Orion. ⋆‧𓏲ּ𝄢

(An episode by episode fic, possibly with extra chapters. Hopefully I make it through them all.)

(Updates at least weekly!)

Steve x M!Reader Stories Masterlist

Season One

Chapter One: The Vanishing of Will Byers

Chapter Two: The Weirdo on Maple Street

Chapter Three: Holly, Jolly

Chapter Four: The Body

Chapter Five: The Flea and the Acrobat

Chapter Six: The Monster

Chapter Seven: The Bathtub

Chapter Eight: The Upside Down

Season Two

Chapter One: MADMAX

Chapter Two: Trick or Treat, Freak

Chapter Three: The Pollywog

Chapter Four: Will the Wise

Chapter Five: Dig Dug

Chapter Six: The Spy

Chapter Seven: The Lost Sister

Chapter Eight: The Mind Flayer

Chapter Nine: The Gate

Season Three

Chapter One: Suzie, Do You Copy?

Chapter Two: The Mall Rats

Chapter Three: The Case of the Missing Lifeguard

Chapter Four: The Sauna Test

Chapter Five: The Flayed

Chapter Six: E Pluribus Unum

Chapter Seven: The Bite

Chapter Eight: The Battle of Starcourt

Steve POVs

Dinner for Three

Drunken Thoughts

Party POVs

Hopper - Day One

Nancy - Target Practice

El - No Signal

Billy - The Breakup

Kill Count

Link

Playlist

It’s a beautiful morning, yet the tension between you and Alicent Hightower crackles like a summer storm. You can feel her eyes boring into you from across the room, but you’ve become quite accustomed to her watchful glares. If anything, you thrive on them.

You smile sweetly, dipping your head toward Aegon as he lounges on the Iron Throne, looking far more relaxed than any king should. He’s watching you with that same eager gleam in his eyes, waiting for whatever praise you’ll offer him next. It’s become a game for you at this point—how much can you say before he completely melts? And it’s easier than it should be.

"My king," you say softly, stepping closer, your golden Lannister curls bouncing as you move. "You look especially regal today. Like Aegon the Conqueror himself reborn. Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

Aegon straightens slightly, his eyes widening with interest. "What?" His tone is eager, as though whatever you say might be the single most important revelation of his life.

"I see a man destined for greatness. Aegon, you are so strong, so powerful, and—" you let your voice drop into a breathy whisper, "so very wise." You emphasize each word, drawing out your compliments in a way that sends a flush of pride creeping up his neck.

Aegon shifts in his seat, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Do you really think so, Y/N?" he asks, his voice almost boyish, seeking that reassurance from you.

"Of course I do, darling. And I would never lie to you." You reach out, letting your fingers brush against his hand in a gentle, lingering touch, just enough to make his breath hitch. "Unlike others who may have their own agendas…" You throw a quick glance toward where Alicent stands, her expression tight, lips pressed thin. The corner of your mouth twitches into a hidden smirk.

Aegon doesn’t notice. He’s too busy basking in the attention you're lavishing on him. "Mother just worries," he mumbles, though even he seems half-hearted about it.

"Worries?" You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "I think she underestimates you, my love. You’ve already proven yourself to be a far better ruler than anyone could have imagined. I can’t imagine why she continues to hover over you like you’re still a boy."

You know exactly why. Alicent cannot stand the idea of you influencing her son. It grates on her to see Aegon so smitten, so easily swayed by your honeyed words. But that’s precisely what you’re counting on.

Aegon chuckles, clearly amused. "She just doesn’t understand, does she?"

"She doesn’t," you agree, leaning in closer so your voice is only for him. "But I do." You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart. "I see you for the man you are, Aegon. A man who doesn’t need his mother whispering in his ear, telling him what to do. You’re king now. You should be able to make your own decisions. Isn’t that what you want?"

Aegon’s eyes flicker with something—desire, admiration, a need for validation. "Yes," he says, his voice firm, though you know it’s more out of wanting to please you than actual conviction. "That is what I want."

You smile, letting your fingers trail lightly down his chest before stepping back, your eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of a job well done. "Then take what’s yours, my king. Trust yourself. Trust me." You cast another glance toward Alicent, who looks like she’s about to bite through her tongue.

She’s always there, lurking like a shadow, trying to pull Aegon back into her grasp. But he slips through her fingers every time you’re around. Alicent has power, but you? You have Aegon. And he doesn’t even realize it.

You turn to face the queen mother, giving her a radiant smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. "Your Grace, you must be so proud of Aegon," you say, your voice saccharine sweet, as though you’re not fully aware of the tension between you. "He’s grown into such a strong man under your care."

Alicent stiffens, her lips twitching in a forced smile. "He has always been capable," she says, her tone clipped. "Though I think he still benefits from wise counsel."

You tilt your head, pretending to consider her words, though you already know exactly how to respond. "Of course," you agree, "but I think he’s ready to make his own choices now. Don’t you?" You let the question hang in the air, a gentle reminder that Aegon is your king now, not hers.

Alicent opens her mouth to reply, but Aegon cuts in before she can get a word out. "Mother, Y/N’s right. I don’t need to be told what to do all the time." He laughs, clearly proud of himself for standing up to her, oblivious to the fact that he’s only echoing your words.

You beam at him, eyes sparkling. "Exactly, my love. You are your own man. And no one, not even your mother, can take that from you."

Alicent’s gaze narrows, and for a moment, you think she might say something sharp, but she bites her tongue. You know it’s eating her alive inside, watching Aegon slip further under your influence, but she can’t do anything about it. Not without making herself look overbearing in front of her son.

"Come, Aegon," you say lightly, turning back to him. "Let’s take a walk in the gardens. You could use some fresh air after sitting on that throne for so long."

Aegon rises eagerly, flashing you that boyish grin that only makes him seem more malleable. "Yes, let’s."

As you link your arm through his and lead him out of the hall, you don’t bother to look back at Alicent. You can already feel the weight of her stare burning into your back. You have Aegon wrapped around your finger, and she knows it.

I'm not sure how long we've been out here. Time is but an illusion. Maybe it's been days. It feels Like it must have been. I feel like I'm looking through a warped glass window. Everything is blurry and it makes me dizzy, yet I can't look away. No matter how much I want to.

Smoke fills the air, obscuring my view and burning my eyes as the wind rushes through my ears. My hands tighten around the reins. Vermithor rumbles loudly. He senses my growing unease as I whip my head around. My gaze searches for Jace and Baela among the smoke. I swallow thickly as I rest a calming hand against his bronze scales.

"Lykirī, Vermithor." I say loud enough for him to hear. He grumbles lowly. "We'll find them soon. We just got split up." My voice trails off towards the end of my words.

The fumes make my throat tighten. A prickly sensation skitters up my spine. I yelp, yanking the reins to the side as one of the giant bolt arrows slices through the air toward Vermithor's side. He shrieks as he dives higher in the sky, narrowly missing the arrow. I'm thrown back into my seat as I grasp the saddle to stay upright.

"Rȳbās!"

More bolt arrows fly towards us. He flies towards the danger, turning left and right swiftly as shouts and screams become clearer the closer we get. I hold back a shriek when he slams his body through a ship, destroying the wood as it slices my cheek open. I feel warmth start to trickle down my skin. The cut stings.

Panic holds my chest in a vice, squeezing until I can't breathe as I look back at the damage. He breathes fire across more ships, more enemies. I can't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears.

"Dohaerās! We have to find—"

A shriek fills the air, making a harsh wave of fear cover me like a cloak. I know that sound, that's Vermax, sweet, gentle, Vermax. He's in pain, such a great deal of pain that it makes tears prick my eyes. I yank the reins to turn my dragon around as we fly toward the sound.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

I feel bile rise in my throat. My trembling hand finds its way to my stomach, as if that action alone can keep me from losing my composure.

"Jace?" I shout. Fuck. I feel like I'm going to be sick when my eyes catch a head of brown curls.

Sinking in the water. The bolt arrows are lodged in his scales, his wails go quieter and more hoarse as his limbs grow more sluggish.

"Go, go now, Vermithor!" I urge him on as the wind slaps me in the face. He sails downward towards them, but it's too slow. Too fucking slow. Vermithor dodges the arrows as we get closer. Closer.

"I'm here, I'm here! I'm—"

When you love someone, you would be willing to die for them. Kill for them. With no regard for anything other than knowing that they are safe. I have never known the feeling of a loved one's blood on my skin. The thought makes my skin feel uncomfortably tight. So when that first arrow pierced his skin, I could do nothing but watch. I wanted to scream. I wanted to lay waste to those who hurt him because he doesn't deserve it. He deserves to be at home, safe and warm with his family until he grows old. He doesn't fucking deserve it. Not... not here.

"Jace!" I'm not sure if that was the scream I let out or not. I can't tell.

Calm down. Fucking focus! Get him. Go get him.

Then the second arrow hits.

Then the third.

I cry out. It feels like someone ripped out my lungs and shredded them apart then stuck them back in and expected me to breathe easily.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

The ancient beast slams into the water. The salty water sprays my face, the contact freezing against my skin. I unclasp the hooks on my saddle as I slide down his scales. I don't care about safety. All I can think about is him. I reach out, my fingers extending farther as I grab at his vest. My hand slips. Vermithor growls lowly, catching my attention. I have to hurry, or we'll both be dead.

I try not to cry. The tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I choke on the sobs that threaten to fall past my lips.

I give a determined shout as I grab him by the shoulders, yanking him up with all my strength. I feel like my arms are tearing as I clench my jaw. I hold him closely once I manage to get him up. I pant harshly as I rest my cheek against his soaked curls. I squeeze my eyes shut. My body is shaking so violently that I feel my teeth chatter. My stomach rolls at the sight of him. I gag at the scent of his blood. Vermithor assists in helping both of us back into the saddle, sinking himself lower into the ocean.

"Sōvēs." I let out. My voice is hoarse.

Vermithor launches off the water. The force makes a wave that crashes over a few ships around us. I hold onto Jace tightly to keep him from falling before I'm jerked to the side. The ancient beast lets out a pain-filled wail as the bolt arrow sticks out of his side.

"No, no! Sōvēs! Vēzot Sōves!" My voice cracks. He tries to obey, flapping his wings as he travels higher. A flash of shadow zips right past us, ripping the rope from the arrow. Baela looks back. A mixture of panic and despair paints her warm features when her eyes land on Jacaerys.

"We have to go back to Dragonstone!" I shout over the wind. She nods, leading the way on Moondancer. I look back down. Brown eyes meet mine as I swallow harshly. They're half-lidded, tracing over my face like he's committing it to memory.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"You're okay now." I grit out, my hands tightening around his shoulders. "I'm here now. You're safe."

I brush back his wet hair that is sticking to his forehead with shaking fingers.

I'll keep him safe. I think. I'll shield him from the pain and sorrow that comes with war. I will take every arrow, every sword blow, even if I die by dragon fire. I would for him, because he isn't just a prince or the heir to the throne. He's Jace. Kind and gentle and good. I feel tears slip down my cheeks, creating a pathway through the dirt and blood.

Because I love him.

I feel the pad of his fingers brush against the tears staining my cheeks. The color is draining from his face, growing paler. The sight makes me nauseous.

"Don't cry, Ñuha jorāelā," he whispers, his tone weak and breathy. His chest is rising and falling too quickly. His breathing is shallow. I shake my head repeatedly.

"Don't speak. Save your strength." I stammer. I ignore the blood that's soaking through his vest. I ignore the way his skin is too cold against mine. It may be selfish of me. It is.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm okay. Hey, hey, hey. Don't close your eyes, okay? Just look at me." I guide his head toward mine. I press my forehead against his as I run a soothing hand through his damp curls. I press a trembling kiss to the side of his head. He murmurs my name. I pull back to meet his eyes.

I expect to see pain, anger, anything. But all I see is love. He's looking at me like I hung the moon and stars just for him, and I can't handle it. I feel sick. I feel like it's my fault.

"Don't... don't blame yourself." My eyes flick back up to meet his. Dragonstone is just coming into view.

"Don't say that like you're dying. You're not." I say forcefully. My hands are trembling as I press a hand to one of his wounds. He grunts roughly. I whisper soft apologies into his hair as I hold him close.

"Please don't take him." I whisper. I don't know who I'm speaking to. The gods, the ocean, the fucking sky. "We have already lost too much. Don't take him too. He doesn't deserve it."

I plead and plead until my voice grows hoarse and my words get stolen in the wind. I beg the gods, or whoever is listening, to not take him from me because it wouldn't be fair. Because he's still young, and he deserves to see a realm that is peaceful and safe. I beg until the tears have crusted on my cheeks and my heart has been stomped on. I beg until his heart grows more faint and slow. I beg once we land in Dragonstone and the maesters pry him from my arms.

I even began to pray to the old and new gods like a child, pleading with them, cursing them, making deals, anything.

I feel like I brought a corpse to his mother's feet.

The dragonkeepers lead away Vermithor to tend to his wounds.

I sit there for what feels like hours. My back is against a stone wall. I sit there waiting across the hall. My knees are up to my chest, my riding leathers still slightly damp. My head starts to lean forward, my eyes fluttering closed before I snap them open.

I can't sleep until I know he's alive.

The maesters tried to clean my wounds, but I refused each time. After the sixth attempt, I caved. Rhaenyra told me she would stay with Jacaerys. She urged me to go eat, or at least take a bath. I said nothing. Baela understood, in a way. She sat with me for the first hour, but then she jokingly remarked about how much she stunk of dragon as she rose to go take a bath. A maid passed by, offering sweet cakes. I declined, knowing that if I ate something, it would just come right back up.

And then I was alone.

Alone with my thoughts, which is worse when the thoughts could become true this time.

I repeat his name like a mantra out loud. Quietly. Oh so quietly, but the guards still glance my way. As if, by keeping repeating it, I'll somehow keep his heart beating by speaking his name over and over. Seeing the arrows strike his body is something that will never leave my sight. It will haunt me for the rest of eternity. Every time I close my eyes, I see the image behind my eyelids. I'm sure it will be in my nightmares tonight and every night after, but I would bear the burden if it meant his pain would ease and that his dreams would be peaceful.

Some time ago, I dozed off. I knock my head against the wall with a wince. Baela appears at my side, a tired smile plastered across her lips.

"He's alright. They did the most they could."

I attempt to spring up onto my feet. My legs feel fuzzy as I lose my balance, but Baela grips my forearms to stabilize me. I smile weakly as I hurry past her as quickly as I can. I walk into his bedchambers. The room smells of frankincense and salt.

My breathing hitches once my gaze lands on Jace. The arrows that were protruding from his body when I held him are gone. His riding leathers are gone, replaced with bandages around his chest. His lower half is covered in a soft, silk red blanket. His skin is still pale, but he's breathing more slowly now. My heart pounds relentlessly against my ribcage as I slowly make my way toward him.

"He's strong." I turn my head to the side to see Rhaenyra. She looks exhausted but less tense than before. Her violet eyes are soft as she goes to sit on the foot of the bed. She's still in her riding leathers from before, before we left to fight in the Gullet. I wince. She smiles slightly.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace." I whisper, I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Leaving her here, disobeying her, bringing back her half-dead son—

"You brought him back," she murmurs. I look back at him, he looks like he's still in pain. His brows are pinched together, but otherwise he looks peaceful. At least I hope he's peaceful. I scoff bitterly.

"Not fast enough." Her hand grasps mine, gentle.

"Do not speak like that. You brought him back and that is enough." It's quiet for a few aching moments. The guilt gnaws at me.

"Leaving was wrong. Keeping me in my bedchambers was wrong," she says. I purse my lips. "What you did could be seen as treason."

I look away from her, shame filling my gut.

"But," she starts. "You fought fearlessly, and you brought back my son." She pauses, pursing her lips. Her voice grows quiet. "I've already lost a son. I didn't need to lose another." My frown softens as I squeeze her hand gently. She stands up from the bed. She squeezes my shoulder before walking past.

"I'll give you both privacy."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

It's silent. I let out a deep sigh as I sit on the ground near the bed. I hesitate as my hand hovers over his. I gently interlock our fingers as I press them against my lips. Tears prick my eyes as my throat tightens.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there fast enough." I whisper against his skin. I rest my forehead against his leg as I let out a shaky breath. "I... I tried."

I feel a hand fall on top of my head, weak but still there. I practically deflate against him as tears collect on my eyelashes. My breathing hitches as he rubs soothingly down my back. this is ridiculous. I'm supposed to be comforting him.

"Oh, Jace. I thought—fuck—I thought—" He shushes me gently. I choke on a sob, my voice brittle. My body begins to tremble uncontrollably as he weakly tugs on my hand.

"Lay with me, Nuhys qēlos." His voice is gentle, not possessive, but so soft it makes me want to curl up in his arms.

"I can't," I breathe out, albeit sharply. "I don't want to hurt you further—"

He murmurs my name again, and I shake my head vigorously. But I let him guide me. I let him tug me into the bed and into his uninjured side. And when I feel the warmth and the solidity of him, my tears turn into sobs.

He grabs my hand gently—so gently—and holds it against his chest, right against his heart. I pull back, not wanting to hurt him, but he holds firmly.

Tears still slip down my face at a rapid pace, but I calm slightly once I feel the gentle thump, thump of his heart. It's consistent and strong, and fuck, it makes me fall apart all over again. because I felt his heart fading in my hands, and if I was even a second too late, he wouldn't be alive. My breathing stutters as his thumb rubs back and forth across my skin.

"I'm here." He says it with so much conviction that I want to believe him. So I let myself breathe in his calming scent. I let myself sniffle and hiccup as I focus on his heartbeat. "I'm here now, and I am not going to leave you."

I rest my head gently in the crook of his neck, careful of the bandage around his shoulder, as he wraps a tender arm around my waist.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles weakly. "I'm better. I'm alright now."

"Thank you for saving me." He whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to my forehead. I say nothing. I can't say anything as a lump forms in my throat.

He's my lungs, my heart, the very air I breathe. He's the wind through the trees, the waves crashing against the shore, the warmth of the sun. He's the wildflowers growing in the fields. His smile alone could bring light to the darkness.

Because if I had to burn the realm down, I would do it gladly if it meant he would be warm.

"Stay?"

I raise my head from the safety of his neck. I meet his soft brown eyes — dark and inviting, and oh so warm. When the light hits them just right, they're a pool of soft honey.

"I'm here," I whisper. I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed. "I'll stay."

He nods, and I go back to burying my face into his skin. It's quiet for a few moments. I draw gentle patterns on his bandaged chest. I hear him laugh quietly. I raise a brow as I hum in question.

"You smell of dragon. And blood."

I let out a small laugh at that.

"I suppose I do."

But I don't make any moves to get up, and neither does he. We stay like that until the sky darkens and our breathing slows. My eyes are half-lidded as I exhale quietly.

"Jace?" I mumble.

"Hm?" I feel his thumb tracing soft patterns back and forth on my hip.

"I love you."

He looks down at me, and I meet his gaze. He presses a kiss against my forehead, letting his lips linger for a few moments.

"I love you too." His voice raw as he whispers the words against my skin.

We fall asleep, me dirtying the sheets in the bed that I'm sure the handmaids will gossip and complain about. But I let the sound of his heartbeat lull me to sleep, knowing he is safe. And I will keep it that way, even if I have to fight the gods themselves.

But for now, we will rest.

His training sessions are a way to channel his anger, and he lashes out at a straw man, again and again, clinging to the thought that, at least in these moments, he is not entirely powerless. He keeps his focus on the target, attentive to Ser Criston’s advice — “Soften your knees”, “Keep your feet light, your hands heavy”, and for a couple of hours he forgets about his misery.

It’s when the training comes to an end, the dreaded realization sinks in again, and Aemond is lost in his thoughts, mindlessly twirling the wooden sword in one hand, his gaze wandering around the yard.

And then his eyes fall on a bright green spot — and all of a sudden, he sees you. A girl of his age, the hem of your green dress a bit dusty, boots covered in dirt, a few strands of hair fallen loose, a coy smile on your face. You meet his gaze and wave at him excitedly.

Aemond looks dumbfounded. A girl in the training yard. Waving at him. He blinks once, twice — and in the next moment, you’re standing merely a few steps away, glancing curiously at his sword.

“It looks so hefty! Is it heavy? What is it made of?” a string of questions, your voice sweet and joyful.

There’s a brief pause and maybe you mistake his stiffness for arrogance as you are quick to add:

“Oh, my manners!” gasping but showing no actual regret. “Forgive me,” you curtsy, your smile growing even wider. A timid smile appears on his face in return and he finally comes to his senses.

“It’s made out of red oak. It’s not very heavy, you get used to it,” Aemond raises the sword, letting you take a closer look. Within another blink of an eye he finds himself talking to you, your questions endless and maybe a bit naive but he genuinely enjoys it.

That’s until you both hear a loud cry.

“Lady Y/N!” your nanny comes running in, out of breath and scowling. “I told you not to wander around...,” she chokes on her words at the sight of the young prince. She curtsies, too, but it isn’t nearly as cute as when you do it.

She sprints decisively in your direction. “It wasn’t very polite of you to interrupt the prince’s training, you little menace!”

And then Aemond, to his own surprise, moves to stand in her way.

“She didn’t interrupt a thing,” he disagrees, lips thinned into a tight line.

The nanny stops and looks at Aemond dubiously, switching her gaze from him to you.

Ser Criston is the one to resolve the conflict — he comes from behind, with a polite smile plastered on his face.

“Young lady can watch from the balcony. The guests are very much welcomed,” he calls for the maid to escort you and your nanny up there. While you’re away, he looks at Aemond with a grin:

“Already wooing the ladies, my prince? Let’s hope you are as good with your sword as she thinks you are.”

He does make Aemond work for it but the prince fights back, winning one bout after the other. He keeps glancing at you and you wave at him every single time.

Aemond is too young to know what love is, too shy and guarded to even entertain the thought of it. But when you look at him, with your childish grin and your eyes bright with mirth, he doesn’t feel lonely anymore. 2.

It’s been two weeks since Aemond lost his eye and he hasn’t left the bed. The pain is still blinding, burning and constantly making his only eye water. But what hurts even more is the humiliating disability. The triumph of claiming Vhagar died down, and now the prince was faced with the harsh reality he needed to adjust to and the process wasn’t an easy one. The fever has only recently gone down, leaving his body weak and freezing from the lack of movement, but he couldn’t bear the thought of stepping out of the room.

His mother wouldn’t leave his side and even Aegon often came to visit, clearly blaming himself for not being there for his little brother. Yet their presence barely brought Aemond any comfort and most of the time he would pretend to be asleep to avoid any conversations. He knew they only meant well and he was being cruel but he couldn’t help it as his pride was shattered and he gave in to sadness.

That is until one night he wakes up to a weird sound. He’s only half-awake when he hears a vigorous tapping that clearly comes from the outside. Except it's not from the other side of the door — but rather outside his window.

He’s startled by this guess and suspiciously walks closer. It takes him a few seconds to focus his gaze and discern a human’s silhouette — and then another few to realize that it’s you standing on the window sill. He feels like his heart will jump out of his chest as he rushes to open the window.

You climb through and clumsily drop to the floor. But before he can get worried, you are on your feet again, eyeing him with concern.

“Oh, Aemond,” your gaze and voice are both so soft, it makes his lower lip quiver. You carefully approach him and put your hand on his shoulder, gently sliding it on his back in a soothing motion and then cuddling him. He welcomes your company with a sigh of relief. You smell of oranges and you give the best hugs.

“They told me no one was allowed into your chambers,“ your hushed whisper burns his ear. “The silliest thing I’ve ever heard!” you pull away from him, still lightly panting, cheeks flushed and hair messy. “I knew I had to find a way to come see you.”

You examine his face, frowning at the scar that’s still healing.

“Does it hurt?”

He only nods, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to hold back a sob. You move closer, resuming the gentle motion of rubbing his back.

Ever since that day in the training yard, you kept in touch, regularly sending each other letters, chatting about everything and nothing, sharing your little secrets and observations. You recently mentioned that your parents allowed you to come see him again, but with the tragic change of events, Aemond completely forgot about the preplanned visit. 

“I will take his eye,” you say out of the blue, caressing the unharmed side of his face, your voice laced with anger. Aemond thinks he might’ve heard it wrong.

“...Whose eye?”

“Luke’s! I shall take his eye, as payment for yours,” you tell him with zero hesitation. For a girl of your age, you’re way too eager to plan such a thing, yet he somehow has no doubts that you can actually do it.

Aemond shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t,” his voice quiet but firm. “The King was very adamant about that, no payment is needed.”

“Well, maybe he is too old to think straight,” you retort. “You are his son and you lost an eye! Justice must prevail,” you tilt your head at him, clearly thinking that you’re in the right.

And he knows that you are but he also knows no justice will be served. It’s the last straw for Aemond — he looks away in shame as tears, hot and angry, start falling down his cheek. You waste no time hugging him again, letting him cry on your shoulder, and the two of you stay like that for what feels like an hour.

And then, in the comfortable silence of your embrace, he hears you asking, very seriously:

“Are you sure I can’t take his eye?”

At that moment, he can’t stop himself from letting out a laugh — a weak one and barely audible, but still, he laughs, for the first time in two weeks, and you are the sole reason for it. 

Your cheek is pressed to his, your fingers running through his hair, and Aemond realizes he can’t lose you.

He begrudgingly persuades you that taking Luke’s eye isn’t worth the trouble.

3.

By the age of fifteen Aemond becomes quite accustomed to the eyepatch and it gives him a boost of confidence. Losing an eye only made him train harder and his persistence pays off when he’s the one to win, time after time, no matter who his opponent is. His hair grows longer, now silky smooth and with no sign of his boyish curled ends, his face features sharpen. He learns to walk with his head high and hands clasped behind his back, mastering the intimidating look that makes most people want to stay away from the one-eyed prince. 

His tricks could’ve never worked on you, though.

You come to visit him a few times a year, and he eagerly awaits your arrival. All the days in between, you keep talking through letters, them getting longer as you get closer. He keeps those letters locked in a hidden compartment of his table. And sometimes, for no specific reason — or maybe for the reason he can’t yet formulate — he is drawn to reach for them, which always ends with him rereading the letters for hours. Some of them he knows by heart and yet it never stops him from having the pleasure of seeing your handwritten stories and little jokes that were only meant for him.

Today is no exception and Aemond is so enthralled by reading, he almost misses the knock on the door. The sound brings him to reality but he is in no hurry to react. The knocking comes again, and the prince groans, annoyed at the maid’s persistence. He carefully puts the letters back and goes to the door, armed with his cold gaze.

And then he opens it — and it’s you standing in front of him. 

Aemond barely has time to register what’s going on when you launch yourself at him, your arms immediately enveloping him in a tight hug, your laugh ringing in the air. He hugs you back and, while you can’t see it, he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“I swear you’re getting taller every time we meet!” you look up at him, beaming, and he lets you in. “I soon will need a ladder just to hug you properly.”

“I’ll be sure to let my body know of your disapproval,” he sneers and you stick out your tongue.

“While you are at it, shall you also work on your friendly face? I overheard the maids being frightened to go into your chambers,” you try giving him a scolding look but end up giggling at his reddened cheeks.

“I am friendly enough!”

“Yes, nobody glowers quite like you,” you snicker and flop right on the floor, the move always making him smile. Aemond tried persuading you to sit on any other surface that’s actually meant for sitting but you insisted that his fluffy rug works just as well, so he eventually gave up, deciding to join you. He never complained since.

Before he knows it, he’s immersed in the conversation while you enthusiastically share the recent news and everything that’s happened to you on the road. Only about half an hour in, he notes a small bag you’re clasping in your hands.

“You come bearing gifts?”

“Oh, I almost forgot I had it,” you laugh, abashed. “I decided I should bring you something to replace this crumpled-looking thing”.

It takes Aemond a minute to realize that you’re talking about his eyepatch. But he has no time to protest as you silence him with a gesture of your hand.

“I took it upon myself to count for how long you’ve been wearing this one already,” your tone gets serious. “I must say, that number is disturbing.”

There’s a moment of silence and then he clears his throat, his voice unsure. “Very kind of you to think of that, I shall replace it later on.”

He reaches his hand to take the bag but you quickly cover it with yours, fingers brushing over his, and he freezes.

“Are you still not convinced that I can take a look at it?” you try to make eye contact but he averts your gaze.

“Aemond, I was with you and I think I’ve seen enough back then — none of it scared me.”

“It is not a sight for the faint of heart,” the prince mumbles, his bravado faltering.

“Well, I don’t remember fainting the first time. You should have more faith in me,” you try to reason, holding his hand.

Aemond ponders for another minute — or maybe ten, he isn’t sure, and you patiently wait, not wanting to press him any further. Then he finally makes a decision and, after taking a long, sad sigh, he removes the eyepatch and looks at you, the sight of him is the very definition of insecurity.

You stay silent for about five seconds before concluding:

“Oh, it healed so nicely!” with no hint of uncertainty in your voice. Your smile reassures him a little as you peer at the sapphire, looking very pleased.

“The gem compliments your eye very well,” you give him your verdict, taking the new eyepatch out.

“We might have a different understanding of what a compliment is.”

“This is me trying to say that I really like the way it looks,” you chide him lightly. “And I consider myself to be quite understanding, thank you very much. Will you stop pouting and let me put it on?”

At this point he surrenders, giving you permission, and you move closer, giggling with excitement. You gently fix his hair, making sure it’s all combed back, and then lean to put the eyepatch on. You have a habit of biting your lower lip when you’re too concentrated on something, and Aemond can’t help but gaze at that part of your face while your teeth graze over the pillowy surface. 

He’s never let anyone this close — and not just in the sense of physical proximity. The moment is very intimate, and the softness of your movements tugs at his heart. He is suddenly very aware of the very short distance separating you two, and he holds his breath. You are oblivious to his stare and soon lean back, satisfied with the result and glancing at him with something akin to fondness.

He wishes he could paint a picture of you right at this moment, so tender and caring and sitting by his side.

He also wishes he could kiss you — and that thought scares him to death. And yet, once it appears, it never goes away.

4.

Aemond is seventeen and his life has been pure torture since you stopped visiting him. He hasn’t seen you in over half a year (seven months and eleven days, not that anyone is counting). It’s not your fault as your father has unexpectedly fallen ill and you couldn’t leave his side. The prince exhausted the maester with questions, asking for advice to write back to you, worried sick that your separation would be stretched for way longer than he could handle.

Luckily, the Gods took pity on him, and he was glad to learn that your father got better, and you will come to King’s Landing soon. Your visit coincided with Aegon’s birthday, but Aemond didn’t care about the feast, his mind only occupied with the thought of seeing you. He was both nervous and excited to the point of not even hiding it, which led to Aegon teasing him relentlessly. Helaena, on the other hand, wholeheartedly supported Aemond’s feelings for you.

“She will be delighted to see you, too, I am sure of it,” his sister tells him the day before the event.

“But the reason for it might be of a different nature,” Aemond remarks, and Helaena gives him a compassionate look.

“You will never know her true feelings unless you ask,” she encourages. “The two of you are so close, I consider her part of the family.”

Aemond knows that he’s of age and his mother hinted that, despite him showing no interest in courting, some ladies still found him attractive. He dismisses the idea but then finds himself thinking of it from time to time. When the realization forms in his head, it’s nerve-wracking but oh so compelling — he thinks he would’ve really wanted to marry you. He just doesn’t know how to tell you about it.

The day of your arrival comes, and Aemond wakes up at dawn in anticipation, determined to confess his feelings. He tries to come up with a speech, but it feels wrong and sounds weird, and he decides it will be better to improvise. He all but runs to the courtyard to be the first one to greet you. However, when you step out of the carriage, smoothing your dress, and your eyes meet, Aemond stops dead in his tracks and the world around him stands still.

His confidence might’ve blossomed — but not nearly as much as your beauty did. Somehow in those recent months, you’ve matured into a woman that takes his breath away.

It’s not a drastic change, it’s all in the details: the contours of your face are more defined, the cheekbones prominent, your hair knotted up high in a perfect style and even your pace is much slower and gracious. You walk towards one another, both suddenly cautious. But when you are a couple of meters apart, a well-known smile appears on your face and you hold your arms out to him and he finally hugs you again, after all this time. Aemond relaxes, inhaling the familiar scent of fruits that you undoubtedly munched on your way here.

“You look exactly as I remembered you,” you say as you slip from his embrace.

“And you are a sight to behold,” he breathes out, taking you in, and your cheeks heat up at the compliment. You’ve never been shy with him before, so this is also new. He wonders what might’ve caused this change.

As the two of you walk around the castle, it feels a bit awkward at first, and you keep glancing at him with emotion he can’t read. But Aemond is too happy to see you to give it much thought, and within an hour you ease into the conversation, too. By the time the evening comes, the tension disappears, and you are laughing at his sarcastic remarks again, and he savors every second of it.

The feast in honor of Aegon is lush and crowded, but you stay by Aemond’s side, enjoying each other’s company, and he only has eye for you. When the music gets too loud, you sneak out and soon find yourselves in his chambers, just like in the good old days.

Aemond is in the middle of telling you about Aegon’s recent foray to the Flea Bottom, when you say. “It’s just the two of us,” your fingers sink into the fluffy rug. “You don’t have to wear it with me. You know it, right?”

He wears the eyepatch with everyone, only taking it off before going to sleep. Moreover, he actually cherishes it because it’s a gift from you.

Aemond hesitates. “I thought you quite liked it.”

“I only gave it to you because yours started to look like it was pulled off a dead man’s body!” you laugh.

Before he can think of an answer, you lean closer — your shoulder brushing his, your hand touching his face, the same gentle warmth he remembers so well, — and remove the eyepatch yourself. The sight doesn’t bother you in the slightest as you confess:

“I accept you the way you are, Aemond,” and then, a moment away from him opening his mouth and saying the thing that’s been on the tip of his tongue for the duration of the day, you add, “That’s what friends are for — and you are my best friend.”

And just like that, with this word alone, his plan goes out the window.

A friend. Aemond can’t even be upset at the reveal, because, honestly, being your friend feels like a blessing in itself and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. How could he be so selfish and foolish to even think about risking it all, risk losing you?

So he keeps his feelings to himself, locking them away deep in his heart, and doesn't argue with you.

Maybe he should have.

5.

By the age of nineteen Aemond reaches the conclusion that he wants to take the risk. Otherwise, he thinks he might actually die as his heart can not hold all his feelings anymore. In two years' time, there isn’t a single thing about you that he hasn’t come to love, and keeping it a secret becomes harder with each day.

Aemond is ridden with doubts to the point where he can’t hide it any longer and he decides to seek advice — and the prince can’t think of a better person to talk to than his mother. Unbeknownst to him, Alicent was the first one to notice. Years ago, when you were kids, she quickly sensed the effect you had on her son, and it brought her joy as she watched the two of you get closer with time.

So when Aemond bursts into her room, anxiety radiating off of him as he starts jabbering away, his pacing erratic and voice trembling, it takes her about a minute to realize what's going on.

“My dear, I think you must talk to her,” she approaches him, an understanding look on her face.

Aemond cuts his speech short, eyeing her with wonder:

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Your affection for her is as bright as a fire blazing,” Alicent chuckles. “I believe she is the only one who doesn’t see it.”

“Should I tell her...?” he doesn’t dare say it out loud, not yet.

Alicent briefly takes his hands in hers, squeezing them. “You should tell her the truth.”

Her encouragement gives him a dash of hope, lifting a weight off his chest. Aemond knows in an instant that the letter won’t cut it, and you must have the conversation face-to-face. Fortunately, your next visit is in a month, so his suffering won’t last for much longer.

Aemond almost reaches the door but then sharply turns to his mother again, his cheeks flushed:

“Will you give me your approval?” and this time, he looks straight at her as he wants to see her genuine reaction.

Alicent smiles, quick to reassure him. “Yes, Aemond. Your betrothal would only make me happy.” The prince feels elated, almost euphoric, as he finally goes to meet you and runs the remaining distance from his chambers to the yard. But when he sees you, the smile disappears from his face because he notices that something is wrong.

You look visibly upset, your eyes watering and fingers fumbling with the dress, even though you try to force a smile in return. The hug you give him is weak and you keep looking at your feet.

“What is the matter?” he’s never seen you this sad, but you brush him off.

“It’s just a headache, no need to worry.”

Yet that’s exactly what he does, offering to call for the maester, or to prepare you a warm bath, or bring you some tea...

“A cup of water would be nice, thank you,” he leaves you in the hallway to go and get it himself, the task only takes a couple of minutes. When he returns, you stand with your back to him, your shoulders are shaking — and he hears quiet, muffled sobs. If it wasn’t for the nearby table, he would’ve thrown the cup away, his focus on you alone. As he rushes to envelop you in a hug, you don’t fight it, instead nestling your face against his chest, not hiding your tears anymore.

Aemond gives you some time before asking again.

“This doesn’t look like just a headache. What is the cause of your anguish?” now he’s the one running his fingers up and down your back.

You let out a sound that’s a mix between a groan and a whine.

“My father says I am to be betrothed soon. He says I am of age already and... and he wants me to meet some of my cousins,” you sniffle. “I told him I have no wish to get married but he refuses to listen,” you bite your lip, not wanting to cry again.

Surely, that’s not how Aemond wanted to ask you. But he decides to take his chance.

“Mayhaps there is another way out that could make you feel better.”

“Please don’t tell me Vhagar will burn them down,” you jest but the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. Aemond thinks your idea isn’t that bad — but he has to try his first.

“If he insists you should marry but doesn’t have a particular candidate, maybe you can pick one yourself?”

“I’ve met all my cousins — and half of them are imbeciles, the others are too old to survive a wedding,” you scoff.

“Then pick someone you are not related to,” Aemond suggests.

“Do you have a particular candidate in mind?” when you ask with a tinge of annoyance, you don’t think he will answer. And then you look at him — and see him grinning before he says:

“Me”.

You glare at Aemond with eyes wide and mouth agape, the expression frozen on your face for a good minute. 

“Are you laughing at me?” you manage to say.

“I wouldn’t dare,” his nerves are as tight as a wound-up string.

In the blink of a moment, your face lights up. You are looking at him indecisively, searching for words, agitated. But Aemond mistakes your confusion for rejection.

“At the very least you will marry someone you know,” he tries to reason — but it backfires, wiping the joyfulness off your face.

Taken aback, you inquire. “You pity me?” He doesn’t grasp the poor choice of his words yet.

“You pity me and that’s why you want to marry me?” you give him a look of disbelief, your eyes glossy, and he can’t get his head around what just happened.

“Oh, it was so silly of me to think that...,” you choke back a sob, putting your hand over your mouth.

Never in his life he thought he would be the reason for you looking so heartbroken. Aemond covers your hand with his palm — and you let him, as he tries to gather his courage.

“I only meant to say that I —”

And then you recoil, snapping your hand back.

“Aemond, don’t,” you take a step back from him, then another one. “You have said enough. Please, let me be,” you turn away and leave the hall in a hurry before he can utter another word.

... 1.

He finds you at your usual spot, under the blossoming cherry tree. You’ve always said you liked the color of it, little white flowers reminding you of early spring, your favorite time of the year. You don’t know that Aemond insisted on planting that tree specifically for you. Just so he can sit nearby and, as you were basking in the sunlight with your eyes closed, he would get a chance to look at you with all his unconditional love and have those moments engraved in his memory.

Come to think of it, he had so many memories of you — and every single one of them was bliss, and he can recall them so easily like it was yesterday.

And so he does.

“When we first met, you wore a green dress,” his voice startles you, but you don’t turn to face him, sniffling with your arms folded. “It was the color of forest trees. Black lace around the hem of it, the matching hair ribbon that you kept losing,” he keeps his distance, his hands shaking.

“Yes, I remember it pretty well,” you sigh, avoiding his gaze, baffled by his sudden outburst.

“The second time was when you climbed through my window, almost gave me a heart attack,” there’s a hint of a smile in his voice that you catch even without looking. “Blue dress, you tore a huge piece of it and couldn’t care less. You were the first person to make me laugh in two weeks even though it seemed impossible. But not with you.”

He sees your eyebrows furrowing, hands sliding down to rest on your knees.

“Helaena’s name day came next, your dress was bright pink. Luke tried to make fun of it and you threw a cup full of water in his face. To this day, it’s one of my fondest memories.”

You dare to look up at him, perplexed, your eyes wet from crying. 

“Three months after was the light-blue dress, then the peach one and the brown one. Then the white one which didn’t survive the horse riding lesson, and Helaena gave you one of hers. Light green, too long for your liking, even though you pretended otherwise to please her,” the corners of your lips tremble, your face softening.

“Then for a year you only wore violet, much to your nanny’s dismay as she thought it made you look ill. And I thought you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, no matter what dress you were in,” he can’t take his eye off you.

Your face expression melts into a stunned one.

“I didn’t realize it back then. Or maybe I didn’t know how to call it. I just knew that your visits only brought me happiness,” he takes a step toward you, uncertain, but you don’t move from your spot.

“When you were fourteen, you picked the autumn colors — orange, dark yellow, deep red. Your started braiding your hair, tried to braid mine,” you can’t hold back a smile. He was fussy when you first voiced the idea but he ended up loving the process so much, he would allow it just to feel your fingers flowing through his hair.

“I think you actually enjoyed it,” you mumble, and Aemond smiles, too.

“I did. I enjoyed every minute that I got to spend with you.”

You stand up then, feeling your pulse quickening.

“The day you brought me the eyepatch, you wore emerald green. I was terrified to show you the scar,” he pauses, catching his breath. “You assuaged my fears with your kindness. But then I was terrified to learn that I wanted to kiss you.”

You think you are dreaming. Is it possible that you fell asleep under the tree? You don’t want to get your hopes too high, but when he looks at you like this, your own fears start melting away.

“Then was the black dress, the grey one, another white one. The golden one you wore to meet Vhagar,” when he saw you that day, he almost forgot how to breathe. You showed no sigh of apprehension as you fearlessly approached the dragon. He was absolutely besotted.

“And then came the agony of not seeing you for over seven months,” he closes his eye for a second, overwhelmed. He almost misses it when you speak:

“Seven months and twenty-five days. Not that I was counting,” his eye snaps open, instantly on you again.

You gravitate toward each other without even noticing. Aemond’s heart skips a beat when you’re at arm’s length, your eyes shining and lips slightly parted. Even in the state you’re in, you look so beautiful, it’s mesmerizing, and the words are stuck in his throat. You are the one to break the silence.

“Aemond, please don't give me false hope,” your heartbeat is too loud, you don’t hear your own voice. He does.

“I do not wish to marry you out of pity,” Aemond takes the last step. “I want you to be my wife because I am in love with you,” he wipes away the remaining tears off your face, his fingers linger, making you shiver. “I’ve been in love with you for quite some time. For a few years, actually,” his voice gets low. “For what feels like an eternity,” Aemond murmurs.

“Why haven’t you told me?” you pout, nervously toying with the collar of his shirt.

“I was afraid you didn’t feel the same. I still am but maybe... Maybe I am wrong?” his gaze is fixed on you, one of his hands following the contour of your waist, your body warming at the touch.

“Tell me that I am wrong,” he whispers, begging.

You look at his lips, the soft curve of them that you’ve dreamt of for so long.

Aemond always thought yours were the most kissable he’s ever seen.

You don’t know who closes the distance first — but his mouth is suddenly on yours and the sensation leaves you disarmed. Kissing him is like being swept with a wave of tenderness, and you’re floating in it, his lips so fervid and supple — truly perfect — your head is spinning. The kiss is not awkward nor modest as you hastily cling to each other, his hands gripping your waist, your chest pressed into his.

Aemond feels like he’s drowning, and he wants more of you — all of you, and then your fingers tug at his locks, eliciting a groan from him, and it is simply a miracle that his heart doesn’t explode. You move in impeccable sync, in the passionate harmony that erupts from years worth of mutual pining. His lungs burn but he resists the urge to break the kiss and stretches it out the best he can until you are breathless, too.

“Never knew that you were so fascinated by my wardrobe choices,” you tease, and his hum turns into a chuckle.

“You know what my favorite memory is?” you ask, your forehead resting against his.

“When we were ten-and-three, and you were teaching me how to hold a sword. I tackled you to the ground and scraped my knee,” you both smile at your then enthusiasm. “And you set everything aside to spend the rest of the day with me even though it was hardly a wound. And I remember thinking,” you hook your finger under his chin, “that there’s nowhere else I would rather be than with you, with this favorite boy of mine.”

The air around you is tense, and you are enchanted by each other.

“Did that help to prove you wrong?”

“I may need some convincing,” his breath fans over your lips.

“You can take your time,” you laugh — and then the sound of it is muffled by his athirst mouth. His favorite memory will be this.

And every other moment with you that’s to come.

author’s note: sorry if this came out rushed. I tried my best to write a shorter fic (this is short for me lmao) and idk how I feel about it. I prefer them longer because I’m a sucker for stories about two people getting to know each other and falling in love. BUT I get it that others don’t want to read long ass fics (which kinda breaks my heart but I'm being so very brave about it) 💙 the longer version of this fic might have looked like this (yes, this is a shameless plug! because I adore this one to pieces!! bite me) 🎵 the title is a quote from Elvis Presley’s song (duh). there are quite a few covers of it but one of my favorites is by Twenty One Pilots. there’s also a female version — by Ingrid Michaelson — and I think both of them fit the story really well. 💞 my masterlist P.S. I’m also on AO3 (lol, who isn’t), in case you prefer to read fics there.

“Prince Aemond?” you called, in a voice squeaking with nerves. There was no reply. You knew the young prince was supposed to be at the dragonpit, but something inside of you begged you to check. After assuming the coast must be clear, you entered, bringing with you your bucket. 

It was your job to replenish the fireplaces in the chambers of the royal families. You were still a small child, and this was the task that suited you best. You could enter any room in the Red Keep practically unnoticed. 

You walked over to his fireplace, getting started right away. You were eager to finish the job and be off before the prince returned. Digging through the soot, you cleared the ashes, placing fresh logs atop. When your work looked decent, you stood, brushing the soot from your hands onto the apron you wore. 

A breeze tore through the room through the open windows, sending several papers scattering from the prince’s desk. You rushed to collect them, taking care to not stain the pages with soot. As you placed them on the desk you couldn’t help but admire the pages of one of the many books that lay open. 

It was the drawing of a dragon that caught your eye, with descriptions and arrows pointing at various parts of the creature's body. You squinted at the pages in front of you.

“What are you doing?”

You nearly jump out of your skin as you turn wide-eyed to face Prince Aemond. Eyes wide, mouth gasping like a fish out of water, you do not answer him. Aemond raises a brow, looking from you to the book.

“Were you reading?”

You find your voice.

“N-no! No, my prince,” you stutter, feeling your cheeks warm. You desperately hope the soot from the fire hides the rosy flush.

“Do not lie, I saw you,” Aemond says, as though he is your father, not someone the same age as you.

“I wasn’t my prince,” you tell him, “I cannot read.”

Aemond’s face scrunches at this. He walks over to you then, pulling the book from his desk. He holds it across his chest, to face you.

“What does it say?”

Your lip wobbles. Embarrassment fills you and burns your insides like a fever. Surely, he means to humiliate you. 

“I do not know, my prince.”

He brings a finger under a word. 

“Balerion,” he says, looking at the page and back to you.

“Balerion,” you repeat, earning a nod.

Aemond traces the letter at the beginning of the word.

“That's a B,” he tells you, violet eyes meeting yours. 

From then on you found yourself lingering in Aemond’s chambers when you went to do your daily task. Each day he would show you something new, different words, different letters, the names of great houses and maidens in songs. 

Aemond and you became fast friends. Slowly, he was teaching you how to read. You enjoyed the company of the prince. He was patient with you and seemed to enjoy being able to teach you. Aemond did not have friends, and he was happy to have you. 

Soon, you were both reading books together every chance you had. In the library, in the gardens. Aemond would even forego the Dragonpit to join you on your rounds to the other chambers of the Red Keep, book in tow. 

When the royal family went to Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon, you found yourself missing the company of your new friend. 

You heard what had happened before the royal family returned. You found yourself shaking with nerves once more when entering the prince’s chambers. 

“Prince Aemond?” you called, opening the door. You could see his small body, tangled in the sheets. The curtains were drawn completely shut. You entered slowly, tip-toeing. 

“Aemond?” you called to your friend. The bed rustled, but he did not respond. Assuming he was not up for visitors, you went about your duties. When you had finished, you glanced towards the bed once more. 

“Aemond?” you tried once more, hearing a sniffle in response. You placed your bucket down and walked towards him. A book lay on the floor, seemingly tossed from the side. You gently picked it up. 

“I can’t,” Aemond whimpered, sniffling once more. He turned his head and your eyes widened at the state of him. The stitches across his face were red and swollen, his functioning eye was wet with tears. His whole face was an angry shade of red. 

“I can’t even read,” he sobbed, fingers clutching the sheets, “I’m fucking pathetic.”

Wet tears rolled down his face, snot leaking from his nose. The pillow he lies on is damp from his crying. 

You bring a hand to his shoulder and he flinches away from your touch. Aemond feels as though his shame is fire beneath the surface of his skin, threatening to boil him alive. 

“I shall read to you,” you whispered. Aemond looked at you through his tears. His hands begin to shake. 

“Here,” you told him, placing the book in his lap before walking to the other side of the bed. You climbed onto the linens sitting next to Aemond. Taking the book from his lap you turned the page. 

“The days before the Doom were quiet, though legends say this was an omen of death.” you began, as Aemond rested his head against your shoulder. 

~

“I want you to come see,” Aemond says, when you enter his chambers. He pulls the pail from your grasp, lacing his hand in yours. You have never seen him so elated, his smile is blinding. 

He pulls you from the room, dragging you down the halls of the keep until you reach a large window facing Blackwater Bay. 

“Look,” he says, pointing in the distance. You squint, the sun reflecting off of the bay nearly blinding you. Suddenly, you feel the castle shudder, it's as though again it has fallen down the serpentine steps. 

Vhagar flies overhead, out towards the bay. She lets out a roar, powerful wings causing the waves of the bay to change direction. 

“She’s mine,” he tells you, giddy with excitement. 

Your eyes are like saucers. You’ve never seen a larger dragon. 

“She’s amazing,” you admit, feeling a pang of jealousy. Now Aemond shall take to the skies, leaving you alone in the castle once more. 

You want to hate Vhagar for stealing your only friend, but you can’t seem to find it in your heart to hate the magnificent creature. 

Aemond’s hand still holds yours, you can feel your palm begin to sweat with the realization. He tears his gaze from Vhagar to look at you. The stitches have been removed from his face, the skin is now turning into a pearl-colored scar across his face.

“Now we can fly,” he tells you, the grin never leaving his face. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“We?” 

Aemond’s smile falters for a moment, his eyebrows crease together. 

“You and I, when  mother allows it,” he tells you, “Vhagar can carry many books, and we can fly to anywhere in the seven kingdoms. 

Your smile matches his. He has not intended to leave you behind. 

“I would like that, my prince.”

~years later~

You do not announce when you enter Aemond’s room now. Being friends for so long has awarded you that right. You have grown alongside him, rising in the ranks from lowly fireplace servant to chambermaid. 

Aemond is awake when you enter, as he often is. He has most likely already been to the training yard that morning before you arrived. While you detest early mornings, Aemond loves them. 

“Good morning, my prince,” you address formally, carrying new bedsheets. Aemond’s mouth twists from where he sits at his desk. 

“Ao issi biare tubī,” he says, barely looking up from his work. (You are happy today). 

You begin to strip the bed. 

“You’ll have to teach me sooner or later,” you tell him, and make a face, pausing your movements to glance at him. 

“What?” he inquires. His gaze has risen from his desk, a sly smile on his face. Aemond’s eyepatch is missing, he rarely wears it in his chambers (or around you) and the sight of the blue sapphire never fails to take your breath away. 

You narrow your eyes at your friend. 

“Teach me,” you demand, crossing your arms in front of you. Aemond cocks his head to the side. 

“Unwise to command a prince,” he teases, piling his papers away and rising from his desk. He walks over to you. 

“Oh come now, Aemond,” you pouted, causing him to chuckle.

“Teach me.”

Aemond bites the inside of his cheek. It is as though you are children again. You, a curious little creature peering over the knowledge he possesses. 

“Fine,” he agrees, “since you asked so sweetly, gevie.” (beautiful).

You swat at his arm, a blush creeping up your cheeks. Though you were close companions you could not help the feeling of butterflies in your stomach when he talked to you in such a manner.

“What’s that mean?” you inquire, “Gevie?”

Aemond lets the word hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the way his mother tongue falls from your lips. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the heat in your face nearly sets you ablaze. 

“Me?” you ask and Aemond lets out a real laugh then, from deep within his chest. 

“Hey pretty boy, how are you—mpfh!” All the air leaves your lungs in a pained gasp when Gunwoo falls on you, his entire body lying flat against yours. Your breaths choke out as you try to speak and slap his arm in an effort to to save yourself until he eventually rolls over on his back as you suck in a fresh breath of air.

“You almost killed me!” You shout at him, though he’s clearly unbothered by the way he reaches for your hand and intertwines your fingers.

“I’m so tired… I had a really long day. Just wanna lay with you.”

He latches onto your side and slides his thigh over your hips. You run a hand through his hair and scratch at his scalp, his body relaxing fully against you, ridding itself of the tension from his earlier training session.

“You’ve been training extra hard for your match in a few days right?”

He nods against your neck and when he speaks, his lips brush your skin. “He’s undefeated so I’m a little nervous.”

He adjusts his leg slightly to get more comfortable (is what you assume), as you whisper words of encouragement into his ear—how strong he is, how skilled, how no one could ever compare to him.

With every praise, his hips shift against yours until he’s pressing his erection insistently against your thigh, and you realize what he really needs.

He fully rolls his hips against you and his breath comes in short, uneven gasps against your neck.

“I thought you’re tired, baby?”

He's already so worked up, and you've barely touched him.

"I am but..." He stutters through another shaky breath. "Need you."

The desperate whine in his voice sends hot pulses straight to your clit. You run your hands down his muscular back, feeling the still swollen muscles from his workout bulging, and you decide he's done enough work that day.

You roll him onto his back and swing a leg over to straddle his hips. The surprised little gasp he lets out makes you grin as you settle against him, his hands finding your waist.

You lean down to capture his lips in a slow, deep kiss. His mouth opens for you at the first touch of contact, so pliant and eager, and you slide your tongue against his. You roll and press them together as his grip on you tightens, then you pull back, a thin strand of saliva connects you for just a moment before breaking.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his lips. "Since you're so exhausted."

His eyes flutter, soft blush dusting his cheeks as his chin lowers into a tiny nod that gives you all the permission you need.

You sit up and pull your shirt over your head, tossing it behind you while his gaze drops, lips parting as he takes you in. You reach for the hem of his shirt next, and he lifts his arms obediently, letting you peel the damp fabric away from his skin and discard it.

The sight of him laid out beneath you—broad shoulders, toned chest rising and falling with eager pants—makes your mouth water with a thirst only he could ever pull from you.

You run your palms flat over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the faint tremble that runs through him at your touch until you reach his nipples. You circle them with your thumbs, feeling them tighten under your attention.

His fingers dig into your hips, gripping hard as you pinch the buds into stiff peaks. A high-pitched moan escapes him, his hips bucking up instinctively.

"Ah—"

You lean down and flick your tongue over one nipple, his small, wrecked noises egging you on further. His hips grind up against you harder, his hands dragging you down harder onto the rigid length straining against his sweats. He's so responsive, every touch pulling another desperate sound from his throat.

But you have other plans.

You pull away off his chest and grab his wrists, prying his hands from your hips and pressing them into the mattress forcefully above his head. He blinks up at you, dazed and confused, his chest heaving.

"I don't want you to do anything," you purr. "Don't want you to tire yourself out any more than you already are. Just lay there take what I give you. Can you do that for me?"

He's nodding before you even finish the sentence, head bobbing frantically against the pillow.

"Good boy."

His wrists go limp in your grip and you carefully release them, smiling satisfactorily when they stay right where you left them, fingers curling loosely into fists.

You sit back, letting him watch as you slide your hands up your stomach to cup your breasts. You knead them slowly, fingers pinching your nipples as his eyes remain glued to you, dark and glassy with want.

You start to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind against his clothed cock that causes you both to gasp in tandem. You repeat the action until you find a steady rhythm.

Gunwoo's jaw hangs open, his gaze heated and awestruck as he watches you move above him. His tongue looks so pink and inviting, resting just behind his teeth, that you can't resist and you slip your thumb between his parted lips.

His lips close amd suck without thought, his tongue curling around it, desperate to feel as much of you as possible. You press down gently, massaging the wet heat until he’s bobbing his head and drool is leaking from the corner of his lips.

"Think of this as a little incentive," you say, your voice taking on a teasing edge. "If you win your match... I'll reward you. But if you lose..."

You laugh softly, shaking your head when you see the way his eyes roll back at the warning.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Might even lose on purpose just to get punished."

The way he avoids your eyes tells you everything you need to know.

"But for now," you continue, pulling your thumb from his mouth with a wet pop, "this is all you get."

You climb off him just long enough to shimmy out of your shorts and underwear, kicking them off the edge of the bed. Then your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats, and you tug them down just enough to free his cock.

If his face wasn't so pretty his cock would take the cake—flushed a bright red and leaking, curving up and pulsing on his stomach, so hard and impatient for you. You swing a leg back over his hips and slowly sink down, positioning him so his length is buried between your slick folds. He lifts his head to watch, propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes almost closing as your wetness coats every inch of him.

The first drag of your hips has both of you groaning. You slide along his shaft, your slick folds hugging the ridge of his tip before gliding back down to the base. The sensation is maddening—so close to what you both really want, but not quite there.

He falls back against the mattress with a shattered gasp, arms splayed out to the sides, completely surrendered.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his throat—squeezing just enough to draw his attention and his eyes fly open, meeting yours as you continue to grind against him.

"Do you feel good?"

"Yes," he manages through the fog in his brain. "Thank you—thank you—"

He can barely look at you. Every time his gaze drops to where your bodies meet—where his cock slides through your wetness and where your tits bounce with every roll of your hips—his face flushes darker and his eyes skitter away. It was cute, how he still got so embarrassed and shy even after seeing you naked hundreds of times. You grab his chin and force him to look at you.

"I can feel how close you are." You tighten your grip slightly, feeling him throb between your folds. "Are you gonna come? Want me to milk your cock?"

He doesn't answer. His mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out—too fucked out, too overwhelmed to form words.

You slow your hips and lift them until you're only grazing each other.

"Or do you not want to?"

"No!" He gasps hurriedly, his hands fly up but stop short of touching you, hovering in the air when he remembers at the last second that he's supposed to be still. "No, please—I wanna come, I wanna come so bad—please let me, please—"

You smirk as he begs for exactly what you wanted to hear.

You brace your hands on his abs, nails scratching lightly down the defined muscle as you pick up the pace. You grind on him harder, faster, chasing his pleasure until his back is bowing off the bed.

He lets out a strangled cry as his orgasm slams into him, and you watch in fascination as his cum spurts out from his tip—thick ropes painting his skin white all the way up to his chest. You keep grinding, keep milking him through every pulse, drawing out every last drop until he's trembling beneath you.

You're always impressed by how much cum he’s able to let out. Always surprised by how beautiful he looks when he does.

When the last tremor subsides, you don't stop. You're still chasing your own high with his cum-slick cock still nestled perfectly between your folds. When nothing else leaks from his tip, his hands shoot to your waist, trying to still you as the pleasure fades to pain from the overstimulation.

You take his hands in yours and pull them away, interlacing your fingers as you pin them back to the mattress on either side of his head. He writhes beneath you and whimpers helplessly, but he doesn't try to pull away.

You angle your hips just right, finding the perfect position for your clit to grind directly against the silky skin of his shaft. The pressure builds quickly with him babbling uselessly in your ear, and when it finally breaks, your back arches and your body finally stills.

You collapse forward onto his chest, your pussy still hovering right on his tip, your body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure.

His hands, now free, guide you forward until your dripping folds settle on his abs instead, apologizing softly when you whine at the loss of contact.

You gather the strength to push back upright, straddling his stomach now. The mess on his chest smears against your stomach and breast as you look down at the state of you both marked with his cum, smiling at the red scratches your nails left behind on his abs that will still be visible during his match.

You smirk, tracing one of the scratches with your fingertip.

"How about I run a bath for us?" you ask. "Hm?"

He nods, boneless and utterly spent beneath you, eyes half-lidded and still looking at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen.

You lean down to press a soft kiss to his forehead before climbing off him, already planning how you'll take care of him in the bath too.

Taglist: @butter-scout @lilahardell @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta @coerjjkms @Owisewisdoom @jellyybelly @madelineblackwell @hoe4yunhoooo @aalyluvz @clownfishdavy @kamxstar @fraktisify @progiggl3r @embobema @livelaughlove3

You were on a date at an aquarium, and your eyes sparkled with every step you took inside. You'd always had a deep fondness for fish, the ocean, the water. Even your belongings often had an underwater theme. So what could be better than a cliché aquarium date? Woo-jin had suggested it, thinking you'd like it, but he obviously hadn't expected things to go as well as they did.

The trainer, out of habit, almost touched your back a few times, wanting to guide you through the exhibits, but he bravely fought the urge the entire way. The desire to have you in his arms — even in a public place — was almost impossible to contain. But every time he remembered the night he confessed to you and how you initially rejected him, listing all the bad experiences you'd had with men, that was enough motivation for him to take a deep breath and fight against his own body. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he couldn't have the same patience, that it would all become a vicious cycle — or worse than all of that: that you'd regret saying yes to the idea of the two of you.

The memorable experience happened when you stopped in front of a small display. Woo-jin looked a bit confused, because there seemed to be nothing inside except the pretty decoration, but you were smiling. He didn't even have time to ask before you carefully pointed — not touching the glass — at the seahorses.

"Oh," Woo-jin finally noticed them. They were tiny and hid well among the plants, but once you spotted them, they were truly majestic creatures.

He looked to the side, and you seemed more excited than usual. Briefly, the boxer remembered seeing you with a seahorse key chain attached to something somewhere, so they probably held special meaning for you.

With his hands in his jacket pockets, he commented in a low tone, just for you to hear. "They remind me of you."

Your eyes broke away from the animals for a moment, unable to resist the curiosity — not just about the soft tone of your boyfriend's voice, but his words — but you didn't say anything, letting him continue.

"They... uh... they stay hidden, but they're really pretty when they come out." For a moment — a very unusual moment — Woo-jin felt unconfident, like he was being an idiot just for trying to compliment you by comparing you to a fish. Do normal people flirt like this? "Just like you."

Your eyes didn't leave your boyfriend's, and he felt his face burn with embarrassment. He'd said things a thousand times bolder in his life — to strangers and girlfriends alike. He'd said sweet things, cheesy things, and things way too dirty to even think about. But still, your gaze was enough to undo him.

"That was weird, wasn't it? Comparing you to a fish..." He started to laugh nervously, but stopped instantly when he felt your soft hand pull his down, pulling his body down toward yours.

Woo-jin felt as light as a feather — ridiculous next to your touch, no matter how weakly you'd touched him — so he leaned closer to your face. The boxer expected you just wanted him closer so you could say something — something the people around you wouldn't hear. But no.

Your lips collided with his for a brief few seconds.

Your boyfriend's eyes widened, and he felt his own knees about to give out. He brought a hand to his mouth, dumbfounded. It wasn't even a real kiss — just a peck. But it was yours.

[...]

Almost a year had passed since that event.

"Are you sure?"

That memory of the kiss immediately came back to the Woo-jin's mind when you finally said you were ready for the subject of sex. You'd been together for months, and he had never dared to start anything you didn't show interest in. The most that had happened was his hand sliding up inside your blouse, just touching your bare skin as you kissed, but when he felt you tremble in his arms, he stopped immediately — almost as if his hand had been burned. That day, the boxer could have maybe explored further, sure. But was that what you wanted?

You were both in your room. You lived alone, so privacy wasn't an issue. It wasn't about privacy, or about him desiring you, or even about your own fear. It was about you feeling comfortable. And honestly, Woo-jin would have been fine if you changed your mind right that second. Deep down, maybe he even wanted you to back out — because you weren't just anyone. You were too precious. Woo-jin panicked just thinking about making any kind of mistake.

You nodded quite confidently.

You weren't a virgin anymore, so the act itself didn't bother you, but over the various times, there had been complaints — and it was about those complaints… It was about not pleasing Woo-jin that bothered you.

"Really sure?"

You furrowed your brow, showing a hint of irritation now.

"Oppa, you're not taking my virginity or anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know. I haven't forgotten anything you told me." He answered with conviction, almost in that silly tone he used when reminiscing about his days as a marine.

"Then what is it?"

"I'm nervous."

I'm nervous.

Your heart tightened along with those words. So, you weren't the only one with expectations about this. He was just as thoughtful. And when you thought about your boyfriend and his impulsive personality, that meant a lot. You affected him in a way you couldn't even imagine. Your shyness about touch left him weak, dumbfounded that you would even consider sleeping with him. He was rough — rough as boxing demanded — but when he looked at you, he wanted to throw all that brutality down the drain.

You gave him a smile.

"So there is something in the world that makes you nervous."

"Everything about you makes me nervous."

You felt your whole body shiver, and he hadn't even laid a finger on you yet. Your shyness — which had gradually faded over the months of first friendship and then dating — seemed to have all come rushing back at once, hitting you like a speeding truck.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. How could this man be so perfect? He'd been completely transparent about his slightly playboy past, but at the same time, none of that seemed real when he said those things to you. And with that gaze so melted just by your existence.

"You know about the complaints."

"I don't care." He was quick to say, almost cutting off your words.

"Just promise to tell me if you don't like it. I just want… honesty. Even if…" You closed your eyes and could almost relive the comments, the disappointed looks from your exes. It was so painful that the rest of your speech died out.

Then you felt Woo-jin's strong arms wrap around you.

He was hugging you. Holding you.

"I promise to be honest. But I doubt I'll be disappointed in you. I'm already way too crazy about you to back out now."

So, you hugged him back, letting your hands climb up his back and lightly tug at his jacket. You were ready. You wanted him now, before your courage ran out.

Woo-jin noticed your initiative and pulled back slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were considerably large and bright, acting like Cupid's arrow aimed straight at his heart. While holding your chin with all the care in the world, with all the gentleness he could muster, your boyfriend finally pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was sweet, slow, tender. He knew better than to rush you. That wouldn't get you anywhere. That had been the mistake of everyone before him: crossing your limit before you were ready to give in.

At first, it started as a long peck with both of you sitting on the bed. One of Woo-jin's hands was anchored affectionately on your back, pulling you close — as close as you would allow. He paused the kiss countless times just to observe your reactions and change his target spots: kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. It was as if time didn't matter. It was as if the time he'd gone without sex didn't matter. And truly, it didn't.

Because he wanted you well and confident with yourself.

"You can really kiss me," you murmured. He was still holding your chin, not daring to hurt you. Woo-jin would rather cut off his own hand than make you even slightly uncomfortable.

The trainer then leaned closer to you and this time kissed you with intent.

You felt his tongue asking permission to spar with yours, to dance with yours. So you reciprocated, grabbing the back of his neck. Your hand pulled him closer with longing — longing for something you hadn't yet experienced. You felt him add a little more pressure to your chin — just a bit more, but still with extreme care — after all, he had far more strength than that. Woo-jin had enough strength to tear you apart, but he only wanted to fill you with adoration.

Tooth met tooth, lip met lip. Woo-jin was growing more and more determined to show you love. Your tongues intertwined, and slowly he laid you down on the bed, being careful not to let his weight suffocate you. Though the boxer wasn't heavy, he was still a large mass of muscle, so he braced himself on his elbows so he wouldn't crush you.

Woo-jin only stopped kissing you when you were both out of breath, and he stared at you, still on top of you. Even though you were wearing worn-out sweatpants and a shirt that clearly wasn't your size, in his eyes, you were the sexiest creature in the universe.

You let out a small laugh.

"What?" the boxer asked, appearing to come back to himself rather than just blankly staring at you.

"You were totally spacing out. I called you like twice."

"You did? I really didn't hear you."

"You seem more nervous than I am," you concluded, stopping your laughter. Your heart felt like it was going to explode, especially under the boxer's intense gaze. It was as if he was already devouring you, but only with his eyes. "And I'm pretty… pretty… nervous."

"I just don't want to screw up."

"Leave the screwing up to me."

This time, it was his turn to laugh.

"Stop that." Woo-jin whispered as he started to take off his own clothes, which were already starting to make him sweat from how hot he felt just imagining the idea of rubbing his skin against yours.

It was such a mundane thing, but watching Woo-jin take off his jacket had never seemed so sensual. You'd witnessed that act countless times before, yet none of those times had it ever seemed so attractive or suggestive. You didn't know if it was because he was on top of you, or because the two of you had agreed to finally venture into the territory of sex.

He let the garment fall off the bed, not too concerned about whether it would make a mess. Neither of you really was.

Underneath the jacket, Woo-jin — ironically — was wearing a white tank top, which didn't make much sense given he'd had a jacket on over it, but you knew that was beyond practicality: your boyfriend had his own sense of style, and his combinations didn't always make a lot of sense.

Your gaze couldn't help but notice his strong arms, now exposed. You'd seen them many times before as he trained, but the sight never failed to leave you breathless. Because of your shyness, you hadn't allowed yourself to feel them — just contented yourself with watching. Sweaty. In action.

"Jagiya?"

"Hm?" You blinked several times, realizing Woo-jin had called you. For a while, you'd just been fixated on his biceps, triceps — everything about those arms.

"Now it's you who was spacing out." He gave a sly smile, making you blush. You tried to look away from your object of interest, but your boyfriend was far from stupid about these things. "Is it my arms? Do you want to touch them?"

Do you want to touch them?

The first obstacle of the night was already there: daring to touch your boyfriend in a completely sexual way, finally breaking your curiosity about what it would be like to have that flesh between your fingers. It wasn't for lack of desire, but the idea of touching someone that way always made you nervous. You almost always froze up, anxious about the next step — and guys hated your paralysis in the face of intimacy.

They hated your shyness, how you went quiet, how you treated the process as if it were something scary, even though you tried your best to please them until the end. Even though, many times, you didn't even come, you said nothing because you didn't have the words to express your dissatisfaction — and honestly, you didn't even know if you deserved to express any dissatisfaction. After all, you were boring in bed, weren't you?

"I also want… for you to touch them." Woo-jin murmured, sliding his hand along one of your temples, stroking a strand of your hair. "Touch me? I want to know what it's like when it's you doing it."

It was as if the boxer could get inside your mind, as if he knew exactly what to say.

You nodded with a confidence that wasn't truly yours. It came from the love Woo-jin had for you and from all the honesty and transparency he had shown throughout all this time.

Your hands then slid up to the strong arms in front of you, and just by touching his skin, you felt Woo-jin tremble between your fingers — almost as if your touch had the power to dissolve him. Your eyes widened. Even though your touch was timid, it had still drawn a reaction from the man above you.

His body writhed as if he had just discovered a new sensation. It wasn't as if you'd never pulled him by the arm before, but now, you were doing it with intention. You wanted to know every centimeter of his skin, even with the limitation that the world had somehow made you impose upon yourself.

With his eyes fixed on you, Woo-jin stood like a statue, respecting your process.

Then you moved, squeezing every muscle, your eyes shining as you explored his skin, molding it against your fingers. The flesh was hard, but it also had a perfectly soft texture. You almost felt tempted to bite it, wanting to engrave that sensation against your teeth.

"I've always wanted you to squeeze me like that," Woo-jin admitted, half-dazed as your hands felt the result of his effort at the gym. "Of course I wasn't going to ask, but…"

"Why not?" Your eyes searched for his, which didn't leave yours.

"You're shy about it, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Then I wasn't going to rush you with that," he said, shrugging in a totally logical explanation.

Oh. So this was the feeling of having a voice in a sexual relationship.

Woo-jin noticed immediately that something in you had clicked, just from your subtle facial change.

"Jagiya?"

"Take off your tank top for me, please?" You asked, still with some insecurity, but there was something there beyond wanting to please him. You felt seen and respected by him. Yes, you were shy, not very vocal, and reserved — but he made you want to let go a little more. Woo-jin made you actually want to experiment with yourself.

The boxer just nodded, getting off you for a moment only to strip off the white shirt. You now had a view of his entire upper body. The perfect structural body, only disfigured by some scars on his stomach area. The sight hurt you — not because you found them ugly, but because it reminded you of how those wounds had nearly cost him his life.

You didn't even think. Your hand just touched the region that had been brutally stabbed. It wasn't sexual, even though the moment had that kind of undertone. You just wanted to feel how alive he was beneath your hand, beneath your skin.

You opened a small, silly smile, feeling the ridges of his abs against your hand and tracing each scar slowly with your fingers.

"What is it?" Woo-jin smiled back, not even really knowing what the two of you were smiling about.

"I just… I'm glad you waited for me. I don't just mean time-wise… but that you're here, alive right now. That I can try to touch someone again now. And that that someone… is you, you know?"  You then lifted your gaze to his dark brown eyes. "It just feels right that it's you." 

Your boyfriend didn't know if he should, but he honestly couldn't control the impulse to kiss you in that moment. Pulling you by the nape, he pressed his lips to yours again, pinning you gently against the bed, still trying to be careful not to crush you. He smiled between kisses, feeling just as — or maybe even more — happy than you.

It just feels right that it's you.

Even if the act ended there, he would have already won the night, the month, the year.

Woo-jin was acutely aware of your deep insecurity and how difficult it must have been for you to desire him for so many months without feeling confident enough to act on it.

"Can I touch you?" He asked in a low tone, almost purring against your lips. "Your breasts. Over your shirt."

You laughed. There was no way he had a playboy past like he'd said. You couldn't believe it.

"You can touch underneath, Woo-jin-ah."

The boxer's eyes widened briefly, but he didn't waste much time lost in his own surprise, nodding quickly.

Calmly, he slipped one of his hands under your blouse while the other remained braced so his body wouldn't suffocate yours. His fingers moved up slowly, testing the terrain. They lingered a bit on your stomach, tracking how your breathing changed slightly just from that brief touch on that area — just like had happened before. Woo-jin felt hesitant, unsure if it was okay to continue, but you looked at him with confidence, so he moved his hand higher and higher until he stopped with it over one of your breasts, still covered by your bra.

The boxer didn't dare squeeze it yet, just studying your reaction.

Your face was red, but you didn't seem uncomfortable. Inside, you were more nervous than anything else because this was where it usually all started: you'd shut down from the anxiety of making noise, of being a person bothered by your own reactions. But when he carefully squeezed your breast, your body didn't hold back this time, and you let out a brief moan. It had escaped your usually controlling grip, and it was enough to make Woo-jin's heart beat hard, unhinged.

He noticed from your expression that you hadn't liked moaning so openly like that — that you felt dirty somehow.

"Keep going. I want to hear it." The boxer leaned close to your ear. "But if you don't want to, that's fine too. I've heard it once — I think I've got it memorized."

"Memorized?"

"Yeah… It's engraved right here in my heart, jagi."

You couldn't help but laugh at how he tried to ease the situation in every possible way. He was really putting in the effort, but not in an uncomfortable way. Your boyfriend genuinely wanted to make you happy. So you wanted to reciprocate, gently pushing him back a little. Woo-jin looked at you confused, but then you took off your blouse, and his face turned completely red — he had never seen you with so little clothing before. At least, during this relationship, for some reason, you hadn't gone to any sauna or pool where he could have seen you like this.

You then opened your arms to him, as if calling him over, and without a second thought, he threw himself between them — this time without holding back, showering your neck, collarbones, and any piece of skin he could find with quick kisses. His attack didn't feel purely sexual: Woo-jin was just adoring every little part of you while hugging your waist tightly, his face buried between your breasts as if he had been waiting a lifetime to be there.

Resting his chin against your chest, he looked at you briefly, as if waiting for something. It was funny. He treated you with more gentleness than your first boyfriend, than the one who took your virginity even knowing how scared you had been that night.

"Do you want something…?" You tilted your head slightly in response to his gaze.

"I've never tried… leaving marks on you. I don't know if you care about that kind of thing. I mean… I don't know anything about your preferences, so that's why I'm asking."

Your breathing hitched again. How could he do that with just words?

"What is it? Did I say something wrong?"

"No. It's just that people don't usually ask me anything."

Woo-jin felt angry, clicking his tongue, but he chose not to show it openly, instead transforming his feelings into a proud statement. "And that's exactly why you're with me and not with those pieces of shit."

You smiled, seeing how irritated he had gotten, even while trying not to show it. "You can leave marks."

"I really can?"

You just nodded — and not even a second passed before Woo-jin attacked your neck, alternating between a long hickey and a light little bite. You squirmed beneath him, sighing at the feeling of belonging, your hands climbing up his back. At no point did he take his eyes off your face, even though your reactions were subtle, the boxer wasn't willing to miss anything.

The trail of marks went down until he stopped at the barrier of your bra. Out of breath, your boyfriend looked at you, looked at the garment, and then looked at you again. You nodded in silence, and with efficiency, he got rid of it.

The sight of your breasts left Woo-jin breathless — regardless of what you thought of them, regardless of any tiny insecurity you had about them. He bit his lower lip, restraining himself from attacking you right at that moment because, honestly, that was what he wanted most in the face of the feast laid out before him. But instead, he hid his face in the valley between your breasts.

"Oppa?"

"Fuck, I'm way too lucky…" He murmured against your breasts, and the muffled sound of his voice made you laugh, one of your hands coming up to stroke his hair. "I don't even know where to start."

"Normally, no one asks me before doing it, but… I like it when they squeeze…" Your voice could barely come out, you were so embarrassed. "M-my nipples."

The boxer lifted his face so fast it startled you, and he nodded countless times as if he had received an order rather than a suggestion. His fingers then worked on both sides, squeezing your nipples until they grew hard between his fingers. Sometimes he teased you by tugging on them to give you a little bit of pain — but the kind you found pleasurable. Your hips moved in response to each small manipulation of his, and he felt he was on the right track.

Like a man possessed by your small signs of satisfaction, Woo-jin stopped merely playing with your nipples and instead took one into his mouth while his other hand massaged your other breast in slow, circular motions. He wasn't in a hurry. In fact, he wanted to savor all of this until he couldn't think of anything else.

The saliva and warm tongue worked wonders on your already sensitive nipple, and soon he switched to the other. It was inevitable — you squirmed beneath him, pushing your hips upward, rubbing them against his abdomen, drawing a grunt from your boyfriend. You might not be very vocal, but you were considerably sensitive under his attention.

Woo-jin got a little bolder because deep down he knew he could, and he truly hoped you wouldn't mind — so he left hickeys on your breasts. You closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the sensation of his hands gripping your waist, anchoring you in place every time he bit down and left small purplish marks.

"A-Ah…" The moan escaped as your head fell back into the pillow, and again your hips fought against his strong hands, trying to move, but he held firm, keeping you in place. The grinding of your hips against his abdomen drove him crazy for more, but having you slowly come undone in his arms was a far greater feeling than just chasing momentary pleasure.

Woo-jin just smiled, satisfied to see you gradually letting go during the process.

"Those motherfuckers were crazy. You make me hard just by looking at you."

And indeed, he was very, very hard.

You still seemed a little hesitant about whether you were really pleasing him — after all, he seemed to be putting in more effort with you than you were with him. But Woo-jin wasn't foolish: he noticed your uncertainty. And then, in an impulsive act, he pulled one of your hands down and placed it over his sweatpants, where you could already feel a bulge. Your eyes widened instantly.

So it really was true.

There really was someone attracted to you just the way you were.

"Do you believe in me now?" He asked, a little out of breath, still holding your hand against his hardness.

"But I'm not even doing anything."

"You don't have to. You've never heard of guys who get turned on just by pleasing their girlfriend?"

You really had never heard of that, so you shook your head no.

"What the fuck, jagiya! What kind of guys were those that you dated?"

You just smiled and answered. "Definitely not you."

"Of course they weren't." He smiled back, his eyes radiating confidence yet also relaxed.  The way he looked at you was warm, and again he touched your hair, this time tucking a strand behind your ear. "Listen… Tonight, I don't want you to think about doing anything for me, okay? I'm satisfied with how things are." His touch was gentle, slow. "Don't think about anything. Just let me enjoy you."

"Are you sure?"

Woo-jin just nodded, moving from kissing between your breasts to daring to go a little further down your skin, leaving a slow trail of wet kisses down to your belly button. You couldn't help but squirm, and he kept holding you in place with a satisfied smile.

The trainer's gaze on you was intense, and his warm tongue went lower and lower until it stopped at the waistband of your time-worn sweatpants. The waistband was even a little loose. He paused, taking a deep breath between your legs.

"Has anyone ever really eaten you out?"

You knew exactly that this was his intention as soon as he told you not to do anything, as soon as he started trailing kisses downward, as soon as his face stopped above your lower belly — but still, the question spoken out loud shook you for a few seconds. Your lack of an answer was all Woo-jin needed to know. So slowly, he began to pull down your sweatpants, with no rush at all, even though inwardly he had been desperate to taste your pussy for months. He couldn't deny he was a major pervert.

You were finally down to just your panties, and a small wet spot was clearly visible on your underwear. The trainer just licked his lips as if he were facing a delicious meal and hadn't eaten for days.

"Excuse me." Your boyfriend murmured in a slightly teasing tone, his fingers now delicately pulling your panties down, removing them from your body entirely with slowness. Everything was about the process. It was almost painfully good.

Woo-jin pulled you a little closer, placing your legs over his shoulders and opening you up a bit more, putting you in a very vulnerable position. Your heart squeezed so hard it felt like it would leap out of your mouth. And again, the man on top of you noticed immediately. Either he was very experienced at picking up on nuances during sex, or he was just very good at picking up on your nuances.

"I'll stop now if it's too much." His hands loosened slightly on your legs, but still held you in place.

You just took a deep breath.

"It's not too much."

"Then I'm going to change that." The trainer smiled at you, and before you could say anything, his face descended between your legs.

First, Woo-jin just blew air against your pussy, and your whole body trembled, drawing a small laugh from him at how sensitive you were, at how willing you were to his desires. He looked at you playfully, seeing that you were staring back at him, then he rubbed his nose against your thigh, savoring the moment. Your hips moved upward, so he tightened his hands around your legs again.

You had never felt so flustered under a man's silent gaze, but your boyfriend's intense brown eyes did wonders on you.

When he flashed that wide smile you knew so well, you just closed your eyes and felt his face bury itself in you. His tongue slid slowly over your pussy as if he were tasting a popsicle of a new flavor for the first time. He was smiling as he did it, eating you not just with his mouth, but with his eyes as well.

You were already trembling even with so little, and then he pushed his tongue inside your hole without a second thought.

"Woo-jin-ah!" Your hips bucked against his face — more specifically against his nose — and he sighed contentedly, his hands gripping you even tighter, pulling you closer.

His tongue moved in circles inside you, his mouth moving up and down as he sought to stimulate your clitoris with just the tip of his nose. When he found it, you let out a loud sigh, relieved to finally have that bundle of nerves stimulated.

The boxer pulled back a little, a strand of saliva connecting your pussy to his lips.

"You're so pretty."

You watched him calmly in the light of the bedside lamp — the only source of light in the room — and for some reason you didn't understand, his cheeks were flushed. You didn't get his shyness. After all, seconds ago, he had been doing something extremely sensual with no discomfort at all.

"I really am so lucky."

Then your boyfriend put his tongue back in the right places, sucking you slowly — perhaps even too slowly — and with every shiver, every moan, every movement you made, he felt his cock grow harder and more impatient. But it still wasn't time. He wanted to make you come, and he was almost certain your ex-boyfriends rarely made sure of that.

Without any warning, he pushed a finger inside you and curled it until he reached a spot you had never felt before. You didn't know if his finger was longer than your previous partners' or if he simply knew what he was doing, but your eyes rolled back in pleasure. Slowly, he moved his finger in and out, smiling at your reaction.

Then came the second finger.

And your legs clamped around his cheeks.

Woo-jin played with his fingers, making slow scissoring motions inside your pussy — always, always slow. It was almost sadistic. But such a loving sadist that you didn't mind. You didn't mind how he played with you, how he gave and took away what you wanted. Your legs just trembled like never before.

His fingers and tongue danced in harmony.

Until you came. Came hard.

You let out something close to a scream and thanked the universe that your apartment walls weren't thin. But the boxer didn't stop immediately. He kept delighting in your pussy while you were still short-circuiting — but it was all premeditated, because he knew that was exactly when you were most sensitive.

Satisfied with your reaction after you reached your peak, Woo-jin slowly lowered your legs and rested his face against one of your thighs. It was affectionate. The man just wanted to admire how you were breathing fast and how your face was all sweaty.

"Are you good?''

You nodded slowly, your gaze a little lost.

Woo-jin leaned close to your face and kissed the corner of your mouth.

"Can you go all the way?"

And again, he was considerate. Considerate of your time, of your needs, of everything about you.

You didn't know exactly when, but at some point, your eyes just filled with water as you looked at the man above you. The boxer pulled back slightly, surprised by your emotional gaze. He hadn't done anything wrong, had he?

Before he could voice any insecurity, you nodded again — but this time, with confidence. The trainer still looked at you, a little worried, but you held his face with both hands, trying to bring comfort to the man above you, just as he had reassured you the entire time.

"I'm fine. I'm just… happy."  His mouth opened slightly as if to say something, but seeing that you weren't finished, Woo-jin fell silent again, giving you his full attention for whatever you wanted to say. "I think this is the first time I haven't felt judged while having sex. That's stupid, right?" You finished, trying not to cry even though you wanted to, overwhelmed by an excessive dose of emotions.

Woo-jin saw how hard you were trying to smile, and he felt his own heart shatter into a million pieces. It had been so satisfying for him to bring you pleasure in this way that he couldn't comprehend how your past partners had had the courage to be so dismissive of your shyness and uncertainty. He then placed one of his hands over yours, which was touching his cheek, and brought it to his lips, leaving a soft kiss.

Slowly, the trainer shook his head.

"It's not stupid."  He left another kiss on your hand. "You can cry. It's okay.''

And so, little by little, you fell apart in front of him. Your eyes could no longer hold back so many years of neglect, so many years of feeling insignificant, so many years of feeling uncomfortable for not wanting to be more extreme in bed or even for expressing affection in public. It was as if everything came at once. All you had ever really wanted was a little understanding. Yet, as you cried and Woo-jin's expression didn't change at all, you realized you had never asked for much — and when you were almost out of hope, you had found the right person.

Oh, you had been an idiot for settling for less so many times.

The trainer moved a little closer above you and this time hugged you around the neck, bringing your face to rest against his shoulder as the tears kept falling.

The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes. In silence. Just him stroking your hair so slowly it seemed like something out of a dream. Until you finally found the strength to actually look at him. Your eyes were swollen from crying, but in your boyfriend's eyes, your vulnerability had never looked so beautiful.

"I'm ready," you whispered, drawing a satisfied expression from him. It was almost a little possessive, but he just wanted you — unprotected, naked, raw — only for him. Maybe he really was more of a pervert than he thought.

"Do you want to help me? I mean, can you?" He murmured, glancing down at his own jeans and then back at you. If you said no, he would have continued the same way.

You didn't even answer — not from shyness, but because you were already too surrendered to that man to back away, to let him keep making all the effort. Your hand went down, almost confidently, but he could still sense your insecurity, so he pulled your wrist.

Slowly, the two of you began to undo the buttons of his pants together until Woo-jin kicked them off his body with some impatience — honestly, expected by now — leaving him in just his boxers with a far-from-subtle bulge. Your boyfriend had waited too long, waited for you until now, yet he hadn't complained even once.

The dark blue boxers already showed a darker spot: where his pre-cum had been slowly pooling all this time. And you noticed that his breathing had changed — as if showing his arousal for you had finally given him the release he had been needing all along. But still, Woo-jin held back with you, simply to not thrust himself between your legs. Maybe he was a little too self-disciplined. Maybe it was a remnant from the Marines?

With his hands on his knees, he stayed watching you, waiting for some sign at any moment. But then you just laughed.

"What's wrong? Can't you come over?" You teased, and he didn't even need two seconds to come to you. The bulge still contained in his boxers rubbed unintentionally against your overstimulated pussy, and you both let out a moan.

You had never heard a moan as beautiful as Woo-jin's. And it made your heart beat faster. He noticed the reaction he had caused in you and acted immediately, rubbing this time with intention against your sensitive pussy.

"Oppa…"

"Jagiya?" The trainer smiled at you, not stopping his grinding. He wanted you to say the words — not to humiliate you, but because he knew you could do it now.

"Please." But the man stayed above you. He paused the movement of his hips and looked at you as if asking for a little more. "Put it in."

Woo-jin studied you for a few seconds, wanting to be completely sure that you wouldn't change your mind, that you were okay, and that he could really get closer. You just placed one of your hands on his arm and squeezed, as if sending a silent request.

With the lightness of a feather, you stole all the air from this man, and he, flustered, pulled off his own boxers, not caring where the garment would land.

Now you were both naked, one on top of the other. Woo-jin looked at you with his shoulders resting beside your head, already breathing heavily and sweating. You could feel his cock trembling against your leg, which gave you even more chills. He was at his limit, and you understood perfectly.

So you just nodded again, and that was enough for Woo-jin to stop fighting his own instincts. He rubbed his cock against the outer lips of your wet pussy a few times before finally starting to push in slowly, letting out a satisfied sound when he was finally buried all the way inside you.

"Fuck…" Your boyfriend grunted, feeling how your pussy squeezed him in small spasms. He hadn't even started moving yet, and you were already swallowing him with so much desire that he felt like he was delirious. "Fuck, I can't take it, I need to move. Sorry for this later!"

And then, the former marine you had fallen for simply brought his usual intensity: moving his hips in abrupt thrusts against yours, focusing on hitting the right spots.

You grabbed his back, unable to control your nails digging into his broad back, and with each scratch, he roared in satisfaction. More and more. He increased the strength, the rhythm. That was your Woo-jin — the guy who didn't know when to stop.

Your old bed even creaked, but honestly, you couldn't bring yourself to care as you stared at him with half-lidded eyes. He looked at you intensely and fucked you intensely, too.

You closed your eyes, feeling your lower belly begin to tighten in a sensation too pleasurable to contain, forcing you to let out nonsensical words. Your arms pulled him closer, and he dragged you into a kiss, swallowing your moans, satisfied.

You don't know how long it lasted or even when you passed out; you only came to when you opened your eyes and felt yourself being covered by a sheet. Woo-jin was lying beside you, staring at you in silence, and said nothing until you finally turned to him.

"I…"

"You passed out. I overdid it a little, sorry." He apologized again, but you just let out a laugh.

"You're really weird. Apologizing for things like that."

"I'm not weird."

''But I like that you're weird." You confessed, sitting up in bed. Your legs were shaky, and your hips would hurt the next day. He looked at you with unavoidable curiosity. "I should have realized sooner… that I prefer weird guys like you."

"Then I'll be the weirdest guy you've ever known."

"You already are."

You both laughed. Physically exhausted, emotionally full.

But no matter how much you dissuaded him, or even outright ignored him, he stayed committed to the bit. So, really, it meant you were forced into having an underling. You had him carry your bag, fetch your lunch, run errands, do your cleaning duties, even take the fall and subsequent punishments for you. You waited and waited, and waited some more for him to finally give up and quit following you around. It was uncomfortable to watch him be bossed around by you without any respect or dignity— why was it taking so long for him to grow a spine?

He stuck out like a sore thumb. Always on the peripheries of cliques and friend groups. It wasn’t for the lack of trying, too. He was always the most loud, extroverted, over-the-top in any group project in class. He only received reluctant, faux chuckles before everyone turned to ignore him. It was truly too painful to watch— the dead silence that followed his boisterous laugh at his own joke was enough to make you shiver with second-hand embarrassment.

That sort of vibe was akin to blood in shark infested waters. You were unsurprised to see him one day sporting a myriad of bruises and scrapes, his uniform rumpled, and his school bag open and emptied. It had nothing to do with you, and you should’ve stayed out of it so he would finally understand that they would never be friends. His eyes had been watery with tears, his chin faintly trembling. But it was definitely those stupid, big cow eyes of his that were always solemn even when they twinkled at you for approval. He was like a little puppy, and which assholes would harm puppies?

Moon Gwang Mu knew you weren’t inherently a bad person, he had seen enough of true evil to recognise that you were simply distant and taciturn. He just hadn’t proven himself worthy of being your friend. He was touched, he might have even cried a little, when you had shoved your lunchbox at him after some bastards had stolen his money. He had fought them off until they’d put a hand on his uniform in the scuffle— a little money wasn’t worth ruining his new uniform. You had warned him to eat every single bite, “It breaks my father’s heart when I come home with a half-empty lunchbox. He thinks it’s because he didn’t cook well.”

He had eaten with relish and without any concern when you had assured him you had other lunch arrangements. It was the best meal he’d ever had. It was only after he had waited a while after school to return the empty lunchbox to you, that he discovered your ‘lunch arrangements’ included shaking down the bullies for the lunch money they had stolen from him. He had watched awed, his heart fluttering with what had to be love, as you shoved one of their heads into the trash can.

He’d applauded diligently and enthusiastically as you counted your loot, greedily eyeing the wad of cash in your hands. You hadn’t returned his money to him, pocketing the cash as you joined your friends to buy snacks. He had been sad to not be invited, lingering behind you and twiddling his thumbs in hopes you would reconsider. He tried to comfort himself as you walked away without a single glance back towards him, it’s not like he had the money for it, even if you did include him.

But the knot wringing his stomach loosened the very next day, all the sadness evaporating at the sight of another lunchbox— the same design as yours but in a different colours. You firmly denied it being your plan, just that your father insisted on making him lunch too since he ate it so well the last time. He was ecstatic to share lunch with you, eagerly offering to do your homework as thanks. You had been skeptical, at first, and hadn’t handed over your homework until he insisted, prying the books out of your hands.

It was his fault entirely that you descended on him a few days later like a demon from hell, all screeching curses and claws for hands. He thought he had done well on the homework, except he’d completely flunked it and marred your stellar grades. He’d obediently and solicitously apologised, vowing to work like a dog to make up for his sins.

It had been truly painful to repent, you had taken it upon yourself to personally tutor him. He would rather you just beat him up some more. But, instead, he was strapped into a chair like a man to be tortured while you stuffed calculus and literature down his throat. His grades had miraculously improved for how unwilling he had been to study, but it came at the cost of his crushed whimsy and freedom.

Turns out the secret to running off Moon Gwang Mu was a study session. He had practically sprinted away from you the moment exams had ended, establishing himself over the summer as an integral vertex of a trio of friends you’d dubbed ‘dumb, dumber and dumbest’ with each of its members competing for the prestigious position of ‘dumbest’ at any given time.

Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest had convinced themselves and each other that you were dating their very own Moon Gwang Mu. You had gifted him a Walkman for his birthday, along with cassettes of his favourite artists. How would you know Gwang Mu only listens to sad ballads and shed manly tears while staring out of the bus window, unless you were paying attention to him. You told him not to lose his player, clearly you were worried about it being snatched by those hooligans that took his lunch money! And they had tried to take it from him, but Gwang Mu had fought them off. However, when he had brandished the cassette player at you as some sort of trophy, you fussed over him and his injuries— it was true love!

He twisted and fidgeted on his seat in the school nurse’s office, nervously adjusting and folding his hands over his thighs or stomach to hide the growing tent in his pants that refused to stand down no matter how many unpleasant thoughts he forced into his brain because you were so close. He could peek at your cleavage, and the two soft, round curves of your boobs, over the buttons of your shirt as you leaned over to dab some ointment on his chin. He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, determined to be a gentleman, while sweat trailed down his temple which stung as it caught on some dried blood and scratches. He hadn’t been able to contain the yelp and shudder when you had blown on the scrape on his cheek, shooting out of his seat in surprise and staring down at the adorable way your lips were still pulled into a pout. Fuck, were you about to kiss him and he blew it?

You handed him a box of milk and a piece of bread, which he had accepted with slightly sweaty hands noting that it was your favourite flavour. He’d felt giddy and flustered that you would give him your favourite snacks. Whenever your father made your favourites for lunch, he would have to give up some of his share to you. Frankly, he would rather fight a dog for a bone than come between you and your food. So, you must really like him.

You didn’t like him. And if he ever shared his delusions, you would have laughed in his face. You had only given him the snacks because he seemed to be shaking, and you would be a monster to not care for a kicked puppy. “Good job.” You proudly patted his shoulder, counselling him with all the dignified flair of a sage, “Always remember, people can hit you. They can pull your hair. But they can never take your money. Why? Because money can always buy you more hair.”

Money could also buy him a uniform. But you noticed he was quite attached to the one he owned. He washed it gently between his own two hands, rubbing the collar between his knuckles instead of using a hard brush. He had gone back to hit those boys a few more times when he noticed a few of his shirt buttons were sacrificed in their skirmish.

Moon Gwang Mu loved you, wholeheartedly, when you pulled a sewing kit out of thin air and sewed three mismatched buttons to his shirt. He adored the furrow of concentration in your brows and the way your lips puffed out when you were focused. He treasured those three buttons, they were his lucky charm— in the future, he would even sew them onto his Marines formal uniform.

That love for you was obvious to anyone with eyes. Your father’s hand had itched to smack the little brat when he’d had slipped up and addressed him as he would a father-in-law. But Moon Gwang Mu’s panicked, phony guffaws had been so funny that several people had to muffle or hide their snorts and snickering. Despite the boy’s floundering and your hardheadedness, you father knew that the both of you were meant to grow into something quite special to each other. However, the knowing didn’t help the exasperation and irritation as he watched you both constantly bicker around him over every little thing from how much salt is too much salt, to which side of the couch belonged to whom, along with the mad scramble for the remote if he came home with you— leaving the old man to stumble over the shoes haphazardly strewn in the entryway.

According to Moon Gwang Mu, you were dating him. But you just weren’t aware of it yet. He didn’t know if you were just slow or dense or both. Once he’d been peacefully eating his ice cream on a park bench, you halfheartedly licking at yours as you stood over him, leaning precariously to the side since you made no effort to hide your ogling as one of your friends kissed a boy. He’d made a noise of disgust, at first, thinking some bird had pooped on him until he realised the dollop on his forehead was cold instead of shit-warm. And then it was searing. Your lips pressed against his forehead, your mouth burning hot against his skin as your tongue licked off the melted ice cream over his brow. Followed by a lightening that shot from where your lips touched him straight down to his cock. Then it was cold, the wind felt freezing against the wet patch on his face where you had just licked him— with your tongue!

You had scrunched your nose at him in disgust, “Ugh. It tastes like your sweat.” He had been too gobsmacked to finish his own ice cream that you had claimed your own after biting off your melted one. He had been lifeless and dazed as he shifted his schoolbag, wearing it on his front to cover his growing bulge. He was too shocked to complain and whine that the rack on your bicycle hurt his butt while you rode it roughshod over the bumps. He had sat behind you, clutching the sides of your shirt in astonished silence while you cycled them home. He was stunned. He’d just experienced his first forehead kiss with his future wife, and she’d used tongue— all because of greed. What would they tell their kids? That their mother was a glutton?

The most hurtful realisation of Moon Gwang Mu’s life was that you didn’t love him. It wasn’t that you didn’t have a romantic bone in your body… But you drew hearts on someone else’s coffee cup. You looked at someone else with stars in your eyes. It had felt worse than a punch to the gut. His stomach had tightened and burned; if he hadn’t left immediately, he was sure to have thrown up all over that college senior of yours. He had cried quietly into his pillows that night even though nobody could hear him in his empty apartment.

But he had been so embarrassed, hesitant to go back to work the next day out of fear that others would smell the stupidity off of him. All these years of feelings had been nothing but wishful thinking on his part. He wondered if everybody knew, and just didn’t bother to let him in on the joke. Worse, what if they knew and laughed at him for thinking you could ever love him.

Your paths had diverged after high school; you had gone off to college, and he had never applied. He chose to work for your dad as he had always planned. Your schedules and lives were so different, he had expected it to be difficult to still remain as close as before. However, he was so determined to support your dreams, happy to carve out time from work to visit you even if it meant he was napping beside you while you worked in the library.

The first pangs of unease and discomfort had slithered under his skin, banding across his chest to constrict his ribs, when he just couldn’t fit in with your friends. He didn’t much care for them other than hearing of them in your stories, and they in turn didn’t care for him. He was well aware he would never fit into that circle of intellectuals, but there was a trace of vicious, mean-spiritedness in the way they treated him. It started with snide comments, too vague to call for a confrontation but just noticeable enough to get the message across that he was unwelcome. He would seemingly sit on pins and needles with a group that thought it beneath them to hangout with someone like him simply because it was the only time he could have with you that week.

You weren’t a bad friend, most of what was said to him was typically out of your earshot. But he had wanted you to notice how they treat him… was it childish of him to crave your attention? You had always stood between him and the people who picked on him, he was under your caring wings through high-school. Hence, he wanted you to still defend him from these so-called friends of yours. Sure, his pride wouldn’t allow him to lay out his grievances before you. However, could you not perceive their cruelty towards him? Moon Gwang Mu believed you would never have to tell him these things had the situation been reversed. He would notice. He would care.

One of your friend’s boyfriend, the wannabe idol, had slipped in front you, his voice both over-eager and taunting when he had asked you if your ‘criminal friend’ could arrange some drugs for them. He had to restrain his scoff, who calls it drugs like a narc— don’t you know the name of the shit you want to try? He’d abruptly paused at the thought, that asshole had just called him a criminal. His first instinct had been to get up in that jerk’s face, dare the bastard to pick a fight he was sure to be thrashed in. He wasn’t some gangly school kid anymore that would lose in a fight.

But nipping at the heels of that bravado was stark fear, the kind that made his heart drop with a thud. He glanced at you; he knew you wouldn’t laugh at him, but the thought of your indifference was just as oppressive and suffocating. He waited for you to say something like a man waiting for a verdict he hadn’t even braced for— all his hopes pinned on you. Your friends tried to laugh the comment off to defuse the tension, but your gaze was already unperturbed and still. You sounded unnervingly casual, “He works for my father… do you think we’re a family of drug dealing criminals? Since that’s how it is you shouldn’t come with us.”

Then you just stood there, indifferent but willful, taking up the sidewalk while others glanced as they passed by. Even he had shuffled his feet, stifling the urge to break the tension and pull you away from the group. You never asked him to leave, but it was immensely clear by how patiently your feet were rooted to the pavement that you weren’t going anywhere with that clown. The guy had scoffed, infuriated and indignant that you would choose to side with someone like him instead of your own friends, before his girlfriend had tugged him away— still cursing at you as they left.

You had reverted to polite smiles and easy laughter almost immediately, ushering the rest of the group for the show they were running late to. You’d spent the evening by his side, sticking uncharacteristically close. He knew you were trying to comfort him, but there was a sense of finality that had settled like lead in his stomach. He would always be seen as a criminal, someone unfit to be by your side. It was something your father had said, which he hadn’t understood then in his naivety, he wanted a respectable life for you— firmly on the right side of the law, and afforded enough acceptability that nobody would look down on you as they just had to him.

He’d spent that evening memorising the moment— all the parts of you he already knew so well, but couldn’t help but appreciate once more. His heart soared with your laughter, gaze tracing the curve of your lashes. He wallowed and revelled in that small moment when you paused to take a breath before launching into a monologue with a fire lit behind your eyes for something you were passionate about. His heart danced at your every little mannerism, the way you pronounced certain words tickled under his ribs. He could even listen to you talk about a hole in your sock for hours, let alone witness the way you came alive when sharing your love for art. His thumb caressed along yours, committing to memory the weight of your hand in his, your warmth in his palms, and the ease with which your fingers settled between his. He didn’t know how he would follow through his decision when he felt so homesick for you while you stood right by his side.

But follow through his decision he did, stubborn as a mule as he walked away from you— his heart still tethered to your sleeve. He’d been hollow since, weighed down by the sort of emptiness that made him sigh with exhaustion. He missed you. He missed you. He missed you. So much that he senselessly grabbed at the phone, his ears ringing with the call tone thinking you’d called. You hadn’t called, why would you after he had others pick up your calls for him a few times, making excuses for why he couldn’t talk. He missed your gossipy eavesdropping, your sarcasm, and your incessant griping about the things that irritated you even though you swore you never take it too seriously. He missed your silly humour which was sure to lift his moods. The world was so terribly silent without you.

Moon Gwang Mu left your life rather unexpectedly, hiding behind excuses of how busy he was with setting up his own business after your father had wrapped his up. At first you’d worried he had gotten into a disagreement with your dad. But your father had sworn that it wasn’t the case, claiming he’d even passed his contacts onto your friend since he was retiring from the business. You’d considered showing up at his house, or maybe his new office with a gift to wish him well.

But he had slipped back into your life like a breeze, as if he’d never truly left— like he was always meant to be there. And suddenly it didn’t matter why he’d left, because he was back when you’d needed him most. He had returned when it mattered, when your father was hospitalised after being attacked. You had been so stressed and anxious, your mind too foggy and dazed to work. You’d stood there in an elevator at the hospital, eyes unseeing while waiting for the dumb thing to move, but too dissociated to have pressed the floor button. The elevator doors had dinged open, he’d peeked in as if he was looking for you all along.

You’d taken a deep, shaky breath— the first time it seemed since you’d last seen him. Your lungs had stung and ached at being overexerted, your eyes burning before you’d buried yourself and your sobs in his embrace. You didn’t realise when that doe-eyed kid grew to be so strong. But his hands were firm as they held yours, his arms warm as they clutched you to him, his shoulders so sturdy when you rested your head on them. Those eyes of his were devastating, they always had been so guileless and tender, open and twinkling as if someone had left the lights on, waiting for you to come home. He’d stayed offering strength and support, ensuring you ate and slept so you could care for your father.

In hindsight, you would realise this was love— the greatest expression of love is to be there, to sincerely show up, to care. However, you were slow on the uptake then, your mind filled with countless different matters snatching and warring for your attention. He went off to the marines, while years later you found yourself surrounded by wealth and fame, feeling a longing so stark it made you gasp for air. You were surrounded by people, you wouldn’t call them friends or well-wishers— acquaintances, perhaps— but the loneliness still plagued you. It filled this room full of people, voraciously feeding on the empty space between them until it was all you could see.

Moon Gwang Mu believed it was a special brand of humiliation— and a cruel karmic joke— that you always found him when he was being extorted, wounded and banged up from being shaken down for money. His mouth had dried, his heart rising into throat like the dawn chorus of birds welcoming the morning sun. It had taken him an embarrassingly long moment to realise that you were truly here, standing at the door of his office, instead of a mirage his brain manifested because he missed you. And then he had wanted to dig a hole to disappear into, so you wouldn’t see how much of catastrophic wreck he was. How much of a loser he still was.

Your eyes altered between him and that bitch from Smile Capital as you tried to piece the situation together. His pride rooted him in place even though he wanted to lay his head down on your lap and cry over every large and small inconveniences he’d suffered since you’d left. You were back. He didn’t know why, but you were sitting on the ratty couch of his office— when was the last time he’d aired this place out? He’d been so clumsy, shuffling around aimlessly, fussing over two cups of coffee. Why hadn’t he thought to buy proper cups? All his mugs were chipped, now he was serving you shitty instant coffee in a paper cup— or maybe he should pour it into the chipped cups anyway? The other lady had long been dismissed by your sheer aura. You’d raised a quizzical brow at her, a polite smile gracing your features while you angled your body to offer her space to walk out in one fluid, dismissive and cool motion.

He’d meandered around topics— the weather, life, your dad, the restaurant, Yang Jung hyung and his ever-improving knife skills. He considered asking you what brought you back— rather what brought you back here, to him. But he was just glad you’d returned. It didn’t matter what the reason was, they’d deal with it together. There would always be a place for you with him, he’d tear down any wall, smooth over any aching lumps to carve out the most comfortable, well-lit space within his heart and soul for you. No matter why or for how long you’d returned, he wanted to gather you in his arms to thank you for coming back anyway— thank you for remembering him.

“You have my painting.” You’d said the statement without any intonation, and he hadn’t known what to make of it. He’d whirled around to look at it once more, he’d meant to take it home soon. A guy had tried to repay his debt with the painting, and while he was strapped for cash because of the deal with Smile Capital, he’d accepted it because it was yours. He assumed you came for your painting, did artists buy back their paintings? But he was so unwilling to part with it, couldn’t he keep this small part of you?

You’d looked at him wide-eyed and affronted, “He cheated you out of your money. There’s no way my painting is that expensive.” He’d known that, but it was worth much more to him. So, he’d guffawed at your panic, “It’s okay. It’s basically an investment. It’ll be worth way more than that one day,” he assured you. You were bewildered and outraged, it was so like you to be distressed over losing money. He swiftly turned down your offer to compensate him for “being duped” into taking your painting. Of course, weeks later you’d chewed him out for not taking up your offer when those loan sharks had thrashed his office and roughed him up— they’d even destroyed your painting.

But worst of all, they’d taken you. It had been the most harrowing phone call from President Choi. He’d felt the world lurch beneath his feet, his vision twisting off kilter. He’d barely heard the details over the uneven, furious palpitations of his heart. He shivered from the sweat trailing down his spine that felt chilled even in the heat. He had barely managed to squeeze words out of his choked throat, struggling to breath so it wouldn’t make him nauseous. They’d attacked your home, injured Woo Jin, and kidnapped you. They’d taken Mr Oh too. He needed to find you. He needed to rescue you.

Luckily, you had been out on an errand and noticed the fleet of cars rushing towards your home. You’d called the cops, sensing the impending danger, and they’d shown up just in time to prevent any tragedy— scattering Myeong Gil’s men in the process. You had moved to a safe house with your father. But when his boxer marine juniors had tried to take down Smile Capital, you had been inevitably placed in danger.

He’d tried not to let his fear and panic show, he couldn’t let it impede on his focus and vigilance. Even though his stomach churned with dread and terror at the thought of what these people could do to you, he’d forced himself to repress every emotion that wasn’t strictly necessary until he found you. Until you were safe.

He’d collapsed when he’d found you, the sheer relief had been debilitating as the tension seeped out of his bones. He held your hands, checking for injuries before clutching you to his chest to feel your heart beat against his own. His laughs had been shaky as he pet your head, soothing himself more that you as the action pushed your face into the crook of his neck and he felt your steady breaths roll over his skin like a reminder that you were alive. You were well. You were unharmed. Safe. And in his arms.

You’d invited him to an exhibition of yours, mostly to thank him for saving your life, with the promise of gifting him any painting of his choice. It was an elaborate ruse, you had a proxy lined up to buy that painting from him. He’d never straightforwardly accept your help financially, or your father’s it seemed, but he needed it after Smile Capital had bled him dry. He also had to renovate and fix his office that those goons had destroyed.

However, you’d realised the hiccup in your plan almost immediately. He’d looked delighted at your offer, a gummy smile splitting across his face that was so blindingly sweet and achingly familiar— tugging at your heart in the way that was so nauseatingly needy. Then he’d lingered over each work, eyes half-lidded and warm as he admired each frame with a soft sigh. Of course. Of course, the Moon Gwang Mu who wallowed in sentimentality and sad songs would indulge and bask in art with the same misty-eyed passion. You’d felt nervous, your hands clammy and belly unnervingly wrenching. You had wavered between letting him have peace and silence as he engrossed himself in your work, or grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him for his thoughts and opinions on what he saw.

You’d learned to be thick-skinned with critics, not everyone was going to like what you do— and especially not in a line of work where being a hater is both an ambition and a joy. But you’d been in a slump. The pandemic had taken a toll on everything, and the burnout had left you not only uninspired but dangerously numb. At first, there was no sense of fulfilment or joy at having finished a project, and then creating anything seemed like an impossible task. To see him so entranced by your artwork made you truly elated.

His compliments of your work were unvarnished and utterly honest. Sometimes, he found a particular shade you had used delightful. Other times, he’d tell you about how your paintings made him feel— he’d reminisce over small, innocuous moments you’d shared while growing up. These moments often didn’t have a memorable story, they were routines you hadn’t thought about in so long; running late for the bus, the after school window shopping, the Sunday morning movies, a summer trip to the beach. It was refreshing to hear something that wasn’t unbearably pretentious and pompous about technique, gradient, artistic intention, or value.

Perhaps it was something about his smile and the way he looked a bit like an artwork himself under the exhibition lighting, but your fingers itched for a pencil for the first time in months. You wanted to paint him. There was something endearing about how the crinkles by his eyes curved over his cheekbones. And you planned how to best inscribe the way his smile lines were accented by dimples on paper. His liveliness would be a challenge to capture, he spoke so animatedly that the muscles of his face moved with his words and tone— sometimes a small crease between his short brows, or tiny scrunches at the top of his nose. Then there were those lips which would be a joy to shade on paper with the shark cupid’s bow and defined edges. They curled into the most irresistible little moue when he was preoccupied. There was a firmness to his mouth that belied the lighthearted chortles he’d let loose once in a while. And even though his laughs were often a little forced, more than a little phony, they softened the rigid, square set of his jaw. You could fill entire books drawing that mouth alone from the sneer that pulled at the left side of his upper lip, the scoff that tugged at the right corner of his bottom lip to the small smile when he thinks nobody is looking and the easy grins where his upper lip mimics the curve of his cupid’s bow.

You didn’t dream of his mouth… No. Instead, you had dreamt of your mouth—on him. You’d filled pages that would have made your anatomy drawing instructor puff his chest with pride. You had sketched him with a desperate sort of urgency without any flair or finish— the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the swoop of his hair, the profile of his face, his throat and the devastating dip at its base formed between two sturdy collar bones, the contours of his chest and the ruinous little trail of hair that slipped into his pants, his torso with the deep line along his spine that carved his back symmetrically into halves, his hands in a dizzying array of motions, and embarrassingly, even the curves and soles of his feet once he’d propped them onto the armrest of the couch. And, sadly, you imagined your mouth on every inch of skin on his body— tasting, sucking, nibbling on him until he was coloured with your attention and making expressions you had yet to see.

You needed to get a grip. It was ruining your day that you couldn’t draw every minuscule detail of his swiftly changing expressions and mannerisms like a camera taking rapid snapshots at any given time while the memory of moments lingers and hovers and bounces around in your brain like a poltergeist haunting an abandoned room. It wasn’t feelings or anything icky, it was simply… artistic curiosity. It was like watching the apple on a table from every angle before deciding which phase you wished to put on paper. However, in your case, deciding you wanted to put every angle and face on paper.

You blamed the gold chain. You’d noticed it when he was working out— gaudy, thick and snaking over his glistening tanned skin. And you’d wanted to trace it with your tongue, feeling the cold metal and warm skin contrast in your mouth. He’d been huffing for air, wiping the sweat over his brow. Your traitorous brain painted images of him gasping for air with his mouth agape, those dulcet eyes blown wide and befuddled making him look… fucked out.

You’d felt a small twinge of nervousness squeezing your heart at the numerous salacious sketches you had made of him during lazy evenings. But the guilt only came after you had made yourself cum, fingers circling and massaging your clit to your own thoughts and drawings. It was… a new fucking low. Not even the cavemen had drawn nudes on walls before jacking off to them. You needed to get laid. Promptly and expeditiously. However, making a move on your childhood friend because you were horny and desperate was all sorts of taboo.

You didn’t want to lose this friendship. It was embarrassing to realise at your big age that you were quite friendless, with everyone you cared for and vice versa had either drifted away in their own lives or were geographically too far to give you a hug. The world after the pandemic didn’t make it any easier since everyone had receded into their tight-knit inner circles— or simply gotten used to the isolation. You made friends through your craft and work, but you realised perhaps too late when your ambition for fame and money— for critic praise— had moved you into some luxury enclave surrounded by heartless people who were snobbish, cruel and not just a little out of touch with the world. You needed your only friend to be an anchor of support as you shifted into a different sort of art world, a warmer one with more public appeal. You needed Moon Gwang Mu to be his usual simple, uncomplicated, steady self. The only familiar, comforting factor amidst anxious change and uncertainty.

So, it was unfair— truly, extremely unfair— that he looked at your lips in a drunken haze with that pouty, sad look on his face looking like a puppy denied a treat. Firstly, you were supposed to be sketching him. He might have been a little tipsy when he threw off his t-shirt and quoted Titanic at you, demanding that you draw him like a french girl. It might have been a little indulgent on your part when you had agreed. He was cocky and preening, his poses far too comedic to resemble any sexy french girl you’d ever seen. You had turned on the television to grab his attention, so he would hold still for you to sketch. He was easily impressed at the baking show playing in the background, oohing and aahing at each technical step. You briefly wondered if this was what mothers felt like when they turned on their screens to feed their kids.

You didn’t realise when he had stopped watching his show to stare at you instead, but your eyes had met his languid and half-closed ones. It would have been easy to misunderstand that he was almost asleep and drowsy under the low lighting of his room, had you not keenly felt his attention like a warm current under your skin. For a moment, you’d been glad that you had chosen to sit on his stupid Bean Bag pouf because it prevented you from leaping across the scant few steps between you to give into your most base desires. You were never going to struggle with a fucking sack to waddle and roll out of it before kissing someone.

You just hadn’t counted on him to drop himself from his couch into a lithe, agile, cat-like prowl. The ripple, stretch and contraction of the muscles of his hands and back had been hypnotic to watch as he crawled on his hands and knees towards you— the bones protruding out of his back like small broken wings. He looked like a devil, and just as tempting too. You were far too stunned to protest when he had snatched your pencil to throw it over his shoulder. You were still speechless, unable to look away from those eyes as the world fell away, when he tugged the sketchbook out of your grip and tossed it aside.

The first kiss was painfully gentle— far too sensual and slow to be a peck, and yet not nearly thorough enough to be a kiss. He didn’t even touch you, his hands too busy propping him up. And, yet, you’d felt that first caress of his lips against yours like a lightening strike all the way down to your toes which curled into the carpet beneath. His mouth had been warm and slightly chapped, the grain of his moustache tickled the lining of your lips. The want, the craving, hadn’t surprised you but you had not expected the need. It took you completely by surprise. You needed him. The kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Nothing would ever be enough. You wanted to coax bits of his soul out his mouth and fold them into your being.

And he must’ve felt the same because he’d retreated, his lips hovering over yours once more, his nose nudging yours tentatively. You thought he would tilt his head and finally, finally, kiss you properly. Your hands found the curve of his arm, fingers pressing soft indents in the muscle to hold him in place. But the coward he was still warred against the inevitable. His lips fell on yours again in another hesitant, timid kiss. His lips closed around your bottom lip, and you felt a shiver down your back pushing you into his mouth. His lips slid over yours once, and then once more. You could taste his unwillingness to pull away, he gave your lip a reluctant, puppyish tug as he withdrew.

You sighed into the empty space between you. And perhaps if you’d opened your eyes you would’ve seen him, guarded and wary, studying your face as you absorbed what he had just done. You felt his fear, his doubt, in the cold air that rushed between you, chilling your skin as he leaned away and knelt before you. You heard the start of his apology, his voice low and cracking before you slapped him. The sound was deafening, effectively cutting off his words as his head whipped to the side from the force of your smack. Then you grasped for him and yanked him down, urgently and desperately, noses bumping awkwardly and your stomach protesting with a grunt as his weight gracelessly tumbled onto you.

You hated the stupid Bean Bag, and you would love to burn it as soon as you were done. The kiss was clumsy, your tooth ached due to the pressure of his mouth against yours while he struggled for balance. It was a frenzied struggle, his lips sliding over yours while your tongue slipped past his lips to stroke along his. You were panting, your chest struggling to expand against his. He was burning, he felt so hot under your icy fingers. You felt his tongue swipe under the hard roof of your mouth, ticklish and electrifying. His mouth was searing. It was all too much and at the same time not nearly enough.

He responded to the strangled sound in your throat which was somewhere between a whine and a sob, his large hand edging under your neck to cradle your head. His bicep flexed, the muscle bunching and relaxing under your touch. You wanted to see it. You wanted to see him. It occurred to you, quite salaciously, that you should record it— place a camera somewhere close so you can watch later for reference as you paint him fucking into you. The thought scattered with a gasp as he rolled with you in his arms.

You had imagined the sight beneath you countless times, and yet it was better than anything you could have pictured. He stared up at you with awe and disbelief while you straddled him— those soft, beseeching, decadent eyes. “If we do this, I’ll belong to you,” he rasped. “No,” he reconsidered. His hands trembled over your skin before holding your waist, “You’ll belong to me.”

He stared like an idiot, mouth agape and eyes just as wide, with his hands back to himself folded shyly over his chest like he was upholding the last of his modesty as you stood to shimmy out of your clothes. Your panties clung to your folds, embarrassingly wet as you pulled them down, smearing some of of your arousal on your thigh. You made a small disgruntled sound when you realised he was too gobsmacked to have removed his shorts. His hand extended towards your tits while you forced his shorts down to his thighs, giving up before taking them off entirely. He palmed your flesh, moulding the weight in his hands. His knuckles grazed over your nipples when you straddled him again, the caress made a shudder spread across your shoulders. A shared moan sounded between you when you settled over his cock, slotting the length between the lips of your pussy.

He’s been delightfully long, and curiously curved when you freed him, standing over coarse, thick curls. His tip was weepy and red, you would taste him later— take your time to give it the extensive attention it deserved, leave marks on the inside of those muscled, athletic thighs, and study the way they rippled and moved under your mouth. You settled for a slow grind, sliding your wet pussy over his cock while you leaned down to kiss him again. You felt his cock pulsating and throbbing with each slow drag of your hips while he whimpered into your mouth.

He had gasped as you propped yourself higher, his tongue chasing the string of spit connecting him to your mouth. You tucked a hand between your bodies, growing antsy with the pace you had set and reaching for your clit. He’d giggled at you. Because, of course, you’d be greedy and impatient. His laughter soon melted into a keening sort of groan as you notched him at your opening, your fingers obstinately rubbing tight circles over your clit to ease his cock inside you. It was a deliciously stinging ache, followed by the overwhelming fullness as you fluttered and clenched around him.

You sighed with satisfaction once he bottomed out inside, his balls nestling in the crevice of your ass. You bit your lip to stifle the embarrassing moan that had been about to fly out of your mouth— long, desperate and low— as you swivelled your hips. His tip rubbed against some spot so deep inside you which made your spine feel strangely liquid and languid. You felt yourself slipping, drowning in the pool of currents spreading from your quivering cunt while you settled into little humps punctuated by your hips dragging forward so your oversensitive little nub rubbed into the hair at the base of his cock. He was made for you, his cock was made to fuck you and stuff you full of him. He fit so perfectly inside you, it was just that he was so… fucking loud.

Moon Gwang Mu was mouthy and noisy, he was continuously talking— most of it gibberish peppered with reverent praise. He was babbling slurred little phrases, ‘feel so good’, ‘taking me so well’, ‘baby, please’ when you clasped a hand on his throat with a gasped command for him to just shut up as the mushroom head of his tip dragged along the wall of your pussy, scraping against nerve endings that had your vision darkening at the edges. You felt him jump inside you, a tiny pulsing movement that made him feel bigger somehow. His cock felt so heavy in your pussy.

Your fingers dug into the sides of his throat, feeling his heart beat in your hands at the same rhythm of the pulse throbbing inside you. You leaned down to lick into his open mouth, he was obedient and bleary-eyed, too slack-jawed to do anything but whine as you suckled his tongue. The rub of your nipples against his heated skin with each undulating pump on his cock sent jolts of electricity from your erect little buds straight down to your spasming pussy. You tumbled into your orgasm, your body stiffening as your walls clenched around him before you shattered. You collapsed onto him, body trembling as tremors shook your limbs. Your muscles felt strangely fuzzy and warm. You might’ve seen stars, panting against his neck and struggling to gather yourself again.

He’d started thrusting up into you, his arms banding around your waist to hold you in place while he lifted his hips, bouncing your ass as he fucked up into your hole. You vaguely registered how wet the noises were, there was a steady, repetitive squelch every time he shoved his cock deeper into you. You could feel how much you had soaked him, your combined juices were sticky and cool on your ass cheeks and smeared over his thighs, strings of your release clung to both of you feeling cold as his cock receded from your cunt. You felt a gush of warmth inside you as he came. And it only stoked the warmth swirling under your skin, you wanted him to pull him deeper inside you and hold him there.

There were sparkles spreading from the base of your spine that begged for another release even when you snuggled deeper into his chest feeling sleepy and replete. You allow him to caress your back for a few minutes, blinking through your post coital haze as he deposited your slumped form beside him, pulling his rug under you so you weren’t lying on the cold ground. He kissed down your body, truly quiet for the first time this evening, spreading your legs, making you unusually self conscious, also for the first time that evening. He watched with a feverish sort of rapture as his cum seeped out of your hole.

He’d fumbled for the remote, turning the TV on that you hadn’t even realised he’d switched off before crawling over to permanently change your life. He turned on the screen, tilting his chin towards it in a silent command for you to watch. It wasn’t muted, but you couldn’t hear a single thing over the ringing in your ears. Then he settled in, your jittering thighs thrown over his shoulders as he lapped at your oversensitive cunt in a single flat-tongued lick from the puckered hole of your ass to the clit peeking out of your hood.

You couldn’t quite place how long he’d been down there playing with his own cum— sucking it out of your pussy and pushing it back in with his fingers as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind where he wanted it. But the images on TV had long blurred into nondescript colours and there was a crick in the side of your hips that twinged every time you humped into his mouth. His hands were everywhere, either lightly grazing your skin or tightly pinching your nipples. He mapped your body in detailed explorations and curious caresses which you rewarded with soft sighs and quiet moans until you were shaking under another release. This one started as a wave, faintly tingling and warm until you were convulsing, spraying sticky, salty-sweet cum all over him until drops of it trailed from his jaw down onto his chest.

Even though he’d tucked you into his chest, folding his body along the length of yours so his chest was pressed to your back, your ass on his lap and his knees curving with yours, there was still the strange, hungry glow behind his eyes. Your puppy had grown a taste for this. It didn’t take long for dawn to spread over the sky in pretty colours, so similar to the ones dancing under your eye lids as he coaxed his hardened length into your pussy again, his fingers playing with your clit. He’d slid your knee higher so his balls rested heavy on the inside of your thigh. He pressed kisses over swathes of your sweaty skin, nibbling at the thin skin of your throat as he lazily rocked into you.

He cradled your throat, squeezing the column ever so slightly before shifting higher to cup your jaw, his fingers pressing into your cheeks so they bulged around the digits. He guided your mouth to his, sliding past your teeth to lick at the gummy walls of your mouth. There was nothing hesitant or nervous about this kiss, it was tender and slow and terrifyingly right. It wasn’t the sort of embrace that led to other things, it wasn’t meant to excite or titillate— he kissed you for the simple pleasure of kissing you, because he enjoyed his lips on yours and he revelled in sharing a breath and taste.

“You came back for me, didn’t you?” He whispered into your mouth. And it made you feel undone, exposed in a way that made you shiver. Because you had returned for him. You could’ve gone back to your life after visiting your father, started anew somewhere else and made new friends. There had been no reason to stay, there had been no other reason to walk along his neighbourhood for days before building the courage to knock on his office door. “I’m glad you came back,” he murmured, your tears catching on his thumbs.

He’d just left. He was there one day, and then gone the next with no rhyme or reason. And you had never figured out the why. Sometimes, you had raged at him in your mind for abandoning you and your friendship. Other times, when you were more vulnerable, you blamed yourself for being… difficult to put up with. Men don’t like women with strong personalities— and you prided yourself on being too headstrong, too stubborn, too unyielding. Maybe he had just grown tired one day and walked out. But he’d been a saint, always patient and compliant with all your moods and whims, if not enthusiastic in your company. He was the ray of sunshine that never dimmed at the sight of your scowls and grumbling.

You had forced yourself to not attach labels or expect anything more than just this night. It would have to be nothing more than a one-night stand, and your friendship hinged on the ability to still remain steady, uncomplicated friends despite having fucked. There was a small, needling voice in your head that reminded you that you had no such ability. You would never recover, and would despise him for not being as affected as you were. Hence, it was deeply, deeply, unfair that he wasn’t fucking you, he was making love. You almost wished his touch was greedy, purposeful and selfish. Instead, he made you feel full in ways you never knew it was possible to feel complete.

Much later, you would be shocked into silence, too stunned to react when he answers your shaky, uncertain insecurities about a relationship with the most devastating confession of how he’d loved you since high school— high school! And had decided to be a noble idiot to give you some sort of a better life. You’d wanted to bash his stupid head in. It’s okay, you had reassured him, you would rather date someone with no brain, rather than someone with a brain like his. But he’d only foolishly giggled at your threat, “So today is our first day of dating?”

Rain hammered against the cabin windows that night, heavy enough to swallow the forest surrounding the safehouse whole.

Inside, however, the tension felt worse than the storm itself. The cabin arranged for the team sat hidden far outside Seoul after Baek Jeong’s men ambushed one of their routes earlier that evening. Everyone made it out alive, barely, but the attack confirmed something none of them wanted to admit aloud: Baek Jeong was getting closer.

Gun-woo had been unbearable about it the entire mission.

Not officially, though. Nobody told him to stay glued to your side; not Woo-jin, not Mr. Moon, and definitely not you. You were part of the team too. You could fight, you could shoot, and you had survived worse long before him.

But still, Gun-woo hovered around you like breathing depended on it. His hand constantly found the small of your back whenever crowds got too tight. He walked slightly ahead of you during routes, always checking corners first. Every time someone unfamiliar looked at you too long, his expression darkened almost immediately.

And you noticed every single thing. You found it adorable.

Earlier that afternoon, after he nearly shoved a man away for brushing too closely past you during the escape route, you finally laughed.

“Gun-woo,” you teased while jogging beside him through the rain-soaked alleyway, “are you my bodyguard now?”

Gun-woo didn’t even glance your way. “No.”

You smiled instantly. “Really? Because you almost killed that taxi driver with your eyes.”

“He was too close.”

“He bumped into me accidentally.”

“He still touched you.” The answer came out so quickly that even Gun-woo seemed caught off guard by himself, the tips of his ears reddening almost immediately.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling harder. Because despite his broad shoulders, bruised knuckles, and terrifying punches, Gun-woo had always been disastrously transparent when it came to you.

Unfortunately for him, you noticed everything. Unfortunately for you, you were already completely in love with him. And that was becoming a serious problem.

-

The ambush happened less than an hour later. It was fast, violent, and chaotic.

One black SUV suddenly swerved across the road while headlights exploded through the rain from behind. Then came the shouting. Men flooding out from both sides. Gunshots. Pipes. Knives glinting beneath the streetlights.

Gun-woo shoved you behind him immediately while Woo-jin cursed somewhere nearby, throwing punches fast enough to crack teeth.

Everything blurred together afterward. Rainwater mixed with blood across the pavement while bodies collided violently beneath flickering streetlights. You barely had time to react before one of Baek Jeong’s men rushed toward you from the side, knife raised high.

But someone moved first, Min-jae. One of the newer men working with Mr. Moon’s team.

He threw himself directly between you and the blade without hesitation, the knife tearing across his side instead.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Min-jae!”

Gun-woo froze for half a second after hearing your voice, then he looked over and saw your hands grabbing Min-jae immediately, trying to steady him while blood soaked through his shirt. Even injured, Min-jae still positioned himself protectively in front of you.

And Gun-woo understood something ugly right then. As a man, he knew exactly why another man would move like that.

Nobody throws themselves in front of a knife unless feelings are involved.

Something twisted painfully inside his chest. Fear.

Because suddenly, Gun-woo realized someone else could protect you too, and he hated how much that thought suffocated him.

-

By the time everyone reached the cabin later that night, exhaustion hung heavily across every room.

Mr. Moon and Woo-jin discussed routes upstairs while Min-jae disinfected his injury near the fireplace downstairs. You stayed beside him helping quietly, handing over gauze and alcohol while checking whether the wound needed stitches.

Gun-woo sat farther across the room in complete silence, and Woo-jin noticed immediately.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath while watching Gun-woo stare toward the fireplace. “He’s jealous.”

Min Beom looked up briefly. “Who?”

Woo-jin pointed subtly toward Gun-woo.

Gun-woo looked seconds away from beating someone unconscious.

Unfortunately, every time Min-jae quietly asked if you were okay or thanked you for helping him, Gun-woo’s expression darkened further. Until eventually he stood up abruptly and disappeared into the kitchen without a word.

Woo-jin watched him leave before glancing toward you, then toward Min-jae, then back toward you again.

“Oh, this is bad.”

-

The kitchen remained dim except for the warm light above the stove. Gun-woo stood near the sink pretending to drink water while internally trying not to lose his mind.

You entered quietly a minute later.

He heard you immediately but refused to turn around.

“You’re being mean,” you said softly from the doorway.

Gun-woo tightened his grip around the glass. “I’m tired.”

“You almost ripped Woo-jin’s head off for asking where the medicine kit was.”

Silence filled the kitchen for a moment while rain battered against the windows.

Then finally: “You should stay near him then.”

Your brows pulled together immediately. “…What?”

“That guy.”

Gun-woo finally turned toward you, jaw tense. “He seems good at protecting you.”

There it was. Jealousy. Raw and impossible to hide anymore.

Your chest tightened so painfully you almost smiled by accident. Because this was Gun-woo. Sweet, painfully reserved Gun-woo who swallowed every feeling whole instead of speaking it aloud.

And now he looked genuinely wounded by you.

You stepped closer slowly. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You look miserable.”

“That’s your fault.” The answer slipped out before he could stop it, and your heart nearly exploded.

Gun-woo looked away immediately afterward, frustrated with himself.

“You scared me today,” he admitted quietly.

That changed everything, and your teasing softened instantly. “Gun-woo…”

“I didn’t like watching him touch you,” he continued, voice rougher now. “I didn’t like watching you look at him after he got hurt for you.”

Because beneath the jealousy, beneath the irritation and possessiveness, he sounded terrified. Like he genuinely thought he could lose you.

You reached for his hand carefully. Then, after seeing him welcome your touch without hesitation, your fingers slowly moved to the side of his face.

You fought the urge to smile from ear to ear.

And the moment his head leaned gently into your hand, something inside you gave out completely.

You pulled him toward you suddenly by the belt, and he immediately reciprocated, one of his hands gripping your waist while his mouth crashed against yours hard enough to steal your breath away.

The kiss felt desperate immediately. Like weeks of restraint finally collapsing all at once.

You couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

A soft gasp escaped you against his lips while your fingers tangled into the fabric of his fitted grey shirt. Gun-woo backed you slowly against the kitchen counter without breaking the kiss once.

“I .. hated it,” he admitted shakily between kisses. “I hated watching someone else protect you.”

Your chest ached painfully, as you cupped his face gently and whispered back, “I only wanted you. I’ve always only wanted you.”

Gun-woo froze completely at the reassurance. Then his forehead dropped against yours while his breathing turned uneven.

“You can’t say things like that,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I already can’t think straight around you.”

Your stomach flipped violently at the confession before he kissed you again, slower and deeper this time.

One of his hands slid beneath your thigh before lifting you easily onto the counter, settling himself between your knees while your breathing completely fell apart.

The cabin remained awake outside the kitchen, only one wall separating you from the others. Voices echoed faintly through the hallway. Anybody could walk in.

That danger only made the tension worse.

Gun-woo pulled back briefly and stared softly into your eyes before gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Tell me to stop.” You shook your head immediately, and that nearly destroyed him.

His lips trailed slowly down your neck afterward while your fingers disappeared through his soft hair. Every breath against your skin made your chest tighten harder.

Then movement appeared near the kitchen entrance. Min-jae.

Stopping mid-step after realizing what he walked into.

Gun-woo noticed immediately, and instead of pulling away, something possessive darkened in his eyes.

His hand tightened slightly against your thigh before he deliberately pulled you closer against him again, his mouth brushing slowly against your throat while his gaze locked directly onto Min-jae’s stunned face.

Clear enough for any man to understand.

She’s with me.

Min-jae looked away first and mumbled an awkward apology before disappearing quickly back down the hallway.

Your face burned instantly as you gently pushed Gun-woo away after hearing Min-jae’s hurried footsteps disappear.

“Gun-woo!”

But he only buried his face quietly into your neck afterward, both hands spread against the counter around you, exhaustion finally replacing the adrenaline.

And when he spoke again, his voice sounded almost shy beneath everything else.

He nods slightly, hesitating because, essentially, he was adding you to the list of people he has to worry about. Though you always were at the top, now it seemed more detrimental than ever.

They’d already shown up to Suho, after all. Who knows what would happen if they’d come to you.

Your socks shuffle against the hardwood floor as you walk towards him, fingers brushing against the bruises along his cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can handle myself.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t worry.”

Your hand freezes against his skin, eyes darting between his as he stares at you, a hardened glare– yet no malice within it. “Right. Okay.”

His fingers wrap around your wrist unexpectedly, eyes snapping to your hand as he slowly brings it away from his face. “How did you find out?”

“Word gets around fast.” You say, heartbeat quickening when he takes a step closer to you. “You know, high schoolers love to talk.”

He releases your hand with a hum, brushing past you to walk to his room, turning around just before he reaches his door. “Are you staying?”

You look towards your shoes at the door, tapping your fingers against your thigh as silence fills the room while he waits for your response. “I ca–”

“It’s late.” Your head turns to him, jolting when he stands right in front of you. “You should stay.”

In a rare moment, Sieuns’ eyes tell you something you’d never heard before.

I need you here. Stay. Don’t go.

You wonder how it was possible to get all that from a simple look, but his eyes never once held anything but the truth. It was his tell.

“Okay,” your fingers twitch against the back of his hand when you feel it brush against yours, your pinky wrapping hesitantly with his. “Alright.”

The light flickers off, and the apartment is silent except for the buzzing light from the streets outside and the floor creaking under your and Sieuns’ steps. The bed dips as you settle down, and your arm absentmindedly wraps around him, clutching onto the fabric of his shirt.

Sieun couldn’t tell if you were grounding him or yourself. But he wouldn’t brush you off.

Another thing he finds himself incapable of doing.

“Get some rest.” You whispered, breath brushing against the nape of his neck. He almost pulls away, almost.

He replies with a hum, eyes flitting to the alarm clock across from him, sighing at the time. “You too.”

you were sleeping over at sieun’s place on a school night — something he rarely allowed. he always claimed he couldn’t concentrate on homework when you were around, but he always said it with that slight blush on his cheeks, that told you he didn’t mean it in a bad way.

but sometimes he let it happen anyway, like today for example. because at the end of the day he liked having you around, even if he’d never say it out loud.

he liked making instant noodles with you, liked watching whatever dumb show you insisted was “super trending online right now” even though he’d never heard of it, liked the way you fell asleep on his chest and the way your hair got sprawled all over his pillows by morning.

it all felt so stupidly intimate.

something no one else ever got to touch.

this morning, he’d woken up first, of course. and had to remind you at least three times that you were gonna be late for school, before you finally crawled out of bed.

and then came his least favorite part of your sleepover aftermath: being the “waiting boyfriend.”

he was already fully ready, uniform neat, hair perfect, bag packed — while you were still in front of the mirror, sitting at his desk, going through your entire morning ritual.

he sat on the edge of the bed and watched you curl your hair, blend your makeup, do all the things he absolutely did not understand but found himself unable to look away from.

“you do this… every day?” he asked, genuinely confused. it just seemed like an exhausting amount of effort to him.

“yeah, i do. i like to feel good about myself.” you smiled at him through the mirror, adding your final touches. then you turned around, bright and proud “and with my makeup done, i get to do this!”

before he could react you grabbed him by the collar and smothered his face in kisses, one after another after another. he froze, blinking rapidly, his entire body stiffening like you’d just short-circuited him.

you pulled back, already laughing.

his face was covered in red lipstick marks — bright, fresh, and very obviously from you.

“hehe, now you’re branded as mine.” you grinned, turning the mirror towards him so he could see the damage.

sieun stared.

then stared harder.

expression flat, but his ears a violent shade of red.

“…does this come off?” he asked finally, voice painfully plain.

“yes, of course! see?” you grabbed a cotton pad, poured micellar water on it, wiped your own lips confidently.

but nothing came off.

barely a smear.

his eyes flickered from your lips, to the cotton pad, to your lips again “it… didn’t come off, y/n.” his voice was slow and cautious, like he was trying to run calculations on a situation he absolutely could not compute. and underneath that calm exterior, his brain was exploding.

you stared at him for a second.

“what?”

you rubbed at your lips again. then again.

nothing.

you frowned, flipped the lipstick over, and there it was in microscopic letters: extra waterproof.

you let out the most awkward little giggle and slowly turned to sieun, holding the tube up like a confession “um… sooo…”

he looked at the packaging. then at your lips. then back at the packaging.

another sigh — long, tired, very him.

“whatever. we’re gonna be late.” he said, heading to the door and already sliding into his shoes.

“wait— wait, you’re ACTUALLY going to school like this??” you shouted, practically sprinting after him to the front door.

“i can’t skip school. it’s fine.” he said casually.

you just stared at him, because this was the same boy who hated pda, who barely let you hold his hand in public unless the sun was setting and literally no one was around.

half the school didn’t even know you two were dating, that’s how discreet he was.

and yet here he was. calm and completely serious about going out looking like this.

the walk to school was torture.

you thought he would be the flustered one, but no, somehow you ended up blushing harder than sieun, who walked beside you like he didn’t have your bright red kisses stamped all over his face.

students stared. whispered. pointed.

because to be fair it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots: your perfectly done red lipstick + his face covered in the exact same shade = you two were not subtle. at all.

you tugged at his sleeve, mumbling “sieun… seriously… it’s not too late to turn back home, people are staring—”

“ignore them.” he said calmly, as if it was nothing.

you swore he was blushing this morning. you knew it.

but now?

nope. composed. annoyingly unbothered.

you, meanwhile, were ready to dissolve into thin air.

but nothing prepared you for entering the class.

the moment suho looked up from his desk and saw you two in the doorway, his stoic face twitched… and then completely cracked. he doubled over, laughing, full, uncontrollable, borderline wheezing laughter.

“no way. no freaking way—” he wheezed, pointing directly at sieun “bro, what— what happened to your face—”

“shut up.” sieun muttered, already heading to his seat.

but suho was only getting started.

“woah, sieun,” he said, laughing harder “i didn’t know you were a loverboy like that.”

you felt your soul leave your body.

suho came to sieun’s desk, eyeing the red stains like he was inspecting a crime scene evidence.

“aish man seriously? at least have the decency to clean your face before showing up like this!” he added, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment.

“i tried to wash it off!” you blurted out defensively “it’s— it’s waterproof—”

“clearly…” suho snorted “and you y/n, did you attack him? or is this your way of marking territory?”

you immediately covered your burning face with your hands.

sieun sent suho a glaring look, definitely a warning.

suho just smirked, still amused, still teasing, but with that soft glint in his eyes that said he wasn’t actually being mean.

“unbelievable,” he sighed dramatically “you two show up like this and expect me not to say anything? get real.”

and the rest of the school day didn’t get any better after this.

if anything, it got worse.

because suho decided that teasing you two was now his full-time job.

every time you or sieun made an eye contact with him, he puckered his lips dramatically and made the most obnoxious kissy noises.

mwah mwah mwah.

sieun just rolled his eyes so aggressively you were surprised they didn’t fall out.

“ignore him.” sieun muttered under his breath, not even looking up from his notebook.

“i am ignoring him.” you whispered back.

you weren’t. not even a little.

by lunch, suho was still at it.

you sat down with your tray, sieun beside you, and instantly suho leaned forward with a smirk, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

“so—” he began, talking through a mouthful of rice “i’m gonna be honest— sometimes i thought you two weren’t even dating. like, i seriously thought you were just pranking me—”

“suho…” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

but he kept going.

“i mean, no hand-holding, no hugging, nothing—”

sieun shot him a death glare.

suho ignored it.

“but today?” suho pointed a chopstick at you, then at sieun “today proved me wrong. because wow. that was— that was some serious dedication, y/n.”

you choked on your water.

he turned fully to you now, squinting.

“actually— how did you get him to sit still for that?” he asked “like, genuinely. this guy flinches when someone pats him on the shoulder. did you tie him down? drug him? hypnotize him? i need to know—”

“can you chew,” sieun cut in sharply “before you talk?”

suho blinked.

and sieun didn’t stop there.

“and honestly,” he added with that cold edge only he had “it’s no wonder no one’s kissing you. you eat like an animal.”

you wheezed.

suho put a hand over his heart like he’d been mortally wounded.

“wow,” he whispered dramatically “hurtful. completely uncalled for. i’m reporting this to the ministry of friendship.”

sieun just rolled his eyes and calmly stabbed another piece of kimchi.

you bit your lip to stop from smiling.

because even though he looked annoyed…

his ears were pink.

however that wasn’t enough for suho, so he continued “y/n, you hear that? you really don’t care that you’re kissing a guy who spits venom from his lips?”

you opened your mouth to respond, but he kept going.

“respectfully, y/n… how? why? are you okay? blink twice if he cursed you.”

you kicked him under the table.

“OW— okay, okay, i’m done,” he groaned, rubbing his shin but still grinning like an idiot “i’m just saying. brave of you. someone had to say it.”

the walk home was quiet at first — the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just… full. full of all the things you wanted to say but didn’t know how.

you kept sneaking glances at sieun, who walked beside you with his hands at his sides, hair falling into his eyes, looking like he was pretending none of today happened.

finally, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“sieun…” you murmured, tugging lightly at his sleeve “i’m really… really sorry about all of that. i didn’t mean for you to go to school looking like—”

“like someone beat me with your lipstick?” he said flatly.

you winced “yes. exactly. i swear i thought it wasn’t waterproof and— i promise, when we get home, i’ll try everything to get it off. oil cleanser, micellar, even—”

“y/n.”

you blinked. his voice was quiet. careful.

he paused in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at you with that intense, unreadable gaze he got when he was fighting himself internally.

there was the faintest pink dusting his cheeks.

“i didn’t… mind.”

your breath hitched.

“huh?”

he looked away, ears turning red now too “i said i didn’t mind.”

you stared at him, stunned.

his fingers twitched like he wanted to hide his face in his sleeves, but instead he kept talking, words a little rushed, like he wanted them out before he lost the nerve.

“it was embarrassing,” he admitted “obviously. and suho won’t shut up about it for a month.”

a tiny, awkward pause.

“but… it felt kind of nice.”

you blinked again “nice…?”

he nodded once, stiff but sincere.

“that everyone saw.”

a beat.

“that you’re mine.”

your heart flipped.

“and i’m yours,” he added quietly “without us having to… do anything extra.”

the air went warm between you, buzzing with something soft and shy and overwhelmingly tender.

you stepped closer, just a little, and his eyes flickered to your red lips for half a second before he tore them away, flustered beyond saving.

“so…” you whispered, smiling softly “you liked my lipstick attack?”

he groaned “don’t call it that.”

you laughed and looped your arm through his.

he let you.

and he didn’t complain once the whole way home.

BONUS ໒꒱:

the moment you two got back to his apartment, you dropped your bag and marched straight to the bathroom like a soldier on a mission.

“sit.” you ordered, pointing at the edge of his bed.

sieun raised an eyebrow, but obeyed — a little too quickly, honestly — sitting stiffly with his hands in his lap, eyes following you as you gathered every makeup remover product known to mankind.

cleansing oil. micellar water. wipes. cotton pads.

you looked ready to exorcise a demon.

you stood over him with a determined expression.

“okay. round two. this time it will come off.”

he muttered “i said i don’t mind…”

“shh,” you said, climbing onto your knees in front of him “i mind. you’re not going to bed looking like you got mauled by me.”

“i did get mauled by you.” he mumbled.

your hands froze. face heated.

he did not just say that.

“s–shut up..” you whispered.

his lips twitched — dangerously close to a smirk. a rare sight.

you dipped a cotton pad in cleansing oil and gently cupped his chin.

the moment your fingertips touched his face, sieun went rigid.

like someone unplugged him.

“relax..” you said softly.

“i am relaxed..” he lied, shoulders up to his ears.

you rolled your eyes and began wiping away. except… the red stains barely budged.

you scrubbed a little harder.

“ow.”

“sorry—”

“it’s fine.” he said instantly, even though his eye was twitching.

you tried again.

nothing.

you pulled back, holding the pad up. “okay… why is it not coming off? this is literally cleansing oil.”

he stared at the pad — clean as your crimes — then looked at you.

“…maybe it’s a sign.” he said quietly.

you blinked “a sign of what?”

his voice dropped, soft and low and stupidly sweet.

“that you should… leave it.”

your breath stalled.

he met your gaze for half a second before looking away, ears red again.

“i meant what i said earlier,” he muttered “i like it. even if it’s embarrassing.”

you couldn’t help it — a smile pulled at your lips, slow and warm.

you reached out, brushing your thumb gently across one of the stubborn stains on his cheek.

“you’re cute like this.” you whispered.

his inhale was sharp.

“d-don’t say stuff like that.” he said, voice cracking.

“why not?”

“because,” he muttered, eyes flicking anywhere but you “i won’t… be able to think straight.”

you grinned.

“good.”

he stared at you for a few seconds and then, with all the awkward, quiet determination in the world, he leaned forward and nudged his forehead against yours.

not a kiss.

not yet.

just a tiny, shy, warm press.

“you’re the one who attacked me,” he whispered “but i’m the one losing my mind right now...”

your heart melted.

and the stains?

yeah, they stayed.

the whole night.

fin.

you and sieun met for the first time completely by accident.

he was on the bus on his way to cram school, sitting quietly in his seat, gaze fixed on the window, shutting out the world around him. he ignored how packed the bus was, bodies pressed together, footsteps shuffling, voices blending into noise. in his seat, tucked away from the chaos, he was comfortable.

then the bus jerked to a sudden, rough stop.

and someone fell into his lap with a tiny, high-pitched squeak.

you.

before you even realized what happened, you were practically nose-to-nose with sieun, breath brushing his cheek. you froze, eyes wide, then scrambled up so fast you nearly tripped again.

“i— i’m so sorry!” you blurted out, flustered beyond belief “the bus stopped too fast, i should’ve held on tighter— i’m really sorry—”

normally, sieun would’ve been irritated. he didn’t like being touched, noticed, or talked to. if it were anyone else, he would’ve just nodded once and gone right back to the window.

but you…

you caught his attention.

not that he’d admit it.

“it’s okay,” he said, standing up abruptly “you can sit.”

he didn’t know why he offered. he just acted instinctively. something about you made it feel natural.

you blinked up at him, cheeks warm, and sat down shyly. he moved to stand beside your seat, his posture almost… protective, shielding you from the crowd pressing in from all sides.

“everyone alright?” the bus driver called out. a few mumbled responses followed, and the bus rolled forward again.

but sieun wasn’t thinking about the bus anymore.

he was thinking about you.

you sat stiffly, clutching the straps of your worn-out bag, the straps fraying, the fabric faded, decorated with cute pins of characters he didn’t recognize. your school uniform was from a nearby girls’ school, not a fancy one. your lip gloss caught the light when you bit your lip anxiously.

you looked uncomfortable in the crowd.

you looked small.

you looked… cute.

cute?

his eyes widened slightly, and he snapped his gaze forward, stare locking onto nothing.

that was…

weird.

he didn’t think things like that. he didn’t feel things like that. not for strangers.

yet his heart beat just a bit faster.

and for the first time in a very long time, yeon sieun found himself disturbed — not by you falling into his lap… but by the unfamiliar warmth curling in his chest when he looked at you.

the second time you and sieun met was also an accident.

suho had dragged sieun and beomseok out to some restaurant that he swore had “the best fried chicken in the whole world.”

sieun wasn’t thrilled. he’d much rather be studying, but no one could ever win against ahn suho’s relentless enthusiasm, so here he was.

the moment they stepped inside, though, sieun froze.

you were there.

sitting at a table packed with people your age — girls in the same school uniform as you, and a few guys who looked… wrong. loud, obnoxious, grinning like they owned the room.

and you, sitting on the edge of the cushioned bench, gripping the hem of your skirt so tightly your knuckles were white.

you didn’t fit in with them.

not even a little.

then one of the guys slung an arm over your shoulders. you jolted, the exact same startled look from the bus flickering across your face.

“y/n!” he cooed, way too familiar.

y/n… so that was your name.

“let’s make a deal,” the guy said, leaning in close to your ear with a sleazy smirk “if you kiss me, you don’t have to pay for our meal today. if you don’t, you’re covering for the rest of the school year. so? what do you say?”

immediately you tried to pull away, but the girl across from you grabbed your wrists, holding you still. one of the girls lifted her phone to film this whole ordeal, another snorted something about how kissing you would probably be “gross.”

and sieun… sieun saw red.

before suho could even ask what was wrong, sieun was already moving — cutting through tables, chairs, startled waitresses — eyes locked on you.

“leave her alone” he said, voice cold and flat.

the guy laughed “and who the hell are you? hey, y/n, you know this dude? did you get yourself a boyfriend behind our backs?”

your eyes met sieun’s.

confused.

scared.

but there was hope too — tiny, trembling, impossible to miss.

and something inside him snapped.

sieun grabbed the nearest fork off the table, and without hesitation — without even blinking — he drove it straight through the guy’s hand where it rested on the wooden table.

the scream tore through the restaurant.

beomseok gasped. suho shouted “sieun!” and ran towards him, but it was too late —the damage was already done.

“okay— okay, that’s enough, sieun” suho said and sieun looked at him for half a second, calm as ever.

then he turned back to you.

he extended his hand gently, almost carefully, like the violence from two seconds earlier belonged to a different person entirely.

you didn’t look back at your “friends.”

you didn’t look at the chaos unfolding behind you.

you just took his hand.

your fingers slid into his like instinct, like relief, like escape.

and the moment you stood, he stepped slightly in front of you, shielding you from the shocked stares as suho and beomseok hurried the four of you out the door and away from the mess.

you ran away few blocks away from the restaurant and as you hid in some alleyway, suho immediately exploded.

“sieun, what the hell was that? you can’t just stab someone in public! again! first pens, now forks? are you serious?”

beomseok hovered awkwardly beside him.

but sieun…

sieun didn’t respond.

he wasn’t even listening.

his eyes were fixed on you — the way your shoulders shook, the small tremble in your hands as you held your bag against your chest, trying to make yourself smaller.

he stepped a little closer, carefully, like he was approaching an injured animal.

“are you hurt?” he asked, voice strangely gentle.

you shook your head quickly “n-no… i’m okay. i just—” your voice cracked, and you looked down, embarrassed.

“thank you. for earlier,” you whispered “i… i didn’t know what to do. i’m so tired of them. every day it’s something. and i—”

your words broke off, swallowed by your attempt not to cry.

beomseok looked at you then — really looked — and something sad flickered in his eyes.

he knew that exhaustion. that quiet desperation.

“we get it,” he said softly “people can be… cruel.”

sieun’s gaze sharpened at that, but not in anger — in recognition.

he understood too.

“you don’t deserve that” beomseok said simply.

the four of you stood there in the cold, something heavy and unspoken settling between you.

then suho clapped his hands loudly, trying to shake the mood off.

“okay! emotional moment over! i’m still starving, and we risked getting banned from that place so someone owes me chicken.”

he turned to you with a bright grin.

“come with us! we’ll treat you. right guys?”

beomseok nodded politely. sieun didn’t move, but his eyes flicked to you — unreadable, but waiting.

you smiled, timid and grateful.

“you’ve already done more than enough for me. really. i… i should just go home now.”

suho deflated dramatically.

“aww, c’mon, it’s just chicken—”

but sieun spoke before he could finish.

“i’ll walk you” he said.

no hesitation. no question. just certainty.

you stiffened, cheeks warming.

“o-oh… you don’t have to—”

“i want to” he said plainly.

and something in your chest unraveled just a little.

suho caught the way sieun’s eyes flickered the second you nodded. he didn’t miss a thing. immediately, he slung an arm around beomseok’s shoulders, grinning like he knew a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.

“okay, enjoy yourselves, me and beomseok are going to eat” he sing-songed, even throwing in a very obvious wink.

sieun rolled his eyes so hard it was almost impressive, but he didn’t bother arguing. he just turned towards you, quiet as ever.

the walk to your neighborhood was… silent. comfortable, somehow. sieun wasn’t the type to fill the air with pointless words anyway. he didn’t need to.

instead, he watched.

the way you kept your head slightly lowered when you walked, like you didn’t want to take up too much space.

the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear every time the wind messed it up.

the way your shoes scuffed slightly with each step, like you were trying to walk softly even on concrete.

little things. small things. things he shouldn’t care about.

but they all did something to him — something he couldn’t name without feeling ridiculous.

“so this is my neighborhood” you said suddenly, stopping at a quiet street. he blinked, realizing just how far the two of you had wandered. he hadn’t even noticed.

immediately his eyes swept the area — the narrow sidewalk, the flickering streetlight on the corner. he took it all in, mapping it in his head without even thinking about it.

then he looked back at you.

“thank you once again,” you said softly “it was… sieun, right? what you did means a lot to me.”

you smiled — small, shy, the kind you probably didn’t show often.

and his heart did that weird thing again. that uncomfortable skip, like it was reacting before he could.

“it was nothing” he said, voice even.

then, after a beat “can i… get your number?”

your breath caught “m-my number?”

“so you can text me when you get home safe” he added, so casually and plainly that you almost believed that was all it was. almost.

“oh. yeah, sure.”

you typed your number into his phone, your fingers just barely brushing his. he didn’t move.

when you handed the phone back, he sent you a quick text, so that you had his number as well, and tucked the phone into his pocket with a quiet, firm nod.

“goodnight” you said, taking a small step back.

“text me” he replied.

not a request — a certainty.

you didn’t even question it.

you waved once and then disappeared, heading towards your apartment building.

and sieun stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot you’d just been at — heart still doing that strange, unwelcome flutter.

the third time you and sieun met… it wasn’t an accident anymore.

he planned it. every second of it.

he was supposed to be studying — a video of his mom explaining math formulas playing on his laptop — but his eyes kept drifting, unfocused. every time he blinked, he saw you sitting in that restaurant booth, trembling under those filthy hands. he heard your voice, small and tired, telling him you were “so done” with the bullies.

and tomorrow… you were going back there.

without him.

he paused the video. his leg bounced. then, before he could talk himself out of it, he typed the name of your school into the search bar.

not because he wanted to be a creep.

no. he told himself that over and over.

he just… needed to make sure you were safe. that was all.

so the next day, after his classes ended, he walked straight to your school and positioned himself near the gate — close enough to see you, far enough not to look like he was waiting for you.

he knelt down on the sidewalk, pretending to tie his shoelaces. he even rehearsed a sentence in his head “there’s a bus that goes to my cram school nearby, i stopped for a second.”

normal. casual. reasonable.

he stayed like that for minutes, hands hovering near his shoes, waiting.

until—

“sieun?”

your voice. right behind him.

he tightened his grip on the laces so he wouldn’t immediately turn around and stare at you like he wanted to. then he glanced back, perfectly composed.

“oh. hi.” he said, as if it really was nothing.

but then he stood — and the moment he did, he noticed it.

your uniform. ripped right at the shoulder. the ribbon on your uniform barely holding up too, threads hanging, fabric stretched.

his expression didn’t change much. but something in his eyes… froze.

“what happened?”

you immediately looked away when he asked, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.

“it’s nothing,” you mumbled, trying to sound light “just… clumsy me, i guess.”

sieun didn’t buy that for even half a second.

his eyes sharpened “was it the girls?”

you froze.

that was all the answer he needed.

his jaw clenched — so quietly, so subtly — but the change in him was unmistakable. something cold and dangerous slid behind his eyes, the same thing suho always warned people about.

“should i take care of it?” he asked, voice still calm, but with a certain edge “just tell me if they touched you.”

your breath hitched.

before he could take a step towards the school gate, you reached out on instinct — your hands catching his.

his entire body jolted like you’d shocked him.

he looked down at your fingers wrapped around his, pink dust spreading across his cheekbones so fast he didn’t even have time to hide it.

“n-no,” you whispered, holding on a little tighter “please don’t do anything. i just… i just wanna go home.”

sieun swallowed, hard.

for a moment he didn’t move at all — like your touch pinned him to the earth.

then he sighed, shoulders lowering a fraction.

“…fine.”

he wasn’t happy about it, but he’d listen if you asked.

you started walking together, silence settling softly between you. after a minute, you glanced at him.

“but… what were you even doing at my school anyways?” you asked, confused.

“ah.” he looked forward again, slipping into his practiced excuse “there’s a bus stop nearby. i was just on my way to cram school.”

you laughed a little “really? that’s kinda funny. we keep running into each other everywhere. like it’s fate or something.”

you smiled up at him, warm and innocent.

you had no idea.

no idea that he had searched your school last night.

no idea that he had stood here for ten whole minutes pretending to tie shoes that were already tied.

no idea how tightly he was gripping the sleeve of his bag to stop himself from reaching for your hand again.

“yeah,” sieun murmured, eyes softening as he watched you “fate.”

only he knew it wasn’t.

only he knew he’d make sure it kept happening.

and as he promised — or rather, as he calculated — the “accidental” meetings kept piling up.

at first they felt strange.

then suspicious.

then almost… familiar.

but to you, they seemed like coincidences.

to him, they were perfectly timed steps in a plan he’d never admit he was making.

your next encounter was at a local library.

you came there after school, hugging your books, looking for a quiet corner to study.

the moment you turned into the reading room, you froze.

sieun was already there. hunched over a thick textbook, earphones in, body perfectly still.

you hesitated before walking in — he looked so focused, so intensely absorbed, you didn’t want to disturb him.

but somehow, without lifting his head, he said to you “you’re blocking the light.”

your heart jumped.

“o-oh! sorry—”

you scurried to a corner table, cheeks warm.

he didn’t look at you, not even once.

but every few minutes, he slightly shifted.

just enough to keep you in the corner of his vision.

as you packed your things later, he rose too.

at the same time.

almost like he had been waiting.

and offered to walk you home.

you went there again three days later, this time to a different floor, hoping for quiet.

he found you anyway.

you stood on your toes, reaching for a book on the top shelf when another hand brushed the spine.

you startled.

“ah—!”

“you’ll fall” he said, grabbing the book effortlessly and handing it to you.

your fingers brushed his.

you yanked your hand back, flustered.

“t-thanks…”

he stared down at you, expression unreadable “why do you keep coming here alone?”

“i… dunno. i like it. it’s peaceful.”

he exhaled once through his nose — not annoyance, not quite — something tense and restrained.

“be careful,” he said “some people are watching.”

you thought he meant the store’s customers.

you didn’t know he meant himself watching everyone around you.

then one late evening two weeks later your cram school ended and you ducked into the nearest convenience store craving something sweet.

you opened the fridge door — and nearly screamed.

he was standing on the other side, staring right at you.

“sieun?!” you clutched your chest.

he didn’t flinch.

“you’re loud.”

your ears burned with embarrassment “s-sorry…”

without looking away, he reached into the fridge and held out your favorite drink.

you blinked at it, stunned.

“it’s on sale. here.” he said flatly.

“oh… thank you” you murmured.

he paid for his things and left without a goodbye, but when you stepped outside, he was still there, leaning against the wall, pretending to check his phone, eyes flicking towards you the moment you passed.

you had no idea that this store was completely out of his way and he came there just for one reason — for you.

next encounter happened the same week. rain poured like the sky was collapsing.

you ran to the stop, completely soaked, hugging your backpack to your chest.

and then—

“you’re wet” he said simply.

you gasped when you saw him standing there, umbrella tilted toward you without explanation.

“w-what are you doing here?”

“waiting.”

“for… the bus?”

he didn’t answer.

instead, he stepped closer until the umbrella covered you fully — and left himself getting drenched.

“you’ll get sick…” you whispered.

“i won’t” he said “but you will.”

your heart thudded strangely.

the bus came.

you both got on.

he took the seat beside you without asking.

and behind all these “coincidences,” his thoughts only got sharper. darker. firmer.

he studied you whole — your routine, your habits, your favorite places, your weak points, your fears, the people who bothered you, the ones he already wanted gone.

he learned everything.

not because he meant harm.

but because something inside him had already decided that you were his to protect.

which is why, when you giggled one afternoon and said “would you ever wanna actually hang out? since we keep running into each other like this constantly…”

he nodded casually, like it was nothing “sure.”

but inside?

inside he was already planning where, when, how, and what would happen next.

because fate had nothing to do with it.

he had been making sure you crossed paths with him every single time.

the hangout plan was simple — grab some refreshing drinks at a food truck and then take a walk through the little park you said you loved.

the one with the flowers that bloomed even when everything else felt cold.

you told him it was your “comfort place,” somewhere you liked to clear your mind.

but sieun already knew that.

he’d known long before you mentioned it.

so when the school day ended, he headed straight there and ended up arriving way earlier than he’d planned.

the path was quiet, flowers swaying gently in the breeze, petals catching the fading light.

he glanced at his watch. thirty minutes too soon, but that was fine. he liked being early — better to wait than to be late.

then his phone buzzed.

from you.

y/n: sorry sieun, i can’t make it. something came up.

he froze.

the text wasn’t anything alarming on its own, except… it was from you.

you almost never texted.

ever.

his stomach dropped. something was off.

the phrasing, the tone — too clipped. too careful.

and with the way he knew you? that meant something bad was happening.

he scanned the park, eyes sharp. empty benches, children’s laughter in the distance, joggers passing by. no sign of you.

he moved faster, retracing steps he had memorized like a map from the previous days — the library, the café, the bus stop, even the hidden corners he knew you liked to sit in when no one else was around.

his hands balled into fists, jaw tight. every second without you felt like a lifetime.

finally, he made his way back to your neighborhood.

the streets were quiet. the sun was dipping below the horizon, and the shadows of the buildings stretched long.

and there you were.

your shoulders slumped, backpack hanging heavily on your back.

your hair was messy from the wind, eyes barely able to stay open.

he noticed the faint redness on your neck — a hickey — half-hidden by your collar.

“y/n…” his voice was low, dangerous, full of worry.

he immediately rushed to your side, hands gripping your arms lightly to steady you.

“what happened? are you okay? tell me— i need to know you’re okay.”

you blinked up at him, exhausted, ashamed, but also… relieved to see him.

he didn’t let go.

not now.

not ever.

even in the dim light, with your body trembling from exhaustion, he could see it all. and his chest ached.

as he held your arms, you let yourself fold into him, your forehead resting lightly against his shoulder.

he wasn’t warm — not exactly — but he was steady, and right now that was all you needed.

his hand hovered awkwardly for a second before settling on your back, stiff at first, then tightening as if he couldn’t help himself.

after a few long, quiet minutes, your voice came out small “sorry for not showing up, sieun… would you like to go to my place instead…?”

he froze.

you could feel him gulp, his breath catching.

then a quiet, controlled nod.

you led him through the dim streets to your apartment — no lights on, no shoes by the door, just silence.

and sieun felt something in his chest twist sharply.

just like me… always coming back to an empty home.

we’re the same.

“do you want tea, or—”

“who did it, y/n?”

the words cut through the room like a knife. cold. immediate. no hesitation.

his eyes didn’t move from the mark on your neck, the faint bruise that stood out against your skin like an offense carved into you.

you gave a weak, tired smile “remember the guys from the fried chicken place? yeah. do i… need to say more?” you laughed, but it was hollow, broken at the edges.

and when you tried to brush it off—

“but they didn’t go any further than this, don’t worry. it… could be worse.”

—something in him snapped.

his jaw clenched so tightly it almost shook.

his hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.

you saw only a worried boy standing in your kitchen.

but on the inside there was a storm unfolding inside him.

they touched you.

they dared to put their hands on your skin.

they thought they could leave a mark on something that isn’t theirs.

you came home shaking and drained and they laughed about it, probably, while you walked alone.

i should’ve been there.

i should never have let you go by yourself.

you shouldn’t have to deal with this at all — if you were with me, if you stayed by me, no one would dare.

his breathing grew quieter, deeper.

he stepped towards you.

“y/n,” he said softly, but the softness didn’t reach his eyes “tell me their names.”

you shook your head immediately, but he didn’t look away.

he just stood there, expression unreadable, gaze burning.

if you won’t tell me, i’ll find out myself.

i already know where they work.

i’ve already watched them once. it won’t be hard.

he reached out and brushed your hair behind your ear, gentle and careful, yet his fingers trembled, as if trying to restrain something much darker inside him.

“this won’t happen again” he murmured.

a promise, a threat — both.

“not to you.”

you exhaled shakily, and for a moment he just stared at you — really stared.

like he was memorizing every flicker of your expression, every tiny movement of your beautiful lips, every bruise on your skin that did not belong there.

by now, sieun couldn’t wake up without thinking about you.

couldn’t walk home without checking the streets you took.

couldn’t study without imagining you sitting beside him.

you had slipped into his world slowly, completely by accident, until there was no part of his life left untouched by you.

you didn’t know it, but he had rearranged entire days around your safety. your comfort. your smile.

and the thought of someone hurting you again made something cold twist violently inside him.

“don’t come to school tomorrow,” he said, voice flat, steady — the way it always got when he had already made up his mind “stay home. i’m gonna take care of your bullying problem.”

he turned, already planning, already calculating, already ready to walk out your door and ruin anyone who dared lay a hand on you.

but your breath hitched, and your fingers gently curled around his.

just that tiny touch froze him in place.

just you.

“be… careful… please.”

his eyes flicked down to where your hand held his.

so small.

so trusting.

so warm.

for a second, something in him cracked open — a terrifying tenderness he wasn’t used to feeling.

“i will” he said quietly.

because for you, he’d be careful.

for you, he’d be ruthless.

for you, he’d burn the whole world if he had to.

the next day, sieun skipped school.

it was so unlike him that suho and beomseok both spammed his phone, the notifications lighting up his pocket over and over — but he ignored every single one.

he never put anyone before his studies.

never.

until you.

he walked straight to your school, expression blank, steps precise.

he had already memorized the building’s layout last night, piecing it together from every photo, every mention you’d ever made, every scrap of information he could dig up.

and when he finally found the classroom the girls were in, he didn’t knock. he just opened the door and walked in.

the room went still.

“uh— who are you?” one girl scoffed, adjusting her lip gloss.

another one whispered that he looked creepy.

someone else laughed nervously, pointing out that he’s that weird guy from the fried chicken place.

sieun didn’t react.

he just stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room one by one… cold. calculating.

finally, his gaze landed on the main girl — the one whose nail marks he had notice on your wrist that day, when she was trying to hold you in place, when that disgusting guy was touching you.

she froze.

sieun took a slow step towards her desk.

just one.

and somehow the whole room felt smaller.

“you” he said quietly “stand up.”

she scoffed again, but it cracked at the edges.

“w–why? who the hell do you think you—”

he dropped something on her desk.

your ripped uniform ribbon.

her face drained of color.

si-eun leaned in slightly, just enough so only she could hear “touch her again,” he whispered, voice low and steady “and i’ll make sure everyone in this school knows everything you’ve been hiding.”

her eyes widened — because the folder under his arm?

it had her name on it.

and si-eun didn’t bluff.

“i don’t hit girls,” he continued, straightening up “but i don’t need to.”

then he turned to the rest of them — the whole group shrinking under the weight of his stare.

“she’s not alone anymore,” he said simply “try anything… and you’ll regret it.”

he didn’t shout.

he didn’t threaten violently.

he didn’t have to.

the girls were already trembling, gathering their bags, ready to run — but si-eun wasn’t finished.

he paused in the doorway and looked back.

“where are the guys?”

no one answered.

his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“i won’t ask twice.”

one of the girls — the one who mocked you the loudest — broke down instantly.

“t-they’re at the gym! the one a few blocks away— behind the convenience store! that one!”

sieun nodded once.

like that was the answer he expected.

and then he left.

the gym smelled like sweat and metal, grimy and loud — and si-eun walked straight in, ignoring every stare.

the guys were clustered near the weights, laughing, bragging, alive with that ugly energy he remembered all too well.

the one who tried to forcefully kiss you the other day was the first to notice him.

“hey, you’re that kid from the restaurant.” he grinned “the fork stunt that you pulled because of that babe was cra—”

he didn’t finish.

si-eun grabbed a dumbbell — small enough to lift quickly, heavy enough to break a bone — and smashed it onto the guy’s foot with a terrifying precision.

the scream that tore out of him echoed across the gym.

three others lunged at si-eun at once.

he ducked under the first punch, calculating distances, angles, momentum — he didn’t have strength, but he didn’t need it.

he fought like math.

a weight bar to block.

a quick shove that sent someone stumbling into a machine.

a heel to a knee joint, perfectly placed.

but he took hits, too.

because he was still human.

a fist split his lip.

another left his ribs throbbing.

he didn’t stop.

he couldn’t.

not when the image of your tired eyes, your shaking hands, that damned bruised mark on your neck burned behind his eyelids.

finally, he forced the last guy down, pinning him with a forearm across his throat — not enough to choke, but enough to remind him he could.

si-eun wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

his voice was low, almost bored.

“listen carefully.”

the guy under him froze.

“if you ever touch her again… if you even look at her in a way i don’t like…”

he leaned in closer, expression flat, emotionless.

“i’ll kill you.”

the guy started shaking.

hard.

“o-okay— okay—”

“not ‘okay’” si-eun corrected, tightening his grip briefly “never again.”

he let go and stood, breathing hard, bruised, split lip dripping red.

the gym was silent.

everyone watched him leave — a thin, quiet boy with blood on his chin and murder in his eyes.

and si-eun didn’t look back once.

he had one goal now.

one person.

you.

you stayed home like he told you to.

you curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, trying to distract yourself, but your mind kept circling back to him.

you’d be lying if you said he didn’t… scare you a little.

you weren’t stupid.

it was strange how often he appeared wherever you were, how he always seemed to know things you never told him.

there was something in his eyes, something sharp and unreadable, something that made your heart quicken for reasons you couldn’t name.

but that same gaze always softened when it landed on you.

and compared to the people who actually hurt you… a boy who fought for you, who stood in front of you every time, didn’t feel like a threat.

at least not to you.

still, the silence of your apartment made it too easy to overthink, too easy to replay every moment in your head.

your fingers tapped anxiously against your mug.

then — a faint knock, barely there.

your breath hitched as you stood and opened the door.

and there he was.

blood smeared across his lip.

bruises darkening along his jaw.

one hand pressed against his ribs like he was holding himself together.

his eyes, however, were calm. eerily calm.

“it’s done,” he said quietly “they won’t bother you anymore.”

no pride.

no explanation.

just the truth, dropped into the small space between you like a confession.

you didn’t ask what he did.

you didn’t need to.

you grabbed his wrist gently and pulled him inside, already searching for the first aid kit.

your hands were shaking. not from fear, but from how badly you wanted to fix him.

he sat on the couch without complaint, watching you in that steady way he always did.

you knelt in front of him and dabbed at the dried blood on his lip, reaching towards a bruise on his cheek—

but his hand came up suddenly, fingers curling around your wrist.

you froze.

looked up.

his voice was low, rough, like each word was dragged out of him.

“don’t go anywhere without me now.”

your breath caught.

“you won’t need school anymore. i’m smart. i can teach you everything at home.”

his thumb brushed slowly over the inside of your wrist.

“you’ll be safe. always. under my control.”

your heart pounded, but you didn’t pull away.

his eyes softened then — dangerously gentle.

“i… i love you, y/n.”

his voice cracked, just a little.

“and if something happened to you—”

he swallowed, jaw tightening.

“i’d lose my mind.”

he waited.

for your fear.

for your rejection.

for anything that would make him step back.

but you looked at him — bruised, trembling, desperate — and something inside you eased.

you nodded.

a tiny, fragile movement.

“okay.”

his fingers tightened around your hand, like he had finally been given permission to breathe.

after this you slowly started to patch him up properly. he tried not to react — but he couldn’t hide it. not from you.

your fingers brushed the cut on his cheek.

his breath hitched.

your palm steadied his jaw.

his eyelashes fluttered, throat tightening.

every place you touched burned — not with pain, but something far worse. something he’d been trying to smother for days now. he felt your warmth seep into him, seep under his skin, seep into the spaces he’d locked off from everyone else his entire life.

and you didn’t pull away.

you stayed.

with him.

it nearly broke him.

his eyes drifted to the hickey on your neck like a magnet, dark and ugly against your skin. he reached out, fingers trembling as they traced the mark “i hate that they thought they could do this to you…”

your expression shifted instantly. you stepped back, covering the mark with your hand, avoiding his gaze. embarrassed. ashamed.

“don’t… remind me. please. i feel disgusting walking around with this. i… never wanted my first kiss, or anything so— i don’t know— intimate like this…”

your voice wavered, soft, honest in a way it had never been before.

“i wanted someone who matters to touch me like that. not… them.”

sieun blinked. once. twice.

“do i matter?” he asked, voice plain — too plain — but inside him everything crashed and twisted at once. jealousy. anger. disgust. possessiveness. sadness. love. lust.

he hated that they hurt you.

hated that they touched something that was never theirs to touch.

“huh?” you looked up at him again, confused for a second, then your expression softened. after a moment of quiet thought, you nodded.

“yeah… i think you do.”

your cheeks warmed instantly, because you knew exactly what you were implying. so did he.

something in sieun stuttered — a breath, a heartbeat, the thin thread of restraint he’d been clinging to.

his eyes dropped to the mark on your neck again. his jaw tightened, then he leaned in just a little, enough for you to feel the heat of his breath.

“and if i hid that ugly mark with my own…” he murmured, voice low, eyes locked on yours “would you mind?”

you swallowed nervously.

agreeing felt terrifying. but it also felt safe and… with sieun it felt almost right.

“i… i wouldn’t mind” you whispered, voice small but sure.

his breath hitched — just enough for you to notice — and you shifted closer, sitting down beside him. your knee brushed his, and somehow that tiny touch made his shoulders tense, like he was trying not to tremble.

you leaned in first, barely, a soft nudge of your lips against his.

he kissed you back — shy, clumsy, almost hesitant. it was obvious he didn’t have any real experience, his movements unsure, searching, learning you in real time.

but you weren’t any better.

so you didn’t mind.

you just let him kiss you.

slowly, like the gravity between you was pulling him down, he braced a hand beside your hip and leaned over you until your back met the couch cushions. his hair fell a little into his eyes, the bruises on his face made him look even softer, somehow.

“tell me if you want me to stop” he murmured, breath brushing your skin.

you shook your head and that was all he needed.

his lips trailed downwards, slow and careful, giving you chance after chance to pull away. he reached the mark on your neck, and for a moment he only pressed a gentle kiss there. a question. a warning. a promise.

you let out a soft, shaky sigh.

and something in him snapped loose at that soft sound of yours.

his mouth closed over the mark and then he began to suck, deliberate and unhurried. like he could erase every trace of what they did. like he could overwrite it with himself. like cleansing a wound, purifying something sacred that had been dirtied.

each slow pull of his lips felt like him saying mine mine mine without ever speaking a word.

and you didn’t push him away.

you couldn’t hold back the sounds that slipped out of you, breathy moans that you couldn’t control. your fingers gripped at the sleeves of his shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing it. and the moment he heard you, really heard you, he didn’t stop. couldn’t.

he moved lower, then higher, then across your throat, slow and possessive. each kiss turned into another mark, each mark darker than the last. he mapped your neck with his mouth, claiming every inch of skin they had touched, every place that made you shiver under him.

you were wriggling beneath him, face flushed, breaths coming unevenly. his weight above you, the heat of his body, the desperation in every kiss — it all made your pulse race.

after a few minutes he finally pulled back, bracing himself above you. his elbows sank into the couch and he looked down at you through heavy lashes. his lips were swollen, darker now, his breath uneven. there was a tiny curve to his mouth, a hint of a smile you had never seen on him before — dangerous in how soft it was.

“i’ll make you happy, y/n,” he whispered, voice rough and sure “now that you’re mine… there’s nothing left in this world that can hurt you.”

your heart stuttered in your chest, the words crashing over you like a tide you couldn’t fight.

and all you could do, all you wanted to do, was pull him back down.

you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him again, deeper this time, trusting him, surrendering to him, letting him have you the way he had wanted from the very beginning.

and he kissed you like he planned to keep you forever. because he did.

fin.