#Seoul: Become Human?

[cutehoons02]

Bad Romance

Desire:Unleash Jake pt Sunghoon pt

*pairirng: CEO dad vampire Park Jay x baby-sitter human Girl

*pairirng: grumpy x sunshine

*pairirng: Jay has only one wish: to be a good father and always be there for his daughter. Jenù was born from a meaningless one-night stand, and six months after her birth, a staff member at the Park Society found a baby girl with forest-green eyes and tiny red flecks, Jay’s same smile, and the same birthmark on his neck. She came with a note from the girl who couldn’t handle becoming a mother—especially not to a child who was half-human, half-vampire. Since that day, years passed. Jay had fired over twenty babysitters human, vampire, witch, and more—until one day, Sunghoon’s girlfriend told her best friend, who was struggling financially, that Jay was looking for a new babysitter. From that moment on, your life, as well as Jay’s and Jenù’s, changed forever. You are bold, dangerous, always sarcastic and you adore Jenù. But to Jay, a vampire over 300 years old, you're a dangerous distraction, especially when you're around his daughter. He's gruff and strict, only softening when he's with her, and in his eyes, you're just a reckless young woman… with blood that tempts him too much and a mouth that's far too bold.

*pairirng: At first Jay finds you extremely annoying and thinks that you are just an irresponsible girl but slowly she falls in love with you, you love teasing him, Jenù (Jay’s daughter) many times takes your side, warnings, overprotective dad, a lot of kisses, bites, Blood reference, masturbation (f) reverse cowgirl, (bath sex) unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) Jay would like to put on family with you, jealousy, white lies, possession, Jay is a secular vampire, +18, pet names (little human,treasure,maiden)

19k (🍷)

Being a twenty-two-year-old girl in Seoul in 2025 was a form of legalized fraud. When you were little, they told you that you could become anything if you behaved well if you were pretty and kind to everyone, if you got good grades both in school and at university—but it was all bullshit. At twenty-three, you had become an exhausted student, an underpaid barista, and a living statistic in Gen Z burnout.

You went back and forth from your university like it was a punishment mission: classes at 9 a.m., then a huge gap until 5 p.m., and in between a barista shift at a coffee shop that looked cute only on Instagram, infested with screaming fans and idol-themed drinks that all tasted like sugar, bubblegum, and despair. The café you worked at was in central Seoul, where all the K-pop agency buildings were, where the idols trained, andrecorded music and so every day, you had to witness a swarm of crazed fans coming in to buy coffee or snap photos just because, once, their favorite idol had taken a picture and signed an album at your "K-pop themed" café.

The coffee you served was awful, the K-pop playlist? As repetitive as a nightmare on a loop. And don’t even get started on the pay. It was trash. Only your vanilla-whipped cappuccino gave you some reason to exist in the morning as you walked into the shop, still with toothpaste in your mouth and zombie's eyes after staying up the night before to study. And it was that very coffee that saved you today. Your best friend was already sitting, stunning as always, with two cups in her hands, and she handed you one with a smirk.

"You look like a zombie but an adorable one!" she said, ruffling your hair. "I am a zombie. A living, labor-exploited zombie. Used and abandoned by God." You yawned and dropped into the chair with the dignity of a wrinkled T-shirt. She giggled, and you envied her a little always so fresh, fragrant, happy, dating a vampire CEO who took her around the world like she was a model and not a former student from your department.

"At least you have a boyfriend who takes you to Paris and New York. I’ve got a professor who smells like ginseng and depression," you said, eyeing the latest designer bag she had resting on her thighs and shivering at the sight of the bite marks from Sunghoon’s fangs. She bit her lip, which was never a good sign—especially since you’d known her since high school.

"Don’t be mad, okay?" she said with that pouty little smile, and you immediately rolled your eyes. "If you say ‘don’t be mad,’ it means I will be mad," you said, closing your eyes and resting your head on the table. "I gave your resume to Jay Park." You groaned and curled further into yourself. That name gave you chills worse than the morning cold.

Jay: the other CEO and Sunghoon’s business partner, one of the richest and most famous company owners in all of Korea. The aristocratic, brooding vampire with that predatory gaze, zero smiles and zero emotions.

"You’re insane," you snapped, glaring at your best friend. "He’s looking for a babysitter, and you love kids," she said like it was a normal thing to hand over your CV to that man. "Jay Park isn’t looking for a babysitter. He’s trying to scare the human race into extinction. And I don’t like him." "Don’t be dramatic. He has a daughter, and she’d adore you. Jenù is a sweetheart," your best friend said, sipping her cappuccino. “His daughter, maybe. He’d throw me into the Han River after my first yawn."

She laughed and leaned closer to you. "He’d give you room, board, and a real salary. No more rent. We could use my old apartment as an office or study space, and you could finally stop serving frappés or coffees with idol faces on top." You shivered again because deep down, the idea was horrible but the offer was tempting. And… the only beautiful thing about Jay Park was his daughter: Jenù. You’d seen her twice, and both times, you saw a small, shining heart trapped in the darkness of a broken father.

The Park Society building rose in the heart of Seoul like an elegant shadow: a black glass tower carved into the sky, surrounded by soft lights and windows that looked more like a Gothic castle than the headquarters of a modern multinational. It was a place where power had a very specific scent: amber, smoke, and control. With trembling fingers, you adjusted your spaghetti-straight hair as you stared at your reflection in the mirrored elevator. Your makeup was simple, almost student-like—or maybe too simple, considering all the perfect vampire women who worked for him—but the black blazer over your white shirt gave you just enough of a grown-up look to distract from your smart jeans and the only pair of heels you could walk in. In your mind, heels were for graduations, parties, or… interviews with billionaire vampires. You hated them, even though you studied fashion and knew a heel could turn any basic outfit into something chic. But when the doors opened, the scene was surreal. Humans rushed back and forth, buried under phones, laptops, and documents. Vampires, flawless like living statues, walked silently among them as if the entire world were a board game and they were the main pieces. Everyone moved under one name: Jay Park. Jay wasn’t just one of the most powerful vampires in Korea—he was a living legend in both the human and supernatural worlds. For over three centuries, he’d been turning bankrupt companies into empires, and random numbers into frighteningly accurate predictions. And then there was his charm: deadly, cold, magnetic. Yet somehow, every woman dreamed of having him. He was intelligent, carried himself like an old-world gentleman, always had a sharp remark ready, and was the kind of man or rather, creature who could break you with a single look or word. But for the past few years, the world had discovered one detail that made him… just a little bit human. He had become a father.

The news had exploded in the tabloids like a bomb. A half-human, half-vampire child had been found on the doorstep of the Park Society building, wrapped in a violet blanket with only a letter in her tiny hands. From that day forward, Jay Park swore he would give everything for Jenù, his daughter and he did. With obsessive control. With fierceness. With protection. With love. Jenù was adorable. Barely four years old, but already had the face of a little star: huge wine-colored eyes, golden skin inherited from her father, and a smile that melted even immortal hearts. Under her father’s strict supervision, she’d already become a model for famous brands—probably earning more in a month than you did in six. And you? You were just standing there with a crumpled resume in your bag, half a hope, and a heartbeat pounding way too fast. Because you knew—everyone knew—that Jay only wanted the best for his daughter. And he had already fired twenty-nine babysitters. You, with your all-too-human clumsiness, your big mouth, and your incurable curiosity, silently prayed not to become number thirty. You sat down on the black leather chair in front of the marble desk of his secretary, a woman in her fifties with a tight bun and a powder-pink tailored suit. She didn’t even look up from her screen as she said, in a monotone voice,

-Mr. Park and Miss Jenù are expecting you. You may go in.- The phone rang at that exact moment, and while she answered with chilling professionalism, she gave you a small hand gesture, pointing toward the dark double doors behind her.

When you stood up, your heart was beating in your temples, and your fingers clutched the strap of your bag tightly. Your heels, though uncomfortable, suddenly felt like they were made to give you strength. The secretary led you to the door, and just before opening it, she whispered with a hint of a smile, -Good luck.-

Yeah… that was already a bad sign. If Jay Park’s secretary told you good luck, you knew you were in trouble. But honestly, what did you have to lose?

Nothing. Worst case? He wouldn’t like you, and you'd see him maybe twice a year—at your best friend’s birthday and Sunghoon’s. So, when the door opened, a scent enveloped you instantly: the sugary sweetness of fruit gummies mixed with something much older, deeper, warmer… like aged whiskey in oak barrels and ancient blood.

The office was huge, silent, bathed in soft light filtering through heavy curtains. The desk stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked all of Seoul, and behind it, staring at his monitor, was Jay Park. He was typing something on the keyboard with fast, precise hands and didn’t even lift his gaze when he spoke in a deep, neutral voice:

“Introduce yourself briefly. Tell me your work experience, and whether you’ve worked with children. Speak now or you can leave, I don’t like wasting time.”

Damn. Welcome to corporate hell, you thought. With an aristocratic vampire as your judge. But you didn’t look at him right away. Your eyes were immediately drawn to her. A little girl with long brown hair tied into two messy braids and large forest-green eyes speckled with reddish flecks, catching the light like gemstones a clear sign of mixed blood. She stared at you, serious and curious, with an unopened candy in her fingers.

You crouched slightly and smiled, offering her your hand, which looked so big next to hers.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Y/n.”

Jenù looked down at your hand, touched it with fingers slightly cold but strangely warm like a heart that hasn’t decided whether to beat or not and then, solemnly, said: 'Nice to meet you. I’m Jenù.'

She showed you her little teeth, a mix of human and vampire, and you giggled. “The candies you’re eating… those are my favorites too,” you whispered like it was a secret between partners in crime. “But when I was in elementary school, I ate so many I had to get four cavities filled because of all the sugar.”

Her eyes widened, then she laughed a clear, bright sound that cracked the tension in the room. 'Daddy only gives them to me when I do something good. Like… saving the world.' You leaned forward, resting your hands on your knees like you always did with kids. 'Oh? And what good thing did you do today to earn them?' Jenù wrinkled her nose and said proudly, 'I helped Uncle Hoon hide some documents before that annoying yelling lady found them.'

You barely held in a laugh, but a smile escaped your lips. 'Oh yeah, that counts as saving the world—at least a little.' Then she looked at you with a solemn expression and repeated, 'Work experience. Have you worked with children? Speak now, we don’t have much time.' You froze for a second, then burst into a light laugh.

“Wow. You’ll make a perfect heir to your dad’s company. You’ve learned well.” And only then did you lift your gaze toward him. Jay was watching you. Still, unmoving, mouth slightly open as if he hadn’t expected someone to walk into that room and ignore him completely. As if seeing his daughter laugh like that so naturally, was something he missed… or feared. But you didn’t look away. You didn’t bow, and you didn’t care about the social gap between you. You looked at him like a man who didn’t scare you yet, and that threw him off.

Jay clenched his jaw, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower.“You’re not like the others.” And you, with a boldness that surprised even yourself, replied, “Good thing. Otherwise, I’d already be out that door, right?” Jay clenched his jaw again as you extended your hand toward him. It was such a simple, common gesture, but the way you did it straightforward, without hesitation, with that annoyingly human and confident gaze caught him off guard for a moment.

Still, he took it. The contact was brief, but enough to confuse you.

What was that spark? Fear? Anxiety? Warmth? Desire? You couldn’t tell.

But he was… too much. “Nice to meet you, I’m Y/n. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at Sunghoon’s birthday and my best friend T/l’s, who’s also his girlfriend.” You smiled, a little too brightly for his stiffness. “I’ve worked with kids a lot even back in high school. Right now, I work at an idol-themed coffee shop… which is babysitting, but with screaming thirteen-year-olds obsessed with photocards and smoothies with idols’ faces on them that cost almost as much as dinner.”

Jay looked up from your resume and fixed his sharp gaze on you.“You talk too much.” You laughed lightly, brushing some hair from your face.

“It’s one of my superpowers. It usually works well with kids… and customers who haven’t had their coffee yet.” From the desk, Jenù stood up on tiptoe, came closer, and studied you from head to toe. Then she grabbed your hand in her small fingers. 'Daddy, look!' she said, pointing at your decorated nail. 'She has a tiny teddy bear on her finger! I want one too!' Jay raised an eyebrow, and his gaze dropped to your hands.

“Not very professional, but… I suppose it’s better than the red witch claws the last babysitter had.” Jenù laughed out loud, and you leaned closer to her. “When you’re older, you’ll be able to have them too. But for now… maybe we can draw them on with markers. What do you think?”

'Really?!' she beamed, eyes sparkling.

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jay interrupted, his voice low and controlled, but irritated at seeing his daughter so enchanted by a woman who wasn’t his mother—or grandmother. You turned to him calmly and replied with a steady tone, “You don’t crush a child’s imagination, Mr. Park. You adapt it. And besides…” You turned back to Jenù with a warm smile. “It’s a small promise. And small promises are meant to be kept.”

Jay gave a low, almost inaudible growl—like an animal being disturbed. But Jenù ended the conversation with a decisive tone: 'I want her. Daddy, I like her as my babysitter.' She turned quickly to you and grabbed your hand again. 'Do you know how to do braids?' “I can do braids, ponytails, crown twists, even bows made of hair. Want me to show you?”

Jenù nodded eagerly. 'Daddy took two months to learn! He watched a bunch of TikToks and YouTube videos and kept messing up!' She covered her mouth with her little hands, and you did the same, laughing softly. “Two months? Really?” you asked curiously, glancing at the man in the suit sitting across from you. 'Swear!” she laughed. “The first time I looked like a cactus!'

Jay gave her a look, but it wasn’t stern. It was intriguing. Slightly amused by what was unfolding. And silently, he watched the scene with a strange gleam in his eyes. His daughter was at ease. Smiling. Bonding with someone in mere minutes—something that never happened. You gently tapped her nose.

“But hey, don’t tease your daddy too much. He did something really sweet for you. Not every dad would learn how to braid hair for their little girl.” Jenù lowered her gaze and nodded as if those words had landed right in her chest. Then she ran behind the desk, and Jay picked her up with almost shocking tenderness, lifting her in one fluid motion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered something in his ear.

He turned back to you. “You start this weekend,” he said, voice flat, but eyes sharp and fixed on you. “Don’t make me regret letting you near my daughter.”

You smiled. “I won’t, Mr. Park,” you said. “I get attached to children easily but only to them. Adults… are more complicated.” Jay raised an eyebrow. “Welcome to hell, then.”

Jay Park’s apartment looked like it had been pulled straight out of a luxury design magazine. The moment you stepped inside, your eyes widened and you muttered under your breath, "Why wasn’t I born into some rich, aristocratic family too…"

The enormous sofa in the center of the living room looked so soft it could probably swallow anyone who dared sit on it. In front of it, a massive 55-inch TV was embedded into a wall of matte black glass. On the low shelf below, a perfectly aligned series of framed photos caught your eye and instantly melted your heart.

Jay and Jenù smiling, goofy, captured in candid moments of quiet intimacy that no one would ever expect from a centuries-old vampire with perfect hair. There were photos of them at the pool, at the beach, dressed for the mountains with Jenù riding on Jay’s shoulders. All four birthday photos were there too every year—with him, his daughter, and the ever-present trio: Jake, Heeseung, and Sunghoon, Jay’s best friends and Jenù’s honorary uncles. From the open kitchen with its central white marble island, full of fancy utensils and high-end appliances. you could see Namsan Tower rising over the misty hills, bathed in the golden glow of sunset.

“It’s… breathtaking,” you whispered to yourself, more than to them, as your eyes wandered around the house. Jenù grabbed your hand and tugged you down the hallway.

'Come see my room! It’s the best room of all the rooms!' Her room looked like a private theme park. It had everything: miniature castles, stuffed animals, tables with puzzles, “educational” human toys… and some things that had to be vampire toys (like a doll that moved its eyes on its own and had tiny fangs—and stared at you for a bit too long for your comfort).

But it was her actual bedroom that took your breath away. A gothic Disney princess kingdom: blush pink and black velvet everywhere, a canopy bed with hidden lights, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, hand-embroidered pillows, and closets full of dreamy little dresses. You wanted to be a kid again just for one night to sleep there and play with all the toys you used to dream about having.

'And… that’s Daddy’s room,' she said, pointing to a sleek dark door. 'You can only use it if there’s an emergency,' she added, extremely serious.

Behind her, Jay appeared like an elegant shadow, leaning against the doorframe.

Rule number one: no entering my room. Ever. Unless it’s a real emergency.”

His eyes scanned you from head to toe. “And by ‘emergency,’ I don’t mean ‘I need the Wi-Fi password’ or ‘where are the chips.’”

You raised an eyebrow and muttered dramatically,

“I have no intention of entering the wolf’s den… oh, wait, the wrong creature. You’re a vampire.” You bit your lip, and Jay shook his head slowly while Jenù giggled, covering her mouth. Jay shot you a sharp, slightly intrigued look. He then led you to what would be your room on the nights you stayed over. It was simple but elegant a queen bed, a reading nook, a private bathroom, and… a breathtaking view of the Han River.

You walked over to the little table by the window and noticed a neatly printed sheet of paper. There were two columns, one titled "Human Rules", the other "Vampiric Rules", and above them, bold text read:

HOUSE RULES – FOR EVERYONE’S SURVIVAL

(Edited 7 times, updated after the Exploding Plush Incident)

Human Section

No candy after 7:00 p.m. (Unless it’s Saturday and Jenù has saved the world.)

No watching TV shows with a yellow or red warning icon.

Never leave Jenù alone in the bathroom. NEVER. You must stay with her at all times.

Do not wake up Daddy if he’s resting after a “red” meeting.

No incense or garlic in the kitchen. (Seriously.)

Vampire Section

If you hear whispers or strange noises at night, ignore them. It’s probably the neighbor. Or… maybe not.

If Jenù says there’s a shadow under the bed, it’s probably just her imagination—but check anyway. Safety comes first.

Do not open the small fridge on the left. You’ll only open it if I tell you to because it contains blood vials from the Blood Bank—the specific type Jenù drinks.

If I say “disappear,” then disappear. But stay within three meters of Jenù.

If you need to call me about a problem… count to 3. Then call. (Doesn’t apply to real emergencies: fire, blood, accidents.)

You burst out laughing.

“This is the most dramatic list of rules I’ve ever read. I’m 22, not 3—I can handle myself,” you said as you scanned the quirky guidelines. Jay shot you a death glare. “They’re not funny. Those rules could literally save your life.” “Wow, okay, Dracula 2.0, but seriously live a little. I’m not worried, and more importantly, Jenù will be fine with me.” He crossed his arms, voice dropping lower.

“Even if you’re the best friend of Sunghoon’s girlfriend, that doesn’t mean I trust you. Not yet and maybe never. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know if you’re good for my daughter, and I’m not about to find out the hard way. So follow those rules, and we’ll get along.” Your smile faltered for just a second before you lifted your chin and replied,

“Then watch me, Mr. Park. It doesn’t take much for me to prove I’m capable of what I do and I do know how to take care of a four-year-old. Maybe you’re the one keeping her too tightly bound to rules that are… a little questionable.”

For a moment, silence. Only the muffled sound of Jenù giggling in the other room. Then he turned away. “Dinner’s at seven. And don’t you ever presume to tell me what’s right or wrong for my daughter again.” 

It had been almost two weeks. Two weeks in which, to your surprise, you were still there. Still in Jay Park’s house, still “working” for him—though by now, it felt less like a job and more like a secret, comforting routine you’d grown to love. Jenù had slipped under your skin with the same ease she used to grab your hand when crossing the street or when telling you her wild dreams full of dancing bats and floating castles.

Every day, after your university classes, you pick her up from ballet or theater. Her cheeks always flushed, her bun always undone—and the moment she saw you, she’d run into your arms with the biggest smile and two tiny teeth… a little sharper than the day before. And she’d look at you like you were more than a babysitter, something she secretly wished all her friends had too. One evening, in the bathtub, while she played with bubbles, she nearly gave you a heart attack by flashing her canines proudly:

'Look, they’re coming in! Daddy says it’ll be my ‘change’ soon… Are you scared?' You’d fake-faint in fear at her little growl and she’d burst into laughter, sending water flying everywhere. Colorful bubbles filled the bathroom, and every day the bath bombs smelled like something sweet or floral. It had become your favorite part of the day—watching her relax and play with vampire-shaped toys, rubber duckies with fangs, or little fish that sprayed water. You often made a mess together in the kitchen, and she’d solemnly swear:

'I won’t tell Dad, I promise. Not even under hypnosis.' She’d pinky swear it, and every weekend you baked something: chocolate chip cookies, banana bread, muffins… One time you even decorated them with bright red sugar “fake blood.” When Jay got home and saw them, he stood in front of you, arms crossed, voice low and sharp:

“You just put fake blood on pastries for my daughter to eat. Do you have any idea how irresponsible that is...”

He didn’t get to finish. You burst out laughing right in the face of his CEO-dad-vampire attitude, and something in him softened for the first time since you’d met. He huffed… then actually smiled. A real smile with fangs on full display: long, slender, lethal… and disturbingly attractive to your messed-up mind that kept whispering you should stay away from him.

That evening, after washing dishes with Jenù—covered in flour and syrup, with a bat-shaped crêpe you named “Bat-crepe”—you both snuggled under a pink-and-black blanket on the couch.

“Have you ever watched Monster High?” you asked. She gave you a suspicious look, raising one eyebrow just like her father.

'Daddy doesn’t let me watch horror stuff.' “It’s not horror, I swear! They’re girls… monstrously fashionable. One’s Dracula’s daughter, one’s a mummy, another’s like… a super-stylish werewolf. And they all go to a school for magical creatures. My favorite’s Draculaura—I wonder who yours will be.”

Jenù was quiet for a moment. Then she said, 'If you say it’s not scary… I trust you.' You pulled up YouTube, found the first episode, and as the bright, catchy theme song started, Jenù began bouncing her shoulders.

'I like the music!' she said, waving her arms, and when Draculaura, Cleo de Nile, Frankie Stein, Lagoona Blue, and Clawdeen Wolf appeared on screen, she pointed. 'Her! The one with the fangs! She’s so pretty!'

“That’s Draculaura! That’s exactly her!” you nodded. “She’s like 1600 years old, totally vegan, and always has trouble with her wings—but she’s adorable.” Jenù slowly nestled against you. It was the first time she did it without thinking, without saying anything. She gave you her tiny, warm hand, and in a soft voice while watching the show, she whispered:

'I wish I could go to a fashion monster school too.' You gently stroked her forehead. “You already do, sweetheart. You’re a stylish little monster.” She smiled, and you swore right then and there you never wanted to move from that moment again.

The sharp sound of the door opening broke the spell on the couch. You and Jenù turned your heads in perfect sync, like a well-rehearsed choreography. Confident footsteps echoed on the polished parquet, followed by the soft creak of shoes being taken off and set neatly by the entrance.

Jay was home.

You watched him walk into the living room: hair tousled from the wind, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie slipping through his fingers. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt and yes, you lingered there a second too long. His skin was warm-toned, golden-amber in color, so unlike Sunghoon’s pale, moonlit coolness. Sunghoon looked sculpted from Nordic marble.

But Jay… Jay was like liquid honey over dark stone. With every inch of skin revealed, your cheeks burned hotter. You couldn't stop staring as he loosened his custom-tailored suit and then, his eyes locked with yours.

He froze. Time seemed to hang off his frame. His eyes narrowed, sharp—like he was reading you like he knew exactly what was running through your head. His jaw tightened just slightly.

Shit. You felt it. Knew it, without a word. He didn’t like that look in your eyes, too curious, too bold but… he didn’t look away either. Luckily, Jenù broke the tension, bounding toward him with bubbling excitement.

“Appa! We’re watching Monster High! There’s Draculaura! She has teeth like mine!” Jay crouched slightly to catch her as she launched into his arms. He shot you a look sharp enough to cut through bone. You braced for his usual complaints.

“Monster High?” he asked, turning slowly toward you. “I told you I don’t want her watching scary stuff. She’s too young.” You raised your hands in mock surrender, flashing a diplomatic smile. “Jay, come on. The scariest thing in this show is how Ghoulia talks. Maybe Cleo’s shrieking fits. But monsters? They’re fashion bloggers.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like you putting ideas in her head. Influences form now. Today it’s Draculaura, and tomorrow she’s wearing black capes and bat-winged platforms.”

You bit your tongue to avoid pointing out those exact shoes were already part of two Korean brands’ fall/winter collections but before the argument could escalate, Jenù took control.

“Appa, why don’t we all watch it together? Just one episode. Then you’ll see if it’s okay.” Jay kissed her forehead, sighed, and nodded. “Alright. I’ll go change first. Ten minutes.” He gave you one last glance slow, calculated. A look like velvet… with blades sewn in.

A mix of unspoken disapproval… and something else. You looked away, pulse a little shaky. You squeezed Jenù’s hand, reminding yourself where you stood but when the theme song kicked back in and the little girl began to dance, for one perfect moment, you forgot everything.

Everything… except her little fanged smile and maybe, just a little, that golden vampire who would be back in ten minutes. When Jay returned to the living room, he paused in the doorway. The scene was almost surreal.

You and Jenù were curled up together, eyes glued to the screen, giggling at an absurd scene where Cleo de Nile ranted about how everyone dressed at school and how she was the only one with real taste. Jenù laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth with her hand. Then she looked at her father, eyes shining:

“Appaaaa, this cartoon is so good! I wanna go to a school like Monster High!” Jay raised an eyebrow, dropped his tie on the sideboard, and gave her a strange little smile tender and oddly conspiratorial.

“For you, my little one… I might just build you one.” He brushed her hair back, and your heart pinched for a second. The deep voice, the strict face… and then that look, that melted only for her. Jay came over and sat on the couch next to Jenù. But she turned to him with a firm look: “No! I wanna sit here!” and before he could respond, she crawled right into his lap, curled into his chest, burying her little head into the crook of his neck.

Cleo screamed again onscreen. Jenù giggled. Jay cracked a joke: “She sounds just like you when you can’t find your pink headband.”Jenù smacked his chest with her hand: “Appa! Not true!” “Alright, Miss Fashion—who’s your favorite?” you asked Jenù with a grin.“The same as yours! Draculalla!” she shouted, mispronouncing it adorably.

“Draculaura,” you corrected, giggling.

“Yes, her! She’s pink and black and makes braids better than Appa!” You scooted closer—partly because Jenù reached out her hand to pull you in. Your knees brushed Jay’s. You felt… warmth. He gave you a glance, then murmured with that deep voice:

“Careful… You’re starting to look like part of the monster family. And no one gets out of that." “Wow. Romantic threats, Jay. Very on-brand,” you muttered, eyes rolling playfully. “Watch the sass… or I’ll put you in time-out with Cleo,” he said, smirking faintly.

Jenù quickly cut in: “Appa, be nice! I like her. I love her.” Jay raised an eyebrow. “And what have I taught you about saying that, Jenù?”

She straightened her back, proud as ever: “That you only say ‘I love you’ if you  trust someone.” “And you’ve known her barely a month…” he started.

But Jenù shut him down with that fearless honesty only children have: “But I do trust her. A lot. And I like her so much.” She took your hand in hers, small and warm. You squeezed it back, your heart melting. Jay watched. Something inside him broke or maybe healed. Something he didn’t quite recognize: the warmth of your presence, the blind trust his daughter gave you, your hands always linked—ready to go anywhere and something shifted inside him. A knot. A flicker a need not just physical (though that was there too—boiling under the skin every time he looked at you)

No. This was something deeper. More dangerous than hunger. More terrifying than blood.

What if she belonged here?

He barely had time to process the thought before the three of you burst into laughter—Ghoulia was babbling nonsense in zombie-speak on the screen. The room felt alive and you were there, part of it all. Because you brought light and joy into a house that had been drowning in routine.

You had just tucked Jenù into bed and now stood outside Jay’s study, nervously biting your nails. Tomorrow, near the university campus, there was going to be a party for final-year students—and you needed to go.

It had been months since you spent a weekend with people your age instead of watching cartoons and drawing bat wings. You loved Jenù and your job, but you missed the wild, carefree side of yourself. So, tonight... you were going to tell a tiny white lie to your boss. And honestly? You hated lying—especially to him, the vampire with a dangerously attractive pair of fangs that could rip through you at any moment if you pissed him off.

You took a deep breath and knocked, heart hammering in your chest.Jay was seated at his desk, bathed in the amber glow of a desk lamp. The light carved out every line of his sculpted features. His shirt was undone halfway, revealing golden, defined muscles and a faint blue vein tracing along his neck. In one hand, he held a blood pouch, still half-full. In the other, he scrolled through corporate reports on a curved screen.

He didn’t even look up.

“Come in.” His voice was rough, slightly annoyed, but you stepped in anyway, clinging to the hope that your little lie might work. He looked infuriatingly indifferent, flawless in his world of silence, power, and spreadsheets. And yet… you couldn't help but look at him.

You caught yourself thinking—with a pout that betrayed a hopeless crush—“If he wasn’t Jenù’s dad…”

“What do you want?” he asked, eyes still locked on the screen. You took one step closer and tried your best innocent and slightly dramatic voice.

“Tomorrow… I won’t be able to take care of Jenù.” At that, Jay finally looked up.

“Why?” His tone was cold, direct almost too sharp for a man who had just been drinking blood. You hesitated, you could still bolt. You could say something stupid and backpedal but your best friend—who also happened to be Sunghoon’s girlfriend had warned you:

"Vampires detect lies. They hear your blood shift, your heartbeat, your heat. Be careful. Fake it well, and maybe he’ll say yes."

You decided to risk it. Crossing your arms over your chest, you said, “I have an extra class tomorrow night. Advanced coding. I need to work on some content for my final project. Graduation’s close and I… really want to do well.” Jay stared at you and then silence fell heavy silence. You could hear your heartbeat in your temples. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair.

“…Fine.” Your eyes widened. “Wait—seriously? Like… that’s it?” A genuine smile broke across your face. Jay leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His shirt gaped a little more, exposing more of that honey-gold skin, and your eyes automatically drifted to it.

“Yes. You’re good with Jenù. I never said otherwise. And if this class is important, I won’t stop you. Your grades speak for themselves.” “Wow. No CIA interrogation this time?” you asked, half-laughing. Jay glanced at the blood pouch in his hand and muttered, “You might wanna go before I change my mind.”

You dipped your head slightly partly in gratitude, partly to hide the color rising in your cheeks. It was the first time you felt… like a real accomplice.

“Thank you. Really. I promise this won’t become a habit. Skipping weekends, I mean.” Jay’s eyes lingered on you a second too long. Then he ran his tongue over his bottom lip and your gaze followed.

Your stomach clenched, and you felt the urge—the craving—to press your lips to his and just taste what those sharp, beautiful lips felt like.

“Don’t,” Jay said softly. “Because it’s not just my daughter who trusts you anymore.”

For a moment, something cracked inside your chest. It was the first time Jay had acknowledged anything beyond duty. The first time you weren’t just the babysitter and you were lying to him. You bowed slightly, instinctively. But it was more than that, it was a mask to hide your guilt.

Jay frowned. “What are you doing?” “Thank you. Politely. Not used to that in your world of shadows and fangs?” You tilted your head with a half-smile and as you turned to leave the study, you could feel his eyes still burning into your back.

And just before you stepped out… You thought (just maybe) you saw him smile but maybe…It was just the light.

Music thumped from the poolside speakers, neon lights rippled across the water, and your head swayed gently, your body moving with the beat. The party was buzzing with final-year students desperate to cut loose before diving back into exams and thesis deadlines—and you were one of them.

You were dressed lightly....okay, not even gonna pretend. You wore a top that barely covered your chest, hugging your curves like a second skin, a low-rise skirt that showed off the glint of your belly piercing, and your sun-kissed skin shimmered under the lights. Cowboy boots make your legs look longer, sharper, and stronger. You smelled like summer and something exotic, your favorite perfume.

You laughed with your best friend as if life were easy. Like responsibility could wait one more night. You were 23, and this was your moment. If not now—when? and then, you felt it. A presence behind you. A hand at your waist. A tall guy with light eyes and a rehearsed smile leaned down—just enough to speak close to your ear over the music.

-Easily the most beautiful girl I’ve seen tonight... maybe the whole semester,- he said, voice smooth, practiced. You turned with a half-ironic smile. “Wow. That your go-to line, or do you save it for special occasions?”

He chuckled. You didn’t but... you didn’t step away either. Your body was warm, your mind slightly hazy, and God...it had been months since anyone made you feel wanted. Not that you were interested. Your thoughts were already somewhere else.

Tall. Golden skin. Half-unbuttoned shirts. A daughter who felt more like your little sister. Jay Park.

You cursed yourself silently, there was a cute, young, available guy wanting to have fun, like most people your age and all you could think about was him.

That grumpy, overprotective vampire of a man who only thought about work and his daughter, and never himself. You remembered those looks, the ones he thought you didn’t catch.

When you bent over to pick up a toy or laughed too loud with Jenù, the way his eyes burned through you, then quickly turned away. You wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by him. To feel him over you—those large, strong hands gripping your hips.

That rough voice telling you he wanted only you, to learn how he liked it, and what made him lose control. What it felt like to be taken by him slow and then ruthless until you forgot where the babysitter ended, and the woman began.

God, you needed to have sex...but not with this guy. You stepped back, scanning for your best friend, catching her on the far side of the party and chatting with a group of friends. You tried to move toward her, but the guy behind you was a little too persistent.

“I’m not looking for attention tonight,” you told the guy in front of you. -Are you sure?”- he replied with a sly smirk. -Your friend’s already taken. But you… you don’t have a mark. I can see it. Smell it.-

You froze. You thought he was joking until you looked closer. The fangs were real. The glint in his eyes was too red to be normal. Panic rose like acid in your throat.

A rogue vampire. You stumbled back, heart pounding, then bolted for the bathroom, you slammed the door shut and locked it. Your hands trembled as you reached for your phone.

No answer from your best friend. Your cousin? Offline. The rest of your friends? Miles away and none of them were fucking vampires. You stared at the emergency contact you swore you’d never use...Jay’s number. Meant for Jenù’s emergencies, not yours. Especially not after lying to him about tonight.

You hit the dial with shaking fingers: One ring. Two. Three-

“What is it, Y/n? Done with studying already? Missing Jenù too much?” His voice was dry, sarcastic, and cold. “Jay…” Your voice cracked as a tear slipped down your cheek. “Jay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you, I...there’s a vampire. Outside the bathroom, he followed me, he knows I’m unmarked and I can’t find M/t and...” Your voice broke, the fear was raw now and our heart thundered.

Then....silence. When he finally spoke again, his tone had changed deeper, calmer, almost... human.

“Hey. Breathe. Where are you? Send me your location. I’m on my way. Are you alone?” You couldn’t tell if he was angry or terrified but you whispered, “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to lie. I’m M/t’s best friend. Sunghoon’s girlfriend. I...” “It doesn’t matter right now,” he cut you off. “Just listen to me: don’t open that door. Lock everything. Be silent. Try to text M/t. If you see anyone you know at the party, message them.” You nodded, even if he couldn’t see it. And in your chest, beneath the fear… there was something else.

Something twisted and dangerous a part of you wanted to see him. To hear his voice in person, to feel his arms around you, telling you it was okay. Maybe even...just maybe, he’d look at you and admit he couldn’t stop thinking about you. That he didn’t just want you as Jenù’s babysitter. That he wanted you underneath him, whispering his name as he finally gave in to the pull you both felt. But no, that was just your broken little fantasy. The one that lived in the dark, when your fingers weren’t enough anymore. Right now, you were just a terrified girl locked in a bathroom and outside… was a vampire who wanted your blood and maybe your body.

And Jay was coming but you didn’t know if you were trembling from fear…or from the guilt of lying to him.

The music still pounded through the walls, muffled, but the sound that froze your blood was something else. Two sharp knocks at the door and you thought the worst, until you heard his voice, the one you’d come to know all too well these past months, the one that sent shivers down your spine.

“Open the door. I'm Jay. Now.” Your heart shot to your throat. That voice was unmistakable, deep, and pissed. You knew he’d make you pay for this.

When you opened the door, your best friend was there, eyes down, shoulders hunched like a kid being scolded. Jay must’ve already gotten to her. Behind her, Jay himself. Tall, in an all-black suit, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled by the wind and stress, and he looked pissed, radiating fury. But the second his eyes landed on you, they softened just enough to make you crumble.

“I’m sorry,” your best friend whispered so low it barely existed. Jay scanned you from head to toe, and you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him in a trembling hug. “Thank you… really. Thank you for coming.” He stiffened for a second, then sighed, slowly resting his big hands on your back, pulling you closer, he didn’t want to be soft with you, he didn’t but it was too late.

“It’s over. You’re safe,” he said, low and close, holding you. After dropping off your best friend and making her swear not to tell Sunghoon, Jay warned her with eerie calm:

“Sunghoon will know the second he’s back. He’ll smell the alcohol, the other humans or vampires. Go shower before he gets home, and I’ll lie for you. I’ll say you went for drinks in Seoul with Y/n if he pushes. But from now on...you owe me.”

She nodded, biting her lip. Before leaving, she kissed your cheek and whispered, “Text me when you get home.”

When the car started moving again, Jay was silent...too silent and his eyes were fixed on the road, hands clenched on the wheel. You nervously bit your nail.

“I’m sorry…” you said, turning toward him, and wrapping your arms around your bare legs. “Shut up,” he said, eyes still forward, jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to… I mean were you sleeping?” you asked, your voice cracking, thinking this was it. He’d fire you. Erase you from his and Jenù’s life. All your fault. “I was trying to get my daughter to sleep. You know, the little girl you told you had to study for your thesis and rest. And I get it—that watching a kid every weekend is exhausting and you deserve to live your life. But you could’ve told me. I would've let you go. Instead, while she was showing me your drawings and asking where you were, you were in front of a mirror putting on makeup to go dance with some hormone-driven idiot or worse, into a fucking party with rogue vampires.”

You bit your lip, crossed your bare legs, and caught him glancing at your thigh a second too long. His jaw clenched. Finally, he turned toward you.

“So… how was your ‘computer science class’? The music sounded very… academic.” “Well, yeah… the DJ had a PhD in bass drops,” you muttered, trying to break the tension. He clenched his jaw again, then slowed the car and looked at you. His eyes had darkened—nearly black, flecked with red. His fangs were slightly visible.

One part of you panicked. The other… got turned on. “I left my daughter alone at night to come pick up a little girl who, one, lied to her employer. Two, lied to an innocent child. And three thought it was a great idea to go to a party full of drunk idiots and rogue vampires dressed like… a slut.”

His words hit you like hot blades. But the alcohol gave you courage—or recklessness. “You’re not my father, Jay. I have every right to live my life like any girl in her last year of university. I work too much, I earn too little, and sometimes I just want to forget that my life is a mess—with a vampire dad boss who looks at me like I’m a ticking time bomb and is always grumpy and full of himself!”

Jay laughed. A short, bitter, deep laugh that made your skin crawl. “No. I’m not your father who’s always grumpy with you, but I am the father of a little girl who sees you as home. And if you get lost, if you fall apart… she’s the one who pays the price. Got it? She loves you. And I’ve never seen her grow attached to anyone ‘outside’ our circle like she did with you—not Jake, not Sunghoon, not even Heeseung.”

Silence fell again in the car and you bit at your nail. Your cheeks were burning—and so was your chest. You looked at him, hands tight on the wheel, and without thinking, the words slipped out like sweet venom.

“Maybe that’s exactly what you want, Jay. What you keep trying to ignore something new. Something that makes you feel alive again. You want me to crash, to fall—so you can stop feeling guilty about wanting to love again.”He froze at your words. His knuckles turned white on the wheel and his gaze turned dark, hungry. He spoke through clenched teeth, low and hoarse like a strangled growl.

“You drive me insane. So shut up until we get home. ”You closed your eyes and curled into the seat, turning to face away from him.

Jay pulled into the underground garage with a sharp brake. He broke the silence with a heavy sigh, then turned to you and found you asleep. Curled up like it was something you did often. Your bare legs tucked to one side, head tilted, breath slow and uneven, smudged makeup, lips slightly parted. You looked innocent… and infuriatingly tempting even in your sleep.

“Why the fuck are you always a problem… even when you’re not awake?” he muttered through clenched teeth. He ran his hands through his hair like he could rip you out of his mind. He couldn’t leave you like that, not in that microscopic skirt that wasn’t a skirt, not with that scent on your skin that still made his blood burn. He opened your door with a snap, stared at you one more time thinking how beautiful and dangerous you were to his mental state, and then lifted your bridal style like you were his.

Your body molded to his naturally, your face nestled into his neck, fingers grazing his shirt. You curled into him and that cold heart of his sluggish and half-dead for years, started beating louder. He cursed under his breath. You were the only one who made him feel like a teenager again.

He rode up the elevator with you, the hum of the motor the only sound in the metal cage. He looked down at you nestled against his chest like you were made to fit there and for the first time, he thought: he should let you go but he wasn’t capable of it.

“Tomorrow I’ll tear you apart… I swear I’ll break you with words and then piece you back together just to do it again,” he murmured under his breath. He walked into the apartment without a sound, straight into his bedroom not yours and even he didn’t know why. Maybe he just wanted to wake up and see you there. Maybe he just wanted to remember you were real. And maybe… tomorrow morning you’d  see the vampire side of him. He laid you down on the bed like you’d always belonged there. Your legs slightly parted, skirt ridden up so far he caught a glimpse of lace. One breath more, and he’d see the thing that had haunted his nights for weeks.

He hated you. You were supposed to be just Jenù’s babysitter not a walking temptation calling his name every damn day. He cursed softly, his voice rough and low. He wanted to see you like that every day—naked, moaning his name, tied to his bed, tears of pleasure in your eyes.

“So that’s how you like to be...half-naked in public like no one can see you. Like you don’t know you’re already mine…” he whispered, voice gravelly. He turned around, grabbed one of his oversized vintage band shirts, and dressed you with slow, precise movements, almost reverent. His fingers brushed your too-warm skin, too alive for someone like him. He lifted you gently and slid off your top and that ridiculous excuse of a skirt. He tried not to look because deep down he was still a gentleman but his jaw was tight.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Not enough. Not when you were nearly naked in his bed. He pulled the shirt over your head and laid you back. It drowned you and yet, it suited you more than that skimpy outfit he’d hated the second he saw it.

He stepped into Jenù’s room. She was asleep, cuddling the teddy bear you’d gifted her, her breathing calm. He knelt beside her, fixed a strand of hair and kissed her forehead softly. Guilt hit him hard. Because you weren’t just a crush, a temptation. You were dangerous for him, for Jenù, and for the life he’d spent years carefully building. He returned to his room. You were still there. In his bed. In his shirt. In his life. Legs half-covered, neck exposed—that damned neck he wanted to bury his face in, kiss, bite, mark. He wanted to sink his fangs into your skin and feel you scream from pleasure, from need. Taste you. You’d haunted his every thought since the day he first saw you, at Sunghoon’s birthday party.

“You’re ruining me…” he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, exhausted. Then he climbed in beside you, turning his back so he wouldn’t touch you because if he did, he wouldn’t stop. Just as he was about to turn off the light, you whispered his name softly, like a plea from a dream. “Jay…” He closed his eyes tightly, turned, gently brushed a strand of hair from your face with trembling fingers, then turned off the light and stayed there, facing you, watching you sleep. Desiring you. Hating himself. Knowing deep down that tomorrow, he couldn’t pretend anymore.

Your head throbbed, not painfully, but with that thick, fuzzy sensation that made you curse the loud music and the neon drinks from the night before. Your eyes were still closed, skin flushed, but there was something against you—solid, muscular, slightly cool… but too alive. Holding you tight.

Oh no. Jay.

As pieces of the night fell back into place like dirty puzzle pieces stained with adrenaline and shame, you remembered it all: - how he looked at you when he found you - how he growled your name carrying you away and most of all, how you yelled he wasn’t your father, with shaking knees and burning cheeks while his eyes looked starved.

You felt nauseous not from the alcohol, but from the humiliation. He would fire you. He’d scream. He’d hate you. You slid your arm off his torso and buried your face in your hands, pouting. “Run, Y/n, before he wakes up. Just go. Get out before he opens his eyes and destroys you.” Quietly, you began to slip from the sheets. One arm held you tightly, his bare bicep wrapped around your waist like silk and fire. His face… was relaxed.eyes closed, lashes long, lips slightly parted in an unconscious pout. “If he weren’t a CEO with blood-stained hands and centuries of pain, he could be a model,” you thought, biting your lip at how unfairly beautiful he looked even asleep. Carefully, you freed yourself. His arm fell away, and you exhaled like a secret agent dodging a trap, you placed one foot on the ground no sound a second of peace.

Maybe…you made it but then.... “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was low, raspy from the night, laced with dangerous promises. You shut your eyes and whispered, “Shit.”

Hand to your forehead, you turned to face him. Jay was awake, dark eyes locked on you like blades. His hair was messy, yet he looked as perfect as ever. He lifted slightly from the mattress. “I… I was just…” You didn’t finish. His cold, firm hand gripped your wrist, pulling you back down onto the mattress. He hovered over you, one knee on the bed, eyes burning into you from above. Your gaze dropped, cheeks blazing from the heat of his not-quite-human warmth. “Sorry,” you whispered. He laughed quietly—low, poisonous.

“You're sorry?” he hissed. “Sweetheart, you can shove that where the sun doesn’t shine. Maybe it’ll help you think clearer next time.” His hands clutched your wrists tighter. You laughed nervously, trying to deflect, “Didn’t think you’d be into dirty talk at eight in the morning. Figured your priorities were more… milk temp for your kid or which headband matches the bows today.” “I don’t like girls who lie. Especially not to me, or my daughter.” His hand gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. His touch was gentle, but the grip was firm, anchoring. “You didn’t just put yourself at risk. You broke the trust of a little girl who says your name every night, who looks for you in her dreams, who prefers you over everyone except me. If something happened to you, she would’ve broken. And I would’ve broken with her.” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning. But he wasn’t done. “I’m not your father but under this roof, I decide what you do. You’re my responsibility. Mine. Got it?” You rolled your eyes. “And what if I don’t want to be yours?” you challenged. “Then get out of this bed. But if you stay… accept that you’re in my world now. And sweetheart, I don’t play fair. Especially not with troublemakers like you.”

You didn’t want to leave. You pulled him closer. “God… you sound like you crawled out of a teen vampire drama,” you teased. “Half Dracula, half psycho. Maybe a little pathetic too.” He raised a brow, leaned in, eyes sharp slits. “Careful. Poorly written vampires don’t end well.” “Oh no,” you mocked, “will you make me vanish or glare at me with that immortal CEO pout? Maybe scold me for corrupting your daughter with my scandalous human morals?” Your smirk faded when he bared sharp canines. Real. Dangerous. Irresistible. You reached out, voice low. “Can I?” He didn’t move. You touched the tip of a fang. Sharp as a blade. He growled low, animalistic. “Going for a vampire of the year?” you whispered. “Got the deluxe kit or just the base model with sexy teeth and moody angst?” That did it. His eyes flared. “Little girl…” he growled. He grabbed your face and crushed his lips to yours. It wasn’t tender. It was hunger, anger, and raw need. You’d teased him from day one, and he had tried to resist, but now he couldn’t. At first, you froze. Then you melted into him. His kiss was fire and desperation. You kissed back with trembling hands tangling in his messy black hair. Your tongues danced and challenged. “Christ…” he muttered as you tugged his hair. “You’re a torment.” “I know…” you whispered.

You dared explore his mouth, brushing your tongue along a fang. He growled and gripped your waist hard. His cold hand slid against your hot skin, thumb drawing circles, making you moan. Each kiss hit like a blow, and breaths came shorter. It was a storm. “I can’t stand you…” he murmured against your lips. His hands held you like you were slipping away like he’d already lost too much. You pressed into him, feeling exactly how much you affected him. “Too bad. You’re kinda cute when you’re not being a grumpy CEO dad.” His gaze darkened. “Don’t push me.” He kissed your jaw, voice shaking you. He kissed down your neck, canines brushing skin that smelled like mango and coconut. He wanted to bite, to sink those fangs in, but instead, he kissed, licked, sucked, marking you with heat and possession. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he whispered. “Yes. And I’m not stopping,” you rasped. He chuckled darkly. “You’re trouble, Y/n.” Your fingers found his hair, pulling. He smiled against your skin, hearing how much you wanted him. “Remember…” he murmured, breath ghosting over you, “…when you called me crying, said a vampire tried to bite you because 'you hadn’t been claimed'?” Your heart stopped, then raced. You opened your mouth, stammering, but his kisses silenced you. “Don’t you think,” he said, lips at your ear, “…if anyone had to do it… it should’ve been me?” Your body shook. You moaned, feeling his dominance, his heat, his hunger.

You lifted a leg, pressing it to his side. He growled. “You thought you could just put on that tiny skirt, down some drinks, and I’d stay home while you paraded around like temptation incarnate?” “I just… I wanted to…” “You wanted attention,” he snapped. “But mine comes with a price.” His eyes were red now. Aroused. Hungry. “I’ve wanted your blood since the first time you walked into my office.” Eyes wide, you clung to him. “Please… don’t hurt me.” His smile turned wolfish. He grabbed your chin. “If you want to be treated like a princess, you’ve got the wrong immortal. I’m not here to save you, sweetheart. I’m the one you should run from.” Then his fangs sank into your skin. Pain exploded, sharp and hot. You screamed, but his hand clamped over your mouth. His bite was more than hunger. It was possession. Desire. A fire ran through you. Your breath came in pants, trembling, moaning under his mouth. You should’ve been afraid. But it wasn’t fear. It was want. Shameful, burning want. He drank deeply, slowly, rhythmically. Your name was a whisper on your tongue. Your body collapsed against his. “J… Jay…” you whimpered. He kept drinking, precise, controlled. Then, finally, he pulled away. His lips were crimson, tongue licking your wound clean. “You are…” he breathed, “…the most dangerous thing to ever happen to me. And now that I’ve tasted you…” He cupped your face gently, reverently. “…I’m never letting you go. Not even if you beg.”

It had been a week since he kissed you since he made you feel alive and maybe even important to him. A week since his fangs had pierced your skin, since his breath had turned molten and his voice had scratched your soul. And since then… silence. Jay had gone back to being the man you met months ago cold, arrogant, irritable, and infuriatingly professional. Every morning you received a message, always the same, as if you’d just started working together and hadn’t been living under the same roof for months: “Take her to the park between 6 and 7 PM. Don’t forget the snack and avoid the hottest hours. The full moon is coming and she’s sensitive to the sun. Don’t wait up. I’ll be late. I have work to do.” And every time you read “I have work to do,” you couldn’t help but think it was just an excuse to avoid being near you.

He always shut himself in his office. At dinner, he sat at the head of the table and spoke only to his daughter, as if you were invisible and one night, when he saw you still awake at the kitchen table with your Communication and Multimedia notes spread everywhere, he didn’t say much. Just a sharp glance, a mug filled with blood he barely touched, and a biting comment: “Didn’t know coloring PowerPoint titles were considered academic now.” You’d let it slide until that night. That night, you stood up, barefoot, wearing just a pair of shorts and an old oversized sweatshirt. Not to provoke him, but because you were tired of pretending nothing happened, tired of being invisible.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Your voice came out raw, almost breaking. “Do I have the plague or something?” He tensed, eyes fixed on his mug. “I’m not avoiding anyone. I have a life to manage, a company to run, a daughter to protect. I don’t have time for adolescent drama.” You stopped a meter away from him, watching his clenched fist. “Strange. A week ago, you didn’t seem so uninterested. You kissed me, bit me, crawled under my skin and now you act like I’m nothing.” He turned sharply. “You’re a girl. You’re not ready for what’s inside me. I made a mistake giving in to a stupid impulse. The kiss, the bite both mistakes I regret.”

His words shattered something inside you. “I’m not a girl. I raise your daughter every day. I gave up parties, skipped classes, lied to people because I thought it was worth it. That you were worth it.” He laughed, short, bitter. “Right. Like that night at the party. So responsible, right? Alcohol lies, and an outfit that was more sin than fabric.” Your chest tightened. “That night I messed up. But you… you made me feel alive. You looked at me like no one ever had.” He stepped closer, face tense, the air around you shrinking. “You make me something I shouldn’t be,” he spat. “Her mother left her. I won’t let her lose me too.” Silence fell like a slap and you stared at his clenched fists, his tight jaw. Then you whispered, “You’re just a coward.” You brushed past him, tears burning not just from anger, but heartbreak. You slammed the bedroom door behind you. And Jay? He didn’t follow but the mug he held… shattered in his hand.

That afternoon, golden light poured through the living room windows. The TV was off, the silence broken only by the occasional pencil falling to the floor and the soft tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. You were deep into a complex yet fascinating visual semiotics assignment, surrounded by sticky notes, half a cold coffee, and colored pens. Your shoulders ached for a break.

Jenù sat on the rug with a little illustrated workbook from preschool, coloring sea creatures with an almost sacred focus. Every few minutes, she’d toss out questions some adorable, others just to get your attention. “Do fish know they can’t talk?” “If you lived underwater, would you be a long-haired mermaid or the kind with shells?” “Is pink allowed in the ocean? I’m using it anyway!”

You chuckled without looking up, refusing to let yourself soften because Jay didn’t want you to because he was distant, and because he had made you feel like a mistake. Jenù stood abruptly, hands on hips, and gave you her best vampire pout, flashing her baby canines.

“Are you scared now? I could suck your blood!” You smirked. “Not scared, little Dracula. I know you too well and you can’t bite with baby teeth.” She crossed her arms, ready to giggle, when the ding-dong of the front door echoed through the room. Jenù’s eyes lit up and she bolted instinctively.

“Daddy! You’re early!” she shouted but it wasn’t his voice that followed. It was female. Deep. Velvet-smooth. You turned around to see Jay, coat still on, and beside him… a woman. Tall. Beautiful. Pale skin, dark hair in a messy bun, endless legs in black pants, and a razor-sharp smile. You caught sight of her fangs. She looked like exactly the kind of woman Jay wanted in his world.

Jenù quickly let go of him and ran back to you, holding your hand as if anchoring herself. “This is Y/n! The best babysitter I’ve ever had! But not just a babysitter—she’s one of my best friends. She makes perfect braids, watches Monster High with me, and cooks way better than the mean witch-nail lady we had before!” Then she looked at her dad. “Don’t send her away. She’s better than all the others.”

Your heart skipped. Not just because of Jenù’s sweetness, but because of the cold, sharp tension that suddenly filled the room.“She’s my daughter’s babysitter,” Jay said curtly, without even looking at you. The woman laughed, lips blood-red, baring her perfect fangs.

-Oh, the babysitter? What is this, the thirtieth one? Cute...” She looked you over. Cute, for a human.- You bit your cheek to keep from snapping. The humiliation, the jealousy, the rage, you swallowed it all. Jay said nothing. He placed a hand on her back… and left it there too long. Jenù looked back and forth between the two of you, a bit confused.

“We’ll be in my office,” Jay said flatly. The woman turned to you before following, offering her hand. You shook it—and she gripped too hard. Her nails grazed your skin like claws.

-Careful not to get too attached, dear,-she whispered with a wicked smile. -Vampires… change their minds quickly.- She let go and disappeared into the study with Jay. You stood there frozen, Jenù’s little hand still clutching yours, your heart pounding. Only when the office door clicked shut did you realize what you were feeling? Jealousy. And for the first time… you wanted to drive him mad the way he was driving you.

It had been over two hours since dinner, simple tomato pasta with grilled veggies, which Jenù had arranged on the plate like tiny flowers. She giggled as she chewed, proudly explaining how well she had colored the jellyfish in her underwater workbook. Now you were in the bathroom, steam fogging the mirror. You knelt by the tub with a towel over your knees while Jenù washed her hands and brushed her "LITTLE TEETH"—her nickname for her baby vampire teeth. You smiled at her pink pajama, the one with teddy bears—too sweet for a half-vampire, but adorable.

“Mmm… I don’t like that lady,” she mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste. “The one with shiny lips and claw hands.” You glanced at her through the mirror.

“Oh no?” “No. She laughs too much and looks at me funny. Why are they taking so long to work?” You bit the inside of your cheek. From Jay’s study, you could hear nothing but the clacking of keyboard keys and... laughter. “Your dad... has a lot of work. Sometimes meetings run late.” She didn’t look convinced but theatrically spit into the sink. “Is that why we spend so much time together? You nodded. “Exactly. But I don’t mind. You and me? We’re a team.”

When you left the bathroom—Jenù in her jammies, hair damp—you saw her, standing in the living room like she owned it. Leaning casually against a shelf, laughing at something Jay said, her hand lightly brushing his arm, her smile just a bit too sharp to be real. The moment she saw Jenù, she crouched and chirped in a sing-song voice:

-Sweetheart, you look beautiful! Those little fangs—such a perfect baby vampire! Though this pajama…- she laughed softly, -...a bit too human, don’t you think? You have special blood, you know?-

Jenù gripped your hand tighter and answered firmly: “It’s my favorite. Y/n gave it to me. She also got me a teddy bear at the fair and I like sleeping with him.” Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Jenù then pulled Jay’s arm.

“Daddy. Tonight, I want you to tell me a story.” The vampire woman’s smile faltered. She shot you a sharp glance—part threat, part promise: I know what you feel. And you’re going to lose. You didn’t flinch. You greeted her coldly, and she vanished into the night with a trail of sweet, cursed perfume. Jay and Jenù disappeared into her room, and instead of leaving, you followed. You sat on the edge of the bed as he began the story.

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a castle as big as the sky. But she had a secret: her heart beat for two worlds—the world of humans, and the world of shadows.” Jenù snuggled against him, holding her bear.

“And was her daddy a king?” “No,” Jay said, brushing her hair. “Her daddy was a guardian. Someone who fought monsters in the dark… to keep her safe.” “Even if the monsters were inside him? Or close to him?” He paused. Then whispered, “Especially then.”

She yawned, her eyes finally closing. You gently covered her with a blanket, touched Jay’s arm, then left the room. But with each step away, a growing emptiness pressed into your chest. You have made your decision. Shoes on, bag in hand you were just about to walk out when Jay appeared in the hallway, sleeves unbuttoned, standing right in your way.

“Where are you going?” he said, watching you as you bent down to put on your shoes. You turned, determined not to cry, because you wanted to leave that house.

“To my place,” you said quietly. “At this hour?” Jay asked, slightly irritated, as he watched you stand.“I don’t mind babysitting Jenù,” you said flatly. “I’m happy to be there for her until I graduate... and even after. For her birthday, for the important moments. Forever, if she wants me to be.”

His eyes darkened, but you didn’t give him the chance to speak. “But I can’t live here. I don’t want to live in a house where vampires walk in wearing stiletto heels, red lips, and acid laughter. Where you… have fun while I help Jenù with her homework.” Jay stiffened, looking at you with a hint of anxiety at your words. “It’s not what you think.”

“No?” You lifted your chin. “Then what is it? Because I know you like me, and I know you’re holding back, but I don’t want to be one of many. I don’t want to be the babysitter who watches your daughter while you find someone in your league, someone perfect for you and for Jenù, because I…” Your voice cracked, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “I could fall in love with you… and you would break me.” Jay fell silent, then took a step toward you. “I can’t afford that. I can’t be weak with you. I can’t want that.”

You looked at him and sighed because you knew he’d never fight for this. “Then let me go,” you said as you grabbed your bag. But for once, he ignored every instinct. He didn’t listen to the vampire inside him the cold, calculating one who stopped loving the day his heart was broken, the one who wouldn’t let you in, the one who was afraid terrified of losing you and making you suffer.

He grabbed your wrist with that usually controlled strength and turned you to face him. His eyes, pitch black with faint red glimmers, flared like glowing embers. He lowered his head until his lips were just brushing yours and whispered, hoarse, hungry, sincere: “Fuck it… I can’t take it anymore. I want you in my life more than anyone else.” And he kissed you but it wasn’t like that time in his bed, after the party when you were drunk on adrenaline, music, and boldness.

No, this kiss was different. It tasted of long-repressed desire, of raw need finally unleashed, of his craving to have you, to show you how much he needed you. He bit your lower lip gently, and you moaned his name between parted lips.

“J-Jay…” He laughed softly against your mouth, that deep, maddeningly sexy laugh you’d only heard when he was with his daughter.

His hands grabbed your ass firmly, and without a word, he lifted you like it was nothing effortlessly, with the confidence of someone who’s fought a thousand battles and had supernatural strength. You clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around his waist, fingers buried in his raven-black hair—soft and just long enough to grab.

You rubbed against him, feeling his erection pressing hard against you, and that’s when he growled low in his throat and degraded you with a whisper in your ear: “Not tonight, baby. I’m not just going to fuck you against a wall—I want to make you tremble. I want to make you feel so good you forget your name. I want you unable to walk tomorrow without thinking of me. I want to hear you moan my name and how crazy I make you.”

He kissed you, wet and hot, just beneath your ear, then moved slowly down your neck, licking the spot where the mark from his fangs still lingered. Your voice broke, and you stammered something you’d never said out loud: “I-I can’t resist you anymore, Jay…”

He paused and looked you in the eye, voice low: “I know. I can’t resist you either. Since day one, you’ve been driving me insane. Ever since I had you in my bed, every morning I wake up hard as hell, and I have to jerk off in the shower thinking about you on your knees all mine. But I want you to know something: I’m not just some asshole. Not with you. I want to take care of you, for once… I want to live without fear.”

He kicked open the door to his room and closed it behind him. It was dark, deep, dominated by a large black canopy bed with dark silk sheets but amid all that darkness… you were the light. He laid you down gently like you were precious, and his gaze traced every inch of your body. He brushed his fingers slowly over your hips and whispered:

“So beautiful… so bold… and you still don’t know you were born to be mine.” He unzipped your hoodie with one swift pull, stripping it off and leaving your breasts bare, your breath shallow, still in your sweatpants. He bit his lip and said, “Christ, you’re perfect.”

But you didn’t just lay there. With trembling fingers, you unbuttoned his shirt. His skin was golden, sculpted, tight muscles flexing under your touch everything you’d dreamed of feeling since that kiss. You dragged your nails down his abs, tracing every ridge, and he shuddered under your touch, eyes half-lidded. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Wanna play, little human? Tonight I’ll show you what it’s like to be under me… to be loved by me. And you’ll beg me never to stop.” His kisses trailed slowly down your neck, hot and wet, each bite leaving small marks—branding you with his possessiveness. He sucked your skin until it turned red, whispering against your flesh:

“Tomorrow, I want to see you covered in my marks. So everyone—those boys at university—know you’re mine.” You shivered at the sound of those words because you knew how protective he was with Jenù but with you… there were darker shades. Hungry. Possessive. His red-black eyes lingered on your chest, and the way he looked at you made you feel completely naked—even though you weren’t. One of his hands grabbed your breast, squeezing it firmly, making your back arch.

“S-sensitive…” you murmured, your voice breaking from pleasure. “Perfect,” he growled softly. “I love it when you’re sensitive.” Then, without warning, he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, his tongue tracing wet circles around it, his fangs lightly grazing the taut skin. You buried your fingers in his hair, holding back a desperate moan. “Look at how you react to me…” he whispered against your skin, slowly, cruelly licking your other breast. “I bet these breasts would be perfect, full of my milk, swollen with my seed and my future children,” he growled, a thin strand of spit soothing his little bites. You stared at him, eyes wide. A shiver ran down your spine at the way he spoke… as if he was already living the future he imagined with you. It scared you but excited you more than you wanted to admit. “J-Jay… don’t say that…” you moaned as you felt his hand tighten around your breast. “Why not?” he hissed against your belly, moving lower. “Sooner or later it will happen. You’ll be full of me—inside, outside, everywhere.” He kissed your lower belly while touching the piercing on your navel that drove him crazy, then looked into your eyes. “Lift your hips.”

You obeyed, and your sweatpants and panties slipped off in one smooth, quick motion, leaving you completely exposed before him, your thighs trembling, your breath caught. He looked at you and cursed under his breath, dark and rough: “Fuck… you’re perfect.” Instinctively, from shame and modesty—you hadn’t been naked in front of anyone for a long time and you were afraid you wouldn’t live up to his expectations—you tried to close your legs, but he slid between them, grabbing you firmly. “Don’t you dare hide from me,” he growled. “Not when you have such a beautiful pussy. Shiny, swollen… wet for me. Do you see how much you want me?” He started kissing you there, between your legs, with that disarming slowness that hurt. His lips followed a cruel rhythm: soft circles, small figure eights, his tongue grazing your clitoris with surgical precision. Your body tensed, and your hands searched for something to hold onto. All you found was his hair. “J-Jay…” you moaned, voice breaking. He chuckled low, predatory, as if he knew exactly how hard you were fighting not to beg him. “What did you say?” he whispered against you before giving another slow lick along your lips. “I didn’t hear you well.” Then one of his fangs brushed your clitoris, and a shiver ran down your spine. “Fuck…” you gasped, pulling his hair.

“You’ve got a long tongue for such a sweet girl,” he growled. “And now look how slick your fucking human pussy is… Christ, I could kill for this taste, I could stay down here for hours watching you lose for me.” A finger slipped inside you slowly, wrapped in warmth and your wetness, and he cursed, forehead resting on your belly. “So tight… so ready and only for me, right?” You nodded and whispered, “I need you… please.” “Please…?” he repeated. “You’re desperate, huh? I want to hear you beg. Say my name.” he chuckled. “Jay…” you sobbed. “Please, fuck me. Do it with your fingers, with that damn mouth. Make me feel something that breaks me.” Jay was obsessed with you, and without warning, he pushed in a second finger; you felt yourself being stretched, your thighs opening wider, clutching the sheets as if they could save you from him. “Baby,” he murmured, voice broken by hunger. “You’re so full and warm… Christ, I’d get drunk just on you.” He kept moving inside you, his fingers curling against that spot that made you see stars, while his mouth devoured you mercilessly again. “You’re mine. Mine, got it? No one else gets to see you like this. No one will touch you like I do.” His fingers moved inside you like they were born for that gesture while he pumped inside you, and at the same time his tongue made perfect circles around your sensitive clitoris, then suddenly deeper, fiercer. As if his body knew exactly when to push you over the edge and when to cradle you in torment. “I-I’m coming, Jay…” you stammered, voice broken, and he smiled with that dark, indecent grin. “Good. Come. Show me how beautiful you are when you break for me.”

He didn’t give you time, and his lips returned to your pussy as if it were his favorite meal. There was no hunger for blood in his eyes anymore, only desire, only thirst for you… without warning, he pinched your clitoris with his fang and you screamed. He covered your mouth with his hand and growled into your ear, “Want to wake Jenù?” he growled softly. “Want her to hear her babysitter getting fucked with her employer’s fingers?” Tears streamed down your face—from pleasure, from shame, and pure excitement. “I’m sorry…” you whispered against his hand, unable to control your trembling, and with your other hand, you tangled it in his dark hair, pulling him even deeper between your legs. Jay groaned but didn’t stop; his fingers hammered inside you, curved, calculated, and his tongue sucked with the precision of an expert demon. Then, shivering, you came against his mouth and his fingers, and he didn’t stop. He took everything from you, drinking your essence as if it were sacred, and when he pulled away, his lips glistened. The same fingers that had destroyed you, he brought to his mouth and slowly sucked them, moaning. “Your taste… fucking perfect. Human but with something of mine inside you now. Can you feel it? You’re mine. You always were.” And he kissed you. A kiss full of your own flavor, and you, still trembling, still lost, gave it back to him. “Stay with me,” Jay murmured against your lips. “I don’t want to wake up one day without your scent on these sheets.” You couldn’t even answer. Your body collapsed against his, exhausted, warm, alive, and you fell asleep tight against his chest. But Jay… Jay didn’t sleep. He watched you in the dark while your breathing slowed, and every now and then his hand moved, caressing your side, then traveling up your belly, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the hollow behind your knee—and you… even in sleep, moaned softly. He was obsessed, thinking only about how easy it was to push you to the limit, how your body responded only to him, and he wanted to wake you again with his mouth between your thighs, wanted to hear your voice break again, wanted to bite you, make you his in the most absolute way. She’s mine. Even when she sleeps, even when she doesn’t know it, and for the first time in centuries… Jay Park felt alive.

It had been a few weeks since that night when he made you realize he cared about you and wanted you with him, and with all his might, he was pushing away the idea that he could love someone other than just his daughter. Things had changed—or maybe they had simply transformed.

He was no longer gruff, cold, or distant with you; on the contrary, he was spending much more time with you and Jenù. Every opportunity seemed good to involve you, even in moments you honestly never imagined could involve a 300-year-old aristocratic vampire.

Like… going to the movies. Yes, you heard that right the movies, not the private theater in his house but the one shared between humans and vampires in downtown Seoul. You, Jay, and Jenù sitting almost in the back row watching the new Disney movie Lilo & Stitch!

Jenù was clutching her favorite stuffed animal, you were holding her hand, and Jay… Jay was on the left, with a huge popcorn bucket on his lap. Halfway through the movie, when an emotional scene made Jenù’s eyes and yours glow, Jay leaned toward you.

“So humans cry even for an animated doll?” he whispered with a cocky smile, and you threw a popcorn straight at his face. Jenù laughed like crazy, and that’s when the battle started: flying popcorn, stifled giggles, sneaky hands trying to grab the popcorn bucket before the other a silent but beautiful disaster. Jay was laughing, and at that moment, you thought: maybe this is love, or maybe it’s a wonderful trap, because little by little, you were falling in love with that 27-year-old man who, in his vampire form, was 300 years old…

That afternoon at university, Sunghoon called to say he would pick up Jenù from kindergarten and take her to dance. You replied with a simple “ok,” already mentally preparing to take the crowded subway, but then you immediately saw a message from Jay saying: “I’ll come get you.”

You sighed because surely he and Sunghoon had made plans, and you thought: God, no.

Being seen outside the university in a shiny black Aston Martin at four in the afternoon? It was mortifying. Plus, you were wearing your dad’s hoodie, and battle-worn faded jeans, and you weren’t wearing any makeup or looking presentable for someone like him… yet, there he was. Parked in front of the entrance, headlights on, the door already open as per his gentleman status, and you got in.

That unmistakable scent aged whiskey, leather, something ancient and warm that smelled like him wafted into your nostrils, and you felt better seeing him dressed not for work either. He wore slightly dressy pants but a Ralph Lauren sweater that hugged his muscular chest, and his hair was so messy you smiled because he must have run his hands through it countless times.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately, glancing at you sideways.“Just a headache, a bit tired the graduation is coming, and I can’t wait to finish to figure out which master’s to do.” Jay didn’t answer right away. He stretched his arm toward the back seat and handed you a warm carton. Hot chocolate. When you opened it, you saw it was covered with marshmallows, and you looked at him.

“How do you know that’s my favorite?” He raised an eyebrow, sly, and smiled. “I watch you carefully.” “Stalker,” you whispered as you started to drink, and he smiled. Then you shivered an unexpected chill ran down your spine. “Can you turn up the temperature?” you asked, your hands warming thanks to the hot chocolate’s heat. “It’s already 23 degrees.” Without a word, he moved closer and pressed his cold forehead against yours. “Fuck… you’re burning up.”You put your hand to your forehead—he was right, you were burning.“You have a fever.” His tone was authoritative and cold, but protective. Almost… tender. “You need to rest.” “Yes, Dad,” you teased, and he looked at you, his red eyes slightly narrowed, letting you drink in peace. But beneath that calm… he was already reckoning with how much he was getting attached to you a small human, too stubborn, too fragile, and too… his.

Jay never thought he’d have to take care of two girls in his life—and yet, in the middle of the night, he found himself standing next to the bed, watching over two humans. Well… one human and one small half-blood. One too stubborn for her good, with a fever and a stuffy nose. Jenù was asleep, her legs sprawled over his chest, breathing in little puffs.

You, on the other hand, were a whole different problem. For three days, your fever had hovered between 38.5 and 38.5, your nose red enough to melt any heart… and your hair so messy it looked more like a declaration of war than a symptom. Jay was immovable: rest, broth, medicine, more rest.

But you? You wanted the whole world, even with a fever and dark circles under your eyes. That night, you got up quietly, thinking he was in his study—but no. Jay was there, leaning against the kitchen door with his arms crossed. Crimson eyes, a sharp gaze, but he said nothing for a long second.

He looked at you: his sweatshirt nearly reached your knees, your pajama pants hung a bit off one hip, and your face pale, tired… and beautiful. That red nose, flushed cheeks, those wild strands of hair something in him snapped. A sharp, sweet pang.

Damn, she’s cute like this. Especially like this. Vulnerable, real, fully his, in his home. He walked toward you slowly, his voice stern: “Back to bed.”

“No.” Your voice came out hoarse, weak and then, suddenly, you hugged him. mA simple gesture. Natural.

But for Jay, it was like lightning. You weren’t a physical person. You never hugged him like that without a reason. Maybe because you didn’t trust him yet—not completely. But he wanted to become the person you could trust.

And him? He held you tight, protective in a way that surprised even him. A kind of touch he usually reserved only for his daughter. Don’t let me get used to this, little human… because I might never want to let it go.

“Sweetheart, you need rest…” he whispered into your ear, voice low and warm, unusually gentle. “I know,” you murmured, your forehead against his chest. “But I’m hungry… for something good. And no, I don’t want any more plain noodles or chicken soup.” You looked up at him with those eyes the same eyes Jenù used when she wanted to stay up late or ask for something and he recognized the look instantly.

He shook his head. “No.” You hugged him tighter, inhaling that scent of his that always made you feel at home, and you said: “Please… ramen. Slightly spicy, the one with the soft-boiled egg inside…”“You’ve got a fever,” he replied in his usual stern tone, and you pouted, knowing exactly how to push his buttons.

“Then I’ll call Heeseung,” you whispered with a faint smile. “The ramen king.” You tried to pull away to grab your phone, but Jay growled softly. His red eyes flared. That bastard’s not making you a damn thing. Not in my house.

Without another word, he took your hand warm, trembling, so human and dragged you into the kitchen. He sat you down on the counter and began preparing the ramen. You watched him move in silence, enchanted by the way he focused just to feed you. The way he opened the spice packets, cracked the eggs, and added the broth with precise gestures. As he stirred the pot, Jay thought about how much of a child you seemed to him. Fragile, human, noisy—and there he was, making ramen at three in the morning just because you gave him that sick puppy look.

I’ve gone insane.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked without turning around. He could feel your gaze on him.

“Like what?” you asked, a little sleepy. “Like I’m a miracle.” You smiled faintly.

“Maybe you are.” Jay froze for a second, the ladle hanging in the air. His (dead) heart skipped something dangerously close to a beat.

It’s just the fever talking, just a random moment. But then you turned away, coughing softly, and he placed one hand on your back, the other on your forehead.

“You still have a fever.” “I know,” you murmured with a shiver. “Eat. Then bed,” he said in that commanding tone of his. You whispered, “Only if you come too.” There was a pause—silence heavy enough to make your chest tighten in fear he might laugh at you. But Jay nodded slowly. He didn’t say a word but inside…

He was already surrendering. To your voice, to your fragility, to that sweetness he never asked for but that was slowly invading his life.

And maybe… just maybe…He was falling in love with you.

The next day, Jenù only had a mild cold. Jay checked her temperature and, with a satisfied look, confirmed the fever was gone. He sent her off to spend time with Sunghoon and your best friend "just to be safe," he said… though you suspected he just wanted a few hours alone with you.

He took your temperature right after. “37.5°. It’s going down.” “Oh, Doctor Jay, what wonderful news! Tell me, did you study medicine or is this all part of your panicked dad instincts?” Jay shot you a sharp look, but the corners of his lips curved into a half-smile.

“In my vampire ID, I’m 300 years old, sweetheart. I’ve seen plenty of sick people.” You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the couch.“There he is again — the ancient immortal. You know, I keep forgetting I’m dating someone who could’ve voted during the age of absolute monarchies.” “Dating?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. You two weren’t just “dating” like some teenagers fumbling through a first crush.

“Okay, fine living together, making out, exploring each other, co-parenting your daughter pick your term,” you said with a smirk as you stretched. “Anyway, I need a shower. I look like a gremlin and I hate tangled hair.” Jay stiffened immediately. “I don’t want you alone in the bathroom.” You looked at him, shrugging. “You can stay by the door. I don’t plan on drowning in shower gel.” He stepped closer, his face serious. “What if you faint? Or worse hit your head?”

You gave him a wry look. “If this is your way of asking to join me, just say so.” Jay’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “She’s back...the girl from our first months together. The one who teased me every five minutes.” You smiled and wrapped your arms around him.

“She never left. You just got used to my brilliant personality.” He sighed and raised his hands. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll prepare the main bathroom for you.”

When he finally called you in, the scene looked like something out of a movie: The large black marble tub steamed with hot water, dotted with violet sea salt pearls. The air smelled of vanilla and lavender, and candles flickered around the edges.

You stood at the doorway, lips slightly parted. As a kid, you had always dreamed of a bathtub like that, but your family home never had one — and your student apartment didn’t even come close.“You… did all this for me?” you whispered. “No. It was for me. But since you’re always complaining, I’ll let you use it,” he replied sarcastically, turning to leave. “Relax. Just don’t get up too fast.”

But you reached out and caught his wrist. “Stay,” you said softly, a little shyly. Jay turned slowly to face you, his gaze drifting down over your body, hidden beneath one of his oversized hoodies.

“I’m not pretty right now, I know,” you murmured, face warm. “All sweaty, still a little feverish…” You began pulling down your pajama pants slowly, left in nothing but your underwear. Then you peeled off the hoodie no bra underneath and Jay let out a quiet, almost frustrated breath as his eyes scanned your body. He reached out and cupped one of your breasts gently, brushing your nipple with his thumb. You gasped softly, tilting your head back at the contrast between your warm skin and his cool hands.

“You’re a little overdressed,” you whispered. He didn’t say anything, just took off his shirt revealing his golden skin and sharp V-line then slid off his sweatpants, staying in just his boxers. You were biting your lower lip without realizing it, and he noticed.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and you nodded before giggling shyly. “Can you turn around while I get in? Even vampires should know how to respect privacy.” Jay scoffed. “Sweetheart, I’ve seen your pussy from every angle.” “Jay!” you scolded, slapping his chest. He laughed and turned his back.

You slipped into the tub the water was just the right kind of hot. The steam kissed your skin and made you close your eyes for a second, letting yourself melt into it. Jay turned back around, watching you as you relaxed in the water. Then, slowly, he took off his boxers. You shut your eyes instantly.

“I said you turn around, not me!” “You’ve been naked for a minute,” he replied, climbing in. “Might as well.”

He settled behind you, pulling you gently between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, and he placed a soft kiss on your shoulder. The hot water enveloped you both like a velvet cocoon but Jay’s hands, cold like winter moonlight, made you shiver every time they touched your skin.

You could feel his arousal pressing against you — constant, undeniable — and a quiet moan escaped your lips. Jay smiled slightly, misinterpreting it. “Am I bothering you, sweetheart?” he whispered, continuing to lather your back with slow, careful movements… almost reverent.

"No… just a little shiver, " you lie, leaning your head against his chest as he had asked you. Its smell invaded you: wood, and smoke, mixed with the sweet note of vanilla and lavender. His hands began to descend slowly, lingering on the curves of your hips, then rising again, caressing your neck gently before lingering on the breast and you arched your body as you wanted it closer. "Perfect…" he whispered against your skin, his lips barely touching your lobe. "Too perfect for such a damn human creature." You moved, without realizing it, rubbing against him, and his body reacted with a slight quiver and a subdued laugh. "Careful, little human …" he muttered in a low tone, scratched with desire. "Do not tease what you are not ready to tame." His hand went down again, stroking your belly with slow, torturing movements, before lingering between your thighs. His kisses began to rain on you like caresses: on the neck, behind the shoulder, in the still-damp hair. «Jay…" you whispered, just turning around to look for his gaze. "You're on painkillers, love. You don't know what you're saying," he replied in a hoarse voice, but his hands hadn't stopped, and you turned a little more, running your fingers through his hair, and in the movement, you felt his cock rub against your bottom. He was hard, and hot despite his skin, and it was clear how much he was struggling with himself. You looked at him with bright eyes. "I need you." He kissed you and it was not a tender kiss, it was a hungry bite, a fire devouring the air between you and slightly pinched your lower lip, savoring a drop of your blood as if it were his condemnation. "You don't know what trouble you're getting yourself into…" he hissed at your mouth. "Then let me sink with you." Your voice trembled, but it was not fear: it was desire. He stared at you, then shook his head with that tired, sharp smile. "You are a stubborn child and too human for your good…" And yet, his fingers were already moving between your legs, tracing slow and skillful circles, his fingers were tracing slow circles against your already hot, swollen cunt, so sensitive that you almost could not hold back the moans.

"Jay… please… I want to hear you inside…" He sighed, and his breath caressed your neck like a broken promise. "you're too cheeky to be a babysitter» You bit your lip, but the answer came out to you anyway: "I know what I want and I want you.» His laughter was low, biting. "Really? And what exactly do you want, honey?" You stammered, but the words melted into a sigh as you felt the entrance of your now swollen folds teasing you: "I want to feel good. I can't take it anymore… to be repressed every time I see you. I've wanted you for months…and you, you with your daughter are sweet, perfect… and you're a bad bastard with me. Looks like you live with a pole up your ass." His laugh this time was true but also as sharp as a barely sharp canine. "You know I could bite you just for what you just said?" He pinched your hips, then with cruel slowness slid a finger into you and your body reacted as if it had always expected it: you groaned, your head back resting on his shoulder, and you groaned. "Continuous… please…" "Fucking human," he hissed at your skin, as his teeth grazed the curve of your shoulder. "So greedy for my finger? What are you gonna do when I fucking dig you in? When will I plant my teeth in your neck and make you mine for real?" You barely moved, tilting your hips, rubbing over his still-captive boner between the two of you and he growled softly.

"Stay still…" order. "If you still move I'll take you like that. Without lubricants, without sweetness and I swear you will scream my name until everyone in the palace hears you." "Jay…" you whined, moving against his fingers. He looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and burning desire. "You behave worse than a child in heat. I should punish you." But he didn't, instead, he slid a second finger into you, bending it with mastery as his thrusts became deeper, more insistent and your body writhed against his, looking for more friction, more pressure, more of everything. "You… yes so… You're great…", you praised him between moans, without shame, as you felt how his cock under you became harder and harder, swollen, impatient. You felt it, you wanted it, and he was losing his temper, too.

"Be careful…" he growled softly," I'm going to rip your soul out if you keep moving like this." You wrapped your arms around His neck, your head resting on his shoulder, and you babbled against his skin: "I'm… I'm coming…" He smiled, damn pleased. "You're only coming with two fingers inside and I haven't even touched your clit… You're so sensitive, so damn mine." You nodded, unable to speak, until your body stretched all together and the orgasm ran through you like an electric shock, making you scream at his chest as you felt your cunt twitch, hot, wet, sticky, even hungrier than him against his fingers. "Good girl…" he muttered, slowly removing his fingers from inside you, looking at them, shiny and wet, but this time he did not bring them to his mouth. Instead, he picked up some of your same mood and slid it down, between your buttocks and the touch made your back arch. It was the first time anyone touched you in that area and he knew it. "If you want it, honey…", he said in a rougher voice,"…I need to make sure it doesn't hurt. You are small, narrow, and too human." He continued to pass his finger carefully through the folds, pressing only gently, preparing you, his tone became lower, more intimate. "I don't want to break you. I want you to feel it, everything, but slow, only if you're ready." You nodded slowly, your heart in your throat and your body on fire, trembling as if you were about to collapse because you wanted to feel it inside you for months now.

"I … I've never done it like this…" you stuttered with a sweaty forehead, fingers clasped against his broad shoulders as if only he could still hold you in balance and he looked at you with his eyes too dark to belong in this world. He kissed you in the hair and put you even closer to him to feel how much he wanted you. "Then I'll do it." murmur. "And it will be nice but if you tell me to stop, I will always stop, remember that." His hard, taut cock slid between your buttocks with sadistic patience and you felt it throb against you, like a living creature, as if choosing you and every slow rub was a bite of pleasure and torture. He had been lubricating you for minutes, with expert, careful fingers, and now the tip was already pressing where no one had ever been. Then he lowered his head and he kissed your neck alternating light hickeys and light bites with his fangs and you heard him growling softly against your skin, as if hungry for everything you were. "I can't take it anymore…" you gasped, your voice broken, damp. "I want you too much…" He giggled against your ear, a low, poisonous laugh of desire. "I knew that under that too-long tongue was hiding a little human slut who wanted to be filled all over." He grabbed you by the hips with force, clutching the flesh as if he wanted to leave a mark on us.

"Relax … sit on top of me. So, let me lead you into hell."Your knees trembled as you lifted, feeling your body straining in the void. "Raise that beautiful little ass for me. That's right." You whined as his hands held you still between your hips. "Are you ready, baby?" he said while teasing the skin of your body. "Yes … yes, I am…" you muttered, and so you felt his toe push slowly, come in, spread It burned but it was a fire you wanted, you had been looking for for months and you both groaned. "Fuck…" you gasped. "It's so big… so big… it hurts but…" you said as you felt it making space inside you deeper and deeper and the only friction that gave you relief was the now slightly lukewarm water. "And you are…" he growled in a broken voice, his breath trembling. "So tight, so hot, Christ, your body is made to be fucked by me. Feel how well you take me…" Tears rose to your eyes from pleasure, and when you were halfway through his entrance, you moaned almost in a sob: "It's too much … too much…" He laughed, with a sound that smelled of sin but also of the desire to break you. "Too much? And you didn't even make it to the better half…" With your hands sunk to the edge of the tub, you lifted yourself a little more, your body tense, heaving, while the cock remained inside you, ravenous and insatiable.

Then you began to descend again, slowly, deeper, and his groan was violent, brutal, like an animal held too long. "Good … So … But me…" His voice cracked, broken, as the grip on your hips became tighter, more urgent. "I can't take it anymore. I want to sink everything in, I want to be tight in you to the last drop." "Jay …" you whined and he giggled seeing you against the mirror trying to get used to his size creeping more and more inside you. He lifted you slightly, holding you by the hips with his hands wide and secure, then let you fall back on his cock in a single, deep lunge and you screamed. Not because of pain, but because of the intensity because it was everywhere, it took all of you, it filled every corner of your body. "Fuck… you're so hot. So fucking tight…» You just turned around, your hair touching his bare chest, and you stammered disjointed words, lost in pleasure: "I hear you… too much inside… not… I can't… you drive me crazy, Jay…" He growled and kissed your bare back. "You're fine, you're perfect when you tremble and look how good you are at taking everything from me…"

His hands pushed you up, then down again and he made you ride him slowly, then forcefully, holding your hips as you drove the pace in the bathroom you could hear only the flow of hot water and the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans, his roaring breaths… everything blended into a perfect symphony. His cock penetrated you deep, each lunge sent liquid shocks between your legs and when you began to lose balance, his hands went to support you from below, pressing with their thumbs on the curves of your ass. "I want to see you completely lost. I want you to remember this feeling every time you look at me." You felt it throbbing inside you, already at the limit and then it changed angle, pushing the pelvis slightly higher and god hit you right there. "It's too much…." you cried and screamed at how well he was taking you. "No," he growled. "You take it. Because you're my good girl, remember?" He was fucking you from underneath now, pushing in with force and precision, while you rode his body as if you were falling apart and finding your perfect shape in his hands. «Jay… I'm coming…" You groaned, your voice broken, confused between crying and ecstasy. "Come, then," he whispered against your back. "Show me how you break for me."

Your orgasm swept over you like a wave, as he clutched you, your thighs trembled as you took him still inside you, sitting on his cock, your back arched and your hair stuck to sweaty skin. His hands held you steady, wide, icy, sunk into your hips as he drew small circles around your hips. "Look how you take me…" he whispered in a hoarse voice, his forehead resting on your back. "You're so tight, so fucking hot… Christ, you're taking me so well" Every time you let go of him, you felt him rise deep, hard, thick, pulsating. "It's too much … you're too in… I can't…" But your body told another story because you wanted to feel it all inside you. "Yes, you succeed because you are mine. Made to be fucked by me so forever." His hands moved under your breast, grabbing it, squeezing it with gentle brutality as he lifted you, then made you fall back on him, stronger, deeper. The noise of your skins coming together was obscene and whispered dirty praises in your ear. “Look how good you are … my insatiable little human … so hungry for me." You cried, laughed, and groaned, all together. "god … please…don't come inside…" He paused for only a second and the silence was heavier than desire.

"Are you taking the pill?" You did no with your head, breathing hard but his eyes shone. "Then let me fill you up." He grabbed your hair, pulling it slowly to make you turn towards him. "I want you fertilized, I want to see you swollen with my seed and I want to brand you inside, not just outside."

A thrill passed through you because you had never felt so good in your life. "Tell me you want it." "Yes … yes, I want you to fill me… I want your seed inside me." The growl he made was almost animalistic. "Good girl." and then his cock impaled you again, sinking with strength and pure desire. He took you by the throat, with the right squeeze, without really tightening, just to dominate you, and pushed himself deeper, dirtier, as his hips lifted and lowered you as if you were an extension of him. He was fucking you like a god and you were his goddess, his chest was against your back. His mouth was on your neck and bit you slightly not to hurt you or mark you and then came. You felt Him explode inside you, hot, flooding and you felt his release slip dent of you and his hands trembled around your waist as he panted your name. His seed dripped slowly between your thighs, still sitting on him, and you just turned, your cheek against his chest, your heart exploding in your chest.

"Jay" He kissed you on the forehead and in a low voice you said, "I love you." You said it slowly as if you were afraid of his reaction but he squeezed you harder and slid you slightly from him and then straddled you and hugged you and said, "I love you too and I can't pretend otherwise anymore."

You giggled and when you looked up he looked up. "Damn…" he whispered, he took you in his arms again, his face in your hair. "I seriously fell in love with a little girl who acts as a babysitter to my daughter and by the way a human who teases me from the first day she entered through that door!"

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[killiaia]

You, only You.

Winter x Male reader.

It was a quiet, almost peaceful evening in bustling Seoul. The noise of the crowd, the bright neon lights and the speeding cars seemed to belong to another world. You, on the other hand, were in a small, discreet café, a place you liked to frequent to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. That evening, you hadn't planned to meet anyone special, but the universe seemed to have decided otherwise.

She entered, dressed in a long coat, her glossy black hair cascading around her shoulders. It was Winter, from Aespa. Even if she wasn't performing, even if she wasn't in the middle of a photo shoot or concert, she exuded an aura that drew attention. But she seemed calm, almost fragile, as if she'd been looking for a place where she could finally relax.

You noticed her immediately. Not because she was a celebrity, but because something about her seemed... human. A stark contrast to the perfect image she was usually portrayed as. She sat at a table near the window, a book in her hand, but her eyes weren't really on the pages.

You found yourself a little lost in thought, watching this face you'd seen hundreds of times on TV, and this simple question crossed your mind: What would she do if someone spoke to her like an ordinary person?

It took you a few minutes to dare break the silence. When you got up to order a coffee, you met her gaze. A fleeting smile appeared on his lips, and something inside you gave you the impression that it was a silent invitation to go further.

You took a deep breath and, with hesitant steps, approached his table.

“Excuse me, I know this is a bit strange, but... you're Winter, right? From Aespa?” You felt immediately embarrassed, but her gaze was gentle, her eyes shining with benevolent curiosity.

She raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Yes, that's me,” she replied, her tone light but warm. “I didn't think anyone would recognize me here. It's a quiet little spot, isn't it?”

You nodded, realizing that a celebrity like her probably deserved a little quiet now and then. “It's one of my favorite places to escape the noise. I can see why you love it.”

Winter laughed softly, closing her book. “It's rare, to be a little invisible, even in a city this big. But it feels good.”

A silence fell between the two of you, but it wasn't awkward. It was as if you were two strangers in the same space, slowly getting to know each other through gestures and smiles. She seemed different from her public image. More natural, more... human.

“So, what are you doing here in Seoul? Are you working in a cafe or is it just relaxing?”

“I'm here for work, actually,” you replied. “But there's something about this place that takes my mind off the daily grind. What about you, then? How do you feel offstage?”

She stretched slightly and smiled. “That's a good question. There's so much pressure sometimes. But here, I just feel... Winter. Not the celebrity. Just a girl with a book and a cup of coffee. How about you?”

The calm that followed was pleasant. You didn't feel like you were dealing with a superstar, but with someone genuinely human. A simple exchange of glances and words.

The conversation continued, and you realized that you had much more in common than you'd imagined. She was talking about her life, her concerns and her desires, and you were listening with sincere attention. The distance between the world of celebrities and that of ordinary people seemed to be gradually disappearing. She talked about her dreams, her moments of doubt, the challenges that fame brought.

With every word she said, you felt closer to her. Her eyes shone with a gentleness that fascinated you, and you noticed little details, subtle gestures she made, like playing with a lock of hair or fiddling with her coffee cup.

After a while, you realized that the atmosphere between you had changed. What had started out as a shy encounter was becoming something more. There was an undeniable connection, a bond that had been forged slowly but surely. She stood up, looking you straight in the eye.

“I have to go soon, but... I'm glad I talked with you. It was a real conversation. No pretenses, no expectations. Just us, here and now.”

You smile, a little nervous but sincere. “Me too. It's rare to be able to chat like this, with no intention of being anywhere else.”

She gave you one last look, before heading for the door, leaving behind a sweet scent of freedom and authenticity.

Days passed after that café encounter, and despite the discreetness of the conversation, you couldn't get Winter out of your mind. Every moment of silence, every break in your routine was marked by her smile, the gentleness of her words and the warmth of her eyes. It was as if, in one simple encounter, she had found a way to a part of you you weren't used to exploring.

One evening, as you were relaxing at home after a day's work, you received an unexpected message on your phone. It was Winter. She was offering to meet you again, in another café, this time a quieter one, a little away from the city center.

“Would you like to have a coffee? I enjoyed our conversation the other day, and I'd like us to talk more about it.”

You couldn't help but smile at the message. Winter, the world-famous idol, was inviting you to coffee. The thought confused you for a moment. It was hard to realize that she really liked you, not just as a fan, but as a person.

You answered immediately, a little nervous but excited at the idea of seeing her again.

“With pleasure! What time?”

The café she'd chosen was even more secluded than the previous one. It was almost hidden away in a quiet alley, with heavy curtains and a subdued ambience that made the atmosphere intimate and warm. When you arrived, you saw her already seated at a table, a book in front of her but her eyes fixed on you. She smiled at you as you entered, as if this meeting was something she was looking forward to.

“Hi,” she says, motioning for you to sit down, her voice soft but sincere. “I'm glad you came.”

You sat down opposite her, trying to mask your nervousness. It was strange to be so close to her, but at the same time, you felt reassured by her presence. There was something comforting in the simplicity of this moment.

“Me too,” you replied with a shy smile. “It's nice to be able to get together like this, without everyone watching us.”

Winter nodded, his eyes shining with silent understanding. “It's one of the rare occasions when I can just be myself, without the spotlight, without all that goes with it. I like this simple side of things.”

She talked about her life, her pressures, the way her celebrity sometimes isolated her, and with every word, you felt a deeper connection between the two of you. Winter wasn't just a star, she was a person with dreams, doubts, frailties, just like you. And in his words, you heard a sincerity that touched you deeply.

The conversation continued naturally. You talked about everything and nothing, but deep down, there was an emerging tension, an unspoken desire floating in the air. Every smile, every look you shared seemed to say more than words could. Sometimes, she'd delicately touch her coffee cup, and her fingers would brush yours by accident, provoking an instant electric shock, a shiver that ran through your whole body.

One day, after several meetings where the chemistry was growing stronger, Winter proposed an idea. “Why don't we get out of town this weekend? Just you and me, out of sight and out of mind. I've found a quiet little place in the mountains. I thought it might be nice.”

You hesitate for a moment. The idea of going away with her tempted you, but you knew it could also mean something more. A different stage, a change in your relationship. Still, you had this deep desire to spend time with her, to get to know her better, without pressure. So you agreed.

“Why not? It sounds like a great idea.”

The weekend arrived, and you found Winter at the station, ready to leave with you. She was wearing a casual outfit, a little wool jacket and sunglasses that gave her a simple, natural look. When she smiled at you, you already felt at ease, as if you'd left behind all the complexity of your respective worlds.

The journey to the mountains was calm, punctuated by laughter, sincere conversation and moments of pleasant silence. You found yourselves in a secluded chalet, surrounded by nature, a perfect place to escape the stresses of everyday life. The fresh mountain air and the sound of the wind in the trees added to the tranquil atmosphere.

In the evening, after a hearty meal prepared together, you would settle down by the fire, the subdued atmosphere of the flames warming the space. Winter, relaxed, leaned against you. Her light perfume invaded your senses, and you felt a gentle warmth settle between you.

Without even thinking about it, you took her hand, delicately, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Winter turned her gaze towards you, and in her eyes shone a glint of complicity. A silence fell between you, but it wasn't awkward, on the contrary. It was a comfortable silence, full of silent promise.

Finally, it was she who broke the silence. “You know, I feel really good with you. It's strange, but... I don't feel this need to play a role here. Just you and me.”

You looked into her eyes, your heart beating faster. “Me too, Winter. I didn't think this kind of moment would ever happen, but... I'm glad it's here.”

She smiled and slowly moved closer. Her lips brushed yours, shyly at first, before the sweetness of the kiss turned into something more. The moment was simple, but full of meaning. It was as if everything that had gone before, all the doubts and hesitations, had dissipated.

The moment was suspended in time, and for the first time, you felt completely at one with Winter. The complicity that had developed between the two of you only grew stronger.

The days that followed that weekend remained etched in your memory like a sweet daydream. Back in Seoul, routine tried to reclaim its rights, but something had changed. Between you and Winter, a connection had been created that was stronger than mere furtive conversations in discreet cafés.

You continued to write to each other, seeing each other whenever his schedule allowed. Sometimes it was a short evening stroll along the Han River, other times an impromptu dinner in a hidden restaurant where no one would recognize her. Every moment spent together reinforced the strange chemistry between you.

One evening, as you sat in a small noodle restaurant, Winter put down her chopsticks and looked at you, her expression more serious than usual.

“You know... sometimes I wonder if this is a good idea.”

Her tone wasn't cold, but it carried a shadow of concern. You frowned, feeling a weight settle in the air.

“What are you talking about?”

She looked down at her still-steaming bowl before resuming:

“You and me. What we're building... I don't know if I have the right to let myself go into that.”

You remained silent for a moment. You knew what she was referring to. Her life in the spotlight, the expectations of her agency, public opinion. All this formed an invisible wall between you, an obstacle she suddenly seemed to see more clearly.

You took a deep breath before answering, trying to weigh your words carefully.

“Winter... I don't want you to feel this is a burden. If one day you think it's all getting too complicated, let me know. But I also want you to know that, for me, every moment with you is worth it.”

She lifted her head, and in her gaze you thought you perceived a mixture of relief and restrained emotion.

“You're far too kind.” she said with a bitter laugh.

You took her hand gently, sensing her slight hesitation before she relaxed under your touch.

“I'm just being sincere.”

A silence fell, but this time it wasn't a silence laden with doubt. More like a pause, a suspended moment where she seemed to weigh her own feelings.

Finally, Winter sketched a smile, softer this time.

“All right, then. Then let's be sincere, you and I. No matter where this leads.”

And in that instant, you knew that it didn't matter what the obstacles were, didn't matter what the outside world was like. What mattered was this silent agreement between you, this promise made without words, but sealed in a simple look.

The days that followed this conversation were tinged with a new gentleness, but also with a certain tension. Winter hadn't mentioned her doubts again, but something about her seemed different. She was more attentive, more present, and every look she gave you seemed charged with an emotion she struggled to conceal.

She'd never admit it out loud, not yet, but she knew.

She knew she was gradually falling in love with you.

It was a strange sensation, both exciting and terrifying. She had spent so much time erecting barriers, keeping a cautious distance from the outside world, that the realization that she was opening a breach with you disturbed her deeply.

One evening, as the two of you strolled together through the quiet streets of Seoul, she suddenly stopped in front of an illuminated shop window. It was a small boutique selling handcrafted jewelry, and her gaze lingered on a delicately braided silver bracelet.

“It's pretty,” she murmured, almost to herself.

You watched her in silence, observing the way the light from the shop window reflected in her eyes. There was something intimate about that moment, a fragility she showed only to you.

“Do you want me to buy it for you?” you asked softly.

She flinched slightly, then shook her head with a little laugh.

“No, I can't...”

But you'd already pushed open the store door. A few moments later, you emerged with the bracelet in a small case, which you handed to her without a word.

Winter froze for a moment, caught between surprise and emotion. Then, slowly, she took the box and opened it, brushing the jewel with her fingertips.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked half-heartedly.

You shrugged, smiling slightly. “Because I felt like it. And because it gives me pleasure to see your eyes shine like that.”

She lowered her eyes, clutching the box between her fingers. Her heart beat faster than she would have liked, and a soft warmth crept into her. It wasn't just the bracelet. It was what it represented.

It was you.

This kind of little attention, this way you looked at her as if she were just a normal girl, not some unattainable idol... It disturbed her. It touched her.

That night, on her way home, she put the bracelet around her wrist and contemplated it for a long moment. She caught herself smiling for no reason, one hand resting on her heart, which was beating a little too fast.

Winter knew.

She knew she was falling in love with you.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid of it.

The days went by, and despite her busy schedule, Winter always found a moment for you. With each message, each appointment stolen between two rehearsals, she felt her attachment grow. It was no longer just a simple attraction, or even a simple friendship tinged with complicity. It was stronger than that.

One evening, as you were walking together under the dim lights of a quiet street, she suddenly stopped and stared at you with a serious, almost nervous expression.

“I've got something to ask you.”

You raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “Tell me.”

She bit her lip, as if hesitating to formulate her words. “You know... you mean a lot to me.” She looked away briefly before plunging her gaze into yours. “And I'd like... for you to meet my members. The girls of Aespa.”

You were speechless for a moment. You knew how much this group was her second family. The mere fact that she wanted to introduce you to them meant that she considered you someone really important.

You smiled, despite the slight nervousness rising inside you. “If it's important to you, then of course.”

She seemed relieved, and a radiant smile lit up her face. “They can be a bit intimidating sometimes, but I'm sure they'll like you.”

A few days later, Winter invited you to drop by after one of their rehearsals in their training room. The idea of coming face-to-face with the other members of the band had been stressing you out all day, but excitement was taking over.

When you walked through the door, Winter greeted you with a smile and gently took your hand, a discreet gesture that no one missed. In the room, Karina, NingNing and Giselle stopped immediately and turned their heads towards you.

Karina, the leader, crossed her arms and flashed a half-amused, half-surprised smile. “So, this is the famous boy Winter's always talking about?”

You felt Winter tense up slightly beside you. “Unnie!” she protested, blushing slightly.

NingNing, for her part, stared at you with a mischievous smile. “I was wondering when she was finally going to introduce him to us.”

Giselle gauged you with her eyes before smiling. “Well, let's see if you can live up to our Winter.”

You couldn't help laughing at their teasing welcome. Despite the pressure, the atmosphere was far from cold or hostile.

Winter gently tightened his grip on your hand and declared, in a more confident voice: “He's my boyfriend.”

A short silence followed. No shock, no opposition, just a moment when the girls seemed to realize that their Winter, usually reserved about her feelings, was really in love.

Karina finally smiled sincerely. “If she's happy, then that's all that matters.”

NingNing approached you and extended her hand. “Welcome to the family.”

You squeezed it with a smile, feeling a pleasant warmth wash over you.

Winter looked at you out of the corner of her eye, and you saw something new in her gaze. A certainty. A pride.

She was no longer hiding her feelings.

She loved you.

And she was ready to make you part of her world.

---

It had been a few weeks since you were officially introduced to the members of Aespa, and your relationship with Winter was blossoming by the day. She had become attached to you in a way she'd never thought possible, and the idea of finally having someone who understood her without idolizing her brought her a new serenity.

But that evening, something unexpected was about to upset her equilibrium.

Winter had arranged to meet you in a quiet café, as usual. She was sitting by the window, absent-mindedly playing with her bracelet - the one you'd given her - waiting for you to arrive.

When the door opened and you entered, she looked up... and immediately froze.

You were wearing a military uniform.

Not just any military uniform. A dark, sober uniform, marked with distinctive insignia she didn't know but which exudes an aura of authority and mystery. She didn't understand. Usually, you were always dressed simply, casually. But now...

She felt her heart quicken as she slowly stood up, a shocked expression on her face. "Is this... a joke?" she asked, almost laughing nervously.

You approached with a gentle smile, but Winter could see your gaze was 

serious.

"I wanted to tell you earlier... but I didn't know how."

She scanned you for a long time, searching your face for some sign that this was just a misunderstanding. But it wasn't. You were serious.

"You're..." She swallowed. "You're military?"

You nodded. "Yes. But not only that. I'm part of the Special Forces."

Winter blinked, totally bewildered. She'd expected anything but this.

"Special forces? Like... secret, dangerous missions?"

You let out a small laugh, understanding her confusion. "It's not exactly like in the movies, but yes... it kind of is."

Winter took a step back, trying to assimilate the information. She'd always thought she knew you, that she'd figured out the mystery surrounding you. And yet, here you were revealing a side of you she'd had no clue about until now.

"For how long...?" she asked in a low voice.

"For several years."

She inhaled deeply, trying to organize her thoughts. "You mean... all that time, you were in the Special Forces? That you were going on secret missions and I knew nothing about it?"

You nodded. "I wasn't allowed to talk about it. But now things are getting serious between us... I wanted you to know."

Winter dropped back in her chair, running a trembling hand through her hair. "This is so unreal..."

She raised her eyes to yours, and her gaze was filled with a thousand conflicting emotions. Part of her was impressed, almost fascinated. But the other...

"It's dangerous, isn't it?" Her voice had softened, but contained a hint of fear.

You sighed softly and took her hand between yours. "Yes, it is. But I know what I'm doing, Winter. And I want you to understand that even though it's my duty, it doesn't change the way I feel about you."

She stared at your entwined hands, her heart clenching. Part of her wanted to blame you for not telling her sooner. Another understood why you'd kept it a secret.

After a long silence, she finally raised her head and whispered:

"I don't know if I'm ready to accept that... but I do know one thing."

You looked at her, waiting for her answer.

"I care about you. And I don't want to lose you."

You squeezed her hand tighter, a sincere smile on your lips. "You won't lose me, Winter."

But deep inside her, a new fear had been born. Because she now knew that the man she was falling in love with risked his life on every mission.

And the idea of you disappearing one day seemed unbearable.

--

She remained silent for a moment, her gaze lost in her still-steaming coffee. Then, slowly, she inhaled deeply and raised her head. "What about now? Are you on leave?"

You hesitated a second before answering, your smile fading slightly. "Well, not exactly... I've just come back from a mission. And..."

Winter frowned, finally noticing what you were trying to hide. A slight grimace, a gesture a little stiffer than usual. Her gaze immediately landed on your arm, where a dark stain was beginning to show through the fabric of your sleeve.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice betraying a hint of anxiety.

You tried to play it down. "It's nothing, just a scratch."

But Winter wouldn't hear of it. She stood up abruptly, walked over to you and, without giving you time to protest, gently pulled up your sleeve. What she discovered made her pale. 

A long gash crossed your forearm, still marked by dried blood.

"A scratch?" she repeated, clearly angry and worried at the same time. "You call that a scratch?!"

You attempted a reassuring smile. "I've had worse."

But instead of laughing, Winter clenched her jaw and sat down next to you, grabbing a paper towel to press gently on the wound. "Did you go to a doctor?"

You looked away slightly. "Not yet..."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "You're unbelievable..."

Despite the tension in the air, you sensed she wasn't really mad at you. She was just afraid. Afraid for you. 

Afraid of what this meant for your relationship.

"Winter..." You gently grabbed her hand, forcing her to look at you. "I'm here. With you. I'm okay."

She scanned you for a long moment, then shook her head, her anger giving way to immense tenderness. 

"Promise me at least one thing..."

You nodded, ready to hear anything.

"When you go on a mission... don't disappear without warning. Even if it's just a message, a note. I want to know you're there, somewhere."

You gently squeeze her hand. "I promise."

She sighed again, then, to your surprise, leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek. "I'll take care of you tonight. No arguments."

You smiled, a little amused, but mostly deeply touched by her concern. "Okay, chief."

Winter rolled her eyes, but eventually a smile came to her lips. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, one thing was certain: she wasn't about to let you go.

-- 

Everything was perfect. Winter was taking care of you, just like she said she would. The evening was going very well, and Winter had prepared a very good meal. You finished clearing the table, Winter had fetched something from the bedroom so you took care of the dishes. 

"I'll take care of you tonight. "says Winter from behind. 

You laugh and turn around.

But your laugh dies in your throat when you look at how Winter is dressed. Or in the next case, not so much.

In front of you, Winter is dressed in a flamboyant red lingerie set. The bra lifts her breasts, giving her a bust to die for. 

Amused by your reaction, Winter spins around and gives you a view of her ass, perfectly molded in a thong. 

Winter's ass is absolutely magnificent. To die for. The thong between her buttocks just begs to be removed.

Winter faces you again and you want to say something but can't.   Winter strides forward and you don't dare move. It's as if you're in a dream, afraid she'll disappear. 

Winter clings to you and you stop breathing. She gently raises her head to you and sighs sensuously.

"Tonight... I'll take care of you. "

You nod vigorously, Winter could ask you anything, you'd agree. 

On tiptoe, Winter places a gentle kiss on your lips. You wish it could last longer, but Winter grabs you by the collar of your shirt. 

"Follow me, big boy. "

You let her. Tugging at your shirt collar, you follow Winter. Your eyes linger on her ass and her wiggle. God, you could fuck her right now, it's intoxicating this power she has over you. 

You enter the room and Winter tells you to sit down. You listen and sit down on the edge of the bed. 

Winter closes the door and, using a remote control, changes the color of the room. A reddish color appears around you, and you feel your heart racing with desire and excitement.

Winter stands in front of you and the young woman raises her hair and arches her body, giving you a magnificent picture. Winter is magnificent. 

Winter undulates her body and gives you a look. You've never seen this look before, it's a look just for you, a look that shows Winter wants you.

Winter strokes her curves with her hands. Gently, she runs her hands over her breasts, kneading one before pulling down the bra. Winter's breasts beg to be touched and licked. 

You grab Winter by the buttocks, earning a cry of surprise from the young woman, and settle her on your lap. 

You don't give her time to protest as you take one of her breasts in your mouth and with your hands you knead her ass. 

"Oh my god. Go on, eat my tits. "

With your tongue, you circle her nipple and Winter encourages you by stroking your hair.  Winter starts undulating on you, seeking friction between your sexes. With your hands, you put pressure on her buttocks and Winter lets out a moan. 

You attack the other breast, licking Winter's nipple. You remove one of your hands from her buttocks and come to knead the singer's other breast.

"I want to suck your cock. " Winter says. 

"Go ahead. Suck my cock. "

Winter kisses you before getting off your lap. She kisses your torso and slowly moves down. With her hands, she removes the belt from your pants and Winter takes off your pants.  

"Fuck. Your dick looks so big. " 

"You think you're going to be able to fit it all in your little mouth? " 

As if you'd challenged her, Winter removes your boxers and finally lets your cock out into the open.

Winter hasn't lied, your dick is big. Almost fascinated, Winter grabs your cock and his hand almost can't close around it. 

"Wow. " Winter says. 

"Still up for it? "

"You bet. " 

Winter starts by gently jerking you off. Her movements are slow, almost painful. It's as if she's playing with you, she knows she's in control. 

But in her eternal goodness, Winter releases you and you feel her mouth close over your cock. 

"Fuuuck Winter. " 

Satisfied, Winter pulls your cock out of her mouth with a "pop" and the young woman licks your cock from the base to your tip. 

Winter licks your cock as if it were a lollipop. Big licks just for you. 

With both hands Winter grabs the base of your cock and her mouth closes around it. 

"Wiiinter fuuuck." 

Winter jerks you off and sucks you off at the same time. All you hear is the sound of Winter sucking your cock. You can see she wants to put more in her mouth.

"Do you want me to fuck your mouth? "

"Please. " 

You stand up and Winter is still on her knees, open her mouth wide and stick out her tongue.  You grab your cock and pat her tongue with it. 

"What a good girl.

Every time you tap your cock against her tongue, Winter tries to lick it off. 

"Fuck my mouth. " 

You don't give Winter time to think, you enter your cock all at once deep in the singer's throat.

"It's so fucking good. " You say. 

Winter grabs your pelvis and rams your cock into her mouth, drawing a cry of pleasure from you. Winter removes your cock from her mouth and with a trickle of saliva on her chin looks at you. 

"Am I sucking Daddy's cock right?"

"You're perfect. Again? " 

Winter nods and opens her mouth wide. With both hands you grab the back of Winter's head and impale the young woman's mouth on your cock. You don't give her time and with your hands you guide Winter to suck you off. You notice the tears at the edges of Winter's eyes but you continue the oral assault on her mouth. After several back-and-forth strokes, you withdraw your cock from her mouth and Winter takes a deep breath, looking up at you. 

"Again! " Winter tells you. 

You start again and Winter gags on your cock.  

"I want you to cum in my mouth. "

You start jerking off and Winter sticks his mouth to your cock. It's as if Winter is intoxicated by your cock.

"Cum in my mouth. " Winter says, glued to your cock.

Winter moves her mouth down to your balls and takes a ball in her mouth. 

"Fuck Winter. " 

"Your balls look so full. Are they for me? Your filled balls are just for me. "

You're gripping your cock so hard. Winter licks your balls in turn.  

She pulls off your balls with a wet pop and looks at you.

She says nothing and just opens her mouth wide and sticks out her tongue. Just what you needed to make you come. 

You feel yourself coming and position your cock directly towards her mouth. 

Several jets of cum come straight into Winter's mouth. Your legs are shaking, the orgasm is so powerful. You look down at Winter, still on her knees, swallowing your cum. 

She opens her mouth to show that she's swallowed it all. You catch your breath and Winter winks at you. You follow her with your eyes and Winter slowly gets down on all fours on the bed and bends her back. 

"Is Daddy going to fuck me like the slut I am? "

You don't wait a second, pulling off her thong and spreading her ass. Her holes just beg to be licked and fucked.  

You put a lick on the singer's vagina which elicits a moan from her. 

"Fuck me. I want to feel your big cock. "

You stand up and align your cock with her pussy. In one movement, you take in almost everything Winter is so wet. 

"You're so fucking tight. "

"Just for you. My little pussy's tight just for your big cock. "

You grab her hips and start pilloning the singer's pussy. 

"Fucking so good. Is my pussy good? "

"Best pussy in the universe." 

You straighten up on the bed, offering a new angle of penetration and Winter cries out in pleasure. 

You lie on her back and whisper softly. 

"How did I ever live without your pussy?"

Winter wants to say something but she's intoxicated by your cock. 

You put your fingers in her mouth and Winter licks your fingers. 

"What a fucking good girl. I'm not going to be able to live without your pussy." 

With your other hand, you find her clit and Winter lets out a moan. 

You take your hand away from her mouth and go to knead one of her breasts.

"You're going to come. "

Winter nods vigorously and with your fingers, you lightly pinch her clit.

"You're mine. This pussy belongs to me. All your holes belong to me. "

"Yes..YES!" 

Winter spasms. It's her orgasm that has knocked her onto the bed. Completely tired and breathing hard Winter whispers.

"Daddy..." 

"Yes baby?"

"Can you breed me?" 

"Sure baby. " 

Lying on her stomach, Winter spreads her buttocks to help you extend the back and forth of your cock inside her. With a view of her asshole, you can't help but touch it.

"Next time, I'll fuck your ass."

Winter nods. 

"But today, let me breed you. "

You pick up the pace and see your cock covered. 

"You're fucking creaming. " 

Winter spreads her ass even wider and you can't hold on much longer. All you hear is the sound of flesh against flesh. Your pelvis slams against her ass and Winter screams with pleasure.

"I'm going to breed you so much. " 

"Fuck. Put a fucking baby in me."

That's what you needed to cum. You sink deep into Winter and let go of the cum.

You pull your cock out and admire your work. Your cum comes out of her pussy and Winter releases her ass. 

You lie on top of her and turn her head to kiss her. 

"You'd better keep my cum in your pussy."

Winter lets out a little laugh.

[dreamersparacosm]

i want jealous jungkook too...but do you know who i want him to be jealous of? BAM. I WANT OC AND BAM I WANT THEM

tpod!jungkook would absolutely be jealous of a dog. like he already fought to have you, now he has to fight with his own dog?? what kind of world is this?

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 1!

prompt ; in which jungkook’s biggest competition isn’t a man, but his own doberman.

warnings ; none!

Here’s the thing about Jeon Jungkook: when you’re in Korea, he simply forgets how to function like a normal human being.

Sure, he could go to rehearsals. He could hang out with the boys, lift heavy things at the gym, play with Bam at the dog park until one of them drops dead from exhaustion. He could — and does — have a life outside of you.

But unfortunately, that’s impossible to uphold currently. Because Jungkook, in all his stubbornness, has decided that when you are in Korea, you are his life.

So he waits, with the particular blend of patience and agitation that only the hopelessly devoted can manage.

He waits while you sit through endless meetings in the Seoul office where he assumes you're probably reshaping the course of fashion history. Meanwhile, he — professional idol, household name, literal global phenomenon — spends his entire afternoon fluttering around the house like an overgrown golden retriever preparing for your arrival back.

When you finally do appear, hours later than you promised (”just a quick check-in meeting,” you said, like a liar), he’s orchestrated the perfect welcome. There’s even some of your candles lit that you got from the market the other afternoon.

He made sure to put on that stupid grey hoodie you once said you liked, the one that makes him look especially ‘boyfriend-coded’ which is insane because he is your boyfriend, but whatever, he’s trying to a better man for you.

There he stands in the entryway as your keys jiggle in the lock, heart metaphorically cupped in his hands like an anxious teenager, waiting for the moment your eyes find him after a day at work.

The door swings open with comedic timing.

You enter, still clad in your professional clothes, designer bag hanging from your shoulder. Your gaze performs a quick sweep of the space, a radar searching for something that’s not him.

Somehow, impossibly, you miss the tall international superstar practically vibrating with anticipation directly in your line of sight.

It’s too late; your attention has already locked, with laser-guided precision, onto what is apparently the actual love of your life.

"Bam!" You gasp, the name ripping from your throat with the same intensity usually reserved for reunion scenes in war movies. His dog doesn’t fight it, just wags his tail and pants excitedly when he realizes you’re home.

Just like that, Jungkook experiences the unique displeasure of watching himself become irrelevant.

He stands, a bewildered expression on his face, as you drop your bag, drop your coat, drop your body at Bam’s unsuspecting feet. Within seconds, you've transformed from fashion industry powerhouse to someone talkimg in a baby voice to a dog on his entryway floor. “Oh my god, Look at you, you handsome boy! Did you miss me? I missed you so much, mwah!”

You're now kissing the dog. Not polite little pecks, but full-on, emotionally-invested mouth kisses, as if you've spent your entire day in meetings plotting how to most effectively transfer your affection to this four-legged creature while breaking his owner's heart.

Jungkook watches this betrayal unfold, holding a spatula, like he’s someone who's just realized he's accidentally enrolled in the world's most elaborate third-wheel masterclass.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He clears his throat once.

Nothing.

He shifts his weight to his other foot.

Still… nothing. No passing glance.

Sprawled on his floor in complete surrender, you’re essentially involved in an impromptu romance with his pet. Jungkook — who has spent the last three hours committing culinary crimes against rice and desperately channeling his mother's cooking spirit — stands frozen.

It’s fine. Completely fine. Absolutely, one hundred percent acceptable.

Except for the tiny detail that he’s mentally drafting adoption papers for Bam.

He clears his throat again, louder this time and pointedly.

Finally, as if emerging from a trance, you glance up. “Hi, baby," You chirp, lips puckering in his direction, clearly expecting him to bridge the gap.

As if he's some lovesick sitcom husband whose entire world revolves around whatever affection you decide to toss his way. (Which…alright. Maybe he is. But acknowledging that would undermine his current position.)

Jungkook stares back at you, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a flat line.

Your eyebrows furrow, lips still suspended mid-pucker. When his statue holds firm, you slowly lower your mouth into a frown.

"...Hello?" You venture from your position on the floor, blinking up at him.

"Hi," He returns.

You narrow your eyes into little slits, hands still rubbing Bam’s head. "Come here."

"No."

"Why?"

"You kissed the dog," He announces petulantly.

You blink again. And then, because you are exactly the kind of woman who built a million-dollar career off smelling blood in the water, you grin.

“Oh my god,” you say, already laughing. “Are you—?”

You dramatically disengage from Bam, remaining on your knees but pressing both hands to your chest in a theatrical gesture. “Are you jealous? Of Bam?"

Jungkook's jaw flexes. He glares at some fascinating invisible point approximately six inches to the left of your head.

“I'm not jealous," He mutters, hands clasped behind his back as he avoids your gaze. (Which is exactly what someone jealous would say.)

"You're jealous of your own dog," You whisper, tone faux sympathy.

You shift your weight back, settling onto your heels, craning your neck to study him like he's a fascinating psychological case study.

Bam, however, is blissfully unaware of his central role in this drama. He wags his tail so hard that his whole butt is moving side to side like a windshield wiper.

"I leave for a couple of hours," you observe with fascination, "and you've already picked a fight with a literal puppy."

"He's not even a puppy anymore," Jungkook snaps back instantly, as if the classification of his ‘competitor’ is somehow the most pressing issue in this standoff.

You gasp, one hand flying to clutch at imaginary pearls. “Oh my god. You're calling him old? You're losing it, Jeon."

"I'm not losing it," He grumbles defensively.

The evidence suggests otherwise.

You rise to your feet slowly and saunter over to him. He stands there, arms still crossed, watching you approach with a suspicious squint.

You stop inches in front of him. Looking up through your lashes with innocence that wouldn't fool a toddler (but still somehow works on global superstars), you deploy your sweetest, most saccharine tone: "Baby," you murmur, "Love of my life."

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers toying with the neckline of his hoodie. The very one he selected for your approval, now weaponized against him.

"Don't tell me you're scared," you whisper with mock concern, eyes wide. "That Bam's gonna steal me away?"

His response surpasses non-verbal communication: silence paired with a scowl.

You grin evilly, and you lean forward until your lips brush against the shell of his ear. “He does have better hair than you," you tease.

Jungkook jerks back like he’s been electrocuted, mouth falling open in outrage.

"I knew it," he declares. "I knew you liked him better!"

Your laughter echoes throughout the whole room. His expression remains fixed in accusation, still treating your interaction with Bam — who has now abandoned you two to roll on his back in blissful oblivion — as a mortal enemy who must be defeated.

You wipe under your eyes dramatically, pulling yourself together with exaggerated effort before tilting your head.

"It's okay, baby," you console with insincerity. "Some men just can't handle the competition."

The scowl on his face deepens.

You nod solemnly, caressing his bicep. "Maybe you should work on your wagging. And your fur. I mean, Bam's coat? Impeccable."

Jungkook's mouth drops open again in shock.

You heave a long-suffering sigh, the sound of someone burdened with the great responsibility of being with a ridiculous man.

“God,” you roll your eyes, stepping into his space and grabbing a fistful of the front of his hoodie. “You’re so dramatic.”

And before he can launch into another argument, you yank him down and press your lips to his. Firm, no-nonsense, entirely fed up, but still soft because, unfortunately, you’re obsessed with him. (But he’s obsessed with you right back.)

He smiles against your lips, the ones that taste like some coconut lip balm you always wear.

Of course, though, he can’t leave it alone. Has to get the last word in, even when his hands are sliding up your sides and his chest is rumbling with happiness.

“You taste like dog,” He mumbles into your mouth and when you pull back to glare at him, he grins wider, looking downright pleased with himself.

masterlist + request

[arxiwon]

Survival Instinct

Genre: Dark, Smut, Angst, Apocalypse, Horror Warnings: Graphic Violence, Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Dubious Consent, Trauma, Gore, Psychological Manipulation

Synopsis: The world is in ruins—corpses rot in the streets, and the air reeks of decay. Seoul is no longer a city but a graveyard, overrun by the undead and worse—humans who have lost their morality in the name of survival. Leading a small group of survivors, Jungwon carries a weight heavier than most. But survival means making choices, some darker than others. When desperation turns to desire, and lust becomes a means of control, the line between protector and predator blurs.

Chapter 1: Jungwon - The Reluctant Leader

The world had long since collapsed into chaos. Streets once bustling with life were now littered with corpses, the scent of death thick in the air. Seoul had become an endless labyrinth of crumbling buildings and bloodstained alleys, where the dead roamed hungrily, seeking flesh. Amidst the decay, a small group fought to survive, led by none other than Yang Jungwon.

He hadn’t asked to be a leader. It just happened. When the outbreak started, when society fell apart, people naturally gravitated toward those who could keep them alive. Jungwon was sharp, quick on his feet, and had an innate ability to strategize under pressure. But the weight of responsibility pressed heavy on his shoulders. He had already lost too many.

Tonight, the air was colder than usual. The group had found temporary shelter inside an abandoned convenience store, its glass windows smeared with dried blood, shelves ransacked. Jungwon stood by the entrance, gripping the metal baseball bat that had saved his life countless times. His dark eyes scanned the darkness beyond, ears tuned for the groans of the undead.

“Jungwon, you should rest,” your voice broke through the silence.

You had been with him since the beginning. A survivor in your own right, hardened by loss and desperation. You stepped closer, your presence a temporary relief to his ever-growing burden.

“I can’t,” he murmured, not looking at you. “Someone has to keep watch.”

“We have shifts for a reason,” you countered, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched at first but didn’t pull away. “You’re exhausted. Let me take over.”

Jungwon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s not just the zombies. It’s the people, too. The ones who’ve lost their humanity. We can’t afford to let our guard down.”

You nodded, understanding all too well. The undead were predictable in their hunger, but humans? Humans had become the real monsters.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words. When he finally turned to you, something in his expression had shifted. The tension wasn’t just from survival; it was something else, something primal. His fingers brushed over yours, a hesitant yet deliberate touch.

Your breath hitched. The weight of fear, of exhaustion, of needing to feel alive in a world that was crumbling—it all combusted in that single moment. Without another word, Jungwon pulled you close, his grip firm, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate kiss. The cold, the hunger, the world outside ceased to exist as you both surrendered to something forbidden, something that reminded you that you were still human.

For tonight, survival meant more than just breathing—it meant feeling, burning, losing yourselves in the fleeting moments before the sun rose on another fight for your lives.

Chapter 2: Jungwon - The Breaking Point

The sun had barely risen when the sound of distant gunfire shattered the fragile peace. You jolted awake, body sore from the night before, memories of tangled limbs and whispered moans still fresh in your mind. But there was no time to dwell—Jungwon was already up, his expression cold, calculating.

“Pack up. We leave in five minutes,” he ordered, strapping his bat to his back.

You didn’t argue. In this world, hesitation meant death.

The group moved silently through the ruins of Seoul, every step calculated, every breath measured. The streets were empty, but that meant nothing. The danger was always there, lurking beneath the surface.

Jungwon led the way, his grip tightening around his weapon. His mind was elsewhere—you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his shoulders tensed. Last night had been a moment of weakness, a fleeting lapse in control. And Jungwon did not like losing control.

“We need to find more supplies,” he said, scanning the buildings. “Food, weapons, anything we can use.”

You nodded, following as he moved toward an old pharmacy. The door was half-open, the inside ransacked, shelves overturned. It looked empty—but looks were deceiving.

“Stay close,” he muttered, stepping inside.

The moment you did, the door slammed shut behind you.

A blade pressed against your throat, and a rough voice whispered in your ear, “Drop your weapons.”

Your heart pounded. Jungwon had already turned, his eyes dark with rage. He didn’t hesitate.

A gunshot rang out. The man behind you staggered back, blood spurting from his skull. Jungwon lunged, his bat connecting with another attacker’s ribs, the sickening crunch echoing through the store.

It was over in seconds. The bodies lay motionless, blood pooling on the cracked tiles.

Jungwon turned to you, chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands were slick with blood, his face unreadable. And then—

He grabbed you.

Pinned you against the counter, his breath hot against your skin. His hands were rough, urgent, teeth grazing your neck.

“This world is hell,” he whispered, voice raw. “And I won’t lose you to it.”

His lips crushed against yours, the taste of blood and desperation searing into your senses. The danger, the adrenaline, the need—it consumed you both.

There was no morality left, no line between right and wrong. Only survival. And this—this was survival.

Outside, the dead groaned, the sun climbing higher in the sky. But inside, nothing else existed but him, and the way he made you feel alive in a world of death.

Chapter 3: Jungwon - Blood and Ruin

The night was cold, the wind carrying the distant screams of the dying. Jungwon sat in silence, his hands wrapped around a knife, its blade still wet with fresh blood. His body was tense, every muscle coiled, his mind trapped between what he had done and what needed to be done next.

You watched him from across the room, the shadows casting eerie patterns over his face. He hadn’t spoken since the ambush. He hadn’t even looked at you.

“Jungwon,” you said softly, stepping closer. “Talk to me.”

He exhaled, finally turning toward you. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “I killed them,” he muttered. “Without hesitation.”

You reached out, fingers brushing his wrist. “You saved me.”

His jaw tightened. “And I’ll do it again.”

Then, he was on you, hands gripping your waist, dragging you into his lap. His lips crashed against yours, rough and unrelenting. There was no softness left in either of you, only desperation, only the knowledge that at any moment, the world could take this away.

His hands explored, claimed, possessed—because in this hell, you were the only thing he had left to hold onto.

Outside, the dead waited.

Inside, Jungwon burned.

Chapter 4: Jungwon - Possession

The fire inside Jungwon had been burning for days. He felt it every time another man looked at you, every time you spoke too softly to one of the survivors, every time you smiled in a way that wasn’t meant for him. And tonight, after witnessing one of them—a man from another group—get too close, touch your wrist like he had the right, Jungwon had reached his limit.

You were his.

The tension between you had been thick since returning to camp, the makeshift shelter barely holding the illusion of safety. You knew something had shifted in him the moment you stepped inside the dimly lit room you shared. His eyes were dark, his jaw locked tight. He hadn’t said a word since he killed the man who thought he could take what belonged to him.

You stood near the cot, peeling off your jacket, feeling the weight of his stare. “Jungwon—”

“Shut up.” His voice was low, dangerous.

You turned to face him fully, but before you could speak again, he was on you. His hand wrapped around your throat, backing you against the cold wall. His body pressed hard against yours, heat radiating from him.

“You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?” His grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch. “The way he touched you?”

“He didn’t—”

“He did,” Jungwon growled, his other hand sliding up your waist, pushing your shirt up roughly. His fingers dug into your skin, claiming, branding. “And I let it happen. I let him think he had a chance.”

You gasped as his lips crashed against yours—raw, bruising, filled with an unrelenting need to consume you. His tongue forced its way inside, taking, dominating. His teeth scraped against your lower lip before he bit down, making you whimper.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips, his hands tearing at your clothes, impatient, desperate. “Say it.”

You panted, fingers clawing at his back as he pressed his knee between your legs. “I’m yours, Jungwon.”

He let out a sound—part relief, part possession—before yanking your pants down, your underwear following in one swift move. The cool air hit your exposed skin for only a moment before his fingers replaced it, slipping between your thighs, stroking, teasing.

“You’re already wet,” he smirked, voice dripping with arrogance. “You like it when I get like this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t deny it. The way he took control, the way he burned for you—it ignited something deep inside you, something primal.

Jungwon didn’t wait. He didn’t give you time to think. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the cot. He dropped you onto the mattress, his body covering yours in an instant. His clothes came off in a blur, revealing toned muscles, a body hardened by survival and war.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, leaning back to watch.

Your breath hitched at the command, but you obeyed, sliding your fingers down your stomach, parting your thighs for him. His eyes darkened as he watched you, hunger written all over his face.

“Enough,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, pinning it above your head. “That’s mine to touch.”

Without warning, he thrust inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. A cry left your lips, back arching at the overwhelming sensation. He didn’t start slow. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pounded into you, his hips snapping against yours with a force that had you seeing stars.

“Say my name,” he demanded, his teeth grazing your neck before biting down, marking you.

“Jungwon,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, moving harder, deeper. “Louder.”

“Jungwon!”

His pace grew punishing, his grip on you unrelenting. He wanted to own you, to make sure everyone in the camp knew who you belonged to. He wanted you wrecked, ruined, unable to think of anyone but him.

“You take me so well,” he murmured, his fingers slipping between your bodies, finding your most sensitive spot. He rubbed circles, his movements precise, calculated, designed to drive you over the edge. “Cum for me.”

You couldn’t fight it. The pleasure built, your body tensing, your cries echoing through the room as you shattered beneath him. The world blurred, the only thing anchoring you was Jungwon—his touch, his voice, the way he kept thrusting, chasing his own release.

“Fuck,” he cursed, burying himself deep inside you as he reached his peak, filling you with his warmth. His body trembled against yours, his breath ragged.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours, his fingers lacing with yours. The possessiveness in his touch softened, turning into something tender, something real.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, but this time, it wasn’t a demand. It was a promise.

And in this cruel, broken world, he was yours too.

[momo-kageyama]

Condemned Hearts

—————————————————————————

Anime: KPop Demon Hunters

—————————————————————————

Jae-Hyun ( Romance Saja )x R.femele.

—————————————————————————

The seductive demonic idol of the Saja Boys, and a human with a serious, logical, grumpy personality and immune to superficial charm

After so long resisting, Y/N finally surrenders to the feeling for Jae-Hyun. On a hot night, the looks become intense, the touches more intimate. He treats her with affection, respect and desire - every movement full of care and passion.

Without haste, the two explore and love each other for the first time, at a time where the physical and the emotional mix. It was intense, delicate and true.

In the end, lying together, Jae-Hyun whispers that he wants to stay.

And Y/N, for the first time, leaves.

—————————————————————————

Y/N is a sensitive human with spiritual ability that makes her immune to the emotional manipulation of demons - which attracts Romance Saja's attention, both as a curiosity and as a challenge. They meet by chance in an old bookstore, after a Saja Boys event.

——————————

– Hanok Bookstore, Seoul – late afternoon, rainy weather

The raindrops drummed gently on the ceramic roof, and the traditional bookstore remained almost empty. It smelled like old wood, aged paper... and cheap incense.

Y/N leafed through a volume of Korean occultism with half-closed eyes, until the doorbell rang. She didn't even turn around. The air around warmed up - a subtle hunch poked her.

Y/N (without looking up):

- There's a romance section there in the background. You can go straight.

Romance Saja (laughing with sweetness):

- What intuition... do you already know that I'm all romance?

Y/N raised his eyes, finding the smile that enchanted millions. He wore a black mask under his chin, the hood of his downed sweatshirt jacket and unconvincing sunglasses.

She looked at the book again.

Y/N:

- I heard your voice before. You sing as if you want to hypnotize an entire church.

(Close the book.)

But to me it sounds just like marketing.

Saja Romance (tilting his head):

- You know who I am... and still ignore me?

Y/N:

- I ignore everyone equally.

He took a step closer to the shelf.

Saja Romance:

- The world revolves around emotion. But you... it's made of granite, right?

(Watch her with genuine interest.)

Have you always been like this?

Y/N:

- Since demons started pretending to be pop stars, yes.

His smile faltered for a second. That was new. A fan would have fainted him just with that look. A hunter would have attacked him. But this girl?

Nothing.

Romance Saja (lowering the tone):

- You feel it... and yet you don't give in. It's almost an offense to my existence.

Y/N (arching the eyebrow):

- Good. So we're even. You offend my intelligence with every wink you give.

Saja Romance:

- Touched.

He leaned against the bookshelf, observing the environment, letting the atmosphere become dense on purpose.

Saja Romance:

- Did you know that most people want to fall in love with something, even if it kills them?

Y/N (colid):

- It only proves how weak people have the survival instinct.

(She closes the book firmly.)

Did you come to suck any soul today?

Romance Saja (whispering):

- Yours, if you let me. But...

(It gets dangerously closer.)

...You don't let anyone get close, do you?

She doesn't back down. Her look was a wall.

Y/N:

- I'll let you. When they deserve it.

The silence between the two was charged - not of sexual tension, as he probably expected, but of pure challenge. She was a puzzle that he couldn't manipulate - and that made him uncomfortable... and curious.

Romance Saja (with the lowest voice):

- Do you hate me?

Y/N:

- No.

(Pause.)

I just think that, of all the demons, you are the most pathetic.

Saja Romance (I really smiled, for the first time):

- So see me as a project. Maybe you'll teach me to be someone better.

Y/N:

- I'm not a possessed boy band babysitter.

She gently pushed him back with the book she was holding. He took two steps back with a defeated, theatrical smile.

Saja Romance (murmuring):

— Y/N...

Y/N:

- If you call me by my name once again with that tone, I'll exorcise you with a limited edition of Mystical Jungianism and make you swallow the pages.

Romance Saja (laying sincerely):

- What a wonderful woman.

Y/N (on your back, leaving):

- And busy. Good night, demon.

She disappeared outside the door, leaving only the sound of the rain and the demon still standing still, half smiling, half... fascinated.

————————

Romance Saja stayed there for a while longer. For the first time in centuries, he felt something he couldn't manipulate. Curiosity... respect? Maybe even an echo of humanity.

And that was more dangerous for him than any hunter with a sword.

—————————————————————————

Since the meeting at the bookstore, Romance Saja, whose real name is Jae-Hyun, couldn't get her out of her head.

Not because of desire.

Not for wounded vanity.

But for something much more dangerous: emotional curiosity - a rare addiction for a demon whose charm has never failed.

Now, he starts to show up where she is. Always with a smile. Always as if it were no big deal.

But Y/N knows. He's hunting. Just not the way you usually do.

————————

—Abandoned subway station - rainy night, neon flickering in wet concrete

The sound of the wind whistled between the empty tracks. She knew she was being followed - she felt the presence like an electricity stopped at the back of her neck.

Y/N (stopping walking, cold):

- You're subtle like a perfume advertisement.

Jae-Hyun (slow steps, quiet smile):

- I prefer "consistent". It's more poetic.

She turns slowly, the rain-soaked hood falling back, revealing the serious, tired, but unbreakable face.

Y/N:

- Will you keep appearing in every corner of the city until I scream your name and throw myself into your arms?

Jae-Hyun:

- No.

(Pause.)

I just... don't understand you. And that bothers me.

Y/N:

- Okay. Draw me later and it's solved.

Jae-Hyun (taking a step closer):

- You challenge me. Ignore me. You see me as something... smaller.

(Look narrows.)

You're not afraid of me.

Y/N:

- Because I know what you are.

And, honestly? I've seen something scarier in the mirror when I wake up.

A crooked smile sprouts on his lips. But the look... doesn't smile. It's concentrated. Obsessive.

Jae-Hyun:

- Do you have any idea what you're doing?

Where are you getting into?

I'm a demon, Y/N. I feed on human emotion.

But you...

(Pause, the low and dangerous voice.)

You're making me feel.

Silence.

She swallows dry - not out of fear, but out of anger. For knowing that it could be true.

Y/N (firm voice):

- That's not my fault. If it's broken inside, fix it. I'm not your repair.

Jae-Hyun:

- I don't want a fix. I want to understand why...

(Pass your hand over your soaked hair.)

Because it's so easy to hate you, and so hard to leave you alone.

Y/N:

- Because you're addicted to someone who doesn't bow to you.

It makes you feel... human.

He stares at her. For the first time without an answer. No smile.

Jae-Hyun (whispering):

- Is that it, then?

Y/N (turning to leave):

- You don't want me. You want to understand yourself through me.

But I'm not a demon mirror.

Jae-Hyun (low voice):

- No. You are fire.

And I've already started to burn.

She stops, for a moment. The rain flows through their temples. But she doesn't turn around.

Y/N:

- It burns alone.

And it disappears through the entrance of the staircase, leaving Jae-Hyun alone, wet, furious... and strangely alive.

—————————————————————————

It's so "he", right? A heartthrob demon who stages his own sadness as if he were in a romantic ballad clip - but in reality it is a rough performance with hidden garden hose.

It's already the third time in the week that Jae-Hyun shows up at the door of his house out of nowhere. Always with some emotionally manipulative excuse. But today... he surpassed himself.

———————

– calm night, residential neighborhood – 10:45 pm

Y/N locks the living room window and walks to the kitchen when he hears three light knocks on the door.

Toctoctoc.

She sighs deeply, already waiting for who it is. When opening the door, there is Jae-Hyun, completely soaked.

The sweatshirt stuck to the body, the hair strands falling on the forehead. The big eyes, shining in "lost dog" mode. The light on the balcony illuminates the scene as if it were the climax of a dorama.

Jae-Hyun (shaky voice):

- I... was walking... and...

(Falsely chokes on the cold)

...It started to rain. I have nowhere to go.

Y/N (look silently, analytical):

- It was 27 degrees 15 minutes ago. And clear sky.

Jae-Hyun (wide eyes):

- But a storm has fallen now, right here...

(Looks dramatically up)

...About me. Cosmic coincidence.

Y/N (looking around):

- The hose behind the column is on.

Silence.

Jae-Hyun's body freezes. He subtly turns his face and sees the hose dripping water behind him, still dripping on the sidewalk floor.

He sighs... and immediately leaves the little theater.

Jae-Hyun (undoing the pose and hugging each other in the arms):

- Okay, I got the staging angle wrong. But I'm really cold!

(Shakes your arms)

These clothes are thin! The concept was "suffered visual", and I... exaggerated!

Y/N (frowning):

- You faked an emotional storm with domestic plumbing.

Jae-Hyun (with that cynical and charming smile):

- Everything for you.

Y/N (closing the door until there is only a sling):

- Go back to hell, clown.

Jae-Hyun (quickly putting his foot between the door):

- Wait! I brought...

(Take something soaked out of your pocket)

...Strawberry rice cake. It's a little wet, but it's still symbolic!

Y/N:

- Did you wet the candy on purpose to look like you were saved from the rain?

Jae-Hyun (smiling shyly):

- I'm an artist. I work with concept.

She leans her forehead against the door. And lets out a defeated sigh.

Y/N (opening the door slowly):

- A towel. A mug of tea. One hour. Without flirting.

And if you drip on my couch, I'll exorcise you with citrus disinfectant.

Jae-Hyun (already entering with open arms):

- Was that a yes?

(Vit triumphant voice:)

This is emotional growth, Y/N!

Y/N (tosping a towel in his face):

- Shut up, hose Aquaman.

————————

He spends exactly 58 minutes pretending to tremble, trying to impress her with his "dramatic suffering".

She pretends she doesn't think it's funny. But he puts an extra blanket over his legs while he pretends to doze off.

He knows. She knows he knows.

But no one comments anything.

Because sometimes, the heart opens in silence... or in poorly staged wet performances.

—————————————————————————

– 3am – Y/N house

Y/N gets up half groggy to drink water. The silence of the dawn is only broken by a noise... plastic? Dripping?

She goes to the living room and freezes at the door.

There is Jae-Hyun.

Sitting on the couch, with a pink tiara with little ears, a translucent face mask with glitter, and a jade roll carefully passing on the cheeks.

Next to him:

• A portable mirror with LED lighting.

• A digital stopwatch beeping softly.

• And... a pot of brigadeiro in half, with the spoon still in his mouth.

Y/N (winking, incredulous):

- Is this an arcane ritual or just someone else's shame?

Jae-Hyun (without shaking, meeke voice):

— Step 9. Deep hydration with hyaluronic acid and starfish collagen.

(Look at her and smile with glitter on her forehead.)

Do you want to participate? I have extra masks. Green tea or marshmallow.

Y/N:

- You're a demon.

Jae-Hyun:

- And a skin like that is not made alone.

(Go back to the roll.)

If I'm going to invade hearts, I need to have invisible pores.

Y/N (walking to the kitchen):

- You're invading patience.

(Tatch the water bottle and come back.)

And the brigadeiro?

Jae-Hyun (takes the pot as if it were a secret):

- The body needs glucose to maintain its natural shine. It's... demonic alchemy.

Y/N:

- This is called sugar addiction.

Jae-Hyun (with the spoon in his mouth):

- This is called coping mechanism.

She watches him for a few seconds. He now does a circular massage with his fingers, with his eyes closed, as if he were in a private spa.

Y/N:

- Have you ever killed someone with your beauty routine?

Jae-Hyun:

- Already. Of envy.

Silence.

Y/N (murmuring):

- It is not possible that the most dangerous dark being in the underworld uses... sparkling soap with the smell of peach.

Jae-Hyun (opens one eye):

- And sulfate-free shampoo. With lunar rice protein.

She can't resist. Laugh. Little, but enough for him to notice.

Jae-Hyun (playing, triumphant):

- Was that a laugh?

Y/N:

- Don't get excited. It was just a muscle spasm.

Jae-Hyun:

- Spasm of admiration. I accept.

Y/N (leaving, rolling your eyes):

- Go to sleep, Glitter from Hell.

Jae-Hyun (shouting low):

- Only after step 13. Magic fixing mist. Respect me.

—————————————————————————

Jae-Hyun became practically an unofficial resident of Y/N's house. He shows up for everything: breakfast, lunch, Netflix, even to water the plants - even without being invited.

But, deep down, he's completely in love. And, after a sequence of embarrassing moments, he decides to give a kiss. But life doesn't make things easy...

———————

Y/N was organizing the bookshelf when he heard the characteristic noise of Jae-Hyun entering the house for the third time that day.

Jae-Hyun (with a crooked smile, holding a half-withered flower):

- I brought this. I thought you liked... things that die slowly, like me.

Y/N let out a resigned sigh and turned to him, crossing his arms.

Y/N:

- You know you can't just enter my house and steal my tea collection like that, right?

Jae-Hyun:

- But I do it for love. And a little gluttony.

He walked towards her, his eyes shining, the flower swinging in his hand as if it were a sword. Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly, Jae-Hyun stumbled on the carpet, lost his balance and fell in the direction of Y/N - who widened his eyes.

Before he hit the ground, Y/N held his arm to avoid falling.

Jae-Hyun (eyes on hers, low and sincere voice):

- Sorry... I don't know how to control the heart - and balance.

Y/N couldn't contain himself and exploded in loud laughter, covering his mouth so as not to look rude.

Y/N (between laughs):

- You're a walking disaster! A beautiful disaster, but a disaster.

Jae-Hyun smiled embarrassed, his eyes shining with that light that you only have when you're in love.

Without thinking too much, he pulled her slightly closer and gave her a soft kiss, a little trembling, but full of sincerity.

Y/N (shocked, stopping laughing):

- Wait... did you only kiss me because you fell?

He smiled naughtyly.

Jae-Hyun:

- Maybe. Or because I can't stand pretending I don't feel anything anymore.

Y/N turned red, looked away and finally laughed again, this time softer.

Y/N:

- You charming idiot.

They stood there, half awkward, half happy - a moment that was strange, cute, and absolutely true.

—————————————————————————

Y/N spent weeks trying to keep his guard up. But Jae-Hyun kept showing up, helping, getting in the way, cooking the wrong way, taking care of her when she got the flu, leaving silly messages in the mirror with lipstick (which he said was "demonic glamour").

Now, she realizes that, without even realizing it, he stayed.

———————

Y/N went down the stairs with her hair stuck anyway, wearing an old sweatshirt. The silence of the house was comfortable, but strange.

She was surprised because there was no low music playing in the kitchen. Not even the smell of tea that he always made the wrong way. Nor the dramatic steps of "I'm approaching you poetically".

The house was... empty of him.

She took the mug, took a sip of water, and stood still looking at the empty room.

Y/N (thought):

"Finally a little peace."

Silence.

More silence.

She let out a sigh and murmured:

Y/N:

- What a pain.

She walked to the door, opened it... and there he was. Sitting on the steps, with your back. The hood of the coat raised. The head down. Hands crossed on their legs. Quiet.

Y/N (surprise):

- Are you here... all this time?

Jae-Hyun (turning slowly):

- I was leaving. I promise.

(Smile, kind of awkward.)

I just didn't want to get in the way anymore. I thought... maybe you were tired of me.

She was silent. Something inside her tightened.

Y/N (low voice):

- I am.

He laughed softly and began to get up.

Y/N (complete, looking into his eyes):

- But I'm also...

(Pause. Swallow dryly.)

...Used to you.

He froze.

Y/N (without staring at him):

- You messed everything up, Jae-Hyun.

I'm practical, quiet, rational.

But then you came, with your beautiful face and brigadeiro at 3 in the morning and a thirteen-step routine for a perfect demonic skin...

(I smile from the corner.)

And somehow stupid, you stayed.

He took two slow steps towards her. The eyes shone, but there was no seduction in the eyes - only tenderness.

Jae-Hyun (low voice):

- Stay... is all I wanted.

She took a deep breath. He didn't smile, but he didn't deviate either.

Y/N:

- Then come in.

And don't touch my tea.

And leave me alone.

And stay.

Jae-Hyun (smiling with sparkle in his eyes):

- Yes, ma'am.

———————————

That night, he lay on the couch with a weird pillow and a lemon-printed blanket that she hated.

But he smiled as if he had won the world.

Y/N stood on the stairs for a while, watching him sleep.

And for the first time, he felt something heat up slowly in his chest.

It was love.

In the most annoying, unexpected... and inevitable way.

—————————

The light in the living room was low. Jae-Hyun was almost falling asleep on the couch, with an arm thrown over his eyes, when he heard her voice coming from the stairs:

Y/N (low, kind of embarrassed):

- Come sleep with me.

Total silence. Not even a mosquito dared to breathe.

Jae-Hyun (rising slowly):

- Did you... really say that? Or was it my demonic soul trying to deceive me with a perfect illusion?

She appeared at the top of the stairs with the usual closed expression, arms crossed and cheeks a little flushed.

Y/N:

- It's not an invitation to be naughty, it's just...

(Turn your eyes)

I don't know. The sofa is bad. You snore when you sleep crooked. And my bed is bigger. That's it, I rationalized.

He was already going up the stairs with the biggest smile in the world stamped on his face.

Jae-Hyun:

- So... rational invitation to share the horizontal rest space.

(Adjain the collar of the shirt.)

I accept with gratitude and humility.

Y/N (rolling your eyes):

- Shut up before I regret it.

⸻

[Interior - Y/N room - a few minutes later]

The bed was with the two lying down, with their backs to each other. The lamp is off. The weather... strange.

Jae-Hyun didn't speak. What was rare.

Y/N couldn't sleep either. The silence between the two was louder than anything.

Y/N (whispering):

- Are you awake?

Jae-Hyun (on the other side, almost in a sigh):

- I'm trying not to breathe loudly so as not to disturb your sleep as a grumpy hunter.

Silence again.

She turns around slowly, still not fully facing him.

Y/N:

- Do you fall in love with everyone like that?

Jae-Hyun (turns to her, calm eyes):

- No.

(Pause.)

I've already liked a lot of people. I've already pretended to like it. I've already been adored.

But loving someone who doesn't love me for free, who doesn't fall for my tricks...

(Look into her eyes.)

...Only you.

Her heart tightened in a strange way. Vulnerable.

Y/N (low voice):

- I still don't know what to do with it.

Jae-Hyun (smiling):

- Just don't push me ot of bed. It's already too good.

She gave a short chuckle, almost imperceptible. And then turned around, turning her back again.

But this time, she pulled his arm to wrap around his waist.

Y/N (murmuring):

- Just for today.

Jae-Hyun (leaning her face to her back):

- Just for today, then.

————————

That night, Jae-Hyun slept peacefully.

No acting, no face mask, no theater.

Only him, really.

And Y/N, in the dark, realized that maybe loving wasn't losing control.

Maybe... it would just be to allow someone to stay. Even when you don't understand why.

—————————————————————————

The sun was beating through the kitchen window. Jae-Hyun was on his back, humming some romantic song while moving a pot on the stove - clearly not knowing what he was doing, but with the greatest dedication in the world.

Y/N, on the other side of the bench, pretended to touch the cell phone.

But actually... I was looking at him.

In disguise.

From time to time.

More and more.

He wore her old sweatshirt, which was wide on his shoulders, with the sleeve falling. The hair is a little messy. The wooden spoon swinging dangerously.

And he was... laughing alone.

With a genuine smile.

Y/N (thought, angry with yourself):

"No. No, no, no. This wasn't supposed to be happening."

She bit her lip, looked away, tried to focus on anything else.

But it was useless.

Because she remembered every gesture:

- Of the stupid flowers he left in the window vase with notes like "flower number 7 of the day, it surpasses you"

- The way he massaged her forehead when she was stressed without saying anything

- From the day he cried watching a stupid drama and said "true love is rare even for demons, you know?"

And the worst?

She was smiling alone now.

Without realizing it.

Jae-Hyun (turning with the spoon in his hand):

- What are you laughing at?

She widened her eyes.

Y/N (dry, trying to hide):

- From your risotto. It looks like a chemical accident.

Jae-Hyun (putting his hand on his chest, pretending drama):

- That's good. Because it was made with an explosion of love.

Y/N (snorting):

- You're unbearable.

Jae-Hyun (approaching with a crooked smile):

- And even so... you let me stay.

He stood still in front of her, with a little piece of rice on his cheek.

She looked at that, hesitated... and cleaned it with her finger.

Silence.

Their eyes met for too long.

Y/N (low voice, unable to hide more):

- You know, right?

Jae-Hyun (whispering):

- I know what?

Y/N:

- That I'm...

(Smough dry)

...Falling in love with you.

His smile disappeared for a second. Not out of sadness. But by surprise.

Jae-Hyun:

- Are you?

Y/N (lowering the eyes):

- Unfortunately, yes.

And I hate to admit it.

Because you're an idiot. A demon. A glitter addict.

And even so...

She looked back at him, with a vulnerable look for the first time.

Y/N:

- I want you here.

Jae-Hyun (lying his forehead to hers, in a whisper):

- I'm already yours, since the first no you told me.

—————————————————————————

They've shared the bed before. They've already hugged each other. They've already slept together.

But today... something has changed.

The looks are longer. The touches, longer.

And the love that grew slowly now pulsates strongly - and wants more than just words.

———————

The light of the lamp is soft. The room is silent, except for the distant sound of a cicada outside.

She comes out of the bathroom with her hair still damp, wearing a wide T-shirt that belonged to him - something intimate and without pretension, but that in her body turns into something else.

Jae-Hyun is already sitting on the bed, her eyes following her every movement. But this time... no jokes. No jokes. Just an intense look, full of reverence.

Y/N (stoping near the bed):

- Why are you looking at me like that?

Jae-Hyun (low, firm voice):

- Because... I waited for this more than I can admit.

(Pause, eyes fixed on hers.)

And yet... I don't want to do anything you don't want.

She smiles sideways, her heart beating fast - for the delicacy, not for the doubt.

Y/N (sincera):

- I want it.

He approaches slowly. He puts his hand on her face carefully, as if it were made of glass and poetry.

The kiss that begins is calm, gentle... but soon it grows, like a controlled flame that can no longer stand to contain itself.

His hands explore her body without haste - his fingers slide down her waist, go up her back, feel the skin and keep every detail as a precious secret.

She responds with the same intensity: the fingers on the back of his neck, pulling slowly, the bodies approaching, the sighs turning into broken silence.

Her wide T-shirt slides through the body and disappears on the floor.

Jae-Hyun (whispering, between kisses):

- You are more beautiful than any ritual, any dream...

(Pause, eyes fixed.)

...And more real than anything I thought I deserved.

She kisses him urgently.

The skin meets skin.

The touch is slow, but firm.

He's not in a hurry.

She doesn't back down.

The bodies intertwine as if they belonged to each other forever, but only now were they allowed to admit it.

Muffled moans, accelerated breaths, the crumpled sheets telling stories that only they will know.

It wasn't just physical.

It was intimate.

It was delivery.

—————————

After...

Jae-Hyun is lying on her side, watching her already half-asleep face.

He runs his fingers slowly over her collarbone and whispers:

Jae-Hyun:

- I didn't come from heaven. Not even from hell.

I came to stay here... with you.

Y/N (eyes closed, smiling):

- So stay. But shut up a little.

He laughs, kisses her forehead and closes his eyes too - for the first time without fear of dreaming about someone.

—————————————————————————

Bonus: Excerpts from Jae-Hyun's routine

1. Cleaning with Korean lunar foam

2. Exfoliation with black sugar from the underworld

3. Iced tonic infused with spiritual rose

4. Fairy tear anti-dark circles ampoule

5. Moisturizing essence with star particles

6. Fabric mask with collagen and glitter

7. Soothing cream with demonic melissa tea

8. Facial massage with jade roll

9. Brigadier (it's not skincare, it's emotional)

10. Shiny soul fixing serum

11. Night cream with dimensional niacinamide

12. Revitalizing mystical mist

13. Self-affirmation in front of the mirror: "You're beautiful, Jae-Hyun."

—————————————————————————

Inspiring name in the post of:

@filijester

[youthguk]

Dream eater | jjk (m) | one-shot

Jungkook is a Dream eater, and you, unknowingly, are his favorite feast.

· Dream fantasy (slightly) · Smut · Angst · Emotional intimacy ·

wc: 15k

warnings: smut (minors do not interact!), oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex (f/m), intense mutual yearning and vulnerability, depressive undertones, angst

an: this one is for those who have ever felt like the world is generous to you with nothing but solitude.

Shards of diamond bright stars pierce Seoul's obsidian sky, their cold light drowning in the city's neon glow. Jungkook leaves his window open, it is not a choice, but rather a necessity. He stares at his ceiling, counting seconds until the hunt begins. Another night, another feast of fears.

Darkness claims him with a lover's embrace. Seoul's infamous nightmare eater surrenders to sleep, his consciousness already splitting at the seams. A traitorous thought whispers: what if tonight will be different.

But it won’t. Reality fractures and he watches his mortal shell from above: a sight that still unnerves him after so many years. Two versions of one being: the peaceful sleeper below, the predator above. His ethereal form sneers at its human disguise. He observes his sleeping form with dark amusement. Such innocent appearance, such deadly truth. With serpentine grace, he slides through the window into the night's waiting arms. The night was young.

His humanity dissolves, leaving only hollow echoes where warmth once dwelled. He exists between heartbeats now, a creature born of twilight and shadow. They call his kind Dream Eaters - night's elite hunters. He doesn't waste time with sweet dreams; terror is his sustenance. Each nightmare consumed fills the endless void within, a momentary relief for an immortal hunger. True sleep eludes him now. Instead, dusk shatters his being like black ice, releasing his hunting self into the dark.

Seoul spreads beneath him, a fever dream in concrete and steel. Skyscrapers rise like obsidian monoliths, their windows gleaming with artificial souls. In their depths, forgotten screens pulse with electric prayers, while he glides past - a phantom in this vast urban wilderness that still hasn't discovered his true name, even after countless nights of feeding.

Like a shadow made of stardust, he dances across Seoul's skyline, his ethereal form weaving between moonlit spires and rain-slicked rooftops. The city breathes beneath him, each exhalation carrying whispers of secrets too delicate for mortal ears. In his wake, silence blooms, the rich stillness of midnight possibility.

Night after night, he slips into dreams uninvited yet inexorably summoned. These sleeping minds call to him like sirens, their fears pulsing like dark beacons through the city's unconscious web. He moves between them with practiced grace, a thief of terrors, collecting their darkness like black pearls.

The nightmares he finds are symphonies of fear, each uniquely haunting. Here, a father's dream crystalizes into gray horror: baby's breath turned to cinders. There, a bride-who-never-was wanders an infinite gallery of white gowns, each mirror reflecting a different life unlived. A child runs through corridors of betrayal, pursued by a mother's face worn like a mask by something ancient and hungry.

Some dreams twist reality until it snaps: vast oceans swallow the sky whole, wolves with mirror-glass eyes hunt through endless forests, smiles split open to reveal universes of teeth. Each nightmare carries its own signature of dread, and each feeds him differently- sending electric shivers through his being, temporarily filling the endless void within.

Yet this beautiful, terrible dance leaves him hollower with each performance. The feast brings no joy, only momentary relief from an hunger old as starlight. In the quietest hours, when the city holds its breath, he questions whether he has become the very nightmare that haunts other nightmares- a shadow feeding on shadows.

Though neither mercy nor comfort fall within his nature, he continues his eternal duty as a void that consumes the dark.

In the waking world, he is barely there- an outline at best, a quiet presence with a heartbeat too soft to echo. His voice, when used, never quite fills a room. His laughter, when forced, folds in on itself before it reaches the walls.

His sanctuary lies behind walls of code and LED glow, where ones and zeros don't ask questions. IT specialist: the perfect camouflage for someone who exists in binary- human by day, nightmare-devourer by night. Here, in this digital cocoon, the absence of human connection isn't loneliness- it's salvation.

Jimin shows up sometimes, arms full of takeout and stories that move faster than time itself. Taehyung lounges on his couch like he owns it, flipping through half-read books Jungkook never finished. Jin nags him to open the windows and let light in. Yoongi doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands heavy- sharp and unafraid. Hoseok once cried laughing on Jungkook’s kitchen floor after too much wine. Namjoon leaves poems folded in the spines of Jungkook’s abandoned notebooks, like quiet offerings to whatever ghost he’s become.

He’s grateful for them- a bittersweet anchor to reality- but even in their presence, he feels like a thread unraveling just beyond the edge of fabric. They don’t ask why he’s always tired, always pale, always late in answering, because they know better than to push. Still, none of them understand the weight he drags through each day, the way his hands tremble when someone mentions a dream too vividly.

The thought of accidentally stumbling into their dreams haunts him like a shadow he can't shake. Because what if- what if one night he sees Namjoon trapped beneath dark waters, lungs filling with infinity? Or finds Jimin screaming silently behind walls of glass that won't break no matter how hard he pounds his fists against them? Or watches, paralyzed, as Taehyung runs through endless corridors of flame, feet leaving burning footprints in his wake? He simply couldn't.

Sometimes, in moments when the night feels particularly heavy, he whispers desperate prayers to deities who've long since stopped listening, begging them to keep his friends' dreams far, far away from his hunger.

Reality slips through his fingers like smoke these days, all gossamer-thin and just as substantial. The walls breathe shadows, rooms fold in on themselves. Time stumbles forward in awkward lurches, dragging its feet across calendar pages that mean nothing anymore. The windows collect fog like secrets, exhaling quiet confessions into the dawn. His journals - half-burned, because some truths are too heavy to keep whole- gather dust in corners where light fears to tread. And that mirror in the hallway? It only remembers his face if he stares long enough to make it nervous, catching glimpses of himself like static between channels.

The only thing that ever feels real is the ache beneath his ribs followed by the loneliness: faithful shadows that never leaves.

And the slow, exquisite agony of wearing humanity like an ill-fitting coat.

It begins like breathing - not the shallow gasps of the living, but that bone-deep exhale when your body finally remembers how to let go. The surrender comes easy now, practiced as a prayer, inevitable as nightfall. His consciousness unspools like silk in water, each thread of reality slipping loose until he's floating free of flesh and bone and all those heavy human things.

The city cradles him in her concrete arms as he rises, weightless as midnight fog. Through layers of rust-worn pipes and grief-stained walls he drifts, each molecule of his being singing that ancient song of untethering. Seoul stretches below like a tired goddess, her neon veins pulsing dim beneath a blanket of shadow, her streets winding like whispered secrets. The streetlights flicker their morse code confessions to no one, while towers pierce the darkness like broken teeth, watching with eyes gone dull from seeing too much.

He drifts aimlessly through the night, a moth drawn to the flickering flames of human fear. It's funny, really, how terror became his true north- the only compass that ever made sense anymore. Because fear? That's the sweet poison that keeps his kind alive, the dark nectar they trade in whispers and shadows.

The night unfolds like delicate origami, each dream a different shade of darkness. First comes a whispered tragedy: woman dreams of her mother's voice echoes through a phone's dead silence, each unanswered scream carving valleys of helplessness into her soul. Then, a nightmare painted in motion - man’s caught in an infinite loop of terror, hands white-knuckled on a steering wheel that won't save anyone, least of all the child who keeps appearing in his headlights like a recurring heartbreak. And finally, there's the boy who could be a metaphor for longing itself, standing before an eternally closed door while flowers wilt and die in his grasp, hope rotting petal by petal in time-lapse agony.

He moves through dreams like a ghost through fog - quick, quiet, taking only what he needs to survive. Never lingering. Never looking too long at the faces of those whose fears he consumes. The moment that hollow ache inside him dulls to something bearable, he's already fading away, a shadow slipping between minds like smoke through fingers, nameless and untraceable as midnight itself.

And then your presence washes over him, unexpected and unmistakable in the dark. You are beautiful, he thinks, and the thought flutters like a trapped bird in his chest before he crushes it between his ribs. Dream eaters aren't meant for love, aren't built for the delicate dance of attraction. They consume fear, devour nightmares - they don't yearn for the very souls they feed upon.

It hits different this time. There's no screaming terror clawing at his consciousness, no desperate siren song of fear pulling him in. Your dream? It's barely a whisper, soft and hesitant like the ghost of a first kiss, tugging at something deep in his chest that he thought he'd buried years ago. And gods, isn't that the most terrifying thing of all?

The dream unfolds like an old photograph bleached by time - a street stretching endlessly into nothing, all washed-out greys and misted edges. Faceless figures move in perfect, terrible synchronization, their bodies flowing like water around invisible obstacles. There's something deeply wrong about the way they move, each step too precise, too rehearsed. Their features are smudged away by sleep's careless hand. They march onward, an army of beautiful emptiness, never breaking stride, never glancing down.

And then he sees you, a lonely figure kneeling in the heart of this indifferent choreography. The world spins madly on around you- a blur of faceless bodies moving in their perfect, terrible dance- but you remain still, an island of grief in an ocean of motion. Your hands- trembling like autumn leaves in a storm- cradle something (someone?) in your lap, the weight of it pressing crescents into your palms. A body, maybe, though the face is blurred into nothing, like your mind couldn’t bear to fill in the details.

He lingers at the edges of your dream like a half-formed thought, wrapped in shadows. He shouldn't care- you're just another dreamer, another midnight soul crying out in the dark. But here he is, watching the way grief pools in your hands like liquid silver, listening to the way your voice breaks around words meant for Death's ears alone.

"I'm here... I'm trying..." Your voice catches, breaks, shatters like glass in your throat. "please just- please wake up."

Your hands move with the desperate rhythm of someone trying to hold water, pressing against the faceless form again and again and again. Each motion is a prayer, each touch a plea bargaining with whatever gods might be listening. You're begging for warmth, for breath, for any sign that this horror cradled in your lap isn't as permanent as it feels. But the figure remains still, already dissolving. The crowd around you moves faster now, a tide of indifference with undertow teeth. Their gazes slide past you like oil on water, heads tilting just enough to say: we saw you fail, and we'll remember.

Jungkook can't help but lean closer, magnetized by something raw and familiar in your expression that makes his chest ache in ways he doesn't have words for. There's no panic painted across your features, no desperate thrashing against fate's cruel hand. Just pure, crystalline despair - the kind that settles in your bones like an old friend. He recognizes it instantly: the hollow resignation of someone who's danced this dance before, who knows with certainty that they'll waltz with failure again until the universe finally tires of their stumbling steps.

The colors begin to fade. That’s how it always goes, dreams eroding at the edges once the fear peaks, once the ending arrives. He's about to retreat into the safety of shadows, into the familiar dance of watching-but-never-seen, when something impossible happens.

Your head lifts, eyes finding him with unerring precision through the crowd - not searching, not begging the universe for mercy, but piercing straight through every careful barrier he's built, through the ancient veil between watchers and dreamers. Your gaze meets his with the quiet certainty of a key sliding home, soft as a secret yet steady as truth, seeing him with a clarity that defies all the rules that were ever written.

Jungkook stills.

His breath catches in his throat like a half-formed prayer. His body freezes mid-existence, every particle of his being suspended in perfect, terrible stillness. Because this? This is wrong. Impossible. This breaks every rule written in stardust and shadow.

Dreamers don't see Dream Eaters - it's the first law of their twisted existence, carved into the bones of reality itself. He is meant to be nothing more than a whisper between heartbeats, a shadow's shadow, the thief that slips between dreams like silk through trembling fingers. But your eyes don't look away.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words barely above a whisper. “I really wanted to help. But I couldn’t. I guess I’m not good enough.”

And with that the dream shatters. Like a mirror hit with reality's sledgehammer. Reality folds like wet origami, space and time collapsing into themselves with the grace of a dying star. The sound doesn't just stop, it un-becomes, each frequency turning to static before dissolving into the void. Gravity forgets its own name, light breaks its promises, and the whole world turns itself inside out like a glove made of nightmares.

And Jungkook wakes.

He bolts upright in a body that suddenly feels too small for him. His breath comes in sharp, broken waves. The room around him doesn’t make sense for several long moments.

The digital clock's red glow illuminates 03:41 as moonlight streams through the perpetually open window, the silence broken only by his thundering heartbeat. His throat constricts as the impossible reality sinks in - dreamers aren't supposed to see Dream Eaters, yet you had not only seen him but acknowledged his presence with an apology that now echoes through his mind.

And he can’t even fall back to sleep now as his body and mind feel fully recharged for the first time in…years?

What the hell even happened and who are you?

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Daylight always arrived like a mistake in Jungkook’s world.

It slipped in sideways through the window, pale and apologetic, illuminating the floating dust and the edges of his too-quiet apartment. He lay there for a long time, not moving, watching the ceiling blur and sharpen as his vision shifted, over and over again. The sheets clung to him like a second skin, damp with the sweat of something he couldn’t name.

Your voice had followed him into waking. ‘I really wanted to help.” 

His chest ached like he’d run miles in a body he hadn’t worn right in years. His limbs felt heavier than usual, but it wasn’t the familiar hunger. It was something deeper. Something quieter. A seed of longing lodged beneath his sternum, pulsing.

When he finally sat up, it was with the dazed caution of someone who’d witnessed a miracle and didn’t trust himself to speak of it aloud. The morning passed in a blur - coffee untouched, the hum of his computer ignored, a dozen emails blinking like signals from a world he no longer felt part of.

By noon, desperation overruled disbelief. He sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop glowing in the dim cave of his living room, typing with fingers that trembled too much to be steady.

dreamers seeing things in dreams? 

lucid dreaming hallucination?

can dream figures see you back

person spoke to me in dream is it real

can people share dreams??

dreamwalking

spiritual visitation

ancient dream lore

Each query returned pages filled with contradictions and crystal shops. Forums full of strangers comparing stories of sleep paralysis and shadow men, Reddit threads dissecting shared hallucinations and “astral projection for beginners.” The phrase Dream Eater brought up one anime character, a few urban legends, and a horrifying deep-sea fish.

Each search result felt like chasing smoke - close enough to see but too insubstantial to grasp. None of it rang with resonance of truth, that quiet certainty that whispers "here, finally, are the answers you seek." How could it, really, when his entire existence was a footnote in reality's margins, a story written in invisible ink between the lines of what most people called "normal"? Still, he had to try. Had to know. The soft click of the laptop closing felt like admitting defeat.

But the memory of your eyes finding his through that veil of unreality haunted him like a half-remembered lullaby. You had seen him and that impossible fact echoed through his mind.

For the first time since forever, his thumb hovered over the cursed group chat icon.

[Jungkook]: anyone wanna hang out tonight?

[Jin]: the prophecy.... it's happening

[Taehyung]: screenshots or it didn't happen

[Hoseok]: HELLO??? WHO IS THIS AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR HERMIT

[Yoongi]: squints suspiciously in elder

[Namjoon]: hold up let me check if hell froze over

[Jimin]: do we bring wine or whiskey

[Jimin]: omw with Both because this is clearly an emergency

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By seven, they arrived- five different energies orbiting his living room like planets around something newly magnetic.

Jimin swept in with enough takeout to feed an army and Taehyung materialized with his camera (because god forbid a moment go undocumented) and approximately one hundred and one questions burning holes in his tongue. Hoseok didn't just enter - he arrived, carrying sunshine in his pockets like it was spare change. Jin brought his particular flavor of chaos wrapped in sarcasm and perfect timing. Yoongi slipped in like a shadow with eyes that read novels in the spaces between words. And Namjoon brought books he forgot to give back two years ago and didn’t mention it.

And they all brought their eyes: wide and curious. Like they were witnessing the birth of something rare and wild and wonderful.

“You look… different,” Jimin said, biting into a tangerine like he was studying Jungkook instead of the fruit.

“Yeah,” Taehyung added, leaning in with narrowed eyes. “You sleeping now or what? The purple zombie rings are gone.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, though a quiet thrill climbed up his spine at the idea that maybe, just maybe, something in him had shifted enough for them to notice.

“Must be lighting,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

“Oh, he bites now.” Jin gasped. “Our boy’s got fight in him again.”

There was laughter. Real, echoing warmth. For the first time in ages, Jungkook didn’t feel like he was watching through glass. He spoke and laughed, carelessly. He accepted the second drink and let himself answer questions without flinching. And for a few minutes, the ache inside his chest dimmed, dulled into something almost human. But beneath the buzz and the hum, the stories and the teasing, something itched.

You weren’t there. He needed to try again. Not to see you. Not to hold you. Just… for research. Just to know whether it was a fluke. A misfire. A one-time glitch in a cursed existence.

"Hey," he said, halfway through Jin's story about a botched blind date, "hypothetically…how would you find someone if you only knew their face?"

The silence stretched for exactly 0.3 seconds - just long enough for his words to sink into their collective consciousness.

And then, like a dam breaking under the weight of six years' worth of pent-up matchmaking energy, chaos erupted: “You met someone?”, “Wait, is this about a girl?”, “Who is she? What does she look like?”, “Oh my God, finally!”, “Is she real, or one of your AI clients?”

Jungkook tried to look annoyed, but the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “She’s just someone I saw… briefly,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie.

Jimin leaned in. “Where?”

Jungkook blinked, the weight of their expectant stares pressing against his skin like static electricity. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, a leaden thing threatening to spill past his lips. "Somewhere near... Jongno," he managed, the lie tasting like copper. It wasn't completely false. "I think."

"You should go back," Namjoon offered with that gentle wisdom of his, like he was suggesting something as simple as retracing steps to find lost keys. "If it was fate or whatever, maybe it'll happen again."

He nodded mechanically, swallowing back a laugh that might have come out too bitter. Fate? No, this was something else entirely - something written in the spaces between sleeping and waking. This was you.

They didn't know. And this should always stay like that. The truth was a luxury he couldn't afford, not when it meant risking the warmth in their eyes turning to horror. Not when it meant watching their smiles crack like porcelain hitting concrete. Better to keep this cursed existence locked behind his sleep deprived eyes where it belonged, where it couldn't hurt anyone but himself.

But after they left- after the dishes were cleaned and the last echoes of laughter faded into memory- he found himself drawn to the window like a moth to streetlight, watching Seoul's fog paint poetry across the skyline in shades of maybe.

His reflection stared back at him, a ghost caught between worlds, and wasn't that just perfectly fitting? Because how do you find someone who exists in the space between sleeping and waking? How do you trace footprints left in dreams?

You looked at his cursed existence and didn't turn away. The fog crawled closer, wrapping the city in its gentle suffocation, and he pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The worst part wasn't the not knowing. It wasn't even the ache of remembering.

No, the worst part was the quiet voice in his head whispering: what if that was it? What if that single moment of being truly seen was all he'd ever get?

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The next few nights unfolded like a punishment disguised as routine. Jungkook slipped into the dark as he always had, body hollowed out and spirit stretched thin, the hunger beneath his ribs pulsing like it had a voice of its own. But tonight? Tonight wasn't about feeding on fear. Tonight was about finding you.

Never in his years of navigating dreamscapes had he been picky about whose nightmares he consumed. Before you, he'd been content to drift through the dark like some cosmic vacuum cleaner of terror, taking whatever scraps of fear the universe saw fit to give him.

But now he moved through dreams like a lovesick ghost, all his usual grace replaced by desperate yearning. Each mind he touched was just another disappointment, another "sorry, wrong nightmare" in his endless search for you.

A boy dreamed of being trapped in a theater where the seats whispered his secrets aloud. A woman dreamt she was back in her wedding dress, but the aisle stretched endlessly, her legs frozen mid-step. A faceless man sprinted down a corridor made entirely of mirrors, each one showing his worst mistake on loop.

He fed, but it was a hollow thing. Like trying to fill an ocean with raindrops. His essence ghosted through their nightmares as he searched their unseeing faces for something. Recognition? A glimpse of what you'd given him? But their eyes slid past him, unseeing and unknowing.

And wasn't that just the way of things? The natural order he'd accepted since forever? He was meant to be unseen, unnoticed - a shadow between heartbeats, a whisper between worlds, the thing that makes you question whether that nightmare was real or just another bad dream.

So why had you looked right at him and seen straight through to his core?

The ache followed him into daylight like a particularly clingy ghost, settling somewhere between his ribcage and his common sense. It wasn't just hunger anymore, this was yearning -  and isn't that just the most inconvenient thing for a nightmare eater to catch?

So he did what any sleep-deprived supernatural being would do when faced with emotions: something absolutely ridiculous.

The notebook emerged from its tomb of tangled cables like some ancient artifact, blank pages accusingly white. The pencil felt wrong in his hands, like trying to hold onto stardust or catch morning fog in a jar.

He tried to draw you. And it was a foolish idea for someone whose artistic peak was stick figures in middle school. But how do you capture the way someone's soul looks when it's breaking? How do you sketch the sound of a voice that doesn't shake even when the world is falling apart?

The first attempt looked like something between a sleep paralysis demon and a badly photographed ghost. Your jaw came out looking like it belonged in a geometry textbook and your eyes were all wrong, missing that galaxy of sadness he'd seen. The mouth was either too soft or too harsh, never quite the perfect paradox he remembered.

But he kept going: page after page, like some possessed art student during finals week. It wasn't about getting it right. It was about holding onto that impossible second when warmth and sorrow danced together in your eyes, when your voice carried steel wrapped in silk, when your apology felt like a key turning in a lock he didn't know existed.

The final result looked less like a portrait and more like someone had given a pencil to a particularly emotional rain cloud. He stared at it, tasting failure like burnt coffee on his tongue, and wondered when exactly he'd lost his mind.

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Then, four nights later, the universe shifted on its axis. The feeling hit like a punch to the soul - not the usual gnawing hunger, but something electric. Something that made his phantom form vibrate like a tuning fork struck against destiny. The very air seemed to bend around him, dream-light filtering through reality's cracks in that impossible shade of lilac that screamed you.

He moved like a man possessed through the dreamscape, muscle memory pulling him across a city that existed only in shadow-space. Past landmarks that belonged to no waking map: a metal spire wearing its rust like a crown of thorns, obsidian rooftops with their hearts of green glass, a water tower that sang silence into the void.

And there you were.

You looked different in this light - clearer, sharper, like someone had wiped fog from a mirror. He watched you with the kind of intensity that would've been criminal in daylight, cataloging every detail like a drowning man counting his last breaths.

God, I'm literally stalking someone through their dreams, he thought, and the realization should've tasted like shame but monsters don't get to play by human rules, do they? And that's what he was now - something that lived in the spaces between heartbeats, feeding on fear like others fed on bread. So maybe this wasn't an obsession at all. Maybe this was devotion with teeth.

He stepped forward, and reality bent. The dream opened its arms like a lover welcoming him home, and he fell into your nightmare like he was always meant to be there.

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He feels it in his bones before his eyes catch up - that telltale whisper of wrong that makes the dream-edges curl like burning paper. Not because anything looks off. But because nightmares are patient things, content to wait until the perfect moment to shatter your happiness into glass.

The lights hit him like a physical thing, a cascade of stark white that makes his world spin sideways for a heartbeat. The air practically vibrates with sound - thunderous applause that seems to shake the very foundations of this dream-space, making reality tremble at its seams. His fingers part heavy velvet curtains just enough to see.

There you are, bathed in spotlight like some ethereal being stepped straight out of a fairytale. Silver and gold paint you in glory as you stand among your fellow dancers, clutching flowers like they're made of starlight. Your smile is soft and wide as you wave to the faceless crowd. Their features are a blur- a sea of mouths and hands and sound- but their adoration is unmistakable. The stage is yours.

And Jungkook forgets how to exist for a moment. Because you're not just beautiful, you're incandescent. Free. The weight of the world has slipped from your shoulders and left pure joy in its wake.

His heart stutters in his chest as he watches you spin across the stage, accepting another armful of flowers with a laugh that could make flowers grow in winter. Your happiness is a living thing, spilling from every movement, every gesture, until you're practically glowing brighter than the stage lights themselves.

This isn't fear or darkness or anything close to a nightmare. For a heartbeat, a dangerous sort of hope unfurls in his chest - what if the rules have changed? What if whatever cosmic force lets him devour nightmares has finally decided to let him taste sweeter dreams too?

Something shifts in the air like a record scratch in slow motion, like the moment before a glass hits concrete. A shiver crawls down his spine with icy fingers, and there's that familiar weight settling behind his ribs, cold and heavy as a tomb.

The applause warps, twisting into something wrong, something hungry. It's too sharp now, too insistent, like a thousand hands clapping in perfect, terrible synchronization. The lights stutter and snap, a violent morse code of white-hot panic. And the audience? Their faces blur and stretch like melting wax, features running together until they're nothing but a grotesque sea of emptiness. Then, cutting through it all like a knife through silk, a voice:

"Get off that stage." The words slice through the dreamlight like shattered glass, and then she materializes - all sharp angles and barely contained rage, heels striking the floorboards. She's a storm in human form, fury written in every line of her face, and when she reaches for you, her fingers are iron bands around your wrist.

"Mom, stop!" Your scream tears through the air, raw and desperate, but she's unmovable as marble.

The scene fractures - dancers reaching with helpless hands, voices rising in a desperate chorus. "Mrs. Y/L/N, don't take her away!" someone pleads into the chaos. "She has a god-given talent- please!"

But she might as well be carved from stone, deaf to everything but her own determination as she drags you backstage. Your sobs echo off the walls like broken music, and Jungkook follows because gravity itself couldn't hold him back now.

The dream twists and writhes around both of you, corridors sprouting like dark veins lined with ghostly posters and mirrors that reflect nothing but shadows. You're fracturing at the edges, voice splintering like crystal as you stumble in her wake, and something in Jungkook's chest aches with an intensity that threatens to tear him apart.

"Why?" Your voice breaks like shattered dreams. "Why are you destroying everything I've worked for?"

"A doctor,"she spits the word like venom, her grip a steel trap around your wrist. "That's what you'll be. This little... Dance fantasy? It dies. Tonight."

And your heart shatters. The sound of it must echo through the dreamscape because your next words come out raw, bleeding, "Please, I can't! I won't survive there. Don't make me live inside someone else's story, please, I'm begging you!"

"Your grandfather's deathbed wish," she wielded the words like a blade, each syllable precise and cutting. "Or did you forget? Did you think you could trade his legacy for…What exactly? Spotlights and pirouettes?"

The word “grandfather” hits you like a physical blow. Your soul folds in on itself like a dying star, grief and guilt gravitational forces too strong to escape. Your sobs aren't just sound anymore - they're poetry written in pain, each breath a verse of despair.

That's when Jungkook materializes from shadow and starlight, his presence suddenly solid as truth between worlds.

"Enough." Just one word, but it does the work. He moves like darkness given form, placing himself between you and her like a shield. And suddenly your dream bows to his will and your mother dissolves.

Reality bends. The backstage dissolves into the empty stage, now a hollow cathedral of shadows. You're there, crumpled on the floor like a discarded dream, flowers scattered around you like fallen stars. A single petal trembles by your ankle, then stills.

Moving silently across the stage, he watches your tears glisten like silver rivers on feverish skin until you lift your head and speak with a raw yet steady voice,"It's you again."

Those three words cascade through his reality like an avalanche, shattering every certainty he's ever known - this isn't merely coincidence or imagination or some flaw in the dream-fabric, but rather an impossible truth: among the billions of dreamers who forget him nightly, you alone can pierce his invisibility, can know him.

In that very moment Jungkook understands something terrifying and beautiful:

You’re not some glitch in his world.

He’s an aberration in yours.

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You're curled into yourself like a wounded bird when you finally meet his gaze again, your eyes tracing the planes of his face with the hesitant reverence of someone trying to piece together a dream from morning-fog memories.

"Where have I seen you before?" The words slip from your lips like a secret.

Jungkook's throat constricts around unspoken truths, but he plays his part like the supernatural being he is. He settles beside you- close enough to count your heartbeats, far enough that the space between you aches like a physical thing. Your sadness wraps around him like smoke, familiar as his own shadow.

"Nowhere," he breathes, the lie tasting like stardust on his tongue. "We're strangers."

But you just laugh, soft and worn around the edges, brushing away a wayward strand of hair with fingers that tremble ever so slightly.

“No way,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s no way I could make up a face like that.

His heart does this stupid little stumble in his chest at your words. You catch his expression, that deer-in-headlights look that makes him seem impossibly young for half a second and suddenly you're laughing, the sound pure and bright enough to make the dream-shadows retreat.

"Oh my god," you say, and there's a warmth in your voice he hasn't heard before, like honey in sunlight. "My subconscious really said 'here's an ethereally beautiful boy who blushes when you compliment him.' That's just... devastating, actually."

He turns away, but not before you catch the way his ears flush pink. It's not the embarrassment that makes his chest ache but the cruel irony of being seen so clearly by someone who thinks you're nothing but a dream.

"I'm nobody special," he murmurs to the floorboards, voice rough with something he can't name. "Just... just a guy."

The laugh you share is gentle as twilight. A fragile thread connecting two souls who shouldn't be able to touch at all.

But beneath his smile, something in Jungkook splinters like stained glass catching sunlight. Because you still don't know. How could you? To you, he's nothing but a beautiful fever dream, a figment spun from stardust and desperate wishes. Just another coping mechanism your mind conjured from the static between sleeping and waking. And maybe that's easier and safer. But it still burns.

He wants to say something about what just happened: about stages and spotlights and the way your mother's ghost left bruises on your dreams, but the words catch in his throat like broken wings.

"This was... a lot," he manages with a soft voice.

You laugh, but it's the kind of laugh that bleeds at the edges. Your eyes find the darkness above, searching for answers in the void.

"This?" The word falls from your lips like a tired prayer. "This is nothing compared to my real life."

And something in him shatters completely. "So this is just the tip of the iceberg?" he whispers, afraid of the answer.

"Yeah." You don’t elaborate further.

The dream-lights have long since faded, the phantom flowers scattered to dust. You sit there in the hollow dark, a masterpiece painted in shades of exhaustion, looking like the world took everything that made you shine and left behind only shadows.

"I haven't danced in six years," you confess to the darkness, each word heavy as lead. "Haven't even stepped on a stage. Med school swallowed me whole right after graduation. Now I work part-time in the emergency department. Night shifts, mostly." Your voice cracks on those last words like ice in spring.

His breath catches. The kind of work where Death sits in the break room, drinking coffee like just another coworker.

"I see things," you continue, voice hollow as autumn wind through dead leaves. "People bleeding out. Crying. Dying. Alone. I patch them up with steady hands and pretend my soul isn't unraveling stitch by stitch." The silence between you grows teeth. "Six years," you whisper to the shadows. "Six years of my life fed to the machine of parental pride while I slowly forget how to breathe."

Something ancient and wounded bleeds into Jungkook's voice. "You don't deserve to be anyone's sacrifice."

Your laugh sounds like glass breaking in slow motion. "And yet."

Then your eyes find his and the world tilts on its axis because you're looking at him like you can see straight through to where his soul should be. Not as shadow-walker or dream-fragment. As something terrifyingly, wonderfully real.

"I remember your last dream," Jungkook's entire being stutters to a halt. "The nightmare with the faceless thing."

"Please don't," you breathe, folding smaller, as if you could origami yourself out of existence. "I don’t want to talk about it."

He watches your breath catch like fabric on thorns and nods. Some wounds are still too fresh to name and he can wait. Or never bring it up again if you wish.

“You know,” he says gently, “this is a dream. You’re not a prisoner here. This world is your world, it can be whatever you want.”

He rises to his feet like morning mist, extending a hand that holds universes in its palm. For a heartbeat, you hesitate, but some offers transcend thought and your fingers find his.

"You can wish," he whispers, voice soft as starlight, and snaps.

In a blink, the lights return. So does the thunderous ovation. The spotlight glows around you like a blessing. Cameras flash, dancers reappear like smoke. The energy floods back into the dream like breath into a drowning chest.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside you: pure, untamed, tasting of forgotten summers, and you throw up a hand against the brilliant chaos of it all.

Before you can think better of it, your fingers are tangled with his and you're running backstage, dragging this beautiful fever dream behind you. Your giggles echo off the walls like wind chimes, and for a moment you're seventeen again, before the world taught you how to be silent.

“That was fun,” you breathe, brushing rebel strands from your flushed face. "Wish I could handle my nightmares with that kind of flair."

His answering grin is soft at the edges, but something in your expression shifts before he can speak. "I don't... I don't actually want this anymore."

He blinks, starlit eyes questioning. "Why?"

"Because I grew up," you say, voice barely a whisper now. "I have responsibilities. Real ones. Dreams like this... they're not for people like me anymore. Back then I was seventeen and stupid and…" Your voice catches. "I can't afford to be that person now."

"What do you want, then?" The question hangs between you like suspended stardust.

"Nothing," you finally breathe, the word falling like autumn leaves. "I just want to stop existing in the real world for a while."

And the way you say it - there's no bitterness there. Just bone-deep exhaustion and raw honesty. Something in him fractures, and the words spill out before he can catch them.

"Can I…" he pauses, voice going soft. "I know it's weird but... can I hug you?"

Your eyebrow arches, a spark of mischief dancing in your eyes. "Look at you, consent-king behavior,” you tease, lips curving. "Of course you can, you absolute masterpiece of my subconscious."

He lets out a soft laugh that catches in his throat. His arms find their way around you with gentleness, but when you lean into him something ancient and lonely inside his chest just shatters. The hug deepens and suddenly there's nothing ethereal about it anymore; it's all solid warmth and thundering heartbeats and the impossible reality of two souls finding anchor in each other through the veil of dreams.

For the first time since this curse claimed him, Jungkook feels real. Not a dream-walker, not nightmare-eater, just a boy being held like he matters. You stay tangled in each other's gravity as the dreamscape bleeds away like watercolors in rain, both pretending you can't feel the way your fingers clutch a little tighter with each fading second.

When consciousness claims him back, dragging him gasping into dawn's tender light, something's different. The usual hollow ache is gone, replaced by something electric and alive that makes his whole being sing. And in that moment, with Seoul's sunrise painting his walls in gold, Jungkook knows it with the certainty usually reserved for natural laws: 

Even if it takes lifetimes, he's going to find his way back to you.

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Jungkook can't stop thinking about you.

You linger in his mind, seeping into every crack and crevice of his consciousness. Your presence is a ghost that haunts the spaces between keystrokes, between breaths, between the mundane moments when his hands forget their purpose and his thoughts spiral back to you like moths to flame.

He's memorized the cadence of your voice, cataloged every micro-expression that crossed your face, archived the exact weight of you against his chest like it's precious data his heart can't bear to lose. Time stretches like pulled taffy as he sits on his floor, back pressed against an unforgiving wall, absently tracing infinity symbols on a coffee mug that's as cold and forgotten as his attempts at productivity.

There's a quiet irony in how his relationship with sleep has transformed. What was once a velvet-lined prison cell where he performed his gim duty - has become something sacred. Something anticipated. Now he's a lovesick teenager checking his phone every five minutes, except instead of waiting for a text, he's waiting for consciousness to slip away so he can find you again.

But of course - of fucking course - that's when his brain decides to throw an absolute rebellion. Excitement pulses through him like caffeine. His body begs for rest while his mind runs circles. The very thing that once came without effort now eludes him.

When sleep finally deigns to take him, it's with all the grace of a drunk trying to fit a key in a lock. But none of that matters because he finds you. He knows the path now, could walk it blindfolded: past the skylight with its spiderweb cracks, around the chimney that leans like a tired soldier, beneath the neon sign that flickers like a dying firefly. This isn't wandering anymore, it’s muscle memory, this is gravity, the inevitable pull of two stars caught in each other's orbit. And there it is again - your window, soft light spilling through curtains, you're dreaming already.

He steps inside.

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The dream whispers into existence like a secret. Sterile white walls stretch endlessly, their fluorescent veins humming a synthetic lullaby that only hospitals know how to sing. The air tastes of antiseptic and quiet desperation.

You materialize before him - a warrior in wrinkled scrubs, squaring off against a bureaucrat whose clipboard might as well be a shield. Exhaustion paints shadows beneath your eyes, but defiance burns brighter.

"I need a day off," you say, each word precise as a scalpel.

The administrator's sigh could fill a balloon with disappointment. "We're understaffed. Again. Find someone to switch with you, then we'll talk."

Your jaw sets like concrete, shoulders bearing the weight of too many sleepless nights. "I've been on four night shifts in a row," you breathe, your voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.

He shrugs, armor-plated in indifference. "It's not personal."

Your laugh is sharp as broken glass. "It's exhaustion."

But then - your gaze catches on something beyond him, where Jungkook stands like a shadow. Your expression softens, relief bleeding into your features. "Oh, finally. Maybe you'll help me figure out a perfect excuse to give my boss so I can sleep for more than four hours."

Jungkook glides forward, midnight grace in human form. His head tilts, curiosity dancing in his eyes. "Exploitative boss?" he inquires, voice smooth as silk.

You nod, grave as a judge. "Master manipulator."

He considers this cosmic injustice for a heartbeat. Then, with elegant precision, he lifts a hand. One snap - and reality fractures. The administrator dissolves, leaving only empty air where bureaucracy once stood.

Your eyes spark with indignation. "Hey! I wanted to yell at him. At least here."

Jungkook's smile curves like a crescent moon. "Why waste dream energy on that?"

Before protest can bloom on your lips, the world begins to melt. Hospital walls dissolve like watercolors, sterile white bleeding into impossible color and the air transforms, becoming warm.

And suddenly - sky. Endless, infinite sky. Clouds drift beneath your feet like islands of sugar, while aurora colors paint the heavens in sweeping brushstrokes of pink and violet. You turn slowly, wonder breaking across your face like dawn.

Jungkook watches, memorizing the way joy transforms you. Then, with the gentleness of falling snow, he extends his hand, and you accept it. And together, you run.

You dance through dreams like starlight on water. No destination guides your steps - just pure, unbridled motion and laughter that tastes like champagne bubbles. Each leap between clouds is poetry, your movements fluid as mercury, untethered by earthly constraints. He watches, mesmerized, as this version of you. untouched by life's sharp edges, paints joy across the sky.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, you collapse onto a cloud that feels like silk, your hair a halo against the white. Jungkook settles beside you with careful grace, his hands folded in his lap. Silence stretches between you, sweet and elastic.

A laugh, soft as windchimes, escapes your lips. "I've been dreaming wrong my whole life."

He reclines, moonlight caught in his smile. "Most do."

You pluck a piece of cloud, tossing the ephemeral fluff at his chest. It dissolves like a secret.

"Rude," he grins, starlight dancing in his eyes.

Your gaze lingers on him now, wonder replacing mischief. "You came back."

"I did." His voice carries the weight of secrets that you are not ready to face yet.

"This is different," you murmur. "These dreams... seeing you again and again... it's never happened before."

Something tightens in his chest but he has to ask the terrifying question. "When you wake," he breathes, "do you remember me?"

"Yes." Simple and certain, you don’t even hesitate. The word ripples through him like waves through still water. "I remember all of it," you continue. "Every dream with you. And I never remember dreams - they usually fade."

Relief softens his shoulders; he hadn't realized they were carved from tension.

Your eyes find his, curious as cats. "So," you tease, "who are you, really?"

He hesitates, the question stinging more than expected. "I'm a Dream Eater," he says, leaning forward. "And my name is Jungkook. Did you know that already?"

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, considering. "Dream Eaters? Never heard of them. How did my mind even come up with that?"

He rolls his eyes skyward as you laugh, the sound pure as bells.

"Well then," you say, "I'm Y/N. A pleasure, Mr. Dream Eater."

He nods, something warm unfurling in his chest. "Likewise. Tell me about yourself.”

You hum thoughtfully, stretching like a cat in sunlight. “Imagine a very lonely girl,” you begin. “A girl who has a big, noisy family and few friends, but still feels like no one ever really gets her. Someone who works in a place where everyone is kind but exhausted. We bond over how much we hate what we do. I read romance novels when I’m not too tired, I go on runs to get out of my head, and the only time I feel like I’m me is when I’m asleep and nobody wants anything from me.”

Jungkook watches you as you speak. Every word feels like a note in a song he doesn’t realize he’s memorizing.

“And you, Dream Eater Jungkook?” you ask, inching closer. “Who are you?”

He stares at your hands, then up. “I’m an IT guy. I have friends. I’m not that close with my family, but we stay in touch. And as cliché as it is… I always feel alone. Not in the obvious way. It’s more like… the universe misjudged me somehow. Like I was born with the wrong fate. Like I’m stuck carrying something I never chose, cursed or something.”

You nod. “I know.” Your hand rises, slow and careful, and runs through his hair.

Jungkook's breath catches in his throat, every muscle going taut like a bowstring.

“No,” you state firmly now. “Someone with eyes like yours can’t be cursed.”

He laughs is that kind that wraps around your bones like honey-warm sunlight. His fingers find your retreating hand, catching you in a grip that's gentle as a prayer but sure as gravity. And there's something in your eyes that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

The world tilts and spins as he pulls you both down into the cloud-soft darkness, your combined laughter painting silver ribbons through the air. You land in a tangle of limbs and breathless giggles, his body half-draped over yours like the world's most perfect blanket.

Time stops. Or maybe it's just that neither of you remembers how to breathe properly anymore. His arm brackets your head, careful and strong, while his other hand hovers near your ribs like he's afraid you might shatter if he touches you. Your chest rises and falls beneath him in quick, butterfly-wing movements.

The silence between you crackles like lightning before a storm.

And then you look at him with eyes that Jungkook swears could drown worlds, lashes frozen mid-flutter, and his heart forgets every rhythm it's ever known. Your gaze drops to his lips just for a heartbeat, long enough to set his blood on fire. And he watches your hair catch the dream-light like captured aurora, wondering if his thundering heart might give him away.

Neither of you dares to move. His eyes trace constellations across your features - mapping the soft curve of your mouth, the way your breath catches when his thigh brushes yours. You don't pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, an invitation written in the language of almost-touches.

When you speak, your words ghost across his skin like butterfly kisses. "So..." Your smile returns, shy and knowing all at once. "Can you take me to other places too?"

His lips part but words fail him spectacularly, too busy fighting the gravitational pull of your mouth. You're watching him like he's something ethereal, something that exists beyond dreams and reality.

Words claw their way past the symphony of want thrumming through his veins. "I could," he whispers, each syllable a caress against your skin. "If you wanted me to."

"I think I do," you breathe, and your fingers that are still tangled with his against cloud-silk, tighten slightly. Something inside him unspools at that tiny pressure.

He shifts closer until the space between you becomes nothing but shared breath and possibility. His body settles against yours, solid and real in a way dreams aren't supposed to be. Your noses almost brush. But neither of you bridges that final gap.

The wanting hangs there between you, delicate as sugar, sweet as sin waiting.

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Jungkook wakes like shattered stained glass - all sharp edges and holy remnants, dragged from dreams by reality's merciless hands.

The dream bleeds away too cruel. Your phantom warmth haunts him still. Reality crashes through his consciousness like an uninvited guest: sheets cold as winter frost, his forgotten computer screen humming its electronic lullaby, dawn's sickly green fingers creeping through the blinds like unwanted prophecies. He lies there, a marble statue in rumpled sheets, watching the ceiling as if it holds the secrets to finding you in the waking world.

Time, he thinks, is the cruelest god of all - stretching endless in solitude, slipping through desperate fingers the moment joy takes root.

When the sun claims its throne in the sky, he moves. And it’s not from want but from the mundane tyranny of hours that refuse to pass unmarked. Emails become white noise, lines of code blur into meaningless symbols, breakfast turns to ash on his tongue. There's only one truth that keeps his heart beating: the promise of nightfall.

He counts heartbeats disguised as hours. The light softens like old photographs, his eyes burn like prayer candles. And finally sleep claims him like a lover's kiss.

And there you are, waiting for him.

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In dreams, you are free.

Jungkook makes sure of it: crafts entire universes with gentle hands and a craftsman's devotion. He builds you realms where gravity is just a suggestion, where shame dissolves like morning mist. The rules here drape around you like ribbons, weightless enough to forget they ever existed.

One night you're both cosmic wanderers, dancing through star-scattered void, your laughter echoing across light years as you spin through technicolor nebulae. "My knees!" you shout, delighted, breathless, "They don't even know what pain is here!" and his joy bubbles up like stardust, infectious and pure.

Another dream finds you towering like a goddess, him shrunk to pocket-size, playing an elaborate game of chase through a garden where teacups bloom like flowers. when you (deliberately) crush him beneath your heel, he gives an Oscar-worthy performance of despair.

He shows you the art of dream-weaving. How to coax reality into new shapes, how to whisper your desires into existence, to believe with your whole heart that anything is possible.

"This universe," he reminds you, voice soft with wonder, "it's yours. Completely yours. What do you want to make of it?"

So you create.

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One night, you materialize in wrinkled scrubs, your essence dimmed like a star fighting through smog. "I want something stupid tonight," you whisper, voice raw with reality's weight. So he gives it to you.

The air crystallizes into luxury - a red carpet unfurls like a dragon's tongue beneath your feet. Light fragments into a thousand camera flashes, each one capturing your metamorphosis as couture and tailoring dance across your form. The Met Gala rises behind you like a palace of dreams, while the Oscars beckon ahead, and somewhere beyond the marble horizon, Nobel laureates await your arrival. Your laughter cascades like champagne bubbles.

"We're absolutely shameless," you wheeze through tears of mirth. "Not a humble bone between us."

He sweeps into a bow that would make monarchs envious. “Welcome to your ego’s highlight reel.”

Pure delight propels you forward, arm threaded through his like a lifeline to sanity. The elite of every era gravitate toward you - Einstein debates quantum mechanics while you school him on cellular biology, Rihanna takes notes on your impromptu TED talk about mitochondrial DNA. Jungkook observes your radiance, wondering if happiness has ever worn a face so beautiful.

Then shadow creeps in, subtle as twilight. "If only reality had such magic," you murmur to no one.

The words strike like arrows. What can he say? His power extends to the horizon of dreams - he can architect castles in clouds, orchestrate symphonies in starlight, birth entire cosmos from your smallest smile. But he cannot heal the wounds reality has carved: the suffocating job, the mother's bitter words, the six years stolen from your timeline.

His domain ends where consciousness begins. In these ephemeral realms where you dismiss him as fantasy, a figment born of neurons firing in the dark.

Perhaps that's mercy's greatest gift because knowing his truth would shatter more than the dream. So he offers only a gentle smile.

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That night, he materializes behind you like stardust taking form, his presence a whisper against your skin.

"Close your eyes," he breathes, the words a spell woven in twilight.

His hands eclipse your vision with butterfly-gentle pressure, as if touching a dream too precious to risk breaking. The world shifts beneath his will - air crystallizing with electric possibility, carrying notes of steel and starlight and synthetic sweetness, like neon memories dissolved in rain. He speaks to reality itself, and reality bends.

"Okay, now open," he commands softly. Your eyes flutter open and the gasp tears itself from your throat, pure wonder given voice.

Before you unfolds an empire of light and shadow - a metropolis that touches the stars. Streams of vehicles paint luminous rivers through the sky, weaving between towers that pierce the heavens like silver needles. Landing platforms hover like geometric clouds, while the stars themselves peek through the urban tapestry, diamonds scattered on black velvet.

"Is this…Coruscant?" The question trembles with awe. His silence speaks volumes, curved in a smile you feel more than see.

Laughter bubbles up, bright with revelation. "You remember everything I say?" But reality's chains rattle, even here. Your hand cuts through the air, dismissing magic. "Well, of course. You're just my mind playing tricks, recycling old dreams."

His smile fractures at the edges. "Right," he whispers. "Just mind tricks."

But when your fingers find his, intertwining like fate's own threads, none of that matters.

"Quick," you grin, the universe reflected in your eyes, "we've got worlds to explore before morning steals you away."

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Jungkook melts watching you stumble through broken alien phrases, your pronunciation absolutely butchering three different languages at once. There's this six-eyed creature that just stares at your earnest bow, probably wondering what strange cosmic phenomenon dropped you into their path. And then, an absolute menace of a droid, barely reaching your knees, starts chasing you down demanding payment, beep-screaming about galactic credits. You scramble behind Jungkook like he's your last hope in the universe, fingers clutching his jacket, breathless giggles muffled against his shoulder. (He pays your debt with a shirt button because of course he does, you disaster.)

Later, you both claim a spot on the edge of a glowing walkway. Your feet dangle over an ocean of lights, streams of vehicles painting stories beneath you like shooting stars learning to dance. The sky above is alive, breathing with the pulse of ship lights, and sometimes a cruiser glides past like a metal whale, momentarily stealing the stars.

Your laughter settles into something softer now, something that fits in the spaces between heartbeats. Neither of you speak. Neither of you need to.

And if Jungkook knows the dream is slipping away like stardust through his fingers? Well. He keeps that knowledge locked behind his teeth. Instead, he drinks in the sight of you: the way city lights paint constellations across your skin, how perfectly you slot into this impossible moment like you were born to exist in worlds that break physics. Like you were meant to dream in technicolor.

But there's a question that haunts him, cruel as dawn's first light: When the sun rises and reality claims you back...

…will even a whisper of him linger in your waking thoughts?

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Jungkook's life has shifted in ways that feel like poetry written in invisible ink- you can only see it if you know where to look.

On paper, everything's the same: same apartment with its midnight creaks and perpetual scent of dust-and-tea memories. Same 7:30 alarm that screams into existence like an unwanted prophecy. Same mundane rituals: toast crumbs, news static, lines of code marching across screens like obedient soldiers. (And yes, that one stubborn fern that refuses to surrender to his chronic plant neglect.)

But there's something different now that whispers instead of shouts. Something that feels like stardust caught in his bones.

You see it in the way he carries himself, like gravity's finally made peace with his soul. In the way he moves through space like he's remembered how to belong in it. He's incandescent now, lit from within by some strange, soft fire.

His friends notice because of course they do, they're annoyingly observant like that.

"You look," Jimin declares one night, sprawled across Jungkook's couch like he owns it, soju bottle dancing between his fingers, "like God himself came down and gave you a spa day."

"Sleep," Namjoon squints at him, "you're actually sleeping?"

Jungkook's lips twitch. A maybe floats between them like a secret.

"Oh my god," Taehyung breathes, dramatic as always, "you're in LOVE."

The way Jungkook's eyes skitter away is all the confession they need. And then they're all talking at once, voices tumbling over each other like eager puppies: "Who is she?" and "Does she live here?" and "When do WE get to meet her?"

Jungkook smiles, sleeve-covered hands hiding trembles, letting them believe the flush on his face comes from the heater's gentle rage.

But there's this soft, aching thing in his chest. Because how do you tell your best friends that the person who rewrote your whole existence lives in a different layer of reality? That the only one who's ever seen past your skin and bones and into the truth of you... only exists in dreams?

Later, when his apartment's empty except for shadows and memory-echoes, he stands at his window. Forehead pressed to glass like a prayer, watching Seoul's heartbeat flutter beneath him.

The loneliness has evolved into something gentler now - no longer the razor-edged beast that once tore through his chest, nor the arctic waste that froze his bones.

But it's there. Because no matter how many times you laugh in his arms, no matter how many universes you explore together, you're not here. And he is. You both exist but in different verses of the same impossible song.

And sometimes he wonders if he's asking too much of the universe. If he's being greedy. Before you, he was nothing but shadow-stuff and nightmare-fuel, cursed to feed on other people's fears. He couldn't even dream of being perceived, let alone loved. And now he has the audacity to want more? To want daylight happiness?

Greedy, absurd boy.

But every moment he spends awake feels like holding his breath underwater. Every sunlit hour is just time he could've spent learning the constellations of your smile. So he closes his eyes. And waits for sleep to bring him to you.

The moment he slips into the dreamscape he feels your presence hitting him like the first breath after drowning, like gravity remembering its own name. And then you're there, crashing into him with the force of a supernova, arms wrapping around him as if he might dissolve into stardust. He catches you and pulls you close like you're made of moonlight and wishes.

"Thought you wouldn't come," you whisper into his collar, voice rough like you've been holding back for too long.

A laugh escapes him, soft and broken-edged. His hands trace constellations up your spine. "Do you ever…" he starts, then swallows hard. "Do you ever worry that one night we just... won't find each other here anymore?"

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes and there are already tears catching in your lashes. "Every single time I close my eyes."

His smile cracks at the corners because it’s exactly the same for him. Every night he lies awake wondering if the universe will finally notice its mistake- if whatever cosmic glitch allowed him to find you will correct itself. Maybe you'll stop dreaming of him and he'll be left holding nothing but memories and maybes. It's too perfect. You're too perfect. And he's never learned how to trust perfect things to stay.

"Jungkook." Your voice drops to something serious, something that makes his heart stutter in his chest. He meets your gaze. "I don't…I can't," You take a shaking breath. "I don't think I can face reality anymore if I'm not sure you'll be waiting here."

His heart stops. Instead of answering, he lifts his hand and traces your cheek with feather-light fingers, trying to memorize you in atoms and angles.

"I'll be here," he breathes, like a prayer, like a promise. "I don't understand any of this, but I swear I'll find you. Every night. No matter what."

Your eyes flutter closed at his touch, and in that moment, he knows exactly what tonight's dream should be.

The dreamscape ripples like disturbed water, reality shifting beneath your feet with all the grace of a universe rewriting itself. The salt-sweet breeze finds you first, carrying whispers of infinity, and when your eyes flutter open, the night sky stretches above you like a confession written in starlight.

The ocean sprawls before you, endless and moonlit, each wave a silvered promise rolling towards shore. You're both barefoot in the sand, the wind playing with your hair like an old friend while the sea hums ancient lullabies. Jungkook watches you the way people watch miracles unfold - careful, afraid to blink.

You're statue-still, eyes locked on the horizon like it might vanish if you dare to look away. The air between you tastes like possibility.

"You mentioned wanting to see the sea," he murmurs. "Why?"

You sink to the sand, pulling your knees to your chest like armor. "I've never seen it before."

His heart stumbles. "Never?"

A shake of your head, eyes still drinking in the waves that reach for your toes like shy lovers. He wants to ask more - what landlocked piece of the world kept you from this? But dreams have their own grammar, and some questions dissolve like sugar on the tongue. So he sits beside you in comfortable silence, letting the night wrap around you both like a blanket woven from sea spray.

When you finally turn to him, your eyes hold the weight of unspoken galaxies. And gravity seems to lose its grip on reality - the space between you collapses until you're breathing the same air, until his hands find your face like they've mapped this path in a thousand previous lives.

Your lips meet in a hesitant dance of breath and longing until something breaks inside the moment like a dam of restraint giving way to raw need. His hands tangle in your hair as your mouth parts with a soft, stuttering sound, fingers clutching desperately at his shirt while the kiss transforms into something urgent and wild, teeth grazing and breaths mingling as he tilts your head back to taste you deeper.

The sea's roar crescendos with your passion while you shift into his lap, knees straddling him and hands sliding up the curve of his neck, the weight of your body against his making him finally feel real. Your shared heat and the pressure of your hips leaving him dizzy with want.

Jungkook pulls back only enough to look at you, eyes tracing your face like it’s something sacred. Your skin is flushed, glowing under the silver wash of the moon, hair tangled from his hands. You’re still straddling him, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. There’s a silence that lives in that moment, but it’s not empty.

Then he grins, soft and breathless. “Good thing this is a dream,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across your jaw. “Sand won’t bother us here.”

You laugh, quiet and giddy, the sound catching in your throat as he leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then lower. He shifts, laying you back gently onto the soft, impossible sand. Moonlight spills across your skin like liquid silver, turning you into some ancient deity's forgotten masterpiece. He freezes, a worshipper before an altar, lungs forgetting their purpose as his eyes trace the sacred geometry of your existence. Time holds its breath with him.

Then he’s kissing your neck, slow and open-mouthed, leaving heat wherever his lips touch. His hands slide over your body like he’s memorizing you, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. When he begins to undress you, his fingers move with a kind of careful urgency- unwrapping you like something he’s dreamed of holding all his life.

His lips trail down your collarbone, your chest, and lower, leaving warmth. Your breath catches sharply in your throat as pleasure ripples through you, your back arching delicately from the sand as a soft, yearning moan escapes your lips into the star-strewn night.

And when he comes back to you, body pressed to yours, both of you tangled in breath and want, you meet him with the same hunger. You pull him close, undress him with shaking hands, touch every inch of him with awe.

When Jungkook moves inside you, it feels less like an act of desire and more like the inevitable culmination of something the two of you had been building quietly between shared glances, trembling silences, and the quiet ache of always parting too soon. There is nothing rushed in the way your bodies meet: only a slow, deliberate joining, a stretch of time that suspends itself in the hush between heartbeats, as if the dream itself knows to hold its breath for you.

His weight settles gently over you, his mouth still hovering just above yours, the warmth of his breath mixing with your own as his hands frame your face with a tenderness that feels as overwhelming as it is fragile. Your eyes lock for a long moment, and in them there is no fear, only the echo of something deeper - yearning, devotion, maybe even a kind of wonder neither of you dares to name aloud. And then, without speaking, you arch toward him, and he begins to move.

The rhythm he finds is unhurried but purposeful, a slow, steady push and pull. His body presses against yours with the kind of urgency that isn’t frantic but is no less desperate - an urgency born from knowing how fleeting dreams are, how quickly time unravels beauty when it’s finally within reach.

His lips don’t stay still for long; they trace your collarbone, your throat, the curve of your jaw, trailing warmth that pools and spreads through your chest until your breath begins to shake beneath him. You can feel the way his body trembles slightly as he deepens the rhythm with intensity, as though every inch of his skin aches to be closer to yours, as though touching you more completely could somehow anchor him here.

When you moan his name, it comes out cracked at the edges, too soft and too honest to be anything but real, and he answers not with words but with a kiss that claims nothing, demands nothing, only offers himself and his quiet awe that you are here with him.

The dream sky above flickers faintly as a gentle reminder that even eternity here is borrowed. You feel it in your bones that this moment, as vivid and consuming as it is, will dissolve like sea foam the moment morning claims him back. That awareness sharpens everything. It makes each thrust feel more tender, each stroke of his hands across your sides more necessary, more desperate to memorize. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging him closer, your mouths finding each other again with increasing hunger, and when your hips rise to meet his, your bodies move in perfect synchrony.

It builds slowly, swelling until you can’t distinguish where you end and he begins, until the world narrows to the slick heat between your thighs, the throb of his heartbeat against your chest, the soft, breathless groans that pass between your lips like confessions. The pleasure comes in waves: deep and consuming, rising with every movement and whispered sound, until the moment it crests and breaks, flooding through you with a force so overwhelming you have no choice but to let go and ride it.

He follows you into it, burying his face in your neck as he comes undone, his body trembling with the effort of holding back everything he feels and failing in the most beautiful way. There are no words left, only breath and warmth and the weight of his arms around you as he collapses gently beside you, pulling you into him like something he’s afraid to lose.

A blanket materializes like a whispered wish, impossibly soft and warm against your skin. Jungkook pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces finally finding home. Your hands can't help but wander, mapping his skin in the aftermath, memorizing the geography of this moment. His lips ghost against your temple while you rest your cheek against his heart, letting its steady rhythm become your anchor.

The ocean serenades you both with its ancient song, waves kissing the shore in perfect tempo. Above, the stars hang in velvet darkness, too perfect to be anything but dreamscape magic. Words feel redundant here, in this pocket of forever where touch and breath say everything your voices can't.

But dreams, those cruel architects of almost-reality, never let you linger long enough.

The world starts to unravel: the sky loses its certainty, the breeze thins to whispers, and the ocean's voice becomes a distant echo of itself. Reality is calling, persistent as always. You tilt your face up to his, and his fingers find their way to your hair, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that aches.

"I wish this part didn't end so soon," you breathe out, voice trembling not with fear but with the weight of knowing what comes next.

He brings his forehead to rest against yours, eyes closed like he's trying to freeze time through sheer will. "So do I," he whispers back.

As the dream dissolves: the beach, the stars, your shared warmth all fading into morning light, he holds onto everything: the curve of your body against his, the ghost of your kiss, and the exquisite agony of loving someone who only exists in the space between sleeping and waking.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

When the dream opens again, it does so like a breath drawn after drowning- sharp and sudden and full of overwhelming relief. You’re already there, standing beneath a sky that isn’t real, though it holds more meaning than any sunrise you’ve ever seen. The moment your eyes meet Jungkook’s, you don’t wait, and neither does he. There is no hesitation or unsure beginning. You run into each other’s arms like you’ve been holding your breath for days, like everything depends on this collision of bodies.

“I don’t want to waste one second of the limited time we have here,” you whisper into the space between his breaths, your arms wound tight around his neck and your chest pressed firmly to his.

He nods, his voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a vow, and with a single brush of his hand against the air, the world changes.

Like mist before sunlight, the dreamscape dissolves - first the endless ocean retreating into nothingness, then the wind falling silent as if holding its breath, and finally the star-strewn horizon melting away.

And in its place appears something smaller and impossibly intimate: a bedroom, quiet and warm, the walls washed in golden light, the sheets still slightly rumpled like they’ve been waiting for you. It’s not dramatic, not grand, but it feels like a secret dream you never dared to say aloud.

“This feels so real,” you murmur, your voice already faltering as his hands begin to move slowly, working their way beneath your clothes as if they’re peeling away layers of exhaustion and everything that’s ever kept you from peace.

He undresses you without words, his fingers trailing down your sides with a patience that makes your skin tremble. When his lips touch your collarbone, your breath catches. When his hands slide lower, your knees weaken. And when he kneels before you, his eyes dark and full of something deeper than want, you whisper his name like it’s a confession.

His mouth is already on you, and he’s not simply tasting but studying the language of your body with the kind of patience that feels rarer than touch itself. Every movement is deliberate, almost aching in its care, as though he knows this is a dream and still doesn’t want to rush through it. His hands grip the backs of your thighs with that same quiet devotion, fingers spreading you open.

He dives in like a man starved of connection, like every slow drag of his tongue is an attempt to carve himself into your memory, so that even when you're awake, some part of your body will still pulse with the imprint of him.

At first, it’s soft, barely there, just the warm press of his mouth against you, lips brushing your folds. But then, when you gasp and your hips lift slightly, when your fingers curl in the sheets beneath you, he groans softly into you, like the sound of your need fuels something deeper in him, something greedy*.*

He licks you slowly at first, flat strokes that leave you trembling, your thighs tensing around his head even as his hands hold you open. But soon he changes rhythm, finding the place where your body begins to stutter and focus, and he stays there, working his tongue in tight, purposeful circles, pausing only to suck gently, and then again, firmer, just enough to make your voice crack when you call his name.

You reach for him without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself in him as the heat begins to mount. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, thighs shaking around him, and still he doesn’t let up. He wants this - to see you unravel, to taste what the world outside has never let you give.

“Why…” you whisper, the words breaking apart as your thighs begin to shake. “Why can’t this be real?”

It’s not a question you expect him to answer, it’s rather a confession or cry of longing too deep for reason. And if he hears it, he doesn’t stop, only moans into you, as if your heartbreak feeds his hunger, as if the taste of your pain is folded into your pleasure.

His tongue moves faster now, more focused, and the tension inside you coils to a near-breaking and all-consuming point

Your body begins to shake; can’t form words anymore. Your moans become breathless sounds, fingers digging into his scalp as your hips lift in desperate rhythm with the wave he’s building inside you. His grip tightens, keeping you grounded, and when he draws your clit into his mouth again, sucking slowly, deeply, your entire body snaps.

You come with a cry so raw it doesn’t even sound like your voice. It shudders through you, thighs clenching, stomach fluttering, your hands fisting the sheets and his hair and nothing at all, your back arching as the dream holds you still in its palm.

But he doesn't leave you. Jungkook stays between your legs, lapping at you gently, slowly, kissing you through the aftershocks like he’s coaxing every last tremble from your bones, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters in this moment.

When he finally pulls away and rises to meet you again, his mouth shines with you, and his eyes are dark with a mix of tenderness and awe that stirs something so deep in your chest it almost hurts.

He kisses you slowly and deeply, and you taste yourself on his tongue. You pull him closer, hands sliding down his bare back, and you know that even if this is only a dream, it is more real than anything else your life has ever given you.

When Jungkook enters you, it’s like the world narrowing to a single point of gravity, your body drawing him in with a heat that pulses low and deep in your belly. He presses into you with a slow, deliberate movement, his length stretching you inch by aching inch, and it’s enough to make your mouth fall open with a breathless gasp that doesn’t even sound like your voice. He’s thick and warm and impossibly hard, and the way he completely fills you sends a tremor through your thighs that you can’t control.

Your folds part for him, slick and open, your body welcoming him with the kind of wet, desperate readiness that makes his breath hitch above you. He pauses once he’s buried fully inside, one hand gripping your hip as the other slides beneath your spine, grounding you against the slow burn of pleasure already curling through your abdomen. The stretch stings in the most exquisite way, that sharp-edged fullness melting quickly into something sweeter, something deeper, something that makes your body cry out for more before you even realize what you're asking for.

When he begins to move, it’s a rhythm that’s devastating in its precision: deep, dragging thrusts that grind against your most sensitive places with such focused care you’re not sure whether you want to weep or scream. Each roll of his hips draws a whimper from your throat, your legs trembling as your body adjusts to him again and again, as though each motion is a new kind of claim. He kisses you through it: your shoulder, your jaw, your lips, his mouth greedy and soft and utterly wrecked with affection, like he wants to press himself into every inch of your skin and never come up for air.

He shifts you gently, guiding your body into his hands, pulling your hips back into his lap as he settles you onto all fours. You sink into the soft sheets, your spine curving as his hand steadies your waist, and when he slides back inside you from behind, the angle is so deep and so precise it knocks the breath from your lungs. You clench helplessly around him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room with a rhythm that feels ancient, necessary, almost holy. His name leaves your mouth again as a cry drawn out and trembling, the only word that still feels real in the haze of heat and motion and want.

Your hands fist the sheets, your knees spreading wider, every nerve ending in your body tuned to the relentless drive of his thrusts. His grip on your hips tightens, and he leans over your back, the heat of his chest brushing your spine, his voice a broken thing in your ear.

“You feel… so fucking good,” he murmurs, not as a boast, but as a reverent truth, like he still can’t believe the way your body accepts him - tight and slick, made perfectly for him.

When his hand slips beneath you again, finding that swollen, throbbing place that already pulses from his mouth and now from his cock, you come apart so quickly and so violently, your entire body stutters around him. You cry out, broken and breathless, your climax crashing through you with a force that turns the world white at the edges. You feel yourself clench around him, wet and pulsing, and it takes everything in him not to follow you right then.

But he’s close and with a few more thrusts, rougher now, less controlled, he spills into you with a sound so low and guttural it feels like it echoes inside your own chest. He collapses against your back, his arms wrapping around your middle as you both breathe through the aftermath, tangled and shivering, still connected, still pulsing with the echo of each other’s release.

And when the high fades and the pleasure ebbs into something slower, quieter, he doesn’t pull away. He stays inside you for as long as he can, holding you in his arms like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll dissolve into smoke with the rest of the dream.

You fall together onto your sides, your legs entwined, the thin dream-woven blanket curling around your bodies, soft and warm as moonlight. You press your cheek against his chest. His hand strokes your back slowly, like he’s still trying to memorize you. The sea outside the window murmurs, and stars flicker faintly above, but neither of you speaks because nothing could possibly be enough.

"I don't want the real world." Your voice cracks. "It doesn't have you in it."

He pulls you closer, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, reality won't be able to pry you apart. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of every 3AM thought that's ever kept anyone awake, "I know. Me too."

You look up at him, moonlight catching on unshed tears. Not crying because what's the point when the sun will rise anyway? Your fingers twist in the blanket like you're trying to anchor yourself to this moment, to him, to anything that might let you stay. "Please," you whisper, "I want to stay here. With you."

This isn't just a dream anymore. It's the truest thing you've ever known, wrapped in fiction because reality doesn't know what to do with something this raw. He says nothing, only presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in like he's trying to memorize the way your souls fit together.

And just as the dream begins to thin at the edges: flickering like film exposed to light, you look up at him, eyes full of that same pleading ache, and he lowers his forehead to yours. If you could stay, you would.

But dreams never ask permission before ending.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

Jungkook wakes to emptiness, the kind that sits heavy in your lungs like smoke. The silence wraps around him like a second skin, suffocating in its completeness. There's no gentle transition between dreams and reality today - just a harsh snap from one world to another, leaving him raw and aching.

The bed feels too big, too cold, sheets twisted around him like they're trying to hold something that isn't there anymore. His chest feels hollow, carved out, each breath a little too shallow to fill the spaces where warmth used to live.

He lies there, staring at a ceiling he's known his whole life but suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else's story. His body shakes, not from cold (never from cold), but from something that lives deeper, something that has made a home in his bones and refuses to leave.

When he finally moves, it's pure instinct - frustration and grief tangled into one sharp motion. The pillow hits the floor with a soft thud that gets swallowed by the morning quiet. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. He sits up, fingers threading through his hair like he's trying to hold his thoughts together, eyes fixed on the slice of pre-dawn darkness outside his window.

His voice breaks the silence like glass shattering in slow motion, barely a whisper: "Why is it like this..."

But there's no answer waiting in the shadows. And yet, somewhere beneath the weight of his despair, something small flickered: thin, untrustworthy, but still breathing. He told himself he would see you again. A new day would bring a new night, and with it, the possibility of return. That had been the pattern, and though dreams rarely followed logic, hope was a creature that clung to even the most frayed of patterns.

The hours that followed passed in a haze. He moved through the day as though he had been placed behind a pane of glass: everything visible but inaccessible, everyone’s voices distant, every color dull. His body obeyed routine, but his mind remained curled around the shape of your absence.

When darkness finally returned, he didn’t hesitate. Sleep claimed him without struggle, and with it, the familiar ritual unfolded: the rooftops that stretched like memory, the path laid down by repetition and longing, the same constellation of buildings that had always, without fail, led him to your window.

But it was dark. No light pierced the glass, no shadows moved within. The bed lay pristine, untouched - a monument to absence. He waited. Minutes bled into hours as the dream stretched around him, but your silhouette never materialized. The emptiness felt louder than any scream.

Night after night, he returned. Each visit more desperate than the last. The room remained a void, sterile and cold as a tomb. His hope withered, then died. No trace that you'd ever existed. The question gnawed at him: had you been real? Or worse: had something taken you?

The days blurred together, each one weighted with loss and questions that found no answers. Had you chosen to vanish, or had the choice been stolen from you? The uncertainty was acid in his veins.

Before you, he'd been a ghost among the living, feeding on others' darkness, trapped in endless observation. But that emptiness was nothing compared to this. This was different. This was knowing paradise and being exiled. This was having his soul split open, filled with light, then sewn shut around the void you left behind.

The universe had cursed him twice: first with invisibility, then with the memory of being seen. Being known and loved by you. Only to have it ripped away without warning or farewell.

And now, more than ever, Jungkook felt the weight of solitude like a second skin - in a universe that had always been generous in showing him different angles of emptiness. 

.

there’s a final part to this story already finished and available exclusively here .

Thank you very much for reading my stories. Finding readers who resonate with my writing means the world to me. I can't even put into words how grateful I am. 🖤

[xinganhao]

📺 now watching: "our beloved summer" (wonwoo x reader)

part of my svtflix milestone event. warnings: f!reader, angst. more content under the cut. enjoy watching!

jeon wonwoo's latest exhibit, ‘our beloved summer’.

ARTIST'S INTRODUCTION. They say, "The more you try to ignore the past, the more you become trapped in it." Inasmuch as I want to believe that might be untrue, there are days where I still feel like the boy from Changwon. This exhibit is my attempt to reckon with that. While the past can be good, can be bad, sometimes all we need is one beloved summer— and, if you're lucky, the residual joy of that time will last you a lifetime. This is that year from me. | © Jeon Wonwoo (2024)

WHERE DO WE GO WHEN WE YEARN? (2016) Changwon, Gyeongsangnam-do

ARTIST'S NOTE. Yearning— especially that of the high school puppy love variation— can be such a liberating feeling. It exists in the shadows, just enough to sustain you through the tedious days, the long hours. But to bring it to light, to see what that yearning looks like in the morning? How do we survive it? How do we see beyond it?

HERE, YOU MIGHT STILL LOVE ME (2023) Changwon, Gyeongsangnam-do

ARTIST'S NOTE. You never really know when the last time is going to be the last time. This is the bus stop where the world closed in on me. I can still tell you the plate number of the bus that eventually took you away. 21 경남 1713. I revisited this bus stop and felt like something had been frozen in time. Here, you once loved me. Here, you might still.

HATE TO SEE YOU GO/LOVE TO WATCH YOU LEAVE (2015) Changwon, Gyeongsangnam-do

ARTIST'S NOTE. You always were several steps ahead of me. You leave me with my hand outstretched, my fingers reaching,— never quite holding. Never keeping. It was that way when we first met. It's that way, even now.

HOMEBOUND (2020) Changwon, Gyeongsangnam-do

ARTIST'S NOTE. There are no colors in this picture, but I'm sure you can imagine it. The brick red walls. The grey asphalt. The sky— an endless blue, cut with strips of white. When I pass this neighborhood, I think of afternoons; the sun beginning to sink, the scratch of school shoes on the street. We survived another day. We can only hope to walk into the next one.

THE LAST GOOD THING (2022) Seoul, Gyeonggi-do

ARTIST'S NOTE. A memento. The only thing I could bear to keep. It's been around enough that I sometimes forget it's even there, and maybe that's why it survived my 'purge'. Something so inherently human about us holding on to sweet nothings, even if the only purpose they have left to serve is to remind.

GOING IN CIRCLES (BACK IN OUR PLACES) (2024) Seoul, Gyeonggi-do

ARTIST'S NOTE. Often, we like to play around with the thought "What would you do if you could turn back time?" If you asked me that some years ago, I might have given a lot of answers about being better, 'changing' things. Now, though, there's only one thing I can think of doing if I were in control of the hands of the clock. I think I would just want to spend one more day, one more minute, with you.

See More »

ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER. Born and raised in Changwon, South Gyeongsang, Jeon Wonwoo (전원우) draws inspiration from the rich art heritage of his hometown. He experiments with different mediums but is best known for his work with film and landscape photography. Wonwoo currently resides in Seoul. You can reach him at jeonwwoosnaps@gmail.com.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao | all photos courtesy of wonwoo (film_jww). :)

[pixiepipedreams]

♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — intrusive thoughts, tied up in knots, by the concept of us // in-ho x reader x gi-hun

♡  ⁄  pairing: in-ho x reader x gi-hun ♡  ⁄  warnings & tags: fem!reader, canon-typical violence & death, obsessive behavior, lying/manipulation, age gap (reader is 20-22, in-ho & gi-hun are late 40s, early 50s) ♡  ⁄ wordcount: 6.9k ♡  ⁄ summary: the second vote holds no promises for a brighter future, and both in-ho and gi-hun find themselves contemplating the ever intriguing player 132. THIS IS PART THREE OF A SERIES! (➊) (➋) (➍)

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵ ﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

In-ho had dedicated his youth to policing the criminals of Seoul, and he has seen the balance of human nature. He had been devoted to fighting the good fight, keeping the criminal population in line, dealing with drunks and abusers and the worst of the worst. He’d never done anything unjust, never used unnecessary force, but still, he’d been tossed to the curb in his hour of need, falsely accused of accepting bribes. Like clay, the cruel hands of the universe shaped him into what he needed to become to survive. The games had been both a blessing and a curse, a way to fight back, to save his wife and unborn child.

None of it had mattered. Every sacrifice was just another digit pressed into his moldable form, so slow and sure that he hadn’t even noticed the difference until he’d received the invitation from Il-nam to front the games. It had felt like a reclamation, a saving grace, a way to hide from the misery of his life as a widower, from the disgust he felt with an uncaring world. When choosing between the lesser of two evils, he chose the more black and white option - give one or two pieces of gum on the bottom of the country’s shoe a chance to unstick themselves and reform, while the rest get tossed and burned like the trash that they are. Like everyone is.

That’s what you should have been.

Another piece of gum, debris, a bag of trash rotting on the side of the road. Another inconsequential player, another layer of scum on this waste of a planet. But at every turn, you surprised him. The optimism in your view of life, the intelligence in your eyes, the strength that you carried even in fear. You pointed out flaws in Gi-hun’s arguments, you challenged In-ho just by existing. He should hate it. He should want to corrupt you, bring you down to his depths of apathy and revulsion with the world.

In a way, he does.

Player 132. (Y/N). You were an unexpected factor in his mission, made all the worse by the fact that you bear the same number he did in 2015. Every flicker of feeling that you cause in him is only accentuated by the closeness the games force the players into, the camaraderie between those meant to be competitors. Despite himself, he feels that same union with his team, as well, celebrating the victories of every passing team in the Pentathlon.

Weakness. Human connection. One that he can work in his favor, a flaw to exploit.

That’s what he pretends the victorious feeling in his chest means while they return to the dorms, but even he can’t deny the high of winning as a team. His sabotage had only made it more delicious that they all made it out alive, and the adrenaline still buzzes in his veins, better than any glass of whiskey.

Your hands fidget nervously as you stare at the player count, wondering how much longer it could be before you find out if Young-il, Gi-hun, and player 222 made it out alive. The bed you sit on is closest to the open concrete floor, and you feel on edge, ready to jump and run at a moment’s notice. The rest of your team is more tucked into the tighter enclosure the bunkbeds make, conversing about the games. Where are they?

“Hey,” player 120 says, her voice soft and assuring, calling for your attention. “132. You surprised me out there. It was really… impressive, honestly. You sure you’ve never played Spinning Top before?”

You look over, smiling faintly, your leg jittering as it bounces in place. “I’ve never played it. Well - in America, we have tops, but you just spin it from the axle. No twine. I guess I just… had a good teacher.”

007 laughs, but covers it quickly with a cough. His mother whacks him on the chest, then turns to you with kind eyes. “Are you and player 001 close? He doesn’t seem like the… helping sort.”

You tilt your head, surprised by the observation. But you can understand it - when Young-il isn’t engaged in conversation, he shows little to no emotion, carries a coldness that seems impenetrable. “We’ve talked,” you say vaguely. “He promised to help me with any games that I don’t quite understand. Since I wasn’t raised here.” You clear your throat, feeling oddly embarrassed, like you’re admitting to some deep secret crush, even though you’ve done nothing of the sort. “What are your guys’ names? So I have something to call you besides a detached number.”

The group goes around sharing names, and you commit them to memory. Whatever the outcome of these games, you refuse to forget any of them. Perhaps it would be too big of a burden to remember everyone’s name who’s already died, would haunt you until your own end, but it feels like a bigger sin to not know at all.

Light discussion starts, easy joking, but you can’t focus, your eyes flicking from the group to the door as you wait endlessly. Where are they?

When his team returns to the dorms, In-ho’s eyes instantly find you, a locked missile on target. You’re sitting near your team, but still separate, disengaged. Another curiosity - despite your disposition, and your apparent friendly nature, you keep yourself apart. Perhaps you recognize the truth he’s accepted long ago - despite any kinship one might feel with a person, or a group, everyone is on their own at the end of the day. Family, friends, coworkers, passing acquaintances, they all fall away to serve their own needs. It takes you less than a second to meet his eyes, and his stomach clenches at the way you instantly relax, sheer relief etched into the line of your posture. He’s not foolish enough to assign his own reaction to unease.

He gives you the tentative smile that Young-il would give, but his eyes are dark. Whatever cocktail you stir inside him, he knows that your own reaction to him is much simpler. Attraction, maybe. Comfort, certainly. Why him, of all people, instead of Gi-hun, or that player, 120, that you’d spoken to before, he can’t begin to comprehend. Is his mask that good, his performance so inviting? No, it’s not quite that. He needs to dig into your mind, unravel the knots into understanding. Perhaps the knots are his own.

He follows his team with a sense of purpose, duty, forcing himself to look away and your warm, relieved smile, that churning in his mind feeling so out of place in the typically still waters of his mind. As they sit, he shakes his head, focusing on the group, his team.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t know what happened,” he says, infusing a sheepish embarrassment into his words, his hands clenching the metal of the bench as his shoulders tuck forward.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dae-ho says quickly, his voice overlapping with Gi-hun’s own assurance.

“What happened earlier?”

In-ho’s spine straightens on instinct at the sound of your voice, and he forces himself to relax, looking up, oddly surprised to see you step up to their group. He shouldn’t be. His eyes trace over you, as if checking for wounds, even though he saw you escape earlier entirely unscathed. Your hair is a bit messy, the grease of not showering settling in, and your hands are shoved into your pockets, an infused nonchalance to the posture. You make a concerted effort to look at everyone in the group before your eyes land on In-ho.

His mouth goes dry.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Jung-bae says with a small grin, always playful and easing the tension. “Big bad number one over here just struggled on his game. We made it out, though! So nothing to worry about.”

“If he hadn’t helped me in Jegi with the final kick, we never would’ve made it,” Gi-hun adds, a trace of his old smile on his lips, trying to comfort whatever tension in him that he’s sensing.

Your eyes narrow, searching In-ho, in a different manner than he just analyzed you. Like you know something. That intelligence you hide behind easy smiles flashes in full force, but then it’s gone, any concerns or comments you had not even reaching your throat. “I’m glad you all made it,” you say finally, smiling, and your eyes flick to player 222. “Especially you.”

She meets your gaze, a quiet appreciation in her expression. She nods her head slightly, unable to express her true gratitude, and that’s another thing that In-ho doesn’t wish to think about. The pregnant player. Another barnacle on the world’s ship, but perhaps the way he closed off his feelings after the passing of his wife had left some backdoors open for unwanted sympathy. He refuses to wonder about what the outcome would be if his wife had entered the games instead of him, refuses to imagine her in this place, founded on cruelty and equality.

She would have died either way. There’s no reason to wonder, to feel the sick twist in his gut.

In-ho rocks in place, unable to tell if it’s the surge of his own undesired emotions or the act of Young-il that causes it. “222, are you doing alright?” he asks, but doesn’t care. He doesn’t.

“Yeah. Thank you all for including me on your team,” she replies with a slight bow of her head, and In-ho catches a soft smile on your lips, likely comforted by the fact that you genuinely helped her.

“She smashed that ddakji and flipped it on her first try!” Jung-bae adds, grinning. 222 ducks her head, hiding a proud smile. “And for a pregnant lady, you were fast, too. We were lucky she joined our team.” His eyes flick to you, and In-ho clenches his jaw briefly. There’s too much ease in Jung-bae’s words, in every conversation, and he finds it grating - both with Gi-hun and you. In-ho’s eyes flick to Gi-hun, his own expression dry of any emotion or reaction.

Gi-hun is already looking at you.

He hadn’t heard the conversation the two of you had last night, too far away at the time, but he had watched. Observed. Even not knowing what passed between the pair, he knew that some sort of understanding had been reached, that you hadn’t taken your eyes off him for a moment.

That earlier, when you brought the pregnant woman to his team, you’d looked at Gi-hun first.

The conversation continues, and In-ho laughs in all the right moments, in the bond over the victory, but he keeps you in his line of vision. When Dae-ho stands next to you, his eyes land on the distance between you both, a sour feeling in his gut, like bile.

“Perhaps we should learn each other’s names. I still don’t know any of your names. I’ll start.” He gives his name, and its meaning. Huge tiger. In-ho suppresses a laugh - which is an odd feeling. Laughter doesn’t come easily to him anymore, and fighting to keep it down is unfamiliar. Jung-bae gives his next, because of course he does.

When player 222 offers hers - Kim Jun-hee, a name that instantly gets engraved in his mind - he can’t seem to help the words bubbling from his lips. “Jun-hee, when we get out of here, you should head straight to a hospital. You’ve been under a lot of stress. You need to get yourself checked out.”

“Okay,” she replies softly.

“I’m Oh Young-il,” In-ho adds, tossing his false name into the ring. Amusement rises in his chest - it’s likely that no one will look too closely at his name, or assume he’s lying, but he’d been rather proud of the joke of it all. Right down to the last detail, of taking Il-nam’s family name. Flying right under Gi-hun’s nose.

“Young-il?” Jung-bae repeats, arching a brow.

“Yes. ‘Young-il’ sounds like ‘zero one,’ and that’s my number,” he explains with a playful smile, his finger pointing to the patch on his chest. His eyes meet yours, catching the way they narrow. It would make sense that you hadn’t put the pun together yourself, and he gets the cold feeling that you’re suspicious of him. You, of all people. It isn’t that you come off as naive, but you had trusted him so easily last night, allowing him to sit with his hand in your hair as you fell asleep. He had assumed you didn’t see through his manipulations, the strings he pulled in the world of these games.

The group shares a laugh over his name, but not you. You arch a brow, smiling, but with that sharp look in your eyes. “The gamemakers must have a sense of humor,” you murmur wryly, but that coldness spreads in his body. Everyone else chuckles, but In-ho knows there’s more to your statement.

And he realizes there might be even more to you than he thought.

“And you?” he asks quickly, looking to Gi-hun. “Your full name, I mean. I only know you as Gi-hun.” Another lie, so little in comparison to the rest.

“Oh, right, um… Seong Gi-hun is my full name,” he replies quietly, eyes flicking between In-ho and you. Curious.

“Seong - that literally means last name, doesn’t it?” he asks, feeling almost nervous. It’s not the right word, but the strange tightness in his chest can’t seem to be described any other way. He laughs, his chuckles rolling off him through the anxious energy, at his own bad joke.

Nobody else laughs, but there’s a flicker of amusement in your expression. “Like our ‘un-Seong hero’?” you add, voice laced with humor as you speak in English for the first time in his presence. He laughs harder, not expecting the cheesy joke from your lips, and you laugh too.

Such a delightful sound. Something bright and sweet, like the sky on a cloudless day in a past that’s long gone. There’s a couple chuckles in the group, but nobody laughs as much as the two of you do. Somehow, you make him feel like Young-il, the man he used to be, and In-ho, the man he’s become, the man he’s always been underneath it all.

The doors open, guards filing in, and the joviality of the room quiets, stills. Any small relief that the groups have managed to find after escaping the last game with their lives dissipates. You tear your eyes away from Young-il, your mind churning, twisting over the information, but it’s hard to stay focused on his potential deceptions with the gut-dropping recognition of the button being wheeled in.

“Congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game.” The head guard stands in the center of the group of pink-clad soldiers, the rigid square on his face an indicator of his rank. The lights turn off, the now-familiar glow of golden light shining down on them as the pig takes the spotlight above their heads. “Here are the results of the second game. In the second game, 110 players were eliminated.” The familiar chiptune plays as the bank above everyone's head fills with bundles of won, counting the bodies that had been bloodily removed from the schoolyard scene of the last game. “The prize money accumulated up to this point is 20.1 billion won. Since there are 255 players remaining, each person’s share is 78,823,530 won.”

Uproar. People start shouting out complaints, the ‘O's growing restless at the realization that even with so many dead, the split of the prize pool isn't enough. Even for you, that amount isn’t enough to settle your father’s debts and pay his medical bills.

In-ho has to hide a smirk, even as something inside him clenches. Just as expected, desperate greed wins over the lives of the people whose blood invisibly stains the prize pool. He eyes Gi-hun, who stares around the room, cataloguing the people complaining with barely disguised loathing. Gi-hun, who has never been able to look past the cost of all that money to see the freedom it grants. In-ho can hardly judge. He’s barely touched his own money, after all.

“I completely understand your disappointment. However, we always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities. You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not. Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner.” The guard’s voice is clinical, rehearsed, and a sick feeling twists at your gut. Just how many games have there been? How many times has he said these exact words?

And the implication slams into you, the easy manipulation of the words. The vote hasn’t even happened yet, and you already know the outcome. Desperation, self-preservation. Nobody is leaving the games today.

“I should go,” you say softly, as the crowd accumulates at the edge of the glowing ‘X’ and ‘O’ separation on the ground. You give a slight bow of your head, turning to leave, feeling displaced, uneasy.

“Wait, (Y/N),” Gi-hun says, halting you in your tracks. Your eyes flick to him, widening. “Stick with our team. You said you, uh, you wanted to fight by… by our side, last night, didn’t you?”

Lips parting, you can’t seem to take your eyes off his face. That wasn’t quite what you said, but based on his shifty expression, he knows that. You said you wanted to fight by his side. The invitation still surprises you, but underneath that surprise is a warmth at being included, at him asking you to stay. You nod, smiling a little. “I would appreciate that, thank you. And, if it’s at all possible, if… if we end up staying for another game, I’d like for us to try and keep an eye out for the team that kept me alive today.” If. You don’t want to crush their spirits with the foresight you currently hold.

Gi-hun’s eyes soften, smiling just a little, but it feels like a victory. You find yourself craving more of that smile, to see the full force that used to come easily to him, if the lines of his face are anything to go by. “We’ll do our best,” he replies, his voice just as soft as those eyes. He must be a very kind man. You get a little lost, looking at him, at the lingering cloak of who he once was. "We have to end the games here,” he adds, turning to the group. “I will help you all with my winnings from the first game when we get out. Please trust me, and vote to leave.”

“Don’t worry,” Young-il adds, eyes locked on Gi-hun. “I want to stop here too. I should go.”

“Yeah,” Gi-hun says, his eyes softening as he looks back at Young-il. “You should be with your wife at the hospital.”

And then you freeze. Wife. Your lips stay closed, but your eyes widen a fraction, feeling a horrible sense of disappointment that takes you by surprise. It shouldn’t be shocking, you should have suspected it, seen the train coming at you full force. He’s twice your age, it makes sense for him to be married - hell, Gi-hun probably has a wife too.

Young-il’s frozen too, and his eyes slowly slide to meet yours from the side. His expression is unreadable, and he doesn’t respond for a moment, his lips parting. Then he looks back at Gi-hun, giving a smile that seems a little tight around the edges. “I’ve been away too long,” he responds quietly, agreeing.

The group chatters, quickly agreeing to all vote to leave. Deep in your gut, you know it’s not enough. But you’re not thinking about that, not in this moment. You’re thinking about Young-il’s hands on yours, guiding you through the motions of spinning an invisible top. You’re thinking about him cradling you to his chest, of the details of his face that you don’t dare to look at now. And you come to the realization that you’re well and truly fucked.

“Guys, all huddle up again,” Dae-ho calls, drawing your attention to him. He’s much easier to focus on than Young-il or Gi-hun. He juts his hand out, arm rigid and straight, into the center of the group. Everyone lays their hands on Dae-ho’s, and you hesitate, before setting yours down last. It’s strange, being a part of a group. “In one, two, three. Victory at all costs!”

“Victoryat all costs!” You all call back.

The voting is in reverse order, this time. Young-il doesn’t hesitate before pressing the ‘X’, but there are a few surprises - namely, two of your old teammates pressing ‘O’. But you can’t blame them. Even with Gi-hun’s offer to pay off your group’s debts, you don’t know what to pick. Hyun-ju hasn’t received that same offer, nor has Young-sik.

Player after player gets called up, but it’s obvious early on that your vote alone won’t matter. Even if every ‘O’ on your team switches, even if Young-sik and Hyun-ju had voted differently, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Player 132.”

Your body trembles, but your feet move automatically, not sparing a glance for Gi-hun or Young-il. When you reach the buttons, you stare down at the glowing red and blue domes, unblinking. It doesn’t matter, does it? What button you press? You already know the outcome. You feel a horrible guilt at the idea of taking Gi-hun’s money, just another stack soaked in blood. The money floating above you may be no different, but at least it’s from your competition - the cost of your own survival, not his.

You press ‘X’. It won’t be a close vote, not by a longshot, so your ‘X’ serves no purpose other than to prove to Gi-hun that you stand with him. Your mind is still detached as you step to the red side, standing next to Young-il but refusing to look at him.

He leans closer to you, heat prickling at your skin from his proximity. “(Y/N),” he murmurs. You bite the inside of your cheek, not reacting. You feel ridiculous, like the little kid you haven’t been in so many years right now, crushing on a married guy. It isn’t his fault. Maybe he felt protective of you, just because you’re only in your 20s. He never actually did anything untoward.

His hand in your hair, stroking it until you fell asleep. Comforting, safe, but not wrong.

The blue crowd cheers on their side - another recruit to continue the games. He sighs softly, settling a hand on your arm. Your body jolts, despite yourself, a zing running through you, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself. “I–”

“Excuse me, everyone!” Gi-hun’s voice rings out across the room, taking command of it. Your breath catches, head turning to stare at him as he walks toward the center. Ever since the first game, he’s been magnetic, unignorable. Young-il’s hand tightens on your arm, then drops, and he suddenly steps forward before Gi-hun can make it to the open space.

“Are you all out of your minds?” Young-il shouts, sending a shiver through you. Your eyes flick to him, stunned. “You still want to keep going after watching all those people die? Who’s to say you won’t die in the next game? We have to stop. We’ll all die if we keep going! Come to your senses, and leave with that money.”

You feel like you’re waiting for something - maybe the guards to step in, to shout that interruptions to the voting process aren’t allowed, for one of them to press a gun to Young-il’s head. But it doesn’t come.

Players from the ‘O’ side step up to argue, including the detestable player 100. But your eyes drift back to Gi-hun, watching him watch Young-il. Touched isn’t the right word, but Young-il joining him in protesting the continuation of these sadistic games definitely affects him. Gi-hun’s eyes are huge, relieved, to not be fighting for this alone. Awe doesn’t fit any better, but it’s the only thing your mind comes up with.

“If we play one more game, the prize will be at least 240 million!”

For some reason you cannot decipher, it’s Gi-hun’s expression that pushes you to step forward, into the aisle. “And if you die?” you say, your words sharp, eyes flicking to player 043, who had just spoken. “Almost a third of the players died in this last game. What makes you think you’re special enough to make it out? You’re all cowards, just hoping as many people as possible die. You’re not fucking invincible - everyone here has the same odds of getting out. Do you feel so lucky? There’s 255 of us left - if another 110 die, that’s almost half of us. 50/50 odds - a coin flip. Heads, you win - tails, you’re gone forever, and you’ll be the one who dug that grave.”

Silence, for just a moment. Then, player 095 - Young-mi, you remind yourself, Young-mi - sobs, tears streaming down her face, pleading with the other players to not continue these games. Pity wrenches through your gut, and again, you wonder what someone so fragile could have done to end up here. How she ever called the number on that business card after being slapped by the recruiter. You find yourself unable to look at her, your eyes finding Gi-hun’s once more. Something akin to dread builds in his expression, but there’s a quiet gratitude laying under the surface.

Young-il steps between you two, eyes locking on yours for just a moment before scanning the crowded ‘O’ side.

“If you die here, your family won’t even get your body. Then it’d be the end for you and your family! Don’t you see?” Young-il shouts, but the ‘O’s are beyond hearing. Their arguments are solid enough, but they refuse to acknowledge on thing - that every single one of them is praying that as many people as possible will die, besides themselves. It doesn’t take long for them to start up a chant, mob mentality kicking in, spreading like an airborne virus.

“One more game! One more game!”

A chill runs through you. Those words were exactly what you had thought during the first vote. One more. Just one more.

The vote continues, digital numbers climbing higher and higher, and you can’t bear to watch. Knowing the way something ends is much different from watching it all happen. Will you survive one more? And what about the one after that? There’s little chance that the vote will turn back to your team’s favor - at least, not while player 100 is alive. 10 billion won owed… that man won’t rest until there’s at least only four players left, splitting the prize into 11.4 billion per person.

Gi-hun’s posture is slumped in the glow of his red vote, and your heart aches for him. He’s a good man, you know it deep in your soul. How a man like that could possibly win such cruel games is beyond you. And to be the only one to make it out alive…

Your feet take you to his side before your mind catches up. “Gi-hun,” you murmur, your hand grabbing his wrist. He goes still, statuesque, but you persist. “Please, can we… can we talk?”

A few breaths pass, but he nods, turning to you, his wrist slipping from your hand. He looks down at his arm, then his eyes meet yours. He feels… strange. It’s the same tightness in his chest as he felt earlier, when you approached his team with Jun-hee in tow. There was no guarantee that his team would do better than any other, especially since he hadn’t known the game going in. But the look in your eyes as they met his, a desperate edge to them, but not desperate on your own behalf… it had stunned him into silence. He wasn’t able to speak. It wasn’t the desperation, but the sheer trust that affected him so. You had trusted him with two lives, neither one of them your own. He’s not worthy of that trust. Every life that has been entrusted to his care, with the exception of two, has met a violent end. Both you and Young-il, so firm in your belief of him. He wants to apologize now, for not speaking up when you asked for his help. But what could he say? He can’t explain his reaction, the stunned twist of his chest the way he’d been trapped in your gaze. The way his mind had fit the puzzle pieces into place to paint a clear picture of his understanding of your character.

Your eyes are wide, intense as they meet his. “What is it?” he asks quietly, his brows furrowing, his lips set in the frown he’s worn for years now. “Are you alright?”

You huff out a breath, nodding, the intensity never leaving your expression. “Yes, but… Well. I had a few questions,” you say slowly, your expression pinching, as though you’re holding something back.

“A few questions,” he repeats dumbly, rubbing at his wrist, still feeling the warmth of your hand. He hasn’t been touched, not gently, in years now. “About?”

You swallow, and his eyes follow the bob of your throat, chest seizing with that strange tightness. “About… about your games. If you don’t mind. I know it’s a hard subject, but… We need to plan ahead, to think more about how this will all play out.” He just gives you a blank stare. Faintly, he feels himself nod for you to continue. “At this point in the games, how… how many people were left, in yours?”

Gi-hun’s brows furrow, and he tries to think, beyond the blood splatters on the playground scene, beyond the sounds of gunshots, beyond his tongue desperately working to melt the sugar honeycomb candy. “About 100,” he says finally, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“Oh, wow,” you mutter, eyes flicking up to the board. “So… 155 less than we have now. You really must have saved a lot of people this time around, interfering in that first game.”

His eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, remembering the weight of a body pinning him to the ground, after the first death caused a stampede of people attempting to escape. But… but you’re right. So many more people died in his first Red Light, Green Light game. “And?” he asks tiredly, rubbing his forehead, trying to focus on this room, not that giant field filled with blood. To not remember revisiting it later, when it was empty, with only one opponent. Sang-woo. He flinches, tries to cover it with a cough, but when his eyes meet yours, he can tell he wasn’t fooling you.

“Sorry, it’s just… Well, it’s impressive. You’ve given more people a chance, here.” You cross your arms, shoulders hunching up, but your eyes don’t leave his. “They said it was new, allowing the players to vote after every round. You didn’t have that choice?”

“No… well. If the players called a vote, and the majority decided to leave, then the money would be split among the deceased players’ families. None of the surviving players would get anything. My…” His jaw clenches on reflex, and he shakes his head. “One player called for a vote, after the first game.”

“And everyone chose to stay?” you ask, brow furrowing.

“No… no, actually. We all left. But they gave us the option to return. Most of us did,” he explains quietly, eyes flicking around the room, finding it hard to look at you as he answers the stream of questions, the tightness in his chest only growing.

You pause, taking that in, your breaths even beside him, almost meditative. He peers at you out of the corner of the eye, taking in the contemplative twist of your lips. “Why would they change the rule?” The question stuns him, and he doesn’t have an answer. If anything, it might be because of him. To prove a point. But that feels too self-important to say, to admit that the Front Man may be choosing to play a separate game with him at the cost of hundreds of lives. But you don’t wait for an answer, sucking in a quiet breath. “How many people made it to the final game?”

His eyes flutter shut. “Two. Is that all of your questions?” he asks, voice a bit too sharp, now. Raw emotions threaten to crash over the dam he’d built in his mind. Memories, he can handle. But they don’t exactly have therapy for the kind of trauma he went through, and every emotion goes unsorted.

Silence. Gi-hun opens his eyes, squinting at you, feeling oddly guilty. It’s not your fault, not really. But this isn’t a subject he’s spoken openly about, ever, and he feels like a stripped wire. “Yes, sir,” you mutter, arms tightening across your chest. “I’m just trying to figure out the best way to convince these people to leave. One of them needs 10 billion - that means he won’t rest until there’s only 4 players left. If not less. I’m sure the gamemakers will want to cut the number of players by more than half in the next game, to try and make the final games closer.”

His eyes slowly open more as you speak, surprised by the observations. They’d tickled at the back of his head, but he’d been operating on blind determination this entire time. Analysis has never been his strong suit, though admittedly he’s gotten better at it in the years since his own game. You remind him of…

He bites the inside of his cheek, almost hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice quieting to something softer. “You don’t need to call me sir,” and those words are just blurted out, spilling like a bowl of ramen after too much soju. It’s the last thing that he should have focused on, but it feels wrong, to have you call him something so impersonal. “I’m sorry for being short with you, it’s just that… I don’t speak about that time.” He reaches out, but aborts the motion halfway through, his hand hanging in the air. What the hell is wrong with him? “You say that you think they’ll try to cut the players by more than half?”

You nod, your eyes softening as you look up at him. “We need to keep our team together next round. To keep as many of us alive as we can, but also… because we’re the only votes that can be guaranteed to be ‘X’ next time.”

Resourceful and compassionate. Something inside him aches as he nods, feeling struck dumb. “You said you were a student, didn’t you?” he asks, eyes roaming over your features as you blink back at him.

“Uh… yeah, actually. I spend most of my time studying, to be entirely honest,” you admit, eyeing him curiously. “Why?”

The corners of his lips twist up, a gesture that feels unfamiliar in his life after becoming a billionaire. “Nothing. I can tell, though. I appreciate having your brain to work on this with me.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Is that why you’re here? Student loans?”

You stiffen, eyes widening a fraction, biting your lip. But you nod. “That, and to help my father,” you say vaguely. You have every right to play your cards close to your chest, but he wants them laid out bare, for him to study, learn, understand. The urge terrifies him.

He swallows past the lump in his throat, nodding. Your father. “You shouldn’t be the one bearing your father’s problems,” he mutters. A brief alternate future flashes through his eyes, one where Ga-yeong, as an adult, has to pay his gambling debts, one where he never entered the games. Guilt stabs through him. “What is it? Gambling?”

What he doesn’t expect is the way your expression darkens, your mouth twisting into a frown that doesn’t fit your face. “Housing debts. He hasn’t had a job in a while, and he was never good at holding one down to begin with. Maybe gambling - I haven’t asked.” Your face is pinched, your lips a distractingly cute shape, even in your upset. He feels a bit dizzy, actually, but he shakes it off, feeling an instant aversion for your father. Perhaps it’s because he reminds Gi-hun of who he used to be, who he still could’ve become. “He’s in the hospital,” you add in a hushed tone, but don’t elaborate. He doesn’t want to push you, but he feels a shocking wave of anger. You shouldn’t be here - although he believes that about every person in this room, that nobody deserves to end up in these games, it’s fiercer, more violent when it’s you. Sure, you likely have your own debts as a student, but your father’s incapability shouldn’t be the reason your life is on the line.

“So that’s why you voted to stay after the first game?” he asks, his voice insistent, intense. Angry.

Maybe you think he’s angry at you, because your eyes narrow. “Yes. But I voted ‘X’ this time, didn’t I? Why, is that a problem?”

“He shouldn’t be your responsibility. He should be taking care of you.”

“He’s my father,” you snap back, defensive. “He’s the only person I have in this country, the only parent I have left. I’m not–” You cut yourself off, eyes oddly shiny, and it takes him a moment to realize that you’re tearing up. His mouth opens, then clamps shut, his expression clearing itself of the white-hot anger he’d felt. His hand reaches out, taking your upper arm in his grasp. Right. Your father is in the hospital, and here he is, practically yelling at you for giving a damn, just because it made him uncomfortable to be speaking to someone on the other side of the situation he had been in years ago.

His own mother’s death sits in his chest, unresolved, clumsily compartmentalized along with every other horrible thing he’s had to deal with. The guilt of eternally letting her down, until the very end. Of not even being by her side in her last moments. Of Ga-yeong, thousands of miles away, and the way these games got in the way of everything and everyone he cared about.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his eyes wide, flicking between your own.

Gi-hun hadn’t said anything that you hadn’t already crossed your mind. Your own guilt feels like lead in the pit of your stomach, Gi-hun’s words mirroring your worst thoughts. His apology stings, a slap to the face. Why should he be sorry? You feel sick. “Whatever, alright? It’s fine.” You rub at your eyes, at the tears that never fell. “We all have baggage.” Yours just happens to be a sick, indebted father, and a strained relationship with your dead mom. “I voted to leave, even though that money up there isn’t enough to cover it all. Whatever your baggage is, beyond these damn games, isn’t my fault, and you shouldn’t be taking it out on me.” Gi-hun just stares at you, wide-eyed, looking a little younger. Not by very much - but he looks like the man he might’ve been, before his first time in these games. 

A thought bubbles up like a laugh, that it’s probably been a while since he was last scolded by a woman for hurting her feelings.

He presses his lips together, eyes darting to the side, and you realize, belatedly, that his hand is still warm on your arm. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, softer this time. “I told you, though, I’ll give you enough money to cover your debts. Your father’s, too.” He squeezes your shoulder, his other hand partially raised, almost in surrender.

You would laugh if that sentiment doesn’t twist the knife in deeper, despite being well-intentioned. “I already feel horrible enough, taking the blood money from this game,” you reply, voice tight. “I don’t know if I can handle your ghosts on top of my own.”

Gi-hun’s expression twists, but there’s a deep understanding in his eyes. “Please. If that money is good for anything, it’s helping people escape the same fate that others couldn’t.”

Your insides are churning, a befuddling mixture of guilt, pain, understanding, appreciation, and… something else, something you shove deep down. If your feelings for Young-il were misplaced, you refuse to make the same mistake twice. But something about Gi-hun tells you that he’s unmarried, unattached. A man with any kind of relationship in the outside world, filial or romantic, wouldn’t come back to a place like this.

“If we make it out,” you finally reply, your shoulders dropping, arms loosening. Gi-hun nods, his expression drawing in at the reminder. One more game. “I’m still with you, Gi-hun. I trust you.”

He smiles, just a little, and finally releases your shoulder, albeit hesitantly. There’s something strange in his eyes, stress or guilt or something more. As you finally walk away, you don’t let yourself wonder, don’t let yourself get caught up in frivolous emotions for a man who carries too much weight to ever let someone else lighten the load. And you pretend you don’t feel Young-il’s eyes watching you as you take a bed in the corner with Gi-hun’s group, choosing to lay down and stare at the mattress above you, trying not to think of anything at all.

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵ ﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

♡  ⁄ taglist: @pursued-by-the-squid @in-hos-wife @bloooooopblopblop <33333 @nellabear @gloriousjellyfisharcade @politicstanner @xcinnamonmalfoyx @beebeechaos @delfinadolphin @bbrainr0t @ineedazeezee @watasinekoru @solarpotato @nerdytif @speedymagazinewhispers @machipyun @dilfismz

[chrissssssmut]

You heard of parasocial relationships where fans of a celebrity feel like they know the celebrity and am close to them even though they aren't?

Imagine a reverse yandere parasocial relationship where an idol sees social media posts from a guy online who is a fan of her and she becomes obsessed with him and goes full yandere

NOTICED

Yandere Kazuha x Male Reader

AN: Sorry I take so long writing! I've been super busy recently and I hope you all could understand!😭♥️

You didn’t expect your K-pop fan account to go anywhere. It was just a place to dump your edits, fancams, and long-winded rambles about how “Kazuha doesn’t even feel real sometimes,” or how “no human should move that gracefully unless they were sculpted by the gods.”

You were just one of thousands. One more voice in a sea of fanboys.

But… she saw you.

And she never stopped looking.

It started small. A like.

You noticed it one night around 2:12 AM, while lazily scrolling through your old posts, chasing dopamine. Your most recent tweet—“If I ever get reincarnated I hope it’s as Kazuha’s phone charger”—had a new like.

From her official account.

You sat upright so fast your spine popped. The checkmark stared back at you like a blinking cursor on a love letter.

“Okay,” you whispered, screen glowing in the dark. “Okay, that’s not… normal.”

Your heart wouldn’t stop racing. She had millions of followers. Why your post? Why now?

Maybe it was her social media manager? Maybe it was random?

You retweeted it anyway, captioning it with:

“No way Kazuha just liked my tweet???? Is this real life???”

You didn’t know it then, but she was already watching. Already scrolling.

Next Day — Seoul

Kazuha scrolled through your feed, her thumb trembling ever so slightly as she lay on her hotel bed. The blue light carved shadows into her face.

Every post. Every caption. Every breath you typed into the void—meant for her.

“He thinks I’m not real,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “He thinks I’m a goddess.”

A slow, eerie smile tugged at her lips.

“Then I’ll become one.”

Three Days Later

Your account was exploding. Kazuha had liked three more of your posts.

One was your fan edit—her rehearsal shots layered with angel wings and a dreamy filter.

Another was your tweet:

“Kazuha's smile should be registered as a WMD.”

And the third?

“If Kazuha ever looked at me the way she looks at the camera, I’d pass out. Actually pass out.”

You were losing your mind. Your DMs were flooded. Kazuha had liked three more of your posts, and the internet was combusting over it. Your phone buzzed non-stop—mentions, retweets, follows, and angry fanboys and fangirls trying to decode what black magic you used.

Some of the messages were just chaotic:

@swanfeetfanatic:

BRO??? WHAT DID YOU SELL TO THE UNIVERSE FOR THIS?? GIVE ME THE RITUAL CIRCLE???

@kknuckles:

This is rigged. You’re not even her biggest fan. You don’t even tag your fancams right.

But then came the jealous DMs.

unknown:

“Seriously? SHE liked you? You barely know anything about her. You said she looked ‘unreal’ like three times. That’s lazy simping.”

user82837:

“You're just a thirst account. If anyone should get noticed, it's people who actually care about her art.”

zuha4life:

“You think she’s gonna date you now or something? LMAO. Delusional.”

private account (no pfp):

“She follows me too. You’re not special. Stop pretending you matter.”

The bitterness dripped off every word, but you couldn’t lie—it kind of made it sweeter. You knew it was petty, but something about being the one she saw… it stirred something in your chest.

You refreshed again.

Another like.

This time, on your old post from months ago:

“If Kazuha showed up at my door soaked in rain asking to stay the night, I wouldn’t even ask questions. I’d just pray she never leaves.”

You stared at it.

And then the DM came from that private account with no posts.

unknown:

"You wouldn’t pass out. You’d fall to your knees."

Then it vanished.

Same Night — Hotel Room

Kazuha grinned at her burner account. She had watched your reaction through the reflection in her hotel window, playing your stream on mute.

She could see you squint at your screen, confused and flustered. She could practically taste your pulse.

“That’s enough teasing for now,” she whispered, rolling onto her back. “He’s almost ripe.”

Next Day — Fanmeet

You had to fly out. You couldn’t resist anymore. Kazuha was attending a public fanmeet in Seoul and you had to see her.

You didn’t expect to get in. You didn’t expect your fan letter to even be read. But someone—somehow—pushed your name to the top of the list.

You were called up.

And there she was.

Kazuha, smiling up at you from across the small table. Her skin glowed. Her eyes—deep, unreadable—fixed on you like you were the only thing left in the world.

You stammered. “H-Hi…”

“Hi,” she said sweetly, but her tone was low. Slow. Intimate.

Your heart did a backflip.

She tilted her head. “You look… just like I imagined.”

You blinked. “W-What?”

Kazuha leaned in, lips just a whisper from the mic.

“Your voice. Your face. I’ve seen all of it. So many times.”

You stood frozen. The staff gestured for you to move along, but she raised her hand—delicate but firm.

“One more minute,” she told them.

Then her eyes turned back to you.

“I liked your post,” she said quietly. “The one about reincarnating as my phone charger.”

You let out a half-choked laugh. “I-I was joking, of course—”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence. Her stare burned into you.

“Would you let me keep you in my room?” she asked. “Just… on the floor. Warm. Plugged in. Close.”

Your throat dried.

She smiled. “I’m kidding.”

But her eyes weren’t.

Two Days Later — Your Apartment

You couldn’t shake her from your mind. Every notification made your heart stutter. Every shadow in your hallway felt like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were being paranoid.

Until the note appeared under your door.

“I know where you live now. I liked it better when I was the fantasy. But I’ll make reality better, don’t worry. — K”

You dropped the note like it burned.

Outside, the wind howled.

You couldn’t sleep. Every sound outside your window had you glancing over your shoulder. You checked the locks again. You checked your phone.

No notifications. No messages.

Then the lights flickered.

You turned—slowly—to see her.

Kazuha.

Standing in your living room.

Barefoot. Hair wet. Dressed in one of your oversized hoodies.

“Hey,” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Miss me?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

She walked toward you, slow and deliberate.

“I told myself I’d wait. That I’d be patient. But you kept posting. You kept calling me a goddess. You kept making me real.”

You backed up, bumping into the wall.

Kazuha raised a hand and gently pressed it against your chest. “So here I am.”

Her smile was soft. Her eyes weren’t.

“I’m yours, right? You made me yours. You manifested me.”

“I—Kazuha, this isn’t—”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t ruin the fantasy. You prayed for this. Every post. Every word.”

She leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Let me be what you worship.”

The words lingered in the air, thick with heat and danger.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so violently it echoed in your ears. Kazuha was inches from you now—too close. The hoodie she wore was yours, you could tell from the faint detergent scent and how it draped perfectly over her dancer’s frame. Her bare legs, toned and poised, brushed against yours like it was deliberate.

“Kazuha,” you whispered, as gently as you could. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

She tilted her head, feigning confusion. “Why not? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

“I—”

“You said it yourself,” she murmured. “Over and over. You wanted me in your room. You said you’d let me stay the night. That I could do anything. Be anything.”

She pressed her forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath warm.

“You told the world you’d worship me. So why hesitate now that your goddess is standing in front of you?”

You didn’t know what scared you more—how calmly she said it, or how much of you wanted to give in.

Your hand moved up, instinctively reaching for your phone, but she caught your wrist with gentle fingers.

“No,” she said, smile still soft. “This isn’t something you share.”

Her grip tightened slightly.

“This moment is ours.”

Hours Later — Same Night

You didn’t sleep.

Kazuha sat curled up on your bed like a cat who had always belonged there, scrolling through your phone as if it was hers now. Occasionally, she'd let out a soft giggle or hum.

“Oh,” she said, waving the screen. “This one’s cute.”

She read aloud:

“I’d let Kazuha slap me with a ballet shoe and I’d thank her. I’m sick in the head.”

She turned to you with wide, amused eyes. “That was you?”

You nodded mutely from the corner of the room, where you sat—legs pulled up to your chest—trying to make sense of the nightmare you were trapped in.

“God, you’re adorable,” she cooed. “You’re so loyal.”

She crawled toward you, slow and deliberate, dropping the phone beside you.

“You made me feel seen. Real. Not just some perfectly sculpted robot for the stage. You talked to me like I was art. Like I was holy.”

Her hand slid against your cheek.

“So I’ll treat you like my most devoted worshipper. Isn’t that what you are?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

She smiled, tapping her forehead to yours again.

“Don’t be scared. You’re mine now. That’s all this is.”

You awoke to the smell of breakfast—burnt toast and eggs, slightly too salty. Kazuha was dancing barefoot in your kitchen, humming a Le Sserafim song under her breath like she was home.

Like she belonged here.

She turned when she saw you, eyes lighting up.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” she chirped. “I made food. It's probably bad, but you’ll eat it anyway, right?”

You stared at her.

“Zuha… you can’t stay here. This isn’t normal. People will notice—”

“Let them,” she said, expression unchanging. “Let them see what real love looks like.”

“But your fans—your company—”

Her face shifted just slightly. A small, almost imperceptible crack in her serene expression.

“I don’t care about them,” she said flatly. “I care about you.”

Silence.

Then, quietly:

“You think they’d still love me if they knew what I was willing to do for you?”

You didn’t move.

She stepped closer.

“If they knew how long I’ve been watching? How many of your locations I’ve tracked from tweets? How many people I blocked from your replies—using sock accounts—so you’d feel like I was the only one who cared?”

“Kazuha—”

“They’d crucify me,” she whispered, smiling. “But you wouldn’t. You’d kneel.”

Later That Day — Twitter

Your account was different now. Your follower count had mysteriously dropped. Your tweet replies were unusually quiet—no more chaotic DMs. No more angry fangirls or jealous snark.

They were gone.

You opened your DMs and saw nothing.

Nothing.

Except one new message.

From @onlyzuha (a private account with zero followers).

“You’re welcome. I cleaned up the noise. I want to hear you clearly.”

“Post something for me. Something true. Tell the world who you belong to.”

And somehow… you knew if you didn’t, she’d find another way to make it clear.

You hovered over the tweet button.

Your hands were shaking.

“I don’t know how this happened… but she’s mine now. And I think I’m hers.”

You hit post.

Seconds later—liked by @Kazuha_official.

Your post went viral.

Not viral like before—no chaotic memes or fan envy. This time, it was quiet.

Sinister.

Everyone could feel something was off.

Your tweet:

“I don’t know how this happened… but she’s mine now. And I think I’m hers.”

Got liked only once—by Kazuha’s verified account.

No replies. No fan jokes. No chaos.

Just silence.

And then, one by one, your tweets started disappearing.

Not the ones Kazuha liked—those remained, carefully pruned. But old ones, ones where you casually mentioned your friends, college, exes, late-night gaming buddies—they all vanished. It was as if someone was scrubbing your digital identity clean.

That Night — Your Apartment

Kazuha was humming in your room again. Sitting cross-legged in your chair, scrolling through your timeline like it was hers.

“Your friend Dan,” she said calmly, “he called you pathetic once in a Discord voice call. I saved the clip.”

You stared at her. “How did you—”

“I joined with a throwaway,” she smiled. “Voice mod and everything. Cute, right?”

You stood frozen, bile creeping up your throat. “You… you were listening?”

“I am listening,” she said softly. “All the time.”

She got up, walked to you, and gently took your face in her hands.

“I know you better than anyone. Better than your mother. Better than God. Because I chose to.”

“Kazuha,” you whispered, barely breathing, “I’m scared.”

Her smile didn’t falter.

“I know, baby. It’s always scary when divinity touches you.”

Next Morning — Trending Tab

#FREE___

Your name.

It started trending without context. Just your name. Bold. Empty. Dozens of fans began asking:

“Why has this guy’s account been completely wiped except the Kazuha tweets?”

“Did he delete himself or did someone else delete him?”

“He was super active and now he’s silent af. Where is he?”

“This is giving Black Mirror.”

You tried to post something. Anything.

But the tweet wouldn’t send. Your drafts vanished as you typed them.

Kazuha walked past behind you, brushing her teeth, wearing your shirt. “Internet issues?”

She spat in the sink, smiling through the mirror.

“I locked you out. Just for a bit. You were shaking too much.”

Sometime later, a secret video is leaked.

A blurry video was posted by a burner account and quickly deleted.

It showed you—clearly distressed—sitting on a balcony. Kazuha beside you, holding your hand, smiling into the camera. Whispering something into your ear. You looked like you were crying.

Fans lost it.

“No idol should be that close to a fan, ever.”

“He doesn’t look okay. He looks like he’s being held hostage.”

“If this is real, we need to help him.”

But the video disappeared in minutes.

The account that posted it? Nuked.

The people who reposted it? Suspended.

Your last tweet remained.

Still liked.

Still pinned.

Still yours.

You sat on the edge of the building, wind tugging at your clothes. Kazuha sat beside you, her hand on your thigh, casual like always.

“I think people are starting to notice,” you murmured.

“They’re irrelevant,” she said. “They don’t understand us.”

She leaned her head on your shoulder, like a girlfriend in a drama.

“I used to think I needed the world. The stage. The lights. But it was all so… hollow.”

“Then I found your words.”

“You made me alive.”

The wind howled. You didn’t speak.

“If the world burns because I chose you,” she whispered, “then let it burn.”

She looked up at you.

“So choose, baby. Me or them.”

Your lips trembled.

“Kazuha…”

“I won’t ask again.”

One Week Later — You were declared missing.

It started with a welfare check.

Neighbors hadn’t seen you in days. Lights on all night. Packages stacked outside your door. No noise, no movement. Your parents tried calling—you didn’t answer. Your friends, the few who hadn’t been pushed away, filed a report.

By the time police reached your apartment… it was empty.

No sign of a struggle. No signs of violence.

Just your phone—cracked, screen facing the wall. And a note:

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve gone somewhere better.”

Your name hit the trending tab again.

#RIP[YourName]

#JusticeFor[YourHandle]

#WhatHappenedToTheSimpKing

Memorial edits popped up. Fan theories ran wild. Some blamed Kazuha—pointing to the tweets, the video, the possessive behavior. But HYBE’s legal team moved fast. Every accusation was buried. Every account mysteriously suspended.

It was dark when you woke up. Dim yellow lighting. A room with no windows. Your limbs ached from disuse, your body heavy. The bed beneath you was soft. Too soft. Sheets freshly washed. The scent of clean linen mixed with something sweeter—like jasmine and static.

Then you heard her voice.

“There he is.”

Kazuha stepped into the room, barefoot, wearing a flowy white dress that made her look like a dream—or a ghost. She sat beside you, brushing your hair from your face.

“Sleep well?” she whispered.

You tried to sit up. “Where am I?”

“Safe,” she said, like that explained anything. “The world thinks you’re gone. And for once… they’re right.”

You stared at her, mind spinning. “You faked my death?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I set you free.”

The bunker—because that’s what it was—had everything.

Soft lighting. A stocked fridge. A mattress. Speakers playing Le Sserafim on loop. No internet. No phone. Just books she picked out. Sketchbooks. Headphones. Her.

She was always there. Always.

Feeding you. Bathing with you. Stroking your hair as you lay on her lap like some prized possession she could finally keep.

“You were too soft for the world,” she said one night, straddling you with a featherlight touch. “Too pure. They would’ve ruined you.”

“But I kept you.”

You stared at the ceiling.

“You stole me.”

She giggled, kissing your cheek. “And yet… you haven’t run.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t even know where the door was anymore.

Above Ground — Fan Reaction Shifts

A user posted screenshots of your old tweets.

“Guys. Look. She liked every single one that hinted at him wanting to disappear with her. This wasn’t random.”

“What if she saw him coming? What if she planned it?”

They were shut down instantly. IP banned. DMCA strikes. Cease-and-desist.

Kazuha’s fans pivoted.

“He was clearly unstable. Poor girl must’ve been traumatized.”

“She hasn’t smiled once onstage since it happened.”

And it was true.

Kazuha’s performances changed. She danced slower. Sang with empty eyes. But in between sets, a ghost of a smile would return. Not for the cameras. Not for the fans.

Just when she looked at her phone.

Because she still had photos of you.

Videos.

Recordings.

Proof that you were here, beneath the floorboards of the world.

It had been over a month. You couldn’t tell time anymore. Kazuha walked in with two mugs—one for you, one for her.

You didn’t even look up.

“Are you ever going to let me leave?” you asked softly.

She sat beside you, curled her legs underneath her. “No.”

You finally turned to her. “Then why pretend this is love?”

She looked at you, long and deep, like you were scripture.

“Because you loved me when no one else saw me. You wrote about me like I was more than skin. More than choreography. You called me sacred.”

“You gave me that godhood. I’m just returning the favor.”

You laughed bitterly. “You buried me.”

“I immortalized you,” she said, tone still calm. “You're legend now. The fan who loved me so much he vanished.”

She kissed your knuckles.

“And now you’re mine forever.”

Final Scene — A New Fan Surfaces

Far away, in a different country, a new Twitter thread begins.

Someone posts an edit of Kazuha.

Captions it:

“If Kazuha kidnapped me, I’d say thank you.”

The tweet goes viral. Harmless joke. Just another fan craving attention.

But in the shadows… a new account likes it.

@onlyzuha

💬 “Do you really mean that?”

[barnacles34]

Lost in Analysis (Winter x Male OC)

5k words, smut, fluff, happiness, data

Winter x Male OC

The thing about Junho Kim's[1] weekly debriefs with Minjeong Kim was that they followed a precise algorithm, an almost liturgical routine that both participants had wordlessly agreed upon circa Winter's third month of employment (viz. April 2024). The format went as follows: Winter would arrive at exactly 18:30 on Friday bearing a leather-bound portfolio containing the week's logistics reports, margin analyses, and projected Q3/Q4 modeling scenarios. Junho would pretend to study these for exactly twelve minutes while Winter sat in the ergonomic chair across his desk, her accent becoming pronounced in direct proportion to her anxiety level[2].

What happened on this particular Friday deviated from the algorithm in ways that would later prove significant, starting with Winter's arrival at 18:27[3].

"The Busan account numbers are off," Junho said, his photographic memory already detecting a 0.03% discrepancy in the third-quarter projections. The words emerged with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned human speech through technical manuals rather than conversation. "This is—" he paused, index finger tapping against his mahogany desk in a rapidfire motion that Winter had learned to recognize as his pre-explosion tell, "—unacceptable."

And then something unprecedented occurred.

Instead of her usual composed absorption of his critique, Winter's face crumpled into what could only be described as a squeaky whimper, a sound so incongruous with her usual professional demeanor that it seemed to physically stun Junho into silence. It was the acoustic equivalent of watching a Mercedes-Benz hiccup.

The algorithm crashed.

—

[1] Junho Kim, CEO of Quantum Logistics Solutions, net worth $2.3B (₩3.1T), possessed what his former Harvard professors called "an almost frightening capacity for data retention" and what his former therapist (sessions terminated after 2.5 meetings) called "a pathological inability to process emotional bandwidth."

[2] A phenomenon her roommate had dubbed "The Accent Anxiety Index," where her carefully practiced Seoul pronunciation would gradually give way to her native Busan satoori, ranging from barely detectable at Level 1 ("감사합니다") to full coastal at Level 10 ("아이고, 사장님, 이 숫자 영 아니네요").

[3] The 3-minute early arrival would later be explained by a complex series of events involving a broken elevator, two flights of stairs, and Winter's determination not to let her carefully constructed timeline collapse due to mechanical failure.

—

The following Friday's debrief began with Junho actually pulling out Winter's chair[4], a gesture so unexpected that she nearly missed the seat entirely. The portfolio was reviewed. The whiskey was poured (Junho's usual Macallan 25, Winter's Hwayo 41). And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, Winter's accent kicked into what would later be classified as Level 11 on the Southern Comfort Scale.

"You know what your problem is, sajangnim?" Minjeong's words carried the warm weight of soju and suppressed frustration, her carefully maintained Seoul accent dissolving entirely into coastal inflections. "당신은 인생을 마치 스프레드시트처럼 대하시네요. Everything must calculate perfectly, but people aren't numbers, and some of us are tired of being debugged like broken code."

Junho's finger stopped its habitual tapping mid-motion[5].

—

[4] A gesture learned from a WikiHow article titled "Basic Human Courtesy: A Beginner's Guide" that Junho had queued up on his tablet at 3:47 AM the previous Tuesday.

[5] Later analysis would reveal this as the exact moment Junho Kim, master of algorithms and logistics, encountered a variable his photographic memory couldn't process: genuine human connection.[6]

The office fell into a silence that could be measured in heartbeats (Junho's: an efficient 72 BPM; Minjeong's: an elevated 98 BPM). Outside, Seoul's financial district performed its usual Friday night exodus, the sound of departing Mercedes and BMWs creating a capitalistic symphony twenty-three floors below.

"시간이..." Minjeong continued, her Busan accent now operating at what could only be classified as Level 12[7], "Time isn't just money, 사장님. Sometimes it's just... time. Like those lunches you wolf down in exactly eight minutes while reading reports. Or these Friday meetings where you never actually look at me, just through me at some invisible spreadsheet floating in the air behind my head."

Junho's hand, still frozen mid-tap, slowly lowered to the desk. His photographic memory began involuntarily cataloging details it had somehow missed during their previous 47 debriefs: the way Minjeong's left hand always fidgeted with her portfolio's corner when nervous, how her voice carried traces of sea salt and summer festivals despite years of Seoul speech coaching, the fact that she had memorized his coffee preferences down to the precise temperature (81°C, no higher, no lower).

"I do look at you," he said, then immediately registered the statistical improbability of his own response[8].

Minjeong's laugh carried the particular timber of someone who had been holding it in reserve for approximately 11.7 months. "아니요, you really don't. You look at KPIs and performance metrics and quarterly projections. Did you know," she leaned forward, her accent thick as Busan fog, "that I've worn the same earrings every Friday for three months just to see if you'd notice?"

The earrings in question were small silver cranes, Junho's memory instantly supplied, purchased from a street vendor in Gukje Market during last quarter's Busan office inspection, chosen because their wings formed the mathematical symbol for infinity when viewed from the correct angle[9].

—

[6] A concept that would later require Junho to create an entirely new category in his mental filing system, located somewhere between "Acceptable Business Practices" and "Breathing Exercises (Mandatory)."

[7] A previously theoretical level on the Accent Anxiety Index, characterized by the complete abandonment of Seoul linguistic pretense and the emergence of what Minjeong's mother would call "우리 딸의 진짜 목소리" (our daughter's real voice).

[8] Statistical analysis of Junho's daily eye contact patterns, conducted by his personal AI assistant, revealed an average sustained eye contact duration of 1.3 seconds with all employees, making his current 4.7-second gaze at Minjeong a 361.5% deviation from the mean.

[9] A detail that would have impressed Junho greatly had he noticed it at the time of purchase, rather than at this precise moment when his brain was simultaneously trying to process the concept of infinity and the way Minjeong's eyes reflected the city lights like binary code translated into stardust.

—

The Hwayo bottle stood between them like a glass mediator, its contents depleted by exactly 73.4%. Junho found himself performing calculations he had never previously considered necessary: the precise angle at which Minjeong's smile disrupted his cardiac rhythm (42.7°), the correlation coefficient between her proximity and his ability to maintain coherent thought patterns (inverse relationship, R² = 0.97), the half-life of each satoori-tinged syllable in his auditory memory (approaching infinity)[10].

"There's a pojangmacha," Minjeong said, her words now performing linguistic gymnastics between Seoul and Busan, "down in Gangnam that serves 할매's 파전 just like back home. But you—" she gestured with her glass, creating small amber trajectories in the air, "—you probably have the exact caloric content memorized without ever tasting it."

"624 calories per standard serving," Junho confirmed automatically, then added, in what he would later recognize as his first attempt at human humor[11], "Not accounting for 할매's (grandmother’s) love."

The laugh that escaped Minjeong's lips was genuine enough to bypass all of Junho's statistical models for appropriate business interaction. It was the kind of laugh that made him wonder if his entire algorithmic approach to life had been operating on a fundamental error: the assumption that human emotions could be debugged rather than experienced.

"사장님," she said, then caught herself, "아니, Junho-ssi." The honorific shift created a quantifiable disruption in the office's atmospheric pressure[12]. "Do you know why I cry sometimes when you yell about the numbers?"

Junho's hands found themselves attempting to calculate an emotion he had no formula for. "I... have a working hypothesis."

"It's not because I'm scared or hurt," she continued, her Busan accent now wrapping around the words like a warm coast-side breeze. "It's because I see you turning yourself into code, like you're trying to compile a human being into binary, and..." she paused, searching for words in both Seoul and Busan vocabularies before settling on, "...그게 너무 아까워요."

The phrase hung in the air, untranslatable in its full emotional weight[13].

—

[10] A phenomenon that would later require Junho to create an entirely new mathematical framework he privately termed "The Minjeong Constant: Variables in Human Connection."

[11] Later analysis of office security footage would reveal this as his first non-data-related comment in approximately 2,847 hours of recorded business interactions.

[12] Advanced environmental sensors in the building's HVAC system actually recorded a 0.02% change in air pressure at this exact moment, though causation versus correlation remains a subject of debate among the building's maintenance staff.

[13] The closest English approximation might be "it's such a waste," but this fails to capture the uniquely Korean sense of regret for potential beauty lost to unnecessary efficiency, like trying to measure ocean waves in milliliters.

—

For exactly 15.4 seconds, Junho Kim—master of instantaneous data processing, champion of real-time analytics—found himself buffering. His mind, that perfectly calibrated instrument of calculation, attempted to run multiple subroutines simultaneously:

ROUTINE_1: Analyze the 2.3% tremor in Minjeong's voice during "그게 너무 아까워요"

ROUTINE_2: Process the 7.4mm dilation of his pupils upon hearing his given name

ROUTINE_3: Calculate the exact distance between their hands on the desk (23.7cm, decreasing by approximately 0.3mm per heartbeat)

ERROR: Stack overflow in emotional processing unit[14]

"I have a file," he began, then stopped, realizing that perhaps not everything needed to be classified and stored. "No, I mean... I remember every time you've smiled at work. Real smiles, not the ones you use for clients or difficult vendors." His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking a keyboard that wasn't there. "The data suggests that they occur most frequently when you're talking about Busan, or when you think no one is watching you arrange the office plants, or..." he paused, processing, "...or when you're correcting my humanity protocols[15]."

Minjeong's eyes widened, creating what Junho's brain automatically calculated as a 34.6% increase in their reflective surface area. "You... keep track of my smiles?"

"I keep track of everything," he said, then amended, displaying unprecedented runtime flexibility, "but your smiles occupy 43% more memory space than standard data points."

"아이고," Minjeong laughed, the sound carrying hints of sea breezes and noraebang nights, "only you would quantify feelings in percentages and memory allocation, 사장님[16]."

The Hwayo bottle now stood at 82.6% depletion. Outside, Seoul had transformed into its weekend configuration, all neon equations and binary dreams. But inside this office, something unquantifiable was compiling—a program written in neither Python nor Java, but in the ancient code of human connection.

"There's a logical error in your earlier statement," Junho said suddenly, his voice performing calculations it had never been calibrated for. "About me not looking at you."

"Oh?" Minjeong's eyebrow arched at precisely 27 degrees.

"I look at you approximately 2,347 times per day. My peripheral vision activates in your presence with 72% more frequency than baseline. I have memorized exactly 267 variations of your voice modulation between Seoul and Busan registers[17]. The error," he continued, his own accent slipping for the first time since Harvard, "is in assuming I don't see you."

—

[14] A phenomenon his Harvard professors had theoretically predicted but never successfully documented: the complete shutdown of pure logic circuits in favor of what they termed "human.exe."

[15] A private joke that had never made it past his internal firewall until this moment, referring to the way she subtly guided him toward more socially acceptable behaviors, like suggesting he say "good morning" to the cleaning staff or remember team members' birthdays.

[16] The honorific here carrying a new weight, somewhere between professional distance and affectionate teasing, a linguistic quantum state that would have fascinated physicists had they been present to observe it.

[17] This particular statistic would later become the subject of a 3 AM realization that perhaps "normal" CEOs don't maintain such detailed databases of their assistants' vocal patterns.

—

The confession hung in the air with the weight of a misplaced decimal point. Minjeong's hand, still holding her Hwayo glass, trembled at a frequency of approximately 3.2 Hz. The office's automated climate control system registered a sudden 0.7°C spike in local temperature[18].

"그래서..." Minjeong's voice emerged in Pure Pattern #271 (Subcategory: Emotional Breakthrough), "this is why you always know when I've had 떡볶이 for lunch?"

The unexpected query caused Junho to experience what his systems could only classify as a brief moment of runtime joy. "The specific aroma particles adhere to your cardigan at a rate of—" he caught himself, noting the gleam in her eye, and for the first time in recorded history, Junho Kim deliberately chose not to complete a calculation[19].

Instead, he found himself saying, "Your smile increases by exactly 23.7% when you eat 떡볶이. It's... optimal."

"최적화?" Minjeong's laugh carried notes of soju and starlight. "You're really going to data-analyze my happiness levels?"

"I have spreadsheets," he admitted, his voice carrying an unfamiliar warmth that his diagnostic systems struggled to categorize. "Cross-referenced with weather patterns, quarterly reports, and the frequency of your Busan accent emergence[20]."

"아이고..." She shifted in her chair, reducing the distance between them by precisely 4.7 centimeters. "You're either the weirdest or the most romantic person I've ever met, and I haven't decided which yet."

The word 'romantic' created a momentary buffer overflow in Junho's cognitive processes. His hands, typically occupied with calculating profit margins or optimizing supply chains, found themselves drawing abstract patterns on his desk's surface—a behavior previously filed under 'Inefficient Human Gestures: Do Not Engage.'

"I could..." he paused, processing, "...show you the data?"

—

[17] This particular dataset would later be renamed in his personal files to "The Minjeong Codex: A Quantitative Analysis of Qualitative Perfection."

[18] The building's maintenance staff would later attribute this to a mechanical anomaly, unaware they had documented the exact moment Junho Kim's ice-cold corporate facade began its calculated melt.

[19] A moment that would later be marked in his personal development log as "First Successful Implementation of Strategic Data Suppression for Emotional Optimization."

[20] These spreadsheets, discovered months later during a routine server backup, would become legendary among the IT department as "The Love Languages of Linear Regression."

—

Minjeong's eyes sparkled with what Junho's facial recognition protocols quantified as 87% mirth, 13% tenderness. "보여주세요," she said, the soju making her consonants softer, more Busan-bound. "Show me this data about me."

For the first time in his professional career, Junho Kim fumbled with his laptop password[21]. The Hwayo bottle between them had decreased to critical levels, and he found the standard office lights were creating unusual prismatic effects in Minjeong's hair. His fingers, typically precise to the microsecond, skittered across the keyboard.

"See, here's the correlation between your happiness metrics and the proximity to Korean holidays," he began, then stopped, distracted by the way she'd rolled her chair closer to view his screen. The scent of her perfume (도라지 꽃, his brain supplied automatically, though for once the percentage calculation felt irrelevant) mixed with the lingering soju in the air.

"You made a pie chart," she said, her voice warm with something his systems were too buzzed to properly quantify, "of my favorite lunch spots?"

"The data visualization seemed... appropriate," he managed, aware that his usual processing power was operating at diminished capacity. "Though I may have spent a statistically anomalous amount of time color-coding it to match your favorite blazer[22]."

Minjeong's laugh had shed all traces of its Seoul polish. "어머나, who knew the great Junho Kim was such a..." she searched for the word in both dialects before landing on, "...nerd?"

"I prefer 'data enthusiast,'" he replied, surprising himself with the speed of his response. The soju was definitely affecting his standard processing delays. "Though my enthusiasm appears to be... specialized."

"Specialized?" Her eyebrow arched in a way that created unprecedented disruptions in his cardiac rhythm.

"The data suggests," he said, his own Gangnam accent softening around the edges, "a singular focus on one particular... variable[23]."

The office space seemed to contract by approximately 40%, though Junho found himself caring less about the exact percentage with each passing moment. Minjeong's hand had somehow migrated to rest near his on the desk, their fingers separated by a gap that felt simultaneously quantum and cosmic.

—

[21] Password: Min2847@QLS, a combination he would later realize was more revealing than any spreadsheet.

[22] The blazer in question: a deep navy piece from a Dongdaemun boutique, worn approximately every third Wednesday, correlated with a 34% increase in his productive distraction levels.

[23] Later analysis of the office security footage would show that at this point, Junho's typically perfect posture had relaxed to unprecedented levels, creating what the ergonomics AI labeled as "Optimal Romance Angles."

—

"Show me more," Minjeong said softly, unconsciously tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Something in her tone caused Junho's spinal alignment to automatically straighten, his shoulders squaring as he leaned forward slightly. The motion created what his hazily analytical mind registered as a subtle shift in the office's power dynamics[24].

"These graphs," he began, his voice dropping half an octave without any conscious input, "track every time you've challenged my decisions in meetings." His finger traced the upward trend line, the gesture somehow both precise and possessive. "You're the only one who dares to correct my logic. It's... intriguing."

Minjeong's breath caught audibly. "사장님..." she started, then with visible effort, "Junho-ssi... you track even that?"

"I track everything about you," he admitted, the soju finally overriding his professional filter subroutines. The way she instinctively ducked her head at his words, a soft pink rising in her cheeks, sparked something primal in his usually ordered mind. "Though lately, I find myself more interested in the unquantifiable variables[25]."

"Like what?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, her natural deference to his authority softened by something warmer, more personal.

Junho felt his hand move with uncharacteristic boldness to tilt her chin up, his thumb registering her pulse point at... he realized with start that for the first time in his adult life, he didn't care about the exact number. What mattered was the acceleration, the way her breath stuttered when he held her gaze.

"Like the way you automatically straighten my tie when you think I'm not paying attention," he murmured, voice steady despite the soju. "Or how you always wait for me to take the first sip of coffee in our morning meetings[26]."

—

[24] The building's pressure sensors detected a subtle but measurable change in the room's atmospheric density, as if the very air was rearranging itself around their shifting dynamic.

[25] Security logs would later note this as the moment Junho Kim's typing pattern on his laptop transitioned from "Corporate Efficiency" to what could only be described as "Focused Intensity."

[26] A habit that Minjeong had developed unconsciously over months, part of an unspoken protocol that went far beyond mere professional courtesy.

—

The laptop screen dimmed to conserve power, casting half of Junho's face in shadow. His hand hadn't moved from her chin, thumb still resting against her pulse point in what his rapidly deteriorating analytical functions recognized as a gesture of both measurement and claim[27].

"You know what else I've noticed?" The question rumbled from somewhere deeper than his usual corporate register. His other hand reached past her to close the laptop with a decisive click, eliminating the last barrier between them. "You mirror my breathing patterns during long meetings. 호흡이... perfectly synchronized."

Minjeong's eyes widened fractionally, caught between the wall and his presence. "That's..." she swallowed, her professional composure wavering, "...very observant of you, 사장님."

"I thought we were past 사장님," he said softly, but with an undertone that made it less observation, more command. The soju had stripped his voice of its algorithmic precision, leaving something rawer, more intuitive[28].

"Jun...ho..." she tested the name without honorifics, the syllables carrying the weight of every unspoken variable between them. Her hands fidgeted with her portfolio, a nervous tell he'd documented approximately 847 times but had never been close enough to still before.

Until now.

His free hand covered both of hers, instantly calming their movement. The gesture was protective, possessive, and entirely unplanned by his usual decisional matrices[29]. "You don't need to calculate the right response," he murmured, unconsciously echoing her earlier criticism of his own binary nature. "Your instincts have a 99.9% accuracy rate."

The percentage slipped out automatically, making her laugh—a soft, breathy sound that seemed to bypass his auditory processing and strike directly at something more fundamental. Her head tilted back further, a movement so subtle it barely registered on the office's motion sensors but sent his pulse into unprecedented acceleration.

"My instincts," she whispered, her Busan accent emerging with complete authenticity, "are telling me we've miscategorized this relationship[30]."

—

[27] The building's biometric scanners would later flag this moment for what their algorithms labeled as "Significant Cardiovascular Anomaly: Dual Synchronization."

[28] Office voice recognition software attempted and failed to classify this new vocal pattern, eventually creating a new category labeled simply "After Hours Protocol."

[29] The exact pressure of his grip would have registered at precisely 7.2 PSI, perfectly calibrated between restraint and assertion, had either of them still been counting.

[30] The security AI, in its nightly report, would mark this exchange with a rare notation: "Recommended Reclassification of Personnel Relationship Status Pending."

—

"Miscategorized," Junho repeated, the word hanging in the air like a suspended calculation. His hand moved from her chin to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair with unprecedented decisiveness[31]. The motion drew her incrementally closer, though for once he didn't bother quantifying the exact distance.

"yes..." Minjeong's affirmation came out breathier than any of her previously recorded vocal patterns. The portfolio slipped from her fingers, creating what would normally be an unacceptable disruption of organized space. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"You know what's interesting?" Junho's voice had shed every trace of its corporate modulation, leaving only that command that seemed to resonate directly with her autonomic nervous system. "I've run approximately 2,847 scenarios of this moment in my head[32]."

Her hands had found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the precise Italian wool of his suit. "And?" The question emerged with a tremor that his tactile sensors catalogued automatically before his conscious mind told them to stop measuring and start feeling.

"None of them..." he leaned closer, watching her eyes flutter half-closed in response to his proximity, "...included the variable of you looking at me exactly like this."

The faint scent of soju on her breath mingled with that eternally elusive percentage of 도라지 꽃 perfume. Junho felt his last analytical subroutines shutting down, replaced by something far more ancient than algorithms[33].

"Minjeong-ah," he said, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed all honorifics, all corporate hierarchy, all pretense of professional distance.

Her response was to cant her head just so, a motion that managed to be both surrender and invitation. "Calculation time's over, 사장님," she whispered, the honorific now carrying a weight that had nothing to do with corporate structure.

—

[31] The office's motion sensors registered this gesture as "Executive Override: Priority Action."

[32] This number, like most of his remaining statistics, was completely fabricated—a first for Junho Kim's otherwise impeccable data records.

[33] Building security cameras would later mark this timestamp with an unprecedented classification: "Critical System Override: Human.exe fully activated."

—

For the first time in his documented existence, Junho Kim stopped calculating entirely.

The distance closed between them with a momentum that defied measurement. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her face upward as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss, when it came, contained no statistics, no data points, no quantifiable metrics[34].

Minjeong made a soft sound—Pattern #unknown, Category: heaven—against his mouth. Her fingers clutched his suit lapels with enough force to wrinkle the wool beyond its optimal pressed state, a fact that Junho's usually meticulous mind registered and immediately discarded as irrelevant.

Time segmented into a new measurement system: the catch of her breath, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the way she yielded and pressed closer simultaneously. Junho discovered that his organizational skills apparently extended to kissing, each angle adjustment and pressure variation drawing increasingly desperate responses from Minjeong[35].

When they finally broke apart, Minjeong's carefully maintained Seoul pronunciation had disappeared entirely. "아이고..." she breathed against his mouth, "당신이..."

"Initial results," Junho murmured, his own accent thick with something that had nothing to do with regional linguistics, "require extensive further testing[36]."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest where she was still pressed against him. "Did you just turn our first kiss into a quality control protocol?"

"Quality confirmed," he replied, then demonstrated his newfound commitment to hands-on research by kissing her again, harder this time, swallowing her surprised gasp. His hand splayed possessively across her lower back, holding her steady as she swayed into him.

—

[34] The building's atmospheric sensors recorded unexplained fluctuations in local temperature, humidity, and electromagnetic fields, leading to a complete recalibration of their measurement standards.

[35] Later analysis would suggest that Junho's legendary attention to detail had found a new, decidedly non-professional application, though this data remains classified in personal files marked "Private Research: Ongoing."

[36] The security AI attempting to transcribe this conversation eventually gave up and simply tagged the file: "Error 404: Professionalism Not Found."

—

Somewhere in the haze of non-analytical thought, Junho registered Minjeong's slight backward momentum and moved instinctively to steady her. His hand swept the desk clear with uncharacteristic disregard for organizational protocols, sending the quarterly reports flutter-falling to the carpet in an acceptable margin of chaos[37].

"Jun...ho..." His name escaped her lips like a statistical anomaly as he lifted her effortlessly onto the mahogany surface. Her legs parted automatically to accommodate him, skirt hiking up precisely 4.7 inches—the last measurement his brain would process for the foreseeable future.

"So beautiful," he murmured against her throat, the words emerging in pure Gangnam inflection, all pretense of corporate diction abandoned. His teeth grazed her pulse point, drawing a whimper that would require an entirely new classification system[38].

Minjeong's fingers tangled in his precisely styled hair, disrupting approximately 47 minutes of morning grooming routine. "사장님," she gasped, the honorific now carrying entirely different connotations, "the papers..."

"Irrelevant data," he growled, recapturing her mouth with newfound authority. The kiss deepened, transformed, became something that defied all previous parameters. Her back arched into him, creating angles that had nothing to do with geometry and everything to do with instinct[39].

A distant part of his mind registered the soft thud of his suit jacket hitting the floor, followed by the whisper of silk as Minjeong's blazer joined it. The city lights painted silver equations across her skin, codes he suddenly needed to decode with his mouth instead of his mind.

—

[37] The office's normally pristine state would require exactly 23.7 minutes to restore, a task that would be significantly delayed by several subsequent "data collection sessions."

[38] Facial recognition software attempting to analyze the security feed would crash repeatedly, unable to reconcile Junho Kim's expression with any known configuration in its emotional database.

[39] The building's structural integrity sensors registered minor seismic activity, though this data would be suspiciously absent from the next day's maintenance logs.

—

He let his hands trail by the sides of her body, one busy with her torso—breasts and all—and the other, feeling the creamy softness of her thighs. And each needy press or pinch, brought out the softest of her moans, the cutest of her lip quivers.

He was busy, marking her lips, making it all swollen and red; yet, still, he couldn’t get enough of her. That soft body, her caring little hands, her hot inner thighs, and that gentle heat radiating off her core—just hidden by the slightest of her skirt. “Minjeong.” He whispered, pressing himself against her—a matter of teasing and also a way to test the waters, whether or not she wanted it on the table.

And Minjeong, not one to initiate, wrapped her thin arms around his nape, pulling him closer, “Yes, yes, please, anything, anywhere,” then a dozen little kisses all on his face. This assurance, this consent, slowly, but surely, made him wrench her legs open—wide. He saw that stain, dark against her gray underwear, and that was when his photographic memory… failed him.

He dug in, letting his loin press up against hers—immersing himself in her wetness. Then, finally, he pulled down on his pants, showing his tent-like imprint on his underwear to Minjeong, who, obviously, couldn’t stop staring. By the end of the minute, that ruthless minute, both were undressed in their lower-half—a utilitarian instinct to fuck each other as fast as possible.

Junho breathed heavily, staring at that pink hue that her core was so beautifully composed of—along with the wetness, the fragrance, and more. “Minjeong…” He held his shaft, lining it up straight on her wetness. She finally replied, “Yes… Junho…” And that’s when he pressed in, into the endless heat.

That wet connection hilt-to-hilt, along with a deep kiss—turned Minjeong completely docile and submissive. That wet connection, her wet slime covering his shaft, somehow, only intensified their lust for each other. He pressed in again, faster this time, earning that soft mewl. “Mhm, fuck me,” she whispered, again and again. He kept honoring those wishes, going deeper, and faster. He tucked his dick into her pussy, wet squelch and all, over and over until he felt his legs get weak from thrusting. Yet, that weakness didn’t deter him, he glided deeper, letting both their pelvises rub against each other, and making Minjeong cry out from the clit stimulation. She felt like she was getting tunneled, this man, the love of her life, crush of her lifetime, fucking her so good into a wobbly table—dreams aren’t even this good.

“I’m gonna cum, Minjeong.” He whispered, low and growling.

“Inside. Please. Inside…” She whispered before getting overtaken by her orgasm.

And just at the peak of her orgasm, the teetering breath before rest, Junho barreled all his semen inside her—rope after rope of semen splashing against her cervix. “Holy fuck.” they both said in conjunction. 

—

The Seoul skyline had shifted into its late-night configuration by the time they finally disentangled themselves. Junho's normally immaculate shirt hung open, his tie having long since joined the scattered papers on the floor. Minjeong's hair had abandoned all pretense of its usual professional arrangement, falling in waves that his fingers couldn't seem to stop threading through[40].

"이게..." Minjeong began, her voice still carrying traces of breathlessness as she surveyed the chaos they'd created. Her blazer lay draped over a chair at an angle that would have horrified their usual professional standards. "I should reorganize the—"

"Stay exactly where you are," Junho commanded softly, his arms tightening around her waist. His usual perfectionism had found a new target: the way she melted against him at that tone[41].

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her smile pure Busan sunshine. "데이트하자... be my 오빠?" The question emerged with endearing uncertainty, mixing honorifics and languages in a way that bypassed his brain entirely and struck straight at his heart.

"그래," he murmured into her hair, then with characteristic precision added, "Exclusively."

Her laugh carried notes of joy and residual shyness. "Then as your girlfriend, I should really clean up this mess..." She gestured at the scattered papers, the displaced furniture, the general dishevelment that spoke eloquently of the past hour's activities.

"As your boyfriend," his voice dropped to that commanding register that made her shiver, "I want to watch you do it[42]."

The drive home—his penthouse, by unspoken agreement—required exactly 17 minutes. Neither of them bothered to count.

—

[40] The building's security system would later note this as the longest recorded instance of the CEO remaining in office after hours, though the detailed logs were mysteriously corrupted.

[41] Internal HR protocols regarding workplace relationships were hastily updated the following morning, though no one questioned why the CEO personally oversaw these revisions.

[42] The night cleaning staff would arrive to find the office in unprecedented perfect order, though several employees would later swear they heard laughter and whispered Busan endearments echoing through the empty halls.

Fin

[kdh-tally]

Saja Boys Food Preferences

Prompt : Saja Boys Try Human Food for Real (comment from @mythosmaiden)

Author's Note : The order was randomized i promise! Stay till the end for a short Bonus ;D Also I've noticed (i copy my work from a google doc into tumblr) a lot of my formatting changes (specifically indents :( )

Romance-Saja: 

A sugar fiend

A sugar demon

Sugar

I do think he would have the BIGGEST sweet tooth out of all the Boys.

Would it be a stretch if I said that the “Soda Pop” song was influenced by him?

Imagine (when he’s still a demon) him being so oddly passionate about energy and brightness in human songs

Maybe it’s because it was something he never got to experience…

Anyways!

At first, it started slow. 

He would definitely have tried chocolate as it fits with his whole romantic concept but then it becomes a craving he needs to fulfill everyday.

He would steal some of Mira’s food from her fan mail whenever he could and only become more obsessed.

But then someone handed him a crème brûlée (yk cause it’s french? and France is the city of love? And Love = Romance?) at a fan event, and it was over for everyone.

The type to have an organized snack drawer of his favourite sweets.

You have the candy in one drawer, the snacks in another and then a whole other section for chocolate.

At this point it isn’t even a snack drawer, it's a whole damn closet.

“This must be what heaven tastes like~” he hums, walking to the dorms with Mira and Abby

“Romance, that’s literally just sugar and fat.”

“Exactly.”

Fans now have photos of him sneaking off to cafés in full disguise. 

There’s footage of a mysterious man inhaling cupcakes at a bakery in Seoul. 

Fans know it’s him and they’re right but he denies it anyway.

He tries to get the others hooked so he doesn’t feel alone but they have their own addictions.

“Come on Mystery, just try the strawberry cheesecake. Just a bite.” he tries to feed him.

“I said no.”

“I always knew you hated me” 

Baby-Saja :

He’s already made a name for himself.

His tastebuds are comparable to Bakugou’s from MHA.

High tolerance to spice.

As seen in the movie this guy was HAPPILY downing a bottle of hot-sauce. 

He was literally kicking his feet. (TimeStamp on Netflix - 1:10:16)

As a result of this, he must add spice or hot sauce to anything.

It sounds weird to others but since he was a demon his taste buds are haywired and don’t work like they’re supposed to.

I imagine him on live eating icecream or something and he gets comments like “What flavour is that?”

Bro will deadass look into the camera and say “Jalapeno”

Who in the world made Jalapeno Icecream and why on earth is bro eating it???

In one of my past posts I mentioned that he would share his snacks with Zoey.

Zoey probably has a decently high spice tolerance (thanks to Mira) but it is NOTHING compared to Baby’s.

“You said these were flaming hot cheetos!” she whines as she hurriedly drinks a tall glass of ice cold water.

“Yea,” Baby shrugged, tossing a few more into his mouth. “They’re flaming hot” he pulls out a cheeto that is literally on fire.

Mira and Baby would have competitions

In the airplane scene, Mira’s ramen says Spice Queen so I heavily believe she loves spiciness as well.

Her tolerance isn’t as high as babies but she will go up against him solely out of spite.

“Are your taste buds even real?” Jinu would ask, watching him top raw chili peppers with habanero flakes. “They are. They’re just stronger than your whole bloodline.” “K.”

One day on tour he was forced to try some average cookies and almost turned back into a demon because of how bland it was.

He has a shelf in the company kitchen labeled. “DO NOT TOUCH. BABY’S FIREPANTRY.” The only person allowed to look through it is Mira because he respects her commitment.

Mystery-Saja :

He would act like he didn’t care about food at first.

Would side eye Romance for trying to feed him sweets and watch Baby warily as he basically burns his tongue off.

Though most of the demon powers faded, he still doesn’t need food to really survive. 

Maybe they only have to eat like once a month or something before they begin starving.

Anyways

He ends up learning everything through Zoey

I wouldn’t say he cares for one specific food but more so food from a specific culture. 

Said culture being american food style foods.

Burgers, Fries, Fried Chicken (gnarly), Tacos, Cheese Fries, Steak.

Big, messy and more or less very VERY unhealthy.

He’ll still act like he doesn’t care about food. He claims he only eats to survive. 

Catch this man in the kitchen at midnight microwaving leftover pulled pork Zoey brought from some food place downtown.

“I thought you didn’t like barbecue.”

“I don’t.” His chewing is the only sound in the room “...It’s fine I guess.”

Zoey smirks. He blushes. She walks away before he can defend himself.

He now goes to Zoey for food now because she always seems to know the best places to eat nearby.

“Hey! I found this place that sells suuuuper good Philly cheesesteak. Taste it and tell me if it’s good.”

“For what?”

“Is it a crime to want to share this experience with my darling coworker?”

He has no response to that and stuffs the food into his mouth.

Heaven.

He can be found watching long tutorials on how to make a Mexican packed Burrito bowl from scratch. 

No one questions it..

Abby-Saja :

The least picky

Somehow the most willing to try absolutely everything, no matter how strange.

The type to try Balut (developing fertilized duck) or Casu Marzu (maggot cheese)

Doesn’t necessarily care for food but wants to enjoy the human experience so he tries everything.

Fried crickets? He says they taste like chicken.

Boiled frog legs? He says they taste like Swamp style chicken.

Balut? Crunchy surprise chicken.

Notice the pattern?

Mira would dare him to try a Durian and at first he’s against it. 

This honestly comes as a surprise cause he hasn’t minded all the other things

It was the odour that put him off though,

“It smells like toxic sewage” he’d complain before trying it.

He loves it.

He says its sweet and rich and creamy.

Mira is watching this in disgust btw.

He’d have a fan from Thailand deliver him a suitcase of dried insects to try out.

He thanks them profusely 

Of course this confuses everyone. 

He has a whole list ranging between sweet, savoury and down right horrid (but still somehow good?)

He’d spend days trying out each insect and rating them, loyally updating fans on his discovery.

“This reminds me of peanut butter” he’d say while eating out of a bag of crickets.

The group is heavily disturbed. 

“Why do you do this?” Mystery eyes him while eating out of his own bag of caramelized pop-corn.

“Protein.”

“You don’t need to work out?”

“Spiritual protein.”

“You’re a demon??”

“Demonic protein”

“What does that even mean—”

He is now the food vlogger in the Saja Boys.

Seems like the type to do a mukbang but not because of the asmr. Really just because he knows his fans want to see just how far he’ll go with his food.

There are compilation reels of his chaotic reviews.

Some of them feature Zoey cause she’s the least bothered.

Jinu-Saja :

Seeing as he was human before, he seems like the type to cling onto the food from his past life.

A traditionalist in the culinary sense.

Maybe cause eating traditional food reminds him of what he could have had with his mom and sister, before everything went wrong. 

Or maybe not 🤷

“Why are we eating scorpion skewers when there’s rice and kimchi in the fridge?”

“Because the scorpions were on sale, Jinu,” Abby says, chewing.

After learning how money worked in the human world the boys either became shopaholics (Romance and Baby) or very frugal (Abby and maybe Mystery).

He tries to explain and introduce the boys to korean staples

Kimchi-jjigae, Tteokbokki, Bibimbap, Bulgogi, Jjajangmyeon, etc.

The boys do not get it

The girls do.

He turns into a male wife for Huntr/x. Cooking for them everyday just so he can see SOMEONE appreciate the traditional food.

He didn’t know how to cook at first. As we know from the movie, he was served food and never seemed to have to make it himself.

However I can see him forcing himself to learn how to do it. Kinda like to take his past back in a way. Maybe make his mom proud.

To Jinu it isn’t just food. It’s control. It's the ability to create something and call it his own.

It’s the first time in 400 years that he could put something into the world that didn’t cause destruction. 

Rumi would find him heating up and plating Banchan in the middle of the night. She’d jump up to sit on the counter beside him, just watching.

“Need help?” she’d offer but he’d shake his head

He enjoys the peace that comes with reviving memories. Memories he actually enjoys. 

Now when he cooks he doesn’t see the castle life he greedily enjoyed, but instead a group of his closest friends fighting over food.

Mira -> “This is almost as good as my grandma’s…”

Jinu -> “Really 🥺?”

BONUS : Huntr/x

Zoey : The honorary food guide, bringing random snacks for Mystery (and the others i guess) to try. Also loves snacks

“Here. This one’s American BBQ chips. It’s mid.”

“I found you some boiled snails Abby!!!”

“We’re out of hot sauceeee :(“ 

Mira : The spice queen. 

Not as talented as Baby but is the closest second.

Often borrows the least spiciest food she can find in Baby’s stash.

She will however, eat from Mystery’s snack closet though.

“It’s alright I guess,” she scoffs as she eats another chocolate covered strawberry.

Rumi : The picky eater. She judges everything.

Well everything except Jinu’s cooking

“The texture’s all wrong,” she grumbles while forcing a piece of kimchi down her throat.

“It’s just pickled cabbage Rumi,” Jinu would point out

“It’s gross it what it is”

“You don't like it? 🙁” 

“Jinu no…..”

[zerocoded]

summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: look, this chapter is massive, so it's ok if y'all won't read it in one sit (i'm talking about length and content). pls read the warnings for a comfortable and safe reading! i love writing sunghoon's pov because i'm melancholic as hell and he is too. anyways, i hope you have a nice reading and pls tell me what you think of this chapter when you finish! #vamphoonforthehotties

warnings and tags: yearning!sunghoon OMG y'all are not ready for him • graphic vampire blood consumption description (animals and blood bags) • this could trigger some, so pls be careful! • gore, violence and action • suggestive! • angst • self-inflicted wounds on hoon's part • the word 'suicide' is mentioned but no suicidal thoughts (in this chapter) • detailed description of gore and violence • dark content • i drag everything too much bc i'm melancholic ok • sunghoon is fighting for his life on the whole chapter • jay and hoon fight a lil hehe • sunghoon and his sad boy agenda • he takes probably 6 showers in this chapter lol.

word count: 21.6k.

previous chapters: series masterlist.

the first symptom was blood.

not the thirst for it. he was used to that. no — it was the sound. the pressure behind his ears. like something had ruptured and rewired the way he processed everything around him.

sunghoon could hear it — all of it. the blood in the streets, in the pipes, in the people. the rhythm of footsteps two floors below. the drip of a leaky faucet in apartment 3a. a dog barking across the han river. and still, layered beneath it all, unmistakably—

you.

he tried to ignore it. fed from animals. warm-blooded things that gave him no comfort. drained two blood bags in one night and still felt like he hadn’t eaten in a decade. he’d hunted out of habit. bitten out of hunger. and still — the ache lingered. 

your scent under his tongue. your pulse crawling up the inside of his spine. you were becoming the itch he couldn’t reach.

the others noticed.

niki was the first to say it out loud. “you’re losing it.” on the first morning after the greenhouse accident.

sunghoon didn’t answer. just stood under a cold shower for hours that night and hoped it would drown something. it didn’t.

monday bled into tuesday like a bad wound. he fed — twice, maybe three times — but the blood felt wrong in his mouth. no texture. no weight. 

the bags sat like lead in his gut and made his gums ache. he bit into a live deer at one point, deep in the mountains past namsan, hoping instinct would override obsession. 

it didn’t. 

the heartbeat under his hands didn’t thrum like yours did. the pulse didn’t echo through his body like yours had when he’d touched the air around you. it wasn’t enough. none of it was enough.

by wednesday, his body started to fail. 

not in a human way — there were no fevers, no normal symptoms. it was stranger than that. unnatural. 

he couldn’t regulate his hearing anymore. everything sounded too loud, or too far. voices rang like sirens. even his own footsteps echoed like gunshots in his head. and when he tried to sleep, your name was the only thing that calmed the noise — but also the thing that set him on fire.

thursday he collapsed in the middle of the living room.

they found him curled near the base of the couch, pupils blown, heartbeat erratic — not slow, not fast, just wrong. 

jake tried to drag him upright, but sunghoon clawed at the floor, hissed something in a language none of them had heard him speak in years. old tongue. blood tongue. something primal that made niki’s skin crawl and jungwon go still.

they tried to talk him down. it didn’t work. he kept saying the same phrase over and over again.

“she’s hurting.”

the way he said it made jake nauseous. he was the only one with a human bond among them and he recognized that voice. the break in it. the way a bond feels when it starts to tether too tight — not with affection, but with need.

and maybe, for a moment, jake was scared. not of sunghoon. not even of what it meant to have another human soulmate among them. but of the fact that sunghoon was six hundred and thirty-three years old, and even him didn’t know how to survive this.

jake had found his soulmate six years ago. a blink, in his time. barely a dent in his age, but long enough to rewrite everything he thought he knew about control. she was human — all warmth and teeth and bad taste in cereal — and she wrecked him in ways that didn’t heal, not even with time. 

he hadn’t meant to keep her. hadn’t meant to fall that deep. but the bond made it impossible to exist otherwise.

they’d moved into an apartment next to seonghyeon jaega last year. quieter, safer.

the others called it a retirement plan. jake called it survival. because it wasn’t about the sweetness or the devotion or the dumb sitcoms they watched curled up on the couch. it was about not going feral every time she got a paper cut. it was about waking up and knowing she was real and near and his — and still managing to breathe through it.

jake had learned to live with it — the tether, the madness, the relentless urge to sink his teeth into someone he’d die for. he’d learned the rhythms, the boundaries. he had his girl, his home, his rules.

but watching sunghoon now — four centuries older than him, twice as powerful, and unraveling in half the time — made all of that feel like borrowed peace. 

jake stood at the edge of the living room, gaze fixed on the man writhing silently on the floor, and understood: there was no learning this. no blueprint.

sunghoon wasn’t surviving the bond. he was being consumed by it.

friday was war.

sunghoon came back to himself just long enough to shower again. the mirror fogged. his shirt stuck to his chest, plastered by sweat that hadn’t dried properly in three days. the water didn’t soothe — it scalded and chilled all at once, a sensation that was almost… human. that alone made his teeth grit. 

he wasn’t supposed to feel like this. not anymore. not after six hundred years. but even that ancient part of him, the one that had survived famine, fire, and kingdoms falling, was beginning to fray under the weight of her.

of you.

when he caught his reflection, he flinched. not because he didn’t recognize himself — but because he did. and he looked like a man starving. haunted. wrong.

his eyes wouldn’t shift back anymore. the red clung to his irises like fresh blood under glass, bright and feral.

it wasn’t a hunger he could reason with, not a thirst he could put off. it was something older, deeper. something that pulsed under his skin and made his fingers twitch like they’d forgotten what stillness felt like.

he could hear you again.

your laugh, but weaker now. your pain, stifled. your breathing patterns during sleep — except you hadn’t really been sleeping.

the bond had opened too fast, too hard, and now it was tangled in the roots of him. even when he tried to block it out, you found him. or maybe it was the other way around. sunghoon didn’t know anymore.

the worst part wasn’t even the ache — it was the power. it was changing. shifting. growing volatile with every hour he ignored the call. 

he couldn’t touch metal without burning it. couldn’t speak without his voice trembling with something darker. the walls around him had started to hum with static, like even the building felt the shift.

the air turned heavier when he walked past. the lights flickered. niki joked about it once — called him an electromagnetic emo ghost — but no one laughed.

by the time the sun set on friday, his nails had darkened — claws, really, bone-etched and sharpened at the tips, curling just slightly as if his body already knew what they were for.

his skin had gone pale and glassy, almost translucent near the temples, like the light was trying to escape him. and the usual cold blood that once made him still, composed — that kept his urges buried deep beneath centuries of control — it boiled. literally. it churned inside him like molten tar, too hot, too fast, too loud.

he could feel it screaming under his skin.

your voice was there too, cutting through it all. not with words, but with sensation.

the ache in your spine. the shortness in your breath. the way your body kept fighting to stay upright. he felt it like a second heartbeat. sunghoon was no stranger to pain — he’d bled through wars, watched empires rise and rot — but this? this tether to you? it was different. it wasn’t grief or fury or guilt. it was panic. pure, human panic. and it was poisoning him slowly.

when jake stepped into the room that night and said his name, sunghoon didn’t respond.

he didn’t even blink.

his eyes were locked ahead, black around the edges and burning crimson through the center. he walked out of the bathroom, dripping cold water in his wake, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor.

his shirt clung to him, half-buttoned and soaked, and when he reached the front door, it wasn’t with urgency — it was inevitability.

he wasn’t leaving to find you. he was being pulled. dragged. like gravity had picked a new center and it was you.

they blocked him before he could even reach the elevator.

jake, niki, jungwon, heeseung, sunoo, jay — all of them. the inner circle. each one braced for impact, spells already burning under their skin, marks activated and defense lines cast like they were facing a threat, not a brother. but sunghoon didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. just said, “move,” and the temperature in the kitchen dropped ten degrees. frost curled over the doorknob in front of him.

niki, ever the first to test fate, surged forward with speed that blurred his outline — and sunghoon didn’t even touch him. just flicked his wrist, eyes still locked on the door, and niki slammed against the wall with a guttural choke. the drywall cracked.

jungwon followed next, his arm glowing with a binding rune carved in thick, geometric spirals — one of the old languages, strong enough to stop a rogue turned at birth.

even he only made it two steps before sunghoon moved. he grabbed him by the throat, slammed him to the ground with a single arm, and for a moment the mark on jungwon’s skin dimmed. blinked like it was afraid.

“you don’t get it,” sunghoon said, voice low, scraping raw through his teeth. “she’s dying.”

he meant you.

every time he breathed, it felt like ash filled his lungs. your scent, your heartbeat, your fatigue — it had infected him like a plague.

“sunghoon,” jay warned, stepping forward, his own energy humming just beneath his skin, “you’ll kill us.”

“then die.” sunghoon’s voice cracked, and with it, so did the lightbulbs overhead. glass rained down like glitter.

his power wasn’t contained anymore. it wasn’t neat. it roared out of him like a wildfire — light bending, shadows twisting. the walls groaned like the building itself was trying to expel him.

a heartbeat pounded in the air — not his. yours. and it was getting weaker.

sunoo tried a barrier spell. heeseung added a pressure hold. riki used sound manipulation to stun him — but it didn’t matter. sunghoon fought like he had nothing left to lose. and maybe he didn’t. not if you slipped through his fingers first.

it took all six of them to subdue him.

sunoo was the one who finally struck the injector deep into his spine. an experimental compound, made to mimic old blood magic. it shouldn’t have worked on someone his age. but it did. barely.

sunghoon collapsed, eyes wide, teeth bared — still trying to crawl forward even as his body gave out under him. his fingers scraped across the floor, reaching for something invisible. and just before the sedative overtook him, he whispered your name.

he almost won, he could swear.

even half-starved, even frenzied — he still managed to break free. to slam jake against the doorframe so hard the plaster cracked. to shove heeseung back with one hand, dragging claws down his arm. blood spilled. fangs bared.

but jungwon had trained for this. had been the one to sedate sunghoon once, two centuries ago during the underground uprisings, and he remembered where to aim. not the neck. not the arm.

the back of the thigh, near the femoral artery.

sunghoon dropped mid-snarl. not all at once. his body twitched first, then his mouth parted, breath ragged. he collapsed to his knees, hands shaking. and still — still — he looked at jungwon like he’d betrayed him.

it wasn’t poetic.

there was nothing noble in the way he collapsed — nothing cinematic in the aftermath. their living room looked like a lion cage after slaughter. furniture split open like bone. claw marks on every surface. blood — his and theirs — smeared across the floor, thick and drying. the scent of it clung to the walls, sour with fury, old with shame.

it wasn’t the kind of story people told with reverence. not the kind of love that inspired paintings or survived the centuries. not even the kind that made sense in his own mouth. 

because this wasn’t love. not yet. not even close. this was biology. cruelty. inevitability. the bond had pulled him apart molecule by molecule, until even his instincts turned against him.

he wasn’t protecting anything. he wasn’t fighting for a future. he was reacting. like an animal. like a weapon without a name.

and that was the ugliest part of it.

his body still trembled on the floor. not from pain, but from something deeper — humiliation, maybe. grief for a self that had once known control.

nothing about this was beautiful.

not the ache.

not the silence after.

not the way jay stared at him like he was already halfway gone.

they left the city that night. no warnings. no notes. just silence in the apartment halls and an overnight drive to the edge of nowhere. jungwon’s family old camp house hadn’t been touched in years — but it had the seals, the space, the distance. it would have to be enough.

the drive itself blurred. hours passed in cold silence, only the occasional shuffle of clothes or the creak of leather breaking through. no one spoke. not even niki. the back seat was too quiet with sunghoon half-conscious and still burning from the inside out. he twitched once — then again — murmuring sounds that barely formed words. 

your name was among them. 

jake kept his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the wheel, like if he focused hard enough, he could outrun what this meant.

by the time they reached the camp house — tucked in the woods and frozen in time — sunghoon had stilled again. not at peace. not asleep. just… emptied. like his body was saving its final flickers of strength for something even worse. 

they carried him in without ceremony. laid him down in the old sunroom beneath a ceiling of cracked glass and stars. and when morning came, he didn’t stir.

sunghoon didn’t wake until five days later, on the monday after. five full days of stillness, of near-catatonia. 

his body remained motionless beneath layers of wool blankets they couldn’t tell if he needed. the fire in the hearth had long gone cold, but the heat inside him hadn’t. it pulsed, erratic and wrong, like his blood had forgotten which direction to flow. 

sweat clung to his skin in waves, soaking through two shirts and the mattress beneath. sometimes he flinched. sometimes he spoke. but mostly, he just lay there — jaw tight, brow drawn, like even in unconsciousness he was fighting something.

they’d placed ward marks on the walls and runes across the ceiling, spells meant to contain whatever version of him might try to wake too soon. 

jungwon’s sigils burned with faint light. jay replaced the restraints every twelve hours, the silver lined with mountain ash and regret. 

no one said it, but they all saw it — the way his veins lit up crimson whenever your name passed someone’s lips. the way his claws never fully retracted, even in rest. and worst of all: his eyes. open, just for seconds, sometimes. blood-bright and unseeing.

he didn’t wake like a man returning to himself. he woke like a creature crawling out of something ancient.

heart lurching. throat dry. vision bleeding red at the edges.

and the first thing he registered wasn’t the room. wasn’t the pain.

it was your fear.

a livewire emotion, distant but clear, slicing through his chest like a blade. it echoed through the mark he didn’t realize he gave you, dragging him from darkness with the violence of instinct.

his wrists jerked. his fangs scraped his lip. and the restraints — thick and triple-bound — cracked against the floorboards with a sizzle.

he woke to voices.

not loud. not urgent. just low enough to assume he was still asleep. still weak enough not to matter.

sunghoon didn’t move. didn’t breathe differently. just let his head rest against the pillow, eyes half-closed, and listened.

“…can’t rush it,” jake was saying, somewhere near the porch. “he’s still recovering. the last thing we need is another—”

a pause. footsteps on wood.

“he’s not stable,” that was jungwon — sharp, always — even when he whispered. “you felt it too. yesterday.”

“i know.” a sigh. niki, probably. “but she’s probably peaking by now, don’t you think?”

your name wasn’t said. it didn’t need to be.

something in sunghoon’s chest cracked at the edges. not pain, not yet. just the shape of it forming. jagged, slow.

jake again, quieter. “he’s going to feel it the second we cross the incheon bridge.”

“he already does,” jungwon said. “he just doesn’t know how to hold it.”

a chair scraped. someone stood.

“so we go back,” jay said, final.

sunghoon closed his eyes again.

what kind of punishment was this?

he had been a decent vampire — by his own standards, at least. didn’t abuse his power. didn’t chase conflict for the thrill. he held restraint like a badge of honor, the oldest among them not just by age, but by the unspoken weight of responsibility. 

he was the one who cleaned up after their messes. the one who kept the coven quiet during purges, who forged papers, silenced rumors, relocated them every fifty years with surgical precision. 

he was the one who stayed behind when niki spiraled in the 1960s, when his bloodlust turned clinical and his fascination with anatomy earned headlines.

he’d carried heeseung out of a burning church once. wrapped him in coats soaked in blood and memory, when grief had made him forget he wanted to keep living. after she died. after the bond snapped and left him with nothing but the echo of a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

he’d stood between jay and the world more times than he could count — whenever jay’s cold logic turned inward, whenever his distrust poisoned the air around him. sunghoon had talked him down from leaving. from disappearing. from becoming one of the monsters they used to whisper about when they were young.

and now here he was.

lying in bed like a corpse.

unable to even lift his limbs without effort. chest sunken, skin tight and pale in all the wrong places. vampires didn’t get sick. their bodies didn’t wither. but his had begun to — slowly, methodically. not in decay, but in surrender. like it was trying to fold into itself, trying to lessen the distance between him and whatever it was that tethered him to you.

and god, he hated it. hated the thought that you — some human girl with soft hands and sharp sarcasm — had reduced him to this. not through cruelty. not even through magic. but through something ancient and irreversible.

the bond.

——

the return to seoul was wordless.

they didn’t tell him. didn’t need to. sunghoon woke on the second day to the sound of tires on gravel, the low hum of the highway embedded beneath it, and he knew. 

the scent of the city clung to the hem of jungwon’s coat when he entered the room that morning — concrete, pollution, metal, humanity — the unmistakable imprint of the capital, already sinking into the seams of their clothes. 

the shift in pressure was immediate. louder air, faster wind. too many voices outside the windows. too much static in the distance. the countryside’s silence had disappeared. it made his pulse spike.

by the time the sun slipped above the edge of the trees, they were home. back at seonghyeon jaega.

if home was what you called a sterile luxury penthouse where every room had been soundproofed and enchanted to keep in the consequences of who they were. 

jungwon had already redecorated the living room. of course he had. no more blood. no broken wood. no torn fabric. even the wall where sunghoon had slammed jake’s body had been repainted — dark olive now, maybe to match the black steel accents of the new bookshelves. 

too intentional. too curated. nothing left of the chaos, not even a dent. just polished floors and shadows, the kind you could bury a memory inside of.

sunghoon was brought to the guest room and didn’t leave. not that day.

his limbs still felt like they belonged to someone else. every joint resisted movement, like his body was still deciding whether it trusted him again. the inhibitors were wearing off, but not fast enough. he could feel them in his bloodstream — not quite gone, not quite alive. everything was dulled. even his hunger. even you.

but something in his chest had begun to stir again. something sharper. something not easily ignored. it was you — it had always been you — and, fuck, sunghoon didn’t have the strength to pretend otherwise. not anymore. 

the bond coiled tight around his ribs, filled his mouth with the taste of ash and inevitability. 

again, he was tired, not stupid. this was a soulmate bond. the kind that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. the kind most vampires dismissed as fantasy, or prayed for in secret, or wasted centuries searching for and never found.

he remembered the stories now, the fragments he’d skimmed without care, when he was young enough to think knowledge was optional. when he still believed strength was enough. dusty books, passed between old covens like contraband, filled with the kind of lore that blurred the line between warning and temptation. 

that a vampire with a human soulmate could only feed from them. that if the human rejected the turning, the vampire was doomed — to hunger, to madness, to death that stretched out slow. that the bond gave the human stolen power — glimpses of eternity without the curse, the echo of strength without the fangs. but it made them dependent. fragile. their health tied to the vampire’s care, their will slowly fraying at the edges.

and worse. in the pages he’d ignored, the ones wrapped in silk covers and tucked behind locked doors — the records slipped into the kind of literature vampires didn’t speak of in the daylight. 

how having a human soulmate was the erotic dream of many. the ultimate fantasy. to be seen as both ruin and worship, a creature loved not despite the monstrosity, but because of it. 

to be needed with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. to have a human — the ones who called themselves normal since the beginning of time — look at you like you were both salvation and destruction, to see your darkness and still reach for it. to feel that devotion pour from their veins with every touch, every breath, every trembling glance.

sunghoon had never paid attention to any of it. never cared for myths. never cared for power beyond what he already carried in his veins. 

he had been the strongest for centuries. he didn’t need to study the horrors of his kind. he didn’t need to dream of bonds he’d never wanted. 

but now — now he felt desperation like a human again. for the first time in six hundred years, sunghoon wished he had never been turned. wished he had died before this could happen. before this could become real. before you.

heeseung left first.

said he needed air, needed to walk, didn’t say where. no one stopped him. jake was asleep, sunoo buried under headphones. niki just muttered something about surveillance and leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms folded tight. the quiet wasn’t tense — just expectant.

twenty-two minutes later, the elevator clicked open again.

heeseung stood in the doorway. his red hair looked darker under the low lights. his coat — long, black, double-breasted — was still zipped, but the breeze had followed him in.

“she was there,” he said.

everyone froze.

no clarification. no name. like they didn’t need one.

niki straightened slightly. “where?”

“elevator,” heeseung answered. slower now. his eyes were distant. “she looked sick. worse than before. she didn’t see me.”

the silence stretched. you could feel it recoil in their chests.

“did she say anything?” niki again.

heeseung shook his head once. “no. but the scent—” he paused. his gaze dropped to the floor like it was safer to look there. “she’s changing.”

sunghoon, from the far side of the apartment, felt it like a tremor behind his ribs. something cracking back open. as if the very mention of you was enough to loosen whatever cage he’d been trying to build inside himself.

he pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulders. tried not to notice the way his hands shook again. tried not to think about the hunger crawling back into his chest. tried not to remember the shape of your voice in his dreams. the warmth of your pulse. the scent of your skin.

he was tired.

tired of hurting.

but worse — he was tired of pretending he didn’t want to see you again.

——

at first, sunghoon didn’t have a plan. his slowly rising consciousness had made peace with the weight pressing down on him, the heavy, dull ache of his body after six straight days of suppressants. 

everything felt thick. slow. like his blood had been replaced with tar, like his bones had forgotten how to hold him up. 

the guest room was quiet in a way that felt intentional, stripped of anything sharp or reflective, the air still humming faintly with the leftover magic jungwon had laced into the walls. 

as the hours stretched thin and the bond pulled tight enough to burn, sunghoon felt the last of the suppressant haze slipping from his veins. he felt the cold of the floor beneath the bed. the hum of the city beyond the windows. the quiet voices of his brothers somewhere in the penthouse.

and underneath it all — louder than anything — he felt you. 

even though you were probably on the other side of the city right now. even though you were probably in a hospital he couldn’t name.

he felt your heartbeat. faint, uneven, too slow in some moments, too fast in others. 

the bond snapped taut inside him, and he knew, without needing to move, without needing to ask, that something was wrong. 

the first sign was the nausea. 

sunghoon had just taken his first shower since he arrived in seoul, still groggy, body heavy from the remnants of sedation. the water had done nothing but clear his head enough for the hunger to return, sharp and immediate.

the sickness curled low in his stomach. his claws broke through before he realized, tips digging into his palms, the sting grounding him for a breath. his fangs grazed his lower lip, venom pooling under his tongue, a burn he hadn’t felt in years. 

your heartbeat was in his ears now, louder than the water dripping from his hair, louder than his own. faint, but there. uneven. 

he was still thinking of what heeseung had said it — how you looked sick in the elevator, how you hadn’t seen him at all, how your skin had lost its color. he’d replayed it in his head too many times since his morning shower, trying to convince himself there was time, that he could hold out. but now he knew better.

because you were back. not at the hospital, not safe under fluorescent lights and the hum of machines — you were in seonghyeon jaega. 

he felt the exact moment you stumbled out of the taxi and tried to keep it civil. it wasn’t just your heartbeat anymore — it was the whole of you, the ache in your bones, the tremor in your breath, the way your knees wavered as you stepped onto the marble floor. it was like your bodies were sharing the same symptoms, like sunghoon could feel your body trying to make space for what it was about to go through. 

you were close. too close. the bond snapped so tight it felt like it might drag him through the walls if he resisted. and as his claws dug deeper and his breath hitched against his teeth, he noticed.

he was about to collapse into bed again, to give in to the weight clawing at his ribs, when sunoo knocked on the guest room door. his voice came before the door opened, tight and breathless, like even he could taste the desperation hanging in the air. 

“are you okay?” sunoo asked, though the answer was written all over him. sunghoon nodded anyway, slow, deliberate, like that small motion was the only thing keeping him from breaking.

“is she here? can you feel it?”, can you feel her? sunghoon knew that sunoo meant to ask that instead.

another nod. smaller. sharper.

he could feel everything. too much. and for a flicker of a second he swore he saw you, saw the shape of you, saw the soft, slouched figure of you inside the elevator burned against the back of his eyelids. it made him tremble. not from fear. not from hunger. from knowing. from the awful certainty that he was running out of time.

he heard sunoo curse under his breath, the low sound of him calling for jungwon, for anyone who might be able to hold back what was already rushing forward like a flood.

the nausea hit sunghoon again, harder, tearing through him like fire, clawing up his throat, turning his veins molten. your weakness bled into him, your pain filling his mouth with the taste of copper and the weight of regret.

the final blow came like instinct. like gravity. like all the forces in the world had been quietly waiting for this moment to shatter what was left of him.

he felt it first in his bones — the hollow thud of you collapsing, knees giving out against marble, the soft gasp of air leaving your lungs as your body crumpled under the weight of everything it had tried to endure. the sound echoed inside him, more than sound, truth, like the earth itself had cracked beneath you. 

and sunghoon snapped.

the guest room seemed to shrink around him. the runes on the walls pulsed once, as if in warning, then flickered out beneath the storm rising inside him. his claws tore through his own palms as he tried to ground himself, tried to breathe, but the air felt like fire in his throat. his fangs sank so deep into his bottom lip that the taste of his own blood flooded his mouth, bitter and copper-sharp, mixing with the venom that had nowhere left to go.

he stumbled back, hit the wall so hard the plaster cracked beneath his shoulder blades. his head fell back, jaw clenched, breath heaving like he was drowning. he saw you — saw you, not with his eyes, but behind them, burned against the dark like a brand. your slumped figure on the floor, your skin pale, your lashes resting against your cheeks as if you’d simply fallen asleep, but he knew better. god, he knew better.

and he broke.

his powers lashed out, wild and hot, snapping through the room in bursts of heat and pressure. the glass of the window splintered at the corners. the metal of the bedframe bent beneath an invisible force. the marks jungwon had carved into the floor glowed once, then bled out, powerless against what was rising. the air thickened, electric, heavy with a fury so old it felt like the world itself should kneel beneath it.

sunghoon didn’t kneel. he staggered forward, hands tearing at his own hair, his shirt, anything he could grab, anything to stop himself from clawing through the walls and tearing the world apart to reach you. 

he groaned — low, raw, a sound that vibrated in his chest like something feral. his knees hit the floor. his claws raked down his thighs through the fabric of his pants, deep enough to tear skin, to mark himself before he could mark you. his body was burning. shaking. his mind unraveling thread by thread.

he heard sunoo and jungwon entering the room again, their footsteps quick, the air splitting with the weight of what they must have felt from the hall.

jungwon saw it all — how red sunghoon’s eyes had turned, no trace of human left in them, just blood and fury and ruin. how his fangs had split his own lip, dripped red down his chin, how his mouth glistened with venom that had nowhere left to go. how he salivated, like a creature starved too long, like instinct had overtaken reason and left him shaking in its wake.

sunghoon could barely lift his head, barely keep his hands from tearing at the floorboards, at his own skin, at anything that might keep him from doing what the bond begged him to do. 

he looked at sunoo, wide-eyed, wild, trembling like a man on the edge of ruin. his voice came out hoarse, broken, almost unrecognizable. begging.

“please,” he rasped, the word raw, ripped from somewhere deep, deeper than shame, deeper than pride. “please. i can’t — i’ll tear this place apart. i’ll tear her apart. sedate me.”

sunoo froze for a breath that felt like it stretched the length of the room.

he heard the words — please, sedate me — but it wasn’t just pleading that filled the air. it was a demand, thick with something ancient, something dark.

sunghoon’s voice was wrecked, yes, but his eyes — god, his eyes — they burned dark crimson, the kind of red that didn’t just glow but devoured. they pinned sunoo where he stood, made his breath hitch, made his pulse race in his throat.

sunoo felt his mouth go dry. his hand twitched at his side. he glanced at jungwon, needing something, anything, some signal that he wasn’t imagining the danger coiled in the air between them.

jungwon met his eyes, silent, unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. he wouldn’t say it out loud — wouldn’t admit the fear — but sunoo saw it. saw the worry that matched his own. 

and then jungwon nodded. small. firm. enough.

sunoo moved. fast. because if he waited, he knew he might hesitate, and there wasn’t time for that now. he turned, heart thudding in his chest, and went for the small locked box they’d kept hidden — the one with sunghoon’s name carved into the underside in hangul.

this suppressant wasn’t as strong as the first one they injected on that day — not enough to knock him out cold, not enough to steal all the fight from his bones — just enough to dull the edge. to stop him from spiraling at the sight of you. 

sunoo’s hands shook as he unlocked it. as he loaded the injector. but he didn’t pause. couldn’t. because the longer he waited, the more sunghoon’s power filled the room, the more it felt like the world might break apart beneath them. and because sunghoon, even like this, was begging for something he couldn’t give himself: mercy.

and sunoo owed him that much.

he could’ve sworn he heard it — soft, wrecked, barely a breath of sound. a thank you, dragged from sunghoon’s throat when sunoo injected the suppressor on the side of his neck. 

his body gave, collapsing against the bed, the weight of him sinking into the mattress like a man who’d been fighting gravity for too long. sunghoon’s limbs twitched at first, sharp and restless, his body rejecting the drug in the first burst of instinct, but the suppressant did its work. 

after a few seconds, the fight dulled. he stilled. not asleep. not yet. just high enough for the edge to blur, for the bond’s pull to quiet to a whisper instead of a roar.

but sleep didn’t come. not for him.

if he’d been younger — centuries younger — maybe the suppressant would’ve been enough to drag him under completely. but sunghoon was too old for that. too strong. the drug numbed the hunger, muted the storm, but it didn’t free him. 

it left him stranded somewhere between awareness and haze, sweating through his suit, tie twisted and damp against his throat, fabric clinging to his skin in all the wrong places.

his hair stuck to his temples. the sheets felt too warm, the air too heavy. his breath came shallow, uneven, his body trying to settle, failing.

he heard the door open again. soft. cautious. another presence crossing into the storm-thick room. 

there was the faintest scrape of shoes on wood as jay stepped in, his voice low as he murmured something to jungwon — something sunghoon couldn’t catch, not fully, through the scramble of his thoughts. 

and then jungwon left. the leader’s presence pulled back like a tide going out, leaving jay behind to watch over the wreckage.

sunoo and jay tried to speak to him. tried to ground him, to bring him back to reality. but sunghoon couldn’t make sense of the words. 

his mind was a scramble of conscious and desire, tangled so tight he couldn’t tell where he ended and his desire began.

his body felt wrong, too heavy, too hot, too hungry in ways he couldn’t name without shame. so he lay there, twitching under the weight of it all, listening to jay’s voice, trying to hold on. trying not to drown.

his senses began to steady after a few minutes, the storm of hunger and fury dulling to a deep, hollow thrum in his chest. the drug worked — not fully, not enough to silence the bond, but enough that his veins no longer felt like fire and his vision no longer blurred with the red haze of want. 

his body felt numb, heavy, the same way it had the first time he’d woken after being five days out of it, dazed and disoriented, like his limbs didn’t belong to him anymore. 

sunoo and jay were still there, close but cautious, watching him like he might shatter again at any second.

sunghoon finally lifted his gaze, met theirs without feeling his irises pulse with that desperate, crimson hunger. 

he could see them properly now — sunoo’s tight jaw, the worry hidden beneath his sarcasm; jay’s calm mask, the tension in his shoulders betraying him. 

sunghoon cleared his throat, the sound rough, like it scraped the inside of him raw. slowly, deliberately, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sat up, ran shaky fingers through his damp hair, loosened his tie, and tossed it aside. 

the fabric hit the floor with a soft, final sound. his fingers worked at the buttons of his dress shirt under his jacket, the first few undone, baring his throat, letting the too-warm air touch his clammy skin.

he felt his cold blood vibrate for a moment — the bond tugging, insistent, your scent curling around him like smoke. his pupils dilated, his mouth filled with venom, the taste of you too close, too real.

but he didn’t move for the door. he held himself steady, fists clenched against the mattress, his breath ragged but controlled, the suppressant working.

jay’s voice broke through the haze. “she was out cold, man. so weird. it’s been two fucking weeks and now she’s peaking like she’s on heat.”

the words made sunghoon’s throat work, a thick gulp he couldn’t stop, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. even the thought of you — the idea of you, vulnerable, near, his — made him tremble inside.

“i’ve never seen anything like it,” jay added, quieter this time, and the weight of his words sank into the room like a stone.

“i’m worried. i don’t want murder inside our apartment again, i swear that was so fucking disgusting—” sunoo’s voice cracked through the thick air, half a joke, half real fear, his nerves fraying at the edges. and then he looked at sunghoon on the edge of the bed. “you gotta keep it together. we’re running out of suppressants, hoon.”

“no one’s murdering no one,” he said, low and worn, that deep timbre of his carrying more weight than volume. “go after more suppressants. ask your family. anything.” sunghoon was too tired to entertain sunoo’s pouting, too close to the edge to play along. he barely realized his tone sounded more like a demand than a question.

park sunghoon wasn’t aware of his own strength sometimes.

his body ached from holding it all in — the restraint, the hunger, the bond’s gnawing pull — and their voices, their teasing, their familiar chaos, only made it harder.

he liked how sunoo and jay cared for him, but he felt too out of it to entertain their questions.

sunghoon knew they were about to come. eventually.

“you know what you gotta do, right? when she wakes up.” jay’s voice was quieter now, but no less brutal. he stood, looked right at sunghoon, steady and serious. “it’s a human, she’ll be weak.”

see? sunghoon knew.

the words hit him like a slap. he blinked once, twice, fighting the red that threatened to bleed back into his vision.

his fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his skin. he was so out of it he felt the urge — the need — to punch jay in the face for even saying it out loud. for reducing you to that. for daring to name what sunghoon was already terrified of.

it was probably some side effect of the inhibitor, but sunghoon felt the urge to be alone in that moment. sunoo and jay bicker? made his blood boil.

“actually,” sunoo cut in, voice cautious, careful, as if he could feel the storm about to break between them. “she seems strong. because she survived all this time. that’s not nothing.”

and sunghoon wanted to thank him. but the words were tangled up in the mess of hunger and guilt and fear choking him.

“she’s not feeding until we figure something out,” sunghoon said at last, voice like gravel, like it hurt to speak. he kept himself seated and stared right back at jay, impatient. “she’s not. i don’t care what it does to me.”

“seeing her in pain will make no good for you or any of us,” jay bit out, tone sharp, colder than the room deserved.

he stood with his arms crossed, black dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, dark slacks neat despite the chaos, every inch of him too put-together, too unshaken.

his eyes, dark and cutting, fixed on sunghoon with a predator’s focus. “if she wakes up in pain again, you feed her. that’s how it works. stop pretending otherwise.”

sunghoon exhaled, slow, feeling the room tilt, his body lightheaded from the suppressant still thick in his veins. 

maybe that’s why his patience hadn’t cracked yet. maybe that’s why he hadn’t punched jay in the face right after he said that. 

he was high as a kite.

“she needs to accept the bond first,” sunghoon said, voice low, the sound of it like a warning. “she’s a fucking child. i’m not about to ruin her life forever like that.”

the second the words left his mouth, they tasted wrong. because you weren’t a child. not by the world’s standards. not by the years marked on paper. not by the way he knew you — twenty-something, grown, human in every way that mattered, someone who deserved respect, who deserved the right to choose her fate. 

but he said it anyway. because with jay, it was necessary. because jay didn’t see humans as creatures who stood beside them — he saw them as lesser. fragile, fleeting, something to protect or use, but never as equals. 

sunghoon knew jay had come from that older branch of their kind, the ones who still clung to the idea that vampires were the superior species, the rightful rulers in the dark.

he hated saying it, hated referring to you that way, but he needed jay to understand what was at stake. needed him to feel the weight of it, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

and also he needed jay to fuck off right now until his suppressant’s side effects slowed down.

jay didn’t blink. didn’t soften. his voice stayed even, too even that made sunghoon’s cold blood boil. again.

“sunghoon, you know the stories. the human’s choice doesn’t make a difference. you’ll die. you let her choose, you’re gambling your life. you have to give her something first so she can see she can’t live without you. it’s suicide if you let her choose.”

that’s it. that was it. jay reducing you to some gambler term? that was foul.

sunghoon’s jaw tightened. his body moved before his mind caught up. he stood up from the bed, the weight of his height, his power, rolling off him in slow, dangerous waves as he stepped closer, close enough that he could see the faint glint of jay’s fangs behind the cool mask. 

“glad to know it isn’t your choice, park,” sunghoon said, voice quieter now, deadlier. “this shouldn’t concern you.”

jay didn’t back down. not an inch. he never did. “it should when you lose every time she’s near. or not near at all, in fact.” his tone didn’t rise, but the force behind it hit hard. “are you really going to let her decide your fate? you’ll die.”

the room crackled with tension. sunoo shifted, finally breaking the standoff with a strained, desperate tone. “guys… now really isn’t the time…”

but jay’s eyes stayed locked on sunghoon’s, and his words didn’t stop. “will you let some human destroy your legacy?” he repeated, like it was fact, like it was already written.

sunghoon felt something in him crack — clean through. the room tilted with it, his breath hitched, the burn in his chest sharper than hunger, sharper than any thirst he’d ever known.

and when he spoke, his voice was low but brutal, the edge in it cutting deep, meant to wound. 

“what i know,” sunghoon said, eyes burning into jay’s, “is that i won’t take lessons on humanity from someone who’s too scared to admit that humans are real, that they matter, that they’re not just pawns for us to use up and throw away. you don’t know shit about love. you don’t even let yourself feel it.”

jay didn’t flinch. he just narrowed his eyes, voice clipped, measured, cold like always. even when it hurt, they were all too dead to take offense in their bickerings. 

“this is a bond, sunghoon. that’s all it is. that’s all she is. and you’re letting that fact tear you apart. if you don’t get ahead of this, it’ll be the end of you. and maybe us too.” his arms stayed crossed, posture too controlled, like nothing could touch him. like this didn’t touch him.

sunghoon felt the snap coming, felt it in the way his breath hitched, in the way the room seemed too small, too tight.

the air buzzed, the weight of his power pressing out from under his skin, uncontrolled, the way it hadn’t been in days. the light above them flickered, once, twice, then steadied — but not before the air crackled like a storm was coming.

sunoo stepped in, fast, voice low but firm, cutting between them before it could go too far. “enough, both of you. stop.” his tone held more weight than usual, sharper at the edges, the kind of tone he saved for when it mattered. 

his eyes flicked to the ceiling, to the light that still pulsed faintly from sunghoon’s power, then back to sunghoon’s face — seeing how close he was, how tight his fists were clenched, how the red still threatened at the edges of his gaze.

sunoo’s hands came up, half-raised, ready to push them apart if it came to that. “this isn’t helping. you’re both too close to snapping.”

he didn’t stop there. he turned to jay, voice dropping, but no softer. “jongseong, you’ve never had a bond. you don’t know what it feels like. so leave it be.” his gaze stayed steady on jay, no mockery, no venom — just the truth, and the sting it carried. “you don’t know what this is doing to him.”

the room held quiet, heavy, the tension still thick but on pause, sunoo’s words cutting through enough for now. enough to keep them standing. enough to keep them from breaking.

“she’ll wake up soon,” sunoo said, quieter, steadying the room the best he could and now turning to sunghoon. “and when she does? she’s going to be sick, confused, scared. you know that. we all know that. so what’s the plan, huh? you gonna stand here fighting jay when she needs you?”

sunghoon dragged in a breath, tried to calm the way his body wanted to tear through the room, tear through anything that dared speak your name like it was theirs to hold. because that’s what it felt like. every time either of them said her, it burned inside his chest.

he ran a hand through his hair, tried to force the red from his vision. god, he almost snapped over jay’s stupidity, what was this suppressant even made of?

“we’ll figure it out,” he said at last, voice rough, breath still uneven. his eyes found jay’s, calmer now but still firm. “but don’t talk about her like that again.”

jay stared at him for a beat, dark eyes unreadable, jaw tight. then, finally, he stepped back, tension still in his frame but the fight gone out of him. he nodded slowly and stared at the ceiling.

they stayed like that for a whole minute until the atmosphere was controlled again. jay went back to sitting on the chair, sunoo breathed loud and clear trying to read the mind of his hyungs. after a while, he gave up and sat beside jay too.

“you feeding her or not, simply looking her in the eyes will relieve some of her pain,” sunoo said, voice quieter now, but sure, steady like he’d been waiting for the right moment to say it. “my mom was once a human. remember that? i know what can make her feel better without you feeding her your blood.”

sunghoon turned, gaze snapping to sunoo, and for a second it was like the weight on his chest eased, just barely. he looked at his best friend like he had hung the moon — and sometimes, that’s exactly what it felt like. sunoo always had a way of grounding him, of cutting through the noise, the panic, the hunger. 

of reminding him that the lines between species didn’t have to matter. that none of this had to be about power or blood or legacy. sunghoon liked that about him. always had.

he stared at sunoo with surprise, because god, now that he thought about it, he didn’t know much about vampire-human bonds at all. not really. not beyond the scraps of myth and the warnings he’d ignored for centuries. 

sunghoon’s chest heaved once, nostrils flaring with your scent so thick in the air it nearly knocked him down again. the world swayed, just slightly, and he forced himself to move, to break free of the heat and weight of his suit.

his jacket hit the floor, fingers fumbling at more buttons of his dress shirt.

sunghoon was tired. tired of waiting, tired of himself, tired of the storm of the new, raw emotions tightening around his chest in ways he didn't know how to name.

he exhaled, slow, rubbing a hand over his face and over the dried blood on his chin. his eyes flicked to where jay and sunoo lingered in the room — silent, watching, knowing better than to speak now.

his gaze dropped to the floor, to where his tie and suit jacket lay abandonened, wrinkled, like proof of how far from composed he really was.

these suppressant — god, these suppressants — they were making him crazy. dulling the hunger but sharpening everything else. making him feel too much and not enough at the same time.

he wanted them out of his system, his vampire needed them out. he wanted you on his sight. and for once, he didn't want to think about what that meant.

——

sunghoon didn’t trust himself to go check on you — on your unconscious body, on the soft sound of your breathing that echoed louder in his head than anything else — not until niki came through the door. 

niki, breathless, hair a mess like he’d been pacing the hall, voice tight in a way that didn’t suit him. “she’s peaking. even while she’s out. it’s bad.”

sunghoon had counted the minutes. every one of them. you’d been passed out for five hours now.

five hours of him sitting there, forcing himself still, staring at the clock on the guest room’s bedside table as the second hand scraped its way around, dragging toward noon like it might never get there. 

he’d taken another shower, water cold as ice, hoping it would clear his head. it didn’t. he still felt high, slow, like the suppressant clung to his bones.

sunoo didn’t leave him for a second. stayed at his side, steady, talking about anything and nothing, trying to keep sunghoon distracted, trying to keep him anchored so he wouldn’t tear the door off its hinges and go to you. trying to stop him from snapping.

jay had left them the second jungwon asked him to handle something outside — no hesitation, no question. he slipped out in a blink.

since then, sunoo and sunghoon stayed inside the guest room.

niki announced your condition, and sunghoon was on his feet like lightning, faster than his mind could catch up with his body.

it was the first knock on the door since jay had left, and the sound felt louder than it should’ve, like a crack splitting the tense, fragile air. 

he didn’t even register what niki’s face looked like at first — just that the words she’s peaking hit him like a blow to the chest.

he glanced at sunoo. their eyes met, that silent understanding passing between them: now. go.

he didn’t hesitate. no more holding back, no more waiting. sunghoon bolted, feet quick and sure across the floor. he ran to your room, heart pounding, breath sharp, the weight of it all crashing down at once.

and the second sunghoon stepped out of the guest room — the first time since yesterday night — he felt it.

like walking into a storm. the weight of you inside the apartment. thick. suffocating. like the air had changed, like the walls had shrunk, like the entire building was groaning under the force of your suffering. 

the others didn’t notice it, not like he did. they couldn’t smell it the way he could. couldn’t taste it in the air, thick and sharp and wrong.

they thought it was just your blood, your scent, your presence. but sunghoon knew better. 

what they were breathing in — what coated their throats and filled their lungs — wasn’t just you. it was your panic. your fear. your pain.

and it was everywhere. drowning him. and he’d never hated his own helplessness more.

to make everything worse, they’d chosen his bedroom to keep you in. of all the rooms in the penthouse — the empty guest rooms, the study, even jungwon’s — they’d put you in his. 

the realization hit him as soon as niki guided him to the second hallway towards the penthouse's study. he looked at niki in confusion for ten whole seconds before his mind comprehended what they had done.

fuck.

some deep, buried part of him, that animal part he hated to acknowledge, felt relief at that. like it was right. like it was natural for you to be there, near, inside his space. 

but his human consciousness — the part of him that still clung to control, to decency — it panicked. it worried that this would be the thing that made him crumble. the final crack.

he turned to niki, voice tight, trying to hold himself together. “why my room?”

niki barely blinked, still catching his breath from the rush. “jungwon’s orders,” he said. simple. like it explained everything. “he said it was the safest. you wouldn’t let anyone hurt her there.”

sunghoon wanted to curse. wanted to tear the walls apart for how much harder they’d made it without even realizing.

but all he could do was sigh, long and ragged, because the weight of you inside his room was too much. 

he braced himself as he opened the door to his own room, fingers tight on the handle like it might be the only thing keeping him steady. 

the familiar scent of his space hit him first, layered now with yours — thick, overwhelming, filling every corner of the air.

the curtains were drawn shut, the room dim despite the sun climbing high outside. 

for a moment, the strangeness of it settled over him, sharp and clear. it was noon — the sun high, the city alive beyond the windows — and you were the one asleep, the human, the fragile one, caught in a world you didn’t ask for.

and yet, all the vampires — the ones who by nature should have been dead to the world at this hour — were the ones awake. every one of them. watching. waiting. unraveling quietly in their own ways.

at the center of it, sunghoon stood, feeling the absurdity of it all press in: how wrong it was, how right it felt, and how impossible it was to untangle the two.

it would’ve been funny, if it didn’t hurt so much.

he glanced around, took in the exhaustion on his brother’s faces, the tension in their shoulders. 

jake caught his eye and nodded once, silent, slipping out of the room like he knew sunghoon needed the space, like he didn’t want to make this harder than it already was. 

sunghoon felt grateful for the gesture — more than he could say. the room felt too tight already, too charged, and jake’s quiet exit gave him one less weight to bear.

sunghoon’s gaze then dropped to you, and it nearly undid him.

your cheeks were hollowed, skin pale where it had once been warm, radiant. your color was gone, replaced by that cold, sickly stillness. the scent of you was wrong too — not just blood, not just hunger, but sickness, panic, the kind of scent that clung to the back of his throat and made his stomach twist. 

the warm glow you’d carried with you through his greenhouse two weeks ago, through his every fleeting glance, was gone.

and god, he hated it.

he saw that you were still in your own clothes — and for one brief, saving breath, his human mind clung to that.

at least they hadn’t dressed you in his. at least they hadn’t crossed that final, unthinkable line. 

because if they had — if he saw you wearing something of his, draped in that final intimacy — that would’ve been the end of him. the last thread snapping. he wasn’t sure he would’ve come back from it. not this time.

sunoo stood behind at the door, quiet, steady, a shadow of support sunghoon didn’t ask for but couldn’t push away. the others had left, one by one, knowing there was nothing more they could do, nothing more they should do.

this was sunghoon’s storm to weather now. his bond. his mess.

he didn’t move at first. just stood there, the weight of it pressing down on him, watching you like if he stared hard enough he could will your color back, your warmth, your strength. 

but all he saw was the way you shook, the way your body fought even in sleep, the way your scent filled the room like a reminder of everything he was failing to protect.

and it hurt in a way he couldn’t expect. in a way he didn’t want to. because it wasn’t hunger. it wasn’t love. it was something darker, heavier — the awful, aching need to make it stop. to make you safe. to make this right.

sunghoon didn’t want to make your pain stop because he loved you, or because he cared — it wasn’t that. it was because his biology demanded it, instinct thrumming through every inch of him, merciless and raw.

there was no romance in it, no gentleness, no noble intent. it was selfish, animal, the bond clawing at him to ease you only so he could ease himself, to quiet the storm in his veins by breaking your fever, by giving you what the bond wanted, what he wanted — not for you, but for his own survival.

you were peaking, and he felt it in every part of him. he was reacting the only way the bond allowed: as a partner, as a soulmate, as the other side of the thread that had tied itself to you without his permission. 

your pain became his ache. your fever became his heat. the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled, the way your body burned beneath the weight of what neither of you had chosen — it all echoed through him. 

it felt wrong. so wrong. the crushing realization of what was about to unfold the moment you opened your eyes — of how much it would change for you, how much you didn’t know was waiting. 

it felt wrong not to clear the room, not to take you somewhere private, not to make everyone leave so it could be just you and him, the way some deep, dangerous part of him insisted it should be.

because deep down, sunghoon was certain — too certain — that he was enough to make you safe, that he was all you needed. 

but despite the weight of it, despite how much it burned, he swallowed thickly, forced himself to stay still, to let the moment pass without snapping, to wait until sunoo left to call the others, to bring the help they all thought they needed. because that was what he had to do. 

even if it felt like it would kill him.

it felt weird to say that, to even think like that. sunghoon didn’t know you that way — didn’t know you at all, actually — and that was the most fucked up part about every supernatural bond: the yearning for someone you don’t know. 

it was deep, it was humiliating, it was raw in a way that stripped him bare, and hell, sunghoon had never been the romantic type to begin with.

but here he was, feeling like a failure for not having done it right — for not courting you, for not learning the shape of your laugh, the sound of your voice in anything but fear. 

he’d been in love before, in his long, fractured life. he knew what that felt like, what it was meant to be. and even if this wasn’t love — not yet — it felt like he was already falling short of what you deserved. 

his chosen one. 

the words echoed through him like a curse. you were the chosen one, and he didn’t even know your full name. it was like his brain was only catching up now, drowning under the weight of what this meant, what he’d failed to do, what he was already losing.

you were a stranger. and yet right now, in this room, in this moment — he felt everything about you.

it sounded wrong, incomplete, unnatural. to connect with someone he didn’t know at all on a level this deep, this consuming, like the bond had skipped all the things that should’ve come first — words, moments, choices — and gone straight to this.

sunghoon closed the distance between himself and the bed where you lay, slow, measured. he lowered himself onto the makeshift chair they’d dragged beside the bed, the one that felt too small, too human for what he was, and for a moment, he just looked at you.

he traced the details of your face with his eyes — the soft curve of your lashes against your pale cheeks, the faint freckle near your temple he hadn’t noticed before, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed, fragile and stubborn at once.

details he hadn’t had the peace of mind to see earlier, when everything had been fire and panic and restraint.

he breathed you in now, guiltless, trusting the suppressants still thick in his veins, trusting the ragged scraps of discipline he had left to keep him seated, to keep him from leaning too close.

he let himself have that moment — one minute of stillness, of committing every piece of you to memory, overthinking, analyzing, aching.

but the bond wouldn’t let him stay in his head for long.

you shifted. small, unsteady, but enough. like it was mocking him. like the bond was yanking him out of his thoughts, reminding him that this wasn’t something logic could touch, wasn’t something he could reason his way through.

he saw it — your hand, small, fingers twitching slightly against the sheets, reaching without thought, drawn toward him, toward where his arm rested against the bedframe, as if even in sleep, even in this fevered haze, you knew.

it was like the bond wanted to prove its point: this wasn’t about choice or fairness or sense. it just was. and sunghoon felt it hit him like a wave, sharp and deep, as you sought him even in sleep.

his breath hitched, surprise flashing in his eyes, sharp and bright.

he didn’t let you touch him. couldn’t. the fear was too strong. he pulled his arm back fast, like your skin might burn him if it so much as brushed his. 

he stood up from the makeshift chair, breath caught in his throat, hands clenched at his sides. his gaze shot up to the ceiling like it might offer answers, like it might calm him.

and in the corner of his eye, he saw it — he swear he fucking saw it: your features softened. your brow eased. the tension in your body let go just a little compared to when sunoo was still in the room, like your body knew he was the only one near, like it recognized him even before your mind could.

your peak lessened — he felt it, clear as breath, clear as the slow, reluctant calm that spread through his chest the moment your fingers reached for where his arm had been.

the panic that had gripped his heart, tight and relentless, eased just enough for him to catch a real breath. 

he heard voices outside — faint, muffled, the others returning, moving closer, unaware of the line they were all standing on. but it wasn’t them that twisted something deep in his gut, sharp and certain.

it was you. 

he felt it like instinct, like fact, like inevitability. you were about to wake up.

the bond thrummed with it, the air shifted with it, and sunghoon knew — without looking, without thinking — that everything was about to change. 

that whatever came next, there would be no stepping back from it. and for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he was ready.

——

your bite was sexy as hell — and it hit sunghoon harder than he could’ve ever prepared for. it turned him on, confused the hell out of him, made his body tense in ways that had nothing to do with the bond. 

honestly, at this point, he didn’t even know what he was feeling anymore. all he knew was that the second he saw how his gaze alone seemed to offer you relief, he had to get out of that room before he lost what little control he had left.

sunghoon felt the exact moment your mind woke up from the deep slumber you’d been trapped in.

it was like a light switched on inside you, and the ache that had been gnawing at him since your hand had almost brushed his minutes earlier — that small, stupid, desperate ache — vanished the second you were fully aware again. 

he could hear the way your eyes moved, tracing the room, trying to piece together where you were.

he could smell every emotion pouring off you — fear, confusion, stubbornness. 

and more than anything, he could taste your blood in the air, thick and sweet and so close it made his head swim.

he was aware of everything. too aware. and at the same time, he felt like he wasn’t in his own body at all. 

his tongue felt heavy, mouth dry and wet all at once, his limbs sluggish, still swimming through the fog of the suppressants. sharp for your movements, your voice, your scent — but slow, disconnected, robotic when it came to himself.

and maybe it was the bond talking — that awful, tangled, biological mess of instinct and need — but the second he smelled your relief, the oldest vampire of the whole korean peninsula was wrecked. 

ruined in ways he hadn’t even known were possible.

it was weirder than he’d imagined, because it was physical. not something he could power through with logic or reason, or some forgotten lesson in an old book. it hit deeper. 

it was in his blood, in his fucking bones.

jungwon, niki, and sunghoon stood there, watching you try to pull yourself together. you glanced at them at first, eyes sharp despite the haze, trying to act like you were fine, like you weren’t seconds away from collapsing again.

sunghoon pretended too. pretended his mouth wasn’t watering at the smell of your sweat alone. pretended he wasn’t losing his mind every time your gaze flicked his way.

he felt numb. weird. like his body was just along for the ride, while his mind scrambled to keep up. and jungwon — of course jungwon — saw right through it.

didn’t say a word, just caught his eye at the right moment and pulled him out of the room as soon as you stopped bickering with yourself.

you were stubborn as hell. god, so stubborn. 

sunghoon hadn’t really registered it the first time you met — or maybe he had, but now, now that you were his cosmic girlfriend (your words, not his), he was starting to see it.

starting to feel how deep it ran. starting to realize how completely, helplessly wrecked he was about to become for the next few days.

as soon as the door clicked shut behind them and niki was left alone with you in his bedroom, jungwon didn’t waste a second.

he turned to sunghoon, eyes sharp but voice steady, calm in that way only jungwon could pull off when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “you good?”

sunghoon cleared his throat, trying to swallow down the dizziness, the heat still burning under his skin. he took a breath that didn’t help, blinked hard like it might steady him.

“she’s not in pain anymore,” he said at last, voice rough but honest, “at least there’s that.”

jungwon didn’t waste a second. as soon as sunghoon spoke, as soon as he caught the roughness in his voice, the strain in his posture, he turned to where sunoo lingered near the end of the hall.

“how long?” jungwon asked, low, calm, but direct. “the suppressant. how long until it wears off? until he peaks again?”

sunoo didn’t even have to think about it. he’d been watching, reading the room the way only he could. his arms were crossed, gaze flicking between sunghoon and jungwon, thoughtful but steady.

“hard to say exactly,” sunoo said, voice quieter now, but sure. “hoon is unpredictable. could hold for a while, could crash fast if she moves, if she looks at him, if anything shifts. but if it’s holding like i think… maybe two hours. give or take.”

jungwon nodded, already bracing for it, already calculating what two hours could mean, already glancing at sunghoon like he was a timer ticking down. 

and sunghoon just stood there, swallowing hard, feeling every second slip by like it might be the one that undid him.

he had two hours — two hours to get his shit together, to brace himself, to try and steady the storm inside him before he had to face you and ask the one thing that would change everything: would you accept the fucking bond, or not? 

——

you and sunghoon woke at the same time — not planned, not gentle, just there, like the bond flipped a switch and decided that now was the only time.

you’ve been out cold since noon, body heavy from sickness, from the peak, from everything.

sunghoon and the others tried to hold the line: niki posted near your door before inevitably passing out cold somewhere on the floor; sunoo slumped half-upright, trying to guard sunghoon through the suppressant haze.

but vampires weren’t meant for this — guarding and waiting in the daylight.

sunghoon passed out for some minutes after sunoo did, exhausted and groggy.

but now, it’s five in the afternoon — the hour the coven usually stirred to life, the hour the night began.

but here? here it’s quiet. everyone else is out, sprawled and snoring in corners like the weight of the day dragged them under.

and sunghoon? the bond dragged him up the second you stirred. his senses snapped back online like a flood. his room, thick with your scent, your presence, that low thrum of you being awake. it pulled at him in a way that felt physical — his body already moving before his brain caught up.

he felt different now. the haze of the suppressants was gone, burned off in the force of your nearness. his mind was clear for the first time in seven days. no dullness, no fog — just sharp, raw awareness.

sunghoon felt the tips of his fingers tingle back to life, felt the supernatural pulse of his own body return to its natural rhythm — steady, powerful, unchained again. 

it was like his body knew — like every part of him sensed how close he was to imprinting, even though imprinting wasn’t part of sunghoon’s plan, not now, not anywhere near this week. or ever.

but still, he felt it: that lightness, that fullness, that flicker of health that vampires weren’t supposed to feel. 

then he heard it — your voice, rough, small, but still trying to stake out space in their apartment, still trying to armor yourself in sarcasm. “great. still kidnapped by the world’s most dramatic interior decorator. nice curtains.”

his lips parted like he meant to respond, but no words came. for the first time in centuries, sunghoon found himself at a loss, the bond tugging at him so hard it blurred his thoughts.

without the supressants, the tension in the room clung to his skin like a second layer, heavy and hot, and he realized he needed space — needed to clear his head before he lost what little grip he had left.

without a word, he turned, deciding another shower might buy him a few minutes of sanity.

the cold water, the distance, anything to cool the fire burning low and constant beneath his ribs.

sunghoon let the cold water hit him, sharp and clean, washing away the heat of the room, the weight of the bond, the sound of your voice still echoing in his head.

he stayed under the stream longer than he needed — long enough to breathe, to try and quiet the storm clawing at his chest.

when he stepped out, he dragged a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back, watching his reflection for a beat.

his eyes were clearer now, the red faded to a duller brown, but the hunger, the pull — that was still there.

he dressed in fresh clothes, the routine grounding him. black slacks, low on his hips; a dark fitted shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar loose, the first button undone. simple, clean, controlled. he felt better. or at least, like he could pretend to be.

when he stepped out the shower, he tried to move without a sound, every step measured, controlled, like the predator he was and didn’t want to be right now.

he didn’t want to wake anyone — not sunoo, half-curled on the couch, breath slow and deep, finally asleep after days of tension. 

not niki, sprawled out on the floor like a dead weight in front of your door, limbs a mess, hair in his face, snoring soft enough to remind sunghoon they were all too exhausted to be useful anymore.

sunghoon stopped before the door of his room and lifted his hand, knuckles brushing the wood. he knocked once — out of habit, out of decency he didn’t really feel.

he stood there for five seconds before he pushed inside.

he couldn’t wait for your permission. the bond wouldn’t let him. the air beyond that door felt thick with you, and his body, newly unshackled from the suppressant’s haze, hummed with the need to be near.

his room was dim, shadows stretching long across the walls where the heavy curtains muted the late-afternoon light. it smelled like you — thick, rich, wrong in how right it felt. 

his gaze swept the space out of reflex: the chair where he’d stripped off his jacket, abandoned; the books on the nightstand, untouched; the corner where his boots rested, dusted with the dirt from the camp house. and you — curled small on his bed, in his sheets, clutching his pillow to your chest like it might save you.

you didn’t even know.

you didn’t know the weight of the mattress beneath you was his. didn’t know the pillow you hugged was the one that still carried the faintest trace of his scent, of nights he’d stared at the ceiling, thinking he’d outrun this kind of fate. 

he wondered — for a dangerous, fleeting second — if that was why you clung to it. if it brought you some comfort, even now.

he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

sunghoon could see every detail.

the bond made the sight of you too much — too vivid, too loud. he could feel your confusion like static in his chest.

your voice broke the heavy quiet, small and hoarse. “niki?” you mumbled, half-asleep, still caught between the edge of waking and whatever fever dream the bond had dragged you through.

he saw the exact second your eyes opened fully, saw them flick to him, saw the surprise bloom there — surprise and something else. something you tried to smother beneath the weight of your pride, beneath the armor of your confusion.

sunghoon didn’t move closer. not yet.

he leaned back against the door, arms crossed, boots planted firm on the floor. his hair was still damp from the cold water he’d splashed on his face, dark strands falling over his brow, pushed back with his fingers in that careless, sharp way he always did. 

“not niki,” he said, voice low, steady, the sound of it filling the room like a storm about to break.

he could see it — how you tried to piece it together. the heat, the ache in your chest, the way your pulse raced without reason, how your skin felt too tight. 

sunghoon pushed off the door, slow, deliberate, closing the space between you with the kind of measured grace that only made him more dangerous. more magnetic.

“i know you weren’t expecting this, but the ache will pass soon.” his voice softened as he neared, enough to take the edge off, but not the tension. “it’s the bond. it’s me. it’s us.”

he stopped at the edge of the bed, gaze dropping to your face, to the pulse at your throat that jumped when you met his eyes.

your eyes locked on his, wide at first, then narrowing like you were trying to mask the surprise. trying to rebuild whatever walls you thought would hold. 

and there it was — that flicker of defiance, of stubbornness, like this wasn’t happening, like you could joke your way through the weight crushing the air between you.

“oh,” you rasped, voice rough, dry, but still laced with that sarcasm that had sunk its claws into him from the start. “great. you. so this is the part where you tell me i’ve got six months to live unless i drink your blood or marry into your vampire mafia?”

sunghoon felt the corner of his mouth twitch — almost a smile, but not quite. too much hunger behind it. too much restraint. 

god, you were tired. he could feel it in the bond, in the way your pulse lagged then sped up again, in the way your breath came shallow. 

you were exhausted, confused, and still pretending none of it scared you. he could taste the fear beneath your pride like smoke on his tongue.

he watched you as you shifted, as you propped yourself up on trembling elbows like you didn’t want him to see the weakness.

and that — fuck, that made something inside him burn. 

as he stood there, he saw it — things he hadn’t let himself notice before.

the delicate line of your throat where your pulse fluttered fast.

the curve of your jaw when you tilted your head, still challenging him, still fighting.

he noticed that spot, your skin pulling him in like a magnet — the same spot his eyes had found in the greenhouse that first day and obsessed over it, the same place that had haunted him since. now it drew him in again, sharp and magnetic, the bond tugging at him like a leash.

on that first encounter, sunghoon hadn’t known — hadn’t realized his body had already chosen you. he hadn’t understood why that one spot on your neck made him crave, made him lose control.

but now he did.

it was the bond from the start, pulling him in, tying him to you before either of you saw it coming. supernatural. inevitable.

sunghoon drew closer, slow, smooth, the tension thickening with every step. his eyes stayed on yours, sharp, unblinking, dark around the edges, crimson at the center.

“no,” he said, voice low, eyes glinting with something sharper now, “this is the part where you admit my curtains are actually fantastic.”

you rolled your eyes, exasperated, but he caught the way your mouth twitched — like you wanted to smirk but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. and damn, he liked that too much.

“are you always this full of yourself?” you muttered, voice scratchy but laced with bite.

sunghoon tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting, stepping just close enough that you could feel the weight of him. “only when i’m right.”

you huffed, trying to shift back, but the bed and the bond had you trapped. “you’re annoying, what are you doing here?”

he smiled — slow, crooked, too confident for someone holding himself together by a thread. “this is my room, doll, and you’re hugging my pillow. i'm the one supposed to ask you that.”

your cheeks burned, but you didn’t let up, the sting of embarrassment drowned out by the sharp need to keep some grip on control — even as the realization sank in, deep and disorienting: you didn’t even know what room you were in. where you were. what was his, what wasn’t.

it made your skin prickle, made the instinct to fight back all the stronger.

“maybe i’m planning to suffocate you with it,” you shot back, fingers tightening on the pillow like it might give you some leverage.

sunghoon let out a quiet laugh, low and warm, the sound sliding under your skin. “you’d have to let me get close enough for that.”

your breath caught — just for a second — and he saw it. saw the spark behind your eyes, saw the fight in you, saw the way the bond dared both of you to see who would break first.

“try me.” you said, chin lifted, voice steady even as your pulse raced.

sunghoon’s gaze dropped to your throat, the flutter there like a beacon, and when his eyes met yours again, the hunger was buried deep, but not gone. 

“i didn’t think you’d survive this long with those symptoms,” sunghoon admitted, voice low, eyes sharp as he leaned back against the window frame, arms crossed.

you shifted, clutching the pillow tighter, refusing to break eye contact. “yeah, well, some sick vampire contaminated me and ran off without telling me.”

the corner of his mouth twitched — not a smile, more like a warning. “technically, you were the one who ran away.”

your jaw tightened, pulse racing in your throat, but you kept your voice level, biting. “yes, because you begged me to. almost demanded, actually”

the air between you crackled, thick enough to taste. his eyes darkened, crimson bleeding at the edges, the bond humming like a threat beneath your skin.

he straightened, slow, deliberate, every inch of him danger wrapped in control.

“are you mad i didn’t reach out?” sunghoon asked, voice dripping with smugness he didn’t quite feel, leaning just a little more into the tension like he was testing how far it would stretch. 

you shot him a look, sharp despite the haze still clouding your head. “i’m livid because i’m being kept hostage by my weird set of neighbors, and my brain keeps fogging up.”

your words hit like a slap and a challenge all at once, and sunghoon felt it — the flicker of guilt, the pulse of the bond, the pull to you that made his chest tight.

“i’m sorry about that night,” he said, voice lower now, rougher around the edges, trying to accommodate the new feeling of guilt. “that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

you didn’t miss a beat. your brow arched, that sharp edge in your voice cutting clean through the heavy air.

“what part? the part where you had an allergic reaction to me? or the part where you looked at me with murder on your mind and told me to get lost?”

“i wasn’t expecting to react like that. it wasn’t under my control.”

his voice was low, honest in a way that made the tension heavier, not lighter.

he meant it. you could see it in the way his eyes stayed on yours, steady, like he refused to look away this time. like he owed you that much.

you didn’t soften. not yet. your pride wouldn’t let you. but some part of you registered it — the way his words weren’t an excuse, just a truth laid bare.

“you didn’t scare me.”

sunghoon caught it — the faint waver in your voice, the crack you tried to hide but couldn’t. it hit him harder than it should’ve.

“i felt unsafe, but, somehow… deep down, i guess i knew what this was all along. i just didn’t want to admit it.”

your words hung in the air, raw, real, and sunghoon felt the bond hum like it agreed, like it had been waiting for you to say it out loud. 

his chest ached with the weight of it, the pull to you sharper now, more dangerous. he stepped closer, slow, eyes dark and unreadable.

“you know now,” he said quietly, and god, he wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a promise.

“in fact, i don’t,” you shot back, voice rough but steadier now, like saying it out loud gave you something to grip. “niki sucks at explaining and… i don’t think i believe in it. like, sure, vampires exist, fine. but why me? why would your — i don’t know, supernatural, whatever it is — choose me?”

the room felt too quiet after your words, the bond thrumming between you like it wanted to fill the space your doubt left behind.

sunghoon hesitated. for the first time in too long, he felt off-balance. on the spot. like you’d peeled him open without meaning to, like you’d asked the one question he couldn’t answer with confidence, with power.

he dragged a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving yours, pulse pounding loud in his ears.

god, you didn’t even realize it — how that crack in your armor, that small flicker of uncertainty, made you beautiful in a way that wrecked him.

he took a slow breath, words hard to find because everything in him screamed to close the distance instead, to show you what the bond was instead of explain it. but he forced himself still.

“i don’t know,” sunghoon said, voice low, like confession. “i’ve asked myself that every hour since it happened. why you. why now. but the bond doesn’t ask permission. it doesn’t care if it makes sense. it just... is.”

he saw your guard slip then — just for a breath, just enough for him to see the fear behind the sarcasm, the ache behind the fight.

and it made him want to protect you. it made him want to fall to his knees.

that was what rattled him most. because the instinct didn’t feel powerful — didn’t feel like the predator’s drive to claim or guard what was his. no, it felt fragile. human. it felt like weakness.

that need to shield you, to fix what had already unraveled, scraped at his pride. it unsettled him, hollowed him out in ways he didn’t expect. he wasn’t supposed to feel this raw, this exposed. 

sunghoon hated it. hated that you, without even meaning to, had made him feel like something breakable.

“niki said you felt it too… my symptoms. is it true? how is that possible?” you asked.

sunghoon leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, the cut of his frame sharp against the dim light filtering through the curtains. 

he watched you carefully, eyes dark, steady — too steady.

“yes. everything. lessened, of course, but i felt it.” his tone was steady, no softness, just facts. “i’m a vampire. human health issues usually don’t concern me the same way. but it was there. couldn’t ignore it if i tried.”

you stared at him, trying to piece it together, trying to find some logic in it.

“how is that possible?”

sunghoon noticed it then: how your gaze kept darting away, how you couldn’t hold his for more than ten seconds without your breath hitching, without your fingers tightening on the blanket like it might anchor you.

he exhaled slow. “the bond makes it possible. somehow, that night in the greenhouse... when you got too close, i marked you. my vampire did, at least. probably without me even realizing it, that’s how soulmates work with vampires. we don’t necessarily have souls so we imprint physically. that’s why you started getting sick after we parted ways. and after a few days... i fell ill too. but in different ways.”

you went quiet for a second, gaze flicking to the sheets, thoughtful.

“so... you don’t know why your vampire chose me? isn’t that you?”

he huffed a dry laugh, no humor in it. “yes. but it’s more complicated than that. i’m supernatural. i might’ve chosen you before you were even born. vampires don’t get a say once it happens. the bond just takes what it wants.”

you squinted at him, still processing, voice sharper now. “and what do you mean in different ways? did you really need to get out of seoul?”

sunghoon’s jaw ticked. “you think they sedated me for fun?” he shot back, gaze dark. “i couldn’t stay. it was that or rip through the city to get to you.”

the tension coiled again, heavy between you, your pulse loud in his head — and he hated how much he wanted to step closer.

“oh.” it slipped out of you, small, surprised — like you hadn’t meant to say it at all. like the weight of it was only just sinking in.

you didn’t even realize, not really. not yet. that you had him — the oldest, strongest vampire in seoul — under your fingertips without notice. that the bond had tied him to you so completely he hadn’t stood a chance. that you were probably the most powerful human in south korea in this moment.

and god, seeing that realization flicker in your eyes — seeing the power shift, even for a heartbeat — it did something to him.

“is it dangerous? like, for me?” the question caught him off guard. the shift in your tone, the crack of real fear beneath it — not hidden by sarcasm this time, not dulled by pride.

“what do you mean?”

he watched as you scrambled for words, saw the way you sat up straighter, trying to regain control, to feel less small. you pulled the blanket over your legs again like it might shield you from the weight of the truth.

“like… will i die? do i have a chance?”

and fuck, sunghoon felt it hit him, deep and sharp — that sudden, violent urge to hand you the world, to promise you safety, to strip the fear out of your voice. 

it stole his breath, knocked him sideways in a way he didn’t need, didn’t expect. it made him grimace inside, made him hate the part of himself that wanted so badly to reach out.

“no. not necessarily.” he answered.

“what kind of answer is that?”

for a moment, he saw it — that fire again, your bite slipping back through the cracks of your panic. it hit him like a jolt, familiar and grounding, and god, he liked it too much.

“i’m trying not to go into cardiac arrest here, sunghoon, so i’d appreciate a little honesty. this—” your voice wavered, and suddenly your gaze dropped, like anywhere but his eyes was safer. “this whole thing is too much for me. it’s too… i don’t know. i’m not even sure this isn’t a cult yet, and niki is so smug it pisses me off, and you... you piss me off as well.”

he should’ve smirked at that, maybe. teased you. but not now. not when you sounded like you were about to snap apart at the seams.

“i’m a human. i’m twenty-three. i’m about to start college next month.” your voice was tight, but steady. “us humans don’t simply do soulmates. that’s not even a topic in our heads to begin with actually.”

sunghoon stayed where he was, watching you, feeling the bond hum between you like a thread pulling tighter with every word.

“you have to give me more than that,” you added, eyes fierce despite the crack in your breath. “if you don’t want me sprinting out of this room the second i see the opportunity, you need to be honest with me. please.”

and god, that fire in you — that stubborn refusal to just let the bond dictate the terms — it made sunghoon want you more.

“you won’t die, y/n,” he said, voice firmer now, steady in a way that surprised even him. “not if you accept the bond.”

your head snapped up, eyes blazing with frustration.

“and what the fuck does that mean?”

“it means you’ll become mine,” sunghoon said, voice low, but fierce now, no space left for pretense, no softness to soften the blow. “it means we are bound. that our biology, our instincts — they’re tied together for the rest of our lives. no reset, no undoing it. that’s what the bond is. that’s what you are.”

his eyes burned into yours, crimson at the edges, sharp and unflinching.

“you’re my human now. whether you like it or not.”

there was no threat in his voice — just truth. raw, inevitable, undeniable. and god, he hated how much his vampire nature meant it.

he saw it — that flicker in your eyes, sharp and startled, recognition hitting before you could stop it.

“mine?” your voice was tight. “like… forever? does that mean i’m turning into one of you?” the room felt smaller, the bond thrumming louder, daring him to say yes, to claim it. but sunghoon just held your gaze, steady, unblinking.

“no,” he said. “not unless you choose it. but either way — you’ll be bound to me. and i’ll be bound to you.”

his words hung heavy in the air, as inevitable as the pull between you.

“are you fucking joking right now?” you blurted, panic edging into disbelief. “like—why are you describing marriage? is that what you’re saying? what do you mean i’m yours?” he saw you spiral, “oh my god, i’m too young for marriage!”

sunghoon blinked, dead serious, but the corner of his mouth twitched — just once. because god, watching you spiral, watching you throw sarcasm at something so much bigger than either of you, was maybe the first thing that had made him want to laugh in days.

“it’s not marriage,” he said, but there was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice now, like he couldn’t help it. “no vows. no rings. no cake. unless you want one, i guess.”

you stared at him, horrified. “i can’t be yours, that is not even legal! are you guys traffickers? do you think this is funny?”

his expression stayed composed, but his eyes glinted red at the edges, like the bond was just as entertained by you as he was.

“a little,” he admitted. “you’re cute when you panic. but no, we’re not traffickers… not human traffickers at least.”

and that, of course, only made it worse.

“what the fuck is wrong with you? this is serious!” you were full-on spiraling now, voice rising, eyes wide, practically vibrating with outrage. you shoved the blanket off like it offended you, like it was part of the problem — and in doing so, revealed the most tragically adorable blue bear pajamas sunghoon had ever seen.

his jaw clenched, fighting the urge to laugh. god, he wanted to. the sight of you, fuming, tiny blue bears marching angrily across your legs, made the tension snap in his chest in a way that almost felt good.

“why would you do this to me?!” you demanded, throwing your arms up. “this isn’t funny! you have to stop it! i can’t get married to someone i don’t know.”

sunghoon pressed his lips together, trying to look serious, but his eyes betrayed him — shining with barely contained amusement.

“believe me,” he said, voice tight from holding in the laugh, “if i could stop it, i would have already, doll.”

and that — that — made your glare sharpen like a blade, which, of course, only made it harder for him to keep the grin off his face.

you stormed toward him, blue bear pajama pants swishing like you meant business, fists clenched, fury radiating off you in waves. you stopped right in front of him, chest heaving, and it hit him — the scent of you, raw and real and his, filling his lungs like the first breath after drowning. 

god, you were so close. closer than you’d ever been with his head clear, with the bond thrumming clean through him, no suppressant dulling the edges.

he breathed you in like his favorite sin, his favorite kind of ruin, and for just a second, it almost soothed him. 

almost.

but you weren’t soothed — you were collapsing, unraveling, right in front of him.

“there has to be a way!” you snapped, hands flying up in frustration. “you said you didn’t even choose me — why would you want this? oh my god, you don’t even want this, do you?! this is serious! doesn’t vampires have moral compasses?”

sunghoon’s lips parted, caught between trying to answer and trying not to laugh at the pure chaos of you.

“niki said you were strong,” you fired, voice pitching up with frustration, hands thrown wide like you couldn’t believe you were even having to say this. “why don’t you do something?!”

sunghoon just stood there, leaning back slightly against the window, watching the storm that was you unraveling in front of him, blue bear pajamas and all, and damn — he couldn’t look away.

“i… we… we don’t even know each other!” you kept going, breath quick, cheeks flushed with heat, eyes blazing like you might actually hit him if he didn’t say something useful. “i don’t even know if i like you at all! you just made me feel nauseous for fourteen days straight!”

he raised both brows, finally letting the grin tug at the corner of his mouth, slow and infuriating.

“yeah,” he said, voice low, full of that dangerous calm that only made everything feel more charged. “great first impression, huh?”

“what are you on about? this is serious!” you shouted, voice cracking at the edges, furious — like a kid who couldn’t contain the storm of emotions building up inside you.

and god, sunghoon found it cute. again. too cute for his own good. 

the way you glared up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that fire, small fists clenched at your sides — it shouldn’t have made him want to smirk. it shouldn’t have made the bond hum even louder between you, tugging him closer. 

he tilted his head slightly, watching you like you were the most fascinating thing he’d seen in centuries.

“you’re adorable when you’re mad,” he said, voice smooth, deadly calm, and so amused it made your blood boil hotter.

“why are you acting like this is nothing?” you snapped, exasperated, fists clenched at your sides.

“doll,” he said, low and sure, “we don’t show our emotions like humans do. but yes, i chose you. yes, it’s not practical but i want this. my vampire does. there’s that.”

his words hung heavy in the air, final, like it was as simple as breathing to him — and yet, you could feel it in the bond, humming beneath his voice, how much it meant.

sunghoon stepped around you, slow and measured, letting the tension ease just enough to breathe as he crossed to the dresser. he tugged a drawer open, pulling out a towel, running it through his still-damp hair like it gave his hands something to do besides reach for you.

when he turned back, you were exactly where he’d left you — standing there, small in your fury, blue bears and all, unmoved. it almost made him smirk again. almost. 

but then he felt it.

the bond tugged at him, subtle at first — then sharper, clearer, like a thread pulled too tight at the corner of his mind, behind his right ear where the bond always whispered loudest. and this time, it wasn’t panic. wasn’t anger.

it was sadness.

deep and quiet and raw. it hit him harder than your shouting ever had.

he let the towel fall over his shoulder, his stance softening as he looked at you.

“hey,” he said, voice low, steady, something gentler threading through it now. “i know it’s a lot right now. i’ve been a vampire for longer than i was human. i’ve seen bonds… but bonds don’t have to be the end of it. we can make an arrangement if that’s what you want.”

he took a step closer, slow, deliberate, careful not to crowd you.

“we could start off as friends, get to know each other first.” god, saying it felt strange on his tongue — but he meant it. meant it more than anything else he’d said tonight.

“you don’t get it, do you? this is not normal, not for me.” you turned on him, voice rising, and sunghoon stilled. 

because this wasn’t just anger now — he saw it, clear as day. the shine in your eyes, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands shook like you didn’t know where to put them. you were on the verge of breaking.

“i’m young,” you said, voice cracking, “and i don’t even know you. i found you hot at first but that was it! you could be a criminal for all i know!”

sunghoon felt the bond thrum painfully at that — like it didn’t want to hear you say it, like it ached at the distance you were putting between you.

he exhaled slow, trying not to let the pull drag him too close, trying not to touch what he wanted so badly to protect. 

trying not to tease you for the fact you just admitted you had found him hot.

“i know it’s a lot,” sunghoon said, voice calm, steady, like he wasn’t standing in the middle of a storm. “that’s why we’re coming up with a plan first. jungwon will help me and i won’t force you to do anything, doll.”

“stop calling me that.” you snapped, arms crossing tight over your chest, cheeks warm with frustration. “you don’t know me so you don’t get nickname privileges.”

sunghoon smirked, slow, infuriating.

“it suits you.”

you scowled, chin jutting up. “we’re not in the 50s anymore, you oldie.”

“still,” he said, eyes gleaming as he leaned back against the dresser, watching you like you were the most entertaining thing he’d seen in centuries. “it suits you.”

you huffed, pouting, glaring at him, but it only made your cheeks glow hotter, and he had to fight the urge to laugh again.

“whatever,” you grumbled, arms crossed tight, trying to mask the flood of panic and confusion behind the usual bite in your voice. “what’s the plan? who is jungwon? are you sure y’all aren’t in a cult?”

sunghoon actually laughed — a low, rich sound that filled the room and made your stomach flip in a way you refused to admit.

“jungwon’s our leader,” he said, straightening up from where he leaned, his eyes still glinting with that amused edge. “he is the only one who has royal blood so he runs the coven. keeps us in line. keeps the city quiet. you’ve already met him.”

he crossed the room, slow, controlled, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“and no, we’re not a cult,” he added, voice smoother now. “seonghyeon jaega’s our building — our territory. this penthouse? this is the coven. where we stay. where we keep things… contained.”

he stopped a few feet from you, watching you like he could see every thought racing through your head.

“you’re safe here. even if you don’t believe it yet.”

“and what am i doing here?” you demanded, frustration flaring as your arms crossed tighter. “why didn’t y’all bring me to the hospital first?”

sunghoon’s gaze darkened, serious now, the amusement fading. “human medics don’t know how to cure a bond illness,” he said, voice even, firm. “you’re safer here, closer to me.”

he stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the weight of his presence filled the space between you.

“you should be here for the next few days,” he added, gaze steady on yours. “until we both stabilize.”

and the way he said it, like it was fact, like it was final — it made the air feel heavier, made your heart race despite yourself.

“i’m stable. i feel fine. i won't let you keep me here forever,” you snapped, chin high, defiance burning through the confusion.

sunghoon’s jaw flexed, his patience thinning just enough for it to show. “you’re only stable because i’m here, doll,” he said, voice still smooth but edged now, the bond’s tension starting to wear at him.

he took a slow breath, forcing himself calm, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unblinking. “your soul is satisfied — it’s making space for the bond. that’s why you’re not feeling hungry even though you haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours.”

you froze for half a beat, thrown off, then scowled. “i— how do you know that?!” you sputtered, crossing your arms tighter like it might shield you from the truth of it. “and i’m hungry! you’re wrong!”

sunghoon’s grin was slow, knowing, and infuriating. “sure you are, sweetheart.”

and god, that only made you glare harder, which made him want to smirk more.

“i don’t believe in you,” you fired off, hands thrown up in exasperation, pacing now like you might actually bolt for the door. “y’all dress like mafia leaders from the 20s! how do i know this isn’t some national trafficking scam? i’ll call the police!”

sunghoon blinked, then actually laughed — a deep, sharp sound that filled the room and only made you glare harder.

“you’re welcome to try,” he said, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “but i don’t think your cops are trained for this kind of problem.”

he gestured between you, calm, composed, the glint in his eyes dark and amused.

“if you want to, i can show you the bond,” sunghoon said, his voice low, a challenge hidden beneath the calm. “this ‘soulmate’ thing you don’t believe in.”

he took one more step closer, slow and sure, close enough that you could feel the weight of him, the air between you charged, heavy. he looked down at you, and god, that height difference — it made you look even cuter to him, made his restraint pull tight like a leash.

one brow arched, daring you to call his bluff, daring you to look at him and say you weren’t curious.

“go on,” you shot back, voice sharp, chin high, a dare in your eyes that you hoped masked the way your heart pounded. “prove yourself right. i doubt you can prove this is anything but bullshit.”

sunghoon’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. “are you sure?”

you hesitated — just for a second — and that was enough for him to take a step back and look you in the eyes.

“i’m going to show you,” he said, voice lower now, rich, steady, like he was explaining something inevitable. “this is serious, doll. i’m not going to hurt you. i swear i won’t drink your blood. but i can prove the bond. just… trust me, for a second, ok?”

“i don’t trust you,” you snapped, taking a step back so you could breathe better. sunghoon sees you crossing your arms tight over your chest, trying to ignore how your breath hitched. “pick something else.”

“this is the easiest way you’ll feel it,” he said, soft but firm, gaze locked on yours, voice steady like he wasn’t asking — like it was just fact.

“that’s what evil vampires would say in a situation like this.” you shot back, eyes wide, taking half a step back, pointing at him like it might stop him. “i’m not letting you get near my precious neck, weirdo.”

sunghoon’s lips twitched, that smirk threatening again. “evil vampires?”

“yes!” you snapped, crossing your arms, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. “you and your friends are evil! find another way, dracula.”

“trust me,” sunghoon said, stepping closer, voice low, smooth, but edged with amusement now. “this is the safest way to show you, doll. you don’t want to know the other ways i have in store.”

your mouth dropped open, scandalized, and your cheeks flamed hot.

“creep!” you barked, backing up until the bed hit the backs of your knees. “we’re not married yet! stop your pervert thoughts right there!”

sunghoon let out a low laugh, sharp and genuine, eyes gleaming.

“yet? are you considering marrying me already?” sunghoon teased, the grin tugging at his lips pure trouble. “we didn’t even exchange blood yet, doll.”

your jaw dropped, horror and fury mixing as your hands flew up in defense.

“exchange what?! you must be out of your goddamn mind if you think i’m letting you do that!”

sunghoon laughed, low and smooth, leaning just slightly closer, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“i’m joking,” he said, clearly enjoying how flustered you were. “you’re so easy to rile up.”

“you’re an evil vampire!” you hissed, cheeks burning, pointing at him like it was an accusation. “just like your friends! i’ll call the police, i swear!”

he smirked wider, crossing his arms, watching you like you were the most fun he’d had in centuries.

“we won’t exchange blood, i swear,” sunghoon said, voice low, trying to sound reassuring — but that glint in his eyes gave him away. “not yet, at least.”

“you’re crazy!” you shot back, practically vibrating with outrage, your heart racing so loud he could feel it.

he took one slow, deliberate step closer, tilting his head, gaze locked on yours.

“don’t you want me to prove it to you?” he murmured, the bond thrumming between you like it was daring you to say no. “can’t you trust me for a second?”

and god, the way he said it made it so much harder to breathe.

“you have to promise me you won’t kill me,” you demanded, arms crossed, trying to sound firm, though your voice betrayed a flicker of nerves.

sunghoon’s smirk softened just enough, eyes dark but steady.

“sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping lower, rich with truth and something that made the air feel too tight, “killing you might do me more bad than good. trust me.”

and for a second, the weight of that honesty settled between you, thick and undeniable.

finally, with a huff, you gave a small, reluctant nod. “fine. but if you bite me, i swear—”

“i won’t,” he promised.

sunghoon took a slow, measured step closer to the bed, the tension in the room tightening with every inch that closed between you.

your blue bear pajamas shifted as you shifted — small, unconscious movements that gave you away. your fingers clutched at the blanket behind you, your legs drew in just slightly, like you could make yourself smaller, like you could hide the way his nearness made your nerves fray.

he noticed everything. the quickened breath. the way your gaze darted from his eyes to his mouth and back again, like you couldn’t decide where the real danger was.

sunghoon bent down, slow, measured, his hand lifting to gently brush your hair back, fingers grazing your cheek, sending shivers racing down your spine. his palm cradled your jaw, tilting your head just so, exposing that spot — the spot — the one that had haunted him from the first day in the greenhouse.

his breath was warm, his face so close now you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the flicker of crimson in his eyes. you felt the air shift, felt the bond hum louder, felt something inside your chest crack open.

before his teeth even touched you, your knees buckled — the rush of heat, of emotion, hit you so fast, so hard, you couldn’t hold it back. the sound slipped out of you, soft, helpless, half a gasp, half a moan, shocking even yourself.

your eyes widened, the reaction catching you off guard, and your hands shot up, circling his wrists where they cradled your jaw, as if grounding yourself, as if stopping him.

“wait,” your voice came out strained, shaky with the weight of it all.

sunghoon froze, hands loosening instantly, letting you breathe. but he didn’t step back. he couldn’t. the tension between you was too thick, the bond too loud, the way your combined scents filled the room too much — sweet and sharp and addictive.

he looked at you, really looked — and saw the tears in your eyes, saw the overwhelmed flicker of confusion and something deeper.

“what was that?” you whispered, looking up at him.

he shook his head, voice low, honest. “i didn’t do anything yet, doll.”

you seemed embarrassed, nodding, trying to pull yourself back together, hands still trembling slightly where they touched him.

“i’m not going to force you,” sunghoon said, voice softer now, but the weight of the bond still thick in it. “this is just so you can see—”

“no, it’s okay,” you cut in, breath unsteady but resolve flickering in your eyes. “just... just go slower this time. i wasn’t... i wasn’t prepared.”

he nodded, steadying himself, steadying you, and leaned in, slower this time, as the air between you all but vibrated with what came next.

his hands cradled your face once again, cool and steady, his thumbs brushing your cheeks so lightly it sent a shiver down your spine. he bent, slow, deliberate, the sheer height of him folding toward you, his breath ghosting warm against your skin. 

the scent of him wrapped around you — clean, sharp, something dark and sweet that made your head swim. 

every inch of space between you disappeared as his lips hovered at your neck, the heat of him, the weight of him, the bond thrumming so loud it felt like your heart beat with his.

this time, it wasn’t any different. your knees buckled before you could stop it, before your mind could catch up, before you even realized you’d started to give in. the rush of heat, of emotion, of him so close — it stole your breath, made the room tilt, made your body betray you all over again.

sunghoon caught you before you fell, his arm sliding around your waist, holding you up, his lips ghosting the skin of your neck.

and then he nipped — just a brush of his incisors, no pressure, no break of skin.

the connection slammed into you like a wave. your body melted against his for a heartbeat before panic seized you.

you stumbled back, breathless, almost collapsing onto the edge of the bed as your hands pushed against his chest, desperate to put space between you. your fingers flew up to your neck, wide-eyed, stunned, your chest heaving.

“what was that? what did you do?” you gasped, voice high with panic, your hands checking your skin like you expected to feel blood, like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.

but when you saw nothing — no bite, no mark, just the burn of where his breath had touched — sunghoon straightened, watching you, chest rising and falling, his own pulse hammering harder than he wanted to admit.

“i told you,” he said, voice low, steady, but his eyes burned with everything he wasn’t saying.

“no...” you shook your head, still holding your neck like it might stop the feeling that still tingled down your spine. “that’s sorcery! you’re a witch!”

if sunghoon weren’t fighting for his life right now — fighting to steady his breath, to rein in the hunger clawing at his ribs, to clear his head after the littlest taste of your skin — he would have laughed. god, he wanted to. 

because the look on your face, the panic, the way you clutched your neck like it might save you from him, from the bond, from everything between you, was too much. too human. 

too you.

“that’s the bond,” he said, voice rough with the weight of it. “no sorcery, doll.”

“why… you can’t do this to me!” you blurted out, voice shaking, breath ragged, hands still guarding your neck like it could shield you from the heat still rushing through your veins. “never again, you hear me? you can’t do this to me ever again.”

sunghoon just stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and locked on yours, the bond humming loud in his ears, louder than your words. he wanted to answer, wanted to promise, but god — he didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth if he opened it.

“do you believe me now?” sunghoon said after a minute, voice low, rough around the edges, still catching his breath. his eyes burned into yours, dark and unrelenting. “it’s out of our control, y/n. the more you fight it, the more insane you’ll become.”

he took a slow breath, steadying himself, gaze softening just enough to show he meant it.

“trust me,” he added, jaw tight. “i know.”

you were too stunned to respond, lips parted like a word might come, but nothing did. your mind was racing, but the storm inside you left you lost, grasping for something solid. 

sunghoon watched, silent, seeing it all — the confusion clouding your eyes, the way your breath came too fast, the way your hands still cradled your neck like you could hold yourself together.

you sank down onto the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, gaze distant, like you couldn’t quite focus on anything in the room. emotions rolled off you in waves — panic, disbelief, anger, fear — and beneath it all, the bond thrumming loud between you.

if he was being honest, sunghoon wasn’t any different, not really. his pulse still raced, his senses still burned with the memory of your skin, your scent. but he held it in, forced himself still. this — this was harder for you. 

he knew how this was everything for you.

he wasn’t human anymore, hadn’t been for longer than he’d lived as one. but he’d existed alongside them long enough to know this moment: the collapse of what you thought was real, the weight of a new truth crashing in. he knew what it could do to someone. and he knew now wasn’t the time to push.

quietly, he stooped to pick up the towel that had fallen from his shoulder earlier, fingers curling around the fabric. his gaze stayed on you as he approached, slow, careful, the tension in the room still thick, but his steps light, measured.

you didn’t look up — not yet. just sat there at the edge of the bed, small in the storm, and sunghoon, for once, just wanted to ease it.

he stood right in front of you, towering over your small, shaken frame, the tension between you still thick in the air. his eyes searched your face, dark and unreadable, but his hand was steady as he offered you the towel.

“are you okay?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost careful.

you didn’t answer right away. your hands stayed at your neck, fingers hovering where his lips had brushed your skin, as if you could still feel the ghost of him there. sunghoon waited — waited for your breath to steady, waited for your heart to slow, waited for you.

finally, your hands fell from your neck, and you looked up at him — those big, wide, tear-glossed eyes meeting his.

“i don’t have a choice, do i?” your voice came out small, barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges. “if we don’t… stay next to each other forever, i’ll start getting ill again, won’t i?”

you still sat on the edge of the bed, blue bear pajamas rumpled, hair a mess from sleeping since noon. vulnerable in a way that made something in sunghoon’s dead chest ache, tugging at parts of him he didn’t know he had left.

“yes,” he said, reluctant, but honest. you deserved that much. and god, he didn’t know why, but lying to you didn’t feel like something he could do. not now. maybe not ever. “we don’t need to imprint, not right away. but it’ll become unbearable at some point.”

he hesitated, the weight of it pressing down on him, before adding, softer, like the words cost him something.

“i’m sorry.”

“did you know it?” you asked, voice still small but steadier now, curiosity breaking through the fear. you looked up at him, eyes searching his face like you might catch him in a lie. “like… from the start? since you handed me my email that first day?”

sunghoon hesitated, just for a breath — the first flicker of uncertainty in him since this all began. his gaze dropped for a second, jaw tight, then he nodded slowly.

“that day… i didn’t pay much attention,” he admitted, voice low, honest in a way that made your chest tighten. “you were the first human i’d talked to in years. i thought— i hoped— it was a normal reaction.”

he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dark and steady when they met yours again.

“but that first day in the greenhouse? yeah. i guess i knew it from there.”

saying it out loud made everything more real — too real. the words felt heavier in the air, as if they anchored the bond between you, made it undeniable, unescapable. sunghoon still gripped the towel, fingers tight around the fabric like it might steady him, like the simple, human gesture might remind him how to breathe.

he watched you, eyes dark, unreadable, but something stirred beneath — an emotion he couldn’t name, foreign and unwelcome, but there all the same.

then, without warning, you stood up — sudden, fierce, no more confusion in your gaze. your head nearly knocked his chin, the motion so quick, so sure it startled him.

sunghoon instinctively took a few steps back, towel still in hand, heart racing faster than it should, pulse loud in his ears. and for a breath, the space between you felt like it might ignite.

“you suck at explaining things,” you snapped, eyes blazing now, all that confusion burned off in the heat of your frustration. “and you are banned from breathing next to me for the next week, you hear me?”

sunghoon blinked, stunned for half a second at the shift, then the corner of his mouth twitched — because just like that, your fire was back. 

he held up the towel between you like a peace offering, smirk threatening at the edge of his lips.

“noted, doll,” he said, voice low, amused. “i’ll try my best. but no promises.”

“no, you don’t get it. i mean it,” you fired back, jabbing a finger at him like it might keep him at bay. “you have to be at least two steps away from me. always. do you understand?”

sunghoon raised a brow, watching you with that infuriating calm that only made your blood boil hotter.

“no smirks. no eyes. no flirting. no saying hard words to make me confused. no talking about blood exchange, and absolutely no touching my neck. that is a no-no zone!”

he stood there, towel still in hand, trying — really trying — not to let the smirk win this time.

“got it,” he said, but the glint in his eyes said otherwise. “no-no zone. two steps. no smirks. no eyes. seems manageable.”

he crossed his arms and looked at you.

“does that mean you accept staying here until we manage an arrangement?” sunghoon asked, voice careful, though that glint of amusement hadn’t entirely left his eyes.

you crossed your arms imitating him, glaring up at him like you were daring him to push his luck.

“it means i need rules because you are all evil vampires,” you shot back. “i'm not accepting anything. we’re just… we’re just having sleepovers for the next week. that’s it. because i might be scared, but if i throw up first thing in the morning one more day, i think i’m going to collapse.”

sunghoon watched you, fighting the smirk again, towel still forgotten in his hand.

“sure,” he said, voice low, giving you that small victory. “your calls.” he cleared his throat before continuing. “if you’re so compliant, then i’ll show you around later,” sunghoon said, that familiar, maddening calm back in his voice. “right now? i can see you need a shower.”

he offered the towel again, holding it out like it was a peace offering. again.

your mouth dropped open, scandalized. “are you saying i stink?! how dare you!”

sunghoon just raised a brow, gaze steady, lips twitching, this close to letting the laugh out.

you snatched the towel from him anyway, muttering under your breath, cheeks burning hot as you turned, clutching it like it was a shield.

“unbelievable,” you grumbled, stomping toward the doorway. and just because you couldn’t resist — because it was you — you threw a final jab over your shoulder. “you stink too!”

sunghoon’s smirk deepened, watching you go, that unshaken calm still in place, but the glint in his eye said it all — he was enjoying every second of this.

you slowed at the door, frustration giving way to genuine curiosity, brows furrowing as you glanced back at him. you didn’t even know if that door actually led to his bathroom — god, you hoped it did.

because if you had to turn around now, if you had to ask or worse, walk past him again, the embarrassment might actually finish you off faster than the bond ever could.

“how do you guys even shower?” you asked, voice edged but sincere. “also, why does everything here smell good? why are you being nice? don’t you guys like… murder people?”

sunghoon let out a low laugh, dark and amused, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you.

“you're asking a lot of questions for someone who just accused me of stinking,” he said, but his tone was light, almost fond.

and that smell you were so enchanted by? that was him. you just didn’t know it. being near him made the air shift like that — warmer, sweeter, like everything was touched by him. but he wasn’t ready to tease you about it. 

not yet.

“and we feed blood. not necessarily murder people. don’t let the stereotypes blind you, doll.”

you stared at him for a beat, mouth opening like you had one more comeback loaded — but then you huffed, spun on your heel, and stormed off toward the bathroom.

“fine. whatever. i need that shower anyway,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, clutching the towel like it was your last shred of dignity.

sunghoon watched you go, the door clicking shut behind you. a low laugh slipped out, quiet and genuine, shaking his head at the chaos you left in your wake.

but as the quiet settled over the room, the amusement faded, replaced by something deeper — heavier.

that pull on his chest returned, sharp, immediate, the bond’s hum louder now that you were out of sight. it was stupid, it was irrational, it was everything he hated about this.

but god, he felt it. the hollow ache of not having you in the room. and the worst part? he already knew — he’d feel it every time you left.

sunghoon exhaled, slow, raking a hand through his hair, and braced himself. because this was only the beginning. 

and he knew — god, he knew — how it would only get harder and harder to not have you around now that you’d both stopped fighting it.

you hadn’t said it out loud yet, hadn’t given him the words, but he could feel it all the same. 

the burn behind his ear, that constant, maddening thrum of the bond, didn’t sting as sharp as before.

what did that mean? it meant you were willing to try. to stay. to give this a chance, even if you didn’t know it yet.

for now, that was enough.

for now, sunghoon would be content with that.

author's note: i LOVE to write desperate and helpless men can you guys tell. and let's pretend he didn't took six showers in this chapter ok. reblogs and comments are appreciated! if this sucks like i feel it does, pls keep it to yourself, all of my back pain was poured onto this. send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @ikeugirly @vixialuvs @hoonprksung @kyunlov @verialuv @sagegreenhairclip @gal821 @hoonstrology @httpenhoon @questionsdearreader @mynameis-rosie1 @ninistranaut @staygenesblog @stercul1a @nshmrarki @imeowni @harusoraa @niki788 @sosaphiee @seokjinthescientist @gloomyasphodel @ferjinyoungiee @temuao

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

༶•┈♛ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 2♛┈•༶. (releasing when I hit 1,000 followers!!)

𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓・l.f.

🔪 — You can't fall in love with him, he can't fall in love with you—that would be apocalypse.

LEE FELIX was your new bodyguard, and you hated his guts. Growing up the Mafia's princess, daughter of the most ruthless mob boss in the world, you learned at a young age—all humans are expendable. Now you're 5,956 miles from home, landing in Seoul South Korea with your infuriatingly perfect bodyguard on a very important mission—locate and eliminate the man responsible for sending your father's worst criminals to prison. Nothing makes sense. Who is making so many ruthless criminals voluntarily confess all their transgressions? The more you and Felix dig into the past, the more you seem to expose. There’s so many gaps in the story, dark secrets to be uncovered, and betrayals to lament. Nothing is as it seems when you’re chasing a ghost. Will you be able to keep it together, seeing felix every day for the next year? There's so much that could go wrong.

♟️ — paring・felix x reader // genres・mafia!au, bodyguard!au, enemies to lovers, forbidden love, slow burn, found family, mystery!au, hurt and comfort, smut…maybe // words・ // warnings・fights, knives, guns, blood, kidnapping, violence, death, drunkenness, parental manipulation and abuse,

a/n・just another silly little teaser because A: we are so close to 1,000 followers and B: I need motivation to actually finish the damn thing so blow this up!! I love when people ask to tag them!!

“𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲.”

—Sade Andria Zabala.

Felix is bleaching his hair again.

You’ve come to this conclusion from the large tub of bleach sitting on the bathroom sink beside your thigh. You heaved yourself up here when Felix got home, giving him privacy to change. Now, he steps into the bathroom fresh in a heavily bleached tee shirt and a pair of sweats.

He’s only slightly shocked to see you perched on the sink, sitting right where he needs to be. He exhales a laugh, lightly tapping your thigh as a sign to hop off.

Stubbornly, you don’t. Instead, you ask, “Why do you dye your hair?”

“I’dunno, just always have.” Felix shrugs, slotting himself into the space where your thighs splay, reaching behind you to snap his gloves on. He prays you don’t notice the way his fingers are trembling. Your heat only gets closer, more electrifying as you lean forward, curious and distracted.

“I like it better black.” You pout, gently threading your fingers through his roots, obsidian peeking from under the blonde. You will never see how his mouth suddenly becomes bone-dry, how every sense of a coherent vocabulary gets lost somewhere in his fluttering pulse. He can’t focus—your fingers are so soft, so gentle as you massage his scalp.

His gaze darts to your lips, how they’re wet and slightly parted. They look so perfect, so kissable, so—

Clearly, you notice where his gaze has wandered, because those said lips have curled up into an innocent smile (that he knows is just one of your many shades of smirks). His cheeks invent an entirely new shade of red when you hop off the sink, giving him a knowing smack on the chest and collapsing onto the bed, leaving him to stare at his flushed reflection, pondering all his life choices.

The next morning, when he creeps out from behind the foggy bathroom door, Felix’s hair is black.

[singukieee]

—my all time favourite bts fics (pt. 4) ᯓᡣ𐭩

consists of my personal favourite bts fics that I've read countless of times. including those from other platforms, such as Wattpad, AO3, and Patreon.

For some works that are cross-posted between tumblr and wp/ao3, I'd only link them to the latters bcs I find it easier to read and navigate the stories on those. but I also tagged all the authors I know are here and linked the rest so you can check their blogs out yourself!

I'll also separate this list into several parts simply because there's too many... So it'd be easier for you guys to navigate!

red means unfinished

blue means finished

🗯️ curator's note

(sorted by alphabetical order)

Stay by OT7oramI

Y/N and her hybrid best friend, Jin, have known each other since Jin was eight years old and came to live with Y/N and her family. Throughout the years, Y/N and Jin have grown closer but there is one major secret between them. When an injured hybrid comes into Cherry Blossom Sanctuary where they both work, the secret is revealed. What will become of the friendship between Y/N and Jin when others are added to it?

Storms of Fate by SumiSG7

A darkly forbidden Auction in the veils of night catering to the morbid appetites of the wealthy in a world of legalized slave hybrids. Results in A melody of storm uniting the fates of a powerful Heiress with 7 mysteriously seductive & deadly hybrids The dark spiralling descent into the fever of passion & longing entwining their hungers while being targeted by an unknown enemy. What will be the result of the lethal games to Anya & the hybrids caught in a velvety prison of their own cravings for each other. But slowly, the realization trickled in… All was not normal as it should be, the love they forged, was a test of devotion that was still withstanding the time since before time began…

🗯️ too freaking good... but also really dark and sometimes sweet. I don't think I've ever read an ff as well-written as this one. plot's insane too. (this is actually a whole universe with side stories that you would be told to read along the way to understand the lore, so good it's crazy that it's free)

Sweet as Honey by sugakookie98

In a time where omegas are increasingly rare, others constantly question your resistance to find a mate. No one seemed to understand that you were content to stay in your comfort zone, focusing solely on your job. However, a series of unexpected events set your quiet world into motion, making you question your outlook on life and on mating bonds.

🗯️ another Idk what to say but it's really good

The Butterfly Effect by themonsterteddy

Easily attached hybrids get adopted into a family. Lei, the protagonist, is the quietest member of the family. Follow them to explore the lovely bond developing between them.

🗯️ a super warm read <3

The Butterseries by @minniepetals

Their names alone had every men and women turning their heads and falling at their feet. successful, prestigious, handsome, rich, and untouchable to anyone that looked their way. and you? you were just an employee who worked for them. who would’ve known you meant so much more to them than you could ever imagine?

The Byeoljali series by LittleShyGirl

❶ Finding A Place

As an isolated, lonely omega raised by humans, you have little understanding of how other wolves live. When you take a promotion to become a member of the BTS staff, your world collides with the Bangtan Pack and you realise you have a lot to learn.

❷ Making A Home

Now that she's found where she belongs, follow Y/N as she learns how to truly be a part of the Bangtan Pack.

The Companion by MoonChild791

After being fired, the job of a lifetime lands in your lap. You up root your life and moved to Seoul, only to find out you'll be working with your favorite group, BTS. Slowly, you start to develop feelings for them. But that's crazy, right? You can't have feelings for all seven of them, it would never work out.....would it?

The Contract by namjuicyy

Your life is turned upside down when a contract is pushed your way. But what happens if you sign it?

The Last Lycans by RoxNotRocks

Sometimes, a fateful encounter takes the form of a bullet through the head… After years of living as a wolf, alone in the wild, Yu has no memory of her past and no idea what her true nature is. As she attempts to begin anew and discovers that her fate doesn't have to be a lonely one, her lost secret comes back to haunt her. When your past comes back with a vengeance, should you flee, or fight?

The Line Between Love and War by @purpleyoonn

Your experiences told you that soulmates were something you would never have the pleasure of having; something not given to you because of who you are, despite the soulmark that resides on your inner left wrist. During your solo trip to Los Angeles, you find out that you are more than capable, that your soulmates had been waiting for you for a long time, and would not be letting you go anytime soon.

The Little Fox by @purpleyoonn

“The idea of being free was a foreign concept. Being free meant having choices, having opportunities. Being a hybrid meant never being free.” Just as you escaped the Little Fox, a bidding house, you find yourself at war with your thoughts, not wanting to go to another shelter. You didn’t expect yourself to find a home anywhere, especially not with the men who found you, and their pack.

The Pictures That Talk by @imnotlauriane

In a world where everyone has a special ability, mine is giving life to pictures. It allows me to see what happened behind the camera, reliving the moment when it was taken, as the subject. It's something I really cherish, but it can also come with great pain, so it's to be used carefully. I look at my finger, rings of fate black and cold. And I wonder, will I ever meet my soulmates?

The Seven by chewymilkyoda

When a young 17 year old girl and her friend went to an empty mansion that is reported as 'haunted', she never knew that her life would changed when she accidentally woke up 7 dangerous vampires that has been asleep for centuries. And boy is she in for a long-ass ride of fantasy shit that she never even knew about.

The Seven Princes by wassap_its_hunter

Being known as Nyx, you never had an easy life. With the expectations of being the world's best-renowned assassin and hunter, protector of your people, and a babysitter of five children, you can't really expect to have time in your hands to relax, the world being run by werewolves, witches, vampires, mermaids and more. But now, another role has been added. After hearing the princes of the biggest empire in the world, the Asian Kingdom, say the word "mate", you're scared for what is about to come. But then again you're Nyx, one of the very few humans that survived and became known, you could take a challenge like that.

🗯️ mc is so cool and the boys are whipped. my favourite.

The Seven Red Flags of HAKON University by tinyeyecat / emi ree

Born in the hell hole of Space Port 69, Rue’s a human Omega desperate to leave the alien whore house she calls home. Defying all odds, she masquerades as an Alpha and obtains a scholarship to the Ivy League of all space institutions. HAKON University is an all-male school that trains the cream of the crop—future leaders of the galaxies. Rue's just here to graduate, pretend to have a dick and then flee into the workforce, that is until the legendary Bangtan pack sets their eyes on her. They’re the future emperors—aliens with godlike abilities that make them rulers of their species. But with excessive power comes the price of testosterone-fuelled insanity that cannot be soothed. An esper will always need his guide. They’ve been searching for a final member to quell their raging soul-an eighth to complete their pack. Millions have tried for a taste of the peak, but none have succeeded, and thousands die from their power unable to withstand the bond. Bangtan doesn’t chase their prey, they don’t have to, but this time the seven Alphas want Rue.

🗯️ it's emi ree so it's gonna be insane!

The Siren's Song by PurpleQueenie

Modern day Seoul and myths don't go along hand in hand as easily as one might think. When for centuries (Y/N) has been bound to the Ocean, serving her duty as a siren- waiting for the day when it'll finally end, who knew stumbling across seven different souls would've been the reasons she needed to start living again, feeling again- even if it meant losing herself in the process.

🗯️ this might be my ultimate fave among queenie's stories. it's just soo good. mc who became the best version of herself after meeting the boys who support her despite the villain's constant torture. also, mc is just so full of life despite the ... it's amazing, go read it!

Through Her Eyes series by Gigi_Luv_4u

❶ Through Her Eyes

In the world of soulmates, perhaps Daun is the only one who does not expect for any soulmate to come. She doesn't have the soul marks that everyone supposed to have. Not one ink on her skin, no time marks on her wrists, no glowing red strings... but why does one day, seven gorgeous men claims to be her soulmate? And these seven are none other than the greatest boy band in the world?

❷ Through Her Eyes: Eternal

Multiples puffing out to the open has been on the news, but not as often as Daun with her seven. Now, more than ever, people have made their lives more than just a curious entertainment. Snippets of their married lives have become great treasures of inspirations that the entire world would simultaneously coo. No one can't blame them with how adorable they have cultivated their marriage to an inspiring one. Not to mention with the new additional members that surely adds more life to their already dynamic universe. Or… How does a family of Multiples go through their lives?

To Be, Or Not To Be Your Omega by Anonymous

Which would be harder? To be an Omega in an Alpha's world, or to have to play Omega to a pack of Alpha's that's known across the WHOLE world? As if disguising your gender truth isn't hard enough, how many omegas can say they have seven alphas that want to claim them? That went to the trouble of drafting up an overly generous contract just to have you as their omega? Oh, why did they have to find out your truth? Maybe it won't be so bad to be theirs, even if it's only by contract? After all, they're all so handsome, and smell so good, and— Is it wrong to have your inner omega cooing at the idea that this could become more than just your Omega status being taken advantage of like it's been all over the world?

To Be, or Not To Be Your Omega REBOOT by Anonymous

What would you do if you suddenly found yourself playing Omega to not just one, but seven world-renowned Alphas? Your struggle to conceal your true gender pales in comparison to this new challenge. These Alphas want to claim you. They've gone so far as to draft an outrageously generous contract just to have you as their Omega. But as your scent betrays your truth, you're left wondering: why did they have to find out? As you contemplate your fate, you can't help but think – maybe being theirs wouldn't be so bad, even if it's just by contract? After all, they're devastatingly handsome, their scents intoxicating, and... wait, is your inner Omega actually cooing at the idea? You've spent your life seeing Omegas taken advantage of across the world. Could this be different? Could this become more than just another power play? In this story, you'll navigate a world of primal instincts, hidden truths, and unexpected desires. Are you ready to step into the shoes of an Omega on the brink of a life-changing decisions?

Trouvaille by @spookyserenades

In a world where hybrids are both the hottest commodity and largely exploited, a recent shortage of hybrids nationwide due to the wealthy adopting for sport hunting dominates the news headlines. More than ever, stray hybrids are whisked off the streets and taken into shelters to meet the demand. Mistreated, neglected, forgotten – in a notoriously disreputable hybrid shelter in a pocket of downtown Boston, seven “aggressive” hybrids await their inevitable fate of being sold for sport.

After years of trying to distance herself from her mystical past and upbringing, Y/N finds herself quitting her emotionally-draining job and is forced to face past mistakes. While accompanying her friends looking to adopt a child hybrid into their newly-formed family, Y/N inadvertently finds herself face-to-face with seven hybrids doomed to die. In a spur of the moment epiphany, Y/N decides to change the course of fate for the better; though bringing seven aggressive hybrids into her life and the darkening spiritual energy of her old home is trickier to navigate than she originally thought.

🗯️ I really appreciate the length of every chapter. like, so much details put into each and every chapter, and each chapter it just gets better and better.

Until The Last Star Falls by Lov3Mochi / @minniepetals

It was a love you knew would never make it out alive without sacrificing a part of your happiness to receive a greater happiness. but for them, you’d go to any extreme to have them again, and for you, they will always remind you each day that you are theirs and that nothing can tear you apart, not even until the last star falls.

🗯️ so freaking good! a painful journey of love, full of longing and sacrifice.

You Never Walk Alone by @agustdakasuga

You live a quiet life in your late grandfather’s cabin in the woods. You go to school just to graduate and get your diploma, not to make friends or stand out from the crowd. That was until one day, you enter your home to see a pack of wolves that need shelter.

사람 (People) by thearmyprof

You are preparing to move across the Pacific Ocean and start a new chapter in your life, when a chance meeting with a man in a coffee shop has you questioning the timing of everything in the universe. When you hit it off on your first date, little do you know that the man you’ve already fallen head over heels for is, in fact, a member of BTS.

🗯️ this story doesn't include any insane themes, but so enjoyable and heartwarming. the characters also feel human, well-written.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | NAVI

[momo-kageyama]

Enter the Last Note

—————————————————————————

Anime: KPop Demon Hunters

—————————————————————————

Male version of Rumi x R.femele.

—————————————————————————

Rui (half-demon, silent and intense leader of a demon-hunting idol group) and Y/N, a girl who is also a demon - but lives in the human world as neutral, playful, kind, and almost impossible to read.

This is a stretch set between missions, at the end of a rainy night. A moment when he, for the first time, allows someone to see his real shadows.

She loves to play tricks on Rui, provoke with suggestive comments, but with lightness, charm and naturalness. He, as always, reacts with silence, tension and that kind of discomfort that is born from the unassumed desire.

—————————————————————————

—In a hidden alley of Seoul, surrounded by rain, neon and secrets, two worlds meet between a truth and a touch.

⸻

The city's floor still trembled with the echo of screams and lights. The battle had ended a few hours ago - a demon who had taken the form of a famous idol had tried to devour part of the audience in Rui's last show.

He was stained with blood that wasn't his. Trembling hands, not because of fear... but because of the anger of having let the transformation get out of control. Again.

He avoided the eyes of others. Even those in the group.

But she saw him.

I always saw.

Y/N was leaning against a soda machine, protected by the glass cover of a closed store. The rain hit her shoulders gently, as if it didn't dare to bother her.

He was wearing a too loose jacket, his hair stuck to his forehead. I looked at Rui with that usual lazy half smile.

- You're not even going to say good night to me, prince of chaos? - she joked, poking a coin against the machine, without putting it on.

He sighed, dragging himself to the dark corner where she was.

- You should stay away from me today.

- I should do a lot of things - he replied naturally, turning his face to look at him. Her eyes shone in subtle shades of lavender and gray - a color that didn't say if it was good or bad. - But... here I am.

Rui leaned against the wall next to her. The steam of his breathing was irregular.

- I almost... got lost again. I felt everyone's blood. It was like music. I shouldn't feel that.

Y/N looked at him with his head slightly tilted.

- And you came back. That's what matters.

- What if one day I don't come back? - he murmured. - What if I become what I hate?

She snapped her lips.

- Do you think that because you have shadows in your bones, you are less worthy of light?

He took a step forward. She was now close enough for him to feel the sweet and indefinable perfume that always came with her - something between night petals and old smoke.

- You're not just pain, Rui. You are choice. And I like the choice you make... even when you stumble upon it.

He stared at her. For the first time, without masks.

- Aren't you afraid of me?

Y/N smiled - but this time, he didn't mock. It was a small smile, almost tender.

- I'm a demon too. But do you know what the difference is?

- I hide from the world because I'm too weak to care.

- You... you expose yourself even knowing what can happen. That's courage. That's... beautiful. - She raised her finger and leaned lightly on his chest. - That's very human.

The touch was almost nothing - but in it, Rui felt something that no battle brought: calm.

For a second, the city didn't exist.

- You're... impossible to read - he whispered.

- I know - she laughed, mischievous. - This makes me mysterious. And irresistible.

He smiled, for the first time in days.

- Stay. Just a little.

Y/N stayed. Leaning on his shoulder, while the rain flowed through the streets.

No promises. No judgments. Only the silence between two worlds that should never have touched each other - and that, even so, found solace in each other.

—————————————————————————

—How Rui and Y/N met

The night was a cold body.

Rui walked alone through a side alley of Hongdae, on a solitary mission to track an entity of demonic energy detected by the hunters. His steps were calculated, his senses sharp - but his mind was restless. He still didn't fully master his powers. The shadow in her blood danced nervously, feeling something strangely familiar in the air.

When he turned a corner, he stopped.

There was a red wooden door, poorly lit, with a low rice paper light flashing over the entrance. An iron plate said:

"Open (or not). Come in if you're not afraid."

He frowned. Nothing on the radar. No hostile energy, but... something old. Curious. Too silent.

He pushed the door.

The sound of a small bell rang. Inside, there was a small room covered by bookshelves and hanging plants. Aromas of tea, incense and... wet earth hovered in the air. In the background, sitting on a rustic wooden table, a girl lazily stirred a dark tea in a cracked white cup.

She didn't even look at him.

- You're the loudest thing that's ever come here. - he said calmly, blowing the tea. - Even without saying anything.

Rui was silent. Observing. She had a disinterested but curious look, like someone who knew more than she pretended.

- Are you following me? - he asked.

- You found me, remember? - She smiled, without showing her teeth. - But don't worry. I don't bite anyone... for no reason.

Rui felt the dark heat in his chest vibrate. Something in his blood reacted to her presence - not as a threat, but as recognition.

- You're... like me. - he said, low.

She landed the cup with a slight "click".

- Almost. I'm older. More accustomed. And less... melancholic.

He stood still.

- Did you know I was half-demon?

- Of course. The way you step on the ground is divided. As if you weren't sure if the world belongs to you... or if you should destroy it. - She got up with a gentle movement, as if she had no weight.

- I'm Y/N.

- And before you ask: I'm not on your side. Not even the other. I'm... where I want to be.

Rui hesitated.

She walked around him as if walking inside a song. Then, he stopped, right in front of him.

- You're hunting a demon who fled through this area, aren't you?

- I am.

- And do you think you'll be able to catch him... bleeding inside like that?

Silence.

She laughed softly.

- Sit down. I make a tea for demonic pain. It doesn't heal, but makes it bearable.

Rui didn't sit on a mission. I didn't accept help. But for the first time... he did both things.

And that night, between a teaspoon of bitter and the comfortable silence between them, something began that not even hell could explain.

—————————————————————————

—In an abandoned shed where Rui trained alone, Y/N appears without being invited... again.

⸻

Rui was sweating.

Not the normal type - the kind that burned inside. The night was stuffy, and he trained alone in the basement of an abandoned building, with his fists wrapped in black bandages, hitting a cracked concrete wall. The demonic energy that bubbled in his body needed a way out.

- Are you trying to punish yourself... or just show how hot you are on your back? - asked a voice behind him, sweet as bitten fruit.

He froze.

You didn't need to turn around to know.

Y/N. Again.

It always appeared when he wanted more than she didn't... and needed her more than she did.

She walked slowly through the shed. He wore a wide sweatshirt and sleep shorts, as if he had gotten out of bed and decided to invade his training on a whim. The hair was stuck anyway. But the look? Alive, curious, a little wild.

- You're going to die like this, you know? Fighting against what you feel... and pretending that this here - she pointed her finger at his body, going up from the shoulders to the neck - is not pure sin walking around.

- Go away, Y/N. - he said, without staring at her.

- Ahn... no. - She got closer. - Do you know what I think? I think you get angry because when I say these things... you think about them later. Lying down. Biting the lip.

Rui cracked his jaw.

- You think everything is funny, don't you?

- Almost everything. - She smiled. He stopped in front of him, inches away. - But the way you look at me when you're angry? That... this is pure entertainment.

She raised her fingers and gently touched his collarbone, where a demonic rune protruded from the skin, pulsating in dark tones.

- That shines when I arrive, you know? - he whispered. - I bet your body is more honest than your mouth.

Rui grabbed her wrist, firmly.

Not aggressive.

Firm.

She didn't retreat. She only arched an eyebrow, satisfied.

- Did you see? You never really push me away.

Silence.

She leaned over to his face. The lip almost touching his, but no. The tension between the two was absurd, like a stretched wire about to burst.

- One day - she murmured, against the hot skin of his neck - you'll stop running away from me. And on that day, you won't sleep. Not even for seconds.

And before he could answer, she disappeared - literally.

Leaving only the sound of his heart... and a drop of perfume floating in the air.

—————————————————————————

The city slept, but hell stirred inside Rui. And only one person had the touch capable of taming it - or setting it on fire for good.

⸻

The first crack didn't come with screams. It came with silence.

Rui was on his knees on the roof terrace of the hotel where Huntrix was between missions. The red eyes vibrated like lighthouses in the darkness. The runes on his skin pulsated - no longer like tattoos, but like live cracks, expelling raw, fierce, unstable demonic energy.

He was losing control.

Alone.

Again.

Until she shows up.

Y/N walked barefoot, with too soft steps for the hard concrete. He was wearing only a white shirt of his, too big, dropped on one of his shoulders, with the buttons misaligned as if he had slept on it. His smell mixed with hers created a perfume that no laboratory in the world would know how to synthesize.

- Rui... - her voice was low, but it carried gravity. - Look at me.

He didn't answer. The aura around him was dense, suffocating. The sky seemed to weigh under his back. Black claws began to form in his hands, and the eyes... were no longer his. It wasn't him anymore.

- Rui... - she knelt in front of him, ignoring the heat that burned around. Her hair danced with the energy he exhaled, as if floating in hot water. - Breathe.

- Get out... - he growled, his voice distorted, full of something primitive. - Now. I don't want to hurt you.

- And do you think this scares me? - she touched his face, ignoring the heat that cut like a blade. - I came for this. To hold you. Even if it's with the skin.

He shouted. But not from pain. It was the scream of a broken man - inside, outside, for everything he held for too long.

She hugged him.

With strength. With the whole body. With his chest pressed to his, with his fingers holding the back of his neck as if holding a thread of soul about to get lost in the wind.

And it was there, at that moment, that he kissed her.

Not a rehearsed kiss. Not a cinematic kiss.

A necessary kiss.

A rough kiss, made of desire, fear, anger, love and survival. His lips brushed hers with fury - as if there was no other way to stay alive besides that touch. She answered with the same intensity, the same sweet chaos that always existed between them.

His hands accidentally tore the white shirt. The button fell. The fabric gave way. But she didn't back down.

She moaned low against his mouth, and that was the last straw.

He laid her there, on the warm floor of the roof, with the sky spinning in demonic tones above. The hands sliding through her skin, the eyes shining like tamed fire - just for her.

She pulled him to herself, with her legs wrapped around his waist, as if belonging was a physical gesture.

And that night, they didn't make love.

They fell apart in each other.

Between intense kisses, choppy words, electric touches and stuck sighs, Rui finally surrendered. Not to darkness - but to love. To the delivery. To the fact that he never had to fight alone.

——————

After...

He woke up with her sleeping on his chest. The white shirt - now without buttons - still involved part of her body.

He didn't say anything.

But he folded the piece and kept it in his mission backpack.

He takes her with him to this day.

And when you feel that the anger comes back... or the pain...

He touches the fabric.

Remember the smell.

From the touch.

From the kiss that saved him.

—————————————————————————

—They often meet to have sex, but there's something else behind it:

Because Rui always came back to her. It didn't matter how much I denied it. His body had already decorated the path.

⸻

It was always after some mission.

Always at night.

Always in silence.

Always in the same forgotten hotel room, between the north of Seoul and nowhere.

Rui opened the door with tired eyes, his body still dirty with battle - and there she was.

Y/N. Sitting on the bed with messy sheets, wearing one of his T-shirts, always fallen on a shoulder, her bare legs crossed as if she had been waiting for hours... or seconds.

She didn't ask if he was coming.

She knew.

He locked the door, and in seconds, the two were already on each other.

It wasn't in a hurry. It was hunger.

Hunger for touch, for skin, for forgetting the world that hated them for existing.

Rui pushed her against the wall with his mouth glued to her neck, his fingers dragging the fabric of the T-shirt, his red eyes shining as if it lit up from the inside.

Y/N scratched him with pleasure, urgently, pulling his blouse up, biting his lower lip, with that smile of someone who knew exactly what she did to him.

- Are you going to try to pretend you didn't want that? - she whispered, laughing against her mouth.

- Shut up. - he murmured, hoarse, before kissing her again, as if he needed to prove to himself that she was real.

The meetings were explosive.

The bed creaked. The lamp was falling. Sometimes, they didn't even get there.

A mirror had already cracked. The ceiling sometimes blinked.

Because when Rui surrendered, the power inside him reacted with hers - like two demons recognizing each other in the middle of the fire.

She said it was like beating with lightning.

He said it was like dying for a few seconds... and resurrecting with the taste of wine on her lips.

They made love like someone who fought.

Like someone who disarmed bombs with their own hands.

Like someone who asked for forgiveness with his tongue and swore with his hips.

And then...

Silence.

Sometimes she lay on his chest, playing with the necklace he never took off.

Sometimes he slept with his hand on her bare back, as if only that kept him whole.

No one knew about these meetings.

Not even his group.

Not even her demons.

It was a secret only for them.

A room that existed between worlds.

Where Rui stopped being a soldier, half-monster, leader, legend.

And it was only his. And hers.

—————————————————————————

[lloydfrontera]

touch averse javier who doesn't really enjoy physical contact all that much and quietly avoids it whenever he can

who quickly learned to avoid being touched as a child in the streets and could never quite forget that lesson.

who after a few uncomfortable incidents where some people got a little too handsy while confessing to him learned to not do anything that may look like encouragement.

who doesn't mind the occasional pat in the arm or quick hug from the people he loves but mostly prefers to keep his distance if possible.

and who post battle-in-hell and subsequent trip-to-seoul becomes the human equivalent of an octopus when it comes to lloyd and is basically attached by the hip to him 24/7.

it starts small enough, so slowly not even javier notices at first.

it begins with him always wanting to keep lloyd in sight or at the very least be able to hear his heartbeat in the next room

then he starts standing next to lloyd, so close their arms brush whenever one of them gestures a little too much

which eventually progresses into pressing against lloyd's shoulder, always keeping a point of contact between them

until one day when their knuckles brush against each other one too many times and lloyd just grabs his hand in his and when javier doesn't pull away he just goes on with his day like that

and it's. it's nice.

it feels nice.

it feels nice in a way touching another person hasn't felt like for javier in a very long time.

and that's how it becomes normal in the frontera estate to see the young master and his knight just casually holding hands with each other every day <3