IkueSimSimp

the stadium pulsed with noise.

lights flashed across thousands of raised phones, white and silver beams sweeping over the crowd like waves. somewhere to your right, a girl was crying so hard she could barely scream his name out anymore.

but that was understandable, in your eyes at least.

it was lee heeseung, after all.

on the massive screen above the stage, his face appeared again alongside his members, sweat-damp hair falling into dark eyes, breath uneven from dancing all night.

you were so close to the stage, standing in the pit. your throat burned from screaming too, though your voice had long disappeared many songs ago.

heeseung drew you in so much, but it almost didn't feel voluntary. not in the way that you were being forced to like him, but in the way that you felt as if you were bound to love him. your chest ached so violently watching him smile that you had to press a hand against it.

heeseung steps forward, microphone lifted effortlessly as the opening notes of the final chorus rang through the stadium. the cameras follow him with ease. for a moment, he tilts his head slightly, eyes skimming over the crowd out of habit.

that's when his eyes land on you.

you think it's just a lucky glance, him simply sparing his gaze across the sea of people like usual. he never pulls away.

for a second, his expression falters, and that's when you can confirm that his eyes are on you. it's subtle enough for nobody else to notice, as he pulls away shortly after.

your breath catches in your throat from the way he looked at you like he knew you somehow, which would be impossible. maybe you reminded him of somebody?

heeseung avoids your side of the stage for a remainder of the night, only returning toward the end. every time he drifts near that side again, his gaze stays deliberately elsewhere, toward the upper sections, the cameras, his members, anywhere but you.

idols are trained to look everywhere. to make every fan feel seen, but he avoids your eyes so carefully it almost feels intentional.

by the final song, you’ve nearly convinced yourself you imagined the entire thing. maybe he wasn't looking at you at all.

confetti spills from the ceiling in silver streams, disappearing beneath flashing lights and deafening screams. the members bow beside him, smiling breathlessly as they thank the crowd.

after he bows too, he looks up, straight at you.

you blink, your heart pounding extra hard. this time, the hurt in his expression is unmistakeable. he looks like he's in some sort of pain.

the concert is basically over after that, and enhypen say good bye to all of their fans. you go home, tired after the commute home. you can't stop thinking of the way heeseung looked at you tonight, even if it was just you being delusional.

you don't fall asleep like you usually do. at first, you lie on your back staring at the ceiling, phone face-down beside you, unable to get anywhere after shutting your eyes.

every time you try to think about something else, your mind slips back to him, despite being exhausted. you turn onto your side, pulling the blanket up even though you’re not even cold. the concert noise fades in your memory.

your thoughts slow down, one by one, finally. the room around you gets softer at the edges. eventually, your grip on the blanket loosens without you noticing.

right before you fully drift off, there’s one last strange, quiet image that slips through your mind.

it's similar to falling snow behind your eyes.

snow falls quietly onto dark stone next to you.

"is it really that time of the year already, joo-mi?" you ask, reaching your hand out to let more snow fall onto the palm of your hand.

your servant, joo-mi, stands next to you, nodding her head. "i believe so, my lady."

"it's colder than i remember. compared to last year, at least." you mumble, watching how the flakes of snow dissolve on your skin.

you curl your fingers slightly, as if you might be able to hold onto the winter itself. the courtyard is empty at this late hour apart from you and joo-mi. oh, and the singular guard standing at the entrance.

shifting beside you, joo-mi lowers her gaze respectfully. "winter has arrived earlier, my lady. the elders mentioned that it would be a long one."

you hum softly in response, though your attention is already elsewhere. the mountains beyond the perimeters of the estate.

you stare at them for a moment longer than you mean to.

there is something about them tonight. something that draws you in. anywhere away from this place would do you justice, honestly. you were extremely bored.

and unfortunately expected to be wed to a noble boy by the end of this year. gross.

a gust of wind moves through the courtyard, brushing cold against your cheeks.

joo-mi shifts closer instinctively. “my lady, shall we return inside? the wind is growing harsher. i don't want you to grow ill."

you don’t answer her question, gaze drifting across the courtyard. specifically, back to the guard at the front gate, half-shadowed beneath the light.

"joo-mi, why is there only one tonight?" you look up at her, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. the guard doesn't look familiar anyway. he was young, you could tell by his stature. it wasn't the usual older guard that took the night shift, and there was meant to be two.

joo-mi follows your gaze again, hesitating for only a moment before answering. “i believe one of the guards fell ill earlier today, my lady. the replacement was assigned on short notice.”

you turn your head back, uncaring. "i want to go back inside now."

joo-mi bows her head immediately. “of course, my lady.”

she steps forward at once, adjusting her pace to yours as you begin to turn away from the courtyard.

the cold bites at your skin for one last moment before the warmth of the estate corridors begins to surround you instead. joo-mi follows behind closely, blowing out the candle she was previously using when the two of you were outside.

joo-mi escorts you to your room, opening the door for you. you thank her.

"my lady, you have a long day tomorrow. you should rest well tonight."

you step into your room, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft thud that echoes through the hallways. the warmth inside your room is immediate.

“of course,” you reply quietly, voice muffled. you walk in further, slipping out of your outer layer. "you should rest as well, joo-mi."

"yes, my lady. good night." her footsteps slowly retreat down the slim hallway, footsteps pattering against the wood.

you sit at the edge of your bed for a moment, hands resting loosely in your lap. you weren't tired at all, unfortunately. but, you required an escort everywhere in this estate - per your father's requests.

you had no choice but to fall asleep. there was nothing else to do, after all. every single novel sitting on the shelf beside you had been read, along with every puzzle. you truly were bored.

eventually, you lie back, pulling the blanket over you. the fabric is warm, making you feel sleepier.

the lantern light from earlier has long since dimmed, leaving the room in a soft, peaceful ambience. apart from the sound of the harsh wind from outside.

your breathing slows without you noticing.

your eyes drift toward the ceiling, before shutting on reflex and falling asleep.

the next morning you awake to soft knocks on your door, tapping once.

then again, a little more carefully. “my lady?” joo-mi’s voice filters through the wood, familiar and steady.

light spills faintly through the edges of your curtains, revealing the morning sun before you can even open your eyes properly.

"you can come in," you say, mid yawn, stretching your arms up into the air.

there's a brief pause before your door slides open, but when it does, joo-mi is on the other side. joo-mi steps in quietly, already composed, her hands folded in front of her as she keeps her gaze respectfully lowered.

"did you sleep well, my lady?" she smiles softly at you, which reminds you of her age. she was only a few years your senior.

you’re still half-lost in sleep as you sit up, hair slightly disheveled, blinking at the brightness leaking through the curtains. you cling to the warmth of the blankets.

"i think so." you mumble, stretching your arms again before letting them drop lazily into your lap.

joo-mi moves further into the room, already beginning her routine without needing instruction, picking up your garments from yesterday and folding them. she folds out each crease with care, before replacing those garments with new ones for you today.

"are you excited for today, my lady?" joo-mi asks from behind you, tone cheerful. "you'll be going out town."

you were excited at first when you heard the news, but when you found out your father was practically sending an entire army to supervise you, your feelings on it dulled.

but now, the word feels slightly dull on your tongue as you speak them. "sure."

joo-mi continues folding your garments with calm efficiency, laying out today’s clothing with care before turning back toward you.

“you seemed pleased when you were told,” she adds, glancing at you over her shoulder. “it is the market district, is it not? there will be many new sights.”

market district? there wasn't much you were interested in, to be honest. you weren't the most outgoing.

"yes.." you say slowly, coming out quieter than initially intended. your fingers tug slightly at the edge of the blanket, resisting the urge to pull them back over yourself.

it should be exciting.

it is exciting.

but you can barely bring yourself to care. you look at joo-mi, "do you think father would let me skip this today?"

joo-mi looks at you, not expecting the question as her hands pausing mid-fold.

“my lady…” she begins carefully, as if choosing each word to avoid sounding like a reprimand. “your father has been preparing for this trip for some time. i don't think he would be happy...if it were to be postponed.

but you already knew that.

joo-mi he sets your garments down neatly before stepping closer, her tone softening again. “is something troubling you this morning?”

the question lingers in the air.

you open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out immediately. because there isn’t a clear reason, nothing you can point to and name properly.

"no, there isn't, joo-mi." you reassure, "i'll go. can i change now?" you ask her, standing up, shuffling the bedsheets off your lower half.

joo-mi relaxes slightly at your response, the tension in her expression smoothing back into its usual calm composure. “of course, my lady,” she says gently. “i'll start preparing your bath."

she bows her head and steps toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back once more, before slipping out and closing it softly behind her.

you stand, stretching once more as the last remnants of sleep finally leave your body. the bed creaks softly as you move away from it, the warmth of the blankets already fading behind you.

then there’s a soft knock.

“come in,” you say.

the door slides open, and joo-mi appears once more, her hands neatly folded in front of her.

“my lady,” she says gently, “your bath is ready for you.” you nod once at her words, still lost in the lingering haze of sleep.

you follow her down the cold hallway, a familiar path to your private bathroom. joo-mi opens the door for you, revealing a steaming hot bath. the warmth spills out into the hallway the moment the door opens, contrasting the air behind you.

steam curls lazily into the corridor. the bath inside has been prepared as you like it.

joo-mi steps aside respectfully, keeping her gaze lowered. “my lady, I will be just outside if you need anything.” she bows, before stepping out of the room and leaving.

the sound of the latch clicks softly, and you are alone. you move closer to the bath slowly.

you take off your garments, before taking a step into the water, sinking your entire body in shortly after. the warm water ripples around you, surrounding your entire body - practically easing your muscles after only a minute of being submerged.

you sink in a little deeper as the steam around you rises, relaxing your body without your permission. you stay in that bath for around twenty minutes, simply basking in the warm water.

stepping out, you wrap a towel around yourself, calling for joo-mi. "joo-mi, can i have my clothes?"

she pushes the door to the side gently, draping you in something that resembles an overcoat, temporarily shielding you from the cold. nobody was allowed to enter your chambers anyway, so she escorts you back to your room.

upon entering, she reaches for your clothing that she had previously laid out, before coming behind you and helping you change into them.

joo-mi moves behind you with quiet efficiency, her hands careful as she helps you out of the bath wrap and into the layers she had prepared earlier.

you stand still, letting her work.

it's a smooth and easy process, as always. both you and joo-mi had gotten used to this already, it was a daily routine after all.

she takes a step back after she finishes, admiring you and her work. all your sleeves were aligned properly, as well as your folds being smoothed down. "my lady," she gasps quietly, "you look so beautiful, especially today."

her words bring a small smile to your lips, "thank you, joo-mi. you're the reason for that."

a light pink dusts her cheeks, "thank you, my lady - but i only played a small role. i only ensure what is already there is brought out properly,” she adds more softly, smoothing the front of her sleeves out of habit. “you have always been beautiful, my lady.”

joo-mi steps back slightly, then reaches for the last piece of your outer layer, holding it up for you to slip into. you do exactly that, and she smooths out the final layer.

joo-mi gently tugs at the fabric, ensuring that it's fitted perfectly as you outstretch your arms. "i'm done, my lady. are you ready to step out? the carriage should be ready for us."

you let your arms fall back to your sides, nodding as you slip your shoes on. "if i must. let's go."

joo-mi opens the door for you, sliding it once again. the rhythm of your footsteps blends softly with Joo-mi’s as you move through the corridor.

joo-mi walks just half a step behind you, as always, careful not to overtake or fall too far back.

“the carriage is waiting at the front gate,” she says gently. “your father has already left instructions for your escort.”

you hum faintly in response, gaze forward, "you are coming with me today, right?" you ask her, double checking.

"yes, my lady. i should be accompanying you today. i wasn't made aware of any change of plans." joo-mi says, walking down onto the footpath with you.

servants pass in the opposite direction occasionally, bowing quickly as you go by.

as you near the entrance hall, you slow slightly without meaning to, you can see the carriage from here now.

joo-mi notices immediately. “my lady?”

you blink once, then continue walking. “It’s nothing.” but the hesitance in your step tells her everything. your eyes linger ahead for just a moment longer than necessary, you see a lot of people you don't know surrounding the gate.

behind you, joo-mi’s steps remain steady, but her voice softens slightly when she speaks again.

“it will be a busy day,” she says. “but I will be with you.” she reassures. you continue walking forwards, catching the attention of the servants preparing the carriage.

there’s a brief shift in movement as they straighten, bowing as you approach.

the air outside brushes against your skin, a servant lowers his head. “my lady.” you acknowledge it lightly.

one of them quickly moves to open the carriage door properly, while another steps aside to clear your path. you thank him quietly, taking the hand he offered to you to step into the carriage.

you don't recognise any of the guards accompanying you today, unfortunately. joo-mi steps in afterwards, sitting across from you.

outside, the courtyard continues with it's movement, guards taking their positions, as well as double checking the horses.

a few minutes pass, and you finally feel the carriage moving. you peer slightly outside, seeing the front gates to the estate opening.

as the carriage begins to move, joo-mi continues speaking, pointing out small things about your journey, like the scenery. you nod, engaging in conversation with her.

the market should be around an hours drive on a carriage, so around ten minutes you decide to just take a small nap. you were pretty tired anyway, despite only having woken up a short while ago.'

after it feels like you've only shut your eyes for five minutes when joo-mi calls out for you. "my lady?" she asks softly, "we're nearly there."

you wink an eye open, sitting up as you smooth yourself over. "thank you," you mumble, covering your mouth with your palm as you yawn.

you sit in silence, your arm sitting atop your stomach as you lean into the chair behind you. pushing the curtain back with your other hand, you look around, seeing the bustling markets.

the sound hits you first, plenty of voice overlapping, as well as vendors calling out to customers. an uncomfortable feeling sits at the bottom of your topic.

your chest tightens faintly, though you don’t understand why. the carriage rolls forward again before the thought can settle properly.

you swallow once more, as your gaze tracks across it all without really landing anywhere for too long. too many faces, too many directions, too many things happening at once to properly follow.

you feel very aware of your body all of the sudden. joo-mi speaks softly across from you, but you only catch part of it, she's saying something about the market being way busier than expected.

you sit back slightly, letting the curtain fall a little more into place as you nod, like you're on auto-pilot. the carriage comes to a stop, and around thirty seconds after the door opens.

your fingernails dig into your palms unknowingly, making you bleed. joo-mi looks at you, not noticing the injury but just the tense expression on your face. "are you alright, my lady?"

snapping your head back to her, "i'm fine, yes. you can go out first." joo-mi looks at you like you're insane. you were a higher status, that meant you were meant to exit the carriage first.

"are you sure, my lady? it's against the rules-" joo-mi asks, unsure. you cut her off, "i insist."

joo-mi hesitates for only a second longer, then bows her head and steps down carefully from the carriage.

you take a deep breath. you remain seated for a moment longer, your hand is still curled tightly in your lap, though you don’t register the sting properly until the air shifts again.

a shadow falls near the carriage step. it isn't large enough to beg for attention, but it defiinitely catches yours.

a guard stands there. he's young and composed.

his uniform is simple, outer guard markings visible but unadorned. he doesn’t speak at first.

he’s looking at you, offering a small smile as he bows in your direction. he extends a hand, “allow me, my lady,” he says.

you stare at his hand, which stays steady, palm open, waiting without pressure. you stand up after contemplating for a few seconds, placing your hand in his.

his grip is careful, firm enough to support you, light enough not to feel so restrictive. he helps you step down from the carriage.

when your feet meet the ground, he releases you immediately, stepping back into proper distance as if nothing more than protocol has occurred. “thank you, my lady,” he says, lowering his gaze respectfully.

he bows again, making you nod in acknowledgement. "..thank you." you speak quietly, walking over to joo-mi.

you can feel eyes on you from everywhere. it wasn't everyday that a member of a noble family attended a marketplace. you felt bashful under all their gazes.

people glance as you pass, some quick, some lingering just a little too long before they remember themselves and look away. it makes your shoulders tighten without permission, your posture subtly shifting as you try to make yourself feel smaller.

joo-mi notices, stepping half a pace closer so she can speak without anyone else hearing.

“this way, my lady,” she guides gently. “the main stalls are just ahead. It will be less crowded there

joo-mi offers you a smile, you return it partially. "what was that guard's name?" you ask, referring to the one that had helped you down from the carriage.

joo-mi blinks slightly at the question, as if she hadn’t expected your attention to linger there. “the guard?” she repeats softly, glancing over her shoulder in the direction you came from.

the young man is already stepping back into position near the carriage. you turn your head, and he's already looking - flashing you a smile. you turn back.

“i believe he is one of the newer outer guards assigned to the rotation,” she says thoughtfully. “he was brought in recently, so i haven't heard his name often. but," she trails off, "i think his name is lee heeseung."

you nod in acknowledgement, before walking off in the direction of a stall you deem as interesting enough.

the stall is crowded with fabric and jewellery, you think some of it looks pretty. joo-mi follows close behind as you stop in front of it, the merchant immediately straightening up at the sight of your clothing.

"my lady," he greets, bowing in front of you. "please, take your time looking."

you nod politely, already shifting your gaze down toward the display in front of you. there are strings of beads, along with other accessories such as embroidered scarves and such.

joo-mi points to one of the scarves of your favourite colour, “my lady, this would look beautiful on you.” she reaches over, lifting a ribbon between her fingers.

glancing at the ribbon briefly, you hum in agreement. "do you think i should take it?"

joo-mi nods, looking down in respect. "if you wish to, my lady."

you wave your hand, turning back to the merchant. "i would like one of these." you gesture to the ribbon in joo-mi's hands, and he nods immediately.

the merchant bows quickly, almost relieved at your decision. “of course, my lady. i will wrap it immediately.”

he reaches under the counter, retrieving another ribbon of the same colour. he lays it neatly on a small cloth before beginning to fold it with practiced precision.

you turn your head away, disinterested in the process. unfortunately for you, your father had asked you to stay out the whole day - besides nightfall, of course.

joo-mi pays for the ribbon using the money pouch given to her by your father. "my lady, would you like me to have these added to your belongings in the carriage?"

you look at her, nodding. "yes."

the merchant ties the ribbon carefully, placing it into a small paper wrapping before sliding it forward. “thank you for your purchase, my lady.”

joo-mi takes it first, holding it securely before turning back to you. she steps closer to you, "we should continue, my lady. the market will only start to get busier."

with a defeated sigh, you nod. "if we must. when will we be able to go back?" you ask her, glancing back at the carriage.

"i'm sure we can leave when you would like, my lady." joo-mi responds softly.

you glance back toward the carriage again. it sits a little further down the street now, partially visible between moving bodies and stalls. the guards remain stationed around.

the idea of already returning feels like a waste.

you begin walking, joo-mi trails after you. she notices your hesitation without commenting on it. instead, she adjusts her pace to match yours as you start walking again.

“we do not need to stay long,” she adds softly. “just enough for you to see what you wish. your father only asked that you are properly escorted and return before evening."

you nod, humming.

"joo-mi, do you want anything from these stalls?" you ask, turning to her. the question catches her off guard.

she blinks once, clearly not expecting the question at all.

for a moment, she actually hesitates, before quickly lowering her gaze.

“my lady…i am not here to purchase anything,” she says gently, as if reminding both you and herself of her position.

you keep walking, watching her for a reaction.

joo-mi adjusts her sleeves slightly, composing herself again. “if you are asking out of kindness, then i am grateful."

she pauses again, "but i do not need anything."

eyes forward, you hum. "that isn't what i asked, joo-mi.

“my lady,” she says carefully, “your visit is for you. It is not necessary for me to-"

the look that you give her makes her pause, cheeks heating up. "i suppose i could look around, if you truly wish that."

you nod, "please do. none of this interests me, and i would rather rest at the carriage."

joo-mi nods, "i understand. i'll escort you back, my lady." she guides you through the crowd, subtly choosing paths where you'll avoid the densest parts of the market.

soon, the carriage comes back into view, waiting exactly where you left it. the guards are still stationed in their positions.

"thank you." you look at her once you're standing next to the carriage. she hesitates for a brief moment, as if still unsure whether she’s truly allowed to separate from you in a place like this.

“if you are certain,” she adds softly, “i will not be long.”

one of the guards bows to you, opening the door and allowing you entry to the carriage. "welcome back, my lady."

looking back at joo-mi, you give a small, dismissive wave of your hand. “go.”

that seems to reassure her.

joo-mi straightens, composing herself again into her usual calm composure. “i will remain within sight. if you need anything, call for me immediately.”

you nod once in response. she bows, then steps away into the market.

the guard shuts the door, and you sit in there peacefully. the outside noise dulls immediately, and you sigh in relief.

there's a knock on the door, soft. as if whoever is outside is waiting for permission rather than demanding attention.

a masculine voice follows, lowered slightly just loud enough for you to hear. “my lady.”

you don't recognise it immediately, but you sit up.

"you can open the door." a few seconds after, the door is slid open softly.

you blink when you realise it's the same guard from before, lee heeseung.

you take in his face properly this time. his face is gentle in structure, and you would consider him to be handsome. he seems to be somewhere around your age too.

when he speaks again, his voice is steady, but softer than you expect. “my lady,” he says, carefully. “i apologise if i disturbed you. i only wished to ensure you were well.”

you look at him, tilting your head in confusion slightly at his concern, "no, you didn't disturb me."

you pause in thought. joo-mi was going to be a while at the market's, right? you use your chin, gesturing to the seat before you. "come in. i'm bored."

there’s a brief pause outside the carriage. his face contorts into one of confusion, as if he’s double checking whether or not he heard you correctly.

"my lady?" his voice rings again, making you glance back at him. "inside the...carriage?"

"yes," you say simply. "unless that’s a problem."

"no, of course not, my lady." he steps onto the upper platform. once inside, he lowers himself into the space opposite you.

for a moment, neither of you speak.

"close the door, please." you ask softly, leaning back into your seat. he reaches over, shutting the door. the carriage feels smaller with him inside, but not uncomfortable.

he glances briefly toward you, then quickly lowers his gaze again, as if remembering himself.

"i apologise if this is improper," he says quietly. "i'm still on duty."

you look at him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "i am the one that asked you to come inside, no?"

a faint pause, "yes, my lady."

that makes you exhale, almost amused.

"then talk to me." you say. "joo-mi’s not here, and i’m not doing anything."

he blinks once at that, before locking eyes with you. it's like he's locked your gaze onto his own, because you're unable to pull away.

heat crawls slowly through your body, it starts low in your chest, feeling strange. you sit up, re-adjusting your body.

"talk?" he repeats, like he’s making sure he understood the request correctly.

"yes," you confirm. "anything. i don’t care."

he shifts in his seat, thinking. "most of my days are unevenful, my lady. i'm not sure what you'd like to hear."

you tilt your head. "then tell me uneventful things."

when he doesn't respond, flustered, you scoff. you lean forward, pointing to his hand - where there is clear injury. it looks like the palm of his hand was sliced open by something.

"tell me what happened to your hand. i want to know." his attention drops instantly to where you’re pointing. then he reacts subtly, almost too late. he curls his fingers slightly as if to hide it, but stopping before he fully closes his hand. the injury is still visible. a clean, uneven cut across his palm, recently dressed but already faintly stained through the edge of the wrapping.

"it's nothing serious, my lady." he starts, voice careful and even. "just apart of my duties."

"what part of your duties requires you to have bleeding hands?" you look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"my duties involve assisting wherever needed," he says after a moment, voice steady. “not all tasks will be predictable. the crate was heavier than expected. i misjudged it when securing the corner."

"you mean to tell me that a crate cut you open like a fish?" you blink, seeing through his lie.

you hold out your hand, "give me your hand." he hesitates for only a fraction of a second, just enough to register that you’re actually serious, before carefully shifting his injured hand forward.

he places it in your open palm.

up close, the cut is clearer. not deep enough to be life-threatening, but enough to sting sharply. the dressing around it is already slightly worn at the edges, clearly not tended to properly.

"this was clearly done by a knife." you look at him, running a finger gently over the wound. he flinches, and you notice.

you press down harder, and a small whimper leaves his lips. his shoulders stiffen, his jaw clenches tightly.

"my lady," he says quietly, "it hurts when you do that.."

you hum, smoothing your finger up and down the bandage. "but," you look up at him, "you like that, don't you?"

he doesn’t pull away, but his fingers tense in your hold, like he’s forcing himself not to react more.

"i asked you a question." you say, catching his attention once again.

he looks up at you, and that same fire burns through your lower abdomen now. "i am not sure how to respond to that, my lady." he admits bashfully.

"with honesty," you say, dropping his hand from your grasp.

"then yes. it felt nice, coming from you my lady." there’s no playfulness in his tone.

you blink in surprise that he was actually honest. you hum softly, leaning back in your seat.

the heat in your body is bothering you now. it's too strong to ignore, like someone struck a match beneath your ribs and let the flame burn.

"..are you permanently assigned to me?" you ask, turning back to him.

the question seems to catch him slightly off guard. he straightens a little, as if adjusting back into duty.

“i am assigned to the outer escort rotation for your household,” he answers carefully. “so, not permanently, my lady. i rotate between posts. but while you are outside the estate, i am your escort."

"who gave you those orders?" you ask him, a small pout forming on your face.

his gaze flickers up for a moment. “…is there a concern, my lady?”

"answer my question first." you nudge his calf with your foot gently.

"…the head of the estate guard rotation," he replies carefully. "the order came through your household steward, under your father’s direction."

"ignore them." you wave your hand dismissively. "i want you on my rotation. you are staying with me."

it looks like he genuinely doesn’t process the words properly.

he nearly chokes, "pardon me, my lady?" he doesn't believe he heard you correctly.

his gaze flickers up briefly, then away again. "do you mean… during today’s escort duty?"

"i want you to escort me everywhere, anytime i want." you speak softly, resting your chin on your hand. “not random guards i don’t know.”

"…that is not a simple request," he says carefully. his posture straightens slightly.

"escort assignments are rotated to prevent overexposure and maintain security protocol."

you barely process his words, "i don't care. you're on my team from now on."

"..my lady," he says carefully, "that is not something I can decide." for a second, he looks genuinely uncertain how to respond without overstepping or possibly offending you.

glancing back at him, you notice the fear on his face. "oh, relax. if it makes you feel any better, i'll ask my father about it."

"…if your father approves a reassignment," he says slowly, "then I will follow the order given."

his eyes lift briefly to yours. "however, escort rotations are handled for security reasons. consistency with a single guard is not usually recommended."

he hesitates, before speaking softly again, "that said… I will not refuse a direct instruction if it is officially issued."

"it's officially issued by me that you are with me from now on." you reply quickly, sitting up.

"may I ask what makes you certain about this decision, my lady?" he asks.

"you entertain me." you admit honestly. "what's your name?" you weren't one hundred percent sure if joo-mi even had the correct name.

"lee heeseung, my lady." he bows his head in respect.

your gaze drifts back to his face again, and reluctantly, you have to admit it probably influenced your decision a little too.

because unfortunately for you, heeseung is extremely attractive.

but for some reason, you can't stop this insatiable feeling that you got when you first looked heeseung in the eyes. and no, it wasn't just because of his pretty face.

you sigh softly, and heeseung notices the agitation.

"my lady, are you feeling alright?" he asks softly, leaning closer.

you shake your head, "it feels so hot in here," you say, leaning back. you start to fan yourself, "..i feel so hot."

"would you like me to call somebody, my lady?" he asks softly, leaning a bit closer. as soon as he does that, you feel your lower region ache.

"..no." you sit-up, shaking your head. would it be shameful of you to ask a guard to relieve you? it’s definitely a breach of contract somehow, but that was for your father to worry about, not you.

"..come here." you ultimately decide, making space for him next to you.

heeseung obliges, blinking innocently. you almost feel bad for taking advantage of your position.

your cheeks heat up, and they’re about to burn brighter at the request you’re about to make. lowering your voice to a whisper, you speak. "..i want you to touch me."

heeseung’s eyes widen. "did i hear you correctly, my lady? you want me to touch-"

you cut him off immediately, clamping a hand over his big mouth. when you trust him to be silent again, you remove your hand.

"keep it down, will you?" you hiss, sighing. "..you know what, never mind."

you begin to fan yourself again, ignoring him out of embarrassment. after a few seconds, heeseung speaks up again.

"my lady," he starts, but you don’t turn toward him. heeseung calls out for you again, which finally makes you turn your head.

"what?" you glare at him, a soft frown on your lips.

"if you were asking me to relieve you,” he whispers this time, leaning closer. “i’d be willing to oblige you.”

you stare at him for a second, trying not to shy away from his gaze. taking a deep breath, you nod. “..please.”

“do i have permission to touch you, my lady?” you nod instantly, feeling the ache between your legs grow even more.

heeseung’s hands are immediately on yours. one hand slides under your robes to your front, spreading your thighs apart. he cups your pussy possessively.

his fingers are gentle at first, pushing your underwear to the side as he rubs at your folds with feather-light touches. he teases your entrance, circling but not penetrating.

you groan in annoyance at this, making him apologise swiftly, “sorry, my lady.” an apology leaves his lips, yes, but you don't miss the stupid grin on his face as he says it.

your wetness coats his fingers as he continues exploring your folds. “you’re so wet already,” he whispers softly, almost in admiration. it’s embarrassing - the way he's just gawking at the slick connecting his fingers to your cunt.

“can you keep it down?” you whisper back, turning your head away shyly.

“of course, my lady.” he agrees, shuffling closer to you. he lifts your thigh, granting him easier access to your slit. heeseung slip a single finger into you, letting out a quiet groan at the tightness wrapped around his finger.

you bring your hand to your own mouth to conceal your noises. heeseung pumps his finger slowly, revelling in your soft gasps and whimpers despite you attempting to muffle the noises.

a second finger joins the first, stretching you deliciously as he curls them just right - hitting that spongy spot. your toes curl, a louder whimper slipping from your lips.

when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles, your hand grips onto his wrist, nails digging into his skin.

that doesn’t stop his ministrations, though. heeseung continues to pump his fingers in and out of your sopping heat steadily.

“w-wait,” you whimper out, making him glance up at you. you use your hand to tug at his uniform, pressing your lips against his.

heeseung kisses you back hungrily, tongue delving into your mouth to taste you. he continues to move his fingers in you, redoubling his efforts even.

his thumb flicks over your clit rapidly, making you squeeze your thighs around his wrist. he can’t really move his fingers in and out if you do that, so he opts to curl his fingers inside you, finding that special spot that makes your toes curl.

he swallows a loud moan that definitely would’ve left your lips. when he finally pulls back, you’re both panting hard.

“my lady,” heeseung breathes out, “i can’t pleasure you if you keep shutting me out like this.” he breathes out, referring to the leg lock you currently have his wrist in.

you apologise softly, “i-i’m sorry,” you sputter, “it was just..a lot.” a smirk appears on heeseung’s lips at your words.

“my lady,” he speaks, and you look at him. “may i be granted permission to make you feel as good as you possibly can?”

you stare at him, confused at first. “you want permission to do anything?” heeseung nods at your words.

you’re hesitant, but he seems to know what he’s been doing this whole time. “..fine - i grant you permission."

he withdraws his fingers. heeseung grabs both of your wrists with one hand, holding them against your chest. he backs you further up into the seat, spreading your thighs with his knee.

now that you’re spread out for him, he plunges his fingers back in - making you gasp.

his pace is brutal now, practically fingerblasting you. the way his fingers piston in and out of your dripping pussy create obscene squelches that fill the usual silence of the carriage.

you squirm, thighs shaking the slighest. as a result of trying to silence yourself, you bite your lip so hard it actually starts bleeding. heeseung’s eyes lighten up at that.

heeseung leans in, “keep it down, my lady. otherwise the both of us will get into trouble.” he whispers, lips grazing the side of your ear.

you nod, whimpering softly. “i-i’m, ah- sorry.”

his thumb makes it’s way back to your clit, rubbing harder and firmer circles now. you can’t hold it back, your pussy fluttering around his digits. your stomach tightens, and after a few seconds - the coil releases, and you gush all over his fingers.

heeseung slowly pulls his fingers out as you pant softly, he also releases your wrists.

“did that satisfy you, my lady?” heeseung asks, and you can’t help but notice the cocky tone in his voice. you're still catching your breath though, so you don't care to humble him.

you hum softly, nodding in agreement. “..satisfied? yes, very.”

heeseung pats your robes back down, fixing your clothing for you. you also comb your fingers through your hair, trying to make it look like it did previously.

the atmosphere definitely probably smells like sex, it’s a confined space after all. you sit back, trying to catch your breath.

a knock breaks the moment. the both of you pause.

heeseung straightens immediately, posture resetting into something more formal.

"yes?" you ask softly, a little worried whoever it was at the door could tell what just went down.

"my lady, may i come in?" it was joo-mi.

"you may." you respond sitting back properly.

the latch clicks, and the door opens just enough for her to step inside. she pauses for half a second when she notices heeseung already seated opposite you, then quickly smooths her expression back into composure.

whatever thought flickers across her face is gone almost immediately, replaced with her usual expression.

“my lady,” she greets, bowing her head slightly.

"did you find what you were looking for, joo-mi?"

“yes, my lady,” she answers softly, a smile creeping up onto her face. “the stalls were as expected. i did not require much time. thank you for letting me do that." she bows her head again in appreciation.

her eyes flick briefly toward the space opposite you, just for a moment, not lingering.

“i also ensured your purchase was added safely to the carriage,” she adds, referring to the ribbon.

heeseung begins to move as if to stand, but joo-mi lightly raises a hand.

“stay seated,” she says politely, not unkindly. “there is no need to adjust for me."

"no, joo-mi, you can have your seat back." you correct. you look at heeseung, "you may leave. thank you for your time."

“understood, my lady,” he says at once. he stands, bowing his head. careful not to bump anything in the confined space of the carriage, his posture resets as he steps out of the carriage.

joo-mi glances toward you, a small teasing smirk on her face. it’s very subtle.

you notice it though. “what?” you ask immediately, eyes narrowing slightly.

“nothing, my lady.” she replies quickly, patting down the fabric of her sleeves in an attempt to smooth it out.

you stare at her, meanwhile she avoids your gaze. that lasts for around two seconds before she eventually loses composure, and ultimately makes eye contact with you.

“you seemed rather interested in that guard.” she says lightly.

you blink once. “i was just speaking with him.”

“yes,” joo-mi agrees, nodding her head. “for some amount of time.”

“there was nothing else for me to do while waiting.”

she hums, straightening her lips. the sound itself is enough to make your expression flatten.

joo-mi lowers her gaze politely again, though her small grin never disappears.

“he is very handsome,” she adds after a moment.

you immediately look away toward the carriage curtains, out the window. “that had nothing to do with it.”

“..of course, my lady.” joo-mi agrees out of respect, despite seeing through your lie.

outside, the faint sound of guards shifting into position can be heard.

“we will be departing shortly, my lady,” she says gently, and you nod.

“are we going back to the estate?” you ask, unsure of what you’re even doing next.

“we can go wherever you’d like, my lady.” joo-mi says, reaching for the handle of the door. “would you like me to ask the guards to take us elsewhere?”

"no." you shake your head, "i want to go back home, please."

joo-mi pauses for a split second, but nods anyway. "of course, my lady." there’s no disappointment in her voice or an attempt to persuade you otherwise.

she slides the carriage door open slightly and relays the instruction to the guards outside.

“we will return to the estate.” voices from outside respond to her in acknowledgment.

movement outside the carriage begins. through the small opening of the carriage window, you briefly catch sight of heeseung again near the escort line. snow catches faintly in his dark hair before melting almost immediately.

joo-mi reaches for the carriage door, closing it once more. inside, warmth settles around you again, quieter now than before.

joo-mi sits across from you, studying your expression carefully before speaking.

“was the market too much today?” she asks gently.

you stare at your hands for a second before answering. "a little, yes."

she nods like she already knew. “then going home is the right choice.”

outside, the carriage finally begins moving again. you sit back in your chair, shutting your eyes. your breathing gradually slows with the movement of the carriage.

the next moment, or it feels as though, you awaken. joo-mi is calling out for you, “my lady,” joo-mi says gently. “we’re back.”

your eyes open slowly. for a second, everything feels blurred together, but you blink, once, twice - and it's clearer.

you straighten slightly in your seat, rubbing at one eye tiredly.

“…already?” your voice comes out softer than intended, still heavy with sleep.

“you slept through most of the journey home, my lady.”

you glance briefly toward the curtained window beside you. it’s darker outside now than before, evening fully settled over the estate grounds.

"how is it already evening? we left early morning, no?" for some reason, your chest feels oddly light. you take another look, genuinely perplexed.

joo-mi pauses at that. “…we did.”

you pull the curtain aside slightly, staring out at the estate grounds again. lanterns have already been lit along the pathways, their warm glow reflects against the snow.

your confusion deepens. the market trip hadn’t felt long enough for this and neither had the ride home. you glance back toward joo-mi. “how long was i asleep?”

she blinks, then slowly looks toward the carriage window herself, as though only now properly registering the darkness outside. “…i’m not certain,” she admits quietly.

you kind of just stare at her, before letting your shoulders loosen in carelessness. whatever.

the thing is, joo-mi is always certain. always aware of time, schedules, routes. but now even she looks unsettled, gaze lingering toward the evening sky outside the carriage. “it should not be this late,” she says after a moment, mumbling to herself more than to you.

the carriage door opens, a different guard stands outside this time, one you vaguely recognize from the estate grounds but not by name. "my lady," he says respectfully, extending a hand out to you. "we have arrived back at the estate."

you take his hand, stepping down from the platform. "tell me, how is it night already?" you ask the guard, making him furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

"you have been out of the estate the whole day, my lady." he responds casually. that makes you pause mid-step, your grip loosens slightly as you look up at him, perplexed.

you glance around once instinctively, everything feels strangely quiet. all of the guards that had originally come with you were surrounding the carriage, preparing for it to be put away, but heeseung was nowhere to be seen.

"hm." you hum, letting go of the guard's hand. "thank you."

“of course, my lady,” he replies, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

but your memory doesn’t feel like a full day, it feels put together, like it was fake or something, maybe.

joo-mi steps closer behind you, noticing your expression immediately. “my lady?” she asks softly. “are you feeling unwell again?”

the guard shifts his stance slightly, attentive now but not alarmed.

you blink once, then slowly shake your head. "no,” you say, though it comes out uncertain even to your own ears. "i'm fine. i would like to return to my quarters, please."

this was strange. there was no way it would've cost you the entire day to ride to the market, spend some time there, and return. you should've had the entire afternoon and more left, so why was nobody questioning it?

behind you, joo-mi steps closer, falling naturally into pace as you begin walking toward the estate doors.

“shall I prepare warm water for you again?” she asks gently, as if nothing about the day was unusual at all.

as the doors of the estate open ahead of you, you shake your head. "yes, please."

joo-mi nods her head in acknowledgment, walking down the empty hallway with you. she escorts you to your room, she pauses, bowing her head slightly. “i will return shortly with your bath,” she says.

you nod, already half distracted, fingers intertwining with each other as if to calm yourself. “thank you.”

joo-mi walks off, and you take a seat on one of the chairs near the window, letting your hands rest in your lap.

you sort of daze off until she comes back.

being a noblewoman was boring in a way that never really changed. always waiting, always being prepared for something that never quite felt like it belonged to you.

there was nothing for you to do except sit, behave, and eventually be married off into another household that would decide your next set of rules for you. there was nothing you were allowed to do alone, either.

your father had noticed. he tried to entertain you in your own way, but you assumed it was hard considering there was nobody around your age within the estate aside from joo-mi. your father wouldn't allow for it. it was a surprise that he was agreeing to marry you off this year, but he probably deemed you as old enough.

she was kind and familiar, but still part of the structure of your life, not outside it. there wasn’t really anyone who felt like they existed in your world without purpose or permission. joo-mi wasn't there because she enjoyed your company, she was there because she had to be.

you barely saw your father either, and your mother was dead. it didn't hurt much to think about now, it was many years ago.

your father never moved on, though. he never really let you drift too far from his grasp. after the death of your mother, something in him must have tightened

you let out a small breath, leaning back slightly in your chair. boring wasn’t even the right word anymore. it honestly felt like you were already dead, but unluckily in hell. your punishment was eternal boredom.

a soft knock catches your attention, and you turn toward the door.

"my lady?" joo-mi calls quietly, "your bath is ready. may i come in?"

you blink once, "come in."

the door opens almost immediately.

joo-mi steps inside, “i’ve prepared it at the temperature you prefer,” she says gently.

you nod, standing up from where you're sat.

joo-mi hesitates for just a moment before speaking again, her voice softer now. "you seem tired, my lady. would you like me to stay nearby you while you bathe?"

"no, thank you, joo-mi." you politely decline as she closes the door to your room behind you. "i'd prefer if i was alone."

joo-mi nods, escorting you to the bathroom, she opens the door for you. "It's ready for you, my lady."

joo-mi remains behind you, hands folded. “i will be just outside if you need anything,” she adds softly.

you nod at her words, before walking in and shutting the door behind you.

you exhale slowly, slipping off the outer material of your gown. you're about to take off the next layer of clothing as well, but you pause.

your mind backtracks to what you thought about earlier, and you didn't want to marry some random man.

your left foot touches the water, then your right follows, sinking in slowly until you’re ankle deep in the bath.

the idea of marriage lingers again at the back of your mind. it's not like getting married would make you any happier. if anything, it would make you feel worse. it makes your gut feel weird. like the concept of a life like that belongs to another version of you that isn’t standing here right now.

the water rises as you lower yourself into the bath, still fully clothed. the fabric clings to your skin as it absorbs the hot water. you settle in until you’re fully seated.

if you disappeared, then you wouldn't be obligated to do anything your father asked you of.

plus, it's not like he'd even notice if his daughter was gone or not. despite living within the same estate, massive or not, you only saw him once a few months.

and even then, the conversations between the two of you are brief, structured, and formal. like a meeting arranged between obligations rather than a father and daughter talking.

you sink further in, water up to your collarbones now.

you thought of joo-mi. maybe she would be sad if you were to leave her, but she would get over it ultimately. the two of you weren't friends, she was an employee to your father.

the bath remains still around you, only small ripples forming when you shift slightly. your thoughts don’t feel loud anymore.

they feel… flat.

there's no substance behind them, they don't feel real. you don't even notice yourself sinking further into the water, the hot steam coming from it applying warm pressure onto your face.

it reaches your jaw, then your lips, which you clamp shut. then your nose, and you stop inhaling.

you shut your eyes too when the water comes up high enough. before you know it, you're fully submerged in it, drowning peacefully.

you think it's peaceful at least, till it's not.

your lungs start to burn, hurting your insides like an uncontrolled fire. on instinct, you straighten quickly, pulling yourself more upright in the bath and lifting your face fully above the water, coughing and sputtering.

your hands press lightly against the edge of the tub for stability.

joo-mi's voice rings from outside, alarmed. "my lady, are you alright in there?"

you don't look up, eyes forward on the water before you. tears start to leak from those same eyes. "..i'm fine, thank you." your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would, to be honest.

on the other side of the door, you hear her shift closer. “are you sure?” she asks again, more carefully this time. she isn't pressuring you into answering, but she doesn't sound convinced.

"yes, i'm fine." you feel more tears streaming down your cheeks. "please leave. i want to be completely alone."

joo-mi speaks again, quieter than before. “..as you wish, my lady.” you hear her foot steps retreating down the hallway, echoing.

your eyes sting before you even fully register it, and it isn't because of the bath water entering them. you shut your eyes, trying to force it away. you stay still, hands remaining braced against the bath’s edge until your breathing begins to settle again, hiccuping softly.

there's footsteps approaching, but you don't register it, even though it sounds like they're already in the same room as you.

then, a light brush of fingers moving the hair stuck to your face. that makes you blink wide open, meeting familiar eyes.

it's heeseung, the guard from earlier, crouching before you. he wasn't supposed to or allowed to be here. you flinch back instinctively.

he pulls his fingers back too, his expression blank. but he doesn't look the same, something about his face is off.

"why are you crying, pretty girl?" he speaks, tone way more mature than when you had previously spoken to him. your throat tightens before you can answer.

heeseung tilts his head slightly, studying you when you don't answer. "is it your father again?" he reaches forward again, hand cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbones gently.

"what..? what are you talking about?" you don't bother moving back this time, simply letting him touch you. you didn't care enough at this point. it all felt like a dream, anyway.

"you know what i'm talking about." he says your name after, whispering it softly. he drops his hand from your face. his hand lowers to his side, fingers flexing once like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you again.

"do you want me to kill him?"

the words don’t even settle properly before your face twists in disbelief.

your eyebrows furrow, and you look up at him like he's insane, which he must be for threatening to kill a nobleman.

"have you gone insane?" it comes out sharper than you meant it to, but it fits the way your chest is suddenly tight again. this time not from crying, but from the genuine shock you felt from his words.

heeseung doesn’t react the way you expect. there is no denial, or embarrassment, or any hint of backtracking his words. instead, his gaze is steady on you, face unreadable.

"no. what makes you think that?" his words make you lean back further into the bath away from him. suddenly you regret sending joo-mi off.

heeseung sighs, still crouched before you. "don't look at me like that, god." he clenches his teeth, and that's when you see the sharp fang.

he isn't normal, he isn't a human.

for a second, everything goes too still. even the water feels like it’s stopped moving around you.

heeseung notices immediately. he exhales through his nose, slower this time. his jaw loosens, but the damage is already done

your breath catches so hard it hurts. your eyes widen, and you try pull yourself out of the water. you've barely made it anywhere before your slammed onto the floor chest first with supernatural strength, upper body out of the water but your lower half is not.

a pained whimper leaves your lips, cold tile presses against your cheek, wet hair sticking to your skin. it was painful and overstimulating.

“hey.” his voice is different now, deeper. he sounds annoyed, almost. "stop moving."

you stop, stilling your body. the grip he had on your back relents, and he let's go entirely. "why are you doing this to me?" you mumble out, tired.

in the small amount of time he had you pinned down, it felt like you were about to die, and you already concluded you wouldn't have even minded at this point.

"i'm not doing this to you." his gaze drops to your body, clothes tightly clung to your frame. "you panicked. i just didn't want you to hurt yourself."

you deem it safe enough to turn, sitting up on your rear. "i meant, why are you here, doing this to me?" you use your hands to gesture to everything.

he ignores your question, leaning in again. his fingers touch the damage done to your face from him slamming you down so hard. it was cut slightly, and would definitely bruise.

"don't cry." his thumb wipes at a tear you didn't even know you had. "does it hurt?"

you shake your head, surprising yourself as to why you're so relaxed about this. heeseung shuts his eyes, almost as if he's savouring something.

"i'm sorry, i didn't want to do this so soon." you're about to question him on whatever that means, but he's on you before you can open your mouth.

he leans in, jaw angled to fit your neck. you feel his lips graze, tongue licking a spot on your neck and it tickles. the ticklish feeling is soon over after you feel something sharp sink into your neck, hard and fast.

you nearly scream, but he quickly covers your mouth with the palm of his hand. tears stream down your face from the pain, but he doesn't stop.

he continues sucking, your blood, you presume. the pretty man you wanted as a guard wasn't as innocent as you deemed he was. he was a blood-sucking vampire.

the moment his fangs pierced through your skin, a wave of euphoria is sent right through his body. his throat bobs with each swallow, the sound of him sucking echoing through the quiet room, aside from your pained gasps. the hunger that had been clawing at his insides for centuries started to subside.

heeseung could feel your heartbeat fluttering rapidly. he could hear it too.

your limbs feel weak, especially your hands. they're on his chest and shoulder, trying to push him away but it doesn't work. he grabs one of your wrists, then the other, holding them with his fingers.

your head doesn't feel any better, completely dizzy. you feel as if you're about to pass out, but he pulls away. blood leaks from his perfect lips, he licks at it before it can drip onto the floor. heeseung's hand catches the back of your head before it can fall to the floor.

"you taste so sweet," he reminisces, resisting the urge to go back for seconds. using his hand on the back of your head, he brings you closer to him - licking a stripe up on your open wounds slowly, not letting any go to waste.

"that was payback for earlier in the carriage." you can barely hold eye contact, feeling drained. heeseung notices you about to pass out, but he shakes your head, jolting you back. "no, you can't pass out on me now, baby."

you almost don't catch the pet name, not that you could bring yourself to care anyway. eyes landing on him, they focus.

"who are you..?" you gasp out weakly, slowly regaining your strength.

that small smile appears again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. if anything, it looks like it hurts him to make it at all.

“hmm,” he exhales softly, almost disappointed, but not in you. more so in the situation.

he looks away for a second, jaw tightening as if he’s frustrated. “it's okay, you’re not supposed to remember everything at once anyway,” he adds, softer. “it doesn’t work like that.”

you have zero clue on what he could be talking about, but before you can even ask him, he sighs again.

his face looks like he's contemplating something, chewing his lip before finally settling. he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "i'll be back for you, don't worry." the way he says your name feels so intimate in the moment, despite it coming from a random man. or well, you thought he was a random man.

heeseung lowers you onto the cold tiles gently, before purposefully knocking a vase to the floor. it echoes through the bathroom, and it's safe to assume it echoes through the hallway enough to be heard from outside.

panicked footsteps come toward the bathroom, and heeseung winks at you, before disappearing in thin air. you gawk.

what the hell just happened?

you barely have anytime to think before joo-mi's voice comes from the other side of the door. "my lady! are you alright in there?"

you don't reply, hoping she'll get the hint to come in and help you, in which she does. "my apologises, my lady, but i have to prioritises your safety." she pushes open the door.

when she sees you laying on the floor, joo-mi immediately rushes over. "my lady!" her hands hover for half a second, before she carefully touches your shoulder, checking you over with precision.

“are you hurt?” she asks quickly, voice controlled but clearly shaken. “can you breathe properly?” her hands push your hair away, in attempt to keep it neat but then her eyes widen.

she sees the two holes in your neck, bite marks.

"oh my god." her hand freezes mid motion in your hair.

then she pulls back slightly, eyes locking onto your neck properly now. the bite marks are unmistakable. joo-mi's expression shifts fast, shock going to alarmed.

"my lady,” she says quickly, helping you upright gently. "don't move. i'll be back soon. you're safe now." she stands.

the door shuts behind her with a decisive click, leaving the bathroom in silence.

the awful sting and dull ache at your neck, pulsing was a simple reminder that what happened wasn’t a dream or panic or confusion.

it was actually real.

your body feels heavy in a different way now. it wasn't just weakness, but exhaustion catching up all at once. the kind that makes even sitting upright feel like effort.

you wanted to go to sleep.

joo-mi returns quickly with your estate's apothecary, as well as your father's steward.

joo-mi returns first, and behind her is the estate’s apothecary. your father’s steward follows close after, his expression immediately hardening the moment he sees the state of you.

“move aside,” the apothecary says quickly, dropping to his knees beside you without hesitation. he looks at your neck, then your face, then your pulse point.

"what happened here?" the steward asks, to which nobody responds.

“bite marks,” the apothecary says simply, already reaching for bandages and a small vial. “they are recent. not deep enough to be fatal, but she’s lost blood.”

“i found her like this,” she says, voice clearly on edge. “someone was in the room.”

the steward’s expression hardens immediately. “no one enters this wing without being cleared, and the guards would have seen them.

the apothecary gently tilts your chin, taking in the severity of your wounding.

suddenly, you feel a harsh pang on the side of your temples. it's sudden enough that your breath catches slightly before you can stop it. you hear voices around you speaking, and a pair of arms catching you before you fall.

shutting your eyes, you feel everything around you blur.

you wake up in your office cubicle, hair sprawled all over. a thin layer of sweat sticks to your neck and forehead, and when you try to move, your head throbs sharply, a dull, lingering ache right behind your temples.

what a weird dream.

the girl in it seemed so familiar though. like her face and the feeling of her presence felt so real.

and not to mention heeseung being in your dream, as some weird, freaked out vampire.

the dream version of him had felt familiar though. familiar in a way that got under your skin. even thinking of him in that concept made your chest tighten.

had you gotten way too deep into the enhypen loophole? should you go get some therapy..? maybe this was the aftermath of going to a concert, or something.

you stare at the black screen of your computer a while longer, trying to recount everything that happened.

“…what the hell,” you mutter under your breath.

it felt so real.

you exhale through your nose, letting it go as you always do when a dream doesn’t make sense to you.

your hand reaches for your neck, where the bite happened. you aren't expecting much, just skin. maybe some sweat from sleeping awkwardly at your desk.

but the moment your fingertips press beneath your jaw, pain flares sharply. you blink, sitting up properly. pulling out your phone, you open up the front camera, angling it toward your neck.

there's nothing. no bite marks, or bruising. it's just your skin.

a breath leaves your lungs shakily, somewhere between relief and embarrassment. “right,” you mutter quietly to yourself. “obviously.”

shrugging it off, you pat your hair down. you stand, stretching your arms. the weirdest part of all of this was that the headache you just had is practically gone. as if it were never there in the first place.

another thing you noticed was that it wasn't typical of you to have dreams midday. it was typically only when you were sleeping through the night.

it was pretty late at night now, and nobody else was at the office aside from a few of your co-workers. the building felt different at this hour.

picking up your items and putting them into your bag, sliding notebooks and loose items into your bag one by one. your mind keeps circling back to the dream.

a voice calling you “my lady." you pause briefly, then zip your bag shut.

no point overthinking it. you stand, shoulders rolling back as you sling the bag over one arm and glance around the office one last time.

you start walking toward the exit, your footsteps echo softly down the corridor, footsteps echoing in the near empty building.

and for a brief second, just as you pass the glass reflection of the hallway windows, it almost feels like you’re not entirely alone like you assumed.

but when you turn your head, there’s nothing there, just your reflection. was your mind playing tricks on you?

okay, you felt weird now. that weird headache was back too, but it was way worse this time.

a sharp pulse comes from behind your temples so suddenly that your vision blurs for a second. you stop walking immediately, one hand catching the edge of the hallway wall before your knees can fully give out beneath you.

that doesn't really help though, because they do give out and the next thing you know, you hit the floor once again. your knees hit first, then your shoulder catches awkwardly against the carpeted floor of the corridor hard enough to force the air from your lungs.

the pain sparks throughout your body, but it’s overtaken immediately by the pounding in your head. what was happening? this was honestly starting to annoy you, all the constant deliriousness and sudden passing out.

another pulse of pain blooms behind your eyes. the tension eases from your body, and your eyes slip shut. the last thing you register before consciousness leaves you entirely is the feeling of someone kneeling beside you.

when you wake up, you're in the infirmary. the first thing you take in is the smell. herbs. the scent is strong enough to sting your nose slightly.

you open your eyes, vision immediately being filled with the sight of a wooden ceiling. your gaze travels downwards, and you notice the heavy blankets laid out on top of you.

you push yourself up too quickly and instantly regret it when dizziness washes through your body. a hand reaches out, steadying you.

“my lady.” it's joo-mi. relief floods her face so fast. "you’re awake,” she breathes out.

she’s kneeling beside the bedding laid out in the infirmary room, hair slightly disheveled, which gives you the impression that she hasn't rested since you passed out. there are dark circles beneath her eyes now you don’t remember being there before.

joo-mi's here but even your own father isn't. typical.

"joo-mi," you sit up, slower this time. "what happened..?" your throat feels dry when you speak. "how long have i been out for?"

“you've been out for three days after you collapsed,” she says gently. “the apothecary said the blood loss and shock caused you to pass out."

your fingers reach up, ghosting over where the bite would've been. this time, your fingers come in contact with bandages, making you wince.

joo-mi notices immediately. “my lady,” she says softly, leaning closer. “be careful. the apothecary said not to touch the dressing.”

your hand instinctively flies down, "my apologies."

giving you a reassuring look, joo-mi shakes your head. "it's alright, my lady." she leans down, sitting back down on her knees. "the estate has been secured, so don't worry about anything."

"thank you, joo-mi." you say, genuinely grateful for her concern."

joo-mi’s expression softens immediately at your thanks. “it is my duty to care for you, my lady,” she says quietly. "though, if it is alright with you, may i ask what happened? do you remember your attacker, my lady?"

your eyes snap back to her, "my attacker..?" memories flash back. yeah, you were attacked by a vampire, and he put you into danger but your curiosity took over.

"that wasn’t enough to bring your memory back?"

yes, he hurt you. the bandages around your neck were proof of that.

why had he spoken to you like he already knew you? why did he sound disappointed instead of surprised when you didn’t remember him?

and the worst of all, why did part of you feel like you should?

joo-mi notices your distant expression immediately. “my lady?” she asks softly, concern creeping back into her voice.

you blink, "i don't remember." you admit, looking down at your lap. "how am

her expression softens as she watches you lower your gaze to your lap, "that's alright my lady. are you feeling hungry? your food is ready, i just have to go and get it."

when she mentions it, there is a faint emptiness in your stomach. you nod, "a little."

joo-mi rises from her knees, patting her skirt down, her expression filled with relief. "that's good. the apothecary said you should eat as soon as possible."

then she slides the door open quietly and disappears into the corridor. "i'll be back soon, my lady."

the infirmary falls silent again.

you're sat in bed, staring at the wall in front of you. your body still feels heavy from exhaustion, so you finally exhale and lean back slightly against the bedding. then the candle beside the far wall flickers, and the temperature in the room drops.

a quiet voice breaks the silence from somewhere behind you. "why didn't you tell her the truth?"

your pulse jumps instantly.

when you turn your head, heeseung's standing in the darkened corner as if he's been standing there since forever. his expression is calm as he steps closer toward you.

“how did you—”

“you think the guards can stop me?" heeseung says quietly, his gaze drifts briefly toward the bandages around your neck.

your lips form a small pout, annoyed at heeseung's ego. "fine. why are you here?"

"i wanted to see you." his honesty confuses you. had he not tried to kill you just a few days ago?

it's almost like he read your thoughts. "i know how that sounds," he says quietly, looking back at your neck. "but if I intended to kill you, you wouldn’t be alive right now."

instead, your curiosity returns. “why did you bite me?” you ask, voice flat out of annoyance. heeseung's been avoiding telling you the truth this whole time, and it's irritating.

"i thought that it would help you remember me. it did last time."

your brows knit together immediately, "last time?" you repeat, sharper now. heeseung's expression shifts, hurt washes over his features.

"..you’re not supposed to be remembering it in pieces," he says quietly. "it’s supposed to come back all at once."

he exhales softly, before speaking again.

"and I was trying to make sure you didn’t forget me again." heeseung comes closer to you, but you don't flinch away this time. you believed him when he said he would've killed you if he actually wanted to.

the space between you feels different this time, not dangerous or threatening. heeseung reaches out, cupping your cheek. his touch is surprisingly gentle this time.

'please don't snap my neck.'

that's all you're thinking of at this current moment. heeseung's face contorts into something similar of hurt, even though you never said it out loud. it's like he read your mind or something.

you know, he probably can read your mind. he's a vampire, why wouldn't you think of that? that explains it all, to be honest - how he's been able to recognise how you're feeling constantly.

vampires were controversial anyway.

half the court didn’t even believe they existed anymore, despite their being clear evidence of it such as old records sealed away in restricted archives or unexplained deaths. you always believed they were real, anyway.

your father hated them. a vampire is what took your mother away, after all. the details were never fully explained to you, anyway.

so you grew up with the idea already carved into your mind - that they were real, and they were dangerous, and they were the reason something important in your life had already been taken away. in theory, you should hate him and you should be terrified.

you should've been calling for guards the second he appeared inside this room.

your father would be horrified. the mere idea of you willingly sitting this close to a vampire would probably send him into a fit of rage severe enough for the entire estate to hear.

the thought comes bitterly this time.

because where even was he? you nearly died. your focus snaps back to heeseung, and suddenly the closeness feels too noticeable again. he drops his hand from your face, instead, he shifts and sits down beside you on the edge of the bed.

"so, you really don’t remember me." heeseung says quietly.

you frown immediately. “why do you keep saying that? that isn't giving me much insight."

"because it’s true."

your brows knit together. "i told you already, i don’t know what you’re talking about."

his gaze is unreadable for a second, but then he looks back, locking eyes with you. "in your past life,” he says quietly, "you were mine." your eyes widen.

heeseung's words settle in your stomach, it feels weird. "..yours?" you almost didn't believe it. a presumably centuries old vampire was claiming that you were his wife in your past life, how crazy did that sound? you stare at him, blankly. "you don't actually expect me to believe you, right?"

heeseung scoffs softly and straightens up from where he’d been leaning closer to you.

"i mean," he says dryly, "not really. you were a lot easier to convince last time."

his words make you pause instantly. "last time?" you repeat slowly. then your expression changes. "..how many times has this happened?"

for the first time since entering the infirmary, heeseung goes completely silent. as if he’s debating whether answering honestly is a good idea.

"heeseung, answer me."

his gaze lowers briefly before lifting back to yours again. "..three."

your eyes widen immediately. "three?!" you whisper harshly, breaking composure for the first time. "you’re telling me i've died three times?"

"you've reincarnated three times." he corrects softly.

"that isn't any better."

a faint flicker of amusement almost appears on his face before disappearing just as quickly.

"i mean, you remembered faster the second time," he murmurs, almost to himself.

you stare at him in disbelief. he continues, "but that time, you did throw a vase at my head."

your face scrunches up slightly, ignoring his dig at you. "how have i died three times? have you killed me all three?" you scoff.

heeseung is taken aback by your question, maybe even offended that you'd even assume that. "why would i kill my lover?"

before you can respond, he reaches over. his fingers settle against your forehead. you tense slightly on instinct, but all he does is flick it gently. "silly girl. you really do think the worst of me, hm?"

you feel a little disrespected that he thought he could just do that and get away with it. you were a noblewoman, after all.

something in you reacts immediately, you swat his hand away. "don’t do that." you snap, more offended than frightened now. you straighten slightly in bed, "i'm a noblewoman, you can't just touch me like that."

that earns a slight tilt of his head. "but you let me touch you back in the carriage, hm?" he says teasingly, making your face burn red.

"you still react the same way," heeseung mumbles. it feels weird that he's comparing you to yourself, yet you don't remember being her.

"how did you even manage to find out it was me?" you ask, curious about the whole reincarnation thing. heeseung looks a little surprised at your question. "does that mean you knew the whole time in the carriage? were you the one that manipulated with the time of day?" you continue spouting, making him press a finger to your lips, shutting you up effectively.

your words come faster as you think through it, the questions stacking on top of each other until you barely pause for breath.

"oh, so you noticed the time was off?" heeseung smiles, pulling his finger away.

"how could i not? and answer my other question - how did you know it was me?"

"..you always reincarnate into the same body." he begins quietly. "of course it changes with circumstances - like age, but i can always tell that it's you." heeseung sighs softly, a small smirk creeping up onto his face. "and you always smell the same."

if you were stupid, you definitely would've missed the seductive tone in his voice, making you flinch back slightly. "..that is inappropriate."

"you're my wife, why would it be?" the words land flatly, like it's the easiest thing for him to say.

a small blush covers the apple of your cheeks, making you look away in retaliation. "not in this life," you scoff.

"that can be easily arranged, baby." heeseung says, leaning over, picking your chin up between his fingers - making you look at him.

you wrap your fingers around his wrist, attempting to pull him away but he doesn't relent, making you give up pretty easily. "..there isn't a chance that i would've willingly married a pervert like you."

heeseung smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. instead of responding, he leans in, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, you freeze.

"relax, pretty." heeseung reassures gently, punctuating his words with a slow, deliberate lick along your jugular. the bandages are thin, and you can feel his fangs grazing the sensitive skin without breaking it. your face is beet red at this point, and you're sweating nervously.

he nuzzles further into the crook of your neck, body nearly on top of yours. you're tensed up, but heeseung doesn't care. after all, you're still the same woman he's loved all this time. "you'll let me have another taste, right? i've missed you. you took ages to come back this time around."

heeseung's fingers lightly push at the bandages around your neck when you don't respond, continuing to speak, "i didn't mean for last time to be so rough," he admits, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck. "i was just caught up in the moment."

he lifts his head from your neck, making eye contact with you. from this angle, he looked harmless - you had trusted that face once, or at least, something in you reacts like you had.

you take a deep breath, overwhelmed. "will you leave me alone if i let you..?"

"no." heeseung replies back simply, "you're mine again. why would i let you go once more?" his answer makes you scoff.

he leans back in once more, one hand slides down the side of you and rests at your hip, fingers squeezing gently.

"why would you even bother asking if you were just gonna do it anyway?" you mumble in annoyance. heeseung doesn't respond verbally. you can feel his fangs graze across your pulse again, marking exactly where it's gonna hurt. his empty hand grabs the back of your head gently, fingers tangling in your hair.

in one swift motion, he sinks his sharp teeth into the soft flesh of your neck. a soft whimper leaves your lips as you shut your eyes, trying to bear with the pain. you can almost exactly how much blood is leaving your body with each second. his fingers dig into your hip, pulling you closer to him, you shuffle forward with no surrender.

footsteps cut through the corridor outside, fast and urgent. the door slide open sharply.

"my lady!" joo-mi rushes in first, breath caught, eyes instantly locking onto you. relief flashes across her face for half a second before it tightens into panic when she sees heeseung beside you.

right behind her walks in the estate apothecary follows quickly, already holding a prepared medical kit, a guard following closely behind.

and then your father. he stops at the threshold.

for a moment, the entire room is silent. his eyes take in everything at once. you're sitting weakly in bed as heeseung drains the life essence out of you.

heeseung finally pulls away, caring enough to turn back at the audience watching the two of you. you slump back onto the pillows, exhausted.

the air in the room shifts immediately. "..step away from her," your father says, voice low.

joo-mi moves forward quickly, but the guard pulls her back by the arm protectively. the apothecary doesn’t speak, but his grip tightens around his kit in fear.

heeseung, however, doesn’t rush to defend himself, he simply looks at your father, blood dripping out of his mouth, down his chin. a small grin forms onto his face, "i was waiting for you to arrive." heeseung says quietly.

the guard shifts forward half a step, hand near his weapon. "i said to step away." your father speaks again, making heeseung stand, hands up in mock surrender.

your father's eyes narrow at the movement like it still isn’t enough. "..a vampire," he says quietly, like the word itself is offensive.

heeseung doesn't even react, just taking a slow step back from your bed. that only seems to confirm everything in your father's mind.

"you dare stand in my daughter’s room," your father continues, voice tightening with restrained rage, "after what your kind has done to this family?"

heeseung sighs as if talking to these people were a chore.

your father doesn’t look away from heeseung for even a second. "i should have you executed where you stand." he says coldly.

"you could try." heeseung says, tone full of arrogance, which seems to upset your father further. you shut your eyes, barely able to remain conscious at this point.

"you think immortality makes you untouchable?" your father asks, "you're a lowly creature."

heeseung tilts his head slightly, ignoring his insult. "no," he says simply, "but experience does."

heeseung’s eyes drift briefly toward you again, the expression on his face changes. his eyes soften slightly.

before the guard can even draw his weapon, heeseung's gone - just like that.

your father's expression hardens immediately. "search the estate," he orders sharply.

the guard bows, "yes sir." he leaves the room immediately.

joo-mi finally rushes fully to your bedside the second heeseung is gone, kneeling beside you quickly. "my lady, are you hurt?" she asks in a rush, eyes searching over you anxiously.

you barely respond, a small hum leaving your lips.

the apothecary steps forward, examining your form, "please remain still," he says carefully, though his voice sounds slightly shaken.

your father stays where he is, still staring at the empty spot heeseung disappeared from. his gaze shifts over to you, jaw clenched.

"has she been bitten?" your father asks, not bothering to come any closer.

the apothecary hesitates but nods, "yes, she has, my lord."

your father doesn't speak for a moment, but after around thirty seconds he speaks. "call the executioner, now." you barely register his words, but did he really think he had the power to kill heeseung?

both the apothecary and joo-mi snap their heads toward your father. "what? my lord, you don't mean to-"

your father finally looks at you properly now, and something about his expression makes unease crawl beneath your skin. but it isn't grief, or is it relief that you survived.

it's calculation.

"yes, i do." your father interrupts the apothecary. "she's a risk." he finishes coldly.

for a second, you genuinely think you misheard him.

joo-mi looks horrified. "my lord," she says quickly, voice shaking slightly, "the lady was attacked, she is not at fault-"

"you think I don’t know what vampires do?" your father snaps.

silence fills the room immediately afterward. the apothecary's face is as pale as a ghost's.

your father's gaze remains fixed on you now, unwavering. "if he fed from her," he says, each word clipped and controlled, "then we do not know what he could have left behind."

joo-mi instinctively moves closer to your bedside.

"my lord, respectfully, there has been no sign of corruption," the apothecary says carefully. "her pulse is stable, her condition-"

"that creature stood beside her bed like he belonged there," your father says angrily. "and she let him."

that accusation stings you more than you expected. probably because it was actually true. weakly, you find your voice. "father.."

he doesn't even look at you.

"i want her gone by tonight." he says coldly, "make it quick."

"my lord, please, she is your daughter." joo-mi pleads, but he doesn't even listen to that. he walks out of the room after that.

the apothecary gives you a sympathetic look, and joo-mi already has tears falling down her cheeks.

they continue to stream freely down her face as she rushes closer to your bedside, grabbing your hands carefully like she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lets go. "my lady.." her voice cracks badly. "i'm sorry, i should've been here with you."

you can barely process what just happened. your father had just ordered your execution.

"joo-mi, please." the apothecary pulls her away gently. he leans closer to you. "my lady, please forgive me." your throat tightens at his words.

fear suddenly floods your chest, sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. the apothecary’s hands tremble as he uncaps a small vial.

a vial is pressed to your lips, before you are made to drink it.

"please," the apothecary says quietly, and somehow the grief in his voice is worse than if he sounded cold. "drink."

your body feels way too weak to fight properly. the liquid pours into your mouth bitter and burning, sliding down your throat before you can try turn away.

you can hear joo-mi's sobs. the apothecary shuts his eyes, as if he himself doesn't want to watch it.

"i added something to make you sleep first," he murmurs. "you should not feel much pain."

the edges of your vision darken slowly as the medicine settles deeper into your system. one thought repeats quietly in your mind.

'heeseung said he wouldn’t let you go again.'

those are the last words you ever think in that life time before your eyes shut for the last time.

there's low humming somewhere nearby. you assume it's air conditioning.

when you wake up again, you're in an unfamiliar room. your eyes open slowly. then you sit up abruptly, and almost immediately regret it. pain throbs behind your temples hard enough to make you wince.

"fuck.." you mutter, voice hoarse. the word sounds foreign after hearing nothing but formal speech for what felt like days. that was definitely the longest dream you'd had in ages. it was so strange.

you couldn't control yourself at all. it was like a series of events all played out for you. plus, you don't think you've ever died in a dream before - assuming that's what happened in the end.

your breathing quickens slightly as you look around properly now. this room wasn't the infirmary, it was a bedroom. modern-style, and completely unfamiliar.

you glance over. a dark hoodie hangs over the back of the chair nearby. from the looks of it, it belonged to a male. you sit up now, alarmed. the worst possibilities come to mind - did you get assaulted after you passed out..?

pushing the blanket draped over you off, you notice all of your clothes are still on and intact. your hand flies immediately to your neck, no andages this time. but the skin there still feels sensitive beneath your fingertips.

you sigh in relief, standing up. you take hesitant steps toward the bedroom door, pressing an ear to it. your legs still feel slightly weak beneath you, but at least they hold your weight this time.

surprisingly, there was no noise on the other side of it.

leaning back, your hand reaches for the handle, turning softly, not wanting to make any noise. the door opens with only the faintest click.

you peek out cautiously first, it's just an empty hallway.

your gaze flicks toward the front door instinctively, which you can barely see from here. it's locked.

three separate locks, actually.

"..okay," you whisper under your breath. that's mildly concerning.

you step out further anyway, bare feet silent against the floor. you gawk, actually - staring at your bare feet, because you definitely weren't the one to remove your shoes or socks.

a voice suddenly comes from somewhere behind you, "most people wait until they fully recover before they try to escape, you know?"

you nearly jump out of your skin.

spinning around sharply, you're met with lee heeseung - except this time, his hair isn't black. it's burgundy, definitely not natural like the last time you saw him.

well, that was in a dream to be fair.

your heart races, feeling heavy.

it's him.

the heeseung plastered across billboards, album photocards shoved into your drawers, performances you’d replayed at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep.

your actual, real-life idol. your brain feels like it short-circuits.

"did all that work?" heeseung speaks again, leaning closer. this time, he doesn't hesitate to grab you by the waist, smashing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. his tongue forces it's way past your teeth, kissing you like he's trying to devour you whole and begging for forgiveness all at the same time.

you're dizzy, and confused. did he get the wrong girl? you kiss him back either way. one hand fists your hair gently, angling your head to deepen the kiss further. the other roams on your lower back, before finally resting on your hips.

when heeseung finally breaks away, you're both panting. he rests his forehead against yours, eyes heavy-lidded with clear desire. "i'm sorry for doing that to you." his jaw clenches in anger, like he's remembering a bad memory. "i never forgave myself after that day."

you blink, "..what?" you pant, out of breath. "doing what to me?"

heeseung tilts his head, pulling his head away but his hands are still on you, as if he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear again. "hm." he inhales, "your dream. it was real. it was your memories in your past life."

for a second, your brain refuses to accept the sentence. real?

you stare at him, searching his face for any sign of joking. there isn't any. "what, you're actually a vampire and i've been reincarnated multiple times?" you joke, but heeseung's face is dead serious.

after a few seconds, he parts his lips, flashing his fangs.

your throat tightens at the sight.

"that doesn’t make sense," you whisper. "tell me something that happened in the dream, then."

"you let me get you off in the carriage." he says, a smug grin on his face as the words leave his mouth. your face heats up at the embarrassing memory.

"okay," you fold almost immediately. "i believe you." heeseung looks relieved at your words, but a little surprised too. to be honest though, you sort of believed in the whole red-string theory. if he's found you multiple times in each life time, then maybe it was meant to be.

that same teasing smirk you saw in your dream re-appears on his face.

"i think that's the shortest amount of time it's ever taken me to convince you." he says. "you're getting better at it."

you think about his words. you were a huge fan of him, at least in this life time, there wouldn't be a reason for you to deny him. he was the bias in your favourite group, after all. his voice interrupts your thoughts.

"oh, so you're a fan of my work?" heeseung asks coyly, leaning in closer. you lean back instinctively, face feeling hot.

"..you can't use your mind-reading thing against me." memories of your dream flash-back to you. mainly when heeseung left you to die, kind of.

heeseung opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. "mind you, you're basically the reason i died, and you bit me twice without my permission."

the teasing in heeseung’s face doesn’t disappear, but it softens. "i'm sorry." he wraps his arms around you, bringing you closer to him. you indulge in his touch, but then he opens his mouth again. "plus, i asked you the second time."

you scoff, pulling away. "if my memory serves me correctly, i said no and you bit me anyway."

a guilty expression washes over his face. "you're right. i'm sorry, baby." the pet-name catches you off guard. especially since it's coming from lee heeseung of all people. maybe this was a dream too, and you were going to wake up disappointed.

"it isn't a dream." heeseung says, sounding a little frustrated. his fingers graze your jaw, before grabbing your face, squishing your cheeks together firmly, but gently. "do i have to prove that to you?"

you're taken aback, eyes widening slightly. his lips are on yours before you can even fully register the meaning of his words. his kiss isn't as gentle as it was previously though. his fangs graze your bottom lip, barely, but still cutting the muscle open. his tongue swipes, licking up any blood that seeps out of the cut. heeseung's hands slide into your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss as he presses your back against the wall.

when he finally breaks away, saliva connecting your slick lips, you're both left panting. his eyes are half lidded, looking at you with clear desire.

“let me make it up to you,” heeseung murmurs, voice low. “let me show you how sorry i am for letting you go. for how much i need you.”

one of his hand trails down your side, resting on your waist. that same cold hand of his slides underneath your shirt, making you flinch as his palms skim over the soft skin of your stomach and ribs. he tugs at the fabric, silently demanding more access to you.

this time, he actually waits for an answer.

you blink in surprise at first, but nod when you see his pleading eyes.

“fuck, you taste so good," he rasps, ducking his head to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “i’ve wanted this for so long..."

he nips at your pulse point, before soothing the sting with his tongue. heeseung makes no move to bite you this time, simply just sucking hickeys onto your neck as his hands explore your body.

he grabs your hand, dragging you to his living room. heeseung guides you backwards until the back of your legs hit the couch, causing you to sit down.

he follows, settling between your parted thighs. “tell me what you want, baby.” heeseung coaxes, looking up at you through his lashes. “i’ll give you anything."

this was all happening so quickly, you felt dizzy. you snap back into reality. clearing your throat, you realised you were in control here clearly, so you might as well take advantage of it.

when you don't respond, heeseung sighs - before grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. "i was trying to be gentle, since i haven't fucked you for centuries, but you make it so hard to resist."

heeseung leans closer, pressing his body against yours. his cock throbbed painfully in his sweat pants, slowly losing self-control with each second. you can't ignore the feeling of his hard-on eagerly touching you, still separated with the layers of both of your clothing.

"i had to wait hundreds of years for this," he whispers lowly, "for you to be under me once again."

heeseung misses your past lives together. he misses the way you used to writhe underneath him, hearing you moan his name over and over again. he learnt exactly what made you whimper, learnt exactly where your g-spot was, and how to make your legs shake. how else did you get off so quickly back in the carriage?

heeseung's hand snakes down past the band of your skirt. you were still dressed in your office uniform, after all. he can feel the heat radiating from your pussy, even your arousal was evident through the thin fabric. "i don't want to upset you again," he begins, he mumbles against your neck, "so, i'll ask this time. will you let me fuck you?"

you make eye contact with him, and all the blood in your body goes straight to your heart, pumping furiously. folding, you nod. "..okay."

heeseung grins, releasing your wrists. you're confused, but then before you can react, you're manhandled onto your stomach.

"what-" you start to speak, but heeseung cuts you off. "shh, just relax." he murmurs, hands gripping your hips firmly, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. one of his hands slides around to the front, going underneath the waistband of your skirt.

his fingers rub against your panties, thumb specifically going for your clit. heeseung lets out a soft groan when he feels how damp you are. "you're so wet for me, yet you act like you don't want this, hm?"

"can you just fuck me?" you hiss, embarrassed. you lift your hips slightly, trying to feel more than just teasing touches, but his fingers don't move.

he calls your name, voice low. "i don't appreciate you talking to me like that." you feel his fingers tangle into your hair, before tugging you backward. "i was going to be gentle with you, considering you haven't taken me in years."

heeseung's hand pushes your skirt up, making it bunch around at your waist. his palm comes down, spanking your ass. "but i guess you're still an eager slut, same as all of those years ago." a soft whimper leaves your lips.

"..why would you even say that?" you grumble, annoyed at the fact that he was not only degrading you, but also comparing you to another version of yourself again. it didn't exactly turn you off though.

his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties, practically ripping them off you. "why would i say that? because it's true." his hand comes back down. "spread your legs." his tone leaves no room for argument.

hesitantly, you spread your legs. heeseung wastes no time, his hand delivering another sharp spank, this time to your aching cunt. he groans at the sound of your startled gasp as a result of it, the noise sending a jolt of arousal straight to his dick.

a shaky sigh leaves his lips, and you can feel his presence step back. "on your knees." he says calmly, making your eyebrows knit in confusion. you look back at him, but he looks dead serious - it's kind of scary even.

you blink, but retreat, climbing off the couch, settling onto your knees. looking up, he's already looking down at you, expression impassive as he tugs at the waistband of his sweats.

your bare knees are already digging into the hardwood floor, making you shift slightly. heeseung reaches inside, freeing his dick - and making your eyes widen at the impressive size.

it was pretty though, in a weird way. his tip was a pretty pink, and a prominent vein went along the side of it.

"..you don't actually expect me to give you a blowjob, right?" you say, dumbfounded. it wasn't outrageously thick in girth, but the actual length of it looks like it could kill you maybe.

heeseung's hand reaches for the top of your scalp, he curls his fingers in your silky hair, gripping firmly but not painfully as he makes you look up at him. "does it look like i'm kidding?"

you gulp, the look on his face told you he definitely wasn't. with a slight tug of his hand, he guides you closer until the swollen head of his dick brushes against your bottom lip. "open your mouth, pretty."

the pet-name kind of eases your hesitance in a way. you part your lips, revealing the pink wetness of your tongue. heeseung applies steady pressure, slowly pushing past your lips and onto your tongue. the taste of his pre-cum floods your senses as he starts feeding you more of his dick, inch by inch.

"that's it.." heeseung groans, throwing his head back, holding you in place as he starts shallow thrusts. the hand in your hair tightens, forming a pony-tail with whatever hair is in grasp of his fingers.

you pull off, gagging when he starts to thrust. you aren't used to this, and his dick is way too big - hurting your jaw. heeseung allows you to compose yourself, reaching down with his other hand to wipe at a stray tear. "too big?" he snorts teasingly, making you glare up at him.

"shut up." you hiss, wrapping your fingers around his shaft again, taking him back into your mouth. heeseung hums approvingly at that.

"that's better.." he praises, moving the hair out of your face. he pants softly, starting to move his hips forward into your mouth. each thrust pushes him further past your stretched lips, the thick head of his dick nudging the back of your throat.

one of his hands remains tangled in your hair, setting the pace, while the other one traces along your jawline gently. that same hand drops lower, grazing over your neck as he feels it bulge slightly around his dick. drool escapes the corners of your mouth, coating your chin and dripping down onto your heaving chest, staining your blouse.

"you're taking me so well." heeseung whimpers softly, hand on your neck moving to your cheek as he strokes it gently. "guess your body still knows who it belongs to even after all this time."

you feel yourself getting light-headed from the lack of oxygen, and so you pull off. heeseung hesitantly lets you, watching the string of saliva that connects your lips to the swollen head of his cock.

"was that too much for you, baby?" heeseung strokes your hair gently, but his tone is nothing but condescending. ironic because the entire time he was trying not to cum as soon as you wrapped your lips around his tip.

his hand reaches back down underneath your skirt as you willingly part your legs for him. heeseung's fingers finding your most intimate area, spreading your slick folds open. "you're even wetter than before," he observes, almost snickering. "did sucking my dick really excite you that much?"

without waiting for a response, he pushes two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your sopping heat, pumping steadily as he stretches you open for him. you gasp, hands immediately gripping onto his forearm in an attempt to stabilise yourself. that makes him grin, leaning in to whisper into your ear. "i'm the only one who can make you feel like this, right?"

you weren't a virgin in this timeline, but he didn't need to know that. you nod at his words, "...yeah, of course." his eyebrows furrow, and at that you remember he can read minds. shit.

heeseung's thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles which coaxes more of your essence to coat his digits. his other hand has a bruising grip on your hip. heeseung's gaze is locked onto your face, taking in every micro-expression and breathy whimper that leaves your lips. "maybe i wasn't your first, but you'd be stupid to think i'd let someone else touch you ever again."

the pressure in your stomach increases, but he pulls his fingers out before you can even consider cumming. you open your mouth in protest, but he stuffs his fingers in, silencing you effectively.

he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. heeseung pulls you up and bends you back over the couch, stomach flat against it as he tugs your hips up with his hands. "you're so annoying," you whine, turning your head back to glare at him. "i was going to cum."

"you're about to cum soon, stop being impatient. you're not the one who's waited years." he snaps back, annoyed. heeseung's hand forces your head down into the pillows of the cushion, and that's when you feel his swollen tip press against your wet folds.

heeseung pushes in without any warning, bottoming out immediately, making you jolt as you moan into the pillows. your cunt immediately tries to push out the large intrusion by fluttering dramatically around his length as heeseung stills, letting you adjust.

he pulls your head up by your hair, letting you breathe. it kind of hurts in your lower region, making you exhale. "am i bleeding..?" you whimper out, internally hoping he'll say no.

"a bit, yeah." his fingers reach to your inner thigh, scooping up what you presume to be the blood, and you can hear him lick his fingers - ew. heeseung pushes your head back into the pillows, before withdrawing his hips, only to slam back harder. you choke.

heeseung says something to you, but you can barely register his words with his dick so far in you that you can basically feel it in your throat. he leans forward, pulling you up so your back is against his chest, his hand snaking around to press against the lower part of your tummy.

"nothing to say?" he whispers into your ear, moving his hips up again in a particularly hard thrust, making a loud cry leave your swollen lips. his hand drops further down, cupping your cunt as he rubs your clit.

you can barely stand, resting the back of your head against his shoulder. "..what? i-i didn't hear you." you mumble, tears welling up into your eyes.

heeseung leans forward, kissing the side of your neck. his fangs graze the skin again, but you can't lean away due to his arm on your collarbone keeping you pressed against him. "i said, you wouldn't mind if i take a sip now, right?"

you turn your head in rejection, unknowingly realising that it just gives him easier access to your neck. in turn heeseung takes that opportunity., sinking his fangs into your neck. he doesn't stop moving his dick in and out of you either.

you can't form thoughts as your vision starts to blur, unable to stop choked moans and whimpers from leaving your throat. it just feels way too good, even if this is his way of punishing you - using you like a personal fleshlight of sorts.

heeseung continues sucking on your neck, hand back on your lower stomach, pressing down as he feels himself in there. he pulls away, panting softly in your ear. "are you going to cum soon, pretty?"

you nod, completely putting all of your weight onto him and the couch as you can barely keep yourself up right. heeseung lets you lean onto him, increasing the fervour of his thrusts. your eyes roll into the back of your head as you feel him lick onto the wound he made on your neck.

"..t-that tickles, stop." you mumble out, gummy walls clenching down onto his cock at the feeling of him licking you.

heeseung pushes you back onto your stomach, following you as he pushes his weight onto you. he moves your hair from the side of your neck, kissing your jaw. "but baby, you just tightened up the second i did that." the pace of his thrusts increase, hips meeting against your ass each time. heeseung sucks a hickey onto your neck, licking over it once he deems it as perfect.

you feel lightheaded at this point, and you're on the brink of cumming. heeseung's hand wraps around your throat, applying light pressure there. his mouth moves down, biting your shoulder now. that's your breaking point, making you cum over his cock. "you taste even better like this.." he whines softly into your ear, pulling away from your shoulder.

your thighs shake underneath him, sobbing as you shut your eyes completely. heeseung doesn't stop though, whimpering softly into your ear as he re-doubles his efforts, trying to make himself cum.

"f-fuck," he whines, burying his face into the crook of your neck. every flutter of your tight walls contracting around him made his eyes roll back. your body twitches as heeseung continues, chasing his own release. you could basically feel every vein and ridge of his dick now, feeling extra sensitive because you just came.

heeseung's cock twitched inside you, before you feel him empty himself deep inside of you. he fills you completely, a loud moan leaving his lips at the same time, "i love you...you're mine." he pants out, mumbling against your neck, "you're mine only, nobody else gets to have you but me."

you honestly feel like you're about to pass out, slumping back into the couch. the combination of his rough treatment plus the blood sucking was enough to make you want to sleep. heeseung notices this.

he kisses the side of your cheek, "one more time?" the glare you shoot him afterwards gives him your answer, but heeseung doesn't relent, flipping you onto your back. "don't look at me like that. i'm just excited to finally have you back."

"hey, heeseung.." you call out tiredly, looking up at him. "why haven't you just turned me into a vampire already?" maybe it wasn't possible? who knows.

heeseung stares down at you, his pupils becoming bigger at your words. "..you never wanted me to turn you into one, even though i wanted to." he mumbles quietly, making your eyes widen.

before you can even process it properly, heeseung speaks again, too fast this time, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"..do you want me to?"

you blink.

the question hangs between you immediately. you? a vampire? the thought feels strange, almost unreal. you imagine the fangs, the immortality, oh and the blood. but somehow, your brain circles back to heeseung.

to staying beside him. to not dying while he remains exactly the same, waiting for your next return. "..i'm okay with it," you admit slowly. "if you want to, of course."

heeseung stares at you. his hand lifts instinctively, fingertips brushing lightly beneath your jaw before stopping himself halfway.

"you have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that."

this literally took me ages and i literally was just gonna keep this in the drafts bc i couldn't stick w a consistent plot line so if there are any loopholes try ur best to ignore them 😭😭 i tried my best to proofread and make sure there wasn't any tho 🫶🫶

i wanted to have a try but im lowkey never writing smut again bc that shit was WAY too hard like there is just sm going on omfg, lowkey the reason this even took so long to write bc i just kept procrastinating it lol😭🤦‍♀️

Riki is utterly fucked.

He is, by all means, a chill guy. All alpha stereotypes be damned—Riki has instincts, yes, but rarely ever did he act on them.

He never feels the need to fight other alphas for dominance, which contributes to Heeseung easily becoming team captain. He barely reacts to omega’s sweet pheromones, which most likely has to do with his suppressed feelings for you. But hey, at least he’s not baring his teeth to any unmarked neck offered his way. Unlike some alphas.

The most alpha he’s felt is probably when he’s dribbling across the court. Competitiveness is the only trait he fully embodies, because Riki treats basketball like an extension of his existence more than he does his subgender. Not territoriality. Not control. Certainly not omegas.

Well. Except for one omega. 

Which is why, with all the resignation of a fallen warrior against a battalion of armed enemies, Riki believes that he is utterly fucked.

Because that one omega—newly-presented, hundred-percent his girlfriend—is none other than you.

Riki swears he’s a chill guy, but he finds himself unable to uphold his principle when it comes to you. It was already bad when he and the rest of the world had thought that you were a beta; someone with no apparent subgender traits and behaviours; someone he called his best friend in public and his biggest, pathetic crush on his private X account. 

Teenager-him did everything he could to insert himself into your life. Taking up your free time by forcing you to join him at practice, lounging in your bedroom whenever he pleases just to get a whiff of your perfume (it smells the strongest in your room), staring down boys that attempted to confess to you until they ran away with their tails between their legs.

The most alpha he’s felt, after basketball, though it remains a secret, is every time he is around you.

Seriously, it’s honestly surprising how oblivious you had been, but it was probably for the best. Riki isn’t too keen to admit that he is perhaps a little (too much) possessive when it comes to you.

It was already bad back then, and it’s only getting worse now when he and the world are aware that you are an omega; someone with the sweetest scent he’s ever smelled on anyone; someone he calls his girlfriend in public and his wife on his private X account. Please do not blame him. He’s had a crush on you ever since he knew how to speak Korean, and it also doesn’t help that the sweet vanilla pheromone comes with a beautiful face like yours. So yeah, you are his wife. You just don’t know it yet. It’s just a matter of time.

It’s just a matter of time before Riki loses his shit, if anything—because suddenly, all of his alpha instincts are coming to life like a wire on flames ever since your presenting. Feelings that he used to ignore, urges he used to control; they’re suddenly not so ignore-able or controllable anymore. 

And that’s why Riki is utterly fucked.

Especially now. 

It’s another Tuesday, which means another day full of classes for you and classes and practices for him. Which means, being the dutiful boyfriend that he is, Riki is going to pick you up from your shared apartment with Wonyoung and drop you off at your campus, hold your hand and carry your bag to class, and kiss you goodbye before he leaves for his class (you only have one shared class this semester, him being a business major and you an economics major). It’s routine now. A routine that’ll change after he convinces you to move in with him, but it’s routine for now.

He’s in his building’s elevator, descending to the car park when he sends you a text.

you

omw 

my baby

okie riki ducky

car or motorbike?

Riki bites back a smile. He swears he’s a puma, but you always insist that he resembles a duck. Riki’s no puppy but he listens to you so well he doesn’t even fight it anymore. He just nods. Yes, he’s a duck.

You can call him a roach and he’ll be willing to change his identification card to a resident roach. But of course he won’t let you know that. Riki still has his human and alpha pride to protect.

you

motorbike

my baby

oh!!!

i’m wearing that black skirt that u like tho

u bring a jacket? or shld i take the uber instead?

Wait a damn minute. The black skirt that he likes? He’s sure you’re talking about that miniskirt that hugs the swell of your ass tight and pinches your waist right. The hem cuts just above your mid-thigh, leaving little to imagination and more skin to expose. Fuck. He likes that skirt so damn much that the last time you wore it, he had his face buried in between your legs for hours and you could barely move without his cum oozing out of your abused pussy.

And it’s so damn short too.

Something ugly and hot coil in his stomach. His eyes are thinly-veiled possessiveness that he almost missed the floating dots on the chatroom.

my baby

or shld i change?

No! Riki wants you to be free to wear whatever you want. It’s just his stupid alpha instincts that are howling at him, asking him to lock you in his room and have you all to himself. But Riki is a chill guy. A bit possessive, yes, but he’s a chill guy. 

you

changed my mind

gna bring my car instead

my baby

okieeee

tysm baby 

drive safe! <3

Ignoring the nagging wolf inside him, Riki takes a detour around the walls towards where his sedan is parked. Yeap, he’s a good alpha and a good man. He’ll let you wear anything you want, even if it means having more eyes on you in that skirt he loves so much.

His jaw tightens.

It’s okay. It’s going to be fine. 

For now, you’re going to ride in his car. He’s not going to let even the wind catch a glimpse of your lace panties. That is, if you’re wearing lace. He hopes you wear lace. Fuck. Riki hopes you can ride him after.

God, please forgive him. He’s been reduced to nothing but a horny, jealous alpha ever since your presenting. Someone please send help.

That day, he barely manages to let you out of his sight. Never mind the fact he almost locks you in his car and has his way with you, uncaring about whatever public indecency fine he might get charged with. But Riki is a good alpha. He successfully (reluctantly) watches you enter the lecture hall, even when his wolf is begging him to drag you into an empty classroom and fuck you senseless. 

Riki is a good alpha. An alpha with a raging boner, but a good alpha regardless.

That evening, you so generously let him eat you out at the backseat of his car. The skirt stays on, of course. With his mouth on your clit, tongue shoved up your hole, your breathy moans fogging up the windows, Riki thanks his wolf for the patience he has. 

Good, patient alphas always get their rewards.

And his rewards come with your sweet slick and his hot cum spurting out in his pants.

Riki is doomed.

He’s so attuned with his alpha that sometimes it slips from his mind that somebody somewhere might have just presented into their subgender and has no clues about their newly-sorted body.

That someone being you.

Sure, in theory, you know the do’s and the don’t’s of the omegaverse. But in practice, it’s quite difficult for you to adapt to the changes. Like how heightened your senses have become.

Pheromones are the easiest thing to learn. You manage to set people apart from their scents alone—especially your boyfriend’s pheromone. Riki’s sandalwood turns ashy when he’s nervous before a game, and it has a musky note to it when he’s aroused.

Riki notices this. You are fast to adjust to changes directly related to your body internally. Externally, though, you actually have him stressed the fuck out.

Which is why Riki is doomed.

Especially today. 

It’s a Thursday, an ordinary day of Riki only having his practices in the morning and finishing half-day. It’s also a day of you having only one class that starts midday. Due to this (unfortunate) arrangement, Thursday is the day Riki hates the most because he couldn’t drive you to campus himself. 

Thursdays are for Uber. Fuck Uber.

But Riki is a chill guy, so he won’t let one inconvenience sour his mood. After quickly showering post-practice and roasting Heeseung over his another failed date night, Riki struts through the hallway in the direction of the lecture hall you’re going to be in. According to the live location you just shared, the Uber driver has just dropped you at the entrance. He still has time to see you before your class starts.

(Never tell his teammates that he’s this clingy, please. Unlike you, they believe that he’s a puma. Riki intends to keep it that way.)

As he nears the lecture hall, with you still nowhere in sight, Riki hums a happy tune despite his brooding demeanour. He’s going to see you. God, he can’t wait for the day you’ll finally move in with him. He knows it’s inevitable, and that you’re just taking things slowly with him (which he’s so fine with, by the way!) but he’s only a doting alpha. Nobody needs to know if he prays you change your mind faster than his dick getting hard from seeing you in that miniskirt. 

Riki takes another step and almost falters when his nose picks up on something. A pheromone—so sweet and inviting and alluring—but it’s not subtle. No. It’s flooding the hallway like a broken dam that even a taken alpha like him is reacting to it. 

Wait.

This scent—soft vanilla, sweet caramel—he knows this scent. He breathes it everyday; it's practically his oxygen. Riki’s stomach drops.

This is your pheromone.

But why is the smell so strong?

His answer comes in the form of you speed-walking down the hallway, face red and avoiding eyes. Your eyes blow wide when you spot him, your legs picking up their pace before you crash into Riki.

Riki inhales and almost chokes.

“Y/N?” He breathes out, confusion lacing his voice. A protective arm wraps around your shoulders, shielding you from the public eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Rikiii,” you whine, still hiding your face in his neck. Riki gulps down. He’s already a weak man, why are you moving your lips on his neck like that? 

“Yeah?” He croaks out, voice strained. 

“I’m sorry.” You lift your face, chin digging into his chest as you pout at him. “I forgot to take suppressants and wear my scent patch…”

Riki goes very, very still.

The scent clings to the roof of his mouth he could taste it on his tongue. Sweet, intoxicating, and driving him nuts. Beneath the cloud of vanilla and caramel, there lies something exposed and unguarded.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. 

How many alphas passed you like this? How many of them have smelled you? Fuck, what about the Uber driver just now?

Riki unconsciously pulls you closer to his broad chest, removing any distance between your bodies. His grip on your shoulders tightens.

“You forgot,” he repeats slowly. It’s not a question.

Heat floods his veins. The same fire that almost engulfed him whole at the court weeks ago, when you collapsed under the pressure of alpha pheromones. The same fire that urges him to bare his teeth to any prying eyes and curious glances. 

“What about your Uber driver?” A faux calm veils his voice, feigning control when he’s losing it. Riki’s eyes flicker to the hallway, narrowing down at people staring and at alphas with twitching noses. His thumb digs into your waist.

“Hm?” He presses, feeling every thread of rational thoughts loosening with every second of your silence. You look up timidly, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

“He sped to send me here…”

Riki’s fingers flex. “Is he an alpha?”

You hesitate. Then subtly, you nod.

“Yes.”

Riki closes his eyes. He’s sure he’s breathing, but it doesn’t reach his lungs. The fire in his chest has smoked up every fiber of his being, where your scent is gasoline and his possessiveness a paper. 

Somewhere in the distance, Riki hears an alpha’s growl. Snapping his eyes open, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, tugging you close to him.

“We’re going home.”

Thankfully, you don’t protest. Riki doesn’t know how his alpha would react if you did.

That evening, Riki isn’t so good or patient as he fucks you from behind, fisting your hair in a tight grip. Your thighs are trembling from overstimulation, his sheets are soaked from your multiple orgasms; but Riki doesn’t let go. His hold on your hips are bruising, leaving marks that you know will bloom purple by the next morning.

“Gonna fuck this into your brain, baby,” he rasps, pushing your face down into the pillow. You’re a blabbering mess, drools dripping out your mouth as you take his angry cock. Riki’s pace is ruthless, fucking your hole in sharp, harsh thrusts that has you seeing stars.

“Never.” He thrusts deep. “Forget.” The tip of his cock kisses that spot inside your walls. You arch your back. “Your.” His hips snap harder, and you let out a cry of pleasure as the heat pools in your belly. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Scent. Patch.” 

When you come again, it’s earth-shattering, ripping through your body in a violent shudder. His musky sandalwood and your honeyed caramel mix together, clinging to your body like a second skin. The air smells heavy of sex, and for a moment you think that Riki’s finally done. That he’s let out every pent-up frustration born from your clumsy, forgetful self.

But you’re so wrong. Because in the next moment, he’s already flipping you onto your back, knocking air out of your lungs. His eyes, heavy-lidded and intense, hold yours as he descends, tongue flicking out. You whine and clamp your thighs, trying to save yourself from further overstimulation. 

But Riki’s not having any of it.

His hands grip into your flesh, hard enough they’ll leave prints on the soft skin. Riki throws your legs over his shoulders, ragged breath fanning your swollen clit.

“‘M not done yet, babe,” he licks his lip, blowing on your sopping cunt and smirks when you shiver. “Gonna make you fucking remember.”

Riki laps up a thick stripe from your hole to your clit, nudging the nub with the tip of his tongue as he does so. You gasp, heaving out a sinful cry, fisting the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself.

“Oh God,” you choke, tears clinging to your lashes. “‘Feels so good, R-Riki.”

You’re so spent, so full, and Riki has been so harsh and mean. But your body is a temple of contradiction; it keeps begging for more—for his touch, his lips, his cock.

“Holy shit,” Riki chuckles, and then he takes another dive, prodding your hole in a merciless pace. You buck up your hip.

Two large palms push your middle down. Riki stares at you through his dark fringes, eyes sharp and intense.

“You’re not going anywhere without a scent patch,” he grunts against your slick, his voice thick with lust. He looks pornographic; with his messy dark hair and shiny, swollen lips. You mewl.

The corner of his lips curve up into a smirk.

“And that’s final, baby.”

You’re so in for a long night.

Riki admits it.

He’s a jealous, possessive alpha. Basically a textbook alpha; but only reserved for you.

He knows he once confessed to it; back when you told him you were going to spend your heat with his best friend. He knows he once spelled it out for you that he was jealous of imagining you with another man. But that was a one-time thing. 

Riki is a chill guy. His jealousy was reasonable, wasn’t it? It was only that time that he allowed himself to swallow his pride and admit that he was indeed jealous of his best friend and he wasn’t going to let him help you with your heat.

Anything jealousy-related after that, he managed to keep it subtle. An arm around your waist. A shadow looming by your side. A glare he throws when you’re not looking. 

Riki has always associated jealousy with heat and this burning urge to gauge someone’s eyes. All the ugly emotions that make him want to rip limbs apart (according to his wolf, not him, he’s still normal about everything). He never thought he would ever associate jealousy with sadness, vulnerability, or even insecurity.

Not until tonight. 

It’s a Saturday night, and Saturday nights are marked as party nights on every student’s calendar. Well, at least for those who could tolerate sweaty bodies, messy hookups, and sticky floors packed in a frathouse. Riki belongs in that category, simply because he can’t miss Heeseung twerking and singing in the living room. That man is a terrible drinker, and has a surprisingly good voice that will only come out when he’s drunk. It takes two red cups of beer to get him yelling Beyonce.

You, on the other hand, aren't a big fan of crowds. But Riki always insists you come, or he’ll cancel his plans with his homies and cuddle with you instead. If anything, you very much prefer to spend your night that way, but sometimes the guilt gets to you when Heeseung and Jay whine about not seeing Riki at parties anymore.

So, with a nose scrunched up from various kinds of pheromones and smelly armpits, you brave through the dancing bodies to where Riki’s basketball teammates are at. Riki follows closely behind you, chest pressed against your back as he uses both hands as barriers by your sides, shoving people out of your way unapologetically.

Heeseung is already red in the face by the time you settle on the couch, giggling at something Jake the famous beta says. Riki dabs his teammates, easily falling into conversations about games and badmouthing opposing teams while still keeping a hand on the small of your back.

The couch is on the smaller size, perfect for three adults. Four, if you force people to squeeze in. Riki relaxes at the nearest handrest, which leaves you to sit right beside him, which leaves the spot beside you empty. The spot that is soon taken by one of Riki’s teammates.

By none other than Jay himself.

“Hey, Y/N,” he greets, giving you a lopsided grin as he sinks into the couch. “How’ve you been?”

Now, Riki loves Heeseung and Jay to death. They’re the seniors that have taken him under their wings when he was nothing more than a lost freshman, trying to secure a spot in the college’s basketball team. Heeseung cooks ramen for him, and Jay cooks him Michelin-star meals. Both of which Riki appreciates greatly, deepening the respect that he feels for the elder guys.

Heeseung is an easy man, falling in and out of relationships as routine as changing his clothes. He’s that kind of alpha that puts his knot into good use and into any available hole. Riki used to be the most wary of him, flagging him as the most dangerous alpha to be in your proximity. 

Jay, on the other hand, is the steady one. He’s respectful, knows the right thing to say, always accidentally attracts the ladies even when he doesn’t mean to. He’s that gentleman who’s looking for a serious relationship with the intention to marry. Riki used to set him as the dependable guy; someone he confides in when the topic concerns a certain girl (you); someone he asks for help for when he couldn’t buy pads for you.

But after that incident, Riki ought to revise his judgement. Heeseung’s off the hook now. Jay, however, has risen as threat number one.

And threat number one is making silly jokes right now, prompting you to laugh until your familiar squeaks spill out of your pretty lips.

Riki shifts in his seat. Whatever Taesan rambles about flies over his head, going past his ears, blending into the loud music from the speaker. Jay is obviously trying to make you feel more comfortable, because you’re not the most subtle when you’re in discomfort; anyone in the room could notice it.

And comfortable you are.

Jay leans closer to hear you over the music, still keeping a respectful distance from you. But it’s enough to make Riki’s thumb slow down from rubbing circles on your back. The bass vibrates through the walls, but it feels distant. 

You feel so distant.

Riki doesn’t want to, but his mind spirals in the way it always spirals whenever it involves something to do with you and Jay. He’s brought back to the past, to when you didn’t hesitate to ask Jay for help. To the time when you thought Jay to be the ideal alpha for you. A worthy alpha to help you through your heat. 

The ugly emotions resurface. But this time, they didn't paint everything red. Instead, it feels like a lump has formed in his throat, blocking every reassurance you always give him in his vulnerability from reaching his rational mind. Every ‘I love you’s, every ‘It’s only you’s, evaporates into thin air in the presence of what-ifs.

What if you didn’t come to his apartment to talk to him that day? What if he let his ego win over and he never confessed? What if his silent treatment drove you tired, and you just went straight to Jay instead of to his doorstep?

The questions leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. 

Riki is a chill guy. But even a chill guy falls weak against an even chiller guy. In Riki’s case, the chiller guy is sitting on the other side of the couch, wearing a Polo despite the function, and an heir to a family-owned business. And is currently telling you funny stories that he likes to tell Riki too.

Riki swallows down the lump. Fuck, he’s always at wars with his wolf regarding his emotions and how he should act. But at this moment, his wolf is not yelling at him to stake claim. His wolf is quiet, whining lowly, ears flattened like a kicked puppy. A perfect visual presentation of how Riki’s feeling currently. He’s perfectly in sync with his wolf tonight.

Riki unconsciously withdraws his hand from you and places it onto his lap, toying with his fingers absentmindedly. He laughs at something Heeseung says, but it sounds foreign even to his ears.

Beside him, you feel the loss of his warmth almost instantly. Jay was in the middle of telling you about Riki’s silly mistakes during a game when the scent hits you. The sandalwood thins out, like firewood left out in the cold. You instinctively turn to your boyfriend, already tuning out whatever Jay’s about to say as you stare at Riki’s side profile.

“Riki?”

There’s a pause. Then, Riki slowly turns to you, eyes dimmed. His smile is losing its usual softness, and it settles heavily in the pit of your stomach. Your wolf is whining at the sight of the sad alpha, and your instinct is telling you that it has everything to do with the alpha you were talking to.

Your heart deflates.

“Yes, baby?” Riki answers, though his voice wilts. Seeing his slumped shoulders, losing all his easy confidence and still trying to fake it with a smile, tugs at your heartstrings violently. 

You give him a small smile, sensing his bare vulnerability through his scent alone. You reach out a soft hand, intertwining your fingers with his. 

“I feel tired. Let’s go home?”

Riki chews on his bottom lip.  For a moment, it’s like seeing twelve-year old Riki; when you used to comfort him after he got scolded for playing too rough with his younger sister. He casts a glance at something behind you—or someone, Jay, most likely—before turning back to you. Jay is back at conversing with others, easily leaving the one he had with you. Riki squeezes your hand back.

“Let’s go. I’ll drop you off.”

“No,” you pull at his hand slightly, a soft smile playing at your lips. “Let’s go back to our home.”

“Yeah, let’s—” Riki pauses. He takes a double look at you, slowly registering what he just heard.

“Our home?” Is he dreaming? Did you just imply that you agreed to move in with him?

You nod, deliberate and confident. Riki blinks at you, disbelieving. Holy shit. It’s true. He’s not drunk, and the warmth of your touch confirms that he’s not dreaming either. Then, a wide grin spreads across his face, boxy and teethy in all its cute glory. 

“Okay, let’s go home. Our home.”

The words taste sweeter than honey on his tongue.

That night, Riki cages you in his arms, holding you firm against his half naked body. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady of his heartbeat. Your finger traces on the skin mindlessly, mapping out trails of softness and silent reassurance. 

“Riki.”

He hums. The sound vibrates through his chest, and you smile at the feeling.

“I never told you this. But I used to pray to present as an omega ever since I learned that your mother only wants omegas as your mate.”

Riki stiffens, but his breathing doesn’t. His heart, however, is gradually speeding up.

He senses that you knew the moment you softly called his name at the frat house. God, you and your omega instincts. He knew he couldn’t hide anything from you, even his deepest secrets.

And you, being the caring, empathetic person that you are—a trait that doesn’t dull even with age—will always try to make it better for him.

Riki squeezes your waist, signaling you that he’s listening. His silence prompts you to continue. “I’ve been so in love with you that I was willing to be anything as long as I could be by your side. I couldn’t eat after finding out that I was a beta. But then I thought, maybe I can be your wedding planner. I even learned how to babysit just in case you needed one. As long as you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

The back of your eyes feel hot but you blink the tears away.

“That day…when I mentioned Jay,” you started, carefully touching the subject that’s been an unspoken sensitivity to your boyfriend. “I did it out of obligation. My wolf wanted it to be you, but human-me knew it wasn’t possible. Back then, when I didn’t know that you liked me back.

“I didn’t want to force you to do something you probably didn’t want, and possibly lose the friendship that we have. So I just mentioned whoever. I did it to protect us. I did it because I didn’t want to scare you away and lose you.”

You inhale deeply and look up. To your surprise, Riki’s already staring at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. You’re not sure if they’re reflecting back your tears, or if they’re truly his, but you’re sure that this is the most vulnerable the both of you have been since that fateful night.

You cup his cheek, brushing the tender skin gently. “I didn’t do it because I wanted him or if he was better. I could never; not when the person I have ever wanted; the person I have been in love with almost my entire life is you, Riki.”

A drop of tear slides down Riki’s smooth skin and disappears into the pillow. He exhales through his mouth, the sound wet and warm.

“Thank you, baby. Truly.”

Riki drops his forehead onto yours, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, the buzz of the city fades, leaving only vulnerability and love between tangled breath and silent tears. After a minute of silence, you say it again, sealing your package of reassurances for the alpha you cherish dearly.

“I love you, Riki.”

Riki pulls you closer, mouthing a wet kiss into the crook of your neck. His lips brush the shell of your ear, tentative and soft. There is a sigh of relief, like a weight is finally lifting off his chest.

“I love you more, Y/N.”

Riki snuggles closer, then he noses at your scent gland promptly. You giggle from the ticklish feeling, writhing away from him. But Riki only tightens his hold.

“Let me scent you,” Riki rasps, breath warm on your skin. You shiver. “You kinda smell like him. I hate it.”

Your play-fight dies down and you let Riki do whatever he wants. His nose inches upwards, caressing the crown of your hair with his cheek, then trailing back down to where your neck meets your shoulder. You melt into his embrace, a contented sigh slipping past your lips.

“Feels warm, Ki.” You mumble, drunk on cozy sandalwood and clean cedar. Riki hums, pulling you flush against his chest. His finger trails your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, then gently closes a gentle hold around your wrist. He brings it to his nose, nuzzling your pulse.

By the time he’s done, you’re drenched in his pheromones. Every inch of your skin smells like Riki, feels like Riki, touched by Riki. 

You’re his. Utterly his.

You hum in a daze, mind hazy and chest full with contentment. Deep inside, your wolf purrs, happy and satisfied that she’s marked by her beloved alpha. Riki leaves one final kiss on your forehead before tucking you under his chin.

“Night, my love.”

Both of you drift off to sleep, blanketed by each other's warmth, drowned in each other's scent.

man i actually love writing this couple so much <3

You have been to the gym more times than the library.

Not because you’re particularly athletic. No, God knows you’d rather nap. But it’s rather because of a certain six-foot Japanese guy named Nishimura Riki, who’s obsessed with having you watch him stretch before his basketball practice. Says it helps him focus better. Says you bring him luck to his games. Whatever it is, you are happy to indulge with his requests, if it means you get to have your free Baskin Robbins after his gym sessions.

And now, as the two of you walk down the pavement, hands brushing with each step, you’re brought back to three years ago—when Riki was still a head shorter, when his voice still had the childlike lilt to it, when he hadn’t gained all the mass and muscles he has now. The only thing that remains constant is this: his routine of dragging you to his stretching and practice sessions.

It still brings a smile to your face whenever you recall that moment, and Riki never fails to notice every time.

“You have that motherly sentimental smile on your face again,” he points out, eyeing you down like you were dirt on the ground, and you might as well be for how tall he is. “Whatchu thinking ‘bout?”

You roll your eyes. “Good old times, Ki. When you were less annoying and less tall.”

Riki snorts. “I’m always annoying. And taller than you.”

“Fuckass alpha genetics,” you grumble under your breath, the sharp end of your elbow meeting his ribs in a playful nudge. Riki lets out a loud hiss, draping his arm around your shoulders in a harsh tug.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, my favourite girl?”

“I don’t know, maybe the fact that I could’ve slept in instead of going to your alpha gym.”

“You love me too much to refuse me.”

You feel the air leave your lungs. That statement shouldn’t make your stomach twist like this, like you’re caught doing something you’re forbidden to. But if liking your childhood friend—your annoying, tall, and too-hot-for-his-own-good friend—is considered illegal, then by all means you’d rather serve your time in jail than admit it to him.

So you scoff, feigning annoyance as you shove his limbs off your body. Swinging your legs faster, you mutter something enough for his ears to hear, hiding the redness that blooms across your cheeks. “You know I only love your mom.”

“Yeah, but only for her sushi, though!” Riki retorts, chasing after your steps and catching up with you after a maximum of three long strides. Curse his long legs. “I know you’d marry into my family for her sushi.”

“I don’t plan on being a homewrecker. Konon is taken, and Misora is like my little sister.”

“Well, there is me.” There he goes again, making your heart stutter in your ribs, taking your breath away with words that might be simple to him but bring an entirely different meaning to you and your poor feelings. You bite your lip, refusing to answer. Riki takes it as a challenge.

“I’m the real deal, y’know?” Riki wiggles his eyebrows, hogging up your space like a fly, gauging your reaction with that smirk you know all too well. And fuck him for saying the truth. You really wish you could slap that shit-eating grin off his handsome face.

“What, for being an alpha?”

“Especially for being an alpha,” he replies, a cocky smirk adorning his plump lips, to which you just roll your eyes. 

He isn’t wrong, and that’s what you hate the most. Alphas are sought after; as a leader, as an heir, as a symbol of dominance and power. They’re at an advantage with everything, including their physique. You have never seen a short alpha; at least none is shorter than you are. Alphas dominate sports, finance and business, politics, education, and even medicines.

It’s hard to argue with Riki’s point of him being the real deal, when the very system you live in is the truth and proof to his claim.

People always want an alpha, and that fact will stay forever so long this system still exists. And it’s a bitter pill to swallow because you also belong to that category—not exactly because you need an alpha, but because a certain first love of yours is, unfortunately, an alpha.

Unfortunate, because alphas only want omegas as their mates.

Not betas. Not you.

And Nishimura Riki is not an exception to that equation.

You are so lost in your own thoughts that you almost missed the entrance to the gym, if not for Riki tugging your sleeve to bring you back to earth. You blink, look at the sign, and sigh.

“Tell me why I’m here again.”

Riki’s face lights up with a grin, dragging you to the entrance. “Because you’re my emotional support,” he jokes again, earning a glare from you.

His voice rumbles in a deep timbre when he chuckles, his other hand pushing the door open and instantly, the familiar chime of the bell greets you with a cold breeze from the built-in air-conditioners. 

Riki turns to you again, ruffling your hair affectionately, the same way he did when the both of you were eighteen; the same way he did when he was thirteen, begging you to wish him luck on his basketball match; the same way he did when you were eight, after you scraped your knees in the playground from a foul play.

“And because you’re a beta, you’re not affected by our pheromones.”

It’s a harmless reminder of your subgender, but it stings nonetheless. You give the receptionist a tight smile, hoping it doesn’t show the resentment you feel towards the flawed system, hoping the cracks from your own heart didn’t make its way into the lines of your mouth.

At first, you thought you were an anomaly to the system.

The doubt was inevitable when Riki presented at the ripe age of eighteen, and pretty much so did everybody else. You remember how lonely the classes were when Riki had to take two weeks off, and then the girl who sat in front of you did the same, and then the class president did so too, until there were only seven of you remaining in the class.

The appropriate age range to present is from sixteen to nineteen years old, but the most common one is definitely eighteen. So you told yourself to be patient and wait for your turn; that it might be you next day.

Then you hoped it’d be you next month.

Then you prayed it’d be you next year.

Then you wished the system never existed at all .

Because after three years, with you now turning twenty-one, the presentation never came. You told yourself it’s fine, it doesn’t exclude you from society because it just simply means that you’re a beta, right? Beta belongs to the subgenders too. But it’s hard to ignore the nagging voice of insecurity somewhere in your mind that keeps telling you how wrong everything is. It’s hard to ignore the changes when the changes happened so fast and so blatantly obvious—like the way Riki’s voice turned deeper, the way he grew into everything that an alpha is meant to be.

While you remained the same.

The poison seals its roots when you’re reminded of your family genetics—where every female of your bloodline was born an omega, someone who’s meant to be with an alpha, someone with a sweet and supposedly-alluring scent that you never get a whiff of. You feel like a tossed-aside rug, a forgotten scene from a movie. Hell, you even feel like an unknown city that keeps getting skipped in every world tour of your favourite boyband. 

Excluded, out of place, and awkward. Like a piece of puzzle that doesn’t belong. Like a wrong digit in an equation, where the existence of you brings a decimal-answer when people are looking for a whole number.

So with a reluctant resignation, one that you wished would never come, you accept your fate that you’re not an anomaly—you’re just normal. You’re just a beta. 

You’re just…not meant to be with Riki.

Perhaps you can try finding a beta that could fill the spot that Riki has. Jake Sim from chemical engineering is also a beta, and he is every bit a gorgeous man. But every time you attempt to look for someone else, someone who’s not over six feet tall, someone who’s not Japanese with features you memorise by heart—you feel your stomach sink with the urge to cry and throw up.

You want Riki. You only yearn for Riki, and it tears you apart that he is everything you want but can’t have.

It’s only morning, and you are already tormenting yourself with the thoughts of your unrequited love, your secret crush, your Nishimura Riki, Riki, Riki. You slump on the desk with a sigh, the lecturer’s high-pitched voice now a faraway island in your mind, earning a low chuckle from Jungwon, another alpha that you befriended on your first day here.

“You okay, Y/N?” 

You muffle a small ‘yeah’ and lift your head to face him, the action making you dizzy. You frown. “Just…a bit hungry. I skipped breakfast.”

Jungwon leans closer, lunch invitation heavy on his tongue, but stops mid-way. His nose scrunches, sniffing the air around you like a bunny.

“Uh, did you wear a new perfume?”

“What?” Sitting straight, you mimic his action and start smelling your clothes. “I don’t?”

Jungwon shifts in his seat, taking another whiff from the space around your neck before leaning back, a glint of amusement and curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Well, you smell different. In a good way.”

“That’s because I wear Chanel number 5, duh,”  you say matter-of-factly, rolling your eyes to emphasise. Jungwon shakes his head.

“It’s not Chanel,” he moves closer again, and this time you actually retreat back from the sudden proximity. “You smell faintly like caramel. Like freshly baked cookies.”

“Okay, now you’re being creepy. I don’t smell like a bakery.”

Jungwon looks skeptical, watching you with that cat eyes of his, appearing contemplative and deep in thought before he shrugs and finally gives you some space. You breathe out in relief.

“Mhm. It’s about time you had a scent. Though yours is way too sweet for a beta.”

Your body seizes before your mind can catch up, every bone locking in place as you register his words. When you speak, your voice sounds foreign, even to you.

“I’m supposed to…have a scent?”

Jungwon tilts his head, not expecting that question from you. “Yeah? Everyone with a subgender should have one and can smell one. Can’t you smell me?”

No. The word is trapped behind your teeths, afraid to go out in fear of solidifying the truth that you were what you initially thought: an anomaly. Gulping down your nerves, you pretend to focus back on the lessons, though your lecturer’s voice is already drowned out by the loud thumping behind your ribs. 

Jungwon doesn’t buy it, though. That alpha is eyeing you, trying to catch even a tiny telltale of your true emotions.

You settle for a lie. “‘Course I can. You smell disgusting.”

That gets him to react. “Hey! I smell second best to Riki’s pheromones, for your information.” Jungwon gasps, scandalised, and kicks your legs under the table. You suck in a breath, your mind zeroing on the small fragment of his statement: Riki’s pheromones.

You leave the hall an hour later with your brain a whirlwind of panic and unanswered questions, of how much you regret not paying attention to any of your omegaverse classes, of how different you are—again—from the rest of the world, but now with a painful addition that you are also different from a normal beta, and of how Nishimura Riki is allegedly the best-smelling alpha of the century. 

The last thought is the loudest, if it’s not already obvious. But your insecurity seems relentless this time, because every time your brain wanders to how good Riki might smell like, it brings you back to the cold, harsh reality of your dysfunctioning senses. And that’s enough to push you off the edge.

The one-hour lecture was spent with you letting the weight of Jungwon’s words pressing into your mind. The concept of scent and subgenders aren’t foreign; not to everybody else but you. You know that alphas and omegas have a certain smell that tells each other apart. But you never knew that betas have one too.

Or they actually do. And it’s you who have none.

Fuck, why did you only sleep in those omegaverse classes in high school?

The distant voice of your omegaverse teacher nags at the back of your mind as you round the corner towards the library, forcing yourself to commit to another group discussion before you can retire and hide in your room after, but are blessed—or cursed—to see Riki instead. Your breath hitches, your steps halt.

The tall man is leaning against the wall with a laidback posture, one hand in the pocket of his sweats, scrolling his phone with a neutral boredom. Then, as if sensing your presence, he lifts his gaze, and lights up. 

Fuck him, honestly, in every literal and figurative way possible.

He always lights up every time he sees you, and you hate how much meaning it gives you. Like you’re the only sun in his dark universe; like you’re the only water in the middle of the desert when it probably means nothing to him.

“Y/N, c’mere!”

You force a relaxed posture and a small smile as you walk towards him. And then, without warning, Jungwon’s earlier words invade your mind again, and now your whole focus narrows down to the thoughts of the pheromones of the alpha standing in front of you, and the cruelty of your anatomy to decide that you don’t deserve to smell him.

Riki frowns when you get closer, noticing your slightly pale complexion. One of his arms hover, ready to pull you closer like usual. “You good? Did you see a ghost?”

And this time, you let him tug you, pulling you in like a strong whirlpool in the ocean and you are nothing more than a helpless boat, and you almost swore that you heard Riki sniff you. At the chance of standing in such close proximity with him, you dare yourself to nose the collar of his hoodie, inhaling his scent, dreading the nothingness that might come from it.

You hum, surprising even yourself when you can actually smell him. Clean musk, cedar, and sandalwood. He smells homey. But why couldn’t you smell this before? 

“You smell good. Is this your perfume?”

Riki laughs, though there is an edge to it .”What are you doing?”

Ignoring his question, you take a step closer, nosing at the fabric with newfound determination, unaware of the now-rigid posture of your best friend. Riki pushes your shoulders when you shift closer, holding you an arm’s length away from him in a swift motion. You blink, taken aback from the sudden shove, and scrunches your nose when you sense a spike in his scent.

You frown—your senses were never this sensitive.

Riki lets out a small chuckle after a moment of silence—and you can’t help but hear the faint tremble in it—then ruffles your hair. 

“That’s my pheromones, idiot, you know I don’t like wearing cologne. Did you just notice it now?”

Ah. His pheromones. 

So you can finally smell him.

You pause for a heartbeat before smiling. So I’m a normal beta, you think, feeling the relief washes over you, I can smell other people’s scents too. It might be a bit too late to notice these changes, but you’ll take anything that doesn’t label you as the exception to the system. Anything to fit in, anything that doesn’t point you towards the other end of society alone.

“With all that sweat you reek of? Yeah, I just noticed it now.” You retort, throwing him a teasing smile, stepping closer again to nudge his ribs like you always do. 

This time, the sharp inhale that Riki takes is unmistakable. He takes a hold of your wrist and brings it to his nose, sniffing at it like another bunny that reminds you so much of Jungwon just an hour ago.

“You smell…different,” Riki takes another whiff, “did you get too close to an omega?”

Your eyebrows knit. “No, that’s my scent.”

Riki’s expression mirrors yours. “But you never had a scent before.”

“I know, Jungwon also said it’s about time that I had a scent.”

“Jungwon?” Riki echoes, his voice clipped. “You let Jungwon scent you?”

You blink, mouth opening and closing at the sound of his sudden grim voice. “I—No? He didn’t scent me,” you don’t know where this feeling comes from, but the thought of Riki thinking that you were with another man, of upsetting him, makes your stomach drop. “He just sat too close just now. And he smelled me.”

You wince at how wrong it sounded.

Nothing else is spoken between the two of you, save for the distant chatter of passersby and the occasional sound of the library door opening and closing, letting people in and sending them out. You crane your neck to your silent best friend, his clenched jaw catching the hallway lights as he gathers his thoughts.

You’re about to say something to break the silence, but another deep voice calls out to Riki. You peek at his shoulders and see two of his basketball teammates—Heeseung and Jay—calling at him from behind. They wave when they notice your presence, and you wave back once before Riki moves to block your sight.

“I have practice until late. Don’t wait for me,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes are heavy with something unsaid, giving you a gaze that sends shivers down your spine, slightly concealed by the fringes of his dark hair. You nod wordlessly, squeeze his arms goodbye, and watch him jog up to his friends, your mind a mess of everything that has just unfolded.

The day follows you home and into the evening shower, and the thoughts of your newly-discovered developed senses, of Riki, only stops when you put on your pajamas. Your favourite Kuromi set of wool pajamas, the one Riki bought from his last visit to Japan, suddenly sits wrongly on your skin.

It’s itchy and very uncomfortable, which is not what you felt when you wore it last week.

“What the fuck,” you curse, discarding the clothes in an instant. Standing half naked in your own bedroom, you inspect the fabric like a microscope to a cell sample. The fabric feels strange to your touch; it prickles like tiny needles that poke at your skin in an unsettling way. You drop the pajamas on your bed and start looking for another set to wear.

To your frustration, every piece of clothing that you touch doesn’t feel right. Too rough. Too itchy. Too irritating. It only stops when you find your long-forgotten satin nightwear—the one you shoved to the darkest corner of your wardrobe because of how tight it had become. You exhale, the exhaustion from the day pressing on your bones like a wet blanket, slipping on the only fabric that doesn’t feel like sandpaper on skin despite how tight it hugs your body despite yourself.

That night, you drift off to sleep and dream of a certain alpha with the most alluring pheromones, whispering secrets and oaths in messy sheets and slicked, tangled limbs.

The next morning, you wake up with a pulsing pain in your hips and lower abdomen. A groan escapes your lips as you search for your phone, checking the menstrual tracker with your eyes half-open. You are still two weeks away from the next cycle, but the pain is, if not more, merciless and unforgiving as ever. 

But deadlines and tests chase you even in your sleep, so you brave up and force yourself to campus, all pained limbs and sweaty forehead. The painkillers work nothing to numb the pain, and you don’t want to risk going into the ER to swallow another one. So you endure. Or at least, you try to.

“Good morning, Y/N,” comes Jungwon, sharing yet another class with you. But his voice is loud, too loud for the morning to be good, so you snap at him before you can stop it.

“Can you lower your voice? You’re too loud.”

Jungwon stuns into a silence, gaping at you with his mouth hanging open before a flash of annoyances crosses his face. “Dude, I talk normally? What’s so loud about me?”

“You’re being loud now.”

Jungwon throws his hands in the air and plops down with a huff, pursing his lips in protest and refusing to speak to you for the rest of the lecture in an act of tantrum. You don’t say anything either, too occupied with your own thoughts, too irritated by the sounds of pens gliding across papers, too itched by the blouse you’re wearing, to care. At the first sign of the class ending, you bolt out of the class, leaving behind Jungwon and his unheard complaints about how sensitive and snappy you have been.

Sensitive. You’re sensitive all over your body, your senses suddenly reaching a new level of concentration that makes everything feel unbearable and irritating. You ditch the next class and go home, grab a new set of pads on your way, send a ‘sorry’ text to Riki’s lunch invitation, and sleep the day away in silk and satin. You dream of Riki again, of how safe you feel in his arms, of how much you like it whenever he towers over you with his height. You toss and turn all night, then wake up more tired than before when the first sunlight hits.

Weary and exhausted than ever, you groan as the aching in your body returns, and, perhaps amplifies, like something inside you is shifting. Like someone is renovating your organs and rearranging everything into a new layout, into a new system you’re too afraid to find out.

“Fuck,” you peel off every layer of your clothing and make home in your bath tub, basking in the warmth of the running water. Your muscles finally relax, and for the past two days of your pre-menstrual symptoms, soaking in hot water seems to be the only thing that helps. Only a soak and an odorless soap, though—because recently, your favourite sakura blossom-scented body wash has smelled too acidic for you.

When you’re done, you walk out to your roommate, Wonyoung, sitting on your bed with a stack of clothes neatly placed by her thighs. She looks at you with a scrunched nose, wearing an expression akin to concern. You greet her with a small, tired smile.

“Hey, Y/N. I brought my cotton clothes for you, but are you sure you’re okay?” She stands up and walks closer to you, touching your arms gently. “You don’t look good. And your scent…you’re distressed, Y/N. You need a familiar scent to feel better.”

You give her another dry smile. “I’m okay. Just PMS-ing.”

Wonyoung looks at you like she wants to say something but holds back. She rubs a circle into your arms, and for the first time ever, you can smell her—a soft, gentle scent of jasmine and warm milk, like a milk tea you get from a Chinese store. You sigh and unknowingly lean into the omega’s touch.

“Go to the doctor if it gets worse, Y/N,” Wonyoung urges you with a worry-laced voice. You hum and nod absentmindedly, not registering her words fully until she adds, “I think this is something more than PMS.”

Your stomach churns at her words, feeling the uneasiness crawl its way back into your spine. You wave a dismissive hand at her, attempting to look fine when you’re everything but. “I’ll get better after a nap, I promise.”

Wonyoung purses her lips, then nods. With a few words of comfort, she leaves your room, throwing one last look of worry before the door shuts with a click. You grab one of her cotton pajamas, feeling the smooth fabric with a content sigh and slip it on.

The buzz from your phone cuts your train of thoughts. Your heart leaps at the sight of Riki’s name blaring on the screen, hands scrambling to pick it up on the third ring.

“Y/N?” Riki’s deep timbre greets your ears, and you feel the hair rise in your skin. “Hey, where have you been? Jungwon told me you skipped classes today.”

Gosh, how you missed his voice. Overlapping schedules, his tournament preparations, and your aching body have become the reason for your lack of Nishimura Riki for the past three days. Hearing his voice now tugs something at your heart, like you need to see him now. Like you need to hold him now.

“Y/N?”

“Hey, Ki. I’m fine. Just a bit sore here and there, but it’s all good now,” you lie, because the last thing you want is for Riki to get worried about you and distracted from his practice. He can be a worrywart when he wants to be. 

“You sure? Then do you wanna watch my practice now?” he suggests, letting a heartbeat of silence settle between the both of you before he says again, this time with a quieter, almost-shy voice. “I kinda miss your nosy ass.”

That gets a laugh out of you. You, in fact, miss him a lot too. “Glad to know it’s mutual. But what do I get? It’s too cold for me outside.” It’s not even winter yet, but your current condition has been acting like it. You shiver just thinking about stepping out of the comfort of your warm apartment.

“I’ll treat you to some steak after, your highness. And don’t be silly, I have my hoodie with me now.”

Something unknown stirs inside of you at the mention of his hoodie. It’s like something asleep is finally waking up, and your head is dizzy with the thought of his hoodie, his scent, his presence, him, him, him. You hum as a reply, already reaching out to one of Wonyoung’s cotton blouses.

And that reminds you: “It better be cotton, Ki.”

The basketball court doesn’t change from the last time you stepped foot on it, which already feels like years ago with everything that went down between you and your body. Your gaze sweeps over two groups of male players stretching and warming up, looking for a certain dark-haired man. But you stop in your tracks when your nose senses something.

The court smells…weird. You can’t exactly pinpoint what produces that smell, but the source is apparent: it comes from those athletes scattered around the court. You inhale one more time and immediately feel your chest tightens, the urge to turn around and leave suddenly hits you like a truck.

Too lost in your own thoughts, you barely notice the shadow that suddenly looms over your figure until that person speaks.

“Y/N, right?”

You look up and instantly recognise him. Park Jongseong, or Jay, one of Riki’s closest friends from his ‘only-boys’ friend group. You give him a polite nod, noting his still-dry jersey and slightly messy hair. 

“Yes, that’s me.”

Jay’s lips curve into a boyish smile at that, and if it’s not for your huge, pathetic crush on Riki, you’d certainly let yourself fall for the handsome boy in front of you. “Riki’s gone to the locker room for a moment to grab something. Why don’t you sit at the bench first? We are about to start the friendly match soon.”

You agree without thinking, drifting further into the court like it’s routine. You’re a familiar face to them—the beta friend of Riki who always sits in the bleachers to watch him stretch and practice. You settle down on the bench at the furthest corner of the court, away from the buzz of alpha players and the smell that is getting pungent by the second, and closer to one of the goal hoops. Jay has gone to leave for a moment, but returns seconds later with a bottle of mineral water, condensed and wet.

“Have a drink first. He should be back soon.”

You receive it with a grateful smile. Riki always mentions how gentleman Jay is, especially towards the ladies. “Thank—”

“Yo, I already got her water.”

Riki strides in your direction, his voice playful but his expression hardens. He shoves Jay to the side, snatches the bottle given by him from your hand, and replaces it with another one. This time, the water bottle is still cold and wet from condensation, but is now wrapped by a few layers of tissues, just the way you like it. “Drink this instead.”

You beam at him. “Thanks, Riki.”

Beside him, Jay scoffs exaggeratedly. “I can’t believe you. Did it look like I was poisoning her?”

Riki doesn’t cast him a glance, his hands fast to untwist the bottle cap for you before you do, and miss the way heat makes its way on your cheeks. “You grabbed the wrong bottle.”

“Dude, they’re literally the same!”

“But did yours have tissues around it?” Riki shoots a brow up, and that makes Jay close his mouth. “Exactly. Now get lost, hyung.”

“Kids these days,” Jay mutters under his breath. He throws you another small smile before walking away with his rejected—or rather, discarded by Riki—mineral water. There is a triumphant smile on the younger’s face before he looks back at you already staring up at him.

Fuck, you probably look lovestruck. But you don’t find it in yourself to care in that moment.

Riki returns your gaze, his eyes trailing across your face before he ruffles your hair playfully. A giggle escapes your lips, trying to smack his hands away but Riki is always stronger than you. And that realisation makes something warm pool inside your belly.

“Is it still cold for you?” he asks, voice lowered and sounding almost intimate. You nod, willing yourself not to grin too wide when he drops his hoodie in your lap. It’s grey, bigger than your frame, and every inch of it smells like him. Like your Riki. “Wear this.”

The tension rolls off your body when you put it on, breathing in a lungful of his clean musk and sandalwood scent discreetly as Riki takes a seat beside you, his thigh brushing yours. For the first time in three days, the unknown force that’s been keeping you on edge quiets down, your chest lightens and your heart hums in contentment.

Safe. You feel safe. Riki has always been your safe space. But this time, you feel like you belong. Protected. You feel like you’ve been carrying the missing piece your whole life, and now it’s finally here.

“Better?” Riki muses from your side, watching you with an unreadable gaze, taking in the sight of your figure practically drowned in his way bigger hoodie. His jaw clenches, fingers twitching slightly before he forces his eyes back on you.

“Yes. Thank God it’s cotton, Ki,” you joke. Riki rolls his eyes. 

“You know I only wear cotton.”

“Nishimura Riki!”

From the center of the court, Lee Heeseung, the senior you know to be the team captain, calls for your best friend. He groans, shouting back a ‘coming!’ before glancing back at you.

“Just a few rounds of friendly match then I’m all yours, okay?”

Your heart stutters at that. Then, subtle like it’s meant to be a secret, you notice the way Riki freezes, his nose scrunching slightly at something he senses. When his eyes snap back to you, they’re darker now, heated and heavy with something he won’t say. The short exchange renders you breathless, your voice barely audible when you finally speak. 

“Yes. Okay.”

Riki lets his eyes linger on you for a moment before he nods. The warmth of his presence is instantly replaced with silence and coldness when he leaves to begin the match, and your heart deflates at his retreating figure. You grip the bench until knuckle-white, taking a deep breath to soothe your wailing heart, chest suddenly yearning for him to sit back on the bench with you.

“Get a fucking grip, Y/N,” you grit, head dizzy from Riki’s pheromones but your stomach is churning for no apparent reasons. “What the fuck is wrong with you lately?”

You decide to hyperfocus on the match commencing on the court to distract yourself from the confusing yet so consuming feelings that your mind and body have been going through lately. And it works for a while. You almost forgot how attractive Riki looks like when he’s on the court.

As if the universe had chosen him as the new gravity, every fibre of your being is drawn to him and him only. Your eyes follow his figure like a north-end of the magnet to the south, practically documenting his movement like a rolling camera. Riki moves like he dances; smooth and fluid, his reflexes against his opponent are faster than a venus flytrap. His boxy smile graces his features with every goal into the hoops, and you can’t help but let your heart flutter every time his eyes find yours with every point he scores.

You’re in love with Nishimura Riki. Your body knows it, your heart is no old news bearer to this. Heck, you think even your mom and Wonyoung know about this. Everyone does, except the person you love. Except Riki himself.

Loving him is so easy that it scares you sometimes. The hoodie presses on your skin like a symbol of his caring nature and a reminder of his platonic affection altogether.

You let yourself enjoy the match, the squeaking of sneakers against the floor becoming background noises. It’s a steady and peaceful match, or so you thought—until they start shouting. 

It’s a friendly match, but an alpha's nature of competitiveness knows no boundaries. Your eyes flick to the scoreboard, the gap between the teams decreasing with each goal.

“Get your shit together, Taesan!” Heeseung barks at someone near the hoop, posture stiff,  his booming voice makes your stomach twist. Soon, the air is condensed with adrenaline and rivalry, and before you know it, the palpable tension has already made its way into your head.

Your instincts kick-start at the heavy atmosphere, your nose twitching at the overwhelming pheromones that you sense. You gasp, the pain in your hips and abdomen resurfacing again, and this time you actually feel something shift inside. Your eyes widen in horror.

“Oh my God,” you clutch at the bench in desperation when you feel yourself falling. The floor catches you in a soft thud. 

Somewhere in the distance, Heeseung shouts at a mistake the second time, leaving your nerves more restless than before. Your vision blurs, ears ringing with a pitch that is nearly splitting your head open.

The pain, the cramps—they stab deeper, they pulse harder, they scream at you that nothing about this is related to your menstruation. You groan in pain. The pheromones spiking in the air are pressing into your lungs, making every exhale of oxygen a struggle, your head spinning like a planet losing its orbit. Somewhere at the centre of the court, everybody freezes, the ball bouncing away with no one to claim.

Heeseung halts mid-shout. “What the fuck,” he physically recoils at the scent wafting in the air, his nose wrinkling violently, “there’s an omega here?!”

The room holds its breath with him, with you, before heads snap in your direction. 

There, on the floor, you’re crouched down, noises of pain leaving your lips in breathless whispers. Your body is dotted with sweat, your temperature rising with each passing second, eyes wide and glassy. Oh God. Oh God. You clutch your stomach with a pained groan. What is happening to me?

It takes an alpha staggering towards you and a growl for all hells to break loose. Shouts come from every direction, Jay having to physically restrain one of their players from jumping on you. And among the chaos, there is one figure who stands still, a statue of anxiety and a pounding heart as his eyes locked on the outline of your body in his hoodie.

Another wail of pain leaves your lips and Riki finally snaps out of his trance. Without thinking, he’s already running towards you, snarling at another player who’s stepping in your direction and shoving him away with no care to the aftermath. 

He drops to his knees, angling his body to shield you from the raging alphas behind him. His hands hover, not knowing where to touch or if he should touch you at all.

“Y/N? Y/N, oh my God—what—” Riki chokes on the intense scent oozing from your neck, forcing restrain into his mind and body. His jaw clenches when he sees how pale you are, panic mixing with a strange desire to mark you. To claim you. He shakes his head.

“Riki,” you breathe out, rasp and breathless, shivering from the cold despite your warm body. “It hurts. It hurts…”

Riki’s breath stutters at his name on your lips. It does something violent to his chest, like his ribs are caving in around his heart.

“I know,” he says, voice hoarse, forcing it low despite the way his throat wants to tear itself open. He wraps the hoodie tighter around you, hands finally finding purchase at your arms, your waist—grounding, anchoring. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You’re not. He knows that. He smells it—sharp, sweet, wrong. Too much for this place. Too much for you.

“Everyone back the fuck up,” Riki snarls over his shoulder, teeth clenched as another alpha so much as shifts closer. The sound doesn’t even feel like it comes from him; it’s deeper, rougher, edged with something feral that makes the surrounding players freeze mid-step.

Heeseung recovers first. “Clear the court. Now,” he barks, authority snapping through the haze. “Jay—help me.”

Jay’s already there, shoving bodies away, creating space with his broad frame. “Move. All of you. Unless you wanna get decked.”

Riki barely registers them. His world has narrowed to you—the way you’re trembling, the way your fingers fist weakly into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

“It hurts,” you whimper again, forehead dropping against his chest. “Riki, it—”

“I know,” he repeats, softer now, forehead pressing briefly to your hair. His hands shake despite himself. “Don’t talk. Just—just breathe with me, okay? Look at me.”

Your unfocused eyes struggle to lift, but when they do and land on him, something in his chest breaks.

That’s it.

Decision made, instincts roaring.

“I’m taking her,” Riki says, already scooping you up carefully, one arm under your knees, the other braced tight around your back. “Someone call an ambulance. Now.”

No one argues.

As he carries you out of the court, ignoring the burning stares and the lingering pheromones that scrape at his skin, one thought pounds through his head, loud and unrelenting:

I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.

Riki likes to think that he knows you best.

You have been a constant in his life. Someone less than a companion, more like a feature infused in his system. The vital foundation. Someone that brings out the sides of him that he refuses to show others.

Fifteen years ago, when his family first moved to South Korea, Riki had already expected a dull, boring life. A six-year-old with every knowledge of Japanese but none of Korean, Riki initially thought that his parents were set on making him a loner.

But then came you. Knocking on his door with that small, soft fist of yours, hiding behind your mom’s legs the way he hid behind his mom’s. The both of you shyly looked at each other, listening to your mothers promising friendship and comfort in language that Riki was yet to understand.

Ever since that day, Riki found his life in a foreign country becoming bearable. Bearable, because his next-door neighbour is also his seatmate at school. You have always been the smarter one between the two of you, diligently teaching him how to read, to write, to speak in Korean, with a childlike patience that only someone like you could have. 

Bearable, because his next-door neighbour was also a fierce kid, telling other kids off when they made fun of Riki’s accent. You were small, smaller than him, even, but the fire in your eyes when someone spoke badly of him made you seem bigger than the whole sky.

Bearable, because somewhere along the way; between nights of sneaking out and going home scolded, between every basketball match where your voice always sounded the loudest, between every petty fight and shared laughter during study sessions; Riki finally realised the way you have made home in his heart. 

The way his eyes find your smile first in every joke. The way he looks for your presence before every game, and every time he scores. The way his heart aches with you when you fall sick, wanting the pain to consume himself instead of you.

Nishimura Riki is in love with you. The world seems to know it—except you.

Riki indulged in it, acknowledged it with his heart and arms open, until the day of his alpha presentation came. It was the first time in his life being away from you, separated from your warmth and presence. He spent restless nights dreaming of you, his instincts flaring at him to run and barge into the house next door. 

The same way it does to him now.

Riki likes to think he knows you best, and that includes knowing that you’re a beta—a medical statement that broke his heart when he first found out about it because his mom is so adamant that he mates with an omega.

But now, as he stares at the text sent by your sister, Riki feels like everything he used to know about you dissipates, becoming the very air he inhales that makes his chest feel tighter and limbs heavier. It takes everything in him not to knock on your parents’ house, to force his way in, and cradle you in his arms the way his wolf tells him to.

future sister-in-law

y/n’s presenting as an omega

Two weeks went by in a blur. You drifted in and out of consciousness, your mom and your sister being the only thing you could remember from your fragmented memory. One time you were in the hospital. The next time you opened your eyes, you were back in your childhood room. Your body ached all over; it felt like your bones were shifting into a new spine. 

When the daze of anesthetics finally wears off, a new day has already begun.

And you discover the earth-shattering truth with a shudder. It’s not only the day that’s new.

You’re also, apparently, new.

An omega. You’re now an omega.

“A late presentation, though rare, can happen, and your daughter is one of the chosen ones.”

You don’t know how to make of it. You just nod along, thoughts scattered everywhere, nose catching up scents that weren’t there before—or they’ve always been, but your senses only allow you to detect them now. The blooming rose, fresh rain scent of your mom. The citrusy pheromone of the alpha-doctor sitting in front of you. You have come for another check-up, a detailed medical explanation that your doctor has insisted you to listen to when you’re finally stable.

Your chest tightens as the scents sharpen—and you suddenly understand why your family always looked at you like you were missing something.

It settles wrongly on your chest, like a frame hung in a crooked angle. You’ve been wanting this your whole life—to be able to detect scents, to not feel excluded from the women of your family, to have a chance at love with Riki. 

It’s not that you hate it. You just don’t know what to do with it yet.

“But that also means that you’re quite fragile for now until your first heat cycle comes,” the doctor speaks again, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gives you a reassuring smile, as if noticing your unfocused self. “And from the test results, it should come in very near time. Perhaps a week or two from now.” 

“So soon?” Your mom sits straighter in her seat, leaning closer to peek at whatever medical result on the paper he’s holding. The doctor nods.

“This can only happen to late-presenting omegas. And since her body had developed way past its due age, it can be very dangerous if she spent it alone. She needs an alpha for her first heat cycle.”

That, finally, grabs your attention. Your body stills, the words hanging in the air like guillotine waiting to fall.

“An alpha?” you repeat, sounding disbelieving. The doctor confirms with a hum.

“Yes, a familiar alpha. Based on the examination, it seems that your presentation was triggered by overwhelming and heavy pheromones of agitated alphas. I was informed that you were watching a basketball match before you fainted, correct?” You nod, failing to find your voice to answer. “Omegas are very responsive towards alphas pheromones, especially when those alphas are running on adrenaline and being very competitive.”

Oh. You recall the way Heeseung’s loud voice shook you to your core, finally finding an explanation to the way your body reacted. You shift in your seat, suddenly too aware of your surroundings.

“And to tie it back to your heat cycle, Y/N, are you close with any of those alphas?”

The guillotine finally falls, cutting your oxygen like a cruel punishment meant to kill. You visibly stiffen, a certain face flashing in your mind like a broken record.

It’s your mom who speaks first. “Yes, she is close with Nishimura Riki. He was at the court with her.”

A small smile grazes the doctor’s lips. “Then that may be the safest option. Perhaps he can help with your daughter’s heat, seeing as she has no exclusive partner now.”

The doctor’s words keep looping in your head like a tape stuck on repeat—an alpha…a familiar alpha…

And somehow, you end up outside the locker room, waiting.

Waiting for the one person who has always been your anchor, whether you deserved him or not.

Nishimura Riki.

He steps out of the locker room with his usual lazy confidence, but there is a tension in his shoulders now. His hair is damp from a post-game shower, curly and messy, framing his eyes like velvet curtains. As if he was a radar specialised to sense you, his nose twitches, and then his head snaps in your direction.

There is a brieft silence between the two of you. You raise your hand and wave, and that’s all it takes for Riki to stride towards you with long steps. He drops his bag on the floor, not caring where it lands, and pulls you into his arms.

“Riki—” Your greetings die in your throats, muffled by the soft fabric of his hoodie as he tightens his hold. His palm, big and warm, cradles the back of your head in a firm yet gentle grip. You relax into his embrace, clutching at his hoodie, feeling grounded in his scent. He smells like soap and his own pheromones, and in the quiet, familiar warmth of being engulfed by Riki, you silently admit that your best friend does smell the best.

“God, Y/N,” he whispers, breath fanning the shell of your ears, making your skin tingles, “do you want me to die from worry? No replies, no call back. God.”

Your lips curve into a small smile before you break the embrace, putting a distance between the two of you to look at his face. His handsome, pretty face that you’ve missed so much.

“I’m sorry, Ki. Things were pretty rough.”

Riki doesn’t say anything. His eyes, heavy with care and unspoken desire, rake over your features before he slowly nods.

“I know. I’ve been through it too. How are you now?”

You bite your bottom lip, letting yourself indulge in his caring nature. “I’m good now. A whole lot different, but good.”

Riki’s face relaxes into a relief before he slings an arm around your neck again, his habit that you’re used to now. “Great. Now let me treat you to that steak place, you can’t say no—”

“No, Riki.” You cut him off, and that stops him in his tracks. Riki looks at you in confusion when you detach yourself from him, putting his arm back to his side. You throw the locker room a nervous glance, before looking back at him.

“There’s something…I must tell you.”

Riki’s scent spikes. You feel it like a soft punch in your chest. 

“What is it?” he asks, voice too low, like he’s scared of what’s to come.

“I…you know I’m a late-presenting omega, right? The doctor says that I’m quite unstable now,” you swallow, fiddling with the edge of your sweater. The words are heavy on your tongue, like lead pressing on a mattress. 

 “My heat will come in a week, and…and I must spend it with an alpha to regulate myself back.”

Riki doesn’t move, and so do you. And in that moment, you feel it. The impending consequences that come from telling him the truth. But between losing a friendship with Riki, being denied from his company that’s caused by your unrequited love, and letting yourself into another person’s life, forever yearning for Riki but still remains his friend; you’ll always choose the latter.

Because you’ll have him, as whoever he is; as your friend, your unrequited love, your crush—than a stranger.

“Y/N—”

“I need Jay to be that alpha.”

His eyes darken. “What?” Riki tries to keep it calm, but his voice is low and tight. “What do you mean, Jay?”

You take a deep breath, suddenly feeling the walls too close to your skin. Across from you, Riki is staring with a sharp, heavy gaze, his eyes pleading for an explanation.

He takes a step closer. “Why Jay?”

“I—I mean, you always told me that Jay is a gentleman. And if you trust him so much, then I think…” your voice trails off when Riki takes another step, but you’re determined to stay rooted in your place. 

“You think you can trust him just because I do?” He continues for you, his voice now an octave lower. You swallow.

“Not just because you trust him,” you say, voice shaky. “Because… because he’s the only one I know who won’t take advantage of me.”

Riki’s jaw tightens. His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to bite the words out of you.

“You think I would?” he snaps, then immediately regrets the sharpness in his tone.

His expression changes. Softer now, but still intense.

“I would never—”

You shake your head, too quickly. “No, Riki. That’s not what I mean. It’s just—” Your breath hitches, and your voice breaks. “You’re my best friend. I—We can’t. Best friends don’t do that.”

The words hit him like a strong wave, and it might as well be true from the way he falters in his stance slightly. You feel his distress before you smell it; burnt sandalwood and bitter musk, a telltale sign of his emotions. Your heart lurches in your throat, begging you to embrace and comfort the alpha in front of you.

But before you can do anything, Riki takes a step back first. He nods curtly, schooling his expression despite his scent. 

Then he speaks, voice low and clipped, like he’s swallowing a scream.

“Yeah. Best friends don’t.”

“Riki—”

“I’ll ask Jay about it,” he says, his voice sounding distant. Your heart breaks. “He’s a gentleman. He’ll be willing to help you.”

Without waiting for your reply, Riki turns around. He snatches his bag off the floor, posture rigid and tense as he walks away, leaving you behind with guilt clawing at your throat. Your legs weaken, and before you know it, you are back on the bench, clutching at your heart and feeling like you have broken something you shouldn’t.

riki ducky

jay agreed

You stare at the text, the last and only text you received from Riki since that fateful day at the locker room. He’s been avoiding you like a plague, keeping distance, and ignoring your texts and calls like you’re a desperate ex. You sigh. 

“I just—I don’t want to ruin our friendship! He’s the only alpha I want, but—” you run a hand through your hair. Wonyoung is slouching on the other end of the couch, listening to you like an unpaid therapist. “But does he want me?”

Wonyoung licks her popsicle and throws you a knowing look. “In my opinion, Y/N—you just need to go to his apartment. Trust me on this.”

You groan. “I just asked you that question! We don’t even know if he wants me!”

“Oh my God,” Wonyoung rolls her eyes, kicking at your thigh from where she’s sitting. “You guys are so insufferable and dramatic. Just go before I deliver you to him myself.”

“I’m not a parcel!”

“Just go!”

So, with reluctance and doubt scratching at your skin, you drag your feet to Riki’s apartment. It has been five days since he talked to you, and with your heat approaching fast, with your pre-heat symptoms wearing at your bones like a curse, you’re not sure if it’s the right idea to do so. He might kick you out. He might not even answer. Either way, it’ll be less embarrassing with no witnesses because Riki lives alone.

Stupid rich Japanese kid.

To your surprise, the door opens after the first ring, revealing a disheveled, messy Riki. His hair is tousled, like it’s been run by his fingers way too many times. His tank top sits snugly on his body, slightly crumpled and damp from sweat. His eyes, usually bright and lively, are now sharp and dark. You blink at him, taking in his unkempt figure swallowing the doorway with his height, before you finally ask:

“Can I come in?”

Riki opens the door wider like an invitation, letting you pass the threshold before closing it shut with a click. He lets you toe off your shoes, lets you lead him into the living room, lets you admire his furniture arrangement—though right now the space is untidy with unfolded clothes and discarded socks—but says nothing.

The hush between the two of you stretches, until Riki decides to break it, his voice low and grim.

“Why are you here? You should be with Jay.” 

There is a hint of bitterness in his tone, and the spike in his scent just proves it further. You take a step towards him, careful and slow, waiting for his permission. When Riki doesn’t move, when he doesn’t stop you; you take another step.

“Riki,” you start, hands raising to touch his arms but dropping them back. Riki only stares. “What’s wrong, Riki? You’ve been avoiding me.”

Riki doesn’t answer right away, a storm behind his eyes as he only stares at you with a blank face. But the twitch in his jaw doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m not avoiding you,” he mutters, a barely restrained voice that tugs at your heart. “Just busy.”

“You’re not even replying to me,” you speak again, hearing the crack in your voice. Riki stiffens, his hands clenching into fists. “It—It hurts, Riki. I don’t know why you can’t just talk to me.”

Riki says nothing. His mouth is a prison, staring at you like he’s figuring how to breathe again. His scent reaches you—clean musk and sandalwood—only now it feels heavier, like the fragrance has been pulled down by the weight of his emotions. The sandalwood smells faintly burnt, and the musk has a dull edge, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

And you hate it. You hate it so much that he’s been keeping things to himself. In another desperate attempt to get him talking, you tug at his wrist, the skin warm under your touch, but you flinch when Riki snatches his hand away. Wide-eyed and caught off guard, you stare at him with your heart in your throat.

Riki takes a step back, his mouth curling into a tight line. “Don’t touch me. I—I can’t deal with this right now.”

There is a jab of pain in your heart at his words, but you’re not backing down. Not now when the only person that you’re scared to lose is showing signs of slipping away. Not now when the wolf inside you is whimpering, agitated from Riki’s actions.

You have an idea where this is all coming from. Truly, you aren’t that stupid to not notice his distance right after you requested to spend your heat with Jay. If you have to point in one direction, you’d say that Riki has been acting like a jealous boyfriend. Surprisingly, that speculation doesn’t bother you. 

It’s the why that’s drilling into your mind, pulling you away from a good night’s sleep everyday. It’s the why that’s invading your thoughts, fraying every nerve in your system, keeping you hostage to your own overthinking.

Because admitting them will give you hope—and hope is a dangerous thing when you’re in love. Especially when it’s one-sided. Especially when it’s just you on the boat, drowning like a locked chest into the abyss when your lifeline, your Riki is walking away from the shore.

So you try to brave up. “Please, Riki. Don’t shut me out,” you exhale shakily, the words lodging in your throat, “if this is about me and Jay, you should just tell me.”

That seems to hit a spot. Riki scoffs, weaving his fingers through his already-messy hair, sounding disbelieving. “What, you think I’m jealous?”

Your eyes narrow, pulse racing in your ears. “It does seem like it.”

Riki returns your gaze, clicking his tongue, the one habit he does when he’s annoyed. “Don’t push it, Y/N,” he doesn’t hesitate his next words, eyes locked onto yours like he wants you to digest and understand them. “You can fuck Jay if you want. I couldn’t fucking care less about you.”

The words land like a slap, but it’s Riki who flinches. He stares at you, eyes widening, realisation dawning upon his features. But it’s too late. 

Your scent takes a sharp turn, burnt caramel filling the air. You stagger one step backwards, and Riki’s heart lurches when he sees your glassy eyes.

You swallow. “I see.”

“No,” Riki whispers, his wolf wailing in regret at the sight of your anguished, crumbled face, “fuck, Y/N. I—I didn’t mean that.”

You shake your head, a small, humourless laugh slipping past your lips like something is breaking. And it’s probably your heart. It’s definitely your heart. “It’s okay,” you say, too calmly. Too gently. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Riki’s chest tightens at that. At how quiet you suddenly are.

You turn away from him, movements stiff, deliberate, like if you move too fast, you’ll shatter. Each step you take feels heavy, your body screaming for you to get out before you embarrass yourself further. Before he sees you cry.

“Y/N, wait!” Riki reaches out instinctively, fingers grazing nothing but air as you slip past him.

You don’t look back. You can’t. Your throat burns, your vision blurring as you make your way toward the door. The apartment feels suffocating now, walls closing in, every trace of his scent pressing down on your lungs.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry for hoping. Sorry for loving him. Sorry for thinking you meant more.

The click of the door unlocking sounds painfully loud in the silence.

“Y/N.”

His voice cracks this time. Not sharp. Not defensive. It’s bare.

You pause, hand resting on the handle, shoulders trembling despite your efforts to stay composed. Your scent curls tighter, darker—burnt sugar and salt, grief bleeding into the air.

“I can’t stay here,” you say softly. “Not if that’s how you feel.”

The door opens a fraction before Riki’s hand slams against it, stopping it from opening any further.

You gasp, startled, heart leaping into your throat as his palm presses flat against the wood beside yours. He’s breathing hard now, chest rising and falling like he’s been running after something he’s terrified to lose.

“I said I didn’t mean it,” he forces out, voice rough, desperate. “Don’t—don’t leave. Please.”

Slowly, you turn back to look at him.

Riki’s eyes are red-rimmed, frantic, his scent spiraling wildly—clean musk fractured, sandalwood raw and aching, like it’s been split open. He looks nothing like the composed alpha who pushed you away moments ago.

“I can’t let you walk out like this,” he says, quieter now, like a confession he’s been holding back for years. “Not because of something I said just to hurt you.”

His fingers curl against the door, knuckles white.

“Please,” Riki whispers. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Your lips tremble as the dam breaks. “Then why,” you sob, pushing at his chest weakly, “why would you say those things? Why would you push me away?”

Your hands feel useless against his broad body, like you’re trying to hold back a storm with nothing but your fingertips. Your breath comes out in ragged bursts, and you can’t stop the hot tears spilling down your cheeks. The air around you feels heavy, thick with the scent of him — sandalwood and something sharper, like his anger clinging to him even now.

“I know, I’m sorry, baby,” his voice is quiet, not at all budging from your soft hitting. It’s strange how calm he sounds when you feel like you’re breaking apart. He grabs your wrists, bringing them to his lips. His mouth is wet, trembling.

You pause.

His lips brush your skin again, a gentle pressure that feels almost reverent. It makes your heart twist, because you don’t know whether to feel comforted or crushed. You’re still shaking, still sobbing, still trying to understand how he could make you feel so safe and so hurt in the same breath.

“I care about you too much. So much that it drives me crazy.”

Riki finally looks up, his glassy eyes mirroring yours. The sandalwood now hangs bare in the air, stripped of any traces of pride. He looks smaller, like the weight of what he’s feeling is pressing him down.

“I’m so fucking jealous, Y/N. I—I can’t,” Riki swallows, closes his eyes in desperation, and then he drops.

He drops to his knees, and the sudden movement makes your breath hitch. His neck cranes to see you, like he needs to make sure you’re still there. His arms, pliant and strong, wrap themselves around your waist, pulling you in like you’re the only thing that keeps him from falling apart.

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest, fast and wild, matching your own. For a moment the world is just the two of you—his scent, his trembling breath, your tears—everything else fading until all that exists is the raw, aching truth between you.

Riki buries his nose into your stomach, the fabric dampens with his tears. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Y/N. Please, and this time I mean it, please don’t go to Jay.”

Your hands hover at your sides, not knowing where to place them. When you feel the muffled sob against your stomach, you finally let them drop into his hair, caressing the strands like you do a puppy. And right now, in this position and situation, Riki doesn’t seem less than one.

“Riki…” you whisper, soft and gentle.

“Please don’t go to Jay,” he pleads, looking up to you again, tears clinging to his lashes. Your heart clenches at the sight. “Please let me be your alpha. Please,” he confesses, gripping at your shirt like a lifeline.

“I only ever know to love you, Y/N,” he trembles like a dead leaf, his breath shaky, “And it kills me to even imagine you with someone that’s not me.”

Your lips part, your hands in his hair stilling.

I only ever know to love you, Y/N.

You don’t move at first. You think you don’t even breathe. You replay his words, re-reading the sentence in your mind as if scared the alphabets might rearrange themselves into something else—something that would call you out of your delusion.

But Riki, staring up at you earnestly, handing his heart over to you in his trembling palms, is not a delusion. He’s real. And he’s here, with you, saying words you only ever heard in your deepest fantasies.

You feel your shoulders sag a fraction, like something heavy just settled into place. 

“Riki, come here.” You tap slowly at his arms, willing yourself to hide your shaky voice. “You’ll hurt your knees, baby. Come here.”

“Come back to me.”

Riki obeys without thinking twice. His height towers over you, and when it used to feel like he’s as far to reach as he is physically from you; now it feels safe. It feels firm, grounded; a protection only he can give you. 

You cup his cheek, gazing into his eyes with a fondness you reserve only for him. The tears come back, but it’s not from pain anymore. There is a tinge of hurt still, from the words he carelessly threw to protect his pride. But his confession, your revelation, take priority now. It presses heavy on your tongue, begging to be let out, to escape from the misery of your unspoken feelings.

“Riki,” you start, almost breathless. “I love you, too.” 

Riki almost stops breathing, but you keep caressing his cheeks to remind him to. To remind him that it’s true. 

“I’ve always been. Even before I knew what it meant.”

Riki takes in a sharp breath before he lets himself lean into your touch. Pulling you into his arms, he buries his nose into your hair, inhaling lungfuls of your scent like a stray cat finally finding a home. You melt into his embrace, feeling every hard line of his body pressing into yours.

“I’m so sorry for feeling scared,” Riki whispers, still wet from tears, “I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You’re too precious to me, Y/N. I can’t risk that.”

You hum into his shoulders, taking in the way his scent becomes warmer, the sandalwood now is rid of its burnt edge. “I’m still hurt, but I get it. I was scared too, Ki. It’s the only reason why I asked for Jay.”

Apparently, Jay’s name serves as a trigger now. Riki breaks the hug and looks into your eyes, now dark with a desire waiting to be unleashed. He cups your jaw in a gentle manner, but the grip is firm.

“Will you let me take care of you?”

You nod, and when his face leans closer to yours, you let yourself get pulled in by the force of his affection; of the desire now curling and swirling in his eyes.

“Will you let me be your man?” he whispers, lips just a breath away from each other now. Riki noses your cheek with a tenderness akin to handling a glass. “Hm? Answer me, Y/N.”

Your breath hitches. “Yes, Riki. Please take care of me.”

Riki’s eyes soften as he stares into your eyes before he finally lets his lips engulf yours. The kiss starts slow at first, careful and tender and wet, tethering on the new boundaries made after a line has been crossed, before it gets heated and needy. 

Riki kisses like a starved man, like your mouth is a well of water to quench his thirst. His hands now wander; gripping at your waist, squeezing at your hip, feeling your body with his rough, calloused hands like he’s trying to memorise you by touch.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, his body pressing into yours. He breaks the kiss, breath now ragged, and stares at you with a new level of depth that makes something inside you flutter. Your eyes are glassy and dazed, and Riki curses at himself for letting himself get carried away.

“I’m so sorry. Is your heat near?”

When you nod, Riki moves slightly, but your hands are faster, clamping around his arms like a pair of cuffs. “Where are you going?” there is a pout in your voice, and Riki near damn coos. “You said you’ll take care of me.”

Riki’s jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides, a barely contained desire that he tries so hard to control. “I—I want to, Y/N, trust me. But this—” he gestures at the both of you, trying to create words from air, “this will change everything about us. We can’t stay as just friends after this. And that’s a big thing, Y/N.”

Riki licks his lips, eyes flicking to yours in a brief glance before he looks to the floor again.

“I don’t want you to make hasty decisions or regret anything.”

Your chest swells at that, and you couldn’t help the grin that splits across your face. Rubbing into his arms in soothing circles, you can’t keep the love and affection from bleeding into your voice when you speak.

“I won’t regret anything with you, Riki.” You pause, watching the man before you earnestly. God, he’s so handsome. You smile. “I want to do this with you, Ki. I choose you. And I’ll have you so long you want to have me, too.”

Riki doesn’t move. His eyes search yours, looking for the faintest hint of discomfort and lies. But when all he can see is your eyes reflecting his love, he finally lets the tension off his shoulders.

“Okay,” Riki nods, wetting his lips once more. “Okay. I—thank you for that, Y/N, truly. I was about to kidnap you if you said no.”

You laugh at that, eyes wrinkling in joy, the tension easing up a bit. Riki touches your cheek, thumb brushing your tears slowly before letting go.

“Can you wait in my bedroom? I need to call your mom first. She needs to know that I’m about to eat her daughter alive.”

A rosy heat blooms across your face before you hit his shoulders playfully. Riki throws you a smirk, shrugging with nonchalance.

“What? Aren’t I a good future son-in-law?”

“Oh, shut up.” You roll your eyes, but the wide grin you have betrays you completely. “Be quick, Ki. Don’t leave me for too long.”

“Oh, I will, baby. I’m a greedy man after all.”

Riki winks, and you groan. To save yourself from further embarrassment, you make a small run for his bedroom, feeling his eyes boring holes into your skull as you leave.

The living room seems to expand in your absence. Riki lets out a low, dark chuckle. He pockets his phone out of his sweatpants and makes a quick dial to your mother.

It’s just a brief call, with him letting your mother know what’s going to go down in less than forty-eight hours, listening to the relief in her voice when she realises it’s going to be him. After giving her his words of promises, Riki finally heads to his room.

The door creaks open and in an instant, a heavy, thick wave of vanilla scent washes over him. Riki staggers, gripping his phone in an attempt to recover from the smell of arousal practically dripping in the air.

His eyes find you on the bed, and the sight nearly takes his breath away.

There, perched on the bed, body slicked with sweat and completely naked, is you. You’re hugging his blanket to your nose, inhaling his pheromones, dizzy from his masculine, earthy sandalwood.

Your eyes meet his, glassy and dazed, drunk on hormones and heat.

“It’s hot, Riki,” there are wet noises coming from you, and only then does he realise that you have been fucking yourself on your fingers, using your own slick as lube. Riki feels his cock throb, eyes tranced on the way your hips move. “Smell so good, alpha, need you to fuck me.”

Your heat is here, and the trigger has been his own pheromones, which smells the strongest in his room. Riki curses under his breath, mentally slapping himself for overlooking the effects his pheromones over omega nearing their heat. He pushes the door close with his foot, not breaking eye contact with you as you moan, fingers moving faster.

Riki’s hold on his phone is knuckle-white, feeling the restraint leaving his body with every inhale of your intoxicating scent. 

“Alpha,” you pant, fisting at his blanket closer, and Riki swears he’s leaking precum. “Need you s’bad. Please.”

Riki wills himself to not jump on you, hands clenching and unclenching as he tries to steady his own breathing. 

It’s probably the hardest he’s ever tried.

Closing his eyes, he forces control into his system, chanting like a mantra that he’s here to help you with your heat, to make it less painful for you. That now it’s about you and not him, and Riki will pull the trigger himself if he ever touches you in any way that you don’t consent to.

Taking one last breath, Riki opens his eyes again. This time, there is a primal need lurking in his gaze, but it feels grounded and controlled. He circles the bed slowly, letting your noises greet his senses like music of sins. He puts his phone on the bedside and turns to face you, still not saying anything.

You scramble to kneel on the bed and pull him close by his waistband, fingers soaked and shaking. Your big, misty eyes peer at him through your lashes, practically begging him to take you.

“Riki, please.”

His rough palm cups your cheeks, breath getting shallow and short. 

“Please what, baby?” he finally speaks, low and sensual. You pout.

“Please fuck me, alpha.”

Riki groans and finally, finally, leans down and captures your mouth in a rough kiss. You sigh, tugging his hair as you deepen the kiss. Your teeth clash against his, his tongue licking into your mouth, pushing back your moans into your throat.

“Such a needy baby,” he rasps, grabbing your hips as he moves you to the center of the bed, manhandling you with ease. You bite your lips at the show of his strength. “Can’t even wait for me, hm? Should I just leave you with your fingers?”

You shake your head frantically, choking out a moan when Riki slides up his clothed knee against your folds. “No, please. Need your fingers. Need your cock, Riki.”

“Yeah?” Riki taunts, his eyes darkening as you hump your cunt on his knees, desperate for friction and release. He leans down, silver chain dangling cold against your hot skin, catching the shell of your ear with his teeth. 

“Tell me how much you need it, baby,” he purrs, leaving hot trails down the side of your throat. You tilt your head back, offering your neck like a meal. And what a fucking meal you are to him. “Tell me how badly you need my thick cock in your pussy right now.”

He sucks on the tender skin to leave a mark before moving to litter more of it on your skin. You mewl, gripping his shirt desperately.

“Need you to—ah—need your cock to fill me up,” you whimper, arching your back when Riki descends, closing his mouth around one of your nipples. He sucks on it like he does a lollipop, flicking his tongue at the perky nipple, his other hand kneading your other boob. “Need you to fuck me until I can’t think—ah! Riki!”

His finger finds your clit and flicks the nub, pressing and rolling it with a precision that has you choke on lust. “I’ll fuck you good baby,” he rasps, watching you with his sharp, dark eyes, capturing your expressions into his memory. His sweatpants tighten painfully. “But I need to prepare you first, hm?”

“No,” you sob, hips bucking into his touch. Riki’s eyes never leave yours, his arm still holding himself strong over your body. “I’m ready. Just fuck me, please.”

Riki coos and kisses your tear-stricken face. “I know, baby. You’re fucking soaked down there.” He groans, feeling another slick ooze out of your hole as if proving his point. Riki bites his lip. “But I don’t wanna hurt you—fuck, you’re grinding on my palm, baby.” Riki lets out a dark chuckle, letting you use his palm to get off. “So fucking greedy.”

You whine when he removes his hand, your hole clenching at nothing. Riki pulls your ankle to the edge of the bed, hooking your legs over his shoulders as he slowly kneels for the second time that night, his hot breath fanning on your weeping cunt.

He draws a lungful of your arousal and groans, the scent wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

Caramel and vanilla fill his lungs, and for a moment his whole body stills—like he’s been struck by how perfectly you’re made for him. Riki holds your gaze, refusing to look away when he licks a fat stripe on your folds.

“Oh!” Your hand flies to tug at his hair, a sob escaping your lips. Riki laps at your cunt again, humming at the sweet taste on his tongue, flicking that muscle between your slits before pressing onto your clit. You choke, squishing his head between your thighs.

“So good, alpha, feels so good,” you cry out, grinding on his tongue as he plays with your clit. “‘M close, gonna come, ah, ah—”

The orgasm jerks your entire body, your vision going white for a few seconds. But Riki doesn’t stop. His eyes are hooded as he drinks in your juice, lapping at your folds without wasting a single drop before he slips in his index finger.

Your body arches off the mattress. “Riki!” You scream, the stretch burns but it burns so fucking good. He slides in another digit, finger-fucking you through another orgasm, caressing and pressing the spongy walls with all the fervor of a hungry man. His tongue continues flicking your clit, the numb bundle of nerves sending a tingling sensation across your body.

Tears brim along your lashline, too drunk on lust and heat pheromones and overstimulation. “‘M close, Riki, ah,” you pull his hair, eliciting a groan that vibrates in your pussy. “Riki!”

Your second climax hits you in shockwaves. The man between your legs kitty-licks your pussy, letting you ride out your orgasm before he climbs onto your figure. His mouth and chin are wet from your slick, lips shining with sin and spit.

“You taste divine, my love,” he pops his fingers into his mouth and makes a show of his tongue swirling around his cum-coated digits, sucking on the remnants of your juice. You mewl. “I can eat you out forever.”

You watch him grin, still breathless from your previous orgasm. But the heat crawls back into your nerves and before you know it, you’re wet again, needy again. Riki knows it, of course he does. He settles himself between your legs, peeling off his drenched tank top.

Your mouth waters at his well-defined body. You’ve always known how hot your best friend is, especially after his alpha-presentation. He’s all muscles and sinful lines, sculpted by the Greek gods themselves. Riki knows he’s hot, and he never fails to show you that he knows; if his smirk is anything to go by.

“My baby’s been waiting for my cock, aren’t you?” His thumb grazes your bottom lip with a gentleness that clashes with the hunger in his eyes. You hum, feeling his eyes soften on you.

Riki leans down and gives you a soft, slow kiss. He pecks the tip of your nose before caressing your cheek with his. Inside, your omega purrs in satisfaction at the display of affection.

“Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

You nod. Riki nudges your nose with his, his mouth curving into a small smile. “Use your mouth, baby.”

“Yes.” You breathe out, and your legs hook around his waist without thinking, pulling him closer. You grind your bare cunt against his clothed length, slow at first, then faster, as if you need to prove something to yourself. The fabric presses into you, and the friction sends a shock through your nerves. Riki groans, a disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips before he straightens up.

His eyes never leave you. “So impatient,” he sighs, his voice low and amused. 

He yanks his sweatpants and boxer off in one go, hissing when his cock springs free, rock-hard and rigid. You almost drool at the sight.

He’s big. Fuck, he’s too damn big.

“Cat got your tongue, baby?” Riki grunts, stroking his cock in languid motions, slicked with his precum,  watching your face like a predator stalking its prey.

Your eyes stay glued to him, glazing over in a trance. You can’t stop staring, like you’re afraid to blink and lose the image.

“So big,” you murmur, your voice shaking.

Riki can’t help the triumphant smirk on his face, his alpha howling in pride.

“Too big, alpha, fuck.”

“I know,” he rasps, lining his cock against your entrance,“I don’t even know if it will fit.”

Then, with a single thrust, he slides in. You gasp, the sting blooming sharp and hot before melting into something dizzying, your stomach tightening as if it’s being pulled inward around him.

“But you will make it fucking fit.”

Riki pushes in inch by inch, noting every micro-expression of discomfort in your pretty face, your breath stuttering, hands gripping at him as the pressure curls low in your belly.

“Tell me if it hurts, love.”

“It hurts,” you croak, the words breaking apart on your tongue, wrapping your arms around his neck, mouth moving against mouth. “But it hurts so good, Riki.”

Riki kisses you through the pain, whispering comfort and praises into your ears, easing you into it. When he finally bottoms out, you almost sob again, the fullness stretching deep, heavy and overwhelming, heat pooling in your stomach until it feels like you can’t think past it.

“Still good?” Riki asks, jaw clenching at the feeling of your walls hugging his length. You nod, feeling the tension in your muscle unclench.

“Y-You can move now, Riki.”

Something dark glints in his eyes. “I can’t fucking move, baby,” he chuckles lowly, the sound torn and breathless, vibrating straight into you, “your pussy’s sucking me in.”

You moan at his crude words, your walls clenching around his dick. Riki lets out a curse before sliding out and thrusting back in with a snap of his hip. You scream, the sound sharp and unplanned, nails scratching his arms as your stomach clenches tight.

“S’tight, love,” he gives you another sharp thrust, hitting that sweet spot easily, breath mingling with yours. “Pussy so tiny, baby, fuck,” he growls into your ears. You nod, mind turning mushy from heat and pleasure. “Can you feel me deep inside your—fuck—tight cunt,” he pants, each word making your belly flutter helplessly, shoving his cock with a powerful thrust that has you seeing stars, “filling you up with my fat cock?”

“Yes!” you sob, voice cracking, breath hitching between syllables, wetting your face with another round of tears. The air smells of pheromones and sex, slicked bodies tangled in sheets. “More, more, more, please.”

“So fucking good to me,” Riki stares you down, eyes clouded with lust, drinking in the way your breasts jingle every time his hips meet yours. He moans. “You’re so beautiful, my pretty baby. Were you gonna let Jay see you like this?”

Your walls instinctively clench at the image, your stomach dropping hot and heavy, and Riki lets out a dark, wicked laugh at that. His gaze sharpens, his pace getting rougher and sharper as he looks at you with newly-lit fire in his eyes. 

“You’re so fucking shameless,” he spits.

You whine from his harsh words, but your body only responds more, slick pooling hotter between your legs. The shame digs into your ribs, but the need overrides it.

Riki’s jaw twitches.

“Were you gonna beg for his cock, huh? You think he can fuck you good like this?”

“No—Riki, no—only you—ah, oh God.”

His thrusts don’t slow. They become relentless, each one harder than the last, his hips snapping in a steady rhythm that leaves you breathless. Your moans bounce off the walls, high and broken, tangled with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, as you shake your head, shame and lust clawing at your throat.

Riki lifts your hips and grabs your ass, the new angle making you roll your eyes in pleasure. You bite down on your lip, trying to hold back the sound, but the sensation is too much.

“Yes, yes—there! Fuck, Riki, more, please,” you moan, high-pitched and broken, feeling the familiar rush inside your belly.

His breath comes out ragged, his body leaning forward like he’s trying to bury himself into you. The heat between you tightens, and you can feel the way his length presses deeper with each thrust.

“I’m never letting go, baby,” Riki pants, damp fringes framing his eyes, his thrust growing faster and sloppy. “This pussy is fucking mine.”

“‘M yours,” you slur, mind turning fuzzy from the feeling of his cock splitting you open. “I’m only—ah—yours!”

“That’s right, baby,” Riki growls, pressing into your hips with a bruising grip. His breath is frantic, his voice pitching into a higher tone. “You’re fucking mine, shit—I’m close.”

“Please give me your knot—ah!” You scream, begging for his knot and cum incoherently, drool trailing down your chin. A stuttered moan leaves your chest when Riki thumbs at your clit, bringing you closer to the edge. His bulge is growing inside you, and you shudder in anticipation for his knot.

“Take my fucking knot,” he grunts, and you nod, mind going hazy from being fucked dumb.

“Knot—give me your knot—alpha—I’m—close! Oh God, Riki!” His name tears off your throat in a shrill scream, drowning out Riki’s low, guttural growl as he comes with you. His cock inflates inside your belly, pumping into you full and stretched, riding out the waves before he collapses on top of you, careful not to let his weight crash over you.

“Hey,” Riki whispers after a pause, brushing your hair from your forehead, his heart clenching at the sight of your tears. “Baby, is it too much? You good?”

You let out a low hum, closing your eyes as Riki peppers your face with kisses. Your body feels heavy, pleasantly spent, limbs loose like you might melt straight into the mattress if he lets go.

“M’good,” you murmur, voice thick and sleepy. “Just… a lot.”

Riki exhales, something like relief softening his features. He shifts carefully, cautious of the knot still swelling inside your belly, adjusting the sheets around you both, one hand resting warm and steady on your waist like an anchor. “Yeah,” he whispers, brushing his thumb under your eye. “I figured.”

He stays like that—no rush, no urgency—just tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin, grounding you back into yourself. Every now and then, he presses a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he’s checking that you’re still here with him.

“You did so good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So brave.”

Your chest tightens at that, but this time it’s not overwhelming. It’s gentle. Safe. You shift closer, instinctively tucking yourself against him, and Riki immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you in without hesitation.

“I love you,” Riki whispers into your hair. The thrill and adrenaline finally die down, leaving behind small tingles of love and affection that makes your chest feel too small. You tighten your hold.

“I love you too, Riki,” you sigh, feeling another wave of heat coursing through your veins. Shit. You almost forgot that you’re in heat. Riki only laughs when he feels your hole pushing out more slick.

“My baby’s so horny, yeah?”

“It’s the heat!” You hide your face in his chest, cheeks burning, then peek one eye open at him. Riki’s starry eyes hold yours, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be but in your arms. You shy away. “Can we do another round? Please?”

He laughs, a deep, throaty laugh that warms up your chest. Planting a gentle kiss on your forehead, Riki meets your pleading eyes with a boxy grin.

“Of course we can, my love,” he murmurs, “anything for you.”

A comfortable silence falls over you like a weighted blanket. Riki rubs his nose against your scent gland, basking you in his warm sandalwood and clean musk, feeling you grow relaxed in his arms as you wait for the knot to deflate before you speak again.

“And can you actually bring me to that steak place after my heat ends?”

Riki snorts quietly. “Yeah,” he says, tightening his hold on you. “I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

➤ volume 3 ☆ jake sim — the first love trope | you, a quiet girl who is the introvert of all introverts, never thought you would befriend the most popular boy in school by having the same music taste. what songs are you going to show him next? [ first love trope ]

➤ two peas in a pod | You love Jake, but believing you are a Beta who can never truly satisfy his Omega nature, you push him away only to realize during a dramatic twenty-first birthday presentation that you were his fated Alpha all along [ friends to lovers ]

➤ a real man | Jake Sim, son of one of the most wealthiest CEOs in Australia. Who also happens to be the man your parents set you to marry at 20 years old, and now—five years later, the father of your child. You and Jake have a..rocky relationship to say the least. The real question is, who’s going to be the first to break? [ arranged marriage ]

➤ the bet , bonus | Jake sim, one of the most popular boys in school makes it his goal to have you fall for him, a simple bet with his friends. Little does he know, he’ll be the one falling to his knees for you [ bet au ]

➤ the summer i got horny | nerdy sim jaeyun is sweating buckets when the baddie he's been crushing on sits in his lap on a two-hour road trip. [ friends sister ]

➤ AW SHIT, HERE WE GO AGAIN | IN WHICH jake keeps telling himself he’s fine with whatever this thing between you is, so he decides that a friends with benefits situation with his best friend's girlfriend's best friend, who also happens to be his other best friend's older sister, is a completely reasonable idea. until he wakes up alone for the nth time and realizes that this friends with benefits situation is not benefiting him at all. [ friends with benefits ]

➤ eat me up | in which jake knows you’re bad for him, but he just can’t help himself. after all, in the end, the answer is always you. nobody else matters. not even the guy you’re seeing, his friend, sunghoon [ friends with benefits ]

➤ give me tough love | Jake's always liked pretty things, and you're the prettiest he's ever seen. Another thing about Jake? He always gets what he wants [ omegaverse ]

➤ tension theory | You were just Heeseung’s girlfriend’s cousin—quiet, polite, a little too naive for your own good. Then you met his friends. Now you’re in the middle of a spiraling mess of jealousy, bad decisions, emotional whiplash and two boys who treat boundaries like suggestions. Oops. [ love triangle ]

➤ friction principle | You thought things would calm down after the confessions, the crying, the sex. After fists were thrown and secrets dragged out into the open. But Jake is still mean, Sunghoon is still quiet, and now you're still stuck somewhere in the middle—aching for something that feels like love but tastes like possession. [ love triangle ]

➤ preacher's daughter | in the early 2000s, in some small, rural town, your religious and restrained life collides with jake sim, who makes you doubt everything you know and want to explore more of the world [ outsider!jake x preachersdaughter!reader ]

➤ the fifth floor theory , part two | in which jake sim, the campus golden boy and star soccer captain, isn't supposed to find anything on the fifth floor of the library except a quiet place to study. but instead? he finds you, the wallflower who refuses to treat him like everyone else does. [ soccer captain!jake x wallflower fem!reader ]

➤ of all the people in the world | You know you should be ecstatic about the invitation to Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s wedding in your mailbox, but you can’t help the nerves gnawing away at your stomach. There are too many things you’ve left unresolved after moving to Seoul—your aunt, your friends, and most of all Sim Jaeyun, the boy you’ve never let yourself love. [ childhood friends to lovers ]

➤ sunflower | You have lived in apartment 3B for two years. You know your neighbors the way you know background characters — familiar, unremarkable, just part of the scenery. Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door and you open it to find not him, but her. Small. Round-cheeked. Duck pajamas. Absolutely certain of herself. You fall for his daughter first. Jake is just the complication that comes after. But god, what a complication [ single dad au ]

➤ things i know that i can't have | jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it. [ fwb to lovers ]

➤ under the table | you and sim jaeyun have been academic rivals for as long as you can remember, competing intensely to beat the other in every class you've ever shared. for years, you've hidden your feelings for him, burying them deep down where jake can't find them, and you're hellbent on ensuring he never discovers your secret [ academic rivals to fwb to lovers ]

➤ bruises [ strangers to implied lovers ]

➤ manchild | you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. [ cowboy jake ] this fic changed the trajectory of my life no cap 🤞🤤

➤ RULE NUMBER 1: DON'T FALL IN LOVE | your ex getting a girlfriend after just two weeks of breakup was enough to infuriate you to the point where you had to step up and make him regret breaking your heart. solution? fake date his best friend and make him jealous! [ fake dating ]

➤ Love, Lies, and Sim Jake, part two | You were the quiet girl with the not-so-quiet crush on Jake Sim—campus heartbreaker, smooth talker, and everything you should’ve stayed away from. But when a bet turns your name into a game, the rules change fast. He didn’t expect to fall for you… and you didn’t expect to find out. Now it’s your move—and this time, you’re not playing nice. [ campus heartbreaker ]

➤ call me when you hate me less | Jake Sim was a walking academic hazard—hot, broody, and failing just about everything that wasn’t football. Enter you, his new tutor: organized, overachieving, and absolutely not here for his attitude or his annoyingly perfect lips. But between late night study sessions, petty insults, and one very inconvenient almost-kiss, things start spiraling—fast. He’s supposed to be you project. You are supposed to hate him. Instead, you both are one sarcastic comment away from either a breakdown or a makeout, and honestly, it could go either way. [ enemies to lovers ]

➤ off limits, part two, part three, epilogue | your older brother has always told you “no boys” and his friends “sister is off limits”, which always worked until everyone comes back home from college and you see how grown up his best friend has become [ brothers best friend ] this was soo fucking good, read this in one sitting , peak 🔛🔝

➤ just one more taste | Jake considers himself the luckiest man alive. After turning his deepest breeding fantasies into reality, filling you raw night after night until you were pregnant again and again, he built the big, perfect family he always dreamed of. With the family complete, he finally slips a ring on your finger vowing forever to keep you happy, adored, and being the man who’d give you the world just to see you smile. [ impregnator jake ] just smut

➤ the great valentines heist , part two | jake sim has been your best friend your entire life–even longer if you count the months spent in your mothers’ wombs. your moms (also best friends) have been hoping, praying, and not-so-discreetly begging for you and jake to be a couple for as long as you can remember. after eighteen years of dealing with it, you’ve had enough. you pitch your solution to jake: pretend you finally are a couple, only to prove the point of how you’re better off as friends. but as the line between what’s real and what’s fake blurs, you start to wonder… are you really? [ friends to lovers ]

➤ frenzy , part two | Jake is experiencing real love for the first time in his life. He’s so infatuated with you that he would do anything to make you understand. And you? Oh, you are in no place to argue with a man who appears to be perfect. 

➤ loyal puppy | Ever since your boyfriend Jake transformed from his nerdy high-school self into the university's star football player, you've become everything you thought you’d never be. Jealous. Anxious. Clingy. But Jake really doesn't mind your newfound possessiveness. He encourages it, even. So when he defies expectations again to star in a musical with a stunning costar, you spiral. Now, the “lowkey” relationship you once insisted on gets jeopardized under the weight of your own insecurities. [ secret!relationship au ] anothee one of my favs , im going to re read it :p

➤ no doubts | struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you. [ idol jake ]

A/N: My second ever fic>< god, this one is honestly embarrassing idek why i wrote it but i had an image of gas station jw in my head for some reason so i haddd to write it out. As always pls comment and lmk your thoughts and opinions… im daiing to know. Enjoy:3 PS: i don’t support any of this behavior! Don’t be a perv! >:(

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

You wonder how there's any way in the year of 2026 that there hasn't been anyone intelligent enough to invent a teleportation machine.

Okay, like, you get it. A time machine sounds a bit ridiculous and too unrealistic. But a teleportation machine? Guys, come on. How haven't we?! Just think of all the places you could go… Literally anywhere in the world! Italy, France— Or, oh! To that one mall with the built in amusement park… To the UK, to an Egyptian pyramid. Or, most importantly, to a luxury hotel where you can be there for the sole purpose of fucking the shit out of your coworker.

Okay, you might have a problem. A very sweet, innocent, sexy, totally off-limits, Jungwon-shaped problem. You might, just maybe, want to fuck the living shit out of your poor coworker who's been assigned to night shifts only recently with you for the last week, and he hasn't even the slightest clue of what goes on in your brain when he's around. Or not around, helping a customer as you watch from afar at how his Adam's apple bobs with every word and polite laugh, just thinking about how badly you want to suck and lick marks all over it. Or, your favorite, in front of you where you can see his ass and exactly which muscle in his back that he strains when he lifts something particularly heavy. Or behind you, beside you…. Or when he's stocking shelves on his knees or when he's standing tall and has to grab something that you can't, fix something that you're unable to reach.

You twirl the same piece of gum you've been chewing for the last 2 hours around your pointer finger over and over as you wait behind the register for a customer like the good worker you are, while simultaneously harboring the very thoughts that could get you fired. Something your friend warned you about how coworkers are 'highly inappropriate fuck buddies' especially if it's only the two of you together at all times and something annoying about how "Y/n, you need this job! You haven't had a steady job in years—" and yeah, yeah. Blah, blah. You don't give a shit.

So you think of the ways you absolutely are going to fuck your off-limits coworker. Let's see… on a bed, obviously, but what if you can't get there quick enough? Like, what if he's just so fucking horny for you that he needs you now? I mean, come on, you have to consider all possibilities. You'll take him in the bathroom, then. Hell, you'll take him right fucking here, right on the cash wrap if you need to.

Ah, you sigh almost dreamily, not really seeing the products you're scanning or the amount of change you owe. Just throwing nickles and quarters into your palm with a generous 20 dollar bill and handing it off to the 40th wrinkled trucker you've seen in the last 2 hours with a "Thank you! Please come again~" that's just as fake and saccharine as the artificial gum you've been chewing. Something absolutely has to give because at this point, you think you're horny enough to follow him into the bathroom like a creep.

Push him inside and follow right behind him, closing and locking the door behind you as you watch him whip his head around, pulse surely ticking fast. "Y/n! U-um… Did you need to go too…?" He'd say, all flustered and almost apologetic like he was the one in the wrong. "You could've just told me, I would've let you go first. Now no one's up at the front—" And you'd cut him off with your palm while backing him up until his lower back hits the edge of the rusted sink—

"Y/n?" You jolt. "Woah, hey. Didn't mean to scare you." Speak of the (very angelic) devil. You turn your head, your face an innocent mask of 'Just working and totally not thinking of gripping your hips while sucking your dick, hehe~'

"No problem," You throw in a sweet giggle. "What's up?" Somehow Jungwon always makes the ugly, shit-green colored workers shirt look good. And honestly, you think if he wore even a trash bag he'd still look flawless. It's those beautiful eyes, his pouty lips and his charming, boyish smile that makes you want to bite him so hard he bleeds and cries. It's infuriating, really.

"Oh, it's just that…" He rubs the back of his neck, clearly hesitating. "The bathroom… it's clogged again." Well, fuck.

"Oh… the bathroom?" You clarify quietly, twirling a strand of hair with your finger. Any second now…

"Uh, actually… Don't worry about it. I'll do it. I'll be right back." He throws a shy smile, turning on his heel.

Easy as pie. He's too sweet for his own good, really. Truthfully, it is technically your job to clean the bathrooms (as stated by your boss) but also truthfully, you don't give a shit. So you watch him as he walks away— Oh, how you love to watch him go. He always wears jeans that are baggy enough to be fashionably acceptable yet fit enough to show off the roundness of ass… God, what a fucking slut. Holy shit you've never wanted to have sex with someone so bad in your entire life.

People might say it's just the forced proximity talking and maybe the fact that it's just the two of you together for eight hours straight at night. And yeah, it might be that (it definitely is just that) but also, Jungwon is just very… attractive. Like, if you saw him on the street or at a cafe, you might not think of how you want to bend him over but you'd still appreciate his beauty from afar. You just so happen to be blessed with his constant, guaranteed proximity to you at all times during the late hours of the night. It's a recipe for disaster, truly. But how can anyone blame you because by this time now at least on a weekend, you'd be 7 inches deep on your dildo fucking yourself to the thought of him (and very perverted, very bad pictures you'd taken of him when he wasn't looking (you're honestly so, so fucking gross and so, so unashamed.))

You shrug. Everyone knows that late hours are horny hours, anyway. Wait… Jungwon during horny hours, Jungwon during horny hours…

You can picture it now as you stare dazedly at the direction he disappeared off to. Jungwon, lonely on his bed, gripping the base of his cock as he painfully tries not to cum so quick to the thought of you. His tip, all swollen and weeping, aching to be touched and pulsing in rhythm with the quickening beats of his poor, perverted heart.

God, you just wanna know what it looks like. How big it is. You want to count how many veins are littered on it, how fat his tip is, how thick he is, how full he could make you feel… Ugh, what does his precum taste like? What does his actual cum taste like? Is he a shooter, or does it just ooze out deliciously enough for you to lick it right off his shaft?

You have to squeeze your thighs together for temporary, public-appropriate relief, and for the 100th fucking time as you ring up another customer. This is torture. Absolute fucking torture.

・・・୨୧・・・

The only good thing about these torturous, eight hour-long shifts are the hour long breaks.

It's only been 3 hours into your shift and you already want to take your break. It's nothing but the same things over and over again. Smile and greet every time you hear the bell on the door chime, ring product after product, laugh and smile when appropriate, give them change if needed then give thanks and make sure to tell them to come back.

Oh, and periodically check yourself in the bathroom just to make sure you haven't soaked yourself through your fucking jeans.

Jungwon has long since finished with the whole toilet clogging issue and he's now perched at your side like a clinging puppy as he always does on shifts like these (bless the Lord.)

"And then, and then!" He giggles, his eyes crinkling. "He said 'Tell her to take it out back.'" He laughs properly now, his head falling back like he'd just recalled the funniest memory and to be honest, you haven't properly obtained a single piece of silly information he's thrown at you for the past 30 minutes because you've been too busy staring at the way his neck muscles work with every word.

The top of his workers shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of his chest and collarbone that your eyes just cannot for the life of you stray away from, his hair is falling so perfectly over his eyes that it makes you want to curl in on yourself, and fuck… the way he blows air toward it with his mouth when a strand gets too close to his eye like a SLUT, makes you want to rip him to shreds.

"I swear, it was the funniest thing I've ever seen!"

"Right… Right…"

His giggles falter slightly. "Y/n? You good? You've kinda been staring off into space for a while." He looks behind himself as if checking for the distraction that you're so focused on. Little does he know he's the distraction.

"No. I'm… I'm good." You murmur, purposefully quiet, purposefully monotone just to see his brows furrow with worry. "Are you… Are you sure? You look a bit pale… Are you feeling alright?"

"No."

"What? Um… Do you want me to get you some medicine? I can buy you some, I think we still have some over here…" He turns, already in search of the medicine and you can't even believe it… He's so kind that he'd buy you some cheap medicine just because you'd been staring at his chest for 30 minutes straight?

"Where are you going? Stay."

"But.." He hesitates, his body still turned toward the Travel Essentials aisle. "You're not feeling well, right? Let me buy y—"

"Stay. I like looking at you."

He freezes, his eyes widening slightly but still composed, like maybe he's just hoping he'd heard you wrong. "What?" He whispers.

"Stay. I like looking at you, Jungwon. You look…" You advance slightly, watching how he tenses up, his eyes widening even further. He looks almost like he's been stricken in place, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "Y/n…"

Ding!

Great. A customer. You turn almost automatically toward the door with a smile, "Hi, welcome!" And when you turn your attention back toward Jungwon, he's already backing up slightly.

"U-um… I'm gonna go take my break now." "Alread—" "You got this? Okay, good…" And he's already scurrying off, nearly tripping over his own shoes as he makes his way to the back room.

Yikes. Scaring the poor guy off already? Well, whatever. You've said worse before, to be honest.

・・・୨୧・・・

This is so fucking boring.

You've been standing in the same spot for hours on end, occasionally pacing beside the length of the cash wrap and honestly your head actually is starting to hurt from the clinical lights overhead that feel like they're boring into your very soul.

You've helped at least 11 different customers since Jungwon had practically fled from your immediate vicinity and honestly that says a lot since he's been gone for nearly over an hour. What you mean is, your throat's sore from every meaningless conversation you've had, and your wrist aches with every swipe of product against the barcode scanner. You're fucking ready to go home.

Minutes tick until it's been 20, 30, then 60, and finally you start thinking something else other than the very detailed, very descriptive ways you want to bang Jungwon, which is: Where the hell is he?

His break ended, or at least should've ended about 10 minutes ago, and it's especially concerning considering Jungwon is always so punctual.

You've been staring at the front of the store not really seeing anything at all and replaying the same interaction on loop for the past hour wondering if you really did it this time.

I mean, you didn't even do anything, really. All you did was imply that he looked nice! It was just a compliment! Honestly though if Jungwon had told you to stay and that he liked looking at you, you would've combusted and squirted everywhere on the spot, not scurry away in fear! What the hell was that?!

Sigh, maybe you should just apologize. Maybe that's exactly why he's taking forever to come back and face you. Maybe he's hiding back there with your manager on speed dial, considering calling her and reporting your perverted ass to HR. Okay, fuck. Maybe this is worse than you thought.

Wait, but… No way, right? All you did was say you liked looking at him! That doesn't compare even a little bit to that one time you "accidentally" brushed against his ass with your hand when reaching for a plastic bag. Or that other time you really "didn't mean" to walk in on him in the bathroom! (It was the men's restroom. The women's is on the complete opposite side of the store.)

Whatever. You should just go apologize and get it over with. I mean… Jungwon's sweet. Chances are, he's probably sitting there thinking of ways to apologize to you for running off like that.

You push off the counter with a heavy sigh and make your way toward the back. You haven't had a customer in the past 30 minutes so you pray none show up now. It'll only be a second anyway, then Jungwon can replace you so that you can finally take your break.

Why're you kind of dreading this right now? It's almost like you feel a little… guil— Just never mind. You? Guilty? Please. You've already gone as far as taking sneaky photos of the man. A little compliment definitely is not going to make you feel guilty at all—

"S-s-shittt…" You stop dead in your tracks. A groan, a slick, wet noise. Then a whine.

"Y/n… Y/n, I…" No… No way. You're hearing things wrong because there's no way. There's just no. Fucking. Way.

You step closer to the break room door, pushing it open ever so slightly and… Oh My God.

There he is. He's slouching in a chair (right by the door, mind you) head bowed, eyebrows furrowed and concentrated as his hand works quickly on his cock. Up, down, up, down, slick noises filling the room as the muscles in his arm bulge and strain to keep up with his quick pace. His other hand is hovered over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his moans but he can't help it… He can't help but whine into the void.

"I.. I'm close…! I'm gonna…"

You barge in.

"Well, well, well… What do we have—" "Y/N— OH MY GOD—" He scrambles to his feet, the chair skidding back on the floor with a loud noise in his haste, nearly tipping over. "Oh my God… This isn't— I wasn't— You have to believe me, I would never…!" He's stammering, blabbing on and on and you can't help but relish in the way he looks so absolutely distraught and humiliated.

His chest is heaving, he's so fucking red from exertion and embarrassment, his hair is a mess, eyes wide and blown… He looks an absolute wreck. The angels are singing.

"Oh my— Oh my God… I'm such a pervert… I'm such a pervert…" He mutters into his hands, looking so ashamed and so guilty. You're honestly… impressed. You never would've expected sweet, innocent Jungwon to do such a perverted, filthy thing during store hours. If anything, you're shocked and almost ashamed it wasn't you who did it first. He beat you to it.

"Oh, it's not what it looks like, is it?" You tease. "Because to me, it kind-of-sort-of looked like you were just jerking off…" He looks sick, his face pale, and he can't even bring himself to look at you. "To the thought of me—"

"NO!" He shouts, horrified. Then, almost frantically, he makes his way over to you. "Y/n— Y/n. Please. You have to believe me, I would never—"

"I heard you say my name, Won." He makes a strangled, devastated noise. Then— you fight a laugh, he kneels.

His head is bowed. "I am so— So sorry…"

"You do realize there's cameras in here, right?" You hum, trailing your pointer finger along his jaw. "That was dirty, Won. And to the thought of me, too…" You wince with faux sympathy and he shakes beneath your finger with heavy, silent sobs.

"You should be ashamed of yourself."

He chokes. "And to think I was just going to apologize for earlier. Tsk. You were getting off to it all along." He shakes his head slowly, his eyes squeezed shut, his voice thick with shame and tears. "I'm not… Please, I need this job… I'm so sorry, I won't ever do it again—"

"So you admit it? You were jerking off to me?" There's silence, the only thing audible being his ragged, wet breaths. Then slowly, he nods. "Say it, Jungwon. Out loud." He chokes on a sob.

"I was jerking off to you." He whispers.

"Look at me." When he doesn't immediately comply, you grip his chin to force his gaze upward. "Look at me and say it."

He meets your gaze. "I was jerking off to you."

It's a miracle how you haven't busted out laughing at the audacity of this entire situation. You used to think that it would be you on the floor crying and begging for forgiveness after he finally caught you in a perverted act after all of this time. But this… Him kneeling before you, his eyes puffy and red rimmed with tears streaking down his face, his lip quivering, and he's looking at you like you could tell him to do anything— anything at all and he'd comply in a heart beat. This is so much better than anything you've ever imagined before.

"Stand up." He scrambles to his feet, looking down at you with tear-filled eyes. "O-okay…" You nod toward the chair, your expression carefully neutral. "Go ahead. Sit down."

"U-um.." He blinks, clearly a bit thrown off, but he starts to back up anyway. "B-but… But Y/n… Do you… Are you going to tell management?" Oh, baby… Management is definitely going to see. There's a camera pointed quite literally directly toward the table he was jerking off at. Shaking my head, Jungwon. You almost have to laugh at his stupidity. A real pervert would never make such a silly mistake.

"That wouldn't look good on your record, would it?" You trail after him, backing him toward the chair. He shakes his head quickly, his hair falling into his eyes. He doesn't seem to care about blowing it away this time. "I won't tell. Under one condition."

When the backs of his knees hit the chair, he scrambles to sit down. He looks up at you with a mix of caution and desperate hope, his hands gripping his knees. "Under one… W-what condition?" You plant your foot between his, and nudging his legs open with your knee, you stand between them. When you lean down to whisper in his ear, he has to fight the urge to dart his tongue out and lick your pulse. "I suck you off."

"Wh-what?! Suck… Suck me off?! Me?" You straighten slowly. He looks shocked, his eyes wide and his hands tremble where they grip his knees. You can tell he's trying to look disgusted but is greatly failing, the flush on his cheeks and neck giving him away. He shifts his hips, scooting more toward you. "Who else? Is there another Jungwon that I'm not seeing?"

"W-well… Well, no… But—"

"But? But what?" You sigh, losing patience. "Listen, either we do this or we don't, Jungwon. Your choice. I can go tell management, or…" He panics, his hand shooting out to grab yours when you start to back away, his grip tight and shaky. "NO! No… No, don't leave. Please… Just, please, Y/n. Suck me off." He squeezes his eyes shut like he can't bare to see your reaction, the flush on his cheeks have now spread to his ears and high on his forehead, completely giving away that he doesn't give a shit about management anymore. He just wants you.

You kneel. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" A shudder wracks his frame as you begin to make quick work of his jeans. You unbutton them (he hadn't even bothered with the zipper,) sliding them down just enough to free his still painfully hard, leaking cock.

It's everything you've ever imagined. It's long, standing proud against his tummy and it's so fucking thick that you can hardly wrap your entire hand around it. It's hot to the touch, almost feverish, and he jolts when you make contact, a full bodily reaction.

"G-god… Please, yes… Please, yessss." You start to move your palm slowly, almost teasingly. From his sticky tip to his base, you smear the wetness and coat his cock to make it slick enough for your ministrations. But to be honest, it was already slick from his previous denied orgasm (you almost feel bad.)

He's whining now, was even before you'd started touching him, and his hips keep making involuntary thrusts into your palm with every stroke. You begin to move faster just to hear the noises you can pull from him… You feel on top of the world right now.

"The amount of— ngh… Times I've t-thought about this…"

What? You pause and he protests with another whine, his hand coming up to cover yours on his shaft. "Hey, wait… Keep going, please.." He lifts his hips, fucking into your palm in search of friction you won't give. You're frozen. He's… He's thought of this, too? I mean, you should've assumed as much considering you just walked in on him quite literally jerking off to you.

"You've thought about this?" You question, the disbelief in your voice thick as you idly squeeze his cock, just feeling the skin give and veins pulse. He jolts at the feeling, "Ah, y-yeah? I… Is that bad?"

"No." You start to move again and he nearly sobs in relief. "T-thank God… Thank G-god…"

You speed up, watching how his head falls back, his throat opening up to spill all sinful noises without shame, his hips twitching every time your fist slaps against his base. "What have you thought about?" Jungwon doesn't respond. Or he does, and it's just another broken moan as your soft hand slides over his weeping tip once more. His neck is completely open and vulnerable, his Adam's apple bobbing with every moan and whine and you can't help yourself. You need a taste to satiate the vile, insatiable hunger you've inhabited for the past week on end. You keep your hand graciously moving on his cock but your other hand snakes around the back of his neck as you lean in close, and you close your lips (less graciously) over his Adam's apple, just tasting at first.

Fuck, he tastes salty from sweat and something else that's uniquely Jungwon. You can't help but bite down, just a little, just enough to leave your claim.

"Ah! Ah…" His hand comes up to the back of your head, keeping you there as he arches his neck into the pain and pushes your head into him even more. "Yes, keep going… Harder, harder…" You pull back, the taste of his sweat a ghost on your tongue. "Jungwon, I asked you a question."

"Y-you did?" He lifts his head slightly to look down at you with glazed-over eyes that aren't really seeing anything at all. "What did you—" "What have you thought about, exactly?"

"You. Just… Just you." He plants his hands on either side of his hips to give him leverage as he starts to properly fuck up into your hand now. "E-everything… The way you s-smell… Fuck, your tits… Your— Your…" He squeezes his eyes shut whether in pleasure or shame, you're unsure. "I've thought about spreading you open— ngh… Fucking you h-here, on the c-clock…"

"Me too." His eyes shoot open, his hips stuttering slightly at your admission. He looks almost shocked like he can't believe you would think such inappropriate things about him. It's clear he feels very ashamed of his own filthy thoughts and hearing that you feel the same… Honestly though, is he dumb? Has he really not caught on…?

"I've thought about worse. Much, much more." Your hand has long since stopped its aggressive pace, only now idly stroking his skin as you lean back to look him in the eyes, your own wide and almost… scary.

"Jungwon. You don't even want to know what I've thought about you." You admit, your body shaking from adrenaline as you finally get this off of your chest. It's like a dam has finally broken, your words spilling one after the other.

"I've thought about you fucking me here, in the bathroom. Bending me over the sink, or just sinking to my knees and sucking you off. Hell, I've thought about you fucking me on the cash wrap right in front of the store, right where anyone could walk in and see. I've thought about taking you to my home, letting you fuck me on every surface, in every hole. My mouth, my pussy, my hands… everything. And I've thought about tying you down to my bed so you can never leave… I would let you do nasty things to me, Jungwon. I don't think you even want me to say them." You take a deep, shaky breath.

"Jungwon… I've thought about your cock so many times. My curiosity was a physical ache. Just dying at night, fucking myself until I cry and sob into my hands knowing it would never feel like you. I've… Oh my God, I've taken so many pictures of you I can't even count. They're all in a folder in my phone that I open only when I masturbate. I—"

"W-wait… Just wait." His eyes are wide and unblinking, flitting all over your face as he tries to process this information. "You… You took pictures, too?"

"Too?" Your eyes widen with shock. "What?" You don't even seem to realize the fucking grip you have on his cock as you process this ground-breaking information until you see him grimace, and you still don't let up. "You've taken pictures of me?" He squeezes his eyes shut, his teeth gritted as he rides out the pain. "I… I'm so disgusting…" He chokes, his head bowing, shoulders shaking as tears threaten to fall yet again. "I've taken over 50… I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"

"Yeah, that's bad." You offer no reassurance. I mean, why deny it anymore? That is bad. You're bad and you've known that, you've lived with it. "You should feel lucky, to be honest. That you were perverted about me and not someone else, someone who'd be disgusted and scared or less turned on than I am right now."

He blinks at you.

"I'm gonna suck your dick now." You waste no time, releasing your merciless grip to lick him from his balls to the tip slowly, savoring the taste and the pulse throbbing under your tongue. You shudder and moan at the taste, scooping up his precum with the wet muscle as you inhale his musk greedily. You're not even the one being pleasured but fuck, does it feel like it. After all of this time, you finally get a taste and it's better than anything you could've ever pictured. You could shed a tear.

You slowly lower your head onto him, taking him into your mouth inch by inch until you feel him hit the back of your throat and you threaten to gag but you don't, you force him down, your eyes rolling back as you take all that you can. You wrap your hand around the length that you can't fit, and you start to move.

Jungwon's hands immediately scramble to grab at your hair tight and shaky, his breathing already ragged. "Oh my— Ugh… Don't stop… So warm…" He's so hot on your tongue, his veins pulsing and sliding against your gums as you bob more and more until the room is filled with slick noises and his loud, unrestrained moans. You gag a couple times but you persevere, determined to finish him, to finally, finally feel him come down your throat.

You hollow out your cheeks, swallowing around him as he bucks helplessly into your warmth. "Ah, yes! Yes, yes! Just like that, harder!" He grips the top of your head and pushes you down as he starts to violently shake and fuck himself into your mouth. His ass isn't even touching the chair anymore, he's holding himself up with one hand planted on the seat and the other in your hair, half standing/half sitting as his hips buck into you over and over again.

You can't fucking breathe. Your scalp hurts, your throats sore and he just won't stop fucking bucking into your mouth. He doesn't even seem to realize how red your face is from near suffocation but you don't want him to and instead you grip his hips to urge him on, to fuck into you harder, faster. His thighs start to tremble, threatening to lose balance and you can feel it— he's right there, right at the edge. His cock starts to twitch and throb, his thrusts become shorter and harder, less rhythmical until—

"Yes, shit… I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum— I'm gonna— I'm cumming!" He stills and shudders, his whole frame wracking as he comes and pulses down your throat. It's warm and salty and it just keeps going. Even when you think he's done, his hips twitch more and he spills uncontrollably down your throat until he collapses back onto the seat, breathing heavy.

His chest is heaving and he's so sweaty that you can see it seep through his workers shirt (you wanna huff that so bad (you'll be stealing that from him later)) and he just stares at you, a slow, dazed smile touching his lips.

"T-thank you… Thank you…"

You're definitely fired.

(PS: He's a shooter :p)

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Jake Sim— what a fucking nerd.

He spends his days nose deep into novels, notebooks or worksheets, raising his hand during lectures and being the professors star-student errand boy; running to the copier on command to retrieve syllabus’s.

He doesn’t dare make eye contact with anyone longer than necessary, voice small and wavering. He has maybe two friends that you know of, just as meek and mild. No girlfriend— obviously. He’d probably never even been touched in his whole life by anyone other than himself and you can only imagine how pathetic he is for it. He’s probably the type to stay up all night, hand stroking his tiny dick while watching cheap cam girls that he could only ever dream of touching.

You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. Your presence practically demands attention when you walk in a room, all 5ft and 95lbs of you with your shiny blonde hair, pearly white teeth and icy blue eyes. You spend your free time with copious amounts of friends, at parties mingling, or with your stud of a boyfriend Sunghoon— captain of the football team. You quite literally live the dream life, what more could you even ask for?

Jake Sim is nothing to you, merely gum on the bottom of your shoe. He wouldn’t even exist to you if it wasn’t for the fact that you got paired up once for a project and you realized how easy it was to get under his skin. Since then, it’s been your personal mission to make him crumble under your every move just because it entertains you so much.

Until it doesn’t anymore.

After three blissful months of teasing, tantalizing and straight up bullying him in the easiest most cliché ways possible (tripping him in halls, spilling his food tray over his shoes, leaving notes taped to his locker) Jake somehow decided to grow a set of balls.

He went from wide eyes, flushes cheeks and shaking hands to cold gazes, gritted teeth and clenched fists. You don’t know when it happened— maybe even over night. But when you realized it, it just drove you even further until you snapped.

It started during an impromptu study session for an exam you couldn’t afford to flunk. You weren’t studying with Jake, no, he just happened to be in the study hall of course. He practically lived there— or the library.

You had spent the last hour shooting him menacing glares, walking past his table to “sharpen your pencil” and knocking his books off the table, and even threw crumpled up papers at him when he wasn’t looking. Not once did he give you the single reaction you were looking for.

It was immature of you, really. You should’ve just let it go, moved onto some other unsuspecting twerp if you were that hard up on bullying someone but no. It had to be Jake, and you didn’t know why. The longer you sat there craving his reaction without one, the more the itch was becoming hard to ignore. You had to do something— anything, to get what you wanted from him. Even if it meant doing something completely beneath you, something even a cliché bully wouldn’t dare do.

You push up from your seat, chair screeching against the linoleum, echoing through the quiet study hall. In five small strides you were standing in front of Jake’s table with no real plan in mind, just acting purely on pent up rage and impulse. You lean over the desk, silently daring him to look up from his laptop. But he doesn’t.

”Hey.” You snap, voice flat and eerily cold. No response.

”Helloooo? Someone’s speaking to you.” Still, nothing. Not even a blink.

Without thinking of the consequences you pick up his bottle of water, open the cap and dump the whole thing out over his keyboard, instantly short circuiting his Mac Book.

Jake shoots out of his seat pulling his laptop up with him, flinging it around trying to knock the water out of it in a panic.

“What the actual fuck y/n!!”

When he finally looks at you, it’s not the look you were going for at all. No flushed cheeks or wide eyes in sight. Instead your met with a look that could kill that goes straight through your chest down into your— wait, what? No yeah, that’s right. Right into your pussy. Instead now your eyes are wide, cheeks flushed and your thighs are instinctively pressed together.

Oh no. Oh no no no that’s not how this is supposed to go. You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out but a pathetic stutter that you’ve never heard yourself make before.

“Y/n, hello? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you really that fucking dense? You just ruined my laptop! Do you know how expensive those things are!? Do you always have to be this fucking childish!”

Jake reprimands you, his voice booming low and demanding, not wavering once. He’s beyond pissed. And that feeling between your legs? It’s responding to it even more. You think your knees could give out any second if he so much as glares at you again.

“I— I, didn’t— I wasn’t—“ you stutter out, looking like a fool. My, how the tables have turned.

“‘I— I— I’ I don’t want to fucking hear it! I’ve had enough of your shit y/n. Get it together and grow the fuck up already.”

His words hit low, like a punch to the gut, except lower. A punch to the pussy? Something like that. You mutter a pathetic ‘sorry’ and turn on your heels, practically running out of the study hall till your hands hit the bathroom door, pushing it open. You steady yourself against the cold porcelain sink and try to calm the heat between your legs and the reeling in your head.

When you look up in the mirror, you don’t even recognize yourself. The perfect composed icy gaze you usually hold has been replaced with a flushed pathetic mess.

And that’s how it all starts, really. The day you, or Jake really, unlocked a side of you you didn’t know existed. That night you lied in bed and tried to grasp what you felt and what it meant and by morning you had come to grips with the fact that somehow, someway, you liked being degraded and reprimanded like that.

After that, you avoided Jake at all costs which I’m sure he was thankful for. As for your new self discovery, you tried to chase that feeling elsewhere, with your own boyfriend Sunghoon.

You confided in him about this newfound kink, and poor Sunghoon, he tried he really did. He called you a bitch, a slut, smacked your ass, yelled at you and even spit in your mouth once. None of it, no matter how humiliating, made you feel the way Jake did that day in the study hall.

After weeks of denial and waging wars in your mind you decided you need to find out for yourself. You sought out Jake, and pushed his buttons like you used too until he snapped again and there it was— that feeling you had been craving.

So it wasn’t just some kink that could be satisfied with anyone, it had to be Jake, of course it did. Something about your dynamic, the nerdy boy and the untouchable golden girl, that’s what did it for you.

All it had taken this time was one tiny push. Your tiny foot darted out in his path as he walked by in the hall, folders he had been carrying scattering across the linoleum. Jake lands on one knee and slowly pushes himself back up, slowly turning to you.

“Pick them up.”

The demand is foreign to your ears but nonetheless exciting. Your hands find place on your hips as you stand there, unyielding and defiant.

He takes one step closer, then two, until you don’t even have time to process that you’ve been slammed into a locker, air knocked out of your lungs.

“I said, pick. Them. Up.” His voice is gravelly, barely above a whisper with his arm folded against your throat, leaving no room for argument.

Were you really about to drop to your knees in the middle of the hall and pick his shit up like some peasant? Why, yes. Yes you fucking were.

You scramble on the floor gathering loose papers and stuffing them back into folders without paying attention to what belongs where. That was obviously a mistake— one you’d be happy to pay for ten minutes from now when Jake is dragging you by the arm into an empty classroom on the premise of “re-organizing his folders” that you had just carelessly botched.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sharp click of the lock echoing in the small space.

“Look who’s brave all of a sudden.” It’s meant to sound more menacing, but you can’t help the slight waver in your voice, the chill that runs down your spine knowing this is probably the last time you’ll ever pretend to have the upper hand.

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. He takes another step closer—leaving only a few inches between him and you, your back pressed against a desk behind you.

"Brave? Try fed up."

"Your little games might be fun for you, but I'm running out of patience, y/n."

“Oh wow, I’m literally shaking with fear” You say, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He laughs dryly. It's a dangerous sound.

"You're a terrible actress, you know that? Fear looks like a lot of things, princess, and it doesn't look like what's on your face right now."

He raises a hand, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth over the sensitive skin of your neck.

"This? This looks like excitement."

Your pulse is racing, and he can feel it under his thumb. His gaze darkens, and that smirk returns—sharp, dangerous.

"You get off on this, don’t you? And you think I'm scared? Your mistake."

His touch moves to the base of your throat, his fingers wrapping around it just tight enough for you to notice. Not enough to hurt. Almost possessive.

His head dips down until his lips are barely separated from your ear. His voice is a dark, quiet rumble, sending a shiver down your spine.

"You like the thrill," he murmurs, and you swear you can hear a smile in the words. "The feeling of being challenged, of being forced up against the wall."

He pauses, thumb skimming the edge of your jawline.

"Admit it—you like it when I put you in your place."

He feels the shudder in your breath, sees the way your lashes flicker—like you're trying so damn hard to hide it, but your body betrays you. His grip tightens just a fraction, and his lips curl into something feral, triumphant.

"That’s what does it for you?" His laugh is rough, mean, breath hot against your ear. "That I’m the only one who won’t bow? That I’m the one who’ll drag you down instead?"

He shifts his hand, fingers pressing into your pulse point, thumb tipping your chin up—forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice drops to a growl.

"Pathetic. But I won’t complain. Watching you unravel is the best entertainment I’ve had all year."

Jake's gaze roams your face, his thumb still pressed against your pulse point. He can feel your hammering heartbeat, can see the flush on your cheeks, no matter how much you try to hide it. He leans even closer, his chest almost brushing yours.

"You're a pain in my ass, y/n. But I have to admit, you have one redeeming quality."

A slow, dark smile spreads across his face.

"You're so fun to toy with."

He moves suddenly, his hand grabbing your hip, pinning you against the desk. His other hand grabs your chin, holding it just tight enough for you to be unable to look away from him.

"Seeing that fire in your eyes as you try to keep that bitchy attitude? It makes me wanna break you down just a little more. Every. Goddamn. Time."

His grip tightens imperceptibly—just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to win.

"Still wanna play?" His voice is a whisper, laced with something dangerous as his thumb traces your bottom lip. "Because I can keep going until you forget how to be anything but mine."

“You want me to snap, y/n?” His voice is raw, stripped of its usual cool detachment.“Fine. Here I am.”

One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back as the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His lips crash into yours—not a kiss, a claim. Teeth and desperation and all the fury he’s swallowed for months.

For a split second, you're shocked: eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. It takes a moment—a beat of your heart—for the shock to wash away and a new heat to take over. In the next instant, you're fighting back, hands gripping his jacket, lips crashing back against his with every bit of defiance you can muster.

He groans into the kiss, his hand fisting tighter in your hair as he meets that challenge with every ounce of his own fury. Teeth clash, lips bruise, bodies pressing together like warring storms. For a moment, nothing exists outside this: the taste of his mouth, his hands on your body, the raw power of his restraint fraying at the seams.

He pulls back, breathless, gaze dark as he catches his breath. He can't keep his eyes off your swollen lips, the flush staining your cheeks.

His thumb swipes roughly over your bottom lip, wiping away the sting of the kiss—his breath ragged against your skin as lightning flashes again, illuminating the possessive gleam in his eyes.

"This what you wanted?" His voice is rough, laced with something unstable. "To see how far you could push me before I ruined you?"

"Congratulations, princess. You win."

His breath is a hot brand against your ear as his fingers twist in your hair, tilting your head back in one sharp motion.

"Filthy fucking thing," he rasps, dragging his tie from around his neck with his free hand.

"Thought you were untouchable? Look at you now—gagging for it like some common slut."

The silk tightens around your throat in a cruel loop, his knee forcing your legs apart as he wrenches you forward—your choked gasp only makes his smirk darker.

“Beg," he orders, pressing his thumb against your bottom lip until your jaw drops open. “I want to hear how bad you need it."

(And oh, you will.)

“P-please” You gasp out, a pathetic whimper of a noise, straining against the tight tie around your throat.

His grip tightens, cutting off your air for just a second—just long enough to make your vision blur—before loosening again. His free hand slaps across your cheek, sharp and stinging, forcing your gaze back up to his.

“Louder." His voice is steel, ruthless, leaving no room for disobedience. “Or do you need me to choke it out of you properly?"

His knee grinds between your thighs, pressure just shy of cruel as his thumb hooks into the corner of your mouth, stretching it wider.

“Try again."

You begin to make noises that are foreign to you, pathetic whimpers, mewls and desperate pleas for him to give you more, ruin you harder.

He lets out a low, approving hum—the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans in, teeth scraping your earlobe. “Good slut."

His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he presses the flat of his tongue against your pulse—licking a slow, filthy stripe up to your jaw before spitting directly into your open mouth.

"Swallow." A command, not a request. His other hand trails down to squeeze your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. “Then get on your knees and show me what that pretty mouth’s really for."

You swallow his spit without hesitation, dropping to my knees, eagerly undoing his belt and buttons of his waistband, like you couldn’t wait another second to get your mouth around him, and really you couldn’t.

His laugh is a dark, breathless thing as your fingers fumble with his belt—his hand dropping to tangle in your hair, not to help, but to control.

“Desperate little thing, aren't you?" His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make your jaw ache. “Go on then. Prove how badly you need this."

The moment you take him into your mouth, his grip tightens—not guiding, just owning—as his head tips back against the classroom wall with a groan.

Jake is a lot more well endowed than you were expecting, his thick bulging length completely filling your mouth with no space to breathe other than through your nose. It’s ironic really— of course the boy who makes himself as small as possible in the halls is packing major fucking heat in his jeans.

You push in as far as he’ll go, ignoring your gag reflex’s complaints. You begin to bob your head up and down against his shaft, licking and swirling your tongue around the tip swallowing the salty precum with every stroke. You look up at Jake, eyes wide and glossy with tears from gagging. Truly, you hope you look just as pathetic as you feel right now. Your thighs shift together, a clear indication of your arousal from being degraded like this.

He looks down at you through hooded eyes, breath labored. The look on your face is exactly the one he wanted to see—so desperate, so wrecked, and all because of him. His thumb swipes across your flushed cheeks, catching a trailing tear.

“Just look at you. All it takes is a dirty word, a sharp hand, and you're on your knees." He murmurs, voice hoarse.

He thrusts into your mouth hard and deep, pulling another gag and guttural moan from your throat that vibrates up his shaft deliciously. The amount of drool you were producing from sucking him off was obscene, dripping down your chin and pooling around the base of his cock.

He reaches a hand down gathering the accumulated spit off your chin and smears it against your cheek. He rears his hand back and smacks it against your face, the wet crack of his hand against your skin as loud as a lightening strike.

His fingers tighten in your hair, dragging you forward until your nose presses against his stomach—deep, forcing you to take every inch until your throat flutters helplessly around him. The sound you make sends a rough groan ripping from his chest.

"Fuck—that's the noise I wanted." His voice is shredded, hips jerking shallowly against your tongue. "Choke on it. Swallow it. Let me ruin you right here."

A sharp thrust—your tears spill over, your nails dig into his thighs—and then he’s pulling out at the last second, spilling hot and thick across your tongue, your cheeks, your chin with a muttered curse.

"Open." His thumb hooks under your jaw, forcing your mouth wide so he can see the mess. "God, you’re disgusting."

(And he can’t look away.)

Your head is spinning as he steps away from you, adjusting himself like you weren't just on your knees for him, like he doesn't look completely and utterly ruined.

You stay there, frozen on the cold classroom floor, blinking back tears as he buttons up his pants and slips back into the cool, composed demeanor that makes you want to hit him.

"Get up." His voice is even now, almost bored, but the dark flash in his gaze gives him away.

He watches you with a smirk, the expression sharp and knowing—like he can see the way your pulse still thrums, the way your thighs press together for friction. But he doesn’t comment. Instead, he steps closer, fingers catching your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Pathetic," he murmurs—but the word is laced with something darker, something possessive. “But at least you know your place now."

Then he releases you, turning toward the door like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just wrecked you beyond repair.

Just before he leaves, he glances back—one last look, one last smirk.

~Jake’s POV~

The moment he gets home, he locks himself away in his room, ignoring the sound of his mother's voice calling through the house.

He leans against the door, raking shaking hands through his hair as he tries—and fails—to ignore the fact he just did that. That he just gave in and did that, just because he wanted to. The look on your face, the sound of you choking on him, tears on your cheeks, your mouth open and—he needs to stop.

He needs a shower. A cold, cold shower.

Jake collapses onto his bed after the shower, staring at the ceiling. His skin is still flushed, pulse still uneven. He shuts his eyes—tries to clear his head—but all he sees is you.

Your lips, red and swollen. Your breath hitching when his fingers tightened in your hair. The way your thighs pressed together—fucking hell, you were soaked for him.

He groans, rolling onto his stomach, shoving his face into the pillow. He should hate you. He does hate you. But he hates himself more for what he's about to do next.

His hand slides under the waistband of his sweatpants.

(Disgusting. He’s just as bad as you are.)

~ Your POV~

Your phone buzzes, screen lighting up with a text message alert—from the last person you expect. Jake.

With shaky fingers, you open the message, unsure what to anticipate. Maybe another insult—another taunting nickname.

But the text is simple, two words that make your stomach flip.

{"Come here."}

You text back with shaky fingers

{“Come where?”}

His reply comes almost instantly—no hesitation, no games.

{“My place. Now."}

Another buzz. An address.

Then—

{"Don’t make me wait."}

(And you won’t. Because you’re pathetic)

Thousands of dirty thoughts flood your mind on the drive over, body thrumming with anticipation by the time you reach his front door, knees already locked, thighs trembling.

The door swings open immediately, like he was waiting right by it. His eyes roam over you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips—and for a moment, there's just a tense beat of quiet. Then he steps aside, nodding for you to enter.

"Inside. Now."

Your skin chills again. You do as he commands, walking past him into his house. You hear him close and lock the door behind him—the sound echoing in your chest.

Then, he speaks.

"Knees."

You don’t even turn around to look at him, you just drop to your knees obediently, waiting for his next command. He’s already got you wrapped right around his finger— or more so, his cock.

He paces around you, his footsteps quiet against the floor. You can sense him, circling you like a predator.

"I knew you'd come." His voice is a slow, dark drawl. "You're just that desperate. Desperate for me to put you in your place."

He comes to a stop in front of you, tilting your chin up with his thumb and forefinger until you're looking up at him. His gaze is steady, unreadable—the same calm before the storm.

"But I'm not in the mood to play nice. Not after... that." The word hangs in the air—heavy, loaded. "You embarrassed me."

He releases your chin, stepping away—the loss of contact makes you shiver.

"On your feet."

His fingers curl around the back of your neck—not gentle, not cruel, just absolute—as he guides you down the hall. The bedroom door is already open, the lights low. Something new glints in his expression when he shoves you forward—not just control, but hunger.

"Strip." A single word, no room for hesitation. "Then get on the bed. Face down."

You strip your clothes hastily but also somehow agonizingly slow; shirt, bra, skirt, panties until you’re left in nothing but your white thigh high stockings. You feel completely exposed and vulnerable which sends a thrill through your spine.

His gaze rakes over you—slow, deliberate—taking in every inch of bare skin, the way the stockings cling to your thighs, the way you’re already dripping wet glistening between the thighs. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

“Good." The word is rough, barely more than a growl. "Now get on the bed. Face down, like I said.”

He steps closer, pulling something from his pocket—his tie again, the silk sliding between his fingers.

"You're not moving until I say you can."

You swallow, nodding without meeting his eyes as you crawl onto the bed and then lie flat, your back facing the ceiling as you stare down at the sheets. You don't have to see him to know he's staring—you can feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of it against your body.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is so quiet you can hear your own breathing, the thudding of your heart. And then—the soft sound of him moving closer.

He moves quietly, footsteps only the faintest whisper as he circles you—like he's studying you, sizing you up. His voice, when he speaks, makes you shiver.

“Lift your hips. I'm going to tie your legs." Not a question, not an invitation, but a command—and you do as he says, shifting up onto your knees.

His palms skim down the backs of your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

The silk is thin, but he pulls it taut, forcing your knees to press together. The first knot goes around your right ankle.

He slides his hand over your calf, then moves to the other leg, his fingertips leaving faint, fleeting touches against your skin. He makes quick work of tying your other ankle, pulling it tight with a sharp tug. You hear him exhale when he's finished, like he's trying to control himself—and the sound sends a shiver through you.

“Move." That command is sharp, harsher this time. “Roll over."

You roll onto your back, now able to see just how utterly please he looks having you like this, sprawled out on display, bound and eager for him to touch you.

He grips your chin—forcing your head back against the mattress as he leans down, close enough that his breath is hot against your lips.

"Open."

The moment you obey, he spits directly into your mouth—slow, deliberate—before clamping his hand over your lips, sealing it in.

"Swallow." A rough thumb presses under your jaw, tipping your head back further. “Then say thank you."

Your words are breathless, desperate, and he smirks, hearing the neediness in your voice. He runs the pad of his thumb over your lips, almost gently.

"That's a good slut." There's something like satisfaction in his tone as he shifts, pushing away from you—taking a step back. "Now stay still."

He moves away for a brief moment, and you hear him opening something, the sound of plastic on plastic. His back is towards you at his desk, so you can’t see what he’s doing. The wait is torturous, and your mind races with guesses, your body trembling with a heady mix of fear and anticipation.

Finally, after what feels like an agonizing eternity, he stills at the desk.

"Close your eyes."

(And you do.)

The mattress dips as he settles between your thighs—not touching yet, just letting you feel the heat of him there. His fingers trail up your ribs, slow, almost reverent, before circling your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting.

"Open."

When you open your eyes, the first drop of wax hits your collarbone—searing, then cooling almost instantly. Your gasp is muffled by his palm slapping over your mouth.

"Quiet." Another drip, lower this time. Your hipbone. "Or I stop."

(And you don’t want him to stop. Ever.)

He continues like that for a while—slow, steady drips of wax down your stomach, around your waist, across your thighs. Every so often, he'll make a sound, a soft hum of appreciation, a sharp inhale of breath. And each one makes you shiver, makes you clench in anticipation. He watches your every movement—the way your breath hitches, your throat bobbing as you swallow. It only makes him want to push you more, to see if you really are just as shameless as he knows you are.

Your skin is a canvas for his art, each drop of wax a mark of his control. He's methodical, slow, not wasting a single moment. Each drip burns, then cools, leaving behind a trail of fire in its wake. Your body trembles under his touch, the pain-pleasure sending jolts through your muscles.

Then he stops, just the feel of his gaze on your skin as he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Look at me."

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, dark and stormy. He's closer now, his body almost touching yours—but not quite.

For a moment, neither of you moves, your breaths mingling. Then his mouth curves into a smirk, a slow, dangerous thing.

He watches you—the way your eyes flutter shut, the way your lips part—enjoying the sight of you bound and eager. One of his hands slides up the outside of your thighs, his touch rough but deliberate. The other takes something—the wax again.

"Stay still. Keep your eyes on me." His voice is rougher now as he presses a thumb to the curve of your hip. "No moving."

He trails the wax lower this time—dipping dangerously close to where you ache for him most, but stopping just shy. The heat sears, then cools, a delicious contrast to the throbbing need between your thighs.

"Look at you," he murmurs, dragging a finger through the wax on your skin, "already dripping and I haven't even touched you yet."

His hand finally slides between your legs—not to give relief, but to collect, fingertips slick with your arousal before pressing them against your parted lips.

"Taste." A command, not a request. "Taste how ruined you are for me."

(And you do. Greedily.)

You open your mouth and he thrusts his fingers in, smearing your thick clear arousal over your tongue. It tastes sweet and pathetic. You hum against his fingers as you suck them clean.

He lets out a low, rough growl, watching you lick your lips as he pulls his fingers away.

"Disgusting." His tone is gravelly, eyes hooded. "I could watch you like this forever, all bound and eager to please."

His hand moves up, trailing the back of his knuckles over your breasts, your throat, finally hooking under your jaw. He pulls your chin up—until your eyes meet his.

"But I've got so many more things I want to do to you first."

His words send a shiver through you, anticipation crackling in the air like lightning. He rises off the bed, taking a step back—just far enough that you can't reach him, but he can touch you if he wants to.

A part of you almost wants to squirm, to try to move to him, but you stay still, just like he told you. You are his, at his mercy—and he knows it.

After a moment, he speaks.

"Look at you." He chuckles, circling the bed, his steps almost languid, like he has all night to do whatever he wants. "Bound and at my mercy. I could just leave you here all night like this."

He stops at the foot of the bed, eyeing the length of your body with something like ownership. But he lets the silence stretch, knowing it makes you itch. Finally, after an agonizing moment, he continues.

"But I think I want something first."

Your breath catches, the anticipation almost unbearable. You want to ask what he wants, to beg him to just come back, but you don't. You keep silent, your throat raw from restraining yourself. The seconds feel like an eternity, every nerve in your body humming with need, with waiting.

Then, finally, his hand reaches for you again, gripping your ankle. "Lift."

Your breath shudders out as you lift your legs, your body tensing in anticipation. With one tug the silk tie loosens from your ankles, falling off. He moves, sliding onto the bed between your legs, his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart.

"Look at me." He commands, voice rougher now, his eyes dark, intense. And you look, looking up from where his hands are gripping your skin.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like a predator watching its prey. Your stomach is twisted in knots.

"You want this." His words are like a velvet whip, rough and smooth at the same time, like he's just stating a fact. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make your skin flush with goosebumps.

"And I'm going to give it to you."

The words make your body arch, your hands tensing at your sides. God, you wanna touch him so bad, but you don’t. You know if you do, he’ll likely stop everything. You wait.

"But you better remember one thing."

His thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner thigh, hard enough to make you whimper.

“I'm in charge." He says, the words firm and absolute as his eyes lock with yours, holding you in place with just the weight of his gaze. If you weren't already helplessly aroused, that look would have done it, his eyes dark and promising.

“You do what I say. When I say. No questions. Just obedience. If you behave, I'll make you feel better than you ever have before. But if you don't—" His grip tightens around your thigh, his voice hard and commanding.

"No mercy." The words send a shudder through you, fear and excitement warring in your stomach. You know he means it, that if you break one of his rules, he'll punish you like he was born for it.

“You like this, don't you?" His voice is a soft, dark purr. “Being like this? Spread out, eager to take whatever I give you."

His thumb dips into the hollow of your hip, tracing circles onto your skin, the touch almost gentle.

“Yes, I like it”

You do like it. You love it. You’re a disgusting pathetic slut for him, willing to do whatever he wants , take whatever he gives. He could literally hit you with his car and you’d thank him for it.

"Pathetic," he murmurs. “You like being used.”

The word makes your breath catch, your mouth opening, then closing. There's no point in trying to deny it. And you don't want to.

His fingers dip right into your slick heated folds without a warning, swiping up through and against your clit.

A low, rough noise leaves your mouth, something between a moan and a gasp, and he laughs.

Your face burns, and you bite your lip hard, holding back another noise, and he laughs again.

"Oh no," he says. “You don't need to do that. I want to hear you."

His hands are back on your thighs now, gripping just a little too hard, pulling you even further off the bed. His eyes rake over your body like he's trying to memorize every line, every plane.

"I want to hear those pretty little noises you make. I want to see all the expressions you make. I want to taste you."

His hands move to the inside of your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "And I want to hear you say you want it, too.”

His words are a hot whisper against your skin, his lips brushing your hip, but it feels like a branding iron, burning through you.

"Say it." His voice is gravelly, rough, almost desperate. “Say you want me to do whatever I want to you."

His hands trail higher, higher, until his fingers are brushing between your legs, just shy of where you want him.

“Say you'll be a good slut.” His voice is a deadly, dark promise.

“I want you to do whatever you want to me, please. I’ll take it all— I’ll be good”

He pulls back, eyes blazing.

"Are you sure?" He asks—and it's not a command. He means it. He'll stop if you tell him to. But you don't.

When you don't respond, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, looking you square in the eyes, searching for any hint of doubt or hesitation.

Finally, you nod.

"Good girl." His eyes almost soften, and the corners of his mouth twitch, like he might actually smile.

“Then you'll take it." His voice drops to a growl as he finally—finally—slides his fingers where you need him most, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. “Every bit. And you’ll thank me for it."

His fingers work you with ruthless precision, slow and deliberate at first, then fast enough to make your hips jerk against him. He watches every reaction—the way your mouth falls open, the way your back arches—and when your breath starts coming in short, desperate gasps, he leans down, lips grazing your ear.

"Not yet." His free hand clamps over your mouth just as you’re about to tip over the edge, his voice a dark whisper. “You don’t get to come until I say so."

He groans as you whimper, his fingers pressing closer, then retreating again—teasing you, taking you to the edge, and pulling back just before you fall, the heat building in your stomach, twisting in tighter and tighter knots until you think you're going to go insane.

He looks down at you, his eyes almost black. “You're being so good, just how I told you. My perfect little slut."

"I can see you're trying so hard, keeping all those pathetic little sounds in your mouth like I said. I know you want to come, but you can't yet, can you?" His voice is hoarse, and teasing like he's getting off on this just as much as you are, on watching you struggle to control yourself, and on being the one to make you feel like this.

He presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your chest. "You're doing so well. Just be patient a little longer..."

His fingers finally, finally pick up the pace, just enough for you to feel it, to feel the heat flaring up, but not enough to push you over the edge, and you can't help the strangled cry that escapes you.

"That's it, let it out. Let me hear you. You're being so good."

The praise seems to do something to him, almost as much as it does to you. His voice has edged into almost a growl.

“So, so good. You're being perfect."

The sweet praises are a stark contrast to the degradation he was giving you earlier and you can’t tell which one you like more. Maybe both equally.

He notices the way your breath hitches at the praise—the way your body tenses, caught between craving his cruelty and melting under his approval. His smirk is slow, knowing.

“You don’t have to choose." His thumb circles your clit—slow, torturous. "I'll give you both."

Then his mouth is on yours, biting your lip hard enough to sting as his fingers drive into you, relentless. He pulls back just enough to watch the way your face twists with pleasure—just enough to see the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Look at you." His voice is wrecked, rough with lust. “Falling apart just because I told you to."

His fingers curl inside you, pressing up in a way that makes your vision blur. "Come. Now."

(And you do—violently, helplessly, entirely his.)

He lets you rest for a few minutes, watching you with dark eyes. Then he climbs off the bed. “We're not done."

He crosses the room to a desk, rummaging through the drawers. “We're far from done."

You watch him—the broad line of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles as he moves. You hadn’t even realized all this time that under those loose fitted dress shirts, and baggy hoodies that Jake was actually pretty ripped.

"Get up." He doesn't even glance back at you.

He turns, something metallic glinting in his hand. You're not sure what it is—a pocketknife, maybe?

"Crawl to me." His voice is still low, almost rough. “Hands and knees. And don't look at me."

You climb down onto the floor, hands and knees pressed against the carpet. You keep your eyes down as you crawl towards him.

He reaches out when you're close enough, one hand grabbing a fistful of your hair as the other lifts the thing in his hand, the metal catching the light.

"You're being so good." He murmurs. "Keep your eyes down. Stay there."

The sound of something metal clicks, loud and sharp. The anticipation makes your heart jump in your chest. You know he's watching you—you can feel his eyes on you, heavy, possessive.

Finally, he speaks—soft, but it sounds loud in the silence.

"Look at me."

You raise your head, eyes finding his—and you have to swallow a gasp at what you see. He's holding the little pocket knife, flicking it open and shut. Something shifts in his eyes when you look at him.

His gaze flickers down to the knife, noticing the way you keep looking at it. He can guess what you're thinking. You're not exactly subtle.

"You want to know what I'm going to do with this, don't you?" He flicks it closed, then open again, toying with it. "You're dying to know what I'm planning."

You open your mouth to reply, to confirm it, but before you can, he tuts, shaking his head. "Ah-ah-ah. No speaking."

He smirks, trailing the flat side of the blade down your sternum—not hard enough to cut, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Good girl."

Then he drags the tip lightly over your collarbone, watching your skin pebble in its wake. He watches your reaction—the way your breath catches, the way your chest rises and falls a little faster—just like he knew it would.

“You like this." He says, his voice a little more rough. "Me, with a knife, and you, on your knees."

His next words send a shiver down your spine. "It does something to you, doesn't it?" He laughs, reaching out to wipe away a bead of blood on your collarbone, bringing his finger to his lips, licking it off. He makes a little noise, almost a groan, at the taste of it.

"You want to bleed for me."

His voice is rough, his eyes dark. “You're not even going to last, are you?" He lets the tip of the knife slide over the curve of your breast. "Look at me." You lift your gaze, meeting his dark, hungry eyes—and the second you do, the knife bites down again, a quick, sharp sting just above your nipple. You whimper, but hold his stare like he commanded.

He exhales—ragged, approving.

"Open." His voice is rough, a dark command. "Stick out your tongue." He looks at you a moment, taking in the sight of you knelt before him, completely vulnerable, eyes upturned, your mouth open... It sends something dark flaring in his eyes, something possessive and intense.

“I could cut it right off. Silence your bitchy mouth for good. I should, even. All the times you’ve called me ‘nerd’, ‘dork’, ‘coward’. I could make you eat every fucking insult right now.” He practically growls the words out, seething.

He rubs the flat of the knife against your tongue, almost gently. A stark contrast to the threat he just hung in the air. “So obedient. So mine. Now close your mouth."

He lets his eyes drag over your face again, taking in the way you look—kneeled before him, hands behind you back, your head held up by his fingers on your chin.

He lets the knife slide out of your mouth, tip grazing your tongue just enough to barely cut the surface, watching you swallow the faint trace of blood down. "Good girl."

His hand slides up your jawline, thumb rubbing over your bottom lip. "Now. I'm going to take this, and I want you to keep your eyes on mine."

He shifts, grabbing your chin a little more firmly, making your head tilt a little more where he wants it. And you keep your eyes locked on his, like he said to. He doesn't break his gaze for even a second as he brings the knife up. You can see every thought—every intention—in his eyes, and your heart beats a little faster, even though you don't know exactly what's coming.

"Don't you take your eyes off me." He says it like a promise and a threat, and it's like steel in your spine, straightening you up, even as you shiver.

His gaze never leaves yours. "I want you to keep looking at me. No matter what I do." His voice is softer this time, his words like a warm blanket over the numbing fear in your spine.

He watches the slight dilation of your pupils, the way your breath stutters— "Breathe." The command is firm, but his thumb brushes your cheekbone almost tenderly before he presses the cold flat of the blade against your throat.

"This is mine too, isn't it?" A whisper, as the steel trails lower. "Every fucking bruise. Every drop of blood."

(And when he finally cuts—it’s with you wide-eyed, watching him claim you.)

His hand slides from your neck to your hair, tangling and yanking your head back gently, your throat exposed. “Look at that look in your eyes."

He watches you, eyes dark, his hands rough as they explore you. "Like you don't care if I cut you open, as long as I keep looking at you."

With that, his mouth moves down, trailing across your jaw, teeth grazing your collarbone. He can feel your heart pound, the way you shudder as the knife trails lower, leaving a faint trail of red down your skin. He can feel the tension in the way you arch into him, the air filled with a dark, almost savage sort of need.

His free hand trails across your skin, rough and almost reverent, his fingers leaving bruises as they grip and squeeze.

His teeth sink into the junction of your neck and shoulder—sharp, claiming—and when he pulls back, the red mark blooms on your skin. His thumb smears the blood from your collarbone down your sternum, painting you in rust.

"I’ll carve it into you if I have to."

His voice is low, nearly a growl, and you can feel the rumble of it through your whole body.

"You're mine. Right here." He presses a hand to your heart. "In here." Now to the base of your throat. "And here."

He leans down, putting his mouth right against the bleeding cut on your shoulder, the heat of his breath making you shiver.*

"And here." He presses a kiss there, hard. Almost gentle. But it's anything but soft.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist next, his voice raw. "I don't want a single part of you that doesn't have a trace of me."

“Still think I’m just some pathetic nerd?”

He huffs out a dark laugh, twisting the knife against your sternum just enough to make you gasp before leaning in until his lips brush your ear.

"No." His teeth graze your earlobe. "You think I’m everything now, don’t you?"

With that, he kisses you, hard, like he's been holding back this whole time. You can feel the way one of his hands tangles in your hair, holding you in place, while the other slides down the slope of your waist, rough and impatient. He kisses you like he wants to consume you—like he's trying to devour you whole, to get as close as he can, to get inside you.

The knife clatters to the floor. He leans down and scoops you up off the floor, laying me down onto the bed gently. The sudden motion is a stark contrast to what he was just doing half a minute ago.

He follows you down onto the mattress, his body pressing you into the sheets as his hands roam possessively—one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

"No more games." His voice is rough, breath hot against your lips. "Just me. Just this."

And when he finally takes you, it’s with the same ruthless control—every thrust a claim, every ragged breath a vow.

(You belong to him now. And he’ll never let you forget it.)

The order came the way all orders did — not in words, not in sound, but in the particular quality of the light. A shift in the gold of it. A direction embedded in the warmth the way iron is embedded in rock — not placed there, not added, but of it, native and irrefutable. He had felt it ten thousand times before, or a hundred thousand, or a number that made both figures meaningless. The light moved and he moved with it. That was the whole of his existence, distilled: the light moved, and he followed.

He had never questioned it. That was the truth he would turn over later, in the long unmeasured dark of his falling — that he had never, in all that incomprehensible span of time, questioned. Not once. He had gone where he was sent. He had done what was asked. He had been, above all and before all, obedient.

But he had also watched. That was his particular nature, the quality that distinguished him from the others, though he had never been told as much — he simply knew it the way he knew the names of stars. He watched. He learned the specific tremor of a human hand when fear moved through it. He learned the sound grief made when a person believed themselves entirely alone — that low, animal register, nothing like the weeping done for an audience. He had watched ten thousand years of human life unspool beneath him like a river seen from a very great height, and he had catalogued it all, and said nothing, because there was nothing to say. It was not his place to feel. It was his place to serve.

The man they sent him to destroy was kneeling in a field of winter wheat. Praying. Of all the things he might have been doing in the last moments of his life — praying, hands laced together on his thighs so tightly the knuckles had gone the colour of bone, head bowed, lips moving in the particular quiet rhythm of a man who had done this every morning of his life and intended to go on doing it.

Praying to the very God who had signed his death. Because he did not know. He could not have known. The sin assigned to him was not a sin he had chosen — it was a circumstance, a thing that had happened to him the way weather happened, the way drought happened, indifferent to his character or his goodness or the particular devotion with which he pressed his hands together every morning in a field of winter wheat.

Riki stood at the edge of that field for a long time. The light pressed. It has been decided. Go. He thought about obedience. He thought about the word — the weight of it, the comfort of it, the way it had functioned as a kind of home for as long as he had existed. He thought about the man’s hands. He thought about the word mercy, which he had heard humans use for ten thousand years, which he had categorised and filed and never once applied to himself, because what would it mean for something like him to be merciful? He was an instrument. Instruments did not choose.

He looked at the man in the wheat. He put the judgment down. There was no drama in it. No declaration, no rebellion dressed up in bright colours. He simply — set it aside. The way you set down a tool you have decided, quietly and finally, not to use. And then he stood at the edge of the field with empty hands and waited to learn what that decision cost.

The answer came immediately. The light went out. Not gently. Not the way light fades at the end of a day, slow and amber and resigned. It left him the way a river leaves a riverbed in drought — all at once, and completely, and with a terrible indifference to what it left behind. Everything he had been, the vastness of it, the certainty, the sense of being held by something larger than himself — gone. Between one breath and the next. And then the wings, which went last, which was the worst of it by a measure he had no language for. The tearing began at the joint and finished somewhere interior, somewhere that had no name in any anatomy, somewhere that would ache for the rest of whatever he now was.

He had not known, until he lost them, how entirely he had lived in them. He fell for a long time after that. Or no time at all. He was no longer made of the stuff that could tell the difference.

The desert was red. That was the first coherent thing — the colour of the earth beneath his cheek, a deep arterial red, the kind of red that looked like something had bled into it long ago and the land had simply kept the stain. He lay with his face against it and breathed, which was new, which was strange, which his body insisted upon with a stubbornness that left no room for argument. In and out. In and out. The sun pressed down on the back of his neck like a hand.

His back was agony. The scarring — already scarring, already sealing over in the graceless way of mortal wounds — pulled across his shoulder blades every time his lungs expanded. He lay still and breathed anyway because there was nothing else to do.

He was thirsty. The indignity of it was almost impressive. That this body, this small and breakable and sweat-damp thing he now inhabited, would announce its needs so plainly, so without shame. Water, it said. Water and shade and rest. As though he were a horse. As though he were a field that needed rain.

He got up eventually, because lying in the dirt was not a solution to anything. The land around him was vast and red and smelled of sage and something beneath sage — something mineral, something that had been here before people had names for things and would be here long after. Scrub brush. A sky so blue it looked painted. The silence of a place that had never been required to be quiet for anyone, because no one came here to need quiet. It simply was.

He walked. He had always known where to walk before. The not-knowing was its own particular weight, something he carried in his chest alongside the ache of the absence of wings, and he did not examine it too closely. He simply walked, because the alternative was to stop, and stopping felt like a kind of surrender he was not prepared to make. The trail appeared the way things in deserts appeared — gradually, then all at once. A thin pale line worn into the rock by boots and time and the particular human insistence on going places. It led upward. He followed it because upward was instinct, still, even now, even stripped of everything that had made upward meaningful.

He did not make it far. His legs — unaccustomed, unreliable, apparently bearing some kind of grudge — buckled without much warning. He went down hard on the rock, gravel opening the skin of his palms, his back igniting with fresh complaint. He lay on the trail in the full weight of the afternoon and looked up at the sky and thought, with the detached clarity of something that had recently lost the ability to feel sorry for itself, that this was probably fitting. He closed his eyes.

Boots on rock. Light, practised, the sound of someone who knew every loose stone on this trail by memory. Then shadow — a mercy, small and immediate — falling across him, and the soft sharp sound of breath caught in surprise. He opened his eyes. You stood over him with a canteen in one hand and the particular expression of someone who had gone out expecting solitude and found instead a problem. Wide-eyed. Mouth soft with surprise. Your hair was coming loose from its braid in pieces, strands of it lifting in the dry hot wind, and there was red dust on your cheekbone and a worn canvas pack on your back and your boots were the boots of someone who covered ground in them regularly, scuffed pale at the toe.

You looked at him the way he had looked at the man in the wheat field. With your whole attention. Taking stock. Then something in your face settled — not resolved exactly, but decided — and you crouched down to his level and said, in a voice that was careful and unhurried, the voice of someone who had learned that stillness was its own kind of language: “You’re hurt bad.”

He said, “Yes.” His voice came out strange to his own ears — too much in it, or too little, calibrated for a register this body didn’t quite have the range for. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “I am aware.” Something moved in your expression. Not quite amusement. Something more careful than that. “Can you walk if I help you?”

“I believe so.” “Alright then.” You stood, resettled the pack on your shoulders, and got an arm under his before he had processed that you intended to. The warmth of you was — startling. Simply that. The solid, living warmth of a human body against his side, entirely unguarded, offered without hesitation to a stranger bleeding on a trail. He did not know what to do with it. He filed it somewhere new. Somewhere without a label yet.

“There’s a farm,” you said, already moving, already taking some of his weight with a matter-of-fact ease that suggested this was not the first time you had managed something heavier than you looked like you could. “Not far. My daddy’ll —” A pause, brief, weighted with something he couldn’t yet read. “There’s a farm. We’ll get you seen to.” “That is —” He searched for the right word, unused to needing to search. “That is very kind.”

You made a small sound that wasn’t quite agreement. Looked out at the trail ahead rather than at him. “Don’t go thanking me yet,” you said quietly. “Let’s just get you down first.” The desert stretched below, red and enormous and indifferent, and you walked him out of it as the sun began its long descent, the sky going amber at the edges, your shoulder steady under his arm and your voice low when you spoke — about the footing, about the path, about nearly there now, careful here, there’s a loose bit — talking him down the mountain the way you might talk something wild back from the edge of a very high place.

He let you. It was, he would think later, the first mercy anyone had shown him in longer than he could measure. He did not yet know he was about to walk into a house that needed some of its own.

The farmhouse sat low against the land like it was trying not to be noticed. That was the first thing Riki observed about it — not its size, not its condition, though both were notable, but the particular quality of its relationship to the earth around it. Most structures built by human hands reached, in some small way. Aspired to verticality. This one did not. It hunkered. It pressed itself into the red dirt as though it had learned, over long years, that drawing attention was not in its interest.

The wood of it had gone grey with weather. The porch listed slightly to the left. A barn stood some distance behind the house, in marginally better repair, and a vegetable garden occupied a patch of ground to the east, fenced against rabbits with wire so mended it was more repair than original. Practical. Relentless. The garden of someone who could not afford to let things die.

You had not spoken much on the walk down. Neither had he. The silence between you was not uncomfortable — it had a texture to it, a kind of mutual accommodation, each of you making room for the other’s quiet without requiring explanation. He had noticed that about you already. You did not fill silence for the sake of filling it. “Home,” you said, when the farmhouse came into view. The word came out level. No particular warmth in it, no particular coldness. Just — identification. This is the place. This is what it is. He filed that too.

The sun was low by the time you came down off the trail, the sky doing something extraordinary in shades of copper and rose that he observed with the distant part of himself that still catalogued beauty out of long habit, even now, even diminished. Your shadow stretched long ahead of you across the dust. His own shadow, beside it, was a strange thing to look at. He had not had a shadow before. You brought him to the porch and settled him against the railing with a care that was businesslike rather than tender — efficient, practised, the movements of someone accustomed to managing things on their own. Sit here. Don’t move. I’ll get water. You went inside without waiting for his acknowledgment, the screen door swinging shut behind you with a sound like a small argument.

He sat. He breathed. He looked at the land. Nevada in the last light of day was a different thing entirely from Nevada at noon. The harshness of it softened without becoming gentle — it was still vast, still indifferent, still the kind of landscape that would kill you without malice if you made the wrong decision. But the light turned it amber, turned the red rock gold, turned the scrub brush into something that almost glittered. It was beautiful the way difficult things were beautiful. Uncompromisingly. Without apology. He was looking at it when the door opened.

Not you. He knew that before he turned — the weight of the footfall was different, heavier, the particular tread of a man who had decided long ago that the ground owed him something. The man who came through the door was tall, broad through the shoulders, with the weathered look of someone the sun had worked on for decades and the eyes of someone who had decided, also long ago, what things were and saw no reason to revise his conclusions. He looked at Riki. Riki looked back.

The man’s gaze moved over him the way a hand moves over a fence line — checking for weakness, for threat, cataloguing. Then it moved to the blood dried rust-brown on Riki’s shirt, the state of his hands, the particular stillness of him, and whatever calculation was happening behind those eyes resolved into something that was not welcome but was not yet refusal. “Found him on the Hartley trail,” you said, appearing in the doorway behind your father with a tin cup of water and a cloth that had seen better decades. “He was down. Couldn’t leave him.”

Your father said nothing for a moment. Let the silence do something with its weight. “Couldn’t leave him,” he repeated, finally. His voice was the voice of a man who had learned that repetition was a kind of pressure. Low. Even. The tone of someone who had never needed to raise his voice because other methods worked just as well. “No sir,” you said. Your own voice had changed. Not much — you were careful, clearly practised at careful — but enough. A fraction quieter. A fraction smaller. The way a candle dims in a room where the window has been opened.

He noticed. He noticed the way you held the cup and the cloth with both hands, occupying your hands. He noticed the precise distance you maintained from your father in the doorway — not touching, never quite touching. He noticed the way your eyes moved to Riki briefly, checking, and then back to your father, and the particular quality of that check — not seeking reassurance, not quite. Something more complex. Something he did not yet have enough information to name. “He’ll need somewhere to sleep,” you said. “Just until he’s fit to travel. The barn —”

“I know where he’ll sleep,” your father said. Still that same measured quiet. “I make the decisions about this house.” “Yes sir.” A pause in which several things that were not words were exchanged. Then your father looked at Riki again, and something shifted in the assessment — still wary, but recalculating. “You well enough to work?” he asked.

Riki considered the question honestly. His back was a sustained misery. His hands were lacerated. He was thirsty in a way the cup of water you were holding was not going to resolve. He was also, he was discovering, possessed of a stubbornness that had apparently survived the fall intact, because the answer that came out of him was: “I am.”

Your father made a sound that was not quite satisfied and not quite dismissive. Somewhere in between. A sound that reserved judgment while implying judgment had already been made. “Barn,” he said. “You sleep in the barn. You earn your keep or you move on.” “That is agreeable,” Riki said.

Your father looked at him for one moment longer — something faintly unsettled in it, the look of a man who has heard a perfectly ordinary sentence and cannot explain why it struck him as odd — and then he went back inside. The door did not slam. That was almost worse, somehow. The deliberate quiet of it.

You let out a breath so small it was barely a breath at all. Then you crossed to the railing and crouched in front of him and held out the cup. “Drink,” you said. Back to that other voice now — the trail voice, the one that was unhurried and direct and entirely your own. As though the version of you that existed in the doorway with your father was a coat you put on and took off. He drank. The water was warm and tasted of the tin and was the best thing he had consumed in — he did not know how long. He drained the cup.

Something moved in your expression. Almost a smile. Not quite. “I’m going to look at your back,” you said. “There’s something wrong with it. I could feel it when we were walking.” He went still. “You don’t have to tell me how,” you said, already matter-of-fact, already reaching for the hem of his shirt with a clinical efficiency that suggested you were not going to make this strange if he didn’t. “I’m not asking. I just need to see what I’m working with.”

He thought about the scars. The twin masses of them, the raised and ruined topography of what had been taken. He thought about what they looked like to human eyes — whether they would frighten you, whether they would make you ask questions he could not answer truthfully without revealing things he was not certain you should know. He looked at your face. Your expression was open and patient and entirely without agenda, the face of someone who had asked a practical question and was waiting for a practical answer, the face of someone who was very good at waiting.

“Very well,” he said. You were quiet for a long moment when you saw them. He did not look at your face. He looked at the last of the light on the Nevada flats and felt the careful, impersonal touch of your hands at the edges of the scarring — not recoiling, not pressing, simply — present. “Does it pain you?” you asked. Quiet. “Yes,” he said. “Though less than it did.”

“Alright.” You exhaled slowly through your nose. Something in it that was not pity — something more careful than pity, something that took the fact of his pain and simply acknowledged it, made room for it, did not try to fix it into something more manageable. “I’ll bring salve. And something to eat, when he’s —” A beat. “When supper’s done.” When he’s settled, you had been going to say. When he can’t see.

He did not say that he had understood. He simply nodded. You stood, collecting your cloth and your empty cup, and you looked at him once more with that level, considering gaze — taking stock the way you had on the trail, the way that felt less like scrutiny than like a kind of serious attention, the kind usually reserved for things that mattered. “What do I call you?” you asked.

He thought about his true name. The sound of it, the weight of it, a thing made of frequencies this body’s throat could not reproduce and this body’s ears could not properly hear. A name that belonged to something he was no longer. “Riki,” he said. It was not his name. It was the closest this mouth could come to something that had once been his, worn down to something human-sized, something that fit.

You nodded like that was sufficient, like names were practical things and you had been given enough of one to work with. “I’ll be back directly,” you said. You went inside. The screen door said its small argumentative piece behind you. The Nevada dark was coming in from the east, slow and purple and enormous, swallowing the last of the copper sky, and Riki sat on the listing porch of a grey-weathered house and listened to the silence of a place that had learned to be very quiet, and understood, with a clarity that had nothing to do with any power he had lost, that he had not walked into a house.

He had walked into a situation. And for the first time since the field of winter wheat, he felt something that was not grief and not confusion but something altogether more purposeful settle into the empty place where his wings had been. He was not certain yet what to call it. He suspected it was anger.

—

He did not sleep. This was not, he was discovering, unusual for him. Sleep was a thing this body was capable of in theory — he had felt the edges of it, that soft dissolution, the way consciousness went loose and unheld at the end of the previous night — but had not yet managed to fall fully into. He lay in the barn on a bedroll you had brought out without being asked, a folded quilt on top of it that smelled of cedar and something floral and faintly of you, and he looked up at the rafters and listened to the dark.

The horses knew he was there. They had known from the moment he crossed the threshold, both of them moving to the far end of their stalls with that particular animal precision that had nothing to do with thought and everything to do with the part of a creature that existed below thought. They were not panicking. They had made their assessment — strange, strange, not right — and had simply relocated themselves as far from him as the barn permitted and were pretending, with great determination, that he did not exist. He found this quietly respectful. He did the same for them.

The barn settled around him as the night went on, its old wood contracting in the cool, making small sounds of adjustment. An owl worked somewhere outside. The wind came off the flats and pushed at the walls and moved on, indifferent, the way wind in Nevada moved — not around things but through them, or past them, without acknowledgment. He thought about the way your voice changed in doorways. He was still thinking about it when the sky began to go pale at the edges.

You were already up when he came out. The surprise was his own — he had assumed, given the hour, that the farmhouse would still be dark and closed, and had half-formed a plan to be useful in some visible, unobtrusive way before anyone emerged to direct him. Instead he found you at the pump beside the house in the grey pre-dawn, working the handle with the mechanical patience of someone who had done this ten thousand mornings and would do it ten thousand more, filling a bucket without ceremony or complaint, your hair still in its night braid, your feet in unlaced boots. You looked up when you heard him. “You’re up early,” you said. Not accusatory. Just noting.

“I did not sleep particularly well,” he said, which was true enough. You looked at him for a moment with that level morning gaze — assessing, the way you seemed to assess most things, with a seriousness that was not unfriendly but did not soften the looking. Then you held out the bucket. “Chickens first,” you said. “Then I’ll show you the rest.” He took the bucket.

The chickens were housed in a low wire run behind the barn, twelve of them, with the collective opinion of Riki that the horses had expressed but considerably less restraint about voicing it. They scattered when he approached, a brief furious explosion of feathers and complaint, and then regrouped at the far end of the run and regarded him with the specific hostility of creatures that had decided something was wrong without being able to articulate what. He crouched and waited. After a moment, one hen — bolder than the others, or perhaps simply more curious — picked her way back toward him with the exaggerated caution of someone pretending they are not doing what they are doing. She got within a foot of him and stopped.

He held very still. She pecked at the ground near his boot. Then at his boot. Then she looked up at him with one orange eye and made a sound of uncertain conclusion and walked away. “Huh,” you said, from behind him. He stood and found you leaning against the fence post with the empty bucket in your hand and an expression he had not seen on you yet — something lighter than your usual register, surprised out of you, unguarded in a way that lasted only a moment before you collected it back. “They don’t like strangers,” you said.

“I gathered.” “They don’t much like anybody,” you amended. “But they especially don’t like strangers.” “I have been informed,” he said, “that I am unusual.”

The corner of your mouth moved. Almost. You turned away before it could become something more, and he watched you go and filed the almost-smile in the same place as the canteen warmth and the cedar quilt and the version of your voice that was entirely your own.

The day’s work was plain and it was relentless. He understood, by midmorning, the particular arithmetic of this farm — the way every task connected to every other task, the way the whole enterprise was held together less by prosperity than by the sheer refusal to let anything fail. The fence line needed mending in three places. The roof of the barn had a compromise along the eastern edge that wanted attention before the weather turned. The well mechanism was original and complained loudly about it. These were not the problems of a farm that was thriving. These were the problems of a farm that was enduring.

He worked. His back made its protests known and he ignored them with the same focused attention he had once applied to the light. The physical labour was strange — the way his muscles heated and tired, the way sweat gathered at his collar, the way thirst came back reliably every hour with the persistence of a creditor — but not unmanageable. There was something in it, even. Something in the simple physics of a fence post driven into red dirt, the satisfying solidity of a thing made more sound than it had been.

Your father watched him from a distance for most of the morning. Riki was aware of this the way he was aware of weather — peripherally, constantly, without looking directly at it. The man had a way of occupying space that was its own kind of statement. He stood at the edge of things. He observed. He did not offer assistance or instruction, which told Riki that the watching was not supervisory. It was something else. Assessment, perhaps. Or the particular vigilance of a man deciding whether a new variable in his environment was a threat or a resource. He had not yet decided, Riki thought, which was more useful to be.

You moved through your own work with an efficiency that was almost architectural — each task slotted precisely into the available time, no motion wasted, no pause taken that wasn’t functional. You cooked and you mended and you hauled water and you did it all with the same quiet matter-of-factness you had applied to hauling him off a trail, and at no point did you look like you expected acknowledgment for any of it. At noon you brought him water without being asked.

He was at the fence line, his shirt damp through, the Nevada sun doing its particular best overhead. You came across the flat ground with two cups and handed him one and stood beside him and drank yours and looked out at the middle distance and said nothing. He drank. “How’s your back?” you asked, eventually. “Improved,” he said. “The salve was effective.”

You nodded. Kept looking at the distance. “You don’t have to tell me where you came from,” you said. Quiet, and even, and with the care of someone constructing a sentence they have thought about before saying. “Or what happened to you. That’s your own business.” He looked at the side of your face. The dust on your cheekbone again — different dust today, paler, from the flour you had been working with this morning. The loose strand of hair at your temple moving in the slight noon breeze. “That is generous,” he said.

“It’s practical,” you said, with a slight correction in your tone that was not unkind. “People don’t tell you things when you push. They tell you things when they’re ready.” He considered this. “You speak as though from experience.” A pause. Brief, but present. “I speak as someone who lives here,” you said, and left it at that.

He did not push. He understood, now, the patience of that sentence — the way it answered him and closed the door at the same time with such practised ease that the closing of the door was almost invisible. You had been doing that for a long time. Opening just enough. No further. He handed you the empty cup and turned back to the fence. “Thank you,” he said. “For the water. And for — “ He paused, searching, unused still to the narrowness of this language, the way it made him reach for things and come up short. “For the previous evening. You were not required to do any of it.” You were quiet for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “I wasn’t.”

And then you walked back across the flat ground toward the house, and he watched you go, and the sun was enormous overhead and the land was red in every direction and somewhere behind him your father was still watching from the edge of things, and Riki drove another post into the Nevada dirt and felt that purposeful thing in his chest settle deeper. Not anger, he revised. Not exactly.

Something older than anger. Something that had been in him even before the fall — that quality that had made him stop at the edge of a field of winter wheat and put down what he had been sent to carry. The inability, when it came to it, to walk away from something that was not right. He picked up the hammer. He kept working.

It was late afternoon, the heat finally relenting by degrees, when he heard it. He was at the barn, seeing to a loose board on the eastern wall, when the sound came from inside the house — low, and brief, and with a quality to it he identified immediately and completely, because he had catalogued it ten thousand years of watching human lives and he knew exactly what it was.

The sound a person made when something hurt them and they had learned not to make noise about it. He went very still. The air around him changed. He felt it before he registered it consciously — that familiar internal shift, the power in him waking from its uneasy dormancy, the pressure dropping around him in a radius that made the horses shift in their stalls and the chickens go abruptly, completely silent.

He stood with the hammer in his hand and the board half-fixed and every part of him oriented toward the house. A long moment passed. Then the back door opened and you came out with a basket of washing and went to the line without looking at him and began to hang it with the same flat efficiency you applied to everything, and your movements were fine — deliberate, controlled — and you did not look at him.

He looked at you. At the way you held your left arm slightly differently than your right. He set the hammer down on the top of the fence rail. Carefully. Quietly. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and he looked at the chickens, who had gone back to their pecking, and he looked at the sky, which was going that extraordinary copper again, and he did not go to the house, because he did not yet know enough, and acting without knowing enough was how things got worse rather than better.

But he picked the hammer back up and he held it, and he did not put it down again until supper was called.

The barn was dark by the time you came. He heard you before he saw you — the soft unlatch of the door, the particular hesitation of someone who has decided to do something and is still deciding, right up until the moment they do it. A sliver of lamplight preceded you, warm and unsteady, and then you came through the door with the lamp in one hand and a plate in the other and you looked at him sitting up in the bedroll and you said, by way of explanation: “I saved you supper.”

He had not been given supper. He had noted this without comment, the way he noted most things about this house — quietly, and completely, and without letting the noting show on his face. “That was not necessary,” he said. “I know,” you said, which seemed to be your answer to most things that were offered in the register of obligation. You crossed the barn and set the plate down on the top of the nearest stall rail and then you looked around, briefly, for somewhere to be, and settled on a upturned crate a few feet from his bedroll and sat on it and set the lamp on the ground between you.

The horses regarded you with considerably more charity than they had managed for Riki. The bolder one — a bay mare with an opinion about most things — stretched her nose over the stall door in your direction and you reached up without looking and scratched between her eyes with the automatic ease of long habit. “That’s Clementine,” you said. “The other one’s Job.” “Job,” he repeated. “Daddy named him.” A pause that had a particular texture to it. “He has a sense of humour about suffering.”

Riki looked at you. You were looking at the lamp. Your left arm, he noted, was resting in your lap rather than propped at the elbow the way your right was. Protecting it without meaning to, or meaning to so consistently it had stopped being a decision. “Eat,” you said, without looking up. “Before it goes cold.”

He reached for the plate. Beans and cornbread, simple and adequate, and he ate it the way he was learning to eat — with the genuine animal attention of a body that had requirements and was no longer above having them. You watched the lamp and scratched Clementine’s nose and said nothing for a while, which was its own kind of conversation. “How long have you been here?” he asked, eventually. “On this land.” “Always,” you said. “Born here. Mama too, until she wasn’t.” You said it plainly, the way you said most things — not inviting sympathy, not deflecting it, simply stating the fact as a fact. “Just us since I was nine.”

“I am sorry,” he said. You looked at him then. Briefly, assessing, as though checking whether he meant it. Whatever you found seemed to satisfy you. You looked back at the lamp. “It was a long time ago,” you said. “That does not always make a thing smaller.”

A beat of quiet. Clementine withdrew her nose and lost interest and went back to her hay. Outside the barn the Nevada night was doing what Nevada nights did — going enormous and cold and very clear, the stars coming out in their thousands, indifferent and magnificent. “No,” you agreed, softly. “It doesn’t.”

He set the empty plate on the ground and looked at his own hands — the cuts from the trail already healed more than they should have been, another thing to be careful about, another thing to manage. He laced his fingers together and considered the lamp between you and thought about ten thousand years of watching people talk to each other, all those conversations he had catalogued from a very great height, and how entirely different it was to be in one.

“Your arm,” he said. Quiet, and even, leaving space around the words. You went still. Not a flinch — you were too controlled for flinching, he was learning — but a stillness that had a quality of decision in it. Whether to acknowledge or to redirect. You looked at him. “I walked into the door of the pantry,” you said. Steady. Practised.

He held your gaze and said nothing. The silence did what silences sometimes did, in his experience — it made room for something that wouldn’t fit through a smaller opening. Your jaw shifted. Something moved behind your eyes, some internal negotiation he was not privy to, and then you looked down at your left arm in your lap and back up at him and you said, very quietly: “He has a temper.”

Four words. Flat, and sparse, and carrying the weight of nine years of just us. “Yes,” Riki said. “I am aware.” Something in your face changed at that — at the acknowledgment, perhaps, or at the lack of surprise in it, the lack of the particular uncomfortable scrambling that people sometimes did when a thing they had said quietly turned out to have been heard. He did not scramble. He simply — received it. Made room for it. The way you made room for silences.

You looked at him for a long moment. “You noticed,” you said. Not quite a question. “I notice most things,” he said. “Most people don’t.” You said it without bitterness, which was almost worse than if you had said it with bitterness. Simply an observation. A thing that was true and had been true for long enough that you had stopped expecting otherwise. “I am not,” he said, carefully, “most people.”

Your mouth did the thing again — that movement at the corner, the almost-smile, the one that lasted only a moment before you thought better of it. But this time you did not look away. You let him see it, brief as it was, and something about that felt like a different kind of door opening. Smaller than the other one. More deliberate. “No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you are.”

The lamp guttered slightly in a draft from the barn wall and you both looked at it and it steadied and you looked back at each other and the moment resettled itself into something quieter. “Ki,” you said, and then stopped. He waited.

Your brow pulled together faintly, that look of someone who has said something before they have decided to say it. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Riki’s —” You shook your head slightly. “It’s fine. Never mind.” “Ki,” he said. You looked at him. “You may call me that,” he said. “If it suits you.”

The something behind your eyes again — that careful interior movement, weighing. Then, so quietly he might have missed it if he were less than he was: “It suits me.”

Clementine made a noise of vague equine commentary from her stall. Job ignored everything, as was apparently his nature. The lamp sat between you on the dirt floor of the barn and the night pressed at the walls and you sat on your upturned crate with your left arm in your lap and looked at him with those eyes that catalogued things, and he looked back at you, and the silence this time was not the silence of two people who had run out of things to say. It was the silence of two people who had said enough for now.

“I should go back in,” you said, eventually. You stood, collecting the lamp, and reached down for the plate. “Leave it,” he said. “I will return it in the morning.” You straightened. Looked at him once more in the lamplight, that level considering look, and he looked back at you and did not look away, and whatever was being communicated in that exchange was not a thing that needed words and both of you seemed to understand that. “Goodnight, Ki,” you said.

Something in him — something that had been falling, or wandering, or simply enduring the very long process of learning what it was to be this diminished and groundless thing — settled, incrementally, at the sound of it. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said. The word came out without deliberation. Natural, and certain, the way things were certain when they were simply true. He watched you absorb it — the slight pause before the door, the almost imperceptible shift in your shoulders — and then you went out and the lamplight went with you and the barn was dark again.

He lay back on the bedroll. He looked at the rafters. He thought about the sound your voice made when it was only yours — unhurried and direct and entirely unguarded — and he thought about a left arm held carefully in a lap, and he thought about nine years of just us in a house that had learned to be quiet, and he thought about a field of winter wheat and the thing that had lived in him then, the thing he had not had a name for until he was standing empty-handed in the aftermath of it. He had a name for it now. He had always been capable of mercy. He was discovering he was also capable of something considerably less patient.

—

Three days passed. Then four. Then five. The farm absorbed him the way dry ground absorbed rain — completely, and without ceremony, closing over the fact of him as though he had always been there. He learned the fence line and the well mechanism and the particular temperament of each of the twelve hens. He learned that Job, despite his name, was not actually long-suffering — he was simply quiet about his grievances until he wasn’t, at which point he expressed them comprehensively. He learned that Clementine would work beautifully for anyone who asked her nicely and would make their life very difficult if they didn’t, which he respected.

He learned the shape of your days. The pre-dawn pump. The chickens. The kitchen, then the garden, then whatever the farm required, then the kitchen again. The way you moved through all of it with that relentless quiet competence, never hurrying, never stopping, the whole of it held together by the sheer consistency of your attention. He learned that you hummed sometimes, when you thought no one could hear. Low and tuneless and entirely unconscious, the sound of someone whose mind had gone somewhere else while their hands stayed busy. He never said anything about it. He simply noted it, and filed it, and found that he listened for it.

Your father watched. Your father always watched. But the watching had shifted slightly in character — less assessment now, more the surveillance of a man who has made his calculation and is waiting to see if the numbers hold. Riki was useful. Riki worked. Riki did not ask questions or make demands or give your father any obvious reason for the unease that lived, apparently permanently, behind his eyes whenever he looked at him. Riki was also, he was increasingly certain, the only reason your father had not escalated in five days. He did not examine this too closely. He simply noted it, the way he noted everything, and kept working, and waited.

On the sixth morning you appeared at the barn door while he was seeing to Job’s hooves with a bridle in your hand and an expression that was as close to tentative as he had seen on you. “Daddy’s gone to town,” you said. “He won’t be back until evening.” He straightened. “I thought —” You looked at the bridle. Back at him. “I could show you some of the land. If you wanted. There’s more to it than what you’ve seen. The orchard especially.” Something in your voice was carefully casual in a way that meant it wasn’t casual at all. “You don’t have to.”

“I would like that very much,” he said. The almost-smile. Present and then collected, but he was getting faster at catching it. You rode Clementine. This seemed correct, somehow — you and the bay mare had the relationship of two creatures who had come to a long and mutual understanding, and Clementine moved under you with none of the difficulty she occasionally manufactured for other people, her ears forward, her stride easy. You sat a horse the way you did most things: without fuss, without performance, simply and completely.

He walked beside you. You had offered him Job, with the diplomatic neutrality of someone who was not certain how the offer would land, and he had declined with equal diplomacy. Job had expressed his relief by looking in another direction. They had reached an understanding. The land opened up beyond the farmstead in a way that the farmstead itself obscured — flatter than the trail, wider, the red earth giving way in places to pale grass and the occasional determined tree. The sky was enormous overhead, the particular blue of a Nevada morning before the heat had fully committed, and the air smelled of sage and something floral he couldn’t immediately identify.

“The orchard’s my favourite part,” you said, after a while. “Mama planted it. Apple trees mostly, one pear that never does much of anything.” You paused. “She said if you were going to be somewhere a long time you ought to plant something that would outlast you.” He looked up at you on the horse. The morning light was doing something specific to your face — catching the line of your cheekbone, the loose strand of hair at your temple. “She sounds like she was wise,” he said.

“She was practical,” you said. “I think sometimes they’re the same thing.” He considered this. “I think sometimes they are.” Clementine picked her way along the track and he walked beside her left shoulder and the distance between his height and yours on horseback put you almost at eye level with each other, which he found he appreciated — not having to calibrate the angle of conversation, not having to adjust. Simply side by side, the way the trail had made you, the first time.

“Ki,” you said. “Mm.” “How long are you going to stay?” He was quiet for a moment. The question was plain and it deserved a plain answer, and he had been turning the plain answer over for several days without finding a way to make it smaller. “Not long,” he said. “I do not — belong to any one place. I am not certain I ever will again.” He paused. “I am sorry. I recognise that is not a satisfying answer.” You looked at the track ahead. “No,” you said. “But it’s an honest one.” A beat. “I understand it, I think. Some people aren’t built for staying.”

“It is not a preference,” he said. “It is a — circumstance. There are things I have lost that made staying possible.” He glanced up at you. “I do not say this to be sorrowful. Only to be truthful with you.” You absorbed this with the particular quiet of someone who is listening completely. “I understand,” you said. And then, softer: “I’m glad you’re here now.” He looked at the track. “As am I,” he said. “Sweetheart.”

The orchard was a green and improbable thing in the middle of all that red. Eight apple trees in two rows, old enough that the bark had gone deeply furrowed, their branches spreading wide and low and laden with fruit not quite ripe — another few weeks yet, you said, but close. The pear tree stood at the end of the row in the slightly martyred way of a tree that had been asked to produce in difficult conditions and was doing its dignified best. You slid down from Clementine and looped her reins over a low branch and she began to investigate the grass with the focused enthusiasm of an animal who had been waiting for exactly this opportunity.

“Here,” you said, reaching up into the nearest tree and working an apple free from the branch — smaller than it would be at peak, still a deep green at the stem. You tossed it to him. He caught it. “Not quite ready,” you said, pulling one for yourself, “but they’re good now. Tart.”

He bit into it. It was tart — sharp and clean and cold in a way that surprised him, given the heat. He ate it and watched you do the same, standing in the narrow shade of the apple tree with the Nevada morning around you and Clementine moving through the grass and the pear tree presiding over everything with quiet dignity.

“Did she bring these trees here?” he asked. “Your mother.” “Carried the saplings from her own mother’s farm when she married.” You turned the apple in your hand. “Three days in a wagon. She wrapped the roots in wet cloth and checked on them every hour.” You smiled — not the almost-smile, a real one, brief and unguarded, aimed at the middle distance. “Daddy thought she was ridiculous. She told him some things were worth being ridiculous about.” He looked at your profile. The smile fading back into its usual careful lines. “She was right,” he said.

You looked at him. He was not certain, afterward, what made him do it — whether it was the smile or the apple trees or the particular quality of the light in this green and improbable place, or whether it was simply that it was the most natural thing, in that moment, in the way that true things sometimes arrived without announcement. He stepped close and pressed his mouth to your cheek. Not long. Not complicated. Simply — there, and warm, and certain.

He stepped back. You stood very still. Your hand with the apple in it had stopped moving. Your eyes, when you turned to look at him, were wide and very clear, and there was colour in your face, high on the cheekbones, that had nothing to do with the sun. He looked back at you with the particular steadiness of someone who is not going to apologise for a thing they meant. “Ki,” you said. Very quietly. “Yes,” he said.

A long moment in which several things were considered and none of them were said, and both of you seemed to understand that this too was sufficient. Then Clementine, with the timing of an animal entirely without sentiment, lifted her head from the grass and blew a long breath through her nose and looked at both of you with profound disinterest.

You laughed. He had not heard you laugh before. It was brief and soft and entirely real, surprised out of you by the horse, and it was the best sound he had catalogued in ten thousand years or however long it had been, and he thought he would remember it past the point where he could remember anything else.

That night you came to the barn again. No plate this time. No pretence of a reason. You simply came, and sat on your upturned crate, and he sat up in his bedroll, and the lamp went between you on the dirt floor, and you talked. About the farm. About the town half a day’s ride away, its general store and its church and its doctor who was also the barber, who you had not seen in two years because your father saw no reason for it. About your mother’s apple trees and your mother’s hands, which had been like yours, practical and capable, and the particular grief of inheriting someone’s hands without being able to tell them you had. He listened. He asked questions when questions were useful and was quiet when quiet was useful and when you paused he did not rush to fill it.

You asked him, at some point, where he had come from. He said: very far away. You asked if there was anyone there who missed him. He considered the true answer to this, which was complex, and gave you the simple one. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.” You looked at him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “Do not be,” he said. “I made a choice. I would make it again.” “What choice?”

He looked at the lamp. At the way the flame moved in the draft, small and persistent, unwilling to go out. “To refuse to do something that was wrong,” he said. “Even when I had been asked to do it by someone I had always obeyed.” A long quiet. “That took courage,” you said. “It took —” He paused. “I am not certain it was courage. I am not certain I calculated the cost before I paid it. I simply — could not. Some things, when you are standing in front of them, admit no other response.”

You were looking at him with that full attention, that serious and complete regard, and he looked back at you, and the lamp burned between you, and outside the Nevada night was enormous and cold and blazing with stars. “I understand that,” you said, quietly. “I think I do.” He thought about a left arm held in a lap. About a voice that changed in doorways. About nine years of just us and what that cost, paid daily, without complaint, without anyone to acknowledge the paying. “I know,” he said.

You stayed another hour. Maybe two. Time had not fully resolved itself for him yet — it still moved strangely, catching and pooling, running thin in places. But whatever measure it was, it was not enough, and when you finally stood and took the lamp and said goodnight he watched the light go with the particular feeling of someone watching something good move away from them and knowing, with a clarity that had nothing comfortable in it, that they cannot keep it. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said. “Goodnight, Ki,” you said. And then the dark, and the rafters, and the sound of his own breathing, which was still new enough to notice.

He lay in the cedar-smelling dark and looked at nothing and thought about apple trees planted by women who understood that some things were worth being ridiculous about. He thought he was beginning to understand that too.

—

It happened on a Tuesday. He knew this because you had told him, some nights ago in the barn, that Tuesdays were the worst — that your father came back from town on Tuesdays with the particular mood that town produced in him, something compounded of other men’s opinions and the price of things and whatever he had found at the bottom of whatever he had been drinking. You had said it matter-of-factly, the way you said most things, and he had filed it and said nothing and had been watching Tuesdays since.

This Tuesday your father came back two hours earlier than usual. Riki was at the well when he heard the horse. He straightened and watched your father come up the track with the specific quality of stillness that preceded bad weather — not loud, not yet, but carrying it, the way the air carried rain before rain arrived. Your father dismounted without looking at him. Took the horse to the barn without speaking. The set of his shoulders said everything his mouth was not yet saying. Riki set down the bucket.

He did not go inside. He had no cause to go inside. He stood at the well and he waited and he listened to the land, which had gone very quiet in the particular way it went quiet sometimes — the chickens off their scratching, Clementine still in her stall, even the wind seeming to hold itself. The sound, when it came, was brief.

A voice raised — your father’s, low and controlled, which was worse than shouting, he had learned, because controlled meant deliberate — and then something that was not a voice, something that had no register in language, that lived below language, and he was already moving before he had decided to move. The kitchen door. He did not burst through it. He opened it the way you opened things in this house — without drama, without announcement — and he stood in the doorway and he looked.

Your father stood at the far end of the kitchen. You stood nearer to the window, one hand braced on the table, your head down, your hair loose from its braid and falling forward. The posture of someone absorbing something. Waiting for it to be over.

Your father looked at Riki. Riki looked at your father. And the air in the kitchen changed. He felt it leave him before he could stop it — that interior shift, the power waking from its dormancy with the sudden and total alertness of something that had been waiting for a reason. The pressure dropped. The lamp on the table guttered. The window glass made a sound like it was being pressed from the outside. The temperature fell by degrees that had nothing to do with the weather. He had not moved. He was standing in the doorway with his hands at his sides and his face entirely still and he had not moved, but the kitchen felt like the moment before lightning, and every animal on the property knew it, and your father knew it, and from the way your head had come up slowly, carefully, you knew it too.

Your father’s face went through several things in quick succession. Then it went to something Riki recognised, because he had catalogued it ten thousand times in ten thousand human faces. Fear.

Not the performed kind. The real kind. The kind that lived in the body before the mind had caught up, that moved in the hands and the jaw and the particular way a man’s weight shifted backward without him meaning it to. Your father said nothing. Riki said nothing. The lamp steadied. The pressure did not lift entirely — he could feel it still, that live and uncontrolled thing in him, wanting — but he held it. Barely. The way you held a door shut in a high wind. With everything available to him.

“I believe,” he said, very quietly, very evenly, “that supper needs seeing to.” It was not what he meant. It was not close to what he meant. But it was the sentence that fit inside the doorway without breaking anything irreparable, and he said it the way he had once delivered divine directives — with a certainty so complete it did not require volume. Your father picked up his hat from the table. He walked past Riki through the door without looking at him. His footsteps crossed the porch. The barn door opened and shut.

The kitchen was very quiet. You had not moved from the table. Your hand was still braced on it, your head no longer down but not quite up either, your hair in your face. He could hear you breathing — measured, controlled, the breathing of someone who has learned to regulate themselves through force of will alone. He came into the kitchen.

He did not go to you immediately. He went to the lamp and turned it up and then he stood a few feet from you and waited, the way you waited for things — with patience, and without agenda. After a moment you straightened. Pushed the hair from your face. And you looked at him, and he looked at you, and whatever had just happened was present in the space between you in its full dimensions, undiminished. “Ki,” you said. Very quiet. “Yes,” he said.

“What was that.” Not quite a question. The tone of someone who had seen something they did not have a category for. “I would prefer,” he said carefully, “to discuss it later. Are you hurt?” Something moved in your face at the directness of it. At being asked plainly. “I’m alright,” you said. He looked at you. At the specific way you were holding yourself. “I would like to believe that,” he said. “I am finding it somewhat difficult.”

Your jaw shifted. You looked at the table. Then, quietly, with the care of someone setting something fragile down: “My arm again.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Come to the barn later,” he said. “When he’s settled.”

You looked up at him. “Ki —” “Please,” he said. The word came out with more in it than he intended — not a request, exactly, or not only that. Something more unguarded. Something that had been accumulating across five days of watching you move through this house and compress yourself smaller and absorb things that should not have to be absorbed. You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you nodded.

He was sitting in the barn doorway when you came. Late — later than usual, the farm long dark, the stars doing their extravagant Nevada best overhead. You came across the flat ground with the lamp low and your coat pulled around you and you looked tired in a way that was not only the tiredness of a long day. The tiredness of a long time. He moved to let you through.

You sat on the crate and he sat across from you on an upturned bucket and you were quiet for a while, which he allowed. Clementine observed you from her stall. Job was asleep, or pretending to be. “Show me,” he said, finally. Gentle. You pushed your sleeve back. He looked at your arm. He had seen worse — had catalogued far worse, from a very great height, across a very long time — but the knowledge of that did nothing useful here, in a barn in Nevada, looking at evidence of something done deliberately to you by someone who had decided they had the right. He looked at it and felt that thing in him again, that live and uncontrolled thing, and breathed through it, and held it.

He reached out and took your arm very carefully in both hands. You went still. Watching his face. He was not thinking about what he was doing — not precisely. He was operating on something below thought, something that had survived the fall intact the way instinct survives most things. He felt the warmth move through his palms, slow and unsteady, the power in him fraying at the edges as it always did — but present. Still present. He held it as long as he could, which was not long enough, and then he released your arm and sat back and felt the effort of it in the spaces between his ribs.

You looked at your arm. Then you looked at him. “Ki,” you said. Barely a sound. “Do not,” he said, quietly, “ask me to explain that. Not tonight.” A long silence in which you visibly decided not to push. That practised restraint of yours, that ability to make room. He was grateful for it. He was not certain he had the words tonight, and what words he did have were not adequate to the thing. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.

You looked at your arm. Flexed your fingers slowly. “No,” you said, with a wondering quality that he did not examine. “No, it doesn’t.” He nodded. You looked at him with those eyes — that full and serious attention — and he looked back at you and did not look away and the lamp burned between you and outside the Nevada night was all stars and cold and the enormous indifferent dark. “Ki,” you said again. Softer.

“Yes, sweetheart.” “What are you?” He looked at you. You held his gaze with a steadiness that told him you had been building to this question for some time — not impulsively, not from fear. From the same seriousness with which you approached everything. You wanted to know. You were asking because you trusted him enough to ask. He thought about his true name. About the field of winter wheat. About the gold leaving him all at once, and the wings going last, and the long unmeasured fall into red Nevada dirt. “Something that was cast out,” he said. “For refusing to do what was wrong.”

You were quiet. “Are you dangerous?” you asked. He considered the truth of that. The full complicated truth of it — the unstable power, the thing in him that had made the kitchen glass flex in its frame, the fact of what he was capable of when he felt something strongly enough. “Not to you,” he said. It was the most honest answer he had.

You looked at him for a long time. Then you leaned forward from your crate, closing the distance between you, and you took his face in both your hands — your capable, practical hands, your mother’s hands — and you held it the way you held things that mattered, carefully and without apology, and you looked at him from very close and said:

“I trust you.” He closed his eyes. The barn was warm and smelled of cedar and horse and the faint sweetness of apple from the orchard, and your hands were on his face, and he was something cast out and diminished and still fundamentally unresolved, and none of that mattered, in this moment, at all. He turned his head.

His mouth found the corner of yours. Not quite — not yet, careful, giving you the space to decide — the barest brush, a question rather than an answer. He felt your breath change against his cheek.

“Ki,” you whispered. “Tell me to stop,” he said, very quietly. “And I will stop.” You didn’t. His mouth found yours.

It was — not like anything he had catalogued. Not like anything in ten thousand years of watching humans love each other from a very great height. It was immediate and warm and entirely real, and you kissed him back with the same directness you brought to everything, your hands still on his face, his own hands coming up to find your waist, and the lamp burned and the horses slept and outside the Nevada stars did their ancient indifferent work. He pulled back eventually. Not far. Your foreheads together, both of you breathing, the space between you warm. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “Tomorrow,” you said. Firm and quiet and entirely certain. “Tell me tomorrow.”

He looked at you. You looked back at him, close enough that he could see the lamp reflected in your eyes, and your expression was open and decided and unafraid, the expression of someone who has chosen a thing and is not going to be talked out of it tonight. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

You stayed another hour. Neither of you spoke much. You sat close on the upturned crate and he sat close on the bucket and your shoulders touched and that was sufficient, and when you finally left he watched the lamp go the way he always did — with the feeling of something good moving away — but differently now. With the knowledge that it was coming back. He lay in the dark and looked at the rafters. He thought about tomorrow.

He thought about all the things tomorrow contained, all the things that would need to be said and decided and reckoned with — your father, and the farm, and the fact of what he was, and the fact that he had said not long in an apple orchard and had meant it and was no longer certain what meaning it cost him. He thought about your hands on his face. He thought: some things, when you are standing in front of them, admit no other response. He slept, for the first time.

—

He was at the pump when you came out. Earlier than usual — the sky still that deep pre-dawn blue, not yet committed to morning, the stars fading at the edges but present still overhead. You came through the back door with your coat on over your nightgown and your feet in your unlaced boots and your hair down, loose around your shoulders, and you looked at him across the yard with an expression he had not seen on you before.

Open. Unguarded in a way that had nothing careful in it. The face of someone who had slept and woken and found the previous night still true. He let go of the pump handle. You crossed the yard. You stopped in front of him and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the blue pre-dawn light was doing something specific to your face, to the particular quality of your eyes in it, and he thought about ten thousand years of cataloguing beautiful things from a very great height and how none of it had prepared him for this. For the way beauty looked from inside it.

“You said tomorrow,” you said. Quiet. “I did.” “It’s tomorrow.” “It is.” You waited. Patient, the way you were patient — completely, without performance. He took a breath. He told you everything.

Not all at once — it came in pieces, and you received each piece the way you received most things, with that full and serious attention, making room. He told you about the light, and what it meant when it moved. He told you about the order and the field of winter wheat and the man kneeling in it who had done nothing to deserve what had been decided for him. He told you about putting the judgment down and what happened after — the gold leaving, the wings going last, the long fall into red Nevada dirt.

He told you about the scars. He told you about the power — the way it lived in him now, fraying and unstable, the way it woke when he felt things strongly. He told you about the kitchen, the lamp guttering, the glass flexing, the thing in him that had wanted and that he had held, barely, with everything available to him. He told you he did not know how long he had been fallen. That time moved differently for him still, catching and pooling, running thin in places. That not long in the orchard had been the truth as he understood it, which was also not the whole truth, which was that he had not wanted it to be true at all.

You sat on the porch step while he told you and you looked at your hands in your lap and then at the horizon and then at him, and you did not interrupt and you did not flinch and when he finally ran out of words and went quiet you were quiet too, for a long moment. Then you said: “Show me.” He looked at you. “Your back,” you said. “Show me. Properly. In the light.”

He understood what you were asking. Not for proof — you had not asked for proof, you had listened to everything with the same gravity you brought to things that were simply true. You were asking because you wanted to see it. Because you did not want to look away from the parts of him that had cost him something. He turned. He pulled his shirt over his head. The morning light, coming now in earnest at the horizon, fell across his back. He heard you stand from the step. Heard you cross the distance. Felt the particular warmth of you close behind him, and then your hands — your careful, capable hands — resting lightly on either side of the scarring. Not pressing. Just — present. “It must have been unbearable,” you said. Low.

“Yes,” he said. “It was.” “And you’d do it again.” “Yes.” Your hands stayed where they were. He felt you press your forehead gently between your hands, against the space between his shoulder blades, and he closed his eyes and stood very still and felt the simple animal warmth of it move through him like the water had moved through dry ground. “Ki,” you said. Muffled against his back. “Yes, sweetheart.”

“I think I love you.” He went entirely still. “I know that’s —” Your voice was careful now, the care of someone saying something for the first time that they have only ever read about. “I know that’s a large thing to say. I’m not — I’ve never said it before. I’ve read about it. In my mother’s books. I didn’t know if I’d recognise it.” A pause. “I recognise it.” He turned.

You looked up at him. High colour in your face, and your chin up, and your eyes entirely steady — not performing the courage of it, simply having it, the way you had everything, plainly and without fuss. He cupped your face in both hands. “Sweetheart,” he said. Very quietly. “You don’t have to say it back,” you said, immediately. “I’m not —”

“I love you,” he said. You stopped. He looked at you. At the particular expression moving across your face — something he had no prior catalogue entry for, something that was not quite disbelief and not quite joy and was perhaps both of those things failing to contain each other. “You —” “I have watched human beings love each other,” he said, “for longer than I can measure. I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like, now, which I did not before.” He brushed his thumb across your cheekbone. “It feels like this.”

You made a sound that was not quite a word. Then you reached up and you kissed him. Not like the night before — not a question, not careful. This was an answer, full and certain, your hands in his shirt and his arms going around you and the Nevada morning arriving in amber and rose around you, and it was the most completely real thing he had experienced since the fall, and he thought, distantly, that if this was what was available down here, in this diminished and groundless and entirely unpredictable human life — then he understood, finally, what he had chosen. He would choose it again.

Your father came home at noon. He came around the side of the house and found you at the porch, sitting on the step with a book in your lap that you were not reading, and Riki beside you on the step, close enough that your shoulders touched, his forearms on his knees, both of you looking at the middle distance with the specific quality of two people who have recently found each other and are still adjusting to the finding.

Your father stopped. The look on his face went through its familiar sequence — assessment, calculation, conclusion — but faster this time, and landing somewhere that made the hair on the back of Riki’s neck resolve into something alert. “Inside,” your father said. To you. Only to you. You stood. The book closed in your hands. Riki stood with you, and your father looked at him with a look that said: this does not include you, and Riki looked back with a look that said: I am aware.

You went inside. The screen door shut. Riki stood on the porch and listened to the land and kept his hands very still at his sides and breathed, slowly, in and out, and held the thing in him that wanted with everything he had, because the time was not now, because he did not yet know enough, because acting without knowing enough was how things got worse.

He went back to the fence line. He worked until the sun went low. He did not hear anything from the house. This was not reassurance. He had learned, in his time here, that the absence of sound meant nothing in a house that had learned to be quiet. He worked and he listened and he held himself ready in the way that something trained for ten thousand years to act does not stop being ready, even diminished, even fallen, even here.

Supper was not called. The lamp in the kitchen went out early. He sat in the barn doorway and watched the dark house and waited. It was past midnight when he heard you. He knew the sound. Not the first sound — that was too quiet, the controlled register of your father’s voice through walls, the specific low evenness of a man who had learned that control was its own kind of violence. That Riki had heard before. He held himself and breathed and waited.

It was the second sound that moved him. A crack — flat and immediate and unmistakable, the sound of a hand meeting a face with force, and then the sound that followed it, which was you, which was the sound of someone who had been trying not to make noise and had been hit hard enough that the trying failed. Not a scream. Something more broken than a scream — a cry wrenched from somewhere involuntary, somewhere below the careful management you applied to everything, and then the sound of something hitting the floor.

Then your father’s voice again. Still controlled. Still low. Explaining something, in the tone of a man who believes he is owed explanation’s reception, while somewhere on the floor of that dark house you absorbed it. Then the sound of it happening again. Riki stood.

He went to the window first. What he saw: you on the floor of your room, one arm braced under you, trying to get up. Your face turned away from him, hair loose and fallen forward. Your father standing over you with his belt in his hand and the expression of a man entirely convinced of his own righteousness, which was the most dangerous kind of man, Riki had learned — not the ones who knew they were wrong and did it anyway, but the ones who had built a complete architecture of justification and lived inside it without windows. He went to the back door.

He did not go to your father’s room. He went to yours, and he opened the door, and he came in, and he crouched beside you on the floor where you had put yourself in the corner the way small animals put themselves in corners — making yourself as small as possible, which was the most unbearable thing, that you had learned this — and he put his hands on your face and he made you look at him. Your face.

He looked at it and held everything in him still with a precision that cost him more than anything had cost him since the fall. “Look at me,” he said. Quiet and even. “Look at me, sweetheart. Are you with me?” You looked at him. Your eyes found his. “Ki?” You said, broken in the middle. “Yes,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you — your words, from the trail, the first ones, and he meant them the same way you had meant them, completely and without reservation. “Can you stand?” You could. Barely, and with his hands on you, but you could.

He took you to the barn. He settled you on the bedroll with the cedar quilt around your shoulders and he crouched in front of you and he looked at your face again and the thing in him was not fraying now. It was not unstable. It had resolved into something very clear and very still, the stillness of a decision made completely. “Stay here,” he said. You looked at him. At his face, at whatever was in it that had no human register. “Ki —”

“Stay here,” he said again. “Do not come in. Whatever you hear — do not come in.” “What are you going to do.” He looked at you. He did not answer. He did not need to. The answer was in his face and you could read it, he knew you could — you who catalogued things, you who paid attention, you who had looked at him from the very beginning with that serious and complete regard.

“Ki,” you said. Very quietly. “I know,” he said. He stood. He pressed his mouth to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your eye. He held your face in his hands one more moment and looked at you and you looked back at him and the lamp burned between you for the last time in this configuration, and then he put it down and he turned and he walked back to the house.

Your father was in the kitchen. He had not gone back to bed — he was at the table with a glass and his bible open in front of him, which Riki observed with a clarity that had no heat in it. The heat had burned off entirely on the walk across the yard. What was left was something much older and much colder than heat, something that had existed in him before he had a name for it, that had been in his hands in a field of winter wheat and had made a decision and had never, in the long unmeasured time since, doubted that decision. He came through the door. Your father looked up.

And Riki looked at him — and did not speak, and did not move, and simply let what he was rise to the surface of him completely and without management, without the careful containment of the kitchen two days ago, without the held door in a high wind. He let it come. The lamp went out.

Not guttered — extinguished, as though the air itself had decided it was no longer necessary. The temperature in the kitchen dropped so severely that your father’s breath became visible, a pale ghost of it in the sudden dark, and the glass on the table cracked cleanly down the middle and the bible’s pages turned without wind, all of them, to the end. Your father did not stand. Something had communicated to his body, below the level of thought, that standing would not help. Riki crossed the kitchen.

He did it slowly. There was no need to do it otherwise. Your father pressed back against his chair and made a sound that had no language in it, the sound of a creature that has encountered something outside the category of things it knows how to respond to, and Riki looked at him with eyes that were not, in this moment, entirely the eyes he wore in the daylight — and he was very calm, and very certain, and he put his hand on your father’s chest, and he was not long about it.

It was not cruel. He was not, had never been, cruel. He had been made for judgment, once — true judgment, the kind that weighed carefully and arrived at precision, not the kind your father had practiced in this house for nine years with a belt and a bible and a voice kept deliberately low. He knew the difference. He had always known the difference. It was the knowing that had cost him everything and he did not regret it, standing in this dark kitchen, not for a single part of a second. He stayed until it was finished.

Then he stood in the dark for a moment, in the silence of a house that had learned to be quiet and was now quiet for a different reason, and he breathed, in and out, and he let the thing in him recede back to its fraying dormant place. He walked back across the yard. He came through the barn door. The lamp caught him in pieces — his hands first, then his shirt, the dark stain of it. His face, which was entirely still, which had the quality of something that has passed through a very great heat and come out the other side resolved. His eyes, which found yours immediately and did not look away.

He stopped a few feet from you. You looked at him. At all of it, in the lamplight, without flinching. You looked at him the way you had looked at his scars in the morning light — because you did not want to look away from the parts of him that had cost him something.

He had done this before. In a different form, in a different age. He had been made for it, once. But he had never done it for this — for someone sitting in a barn in Nevada with a cedar quilt around her shoulders and her mother’s capable hands and nine years of just us and an almost-smile that he intended to spend a very long time coaxing into something less careful. “Ki,” you said. Your voice was steady. He had not known what your voice would be and it was steady, and something in him came fully to rest at the sound of it.

“Yes,” he said. You stood. The quilt fell from your shoulders. You crossed to him and you took his face in your hands — the way you had in the barn two nights ago, that careful and unapologetic hold — and you looked at him from very close. “You’re beautiful,” you said. He looked at you. At the absolute sincerity of it, the plainness of it, the way you said it the way you said everything — directly, and without fuss, and meaning it completely.

Something broke open in him. Not badly. The way ground breaks open in spring — to let something through. You kissed him. He kissed you back with everything he had, which was not what he’d had before the fall, which was less and more complicated and fraying at the edges, and it was enough, it was more than enough, it was the most enough anything had ever been.

You took very little. Your mother’s books. A change of clothes. The small tin of money you had kept in the flour jar for nine years because you had always known, in the way people know things they do not say aloud, that there would come a morning when you would need it. He saddled Clementine. Job watched this process with the air of an animal that had opinions but had decided, on this particular occasion, to keep them to himself.

The sky was going grey at the east when you came out of the house for the last time. You stood on the porch for a moment — not long, a breath, the specific pause of someone saying goodbye to something that was never really home — and then you stepped off it and crossed the yard and he held Clementine while you mounted and then he handed you the reins and you looked down at him. “Are you going to walk again?” you said. The almost-smile, present and real, and he looked at it and thought: there it is.

“I find I prefer it,” he said. “It gives me something to look at.” The colour came into your face, high on the cheekbones. He took Clementine’s bridle and he began to walk, and she walked with him, and you rode above him in the early morning with the Nevada land going gold around you and the sky opening up ahead in every colour it had, and he walked and looked at the horizon and felt the sun on his face, which was new enough still to notice, which he hoped would always be new enough to notice.

“Ki,” you said, from above him. “Yes, sweetheart.” “Where are we going?” He looked out at the land. At the vast and red and indifferent and quietly magnificent land, all that open sky above it, all that possibility in the distance. “Away from here,” he said. “And then — wherever you like.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I’ve never chosen before,” you said. Wondering, slightly. The voice of someone holding something new, testing the weight of it. “I know,” he said. “You have time.” The sun came fully over the horizon. Nevada went gold. Clementine walked on, and you rode, and he walked beside you with his face in the light and his hands at his sides and the scars on his back that had stopped hurting, finally, or had not stopped hurting but had become the kind of hurt that was also the shape of a choice he would make again and again and again —

And the road ahead was open. And you were on it. And that was enough. That was everything.

It was winter now. Five months had passed since the final night in Ibiza. Five months of Jake reverting completely to the ghost in the hallways, his eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards whenever you passed. He hadn't stuttered around you because he hadn't spoken to you at all. It seemed like he had built a wall out of silence, and then he had built Lila.

She sat beside him at the long table, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. She was a communications major, poised and soft-spoken, the sort of girl who instinctively knew how to be sweet and when to laugh at Jake's dad dry business jokes.

"Jake told me that you're doing incredibly well in your biology modules," Lila said, turning her perfect smile toward you. You glanced at Jake. He was slouching, his shoulders rounded under a heavy grey knit sweater, his glasses sliding down his nose as he moved his food around his plate. Not even a single look.

"Yeah," you said, your voice flat. "I managed to pass."

"He was so worried about your summer credits," your mother chimed in from the head of the table, beaming at Lila. "It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Lila. He has been quite private about his life until recently."

"He’s just modest," Lila said, squeezing Jake's arm. He offered her a small, hesitant smile ; the exact performance of the shy and grateful boy he had perfected over years. It made your stomach turn.

Jay had been the only constant since the return from Spain. He had started staying late at the library with you, driving you back to the mansion when your car was in the shop, completely oblivious to the violent turn that had occurred between you and his 'friend' in Ibiza. To Jay, you were still just the step-sibling Jake tolerated. To you, Jay was a protection against the silence.

"So," your mother said, leaning forward on her elbows, her eyes shifting from Jake and Lila over to you. "Now that Jake has introduced us to someone so lovely, I have to ask ; are we going to see a boyfriend at this table anytime soon? Jay has been around the house quite a bit lately."

The table went quiet. You felt the shift before you saw it. Jake set his fork down. The silver clinked sharply against the china. He kept the slouched, unthreatening posture, yet he turned his head slowly to look at you. His eyes were wide and blinking behind his lenses, but the stare was drilling into you with a sudden, freezing weight.

"Yeah," Jake murmured. His voice had that thin, hesitant edge, the delivery was careful. "Are you going to bring Jay around for dinner? He’s...he’s a good guy. You two seem really close lately."

Lila smiled, completely missing the undercurrent. "Oh, he's from international business? He's great. You two would look nice together."

Jake kept his eyes on you, his jaw tightening just enough for a muscle to twitch under his cheek. The fake shyness was there in his slouched fram, but his gaze was entirely serious, like a suffocating pressure that demanded an answer. He was testing you, using his new girlfriend and your mother to push you into a corner.

The air in the room felt thick, it was overstimulating. The hypocrisy of it ; the five months of being treated like a stranger after the kitchen, after the club, after his hands had left bruises on your hips. It hardened into a cold knot in your throat.

You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping loudly against the floor. "I'm not feeling well," you said, your voice cutting through Lila’s quiet laughter. "Excuse me."

You didn't look at Jake to see if the mask slipped. You immediately walked out of the dining room, leaving the warmth of the dinner party behind as you headed for the stairs.

──────

You're finally alone. The quiet of your bedroom felt like a relief after the suffocating atmosphere downstairs. You sat on the edge of your mattress, phone in hand. When it rings in your palm, Jay’s name flashed across the screen.

You picked up quickly. "What's up?"

"You left dinner early," Jay said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying the same tone he got when he was tired. "Your mom said you weren't feeling well. You alright?"

"I'm fine. I just couldn't sit through the theater performance downstairs anymore." You leaned back against your pillows, staring at the ceiling. "Lila is...a lot."

"Yeah, I bet," Jay grunted. You heard the rustle of sheets on his end, the sound of him shifting around in his own bed. "Look, if the house is too loud, just come over. My roommates are out for the weekend. We can just lock the door and get dinner."

The proposition wasn't just about food, and you both knew it. Over the last month, the boundary between being friends and something entirely utilitarian had blurred. It was clean, it was physical, and it kept the coldness of the mansion from settling into your bones.

"Did you know about her?" you asked suddenly. "Lila. Did you know Jake was seeing her?"

"No," Jay said, his tone turning dry. "Jake doesn't exactly run his dating life by me. I only found out he was official with someone because he left a scarf in my passenger seat last week and told me not to touch it. Why? Is it weird seeing him with someone?"

"No. It's...she’s too perfect. It’s annoying." You rolled onto your side, your phone pressed tight to your ear.

What Jay didn't know—what you didn't even fully realize—was that Jake didn't need to be told about you and Jay. Down the hall, behind his own closed door, Jake knew exactly when Jay’s car pulled into the driveway. He knew how many hours Jay spent upstairs. He had tracked the shift in the way you walked, the specific timing of your absences, and how you stopped looking for him in the house. His silence over the last five months hadn't been a lack of interest ; it was the stillness of someone gathering data.

"Don't worry about them," Jay said, his voice dropping into that unhurried cadence that usually preceded him reaching for you. "Get in your car and come over. You don't have to deal with the family dynamic if you're not there."

You hesitated, looking toward your bedroom door. The house was completely silent now, the dinner party long over, but the space beneath your door felt like it was under surveillance.

"Give me a few minutes," you whispered into the receiver.

"I'll leave the back door unlocked," Jay said, and the line went dead.

The cold air of the driveway was forgotten the moment you stepped through Jay’s back door. He caught you by the waist in the dull light of the kitchen, pulling your back hard against his chest and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

His mouth was hot against your cold skin, his stubble scraping right along the sensitive line beneath your jaw.

"Jay—stop, it tickles," you laughed, shoulders bunching up as you tried to twist away from the touch of his lips. Without letting go, he let out a low, muffled laugh against your throat, his hands sliding under the hem of your sweatshirt to grip your hips, his palms warm against your skin. "Missed you too," he murmured, his voice soft and annoyingly gentle.

He finally let you turn around in his arms. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, however his expression was relaxed, stripped of his usual perfect posture at college.

"You look stressed," he said, leaning his forehead against yours. "Is it still about the biology credits?"

"The credits, the future, the lack of a respectable man at my side," you sighed, letting your head drop against his shoulder. "My mom spent half of dinner dropping hints. It’s exhausting."

Jay hummed, his chest vibrating against yours. He guided you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the kitchen counter, trapping you easily. "Let her talk. You’re clearing the modules. That’s all that matters." He tilted your chin up, half-smile pulling at his mouth. "Besides, what's her rush? She thinks I'm the one taking care of you anyway, doesn't she?"

"Actually, yes," you said, a small laugh escaping you. "Everyone at that table thinks you're my boyfriend. Even Lila was talking about how 'nice' we’d look together."

Jay’s smile widened, arrogant but entirely lacking any malice. He liked the sound of it, even if the reality between you was unlabelled and unscripted. "Well, they aren't completely wrong about the looking nice part," he murmured, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. His grip was firm but gentle, pulling you up just enough that you had to stand on your toes to meet his mouth. When he kissed you this time, it was slow, and entirely focused on taking your mind off the house you’d just left behind. He pulls back first to meet your gaze. The earnestness in his expression tells you he's genuinely offering to help, not just looking for an excuse to get you into bed. Despite the lingering stress in your chest, you feel a small smile tug at your lips.

"Yeah," you say simply.

Jay's answering smile is immediate, a flash of white teeth in the low kitchen light. He takes your hand, leading you to the wider section of counter near the sink. He positions you with your back to him, gently pressing on your shoulders until you're bent over the cold surface, your palms flat against it to steady yourself.

The position feels vulnerable yet strangely comforting. You trust Jay completely, even in moments like this where you're physically exposed and emotionally raw. His hands are warm as they slide up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your lounge pants down. You're not wearing anything underneath, being too tired to bother with proper loungewear after your shower earlier and Jay makes a small sound of approval at this discovery.

"Convenient," he murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns on your exposed skin. You shiver, partly from the cool air on your bare skin and partly from anticipation. "Don't tease."

"Patience." He chuckles, but obliges you by sliding two fingers inside you without further preamble. The sudden fullness makes you gasp, your fingers curling against the counter. He starts moving immediately, his fingers curling and scissoring inside you in a rhythm that's become familiar over your months together. The wet sounds of his movements quickly fill the quiet kitchen, lewd and intimate in the domestic setting.

You can't help but push back against his hand, silently urging him deeper. His thumb finds your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure to make your knees weak. The combination of sensations has you trembling within minutes, your body responding eagerly to his touch despite the stress that's been weighing you down.

Just as you're approaching the edge, he slows down intently, his movements becoming torturously measured. You whine in frustration, pushing back against his hand.

"Jay, please," you complain, your voice breathy. "Don't tease me right now."

He laughs, a low rumble resonating in the room. "But you're so fun to tease when you're stressed."

Despite his words, he picks up the pace again, his fingers moving faster and deeper than before. The wet sounds grow louder as your arousal increases, echoing off the kitchen walls. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back, holding you steady as his fingers work inside you with renewed purpose.

It doesn't take long before you're trembling against the counter, your release washing over you in waves that leave you breathless. Your fingers grip the edge of the counter so tightly your knuckles turn white as you ride out the pleasure. As you come down from your high, Jay gives your ass a gentle slap, the sound sharp in the now-quiet kitchen. You yelp in surprise, more from the suddenness than any real pain.

He helps you stand upright, your legs feeling slightly wobbly as you adjust your clothes. When you turn to face him, he's already washing his hands at the sink, as if nothing unusual just happened between you.

"Want me to return the favor?" you ask, leaning against the counter as your breathing slowly returns to normal. He shakes his head, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Nah, I'm good. You're the one who's been stressed the whole time."

You laugh, some of the tension finally leaving your shoulders. "Fair enough." He turns to face you, leaning against the counter opposite you. "Better?"

You nod, surprised by how much lighter you feel. "Much better, actually. Thanks."

"Anytime," he says with a shrug, as if it's the most natural thing in the world for friends to help each other unwind in such an intimate way.

──────

The clock in the mansion’s foyer read just past midnight when you arrives back at the mansion. The tall front door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the biting winter air but the warmth inside the house felt instantly restrictive.

As you walked past the grand staircase, the sound of easy laughter drifted from the main living room. You stopped at the threshold. The fire was roaring in the hearth, casting a glow over the room. Jake's dad was sitting in his leather armchair, a glass of scotch in hand, looking more relaxed than he had in months. On the sofa opposite him sat Lila and Jake. She was leaning into Jake's side, her head tilted back as she laughed at something his dad had just said.

Jake looked like the model step-brother. He was still wearing the oversized grey sweater, his shoulders rounded, a soft, boyish smile on his face as he pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked completely integrated into the scene. Disgunstingly soft and safe.

The laughter died down just a fraction as your shadow hit the hardwood floor. Lila was the first to notice you, her expression instantly shifting back to that welcoming mask.

"Oh, hey," Lila said softly. "You're back. Are you feeling any better?"

Jake's dad looked up, nodding at you. "You missed a good conversation. Lila was just telling us about her thesis proposal."

Jake didn't look up immediately. He kept his eyes on his own hands, which were loosely laced together over his knee, and you saw the subtle stiffening of his neck. The relaxed, slouching posture remained as the air around him grew instantly still.

You didn't bother to answer Lila's question. Your eyes swept the room, noting the empty space on the opposite armchair where your mother usually sat.

"Where’s Mom?" you asked, your voice flat and cold against the remaining warmth of their laughter.

"She went up about half an hour ago," His dad said, swirling the ice in his glass. "She said she had an early conference call tomorrow."

You didn't say anything else as you turned and walked toward the stairs, the sound of Lila reviving the conversation fading behind you as you mounted the steps. Each riser felt heavier than the last, the house swallowing the noise of their perfect little family dinner until the second floor was completely silent.

You arrive in your bedroom. You kicked off your shoes and walked straight into the adjoining bathroom, turning the shower on until the small space filled with blinding steam that obscured the mirror. You stood under the hot water for twenty minutes, trying to scrub the smell of the mansion, of Lila’s perfume, and even the lingering scent of Jay’s laundry detergent off your skin. But the heat of the water only seemed to make the tension under your skin tighter.

When you stepped out, you didn't bother with clothes. You were in wrapped a large white bath towel tightly around your torso, tucking the edge securely over your chest, and walked back into the bedroom to find a pair of sweatpants. Your hair was wet, sticking to the nape of your neck, dripping tiny cold beads of water down your shoulder blades.

Three sharp, distinct knocks rapped against the wood of your door.

Before you could even draw breath to tell whoever it was to wait, the brass handle turned. The door swung open, and Jake stepped into the room, shutting it firmly behind him with a quiet click. The sight of him made your stomach instantly drop, the lingering warmth from the shower turning into a cold spike of adrenaline.

"What the fuck, Jake?" you hissed, instinctively clutching the top of the towel tighter against your chest, your knuckles turning white. "Get out. I'm not dressed."

He didn't look startled, and he didn't drop his eyes in panic. The slouched posture was completely gone again. He stood at his full height, his back flat against your door, locking it visually with his frame. He had taken his glasses off, and his eyes were completely clear, wide, and fixed on the bare skin of your shoulders. The difference between the soft, boyish sweater and the heavy, unblinking intensity of his stare was unhinged.

"I knocked," he said. His voice was low, no stutter, no hesitation, sounding just like his dry commands back in Ibiza.

"I didn't tell you to come in," you said, your voice shaking with an anger you couldn't fully repress. "Leave. Now."

He didn't budge as he slowly tilted his head, his gaze dragging down the length of the white towel before coming back up to lock onto your eyes. He looked entirely too comfortable standing in your private space, as if he owned the room, the air inside it, and the right to be there.

"I was just checking to see if you were okay," he murmured, his tone flat and entirely unbothered by your anger. "Dad said you were sick at dinner. And then you vanished for four hours."

"It’s none of your business where I was," you said, your grip tightening on the knot of the towel. You forced a sharp, dry laugh. "Go back downstairs. Don't keep your perfect little girlfriend waiting. I'm sure your dad and Lila are missing their favorite performer."

The subtle edge in your voice—the spike of resentment—didn't slip past him. If anything, it seemed to ground him further, his eyes narrowing slightly as he digested the tone of your words. It was definitely amusing him, and definitely turning him on.

"Are you jealous of Lila?" he asked. His voice was entirely casual, his eyes were still sharp.

"Fuck off," you snapped, cutting him off before he could even finish the thought.

Instead of getting angry, a slow, knowing smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. It was that same smirk from the pool, vicious with an arrogant satisfaction. He liked the reaction. He liked knowing he could still get under your skin after five months of absolute silence, that his mere presence could completely shatter your composure.

"You should be more gentle with me," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he took a slow half-step away from the door, closing the distance between you by just an inch. "You should be happy for me. I’m finally putting on a good show for once."

The sheer hypocrisy of it made something snap. You walked right up to him, stopping only inches from his chest, ignoring the fact that you were entirely unprotected in just a towel. You looked up at him, your breathing ragged, the heat radiating off him making the space between you feel tight and unbreathable.

"You are completely fucked up in your head," you mumbled, your voice shaking with a fierce intensity. "For what you did in Spain, for the way you act in this house...I should have just ignored you from the very first day. You’re a fucking psychopath."

Jake stood there, letting your anger wash over him, completely unfazed. His gaze slowly dropped from your eyes, tracing the damp line of your collarbone, down to where the towel clung to the curve of your chest, and further down to your bare legs. He took his time, assessing you with a cold, terrifyingly precise focus.

He reached out, his fingers surprisingly hot against your damp skin as he lightly traced the curve of your jaw, his thumb pressing just firmly enough against your chin to force you to keep looking at him.

"You seem really tired these days," he said flatly, his voice completely lacking of emotion as his thumb brushed against your lower lip, before his hand dropped back to his side. "Jay must be keeping you busy."

Before you could raise your hand to push him or speak, he reached behind his back, turned the brass handle, and stepped out into the dark hallway. The door clicked shut, leaving you alone in the freezing quiet, the ghost of his touch still burning against your skin.

──────

As the green numbers on the desk clock displayed 2:14 AM. The rest of the mansion had been dead for hours, wrapped in the freezing silence of a winter night. You sat with your laptop open, the harsh blue light reflecting off your notes, trying to force your brain to process the lines of biology text. The words just swam on the page, blurred by exhaustion and the subtle nagging irritation that had been sitting in your chest since the confrontation by the door.

Suddenly, the silence broke.

It started as a low rhythmic creak against the floorboards down the hall ; so faint you almost thought it was the house settling in the cold. But then came the sound of a muffled breath, followed by a soft, breathy gasp that could only belong to Lila.

You froze, your fingers still on the keyboard.

The walls of the mansion were thick, but at two in the morning, every sound carried. The low thud of a headboard against the wall began to settle into a steady, agonizing cadence. It wasn't loud, but it was clear enough. You could hear the raspy murmur of Jake’s voice—without any stutter, deep and entirely unhurried—answering a quiet whine from Lila.

You slammed your laptop shut. The sudden snap echoed in your room, but it did nothing to block out the noise from down the hall. You pulled your knees up to your chest, burying your face in your arms, yet your ears remained hyper-tuned to every shift in sound. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a suffocating wave of anger and frustration rising in your throat. It felt like a sick extension of his game. He had stood in your room just hours ago, putting his hands on your skin, and now he was down the hall, proving exactly how easily he could move on, how perfectly he could play the part of the attentive boyfriend.

Why do I even care?

The question bit into you. You clutched your hair, your eyes burning in the dark. It didn’t make sense. He was manipulative, a chameleon who wore masks like clothes, a prick who had ignored you for five months after leaving marks on your hips back in summer. You had Jay now. He was gentle, he was safe, he actually treated you like a person instead of a puzzle to be solved or a reaction to be provoked, even without having a title to your 'relationship'.

Yet, as the muffled sounds down the hall hit a higher, more intense frequency, your stomach twisted into a tight, agonizing knot. It wasn't just anger ; it was a humiliating, deeply buried jealousy that you hated yourself for harboring.

Get over it, you told yourself, your teeth grinding together until your jaw ached. You have to get over it right now. Before you let him make you completely insane.

You pulled your blanket over your head, pressing the pillows over your ears to drown out the final, low murmurs of the night, forcing yourself to breathe through the dark until the silence finally returned.

──────

You hadn't slept more than two hours. Your eyes felt heavy, and the tension in your shoulders had hardened into a painful ache. You walked into the kitchen to grab a mug, only to stop dead in your tracks.

Jake was standing by the counter, waiting for the coffee maker to finish dripping. The transformation was already complete. He was slouched over, his spine curved into that familiar unthreatening hunch. He wore a faded, oversized college hoodie that swallowed his frame, and his glasses sat crookedly on the bridge of his nose. When he heard your footsteps, he flinched slightly, his shoulders tightening as he looked up with a startled expression.

"Oh...h-hey," he stammered, his voice instantly dropping into that hesitant register. He looked down at his slippers, shuffling his feet. "Good m-morning. Lila is...she’s still asleep. She was really tired."

The utter audacity of the performance made something hot and bitter flare up in your chest. The memory of the shallow, raspy voice from down the hall at 2:00 AM rubbed against this stuttering persona like sandpaper.

"Yeah, I bet she was," you said, your voice dripping with cold, biting sarcasm as you stepped up to the counter to grab the coffee pot. "The walls in this house are pretty old, Jake. Maybe next time tell her to keep it down. Some of us actually have work to finish."

Not a single recoil. He stayed still for a beat, his head lowered. Then, slowly, the stuttering boy vanished. He turned his head to look at you sideways, his eyes completely clear and sharp behind his lenses. A small, infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Did it bother you?" he murmured, his voice smooth. "I could always tell her to be louder next time. If you need help staying awake."

Your hand clenched around the handle of the coffee mug. The frustration was an physical weight in your chest, suffocating and sharp. You couldn't win this. He could switch characters in a fraction of a second, leaving you grasping at shadows while you rawly exposed your own irritation.

"You're a prick," you muttered, setting the mug down with a sharp clink before turning on your heel to leave the kitchen. You didn't even want the coffee anymore ; you just needed to get away from him before you lost your mind completely.

"Hey."

His voice stopped you just as you reached the threshold. It wasn't loud, but it had that grounded authority that always made you freeze. You didn't turn around as you stayed still, listening to the quiet rustle of his hoodie as he leaned back against the counter.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Jake asked flatly. The teasing tone was gone, replaced by a cold, matter-of-fact tenor. "You told me last night that you should have ignored me from day one. You told me to fuck off. I’m leaving you alone, just like you asked."

He let out a short, quiet breath that sounded almost like a scoff. "Don't get mad at me just because I'm finally giving you exactly what you wanted."

The absolute silence wrapped around the kitchen again. You didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. You stepped out into the hallway and walked away, the cold weight of his words settling deep into your brain.

──────

The living room was quiet, the only sound was coming out of your headphones. You were curled up on the sofa with a book, completely checked out from the house and the reality of the last few days. Your head finally felt clear from this horrible week you went through.

Then the front door clicked open, and the freezing winter air swept into the foyer, bringing Lila with it. She was shaking out her umbrella, looking as spotless as ever in a cream-colored wool coat. She spotted you immediately and walked into the living room, unbuttoning her coat with practiced elegance.

"Oh, hi !" Lila said, offering a warm smile. "Jake told me to come on in. He’s still outside fixing something with the garage door, but he said he’d be up in a few minutes."

You pulled one side of your headphones down around your neck, forcing a polite smile. "Hi. Yeah, he's probably dealing with the sensor. It glitches in the cold."

"Right," Lila said, tossing her coat over the armchair and sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. She smoothed down her skirt. "So, what are you reading? Still burying yourself in biology modules?"

"Just some fiction for a change," you replied, keeping your tone light and conversational. "I need a break from the textbooks."

"I imagine," Lila chuckled softly, leaning her chin on her hand. "It’s good that you’re trying to catch up. Jake mentioned how much you struggled with your summer credits in summer. It must be so hard to feel like you're constantly lagging behind everyone else in the house." The words were spoken with a soft, sweet cadence, but the undercurrent was sharp. You blinked, looking at her properly. Her smile hadn't wavered, yet you could see that her eyes were entirely cold.

"I'm not lagging behind. I passed," you said, your voice dropping its polite edge.

Lila let out a tiny, airy laugh, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, of course. Barely, but a pass is a pass, right? I mean...Jake’s dad and your mom have such high expectations. It must be exhausting for them to constantly have to worry about your future while Jake just naturally glides through everything. But I guess every family has that one sibling who needs a little extra charity."

Her mask didn't just slip, she completely threw it away. The sweet girl from dinner was gone, replaced by a girl who knew exactly how to inject venom into a conversation while keeping her voice sweet enough for anyone listening from the hallway. You closed your book, the slam sounding loud in the quiet room. You leaned back, staring at her with a flat, unimpressed expression.

"You know, Lila, for someone who’s only been coming around here for few weeks, you have a lot of opinions on how this family operates," you said, your voice cutting through her lingering smile.

Lila’s eyes narrowed, the sweetness vanishing from her expression. "I'm just observing. Jake tells me how much of a burden the dynamic can be."

"Then let me give you an observation," you bit back, tilting your head. "If you think playing the perfect, docile little girlfriend is going to secure your spot at this table, you're auditioning for the wrong audience. Jake might buy your little act, but don't ever mistake my politeness for a lack of spine. Keep my name, my credits, and my parents out of your mouth before you find out how quickly you can be uninvited."

Lila’s face flushed an ugly, mottled red, her perfect composure fracturing completely. "Who do you think you are?" she hissed, leaning forward, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. "You’re just a parasite clinging to your stepfather’s good will. Jake told me how pathetic you were in Ibiza, whining for attention because nobody—"

"Jake doesn't know a damn thing about me, and neither do you," you cut her off, your voice rising. "You're a temporary fixture in this house. So don't get comfortable, because the moment he's bored of your little charity-case act, you'll be out on the pavement."

"Is that why you're so bitter?" Lila spat, a nasty, triumphant grin breaking through her anger. "Because he actually wants me? Because you have to settle for leftovers like Ja—"

"That's enough !"

The front door had opened, and Jake’s dad booming voice shattered the air in the living room. He stepped over the threshold, his brow furrowed in deep displeasure. Behind him stood Jake. He had his hood up, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched in that same helpless posture. But through his crooked glasses, his eyes were wide, tracking your face with a silent focus.

"I could hear you screaming from the foyer," His dad said, walking into the room and casting a harsh, disapproving glare directly at you. "What is the meaning of this? Lila is a guest in this house. You will behave yourself and treat her with respect."

Lila immediately shrank back into the couch cushions, her eyes welling with instant fake tears as she looked up at Jake’s dad. "I'm sorry...I just asked about her classes, and she started attacking me."

The suffocating injustice of it made something inside you snap. The hours of sleeplessness, the humiliation of the previous night, the months of Jake's psychological warfare, and now this textbook manipulation—it all collided into a single, blinding flash of rage.

"Treat her with respect?" you laughed, the sound loud, manic, and completely unhinged. You stood up, throwing your book onto the coffee table so hard the glass rattled. "Are you blind? Both of you? She’s a fucking snake ! She sits here acting like a saint in front of you, but the second you turn your back, she’s dripping poison."

"Be silent !" Jake’s dad barked, his face darkening. "You are acting like a child. Apologize to Lila right now."

"I would rather rot," you snarled, completely crashing out. You turned your furious gaze to Jake, who was standing entirely still, watching your meltdown like a scientist observing a predictable reaction. "And you—you're the worst of all. You bring this garbage into this house and watch the circus. You're both pathetic."

"Get out of this room until you can control your temper," His dad ordered, his voice vibrating with absolute authority.

"Gladly," you choked out, your throat tight with a mix of fury and adrenaline. Without looking back, you stormed past Jake, intentionally slamming your shoulder into his arm as you pushed past him. He didn't even stumble, but as you ripped open the front door and tore out into the freezing winter afternoon without a coat, you caught the faint, unmistakable twitch of a satisfied smile on his face. He had gotten exactly what he wanted : chaos, and you, completely broken.

As you arrive to Jay’s dorm, you threw the door open so hard it bounced off the rubber stopper on the wall, the loud bang startling his roommate, who dropped his gaming controller in shock. Jay was sitting on his bed, a textbook open on his lap and a pen between his teeth. He took one look at your face—your hair wild from the winter wind, your chest heaving, and the fact that you weren't wearing a coat in the middle of December—and immediately stood up.

"Get your keys," you said, your voice trembling with the leftovers of the adrenaline. "We're leaving."

He only grabbed his heavy leather jacket, threw it over your freezing shoulders, and followed you straight back out to his car.

Twenty minutes later, you were tucked into the corner booth of a small café three miles away from the campus. Jay sat across from you, his large hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee he had ordered just to give you time to breathe.

"Alright," Jay said, his voice low and steady, pulling your attention away from the window. "Talk to me. You look like you're about to murder someone."

The words poured out of you in a bitter, unedited rush. You told him everything about Lila coming over, the comments about your credits, and how she had weaponized your stepfather the second he walked through the door. You told him how he had demanded an apology, and how you had completely lost it and stormed out into the cold.

The only thing you omitted was the specific brand of twisted satisfaction you had seen on Jake's face. Jay listened in silence, his jaw tightening more and more with every sentence. His fingers flexed against his mug. He knew how your family operated, and he knew how much pressure you were already under without a random girl adding fuel to the fire.

"She called me a parasite, Jay," you breathed, your fingers tracing a crack in the wooden table. "And he just swallowed it. He stood there and defended her while Jake just played the helpless bystander."

"Lila's a parasite," Jay grunted, his tone dropping into that protective tone he got whenever someone pushed you too far. "And you stepdad’s an idiot if he can't see through a basic communications major's act. You shouldn't have to apologize for a damn thing. If she speaks to you like that again, I'll come over there myself."

He reached across the table, his warm palm covering your cold fingers, squeezing them gently. He was being exactly what he always was; reliable, supportive, and grounded. He was the perfect shield against the psychological games being played down the hall from your bedroom.

You looked down at his hand, then up at his face. His eyes were entirely focused on you, full of a genuine concern. The thought hit you suddenly, clear against the chaos in your head. It was the only way to end the game. The only way to stop Jake from looking at you with that smug certainty.

"Jay," you said, cutting off his train of thought.

"Yeah?"

"Be my boyfriend."

He froze. The anger vanished from his expression, replaced by a sudden stillness. His thumb stopped moving against the back of your hand. He stared at you, his eyes scanning your face to see if you were joking, yet your expression was dead serious.

"What?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, the assurance he usually carried around you completely evaporating.

"They look at Jake, and they see someone who has everything under control," you said, your voice tight as you leaned across the table, desperately trying to make him understand the logic in your head. "They see the perfect grades, the perfect, compliant attitude, and now the perfect girlfriend. And then they look at me and just see a problem that needs to be managed."

He watched you, his jaw slightly set, listening to the edge of panic in your voice.

"If I go back there alone, his dad is just going to keep pushing me into a corner," you continued, your fingers tightening around his. "My mom is going to keep dropping hints, and Lila is going to keep using them as a shield to take shots at me. I need a reason for them to finally back off. I need them to see that I have my own life, my own stability, and that I don't need their approval or their charity."

You swallowed hard, looking directly into his dark eyes. "If we’re together, officially, they can’t say anything. You’re already a fixture around the house. Jake’s dad respects you. My mom likes you. If you're my boyfriend, it changes the entire narrative. They'll finally leave me alone."

Jay let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He didn't pull his hand away, but he leaned back against the vinyl booth, his eyes searching yours with a conflicted expression. He wasn't stupid ; he could tell this proposal was born out of a sudden, chaotic explosion of rage and self-defense rather than a sudden realization of feelings.

Yet, as he looked at your pale, shivering frame wrapped in his oversized leather jacket, the protective instinct that had driven him to pull you out of the cold won.

"You're using me as a shield," Jay said flatly. There was no anger in his voice, only an acceptance of the reality. A familiar smirk finally returned to the corner of his mouth, stripping away the tension. "You know that, right?"

"Jay, please—"

"I didn't say no," he murmured, his thumb resuming its slow, stroke across the back of your hand. He tilted his head, his gaze turning steady and reassuring. "If playing the boyfriend keeps your stepdad off your back and shuts that girl up, I'm in. We’ll make it official. Let them think whatever they want."

A wave of pure relief washed over you, but beneath it, a cold, intrusive thought flickered in your mind. You weren't just building a shield against Jake’s dad and Lila.

You were drawing a definitive line in the sand for Jake.

The long table was set for six this time, the fine china and polished silver catching the reflection of the huge chandelier above. A week had passed since the blowout in the living room, and the air in the dining room was filled with a superficial civility.

Jay sat beside you, his presence solid and grounding. He wore a structured dark blazer over a black sweater. Across the table sat Lila, her posture rigidly perfect, and Jake, who had returned to his slouched, unthreatening posture, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he watched his plate.

"It’s just so wonderful that you two finally made it official," your mother said, beaming across the table at you and Jay. "Jay has been such a steady presence around here. It’s a relief to see you settling down, sweetie."

As you were about to answer, Jake’s fork clicked sharply against his plate. Without looking up, a quiet, raspy chuckle escaped him.

"Yeah, it’s great," Jake murmured, his voice carrying that hesitant, soft-spoken edge. "It’s really...convenient. Especially since Jay is always around to help you finish things you can't manage on your own."

The jab was subtle and the undercurrent was sharp. You tightened your grip on your napkin beneath the table.

"Some people appreciate actual support, Jake," you said, your voice dripping with a cold, even sweetness. "Not everyone thrives on being completely isolated and keeping secrets from the people they're supposedly close to."

Lila blinked, her smile tightening, while his dad paused with his wine glass halfway to his mouth. Jay remained relaxed, his large hand resting casually on the table, though his eyes slowly shifted toward Jake.

"Oh, I don't think Jake keeps secrets," Lila chimed in, her voice pitched in that sweet, defensive cadence. "He’s just private. There’s a difference between being private and just not having much to share."

"Exactly," you shot back, looking directly at Jake now, completely ignoring Lila. "Sometimes people stay quiet because they’re carefully calculating exactly what character they need to play next. It must be exhausting, constantly performing for an audience."

Jake slowly lifted his head. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes wide and blinking with that fake innocent look, but the gaze behind the lenses was freezing, drilling straight into you.

"I just think it's important to be honest about what you want," Jake said softly, his delivery soft despite the slight hesitation in his tone. "Some people ask for space, and then the second they get it, they find someone else to fill the void because they can't handle being alone with their own choices."

"I'm perfectly happy with my choices," you snapped, the bickering escalating past the boundaries of casual dinner conversation. "At least my choices are real. I don't need a prop to make myself look normal to my family."

"Is everything alright over there?"Jake’s dad interrupted, his brow furrowed as his eyes darted between you and Jake. The tension between the two of you was undeniable, vibrating across the table like a live wire, completely overshadowing the presence of the two partners you had both brought as shields.

"Everything's fine, Mr. Sim," Jay said, his low, steady voice cutting through the pressure. A faint, cocky smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as he casually draped his arm over the back of your chair, pulling you slightly closer to him. "Jake’s just looking out for his step-sister. Right, man?"

Jake’s eyes dropped to Jay’s arm on your shoulder. For a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening just enough for the muscle to twitch underneath his cheek. The fake shyness flickered, revealing the cold, territorial sharpness underneath, before he quickly forced a small, compliant nod.

"Right," Jake murmured, his voice dropping into a flat, hollow register as he looked back down at his food. "Just looking out for her."

──────

The bedroom door closed behind you, shutting out the suffocating residue of the dining room. Jay threw his blazer onto the desk chair and collapsed onto the edge of your bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He let out a long, low whistle, shaking his head.

"Damn," he muttered, a rough chuckle escaping him. "The air in that room was toxic. I thought Jake was going to snap his fork in half when I put my arm around you."

"He's just trying to get a reaction," you said, your heart still beating a little too fast from the adrenaline of the bickering. You rubbed the back of your neck, trying to shake the tension. "Do you want some tea? I need something to take the edge off."

Jay looked up, his expression softening into that grounded smile. "Yeah. Black, if your mom hasn't hidden it. Thanks."

You offered him a quick nod and stepped back out into the hallway. The mansion was quiet now, the carpets muffling your socks as you navigated the dim second-floor corridor toward the back staircase. The shadows were long, illuminated only by the pale winter moonlight cutting through the arched windows.

You turned the corner near the closets, and a hand clamped firmly around your upper arm.

You couldn’t even gasp as you were hauled backward into the deep recess of a recessed doorway. Back first, you hit the wood paneling with a dull thud. Jake’s tall frame instantly filled your vision, blocking the hallway light, his chest nearly pressed against yours.

"What the—"

"Shut up," he hissed.

He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his eyes were dark and wide, completely stripped of the ice-cold control he usually carried. His fingers were dug into the flesh of your arm, tight enough to bruise. He was breathing heavily through his nose, his jaw clenching so hard the bone looked sharp.

"Let go of me." you whispered fiercely, your voice low but lethal. "Jay is literally down the hall."

"I don't give a fuck where he is," he rumbled, his voice a ragged whisper. He leaned closer, his face inches from yours, his grip tightening until you winced. "What are you doing? Huh? What the hell was this little stunt downstairs?"

"It’s not a stunt," you shot back, keeping your voice to a quiet thread. "He’s my boyfriend. I told you I was done with your games, and I meant it. Move."

"Your boyfriend?" Jake let out a quick, erratic sound that was half-laugh, half-growl, his composure fracturing completely right in front of you. He looked unhinged, his eyes scanning your face with a possessive panic you had never seen in him before. "You’re using him. You don't look at him the way you looked at me back in summer break. You don't touch him like that. You're doing this to punish me."

"I'm doing this because he actually treats me like a person." you hissed, pressing your palms against his chest to push him away, but he was a solid, unyielding wall. "He doesn't play sick psychological mind games for five months."

"He’s my fucking friend," Jake’s voice cracked into a whisper as he grabbed your other arm, pinning you completely against the wall. He was losing his mind, unraveling at the seams because the data didn't fit his script anymore. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to give yourself to him just because you're mad at me. I told you I was leaving you alone because you asked for it, and you go and throw yourself at the one person who stays in this house?"

"It’s over, Jake," you mumbled, staring straight into his panicked, fractured eyes, trying to hide the way your own chest was heaving. "You lost. Now let me go."

He stared down at your lips, his breathing hot against your skin, his hands trembling against your arms as if he were fighting the urge to completely tear down the hallway and everything in it. The panic in his eyes hardened into something desperate and volatile. Before you could draw a breath to yell for Jay, Jake lunged forward, his mouth crashing onto yours with an intensity that entirely erased the five months of silence between you. The kiss was messy, and laced with a deep possessiveness. He trapped your wrists against the wood paneling, crowding your body into the wall until you could feel the heavy thumping of his heart against your chest. He tasted like the bitter red wine from dinner, his lips moving against yours with a growing hunger that completely betrayed the polite act he had been putting on at the table.

For a terrifying split second, your body remembered the villa—remembered the heat of Spain and the way he used to pull you into the dark corners of the pool house. A traitorous spark of adrenaline flared in your veins, your fingers tightening instinctively against his sweater.

Jake groaned against your mouth in a low, desperate sound of victory as he felt your slight hesitation. He leaned his entire weight into you, his head tilting to deepen the kiss, his grip on your wrists loosening just enough to slide his hands up to cup your face, his thumbs pressing hard against your jawline as if he could anchor you to him forever. Then, the reality of the situation crashed back over you. Jay was sitting just fifty feet away. Jay, who had put his reputation on the line to shield you. Jay, who was actually gentle with you.

You tore your mouth away from his, gasping for air, and used every ounce of your strength to shove your forearms against his chest.

"Stop it." you breathed, your voice sounding like a terrified whisper. Your lips were burning, and your chest heaved as you glared at him, horror and hatred warring in your eyes. "Don't you dare touch me."

Jake stumbled back half a step, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hair was messy, his lips were damp and flushed, and his eyes were completely dark, staring at you.

"I only have eyes for you," Jake choked out, the words ripping from his throat. He took another step toward you, his hands hovering in the space between you as if he couldn't decide whether to grab you again or pull his own hair out. "I'm done. I'm so fucking tired of being cold to you."

You stared at him, your back pressed flat against the wall, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"Do you have any idea what it’s been like?" he asked, his voice shaking. He pressed a hand against his forehead, his fingers trembling. "Watching you walk around this house for five months, pretending like everything never happened? Forcing myself to stay away because I thought it was what you wanted? I thought if I gave you space, if I played the game, but then you bring that fucking asshole here."

His eyes snapped back to yours. "I tried to leave you alone," he mumbled, taking another step closer, trapping you in the recess of the doorway once again. "But I can't look at you sitting next to Jay. I can't watch him put his hands on you. It's driving me fucking insane. It's only ever been you."

"You are a disgusting, pathetic hypocrite," you spat, your voice trembling through the dark hallway. You didn't care about the danger anymore, the absurdity of his confession filled you with a blinding, visceral disgust. "You think you can play god with everyone's feelings, ignore me for months, parade that girl around our parents, and then corner me like you own me? You're a fucking psycho, Jake. You’re nothing but a parasite who feeds on drama because your brain is fucked up."

You expected him to flinch or that the insults to finally crack whatever was left of his ego.

But a slow shift happened right in front of you. The desperate panic in his eyes suddenly melted into something intensely focused. His chest heaved as he let out a low breath that sounded almost like a sigh of relief. A crooked smile slowly pulled at his lips in a twisted expression of pure satisfaction. He leaned his forehead forward, almost touching yours, his gaze dropping to your fiercely parting lips as you yelled at him.

He liked it. Hearing you tear into him, seeing the absolute malice and hatred in your eyes, was doing something entirely different to him. It was a sick validation. Your anger proved how deeply he had affected you, and the sheer heat of your venom was turning him on.

"Say it again," he murmured, his voice dropping, sending a shiver of pure dread down your spine. His hands slid down to firmly grip the wood paneling on either side of your head, pinning you with his weight as he stared down at you, completely intoxicated by your anger. "Tell me how sick I am. I love it when you look at me like that."

Yeah, he is really fucked up in the head. You shoved your hands against his chest, catching him off guard just enough to slip past his frame, and bolted down the hallway toward the kitchen. Your hands shook as you made the tea, your mind a chaotic blur, but you forced yourself to walk back upstairs and hand Jay his mug without dropping it. You didn't say a word about what happened in the hallway.

──────

Weeks bled into each other. You used Jay as the shield you promised you would, staying at his place as much as possible, drawing a hard line between yourself and the mansion.

But by the day before New Year’s Eve, you couldn't avoid it anymore. Your parents had been away on a winter trip for a week, leaving the sprawling house completely empty—except for you, Jay, and Jake.

To break the heavy atmosphere of the afternoon, Jay had suggested making brownies, and surprisingly, Jake had joined.

"Did you add the vanilla?" Jay asked, leaning against the marble island, casually spinning a wooden spoon between his fingers.

"Yeah, two teaspoons," Jake murmured. He was back in his oversized knit sweater, his glasses sitting low on his nose as he carefully measured out the cocoa powder. He sounded quiet, hesitant—the perfect picture of the harmless step-brother. "It should...it should be enough."

"Yeah, that’s good. Don't want them tasting like cardboard," Jay chuckled, completely oblivious to the undercurrents. He reached over and clapped Jake on the shoulder. "You're actually not terrible at this."

"Thanks," Jake said softly, offering a shy, compliant smile.

You stood by the sink, rinsing the measuring cups, keeping your back mostly turned to them. The small talk between the two of them was agonizing to listen to, a veneer of normal friendship masking the absolute chaos hidden just beneath the surface.

"I’m gonna go use the restroom real quick," Jay said, setting the spoon down. He walked past you, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the side of your head. "Don't burn the chocolate while I'm gone."

"Won't happen," you murmured, forcing a small smile until his footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the distant click of the bathroom door.

The moment the door closed, the kitchen fell into an absolute silence.

The clinking of Jake's bowl stopped. You kept your eyes fixed on the soapy water in the sink, your muscles locking up as you heard the quiet scuff of his slippers against the tile. He moved slowly until he was standing right behind you, his tall frame blocking the light from the kitchen window.

"You're still doing it," he whispered.

Without touching you, he leaned in close enough that his breath brushed the damp hairs at the nape of your neck.

"It makes me sick," Jake murmured, his voice tight, laced with bitterness. "Seeing you sit next to him. Watching him touch you at the table. And hearing you...hearing you fuck him in your bedroom down the hall. It’s driving me completely out of my mind."

You clenched your hands into fists beneath the soapy water, refusing to turn around and look at him. "Just leave the house, then. Nobody is forcing you to listen."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, though there was no real regret in his tone. You could only feel the urgency and desperation. "I'm sorry I'm like this. But I need you to stop. I need you to stop doing that with him. It's mine. You know it is."

You let out a laugh, finally turning around to face him. You leaned back against the edge of the sink, crossing your arms, your eyes dripping with absolute malice.

"You are a delusional freak," you said, keeping your voice to a vicious and quiet hiss so it wouldn't carry down the hall. "You don't own me, and you never did. I will do whatever I want with Jay, in any room I want, and you can sit in your little corner and choke on it. I don’t give a single fuck."

His eyes widened, the pupils dilating until they were almost entirely black. His chest rose and fell in a uneven rhythm. That twisted smile crawled back onto his face, his jaw clenching as he took a shallow breath, completely intoxicated by the venom pouring out of your mouth.

"God, you're so mean to me," he gasped out, his voice deepening. He didn't even try to hide it. He took a slow half-step back, his hands shoved into his pockets, pulling the fabric of his trousers tight.

Your eyes involuntarily dropped, and your breath hitched. Through the fabric of his pants, the hard, prominent ridge of his arousal was stark and entirely undeniable. He was fully turned on, standing in the middle of your family’s kitchen, completely exposed by the sheer weight of your hatred.

"See?" Jake whispered, his gaze locking back onto your eyes with a sick, triumphant satisfaction. "Look what you do to me."

You stared at the ridge through his trousers, a wave of disgust mixed with an unbelievable power trip crashing over you. He was completely at your mercy, reduced to a trembling, depraved mess just by the sound of your insults. A mocking smile pulled at the corners of your lips. You leaned back against the marble counter, tilting your head as you looked down at him like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

"You want me to stop?" you asked, your voice a quiet, biting purr. "You want me to accept that pathetic little apology?"

Jake nodded rapidly, his breathing shallow, his eyes fixed on your mouth with an almost feral intensity. "Yes. Please."

"Fine," you whispered, letting out a short, sarcastic laugh. "I’ll accept it. But only if you get down on your knees right now and beg for my forgiveness. Let's see how much you actually mean it, freak."

It was a joke. A mocking taunt meant to humiliate him further, to show him how ridiculous he was being.

The words had barely left your mouth before his knees hit the hard kitchen tile. He didn't care about his pride ; he didn't care about the ridiculous oversized sweater pooling around his thighs. He knelt right there at your feet, looking up at you through his eyelashes, his hands resting flat on his knees. The angle forced him to look up at you, completely submissive, his chest heaving as he stared at you like you were a deity.

"Please forgive me," Jake whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and intense arousal. He leaned his forehead forward until it almost touched the hem of your jeans. "Forgive me for being cold. Forgive me for everything."

The absurdity of the sight. The arrogant, brilliant Jake brought to his knees in a fraction of a second. It almost made your breath catch in your throat. You didn’t even process the weight of what he was doing, the distant sound of a door clicking open echoed down the hallway.

Jay’s footsteps were heading back toward the kitchen.

You were about to kick him away, but Jake’s hands shot forward, his fingers gripping the sides of your waist with a bruising force. He leaned his face straight into you, slightly lifting your shirt enough to expose your skin, and pressing his mouth firmly against it, right over your lower tummy. The heat of his breath was too much, his lips parting in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss that made your entire body lock up in pure shock.

The sound of Jay’s sneakers was right outside the kitchen threshold.

In one fluid motion, Jake released your waist. His hand swept across the tile, his fingers wrapping around the handle of the wooden spoon that had been resting on the edge of the island. By the time Jay stepped over the threshold, Jake was already pushing himself up from the floor, his spine curving back into that unthreatening position.

"Hey," Jay said, stopping in his tracks as he looked between the two of you. His brow furrowed, his eyes darting from your flushed, frozen expression to Jake, who was casually wiping the wooden spoon with a paper towel. "What’s going on in here? Why were you on the floor?"

Jake lifted his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a shy, apologetic smile. His voice was instantly back to a hesitant stutter.

"Oh, I-I'm sorry," Jake stammered, holding up the spoon as if it were evidence. "I was...I was trying to spin the spoon like you did, and I dropped it. It rolled right under the counter. I was just trying to reach it."

Jay looked at the spoon, then at Jake’s harmless, blinking face. The explanation was flawless, delivered with the exact amount of awkward embarrassment you would expect from him.

"Man, you're being clumsy these days," Jay laughed roughly, the last trace of suspicion evaporating from his face. He walked over to the island, completely missing the way your hands were still shaking against the edge of the sink, and clapped Jake on the back. "Don't worry about it. Let's just get these brownies in the oven."

"Yeah," Jake murmured softly, his eyes shifting sideways behind his lenses to lock onto yours. A satisfied smirk playing at the very edge of his mouth. "Let's finish up."

Hours passed. The rumble of Jay’s car pulling out of the driveway finally signaled the end of the evening. After the brownies were finished, you had practically forced yourself to act normal, hiding the tremor in your hands until he finally had to head back to his dorm.

The moment the front door clicked shut, you bolted up the stairs to your bedroom, locking the door behind you. You collapsed against the wood, your chest heaving as the absolute silence of the mansion rushed back in to fill the space. You walked over to your vanity, gripping the edges of the marble, and stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your lips were still slightly flushed, and your mind was a spinning wreck.

You tried to conjure up the disgust. You tried to force yourself to feel the righteous anger that usually shielded you from him. But as you stood there in the quiet of your room, a completely different thought began to take root.

Seeing him on the floor. On his knees.

The boy who had spent five months playing god with your head, dropping to his knees the absolute second you demanded it. The way his voice had trembled, begging for your forgiveness while looking up at you through his eyelashes like you held his entire world in your hands.

It was twisted. It was entirely weird. But as you stared at your reflection, you couldn't deny the hot, intoxicating rush that stirred in your stomach.

It hadn't just shocked you. It had done something to you.

For months, you had been the one feeling powerless, backed into corners by his shifting masks and psychological games. But now, you had brought him to his knees with a single, mocking joke. He was completely, utterly depraved for your attention, so desperate that he would throw away every ounce of his pride just to touch the hem of your jeans.

A realization washed over you, sending a sharp thrill down your spine. You didn't want him to stop. Not anymore.

You wanted to see how much further he would go. You wanted to see just how low the perfect, brilliant Jake would crawl if you pushed him. He thought he was the one pulling the strings, but he had just handed you the leash. For now, you realized you wanted to play with him.

──────

The house was dead quiet.

You stood in front of your full-length mirror, adjusting the straps of a silk, deep-V pajama top. It was entirely too revealing for a casual study session, clinging to your skin and dipping low enough to ensure that any glance your way would be a deliberate choice. You threw a thick, oversized cardigan over it ; leaving it completely unbuttoned so it draped loosely off one shoulder ; and grabbed your biology textbooks.

You walked down the hall and knocked on his door.

"Come in," his voice called out, thin and hesitant.

When you pushed the door open, Jake was sitting at his desk, the blue light of his laptop reflecting off his glasses. He was hunched over, looking every bit the studious academic.

"Hi," you said smoothly, stepping into his room and closing the door behind you with a quiet click. "I'm stuck on these cellular respiration models. Jay is at practice, and since you're the smartest one here, I figured you could help me."

Jake blinked up at you, his posture instantly tightening. His eyes darted down to the textbooks in your arms, but as you stepped closer into the warmth of his desk lamp, his gaze naturally tracked upward.

He froze. His eyes dropped directly to the exposed line of your collarbone, following the deep dip of the silk top. You saw the exact moment his pupils dilated behind his lenses. The air in his throat caught, a subtle, sharp hitch in his breathing that he tried desperately to mask with a cough.

"Oh...uh, yeah. Sure," he stammered, pulling a spare chair over with a slightly trembling hand. He slouched back into his seat, instantly trying to project his usual harmless persona. "I can look at it. Just...lay it out."

You sat down next to him, pulling your chair entirely too close. Your shoulders brushed. You leaned over the desk, intentionally letting the cardigan slip further down your arm, exposing the silk strap and the curve of your chest right in his line of sight.

"It's just this section here," you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, intimate tone. You tilted your head, looking at him sideways. "I just don't understand the triggers. You're good at triggers, aren't you, Jake?"

His jaw clenched. He stared rigidly at the textbook page, his fingers tight around a mechanical pencil. He was trying so hard to play casual, but the muscle in his jaw was ticking violently.

"It's just basic ATP synthesis," he said, his voice dropping out of the nervous stutter into a flat, strained monotone. He refused to look at you, keeping his eyes glued to the diagram. "If you actually read the text instead of...distracting yourself, you'd get it."

"Am I distracting myself?" you asked innocently. You leaned in even closer, your warmth radiating against his arm. You reached across him to point at a graph, your chest practically brushing his elbow. "Or am I distracting you?"

Jake let out a frustrated breath through his nose. He abruptly spun his pencil on the desk, his nonchalant act fracturing at the seams. He still didn't turn his head to look at your face as you could feel his eyes burning a hole into the side of your neck, his breathing turning shallow in the quiet room.

"I'm trying to help you study," he muttered, his knuckles turning white against the desk.

"You look a little tense," you teased, a slow, cruel smile spreading across your lips as you watched him unravel. You leaned your chin on your hand, shifting your weight so the silk top shifted with you. "Does my outfit bother you? I thought you said you only had eyes for me."

A familiar coldness washed over his features, and he smoothly leaned back in his desk chair. He turned his head to look at you directly, his expression perfectly calm and entirely empty of the panic from before. He slid his glasses down his nose, staring at you over the frames.

"You think you’re playing a game right now," he said, his voice dropping into a smooth cadence as he kept his eyes locked dead on yours, completely reversing the power dynamic in a single breath. "You think because I was on my knees yesterday, you suddenly know how to pull my strings."

He let out a soft humorless chuckle, tilting his head as he scanned your face, looking for the exact edge of your confidence.

"I'm going to give you one warning," he whispered, leaning forward just enough that his shadow completely swallowed yours. His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up to your eyes, brimming with a manipulative certainty. "Stop what you're doing right now. Put the books down, button up your sweater, and walk out of my room." He paused, a clinical smile touching the very corners of his mouth. "Because if you keep pushing this, I am going to get mean. And we both know you aren't built to handle me when I stop playing nice."

A soft laugh escaped your lips, a direct violation of his warning. Instead of backing away, you leaned in even closer, your eyes wide with a mocking defiance.

"Oh yeah ? Make me," you whispered.

His facade cracked instantly. His hand shot out with an intently finality. His fingers wrapped firmly around the front of your throat. He pinned you back into the chair, his grip tight enough to restrict your breath and force your head up, but not enough to hurt. His palm was warm, pressing hard against your windpipe as his thumb dug into the side of your jaw. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his breathing rough and hot against your skin.

"You are fucking crazy," he hissed in a rumble. His eyes scanned your face with a mix of anger and the overwhelming arousal he was trying so hard to suppress. "You don't know when to shut up. You really don't."

You swallowed against the pressure of his hand, your pulse hammering violently right against his palm. A intoxicating wave of adrenaline flooded your chest. You let a purely wicked smile spread across your lips.

"That’s too bad. I like being choked," you teased, your voice coming out breathless against his grip. "And I really like getting on your nerves."

He paused as he stared down at your smiling lips, the unadulterated malice and pleasure in your eyes catching him entirely off guard.

Then, a breathy chuckle resonated in his chest. The frustration in his eyes melted into a deeply satisfied heat, his thumb caressing the line of your jaw. "Is that right?" he murmured, his gaze dropping to your exposed collarbone before locking back onto your eyes. "You really are a little monster, angel. Aren't you?"

Your words hung in the heated space between you, sharp and dripping with pure, unadulterated bait. You tilted your head against his palm, your eyes narrowing as you watched the smirk on his face stiffen.

"You talk a big game, Jake," you breathed out, a soft mocking laugh scraping against his thumb. "But you look like you don't actually fuck the way you sound. You like to play the big bad manipulator, but I bet you’re just a total pussy in bed."

The chuckle died in his throat. His jaw locking so hard the muscle beneath his cheek twitched violently. The insult hadn't just turned him on ; it had struck a direct chord with his ego, slicing straight through the clinical detachment he tried so hard to maintain.

For an agonizing second, he didn't move, he stared down at you, his breathing turning incredibly shallow, his fingers tensing against the skin of your throat.

Suddenly, a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. The psychopath that had been clawing to get out since summer break just came back to life. Without letting go of your neck, he leaned down further, his chest pressing firmly against yours, trapping you entirely in the chair as his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.

"Is that what you think?" he murmured. He slid his hand from your throat up to your chin, his fingers digging in just enough to force you to look at him. "You think I'm soft just because I let you think you have a choice?"

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye, his gaze dropping to your parted lips before tracking slowly down to the deep-V of your silk top. "Keep talking like that," he whispered, a promise in his tone. "And I’ll show you exactly how wrong you are. Jay won't even compare."

"Oh. Big talk again, huh?" You mumbled with a provoking smirk on your lips.

That was it. His voice dropped. "Stand up," he commanded. You obeyed instantly, the air between you feeling charged with the electricity of your previous provocations. You were trying to catch your balance but he closed the distance between you. His hands were firm and possessive as he gripped your waist, hauling you toward the bed. You stumbled as the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, making you fall back softly on the mattress.

The kiss he pressed against your neck was urgent and demanding, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of heat. You arched your neck, a soft gasp escaping you as he bit down, his mouth finding sensitive spots and marking you with hickeys. He seemed determined to leave his claim on you, his tongue swirling over the red marks he'd just created. You decided to take control. You shifted your weight, straddling his lap. The kiss turned hard, your mouth plundering his with a ferocity that mirrored the tension between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands, and you heard him let out a low, breathless whimper. The sound was intoxicating, spurring you on.

You could feel him hardening beneath you, a prominent ridge pressing against you through the fabric of your clothes. Your hand moved to the source of his arousal, your fingers tracing the outline of his erection through the material. He let out a deep moan, his hips bucking slightly against your hand, a low grunt escaping his throat as pleasure washed over him.

You didn't stop there. You continued to grind against him, your movements slow. You could feel the heat radiating from his body and the hardness pressing insistently against you. You teased him, dragging your hips back and forth in a rhythm that was agonizingly slow. You wanted to see how much he could take before he lost control completely.

His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he tried to find purchase. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against yours. The friction was maddening for him, and he let out a small guttural sound of frustration. He shifted his hips, trying to get more friction, but you held him in place, denying him the release he so desperately wanted.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear. "You're so hard for me," you whispered, your voice dripping with a teasing lilt. "Does it feel good?" You continued to tease him, your hands moving to his shoulders, pressing down to increase the pressure.

He couldn't take it anymore. He let out a sharp grunt, his hips jerking forward as he tried to buck you off, but you held him down. He grabbed your ass, his fingers digging in, kneading the soft flesh as he tried to release the tension building inside him. His mouth moved to your neck, his tongue darting out to lick and suck at the sensitive skin. He was desperate to mark you as much as possible, to taste you, to bury himself deep inside you.

"You're going to make me lose it," he growled, his voice strained.

You smirked, feeling the power shift completely in your favor. You stopped grinding against him just enough to make him whine in protest, then leaned down to whisper right against his lips, "You know what I fucking hate? How much I love seeing you pathetic like this. "

His eyes fluttered shut, a ragged moan escaping his throat as he slightly arched his back. "Fuck," he breathed out, his hands trembling as they gripped your ass. "God, yes. I hate it too."

He looked up at you with wide, needy eyes, his chest heaving. "Please," he rasped, the word barely a whisper but filled with such raw desperation that it made your core ache. "I need to touch you. Please, let me."

You adjust yourself slightly, looking down at him with a challenge in your gaze. "Say it for me, Jake." you commanded softly.

"I need to touch you," he repeated, louder this time, and his voice grew with lust. "Please, Y/N."

"Okay. You can touch me," you granted him permission, though you kept your hands hovering over his shoulders. "But you have to be good. Take your time."

His hands moved with eager urgency, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pajama shorts. He didn't waste time, pushing the fabric down just enough to expose you to the cool air, but he didn't stop there. His palms flattened against your skin, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip before sliding down to cup you firmly.

You gasped as he made contact, feeling the heat of his skin. He was impatient, his fingers already moving too fast, trying to rub you through your panties in long, desperate strokes that were far too rough for the moment. You could feel him throbbing against you, his need palpable, but you grabbed his wrists to slow him down.

"Too fast," you scolded him gently, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Slow down. Be good for me."

He groaned, his eyes rolling back as he tried to obey, but his hips jerked involuntarily, his erection pressing firmly against you. He took a deep breath, forcing his fingers to move slower, his touch becoming more exploratory and worshipful, though his restraint was clearly hanging by a thread. You shifted your weight, your hands sliding down his chest to his waistband. His eyes went wide, an abrupt intake of breath catching in his throat as you made contact.

"Look at me," you commanded, your voice steady despite the heat radiating between you. You worked him with a steady, rhythmic pressure that he couldn't fight. You watched the way his head fell back, his jaw clenched tight as he fought to maintain control.

"You're so close," you murmured, your thumb circling the sensitive tip of him through the fabric. "So close to letting go."

He whimpered, his hips bucking up into your hand, chasing the friction you were denying him. "Y/N," he choked out, his voice breaking. "Please."

"You want to come?" you asked, slowing your strokes just enough to make him groan in frustration. "You have to ask nicely."

"I want to come," he rasped, his fingers tangling in your hair. "Please."

You smiled, feeling the power surge through you. You kept him on the edge, bringing him to the brink and then backing off, over and over again. His breathing became uneven, his chest heaving as he fought for control. You could feel him trembling beneath you, his entire body taut with tension.

Finally, you decided he had suffered enough. You squeezed him firmly, milking him for everything he had, and he cried out as he spilled himself into your hand.

He collapsed back against the mattress, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed over with the afterglow. You pulled your hand away, wiping it on the sheet, and then grabbed his face, standing up.

"I’m sleepy," you said, your voice flat.

He blinked, his brain still foggy from his release, and looked up at you in confusion. "What?"

"I’m sleepy," you repeated, your grip on his face tightening. "Good night."

He sat up slowly, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He could only nod, muttering a quiet "Okay," and as you headed toward the door.

As you left and came back to your room, you lay back on the bed, a satisfied smile on your face.

──────

You were sitting on the edge of your bed, a cup of coffee resting in your hands, when your phone rang on the nightstand.

It was Jay.

"Y/N," Jay said when you answered, his voice carrying its usual easy resonance, though there was a slight hint of hesitation in his tone. "Listen, you’re probably going to be quite upset with me...but I need to be straight with you."

You took a slow sip of your coffee. "What's up?"

"I’m currently flirting with someone," he admitted, letting out a sheepish chuckle over the line. "We're out at a cafe right now. I just wanted to tell you myself before someone saw us and it got back to you. I mean, we're just together for the shield thing anyway, but I didn't want to mess up your narrative without warning you."

A sudden overwhelming wave of relief washed over your shoulders, so intense you almost laughed out loud. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The fake relationship had served its purpose, and frankly, the leash you had just slipped onto Jake the night before was taking up all of your attention.

"I mean…honestly? It’s completely okay," you said, your voice entirely light and relaxed.

There was a brief pause on the other end, Jay clearly taken aback by how easily you were brushing it off. "Wait, really? You're not mad?"

"Not at all," you murmured, leaning back against your pillows. "In fact, we can just terminate the fake relationship altogether. My parents have completely calmed down over the last few weeks. They think I'm stable and taken care of, so they're totally leaving me alone now. You don't have to play the shield anymore."

"Wow. The contract terminated early, then," Jay joked, the tension completely leaving his voice as he let out a genuine laugh. "You're sure you're good?"

"I'm more than good, Jay. Go get her."

"Thanks. You're the best. See ya around the house," he said, and the line went dead.

You lowered the phone with a scheming smile spreading across your face. You were officially single again. The shield was gone, the boundaries were down, and Jake had absolutely no idea that the one thing keeping him at bay had just disappeared. You couldn't wait to see the look on his face when you told him.

You tossed your phone onto the unmade bed and stepped out into the quiet morning hallway, your silk pajama top still loose under the unbuttoned cardigan. The mansion felt different today ; emptier, but lighter.

As you padded down the grand staircase, the soft, rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso guided you toward the living room. Sunlight poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Jake was there. He was sitting on the edge of the large sectional, a ceramic mug held between both hands. He had his reading glasses on, a laptop open on the coffee table in front of him, looking every bit the studious academic.

The moment your bare feet stepped onto the hardwood border of the room, his head snapped up. His eyes instantly tracked down to your exposed collarbone, his jaw clenching as the memory of last night’s insults rushed back between you.

"Rough morning?" he murmured, his voice carrying a judgmental edge as he smoothly leaned back. "I guess your savior Jay isn't here to make you breakfast. Shocking how fast the gloss wears off—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

He looked at your face. You were just standing there, looking down at him with a calm, amused, almost pitying smile. The absolute lack of panic in your eyes caught him entirely off guard.

He set his mug down on the table with a soft clink. The defensive sharpness melted off his face, replaced by a sudden wave of desperation. He stood up, his tall frame cutting through the sunlight as he moved across the space between you. He’s not cornering you this time, he smoothly stepped behind you, his long arms sliding around your waist with a soft possessive urgency.

He pulled you back against his chest, trapping your warmth against him. "Please," he whispered as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, his nose brushing against your pulse point as he inhaled deeply, completely intoxicated by the smell of your skin. "Don't look at me like that. Please just forgive me again."

His grip around your waist tightened, his large hands flat against your stomach, anchoring you to him. His entire body was perfectly still, his breathing steady and slow, but you could feel the slight, involuntary tremor in his chest. A soft, choked sound escaped his throat ; a quiet breath that sounded so raw, so close to tears.

Yet, he didn't cry. He remained entirely calm, his heart beating a slow rhythm against your spine. He was fully aware of what he was doing, reducing himself to a clinging mess in the middle of the living room just to feel you yield against him.

"I shouldn't have said that," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your neck with every word. "I don't care about Jay. I don't care about anyone else. Just don't be mad at me. Tell me you're not mad."

You tilted your head back slightly, letting your hair brush against his shoulder as you relaxed into his chest. A small smirk played at the edge of your lips while his face remained buried in your neck, his arms still wrapped tight and trembling around your waist.

"You really don't need to lose your mind over Jay anymore," you said, your voice entirely casual. "He called me a few minutes ago. We broke up. It’s over."

The effect was instantaneous. Jake froze. His breathing completely stopped against your skin. The desperate, tearful tremor in his chest dissolved, replaced by a total rigid stillness. For a long three seconds, the only sound in the living room was the birds outside.

You could practically feel the gears turning in his smart manipulative brain. Jay was gone. The shield was destroyed. There was no one left standing between him and you. You felt his chest expand as he took a deep breath, his posture instantly straightening as the old arrogant confidence began to flood back into his veins. His grip on your waist shifted, turning from a desperate plea into something possessive.

But before he could open his mouth to deliver whatever victorious comment he was already constructing, you struck. You reached down, wrapping your fingers firmly around his wrists, and forced his arms off your waist. You turned around slowly to face him, stepping back just enough to look him dead in the eye.

The casual warmth was entirely gone from your expression, a cold finality that cut straight through his rising ego installed itself.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," you whispered, pinning him to the floor with your gaze. "Jay being gone changes nothing for you. In fact, let’s set the ultimate boundary right now."

Jake blinked behind his glasses, his smirk faltering before it could even fully form.

"If you ever want to touch me again—if you ever want to kiss me, corner me, or even look at me the way you did last night—it will be strictly on my terms," you said, each word a slow, harsh strike. "You don't get to play games anymore. You don't get to decide when you're cold and when you're desperate. I pull the strings now. If I tell you to crawl, you crawl. If I tell you to stand there and look pretty, that's exactly what you do. And the second you try to manipulate me or step out of line, I walk away for good, and you can go back to being absolutely nothing to me."

You took a step closer, your eyes dropping to his lips before locking back onto his dark, wide pupils.

"Do you understand me, Jake? My terms. Entirely."

Jake’s chest heaved as your words sank in, the cold finality of your terms washing over him. For a fraction of a second, the residual pride of the master manipulator fought to stay on his face.

Then, it completely shattered.

His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black, drinking in the absolute authority in your posture. The realization that he was completely at your mercy ; that his access to you was now entirely dependent on his total obedience ; hit him like a physical blow. It didn't anger him nor push him away.

It completely changed him.

His breathing turned shallow in the quiet living room. Your eyes involuntarily flicked downward, and there it was again ; the sharp, prominent ridge stretching the fabric of his trousers, immediate and undeniable. Even in the bright morning sunlight, completely exposed, his body was utterly betraying how much your dominance was turning him on. He was completely wasted by the leash you had just snapped around his neck.

He didn't even try to hide his arousal, he leaned into it, taking an unhurried step forward until he was hovering just inches from you, his hands hovering at his sides, strictly obeying the rule not to touch you without permission.

"Your terms," he whispered, his voice incredibly deep, a low melody of pure submission. He looked down at you through his eyelashes, his head tilting slightly as he offered you his complete surrender. "Anything you want. If you want me to crawl, I'll crawl. But I don't want you to walk away. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

Jake Sim— what a fucking nerd.

He spends his days nose deep into novels, notebooks or worksheets, raising his hand during lectures and being the professors star-student errand boy; running to the copier on command to retrieve syllabus’s.

He doesn’t dare make eye contact with anyone longer than necessary, voice small and wavering. He has maybe two friends that you know of, just as meek and mild. No girlfriend— obviously. He’d probably never even been touched in his whole life by anyone other than himself and you can only imagine how pathetic he is for it. He’s probably the type to stay up all night, hand stroking his tiny dick while watching cheap cam girls that he could only ever dream of touching.

You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. Your presence practically demands attention when you walk in a room, all 5ft and 95lbs of you with your shiny blonde hair, pearly white teeth and icy blue eyes. You spend your free time with copious amounts of friends, at parties mingling, or with your stud of a boyfriend Sunghoon— captain of the football team. You quite literally live the dream life, what more could you even ask for?

Jake Sim is nothing to you, merely gum on the bottom of your shoe. He wouldn’t even exist to you if it wasn’t for the fact that you got paired up once for a project and you realized how easy it was to get under his skin. Since then, it’s been your personal mission to make him crumble under your every move just because it entertains you so much.

Until it doesn’t anymore.

After three blissful months of teasing, tantalizing and straight up bullying him in the easiest most cliché ways possible (tripping him in halls, spilling his food tray over his shoes, leaving notes taped to his locker) Jake somehow decided to grow a set of balls.

He went from wide eyes, flushes cheeks and shaking hands to cold gazes, gritted teeth and clenched fists. You don’t know when it happened— maybe even over night. But when you realized it, it just drove you even further until you snapped.

It started during an impromptu study session for an exam you couldn’t afford to flunk. You weren’t studying with Jake, no, he just happened to be in the study hall of course. He practically lived there— or the library.

You had spent the last hour shooting him menacing glares, walking past his table to “sharpen your pencil” and knocking his books off the table, and even threw crumpled up papers at him when he wasn’t looking. Not once did he give you the single reaction you were looking for.

It was immature of you, really. You should’ve just let it go, moved onto some other unsuspecting twerp if you were that hard up on bullying someone but no. It had to be Jake, and you didn’t know why. The longer you sat there craving his reaction without one, the more the itch was becoming hard to ignore. You had to do something— anything, to get what you wanted from him. Even if it meant doing something completely beneath you, something even a cliché bully wouldn’t dare do.

You push up from your seat, chair screeching against the linoleum, echoing through the quiet study hall. In five small strides you were standing in front of Jake’s table with no real plan in mind, just acting purely on pent up rage and impulse. You lean over the desk, silently daring him to look up from his laptop. But he doesn’t.

”Hey.” You snap, voice flat and eerily cold. No response.

”Helloooo? Someone’s speaking to you.” Still, nothing. Not even a blink.

Without thinking of the consequences you pick up his bottle of water, open the cap and dump the whole thing out over his keyboard, instantly short circuiting his Mac Book.

Jake shoots out of his seat pulling his laptop up with him, flinging it around trying to knock the water out of it in a panic.

“What the actual fuck y/n!!”

When he finally looks at you, it’s not the look you were going for at all. No flushed cheeks or wide eyes in sight. Instead your met with a look that could kill that goes straight through your chest down into your— wait, what? No yeah, that’s right. Right into your pussy. Instead now your eyes are wide, cheeks flushed and your thighs are instinctively pressed together.

Oh no. Oh no no no that’s not how this is supposed to go. You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out but a pathetic stutter that you’ve never heard yourself make before.

“Y/n, hello? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you really that fucking dense? You just ruined my laptop! Do you know how expensive those things are!? Do you always have to be this fucking childish!”

Jake reprimands you, his voice booming low and demanding, not wavering once. He’s beyond pissed. And that feeling between your legs? It’s responding to it even more. You think your knees could give out any second if he so much as glares at you again.

“I— I, didn’t— I wasn’t—“ you stutter out, looking like a fool. My, how the tables have turned.

“‘I— I— I’ I don’t want to fucking hear it! I’ve had enough of your shit y/n. Get it together and grow the fuck up already.”

His words hit low, like a punch to the gut, except lower. A punch to the pussy? Something like that. You mutter a pathetic ‘sorry’ and turn on your heels, practically running out of the study hall till your hands hit the bathroom door, pushing it open. You steady yourself against the cold porcelain sink and try to calm the heat between your legs and the reeling in your head.

When you look up in the mirror, you don’t even recognize yourself. The perfect composed icy gaze you usually hold has been replaced with a flushed pathetic mess.

And that’s how it all starts, really. The day you, or Jake really, unlocked a side of you you didn’t know existed. That night you lied in bed and tried to grasp what you felt and what it meant and by morning you had come to grips with the fact that somehow, someway, you liked being degraded and reprimanded like that.

After that, you avoided Jake at all costs which I’m sure he was thankful for. As for your new self discovery, you tried to chase that feeling elsewhere, with your own boyfriend Sunghoon.

You confided in him about this newfound kink, and poor Sunghoon, he tried he really did. He called you a bitch, a slut, smacked your ass, yelled at you and even spit in your mouth once. None of it, no matter how humiliating, made you feel the way Jake did that day in the study hall.

After weeks of denial and waging wars in your mind you decided you need to find out for yourself. You sought out Jake, and pushed his buttons like you used too until he snapped again and there it was— that feeling you had been craving.

So it wasn’t just some kink that could be satisfied with anyone, it had to be Jake, of course it did. Something about your dynamic, the nerdy boy and the untouchable golden girl, that’s what did it for you.

All it had taken this time was one tiny push. Your tiny foot darted out in his path as he walked by in the hall, folders he had been carrying scattering across the linoleum. Jake lands on one knee and slowly pushes himself back up, slowly turning to you.

“Pick them up.”

The demand is foreign to your ears but nonetheless exciting. Your hands find place on your hips as you stand there, unyielding and defiant.

He takes one step closer, then two, until you don’t even have time to process that you’ve been slammed into a locker, air knocked out of your lungs.

“I said, pick. Them. Up.” His voice is gravelly, barely above a whisper with his arm folded against your throat, leaving no room for argument.

Were you really about to drop to your knees in the middle of the hall and pick his shit up like some peasant? Why, yes. Yes you fucking were.

You scramble on the floor gathering loose papers and stuffing them back into folders without paying attention to what belongs where. That was obviously a mistake— one you’d be happy to pay for ten minutes from now when Jake is dragging you by the arm into an empty classroom on the premise of “re-organizing his folders” that you had just carelessly botched.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sharp click of the lock echoing in the small space.

“Look who’s brave all of a sudden.” It’s meant to sound more menacing, but you can’t help the slight waver in your voice, the chill that runs down your spine knowing this is probably the last time you’ll ever pretend to have the upper hand.

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. He takes another step closer—leaving only a few inches between him and you, your back pressed against a desk behind you.

"Brave? Try fed up."

"Your little games might be fun for you, but I'm running out of patience, y/n."

“Oh wow, I’m literally shaking with fear” You say, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He laughs dryly. It's a dangerous sound.

"You're a terrible actress, you know that? Fear looks like a lot of things, princess, and it doesn't look like what's on your face right now."

He raises a hand, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth over the sensitive skin of your neck.

"This? This looks like excitement."

Your pulse is racing, and he can feel it under his thumb. His gaze darkens, and that smirk returns—sharp, dangerous.

"You get off on this, don’t you? And you think I'm scared? Your mistake."

His touch moves to the base of your throat, his fingers wrapping around it just tight enough for you to notice. Not enough to hurt. Almost possessive.

His head dips down until his lips are barely separated from your ear. His voice is a dark, quiet rumble, sending a shiver down your spine.

"You like the thrill," he murmurs, and you swear you can hear a smile in the words. "The feeling of being challenged, of being forced up against the wall."

He pauses, thumb skimming the edge of your jawline.

"Admit it—you like it when I put you in your place."

He feels the shudder in your breath, sees the way your lashes flicker—like you're trying so damn hard to hide it, but your body betrays you. His grip tightens just a fraction, and his lips curl into something feral, triumphant.

"That’s what does it for you?" His laugh is rough, mean, breath hot against your ear. "That I’m the only one who won’t bow? That I’m the one who’ll drag you down instead?"

He shifts his hand, fingers pressing into your pulse point, thumb tipping your chin up—forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice drops to a growl.

"Pathetic. But I won’t complain. Watching you unravel is the best entertainment I’ve had all year."

Jake's gaze roams your face, his thumb still pressed against your pulse point. He can feel your hammering heartbeat, can see the flush on your cheeks, no matter how much you try to hide it. He leans even closer, his chest almost brushing yours.

"You're a pain in my ass, y/n. But I have to admit, you have one redeeming quality."

A slow, dark smile spreads across his face.

"You're so fun to toy with."

He moves suddenly, his hand grabbing your hip, pinning you against the desk. His other hand grabs your chin, holding it just tight enough for you to be unable to look away from him.

"Seeing that fire in your eyes as you try to keep that bitchy attitude? It makes me wanna break you down just a little more. Every. Goddamn. Time."

His grip tightens imperceptibly—just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to win.

"Still wanna play?" His voice is a whisper, laced with something dangerous as his thumb traces your bottom lip. "Because I can keep going until you forget how to be anything but mine."

“You want me to snap, y/n?” His voice is raw, stripped of its usual cool detachment.“Fine. Here I am.”

One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back as the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His lips crash into yours—not a kiss, a claim. Teeth and desperation and all the fury he’s swallowed for months.

For a split second, you're shocked: eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. It takes a moment—a beat of your heart—for the shock to wash away and a new heat to take over. In the next instant, you're fighting back, hands gripping his jacket, lips crashing back against his with every bit of defiance you can muster.

He groans into the kiss, his hand fisting tighter in your hair as he meets that challenge with every ounce of his own fury. Teeth clash, lips bruise, bodies pressing together like warring storms. For a moment, nothing exists outside this: the taste of his mouth, his hands on your body, the raw power of his restraint fraying at the seams.

He pulls back, breathless, gaze dark as he catches his breath. He can't keep his eyes off your swollen lips, the flush staining your cheeks.

His thumb swipes roughly over your bottom lip, wiping away the sting of the kiss—his breath ragged against your skin as lightning flashes again, illuminating the possessive gleam in his eyes.

"This what you wanted?" His voice is rough, laced with something unstable. "To see how far you could push me before I ruined you?"

"Congratulations, princess. You win."

His breath is a hot brand against your ear as his fingers twist in your hair, tilting your head back in one sharp motion.

"Filthy fucking thing," he rasps, dragging his tie from around his neck with his free hand.

"Thought you were untouchable? Look at you now—gagging for it like some common slut."

The silk tightens around your throat in a cruel loop, his knee forcing your legs apart as he wrenches you forward—your choked gasp only makes his smirk darker.

“Beg," he orders, pressing his thumb against your bottom lip until your jaw drops open. “I want to hear how bad you need it."

(And oh, you will.)

“P-please” You gasp out, a pathetic whimper of a noise, straining against the tight tie around your throat.

His grip tightens, cutting off your air for just a second—just long enough to make your vision blur—before loosening again. His free hand slaps across your cheek, sharp and stinging, forcing your gaze back up to his.

“Louder." His voice is steel, ruthless, leaving no room for disobedience. “Or do you need me to choke it out of you properly?"

His knee grinds between your thighs, pressure just shy of cruel as his thumb hooks into the corner of your mouth, stretching it wider.

“Try again."

You begin to make noises that are foreign to you, pathetic whimpers, mewls and desperate pleas for him to give you more, ruin you harder.

He lets out a low, approving hum—the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans in, teeth scraping your earlobe. “Good slut."

His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he presses the flat of his tongue against your pulse—licking a slow, filthy stripe up to your jaw before spitting directly into your open mouth.

"Swallow." A command, not a request. His other hand trails down to squeeze your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. “Then get on your knees and show me what that pretty mouth’s really for."

You swallow his spit without hesitation, dropping to my knees, eagerly undoing his belt and buttons of his waistband, like you couldn’t wait another second to get your mouth around him, and really you couldn’t.

His laugh is a dark, breathless thing as your fingers fumble with his belt—his hand dropping to tangle in your hair, not to help, but to control.

“Desperate little thing, aren't you?" His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make your jaw ache. “Go on then. Prove how badly you need this."

The moment you take him into your mouth, his grip tightens—not guiding, just owning—as his head tips back against the classroom wall with a groan.

Jake is a lot more well endowed than you were expecting, his thick bulging length completely filling your mouth with no space to breathe other than through your nose. It’s ironic really— of course the boy who makes himself as small as possible in the halls is packing major fucking heat in his jeans.

You push in as far as he’ll go, ignoring your gag reflex’s complaints. You begin to bob your head up and down against his shaft, licking and swirling your tongue around the tip swallowing the salty precum with every stroke. You look up at Jake, eyes wide and glossy with tears from gagging. Truly, you hope you look just as pathetic as you feel right now. Your thighs shift together, a clear indication of your arousal from being degraded like this.

He looks down at you through hooded eyes, breath labored. The look on your face is exactly the one he wanted to see—so desperate, so wrecked, and all because of him. His thumb swipes across your flushed cheeks, catching a trailing tear.

“Just look at you. All it takes is a dirty word, a sharp hand, and you're on your knees." He murmurs, voice hoarse.

He thrusts into your mouth hard and deep, pulling another gag and guttural moan from your throat that vibrates up his shaft deliciously. The amount of drool you were producing from sucking him off was obscene, dripping down your chin and pooling around the base of his cock.

He reaches a hand down gathering the accumulated spit off your chin and smears it against your cheek. He rears his hand back and smacks it against your face, the wet crack of his hand against your skin as loud as a lightening strike.

His fingers tighten in your hair, dragging you forward until your nose presses against his stomach—deep, forcing you to take every inch until your throat flutters helplessly around him. The sound you make sends a rough groan ripping from his chest.

"Fuck—that's the noise I wanted." His voice is shredded, hips jerking shallowly against your tongue. "Choke on it. Swallow it. Let me ruin you right here."

A sharp thrust—your tears spill over, your nails dig into his thighs—and then he’s pulling out at the last second, spilling hot and thick across your tongue, your cheeks, your chin with a muttered curse.

"Open." His thumb hooks under your jaw, forcing your mouth wide so he can see the mess. "God, you’re disgusting."

(And he can’t look away.)

Your head is spinning as he steps away from you, adjusting himself like you weren't just on your knees for him, like he doesn't look completely and utterly ruined.

You stay there, frozen on the cold classroom floor, blinking back tears as he buttons up his pants and slips back into the cool, composed demeanor that makes you want to hit him.

"Get up." His voice is even now, almost bored, but the dark flash in his gaze gives him away.

He watches you with a smirk, the expression sharp and knowing—like he can see the way your pulse still thrums, the way your thighs press together for friction. But he doesn’t comment. Instead, he steps closer, fingers catching your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Pathetic," he murmurs—but the word is laced with something darker, something possessive. “But at least you know your place now."

Then he releases you, turning toward the door like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just wrecked you beyond repair.

Just before he leaves, he glances back—one last look, one last smirk.

~Jake’s POV~

The moment he gets home, he locks himself away in his room, ignoring the sound of his mother's voice calling through the house.

He leans against the door, raking shaking hands through his hair as he tries—and fails—to ignore the fact he just did that. That he just gave in and did that, just because he wanted to. The look on your face, the sound of you choking on him, tears on your cheeks, your mouth open and—he needs to stop.

He needs a shower. A cold, cold shower.

Jake collapses onto his bed after the shower, staring at the ceiling. His skin is still flushed, pulse still uneven. He shuts his eyes—tries to clear his head—but all he sees is you.

Your lips, red and swollen. Your breath hitching when his fingers tightened in your hair. The way your thighs pressed together—fucking hell, you were soaked for him.

He groans, rolling onto his stomach, shoving his face into the pillow. He should hate you. He does hate you. But he hates himself more for what he's about to do next.

His hand slides under the waistband of his sweatpants.

(Disgusting. He’s just as bad as you are.)

~ Your POV~

Your phone buzzes, screen lighting up with a text message alert—from the last person you expect. Jake.

With shaky fingers, you open the message, unsure what to anticipate. Maybe another insult—another taunting nickname.

But the text is simple, two words that make your stomach flip.

{"Come here."}

You text back with shaky fingers

{“Come where?”}

His reply comes almost instantly—no hesitation, no games.

{“My place. Now."}

Another buzz. An address.

Then—

{"Don’t make me wait."}

(And you won’t. Because you’re pathetic)

Thousands of dirty thoughts flood your mind on the drive over, body thrumming with anticipation by the time you reach his front door, knees already locked, thighs trembling.

The door swings open immediately, like he was waiting right by it. His eyes roam over you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips—and for a moment, there's just a tense beat of quiet. Then he steps aside, nodding for you to enter.

"Inside. Now."

Your skin chills again. You do as he commands, walking past him into his house. You hear him close and lock the door behind him—the sound echoing in your chest.

Then, he speaks.

"Knees."

You don’t even turn around to look at him, you just drop to your knees obediently, waiting for his next command. He’s already got you wrapped right around his finger— or more so, his cock.

He paces around you, his footsteps quiet against the floor. You can sense him, circling you like a predator.

"I knew you'd come." His voice is a slow, dark drawl. "You're just that desperate. Desperate for me to put you in your place."

He comes to a stop in front of you, tilting your chin up with his thumb and forefinger until you're looking up at him. His gaze is steady, unreadable—the same calm before the storm.

"But I'm not in the mood to play nice. Not after... that." The word hangs in the air—heavy, loaded. "You embarrassed me."

He releases your chin, stepping away—the loss of contact makes you shiver.

"On your feet."

His fingers curl around the back of your neck—not gentle, not cruel, just absolute—as he guides you down the hall. The bedroom door is already open, the lights low. Something new glints in his expression when he shoves you forward—not just control, but hunger.

"Strip." A single word, no room for hesitation. "Then get on the bed. Face down."

You strip your clothes hastily but also somehow agonizingly slow; shirt, bra, skirt, panties until you’re left in nothing but your white thigh high stockings. You feel completely exposed and vulnerable which sends a thrill through your spine.

His gaze rakes over you—slow, deliberate—taking in every inch of bare skin, the way the stockings cling to your thighs, the way you’re already dripping wet glistening between the thighs. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

“Good." The word is rough, barely more than a growl. "Now get on the bed. Face down, like I said.”

He steps closer, pulling something from his pocket—his tie again, the silk sliding between his fingers.

"You're not moving until I say you can."

You swallow, nodding without meeting his eyes as you crawl onto the bed and then lie flat, your back facing the ceiling as you stare down at the sheets. You don't have to see him to know he's staring—you can feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of it against your body.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is so quiet you can hear your own breathing, the thudding of your heart. And then—the soft sound of him moving closer.

He moves quietly, footsteps only the faintest whisper as he circles you—like he's studying you, sizing you up. His voice, when he speaks, makes you shiver.

“Lift your hips. I'm going to tie your legs." Not a question, not an invitation, but a command—and you do as he says, shifting up onto your knees.

His palms skim down the backs of your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

The silk is thin, but he pulls it taut, forcing your knees to press together. The first knot goes around your right ankle.

He slides his hand over your calf, then moves to the other leg, his fingertips leaving faint, fleeting touches against your skin. He makes quick work of tying your other ankle, pulling it tight with a sharp tug. You hear him exhale when he's finished, like he's trying to control himself—and the sound sends a shiver through you.

“Move." That command is sharp, harsher this time. “Roll over."

You roll onto your back, now able to see just how utterly please he looks having you like this, sprawled out on display, bound and eager for him to touch you.

He grips your chin—forcing your head back against the mattress as he leans down, close enough that his breath is hot against your lips.

"Open."

The moment you obey, he spits directly into your mouth—slow, deliberate—before clamping his hand over your lips, sealing it in.

"Swallow." A rough thumb presses under your jaw, tipping your head back further. “Then say thank you."

Your words are breathless, desperate, and he smirks, hearing the neediness in your voice. He runs the pad of his thumb over your lips, almost gently.

"That's a good slut." There's something like satisfaction in his tone as he shifts, pushing away from you—taking a step back. "Now stay still."

He moves away for a brief moment, and you hear him opening something, the sound of plastic on plastic. His back is towards you at his desk, so you can’t see what he’s doing. The wait is torturous, and your mind races with guesses, your body trembling with a heady mix of fear and anticipation.

Finally, after what feels like an agonizing eternity, he stills at the desk.

"Close your eyes."

(And you do.)

The mattress dips as he settles between your thighs—not touching yet, just letting you feel the heat of him there. His fingers trail up your ribs, slow, almost reverent, before circling your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting.

"Open."

When you open your eyes, the first drop of wax hits your collarbone—searing, then cooling almost instantly. Your gasp is muffled by his palm slapping over your mouth.

"Quiet." Another drip, lower this time. Your hipbone. "Or I stop."

(And you don’t want him to stop. Ever.)

He continues like that for a while—slow, steady drips of wax down your stomach, around your waist, across your thighs. Every so often, he'll make a sound, a soft hum of appreciation, a sharp inhale of breath. And each one makes you shiver, makes you clench in anticipation. He watches your every movement—the way your breath hitches, your throat bobbing as you swallow. It only makes him want to push you more, to see if you really are just as shameless as he knows you are.

Your skin is a canvas for his art, each drop of wax a mark of his control. He's methodical, slow, not wasting a single moment. Each drip burns, then cools, leaving behind a trail of fire in its wake. Your body trembles under his touch, the pain-pleasure sending jolts through your muscles.

Then he stops, just the feel of his gaze on your skin as he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Look at me."

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, dark and stormy. He's closer now, his body almost touching yours—but not quite.

For a moment, neither of you moves, your breaths mingling. Then his mouth curves into a smirk, a slow, dangerous thing.

He watches you—the way your eyes flutter shut, the way your lips part—enjoying the sight of you bound and eager. One of his hands slides up the outside of your thighs, his touch rough but deliberate. The other takes something—the wax again.

"Stay still. Keep your eyes on me." His voice is rougher now as he presses a thumb to the curve of your hip. "No moving."

He trails the wax lower this time—dipping dangerously close to where you ache for him most, but stopping just shy. The heat sears, then cools, a delicious contrast to the throbbing need between your thighs.