression.

Why did he have to be so beautiful?

“I hate you.” you grit your teeth to say, your jaw dropping and eyes rolling back shortly after Jungkook makes it his goal to overstimulate that rigid spot deep inside of you.

“Oh fuck!” you cry out, attempting to yank your trapped arms from under his hold. Too bad all that muscle wasnt just for show.

The pierced corner of his lips perked up in a parted smirk at the sound of your broken moans, dropping his gaze to where his dick impaled you.

“You sure? Doesnt seem like you hate me..” he mutters breathily. Most likely referring to the creamy band gathering at the base of him with every heart-throbbing stroke. You were sure you came once or twice, the overwhelming pressure of him fucking into you raw never letting up.

All you could manage was a pathetic whimper in response, all the bitterness and resentment for your insistent ex seeming to have faded in favor of desire and pleasure.

You mind told you this meant nothing. Just as the last time didnt. But your body trumped all that didnt involve keeping Jungkook as close as humanly possible.

“Ah’shit..” you hear him hiss when your abrupt orgasm has you damn near squeezing the life from his dick. At that point, he releases your wrists and leans forward to press his forehead against yours. Both of his hands rush to the back of your thighs to push them back, holding you in a mating press that takes your breath away.

“You dont hate me. And you're not fucking done. This pussy is mine, you understand?”

Every pretty word felt like gasoline poured onto the fire in your core. Your pussy fluttered around his thick length as did your eyes. Jungkook fucked you so deep that you hiccuped against his lips, failing to hold onto your sanity.

“And this dick belongs to you baby. Nobody else has me. Nobody has my heart. We cant be done. I need you so fucking bad..God, you feel so good. So fucking beautiful..”

He upped his pace and grew less rhythmic with each passing second. His voice was hoarse and his groans staccato to an octave that told you he was about to cum.

“So perfect for me, baby. Tell me you love me..” he demands and you sob the words compliantly.

“I love you..Jungkook--fuck, I love you..”

His hips snap into you faster ans harder as he pushed himself up, using your thighs as leverage. Jungkook’s brow pinched ans his jaw dropped at the sight of your swollen folds swallowing his dick, your entrance ans his shaft glistening with your cum. Your untouches clit begged for his attention ans Jungkook thoughtlessly lets a thick drop of saliva fall from his mouth, his immpecable aim landing it right on your bud. He unhands your thigh to run his fingers over it quickly, making a high pitched whine jut from your lips.

“Cum for me then. Cum on this fucking dick. One more baby, one more more.” he begged as his fingers and strokes hastened both of you toward the edge of bliss.

Your arms remained over your head, your hands gripping the couch cushion under you for support. You blinked through the tears staining your face to take in the view of your ex destroying you. His disheveled raven hair, spiked and sticking to his forehead from sweat. His sculpted upper body, shadowed attractively by the singular lamp in the corner of your living room. His pink kiss burned lips that shined and remained parted as he panted. His eyes that begged yours for something only you could give.

The sight of him alone was enough to snap the chord in your belly. His name was called to the heavens as your back arches from the couch. Jungkook slips his free hand under you for support, his fingers steadily strumming over your clit while you gushed your nectar all over him.

“That’s it beautiful, there you go. Fuck, I love you..cum, baby. That’s it..” he urged you as your body shook and tensed under the intensity of your release. Jungkook rode your wave as best as he could before he too gave in. He stops rubbing your clit and pulls out at the last possible second to jerk his vieny shaft frantically. His swollen bulbous tip shoots hot white spurts of seed over over your quivering labia. His body caves in on its self, squeezing your waist while his other hand continues to stroke himself. He milked every drop from his weeping tip, leaving massive creamy load of cum to paint the area between your naval and pussy lips.

If you didnt know any better, you would believe that the amount of cum cooling on your skin meant that he was extremely backed up. That he truly misses you as much as he claimed he did. That he’d been with no one else in the weeks you and him had been apart.

Even as he cleaned you up and kissed your shoulders lovingly, nestling behind you on the couch you two had just ruined together, you wanted to believe that he meant what he said. That no one else had him the way you did and that he needed you.

But the stubborn part of you, the part that should have slapped him and left him blinking dazedly with his palm cupping his cheek on your door step...

The part of you that knew beyond his pretty words and mind numbing sex..

That part of you knew Jungkook was no good for you.

Even if your body hadnt accepted it yet.

he reaches his hand forward to wrap it around your throat, and your breath hitches.

“you’re lying,” he mumbles. “i know how you feel about me. i’ve been reading your diary since we were in high school. you’d have to have some sort of humiliation kink to actually want me after everything.”

shit. you wondered what was going on every time you “lost” your diary. you thought you were either overlooking it or just misplaced it or something, because it always ended up back in your room eventually, but you had no idea taesan was the reason behind it. to think that he’s read about all your secrets, your fantasies, your hormonal ramblings.

you scoff, trying to appear less nervous than you really feel. “so what?”

“so,” taesan starts. “suck my dick. you know you want to.”

“what?!” in response to your outburst, taesan laughs—that same mocking, cruel laughter you’ve always come to associate him with. “no, taesan. i don’t want that.”

“of course you do. you wrote it in your diary. on four separate occasions, too. obviously you’re curious.”

you are curious, and that’s the worst part. you’ve always wanted to know. to touch and taste and feel. and you know you shouldn’t, deep down, because you know the kind of person taesan is. you should say no. you should tell him to get there fuck out of your room, and out of your life.

and maybe you are a masochist, because you don’t say any of that.

you say “yes, please.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

brother’s best friend!taesan who records you as you get down on your knees and choke on his dick. you didn’t know—not at first. and when you do find out and question him about it, he’s as flippant as usual, saying things like “of course i recorded it.” and “i needed something to masturbate to later.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

brother’s best friend!taesan who tells you to take your clothes off for him. it’s not a choice, either. you either do what he says, or he’ll send the video to everyone you know.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

brother’s best friend!taesan who ends up being the one to take your virginity after all. ꜜ

you wanted this, technically.

you’d always imagined what it would be like to lose your virginity to taesan. you fantasized about it so many times, imagining that he’d lay you down, take his time with you, hold your hand and tell you how pretty you were. he was always so much nicer in your head. the taesan you knew wouldn’t ever do any of that.

“stop being so fucking loud,” he panted, pushing your head deeper into the pillow, drowning out the sounds of your moans and cries as he pounded into your sopping pussy. you were driving him crazy—he doesn’t think he’s ever fucked anyone so tight and wet before. you were practically sucking him in.

if only you weren’t so… loud. taesan didn’t want your family to wake up and catch him like this. not with you.

nothing you attempt to say comes out coherent enough for him to hear through your muffled cries of pleasure, and it only inflates his ego that much more. “awww,” he coos, condescending as ever. “you’re such a stupid slut. all it takes to make you dumb is a little bit of cock? god, i could’ve shut you up ages ago.”

and you’re not sure when, but at some point, you started to cry, your tears drenching your pillow as they flow continuously from your eyes. taesan can hear your sobs, faintly, and he tips his head back, a shiver of pleasure wracking his whole body.

“crybaby.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

brother’s best friend!taesan who doesn’t warn you when he’s about to cum. you only know that he finishes when you feel it leaking out of you, which he then tells you to clean up yourself.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

brother’s best friend!taesan who goes back to ignoring you after everything, because there’s nothing left for him to take. just like that, you go back to being that annoying, sensitive ittle girl he wants nothing to do with.

You knew the moment Niki texted you back at one in the morning to come pick up your stuff, that it would end up like this. Not with dignity, not with closure, but like this—folded on his couch, legs on his shoulders, apologizing to him...again.

You're not even sure how it always happens.

You always show up to his place steeled and justifiably angry, then Niki stands too close, looking too good, smelling even better, calling you baby in that low drag that fogs your brain and makes your heart stutter. Then, someway, somehow, Niki gets what he wants.

He always does.

Maybe it's the way he drops his voice an octave when he's 'explaining himself,' like he already knows you're going to concede.

Maybe it's the way he touches you, rubbing slow circles on your hips, coaxing you to believe the fight was an overreaction, the betrayal just a hiccup—something you're too strong, too smart to 'let ruin everything.'

Maybe it's the way your heart twists to believe him, telling yourself it's just a mistake, just a stepping stone, just one last time, and that if you let it go, things will be better. Stronger. Fixed.

Whatever it is, it works.

Because you always tell yourself you won't actually go inside. That you'll just grab your stuff at the door and leave. That you won't let him talk you onto your back, or your knees, or whatever position he's decided counts as an apology that night.

But you fail every time because Niki's persuasive, but only in the worst ways. Because this is the only way he knows how to apologize. Or the only way he's willing to anyway.

Niki knows you too well. He knows you don't actually want to leave; you just want him to give you a reason to stay. You want him to want you. To chase you. To choose you.

You want the illusion that he needs you. Proof that his cheating isn't a verdict on your worth but just another lapse in judgment, a stupid habit you're both supposed to outgrow together on the way to your imagined happily ever after.

And he uses that. He turns your need for reassurance into a leash, tugging only when you start drifting too far. He tosses you bits of remorse to reset your hope, trains you with just enough softness to make you stay.

Not because he means it, but because he's learned it's the simplest way to reel you back in every time.

It's almost effortless at this point. Sometimes Niki can't help but roll his eyes at how easily you let him back in. He never needs grand gestures or big declarations with you—just an opportunity, a few words, and a heated look, then you're right where he wants you, pliable and predictable as ever.

All he has to do is make sure he's showing enough skin when you come—a nice fitted tank that clings to every line of his abdomen, and those loose, grey sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination—just enough to short circuit that little spark of resolve you try to walk in with.

And all he needs is a couple shots to drop his voice into that slow baritone you never think straight around. So when he steps close and asks where you want it—it's lazy and low enough to tilt your brain off its axis and make you wonder if he means his dick, his mouth, or that useless little box he set out as bait to get you here.

You don't know this, of course, but he never really unpacks the box. Not unless you're coming over. Then he'll spread things out just enough to seem settled. After you leave, it all goes right back in.

It makes it easier to keep track of and move all your shit once you're gone, so when other girls come over, no one accidentally finds anything to interrogate him about.

But it works well for nights like this too, when you show up all teary eyed and willing to be fooled. When he passes you the box, but still keeps a firm hold on it so you'll look at him all doe eyed and confused, already softening.

You do it every time. Right before you let him toss it aside and hug you...then kiss you...then lay you across whatever surface will let him make you forget that you ever called him a lying, cheating bastard.

He wasn't even really thinking about it the first time he  tried to soothe you with sex. He panicked. You were crying, arguing, connecting one too many dots, and he needed that to stop.

He only apologized through it to kill two birds with one stone, so he wouldn't have to deliver some bullshit monologue later, once the post nut clarity kicked in and reminded him he honestly couldn't give less of a fuck if you wanted to dump him over another girl or not.

So when you start apologizing to him five minutes in—voice breaking, logic gone—he's genuinely surprised. Then later, impressed. Ever since then, he's kept the same method:

apologize just enough to keep you from leaving, and fuck you hard enough to keep you from thinking.

And it always works.

Because of that, Niki has a working theory that all girls' common sense is stored somewhere near their g-spots, and if you hit it just right, it scrambles their logic like an internal reset button.

He's convinced he's right—if you and that girl from his psychology class are anything to go by.

Sometimes Niki genuinely feels sorry for you.

Not in a remorseful way. Just in that pitying way he gets when you make things too easy. Sometimes, when you've cried yourself out in his arms, he wonders if he'd be this gullible if he were a girl; if softness would hit him as stupidly hard as it hits you.

But then he remembers he's not some love sick dummy with no boundaries and even lower self esteem.

Speaking of...

"Fuck you."

You say it through gritted teeth, eyes shut tight, as Niki pants above you, hips still rolling.

"I know..." he coos.

Your voice is raw, and your eyes are rimmed red from crying earlier, but he’s looking down at you with the softest, most effortless smile because he knows you don’t mean it. He knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

"You're an awful person," you choke, struggling to even breathe.

"I know..." he says, then he kisses the calf of the leg slung over his shoulder. "I know, baby."

He grinds into you hard, pushing until you’re pressed together pelvis to pelvis, until the angle steals your breath and has you clutching the armrest, gasping, “oh my god!”

Your other hand shoots to his hip for purchase. Niki swats it away gently before sliding a hand up to cradle your cheek, pressing his forehead to yours. He needs you overwhelmed—full of him—for what he’s about to say to actually land.

"Look at me,” he whispers softly, and your eyes snap open, meeting his gaze with that vulnerable expression Niki can't help but exploit. "I'm sorry, okay..."

He leans in and whispers it into your open mouth, warm and convincing, letting it slide down your throat and wrap around your heart. You nod against him and Niki has to bite back a laugh.

"You know I love you, right?" He asks, hips still rolling slowly.

You nod again, and this time he nods with you, practically controlling the movement.

"Good. Cause I do. So...fucking...much."

He punctuates each word with a slow, deep thrust, driving them in like nails so you'll never forget. So you'll never get them out. So even when he screws up again—which he will—you'll forgive him anyway, because he's lodged those words deep inside you, in a way only he can.

You moan in time with him, fingers clawing at the couch so hard it tears a little at the seam. You don't notice because your eyes are squeezed shut again, shutting out the world, shutting out reason. Exactly how Niki wants you.

Because this is when you're easiest to steer, when you're blind, off balance, and soft enough to mold.

Anything he says now will slip straight past your defenses and take root where it'll hurt to pull out later. So he goes for the jugular. He chooses the words he knows will linger long after he doesn't deserve them.

"Tell me you love me..."

And you do.

Of course you do. You don't just say it, you choke on it. The words spill out of you in that soft, eager way he's come to expect: automatic, unguarded, and mindless.

He picks up the pace just enough to make your voice crack, pressing you to keep going. To say it again. And again. And again.

And you keep repeating it, louder and louder, until the words tumble out on their own, raw and frantic, stripped of every ounce of caution you walked in with.

Your hands find his face, shaky and searching for a reassurance he has no intention of giving. Instead, he leans in and kisses you, slow, deep, and dirty. Tongue laving over yours like he means every soft sound he pours into your mouth.

It's the kind of kiss that feels like safety to girls like you. Like something real. It unravels you. He's sure whatever hurt you came in with feels far away and half imagined by now.

By the time he pulls back, you're already whispering into his mouth, dazed and pliant:

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," you whimper. "I love you. I love you, I love you—"

That's all Niki needs to hear to wrap up the charade. He moves with a purpose now, fucking you hard and fast. Not because he's overwhelmed by the confession, but because he's accomplished his goal. He’s succeeded in talking—or rather fucking—you off the ledge once again.

You come like that. Hands wrapped around his biceps, mind wrapped around his finger, still whispering you love him, still clinging like any of this means something.

And Niki just watches, breathing hard, looking down at you with that familiar mix of pity and amusement—and he thinks to himself...

Idiot.

Taglist: @viahjgd @shining-won @hehehhhe @novasora @fouldiplomatpapershark @rinislostinanotherplanet

Don’t Say Hi back - The rule wasn’t written on signs or posted on town walls—it lived in the marrow of the place, passed down like breath. Old voices whispered it, new voices carried it, and every child learned to repeat it before they could spell their own names.

When the sun dips too early and the trees shed too fast—go home. Lock the windows. Shut the doors. And above all, never—ever—say hi back.

The words hummed through your head as you walked home, the last orange wash of daylight bleeding into violet. The streets were half-empty now. Stores that stayed open all summer shut early in the fall, owners flipping signs to Closed before the church bell could ring six. Porch lights blinked on like frantic eyes, rows of them glowing down your block.

It was the kind of evening that made your chest ache. The air was sharp—crisp enough to sting when you breathed too fast. The wind lifted brittle leaves and rattled them against pavement, a sound like fingers scraping glass. Somewhere, a dog barked, quick and panicked, then went quiet.

Your town had always been uneasy in the fall, but it wasn’t until last year that it turned unbearable.

Last year, when your sister laughed at the rule.

When she swung the front door open with the ease of someone who thought legends were just bedtime stories.

When she tilted her head at you and said, “What’s the worst that could happen if I just said hi?”

She said it like a joke. Like she was teasing you for the way your knuckles went white around the curtains every evening.

And then she stepped out.

She never came back.

Your mother didn’t speak her name anymore, not when the nights grew long. She checked the doors herself, her hands shaking as she turned every lock. She hovered at your windows, testing each latch twice, then left without meeting your eyes. You could feel it anyway—the weight of her silence, the way it pressed into you, heavy and accusing.

You wanted to scream that it wasn’t your fault. That you hadn’t opened the door, that you hadn’t broken the rule. But guilt didn’t care for reason. It twisted inside your ribs like something alive, whispering, you should’ve stopped her.

So you tried to. You tried to live quietly, obediently. Every evening, you turned the locks yourself, shut the blinds, drew the curtains until no crack of light leaked through.

And tonight was no different.

You moved room to room, checking the way you always did. The air inside felt colder than it should’ve, the kind of chill that clung to your clothes no matter how tight you wrapped your arms around yourself. Your fingers fumbled on the last latch—your bedroom window—and that’s when you heard it.

A sound carried on the wind.

Not a scream. Not a whisper.

A laugh.

Clear. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Morning light had a way of lying. It fell through your blinds like gold, soft and harmless, as though the night before hadn’t existed. As though you hadn’t stood frozen at your window with your heart pounding in your throat, listening to laughter that should’ve been impossible.

You tried to shake it off as you dressed, tugging a sweater over chilled skin. But the silence in the house was louder than your thoughts. Your mom was already gone—she always left early during this season, leaving behind a kitchen that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and the imprint of her absence.

The streets, though, were alive. Too alive.

Vendors propped their stalls open in the square, lining the cracked brick road with baskets of late apples, gourds, and brittle bouquets of corn husks. Children darted between them, laughing, though their mothers kept glancing at the sky, measuring the slant of the light. It wasn’t even noon, but already shadows stretched long against the ground, warning what everyone already knew: the nights were growing quicker.

You tightened your scarf and slipped into the bakery.

The bell over the door chimed, and every head turned. It wasn’t unusual—your family carried a shadow heavier than most—but you still hated the way their eyes lingered before darting away, as if even their curiosity could curse them.

“Morning,” croaked Mrs. Halpern from behind the counter, her voice rough like she’d been up all night. She pushed a tray of bread closer, flour dusting the front of her apron. “Cold one, isn’t it?”

“Colder than last year,” murmured the man at the window table. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. No one really did. “Trees went early this time. That’s never a good sign.”

Another customer—a woman stacking jars of honey—clicked her tongue. “Best to keep your ears shut and your lips tighter. We all know what time it is.”

The room fell still. Even the children outside seemed quieter, as if the warning had slipped through the walls.

You stepped closer to the counter, voice low. “Do you… remember last night?”

Mrs. Halpern froze, her hands hovering over the bread. Slowly, her gaze slid toward you, tired eyes narrowing. “Careful.”

The word was sharper than any knife in the room.

She leaned in, lowering her voice so no one else could hear. “The rule’s the rule for a reason, child. You start asking about voices, and they’ll know you’re listening.”

Your mouth went dry. You hadn’t said anything about a voice. Not out loud.

You turned away, heart pounding, and slipped back into the street.

Outside, a group of teens loitered by the old church steps, tossing a ball between them. Their laughter rang high, but when one boy glanced at you, the ball dropped from his hands.

“You’re her sister, right?” His tone wasn’t cruel, but the silence that followed cut deeper than cruelty.

Another voice hissed: “Don’t say that.”

The boy ducked his head, muttering an apology, and the game ended. The group scattered like crows, leaving the church steps bare.

The air had shifted again—bright with daylight but brittle with warning. And as you walked home, scarf clutched around your throat, you couldn’t shake the echo of your sister’s laugh in your skull. It clung like smoke, too real to be memory, too sharp to forget.

By the time you reached home after walking around town most of the day,the sun was already flirting with the horizon, sinking too quickly for comfort. The sky burned in streaks of crimson and ash, the kind of sunset that felt more like a warning than a gift. Shadows pooled under the trees, long and skeletal, the bare branches clawing at the last of the light.

You went through the ritual automatically: blinds drawn, latches checked, curtains shut. Every window. Every door.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Each lock sliding into place echoed louder than the one before.

Outside, the town was winding itself tighter. You could hear it through the thin glass of your windows: a father calling his kids inside, his voice sharp with urgency; a door slamming across the street, followed by the scrape of three different locks being turned; the faint cry of the church bell, marking the hour before everything went still.

It was the stillness that got to you most.

When the sun fully disappeared, it was as if the entire town stopped breathing at once. No laughter. No footsteps. No late-night cars cruising the roads. Just the hollow sigh of wind dragging dead leaves down the pavement.

You sat by the window anyway. You always did. You told yourself it was to keep watch, to make sure you never missed a latch or a crack in the curtain. But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Some stubborn, aching part of you wanted to see what lay beyond the glass.

The air outside looked colder than it had that morning. Each time the wind shifted, you swore you saw it: a mist curling low to the ground, moving as though it had purpose. It coiled between the fence posts, slithered down the streetlight poles. Your breath fogged the glass when you leaned closer, and for a moment you couldn’t tell if the haze belonged outside or inside.

Then—

A sound.

At first, only the shuffle of leaves skidding across asphalt.

Then a voice, carried thin on the wind.

“Hey…”

Your chest went tight.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even insistent. Just a soft call, like someone testing the waters. The word bent itself into the night like a lure, familiar in its simplicity, but wrong in its timing.

Silence followed.

Then again.

“Hey… you there?”

The voice wasn’t hers. Not exactly. But it wore her rhythm, her way of stretching vowels like she was trying to draw you out of your shell. It was close enough to scrape at your insides, close enough to make your throat ache.

You pressed a hand over your mouth and forced yourself back from the glass.

The rule. Don’t answer. Don’t look. Don’t say hi back.

The knock that came next was light. Gentle. Almost polite.

Tap-tap.

Tap.

“Cold out here,” the voice murmured. Still soft. Still sweet. “Don’t you wanna say hi?”

Your blood ran colder than the air.

Your knees buckled before you realized you were moving. One moment you were at the window, breath fogging the glass, and the next you were stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the rug.

The knock came again.

Tap. Tap.

So delicate, like it didn’t belong to anything dangerous.

You didn’t care.

Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it might split your ribs as you turned and bolted down the hall. The floor creaked under your steps, every sound magnified, as if the house itself were holding its breath. You shoved your door closed behind you, twisting the lock with trembling fingers.

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of your nightstand lamp. Shadows stretched across the walls like reaching arms. You didn’t bother undressing; you dove straight beneath your blankets, curling yourself into a knot, pulling the quilt over your head until the world became nothing but fabric and the sound of your own ragged breathing.

“Cold…” The voice drifted faint through the walls. Not pleading. Not urgent. Just patient. “Just say hi.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You pressed your palms to your ears, whispering to yourself, half-prayer, half-plea.

Please stop. Please, just let me sleep. Please, God, please—

You tried to drown it out with the rhythm of your breath, but it threaded through anyway. Soft syllables wrapping around the edges of your resolve, tugging at every memory you had of your sister. The late-night talks. The way she used to knock on your door with that same gentle rhythm when she wanted to sneak in.

Your chest tightened. You pulled the blanket tighter, as though fabric alone could shield you.

Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t.

The air grew heavier, colder. Your breath stuttered in clouds beneath the blanket. For a moment you swore the knocking had moved—closer, nearer, as if it were no longer at the front door but at your very walls.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to pray again, words tumbling out like a chant:

Let the night pass. Let the night pass. Let the night pass.

Eventually, exhaustion dulled the edges of fear. Your body betrayed you, dragging you toward sleep even as the voice lingered like a stain in the silence. The last thing you felt was the blanket damp against your cheeks, tears soaking through as the world slipped into black.

The morning came like a bruise. Purple light filtered through your curtains, too weak to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners of your room. Your body ached with the weight of a night half-slept, half-shaken. When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, your reflection in the mirror startled you: eyes ringed dark, lips pale, shoulders slumped as though the night had stolen a piece of your bones.

Downstairs, your mom’s gaze flicked to you once and then away. She didn’t say anything, but her silence spoke volumes. She looked the same—drawn, gray around the edges, eyes that had forgotten rest. Everyone did this time of year.

The cafe was no different.

“Morning,” your boss muttered as you tied on your apron. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, not anymore. The tables filled with the usual faces, all of them hunched over steaming mugs, hands clasped around the heat like they were afraid to let go. Their conversations were low, clipped—about weather, crops, prices. Never about the thing that gnawed at the town’s edges.

“Rough night?” a customer asked when you placed their order. The words carried sympathy but no surprise. Everyone looked rough these days. Everyone moved like they were waiting for something they couldn’t stop.

You forced a tight smile. “Something like that.”

By the time your shift ended, your body was running on fumes. You made your way to the market, each step heavier than the last. The aisles smelled faintly of dust and produce. You passed jars of pickled beets, boxes of cereal, until you found what you were looking for: small bottles of sleeping medication lined neatly on the shelf.

Your hand shook as you reached for one. A woman browsing nearby glanced at you but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Everyone knew what the pills were for.

That evening, your mother lingered by your door as you moved through your routine of shutting latches and pulling curtains.

“Don’t sit by the window too long,” she said. Her voice was thin, stretched like paper. She didn’t look at you when she said it.

You nodded. Of course you nodded.

But you didn’t listen.

The hours dragged, your body heavy but your mind refusing rest. You found yourself back at the window, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring into the dark.

And that’s when you saw it.

At first, you thought it was just a trick of the streetlight. A shadow bent the wrong way, a shape that didn’t belong. But then your eyes adjusted, and you realized it was a figure.

Standing directly under the lamp.

Still. Watching.

Your heart stuttered. For one wild second you thought—someone was left outside, someone forgot to come in. But no. No one in town would risk it. No one would be that careless.

The figure didn’t move. Not an inch.

And that was when you knew.

It wasn’t a person. It was the warning.

Your breath hitched. Panic surged hot through your veins as you yanked the curtain shut, the fabric snapping against the glass. You stumbled backward, tripping up the stairs , catching yourself on trembling hands.

The house groaned with every step you took, your body desperate to flee, but deep inside you already knew.

It had seen you.

And now it knew.

You were a target.

Three days passed without a sound.

No laughter. No knocks. No whispers outside your window.

The silence should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. It was the kind of silence that crept under your skin, gnawed at the back of your skull, made you feel like you were being studied from a distance. Even at the cafe, people moved with that brittle, waiting energy, but no one spoke of it aloud.

“Quiet spell,” your boss muttered as he wiped down the counter one afternoon. His voice was low, as if afraid the air itself might overhear. “Don’t trust it. Quiet’s never a blessing this time of year.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a nod.

At the market, a neighbor brushed past you, her arm brushing yours. She flinched like your touch burned, and for the briefest second you swore you saw pity in her eyes. But she didn’t say a word. No one did.

That night, you sat by your window again despite your mother’s warnings. The street was empty, the lamps humming faintly. The branches scraped the glass in the wind, their skeletal shadows twitching along your walls.

You almost let yourself believe it was over. That maybe the figure under the lamp had been the last of it. That maybe, by staying silent, you had survived.

And then—

A sound.

“Hey.”

The word slid through the night like a blade. It was her voice. Your sister’s. Warm, familiar, achingly close.

Your throat tightened. You clutched the curtain in your hand but didn’t close it this time. Against every rule, against your better judgment, you looked.

And saw him.

Standing not at the lamp this time, but at the edge of your yard.

He was young. Skin pale as bone in the glow, so pale it almost shimmered against the dark. His hair was black and messy, falling over his forehead as though he’d been running his fingers through it. From far away, you could have mistaken him for just another boy from town—handsome, even, in a quiet, unpolished way.

But then you saw his eyes.

Wide, innocent at first glance—until the light caught them. Black bled from the edges, swallowing the white, crawling inward like ink in water. They twitched with something feral, something too sharp for any human to hold.

He tilted his head, and the movement was wrong. Too quick. Too precise. Following the exact rhythm of your breath, the shift of your shoulders, as though he were learning you piece by piece.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked—her voice spilling from his lips. The same cadence, the same tilt of vowels, like your sister had whispered the line into his ear.

But underneath it, beneath the softness, was something else. A second voice bleeding through—cold, unfamiliar, rattling low in his throat. It scraped against her tone, like two wires sparking together, unnatural and jarring.

You staggered, your hand flying to your mouth.

The smile that curled across his face stretched too wide, sharp and unnatural against his otherwise soft features. “It’s me. Just say hi back.”

He took a step closer.

The gravel under his shoes didn’t crunch.

The air didn’t stir.

He simply… arrived.

Closer than he should’ve been.

Your chest seized. You yanked the curtain shut with shaking hands.

On the other side of the glass, silence. Then—

A knock. Gentle. Patient. Right against the pane you had just closed.

“Please,” the voice begged—your sister’s, warm and trembling. And beneath it, that cold undertone, grinning through her grief. “Don’t leave me out here.”

The knock stayed soft, but the voice grew sharper, threading through the walls as though they were paper-thin.

“It’s me…”

Her voice. Bright and familiar, tugging at old memories you had buried deep — nights spent whispering under blankets, laughter echoing down the hall when the world was quiet.

“Remember when you used to sneak into my room? When you cried after that nightmare, and I held you till you slept?”

Your hands shook against your ears. You squeezed them tighter, whispering to yourself: Not real. Not real. Not her.

But the voice didn’t stop.

“You should’ve come with me that night.” The warmth faltered, cracking into something cruel, before softening again. “I’m still here, you know. Right outside. You only have to say hi. Just once.”

Your stomach twisted, your throat raw with unshed sobs. The desperation in her tone was unbearable, gnawing at the guilt you had carried for months.

And then, under her voice, another broke through — low, cold, scraping along your bones.

She was simple. You’re simpler.

Your chest seized.

The two voices overlapped, one pleading, one mocking, until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Don’t cry,” it cooed in your sister’s voice, but the undertone bent jagged, gleeful. “You’re so easy, aren’t you? Every twitch, every breath, every tear — I can taste it. You’re fun to play with.”

You clamped your hands over your ears harder, curling into yourself on the floor, but the voices slid right through, weaving into your thoughts.

"Sooner or later, you’ll break."

The words slithered through you like smoke, clinging to your ribs. Your despair was a feast, and he devoured it hungrily, his presence swelling stronger with every whimper you couldn’t hold back.

Yes, the undertone purred, deeper now, vibrating against the walls. That’s it. Feed me. Give me more.

You tried to pray, tried to call on anything beyond the suffocating dark, but even your prayers felt hollow under the weight of his hunger.

On the other side of the curtain, you could feel him. His smile. His stillness. His patience.

“You’ll be mine,” he whispered at last, her voice wrapping around the words like silk, but beneath it, his own bled through — jagged and cold.

And in your bones, you knew he was right.

Morning light bled pale through the curtains, catching on the dust in the air. You dragged yourself downstairs, every step heavier than the last. Your mom was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, scrubbing at a pan like it had done her personal harm.

You lingered at the table, watching her. Words pressed against your teeth until you finally let them out.

“Mom… what’s really out there?”

Her hands stilled. The running faucet gushed into silence. She turned slowly, eyes hollowed by nights without rest.

“Don’t,” she said flatly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t need answers to.”

You gripped the edge of the chair, heart pounding. “But I hear them. I hear her—”

The pan clattered into the sink. “You think I don’t?!” Her voice cracked sharp, slicing through the room. “You think I don’t hear her too? Every night, I hear my daughter’s laugh, her voice calling me. And do you know why she’s gone?”

Your throat tightened.

“Because she couldn’t leave it alone. Because she was curious. Because she had to push at every damn boundary until one pushed back!”

“It wasn’t me,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You blame me, but it wasn’t my curiosity—”

“It’s in you too,” she snapped. “The same itch, the same questions. That’s what will kill you, not them.”

The silence after burned hotter than her words. You shoved your chair back, storming for the door.

“You don’t get to put this on me,” you spat, and slammed it behind you hard enough that the walls rattled.

The park was a hollow version of itself.

You sat on the bench you and your sister had claimed as yours in summers past. Back then, the world smelled like sunscreen and melting popsicles, her laughter spilling bright as she pushed you on the swings until you begged her to stop.

Now, children filled the space again — shrieking, leaping from swings, daring each other to jump farther. Their joy rang high into the gray sky, sharp against the low whistle of the wind curling through the bare branches. You closed your eyes, hair whipping against your cheeks, and let yourself sink into memory.

You’d never leave me, right? you once asked her.

Never, she laughed. We’re stuck together forever.

The lie burned colder than the wind.

By sunset, you were home. Like clockwork.

The house felt tighter than before. You noticed it immediately — the windows. Every one of them fitted with new metal locks, gleaming in the dim light.

Your mom was at the sink again, hands in suds, dishes clinking gently. She didn’t look at you when she said, “Don’t think I don’t notice the way you linger by the glass. You’re not her. I won’t lose you too.”

You wanted to argue, to scream that it wasn’t fair, that she had no right to lock you in like a prisoner. But you saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shook as she scrubbed at nothing. You understood. She was afraid. She had every reason to be.

Still, understanding didn’t stop the whisper that curled through the walls like smoke.

“Hey…”

Her voice again. Your sister’s. So close it felt like she was just outside the kitchen window.

You froze.

“Hey, it’s me. Don’t let her lock you away from me.”

Your mom kept scrubbing. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t show that she heard. But you knew she did. You both did.

And as the shadows deepened, the undertone seeped through — Jungwon’s voice, colder, hungrier.

"Locked windows won’t stop me. Not when you’re already opening for me here."

Your chest tightened. You pressed your fists against your thighs, but it didn’t stop the shiver crawling up your spine.

Because he was right. He didn’t need the locks. He already had a way in.

Another day passed, same as yesterday and the day before. But Tonight, tonight the shift began rapidly.

The house was so quiet that you swore you could hear your own heartbeat thundering against the walls. Your mom had locked everything, pulled every curtain, and gone to bed early, but the stillness made it worse.

You sat on your bed, knees to your chest, staring at the window. You told yourself you wouldn’t look. But when his voice came, all resolve cracked.

“Don’t act shy now.”

It wasn’t your sister’s laugh, or her gentle teasing. It was him. His voice — smooth, playful, almost sing-song, but with a sharp edge that made your stomach knot. A voice that knew it didn’t need to shout to get what it wanted.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Slowly, you crept forward, fingers trembling as they pinched the curtain.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “I’ve waited for you. At least give me a peek.”

You tugged the fabric just enough to see outside.

And there he was.

Not at the streetlamp. Not at the gate. He was standing directly beneath your window, head tilted back, staring up at you like he’d been there the whole time.

His pale skin gleamed unnaturally under the light. His hair, dark and messy, hung over his forehead in crooked strands. You already knew his face — sharp, boyish, unsettlingly handsome if not for the wrongness painted into him. His eyes…

All black like before, glistening like oil. They locked on yours, wide and feverish, and when he smiled, your knees almost gave out.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His tone was playful, like he was praising a child for finally listening. “I like when you listen.”

Your throat tightened. You tried to back away, but his head followed your every twitch, tilting at a sharp angle, eyes glittering.

“What’s the matter?” His voice dipped lower, more serious under the teasing lilt. “Scared? Or tempted?”

“Stop it,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could swallow them back.

The grin widened instantly, flashing teeth. He laughed — light and amused, but threaded with something dark, dangerous. “Oh, don’t take it back now. You gave me a piece of you. Do you know how sweet that tastes?”

Your breath hitched. Tears stung at your eyes.

“Say more,” he purred, almost sing-song. “Go on. I promise I’ll enjoy every word.” His tone sharpened, the playfulness curling into command. “Feed me again.”

Something in you snapped. Rage, grief, exhaustion — it all burst at once.

“Leave me alone!”

The words echoed into the night, raw and broken.

For one frozen second, everything went still.

Then his smile sharpened into something vicious. He tilted his head too far, the bones in his neck groaning. His voice dropped into a velvet growl.

“There you are,” he murmured, delighted, dominant. “I told you… you’d break. And now?” His eyes gleamed blacker than ever. “Now we can really begin.”

The café had always been noisy in the mornings — the hiss of milk steamers, the scrape of chairs, Mina’s laugh carrying across the counter.

But today, when you tied on your apron, it felt thinner. Like the sound didn’t want to reach you.

“Morning,” Mina said without looking up, already scribbling something on a receipt pad. She usually added a small grin, some little comment about your hair or the weather. This time she didn’t.

“Morning,” you echoed, though your voice felt too small for the room.

Daniel cracked a joke to a customer by the register — something about how their muffin looked like it had survived a storm. The woman laughed, Mina chuckled too. By the time you approached with the next tray, the laughter had already faded.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. But it was a door shutting before you reached it.

By mid-shift, Mina finally slid you a cup of coffee across the counter. She still looked at you — her eyes tired, but not unkind. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

You blinked, surprised she’d noticed. “I haven’t, really.”

She nodded once. Not pressing, not teasing, just nodding. Then she turned back to Daniel, asking him to cover the back room.

You stood there with the coffee warming your hands, realizing she was still taking care of you — but not letting you in anymore.

It was the little things that kept catching you:

The way Daniel asked Mina what's the weather, even though you were standing closer. The way Mina handed you extra tasks without explaining them, like you already knew what to do — like words weren’t worth wasting. The way customers thank-yous landed softer, quieter, eyes darting away too quickly.

No one said anything wrong. No one snapped. They just… didn’t open the space for you.

And that was worse.

When the rush died down, Mina leaned on the counter, rubbing her temples. “This season’s heavier than last year,” she muttered to Daniel.

Your chest tightened. She didn’t look at you when she said it, but you knew she could feel your eyes.

Daniel murmured something back you didn’t catch, and Mina just sighed. “People don’t bounce back the same. You can only carry so much.”

That’s when you realized — they weren’t scared of you. They were scared of what lingered around you. Of the attention that wasn’t going anywhere. And if they pretended not to see it, maybe it wouldn’t notice them.

You tell yourself not to go to the window. You tell yourself to stare at the ceiling, to count cracks, to memorize the soft pattern of plaster the way you used to memorize vocabulary lists before a test. You tell yourself to breathe on a four-count—in, two, three, four; out, two, three, four—the way your sister taught you when panic braided your lungs into nets.

You last nine minutes.

The house is too quiet. Your mother turned in early again, a soft door-click down the hall that felt like a goodbye you weren’t meant to hear. The new locks glint dull in the lamplight. You run your thumb over one, over and over, until the metal warms against your skin.

Don’t look.

The curtain hems touch your knuckles. Your mouth tastes metallic. Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure it will shake dust from the light fixture.

You open the curtain a thumb-width.

He’s there.

Not at the gate, not at the porch. Directly beneath your window, face tilted up like a flower starving for sun. His skin is marble-pale, almost glowing; his hair is night itself, mussed in soft chaos across his forehead. Those eyes—oil-slick, more black than not now—catch the weak spill of the streetlamp and drink it whole.

He smiles like you’re a secret he’s been allowed to keep.

“Finally,” he says, playful as a coin flipping. The voice is his tonight—low, velvet, almost amused—but there’s steel curled under every syllable. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep on me.”

Your fingers cramp on the fabric. Don’t answer. Don’t—

He hums, as if reading a note only he can hear. “You can, you know. I like your voice. Even when you use it to tell me to leave.” A beat. “Especially then.”

You close the curtain a hair. It’s nothing, barely movement. His head tilts in the exact same degree, mirroring you like he’s tethered to your wrists.

“How was work?” he asks, light. “Did they look through you again? No jokes saved for you, no questions meant for your mouth?” The smile widens, not cruel exactly—too delighted for cruelty. “I do love this town. They make my work so easy.”

Heat bites your eyes. “Stop.”

It slips out, thin as thread. You hear your mother shift in her sleep, her bed frame groaning; you freeze until the house settles, then breathe again, quiet, careful, like stealth will keep the hunger outside from scenting you.

He sighs, dramatic, stage-sad. “There you are. I missed that. Say it again.”

“No.”

“Oh, but you will.” His tone brightens. “Tell me why you didn’t sit with them today.”

“I had tables.”

“You didn’t.” He says it like he’s been standing in the café shadows all morning, counting your steps. Maybe he was. “You waited with a coffee in your hand until the heat bled out of it. I could feel the way your palm stung. I like that you held it anyway.”

The room shrinks. He wasn’t there. He couldn’t have been there. But the words slot into place with a sick click. Cold coffee. The sting. He knows—how does he know—

“Look at me,” he purrs, and the order is silk on the surface, iron underneath. “There’s no point pretending that curtain matters.”

You open it a little more.

“Good. I thought the distance might bore you.” He glances past you, toward the dark slice of the hall beyond your bedroom. “And Mother? Sleeping like a saint?”

“Don’t—” Your throat clamps. You want to spit, don’t talk about her, but you can’t hand him that target.

“Mm.” He smiles without teeth. “I don’t need her. You’re enough.”

You’re not enough for anyone, something poisonous whispers in your ribs. Not for Mina, not for Daniel, not for the customers who won’t meet your eyes. But you’re enough for this.

He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet. It should be a human motion. It isn’t. The night seems to slide forward with him.

“Tell me what hurts,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Tell me what hurts,” he repeats, gentle, like he’s asking whether you’d like tea, like he’s asking what book to read to you before bed. Then the smile hooks. “I’ll press on it.”

You laugh, a sound with no humor in it. “No.”

“Then I’ll guess.” His head tilts, cataloging you. “It isn’t guilt tonight. You’ve worn that too often; it’s dull around the edges. It’s… absence. Hollow places where people should be.” He nods once, delighted when your silence sinks. “Yes. That one.”

He steps closer. The glass ghosts with your breath and, for a dizzy moment, you imagine his breath could fog it too. Maybe it does. A faint crescent blooms and fades opposite your mouth like a kiss print left by a ghost.

“Here.” He lifts a hand and, though he doesn’t touch the glass, you pull back. “I can fill those places. Say my name.”

“No,” you rasp. You haven’t learned it. You refuse to.

His eyes gleam. “You don’t have to know it. You already say it every night when you think you’re saying please.”

“I don’t—”

He cuts you off in your sister’s voice, perfect and awful. “Please, please, let the night pass.” The timbre is hers, the breath pattern hers, the little hiccup on please that only she ever teased you for. Then the undertone drags through, cold iron ringing under silk. “I liked that prayer. You sound so small in it.”

You wall your face with your palms. The linen smells like detergent and fear.

“Take your hands down,” he says, playful again. “I want to see. That’s part of the bargain.”

“There is no—” You bite through the word. Do not ask what bargain. Do not offer a door.

“Of course there is,” he says lightly. “You look, you listen, you don’t run. I talk, I stay right here.” He leans closer, grin slicing. “For now.”

The floor seems to pitch. “You’re not coming in.”

He hums, considers you like a problem he’s anticipated the answer to. “No. You are coming out.”

You press your spine to the wall. “No.”

“Eventually.” He says it not as threat but as weather. Fact. “But I’m patient. I’m good with long games. I like long games. They make the final moment taste better.”

The room sways. You imagine the café again—the way Mina slid the coffee to you without meeting your eyes, the way she rubbed her temples and said the season was heavier, the way Daniel shifted his body so you wouldn’t brush his sleeve. All the soft doors closing.

If I open this one, at least something is opening.

You choke a laugh, furious at yourself. “Is that the trick? Starve me and feed me at the same time?”

“Yes,” he says, delighted. “You’re clever when you’re tired.”

Something knocks lightly against the far end of the hallway. You flinch so hard your shoulder hits the glass. It’s nothing—a settling board, a pipe. The house is old and full of its own ghosts. He doesn’t turn. His eyes never leave you.

“Don’t worry.” His voice slips softer, close to a murmur, intimate as breath at a jawline. “If I wanted her, I would have started with her. I want you.”

“Because I’m weak?” It comes out a snarl through your teeth.

“Because you’re sweet,” he corrects, and the playfulness breaks for one second, letting you hear the seriousness underneath like bedrock. “Because you love hard. Because you keep showing up to the glass.”

Your heart stutters. Your palms sweat. He hears both and smiles, satisfied.

“Say hi,” he says gently. The most dangerous thing he’s said all night because it’s so soft, so reasonable, so please just a word.

You clamp your teeth together until your jaw aches.

He laughs, bright. “Fine. Don’t. I like the ache, too. Take it to bed. I’ll take it back from you later.”

He steps away then—the motion is wrong, a slide, a frame flicker—and the yard is empty. The streetlamp hums. The wind lifts a tired leaf and lets it fall.

You stand with your forehead against the glass, shaking, until your legs remember you again. When you finally crawl to bed, you keep your eyes open long after the dark blurs. You can taste his smile. You can hear the ghost of your sister’s voice braided into his until you can’t tell which one you’re grieving.

Don’t say hi back. You hold the words like a rosary. Don’t say hi back, don’t say—

The last thing you hear before sleep punishes you is a whisper so faint you could swear you dreamed it.

“Goodnight.”

You don’t know if it was him or memory. You don’t know which is worse.

The morning does not arrive so much as it loosens its grip on the dark. You lie there and listen to the radiator tick like a nervous metronome and tell yourself two opposite things at once: last night was nothing and last night changed the architecture of the air. You get up when the light on your wall is more gray than black and find that the house already smells like toast you won’t eat.

Your mother is at the sink, sleeves pushed to her elbows, wedding ring turned inward the way she always wears it during this season. She doesn’t look up when you come in. She never looks away, either. Her eyes fix on the window latch as if eye contact is what keeps it closed.

“Take the blue coat,” she says. “Wind’s meaner today.”

You almost tell her you won’t be long—lie to both of you—but instead you stand there, collecting the small things: the spoon she’s using to press crumbs into the drain, the way her shoulder blades make worried peaks beneath her sweater. If you say your sister’s name, she will not answer. This has been the truth of a year.

You take the blue coat. The pockets hold the same lint as yesterday. The front door opens with its old hiss, the kind that used to mean freedom to you as a child and now sounds like a rule’s breath.

Outside, the town wears its late-autumn mask. The park is a geometry of empty benches and swings that creak whether or not the wind earns it. Two kids chase each other up the slide in coats too thin and boots too loud, and a mother calls out without looking at them. She keeps his gaze on the sky, calculating light.

You walk past the church, past the locked gazebo where people used to play chess in the evenings, and into the square where the café sighs steam into the cold. You tell yourself you’re going in only because routine is the string that keeps you tethered to the ground. You tell yourself routine still means what it used to.

Mina looks up when the bell rings. She always has eyes that see first and judge later, and lately the later has sat heavier in her voice than either of you like. Today, she does something you don’t expect: she lifts a mug, fills it, and sets it on the counter before you have to ask.

“You’re early,” she says, and manages to put a smile in it that reaches halfway. “Daniel called out sick. Said it was the weather in his bones.” She rolls her eyes, then lowers her voice. “He’s twenty-four.”

You almost smile. Almost. “Maybe his bones know things.”

“Don’t they all.” She slides the mug closer. “I put extra syrup. You looked like you’d dislike the bitter.”

It is kindness shaped like task. You take it. You say thank you like it’s heavier than the cup.

During the lull, a woman you’ve never seen before asks you where the restroom is and thanks you with a hand on her chest, sincere as a pledge. Another customer holds the door for a family and nods to you as if you share a secret. None of this is miraculous. It is the same architecture of town you used to count on. But when people look away too quickly—when a laugh dies as you pass—you notice it less as insult and more as proof you’ve practiced: they are not scared of you. They are scared of the address he has memorized.

You stack plates. You wipe tables. You learn the shape of Mina’s silences and which ones have a door behind them. Mid-shift, she touches your sleeve to stop you from carrying more than you can hold. “Pace yourself,” she says, and there is a softness to it that used to be common and now feels contraband.

“Do you ever—” you begin, and swallow the end. You do not ask if she hears things. You do not ask if she locks her bathroom window twice. You say, “Never mind,” and she lets you keep the rest.

When you leave, she gives you a second cup in a paper sleeve and says, “For your mom.” You nod as if this is a thing you do all the time, as if one day you didn’t hand over a cup and watch it sit cooling beside a plate set for someone who never used it.

On the walk home, you hear your name and tell yourself it is not your name. It is only the wind’s consonant trick. You do not look. You practice not looking the way other people practice scales.

The house is as you left it. Your mother’s humming has shifted to chopping, small quick beats on the cutting board, an anthem against what can’t be cut. You set the cup by her elbow. She doesn’t turn, but she says, “Thank you,” and you consider this a victory because it is an answer that includes you.

You try to nap in the late afternoon and fail. You drift at the surface of sleep and catch yourself on a hook each time your sister’s voice swims close. You wake with your throat tight and the taste of apology behind your teeth, a reflex from childhood that never needed aiming.

Twilight arrives with its old efficiency. The rule stirs in the walls like heat. Your mother does her tour: latch, latch, latch; touch, whisper, glance; the picture frame straightened; the salt dish nudged an inch left for no reason except tradition demands a choreography. You shadow her like a child and like a guard.

“Don’t sit by the window,” she says, and you nod because nodding is all there is.

She pauses as she is leaving your room. “If you hear anything—” She stops. The sentence has no good ending. “If you hear anything,” she says again, and closes the door with the gentleness of someone who knows any louder would be a break.

You sit on the floor again. The curtain is a wall you can move with two fingers. Your chest feels like you’ve been running the perimeter of something you can’t name.

The first hour of night makes an ordinary case for itself: the neighbor’s porch light pretending to be brave, the dull hum of the streetlamp. You do not open the curtain. You knot your fingers and unknot them and say small unremarkable prayers you do not believe in except as breath-regulation.

When the voice arrives, it wears a smile you can hear.

“Miss me?”

You keep your mouth closed. It burns. It tastes like you bit a penny.

“Rude,” he says, sing-song, but not truly injured. “After last night, I thought we were finally getting along.”

You grip your knees until bone complains. You do not answer. The silence is effort. You imagine it has weight, that you can hold it the way you would hold a door shut against a storm.

He lets the playfulness ride the top of his words for a moment, then he sets it down like a toy and picks up something heavier. “Open the curtain.”

Your name does not appear in that sentence, but it feels stamped on it. The tone is colder. No sing-song. No flirt. It is a temperature drop you feel on your scalp. When you do not move, the next words come trimmed to edge.

“Open. The curtain.”

You open it a sliver. Your hands move before your pride shows up to argue. The air tastes like snow that hasn’t fallen yet.

He is now on the porch roof, level with your window, closer than you can forgive. Tonight, he wears stillness like a pressed shirt; every line of him is exact. The eyes are their wrong black, but quieter, as if their brightness is leashed for the moment.

“Better,” he says, and you want to hate how relief runs through you like heat. The smile returns to his mouth—less teeth than last night, more ease. “See? We can do hard things.”

“Go away,” you say, a small flat stone.

“Mm,” he says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, a sound that almost means cute, and then the steel again: “Say it properly.”

You know what he wants. You won’t give him the word that runs your town, not while your mother sleeps in a room that has taught you every lullaby. But you also hear that his patience has joints that can lock. You try to thread a safer line.

“Leave.”

“That’s better.” The edge lifts; playfulness slips back like a hand into a familiar glove. “See? We’re learning manners together.” He leans his shoulder toward the glass with fake laziness, his head tilted in that not-quite-human calibration that tracks the tiny tremors in your jaw. “What did you do today?”

You blink. “What?”

“Tell me your nothing.” He smiles as if offering a gift. “It taste tests well.”

“I went to work.”

“Mmm.”

“I brought my mom coffee.”

“Sweet,” he says, like he has put honey under his tongue and found it acceptable. “What else.”

“Walked home.”

He exaggerates a yawn, delighted. “Thrilling. What color coat?”

“Blue.”

“Good girl.” The words land low and private, touch a nerve you don’t like to know you have. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, you don't know why you're talking to him, obeying him. He watches that and is pleased by his accuracy. “Tell me what Mina said.”

“Nothing.” It is almost true.

“Liar,” he says lightly, approval underneath it, as if lying is a skill he is happy to practice with you. Then the tone switches again, crisp as frost: “Try again.”

“She… made me coffee. Extra syrup,” you admit, because deception never did well in your mouth. “She told me to pace myself.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

He laughs softly. “Of course not. You only pace anything when I make you.” The play shifts to intimacy. “Did you think of me at the sink?”

“No,” you say too fast.

“There’s the liar I like,” he murmurs, and when you go still he drifts closer—not a step, not a sway; the distance between you simply less—until the shape of his mouth would be easy to memorize for a lifetime if you needed to. “Here is what we’ll do,” he says, cheerful as a clerk folding paper. “You will keep telling me your small days. I will keep liking them. You will keep your window closed, and I will keep my hands out of your house. And one night, when you have collected enough little nothings to convince yourself you are safe with me, you will walk out here without me asking.”

“I won’t.” Your voice scratches like a match that won’t strike.

“Of course you will.” The steel hums beneath the velvet again, matter-of-fact, all outcome. “Not because you’re weak. Because you’re loyal. You will come to the voice that stayed.”

You shake your head hard, and it feels like you’re shaking the room. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he says, bright and satisfied. “It reads like love when you’re tired.”

The window fogs faintly. You don’t know if it’s your breath doing the trick or some other part of the night’s inventory. He watches the cloud bloom and disappear, bloom and disappear, and times his next sentence to the moment of clearest glass.

“Give me your hands.”

“No.”

He tilts his head; the playfulness folds neatly and the dominance steps forward with its precise shoes. “Hands.”

You lift them before you’ve decided to. Your palms hover an inch from the glass. He raises his own, mirroring the distance. Your skin prickles like it remembers other winters, other windows, other scenes where no one asked anything dangerous of you.

“Closer,” he says, soft again, as if he’s forgotten he ever has a cold voice. You know he hasn’t. You know he chooses which drawer to pull words from and when.

You set your hands against the pane. It’s colder than you expect, and in the small translation between your heat and the glass’s, you can pretend something touches you back.

He does not push. He does not do anything you can write down later as the moment. He only watches you until your elbows ache. He only smiles when your fingers tremble and your pride refuses to pull them away.

“Do you want this to stop?” His tone is easy. “Say the word that empties a town.”

The air tilts. The rule sits on your tongue like a hot coin. Don’t say hi back. You can carry that line all your life. You can turn it into a fence; you can tie it around your wrists and call it a bracelet.

You do not say it. You swallow until it scrapes.

“Or,” he says, drawing the syllable out like music, “do you want this to end?”

“I want—” You close your mouth. You start again. “I want my sister,” you say, and almost laugh at how small it sounds, like a child in a grocery store looking for a hand that has moved one aisle over.

“Then come,” he says, and the playful tone goes completely flat for the first time tonight, dominance without polish. It is not a shout. It is a sheet of ice laid down on the road. “Come out.”

You stiffen. “No.”

His eyes brighten in the wrong way. “You’re complicated again.” The cold stays. “You’re not allowed to be complicated. You get to be simple—yes or no. I prefer yes.”

“I prefer no.”

He studies you the way a person studies a map when they already know the route, just checking for road work. When he speaks again, the play slides back over the steel like a pretty coat.

“Then let’s play days,” he says lightly, as if he’s offering a card trick. His smile is soft, but underneath it, you feel the weight of something heavy, immovable. “I’ll give you seven. If you win, I’ll go quiet for a season. If I win, you walk out.”

Your breath stumbles. “How is that a game?” you ask, and hate the way your voice sounds like it’s hoping for rules. Hoping rules mean fairness. Hoping rules mean escape.

“You don’t answer me for seven days,” he smiles, tilting his head. “Not a word. Not a sigh. Not even that little tremor your lips do when you’re aching to speak but think better of it.”

“I don’t—”

“Tremor,” he interrupts, delighted, eyes catching yours with a gleam too bright to be human. “You’re doing it now.”

You press your lips together until your jaw aches. You want to spit at him, to tell him he’s wrong, but you can feel it: the twitch, the almost-sound. You give him what he wants without meaning to.

“Ready?” he asks, bright, almost singsong. Then the brightness falls away in an instant, his voice flattening into cold command: “We start now.”

Day One

You keep silent.

He talks.

Through the window, through your walls, through the marrow of your bones. His words slip into your house like smoke under a door. He doesn’t ask you questions; he narrates you.

“You’re chewing the inside of your cheek. I like that—it means you’re listening harder than you want me to think.”

You close your eyes, press your palms over your ears. It doesn’t help.

“You’re counting,” he says softly, pleased. “On a rhythm she taught you, wasn’t it? Four in, four out. You’re not breathing for yourself anymore. You’re breathing for her.”

Tears sting. You hold the silence.

“Day one,” he murmurs after hours that feel like claws. “You’ll break sweeter later.”

Day Two

You last through daylight by distracting yourself—work at the café, scrubbing dishes harder than necessary, taking every customer order with a clipped politeness that feels like armor. Mina gives you a to-go cup without asking and mutters, “For your mom.” When your hands brush, she doesn’t flinch. It should warm you. It doesn’t.

Because you know he’s watching even in daylight.

That night, he comes back with your sister’s voice—gentle, coaxing, exactly as you remember it. “Remember when we sat up all night reading that stupid book by flashlight? You couldn’t stay awake, but I kept going. I never left you behind, did I? Why leave me behind?”

You bite your fist. The urge to whisper her name burns your throat. You don’t.

His own voice slides under hers, low, cold, amused. “Good girl. You learn quickly when you’re desperate.”

Day Three

At work, Daniel drops a spoon when you walk by. Mina scolds him, but you catch the flicker in her eye. They’re not afraid of you. You remind yourself - They’re afraid of what circles you like a shark smelling blood.

By nightfall, you’re shaking before he even speaks.

“You didn’t laugh today,” he croons. “Not once. Mina tried, didn’t she? She gave you something sweet. She wanted to see it in your face. But you saved it for me instead.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t answer.

“You want to know how I know?” His tone drops, cold, slicing. “Because I was in the café. Because I was standing close enough to see your pulse hammer at your throat when she touched your sleeve. Because you looked for me in the reflection of the glass.”

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t realized you had.

“I’m in your hours now,” he whispers, shifting back into that eerie playfulness. “Not just your nights.”

Day Four

You slip.

Not with words—with looking. You open the curtain just enough to prove he’s not there. But he is. Always. Standing at the gate this time, smiling up at you like you’ve given him a gift.

“There you are,” he murmurs, pleased. “I like when you check. It means you’re thinking of me even when you shouldn’t.”

Your nails dig into your palms until they hurt. You slam the curtain shut, but you already know: you lost.

“Day four,” he says, voice cold. “Closer.”

Day Five

Snow starts falling, slow and patient, as though the sky has decided to take sides. The town grows quieter. At the café, Mina asks if you want to switch shifts—“so you don’t have to walk home near sunset.” You shake your head, because it wouldn’t matter. She looks at you too long, like she knows.

That night, Jungwon laughs softly, delighted. “She’s pulling away, isn’t she? They all are. Good. I don’t like sharing.”

His voice switches to cold dominance, the kind that doesn’t rise, doesn’t need to. “Look at me.”

You don’t. You refuse.

“Complicated,” he mutters, the chill in his words enough to frost the glass. Then, with whiplash ease, he’s playful again. “That’s fine. I enjoy untangling knots.”

Day Six

You dream of your sister. She’s sitting at the foot of your bed, hair messy from wind, smiling like the world hasn’t ended. She opens her mouth to speak—

And his voice comes out.

You wake with a scream caught in your throat.

That night, when you press your hands to the glass, he mirrors you perfectly. His smile is small, soft. Almost kind.

“You miss her,” he whispers. “But it isn’t her you wait for anymore. It’s me.”

Your chest cracks. Tears streak down your face. You stay silent, but the silence tastes like surrender.

Day Seven

You don’t remember deciding to open the curtain. But you do.

He’s on the porch roof, level with you, close enough you can see the faint cracks at the corner of his lips, the near-human softness that makes everything worse.

“Seven days,” he says, tone cold now. Inevitable. Final. “You didn’t win.”

Your body trembles. “I—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, steel in his voice. Then, with that same sickening lilt, he softens, playful again. “No excuses. No begging. You knew the rules when you started.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming black as tar. “Walk.”

You stumble back. “No—”

“Walk.” Cold, commanding, undeniable.

Your heart claws at your ribs. You think of Mina’s coffee, your mother’s quiet prayers, your sister’s laughter. You think of the rule. Don’t say hi back.

And then you hear your own voice, thin and broken: “Hi.”

The word burns like it was waiting in you all along.

The lamp outside pops. Darkness rolls in thick as water. Your feet unconsciously moved you out your room and down the steps.

The front door groaned open, spilling what little warmth remained behind you onto the porch. For a moment, you stood there in the threshold, breath fogging in front of you, your mother’s silence pressing down the hall like a hand you could no longer reach.

Then you stepped out.

The cold hit instantly, biting at your skin, burrowing into your lungs. But it didn’t feel like air. It felt like presence — thick, expectant, alive.

He was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Pale skin glowing in the broken spill of moonlight, hair hanging wild over his forehead, eyes black as tar but gleaming as if something inside them burned. That too-wide smile curled slow, as though he had been smiling for you long before you arrived.

“There you are,” Jungwon said, voice low, velvet. The kind of playful lilt you could almost mistake for gentle—if not for the iron underneath. “I told you you’d come.”

Your knees wavered. Every rule you’d been taught screamed in your chest, clawing to pull you back inside. But the pull toward him was heavier, magnetic, inevitable.

You took another step.

“Good girl,” he murmured, eyes drinking in the tremor in your hands, the salt of your tears. “Sweet and stubborn… but you still walked.” His tone sharpened, cold dominance slicing through the night: “Exactly as I said you would.”

You reached the bottom step. The dark clung tighter here, wrapping you like a second skin. You swore you could feel him before you touched him, something curling around your wrists, slipping into the hollow of your throat.

His smile softened, eerie, almost tender. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You belong to me now.”

The streetlamp hissed, flickered once, and went out.

The town plunged into silence.

And as you stepped off the porch into his waiting shadow, your voice — the same one that had prayed, pleaded, resisted for nights — was gone.

Only his remained.

“Mine.”

The door behind you never opened again.

Happy Fictober! Hope this one hunts you just right! Like, Comment, and Reblog.

he stood leaning against a wall, surrounded by his intimidating-looking friends, who did not help for his case of being daunting. his shaggy hair fell into his eyes, which were dark and sharp, piercing those who looked at him. and he “never” smiled – though you could attest otherwise, seeing his smile all the time. 

through the corner of his eye, taesan caught you and your friends looking at him and started to approach your table. 

“i’m gonna go over to y/n. be right back.” taesan excused himself, but his friends couldn’t let him go without a little tease. 

“aw, taesannie!” jaehyun cooed, making grabby-hand motions at him. “how cute, he misses his girlfriend, huh?” he said mockingly, a small smirk on his face as he held back a laugh. 

“shut up,” taesan said bluntly before leaving his friends. 

he walked up from behind you, causing your shoulders to jump when he spoke. “hey,” he said in a low voice, wrapping his hands around your shoulders. “d’you want anything?” 

you turned around, standing to face taesan properly. “hi, san.” you greeted him with a warm hug, smiling into the crook of his neck. “could you get me a drink? like, tea or something?” you give him your student card to pay with, but he refuses, pushing your hand away. 

“yeah, of course, baby.” he dismissed your pleas of using your card to pay and went to get your drink. 

“see? he’s not scary at all, guys.” you go back to scraping your plate, scooping up the rest of your food. 

you expected them to start talking, but there was no response. looking up from your plate, instead of agreeing, your friends’ jaws were dropped, practically unhinged. 

“he actually listens to you?” liz said in astonishment, trying to believe what she saw, but it wasn’t registering. you furrowed your brows at your friends, confused as to why they wouldn’t trust you when you said it. 

“...yeah?” well, taesan was somewhat of a bad student, considering he did tend to skip a bunch of classes and had over twenty missing assignments, but he wasn’t a bad boyfriend, and that was for sure. 

yujin on the other hand, was shocked for another reason. “baby? he calls you baby!?” she gasped. “i thought it was some sort of prank that you and him were doing, i can’t believe it’s real.” 

“he’s a good boyfriend, i promise. you both know i wouldn’t simply get with someone, especially if i thought they weren't a good person.” you reassured the two, reminding them of how mature you were and that taesan was a good guy. “plus, i really like him.” 

you weren’t sure as to why yujin and liz had gone silent, staring at you with eyes that told you they knew something you didn’t. but that was because they did, and that was that taesan was standing at the back of you. holding your bottle of tea he’d gotte  from the vending machine. listening to every word you were saying. 

“you like me that much?” he chuckled, handing you the bottle of tea. “see you later, y/n.” and with that, he started heading back to his friends. 

“you both are so in love with each other, it’s actually insane.” liz shook her head, a small grin peeking through the corners of her lips. 

yujin laughed, agreeing with the girl beside her. “who would’ve thought.” 

boynextdoor taglist. @beomev 

Marriages of convenience are rarely easy, especially for spirits as free as Heeseung, and he's made it clear to you how much he'd rather have married anyone else instead. They also come with burdensome expectations of heirs way too soon for his liking. Yet, something about your devotion to him in your most intimate moments despite your general indifference and coldness towards each other, brought the cold and hard as steel man down to his knees, a puddle of mush at your feet ready to fulfill any request.

"Hee," you mutter softly against your pillow as he parts your legs to make space for himself, and Heeseung's heart soars. A month ago it would've been 'Heeseung' or 'husband' with that venomous tone you seemed to only reserve for him, like his spot in your life was only a joke. It's different now, you're tender with him.

"Shh, pretty. Just lay here for me like this." It's still early, and Heeseung can barely see, but he wants the first thing he looks at in the morning to be your pretty hole, raw and sore from all the previous fucking, still gush his seed out. He parts your folds slowly, careful not to hurt you, and watches as his milky cum greets him, pouring out of you. It's a sight for sore eyes, and one he knows he will never get enough of. Even when he'll manage to put a child in you, he knows this is something he won't be able to let go of.

You shift, now more aware of your surroundings, but Hee is quick to keep you still. Your hand underneath your stomach faintly tingles because of its weird position, but it all fades in the background when Heeseung grabs your ass and spreads it, moving lap at where his cum is gushing out of you.

You're still sensitive from the night you spent together, but his touch is feather light and you don't really know if you want him to stop or you want more. He moans at the mixture of your tastes, pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt like he's trying to clean you, switching so soft kisses on your lips once he's satisfied.

He makes his way up to your face, littering your bottom and spine in kisses and playful nibbles, relishing in the little sounds you make in response. Your front is still pressed to the mattress, and not seeing him almost makes you believe this is not the Heeseung that was shooting you sharp glares throughout the entire wedding ceremony. His touch is warmer, so much more delicate than the way he held your end that first night. His kisses are slow and deliberate, not empty and forced anymore. It's like soul has find its way back into Heeseung's being, after months of being a cold slate. The change started out slowly, but now you're here, and you genuinely feel like you could really love this man. Maybe a part of you does already.

His voice is the same, but the tone makes him sound like a whole different person, the forever present irritation is gone, only a playful tilt to it left as he finally reaches your ear to whisper in it. "Slipped out while sleeping, all of our hard work gone… such a pity." Heeseung aligns his cock to your weeping cunt, rubbing his head a few times along your folds, then carefully pushes in. "We have to do it all over again."

He's gentle, showering you in soft praises, and his thrusts are even slower. You've never known anything other than fucking, but you think this is what lovemaking feels like.

"So good, baby. You'll be such a good mom, you've been so patient with me even when i didn't deserve it. You'll be wonderful," he whispers in your ear, raising goosebumps all over your skin at just how sweet he sounds. "You are wonderful. You're perfect."

ꕥ PARK JONGSEONG

husband!jay, semi-public, bulge kink, he's insatiable

What better way to spend your honeymoon trip if not by getting filled over and over again by your dear, newlywed husband?

You can't think of any, but maybe that's also because you can't really think about anything that's not the delicious drag of Jay's cock against your walls. So deep inside you, pushing more even when his balls are already flush to your skin. Like he can't get enough, like he could break any barrier and mold into you as one if he really put his mind to it. He needs more, you both do.

But one thing's for sure, he's giving you his all.

"So fucking good, my wife has the best pussy. So perfect for me," he pants hotly in your ear, his large warm hand cupping your breast and separating it from the frigid glass your front is pushed against. The view from your suite is breathtaking, emphasized by the huge transparent wall, right beside the queen sized bed. At the moment though, you're not really focused on it. Nor is Jay, too busy gawking at your beautiful figure caged between his chest and the glass. He could stare at you forever. "I'm gonna stuff you full, baby. Gonna fuck you so good all trip, there's no way you won't be pregnant by the end."

You believe it, because all he's done ever since you undid your luggage in the middle of the room once you arrived to your destination is pump you full of his cum, all day, all night. And then all over again. Only stopping to get you food. You aren't safe from him when showering, even worse when taking a bath, definitely not when you're lounging around the natural pool close to your suite. It's not his fault you look so good in the bathing suits you packed and the ones he picked out for you. Jay has always had good stamina, but ever since the wedding he's been downright feral.

His thrusts are slow, but intense, like he's trying to drag the pleasure out as long as he can, savoring the way his tip nudges just the right stop that has you mewling in his hold every single time. His breath is warm against your neck and so are his grunts of pleasure, your favorite sound in the whole world.

Jay twists your sensitive and sore nipples between his fingers, only smiling into your neck when you reward him with the cutest mewls he's ever heard in his life. "Fuck, baby. I'm the luckiest man alive. I can't believe you're mine forever."

"You too," you whine in response.

"Yes baby, I'm all yours, forever. I love you much."

"Love you too," you sob, throwing your head back into his shoulder, completely overtaken by the pleasure he's giving you, allowing him more access to lick and suck on your sensitive neck.

"I know, baby. I know. You're doing so good, just a little more. My sweet girl, you'll be such a good mom. Can't wait to make you one. We'll have so many, so many cute kids running around. Doesn't that sound like a dream? Fuck, I can't wait."

The hand still playing with your tits slides down to your stomach, pushing down on it until Jay can feel his own cock thrusting into you. "Right here, you're gonna carry our baby here." He keeps fucking into you slowly, deliberately, so different from the speed of the circles he draws on your clit with the fingers that were soothing your hip just moments before. He drags out his own pleasure, but needs to give you so much more. "Come on my cock baby, milk it dry. We have so much more work to do."

ꕥ SIM JAEYUN

fwb!jake but he has feelings, he's down bad and a little subby in this one, dub-con (for jake), slight blood play (just his lip)

This is a series of mistakes. It's all Jake seems to be doing as of lately.

First of all, he's not even supposed to be in your bed again, the fourth time this week. Not when he finally came to terms with the fact that he has developed a raging crush on you and cannot keep his feelings at bay any longer, even when you two agreed this whole arrangement will only be sex and nothing else.

But he can't help it when you're so fucking addicting. You not liking him back is gonna break his heart, but at least he gets to fuck you, at least he gets a little piece of you, even if it's not exactly the one he wants.

Secondly, he should've refused to fuck you raw for the first time the moment you asked, even if the thought alone had his eyes crossing and rolling all the way to the back of his skull. But he's a weak man, for you especially, and he simply couldn't resist the temptation, not when you looked up at him with your big glossy eyes and with such a cute pout on your lip.

So here he is now, fucking you raw like his life is on the line, trying his hardest not to spill inside you too soon because if he does he might just die from embarrassment.

All he does, all he's ever done, is with the purpose of impressing you. It's like you have him chained up to this invisible leash he didn't even notice you put on him, and now it's too late to take it off. Jake means it when he says he would do anything for you.

His thrusts are shallow and quick, he's fucking you mostly with his tip, and you don't think you've ever seen him so worked up. It makes you feel things you didn't even know you needed. You like the feeling.

"You're so cute like this, Jakey," you giggle into the messy open mouthed kiss he's drowning you in, your fingers ghosting on the muscles of his back while his tremble on your waist. "Fuck me deeper, I want to feel all of you."

Jake's hips still for a second as he bites down on his bottom lip so hard he draws blood, but you don't mind at all. You even lick it clean, sighing dreamily at the iron taste overtaking your senses. Jake's eyes screw shut, and he's so close to cumming his eyes start to water. This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him, and thinking that this might very well be the last time only makes his eyes wetter.

"I—fuck. I can't. I'll cum too soon."

"That's okay, we can go again," you say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and a little piece of Jake's heart breaks. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

You sense his hesitation and wrap your legs around his hips, pushing them closer to your pelvis so his length fully sheaths inside you. It's so warm and big and throbbing to release his cum in you and there's not a single thing you want more. "Fill me up, Jakey. Claim me," you whisper in his ear. "Why don't you show everyone I belong to you?"

Jake resumes his movements, tentatively at first but steadily building a pace that feels good, his thrusts are deeper now, needier, and even if he were to try to pull out, you'd keep him right there. "I want to. I want you fully, fuck— please be mine," he sobs into the valley of your breasts, voice muffled as he licks and nips at your skin.

"Go on. Make me yours then. Show me how bad you want me."

And he does because fuck, he's weak. He's so fucking weak for you and he wouldn't have it any other way.

ꕥ PARK SUNGHOON

coworker!hoon, secret relationship, semi-public, degradation, jealousy, mentions of marriage

Something about the way Sunghoon's thick eyebrows were furrowed from the second he walked into the job that morning, or how his jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth whenever any of your colleagues as much as opened their mouths to say something, should've been your cue to behave for the day.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, he happens to look so damn hot when he's pissed.

And he's so filthy when he's jealous, pushing his buttons becomes your favorite challenge in times like these.

"Eyeing Jake all day like you want to bring him to the back and fuck him, are you not ashamed?" he spits, voice an octave lower than usual and barely slipping through his gritted teeth. "Bending over in front of him, touching him when you know I can see you. Do I have to mark you up for you to fucking behave for once?"

The roughness in his voice makes your eyes wet but your panties wetter, he doesn't bother to undress you, you don't have time for it anyway. You're just a few steps away from the lounge bar where some of your coworkers are surely taking a break right now. Anyone could walk in at any time, and maybe Sunghoon wishes for that to happen.

Instead Sunghoon just flips your skirt up and pushes your panties to the side, immediately rubbing his angry red tip on your folds to coat them in your own juices. He feels so incredibly hard against you, and that's how you know he must've been hiding a boner this entire time. As much as he loves to pretend he doesn't, it's little cues like this that let you know just how much he enjoys putting you back in your place. "Of course you're soaked." He barks a laugh devoid of humor but full of disdain.

"If it's my attention you want," he whispers more softly, and the switch in his attitude sends shivers down your spine, something that doesn't go unnoticed by Sunghoon, his lips curling into a smirk. "I'll give it to you. I'll give you so much of it you won't ever think about disrespecting me again."

He pushes his girth into you fully in one thrust, his rough fingers finding your clit within seconds, not even giving you enough time to savor the pleasurable sting that comes from his cock stretching you out so nicely. He grabs your jaw in his other hand, his smirk not turned into a snarl. "You'll cum, and you'll cum hard enough to milk all of me. You'll keep cumming around my cock no matter how much it hurts, until I fill you up. Is that clear?"

You would nod if you could, but his grip is too strong, so you do what you can: just stand there as he subjects you to anything his heart desires. He doesn't move his hips, doesn't give you that satisfaction, only rubs his fingers on your tiny bundle of nerves so hard it almost hurts, but you'd never ask him to stop it.

"You'll take all of my cum, until your belly is swollen by how much of it I fuck into you. I'll put a baby in you so no one else will ever mistake you for anything other than mine."

You clench around him, time and time again, just like he wants you to. Sunghoon has you under a spell, and the more he talks, the more he flicks your clit, the less you think about what's rational and what's not. You only know what he tells you, and to you that's the only truth you need to hear.

"I'll put a ring on your finger, make you my pretty little wife. Maybe even make you stop coming in, I'll take care of everything. Yeah, keep milking me like that, baby. Let me make you a mommy."

ꕥ KIM SUNOO

ewb, hate sex, degradation, marking, one singular 'slut', condom comes off!

"You're—mhh, such a bad fuck," you say over your shoulder, wanting to see Sunoo's reaction despite the uncomfortable position. You're lying through your teeth, of course. You know how much saying things like this riles Sunoo up, and the only times you feel anything akin to like towards him is when he's rough with you. It's why despite the mutual hatred that makes up the entirety of your relationship, you two keep finding yourselves skin to skin, tangled in bed sheets. You always thought you needed someone to fuck you like they hate you, turns out, what you really craved was someone to fuck you because they hate you. And the right man for the job is right behind you, thrusting into you like he wants to hurt you, his hands leaving bruises on your hips like it's their right to do so.

"Then why are you here, wetting my cock like no one's fucked you in years?" His moves are relentless, and you have to try your best to not collapse on the bed because of the sheer force behind every stroke. Your legs are shaking, but you hang on a thread just to not give him that satisfaction. Instead, you push him further.

"That guy from—mph, yesterday. He'd—" you gasp as he gives you a harsher thrust, so deep you're sure you can feel it in your guts. The angle he starts fucking you in knocks the air out of your lungs in the best way possible, and even if you're trembling under Sunoo's weight and clawing at the cotton fabric next to you, you refuse to back down. "He'd do a better job."

You don't need to see his face, you hear the smirk in his voice, and it's the kind that sends a shiver down your spine each time. "But you're here." Another sharp thrust. "You don't even remember his name."

"At least he las– lasted while fucking me raw." You feel him halt all movement, and you know this is enough to get what you want from him, but you just can't help it. "You could never."

"You're such a little fox, aren't you?" He speaks calmly, but you can feel the storm brewing under the facade. He drags his fingertips across your spine, barely touching you at all. It's embarrassing how that's enough to have you bend under his touch. He reaches the plush of your ass, grabbing a fistful of it so forcefully you can feel his nails break the skin. He doesn't stop when you complain, doesn't care for your pained moans. "You think you're so smart, but you're just a little slut. You want me to fuck you raw?"

You try to shake your head to deny it, but he knows better.

"Yes you do. Say it." His grip on your ass only gets stronger, and tears line your bottom lashes.

"I do," you whine, finally. "Please."

"Good." Sunoo releases the death grip on your skin, soothing over the red spot with his thumb lightly, like it's not him performing the action. The Sunoo you know has no time for care. "Then take the condom off of me."

Your head snaps back at his words, but he makes no sign of moving. So you do what he says, this once. You reach for this length, then carefully slide the rubber off of it. And right when he thinks you're finally behaving, you squeeze his cock so hard his hips stutter forward and you actually manage to steal a surprised yelp out of him.

Sunoo's reaction is immediate. He grabs both of your hands, uncaring for the way your elbows are uncomfortably bent, and brings your wrists together behind your back. He slides into you again in one swift motion, not giving you even a second to savor the feeling of his bare cock pushing into your heat for the first time. All of your nerves feel on fire, and as he sets a breakneck pace while keeping you down and unable to move.

"Do I have to fuck a baby into you for you to finally behave?" He gasps when you squeeze him in response to his words. "You'd like that yeah? You'd love for the man you hate to get you pregnant? Is that gonna make you shut the fuck up for once? Oh, I bet it will."

ꕥ YANG JUNGWON

fiancé!won, they're obsessed your honor, love on the floor

"You can't wait to get me pregnant, but what will you do when you won't be able to suck on my tits for months, mhh?" You giggle on Jungwon's lap, right in the middle of the empty room.

The new house still smells like new houses usually do, dry and woody, like the windows are never open. There's no furniture yet, but it doesn't stop your heart from pounding in your chest as you look around. Your home.

Jungwon's eyes never leave you though, and when you look back at him and find him smiling at you like you hold the world in your palm, you know you would be happy with every house, no matter the size or appearance, as long as he's the one you share it with.

"What makes you think that's gonna stop me?" Your fiance replies, shaking his head to move the bangs out of his eyes. "I'll even get something more out if it."

"Won!" you exclaim, hiding your face in your hands. Your heart melts a bit when you hear that familiar boyish giggle leave him, light as air, and for once in your life you feel like you've found the right spot in the world.

The warmth you feel spreads further as Jungwon starts caressing your bare thighs, until he's gripping your ass, using it as leverage to push you on his crotch.

You gasp at the feeling, and your hands find their rightful place on his broad shoulders so you can keep yourself steady as he starts to roll your hips against his.

"Won… we shouldn't—"

He shuts you up with a soft peck, resting his forehead against yours. "Why not? It's our place. We worked so hard for it, we should celebrate."

You bite your bottom lip as you think about it, but Won doesn't waste a minute and flips both of you over so you're caged between the floor and his chest. He nibbles on your ear, knowing better than anyone else how weak it makes you when he does that. "I'll make you feel so good, doll." It's like he's put a spell on you because you nod before he even manages to finish his sentence. "Just lay back and let me do all the work."

Your clothes are soon discarded everywhere around you, and your legs are wrapped around his hips as he fucks into you like he never has before. You're both a sweaty mess, panting in each other's mouths, exchanging spit any chance you get.

"Your pussy was made for me, doll. You're sucking me in so well." Jungwon moans against your lips, and you watch enamored as his eyes shut close and his eyebrows furrow, a droplet of sweat running down from his hairline. "Can't wait to take you on every surface of this house. Fuck— just leave it to me, baby. I have so many surprises for you."

"I'm so close, please," you whine, sliding a hand down his back to push his hips into you further. It makes Jungwon's pace faster, more desperate to give you exactly what you need.

"Let go, baby. Come all over my dick— yeah, just like that. You're taking me so fucking well. Such a perfect doll for me." His praise goes straight to your cunt, and you squeeze him impossibly hard as wakes of pleasure rack through your body.

"My perfect angel, you're gonna look so good swollen with our baby. Am gonna give you all of my cum, just a little more. We'll have so many kids running around the house we built. Our home forever," Jungwon babbles in your ear, and you're so fucked out you can even barely make out what he's telling you. You just know you need him to fuck you full, over and over.

the flames are already at your ankles by the time you realize you’re not going to make it.

you’re not running anymore. not really. it’s more like limping forward on instinct—legs shredded open by bramble, smoke stuck in your throat like grief. the forest isn’t even a forest now. it’s a furnace. all red and cracking and alive, like the ground is breathing under you.

you don’t remember how it started. you never do.

your name is being screamed. not by you—but at you. like someone’s begging you to live. or to stop running. or maybe both.

the air stings. your heart stings. your body isn’t keeping up.

then, through the fire—he appears.

not clearly. never clearly.

he’s a shadow first. tall. wrong. tilted slightly to the side like he’s trying to remember something about you. and for one split second, you almost think you remember something too.

you freeze.

he doesn’t.

his hand lifts.

you don’t see fangs.

you don’t need to.

the bite doesn’t come gently. it’s violent. invasive. like something inhuman is trying to carve itself into you. your head snaps. your scream gets stuck somewhere between your ribs and the sky. the pain spreads too fast to catch.

you’re bleeding. you’re choking on heat. and just before your body gives out—

you wake up. screaming.

and when you say screaming, you mean the kind that sounds like something’s actually being murdered.

your body shoots upright. soaked in sweat. hands clutching the sheets like you’ve been in a fight for your life—which, technically, you have. your heart is rattling in your chest. your breath comes in broken gasps. the room spins for a second before you realize—

it was just a dream.

again.

your door slams open.

“BITCH.”

destiny’s standing there in a huge t-shirt, no pants, one lash half-on and the other completely gone. she’s holding a taser and a juice box.

“what the actual fuck? are you okay?!”

you’re still trying to slow your breathing. “sorry,” you manage, voice hoarse. “dream. again.”

“that was not a dream. that was a live exorcism.”

you open your mouth, but another voice cuts in—quieter, more annoyed.

“was it the same one?”

sydney. she appears in the hallway behind destiny, hoodie thrown over her tank top, silk bonnet slipping off her head. she’s rubbing sleep out of her eyes like this is routine.

you live with your two best friends in a third-floor walk-up that smells like vanilla, weed, and whatever you’re cooking that night. sydney’s the lover girl, destiny’s the smart mouth, and you’re just trying to keep the peace most days. the three of you don’t always have it together, but somehow, the lights stay on and the fridge stays full. that counts for something.

you nod slowly. “yeah. same fire. same forest. same bite. still can’t see his face.”

she tilts her head. not judgmental. just thinking. she’s already halfway into therapist mode.

you’ve had this conversation before.

and still, neither of them laughs.

sydney steps into the room fully. “i’m telling you, it’s your nervous system. you survived something your brain still doesn’t know how to file. now it just keeps replaying the fear, trying to make sense of it.”

you don’t answer. mostly because you’re tired. but also because you don’t know if it’s just trauma.

because it doesn’t feel like trauma.

it feels like memory.

old. familiar. like something buried deeper than anything your ex ever did.

destiny finally relaxes enough to toss your taser on the bed and climb in next to you. “we’re gonna sage the hell out of this room later.”

“and maybe sleep with a rosary,” sydney adds, sitting on the floor like this is group therapy.

you exhale a laugh, soft and dry. “love y’all.”

“we know,” destiny says. “you better. we didn’t let you die.”

by the time the sun finally drags itself over the skyline, the nightmare’s still clinging to your skin like secondhand smoke. it lingers in the bend of your neck. the throb behind your left eye. that sharp, tired feeling in your teeth from grinding them in your sleep.

destiny’s already blasting music in the bathroom. sydney’s in the kitchen stirring coffee like it personally offended her. the apartment smells like heat, cheap vanilla candles, and a hint of the ghost you swear followed you out of the dream.

you move slow. like your body’s still deciding if it wants to be here.

by the time you slide into destiny’s car, your hair is still damp and you’ve only eaten half a granola bar. sydney’s already in the front seat, scrolling through some discussion board post for her online psych class. destiny’s wearing her usual: oversized shades, gold hoops, and a resting bitch face powerful enough to stop traffic.

you’re in the backseat. hoodie pulled over your head. thighs sticking to the seat. trying to remember what it feels like to not be haunted.

“so,” destiny says, throwing the car into reverse. “new day, same emotional baggage. how we feeling?”

you grunt.

sydney doesn’t look up from her phone. “she needs a hobby.”

“thank you, dr. phil.”

“i’m serious,” sydney says, twisting halfway around to face you. “you need something that’s not work and not insomnia. something that makes you feel human again.”

“i don’t want to do yoga,” you mutter.

“not yoga,” destiny says. “you need something real. with sweat. and maybe blood.”

you raise a brow. “that escalated quickly.”

“listen,” sydney says, setting her phone down. “you’ve been in survival mode for like, a year. you don’t even like the job you’re at, your ex is probably still living rent-free in your nervous system, and you haven’t flirted with anyone since before covid.”

“thank you for the annual report.”

“you need a reset,” destiny says. “a disruption to the pattern.”

“a montage moment,” sydney adds. "and plus, hot guys work at boxing gyms."

you roll your eyes, but something about the silence that follows says they’re right. your shoulders have been up to your ears for months. your body’s been a war zone since—well. since him.

you don’t need peace. you need power.

later that night, after the shifts and the small talk and the group texts with no replies, you’re back in your room with your laptop open, tabs pulled up for every “women’s self-defense” class in a 30-mile radius. you scroll through flashy websites promising empowerment, toned abs, and sisterhood. most of them look like instagram influencers with punch bags.

you’re looking for something else.

you’re not sure what.

that’s when you hear the knock.

sydney steps inside, balancing a bowl of rice and kimchi with a tired smile.

“found anything?”

you shake your head, pushing your laptop toward her. “every place either looks fake or full of men who call themselves ‘sensei’ but have never been in an actual fight.”

she squints at one of the tabs. “this one says they offer free smoothies.”

you stare. “that’s not a selling point, sydney.”

she laughs, setting her food down. “okay, hear me out.”

you look up.

“what if you talked to jay?”

you blink. “…your boyfriend?”

“yeah. he boxes. he’s been doing it for years. real gym. no frills. no smoothies.”

you hesitate. “i don’t know. i’ve never even met him.”

“which,” she says, sitting on the edge of your bed, “i’ve been meaning to fix.”

you glance at her, curious.

“i mean—we’ve been together a few months. you and destiny only know what he looks like from that one story i told about him punching a dude in a parking lot.”

“so romantic.”

“point is,” she grins, “i like him. i trust him. and i wouldn’t mind you grilling him a little. like… girl dinner vibes. meet the boyfriend, judge the boyfriend, maybe ask him where he trains, y’know.”

you nod slowly, mind already spinning.

“…you think he’d be okay with that?”

“absolutely. he’s been wanting to meet y’all anyway.”

you chew your lip for a second. “okay. yeah. maybe that’d help. just… get a feel.”

sydney smiles. “perfect. i’ll set it up.”

you’ve got the pan too hot again.

oil’s spitting like it’s mad at you, and the rice is probably gonna be a little crispier than it should be, but nobody’s gonna complain. sydney’s at the sink washing lettuce like it’s a science experiment, and destiny’s in charge of the music—meaning you’re currently listening to a playlist that’s 70% summer walker and 30% gangsta rap.

the apartment smells like garlic, heat, and something else—something more nervous. maybe it’s you.

“i’m just saying,” destiny says over the sizzle, “this is a lot of effort for a man we’ve never even seen in real life.”

“you’ve seen his instagram,” sydney says, not looking up. “and it’s not for him. it’s for us. quality control.”

“right,” you mutter. “welcome to dinner, jay. please enjoy this lovely home-cooked meal while we interrogate you like the feds.”

“as it should be,” destiny says, tossing a chip in her mouth.

you’re still not sure why you agreed to this. part of it was politeness. part of it was curiosity. and part of it was the unshakeable feeling that maybe—just maybe—this jay person might hold a thread to something you haven’t touched in a long time. something your body still remembers in flashes. fire. breath. teeth.

the buzzer goes off before you can finish that thought.

sydney wipes her hands on a towel, glances at herself in the mirror like she’s checking for vibes, then walks to the door.

the second it opens, you feel it.

a shift.

it’s not loud. not dramatic. just a small lurch in your chest, like something inside you tilted slightly off axis.

“hey,” sydney smiles. “come in.”

you wipe your hands on your shorts, heart ticking.

then he walks in.

and for a second, everything goes still.

he’s tall. broader than you expected. wearing all black like it wasn’t ninety degrees outside, sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to touch anything. his face is sharp, sure, but it’s his eyes that make you pause.

because they land on you—

—and something flickers.

he freezes for just a breath. not even that long. his expression flicks from neutral to something else, then back to neutral so fast you almost doubt you saw it.

but you did.

you saw it.

recognition.

panic.

grief?

you blink. he’s already smiling, walking in like nothing happened.

“you must be the roommates,” he says smoothly. voice low. careful. like he’s walking a tightrope. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

sydney grins and links her arm through his like she’s proud. “this is jay.”

destiny raises an eyebrow. “so you do exist.”

he chuckles. “in the flesh.”

“barely,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

his eyes slide to you again. slower this time.

“you okay?” he asks. light. casual.

you nod once, watching him like he might vanish. “…you looked at me weird.”

he blinks. “did i?”

“just now. at the door.”

his mouth tilts up, like he’s trying to find the right version of the truth.

“you just… look like someone i used to know,” he says finally. “from high school. or something. must’ve been the lighting. my bad.”

you hold his gaze a second longer.

the lie is too clean. practiced.

but you let it go.

for now.

“happens,” you say, turning back to the stove.

sydney’s already pulling out plates. destiny’s opening wine.

the moment passes.

but something in your chest stays burning.

dinner happens like it’s supposed to.

sydney plates everything like she’s on masterchef, even though she only helped wash lettuce. destiny pours wine like it’s juice, and you’re the one stuck making sure nothing burns while jay sits quietly at the table, taking it all in.

“oh, this smells so good,” he says, genuinely impressed. “did you make all this?”

you nod, scooping the rice onto everyone’s plate. “chef of the house.”

“she won’t say it, but she’s actually insane in the kitchen,” sydney adds, already sliding a fork into her salmon. “we would’ve died without her. starves easily.”

“i believe it,” jay says, glancing down at his plate. “this looks better than anything i’ve eaten all week.”

you finally sit.

and for a few minutes, it’s… normal.

the conversation stays light. jay talks about his job in vague terms—“scheduling’s a mess,” “my coach is kind of insane,” “sleep is optional”—but he’s charming enough that no one questions the details.

until destiny leans forward, eyes narrowed like a cat with too much time.

“so, jay,” she says, “you box?”

he nods. “yeah. been doing it for a while now.”

“mma or just boxing?”

“mostly boxing. some sparring. depends who’s in the ring.”

“ever killed someone?”

jay laughs, but it’s a beat late.

“uh…no. definitely not.”

“hm,” she says, sipping her wine. “sounds fake.”

“ignore her,” sydney says, smacking destiny’s leg under the table. “she gets like this.”

but you’re watching.

closely.

he hasn’t looked at you since that moment at the door. not directly. and yet, you can feel him. the way he shifts when you speak. the way he follows your movement in his periphery.

“what gym do you go to again?” you ask.

jay’s gaze flicks up.

sydney answers first. “crimson ring. it’s…intense.”

“that’s a hell of a name,” destiny mutters. “sounds like a secret society.”

jay smiles. “kind of feels like one sometimes.”

“do they make you sign something?” you joke. “like a blood oath?”

he pauses, but just for a second.

“just a waiver.”

you chew slowly.

“and what do you like about it?”

his eyes finally meet yours.

and when he speaks, the whole room feels like it quiets around him.

“it reminds me who i am,” he says.

your chest tightens.

but you nod. because you get it. even if you don’t know why.

“so what would you recommend for a girl who’s never been in a fight but has some shit she wants to work through?”

sydney’s eyes light up. “she wants to try boxing.”

“oh?” jay’s brow lifts. “you thinking about joining?”

“maybe. i’ve been looking into some places. most of them feel… performative.”

“crimson ring’s not performative,” he says, without missing a beat. “but it’s also not easy.”

“good,” you say. “i’m not either.”

he smiles again, but there’s something softer in it now. like he’s seeing something he wasn’t expecting to.

destiny stands, stretching. “alright, i’m rolling up. come smoke?”

“duh,” sydney says, grabbing her lighter.

they both look at you.

you shake your head. “nah, i’m good.”

“wow. growth,” destiny jokes, already halfway to the balcony.

jay makes a move to stand too, but sydney stops him.

“no, babe, stay. i’ll be back.”

“you sure?”

“she doesn’t bite,” sydney teases. “and you don’t smoke anyway.”

“true.”

and then it’s just you and him.

alone.

the kitchen hums around you. the faucet drips. a breeze flutters the edge of the curtain.

“want help with the dishes?” he offers, already moving to gather plates.

you nod. “sure.”

you work in silence at first. you rinse. he dries.

but eventually, he breaks it.

“you don’t remember, do you?”

your hands stop moving.

“…excuse me?”

he doesn’t look at you. just keeps drying the plate like he didn’t just say something insane.

you turn to face him fully.

“remember what?”

he exhales. sets the plate down. finally meets your eyes.

“nothing,” he says. too quick. too smooth. “just… deja vu.”

you stare at him.

and you know it’s a lie.

but you also know what it feels like to carry too much truth.

so you nod.

“happens,” you say again.

but this time, it sounds like a warning.

he stays quiet for a second. eyes still on you. like he’s trying to solve something with his mind alone.

“so,” he starts, voice light again, “you from around here?”

you nod. “born and raised.”

“yeah?” he grabs another dish, drying it slowly. “what high school?”

you name it.

he pauses just enough for you to notice.

“no way. i went there too.”

you blink. “really?”

“mhm. class of... forever ago,” he says, smiling like it’s supposed to make it less weird.

“i don’t remember seeing you.”

“yeah, i—i didn’t talk much,” he says, too fast. “kept my head down. tried to make myself invisible.”

you tilt your head. “why?”

he shrugs, setting down a cup. “guess i didn’t really know who i was yet.”

you look at him.

for a second, the room feels too quiet again. like it’s holding its breath.

“do you now?”

he meets your eyes.

“some days,” he says. “other days... i just fake it better.”

you nod once. slow. like you understand. because maybe you do.

he clears his throat. “what about you? always been... here?”

“yeah. unfortunately.”

“no, i mean—i just wondered if i would’ve remembered you. even back then.”

you narrow your eyes, playful but a little wary. “you sure you’re not trying to flirt with me?”

he laughs under his breath. “would it work if i was?”

you don’t answer. just rinse the last bowl and set it down.

“how many girls train at your gym?” you ask casually.

he raises a brow at the shift but rolls with it. “not a lot. most people can’t handle the first week.”

“because it’s hard?”

“because it’s real,” he says. “there’s no mirrors. no playlists. just sweat and instinct.”

“sounds dramatic.”

“it is.”

you glance at him. “you like it?”

he nods. “it keeps me grounded. reminds me of... restraint.”

you pause at that. “restraint?”

he doesn’t explain.

you grab a knife to cut some leftover lime. it slips.

you flinch—“shit”—and drop it into the sink.

a thin line of red blooms across your finger.

and then everything slows down.

you don’t even look at him—your eyes are on your hand, reaching for a paper towel—but you feel it.

the shift.

like the air’s been pulled too tight.

you glance up, and jay’s frozen.

his eyes are on your blood. his jaw is locked.

you feel something crawl over your skin, slow and ancient.

“it’s nothing,” you say quickly. “barely a paper cut.”

he doesn’t move.

“jay?”

he blinks. the sound of your voice pulls him back, like snapping out of a trance.

“yeah—sorry,” he says. way too calm. “let me get you something.”

he moves fast but gentle, grabbing a clean towel and pressing it to your hand. he doesn’t flinch at the touch. doesn’t breathe either.

“thanks,” you mumble. “you okay?”

he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah. just... reflex. hate the sight of blood.”

“weird for a boxer.”

he doesn’t answer.

you let it go. for now.

he holds your hand a second longer than necessary. then steps back.

“you’ll be fine,” he says, voice quiet now.

you nod. “i know.”

and for a second, neither of you say anything.

you don’t ask why he looked at you like that.

and he doesn’t ask what you’d do if you remembered the last time he saw you bleed.

you press the towel tighter to your finger, more out of habit than pain now. jay’s rinsing the cutting board, eyes deliberately on anything but you.

he speaks up again—soft, like he’s still trying to reset the mood.

“by the way... just so we’re clear,” he says, “i wasn’t flirting.”

you raise a brow. “okay…”

“i just—i love sydney. she’s...” he trails off like he’s looking for a word that doesn’t feel big enough. “she’s the first real thing i’ve had in a long time.”

you nod. “i get it.”

he glances at you, almost like he’s making sure. “but for a second... when you looked at me, i don’t know. i thought i knew you.”

you smile a little, not mean—just amused. “nobody looks like me.”

he chuckles. “you’re probably right.”

the tension eases. not gone, but tucked away again. like something folded neatly and set aside.

he starts drying his hands, and you grab a new bandage from the drawer.

“i really think you should come by,” he says, his voice gentler now. “the gym. crimson ring.”

you glance at him.

“i think it’ll help,” he continues. “just promise me you won’t quit after the first round.”

“you really think i’m gonna come in and get rocked that bad?”

“i think...” he shrugs, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “i think it might wake something up.”

you narrow your eyes, but there’s no edge to it. “that supposed to be encouraging?”

“depends,” he says, grabbing his keys. “you doing anything tomorrow?”

you pause. “…off work. why?”

he nods once. “stop by. three o’clock. don’t be late.”

before you can answer, sydney and destiny crash back in—laughing, loud, trailing the scent of weed and too many secrets.

you shoot him one last glance before they pull you into conversation.

and for a second, you think he might say something else.

but he just smiles.

“see you tomorrow.”

jay kisses sydney goodbye at the door.

“text me when you’re home,” she says, arms around his waist, cheek against his chest.

“always,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “love you.”

“love you more.”

she squeezes him once, lets go.

he gets in the car. pulls off. and for a while, it’s quiet. music low. streetlights blurring past.

but his hands won’t stop tightening on the wheel. his brain won’t stop replaying the night. her laugh. her eyes. the way she looked at him—like a stranger.

he dials. the phone rings twice before it picks up.

“how was it being human today?” heeseung’s voice is low, amused.

jay exhales. “very… interesting.”

a pause.

“that right?”

jay’s voice drops. “do you believe in reincarnation?”

the line goes still.

“…what happened.”

jay swallows.

“caroline happened.”

heeseung doesn’t speak.

then: “caroline?”

jay nods, even though he’s alone. “yeah. ni-ki’s caroline.”

heeseung exhales. “jay… i know we’re vampires, and logic left the chat centuries ago, but that’s—impossible. we watched her die. ni-ki killed her. we pulled him off her body. we buried her. together.”

“i know,” jay says. “that’s why i’m asking if you believe in doppelgängers. or karma. or fate. because i swear on everything—it was her.”

heeseung’s quiet.

“did she recognize you?”

jay laughs, but it’s empty. “for a second, i thought she would. i thought maybe she’d been turned, or cursed, or—i don’t know, man. she didn’t recognize me. not even a flicker. not the name. not the voice. not the face. nothing.”

he rubs his jaw, still trying to make it make sense.

“and it’s not just that,” he says. “her name isn’t caroline anymore. she goes by y/n. and her personality? it’s not the same either. caroline was… bright. country as hell. sweet. this girl? she’s the emo version of her. still kind. just… quieter. guarded. but those eyes, heeseung. you don’t forget eyes like that. not after what we saw.”

heeseung mutters something under his breath.

jay continues. “i asked what high school she went to. she named ours. like, ours. and nothing. blank face. she had no clue who i was. but it’s her. same soul, different packaging.”

heeseung breathes in slow. “and?”

“and she’s coming to the gym tomorrow.”

heeseung sits up. “what?”

“sydney told her about crimson ring. said she needed a hobby. apparently she’s been through some shit—abusive ex. she just wants to feel strong again.”

“fuck,” heeseung mutters. “what the hell are we supposed to do?”

jay doesn’t answer.

“first thing’s first,” heeseung says. “i need to see her. because if i’m being honest, jay—you don’t feed on humans. your senses might not be as sharp anymore. your eyes might be lying.”

jay scoffs. “they’re not. it’s her.”

heeseung sighs. “and ni-ki?”

“we’ve gotta tell him. he’s gonna see her.”

“no,” heeseung says. “i’ll figure that out.”

another pause.

“just come home.”

jay hangs up without another word.

his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. his stomach twisted. and somewhere, buried beneath it all—he’s scared. not for him.

for ni-ki.

because if he sees you— if it really is you—

he barely looks up when you walk over, too busy scribbling with his pen in his notebook, oblivious to the fact that you’re about to take his bottle. you grab his tumbler without a thought, but his hand snaps around your wrist before you’re even able to lift it. “were you about to drink from my bottle?” his voice is flat, but his irritated expression says enough. he lets go of his pen on his other hand, prying the tumbler back like it’s life or death. “just let me take a sip, i’m thirsty, sunoo.” you mimic his glare right back at him, tugging against his tight grip. “not a chance.” with his blunt response, he lets go of your wrist, then goes back to scribbling on his notebook like nothing happened.

rude ass. you roll your eyes as you fight the urge to yell at him, clearing up your throat instead, leaving the classroom to buy a drink yourself. your friend catches you in the hall, raising a brow at your expression. “what’s with the grumpy look?” “sunoo won’t let me take a sip from his bottle. right when i’m about to die of dehydration.” she stifles a laugh, tugging you toward the vending machine. “he never shares his drinks. you should know that by now.” you huff, “he’s insane. seriously, who dies from sharing water?” “who gets this mad over it?” she teases, nudging your shoulder. “you look like he just rejected you.”

you roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. “shut up.”

you spot sunoo in the hall the next morning, iced coffee in hand, straw between his lips as he scrolls lazily through his phone. your throat goes dry instantly—not from thirst, but from irritation.

“don’t even say it,” he mutters without looking at you. you scoff in annoyance, tilting your head at him mockingly. “can i have a sip?” his head whips toward you so fast you almost laugh.

“you’re not serious.”

“well, i am.”

he blinks, his brow raising ever-so-slightly, the corner of his lips tugging into the faintest smirk. instead of answering, he just steps closer, iced coffe still in his hand, leaning down just enough to murmur, “wanna sip, doll?” instead of handing it over, he grabs your wrist, tugging you toward the empty bathroom just a few steps away. he shoves the stall door open and pulls you inside, locking it with a sharp click. the stall feels suffocating, every sound amplified—the steady drip of water, the light's low hum, your uneven breathing. his body presses you firmly against the cold metal door, his drink left forgotten on the toilet tank. his grin widens before he presses his mouth against yours, the faint taste of coffee slipping into your tongue. your body melts, a shaky sigh escaping as you hesitantly kiss him back. sunoo’s hands find your waist, effortlessly lifting you onto the sink's counter without breaking the kiss. his tongue slides against yours the moment you gasp, and the kiss quickly turns messy—exactly the way he knows will ruin you. when he pulls away, a thin string of spit connects your lips. he doesn’t even give you the chance to breathe. “open.” your brows furrow at his order, but before you can even question it, his free hand is squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls slack. his spit lands heavy on your tongue, his gaze never leaving your face as your body shudders. “since you're always so fucking thirsty. go on then, swallow my spit." you whimper breathelessly as you obey—swallowing his spit against your tongue, the action so shameful it makes your thighs press together. not that he lets you get away with it; his knee pries them apart with ease as he presses his lips against yours again, swallowing all your needy noises. you start whining into his mouth, tugging desperately at his shirt. he pulls back just enough, breath hot against your face.

“what is it, baby? use your words for me.” you choke on a whimper, shaking your head in embarrassment. “no need to be so shy, just tell me what you want, hm?” his condescending tone just makes you wetter, your panties embarrassingly soaked beneath your skirt. “please… spit on my tongue.” he grins at you like he’s won, “oh, all you needed is my spit for you to finally shut up,” he spits onto his fingers this time, sliding them between your lips and forces you to suck them clean. his digits press deeper until you gag, eyes squeezing shut as pleasure and humiliation blur together. when he finally pulls them out, you’re panting, only for him to smear the sticky spit across your lips and cheeks. his voice is mocking, “messy baby, can’t even keep it in your mouth,” his leans down to your neck, the warmth of his lips cut by the sharp graze of teeth. your breath hitches, shame prickling your skin as your thighs press together—but his hand is already slipping beneath your skirt, fingers brushing over your soaked panties. “soaking wet from getting spit on, arent you ashamed?” you can’t bring yourself to respond, muffling your noises instead, though he’s pushing your underwear aside, fingers teasing at your sopping cunt. “don’t stay quiet now. tell me you want this, baby.” your thighs twitch involuntarily, shamelessly trying to grind against his hand. “sunoo, fuck— please. want it so bad,” you pant, watching as he pulls away from your neck only to press a deceptively soft kiss to your forehead. “good girl. say ‘ah’ for me?”

shame burns in your chest, but before you can resist, he slides a finger inside you, making your jaw drop. he chuckles at the way you cling to him as the desk rattles beneath you with every push. his free hand grips your chin, forcing your mouth open wider as another finger pushes inside your soaked cunt. “that’s it, keep it open for me.” your slick drips onto his hand, the obscene wet sounds echoing off the tiled walls. his fingers curl inside you perfectly, stroking the spot that makes you shudder. a shaky moan escapes as your body arches upward, the wet sounds between your thighs only adding to the shame flooding your chest.

he spits into your mouth again and again, not giving you any time to swallow, forcing you to gulp it down between broken gasps. it dribbles down your chin, sticky and warm, the mix of shame and need makes your vision blur.

shouting stylists, barely-paid interns running around, 14-hour trips overseas— what was considered chaos for an average person was peace to him. home, even. from photoshoots to the runway, he loved every single moment under the limelight.

but none of that ever mattered to you, his greatest supporter.

he was just a young adult with plans far too complex for him to fully commit to, but you understood him, nodded at his passion, fueled him to think bigger, grow brighter.

you, who always adored him, who never failed to remind him what he was capable of.

he credits you for the success he has now– you were to the one to kickstart it, after all. armed with the camera app and a dream, the both of you made it work.

you had the eye for his best angles, and you were adamant on directing how he should pose– what would make his legs look longer, what background would emphasize the texture of his jacket. you talked him through it and sunoo would retort that his 700 instagram followers wouldn't care if there was a hair out of place, but he'd fix it and follow your advice anyway.

through a balance of luck and hard work, one post blew up.

normal consumers and fashion connoisseurs alike recognized the talent, the visual your boyfriend had to offer. before he knew it, he managed to get a commercial modeling offer— just a small clothing brand, but it was the start of something big.

over the course of three years, offers from independent clothing brands turned into offers from fashion houses whose names you can't pronounce– not even with sunoo patiently teaching you. the 700 instagram followers grew past a few million. the online ootd videos he once filmed with you became commercials, his face and body littered across billboards and social media ads.

you were with him every step of the way. arms always open for a warm hug when he came home tired, lending a helping hand when he's going through a slump, even offering to help him relax during nights where he'd be needy for your body but too exhausted to move.

from big milestones of buying the penthouse unit he's always dreamt of, to quiet losses when he got turned down in a casting call, you spent every single with him, letting him know that you're always gonna be proud of him, and stand with him, no matter what.

at the time, he was so happy— and he thought you were too.

you've always been the quieter one in your relationship, and maybe that's why the relationship worked so well. people around you claimed you two were perfect for each other. he brought the excitement you thought you didn't need in your life, and you mellowed out his bright and dramatic energy by providing him a safe space to rest and come home to.

"provided." sunoo corrected his inner thoughts out loud in the middle of stirring his coffee, suddenly remembering that he wasn't the person who you got to indulge in your warmth. not anymore.

in relationships, the first fight is just that— the first. it's a normal thing that relationships go through with some people even encouraging it because it marks the true beginning of a meaningful connection to one's partner, but that's a lie to sunoo.

a fucking paradox.

it's can't be the first and last— that doesn't make sense.

he gave you everything he could, but maybe everything wasn't what you needed. maybe the bright flashes of the camera blinded his eyes to the way you would frown when he picked up a call in the middle of the night, leaving you to finish the k-drama by yourself.

maybe the tight clothes they gave him numbed his skin from your needy touch and squeezes, brushing your kisses off with a sweet but tired 'good night' due his tiresome day, leaving you feeling neglected and lonely in the bed you shared.

maybe the confidence he had in his looks lead him to ignore the talks about yours when people found out that the kim sunoo has a girlfriend; one that was undeserving, plain looking, and far too normal for a rising model like him.

no matter how much he denied the break up, his brain will always manage to give him an HD photo of how it was before and how it is now, like it already knew you were slipping away before his heart caught on.

the bubbles in his lukewarm coffee settled around the rim and his reflection stared back at him from the liquid abyss— mocking him and making him recall how it all started boiling over.

you were sat on the couch, arms crossed over your chest when he came home from a twelve-hour long shoot day. he wanted nothing more than to curl up next to you and bask in your presence, so when you flinched away from his touch, he raised a brow.

"what's your deal?" he asked, irritated from being denied.

"sun... i waited all night." you sighed, palms rubbing on your arms up and down while trying to contain the disappointment in your voice.

"and?"

you stared at your boyfriend of three years, still in the heels and prada dress he gifted you for the same occasion he evidently forgot planning. you were in disbelief, especially more irritated by the nonchalance in his tone.

your stilettos made a sharp noise against the tiled as you stomped up, trying to control the distraught you felt while you took off your jewelry, trying your best to hold in the tears prickling at your eyes.

"darling.. what are you doing?" he sighs, voice laced with contempt before holding on your hand. you shook it off with a grunt, turning your back to him to forcefully wipe the stray tear that managed to roll down your cheek and throwing the earrings down the glass table with a shrill clank.

"i prepared so much.. fucking took my time and got pretty for you..." you sniffed, turning to him with glassy orbs, eyes rimmed red from holding back your tears. "only to be stood up and get talked to like this? when you're the one who forgot?" you whisper, index finger harshly pressing on his chest.

"i got so much work today, it must have passed my mind. i'm sorry, darling. i'll make it up to you." he hummed, holding both wrists and pulling you to him to cage you in his arms, still wearing that calm smile which heightened the sadness settling in your heart.

"sun, tonight was supposed to be the night you make it up to me. for all the times you messed up before." you sighed, shoulders deflated in defeat as you stayed still against him.

his scent, his body's heat, the mere aura that radiated him calmed your anger in ways inexplicable by logic— he just had that effect on you, and you detested yourself for giving in to him so quickly.

sunoo, not having it with the lack of warmth, guided your hands around his torso, pressing a kiss on the soft curve of your jaw. "i know, sweetheart. i'm sorry. work was just so crazy. forgive me, mm?" he whispers softly this time, plump lips pressing down the column of your neck, now bare from the string of expensive pearls.

"i'll still make it up to you tonight, and tomorrow too. i'll clear my schedule for you." he muttered the words in between wet sounds of his lips smacking against your skin, licking the faint redness starting to form under the precise nips of his teeth.

you let out a gasp, mewling his name out as your palms found purchase on his waist, trying to fight the instinctive urge to tilt your neck, but you do so anyway and sunoo smirked, licking a stripe across your pulse point before trailing the kisses back up to the shell of your ear. "be a good girl for me and jump."

you already knew what that meant.

his hands rested behind your upper thighs and you jumped, legs wrapping around his hips, the same plump lips nipping at your neck earlier now finding comfort tangled up against your own in a wet, messy kiss while he walked to the bedroom.

your expensive dress was discarded to a corner of the room, his shirt was somewhere along there too, and he couldn't care for the painful strain in his pants because tonight he was going to make sure you forgot all his shortcomings, determined to have nothing else but his name leaving your lips.

a month later, it came.

quiet and peaceful.

unexpected.

it was supposed to be okay. things have become relatively normal since that night. no fights before and no fights since. sunoo made sure to stay on top of the promises he made, declined certain projects, or informed you beforehand if it was too big for him to cancel.

it was progress, but there's only so much that can happen in a month.

and if shame allowed you to admit it out loud, you started to believe the nameless, faceless nobodies online— maybe you were too plain for sunoo. he deserved someone who can accept his success, not someone who dulled out his shine.

so you made your decision.

you called for sunoo in the middle of an online briefing about the next season's runway show somewhere in europe, and he couldn't be happier to have a valid reason to ditch it.

he tapped on his thigh, gesturing you to sit on his lap like you always did, but you chose to sit on the bed beside him, making him raise an eyebrow. "is something wrong, love?"

you took a deep breath before pursing your lips. "i just.. can't do this, sun." you started, your hands pressing on your knees in discomfort.

sunoo paused, the words not quite registering to him yet.

"what do you mean?"

"this. i can't do this anymore." you mumbled, hands vaguely gesturing to the space between your bodies.

"darling... are you— are you breaking up with me?" he asked, voice low and trembling, moving to kneel in front of you, frantically looking into your eyes like he thinks you're lying and can somehow find the truth behind it if you looked at him too.

your relationship has always been serene. yes, you've had arguments but they've always been done in good faith. the only actual fight you've had, if you could even call it a fight, was a month ago and it got resolved just as quickly as it came.

neither of you ever have ever brought up the damning words. no offers of a break up, not even threats of it, so to say he was taken aback was an understatement.

he thought you were happy. he thought he made you happy. so why are you leaving? it had to be a badly done joke, but it didn't prevent tears from leaving his eyes nonetheless.

"my sun, don't cry..." the steady stream of tears rolling down his cheeks make your heart want to collapse in on itself, and the affectionate nickname you reserved for him only made sunoo's tears roll out faster.

you turned away. you had to. because you knew looking at his tearful face would have you giving in to the soft and quiet appeals.

"y/n... my darling. please. please don't do this." he pleaded. "please? what do you need? i-i'll cancel anything the next month. i'll make it up to you, sweetheart. please, just.. don't—" he breathes out, voice cracking at the last word. "—don't leave me."

his forehead rested against your knee and you took a deep breath, running your fingers gently through the back of his tresses. "no, sunoo. you worked hard for this.. you can't throw it away for me."

"but i want to!" he cried as he looked up, eyes glossy from tears.

"well don't." you replied with finality, jaws clenched as you stared back with an blank expression. "this is for the best."

you tried to say something about how you couldn't handle secondhand fame, and how you weren't built to accompany a star as bright as him, a stray tear leaving your eyes in the middle of speaking, but everything else had already been a fog.

you left without looking back and for the first time in years, sunoo experienced what it's like to be in your shoes: to sleep with the other side of the bed cold, still open, still waiting for the other's presence.

he tried to go to work at first, ignoring the questions of nosy makeup artists and stylists about how his eyelids looked so puffy and how he looked like he hasn't been taking care of himself. but the longer he did it, the more burn-out he got. nothing really changed, but somehow everything did too.

you took that time to move out of the shared space, special trinkets thrown into a bag, clothes roughly discarded and thrown into your luggage, grabbing whatever you can during the hours he was away.

leaving so coldly was unlike you, but you knew better than to have another conversation with sunoo. you knew you didn't have the self-control for it with every fiber in your being telling you that you're only yourself when you're with him, so you had to be.

when you turned around one last time to see the space you're gonna be leaving behind, guilt began wrapping around your heart like an expensive, but suffocating silk scarf.

you'd be lying if you said that the relationship wasn't eating away at you. but it would be an even bigger lie to say you didn't have doubts of second thoughts about wanting to leave sunoo. so you walked to the kitchen, pouring your heart into the final note and sticking it on the fridge.

"take care of yourself, my sun. i'll always be watching, and i will always be proud of you. i love you— forever."

"stop it, sunoo. regretting it won't make her come back." he chuckled bitterly to himself as he read the note for the seventh day in a row, the undrinken coffee cup getting discarded in the sink as he trudged towards the bathroom.

he splashed his face with cold water and sighed softly at what greeted him in the mirror— he looked like shit, that much was true. then, his eyes caught the sorry sight of a single toothbrush in the cup. he stared at it like if he looked hard enough, maybe your baby pink brush would appear beside it.

maybe you would appear beside him.

but no such thing happened, and he shook his head, laughing hollowly for starting to grow delusional.

but how could he not? everywhere he went, he was reminded of your absence.

there were no socks stuck in between the cushions of the couch when he watched tv. his bed didn't feel warm when he tried taking a nap. the kitchen cupboards were missing the ugly coffee mugs, and the dining room table was missing the fake succulents you were insistent on adding because 'it brings life back to the place'.

the pain that kept him in a slump for the past week was morphing into restlessness, and it didn't help that every step he took in his home evoked your memory in vivid images.

so in his mission of forgetting you and 'taking care of himself', he decided that today would be the day he goes out. he slid the door of his closet open and in it, he was reminded, yet again, of how much he truly lost. half of the wardrobe was empty, much like the rest of this cursed apartment.

it stared at him like your abandonment— a physical representation of how empty he felt with his other half gone.

ignoring the pang in his chest, he listened to the metal hooks of the velvet-lined hangers scrape against the pole as he pushed through them fervently to find a sweater until his eyes caught something of yours that made his hands freeze mid-air.

a white shirt. the same one you loved to use when you made breakfast after a night of love making. the same one he'd fuck you in again on top of the kitchen counter. the memories, lewd, heartwarming, or both, came to him with each piece of your clothes he came across.

in a blink of an eye, he had a pile of the clothes you left on the floor. still smelling half like you, and half like his perfume that you 'borrowed' so often.

he knows he shouldn't break no-contact

you haven't contacted him since you left, and he hasn't found the courage to be the first to reach out. but he didn't want the clothes to go to waste. these had sentimental value to you, and some of this would surely be important.

at least, that's how he convinced himself as he typed away at his phone.

to: sweetheart. — hey. can you come pick up your clothes? i'll leave them by the main door.

not even a minute in, and your reply came like you were waiting for a message. like you were waiting for his message.

from: sweetheart. — on my way.

the doors creaked open just a few hours later. sunoo heard it from the safety of his room, and he knew you were here. "sun?" you called out, one foot through the threshold like you're unsure. like your body didn't know whether this space was still yours.

the text was so cold and detached. it was only proper that you come here as soon as you can to finally rid him of whatever traces you left behind that he obviously didn't want.

"come in." his voice echoed from what used to be your shared bedroom. you stepped through and locked the door behind you, eyes scanning the living area to see no clothes in sight— so you headed to the source of his voice and there, you found sunoo sat on the bed.

looking small, tired, yet still folding your clothes with carefulness because it was the last thing tying this place—him—to you.

you leaned against the door's frame, faking a smile while crossing your arms over your chest. "haven't seen you do that since junior year."

"how could i when you never let me touch the laundry." he whispered, voice balmy as he laid the cream white polo on the box, the corner of his lips tugging up as the memory of you and a compression wrap around his sprained ankle flashed in his mind. "told me you'd kill me before i die slipping on laundry detergent again."

"that'd be a stupid way to die." you replied with a shrug and a more genuine smile, walking closer to him. not quite touching, but enough to feel the little warmth that radiated from his body. "and you're folding it wrong, sun. the sleeves go inside before anything els—"

"let me do this for you." he says, reaching for your arm and returning it to your side. he stubbornly resumed but kept your tip in mind, flattening the fabric with his palm before carefully folding it over itself while pursing his lip, nibbling on the lower one.

"can.. can you call me that again?"

"sun?"

"no. the other one. my favorite. in the way you said it.. before."

"my sun?" you whispered, his body doing a light bounce as you scoot closer, taking the folded clothes and keeping it safe in the beige box. he smiled at the sound, taking the last piece of cloth in his hands, the genuine curve in his lips turning into an unreadable melancholic expression in an instant.

you couldn't quite tell whether it was made in longing for what you once had, or in sorrow for how it ended. possibly in mourning— because he knows that the last jean has been folded, and once it's settled in the box, his days moving forward will be exact replicas of the past week he spent without your presence.

he apprehensively put the final piece down with into the box and you stood to pick it up, feet quickly carrying you up and away as if it knew how heavy the hair was getting inside.

behind you, sunoo followed in quiet but seemingly sure footsteps.

he stood tall, proud, body tilted to one side as he leaned on the wall with a shoulder, hands deep in his pocket. his eyes drop from your face to your hand, and he feels his chest clenching tighter with each step you took closer to the door. his fear is coming true.

stop it, sunoo. do something. anything.

"are you that desperate to leave me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper yet still somehow booming in your ears— somehow still managing to carry through the decorated navy blue walls, reaching you, and managing to rattle your bones and wrap around your muscles like an audible paralyzing agent.

your hand felt clammy around the cool metal, the other straining from the weak hold you had on the heavy box but you tightened your fingers around the flimsy container.

you're here to pick up your clothes, that's it.

your heart knew as much as your mind did that staying here would only stir the pot, and when sunoo took a step forward, they practically rung like loud sirens inside you, telling you to pick up your feet and run— but your body stood in place, only tensing up again when his voice broke the deafening silence.

"answer me, sweetheart. please." sunoo came out as a desperate croak, now merely inches behind you. his fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm, possessive, yet gentle in tugging at it in hopes that the tugs he gave would be enough to let you know he didn't want this—you, leaving—but your grip on the knob was unyielding, and sunoo found answer in that.

you weren't just desperate to leave, you were determined.

his fingers only tightened around you, the pain enough to have you letting go. "sunoo." you called, voice soft and measured, trying to shake him off but he turns you around in one smooth flip, leaning down to come face to face with you.

the thud of the box echoed against the tall glass windows of the penthouse as its contents pooled around both your feet, but you couldn't care for it. not when sunoo's persistent on cracking your resolve, chipping away at it each time you inhaled his infuriatingly familiar scent of floral and musk.

your body moved itself, neck craning as you turn your head to the side but his hands snap forward, reaching for your jaw to turn your head to him. the movement was so brash it made you whimper.

the fluff of his freshly dyed jet black hair fell over his face yet you still felt the intensity of the eyes hiding behind them. "if you don't want me anymore, say it to my face." the words rolled off his tongue like a thinly veiled threat while his eyes looked into yours, carefully studying.

you willed to stay poker-faced because a deep part of yourself knew that a single misstep, a single misspoken word, even a single crack in your voice would be detected and correctly read as a lie. "sunoo, it's.. not—"

"then what is it?" he asked, brows drawn together as his fingers press deeper against the softness of your cheeks like it would somehow guide the words he wanted to hear out of you, but kept mum, brows downturned when you finally gained the courage to return his gaze.

sunoo prides himself in being able to read you well—too well—and the look you gave him, tired and empty, just fueled the quiet storm that's been brewing inside since your absence.

"don't act like this isn't hard for me too." you sighed, prying the hold he has on your face, though that did nothing more than make the situation worse. he opted to lock you between the door and his taller frame, palms pressed against the wood with both arms square on the side of your head, fox-like eyes growing darker when you refused to indulge him with an answer.

"then. what. is. it." sunoo enunciates each word, voice low, face inching closer to yours after every pause. you pursed your lips, back firmly pressed against the wooden door but he only kept coming closer and closer, invading your space like it's his— like it's still his. your hands pressed on his firm chest, putting an arm's length of much needed distance between your bodies.

sunoo took a few more steps back with arms held up, jaws clenched and lips quirked up in sarcasm as he sauntered to the loveseat, half-sitting on its armrest before running his fingers through his dark hair, a gruff noise leaving his lips that sounded like something between a laugh and a scoff as he's left to deal with the pain of your physical rejection.

"it's too much. too much. like i told you, everything got overwhelming for me." you started, bringing a hand up to press on your temples. "your schedule, y-your lifestyle— god, they were calling me a plain jane, sun." you let out a grunt in exasperation, eyes picking up from the floor to stare at the slouched figure across the room.

plain jane? his woman? his y/n? he has never heard of such nonsense.

"who's they?" he asked with quiet intensity, eyebrows contorted together in irritation.

"your fans, sunoo. people. i don't know— i don't care anymore." you were tired. so tired, and weary, and exhausted of having to justify your decision because it started to feel like you were also convincing yourself that it was enough of a reason to leave him.

"they're strangers to me, to us, sweetheart." sunoo sighed from his spot, holding himself back from rolling his eyes at the lame excuse.

"i know, but the words don't hurt any less!"

when your voice came out, it was sharper, piecing, laced with poison and the undeniable fear of having your feelings out and bare, all vulnerable in front of your ever-adored ex boyfriend— and it made the two of you freeze.

the clock ticked and the city, floors below the large apartment, thrummed in ignorance of the tension that hung between former lovers— one tired and wanting to escape, the other still desperately holding on.

"three years. three fucking years, and all it took were stupid trolls on the internet to ruin this relationship i took so much care of." he scoffed in disbelief, standing up straight to look to you.

sunoo's snarky tone only furthered your temper, raising an eyebrow at your ex boyfriend. "took so much care of? sunoo, do you hear yourself?" you chuckled in disbelief. "don't blame them. you were also a part of this! you neglected me. not the people i don't care for, but you."

your fingers pointed at him in accusation and sunoo shot you a glare entirely different from the ones he used to give when you took the last piece of pastry or bit on his arm too hard— no, this one was genuine in its irritation.

"me? darling—" his slender fingers ran through his hair, tongue poking against his inner cheek with a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. "i give you everything you want, even things you feel too shy to ask for. the clothes, the jewelry, the fancy k—"

"and what about dates, huh?" you cut him off, looked at him in defiance and sunoo struggled to keep still, now pacing back and forth across the living room like he didn't know whether being closer to you calmed him down or whether it furthered the pain clawing at his insides.

seeing the arrogant smirk get wiped from his face only emboldens you to continue, a sick part of the pride you tucked away so deep finally coming out with each rhetorical question, even counting your fingers just to prove your point.

"what about all the times you forgot about your promises, hm? or when you constantly broke our no-phone rule? or when you'd refuse to touch me because posing for the cameras is more important than your damn girlfriend?"

you paused for a moment, chest rising and falling as you tried to control yourself but the more you thought about it, the angrier you got, and the words escaped your lips before you could even contain the venom mixed in them.

"those trolls, no matter how annoying they are, are correct. you need someone who could keep up with the glitz and glamour of your life, and maybe i need someone who could keep up with the calm of mine." you spat out out the last words, face blank but inwardly proud that your voice didn't shake.

letting everything out was supposed to calm you down, but unease began settling in your bones like the quiet gracing the space. no one spoke. only your heavy breathing and soft buzz of the elevator down the hall. you expected him to snap back, to retort something equally as smart or as sharp— but the silence persisted, and you began to want him to say something, anything in return.

instead, sunoo looked at you, stood up straight with the type of composure that asked, no, commanded your full attention. his face was blank for the most part, only the mild spasm on the muscle of his forearm while he stared.

despite his silence, you sensed it. you physically felt it. this was not defeat, nor was this resignation. it's just the calm before the storm.

in the rational part of his mind, he knows you only said what you did in overwhelm. that those were just words weaponized against him to fling pain, the same hurt you've been quietly enduring while he focused on his career— but rationality left him the same day you did, and the remaining sense he had to feel empathy for you died the moment you implied needing another man.

the mere thought of having another replacing his spot in your life irked him like nothing else. he earned that spot, he fought for it, he bared himself to you so you'd know he's deserving of it, and yet you had the audacity to think that he won't devote himself into becoming what you need?

the internal dialogue drowned him, pushing his body forward and springing him into action— three big strides across the living room, big hands pinning your shoulders to the door. his jaw was tightly clenched and his voice came out thin and raspy.

"say that again, sweetheart. i fucking dare you."

your lips parted, but nothing came out. not when you felt like your heart was pounding in your throat, eyes wide and afeared as they stayed glued to sunoo's. his orbs flickered with something wild, something ravenous but patient enough to lie low in anticipation of your next mistake.

he didn't move— not yet. neither did you.

his breathing was loud. labored. his nostrils were flaring with each intake of air like it was the only fuel to his strength. the muscles of his jaw were clenched tight with his lips pursed into a straight line, urging it to remain shut because he knows only a pathetic pleading for you to stay will ensue if dares part it.

his grip on you is tight, too. just a small press away from bruising. but his eyes—his gaze—though barely visibly from the thick lashes, was the thing that truly kept you from moving. you couldn't do anything but witness how his eyes dropped to your lips, up to the evident flush in your cheeks, the irregular rise of your chest when your breath hitched after he leaned just a hair's width towards you.

the gulps you made weren't muffled by the silence either, and sunoo found delight in knowing that no matter how many you took, it wouldn't help hydrate your throat. it wouldn't let you bark back.

still, you stubbornly tried to talk your way out— to tell him that you didn't mean it. that you weren't thinking when you talked, but it all came out as a whimper when his fingers dragged lazy shaped on your collarbone.

the air is starting to change, or maybe it already had. you can't tell whether it suffocated or exhilarated you, but somehow, along the way, your thighs started rubbing together and your skin was starting to thrum with a wave of warmth each time your heart beat.

you're a fool to think that you could walk away, to think that he wouldn't notice but sunoo did. he always does. your whimper had his lips curling into a sick, satisfied grin, drunk in power as he got the confirmation he needed from the pathetic sound you made.

you could reject him, hurt him with your words, or torture him with your lack of it— but your body said enough.

in a flash, you're in his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his waist while his supported you from your ass, squeezing the soft flesh, nails digging so deep you can feel it even through your shorts.

"s-sun.." you whimpered again, palms pressing against his nape to keep you from falling. "shut up." he spat, landing a quick slap on the clothed behind before letting you fall to the couch with a soft 'hmpf', slotting himself between your legs to keep it spread.

"this what it's about? my sweetheart being touch deprived?" he leaned down until your foreheads touched, his palm finding rest on your waist and giving it a gentle squeeze contrasting to the darkness behind his laughter. "if you wanted to have a better fuck, you could've just asked me."

"n-no, i meant—" his palm began traveling further down to your covered heat, fingers toying across the stitches of your shorts right above your heat, which had you biting down on your lower lip to muffle your moan.

"what did you mean, mm?" he raised an eyebrow, speaking in a mocking voice as he rubbed your clothed cunt using two fingers, a deep laugh leaving his lips when thin strings of wetness follow his fingers as he pulls them away. "because your body is telling me something else. you're fucking soaked through your shorts, dirty girl." in one swift movement, he tugged them down, leaving your lower half barely covered.

just like the clothes you abandoned, he folded you in half, but this time, it wasn't done in gentleness— his palms were rough and gripping as they pushed your knees towards your shoulder.

"keep 'em there." he ordered, and you couldn't find it in you to disobey.

contrary to what everyone thought, your boyfriend isn't the passive man he's pictured to be. yes, people found him cute and he was soft-spoken, but he knew what he liked— and what he liked, he made sure he got.

that translated into your sex life too. he's a domineering man in bed, but a soft one. always asking if you liked what he was doing, always reveling in pleasuring you, and always made sure to put your needs above his, intent on listening to your body's every whim and need.

but this man... this isn't sunoo.

you were watching the sweet, soft boy you've loved devolve into something else entirely— consumed by fury, hurt, and jealousy of a hypothetical man threatening to take his place in his sweetheart's life.

if the angry bulge visible from his grey sweatpants were anything to go by, he's consumed by the physical need to claim you as his, too. again, and again, and again.

this time, he was getting what he wanted. by hook or by crook.

his middle finger dragged up and down your slit, spreading your arousal inside and making a dark stain of a stripe appear on the thin fabric. his smile grew wicked as he ghosted his fingers on the translucent cloth right above your clit and proceeded to drag small circles around it, not quite putting pressure where you needed him the most.

you gripped on the back of your knees, his name dying in your throat and getting replaced by a sharp gasp when his palm struck down your barely clothed core, and your reaction to it was all the confirmation he needed to enact his cruelty, validated in letting out his pent up frustration on your body.

"fuck, needy baby left my hand all messy and we aren't even starting yet." he whistled as he looked at the dull shine on his hand, opting to dry it out by smacking them along your inner thighs repeatedly, earning loud whines from you.

without any warning, sunoo's finger hooked on the center of your ruined underwear and pulled it aside, pushing two past your fluttering hole. "see— fuck, you can take my cock now." he grunted, the veins on his forearm prominent as he curled his fingers. "but i'm being so nice for prepping you, right?"

you could only nod and sunoo clicked his tongue in disapproval, pulling his hand out to land another punishing slap on your cunt, the wet sound of skin getting smacked filling the room. "you answer me when i ask you, sweetheart."

"mhh— yes! yes, fuck, so nice." you whined, legs trembling once he pushes his fingers back in and he relished in the squelching sounds it made, heart full of pride as he sees your eyes half lidded and already glazed over.

"that's right. i'm so nice to you, see?" he purred, thumb rubbing quick circles around your swollen clit as his free hand moved to cup your breast through your top, giving it a quick slap before soothing it with a squeeze, jaw tensing when he feels you clench around his fingers.

"dirty fuckin' whore. can't believe you like this." he impatiently pushed his own undergarments down with one hand, the fabric pooling around his knees he ripped the flimsy underwear from your legs.

your hands resumed its hold on the back of your knees while sunoo stroked his cock with one hand, the tip of it red and angry while leaking precum, dropping down on your already messy cunt. he spread your puffy lips apart with two fingers, biting his lip at the visual.

"look, baby. your poor hole is crying without me in it." he mocked, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest to see your cheeks flush, empty hole pulsing around nothing. "and you have the fucking nerve to leave me here? by myself?" he asked, landing a hard smack straight between your thighs.

"sunoo.. sun, please!" you cried out pleading, sinking further into the couch.

"please what?"

"touch... m-me." you whispered, voice trailing off. his eyebrow rose for a moment, deep in thought before lifting you up to make you switch places. he sat on the couch, manspread with a fist still around his leaking hardness while he made you stand before him, knees wobbly with arousal dripping down your inner thigh.

"take everything off." he said, leaning back against the plush cushion as he watched you throw your shirt and bra off.

you feel so exposed, so used, and your skin is starting to feel far too sticky and warm under his hawk-like gaze, but you can't care for it when your body is fueled by the depravity of watching him stroke his cock— slow and measured like he was relishing your humiliation.

"sunoo, enough of this— please. i want you."

he tapped on his thigh and you immediately moved to straddle him but before you can even reach for his length, his palm met the skin of your exposed chest and the impact had you keening.

"no touching." he sternly spoke before offering you two fingers. "if you want me so bad, you'll take what you can get."

the same hand moved in between his thigh and you bite your lip at the ridiculousness of the implication but your brain is too fuzzy, too driven by the need to be filled so you sink yourself down on his fingers while the thing that you need gets stroked by his own hands.

sunoo smirks at the pathetic sight in front of him— you, desperately bouncing on two fingers while letting out soft mewls about how it's not enough.

"is it not? like how i'm not enough?" he spoke with venom, angling his fingers inside you that pitched your moans higher. "n-no.. you are— just... nnh– i need you! need your cock, baby, please!"

"hmm. i don't know about that, darling. something about needing someone else.. what was that? you needed someone to match your calm?" sarcastic, hurt feigned by his sadism, he let go of his cock to land more blows on the side of your jiggling mounds, the pain making you bounce faster.

"but you're fucking yourself on my fingers like a pathetic bitch in heat— all without apology." he venomously spat, running a tongue over his lower lip.

"'m sorry! 'm sorry, baby.. p-please." you babbled, thighs burning yet his degrading words only urged you ride faster. his fingers, though good, was not nearly enough compared to the fill you know you'll get with the real thing. "ah! need your cock.. mmh— 'm sorry. please—"

he pulled his fingers away, holding his length up before tipping his chin towards it. "show me how sorry you are, sweetheart." you moved with quickness to straddle him properly, hands resting on his broad shoulders before you sink yourself down, mouth making a small 'o' as his cock stretches you out inch by inch.

you can't do anything but babble thanks yous and sorries as you move up and down on his length, nails digging down on sunoo's fair skin. "don't need your apologies. i said show me, slut." he hissed, pushing the same sticky fingers still coated in your arousal past your lips yet you continue to muffle your words and whimpers against them.

the room is filled with the sound of your wet slobbering against the digits pressing down on your tongue, wet skin slapping slapping and sunoo's breathy sighs. "just like that.. my good girl." he holds one hand on your waist, head thrown against the backrest of the couch as your tightness clamp down on him.

it isn't long before the familiar heat in the pit of your stomach starts feeling like it's too hot, walls pulsing repeatedly against sunoo's length. "c..cuh—" you choked against his fingers and he chuckles, taking the fingers wet with your saliva to your clit to rub on it harshly.

"what's that? is my sweet girl cumming so soon?" the thrill of the threat hiding behind his sweet voice has you screaming his name out loud, your upper body falling on top of his as you rode your high, hips bucking forward.

he rubbed your back soothingly, flashing you a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "can't have that, can we? i haven't had my fill yet." he pouts, large hands gripping on your ass before smacking it again.

your body was still trembling from the previous orgasm when he manhandled you until you're face down on the couch, settling behind you. "sun.. mmh— w-wait—"

"are you that selfish, sweetheart? for three years, i've been so good at taking care of you." he hisses as he stroked his wet cock, running the head up and down your wetness, purposefully pressing it on the swell of your clit. "putting you first," a smack on your plump ass to emphasize his words, caressing the red handprint beginning to form. "and you can't even wait for me to finish." and another one on the neglected cheek.

he's slapping at your ass, the back of your thighs, even at your spent cunt until you're crying his name and it does nothing but make his eyes grow darker, anger still clouding his head to think properly. "gonna take what's mine. what's always been mine." he muttered, grabbing his length by the base before slipping back inside your gummy walls.

he gripped on your hips, thrusts punishing and frantic as he chased his high while peppering wet kisses along your shoulder blade. "you hear that, love?" he pants. "poor cunt's sucking me in, ha— all f'me.. like your body knows you need me." you give him a breathless nod, tears leaving your eyes from overstimulation.

"shit— can't let anybody have this." the fingers digging down on your skin is sure to leave bruises tomorrow, along with the blooming marks he left along your nape and shoulder. "tell me, love. whose hole is this, hm?"

your voice came out raw and pinched as you whimpered his name and sunoo grabbed your at your chest, giving your perky bud a gentle pinch. "louder. let me know who's making you feel good." he pulled out just until the head is left inside before pounding his hips into you again, desperate to hear more of your broken moans.

"s-sunoo!" you cried as loud as you can, frail body getting knocked forward with each powerful thrust. "damn fucking right." he growled. "think anyone else can have you like this? all fucked out and dumb?" he grabbed at your hair roughly, tugging on it as he whispered even more depravities against the shell of your ear.

"mmh— sun, i'm—" your fingers clawed at the linen couch as you feel another high approaching hard and fast, the knot in your stomach feeling too tight and painful to bear but sunoo's uncompromising, still merciless and insistent on chasing after his own.

"don't, hnn.. fuck— be a good girl, sweetheart. be a good for me, y-yeah?" he let go of your hair and replaced it with just as tight of a hold on your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts.

your cheek pressed against the couch, eyes rolled to the back of your head while you whimpered and babbled nonsense, even more tears slipping down your sweat-ridden skin as you let go screaming his name.

your trembling figure triggered sunoo's own orgasm, hips pressed into your ass as he buried himself to the hilt, letting out an airy groan of your name and shuddering as he painted your walls white. sunoo quickly pulled out of your spent hole, lips twitched up in satisfaction as he watched your mixed juices leak out of you.

the pride soon turned into a sense of responsibility as you hoarsely called out for him again and he pressed a kiss on the base of your nape. "wait a bit, my darling." your body gave out without his hold, upper body propped up on the sofa for support, letting out a quiet whine when sunoo's warm body pulled away from yours.

he came back to carefully wipe you down with a wet towel, his other hand brushing your hair off of your skin that glimmered with sweat under the dim lighting. "i'm sorry, love. i think i went a little too much on you. i'll set up a bath for us, okay?" he frowned, pressing apologetic kisses all over your back.

you managed to giggle even in your broken state, holding out a hand. "no.. wan' bed." you croaked out and he just gave you a smile, easily picking you up princess style and carrying you to the bedroom while pressing even more kisses across your face.

somewhere along the travel, your body gave in to drowsiness and sunoo just laid you on your side of the bed, slipping his shirt on your body before covering you with the thick duvet.

he laid beside you with his arms securely around your waist, a smile—genuine and wide—pasted on his lips as he watched you sleep.

the sunlight peeked through the curtains that were barely drawn shut, leaving warmth on sunoo's skin that made him smile in his subconscious. his arms sleepily reached forward but when it fell on nothing but the cotton satin of the sheets, his eyes shot wide open.

your side of the bed was barely warm and when he looked around, there were no signs of you.

was he was mistaken? was last night not a testimony of the fact that you two still loved each other? or was it just your bodies speaking before your mind could think? did you wake up and decide that it was just purely sex and not a physical confession of how much he needed you back?

sunoo rubbed the sleep off his face, brows knitted as he pushed himself off of the bed to face yet another painful day. as soon as the bedroom door opened, the smell of freshly brewed coffee invaded his nostrils.

his heart spiked, almost tripping on his own feet as he ran down the hallway to see you sat in the living room, legs crossed with nothing but his shirt on, quietly sipping on coffee from a white mug.

"sweetheart." he whispered, breathless, with an arm pressed against the wall for support.

"hey, sun. had some of your coffee, hope you don't mind." you muttered shyly.

"like i give a fuck about the damn coffee." he muttered, quickly stepping towards you and kneeling down on the rug on both knees, hugging your legs and resting his head atop your thighs. you just chuckled solemnly, running your fingers through his bedhead.

"don't you have some shoot to go to today, mister?"

"are we really going to do that movie cliche of exes ignoring the elephant in the room after they fuck?" he huffed from below you, moving to sit beside you on the couch, taking the mug and laying it on the glass table.

you had to bite back a chuckle, rolling your eyes at him. "i don't know what you want me to say. last night was good, if that's what you're truly asking."

"yeah like i didn't already know that by how fucked out you were." he snorted, rolling his eyes at you in mock before pulling you on his lap, hands slipping under the shirt to caress your bare skin. "i just want to talk about us, sweetheart."

you stared at him for a moment, lower lip caught between your teeth, pondering whether it would be okay to bare yourself, your heart, to him again.

"i guess i just want to say i'm sorry. in hindsight, what i did was brash but.. i don't know. i got really overwhelmed. so i left, but i realized that i should have just asked for space instead." you smiled, small and just a little bit forced.

"my sweetheart." he frowned, raising a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "no space, and especially no break-up. you could've talked to me about those lame internet trolls. if i knew everything was eating up at you from the inside then i would've—"

"you would've left your dream behind. and i don't want that." you finished his sentence, poking at his soft cheeks. "the runway, the shoots... that's you, sunoo. i knew it even when i was just your friend. i can't take being a star away from you."

"take a look around, y/n. take a look at me." he sighed in exasperation, fingers jabbing at his own chest. "i look miserable without you. you're the reason why i shine. the reason why i do so well! it's only because i have an amazing woman i come home to." he whispered, pulling you down to press a soft kiss on your coffee tinted lips.

the sounds that escaped your lips was sinful and sunoo licked your lower lip before pulling away. "i don't give a fuck about what people say, i'll even post you on my socials if you finally allow it." he grinned, trailing his lips down to your neck.

you pursed your lips and leaned back to restrain both him and yourself before he can leave even more bruises on your skin. you gave him a stern look, arms protectively crossed over your chest. "sun, i'm serious."

sunoo's face dropped, clicking his tongue as he rubbed on his forehead. "darling, i am too. i've had enough of this, i'll retire early— hell, i'll burn all the contracts i have right now, sweetheart. just don't spend another day away from me, hm?"

you can't find the strength to deny him when he looks up at you with the ends of his brow pointed down, hands even pressed together as he pleads. when you roll your eyes and sit on him with your full weight, the brightness returned to sunoo's smile.

"sweetheart?" he whispered, pressing a kiss on your temple. you hummed as a reply and sunoo shifted a little underneath you, voice shy and a little strained. "did you mean it?"

"mean what?"

"that you liked what happened last night?" you froze in your spot, the beats of your heart pricking up at the reminder of what happened right on top of the very couch you're sat on.

"it was... a welcomed change." you reply softly, suddenly becoming shy. you hide your face in his neck and sunoo's giggle reverberates, hands trailing down to pat on your still tender asscheeks.

"that's noted, then. i can fuck you like that whenever you want, and you don't need to break up with me beforehand." he teased and you smacked him across the chest, flushed face sinking further in between his neck and shoulders.

"i kid, sweetheart. but can you promise not to do that again?" he leaned back against the plush material, enough to see your face again. his hands lovingly caressed your cheek and you nod. "i promise."

he kissed your lips briefly and returned your face where it once was, his fingers running up and down your back to soothe you. no cheesy lines, no 'i love you's, no distinct confirmation that you're back together, but you're both settled, knowing what the promise meant.

it's oddly comforting how the two of you can easily go back into your old routines, how the pain of spending a week apart could easily be forgotten once you're held in his arms and spoiled with multiple kisses.

you suppose that's the charm of finding your person. you can withstand having to share parts of him to the cameras and to the rest of to the world, because you know that in it, he brings with himself a part of you— the only part he refuses to let go in the name of love.

꒰ from ! 🐰 yan ꒱⠀⠀ haha so i think i kinda went insane on the smut scene. idk why i thought i could tackle make up sex for my first time writing smut but it's definitely a fun exercise! ALSO meandom!sunoo lovers rise and show yourselves. i need girls who see The Vision on my side. LOL.

⌗ taglist — @mariegibeau @kristynaaah @ikeukiss

You shake your head. “No, we shouldn’t.”

Sunghoon pushes body down until he’s slouching and pulls your chest against his, grunting at your tits pushes onto him. His hips buck upwards like he’s fucking you for real, big dick prodding at your covered pussy as if he’s having sex. Is this what he looks like when he fucks other girls? Eyebrows furrowed and mouth strung open while he moans?

He’s a quiet guy in general. But Sunghoon is loud when he moans. You push your lips against his again to drink up his sounds and clench around nothing when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. It’s wet and warm, and you grip onto his shoulders the faster he fucks against you.

“Fuck me,” he curses, more to himself, when you lean back and expose your naked jawline to him. He surges forward and his mouth dances across your skin in warm, sloppy kisses. Your hands come to grab his head for stability and you feel him moan against you when you tug his hair.

And a small part of you knows you shouldn’t be experiencing your best friend like this. There are other factors—people—who would be devastated to know he’s hard for another girl. But none of that matters when Sunghoon’s dick is slotted against your puffy folds. No matter how wrong this feels, the prospect of cumming weighs down on both of you.

Sunghoon flips you over until your back touches the couch. His mouth still works your neck, bruises and hickeys no doubt forming on you, but you’ll wear them like a badge. His basketball shorts are soaked from your wetness and his precum and it’s here where you see how big his cock really is.

He doesn’t give you enough time to think about it, though. Your best friend is pushing his cock against you again like he’s fucking you missionary style, holding your legs spread open so his body can fit in between. His cock feels so fucking good on your body.

“This isn’t sex,” he whispers against your mouth while he kisses you.

You shake your head again, but his head against your neck makes it hard. You settle for wrapping your arms around his back and squeezing him like you’re trying to agree silently.

“It doesn’t count if I’m not inside.” His hips push and push until his couch legs are scraping against the hardwood floor. The back of the couch repeatedly hits the wall behind it, reminding you just how powerful he is.

“Sunghoon—”

“Are you close, baby?” You bite your lip and nod as he pulls away, hips bucking faster when he realizes. “Fuck, me too. Cum for me, make me wet and messy.”

And you do, cumming violently to the point where you’re sure you’re soiling his shorts. You feel him still his hips when he pushes his dick against your pussy, legs on either shoulder as he presses you into the couch. You feel the ropes of sperm splash against your covered pussy because of the thin material.

“We can’t tell anyone, can we?” You ask.

He kisses you instead of answering.

spends most of his time in the forge tinkering with weapons and armor and would make the most unnecessary-but-kind-of-necessary inventions like a self-stirring campfire pot

tests out his inventions with riwoo which would usually end up in explosions and riwoo just shouting "AGAIN!"

stays up late into the night tinkering so jaehyun ends up hauling him to bed so he doesn't collapse

he can never say no to you when you randomly appear in his workshop with a crazy request — "do you think you can make me a sword that can shoot out flames" "...you're lucky i like you"

riwoo actually drags you with him every time riwoo wants something made because sungho can't say no to you

makes little trinkets for you: a stylish metal bracelet (which doubles as a tiny throwing knife), a gold necklace he made out of drachma (which doubles as a poison needle), an silver-trimmed anklet — "wait is this just a plain anklet?" "do you want me to turn it into a spike or-" "nope! i'm good!"

insists on being the only child of hephaestus to make/repair your armor bc not only does it reassure him you won't get hurt during sparring (because he spends days perfecting your armor specifically, delaying leehan's armor repairs for another week), it also turns him into a cocky little shit every time you win a war game because his armor protected you

little do you know he had engraved his initials on the inside of your breastplate (close to your heart awwe)

RIWOO (리우)

hands down a son of hermes bc not only is he quick-witted and adaptable, i can't not associate riwoo with mischief and pranking. but since he's an introvert, he isn't part of the hermes cabin welcoming committee every time a new demigod arrives at camp

has super speed and agility which he uses to his advantage every time he does pranks. he's also terrifyingly good at stealth and lock-picking. he's also good at pick-pocketing lol even when he doesn't mean to, he'd unconsciously take something from your pocket (but would return it right away — unless he intends to prank you)

you: "hey, where'd my knife go?!"

him: "i can't believe you'd lose a knife."

you, staring at him blanky: "give it back before i kick your ass"

him: "i have no idea what you're talking about—" (pats down his pocket, pulls out your throwing knife) "oh, how'd that get there, ha ha, ha."

his attack style is literally just hit-and-run, making use of dual short swords or daggers he picked from sungho's workshop

(at some point, he also wanted weapons that would double as something else so he dragged you with him to sungho to turn his short swords into a spear. then he realized it would be too bothersome to pick up the spear after throwing it, so he settled with just the swords)

in group battles, he's the scout, running ahead to gather info. he works really well with sungho, acting as a bait for the enemies only to lead them to sungho's traps

his reputation as the chaos child at camp precedes him. he has "borrowed" everyone's dagger or drachma at some point

loves racing with fellow campers across the climbing wall (and would win every time with a cheeky grin). when he'd finally beat everyone, he'd race the pegasi much to leehan's displeasure

ofc as a prankster who takes pride in his craft, the number 1 (and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5) victim of his pranks are his friends: he'd switch jaehyun's regular arrows into sticky ones, switch out woonhak's grape soda with lime, and would sneak up on taesan just to see if he'd react

(although the last time he tried sneaking up on taesan, he was almost choked by a skeleton hand that rose from the ground)

you're relatively safe from his pranks (and by relatively, i mean you'd still occasionally lose a dagger or two)

when he's bored, he'd make use of your amazing fighting skills and dodge thrown daggers and arrows "for fun." at some point, jaehyun joins you two and "just fun" turns into "survival mode"

makes use of his super speed to steal your camp necklace just to see you chase him across the climbing wall and when you finally catch him, he grins and promises to return your necklace only if you go on a date with him

you roll your eyes and agree to the date, have your necklace returned and find his initials engraved on it beside yours

he takes you to the hermes cabin's roof — his favorite place in the entire camp bc it acts as a private lookout spot — and would share his stolen snacks and woonhak's grape soda

JAEHYUN (재현)

this ball of sunshine is a son of apollo for sure. not only does apollo as the god of music, poetry, and light fit him perfectly, jaehyun also shines brightly as a leader. he also radiates the warmth that feels very "sun god" energy

is referred to the as the "golden boy" at camp bc, aside from being an actual son of the sun god, you swear you could see a halo around him. taesan would wear sunglasses around him because the guy literally glows

naturally great at music and healing, both figuratively and literally. he's the head healer at the camp's recovery center; he'd be humming a tune while feeding you ambrosia and both your external wounds and negative feelings would disappear

he can also summon light, even in total darkness and use it to blind enemies or guide allies

it's a no-brainer that his weapon of choice is a bow and golden arrows that also glow in sunlight. he can shoot with deadly precision

sungho tried making him a lyre that doubles as a bow but during one campfire, while feeling the song, jaehyun accidentally turns his lyre into the bow, almost raining arrows on everybody

at some point, he was banned from the archery range because he hits the bullseye every single time

during battles or war games, aside from being the designated healer, he's also the tactician. his long-range precision helps in shooting down enemies while also keeping an eye on the battlefield, giving commands and encouragement

the irritating picture of a morning person. he'd always wake up at sunrise no matter what. he's that one person who greets you way too cheerfully in the morning while everyone's just groggy

this makes his dynamic with taesan funny since its golden retriever x black cat, wherein jaehyun's all "rise and shine!" and taesan just deadpans with "i prefer the dark" but jaehyun greets him a good morning anyway!

has this natural habit of checking on everyone's injuries, big or small. you get a scratch and he's already offering to heal it

of course, you're the number one priority when he's on center duty. even if other campers arrive before you, when he sees you walk in with a cut on your arm, he'd bound to you right away, ambrosia and nectar in hand and a worried look on his face — "i'm okay jaehyun, it's just a scratch. you should see other patients" he's already dragging you to an empty cot "i don't see other patients"

(the other camper with a sprained ankle: "am i a joke to you")

bc he's banned at the archery range during training, you'd find him practicing alone at sunrise instead. one time, he offers to "teach you" and ends up brushing your hands while he corrects your stance (ok now picture the sunlight just painting jaehyun's face as he leans close and you make eye contact and he gets flustered shgjdhj hallelujah !)

writes little poems for you but pretends they're "just lyrics." he'd sing love songs during campfires, thinking he's being lowkey about his crush on you (he isn't)

TAESAN (태산)

he's either a son of hades or a son of ares but i ultimately see him a son of hades because he has a very introspective vibe that screams "child of hades" but like not in a brooding way. more like he's thoughtful and has a quiet intensity (plus the image of him summoning an army of the undead while looking nonchalant about it is so attractive for no reason!!!)

aside from summoning skeletons, he can also summon shadows and shadow travel in short distances and limited geokinesis, causing the ground to shake when he summons his skeleton warriors

has a hellhound for a pet (mrs. o'leary for the pjo fans!) that can shadow travel with him. imagine a puppy cerberus that follows taesan around and would chew on his skeleton warriors' femurs

weapon of choice is a stygian iron sword which absorbs energy from his enemies

he's kind of like a specialist during battles and would work alongside riwoo. so while riwoo's darting across fields to gather intel, taesan would act as an emergency exit, pulling riwoo into the shadows with him to shadow travel them back to safety.

he's also an intimidator, choosing to lurk in the shadows instead of in the frontlines. but when he steps in, it's utter devastation. he's also the best at fighting mobs since he can summon a mob of his own

since he likes keeping to himself, you'd usually find him sitting under a tree, sketching in a notebook or meditating with shadows curling faintly around him

aside from his pet hellhound, other animals also seem to gravitate near him especially crows and stray black dogs. they'd follow him around camp but he doesn't talk about it

he's also not super into camp activities but when jaehyun convinces him to join capture the flag, he becomes terrifyingly excited (and his team always wins when he participates so jaehyun actively drags him. of course, taesan only ever participates in camp activities when you're on the same team)

has an affinity to flower fields, but only when you're there (so would that mean he has an affinity towards you? hmm). he claims its because the flower fields are usually quiet and it helps him think

despite trying to maintain a peaceful space, he would be unwittingly dragged into chaos by riwoo and woonhak.

woonhak loves making fun of taesan's ominous and intimidating aura, with taesan emerging from the shadows being all "leave or else" and woonhak going "ooo spooky"

similarly, riwoo would challenge little cerberus to race (after beating leehan's pegasi). when taesan sees his pet losing, he'd summon a skeleton hand to trip riwoo (he'd deny his involvement afterwards)

on the other hand, his dynamic with leehan is unexpectedly peaceful since still waters + dark depths

(of course that was until leehan wanted to test out if taesan can shadow travel from land to the darkest depths of the camp lake. he can, until leehan had to force him back because taesan somehow attracted deep-sea carnivorous fishes)

now you're definitely his favorite person (which you wear with a badge of honor after he said you were "less annoying" than everyone else). he'd let you sit with him in silence while he's sketching under the tree, all while his shadows curl around you protectively while you nap

puppy cerberus adores you!! taesan isn't sure if he's jealous of you because his pet clearly loves you more, or if he's jealous of his pet because you give him kisses....

LEEHAN (이한)

so i was halfway through making him a son of aphrodite then i realized DUH he's a son of poseidon why did i ever think otherwise (though i still headcanon leehan as that one aphrodite kid who looks perfect even after a battle). anyway !

as a son of poseidon (and percy jackson's brother lol), naturally his powers involve hydrokinesis. he can also breathe underwater and communicate with sea creatures (now imagine irl leehan being able to talk to his fish friends im SOFT) as well as horses and pegasi

he also has earthshaker powers when he gets mad, which isn't often but when he does, he can crack the ground in two

since he's essentially percy, leehan's weapon is a celestial bronze trident, which he uses both in close combat and when channeling waves

because he can both be on offense (by knocking enemies with blasts of water) and on defense (summoning currents and using them as protective walls), he's considered both a frontline fighter and a defender

with his natural affinity to water, you'd always find him at the lake swimming laps. his fish friends would follow him around in the water like little bodyguards

has a pet pegasus with a bad attitude towards everyone except leehan (and you). when riwoo raced against his pegasi and won, leehan "accidentally" sent a current to capsize riwoo's boat during a camp lake activity

during breakfast, his hair is always damp from swimming. during one particularly uneventful morning, riwoo tried running circles around him in an attempt to dry off his hair

gets caught up in riwoo's mischief all the time!! riwoo tries to rope him into bets and games but then leehan wins without much effort and it frustrates riwoo like crazy

"bet you can't skip that stone five times" then leehan ends up skipping the stone seven times. riwoo: "ok show-off"

leehan finds the most random things underwater. when he discovered a sunken ship a loooong way from the camp shore, he scavenged for metal parts to bring back to sungho, to which the son of hephaestus happily accepted (and ended up working into the night. leehan then received and earful from jaehyun, both from leaving camp grounds — or waters? — and for fueling sungho's late night projects)

as thanks (and out of guilt) sungho upgrades his trident into one that can double as a sword and can switch into a ballpen (riptide!!)

loves taking you underwater with him and introduces you to his sea creature friends despite being unable to talk to them like he can. you'd get surprised though when leehan suddenly reddens while talking with the fishes, not knowing that they were teasing him

"is this your mate? are you going to make eggs?" "ok first of all—"

can i also just say remember that one scene in moa where annabeth tosses her dagger to signal percy, who's underwater, for enemies?? OK SO NOW IMAGINE YOU AND LEEHAN?

"surrender your weapons!" you, tossing your dagger at sea: "oops!" your enemies look at you in bewilderment bc wtf? then leehan just pops out of the water riding a cyclone, holding the dagger to give to you and says with a complete poker-face "you dropped this" then straight up ANNIHILATES your enemies with a column of water to their faces

(this entire headcanon is just leehan = percy = greenest flag in all of fiction history)

(rides off into the sunset on pegasi)

WOONHAK (운학)

i also see him as a son of hermes with riwoo but after much deliberation i figured he also fits as a son of dionysus since dionysus is also the god of festivity and joy (and chaos) which matches woonhak's energy. anywho !

woonhak is the moodmaker of the entire camp since he radiates that aura of festivity. and since dionysus is also related to "madness" or "craziness," woonhak is immune to such effects. instead, he's the one controlling the madness, making people loosen up or act sillier

he also manipulates vines bc duh his godly parent is the god of wine. HOWEVER, unlike dionysus, woonhak is obsessed with grape soda — chugs it, hoards it, converts it into air so he can inhale it if he could (to which he begged sungho to make an evaporator, again contributing to the latter's late night projects and again receiving an earful from jaehyun)

his weapon of choice during battles is a thyrsus staff, a pinecone-tipped staff that's historically used for rituals and ceremonies but of course, sungho tweaked it into something that can serve as an extension of woonhak's vines

similar to taesan, woonhak is a crowd controller, utilizing his vines to trip enemies, make plants burst from the ground, and to induce confusion so his enemies fight each other, which turns the tide of the battle

like riwoo, he's chaos personified both on and off the battlefield

he's everyone's hypeman, always cheering the loudest during battles or campfires

like riwoo (again), he loves using his plant powers for the dumbest shit like making vines to trip riwoo mid-race, making vine circles around taesan when he's sketching by the tree, tossing people into the lake by the leg ultimately harassing leehan who's peacefully meditating underwater

his dynamic with riwoo is everything honestly. you'd think the dumb shit riwoo does are his ideas? oh no, woonhak is the one suggesting them ("what if we raced leehan's pegasi through the forest?") and of course with his moodmaking powers and riwoo's natural affinity to mischief, they're the ultimate chaos duo, much to jaehyun's distress

constantly sneaks grape soda and chips into the cabin even if it isn't allowed

when he isn't part of the war games, you'd find him cheering in the stands for the winning team (usually the team where you and his friends were) but on the rare moments your team is on the brink of losing, woonhak easily switches up to hype for the other team lmao

his laugher (or any strong emotion really) can trigger random bursts of plant growth nearby. this happens more frequently with you around (you're essentially contributing to reforestation solely by existing around woonhak, good job!)

you're also the only one who can calm him down, or at least bring his energy levels to a peaceful hum

OT6 (보이넥스트도어)

THE WOODS WERE alive with shouts, footsteps, and the occasional burst of magic colliding with magic. Capture the Flag at Camp Half-Blood was never just a game. It was a battle dressed up as fun.

You crouched behind a tree, gripping your celestial bronze sword. You eyed the enemies' flag as it fluttered with the breeze. A gang of campers guarded it, looking way too eager to tackle anyone who came too close.

"Alright, listen up," Jaehyun whispered, appearing at your side in a shimmer of golden sunlight. "I'll draw their eyes."

From above, Riwoo dropped down, landing in a crouch. The smirk on his face made you wonder if he already had multiple tricks at the ready. "I'll zip through and mess with their footing."

"Woonhak and I can make chaos," Taesan said from behind. One of the shadows by his ankles curled around you in a protective way. At his side, Woonhak grinned widely, twirling his staff already covered in vines.

"Chaos is my specialty!"

Leehan stepped forward, brushing dirt from his shirt. The ground trembled faintly as a small stream surged nearby. "I'll cover you when you move. Just signal me."

And lastly, Sungho tightened the straps of your armor. With a knowing look, he slipped something into your pocket. "When you're within range, click it. Just like we practiced."

"Focus on the flag. We'll hold the line." Jaehyun nudged your shoulder with his, beaming confidently.

"Got it."

The plan unfolded in seconds.

Jaehyun jumped into the open, sunlight exploding around him in a blind flare. The guards cried out, shielding their eyes. Without hesitation, Riwoo then darted out faster than the eyes could follow, dagger flicking as he tripped one camper and slapped the other one the back just to cause confusion.

From the shadows, Taesan surged forward with an open palm. Skeleton hands burst from the earth, grabbing ankles and pining enemies down. Woonhak followed, yelling out "It's party time!" as his vines whipped around weapons and yanked them to the ground. "Oopsie-daisy!"

Sungho joined the fray, forcing the enemy line back with his warhammer. His hands glowed, conducting heat across his weapon, inflicting minor burns here as another form of distraction.

Then Leehan's voice cut through the chaos. "Now!"

The stream beside him surged up, curling into a wave that swept across the battlefield.

You ran.

Leaping across the field, you made it to the bottom of the hill where the flag was perched. Sungho's words rang in your ears. Just like you practiced.

You took out the pen and clicked it. Within seconds, the pen elongated into a long whip, its weight familiar in your hands. With a single flick, the whip surged forward, wrapping around the flag pole, and you pulled.

The flag flew in the air and into your hands. "I got it!"

Cheers erupted instantly. Without warning, you felt yourself being lifted up in the air by a set of vines and twirled around. Woonhak and Riwoo cheered from below. Jaehyun whooped, loosing an arrow into the air that burst into golden sparks. Taesan and Leehan shared satisfied grins, and Sungho clapped your back when you were eventually lowered to the ground.

The conch horn blew across camp, declaring your team the winners, but honestly... With them having your back and cheering you on, you'd already won.