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jungkoode · 24 days ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 24

⋆｡°✩ mirrors ✩°｡⋆

"When you're dealing with Jason, who talks about literature like it matters and opens car doors, the friendship bracelet feels like something from a different version of you. One that's messier, pettier, still half-formed."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: coffee dates with intelectual men (jason derulooooo), friendship bracelet anxiety, protective!yoongi, mia aftermath discussions, tessa planning

✧ author's note ✧

Okay. Before you all start side-eyeing Jason for breathing, let's set something straight—you're biased. And you're totally valid for that.

This is a Jungkook x Reader fanfic. Obviously, we're all rooting for the emotionally constipated trauma boy who talks with his eyes and stores all his feelings behind gym towels and granola bars. I get it. I'm rooting for him too. But Jason is not here to steal your man. He's here to teach. To nudge. To trigger reflection. He's not necessarily here to stay—but he is important. For Y/N. For her growth. For us to see what it looks like when she's treated decently on surface level, so we can question what actually feels good, and what merely feels safe.

Jason, like every man I write, is not perfect. (You'd think I'd spare at least one of them but alas, I'm God here and a mean one.) Y/N is looking at him through rose-colored glasses—yes, that's intentional. But this is not your cue to dissect him like a frog and declare "something about him rubs me wrong, Kiki please kill him." Let's calm down, Hannibal. Not every man who isn't Jungkook is a villain in this story.

And speaking of bias—let's talk about Y/N. I want to gently remind you all: this story is told through her perspective. That means the narration is not omniscient. It's filtered through a lens of impulsivity, self-sabotage, and defense mechanisms. She's in her 20s and emotionally immature in ways that mirror her environment, her upbringing, her trauma. So yes—you'll read lines where she praises Jason and drags Jungkook through the mud like he owes her money. That's part of her architecture. Not mine. I don't write self-insert. I write character. And Y/N is doing what a lot of us do—projecting simplicity onto what's new and shiny, and demonizing what's familiar and complicated.

Because when you're operating from trauma, you fixate on the flaws that allow you to detach. On the safe narrative. Jungkook is socks on the couch. Jungkook is dumb. Jungkook is the roommate who yells too loudly when he's playing CoD. Not Jungkook who didn't burst into his bedroom during her panic attack because he knew she wouldn't want to be seen. Not Jungkook who's messy, perhaps not attentive when it comes to mugs in the sink—but attentive in the things that matter.

So yes. Y/N is unfair toward Jungkook in this chapter. And Jungkook is unfair toward her, too. And they will keep on being unfair and you'll want to scream and you'll say 'they're stupid' and yes they are. That's the point. That's humanity. That's how we cope—through flawed logic and messy defenses. It's ugly and real and mine.

Tessa. Let's go there. I've said it before, but I'll reiterate it loud enough for the back rows: Tessa is not the villain. She's not here to be the hot girl we all collectively throw into a fictional toilet. She's kind. She's respectful. She shares common interests with Jungkook. She's doing her thing. And that's exactly why she throws Y/N off. Because it would be easier to hate her if she were rude. If she were smug. But she's not. And that's the dissonance. That's the discomfort. Tessa would probably be a friend if the circumstances were different. But she's not. She's interested in Jungkook. And Y/N is sleeping with Jungkook. So while jealousy isn't the correct word, there's still that… gut feeling. That primal "mine" that you don't have to be in love to feel. Especially when someone's the only person who's ever made you feel wanted and safe in your body. (She did say he knows where the clit is. Let's not forget that.)

And Jungkook—again, for all his confusion and emotional hoarding—does not make fun of her for liking things. He forces her to confront her wants, to allow herself to enjoy things without guilt. Encourages them. Creates space for them. And she doesn't consciously realize that. But subconsciously? It's why she's defensive. Why she's scared of losing it.

Last thing I'll touch on: Yoongi. Because I love the way he shows up here—not loud, not meddling, but present. I made a point of explaining his schedule (beyond just plot convenience lmao) because I think it's important to portray him realistically. He's a producer. He's constantly working. And yet, when he is home, he doesn't overstep. He doesn't offer gossip. He doesn't reveal Jungkook's mess. He respects Jungkook's boundaries. He gives Y/N a branch. A little nudge. And if you know Yoongi, you know that's massive. That's someone who sees pain but respects the privacy of it. That's how love shows up in quiet friendships.

So yeah. That's Chapter 24. Not a love story. Not yet. It's a story about mirrors. About coping. About not knowing what you want until someone else tries to hand it to you, and you flinch.

Enjoy Jason while he's here. He's the first of some.

Now go read. Come back messy.

Love, Kiki (who writes enemies-to-lovers and then gets mad when they don't like each other yet) (ಥ﹏ಥ)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Turns out seventy-something grandmothers also read vampire and werewolf books.

Sunday shifts at Barnes & Noble are usually dead—just you, the books, and the occasional lost tourist looking for the bathroom.

But today feels off-kilter, like everything's been shifted two inches to the left.

You keep catching yourself touching the bracelet on your wrist, the beads spelling "ROGUE" pressed against your skin, a constant reminder of last night's decisions.

You still haven't taken it off. Haven't even considered it, really, which is weird because it's just a stupid tacky bracelet. Wearing it shouldn't mean anything. It's not like you and Jungkook are actually friends.

Are you?

…No. Definitely not. Just roommates who occasionally don't want to murder each other. Roommates who sometimes have really good sex. Roommates who made matching bracelets in a moment of insanity.

Fuck, that does sound like friendship.

"Excuse me, dear?"

The voice pulls you from your spiral, and you realize you've been staring at the same page of inventory for at least two minutes.

The woman standing at your register is tiny, maybe five feet tall on a good day, with perfectly coiffed silver hair and pearl earrings that are definitely not fake.

"Sorry," you mutter, quickly scanning the five hardcover books she's placed on the counter. The entire Twilight saga, special edition with gold-edged pages. "Did you find everything okay?"

"Oh yes, thank you," she says, pulling out a wallet that looks expensive in that understated way rich people prefer. "My book club is doing a throwback month. We're revisiting our guilty pleasures."

You nod absently, focusing on bagging the books without making eye contact. Just get through this transaction and then you can go back to questioning your life choices in peace.

"So," she says as you process her credit card, "Team Edward or Team Jacob?"

Your head snaps up, certain you've misheard.

"I'm sorry?"

"The eternal question," she says with a wink. "Which supernatural suitor would you choose? The brooding vampire or the hot-headed werewolf?"

Is this happening? Is this actually happening right now?

You stare at her, completely dumbfounded.

She's got to be at least seventy, wearing a cashmere cardigan and sensible heels, asking you about fictional teen heart-throbs like you're at a middle school sleepover.

You open your mouth to give some non-committal answer, but then you remember Dora from the laundry room. How quickly you'd dismissed her as a cranky old lady, only to discover she was just a widow feeling lonely.

Maybe this woman is the same—just looking for a moment of connection in her day.

"I'm honestly Team Alice," you say, surprising yourself with the genuine smile that forms. "She was probably a better choice than either of those two drama queens."

The woman's face lights up with delight.

"Oh! Bold choice. I like that." She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "I'm Team Edward, myself. I guess I like old men after all."

A startled laugh escapes before you can stop it. "He is like a hundred years old in a teenager's body. Very problematic."

"Precisely why it's a guilty pleasure, my dear," she says, accepting the bag you hand her. "The best kind of fiction lets us enjoy things we'd find appalling in real life."

There's something weirdly profound about that statement coming from a pearl-wearing grandmother buying vampire romance novels on a Sunday afternoon.

"Enjoy your book club," you say, meaning it.

"I will. And you enjoy whatever team you're on," she replies with a wink, nodding toward your wrist where the friendship bracelet sits.

Before you can respond, she's walking away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.

You stare after her, feeling like you've just had some kind of surreal encounter with a Twilight-loving fairy godmother.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur of restocking shelves and helping lost customers find the bathroom.

By the time you clock out, the Twilight grandma feels like a fever dream—something your brain made up to break the monotony. But the conversation stays with you, an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise tedious day.

You're still thinking about it when you unlock the apartment door three hours later.

"Hello?" you call out, dropping your keys on the entry table with a clatter.

Nothing.

The apartment is empty, the silence confirming what you already knew—you've got the place to yourself.

No Yoongi with his silent judgment. No Griffin with his judgmental silence. And no Jungkook with his...

…

Whatever.

You check your phone.

An hour and a half until you're supposed to meet Jason for coffee.

Plenty of time to shower away the retail grime and maybe even put on something that doesn't scream ‘I've been folding books for eight hours.’

As if sensing your thoughts, your phone pings with a text.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 4? 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙?

You bite back a smile.

He's offering to pick you up? So he remembers where he dropped you off that one time after class?

That's... actually kind of sweet. A guy who actually pays attention to details.

It's refreshing after dealing with Jungkook, who once put an empty milk carton back in the fridge and claimed he ‘didn't notice’ it was empty. Like someone just happened to drink all the milk and then carefully put the empty container back exactly where they found it.

Idiot.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜! 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚝 𝟺 ❤️

You don’t know why you’re using proper caps now, or why you add the heart emoji. It’s all without thinking, and you stare at it for a solid five seconds wondering if it's too much.

But it's already sent, and honestly, it's just an emoji. Not like you're proposing marriage.

As you scroll back through your messages, another unread text catches your eye. From last night. When your phone pinged during the bracelet exchange with Jungkook.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢! 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎? 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎! 🥰

Oh.

Oh right.

Tessa from last night. The literal goddess with perfect hair who wanted your advice about dating Jungkook. The girl you told to go for it because, why not? He could do a lot worse than someone genuinely nice and put-together.

You stare at the text for a long moment, trying to figure out what to say to that. Because it’s weird. It feels weird.

No, the weird feeling is probably just that you're not sure you want to get involved in Jungkook's love life. It's one thing to suggest Tessa make a move, but playing matchmaker? Giving ongoing advice? That's crossing into territory that feels uncomfortably personal.

Plus, you're kind of sleeping with him. Would be weird to help another girl date your fuck buddy. Not because you care who else he sleeps with—you don't. Obviously. But it would just be... awkward.

And what would you even say? ‘Hey Tessa, here's how to seduce my roommate: play hard to get, argue with him constantly, then jump his bones when he least expects it. Works for me!’

Yeah, no.

You set your phone down without replying. You'll deal with Tessa later. After your coffee with Jason. After you've had a shower and maybe some time to think about how to navigate this bizarre social situation you've somehow landed in.

As you head to the bathroom, you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. You look tired, a little rumpled from your shift, but not terrible. Your eyes drift down to the colorful beads circling your wrist. ROGUE, spelled out in childish letter beads.

You could take it off. Probably should, honestly. It's not like you're twelve, wearing friendship bracelets with your BFF.

But your fingers don't move toward the clasp.

Instead, you just turn away from the mirror and continue toward the bathroom.

It's just a bracelet. It doesn't mean anything.

You'll take it off tomorrow.

Funny how a look can make you remember what it’s like to feel beautiful.

Jason’s car is clean. Not serial killer clean, but neat in a way that feels vaguely impressive for a guy who’s in grad school and not living off a diet of ramen and emotional repression.

When you slide into the passenger seat, your dress rides up just a little, and you catch him glance—brief, polite, but definitely there.

You don’t blame him. You look good.

Hair curled. Lip gloss strawberry-slick. Earrings you almost forgot you owned. The black dress is simple but it fits just right, hugging the curve of your waist like it was designed to hold you together when you forget how.

You’d like to pretend you don’t care what Jason thinks, but you shaved above the knee and sprayed perfume behind your knees, so.

He smiles when he sees you, soft and almost surprised. “Hey. Wow.”

‘Wow’. Not ‘you look nice’, not ‘I like your dress’.

Just wow, like he wasn’t prepared for this version of you.

Like he’s seeing you, not the outfit.

You kind of love that.

“Hey yourself.”

You buckle in and feel the nerves pull tighter in your chest. You’re not used to being nervous anymore. You’ve fucked your way through worse situations than this.

But this isn’t sex. This is coffee.

Somehow infinitely more exposing.

The drive is short, music low—Jason puts on some indie playlist that’s equal parts folky and hipster, and you catch lyrics about moons and bones and the way someone smells in spring. He doesn’t talk much on the way, but it’s not awkward. Just quiet. Thoughtful. There’s a kind of comfort in that, in not having to fill every second with chatter.

When you arrive, you wonder if you’ve accidentally agreed to a second location with a man who might bankrupt you.

Because this coffee shop? It is sleek and minimalist, all marble tables and matte-black finishes, the kind of place where the baristas wear aprons and pour water like they’re performing surgery.

And holy shit, it smells amazing. Not in the burnt hazelnut way you’re used to from campus cafés, but rich, deep—vanilla and cinnamon and fresh grounds that probably cost more per ounce than your soul.

Jason holds the door open for you. Doesn’t make a big deal of it. Just does it like it’s second nature. And okay, fine, you notice that. You’re not made of stone.

You order the strawberry latte on a whim, mostly because the flavor name makes you smile—‘blushberry blossom’ (c’mon that’s such a cute name)—and partly because the idea of something pink and ridiculous feels like rebellion in a place this serious. Jason, for his part, gets a cortado.

You sit by the window, where light slants in gold and sharp across the marble, catching on the rim of your cup and your collarbone.

Here, the world outside feels very far away—no Griffin knocking shit over, no roommates stomping around the apartment like emotional hurricanes. Just soft jazz and clinking spoons and the man across from you who keeps doing this thing where he leans in slightly when you talk, like he doesn’t want to miss anything you say.

“You really think that about Bishop?” he asks, eyebrows up.

You nod. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not that I think she hated women, but there’s definitely an internalized thing going on in the way she writes about domesticity. Like she’s performing detachment because that’s the only way to survive inside it.”

Jason exhales, a quiet sound of admiration. “That’s really smart.”

You shrug, suddenly a little too warm.

Compliments on your appearance are easy to swat away.

This kind—the you’re actually intelligent and I’m listening to you kind—sticks in your chest like static.

Your latte arrives, delicate as hell. Pale pink with foamy swirls and a single edible flower floating on top. Instagram bait. You take a sip, expecting something syrupy and fake, but it’s…

Huh.

You pause. Purse your lips. The taste is sweet, but not in a candy way. More like… too smooth. Like it’s missing bitterness. But it’s fine. Just—off, somehow.

Not bad, just… not what you were expecting.

You take another sip.

Still weird. Still fine.

You say nothing. Just keep talking, keep leaning into the conversation, because Jason’s eyes are lit up and he’s asking you questions like he actually cares about the answers.

You talk about poetry, about undergrad nonsense, about that one professor who only teaches in metaphors and might actually be a tree in disguise. Jason laughs at your jokes and adds his own and it’s easy. Like, actually easy. Like your brain isn’t doing somersaults trying to predict the next emotional landmine.

Halfway through the drink, he glances down at your wrist and tilts his head.

“Is that… a friendship bracelet?”

You glance at it before you remember it’s there.

Your hand had been resting on the table, fingers curled lightly around your cup, the ROGUE beads facing up like they want to be seen.

Shit.

You forgot you were still wearing it. In fact, haven’t you been wearing it all day? All shift. Through your shower. Through putting on perfume. Through curling your hair. Through walking out the door knowing someone might see it.

You pull your wrist back instinctively. Not fast enough to be defensive, just enough to make it clear you hadn’t meant for it to be a conversation piece.

Jason doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just raises his eyebrows, curious but not unkind.

“Oh,” you say, pretending it’s nothing. “Yeah. It’s—stupid. A joke, kind of.”

Jason’s brow furrows. “No, it’s cool. I mean, it’s cute. Just wasn’t expecting that from you.”

You laugh, a little too fast. “Yeah, me neither.”

“It’s not a bad look,” he offers. “Very… I don’t know. Vintage, maybe?”

He says it in the tone of someone trying to offer reassurance, not judgment.

And that’s the thing, because he hasn’t said anything bad about it.

It’s you.

You feel it. That quiet little itch of self-consciousness blooming under your skin.

And suddenly you are twelve years old, and someone just caught you doodling hearts in your notebook.

You feel… silly.

Not because it’s a dumb bracelet—it is—but because it’s on your wrist in this place, with this person.

With Jason, who talks about literature like it matters, who picked you up on time, who smells like sandalwood and books, who looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth.

The bracelet feels like something from a different version of you. One that’s messier, pettier, still half-formed. The version that knocks Jungkook’s protein powder off the counter just to watch him flinch. The one who keeps secrets in locked journals under the bed.

You press your wrist lightly against your thigh under the table, hiding it without really hiding it. Jason doesn’t press. He just sips his coffee and asks what you think about Rainer Maria Rilke.

You tell him. You talk about how Letters to a Young Poet changed the way you understood loneliness. About how writing doesn’t have to be for anyone else. About how maybe there’s something holy about solitude when it’s chosen.

He listens like the world’s on mute.

And maybe, just maybe, you start to believe the things you’re saying. Maybe you start to feel like someone worth listening to.

“You should read this essay by Gilbert and Gubar,” he says, pulling out his phone to make a note. “I’ll send you the link. It’s about the madwoman in the attic as a feminist symbol. Might give you some interesting perspectives.”

“That would be great,” you say, soft smile tugging at your lips.

It’s been ages since you’ve had a conversation like this—someone who not only gets your academic interests but actively engages with them.

“You’re really smart, you know that?” he says suddenly, setting down his mug. “Like, genuinely insightful. You should consider applying to graduate programs.”

The compliment catches you off guard, warmth spreading through your chest.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit. “But it’s competitive. And expensive.”

“True,” he nods. “But there are fellowships. And based on what I’ve heard from you in class and now, I think you’d have a shot.”

You take another sip of your too-sweet latte to hide how pleased you are. It’s not that you need validation, but… okay, maybe you do, a little. Who doesn’t?

“I could help you look into programs, if you want,” he offers. “No pressure, just… I know the landscape pretty well.”

“That would be amazing, actually,” you say, meaning it.

By the time you’ve both finished your drinks, the afternoon light has shifted. You’ve been talking for over two hours, and it’s only when you check your phone that you realize how much time has passed.

“I should probably get you home,” Jason says, checking his watch reluctantly. “I’ve got a stack of papers to grade before tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod, equally reluctant to end the afternoon. “Teaching assistant duties call.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighs, then brightens. “But I’d love to do this again. Maybe dinner next time?”

“I’d like that,” you say, and you really would.

After 10 minutes in his car, you think he’s turning toward your apartment.

You’re wrong.

Jason’s blinker flicks left instead of right, merging smoothly into traffic like this isn’t a diversion. Like it’s part of the plan.

You glance over, raising an eyebrow. “Um. Home’s the other way.”

He smiles, eyes still on the road. “I know. I wanted to show you something first.”

Your chest flutters—nothing dramatic, just a soft little hum, like the opening notes of a song you don’t recognize but already like. You sink back into the seat and let yourself be curious.

The drive winds west, toward the river, buildings falling away into stretches of old brick warehouses and glass condo towers that look like they belong in an entirely different version of your life. One where you probably own a milk frother and know what saffron tastes like.

Jason doesn’t say much, just tunes the radio to some local jazz station and hums softly along. The golden hour light cuts sideways through the windshield, warm and syrupy, painting the world in blush and amber.

He pulls over near a quiet overlook, where the road widens into a shoulder and the guardrail curls just enough to frame the view. The Hudson stretches wide in front of you, molasses-slow and glittering under a sky that’s all pinks and orange melt, the kind of sunset you always say you’ll watch more often but never do.

He doesn’t make it a thing. Just kills the engine, unbuckles his seatbelt, and nods toward the passenger side.

“Come on.”

You follow, caught in that half-stunned, half-swoony state that makes your steps feel floaty.

The air outside is cooler than you expect, touched with that river dampness that curls around your ankles and lifts the hair on your arms. The water looks like glass, rippling only when the wind brushes across it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping closer to the edge.

The view is stupid. Like, actually unfair. The sky’s a cliché in real time—cotton candy pink and tangerine and just the faintest smear of lavender toward the edges.

You pull out your phone without thinking, framing the scene like muscle memory.

One shot.

Then another.

Then one with your shoulder in the corner, just to prove you were here.

Jason stands a little off to the side, hands in the pockets of his coat.

He’s not watching the view—he’s watching you look at the view, which somehow makes it feel even more unreal.

“I didn’t want the date to end in a parking lot,” he says quietly.

You smile down at your phone, thumbs already moving. You pick the best one, swipe through a filter, drop the saturation just a little. Caption: this sky is a lie and I’m letting it.

You post without thinking. It’s just a sunset. It’s just a moment. But it feels worth remembering.

A notification pops up a few seconds later. Like.

Then another.

Then—

35mmghost liked your photo.

You blink.

Snort.

Okay. What?

You don’t say anything, just stare at the name for a beat longer than necessary.

35mmghost.

That is… not what you expected Jason’s Instagram handle to be. If it is Jason’s. Which would be hilarious. And weirdly endearing.

You flick a glance toward him. He’s smiling to you, with his phone between his fingers. Like you just caught him.

He just pockets it and gazes out at the river like he’s trying to memorize it.

You file it away. Not important. Probably. Just… cute.

Jason, apparently, has a secret artsy side.

And a dramatic username.

Ghost, really?

You like it. Quietly. Silently. The same way he let you have the view.

He doesn’t know you noticed. Doesn’t try to impress you with it.

And for once, you don’t overanalyze. You just let yourself stand there, cheeks a little pink from the wind and the compliment still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs, watching the sky slide into dusk like it’s not even trying to be beautiful.

Like it just is.

When he finally drives you home, you find yourself feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

There’s something refreshingly straightforward about Jason.

No games, no cryptic comments, no emotional whiplash.

Just a smart, mature guy who seems genuinely interested in you.

When he pulls up to your building, he gets out to open your door again—which still feels like something from a movie rather than real life.

“Thanks for today,” you say, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk.

Is this the part where you kiss? You’re not sure what the protocol is here.

Jason solves the dilemma with a warm smile and a slight step back—respecting your space in that careful way that somehow makes him even more attractive.

"Thank you for making my Sunday exponentially better," he says.

It's such a nerdy, earnest thing to say that you can't help but smile.

"Exponentially, huh?"

"At least by a factor of ten," he confirms with a grin. "I'll text you about dinner?"

"Sounds good."

You watch him drive away, a pleasant buzz of anticipation tingling in your chest about seeing him again.

For once, your love life seems straightforward and uncomplicated.

A mature guy who's exactly what he appears to be. What a fucking novelty.

When you finally make it upstairs, the apartment is still quiet. Still empty.

You kick your shoes off at the door and shrug off your coat, fingers catching on the thin leather strap of your bag. You leave it on the couch and walk straight to your room, not bothering to turn on any lights.

There’s enough spill from the windows to see by—blue-gray and soft, the city humming faint in the background like a lullaby that never really ends.

You catch your reflection in the mirror again.

Dress still hugging you right, lip gloss faded but not completely gone. Your cheeks are flushed in that way that feels natural, earned.

You look good. You feel good.

But your gaze drifts. Down to your wrist.

There it is. Bright and stupid and clunky against the sleek black of your dress.

ROGUE.

It looks even more ridiculous now than it did in the café. Like a tacky souvenir trying to pass in a room full of doctoral candidates.

You sigh.

It’s not that you’re ashamed of it, exactly.

Just… aware of it.

In a way you weren’t before.

Aware of what it signals—about you, about the you that exists in here, in this apartment.

The one who fights over fridge space and burns frozen pizza and still hides snacks under the bed like you’re prepping for an apocalypse Jungkook might eat through.

Jason didn’t make you feel bad about it. Not at all.

But there was that little jolt of being seen in a way you didn’t mean to be. Like wearing pajamas to class by mistake.

You run your thumb over the beads. They’re slightly warm from your skin, the elastic stretched just enough to make a faint indent on your wrist.

It’s silly.

So fucking silly.

You shouldn’t have even worn it out. It doesn’t belong in cafés with marble tables and edible flowers. Doesn’t belong with guys who talk about Rilke and open your door and make you feel like your brain is the most interesting thing about you.

It belongs here. Inside these walls. In the shared chaos of mismatched mugs and territorial coffee wars and Griffin sleeping on your face.

It belongs in the version of you that forgets to do laundry and screams at reality TV and gets off with your roommate like it’s just another way to burn through stress.

Maybe it’s time to choose. Or at least… edit.

You slide the bracelet off. Slowly. Carefully. Set it down on your dresser, next to the copy of The Bell Jar you’ve been meaning to reread and a half-burnt candle that smells like peaches and something faintly smoky.

You’ll still wear it sometimes. Just not… when you go out with Jason. Not when you want to feel sleek and composed and like maybe, just maybe, you’re building something a little more deliberate than chaos.

Maybe that’s okay.

You leave it where it is.

And you don’t stop to think whether Jungkook is even wearing it at all.

“You’re alive?”

The words slip out before you can stop them, a bit too loud for a quiet apartment and a bit too sarcastic for someone who just walked through the front door.

But it’s Yoongi. You’re pretty sure he came out of the womb with a glare and noise-cancelling headphones.

He gives you a flat look, keys jingling as he kicks the door shut behind him.

No hello, no how was your day, just a flick of his eyes from your face to your bare legs stretched across the coffee table, one foot propped up like you’re posing for a toenail polish ad no one asked for.

“Didn’t expect you home,” you add, waving your freshly painted big toe in his direction. “Figured you were off ghosting the apartment all weekend like usual.”

He drops his messenger bag by the door with a soft thud, shrugs like the weight of being perceived is too much.

“Didn’t have that much work today,” he says, deadpan, already halfway to the kitchen. “Been overworking all week. Even I get tired of being productive.”

You blink. “Wait—you work on Sundays?”

“I work always,” he calls back, grabbing a mug from the cabinet like it personally offended him. “What’s your point?”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your foot on the arm of the couch so the polish doesn’t smudge.

“My point is, maybe stop pretending you’re not a person and do something degenerate for once. Watch trash TV. Go outside.”

“I went outside,” he mutters, reaching for the coffee grounds. “Regret it.”

“You’re making coffee now?” You glance at the clock. “You’ll be awake all night.”

“Mm,” Yoongi says, which is less a response and more a vibe. “Not like I’ve slept properly in a week anyway.”

“That sounds healthy,” you sing, flicking the cap back onto the nail polish bottle.

You don’t know when this stopped being weird—talking to him like this.

It’s not friendship, exactly, but it’s not not that either.

Comfortable-ish. Low maintenance. The kind of dynamic that doesn’t need checking in.

Griffin trots out from wherever he was napping, tail flicking with that ‘where the fuck is my dinner, peasants’ energy.

You lean over and scratch behind his ear. “Still no sign of your boy?”.

Yoongi shrugs —his primary form of communication—then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “JUNGKOOK!”

The silence that follows is answer enough.

“Nah, he’s not home,” Yoongi confirms unnecessarily.

You roll your eyes, screwing the cap back on your nail polish. “Thanks for the thorough investigation.”

You go back to focusing on your second foot, tongue poking out slightly as you try not to smear the top coat.

Then—

“Hey,” he says, casual but not. “By the way…”

You pause, brush hovering mid-air.

“…I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Your stomach drops.

Those words never precede anything good.

Is he kicking you out? Did you do something wrong? Is the rent going up? Did he find your secret stash of chocolate-covered pretzels hidden behind the rice?

“Okay…” you say cautiously, sitting up straighter. “What’s up?”

Yoongi takes a sip of his coffee, still not meeting your eyes. The silence stretches just long enough to make your anxiety spike before he finally speaks.

“It’s about Jungkook.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Did Jungkook complain about you? Is Yoongi about to give you some weird roommate intervention? Does he know about the… arrangement you and Jungkook have?

God, that would be mortifying.

“What about him?” you ask, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Yoongi presses his lips together like he’s trying to decide if speaking is worth the effort. Spoiler: it usually isn’t.

Then—quiet, low:

“Back at the karaoke place… you met Mia, right?”

You freeze mid-swipe, the brush hovering just above your toenail. There’s a split second where your brain tries to play dumb. Pretend you didn’t. Pretend you forgot. But your body answers before your mouth does—shoulders tensing, breath pulling tight behind your ribs.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I remember.”

And you do. Perfectly. Chanel and Louboutins and weaponized perfume. Voice like saccharine venom and teeth too white to be trustworthy.

You remember the grip on your arm. The way Jungkook looked—vacant, off, like someone unplugged him at the base of the spine.

Yoongi nods once, eyes fixed on his coffee like it might offer divine clarity.

“I need to know what happened.”

His voice isn’t demanding, not exactly. Just… steady. Firm in a way you’ve never heard from him before.

“What did she say to him?”

You shift on the couch, pulling your knees up to make room for Griffin, who hops beside you with zero regard for the wet polish on your toes.

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re trying to avoid it—it’s just that you’re not sure how to answer.

Yoongi doesn’t push. Just waits.

You glance toward the kitchen, then back at him.

“I didn’t hear everything,” you start. “She was already talking to him when I found them. I didn’t even know who she was at first, just thought—some random girl, y’know?”

He nods once. Still waiting.

“She was dressed like she had three bodyguards waiting outside,” you add, because you can’t help yourself. “Total Upper East Side vibes. Like she was slumming it for the night.”

That earns a dry little huff from Yoongi. Almost a laugh. Almost.

Your fingers twitch against your thigh.

“She knew it was his birthday,” you say, softer now. “Said it all sweet but—like. Fake sweet, you know? Like she was performing nice but wanted him to feel like shit for not inviting her.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks as he listens. He’s still holding the coffee mug, but you can tell he’s not really drinking anymore. Just holding it like a prop.

“She said…” Your voice trails off. You swallow. “She said, ‘Try not to have too much fun without me.’ And something about his dad. I didn’t catch all of it. But her tone—it was like… she wanted to rattle him.”

Now Yoongi finally looks at you. Not full on, not probing, but enough to catch your face in his periphery.

“She mentioned his dad?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Just—like, she knew it’d hit a nerve. She said something about ‘not replacing her’ or whatever. I don’t know the full context, but... whatever it was, it fucked with him. He looked—”

You pause.

The image flashes in your head: Jungkook standing in the hallway, motionless. His face locked down, shoulders tight. Like something inside him had short-circuited.

“He looked small,” you say quietly. “Scared. Not like himself.”

Yoongi takes that in. Doesn’t react right away. He just huffs out a breath through his nose and leans back against the edge of the kitchen counter.

Another pause.

Then: “She’s good at that.”

He says it flatly. No inflection. No explanation.

You tilt your head. “You know her?”

“Not much. But I know exactly what he looked like after her.”

You’re quiet, sensing the line. The invisible perimeter Yoongi keeps between what’s his to share and what isn’t.

“I’m not asking for his secrets,” you say, meaning it.

“Good,” he replies instantly. “Because they’re not mine to give.”

That makes you like him more. Irritatingly so.

You don’t push. But your gaze stays on him, curious.

Yoongi shrugs, finally setting his mug down on the counter. “I’ve only known him for a year and a half, so I wasn’t around back then. Not for most of it. But she left damage.”

You stay quiet.

“She knows his pressure points. Knows when to act like she’s joking and when to twist the knife.” He rubs the back of his neck like he hates even saying this out loud. ��Jungkook’s got a... hard time with boundaries. Especially when it comes to people he used to love.”

Used to. Interesting phrasing.

Your lips part slightly, but Yoongi’s already waving a hand like he regrets going this far. “Anyway. Not my drama. Just wanted to know what she said. He didn’t tell us much.”

“Us?”

Yoongi shrugs again, folding his arms. “Me, Taehyung, Hobi. The ones that showed up when she blew everything up.”

You blink. “Blew everything up?”

He gives you a look. Not mean. Not angry. Just—measured. Like he’s deciding how much to trust you.

“I said too much already,” he mutters. “But yeah. That hallway thing? That wasn’t nothing. I just needed to hear it from someone who saw it up close.”

You nod slowly. “Makes sense.”

Silence again. Not uncomfortable exactly. But heavy.

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and glances down at Griffin, who’s now making biscuits into a throw pillow like he pays rent.

“He didn’t tell you anything, huh?”

“No.” The word comes out before you can stop it. Then, quieter: “He just said he needed air.”

Yoongi exhales. “Figures.”

You want to ask more. About Mia. About Jungkook. About what the hell happened that’s got Yoongi this protective over someone he’s known for less than two years. But something in his expression makes you hold your tongue.

So you just nod, brushing your fingers lightly over Griffin’s back.

After a beat, you say, “Thanks for telling me. Even if it was just a little.”

Yoongi lifts his coffee mug in a half-toast. “Don’t read into it. You were there. I needed intel. That’s all.”

You smirk. “Sure.”

But you both know that’s not all.

Not even close.

"Wait," you call out just as Yoongi's about to disappear completely.

You're not sure why you feel compelled to say this—it's not like you owe Tessa anything—but after everything you've just learned about Mia, it feels important somehow.

Yoongi pauses, hand on his doorknob, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"That girl at the birthday party," you say, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. "Tessa? I think she genuinely likes him. Like, in a normal way."

You don't know why you're telling him this.

Maybe because after hearing about Mia's toxicity, the idea of someone simple and sweet being interested in Jungkook feels like information worth sharing.

Yoongi tilts his head slightly. "The ginger one? Sat next to him?"

"Yeah," you nod, surprised he noticed. "She asked for my advice, actually. About him. She wants to get coffee with me to talk about it."

"Huh." Yoongi leans against his doorframe, considering this. "She seemed... nice."

The way he says ‘nice’ makes it sound like he's describing an alien species he's only read about in textbooks.

"She is nice," you confirm. "Like, genuinely nice. Soft. Girly. Probably doesn't have any emotional baggage or toxic exes lurking around corners."

You're babbling now, but you can't seem to stop.

Because you feel guilty.

Because you told this nice beautiful girl to go for an emotionally stunted dude who apparently has way too much baggage.

Because maybe Jungkook is not even ready for any of this.

"I told her to go for it. With Jungkook, I mean. Before I knew about... all this Mia stuff."

Yoongi's expression shifts subtly—a slight narrowing of the eyes. "You're playing matchmaker now?"

There's no judgment in his voice, just curiosity, but you feel defensive anyway.

"Not matchmaking," you clarify. "Just... I don't know. Being supportive? She asked, I answered. It's not a big deal."

"Right," Yoongi says, in a tone that suggests he thinks it might actually be a big deal. "And how does Jungkook feel about Tessa?"

You shrug, suddenly realizing you have no idea. "I don't know. They're in some classes together I think. He hasn't mentioned her."

"Jungkook doesn't mention a lot of things," Yoongi points out.

"True." You fiddle with the cap of your nail polish, avoiding his gaze. "I just thought... she’s nice. And so pretty. I just thought… maybe it could do him some good—before I even knew about this, I mean.”

Yoongi makes a noncommittal sound. "Maybe."

"You don't think so?"

He shrugs. "It's not about what I think. It's about whether Jungkook's ready for someone new. Especially someone... nice."

The way he says it makes you wonder if ‘nice’ is a liability in Jungkook's world.

If after someone like Mia, ‘nice’ feels too foreign, too simple.

"Well, I already told her to go for it," you say, feeling suddenly uncertain. "Should I... un-tell her?"

Yoongi actually smiles at that—a small, fleeting thing, but definitely a smile. "No. Let it play out. Who knows? Maybe you're right. Maybe nice is exactly what he needs."

He doesn't sound convinced, but he doesn't sound dismissive either.

"Okay," you say, relieved. "I just... wanted you to know. Since we're apparently on Team Jungkook now."

Yoongi snorts. "I've always been on Team Jungkook. You're the new recruit."

"I didn't exactly volunteer," you point out.

"And yet here you are," he says, "worrying about his love life."

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again.

He's not wrong.

"Anyway," Yoongi continues, "thanks for telling me about Tessa. And about what happened with Mia."

You nod, feeling like you've passed some kind of test you didn't know you were taking.

Yoongi gives you one last unreadable look before finally retreating into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sit there for a moment, processing the entire bizarre conversation.

In the span of fifteen minutes, you've gone from painting your toenails in peaceful solitude to being drafted into some kind of Protect Jungkook squad with Yoongi, of all people.

Life in Apartment 6B just keeps getting weirder.

Thirty-seven minutes later, you're sprawled on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, staring at Tessa's unanswered text like it's a bomb you need to defuse.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢? 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎? 🙂

You’re second-guessing everything after that conversation with Yoongi.

Should you really be encouraging Tessa to pursue Jungkook when you know he's still dealing with Mia-shaped emotional shrapnel? Is it fair to either of them?

But then again, who are you to play gatekeeper to Jungkook's love life? Maybe Tessa is exactly what he needs—someone sweet and uncomplicated. Someone who doesn't have the baggage of a toxic ex or whatever the hell happened with his father.

You groan and flop back against your pillows.

Why do you even care?

It's not like you and Jungkook are anything to each other. You're just roommates who occasionally fuck.

You’re barely even… friends.

The word acquires a weird shape in your mind.

You pick up your phone again, determined to respond to Tessa without overthinking it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎𝚢𝚊! 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢. 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 2 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝?

You hit send before you can change your mind.

It's just coffee. It's not like you're arranging a marriage.

Truth is, next week’s already packed—Yeji’s gallery prep, that shift you picked up for someone who ‘owes you one’ but never actually pays up, and whatever Jungkook’s been muttering about needing help with but refusing to ask.

It’s easier to just skip ahead. Two weeks. Feels safer. Less chance of Tessa becoming something to manage short-term.

Her response comes almost immediately.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚢𝚊𝚢𝚢𝚢 🥰! 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝙴. 𝟷𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝚝. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛, 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

You know Syrup—it's one of those Instagram-bait cafés with latte art and avocado toast that costs more than your hourly wage. Not exactly your usual haunt, but it's not too far from campus.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜! 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 2 💕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝! 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚞𝚙!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜!!!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚:𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 🤗

You stare at the message, a knot forming in your stomach.

Because you don't ‘get’ Jungkook. Not really.

You didn't know about his dad, or the full extent of the Mia situation, or why he disappeared to the rooftop that night.

You know he likes John Mayer and makes good coffee and his favorite position is cowgirl.

You know he smells like rain and his hands are always warm and he secretly carries cat treats around.

But those are just details, not understanding.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒 ’𝚐𝚎𝚝’ 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 :)

That feels safer.

Better to lower her expectations now than have her think you're some Jungkook whisperer with all the answers.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚊𝚑, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕!!

Intimidated by Jungkook?

The idea is almost laughable.

How could you be intimidated by someone who once spent twenty minutes trying to coax Griffin out from under the couch with a piece of string cheese?

But then you remember how other people see him—the sharp jawline, the tattoos, the way he carries himself like he’s not actually dumb as hell.

You can see how someone like Tessa might find him intimidating.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚏𝚏𝚏𝚏𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚡, 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖

You hesitate, then add:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

It feels important to add that caveat, even if you're not sure why.

Maybe because of what Yoongi told you.

Maybe because you've seen glimpses of that complication yourself.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠!!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚛 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: ��𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚞𝚢

You frown at the screen. There's something about her response that doesn't sit right with you. Like she's romanticizing the very things that make Jungkook difficult—the walls he puts up, the emotional distance, the complications Yoongi hinted at.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝… 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚔? 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚕

You hit send, then immediately regret your tone. That came off way harsher than you meant it to. You're about to type a follow-up when Tessa's reply appears.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚘𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 🙈 𝚒'𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚛𝚗

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗-𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚜? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚢 😣

Oh. That's actually... kind of sweet. Seems like Jungkook really does have a thing for Korean cinema.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝! 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎... 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖. 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠/ 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎! 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚕 🙈

Your heart softens a little. There's something vulnerable about the way she just shared that personal detail, then immediately apologized for it.

It reminds you of how you sometimes overshare when you're nervous, then backpedal frantically.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎! 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍. 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚘 :(

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 💕 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒 𝚍𝚘? 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚜 😔

That actually makes a lot of sense. You can see why she'd be drawn to Jungkook if they share this interest.

And you know from experience how rare it is to find someone who genuinely cares about the things you're passionate about.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 🙄

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚊𝚛-𝚠𝚊𝚒 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 🥺

You can't help but smile a little. She’s clearly excited she is to have found someone who shares her interests. You remember feeling that way with Jason today, when he actually engaged with your thoughts on literature instead of just nodding along.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛. 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚗

Tessa takes a moment to reply, the ellipses blinking thoughtfully.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚘𝚑 :( 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘 💕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚎!! 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛? 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚞𝚙!! 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 🤞

Okay, that feels reasonable. She's acknowledging your concern without getting defensive, and clarifying her own expectations.

Maybe she's more level-headed than you initially gave her credit for.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍!! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 <3

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 😴

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚌 𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙! :)

Time to bow out before you accidentally become her relationship coach.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕!! 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐!! 🥺✨

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊ｙ!! 💖

You put your phone down, feeling a sense of closure on that front, at least for tonight.

Tessa seems sweet, if a little naive about the potential complications involved with Jungkook.

But she's also genuinely interested in him for reasons that make sense, and she seems aware enough to proceed with caution.

You roll over, pulling the covers tighter.

It's weird, offering dating advice about your roommate who you're also sleeping with to a girl you barely know.

Weirder still that you actually kind of... like her? And want things to work out okay for her?

Maybe you're growing up. Or maybe you're just tired.

Either way, Tuesday is going to be interesting.

goal: 750 notes

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tnsophiaayaonly · 5 months ago

Text

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 2 (xiao, venti).

-`♡´- PART 1

╰⪼ AETHER - Class Rep.

A man of virtue—helpful, funny, kind, caring, and breathtakingly attractive. He has it all. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? Who wouldn’t yearn for him, worship him, drown in the delirium of his existence?

No wonder you’ve always felt that electrifying rush, the intoxicating ecstasy that floods your veins with every slow drag of the knife across his flesh. No wonder you’ve felt that dizzying euphoria each time you spilled the blood of another—man or woman—who dared to steal even a fraction of his attention away from you.

He was yours.

But then—

Distortion. A glitched-out, shredded mess of memories, like a dying screen flickering between past and present. When you finally come to, you're curled up in your bed, hair tangled, your skin fevered and slick with cold sweat. Your lungs fight for air as images flash behind your eyelids—a grotesque, jagged onslaught of death, of red-streaked corridors, of bodies slumped in pools of their own warmth, all because of you.

What the hell was that?

Your hands tremble as you grab your phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. The calendar stares back at you, unwavering in its cruel simplicity. Not the beginning. Not a fresh start.

The middle.

Your stomach twists violently.

That means you’ve already committed crimes. That means, despite this terrible, newfound awareness clawing at your mind, the stains on your hands have already set. The walls are already splattered. The game—the world—will not reset this time.

At school, every breath feels like an alarm sounding in your chest. The walls seem to close in, and the weight of invisible eyes presses against your back. You are a criminal walking in broad daylight, masquerading as something human.

You consider confessing. Throwing yourself at the mercy of the police, the authorities—anyone who could lock you away before you slip again.

But you don’t.

Fear has its hands around your throat, whispering of consequences, of punishments, of the irreversible.

And then—

“Oh, [Name]! I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can come to your house to help you with math today. Maybe another time?”

His voice is golden honey, smooth and easy, like the way the sun filters through autumn leaves.

Aether.

Your body reacts before your mind does, stiffening, and recoiling. He stands before you with that same effortless charm, his golden hair meticulously braided, strands catching the light like spun silk. He is still beautiful, still perfect—too perfect.

And yet.

Guilt lurches in your gut, a sickness festering beneath your ribs. You manage a stiff nod, then turn sharply on your heel and bolt before your expression betrays you.

Strange.

Very strange.

Aether watches you go, his head tilting slightly, brows furrowing. He expected you to whine, to insist, to grasp at his sleeve and beg for his time, like you always did. But instead, you—ran?

At first, he brushes it off. A bad day, perhaps. A sudden bout of shyness.

And yet—

He thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it.

You were always there. Always orbiting him, always finding ways to entangle yourself in his life. You chased him, your obsession like a suffocating force, relentless, inescapable. It had been overwhelming—yes—but predictable. A constant.

But now?

Now, he barely sees you. Now, your eyes flicker away the moment they meet his. Now, there is distance where there was once unbearable closeness.

It feels wrong.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to your presence until it was gone. How the absence of your obsession left him… cold.

Had he done something? Had he driven you away?

Had you found someone else?

Aether’s fingers twitch.

The message arrives when you least expect it.

Meet me up later at the dorms. Yours or mine?

You freeze, staring at the words on your screen.

No. No, no, no.

You’ve been so careful. So diligent. So determined not to fall back into old patterns.

Ignore it. Ignore him.

Your dorm is a sanctuary—a place to suffocate beneath your own guilt, to drown in your shame without prying eyes. You push the door open, stepping inside, closing it behind you—

Click.

The sound is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath stills, your fingers going rigid against the doorframe. Slowly, you turn.

And there he is.

Aether.

Your blood runs ice-cold.

“I always felt safe when you were around,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, dangerously intimate. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, laced with something unfamiliar—something raw, something hungry. He takes a step forward. You take one back.

“But lately… I don’t know anymore.” Another step. Another retreat. “You used to be so close. Now, you’re so far away.”

Your back meets the wall.

Aether tilts his head, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. His hand rises, ghosting over your cheek with a gentleness that contradicts the steel beneath his words.

"Do you hate me now?"

The panic clogs your throat. "No—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a finger to your lips before dragging it down, pressing it flat over your chest. Your heart hammers beneath his palm. His lashes lower.

“Your heart’s racing…” His fingers trail lower, his grip settling firm against your waist. “…Just like it used to. Whenever I looked at you. Whenever I said your name.”

Your breath hitches, your body locking up as he pulls you closer—too close.

“Like always.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you in. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brush against your hair.

“I missed you too.”

╰⪼ SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER - Outsider of the Drama Club. Rebel.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you were always drawn to the unattainable, the cruel, the ones who stood above the world as if it were theirs to scorn. And he—he was the epitome of it all. A nightmare draped in elegance, venom wrapped in silk. Scaramouche was all sharp edges and hollow laughter, a phantom that commanded space with his mere presence.

He was unbearable. Unreachable. And utterly perfect.

You wanted to break past his walls, to carve yourself into his life, to make him see you. And if the rest of the world had to bleed away for that to happen—then so be it.

The others didn't deserve him. The parasites who giggled at his words, who brushed against him so casually, so carelessly, as if they had any right. They did not deserve to exist. Their very presence was an insult, a smear on the pristine canvas that was him.

And so, piece by piece, you erased them.

The first one was easy. A soft thing with wide, innocent eyes that adored him too much, who lingered just a little too close. You watched as life drained from their gaze, as their breath rattled out in broken whimpers. It was almost beautiful—the way the blade slipped into flesh, the way blood bloomed like an offering, warm and thick and real against your trembling fingers.

Every cut, every scream, every shuddering gasp—it was for him.

Yet he never noticed.

No matter how many of them you silenced, no matter how much devotion you etched into the world in his name, Scaramouche never noticed. He walked through life untouched, uncaring, his gaze never once landing on you with the reverence you craved.

You returned home to your shrine—his shrine. A sanctuary of madness. Photographs lined the walls like sacred scripture, capturing every fragment of his existence. The way the sun kissed his pale skin. The rare, unguarded softness when he thought no one was watching. The harsh, unrelenting glare that you had come to love more than life itself.

Strands of his dark indigo hair, stolen in the quiet of passing moments, lay bound together with fraying ribbons. Fabric from his discarded clothes, the scent of him still clinging to the fibers, folded with trembling care. A single, crumpled note—his handwriting scrawled across the page, meaningless to anyone but you.

You had built a temple in his name. A cathedral of longing, devotion, and sickness.

And yet—when you stood before it, staring at the madness of your own making, something inside you snapped.

You saw it. Truly saw it.

Not love. Not devotion.

Obsession.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile. You thought you had been pure, that your love had been something sacred. But the truth was carved into the blood on your hands, into the grotesque altar before you.

You were filth. No better than the ones you had slaughtered.

You couldn’t face him. Not like this.

So you ran.

For the first time, you abandoned him.

At school, you became nothing—a wraith in the halls, slipping through shadows, avoiding his gaze like it burned. You erased yourself from his world, just as you had erased the others from his presence.

And Scaramouche noticed.

The absence of your eyes on him was suffocating in its own right. He had grown used to your presence, to the quiet weight of your obsession curling around him like an unwanted curse. You were supposed to be there—watching, waiting, hanging onto his every breath.

But now?

Nothing.

No glances from the corners of your eyes. No lingering in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. No quiet, frantic movements in your notebook whenever he spoke.

It was almost... eerie.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, but beneath it was something dark, something unreadable. His fingers twitched, restless. A storm brewed behind his gaze, a creeping, unspoken rage.

Did you think you could leave? Just like that?

Oh, how naive.

You had crawled through madness for him, had burned your soul away in his name. You were his, a pitiful, broken little thing that had spiraled into insanity just to get closer.

And now, you wanted to turn away? To pretend it had never happened?

Scaramouche does not lose what belongs to him.

You would come back.

Scaramouche never cared to notice things beyond himself. People came and went, their voices drowned in the white noise of his existence. He never wasted energy on trivial matters—least of all you.

One way or another.

You, with your cloying devotion. You, always at his heels like an obedient pet. You, whispering sweet, obsessive promises as if they meant anything.

You had been everywhere. The moment he turned his head, you were there. In class, in the cafeteria, lingering outside the bathroom, loitering in the hallways, even perched at the rooftop, always waiting for a glimpse of him.

And then, suddenly—you weren’t.

It was silent.

At first, he didn’t question it. Why should he? It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his problem. He should’ve felt relieved.

But the longer it stretched on, the more something gnawed at him.

You were nowhere.

And that—that was wrong.

For two weeks, one day, three hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds—he counted. His mind involuntarily tracked every second that passed without the weight of your suffocating adoration pressing into his skin. He didn’t care, yet somehow, he noticed.

Then, finally—he saw you.

You.

But you weren’t alone.

Something in him snapped.

You were talking to someone else, laughing, smiling. Living your own life.

His smirk faltered.

You—his shadow, his puppet, his wretched little thing—were no longer circling him like a moth desperate to burn. You were free.

You had a life.

And for the first time, Scaramouche felt something eerily close to betrayal.

What happened to your promises?

Where were the feverish whispers of "I'd die for you, Scaramouche!" Where were the eyes that followed him in manic devotion, the trembling hands that clung to every word he uttered like it was scripture?

Had it all been a lie?

Had you really abandoned him?

The rage was instant. Consuming.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, cutting through the people surrounding you like they were nothing but fog in his path. Conversations halted, eyes turned, but he didn’t care.

Because there you were.

And you weren’t his anymore.

"You used to be all in—every moment, every breath, I knew you were mine." His voice was sharp, biting, loud. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his words, his arms crossed in a defensive, possessive stance. His voice carried through the stunned silence. "Now it’s like you’ve just… vanished. Were you ever really sincere?"

You froze, your body going rigid.

A lump formed in your throat, suffocating, as you stared at him. He was livid, but there was something else buried beneath the rage—something worse.

"What—?" You barely managed to get the word out before he cut you off, voice rising, boiling over.

"You played me. You abandoned me! After everything you’ve done for me?!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it wasn’t weakness—it was fury. Frustration. A terrible, uncontrollable storm of emotions that even he didn’t know how to process.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm as if trying to ground himself—to stop himself from grabbing you, shaking you, making you look at him the way you used to.

And yet—you didn’t.

Your eyes didn’t hold that obsessive gleam anymore. They held pity.

And then, you said it.

"Can you just please leave me alone?"

It was firm, cold and unshaken.

And that—that hurt.

The words slammed into his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his whole body stiffening. His lips parted, eyes blown wide, an expression of utter disbelief.

You had never, never spoken to him like that before.

And worse—you turned away.

You walked away from him.

The world blurred for a moment. He could barely hear the whispers around him, barely feel the weight of the stares pressing into him.

The air felt wrong.

His hands twitched, his heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained eerily blank.

A slow, suffocating rage curled inside him.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

You thought you could leave?

You thought you could leave him?

A smirk twitched at his lips, but his eyes were dark—hungry.

You’ll pay for that.

He’ll make you regret ever thinking you could live without him.

It wasn’t difficult.

You had made it easy for him.

Every whispered confession, every vulnerable fragment of yourself—you had offered them up willingly, blind with devotion. When you worshipped him, when you ached for him, you had bled your soul dry, spilling every truth at his feet like a devout follower praying to an unholy god. You had believed your love was unbreakable, that nothing could twist it into something ugly.

But love was a lie.

And now?

Now, those same truths would be the noose around your neck.

Scaramouche barely had to lift a finger. The dirt he had on you wasn’t something he had to dig for—no, you had given it to him, laid it bare in your desperation to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter to him. And so, with meticulous precision and an insufferable smirk, he wove it all together, weaving your past into a beautiful, intricate cage.

A perfect blackmail.

The tapes spun between his fingers, glinting under the dim light, the cruel little wheel of fate turning in slow, damning circles.

Your sins, preserved forever.

Blood. So much blood. The camera didn’t shy away from the violence—how your blade had sunk into flesh, how wet, gurgling gasps had choked out their last breaths. How their fingers had twitched, grasping at the nothingness as they collapsed, lifeless. And you—standing above them, gloved hands stained red, chest heaving, lips parted with something too close to reverence.

Then, the photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some of him—captured in secret, stolen moments where he was unaware of your obsession clinging to him like a shadow. Pictures taken from alleyways, behind windows, through crowds. And more of him—uninvited, invasive, taken when you thought you were being sneaky but weren’t.

He liked these.

He liked the way you took them—obsessively, devotedly. He liked knowing the tables had turned, that he was watching you now, that your obsession had left you vulnerable enough for him to tear apart.

But the best part?

The confrontation.

Scaramouche didn’t need to hunt you down. He didn’t need to lure you in. You walked straight into his web, oblivious, thinking you were safe.

The door creaked open.

A sharp inhale.

Then—stillness.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the color draining from your face as your breath caught in your throat.

Scaramouche.

Lounging on your sofa as if he had always belonged there. One leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stack of evidence in his hands, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something triumphant.

You felt the air shift—suffocating, cloying, thick with the unspoken understanding that this was no longer your space.

This was his.

Your voice broke, barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing here?" The words wavered, shaking under the weight of panic. "How—how did you get in?"

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, watching you, letting the silence drag on long enough to coil around your ribs, squeezing. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted the tape, letting it spin between his fingers, his smirk widening.

"More importantly," he murmured, voice smooth, slow, deliberate, "what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

The world tilted beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, the blood draining from your limbs as your stomach twisted into knots.

It was all there.

The evidence. The obsession you had. The murders you had committed.

Your sins, reflected back at you in sickening clarity.

You barely managed to breathe, barely managed to whisper out a choked, "I—I should just go to the police." The words left your lips before you could think them through, raw with desperation. "Tell them—tell them there's a criminal on campus—"

His laugh cut you off.

It was a sharp, cold, and mocking sound.

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement. "And what do you think happens next? Do they rush in, sirens blaring, guns drawn? Do they drag you away in chains?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food.

His voice dropped, honeyed with false sympathy.

"And what do you think they’ll do when they see all of this?"

Your stomach lurched.

He didn’t need to say it.

You knew.

His expression softened into something almost pitying—almost.

"Face it," he murmured, letting the words settle into your skin like poison. "You're finished, no matter what you do."

A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

And then—casually, effortlessly—he leaned back, arms stretching along the sofa, as if this was all just an idle conversation.

"Or," he drawled, "you could be a good girl and go back to being my pet."

Your breath caught.

The words slithered over you like a collar snapping into place.

His voice was soft—so soft, so sweet—but beneath it was steel. An unspoken command. A leash tightening around your throat.

"It’s your choice, really," he continued, tilting his head. "But let’s be honest—there’s no different outcome. Either way, you’re never leaving me."

The finality of it crushed the breath from your lungs.

The realization clawed its way through your mind like a slow, sinking weight.

You had never been free.

You had never been in control.

And as Scaramouche's smirk widened, as he watched the last ember of defiance flicker and die in your eyes, you realized—

You never would be.

ONG I COULDN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT OF WRITING :(( AAAH

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raevalyntine · 1 month ago

Text

what happens when your best friend! caleb catches you playing an otome game?

It begins with you lying on your stomach across the couch, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through the curtains. Your legs sway lazily in the air, your eyes glued to the screen of your phone. You’ve been completely absorbed in a new otome game you downloaded a few days ago. A futuristic romance otome filled with dramatic storylines, compelling choices, and an array of captivating love interests, each more alluring than the last.

You barely register the sound of the door opening or the soft thump of a bag hitting the table behind you. The music from your game hums quietly, wrapping you in the immersive world as one of the characters—a cyborg—leans in to confess something sweet and vulnerable.

A quiet gasp escapes you, barely louder than a whisper. “He’s perfect…” A smile tugs at your lips, warmth rising to your cheeks.

That’s when a familiar voice leans over the back of the couch, teasing and light-hearted, but carrying a subtle edge. “Who’s perfect?”

You jolt upright, yelping. “No one!” But it’s too late—Caleb’s already seen the glow in your eyes.

He reaches down, snatching your phone with practised ease, holding it just out of your reach as he studies the screen. “Wait a second—oh no. Is this another one of those romance games?” He squints mock-dramatically. “Oh my god pipsqueak, it is.”

You lunge forward to reclaim your phone, but he dodges effortlessly, still pressing through the interface with shameless curiosity. “So this guy’s the one, huh?” he says, tapping on your chosen love interest. “Let me guess: tragic past, mysterious stare, says dramatic things like ‘Even in death, we will never be apart’?”

You pout, feeling embarrassed. “That’s… not entirely wrong.”

Caleb laughs, that familiar sound that makes your heart twist for reasons you try not to name. But his teasing fades into something quieter as he slowly returns the phone, still lingering beside you. He settles on the couch, shoulder brushing yours—close, warm, grounding. Despite your heart still racing from the embarrassment of getting caught, you’re immediately calmed by Caleb’s presence beside you.

Then, too casually, he murmurs, “You know… if I was in that game, I’d break every route just to reach you.”

You freeze. Your breath stills in your lungs. You glance at him—but he’s not looking at you, his eyes fixed forward, his voice soft as velvet.

“It doesn’t matter how many times the story resets, or how many challenges stand in my way—I’d fight through all of it if it meant I got to stand beside you at the end.”

The room holds still. You forget how to blink.

Slowly, he turns to you and catches you staring, wide-eyed, lips parted in silent wonder.

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face. “What? Don’t tell me that pixel cyborg guy didn’t say that to you.”

You shake your head faintly. “No… he didn’t.”

Caleb leans back, stretching out beside you like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down. “Guess he’s not as good as me, then.”

And suddenly, the screen in your hands loses its charm—because no fictional script, no digital romance, could ever compare to the boy beside you who just made your heart skip a beat with nothing more than the truth.

#caleb x you #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #love and deepspace caleb #xia yizhou #caleb x mc #lads caleb #love and deepspace

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seospicybin · 4 months ago

Text

WORSHIP.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (22k words)

Author's note: This is a verrrrry late Jeongin bday fic. Have holy water ready near you and hope you enjoy it ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers in the air as Jeongin walks through the quiet corridors of St. Peter’s Church, making his way toward his office. The afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the stone floor. A familiar stillness settles around him, the kind that has become second nature over the years.

He steps inside his office, closing the door behind him. His desk is neatly arranged, save for the stack of handwritten pages resting beside his laptop—his latest manuscript, still unfinished. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the bulletin board pinned to the wall, eyes lingering on the ad he had posted just days ago.

Looking for a part-time assistant. Flexible hours. Must be organized and comfortable with transcribing and editing. Contact: 010-XXXX-XXXX.

A simple request, nothing more. He hadn’t expected much, maybe a few inquiries at best. So when his phone buzzes against the desk, he barely glances at the number before answering.

"Hello?"

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before a voice—soft, uncertain yet clear—fills the silence.

"Hi, um… I saw the notice about the part-time job? I just wanted to ask if it's still available."

Jeongin leans back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. There's something about the way you speak—the quiet curiosity, the faint edge of hesitation—that makes him pause before responding.

"Ah, yes. It is. Would you be able to come by this afternoon? We can talk more in person."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sure. Where should I go?"

"St. Peter’s Church," he replies smoothly. "Just ask for Father Yang when you arrive."

The pause is longer this time, and Jeongin can almost picture the way your expression must have shifted—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief. He waits, letting the weight of it settle.

"Father?" Your voice is quieter now, cautious.

"That’s right." He doesn’t elaborate, simply lets the word linger between you.

But despite your hesitation, you don’t back out. "Alright. I’ll be there."

"Good. I’ll see you then."

The call ends, and Jeongin sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. He isn’t sure why he feels the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his chest. Perhaps it’s the subtle curiosity in your voice or the fact that, even through the phone, he could sense the moment your perception shifted.

Either way, he knows one thing for certain: You don’t quite know what you’ve signed up for.

The church is quieter than usual when Jeongin steps toward the altar, dressed in his white and gold vestments. The scent of burning candles and aged wood surrounds him, a constant companion. He speaks with the steadiness that years of practice have given him, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as the congregation listens.

He doesn’t think much of the new presence seated at the back of the church at first. It’s only when he glances up, catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him a little too intently, that something shifts. Recognition flickers.

The service continues, undisturbed, but Jeongin is aware of you now—the slight fidgeting of your hands, the way you shift in your seat, the lingering way your gaze keeps returning to him.

When the mass ends and the last murmurs of prayer fade, Jeongin descends the steps from the altar, moving through the thinning crowd with quiet purpose. He doesn’t need to search.

You’re still there, watching him.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as his gaze meets yours. There it is—the look he had anticipated. That moment of realization.

"You must be here about the job."

Your lips part slightly, a breath caught in your throat. "You’re Father Yang?"

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. "I am. Were you expecting someone else?"

"I—um—I guess I just didn’t recognize you right away."

"That happens." He doesn’t press further, though he can see the questions forming behind your eyes. Instead, he gestures toward the hallway leading to the back of the church. "Come on. We can talk more in my office."

You hesitate for only a second before following. Jeongin leads the way, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor, the hum of the church fading behind you.

Inside his office, the space is dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp, the scent of ink and old books settling in the air. Jeongin takes his seat, but before he gestures for you to do the same, his gaze flickers over you—your clothes, the expensive bag resting on your shoulder, the delicate pieces of jewelry on your wrist and neck. Everything about you speaks of wealth, of a life where money is never a concern.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lingers in his mind. Why would someone like you be looking for a part-time job at a church? If it’s just about building your resume, there are a hundred easier ways.

Still, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he gestures toward the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

You do, sinking into the chair, only to immediately sit up straighter, as if trying not to appear uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that the setup feels almost interrogative—him behind the desk, composed and collected, while you sit stiffly across from him.

"So," Jeongin starts, leaning forward, hands resting lightly against the desk, "tell me a little about yourself."

You straighten, clearing your throat. "Well, I’m in my last year of college. I major in literature, and I do some freelance work—mostly editing and transcribing—so I thought this might be a good fit."

Jeongin nods but doesn’t drop his scrutiny. "Will this job interfere with your studies?"

You shake your head quickly. "Not at all. If anything, I need something to do other than just studying all the time." A small, sheepish smile. "And honestly, I need the experience for my resume."

That doesn’t explain it. Not entirely. But Jeongin lets it slide, for now. "That’s fair."

A beat of silence. Then he tilts his head. "Do you have experience working with writers?"

"A bit," you admit. "I've helped a few authors organize their drafts and notes. Are you working on a book?"

"I am." He watches your expression closely. "A detective novel."

Your eyebrows lift slightly. "Really?"

Jeongin leans back, lips curling slightly at your reaction. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," you say quickly. "I just… didn't expect a priest to be writing crime fiction."

"You’re not the first person to say that," he replies smoothly.

You shift slightly, and though you try to hide it, Jeongin can tell you’re still unsure about him. That’s fine. He’s used to being studied, just as he’s used to studying others.

He finally leans forward, folding his hands together. "If you take this job, you'll be assisting me with research, organization, and transcriptions. Some of it will be straightforward, some of it might require a little patience." His voice remains calm, steady. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding, this time more firmly. "Yeah. I can handle that."

Jeongin studies you for a second longer, then gives a small nod. "Good."

You exhale, as if only now realizing you had been holding your breath.

"You can start this Monday."

Jeongin doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit—watching you linger by the confession booth is an unexpected sight.

He had only been passing through the church hallways when he spotted you, standing just outside the small wooden structure, your fingers ghosting over the carved frame. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s something pensive in the way you stand there, like you’re considering stepping inside.

His lips quirk slightly. “Thinking about confessing?”

The way you jolt at his voice is almost comical. You turn sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before you compose yourself.

“I was just looking,” you reply, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Jeongin raises a brow, amused. “You sure? I can take your confession right now, if you’d like.”

For a brief second, your face betrays a flicker of flustered hesitation before you shake your head, smiling shyly. “Maybe another time.”

He chuckles softly, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods toward his office. “Come on. You have work to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, simply turns on his heel, fully expecting you to follow—which, after a brief pause, you do.

Jeongin watches you carefully as you step into his office, noting how your gaze flickers over the space. It’s a little cluttered but not chaotic, a mix of stacked manuscripts, theological books, and a few scattered notes he keeps meaning to organize. The air smells faintly of old parchment and candle wax.

You don’t seem entirely comfortable here. He wonders if it’s the religious setting or just him.

Settling into his chair, he leans back slightly, hands clasped together. “Your tasks are straightforward,” he begins. “You’ll be editing, transcribing my handwritten notes, proofreading drafts, and organizing my files. Occasionally, you might have to handle emails from my publisher or literary agent.”

You nod, listening intently, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker toward his desk—toward the mess of papers he has yet to sort. If organization is part of your job, you’ll have your hands full.

“I don’t expect you to know everything right away,” he continues, watching for your reaction. “But I do expect you to be efficient and ask questions when necessary.”

“Understood,” you reply, your tone professional, composed.

He nods in approval before gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Then let’s get started.”

You settle in, pulling out your laptop, and soon enough, the only sound in the office is the rhythmic tapping of keys as you begin working through his notes.

Jeongin doesn’t speak much after that, but he keeps a quiet eye on you as he works through his own writing. The job itself isn’t difficult, but he can sense your unease.

It’s not the workload that unsettles you. It’s him. He’s used to that. Even now, after seeing him lead an entire mass, after watching him step down from the altar with practiced ease, you still seem unsure about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s younger than you expected—sharp-eyed and composed, but not in the soft, gentle way most priests are. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, calm and deliberate, with none of the detached serenity that people usually associate with men of the cloth.

Or maybe, it’s because despite sitting across from you in full priest attire, he looks more like a professor than a man of God. Someone intellectual, analytical. Someone who doesn’t just preach scripture but dissects it.

He wonders if you even realize you’re staring. Instead of calling you out on it, he lets the silence stretch between you until, finally, he speaks.

“You don’t feel comfortable working here, do you?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard for a split second before you quickly shake your head. “What? No, it’s fine—”

He tilts his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”

You press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Jeongin exhales softly, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense. A church office isn’t exactly the most comfortable workspace.” He twirls a pen absently between his fingers before glancing back at you. “Come to my apartment tomorrow instead. It’s where I do most of my writing anyway. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You hesitate but then your eyes flicker around the room—the heavy bookshelves, the religious paintings, the ever-present scent of incense and candle wax—and Jeongin knows you’re considering it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you say carefully.

His lips curl slightly. “It’s what makes the most sense. I’ll text you the address later.”

And just like that, the first day ends with a shift neither of you were expecting.

The next afternoon, Jeongin opens the door to find you standing outside his apartment, looking hesitant.

He takes one look at your face and smirks. “Did you expect me to answer the door in full priest attire?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard, and only now seem to realize that he’s not dressed in black clericals. Instead, he’s wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, looking significantly more casual than the last time you saw him.

“No—I mean, I just…” You trail off, visibly struggling to phrase whatever it is you’re thinking.

Jeongin leans against the doorframe, amused. “I don’t wear that all the time, you know.”

Your reaction is enough to entertain him for the rest of the evening. But after a few more seconds of watching you flounder, he gestures for you to step inside.

His apartment is neat and minimalistic, lacking any unnecessary decor. But the first thing you notice isn’t the furniture.

It’s the wooden altar against the wall.

Your eyes linger on it for a second before you turn to him, brows raised. “So instead of a couch or a coffee table, you took an altar?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It was free.”

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head as you take in the rest of the space. He watches as you carefully observe everything, adjusting to this new environment.

Finally, he nods toward the desk by the window. “Your workspace is over there.”

You walk over, running your fingers lightly over the surface before glancing back at him. “Where are you going to work if I’m using your desk?”

He shrugs, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be doing other things around the apartment.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Like what?”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The first time Jeongin sees you, he knows you’ll be trouble.

Not in the way most people would think—there’s nothing outwardly rebellious about you, nothing loud or disruptive. No, your trouble is quieter, buried beneath the surface, where only those who bother to look closely can see it.

And Jeongin always looks closely.

You’re smart—he can tell from the way you speak, how you choose your words carefully, never giving more than what’s necessary. You’re meticulous, precise in your work, never making mistakes. A model assistant.

But Jeongin doesn’t trust things that are too perfect.

And you—you are undeniably beautiful. It’s a beauty so pure that it almost feels sacred, like stained glass catching sunlight or the flicker of a candle in a silent chapel. And yet, instead of making him want to protect it, it makes something inside him stir.

A need—subtle but insistent—to ruin it. To stain it. Just to see what would happen. And that is dangerous.

He’s spent years learning restraint, carving discipline into himself until it feels like second nature. But you… You tempt him just enough to make him wonder what you’re hiding.

Because there’s something—a flicker of secrecy behind your composed expression, a hesitation in your voice when you speak of your life. He sees it in the way your fingers press into your thighs under the table, in the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.

Jeongin likes writing mysteries because he enjoys uncovering things—secrets, motives, the hidden truths people don’t want to admit. And next, it’s going to be you.

"Father?"

Your soft, melodic voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and God, he likes it when you call him that. Too much. The way you say it—gentle, reverent, like it means something—only makes it worse. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever say it in a different tone. Maybe a little rougher, maybe breathless—maybe—

"Father," you call again, stepping closer. Your hands are clasped neatly in front of you, a picture of innocence, of obedience.

Jeongin looks down at the manuscript in his hands, gripping it just a little tighter to keep his thoughts from straying too far.

"Do you mind if I leave early today?" you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says immediately. Maybe too quickly. But he knows—knows it’s dangerous to be around you for too long.

You smile, grateful. "Thank you, but—there’s one more thing.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"Can I use your bathroom to change?"

Another easy request. Another easy yes. You excuse yourself, taking your bag with you, and disappear behind the door.

And Jeongin—he should go back to work. He should focus on something else. But he can’t. Because the only thing on his mind now is you. You, just beyond that door. Undressing.

He swallows hard, gripping the manuscript even tighter, but it’s useless. His thoughts are already running wild—imagining the soft rustle of fabric as you pull that dress over your head, imagining the bare expanse of your skin, the places he’s never seen, the places you keep hidden—

His breath catches and then his eyes dart to the crucifix on the wall. The sight of it stings, as if God Himself is watching, and Jeongin quickly reaches for the cross necklace hanging around his neck. His fingers tighten around it as he closes his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer.

But what is he even praying for? Not to stop—because he can’t stop. Not for forgiveness—because he doesn’t deserve it.

All he can do is stand there, gripping onto the fragile thread of his self-control, until the soft click of the bathroom door opening pulls him back to the present.

He turns swiftly—only to see you already pulling on your coat, concealing whatever outfit you’ve changed into. A small mercy, perhaps. But then he notices the deep red painted onto your lips. The scent of your perfume drifts through the air, warm and heady, curling around him like temptation itself.

You smile at him, utterly unaware of the war waging inside him. "Good night, Father. See you tomorrow."

And then you’re gone.

Jeongin exhales, slow and heavy, his gaze lingering on the closed door. He thought—hoped—that once you left, his mind would quiet. That he’d be able to breathe again.

But it’s harder now because your scent lingers in the room and so does everything else.

Jeongin does what he always does when temptation coils too tightly around his ribs—he leaves. He steps out into the night and the next thing he knows, it’s late, and he’s walking down an unfamiliar street, bathed in the glow of neon lights and passing headlights.

A group of girls passes by, giggling and chatting, their perfume lingering in the air. Jeongin keeps his head down, uninterested. But then—

"Father."

The word freezes him in place. Slowly, he turns around and there you are. For a moment, he isn’t even sure it’s you. The girl standing before him isn’t the same one he saw earlier in his apartment—poised, polished, careful in every movement. No, this version of you is different.

Your dress is short—too short—exposing far too much of your legs, hugging every curve of your body in ways that make his throat dry. The dim glow of the streetlights does nothing to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, your nipples subtly pressing against the thin fabric. And your lips—painted that same deep red, like a mark of sin itself.

You smile at him, a little shy now, suddenly aware of yourself under his gaze. You clutch your coat tighter around your body, a small attempt at modesty, though it does nothing to undo what he’s already seen.

"I’m surprised to see you here," you say, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it—an uncertainty, a hesitance.

Jeongin exhales slowly, pulling his thoughts together. "I’m just as surprised," he admits.

A brief silence settles between you. Then, Jeongin asks, "Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder toward the club entrance, where bluish neon lights spill onto the pavement, casting strange shadows on the ground. Your lips part as if to answer, but the words trail off, and instead, you gesture vaguely in the direction of the pulsing music.

You don’t say it outright, but Jeongin can tell—it’s not something you want to talk about with him. So he nods in understanding.

You hesitate then, shifting slightly on your feet before drawing in a small breath. "Do you want to—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, breaking into a nervous laugh as you shake your head. "Never mind."

He knows what you were about to ask. "It’s too late for me anyway," Jeongin says instead, his voice careful, measured. "I have morning mass tomorrow."

At that, your brows lift slightly, as if the reminder of his priesthood catches you off guard. He watches your expression closely, waiting for the moment it clicks again—that no matter how different he may look outside of his collar, no matter how casual he may seem standing before you now, he is still Father Yang Jeongin.

"Don’t let me get in the way," he says after a beat. "Have fun."

You pause, your eyes lingering on him for just a second too long, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, without another word, you step away, rejoining your friends.

Before you get too far, Jeongin speaks once more. "Stay safe."

You pause, and when you respond, your voice is softer, more subdued. "Yes, Father."

And Jeongin—he stands there, watching. Watching the sway of your hips, the way the hem of your dress flutters with each step, the way the scent of your perfume lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

Jeongin doesn’t remember how it starts. One moment, he’s standing in the dim light of his apartment, and the next, you’re in front of him, close enough that he can count every slow rise and fall of your chest.

You look different—softer, unguarded, your lips stained that same dangerous red. Your dress clings to you, delicate fabric that threatens to slip off your shoulders with the slightest movement.

"Father," you whisper, and the way you say it makes something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Don’t touch her.

But then your hands reach for him first, trailing up his arms, slow and featherlight, until they slide over his shoulders.

"Do you want me to confess?" you murmur, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Jeongin swallows. His throat is dry, his chest tight. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this, thinking of you like this.

And yet, when your fingers brush against his collar, your touch barely there, he doesn’t stop you.

"You tempt me," you whisper, and your breath fans against his lips. "Do I tempt you, Father?"

His hands move before he can think—gripping your hips, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but heat. Your body presses against his, and he swears he can feel every curve, every soft inch molding into him.

"Say it," you breathe, tilting your head up. "Say you want me."

His resolve shatters and the moment his lips crash against yours, it’s over.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails grazing against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against your mouth. His hands roam down, gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you—he doesn’t know where he’s taking you, only that he needs to feel more, needs to—

His name. You moan his name, not Father, not the careful title he hides behind, but Jeongin—breathy, desperate, yours.

Heat. Softness. The scent of something sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around him like silk. Your delicate fingers trailing over his chest, down, down—

Jeongin jerks awake.

His breathing is uneven, his body flushed with heat despite the cool air in the room. The sheets stick to his damp skin, and when he shifts, discomfort coils in his gut. He doesn’t need to look down to know.

Morning wood.

His jaw clenches as he drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling as he pushes his hair back. The clock on his nightstand glares at him, the numbers glowing an unforgiving 5:32 AM. Morning mass is in less than two hours.

"Shit."

He swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up. His body protests, his muscles taut with the remnants of the dream—the dream he shouldn’t have had.

Not about you. Not about your soft voice whispering Father in that same breathy tone. Not about your fingers digging into his shoulders. Not about the way your lips had parted for him, not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

Jeongin shuts his eyes tightly. No. No. No.

He inhales sharply and forces the words past his lips. "Lord, have mercy."

But even as he murmurs the prayer, images of you flicker behind his eyelids—your dress, your perfume, the way your eyes lingered on him last night.

His fingers twitch, and before he can entertain another thought, Jeongin throws off the sheets and stumbles to his feet.

The cold shower does little to wash away the lingering heat. And as he stands under the freezing water, hands braced against the tiled wall, Jeongin wonders if this is the beginning of his ruin.

Jeongin exhales slowly before unlocking the door. He knows you’ll be standing there, just as you are around this time in the afternoon, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding out a coffee cup, your soft smile disarming.

“I got you this, Father,” you say, your voice gentle.

He hesitates only for a moment before reaching for it. And that’s when it happens. Your fingers brush—just the barest, fleeting touch, but it sends a current straight through him. He nearly flinches. Because just like that, the memory of his dream resurfaces, vivid and unforgiving. Your warmth against him, your lips parting in a breathless plea, the softness of your skin beneath his hands—

He pulls the cup away too quickly. The heat seeps through the paper, grounding him back to reality. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice strained.

You tilt your head slightly. “How are you today?”

His grip on the cup tightens. “Fine,” he answers curtly.

Your eyes search his face, as if sensing something beneath the surface. Then, the question that nearly makes him choke on air—

“You look tired. Did you sleep well, Father?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Do you know? How could you possibly know? The way you ask it—so casual, so innocent—yet it feels like a cruel trick.

He forces himself to look away. “I—” He swallows hard. “There’s a list of things I need you to work on today.”

He doesn’t answer your question. He can’t. Instead, he talks—quick, efficient, filling the space between you with instructions about editing, transcribing, emails. He needs distance. Needs to push you back into the safe boundaries of professionalism.

“I have a meeting with my parish soon,” he adds, relieved that it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. The timing couldn’t be better—he needs to leave before he does something irredeemable.

You nod, obedient as ever, listening to every word, those wide, earnest eyes locked onto his. Your lips part slightly, as if you have something to say, but you stay quiet, waiting for his command.

And for a split second—just one—Jeongin feels the undeniable temptation to close the space between you. To reach out, cup your face, and press his lips to yours just to see if they’re as soft as he imagines. He jerks his head away, breaking the thought before it can go any further.

No. He needs to go. Now. He turns, already stepping toward the door when he hears it—

“Father.”

The sound of your voice stops him in his tracks. A rush of heat curls low in his stomach, his mind flashing back to the dream, the way you had said it—whispered, breathless, desperate. He clenches his jaw before looking back at you.

You smile, completely unaware of the effect you have on him. “Please take the coffee with you,” you say, nudging the cup toward him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, with a stiff nod, he grips the cup tighter, murmurs a quiet thanks, and walks out the door because if he stays any longer, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist the fall.

The meeting had done its job—Jeongin had managed to push you out of his mind, at least temporarily. Discussions about upcoming church events, budgeting concerns, and youth programs had kept him grounded in reality. By the time he steps onto the street leading back to his apartment, he feels a rare sense of relief.

You would be gone by now. He had been gone for hours. The thought steadies him. No need to walk on a tightrope, no need to police his own thoughts, no need to restrain himself from—

Jeongin freezes mid-step. Through the faintly lit window of his apartment, he sees a silhouette. His stomach drops. He fumbles for his keys, unlocking the door in a rush, and steps inside.

And there you are.

Sitting on his sofa, one leg tucked under the other, completely at ease, flipping through the pages of one of his novels. You glance over your shoulder at him, smile like you belong here.

“Welcome back, Father.”

The words make his breath hitch. It takes him a second too long to remember to respond.

“What… Why are you still here?” The question comes out more forceful than intended, his surprise laced with something dangerously close to panic.

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if his reaction is odd. “I've finished what you asked me to do,” you say simply, lifting the book. “And then I got curious.”

Curious.

Jeongin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, his voice more measured now.

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It’s different from what I expected,” you admit. “Darker.”

You skim a finger down the page, absentmindedly tracing over the words, and he wonders if you have any idea how that simple action makes his stomach twist.

“You write about sinners a lot, Father,” you muse, flipping to the next chapter. “Do you relate to them?”

Your voice is light, teasing, but something about the question unsettles him. You don’t look up right away, waiting, as if you truly expect an answer.

Jeongin forces himself to exhale, to shove down the flicker of heat curling in his chest.

“You should go home.”

The words come out firmer than he intends, but it’s the only way he can maintain control of the situation. You shouldn’t be here. Not after he had spent the entire day trying to cleanse his thoughts of you. Not when the way you’re sitting there, curled up on his sofa, reminds him far too much of—

You move. Closing the book with a soft thud, set it on the coffee table and rise to your feet. There’s something hesitant in the way you approach him, something almost uncertain, and Jeongin braces himself for whatever you’re about to say.

Then, softly, you ask, “Father… can I make a confession?”

Jeongin stills. The words send a jolt down his spine.

The dream. His dream had started like this. You, standing before him, hands clasped in front of you, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Except in his dream, your voice had been breathless, heavy with something unspoken. And when he had stepped closer—

No. Jeongin clenches his jaw, pushing the memory away. This is different. This is real. His fingers curl at his sides, nails digging into his palm as he inhales deeply. He reminds himself of who he is, of what this means, of the line he cannot—will not—cross.

Still, his voice is quieter when he finally speaks. “…Of course.”

The air in the apartment feels heavier when you sit beside him on the sofa. The cushions dip slightly under your weight, and for a moment, Jeongin wonders if this is a mistake—if allowing you to stay any longer is only inviting more temptation into his already fragile resolve.

You’re quiet, hands fidgeting in your lap, your posture unsure in a way he’s never seen before. The confidence you usually carry—the soft smiles, the teasing edge in your words—is nowhere to be found.

“I… I don’t really know how to start,” you admit softly, glancing at him through your lashes. “Do I have to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ or…?”

Jeongin bites back a smile. “Not exactly,” he says, shaking his head. “You start by making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’”

A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and you lower your head slightly. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known,” you murmur, though there’s no malice—only a kind of shy awkwardness.

You’re not someone who comes to church often. That much is clear.

“Let me ask you something,” Jeongin softens, leaning back slightly as he shifts his approach. “Why do you suddenly want to confess?” he asks, his voice quieter now—gentler, as though he’s worried you’ll shut down if he pushes too hard.

You hesitate before answering. “I… I wanted to talk about something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you seemed like the kind of person I could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge.”

The words sit heavy in the space between you. For a second, Jeongin doesn’t trust himself to speak. Because the truth is—he is judging. Not you, but himself.

“I’m not here to condemn you,” he finally says, fighting to maintain the calm steadiness in his tone. “And if you feel comfortable enough to tell me, then there’s no need to be nervous.” He tilts his head slightly, watching the way your fingers twist the hem of your dress. “Maybe you don’t want forgiveness. Maybe you just want to be heard.”

At that, your shoulders loosen a little. The tension in your frame eases, and after a breath, you begin.

“My parents,” you start, “are… difficult. They’re strict. Demanding. Controlling.” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “They expect a lot from me. I always have to be the best—the perfect daughter. I do what they ask. I always do. But sometimes…” Your voice wavers, just slightly. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Jeongin doesn’t speak. He lets you keep going, his fingers curling against his knees as he listens.

“I know they want the best for me,” you continue, a touch more defensive now, as though you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “But it’s exhausting. The pressure. And the worst part is… I don’t get to enjoy anything. Being young. Being free. It feels like life is just passing me by while other people my age are out there living.”

You lower your gaze, your voice quieting. “That night… when I saw you. That was me blowing off steam.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, the image flashing back with painful clarity—you, in that dress, with your red lips and bare skin, looking like temptation incarnate under the neon lights.

“I lied to my parents that night,” you confess, and there’s a thread of guilt woven through your tone. “I told them I was staying late for my part-time job. For you.” You glance at him briefly, your expression apologetic. “But I wasn’t. I went out with my friends instead. We drank. We danced. We—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in frustration. “I know lying is a sin, but it’s the only way I get to do anything for myself.”

He should reprimand you. He should tell you lying is wrong, that deception is a slippery slope—but all Jeongin can focus on is the way your voice softens with something deeper. Something more fragile.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into your palms, “but sometimes, I feel… left behind.”

The words hit harder than they should. You’re not saying it outright, but he can hear what you’re implying. You’ve never had the freedom to explore. To feel things. To know the things others your age do.

He shouldn’t care. But he does. And it shouldn’t affect him. But it does. And yet—nothing tests his self-control like the question that leaves your lips next.

“Is it wrong…” you hesitate, your voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile, “to want to feel admired? To be wanted?”

Jeongin’s heart stutters.

“I like the way it feels,” you continue, eyes cast downward in quiet shame. “When I dress up, when I go out… the way people look at me. It’s like, for once, I’m not my parent's daughter and I'm just... me. I can see it in their eyes—how much they want me. And I—” Your breath catches, your lips trembling just slightly. “I like that.”

He swallows hard, the weight of your words pressing down on every weak part of him. Because God help him—he knows exactly what you mean.

And what’s worse? He wants you the same way. Maybe more.

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken. The weight of your confession lingers in the air, and Jeongin feels it pressing down on him—on his chest, his thoughts, the fragile boundary he’s desperately trying to maintain.

You look at him expectantly, searching for something in his expression. Guidance, maybe. Reassurance. Or perhaps, you’re bracing for judgment, for him to tell you that what you feel is wrong. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I think,” he begins, voice steady, “that you’re searching for something.”

You blink at him, waiting.

“It’s not wrong to want to be seen,” he continues. “To be wanted. We all crave connection in some way.” His fingers curl against his knee, a grounding effort to keep himself composed. “But admiration—lust—it’s fleeting. It won’t fill the emptiness you feel.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to protest, but you hesitate.

Jeongin leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studies you. “You say you feel left behind, but… have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is you’re truly missing?”

You frown, your brows drawing together.

“Is it the experiences themselves?” he presses gently. “Or is it the idea of them? The pressure to have lived a certain way, to match some invisible expectation of what youth is supposed to be?”

You lower your gaze, silent.

Jeongin sighs. “You’ve spent so long following the rules that now you’re swinging in the opposite direction, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that makes you feel alive.” He pauses. “But if you’re not careful, you might mistake empty attention for something more. And that kind of emptiness… it lingers.”

You exhale softly, your fingers stilling in your lap. “Then… what do I do?”

He hesitates. He could tell you to focus on the people who truly care for you, to find fulfillment in things that aren’t so temporary. He could remind you that your worth isn’t measured by how many eyes are on you, or how much you’re desired.

But saying those things feels… inadequate. Because deep down, he knows, he knows what it’s like to crave something he shouldn’t. To want something he cannot have.

So instead, he settles for something simpler. Something safer.

“Take your time,” he says quietly. “Figure out what it is you truly want, not what you think you should want.” His gaze lingers on you, softer now. “And don’t let anyone else define that for you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, wistful smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re a good man, Father.”

Jeongin stiffens, not because of your words, but because of the way you say them—soft, warm, almost reverent. Like you truly believe it. If only you knew.

He swallows hard, steadying himself as he lifts his hand. His fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before he presses the pad of his thumb to your forehead.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

His voice is firm, even, betraying nothing of the storm within him. But as he traces the cross against your skin, something unfamiliar coils deep in his stomach.

You close your eyes at the touch, exhaling softly. There’s a quiet reverence in the way you bow your head slightly, in the way you let him bless you without hesitation.

But Jeongin—Jeongin feels like he’s the one being undone. Because in this moment, as his fingers linger just a second too long against your warm skin, he realizes something dangerous.

You are the blessing. And you are the temptation. Both, intertwined. A paradox that he cannot afford to unravel.

When he pulls his hand away, you blink up at him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Father.”

Jeongin forces a nod, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

You need to leave. He wants to tell you. Now.

But you don’t. Not immediately. You linger, watching him with those wide, searching eyes—eyes that make him feel like you can see through him. And maybe you do. Maybe you know.

But then, after a beat too long, you step back, exhaling as you gather your things. “I should go,” you murmur.

Jeongin nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, Father. See you on Monday.” You give him one last look before turning for the door.

And just like before, he watches you leave, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.

When the door clicks shut behind you, Jeongin exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without thinking, he reaches for the cross around his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could cleanse the thoughts already sinking into him like a poison.

He murmurs a prayer under his breath but deep down, he knows, he knows that no prayer will be enough.

The soft click of the door handle echoes through the apartment, and Jeongin hears your voice calling his name. He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is elsewhere—on the broken showerhead, the water that wouldn’t stop spraying, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He steps out of the bathroom, running a hand through his wet hair just as he catches sight of you standing there, frozen in place. His white tank top is soaked through, the fabric outlining every muscle, and he can feel water still trailing down his arms, pooling at his collarbone before slipping lower.

“The showerhead’s broken,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh. Then, with an amused glance, he adds, “Not that you’d be using it anyway.”

Your expression flickers—something unreadable but fleeting. Then you chuckle, a little too quickly, and Jeongin catches the way your gaze briefly drops before you avert your eyes.

Interesting.

He doesn’t comment, but he files that reaction away as he gestures toward his room. “I should go change.”

You nod, already moving toward your desk, but when he reaches his door, he leaves it slightly ajar. Maybe it’s a habit, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

As he pulls the damp shirt over his head, he senses it—a presence lingering, a gaze that wavers but doesn’t entirely look away. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it, but the thought makes his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

Still, he takes his time, reaching for a clean shirt, slipping it on with ease before finally stepping back out. When he returns to the main room, he notices the way you suddenly seem very focused on your work.

Amusing.

“Ready to work?” he asks, watching as you straighten up, schooling your features into professionalism.

“Yes. Ready.”

But there’s something different in your voice, a slight hesitation beneath the surface. Jeongin doesn’t comment, only opens his manuscript, shifting his attention to the pages in front of him.

The work is straightforward—revisions, editing, transcriptions—but he catches the way your eyes drift every now and then, lingering on him longer than necessary. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he notices. He always does.

Then, after a particularly long pause, he glances up just in time to catch you staring at his hands.

More specifically, at the silver ring on his finger.

“It was a gift from my parents,” he says casually, tapping it lightly against the desk.

You blink, startled, before offering a small smile. “It suits you.”

He hums in response, but something about the way you say it lingers. A quiet observation, thoughtful but restrained. Like there’s more you want to ask but won’t.

Instead, you shift the conversation. “Father, what do you do outside of this? Writing and—” A quick glance at the cross hanging from his neck. “Priesthood.”

Jeongin leans back slightly, considering. “I play the piano when I have time,” he says. “And sometimes, I work out.”

At that, he hears the faintest murmur from you. A barely-there comment, but he catches it anyway.

“So that’s why you’re so—”

His gaze sharpens. “What?”

Your eyes widen slightly before you shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a moment, then smirks but lets it go.

Eventually, the work for the day comes to an end, and Jeongin glances at the time. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he offers. “I have to head to the church for a Bible study anyway.”

You nod, and the two of you step outside. The air is crisp, the sky brushed in hues of orange and pink. As you walk side by side, he asks, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“I want to be a writer,” you answer without hesitation.

Jeongin smiles at that. “And what do you want to write?”

A pause. A flicker of something in your expression. Then, you answer carefully, “Something like what you write.”

His smile lingers. “That won’t be too hard for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I— I still have so much to learn.”

Jeongin meets your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then learn,” he says simply.

For a moment, the space between you feels different—something softer, quieter. But then the bus arrives, breaking the moment.

You flash him one last smile before stepping on. Jeongin watches as you take your seat by the window, your gaze flickering to him one last time before the bus pulls away. Only when you’re out of sight does he finally turn back toward the church.

And yet, long after you’re gone, he still feels the weight of your presence.

That morning, Jeongin is composed. Focused. His voice carries through the church with practiced ease, each word of the sermon spoken with reverence. He is leading the mass, guiding the faithful through their prayers, his heart steady in its devotion. But then his eyes sweep over the congregation, and he sees you.

You’re sitting in the third pew, dressed in black, the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows casting a golden glow around you. A halo of light. Divine. Tempting.

Everyone else has their heads bowed, lost in prayer. But not you. You’re watching him. And when your eyes meet, you softly smile.

Jeongin hesitates for just a second, long enough for his chest to tighten, for his grip on the open scripture in his hands to falter. It takes everything in him to look away, to steady himself before continuing, to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing. He forces himself not to think about the fact that you’re here, watching him, sitting in his church like you belong.

Thankfully, he makes it through the sermon. Through the prayers. Through the responses. Then comes the Holy Communion.

Jeongin steps down from the altar, his movements precise, the chalice steady in his hands. The congregation forms a line, each person stepping forward in quiet reverence. He should be thinking of the sacrament, of the body of Christ, of his duty to serve.

Instead, his breath catches the moment he sees you in line. There is something exhilarating about knowing that in just a few moments, you will be standing before him. That you will bow your head, open your mouth, and receive the host from his hand.

And that moment is here.

You step forward, slightly bowing your head before raising your gaze to his. Jeongin swallows. You are close enough that he can see the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way you look at him—soft and knowing.

He whispers the words automatically, "Body of Christ."

"Amen," you reply.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and stick your tongue out just enough to receive the wafer.

Jeongin places it on your tongue, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers hover too close, almost brushing your skin.

Most people close their eyes during this moment, lost in prayer. But not you. You look at him through your lashes, through the quiet sanctity of the church, you keep your gaze on him as your tongue retreats, taking the wafer with it. And then you smile—a soft, fleeting thing—before turning away, kneeling at your pew, your head finally bowed in prayer.

Jeongin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His clerical collar suddenly feels too tight around his throat.

Once he's done with his duty, Jeongin finds you standing in front of the confession booth, your head slightly tilted, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

He approaches, hands tucked behind his back, and asks teasingly, “Thinking of making another confession?”

You turn to him, smiling softly, hands clasped in front of you in that familiar, obedient way that stirs something in him.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice light, playful.

Jeongin chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Your smile lingers. “Maybe I should come here more often.”

It’s meant to be a casual remark, but the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable—something daring—makes Jeongin pause. He can’t let himself dwell on it, not here. So he looks away, searching for something, anything, to ground himself.

“The canteen serves good food on Sundays,” he says instead, forcing normalcy into his voice. “I could get you something to eat.”

You shake your head, the movement small but certain. “That’s kind of you, but I actually came to tell you I won’t be able to work for the next two days. I have family stuff to attend.”

Jeongin nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Thank you, Father,” you say, voice gentle as you slightly bow your head. Then, as always, you smile before turning to leave.

Jeongin watches as you walk away, the hem of your black dress swaying with each step. He exhales slowly.

Maybe it’s for the best that you’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll finally be able to clear his head. Maybe...

Jeongin is mid-way through typing a response to his agent when the unexpected knocking pulls him away from his screen. He frowns, pushing his chair back, not expecting anyone at this hour. When he opens the door, the sight of you stops him in his tracks.

You stand there, completely soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and down your cheeks like tiny pearls. Your dress clings to your skin, outlining every dip and curve of your body. You’re visibly shivering, yet despite it all, you’re smiling, breathless as you mutter an apology.

Jeongin exhales, his grip on the doorknob tightening. You shouldn’t have come.

He steps aside, allowing you in. “You should’ve just gone home.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I felt bad for not coming to work.” You rub your arms, attempting to warm yourself. “I thought I should at least get something done.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment. Raindrops patter against the windows, your soft breaths filling the silence. Jeongin knows he should move, do something—anything—to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.

He clears his throat. “Wait here.”

He turns on his heels, walking to his closet where he pulls out a clean bathrobe, then returns to you, holding it out. “Your clothes need to go in the dryer. You can wear this while you wait.”

You nod, taking it from his hands. “Thank you.”

Jeongin watches as you head toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. He releases a breath, dragging a hand down his face. You’re undressing in the next room.

He swallows. He turns sharply toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea for you. Focusing on anything other than the thought of you peeling that wet dress off your skin.

The bathroom door clicks open and he hears your footsteps coming. Jeongin barely has a moment to process the sight of you in his bathrobe before you're hesitantly handing him your wet clothes. He takes them without a word, nodding toward the sofa and the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table prepared for you.

“Sit down, have some tea while you wait.”

As he steps away toward the laundry room, he keeps his focus sharp, resisting the urge to think too much about how your scent lingers on the fabric in his hands or that he catches a glimpse of your underwear. He doesn’t even bother untangling the bundle—just shoves it all into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses start. The low hum of the machine fills the small space, grounding him.

When he returns to the living room, you’re no longer sitting but standing by his desk, cradling the cup of tea in your hands.

“You must’ve written a lot while I was gone,” you say, your voice warm, teasing.

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle. “I tried. My agent’s been relentlessly threatening me about the deadlines, so I had no choice but to be productive.”

You nod, taking a small sip of your tea. It’s in that moment that Jeongin notices it—a thin trail of red slipping down your thigh, stark against your skin.

His body reacts before his mind catches up. His hands find your hips as he pulls you close, lifting the hem of your bathrobe without a second thought. His first concern is that you hurt yourself—maybe you scraped your skin, maybe you tripped on the way here. His heart is in his throat, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

Before he can see anything, you let out a sharp gasp and jerk back, pressing your hand against the fabric to stop him.

Jeongin lifts his gaze to yours, searching. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His brows knit together, unconvinced. “What do you mean it’s fine?”

“It’s just—” You shake your head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”

Jeongin isn’t satisfied with that answer. He can’t just ignore it. “Sit down,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate.

“Please.”

At that, you relent, perching yourself on the edge of the sofa. Jeongin disappears into the other room, retrieving the first aid kit. His mind whirls as he walks back.

Why did you react like that? And more importantly—what are you trying to hide from him?

Jeongin kneels in front of you, the first aid kit resting on the floor beside him. You’re clutching your thigh, not in pain but in an attempt to keep him from seeing.

“Let me take care of it,” he says softly, reaching for your wrist.

You hesitate before letting go, your hand falling to your lap.

Jeongin lifts the hem of the bathrobe slowly, carefully, exposing only what’s necessary. When he finally sees it—the crescent-shaped wounds pressed into your skin, fresh and oozing—his breath catches. He doesn’t need an explanation. He knows.

His hands move on their own, gentle and precise as he wipes the blood away with a clean cloth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why. Instead, he pulls out a cotton swab, dabs ointment onto it, and carefully applies it to your wound.

A sharp inhale escapes your lips, and instinctively, he leans down and blows a soft stream of air to soothe the sting. Your body trembles under his touch.

He keeps going, pressing gauze over the wound, securing it with a bandage to keep it sterile. The entire time, he hears your breathing grow uneven, the subtle shakes in your frame growing more noticeable. Then, he feels it—drops of warmth landing on your lap, one after another.

Tears.

Jeongin looks up, and his chest tightens. You’re crying. He says nothing but lets you cry, lets you break down in the quiet safety of his presence.

Then, with a voice raw and small, you speak. “It’s my mother.” You sniffle, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. “She—she puts so much pressure on me. I can only take so much.” A bitter, self-deprecating laugh follows. “And when I can’t, this happens.” Your fingers graze over the bandage, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeongin swallows, his own heart aching at your words. He shouldn’t touch you, but he does. His hand finds yours, firm yet gentle, anchoring you back to something solid.

“I just need to know,” you ask, lifting your gaze to his, “that everything will be okay.”

And that’s when he feels it—the unbearable pull toward you, toward the sadness in your eyes that he wants so desperately to replace with warmth, with something softer, purer, something that tells you that you are more than this pain.

So he lets himself. His hand moves to your face, cradling your jaw as he leans in. And then, he kisses you.

You’re softer than he imagined. Your lips taste like salt and sorrow, but beneath it, there’s something else—something fragile, something hopeful.

Jeongin is aware that he shouldn’t be doing this. But when he kisses you, truly kisses you, he feels something shift—something inside him unraveling, something he’s been trying to suppress for too long. It starts slow, soft, the press of his lips against yours nothing more than an unspoken question. But when you sigh into him, when your fingers tighten around his arms as if you’re afraid he might pull away, that quiet hesitation crumbles.

His hands move with purpose, sliding along the curve of your waist, parting the fabric of your robe like a sacred offering. His lips follow, pressing reverent kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down the delicate line of your sternum.

Every kiss is a silent promise, an unspoken prayer. You're more than your pain. More than the wounds carved into your skin. More than the weight you're carrying on your shoulders.

His mouth worships you, his hands tracing every inch of you as if committing you to memory. When he reaches your ribs, he pauses, breathing in deeply, as though he's afraid he might lose himself completely if he goes any further. His forehead presses against your stomach for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips as if grounding himself.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he sees is trust.

Jeongin has spent years searching for divinity in scripture, in prayer, in quiet solitude. But here, now, with you trembling beneath his touch, he wonders if he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

Everything about this moment—the warmth of your skin under his lips, the soft gasp that escapes you, the way your fingers tangle in his hair as if you’re holding on for dear life—tells him that he's walking a line he cannot uncross.

But as his mouth moves lower, pressing reverent kisses to the fragile skin of your inner thigh, he realizes that maybe he's already crossed it. Maybe he's been crossing it since the first time he met you.

Your breath hitches when his lips linger just above the bandaged wound, and for a moment, Jeongin forgets everything else. Forget that he's a priest, forget the weight of his collar, forget the promises he made.

Right now, all he knows is that you are here, trembling beneath him, looking at him like he holds the entire world in his hands. And maybe that’s why he forces himself to pause.

His lips are barely an inch from where you need him most, his hands gripping the curves of your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fights the war waging inside him. His forehead presses against your thigh, his breath warm against your skin as he tries to remember who he is supposed to be.

"Just one taste," he whispers, almost to himself, as if saying it out loud will justify what he's about to do. "God, all I need is just... one taste."

But as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes how weak of a promise it is and as his mouth moves ever closer, as your body arches in silent invitation—deep down, he knows one taste will never be enough.

Jeongin lingers for a moment, his lips pressed to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to steady the trembling restraint unraveling inside him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But he does. His lips trace reverent paths along your skin, his mouth pressing slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper, more lingering than the last. He hears the soft, shuddering sound you make—half sigh, half plea—and it undoes something inside him.

His hands slide up, parting you legs wider, exposing the thing between your legs to him, Gosh, your cunt is not just wet, it's soft and flushed, quivering right in front of his face.

He doesn't waste another second, he lowers his head, exhaling softly. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“I shouldn't do this,” he rasps as he falls apart at the seams.

But then, he smells it, the smell of your perfume, of your skin and of that delicate smell of female scent that he didn’t know he's been hungering for.

Jeongin traces his way from your clit to your cunt with his tongue and he's right, you're sweeter than he imagined, sweeter than any alcohol he ever tasted and none of them is as intoxicating this.

“Please...” He pleads, asking himself for one more taste.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sample you again. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, the way you arch toward him instinctively, seeking more. His resolve crumbles further, his self-control fraying as he presses a gentle kiss just where he knows you want him most. Right on your pulsing clit.

And then, finally—he gives in.

His arms curved around your thighs, fingers burrowing into the flesh and holding them open for his assault. He thrusts into you with his tongue, his lips and at times, he uses his teeth, eating you like a starving man.

A sound escapes you, something sweet and breathless, and Jeongin exhales sharply against you, his own restraint breaking piece by piece. He moves slowly at first, tasting, savoring, learning the way you react under him, how your body responds, how you whisper his name in a way that makes him feel utterly, devastatingly lost.

Your cunt is exactly as perfect as he's imagined all those nights as he lay awake on his bed and truthfully, in his sleep as well. The cause of him waking up with a hard on and all the cold showers he took after.

This is what he's been imagining of doing to you so he decides that he needs to make you come, and he will, he will make you come on his face. The thought alone is enough to make his cock jolts in his pants and there's a possibility that he may orgasm without even touching it.

Jeongin figures it's time to use his fingers next, running them between the fold and then slides two fingers inside, curling them to find the soft, textured spot that would push you over the edge.

You're shamelessly grinding back into his face now, your hand tangled in his dark locks, fingernails scratching his scalp, little sighs and moans spilling out of your parted mouth.

His arms steadily hold you in place, his touch both gentle and unyielding. He’s worshipping you, drowning himself in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your skin, in the quiet, gasping breaths that fill the air.

And when he hears you break, when your body tenses and shudders under him... everything else vanishes except you and your smell and your taste and the feeling of you clenching around his finger. And then—

Jeongin looks up and sees the crucifix on the wall of his apartment and his heart lurched as he looks at himself, kneeling as if he was praying to your cunt, kneeling with his head buried between your legs. He slowly pulls away and mutters to himself. What have I done?

Jeongin’s breath is uneven, his head is still rested on your stomach as he tries to ground himself, to remember who he is and what he’s supposed to be. But then you speak, your voice soft yet filled with something he can’t quite place—vulnerability, sincerity, maybe even wonder.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

He stills. His eyes search yours as if trying to confirm what you just said, and when he sees nothing but honesty reflected back at him, something inside him shifts.

“No one’s ever made me come before,” you correct your earlier remark.

He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, how no one has ever taken the time to take care of you, to taste you.

“No guy has ever gone down on you?”

You innocently nod in response to his question.

It unsettles him, but more than that, it makes him feel something else—something dangerously close to pride. He was the first. He was the one to show you.

Before he can dwell on the thought for too long, you reach for him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, keeping him close when he instinctively tries to put distance between you.

“Let me return the favor to you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He knows what you’re asking before you even say it. “You don’t have to,” he replies quickly, shaking his head as he attempts to step back, but you don’t let him.

“I know.” You tilt your head, looking up at him, your eyes dark yet pleading. “But I want to.”

Jeongin swallows, his resolve wavering. “I don't think— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” you whisper again, the word laced with something that makes his body betray him. Your lips brush over the sharp line of his jaw, featherlight, teasing, testing. “Please, please, please.”

He exhales harshly, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the war raging within him. The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, makes him feel as though you’ve wrapped yourself around him entirely, pulling him into something he knows he shouldn't give into.

“We don’t have to have sex. I just need to see you come," you coax with your low, sultry voice, one hand slipping under his sweater. “Father, please...”

One last plea, one final whisper of please against his skin, and he feels himself crumble.

You pull him by the arms, making him sit on the sofa next to you and your hands swiftly working open his slacks. The second his cock is out of its confine, you immediately claim his lap, straddling him.

The bathrobe loosely hangs around your shoulders and you do nothing to fix it. Your breasts are merely inches away from his mouth, the hardening buds inviting him to wrap his lips around it so he does. The hardness of your nipples and the softness of your flesh is all he could feel in his mouth.

You hover over his lap for a second to reposition yourself on him, allowing your slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock and you begin stroking him that way. You feel so soft, so warm, so... wet.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips, his touch hesitant, torn between holding you still and letting you move the way you want. His breath is uneven, his head tilted back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, but his grip tightens when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear, your voice sweet, teasing. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down to watch the way your flesh pressed against his, the way your clitoris peeking out, the way the weight of your body pressing against his cock gives him that similar feeling of having real penetrative sex and he thinks that maybe this wouldn’t count as a sin. Even if he was, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know how even if he wanted to.

Everything about it is messy yet highly erotic, the way your bathrobe hanging onto your elbows now, the way his slacks are pulled down just enough to free his erection, the way you shamelessly angle yourself so that his shaft would press on you in all the right places, the way it's just your arousal lubricating the two of you and nothing else, and God, he suddenly gets the urge to own you, make you, take you. He wants this moment to last forever.

As if you hear his thoughts and see through his head, you smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint he’s using, and it only makes you want to push him further.

You move again, a little slower this time, watching the way his breath catches in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, a sharp exhale leaving his lips.

“You should stop,” he tries again, but it sounds weaker now, unconvincing.

You shake your head. “Not until you let go.”

His hands tremble against you, and you know—he’s close to breaking. It's pure instinct that makes him grab your hips and work you harder and faster over him and then—

Everything flooding through him, you, your body, your legs caging his body, the taste and the smell of you that lingers on his tongue, mouth and face. A low moan escapes your mouth at the sight of his seed spurting onto his stomach and it feels like hours instead of seconds that he is suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

Jeongin stays still, his breath shaky as you press your forehead against his. The warmth of your skin, the way your body molds against his—it should be comforting, but all he feels is the weight of his own actions crashing down on him. What has he done?

His hands remain on your waist, fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He should’ve stopped. But instead, he let himself fall—let himself indulge in something he swore he would never have.

His throat tightens as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press a gentle kiss on his cheem. The touch is soft, delicate, filled with something he can’t quite name.

And then you whisper, “Thank you, Father.”

His entire body tenses. His stomach churns. His breath catches. The title feels heavier than it ever has before, suffocating him in ways he never imagined. He swore to be a guide, a shepherd, a man of God—and yet, here he is, lost in sin, drowning in temptation, unable to resist the warmth of you.

Jeongin shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know if he should repent or pull you back in. And that terrifies him the most.

Jeongin has spent the entire morning convincing himself that last night was a mistake. That it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.

But when he thinks of you—your warmth, your touch, the way you whispered his name—it lingers in his mind like the burn of whiskey down his throat.

This… whatever this is between you and him, it feels dangerously familiar. Like alcohol. Like the thing that once consumed him, ruled him, made him forget himself.

Addiction.

Jeongin knows what addiction feels like. He knows what it means to crave something so badly that it overtakes him, that it becomes impossible to resist. And he knows that if he doesn’t stop this now, if he lets himself fall again, there will be no stopping it. He has to put an end to it before it becomes something he can’t control.

So when you walk into his apartment that afternoon, smiling as if nothing happened, acting like last night was just another moment in time, Jeongin knows something needs to be said.

You set your bag down and move toward your usual spot by the desk. “Good afternoon, Father.” There’s something teasing in your voice, light and unbothered. “Did you get some writing done?”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, the way you move so effortlessly through the space, like you belong here. Like you weren’t wrapped around him last night, dragging him into sin.

“Please, sit down,” Jeongin firmly says, his jaws are clenched. “We need to talk.”

Your smile falters, but you quickly mask it. “Alright,” you say, moving to sit across from him.

Jeongin sits across from you, his fingers loosely clasped together as he exhales slowly. The weight of the past few days sits heavy on his chest, pressing down like an unbearable burden. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll waver.

“I used to drink,” he finally says, voice calm but distant. “More than I should have. At first, it was just a glass or two. A way to relax, a way to take the edge off. But then it became more. I started craving it—not just the taste, but the feeling. The escape.”

Your gaze lingers on him, silent but attentive.

“I convinced myself I had control over it. That I could stop whenever I wanted. But addiction doesn’t work like that.” He lifts his hands, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Relapse is always a possibility. No matter how strong you think you are, there’s always a moment of weakness. A moment when the craving wins.”

He finally looks at you, and his stomach tightens.

“This… what’s happening between us—it’s the same,” he admits. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep my feelings in check. That I could stop before it became something I couldn’t control.” His jaw clenches. “But I was wrong.”

You shift slightly, and Jeongin forces himself to keep going before he loses his resolve.

“I know what I have to do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “I have to stop before this becomes something I can’t turn back from. Before I start craving you the way I once craved alcohol.” He swallows hard. “I have to distance myself from you.”

The words feel heavier than he anticipated, but they need to be said. He waits for your reaction, dreading it. But he knows—if he doesn’t do this now, he might never be able to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice is quiet, cautious.

Jeongin meets your gaze then, his expression unreadable. “Because last night… it felt the same.”

The room stills. Your lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out.

Jeongin swallows hard. “It felt like something I could lose control over. And if I let it happen again… I will.”

Something flickers in your eyes—hurt, confusion, maybe even frustration—but you keep your voice soft. “So what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, pushing his chair back as if putting physical distance between you will make it easier. “I need to stop before it becomes an addiction.”

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to understand. And then, as if the realization finally settles in, your hands tighten into fists on your lap.

“So, you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw. He nods. “I have to.”

The silence is unbearable. When he stands, turning his back to you, it takes everything in him not to look back.

From that day forward, Jeongin keeps his word and distance.

He doesn’t fire you—doing so would be unprofessional, and more than that, it would feel too much like running away. Instead, he sets clear boundaries. No in-person meetings. Everything is to be communicated through email, with phone calls only when absolutely necessary.

And you, as always, listen.

Days pass, then weeks. His inbox fills with your messages—concise, professional, devoid of the warmth that once lingered in them. You do everything he asks, following his new rules without question.

It should make things easier. It should make it hurt less but it doesn’t. Because every time he sees your name on his screen, he remembers the way you looked at him that night. The way you whispered please like a prayer. The way your hands clung to him as if letting go would break you. And he hates himself for remembering.

Then, one Sunday, he sees you again. It’s unexpected. You’re seated at the farthest row of the church, hands clasped together on your lap, head bowed in quiet prayer.

Jeongin’s breath catches for a moment, but he forces himself to focus, to continue leading the mass as if your presence doesn’t affect him.

Yet, as he reads out the prayers, his thoughts stray.

He prays for you. He prays that you find peace, that you heal—not just from the wounds on your skin but from the ones buried deep inside you. He prays that you are happy. Truly, deeply happy.

By the time the mass ends, Jeongin searches for you again, but you’re already gone and he doesn’t understand why disappointment sinks so heavily in his chest.

Isn’t this what he wanted? To stay away? So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

He retreats to the sacristy, changing out of his vestments with quiet efficiency. He folds each piece carefully, letting the steady rhythm of the task ground him. Once done, he makes his way to his office, his mind already preoccupied with what he needs to do next.

Then, he sees you standing in the hallway, waiting.

Jeongin freezes for a split second before something warm blooms in his chest—something dangerously close to elation.

You notice him immediately. A small smile lifts your lips as you give him a slight bow. “Father Yang,” you greet, your voice gentle, familiar.

And then, as casually as if nothing has changed, you ask, “Can I now take your offer to buy me something from the canteen?”

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into an amused smile before he nods.

The canteen is bustling with people—parishioners fresh out of mass, staff enjoying their break—but Jeongin manages to secure two slices of pizza casserole and a cinnamon roll for you. With the plates in hand, the two of you step outside, choosing a quiet table overlooking the garden.

For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The sun is warm but not overwhelming, the soft hum of conversation from the canteen drifting through the open air.

After a few bites and a sip of water, you reach for a napkin, dabbing your lips with practiced elegance. Then, you open your mouth to speak.

Jeongin already knows what you’re going to say so he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”

But you stop him with a small shake of your head. “That’s actually why I came here,” you say.

A small grin tugs at his lips. “So you didn’t come here to pray?” he teases.

You chuckle, a soft, genuine sound. “I did. But… I also wanted to apologize.” You pause, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. I—I guess it was because you were there, because you were kind and…”

You don’t finish your sentence, you look down at your plate and

Jeongin exhales, lowering his voice. “I appreciate you saying that. Because it means you know and understand what you're apologizing for,” His fingers graze the rim of his cup, a nervous habit. “I have a vow to uphold, I have to honor God. The oath that I took. But that night…” He swallows. “I blame myself for that night. I took advantage of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing your face. “No.” Your voice is firm. “You didn’t.”

You place your napkin down, sitting up straighter. “I may have parents who control me, but I’m also my own person and I'm old enough to know what I want. That night, I chose to let you do that. I wanted it.”

Jeongin stays silent, watching you, searching your expression for any hesitation. He finds none.

After a second, you add, “But I'll respect your vow, Father. I won’t bother you again.”

And Jeongin—he should feel relieved. He should feel grateful that you understand, that you accept the boundary he’s desperately trying to reinforce.

But instead, it stings. It stings more than it should.

Jeongin reckons that if his hands are occupied, if his mind is filled with scripture, if his days are structured down to the hour—there will be no space for thoughts of you.

So he keeps himself busy. He leads mass three times a week, his voice steady as he delivers sermons, as if he truly believes that his words can wash away the impurities he carries. Sundays are the most demanding, yet the easiest, because the church is full and there are so many people that it’s easy to forget the empty space inside him.

He leads Bible study once a week, listening to discussions about faith and virtue, nodding along even as a quiet voice inside him whispers: You’re a hypocrite.

He assists the youth group, guiding young minds, helping them find their path before they can stumble into temptation. Before they can become him.

And every afternoon, he sits in the confession booth, listening to whispered sins through the lattice, offering absolution in the form of quiet reassurances and memorized prayers.

It’s been going on like this for a week now. Jeongin does not give himself a chance to rest, because rest means silence, and silence means space for memories to creep in. For your voice. Your touch. The way you felt beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was something more than just a man wearing a collar.

Jeongin grips the edges of the wooden pew in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He bows his head, inhaling sharply, as if he can exhale you from his lungs.

He has been strong. He has been devoted. He has repented. Or so he thought until his temptation shows up in front of him.

Jeongin stops in his tracks. His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides, his heartbeat kicks up to an unforgiving pace.

He thought—no, hoped—that drowning himself in devotion would cleanse him of you. That if he buried himself in scripture, in sermons, in the confessions of others, he could somehow wash away the imprint you left on him. But now, standing here, looking at you, he knows it was all in vain.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he takes in the sight of you. His apartment door feels a thousand miles away, and yet you—you—are impossibly close.

His heart betrays him before his mind can intervene, a rush of longing surging through his veins. You’re clutching something—a big paper bag. He can’t tell what it is, not when his focus keeps flickering to the way your hands tremble slightly, the way your eyes lift to meet his with that same quiet intensity that undid him before.

Jeongin swallows. This is it. A fight or flight situation.

But what exactly is he trying to fight? You? Or the part of himself that so desperately wants to take a step forward instead of back?

What exactly is he trying to run away from? Sin? Or the possibility that he doesn't regret it the way he should?

Jeongin doesn’t move because the real question isn’t whether he should fight or flee. It’s whether he has the strength to do either when all he really wants—all he truly, desperately wants—is you.

All of a sudden, you shift, standing upright from where you were leaning against the wall, clutching a bag in front of you. And then you smile. “Hello, Father.”

It’s just a greeting—nothing unusual, nothing improper—but coming from you, it stirs something deep inside him. Something he has spent nights praying to silence. Something he has drowned himself in work to forget.

For a moment, he is back in the confessional, back to the first time he heard those words from your lips. And then, he is back in that dimly lit room, back to the way you had whispered Father in a voice so delicate, so devastatingly sweet, that it had unraveled something inside him.

He swallows thickly and keeps his voice steady. “How have you been?”

You tilt your head slightly, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve been doing well.” A soft pause. “How about you?”

Jeongin doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to explain the countless hours spent in the church, the prayers that never seem to be enough, the guilt that clings to him like a second skin. So he lies. “I’m doing okay.”

You nod, as if accepting it. Then, gently, you ask, “Do you mind if I come in for a while?”

Of course, he minds. Of course, he should say no. But instead, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets you inside—knowing full well that he’s stepping into temptation itself.

You place the bag you were carrying on the small dining table and carefully pull out a box, lifting the lid to reveal a cake inside. “I wanted to congratulate you,” you say softly. “For finishing your book.”

Jeongin nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you.” His voice is quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will break whatever fragile restraint he has left.

He smiles, and it’s genuine—he is grateful for the gesture—but he’s afraid. Afraid of what will happen if he lets himself be grateful. Afraid of the thoughts in his head, the ones that threaten to spill out if he isn’t careful.

He forces himself to focus, “Have you received the last payment for your work?”

You nod. “I have, Father. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he replies, shaking his head. “You earned it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain. Jeongin isn’t sure how to carry this—how to hold this moment without it slipping through his fingers and becoming something he can’t take back. Should he stop it here? Should he say something that will make you leave? Or should he just let it happen?

Then, before he can decide, you speak. “Father, can I make another confession?”

His breath catches. He should say no. He should tell you to come to the church like everyone else, to sit in the booth and let the wooden partition separate you like it’s meant to. But that would be a lie.

Because the truth is, he wants to hear it. Whatever it is, whatever words you’re about to give him, he wants them.

The two of you sit facing each other. Jeongin sits motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, as you take the seat across from him. The room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that magnifies everything—the sound of your breathing, the weight of his own pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice steadier than he feels.

You nod and together, you make the sign of the cross, murmuring, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Your hands lower, folding over your lap, but your fingers fidget slightly, twisting together.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words hit him harder than they should. He has heard them countless times from countless lips, but from you, they settle differently—carrying something heavier, something more intimate.

"I'm not sure how to start but I'm okay," you continue. "I’ve been doing well. I still feel the pressure from my parents but I’ve managed to handle it without... hurting myself."

Jeongin exhales slowly. Relief is a strange thing—something he should embrace, something he should hold onto, but instead, it mixes with something else. A quiet, aching guilt.

"That’s good to hear," he says, and he means it.

"However, there’s something else," you admit, voice softer but carrying an edge. "Something that’s been bothering me."

Jeongin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He only listens.

"I’ve been thinking about why I took this job in the first place." A pause. You lower your gaze for a brief moment before lifting it again, searching for something in him. "Clearly, I didn’t need the money. I have more than enough."

The way you say it—it’s not an explanation. It’s a confession.

"I think… I was looking for something. A distraction. An escape." Your voice lingers in the space between you. "And of all the flyers on the bulletin board, I saw yours first and I don’t think that was just a coincidence. I think it was fate that I found it. That I found you."

Jeongin feels something coil in his chest. Fate. It’s a word that should comfort him, should feel divine, but instead, it makes him afraid.

"I liked working with you. I liked being around you." You pause, your voice almost fragile. "You made me feel… safe. At peace. Like you kept my darkness at bay."

Jeongin wants to hold onto those words, wants to accept them without letting them mean too much. But how can he, when they already do?

Then there’s a shift in your expression. Something deeper, something almost… dangerous.

"But then that night happened."

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"It awakened something in me," you say, voice softer now. "A different kind of darkness."

Jeongin swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. Because he knows. He knows exactly what kind of darkness you mean and worse—he feels it too.

Jeongin sees it all—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twist at the hem of your skirt, the way your voice lowers, softer now, edged with something dangerous. He can hear it in your breathing, in the hesitation before you speak. And then, you say it. "I've been thinking about you."

Jeongin swallows, but the dryness in his throat lingers. He keeps his expression still, unreadable, though his heart betrays him, beating faster, harder.

"Just the way you look at me," you continue, voice almost fragile. "The way you speak to me… the way you say my name."

He exhales slowly, discreetly, as if releasing the pressure in his chest will steady him. It doesn't.

Then, your voice drops even lower, as if confessing something far worse. "Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything. I think about you constantly, and sometimes... sometimes that isn't enough."

His brow lifts—just slightly—but the movement feels like stepping closer to the edge of something irreversible.

"I've been getting off while thinking about you."

Silence. A deafening silence. Jeongin clenches his hands into fists in his lap. If restraint had a form, it would be the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The part of him that should shut this down, that should guide you back into the light, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, he asks, "You've touched yourself thinking of me?"

Your nod is small, innocent, sinful.

"Mostly," you murmur, "I think of the way you look at me. Like you're trying to—" You stop. But he knows.

Jeongin exhales sharply, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying you. "And why did you come here tonight?"

You bite your lip. Hesitate. Lie.

He sees it before you even speak, and it almost makes him smile. "Remember, lying is a sin," he says, leaning forward, voice quiet but commanding. "So tell me—why did you come here tonight?"

The silence stretches between you. You hesitate, fingers twitching toward your thigh—the same spot where he knows you like to dig your nails into the flesh. The moment you realize he's watching, you quickly clasp your hands together in your lap.

"I want you to give me one more," you finally whisper.

His fingers twitch. "One more what?"

You shift in your seat. Your lips part, but no words come out at first. He watches, listens to the silence, lets it stretch until you can’t take it anymore.

"I want you to make me come again."

A slow exhale leaves him, steady, controlled, but something shifts inside him—something that tells him this moment has already spiraled past redemption.

Leaning back in his chair, Jeongin lets the tension settle into something almost… triumphant. He had suffered alone for too long, questioning whether he was the only one plagued by this torment.

And now—now, he knows. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His lips part, exhaling a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is calm, but edged with something darker. "You came here tonight, lying about your intentions. You said all of that in the middle of a confession." He tilts his head. "Do you know what that means?"

You lower your gaze, eyes on your clasped hands as if you've only now realized the weight of your actions.

"It means," he murmurs, "that you are willfully leading another person into wrongful action or thought."

A pause.

"And that," he continues, "is a sin."

Your breath shudders, fingers tightening around each other. "What do I have to do for my penance, Father?" you whisper.

Jeongin leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tilting his head back just enough to catch the crucifix on the wall in his peripheral vision.

Forgive me for I am about to sin again.

When he lowers his head again, his gaze finds yours—watching, waiting. And then—

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And you obey.

Jeongin looks down at you, his breath unsteady despite the effort to keep himself composed. You kneel before him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting. There’s a flicker of hesitation in your gaze, but beneath it, something far more resolute. A silent plea. A challenge.

His fingers find your jaw, gripping firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him, to ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking for. He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. They are wide, expectant, full of something he shouldn’t acknowledge.

"So you want to me to make you come, huh?" His voice is lower than intended, almost hoarse.

You nod and he tightens his grip. "Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe, almost too quiet. "I want you to make me come."

He exhales sharply, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips, smearing the carefully applied lipstick as he studies the way your mouth parts under his touch. His restraint is thinning. He should stop. He knows he should. But your breath hitches, and something in your expression—so innocent, yet so utterly brazen—unravels him further.

"You know this is wrong to ask me that."

Another nod. "Yes"

Jeongin drags his thumb down, over the soft curve of your chin, his touch lingering before he lets go, sitting back. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But all he feels is this terrible, consuming desire.

"You're a filthy, filthy girl," he mutters, somewhere between scorn and wonder.

The words are barely out of his mouth before he sees the effect they have on you. Your lashes flutter, your breath stutters, your fingers tighten against your thighs. As if you’d been waiting for him to say it. As if you wanted to hear it.

The realization makes something dark coil inside him. Jeongin leans back, spreading his hands over his thighs as he watches you, watches the way you anticipate his next words, his next move.

"Take off your dress," he orders, his voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war waging inside him.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching behind you, unzipping the fabric and pulling it over your head. The dress pools at your knees, leaving you in delicate, cream-colored undergarments. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, but his first instinct is not to linger where he shouldn’t—it’s to search for what matters most. Your thighs.

He looks for the marks, the wounds he knows too well. The evidence of your pain, your struggle. His jaw tenses until he finds them—faded now, healing. No fresh ones. No new pain.

Only then does he allow himself to truly look at you. Every curve, every delicate line of your body—so fragile, yet so unyielding in your desire. You kneel before him, and for the first time in three years, Jeongin feels something crack inside him.

Temptation has never been this human. This devastating. This inevitable.

Jeongin rises from his chair, slow and deliberate. The air between you shifts, thickens, as he steps forward, his presence looming over you where you kneel at his feet. His sharp, foxy eyes bore down into yours, and you meet his gaze without hesitation—bold, unwavering.

He exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to ease the tightness constricting his throat. His fingers move lower, unfastening the first button, then the second, a calculated pause between each. Not out of hesitation. No, Jeongin is in control. He just wants you to wait.

His hands drop next to his belt, gripping the leather before he yanks it free with a sharp, deliberate pull. The sound slices through the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way your breath catches—just for a second. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Instead, he takes his time working the buckle open, then the button, then the slow, almost lazy drag of his zipper. He does it methodically, making sure you feel every second pass.

Anticipation is a game, and Jeongin plays to win.

When he finally pushes the fabric down, baring himself completely, he doesn’t miss a thing—the widening of your eyes, the quiet hitch of breath, the way your tongue darts out, wetting your lips like a creature starved.

Something about that look—hunger, reverence, surrender—makes his control slip, just a little.

Because, for all his restraint, for all the rules he’s tried to follow, Jeongin has always known one thing. He was never strong enough to resist you.

He watches you for a second, reveling in the way your lips part, how your breath quickens, how your pupils darken with need. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

His hand moves with purpose, fingers curling under your chin before sliding up to grasp your jaw, firm yet controlled. He tilts your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. It’s not a request—it’s a command.

You obey, though he can feel the way your breath hitches under his grip. He doesn’t loosen it. Instead, he presses his thumb against your lower lip, parting your mouth open wider. He holds you there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle, watching your lips quiver slightly under his touch.

“Keep it open,” he instructs.

And then, without warning, he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing them onto your tongue. Your lips wrap around them instinctively, your cheeks hollowing as you suck, slow and deliberate. He watches, fascinated, as your tongue moves against his skin, warm and wet, taking him deeper.

His breath comes heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges as he feels the way you work your mouth around him, as if you’re showing him—wordlessly—just how much you want him, how much you crave him.

Jeongin swallows hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, hard enough that it makes a loud popping sound.

“Let's try that again,” he mutters with jaws clenched.

You keep your mouth open for him, ignoring how your saliva is dribbling from one corner of your mouth while keeping your eyes on him.

He wraps his hand around his cock, hard as it possibly gets and hot inside his palm. He gently rubs the tip with his thumb before aiming it toward your mouth.

“Keep it open,” he voice has an edge to it, rushed.

He puts his length inside and watches as his length disappearing into your mouth, little by little. When he deems he's deep enough, he swallows air.

“Now, close it.”

A hiss escapes his mouth the second you close your mouth around it. He's forgotten how good this is, how hot and slick a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it feels around him. His eyes flick down and catches your hand going between your legs, caressing your clothed core.

For a second, he can’t believe this good girl, a trust fund baby and a taste for expensive clothes is nothing but a bobbing mess of head between his legs. He suddenly gets the urge to thrust into your mouth, he suppresses it but he decides to indulge himself just a little. He runs his hands through your hair, using it to keep your head still as he pushes deeper until he hits the back of your throat and immediately slides it back out.

Oh, he's never been harder than this before and when he pulls away, he can see every vein, he can feel the painfully swollen crest as it flares out. His cock is throbbing with so much need and that’s when he knows he has to feel you

But before that, he needs to taste you again.

"Get up and take everything off." His voice is steady, unwavering, though inside, restraint coils tightly around him like a vice.

You obey without hesitation. Standing up, fingers move with quiet precision as each article of clothing falls away, baring yourself to him piece by piece. He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to take you in—the curves, the softness, the way candlelight casts flickering shadows across your skin.

Your body is a vision. His heaven. And yet, his ruin.

"Go to the altar," he instructs.

You turn, stepping forward toward the structure pressed against the wall, your back facing him. There’s something about the way you carry yourself—so trusting, so willing—that stirs something darker inside him. He waits, watching as you reach the altar, as your breath subtly hitches in anticipation as he makes you wait.

Slowly, deliberately, Jeongin begins to undress, shrugging off layers until only the dark fabric of his shirt remains, parted in the front, exposing the rise and fall of his chest. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat simmering beneath his skin.

He moves toward you. "Hands on the altar," he orders, his voice lower now, softer but laced with something unmistakable.

You comply instantly, palms pressing flat against the surface, body bowing slightly forward. He closes the space between you—not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to be felt.

Jeongin places a hand at the nape of your neck, his fingers spreading over your skin. The moment he makes contact, he feels the shiver that ripples through you, sees the way goosebumps bloom in his wake. He likes that. Likes the way you respond to him without a word, without even seeing his face.

His hand drags downward, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine at a maddening pace. You exhale sharply, your body betraying you in the way it subtly arches, in the quiet whimper that slips past your lips.

He lets his touch linger before withdrawing, dropping to his knees behind you. The first press of his lips against the back of your thigh is featherlight, a mere ghost of contact, yet your legs tremble as if he’s already undone you. And he hasn’t even started yet.

Jeongin lingers there, kneeling behind you, his breath ghosting over your skin. He watches the way your fingers curl against the altar, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body anticipates him without a single word being spoken.

He starts slow. The press of his lips trails higher, along the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips. He savors the way you shudder, the way your breath falters. His hands follow, gliding over your skin, fingers kneading into flesh, learning every dip and softness like a prayer.

Then, with a firm grip, he coaxes you apart. A sharp inhale from you. A deep exhale from him.

Jeongin leans in, burying his mouth between your ass cheeks. The first touch of his tongue on your cunt is tentative, almost reverent, but he quickly finds the rhythm that has you trembling against him. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He works you open with slow, unhurried precision, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he’s making up for every moment he’s denied himself this.

Your hands grip the altar tighter, your breathing turns uneven, your body tilts just the slightest bit forward. He takes it as permission. As confirmation.

The sounds you make, the way you try to stay quiet yet fail, send something dangerous surging through him. His nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, refusing to let you escape from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He used to kneel here, in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed in devotion. But tonight—tonight, he kneels for something else entirely. He kneels before you. Not in prayer, but in worship.

You're shamelessly arching your back more and as a test, Jeongin pulls away, he can almost hear your groan of complaints from the sudden loss of contact. He gets up, looming behind you, his breath measured, his control razor-thin and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper. "Turn around and sit on the altar."

You hesitate but obey, turning around to face him and lifting yourself onto the altar, your legs hanging over the edge. The contrast is almost poetic—the sacred and the profane, colliding in the dim glow of candlelight.

He steps closer, his hands bracketing you, his body caging yours. His gaze lingers on your lips before he tilts his head and presses his mouth to yours. Soft at first, testing. But you don’t yield. You keep your lips sealed, eyes flickering with something untamed, something that dares him to take more.

And Jeongin—God help him—rises to the challenge. His hand finds your throat, fingers wrapping firm but not unkind. He feels the pulse beneath his palm, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm hammering inside his own chest. A push, just enough to make you tilt your head back until it meets the wall behind you. He leans in again, this time kissing you with purpose, swallowing the sharp breath you take in surprise. He kisses you until you have no choice but to part for him, until resistance crumbles and submission tastes sweet on his tongue.

His body follows, pressing against you, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate roll. The friction is intoxicating, pulling a soft sound from your lips that nearly undoes him. He pulls away just as abruptly, his hand still firm at your neck, his lips hovering close enough that his breath fans over your parted mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous.

You nod, obedient, but it’s not enough. His fingers tighten, just for a moment—a reminder.

“Words!”

A breathless whisper. “Yes.”

Jeongin releases you, only to slide his hands down, pushing your legs apart with the same authority. His eyes drop, and for a moment, he forgets himself—no scripture, no vow, nothing exists but the sight of you bared before him.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath coming a little heavier. He grips your thighs, pressing your feet to the edge of the altar, opening you further. Every muscle in his body coils tight with restraint, but when he drags his gaze back to yours, the weight of his next words settles between you like a confession.

“Stay still.” He tilts his head, voice softer but no less commanding. “Stay very still.”

You nod, and this time, he doesn’t correct you because he’s already too far gone.

He leans his forehead against your and both of you looking down to watch as his tip presses against your entrance, and then slowly, he slips it inside. He stops when the crest of his cock is in you, and then freezes, muscles quivering.

And just like that, he has his first bite of the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

Another moment passes with the two of you just stare down at it, at the sight of his cock inside you. You look away first, looking at him as you ask, “How do I feel?”

You're so tight it's squeezing him and honestly, there are no words to describe what that wet, velvety walls is doing to him. All he can think about is sinking deeper into you, deeper into this hell disguised as heaven.

Jeongin has to force his brain to work to form a coherent answer, “You feel... heavenly.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you move forward just the tiniest. Impulsively, Jeongin grabs your neck again and quickly calming himself down, refuses to come from that little movement. Instead of fear, he sees the glint in your eyes, wild and daring, you're enjoying this a little too much.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminds you.

Your eyes going back to the place where you and him connected. Then together, you watch as his big hand pressing into your delicate flesh, watching it quivering around the tip of his cock. His thumb hovers over your clit before rubbing on it.

As you draw a sharp breath, he feels you clenched around him and he hisses, grabbing the countertop to keep himself from losing it.

He knows you're trying to stay still and you want to see yourself come around him as much as he does. He quickens the pace of his rubbing, of his thumb applying gentle pressures on your clit.

You have your lips pressed into a thin line until you can’t help it anymore but moan and plead. “Please...”

“Please what?” He asks, his voice dark and heavy.

You can barely talk as moans constantly spilling out of your mouth, your head lolling to the side, you arched back shoving your breasts closer to him. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to lower his head and sucks on your nipple, loving the feel of it hardening on his tongue.

He drags his mouth to your neck, kissing and about to bite on the skin when you suddenly come undone before him. Your body rolls as if you move along to the waves of pleasure washing over you, again and again, all the while you keep tightening around him.

The thought that he can make you come with only the shallowest of penetrations drives him wild. You slump in his arms as you slowly come down from your high and resting your head on his shoulder.

Jeongin is about to pull out but you grab his hip, stopping him. You shake your head as you take another second to compute words. “I want you to come inside me next.”

“You know that I can't,” he breathlessly mutters, his hand grips the edge of the altar.

“You don’t have to worry, I'm on the pill,” you assure him, your hand grasping at his shirt now, afraid that he'll try to get away again. And then—soft, breathless—you say it. “Please, Jeongin.”

You’ve only ever called him Father. The title has lingered between you, a constant reminder of what he is, what he shouldn’t be. But now, with his body tangled with yours, the weight of his name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting to be spoken.

If this is the last time that he gets to do it then yes, he's going to give it to you, to himself and frankly, he would agree to anything, no matter how wrong it is because for some reasons, that's what makes it sweeter so Jeongin nods.

A sly smile blooms on your face as you lean back against the wall, digging your heels to the edge of the altar. The little maneuver doesn't move him any deeper inside, but it makes you tighten around him, and nudges him closer to his climax.

You run your hands to the undersides of your breasts, circling your thumbs on your stiff nipples and then pressing them together to the middle, showing him how luscious and ample they are.

God, he needs to move, needs to thrust. He needs to fuck.

He watches as your fingers go to your clit and you start to get yourself off again. You drown out your moans by shoving the other fingers and pumping them in and out of your mouth, the same mouth that has gotten his cock hard as rock.

And then, you move your hips ever so slightly, rocking them just enough to let him slipping in and out of you. Oh, he's only an inch and half inside you but he can feel how wet, how tight, and the next thing he knows, he shudders as pleasure is taking over him. His legs trembling, he can barely breathe as it rips through him, his first time coming inside a woman in years.

He does all his best to stay composed, not wanting to miss out on anything, he wants to imprint it in his memory, the sight of his seed filling and then dripping out of you.

Jeongin pulls out just enough as his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing something he can’t bear to lose. Your breath is warm against his collarbone, your cheek pressed against his chest, and he can feel the faint, rapid beat of your heart against his skin. His own pulse is just as frantic, yet his body is still—both of you caught in the quiet aftermath of what you’ve just done.

His hands skim down your back, fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, grounding himself in the reality of you. He notices that the two of you knocked a few things off the altar but all he can focus on is the way you fit against him, how perfectly you mold into him, like you were meant to be here, like this.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his lips pressing against the top of your head, almost unconsciously. A thought creeps into his mind, unbidden yet undeniable—sin has never tasted this sweet before.

Jeongin watches as you remain on the altar, your body still bathed in the afterglow of everything you’ve done. He knows he should step away, put distance between you, but instead, he moves with purpose—retrieving a damp cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels before you, his touch slow, deliberate, as he cleans the mess he made. He does it with care, with reverence, as if making up for all the ways he has defiled you.

Afterward, he gathers your clothes, shaking off the weight of sin that clings to them as if the fabric itself remembers. He helps you dress—zipping up your dress, smoothing the wrinkles. Every movement is unspoken penance, his way of giving back what he took.

When he finally meets your gaze, he braces himself before saying it. “This is it.” His voice is steady, but inside, something cracks. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as he continues, “There’ll be no more of this.”

To his surprise, you only nod. “I know.”

Something about your acceptance unsettles him more than if you had fought it. Before the weight of it can crush him, Jeongin pulls you in, one last time, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not hunger, not desperation—it’s something gentler, something deeper. A kiss that lingers, that memorizes. A kiss that means goodbye.

When he pulls away, instinct guides him. His fingers brush over your forehead, and before he can stop himself, he traces a cross against your skin. A blessing. A final act of absolution.

He then looks at you, memorizing every detail—the way your lashes flutter as you blink, the way your lips are still slightly swollen, the way your chest rises and falls with each quiet breath. He wants to believe that this is mercy, that ending it now is the only way to save both of you. But as he watches you, standing there in silence, he wonders if salvation was ever meant for him at all.

“Go in peace,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze, searching, waiting. But there is nothing left to say. Slowly, you turn and step away, your presence fading like the last flicker of a dying candle.

Jeongin stands there, unmoving, as the air between you turns cold. He has given you his final blessing, but as he watches you leave, he realizes—

He may have absolved you. But he has damned himself.

Jeongin's manuscript has been approved. His agent gave him the green light, the final stamp of approval before it moves toward publication. This should be a moment of relief, of pride. He’s worked tirelessly, pouring himself into every page, yet all he can focus on is what this truly means. He has no reason to see you again.

And he should be grateful. This is his chance to break away from his biggest temptation, to put you behind him, to return to the disciplined, righteous path he chose for himself. But instead, he feels devastated.

The feeling sits heavy in his chest, like an ache that won’t go away so he does the only thing he can think of. He goes out of the door and starts walking.

The cool night air bites at his skin as he drifts aimlessly, his feet leading him through familiar streets, turning corners without much thought. It isn’t until he stops that he realizes where he is.

Here. The street where he met you that night. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat as memories flood his mind, as vivid as if they had just happened.

The way the neon lights cast a bluish glow across your face, making your skin look almost ethereal. The delighted surprise in your eyes when you spotted him. The way your dress hugged your figure, your coat slipping off one shoulder, baring just enough skin to make his stomach clench. And your voice—sweet, teasing, full of something sinful when you looked at him and said that word.

Father.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but when he opens them, he’s still staring at the neon signs flickering in the distance. And then, something tells him to go inside.

He doesn’t know what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s something far more dangerous. His feet move before his mind can stop him.

The bass of the music reverberates through his chest as he steps inside the club, past the flashing lights and the scent of alcohol thick in the air. There are people everywhere—bodies pressed together, laughter spilling from lips, fleeting touches and lingering gazes exchanged under dim lighting.

But Jeongin isn’t looking at any of them. He’s searching. His eyes scan the crowd, craning his neck, looking for a face.

That’s when he realizes the truth. It isn’t curiosity that brought him here. It’s you.

He stands frozen in place, the chaos of the club fading into a dull hum around him. The neon lights flicker, casting a bluish glow over his skin, but he barely notices. His mind is too full of you.

You, with your soft voice and knowing smiles. You, who looked at him like he was more than a man of God, like he was just a man—fallible, weak, yours. You, who made him forget every vow he swore to uphold.

He should have known from the very beginning. From the moment you stepped into his life, there was something about you that made him uneasy in the most exhilarating way.

You weren’t temptation in the way sin usually was—dark, indulgent, full of guilt and regret. No, you were something worse. You were sweetness, a warmth that melted into him, that made him crave more, that made him forget why he was supposed to resist in the first place. And that was far more dangerous.

Because even now, standing in a place he has no business being, it isn’t the alcohol that tempts him. It isn’t the fleeting touches of strangers, the bodies swaying in reckless abandon.

It’s you. It has always been you. His greatest sin. His sweetest sin.

And if he were to fall again—if he were to let himself be weak—he knows, without a doubt, that it would be for you.

Four months since that night. Since the lines blurred between faith and desire, between duty and the undeniable pull of something he should have never allowed himself to feel. Since he last saw you. Since he let you go.

Now, Jeongin’s life has settled back into its rightful order. His book has been published, his parish duties continue as always, and the weight of his sins remains locked in the quiet chambers of his heart. He has done what is necessary—repented, prayed, convinced himself that he has moved forward.

The confessional is his sanctuary, a place where he is not Jeongin but Father Yang Jeongin. Here, he is not a man burdened by past mistakes but a servant of God, a listener of sins, a guide for those seeking absolution. Today has been like any other—whispered confessions of impatience, dishonesty, lapses in faith. Forgivable sins.

Jeongin shifts, preparing to leave, when the door creaks open. Another parishioner. He waits. For a moment, there is only silence. Then—

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

His breath stills. It is a voice he knows. A voice he has spent four months trying to forget. Yours.

His hands curl into fists, hidden in the folds of his robe. You. Of all the people who could have entered this booth, it had to be you.

Your voice is steady, but he can hear it—the tremor beneath the surface, the weight pressing down on every syllable.

“It has been… four months since my last confession.”

Four months. The exact amount of time since that night. Since you were beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. Since he felt your warmth, your skin, the unbearable gravity of something he should have never allowed himself to want. Since he let you go.

Your voice cuts through the thick silence. “I have tried to forget. To move forward. But I think of someone I cannot see again. Someone I cannot meet again.”

Jeongin’s chest tightens. He already knows. But hearing it—hearing you say it—makes it real in a way that nothing else has.

“And I know that when we are together, it will only lead to more sin.”

The weight of your words settles deep inside him. He should not ask. He should not pry. He should do what is expected of him—forgive, counsel, absolve. But he is weak when it comes to you.

“Sin is not merely in the presence of another,” he says carefully, his voice calm, even. “But in the intent, in the heart.”

A pause. The air between you tightens. “Do you believe that being with this person is wrong?”

Silence. Then, so softly that it almost doesn’t reach him— “Yes.”

Jeongin’s grip on his robe tightens. There is so much he could say. So much he wants to ask. But this space does not belong to him—it belongs to God. And Jeongin, despite everything, still clings to his duty.

“You must seek absolution,” he murmurs. “To let go of what burdens you.”

A sharp inhale. A shift in the air. “I don’t think I can.”

Jeongin’s composure cracks and then—softer, more fragile than before—you speak again.

“I need to be around him,” you admit, the words raw, unguarded. “Because he gives me peace.”

His heartbeat falters as your voice wavers, thick with something unspoken. “I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe.” A breath. “And I... miss him.”

His eyes squeeze shut. You miss him. The ache in his chest sharpens into something unbearable. This is not just sin. Not just temptation. It is something deeper, something neither of you have been able to name, something neither of you have been able to let go of.

And God help him, he misses you too.

Jeongin swallows, his throat tight. “Then pray,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And I will pray for you.”

You sniffle before saying, “I don't think that will be enough for me.”

Then, the faint rustle of fabric. A shift. You do not say goodbye but he hears the door clicks shut.

Jeongin remains seated, staring into the silence, knowing full well that no prayer will erase you from his thoughts. He should let you go. He should let you leave. But he can’t.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. The door swings open, and he steps out, scanning the dimly lit hallway. You’re already walking away, your pace hurried, as if putting distance between yourself and the confessional will make what just happened any less real.

His feet carry him forward. Faster. And then—he reaches out. His fingers wrap around your wrist.

You stop. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn to face him and when your eyes meet his, Jeongin feels his breath catch. Your eyes are glassy, unshed tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. The sight of it—of you, standing there, hurting—nearly undoes him.

His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough to ground him, to remind himself that you are here. That he has you for this fleeting moment. Then, before he can stop himself, before he can think about what is right or wrong—he tugs you forward.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, threading together, and he leads you down the hallway. Past the rows of pews, past the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, past the open space where the weight of divinity looms overhead.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, sealing you both inside his small, dimly lit office. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet impossible to ignore. Jeongin lets go of your hand, but the warmth of your touch lingers, burning into his skin like a memory he’s afraid to hold on to—yet even more afraid to let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You stand there, watching him, your eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And Jeongin—he stands before you, his breathing uneven, his pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath his skin.

What has he done? What is he doing? He should send you away. He should open the door and tell you to leave before this goes any further, before this fragile moment fractures into something neither of you can take back.

Deep down, despite everything he has told himself, despite every prayer whispered into the hollow of his chest—he wants you to stay. He swallows, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't be here."

A small, broken smile flickers across your lips. "I know."

Silence settles between you like a weight too heavy to bear.

And then, softly—almost pleadingly—you whisper, "Tell me to leave."

Jeongin stands there, staring at you, knowing exactly what he should say but unable to force the words out. If he were a stronger man, he would. But he isn’t. And the moment he steps forward, closing the space between you, he knows he’s already lost. His hands reach up before he can stop himself, fingers brushing against your face as if memorizing the shape of you—soft, warm, real.

You don’t move away. You don’t flinch. You just look at him, wide-eyed and waiting, as if you knew this would happen all along. And then, before he can second-guess it, before reason can drag him back into the light—he kisses you.

The second his lips meet yours, his resolution shatters. He was a fool to think he could resist you, a fool to believe that time and distance would erase the pull between you. Because the moment he has you again, everything else ceases to matter. The weight of his priesthood, the vows he swore, the life he built—it all dissolves into nothing compared to the way you feel against him.

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shirt, and that sound alone undoes him. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky as he pulls you closer—too close. Closer than he should.

But he can’t stop. Not when you’re here, not when you taste like longing and quiet desperation, not when every fiber of his being is screaming for more. And in this moment, he knows—he will never be able to let you go.

Because this—you—is a sin he cannot repent.

And God help him, he doesn’t want to.

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @drhsthl @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @angstraykids @lenfilms

#stray kids smut #skz smut #i.n smut #i.n x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fics #skz fanfics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut

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cupcakeslushie · 7 months ago

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I’ve been debating on saying something because I have a lot of thoughts about this, but I just want to say a quick (maybe not so quick) thought…

“Comfort Character” is not a declaration of ownership. Just because you relate to a character deeply, and see yourself in them, does not mean you get to go around policing the stories that get told regarding them, or the how they’re depicted in said stories.

I wanna be clear. Im not saying you can’t pose genuine questions and have perfectly reasonable discussions about the intricacies of hard topics. In fact, fiction can even help make those discussions easier to digest by lowering the stakes, because there are not any actual stakes when none of it is real.

Unfortunately, I’ve been seeing the entire opposite. People taking stories that may make them “uncomfy”, and declaring that they’ve now decided they are taking it personally, to near obsessive levels. You are not the only one allowed to play with these characters. It is a huge sandbox, and these toys are mass produced enough for everyone to have their own doll to do with whatever they’d like.

I get you might see yourself in a character, but that doesn’t give you the right to go around sending death threats just because someone wrote, or drew your current blorbo in an unfavorable light. Prioritizing some cluster of lines and colors over the mental health and safety of actual real human beings, is worse than whatever fictional, moral “atrocity” that you think you’re championing against. You only end up sounding just like the people calling for book banning in schools.

You are not the character. You are not being hurt. The character is not even being hurt, because they do not in fact, exist to actually experience any of the pain creators are putting them through. And most importantly, you have no claim on how other people entertain themselves with said character. Because that is what these characters are. Entertainment. They can be used in good or bad stories. If you don’t like how a creator is using them. Move on. Don’t send death threats or attacks.

Block and filter your tags.

I have triggers, but that is my issue to control and maintain. It is appreciated when steps are taken by creators to help me avoid the things that trigger me, but I don’t wish death and pain on anyone who doesn’t view the world through the same lens as myself, and might not have considered my own personal feelings on the matter. My feelings of unease or anxiety from coming into contact with my own triggers, might be valid, but initiating an attack on a creator, because I took a personal offense to their story, is not. I do not outright assume that something was created with me and my tastes in mind.

Also, this is not aimed at any one person. This is a rampant issue that I have seen first hand, going back all the way to more than a year ago. I’ve seen it happen in multiple fandoms, but as I spend most of my time in the Rise fandom, that’s where I see the worst of it. I’ve received attacks, I know other creators have received attacks, and if this keeps up, creators will just stop wanting to share anything at all.

I also need to emphasize, I’m not mad. This is not a lashing out. This is just a frustrating and hurtful trend to constantly witness, when creators are putting their own heart, time, and energy into creating intriguing and complex works of all kinds in order to broaden the beauty of this fandom, and they’re getting anonymous messages to kill themselves.

Please think about the real life person behind the art and stories you are consuming, instead of prioritizing the fictional comfort of made up characters inside the story, that will in actuality, never have any opinions on what’s being done to them. Because they do not exist.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise fandom #discourse #even tho I hope this is not taken as an attack on anyone #I’m not trying to add to any fire #I only wish to give a perspective

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scarluna · 3 months ago

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KNOCKOUT (001)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N is a depressed, closed off, anxious and insecure plus-sized girl. She does not believe she deserves love nor anything good in her life. However by destiny, she meets Jungkook. A fighter, a biker and a guy that changes the way she sees the world.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Chapters: 1/?

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, mental health problems, depression, su!c!d1l thoughts, fatph0bia, illegal substances, smoking, anxiety, body dysmorphia, maladaptive daydreaming, making out, traumas

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ So, again, I am back at it. Completely fictional.

I don’t look in mirrors if I can help it.

I glance—never stare. I avoid reflections like they’re landmines, each one threatening to detonate everything I’ve worked so hard to bury.

I pull my hoodie tighter around myself as I walk down the hall of my apartment building. Even though it’s warm out, I keep it on. I always keep it on. Oversized, black, long-sleeved—my version of armor. Fabric that hides the parts of me I hate the most.

Which is basically all of me.

My thighs touch when I walk. My arms jiggle when I reach for things. My stomach… don’t get me started. Every inch of me feels wrong, and no matter how many times people say things like "beauty comes in all sizes," I can still hear the laughter from the girls in middle school locker rooms. I can still feel their eyes on me. Judging. Mocking.

I learned early that boys only look at girls like me when it's a joke—or a dare. So, I don’t let them. I keep my head down, earphones in, and move like I’m invisible.

It’s safer that way.

I fake normal better than most. Smiles when I’m supposed to. Laughs at the right moments. I even let my mom believe I’m doing "so much better" lately.

She wouldn’t notice either way. She’s too busy.

She works fifteen hours a day and answers my texts with thumbs up emojis or, if I’m lucky, a "K." I get it. She’s trying to keep us afloat. But sometimes I think she works that much so she doesn’t have to come home.

Can’t say I blame her.

My dad is... well, he’s usually passed out almost every time I visit them. His breath smells like cheap whiskey and bad decisions. He tells me I’m beautiful sometimes—slurred, half-sincere—but only after his third drink. And the next morning he doesn’t remember saying anything at all.

I hate that I still want him to mean it.

No one knows how I eat in secret. How I wait until everyone’s asleep to tiptoe into the kitchen and stuff myself until I can barely breathe. Chips, cereal, cookies—whatever I can find. It’s not even about the food. It’s about silence. About filling something inside me that always feels empty.

Then comes the shame. The guilt. The promise to do better tomorrow.

Tomorrow never comes.

People think being fat is a choice. Like I woke up and decided to hate myself. Like I don’t already know what every calorie means. Like I haven’t stood in dressing rooms, numb and silent, while my mom said, “You just need a little more discipline.”

If she only knew.

But she doesn’t. No one does.

And that’s how I survive. By hiding the real me. By locking away every ugly thought and pretending I'm okay. It’s exhausting—but I’m good at it.

I finally curled up In my bed, wrapped in the same blanket I’ve had since high school—frayed at the edges, soft from too many washes. The TV was on, playing some show I’ve already watched three times over. Something comforting. Familiar. The kind where characters have perfect lives, perfect friends, and perfect bodies. The kind where no one ever breaks down crying because they can’t zip up their jeans.

I mindlessly shove popcorn into my mouth, even though I’m not really hungry. I just need something to do with my hands. That, and I don’t know how to exist in silence.

Outside, life moves. People laugh, date, go out for coffee and brunch and spin class. I watch it all through the filtered lens of social media, like I’m peeking through a window at a party I wasn’t invited to.

But the truth is... I don’t want to go.

Not really.

Being outside is exhausting. People are exhausting. The stares, the judgment—even the polite ones, the forced smiles, the awkward glances that say "I see you, but I don’t want to."

I’d rather sit here, in the stillness of my own space, where no one expects anything from me. Where I don’t have to suck in my stomach or pull down my shirt every time I stand up.

Unless she visits.

My best friend, Vicky. The only one who’s ever stuck around long enough to see all my ugly truths and not run for the hills. Unfortunately she lives two hours away. We talk every day tho—text, memes, random voice notes that trail off mid-sentence because we always know what the other means. But when she visits? That’s when I pretend, just for a night, that I’m someone else.

Someone better.

We’ll pour a glass of cheap wine and sit on the floor like we’re still seventeen. She’ll blast music we used to love and I’ll let my hair down, throw on a slightly-too-tight dress I usually hide in the back of my closet, and for a few hours, I’ll play the part.

I’ll laugh too loud. I’ll talk too fast. I’ll flirt with the mirror and call myself a bad bitch even though I don’t believe a word of it.

It’s not real, but it’s fun to pretend.

Sometimes we go out—to a bar or a lounge or some half-dead pub that plays throwbacks—and I’ll catch a man looking my way. And for a second, I’ll feel like maybe... maybe this time is different.

But it never is.

They smile. Then hesitate. Then give me mixed signals that make my head spin. One moment, it’s flirty texts and compliments. The next, it’s radio silence or a sudden ghosting like I imagined the whole thing.

I used to blame myself. Still do, if I’m being honest.

Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Maybe they didn’t like how my body looked up close. Maybe they thought I was fun—until they realized I came with baggage.

They say I’m “hard to read,” but they never bother to learn the language.

Now, I don’t expect anything. I don’t chase, and I definitely don’t hope. Hope is a cruel thing when you’ve been fed disappointment your whole life.

So I stay here.

Buried in the comfort of my bed. With my blanket and my snacks and my fake little world where I don’t have to feel like a mistake.

And honestly?

Sometimes, it feels like the only place I truly belong.

Some nights, the silence feels like it’s screaming.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The TV is still on, playing something meaningless. Just noise to drown out the thoughts. But it doesn’t work. It never really does. The thoughts always find their way back in—slipping through the cracks like cold air under a door.

I don’t even know when I started crying. My eyes just feel heavy, and my chest aches like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

I sit there, knees hugged to my chest, tears rolling quietly, silently. Because that’s the only way I know how to break down—alone. Always alone.

I wish I could explain this feeling. This tightness. This numb, dull throb of sadness that doesn’t go away. It’s not just about my body, though that’s a part of it. It’s the loneliness. The kind that makes the world feel like it’s moving on without you. Like you’re stuck behind glass, watching everyone else live while you just... exist.

People talk about love like it’s this magical thing. Like it just happens. Eye contact across a room. Sparks. Butterflies. Hands brushing and souls colliding.

I’ve never had that. I don’t even know what it feels like to be touched by someone who wanted to stay. Who wanted me. Not some idea of me. Not some mask I wear to get through the day. The real me.

And God—don’t even get me started on sex.

Everyone acts like it’s supposed to be this beautiful thing. Passionate. Intimate. But for me? It feels terrifying. Not just because of my body—though that fear is always there, a weight pressing down on me—but because letting someone that close means showing them everything I try so hard to hide. The scars. The stretch marks. The parts of me I can’t fix.

The parts of me I’ve learned to keep locked up.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of being loved. Like maybe I was born with something missing. Or maybe I’m too much. Too broken. Too guarded. Too something.

Would anyone ever actually stay, if they saw all of me?

The depression makes it worse. It lies to me. Tells me I’m unworthy. That I’m hard to love. That I’m destined to always be someone’s maybe, someone’s almost. The girl who’s good for conversation but never good enough to hold.

And the worst part? Some days, I believe it.

I hate how much I crave affection, even though I’m terrified of it. I hate that I want someone to hold me and kiss my forehead and tell me I’m safe, but I wouldn’t know how to accept it if they did. My body would flinch, my mind would panic, and I’d probably ruin everything before it even began.

Because that’s what I do. I ruin things.

And then I cry about it in the dark, wondering what’s wrong with me.

I wrap the blanket tighter around me and bury my face in my arms. My tears come harder now, not quiet anymore. Ugly sobs that make my throat burn. I wish I could scream. I wish I could tear it all out of me—the pain, the shame, the fear.

I just want to be held. Not for how I look. Not for what I offer. But for who I am.

All of me.

Even the messy, haunted parts.

Even the parts I don’t know how to love myself.

But maybe that’s a lot to ask.

Maybe no one’s coming.

Maybe I’m all I’ll ever have.

Friday night.

The clock on my screen blinks 6:01 PM, and just like that, my shift ends.

Another day of smiling through gritted teeth, typing out canned responses to strangers who think “customer support” means “emotional punching bag.” My fingers are sore, my eyes ache, and I have exactly zero energy left to pretend to be a functioning adult.

I close my laptop and sigh, rolling my neck until it cracks. My apartment is dim, lit only by the fading orange glow of sunset bleeding through the blinds. I consider changing into pajamas and crawling under a blanket burrito-style. It’s what I usually do on Fridays. My little reward for surviving the week. Thank God I was a home office or else I’d be definitely drained at the office.

Then I hear it.

Knocking.

Sharp, insistent, like the sound of someone who knows you’re home.

I freeze. I’m not expecting anyone.

Another knock.

I drag myself to the door, hoodie still on, hair a mess, socks mismatched—classic me. I open it cautiously, peeking through the crack.

And there she is.

“Surprise, bitch,” Vicky grins, arms wide like she’s just delivered the winning lotto ticket.

Right behind her stands Trevor, tall and unbothered, holding a paper bag that smells suspiciously like garlic bread. He nods at me like we’ve just seen each other yesterday, even though it’s been months.

“What the hell—” I blink. “You guys didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“That’s what makes it a surprise,” Vicky smirks, pushing past me into the apartment like she owns the place. “Also, we know you’d say no if we warned you.”

She’s not wrong.

Trevor chuckles as he walks in behind her. “Hey, Y/N. We brought food. Don’t yell at us.”

I just shake my head, trying not to smile too hard. It’s impossible with these two.

Vicky and Trevor have been together for five years now. They met online—some obscure Reddit thread about mental health turned into DMs, which turned into phone calls, which turned into a weekend meetup that never really ended.

She’s a psychologist, whip-smart with a razor-sharp tongue and a heart of gold. He’s an IT guy, quiet and patient, the kind of man who listens more than he talks and somehow always knows when you need space... or a hug.

They’re that annoying kind of couple that actually works—the kind that finishes each other’s sentences and still giggles at inside jokes no one else gets. It’s weird seeing that kind of emotional intimacy up close. Beautiful, but also kind of brutal.

Because deep down, I want it.

That connection. That safety. That soft, quiet love that doesn’t disappear at the first sign of mess.

And it hurts—just a little—because a part of me still believes I’ll never have it.

“You’re staring again,” Vicky teases from the couch. “Are you mentally writing fanfiction about us?”

I roll my eyes, laughing despite the lump in my throat. “No, I’m just wondering how two socially awkward nerds made it work.”

Trevor winks. “Magic and memes.”

“And therapy,” Vicky adds, tossing a cushion at him. “Lots of therapy.”

We eat. We talk. We laugh—really laugh, the kind that makes your stomach hurt. For a moment, I forget about everything else. My body. My fears. My loneliness. It all fades under the glow of garlic knots and sarcastic banter.

Until Vicky suddenly looks at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“We’re going out,” she says.

I blink. “Out where?”

She stands, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “It’s a surprise.”

Trevor groans playfully. “God help us all.”

I hesitate. My instinct is to say no. I’m not dressed for “out.” I’m not mentally prepared. My anxiety starts bubbling up—but Vicky grabs my hand before I can retreat.

“Trust me,” she says, softer now. “You need this.”

I swallow hard, nod slowly, and let her pull me to my feet.

An hour later, we’re walking down a narrow alley lit by a single flickering bulb. The sound of bass and shouting grows louder with every step. The building looks like an abandoned warehouse, tagged up and half-broken—but there's a bouncer at the door and people going in like it's nothing.

“What is this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“You’ll see,” Vicky smirks. “Just… keep an open mind.”

I glance at Trevor. He just shrugs and smiles, which tells me nothing.

We walk in—and the moment we do, the world shifts.

It’s hot. Loud. Electric. The air is thick with sweat, adrenaline, and tension. People crowd around a caged ring in the center of the room, shouting, cheering, drinks sloshing in their hands.

A fight is happening. An actual underground fight.

“What the hell, Vick?” I whisper, stunned.

The air hits me like a punch.

Heat. Sweat. Noise.

A crowd of bodies packed like sardines, all facing the makeshift cage in the center. The shouting is relentless, echoing off concrete walls, drowning out my thoughts. People are laughing, jeering, spilling drinks. Some are on tables. Some are barely dressed. Every part of it screams get out.

Vicky turns back and says over the noise, “Trust me. You need this. It’s good for your mental health.”

I shoot her a look. “You dragged me to a fight club for my mental health?”

She grins, unfazed. “You live in your head too much. This place? It pulls you out. It’s raw. Real. No filters. No fakeness. You just feel everything, whether you want to or not.”

I open my mouth to argue but the words stick. Because as chaotic as this place is, I can already feel the numbness cracking. Not in a good way—more like being ripped out of a too-warm blanket and thrown into a blizzard.

I tug my oversized hoodie tighter around myself, the sleeves swallowing my hands. My skin feels too exposed, like people are looking at me even when they aren’t. I’m not dressed for this. I’m not ready for this.

I did shower before we left, thank God. But even that small self-care win can’t calm the panic twisting in my gut now.

Overcrowded places make my skin crawl. I’ve never liked loud spaces, or too many people talking over each other, or being somewhere I can’t make a quick escape from.

It’s too much.

I scan the room, my eyes flicking from face to face. Most people here are loud, confident, half-drunk or fully fearless. Girls in tight dresses, guys in muscle shirts and tattoos, people laughing like this is a Friday night comedy show and not two men bleeding into the floor.

And then there’s me.

Tucked into the corner. Hiding. Heart racing. Wondering why the hell I agreed to this.

“Vick,” I say, leaning closer to her so she can hear me. “I don’t think I belong here.”

She turns, her face softer now. “You do. Just breathe.”

But how can I?

Every step into this place feels like walking deeper into someone else’s life. Someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who belongs in their skin. Not like me. I shrink without even realizing it—shoulders curling in, body trying to disappear into the folds of my hoodie. My safe zone.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want anyone to look at me.

But at the same time… some twisted part of me does.

Just once, I want to be the girl someone notices.

And I hate myself for it.

“Just give it a minute,” Trevor says gently, voice like a low anchor in the storm. “You might surprise yourself.”

But I don’t want to surprise myself. I want to be back home, curled up in silence, not vibrating from the bass of a place that smells like blood and beer.

Still—I don’t leave.

Because as much as I hate this, as much as I want to run, there’s something about this space that feels important. Like I’m on the edge of something.

Even if I don’t know what.

Suddenly, the crowd erupts louder than before—cheers, screams, a few scattered boos. Everyone turns their attention to the ring as a man climbs through the ropes.

A voice booms from the crackling speakers overhead, broken slightly by static but loud enough to cut through everything.

“In this corner, we got the reigning champ of the Southside pits… undefeated in seventeen fights, no tap-outs, no knockouts—only carnage. You know him. You fear him. Put your hands together for THIAAAGOOOOO!”

And that’s when I see him.

Thiago.

He steps fully into the ring—and my heart stalls.

He’s massive.

Tall—at least six foot five—built like a mountain, shoulders so broad they look like they could crush skulls. His skin is littered with scars, some healed into thick ridges, others fresher and angry red. A jagged one runs across his collarbone like a warning sign.

He’s bald, his head gleaming under the overhead lights, and his face—God, his face—it looks carved from stone. Cold, emotionless. A sharp jaw, a crooked nose that’s clearly been broken more than once, and dark eyes full of fury.

He’s not just a fighter. He looks like he’s made for war.

And he’s terrifying.

My stomach flips. My body stiffens. I take a half-step back without thinking.

“Holy fuck” I mutter, clutching my hoodie like it’s a shield. “This is insane. That guy looks like he eats souls for breakfast.”

Vicky doesn’t respond right away. She’s watching the ring with a curious glint in her eye. Trevor’s more stoic, but even he looks a little tense now.

Thiago circles the ring like a predator, chest rising slowly, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s daring someone to challenge him next. He radiates danger—pure, undiluted rage wrapped in muscle.

“He’s one of the best here,” Vicky finally says. “Or the worst, depending on how you look at it.”

“He looks like he could snap someone in half,” I whisper.

“He has,” Trevor says casually. Too casually.

My hands start to sweat.

Why are we here?

Why did Vicky think this was good for me?

My anxiety’s climbing fast. My heart won’t slow down, and my breath is catching in my throat. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere near people like him.

Just being in the same room as that kind of anger—raw, visible, unfiltered—it makes my skin crawl. It reminds me of my dad on a bad night. It reminds me of yelling behind closed doors. Of breaking things that don’t heal. Of fear you can’t explain to anyone.

I can’t tear my eyes away, though. Even as my body begs me to.

Because there’s something about him that feels like a mirror—sharpened, brutal, broken.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

The referee’s voice cracks through the mic again, pulling the attention of the crowd back toward the entrance ramp. People around me start shifting with excitement—some chanting already, others leaning forward, trying to get a better view.

“And in this corner…” the announcer growls with theatrical flair, “…the one you’ve been waiting for. The wildcard. The Ghost of the East Ring. He’s fast, he’s vicious, and he doesn’t say much—but when he moves, you listen. Give it up for—JUNGKOOK!”

The lights dim just slightly. Smoke—real or fake, I can’t tell—floods in at the entrance. Then he steps out.

And everything slows.

He’s smaller than Thiago, yeah. Not small, just… more compact. But somehow his presence fills the room in a different way. Controlled chaos. Stillness before a storm. His body is lean but powerful—tattooed arms flexing under the flickering warehouse lights as he casually rolls one shoulder, then the other.

A black wet mullet hangs across his forehead and brushes against the nape of his neck, damp with sweat or maybe water poured over him before walking out. His dark eyes flick across the crowd—slow, methodical—like he’s searching for something or someone specific.

When his gaze sweeps past me, I freeze.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even notice me. But for a second, I feel… seen.

Then it’s gone.

He climbs into the ring like he’s done this a thousand times. Calm. Efficient. No flashy entrances or chest-beating bravado. Just quiet readiness.

Unlike Thiago—who still paces like a caged beast—Jungkook stands still in his corner, bouncing lightly on his feet, head down, breathing slow. Controlled. Poised.

A storm in waiting.

“What’s his deal?” I mutter, frowning as I watch him from under my hood.

Vicky grins. “That’s Jungkook. He doesn’t talk much, but he moves like poetry.”

Trevor nods. “He’s fast. Thiago hates him.”

“Why?”

“He can’t catch him,” Trevor says with a half-smile. “And when he tries, he gets hit. Hard.”

The bell hasn’t rung yet, but the energy in the room is shifting. The crowd is buzzing, already leaning forward in anticipation. Two men. Two energies. One unhinged rage, the other ice-cold focus.

And I’m standing there in the shadows, heart pounding, watching it unfold like it’s all some dream I don’t belong in.

But I can’t look away from Jungkook.

There’s something about him—quiet, deadly, beautiful in a way that shouldn’t belong in a place like this. Like he’s made of sharp edges and unspoken things.

And I have no idea why he’s making my chest feel like this.

The moment the bell rings, everything changes.

Jungkook and Thiago explode into motion at the same time, their bodies colliding with a sickening thud as the crowd roars around us. The sound is deafening, a mass of screaming voices and wild excitement. I can’t take my eyes off them. The chaos, the violence, the raw power—it feels like it’s coming at me in waves.

Thiago lunges first, furious and relentless. His fists are like battering rams, crashing into Jungkook’s body, and the crowd is losing it, egging Thiago on. The sound of flesh hitting flesh is sickening, and I feel a rush of unease—nausea swirling in my stomach.

But then, Jungkook moves.

It’s so fast, so fluid, that I barely register what happens until Thiago’s momentum is thrown off. Jungkook ducks under his next punch, a move so smooth it’s like watching someone glide through water. He weaves out of the way, and then, like a snake striking, his fist connects with Thiago’s jaw with a crack that echoes through the room.

Thiago stumbles back, and the crowd goes wild. Thiago roars in frustration, lunging again—but this time, Jungkook’s ready. His footwork is impeccable, always staying just out of reach, and every time Thiago throws a punch, Jungkook dodges it like he’s reading Thiago’s mind.

And then, in an instant—Jungkook moves in, faster than I can process. He shifts, gets in close, and with one sharp, devastating blow to Thiago’s midsection, he drives his opponent to the mat. The crowd gasps.

Thiago struggles to get back up, but it’s no use. Jungkook moves in again, his body like a machine, precision in every movement. With a calculated swing, Jungkook lands another hit—this one to Thiago’s head.

Thiago falls.

The crowd goes wild, a tidal wave of cheers and screams as Thiago is knocked out cold. Jungkook stands over him, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His nose is bloodied, but his eyes are laser-focused, scanning the crowd as he stands tall, shoulders heaving, sweat glistening across his skin. He’s breathless, but there’s no sign of slowing down.

The referee steps in, holding up Jungkook’s arm.

“Winner!” he shouts into the microphone, his voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “Jungkook!”

My breath catches in my throat as I watch Jungkook stand there, still and proud, despite the blood smeared across his face. He doesn’t celebrate like Thiago would have—no shout of triumph, no cocky grin. He just stands there, like this is exactly where he was meant to be.

I’m still frozen in place when the crowd starts to quiet down, and my eyes move to Vicky.

“How do you know these two?” I ask, still watching Jungkook as he wipes the blood from his nose, catching his breath. “You’ve been here before, right?”

Vicky glances at me, her eyes flashing with something I can’t quite place. “In my four years of studying psychology here? Yeah. I’ve been to this place three times. Every time, I’ve seen Jungkook win.”

My brow furrows. “Three times?”

Vicky shrugs, leaning in to make herself heard over the fading buzz of the crowd. “Jungkook doesn’t lose. Ever. And not just here, either. He’s been in the underground circuit for a while now. He doesn’t talk much, but the guy’s a machine. Everyone here knows that.”

I’m still staring at Jungkook. The blood on his face doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look… stronger. Like the fight is a part of him, something embedded in his bones. The way he carries himself—the way he moves—it’s like there’s nothing in the world that could touch him.

He’s not just a fighter. He’s something else.

I try to push the feeling down, the one stirring in my chest, but it’s there. Something about him pulls at me.

“He’s scary,” I whisper, though the words don’t feel like they fit the way I’m feeling. It’s more than fear. It’s something like… awe. And maybe a little envy.

“Scary?” Vicky laughs. “Nah. He’s a fighter. And trust me, if you ever find yourself in his corner, you’ll know exactly why people respect him.”

I don’t answer. My mind is too wrapped up in the image of him standing in the ring—barely breathing, bloodied, but still unshaken.

I’m about to turn away and find a quiet corner to collect my thoughts when a sharp pang hits my stomach.

I can’t ignore it.

“Vicky…” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Vicky doesn’t even look at me, still watching the ring as the crowd starts to thin. She gestures to the far side of the room, near the back exit. “Down that hall, last door on the left.”

I nod quickly and make my way through the maze of bodies and noise, feeling like I’m moving through a fog. I don’t care what’s going on around me—I just need to get some space, somewhere I can breathe and not feel so… exposed.

The hallway is dim, the walls dirty and covered in old graffiti. I find the door easily enough. But when I push it open, my stomach drops.

There’s no sign for male or female. Just a simple bathroom with no distinction.

Great.

I freeze for a moment, standing in the doorway. I can hear people in the bathroom—voices. Laughter. But I’m not sure if they’re men or women, and the last thing I want is to stumble into a situation where I’m forced to confront anything uncomfortable. I can feel my pulse thudding in my ears.

There’s a stall at the far end, empty.

Without thinking twice, I rush in, lock the door behind me, and press my back to the cool metal of the stall. The air feels thick again, like it’s closing in around me, and I force myself to take slow, steady breaths, in and out.

But it’s not enough.

The panic is rising—fast. My hands start to shake, my chest tightens. I try to block it out, but the air feels suffocating, too thick, too hot. I can hear the muffled sound of footsteps and the low murmur of voices from the other side of the bathroom.

Just breathe. It’s fine. You’re fine.

But I’m not.

The panic is already clawing at my throat when the door to the bathroom swings open. Two women walk in, their voices high-pitched and giggly. I bite my lip, forcing myself to stay as still as possible, praying they won’t notice me.

“Oh my God, did you see Jungkook out there?” One of them says, her voice dripping with excitement.

“Yesss!” the other responds, laughing. “I was like, wow—how is he so hot? Like, he’s got that whole dangerous vibe, you know?”

“Totally,” the first one giggles again. “I would literally do anything to be with him. I don’t care if he’s a fighter. He can take me down anytime.”

My stomach twists. I close my eyes, feeling the heat rush to my face. This is exactly what I hate. This feeling of being on the outside, the feeling of not being the one they’re talking about. Not being the one that someone notices.

“Can you imagine how good he must be in bed? I bet he’s rough,” the second woman whispers with a smirk. “Like, you know, he’s got that energy. He could probably have any girl he wants. Hell, he’s probably had every girl he’s ever looked at.”

My heart stops. My hands are trembling against the cold stall door, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I can’t seem to move. The words echo in my ears, over and over, and I want to scream.

Why does this bother me so much? Why does this hurt?

I can’t understand it.

I want to run out of here. I want to disappear. I want to get away from the laughing, the whispered thoughts about Jungkook, about how he’s someone they can have—someone they want.

For a second, I wonder if I’ll ever be wanted like that. If anyone will ever look at me the way these girls are looking at Jungkook.

Stop.

I breathe in deeply, trying to steady myself again. My fingers are cold and clammy as I grasp the edge of the toilet paper dispenser. The walls of the stall feel like they’re closing in on me, but I force myself to stay still. I have to. If I move, it’ll make everything worse.

The last thing I need is for them to hear my panic, my heavy breathing, my brokenness.

The girls continue talking, oblivious to me in my corner.

“God, I’m so jealous,” the first girl sighs, “but I bet I’d die if he even looked at me.”

“You think he’d go for a girl like us?” the second one snickers. “Doubt it. He’s probably all about the hot, fit girls. You know the type.”

The conversation continues as if I’m not even here, and I can feel the sting of their words, even though I try to push them down.

He doesn’t want girls like us.

The thought slips out before I can stop it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t make the hurt go away.

I wait for what feels like forever, the girls’ laughter and giggling fading as they finally leave the bathroom. Their footsteps echo down the hallway, their voices growing softer with each step. The silence that follows feels too loud, too heavy.

I take a few more slow breaths, trying to steady myself. The panic is ebbing, though the tightness in my chest lingers. You’re okay. It’s over. Just get out of here.

I wipe my clammy hands on the sides of my jeans and push open the stall door. My legs feel weak, unsteady, as I step out into the dim hallway, my heart still hammering in my chest.

Just get to the door.

I make my way toward the exit, trying to ignore the lingering heaviness in my chest. But as I round the corner, I’m blindsided by a sharp collision.

“Oof!” The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. I stumble back, my phone slipping from my hand and hitting the floor with a hard thud.

I immediately bend down, scrambling to pick it up. My face flushes with embarrassment, my hands shaking as I retrieve the phone, fingers fumbling for a moment as I focus too much on my own awkwardness.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, voice barely above a whisper as I stand up, still feeling the warmth of my cheeks. My eyes instinctively dart to the floor, avoiding any kind of eye contact. The last thing I need is for someone to see how flustered I am. Especially not after all those words in the bathroom, all those thoughts swimming in my mind.

Then I hear a low chuckle.

I freeze. My stomach lurches, the breath in my lungs catches.

No way.

I look up—and there he is.

Jungkook.

He’s standing in front of me, his presence almost overwhelming. He’s no longer in the fighting gear, but even in casual clothes, he still carries that intimidating aura. His shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattooed arms, and his black jeans sit low on his hips. His black mullet hangs a little messy, slightly wet from sweat or maybe water.

But what catches my attention first—what makes my stomach twist—is his face.

Bruises. Dark, angry purple bruises marking his cheekbone, a cut across his lip, and his nose—still swollen and bleeding slightly. The aftermath of the fight. But even with all that, there’s something so… captivating about him. Like a storm you can’t look away from.

I feel my heart pounding harder, my palms slick. Every insecurity I’ve ever had seems to slam into my chest all at once. Oh my God. I must look like a mess. No makeup, a baggy hoodie, messy hair. He’s so… perfectly put together—even with the bruises.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I stand there, completely frozen, completely aware of how ridiculous I must look. I hate how much I want to hide.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks, his voice surprisingly soft considering the way he fights. His eyes—dark and unreadable—scan me for a second, waiting for a response. He tilts his head, an eyebrow quirking slightly as if waiting for me to speak.

For a moment, I can’t find my voice.

What the hell am I supposed to say to him?

“I—uh—yeah, I’m fine,” I stammer, cringing at how small my voice sounds. “Sorry about, um, bumping into you. I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

He chuckles again, this time a little quieter, almost like he’s amused by my awkwardness. “No problem.” His gaze shifts down to my phone in my hand, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, like a silent understanding. “You should probably hold onto that better. Might break it next time.”

I nod quickly, biting my lip. “Yeah. I’ll, uh, be more careful.”

The silence stretches between us, and I can’t stop myself from feeling completely out of place. His mere presence—his proximity—feels like a weight on my chest. I want to say something more, something that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot, but the words are stuck in my throat.

What is he even doing here? My brain races. Why is he talking to me?

The bruises on his face, the way he carries himself, the intensity he exudes—everything about him screams confidence, while I can barely keep myself together.

“Hey,” he says again, his voice quieter this time, almost like he’s trying to make sure I’m not completely shut down. “You’re alright. You don’t have to apologize.”

I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time since I bumped into him, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe. His gaze is steady, almost piercing, and there’s something strangely gentle in the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to figure me out.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur again, my voice soft, barely audible. “I… didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

He shakes his head slightly, a small, amused smirk curling on his lips. “No trouble. But if you’re gonna keep bumping into me, I might start thinking you’re doing it on purpose.”

My face burns. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s standing right in front of me, and I’m acting like I’ve never spoken to a guy in my life. I’m sure I look like a mess.

I look down again, hoping he won’t notice how flustered I am. But when I glance back up, I catch a glimmer of something in his eyes—a mix of curiosity and something else I can’t place.

“Well, I’ll make sure to avoid you next time,” I mumble, trying to force a smile, but it feels so awkward.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything right away, but his gaze softens just a fraction. “Don’t worry about it,” he replies simply, his voice steady, like he’s seen this kind of thing a thousand times.

And then, with a slight nod, he turns and walks past me, heading back toward the crowd, leaving me standing there in the dim hallway, my heart racing, my breath still shaky.

Did that really just happen?

Monday

The morning light hits different when you’ve had a whole weekend to forget the world. I wake up to the sharp trill of my alarm and the sun creeping through the blinds like it’s personally offended I’m still in bed.

Vicky and Trevor left late last night, their hugs lingering longer than usual. We spent the rest of the weekend curled up on my couch, talking about everything—really talking. The kind of conversations that make you feel both lighter and heavier at the same time. The ones that peel you open in a way that’s terrifying but necessary.

Vicky told me she’s worried about how I retreat when I’m hurting. Trevor said he thinks I deserve to stop living like I’m waiting for something to break. I didn’t say much. Just nodded a lot. Smiled at the right parts. I don’t know how to explain that sometimes, talking about the darkness makes it feel more real.

But it felt good.

Safe.

And now Monday feels like a slap.

I throw on my usual work-from-home uniform—baggy hoodie, leggings, messy bun—and log in just before my boss can ping me. My headset’s tangled, my coffee’s lukewarm, and the emails are already giving me hives.

By 10 a.m., I’ve mentally clocked out.

I’m rereading the same sentence for the third time when Katherine messages me.

Katherine (10:03 AM):

Hey! Got a sec to hop on a quick call?

Katherine is the kind of person who always has her camera on during Zoom meetings. Perfect hair. Perfect lighting. She once told me she drinks celery juice every morning. I pretend to like her but mostly because I’m afraid she’ll sense my existential dread through the screen and report me to HR.

I reply with a thumbs-up emoji and brace myself.

She starts with small talk—weather, client updates, a weird squirrel that got into her balcony. And then she says it.

“So, this is random,” she begins, her tone suddenly shifting. “But... you were at The Pit this weekend, right?”

I blink. “How do you know about that?”

She smiles like she’s trying to be casual. “One of my best friends is in that crowd. I used to go with her sometimes. Total chaos. Honestly, I thought you were more... I don’t know, library-core?”

I laugh awkwardly. “It was a surprise outing.”

“Ah. That explains it.” She leans closer to the camera like she’s about to deliver state secrets. “So listen… I’m telling you this as a friend, okay? Don’t get too caught up in Jungkook.”

My stomach flips.

I try to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not… I don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, “just in case. I’ve known him for a while. He runs with a rough crowd. Really rough. He’s not some tortured artist or romantic bad boy. He’s a fighter. Like, literally and metaphorically. The guy doesn’t let people close. And if he does? It never ends well.”

I swallow. “Okay…”

She shrugs, taking a sip from her green smoothie. “He’s rich, by the way. Like, crazy rich. Family money. Old money. The kind that hides skeletons behind designer walls. He’s rebelling against it, or whatever. But still—trust me, girls like us?” Her voice softens, almost sympathetically. “We don’t survive guys like him.”

I stare at the screen.

Katherine offers a smile like she’s just done me a favor. “Anyway. Just thought you should know. Back to work!”

The call ends.

And I sit there, headphones still on, heart pounding, trying to make sense of everything she just said.

Girls like us.

We don’t survive guys like him.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Because I already knew that.

But hearing it out loud?

It stings in a way I wasn’t ready for.

The call ends.

And it’s like the silence in my apartment changes shape—heavier, sharper, pressing in from all sides.

I stare at my screen, blinking at the spreadsheet I was supposed to be editing, but all I can see is his face again. Jungkook’s bruised jaw. His quiet stare. The way his voice was soft when he asked if I was okay.

I thought it meant something.

God, I’m so stupid.

Why did I even let myself feel anything at all? One second of attention from someone like him and I’m already spinning stories in my head. Already hoping. Already aching.

But he’s not a story.

He’s not the exception.

He’s a walking warning sign with pretty tattoos and a reputation I should’ve seen coming a mile away.

And me?

I’m the girl who doesn’t even look in mirrors.

The girl who flinches when someone raises their voice.

The girl who hides from kindness because it always turns into disappointment.

What the hell was I thinking?

I push my laptop away and curl in on myself, wrapping my hoodie tighter around my body like it might hold all the unraveling parts together.

It’s pathetic, how easily I fall back into this. This sadness. This hole. Like I never even tried to climb out.

My chest feels tight again. Like there’s not enough air in the room, not enough silence in the world to quiet the noise in my head. Katherine’s voice keeps looping:

“Girls like us… we don’t survive guys like him.”

She’s right.

Not just because he’s dangerous—but because I’m already drowning.

I don’t need someone like him lighting a fire next to the flood.

I’m barely surviving myself.

I can’t afford to let someone else in. Especially someone who could burn me just by standing too close. I’ve done that before—opened the door a crack and let someone walk in like they had a right to rearrange the furniture in my soul.

And when they left, they took everything I had with them.

I won’t survive that again.

I don’t care how soft his voice was. I don’t care how different he seemed. I don’t care about the way his eyes looked like they could hold secrets.

I’m not his mystery to solve.

I’m not some redemption arc.

I’m tired.

I just want to be left alone.

So I grab my phone, fingers trembling, and type out a message to Vicky.

me (11:21 AM):

hey. Can we talk later?

She replies almost instantly.

Vicky (11:22 AM):

of course. you okay?

me:

not really.

Vicky:

I’m here. whatever you need.

I drop the phone onto the bed and let myself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind this time—but the ugly sobs. The ones that shake my whole body. The ones that feel like mourning.

Because that’s what this is.

I’m mourning the version of me who thought, even for a second, that maybe someone like Jungkook could want someone like me.

But that girl doesn’t get to stay.

She was too hopeful.

Too naive.

And hope? It’s just another way to hurt yourself when you know better.

The apartment walls feel like they’re closing in again.

My chest is still heavy from crying, my eyes swollen and tired, but I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. My stomach growls like it’s mocking me, like even it is tired of my emotions.

I don’t want to go outside. I really, really don’t.

But I don’t have the energy to argue with myself anymore.

So I throw on the armor—the same oversized black hoodie I’ve worn three days in a row, the one that swallows me whole. Baggy sweatpants that drag at the hem, sleeves covering my hands. Greasy hair scraped into a low, half-hearted bun. No makeup. Glasses on. Invisible mode activated.

If anyone looks at me, they’ll see nothing worth seeing.

Which is exactly the point.

The convenience store is just down the block. Two turns and I’m there. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I keep my head low, shoulders hunched, heart pounding in my ears for no reason at all.

I grab a pre-made sandwich, a pack of chips, something sweet. Something to feel something. The cashier doesn’t say much. I pay and leave, crinkling plastic bag in one hand, the weight of my exhaustion in the other.

And then—

I hear it.

A low, throaty vrrrrmmmm.

A motorcycle.

It pulls up to the curb just as I step outside. Black. Shiny. Sleek. Yamaha. The kind of bike that looks fast even when it’s parked.

The rider is dressed in all black—black jeans, black hoodie, black gloves, black helmet. The mirrored visor reflects the late afternoon haze, faceless and quiet.

But somehow—somehow—he looks straight at me.

Not at the store. Not at the sidewalk.

At me.

I freeze.

My breath catches in my throat. My pulse spikes. No one sees me—no one is supposed to see me. Especially not like this. Especially not him.

Because I know.

I know it’s him.

Even before he moves, before he speaks—my bones recognize the tension, the quiet storm under the surface. My body flinches like it’s muscle memory.

I take a shaky step back. Then another. My fingers curl tighter around the plastic bag like it’ll protect me. I turn, heart in my throat, ready to bolt in the opposite direction.

But then—

“Hey!”

Just one word.

But it’s enough.

The voice is familiar—low, rough around the edges, quiet in that way that still demands attention. Not yelling. Not sharp. Just… deliberate.

And it comes from behind me.

I freeze mid-step.

My grip tightens on the bag, but I don’t turn around. My whole body tenses like I’m waiting for the ground to open and swallow me whole.

Please no. Please let me be wrong.

But then—

“You dropped this.”

I glance down. My receipt flutters on the pavement behind me.

I should keep walking. I want to keep walking.

But something in that voice… that calm, steady voice—it wraps around my ribs like wire and holds me still.

I turn, just a little.

And there he is.

Helmet off now. Tousled black hair clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat or wind. Dark eyes, unreadable. That same bruised jaw from the fight. That same calm chaos in the way he stands, like he’s always ready to run or punch something—but right now, he’s doing neither.

He holds out the receipt between two fingers, casual like he’s done nothing unusual.

I don’t take it.

I can’t move.

I just stare at him, half-hidden behind the oversized hoodie and fogged-up glasses, knowing full well there’s nothing about me worth noticing—but he still is.

His eyes linger for a second.

Not in a gross way.

Just… curious.

Like he’s trying to place me.

“You are familiar, didn’t we spoke this weekend after my fight?” he says, voice soft but certain.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

He waits a second longer, like he’s giving me a chance to say something—to confirm or deny or at least react—but I just stand there, frozen in oversized fabric and fear.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says after a moment, voice even lower now. Almost gentle. “You okay?”

Something in me cracks.

I shake my head—not to answer the question, but to shake off the moment. The whole thing. Him. This.

I take a shaky step back, then another, until I turn away again. This time, I do walk.

Fast.

He doesn’t follow.

But I can still feel his eyes on me.

And it hurts in a way I wasn’t ready for.

By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m sweating under my hoodie even though it’s barely 65 degrees out. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I shut the door behind me, double lock it, and lean against it like maybe it’ll hold me up better than my spine currently can.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I drop the plastic bag on the kitchen counter and stare at it like it might answer me.

How the hell did he end up here?

What are the odds? No—seriously. Statistically. What are the goddamn odds that Jungkook, bruised, violent, beautiful Jungkook, the guy from the underground fight club with a face like a problem I’d never solve—what are the odds that he parks his sleek-ass murder-cycle right in front of my stupid corner store?

Does he live around here?

Does he live on my street?

Fucking hell.

My head spins. I kick off my shoes and shuffle toward my room like a zombie with trust issues. I don’t even bother with lunch. I just face-plant onto my bed and let out a strangled scream into my pillow.

Muffled, of course. Don’t want the neighbors to call someone.

My brain is already galloping down all the wrong roads.

What if he does live nearby? What if I see him again? What if he recognizes me next time, not just as “the girl from the fight” or “the hoodie gremlin who nearly dropped her sandwich,” but me—the real, fragile, overthinking version who wears pain like perfume and flinches when people care?

God, what if he saw through me already?

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

And just like that, it begins.

The daydream.

The soft edges blur and shift, my breathing slows, and the version of reality I can actually tolerate starts to take shape.

In this one, I’m still me—but I’m her, too.

The cooler version. The one who didn’t flinch. Who took the receipt with a small smirk, thanked him, maybe even made a joke that made his bruised mouth curve into a smile.

Maybe he would’ve asked my name.

Maybe I would’ve told him.

Maybe we would’ve sat on the curb, talking about the way silence sometimes feels safer than words. Maybe he would’ve looked at me like I wasn’t invisible. Like I wasn’t too much or not enough or anything in between.

In this version, I’m magnetic. Mysterious. Someone he wants to chase.

Not someone who runs.

Not someone who hides.

But the fantasy falters the second my phone buzzes.

A calendar notification.

Break over. Back to work.

I blink, and the ceiling collapses.

The daydream dissolves like mist under a spotlight.

And I’m back here again.

Greasy hair. Unanswered emails. Sandwich still untouched on the counter.

I sit up with a groan and reach for my laptop, the screen lighting up with the cruel reminder that no matter how hard I try to disappear, the world still expects me to perform.

Because I don’t get to be the girl in the fantasy.

I just get to pretend I'm okay for eight more hours.

It’s been three days.

Three long, weirdly quiet days since that day outside the convenience store.

He didn’t follow me.

He didn’t try to talk to me again.

But I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Or him.

Or the way his voice sounded when he said “hey” like it wasn’t a loaded word, like it didn’t feel like it cracked something open in my chest.

But today, I need air.

I’ve answered all my emails. Sat through two Zoom meetings where I didn’t say a word. Ate half a protein bar and convinced myself that counted as lunch. The weather’s decent. Grey sky, soft breeze. Not hot, not cold. The kind of weather that makes you feel invisible in a good way.

So I shower. Real clothes aren’t an option—my body still feels like a burden—but I pull on my cleanest hoodie and loose cargo pants. I throw on some concealer, smudge some eyeliner. Just enough to look… functional. Human-adjacent. Lip balm, not lipstick.

My comfort zone.

I pop a Red Bull from the fridge, grab my lighter and smokes, and head out.

The walk to the park is quiet. Familiar. It’s only a few blocks away—lined with sad little trees, apartment windows with peeling paint, and the occasional dog-walker tugging along a leash like it’s a lifeline.

By the time I get there, I’m already feeling a little lighter.

I head straight to the bench.

My bench.

The one facing the outdoor fitness area. It’s a concrete platform with metal bars and makeshift equipment—mostly used by shirtless guys trying to impress no one in particular. Usually, I avoid the place when it’s busy. But I’ve learned the timing.

Late afternoons on weekdays? It’s usually empty.

Quiet enough to breathe.

I sit down, crack the can open with a hiss, and take a long sip. The carbonation burns down my throat, sharp and sweet. I pull a cigarette from my sleeve and light it, the flame catching with a soft flick. First drag, and the world slows down.

My mind goes quiet.

For once.

I exhale smoke into the open air, let it drift above me, unfurling like a sigh I didn’t know I was holding.

And then—I see him.

At first, I don’t realize it’s him.

I just register movement.

Someone using the pull-up bar.

Shirtless. Muscled. Moving with a kind of effortlessness that makes my stomach flip.

I glance up, casual.

And freeze.

It’s him.

Jungkook.

His back is to me, muscles flexing as he pulls himself up again and again, like he’s chasing something only he can see. The tattoos on his arms are vivid under the dull light, ink curling down to his wrist in sharp, beautiful lines.

He drops down from the bar, hands on his hips, chest heaving with each breath.

He’s glowing with sweat.

And for a second—I forget how to exist.

He doesn’t see me.

Not yet.

I duck my head fast, pulling my hoodie slightly forward like it’s a curtain I can hide behind. I take another drag of my cigarette, hoping the smoke masks the sudden panic rising in my throat.

Why is he here?

Again?

Does he live around here? Was Katherine right?

Or is this just some twisted coincidence?

He wipes his face with the edge of his tank top, and I catch a glimpse of more tattoos on his ribs—black ink over golden skin—and I have to look away. My heart’s beating like I’ve done a line of adrenaline instead of just caffeine and smoke.

I shouldn't be looking.

He’s not for me.

He’s a storm in a human body. A fighter. A blur of danger and sharp edges.

And I’m just… this.

This hoodie.

This body.

This invisible mess on a park bench, pretending the world isn’t too much.

But even as I look away—

I can feel it.

That shift.

That pull.

And when I glance back, just once, just quick—

His eyes are on me.

Right on me.

Unmistakable.

Direct.

Not in a flirty, playful, hey-girl way.

No.

It’s deeper than that.

Like he remembers me.

Like he sees something he doesn’t quite understand.

I look away so fast I almost drop my Red Bull.

My fingers are shaking again.

What the fuck is happening?

Why does it feel like he’s always three steps ahead of where I want him to be?

330 notes · View notes

di-loves-coffee · 30 days ago

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See, if I shove my bad thoughts on fictional characters then they can’t hurt me.

[Trigger Warning!! — suicide mentions and thoughts, me-normal cursing, DP-normal angst, and probably Bat-normal grit]

•—•~•DPxDC Roof Talks•~•—•

Danny was never really the same after the portal, being halfway dead was… isolating, to say the least. Not many people to relate to when one of the biggest parts of your identity is being dead.

Of course the other ghosts understood being dead, but then again they were fully dead and didn’t understand the ties that he still had to his life. And he was pretty attached to his life.

Sure his friends and family in Amity Park could understand at least part of his life, but then again, he moved out of town at nineteen to get away from his parents. He used college as an excuse.

Gotham was…. Fine– he supposed. Sure it wasn’t Amity. But the powerful feelings that always hung around the city gave it the ambient ecto his core needed to survive. And the Rogue attacks reminded him of how the ghosts used to attack back in Amity, but he didn’t really have anyone he could be truly honest with.

He couldn’t talk about being half-dead or technically the king of all realms or even about being Phantom with the people at his favorite restaurant or his neighbors. In fact, Danny was sure that if he even broached the topic they’d send him to Arkham for fear of him becoming a rogue.

On nights when he felt a bit too isolated, Danny found himself drifting to the roof of his apartment complex, unconsciously reaching for the stars even in his mortal form. His core instinctively reaching for home.

He would stay on the roof for hours sometimes, trying to see any sort of constellation or planet through the smog and pollution. The air burning in his lungs and throat as he pondered.

Tonight? One of those nights. His job had been treating him like hell all month, he couldn’t call Sam because she was busy with her fancy plant nursery, and Tucker was busy with his fancy programming gig so he was out of the question. Jazz wouldn’t do anything but fuss over him if he called her. So it was just him and his thoughts for the night.

Probably a bad thing.

Danny’s eyes drifted down from the smoggy skies and down to the alley below the edge he was sitting on. His beat up sneakers idly kicked as he sat.

For just a moment, Danny considered a nasty thought. Nasty, but tempting.

For a moment Danny wondered what would happen if he fell. If he jumped even.

Would anyone he cared for realize if one day he just– stopped. If he stopped coming to his frequented restaurants, if he stopped chatting with his neighbors. If he didn't go home, or if he didn’t call his friends or family.

He wondered if anyone would notice his body if he jumped. He wondered if his skinny form would be found and put in the news if it would at least be given a grave or if it would rot away in the alley below his feet, getting chewed apart by rats.

He wondered if anyone would care.

And he realized that he wasn’t sure.

Danny wondered if he should test his theory. If he should jump and find out.

The rubber soles of his shoes braced on the wall of the building, preparing to push himself off.

Then a hand on his shoulder startled him out of his spiral.

A startle jumped through him and he snapped his head behind him. Having previously thought that he was alone.

His eyes met the red helmet of the Red Hood. The mechanical wonder of a piece of machinery glaring into his soul as a distinctly robotic voice faintly spoke to him.

His core however recognized something distinctly like the Realms. It trilled and waved in his gut, feeling nearly like butterflies.

“-kid? Kid?” Danny’s hearing finally caught up to his brain and he realized at once that the vigilante had been speaking to him.

“Kid what the fuck are you doing up here?” The robotic voice filtered through the red helmet and Danny internally bristled at being called a kid. He was twenty-four thank you. Not a kid.

“Not a kid.” The Halfa brushed off the vigilante’s concern with well-deserved defense. —Well-deserved in his mind at least.

“Fine, not a kid.” Danny could almost see the eye roll through the augmented voice. “You still can’t just be on rooftops.”

“So? You bats do it. And this is my apartment building, so don’t give me any ‘private property’ bull” The halfa defended his [Lack-thereof] honor against the crime lord.

“Sure, it’s your apartment complex, just don’t sit on the ledge. You could fall and accidentally kill yourself.” Danny almost scoffed at that; Accidentally? He practically killed himself anytime he goes ghost. He thinks he’s beyond accidentally killing himself at this point.

The halfa still inches away from the ledge despite him not believing it necessary. It seemed to calm the vigilante down— at least from what he could tell from the untensing of the veins in his neck.

Red Hood slowly stepped closer— not unlike as if he were a wild animal— crouching and sitting down with a grunt. His large and beefy form sitting only a couple feet away.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing up here on these roofs?” The vigilante asked, voice gruff and distorted from his mask. But Danny swore there was concern woven in his tone.

“Thinkin’,” The halfa found himself deflecting the question. Even though his inner-monologue hissed about how he was being a self-sabotauging idiot in his sister’s voice.

“Yeah? Most people don’t sit on roofs just to think.” Danny could almost see the raised brow beneath the red helmet.

“Most people don't dress up to fight bad guys in the middle of the night,” The halfa pointed out in return, glancing back at the vigilante.

“Har har.” The sarcastic laugh sounded odd and out of place with the audio disruptor. But it was strangely comforting as the vigilante’s form approached, made clear by Danny’s core and the echo of boots on the rooftop.

Danny felt a firm, gloved hand on his shoulder. “Come on kid, let me buy you Batburger, I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Alright,” Danny huffed a small— if still half-hearted— chuckle and stood up, stepping away from the ledge and following the hero into the apartment building and down the emergency stairs.

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dameronspector · 1 month ago

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Willow (chapter 2)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!ExAvenger!Reader

Chapter Summary: You are Bucky's assistant in his (flop) political career, Valentina is a bitch, you lie to Bucky, you meet 3 assassins and Bob, you almost die surrounded by 4 strangers.

Warnings: Mentions of Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Death, Dead Body, Guns, Gunshots, Injuries, Fight scenes, Canon-typical violence, Vomiting, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Cursing, Found Family, Cap Fam content, Reader is mentioned to be short, NWH has taken place, Valentina being a manipulative leech, John Walker Hate- click off if you don't want to read that, light soulmate AU vibes, Reader has magical abilities of the goddess Hecate (eg: necromancy, pyrokinesis, hypnokinesis, dark magic, etc. you can find the rest on rioridanwiki!), that’s all i think!

AN: ooo it gets juicy from here onwards hehehe.

PS: this is a work of fiction. I don't own any of these characters and I have made some changes to fit the storyline better and because it's an AU. I have taken all the information from google and riordanwiki. Incase I have gotten anything wrong, please let me know!

2027

If someone would’ve told your 10 year old self that you’d become Bucky Barnes’ assistant at 27 years of age, you’d laugh at them.

But that’s exactly what happened.

Bucky deciding to enter politics was still wild to you. How and why he decided that, you’re not sure. But it seemed to give him purpose, so you and Sam encouraged him.

Sam was also the one who told you to join Bucky. Because of your degree in psychology, Sam decided that you’d be the perfect candidate to help Bucky out after convincing you for days. (Tony made you go to college during The Blip, keeping up the promise of making you attend school. And now you had to train a hundred and ten year old man on how to act in front of the media and his colleagues.)

There was also a new addition to your list of best friends-Joaquin Torres, whose hyperactive and youthful energy kept you on your toes as you finally had someone of your age around you. He reminded you of another person you knew, but you simply couldn’t remember him or his name. It was a strange feeling—the memories were there, and they were so vibrant, but his face was blurry.

You quickly grew attached to Joaquin and Isaiah, the two of them becoming a vital part of your small family and you were devastated when Isaiah was arrested and Joaquin met with that accident on Sentinel Island.

Bucky and you visited them right away, with Bucky reuniting with Sam after 2 whole years. Why 2 years you ask?

Bucky had gone off to do god knows what, while you kept working with Sam, helping him around the office and on field when Joaquin was busy with his army duties.

After making sure he was alright, Bucky reassured Sam about his decision, and with an emotional embrace between the two men plus you, the two of you left to DC to work on Bucky’s next public appearance, with you promising Sam that you'd visit Joaquin as soon as he was conscious.

Bucky was a PR disaster.

No matter how much you trained him, he was a 110 years old, had no filter on his mouth, and with that perpetual grumpy face, he was not helping his public persona at all.

“Would it kill you to smile properly?”, you murmured through gritted teeth, keeping a fake smile plastered to your face as you walked beside Congressman Bucky Barnes around the senate building, wearing a black power suit to match Bucky's, throwing polite smiles at the other candidates while Bucky scowled, any attempts at a smile making it look like he had been stabbed in his gut instead.

“There’s nothin’ to smile about. I don’t know any of these people”, he grumbled next to you, looking sharp in his suit and long hair slicked back.

You pursed your lips, trying your best to not laugh at him. He was adorably old fashioned and out of place.

“Yeah, alright, peepaw. But you need to show those chompers to get all the votes, okay? So smile, before I tickle you", you threatened him loosely and smiled at another camera, the reporters crowding around you and Bucky, shoving mics into his face. He gripped the documents in his hands tighter, feeling like the tie was slowly choking him.

"Congressman Barnes, any words on today's hearing?", the tall reporter approached Bucky, her mic in front of Bucky while the others crowded his personal space.

You could feel the agitation rolling off of him in waves, standing right behind him and fiddling with your ring that concealed your twin celestial bronze daggers.

"Well, I'm not on the impeachment committee, but uh--", he paused, looking around the other reporters before continuing, "the-uh--rumors of uh--wrongdoing, are um--very worrying. They are, uh-- very concerning...and um--worrying, and uh--we're gonna get to the bottom of this uh--", he cleared his throat, "worrying issue."

You were this close to face palming yourself in front of the press. Your eyes were blown wide in disbelief, body frozen as you took in his horrible attempt at a comment and the way the reporters' faces fell.

And you were so sure that his face was, once again, molded into that classic resting face. He said a thank you and moved ahead, the movement snapping you out of your daze and you rushed to follow him.

"What the hell was that?!", you seethed and poked his stomach, his body jerking away slightly at that.

"I--I don't know! What am I s'pposed to say?!", he whispered back in exasperation.

"Anything! Maybe don't say 'worrying' thrice in a continuous sentence!"

He pouted and grumbled, "This is my first time, you're so mean", you threw a glare in his direction before composing yourself as the two of you entered the jury room.

The situation in question was regarding CIA director, Valentina Allegra De Fontaine's impeachment, due to her connection to illegal black ops projects. If someone would've asked you for your honest opinion, you would simply say that you hated the woman.

She was on a power trip and straight up insane, as told to you by Bucky, who received news from Shuri about what Valentina tried to do in Wakanda and even got Everett Ross arrested, who was her Ex-Husband. Even now, as you sat in the last row with Bucky and observed the hearing silently, the arrogance dripping from her tongue and her uncaring attitude towards the trial told you everything about the kind of person she is. You swore you'd do anything to stay away from her.

But it's almost as if the universe listens to your wishes and decides to do the exact opposite.

As soon as the session was over, Bucky had been whisked off by Congressmen Gary, and that left you standing in the huge lobby, passing the time by watching the memes sent by Morgan (yes you had a phone now, that Princess Shuri so gracefully made for you on Bucky's request, altering the signals and frequency with Wakandan high-tech. Ever since that happened, you'd been dying to meet her.)

You were grinning at the screen when you felt a tap on your shoulder and you turned, "How was-Oh", you cut off the greeting when you saw that it wasn't Bucky but the devil herself and your smile dimmed instantly.

"Hi. Barnes' assistant, right?", Valentina flashed you a mechanical smile, that made her look like a wax figure, and her assistant was standing next to her with a confused look on the face.

You looked at the two of them in suspicion before smiling formally, going back into professional mode, "Miss De Fontaine. Yes, I'm his assistant, although he's actually speaking to-"

"Oh, no, no! I didn't want to speak to him. I wanted to speak to you!", she spoke in an over excited tone and the hair on your neck stood up.

"M-me? Why?", you laughed nervously, exchanging a glance with her assistant who subtly shrugged.

"To give you an offer!"

Your mouth fell open. You needed to get out of here and find Bucky, now.

"Uh-I'm not interested, actually-"

"Age: 27 years old, Biological Father deceased, Lived in a camp for demi-gods or whatever till she was 15, Has greek god powers, which is--wow, surprising, Rescued by the Avengers, been an active Avenger till 2023, lived in a sad little apartment for a year, worked with Captain America for 3 years and now working for Congressman Barnes. Excellent resume, I must say!", she listed off while smiling sardonically.

The soles of your feet were frozen to the marble floors. If you had to see yourself from the outside, you were so sure that you'd see your skin turn gray because you felt your heart stop at Valentina's words.

How the fuck did she find out about all that? That information was confidentially stored by Tony and only two persons other than him knew the key to it: you and Bruce. There's no way she found out about this so easily.

Valentina noticed your reaction and laughed casually, like she hadn't just dropped a bomb on you.

"Oh yeah, I know everything about you. It wasn't that hard, actually, when you have enough resources to get into sensitive data and retrieve information. Anyways, I have a vault in Utah. There's some...confidential stuff and assets, from a previous project inside the vault. Someone is trying to steal my stuff. You, will go there, and stop her", she finished, her eyes staring into yours intensely, as if she was hypnotising you.

You grimaced, looking her up and down in disgust, "Why would I do that for you?"

Valentina smirked, "Because...if you don't, I will leak your bio data with just one click and let the government do whatever they want with it. It could put you and your little camp at risk", she threatened with a sickly sweet smile on her face.

You let out an involuntary laugh, the disbelief and shock making you delirious, "You are actively threatening me. You know I could testify against you right?"

Valentina's face turned serious, your jab hitting her straight in the face, her left eye twitching with irritation.

"Foolish girl. I could still prove in court that you are a fraud and are lying to the state about a bigger threat", she seethed at you before relaxing again, "It'd be wise for you to just say yes to my deal. And don't try to tell James. Unless...you want to willingly shoulder the responsibility for whatever happens to him, too?"

You felt sick. If she stood here any longer, you were going to projectile vomit on her.

She was not only threatening to prove you as a fraud and enemy of the state, but also to hurt Bucky and blame you for it? This was so fucked up. You shouldn't have left Bucky's side. You could feel your magic boiling in your veins, itching to be released, your fingertips burning with the beginnings of a flame, eyes swirling with the purple hidden behind your natural irises. You had gotten much better at controlling your powers but it always went sideways whenever someone provoked you.

Valentina noticed your clenched fists and the slight flickering of the lights. She scoffed and patted your shoulder patronisingly. Your jaw ticked.

"Oh, Relax, there's no need for unnecessary drama. Mel, send her the coordinates to the vault. And make sure her phone is tracked. Let me know if she doesn't reach the vault by the next 2 hours, hm?", she instructed Mel and left, without sparing you a glance.

Mel looked at your heaving body and teary eyes with concern, "I'd listen to what she says. She's...", Mel gulped, "She can and will ruin your life. I've sent you the coordinates. Good luck", Mel whispered, before speed walking after Valentina.

You weren't sure how long you stood there, staring into nothingness with your hands shaking and feet sweating. It seemed like your body had shut down, your brain numb to any thoughts or information, ears producing that tinny sound, making everything sound like a distant hum.

"Hey, doll? You okay?", Bucky's quiet voice filled your ears and he stood in front of you, hands gently holding your arms and ice blue eyes staring at you in concern. That's when you snapped out of your stupor, glassy eyes staring into Bucky's blankly.

"What's wrong?", he asked in alarm, blocking your view from the crowd filling in the lobby now.

You swallowed thickly, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible before Valentina does something stupid.

"I-uh-I don't feel well. Can I go home?", you managed to spit out, your fingers playing with your ring again.

Bucky furrowed his brows. You usually hung around till he was ready to leave, not wanting to leave him alone with a bunch of strangers but it has been a long night and a day, you had come to the hearing immediately after visiting Joaquin in the hospital, so he understood that you must've been exhausted.

"Yeah, of course. You want me to drop you off?"

"No!", you blurted out, cursing inwardly for giving a knee-jerk reaction, "Uh- no, there's no need. I'll be fine. I have to uh-work on some papers and read the packets as well. So...I'll go on my own", you tried to give him a hesitant smile, your lips quivering lightly.

His intense stare cut through you as he tried to understand if something was off with you. Usually, you would've stayed at his apartment, to avoid the extra commute and he asked you to do so, so that he can keep you company. But he also knew that you needed your own space at times.

So he simply nodded and murmured a small, 'Okay', patting your shoulder with a smile.

You tried to return it as best as you could, rushing out of the venue right after. Bucky watched you go suspiciously, having taken notice of the tearful eyes, the shaky and fidgety hands and the clipped tone.

You hailed a cab and reached your apartment, gathering whatever gear you had, along with the specially designed suit that Tony had gifted you.

It was purple and black in colour, made out of comfortable Kevlar that would protect you from any severe injuries, even if your powers were enough to protect you. It was a lovely suit, Tony had even asked for your own input in the design. Your favourite part about it was the tapering fabric on the back, that ended below your knees and fluttered prettily every time you moved.

You changed into the suit and stuffed your enchanted rope in the carry on bag, along with your book of spells that you had turned invisible with the help of the mist, and actual knives that would hurt mortals. While packing, Valentina's words kept echoing in your ears like a mantra. How did she get her hands on this information? And why did she choose you instead of Bucky? You almost picked up your phone to call Happy and question him about the same when you paused.

You hadn't talked to Happy properly since--

May's funeral. Your heart fell into a pit of despair. You lost May two years ago, all because some pathetic villain from another dimension had gone loose. Happy wasn't the same since then, neither were you, and neither was...Neither was who?

You kept blanking on the same thing whenever you thought of May. There was someone else. Someone who you cared about. Someone who was important. But...how can you miss a person whose face never existed in your memories?

You decided to stuff your phone deep inside the bag and leave, the persistent ache pressing against your chest harshly.

You just prayed Bucky would not come after you so you left him a note, stating that you were visiting a friend from camp on emergency basis, enough to keep him distracted for a while.

You almost considered shadow travelling to reach the destination as quickly as possible, but then remembered the time you had gone to Bulgaria on a mission with Sam and tried to get home by shadow travelling. It was so exhausting, that you passed out for a week straight, putting Sam and Joaquin into distress. You couldn't afford passing out now.

That's why you opted to simply inform Valentina that you were ready and she sent you the location to an abandoned helipad, an OXE issued helicopter already parked there to drop you in Utah and she infirmed that your biometrics had already been entered in the system to give you access.

After hiking up a mountain, you finally spotted the big and wide building, the area around it completely desolate. That alone, was sending off warning bells inside your brain. Valentina had sent you a photo of your target, a blonde, short woman who was dressed in a muted olive green suit, with a sharp look in her eyes.

You already hated working for Valentina, because there no proper debrief or plan that you had to follow, your disciplined half-blood and Avenger body protesting against her style of working as you grew more and more agitated.

"You'll know who she is once you get there", is what she had texted you when you asked for more details. What a loser.

"Perfect place for some shady shit", you muttered under your breath, the minimalistic but grandiose look of the vault was pretty in character for her.

Huffing and dusting away the dirt on your hands, you moved cautiously inside the building, it's automatic doors parting for you and opening up to a dimly lit lobby, the interior a mix of rocky surfaces, sleek floors, textured walls and 4 spherical elevators. You looked around the space, confirming that nobody was lurking before conjuring a protective bubble around you and entering one of the lifts, the revolving doors shutting close.

It took you approximately 20 seconds to reach the actual vault, the doors opening to a rectangular opening right in front of you. The entrance had heavy paneling around it, a white light illuminating around the edges and there was a large room inside, scattered with boxes, machines, papers and what looked like to be coffins. You felt your powers pulse at that.

As you exited the elevator, you heard grunts and metallic clinks, causing you to put your guard up as you heard more than one person's movements. You conjured a mist and concealed yourself, choosing to observe before attacking them.

As soon as you entered the room, 3 people were engaged in combat-- the blonde haired woman--your target, a masked person with armour and shield and a man who was dressed like--Steve? As you stepped closer you realised that it was John Walker, Walmart Captain America, Resident Asshole and #1 enemy of your family.

All of sudden a person appeared out of thin air, their body appearing in a particular--staticky way, like they were a damaged TV screen that phased in and out of view. The blonde woman was standing defensively behind a box, with John combating the armoured person.

John kicked the armoured person who landed on their back harshly before turning his attention to the blonde. He noticed her eyes flick over his shoulder and he turned around, the person coming into view in a cool suit and helmet.

"There you are", her Russian accent clear as day, as she addressed the phasing woman.

"Now what?", John complained, as usual, might you add.

"Oh, get over yourself", it was a woman then, and you already liked her for putting John in his place.

John took a defensive stance and the woman charged, phasing through him and appearing in front of the armoured person, punching them even further away in the room.

The blonde woman whipped around and used her tasers on the phasing woman, which passed through her body and latched onto John instead, who keeled over in pain. Her tasers looked quite similar to Natasha's widow bites, you noticed.

The phasing woman knocked over the armoured person before your target jumped on her back, the woman once again disappeared and let your target drop on the metallic floor before kicking her in the ribs, causing her to moan in pain.

"Stay out of my way!", the woman ordered your target and walked away.

You took that as an opportunity to pin down your target, dissolving the mist around you and casting a confinement spell, purple tendrils of magic looping around the woman and squeezing her.

"Wh-whaaat the hell is happening?!", she cried out, looking at her torso in concern.

"It's alright, don't fight against them or else they'll tighten", you calmly explained to her, glowing purple eyes focused on her intently, bright tendrils of magic bursting from your moving fingertips.

"Who the hell are you?!", she yelled in irritation, her blond hair messily falling onto her forehead and the other three stopped fighting, looking at you in confusion.

John's eyes widened in recognition and he let out a disbelieving chuckle, "No fucking way. (Name)? Sam Wilson's sidekick, (Name)? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question, John", you quipped.

Taking that as an opportunity, the armoured person drew an ignited arrow and shot it in John's direction, John's shoes scraping against the floor as the force of the arrow threw him back.

John retaliated by pulling out his gun and firing at the person, their shield coming up to protect themselves when suddenly someone jumped on your back, breaking your concentration effectively. Your hands came around your neck, pulling the person's hands away and heard a thud as your target fell to the ground.

The phasing woman turned you around, squeezing your throat and kicking you away before muttering, "You're new. Sit this one out", and walking over to the blonde, tackling her down and running over to John.

You gasped and let out a cough, your hand around your throat, when you saw your target flip over a table, dragging it down with her as a cover and John throw his shield in her direction, which bounced back from one of the coffin-like apparatus behind your target.

You groaned and steadied yourself on an arm, holding out your free arm in your target's direction and letting your magic lift the table away, revealing her crouched form behind it. You threw the table away in John's direction, throwing him in the opposite direction before fast-walking towards the blonde. You conjured a knife and hurled it in her direction, to which she replied with a duck and roll behind a container box.

John started shooting at you then, you clenched your jaw and lifted a hand, eyes glowing purple-blue from annoyance, right arm extended in front of you with your palm spread and stopped his bullets mid-air. He gaped at that in shock, before you sneered and flicked your hand, deflecting the bullets towards him. John brought up his shield to stop them, the bullets ricocheting off his shield and piercing into the many containers.

He recovered quickly and both of you ran towards the blonde, her shooting the widow bites in both of your directions and you fell to the floor, convulsing from the electric shock.

Everything was a blur for few minutes and then—a gunshot. A body fell behind you. The blonde released you from the bite and you turned around breathlessly, holding yourself up on shaking arms to see that the armoured person had fallen to the ground, a gunshot right in the middle of their skull shaped mask.

The phasing woman retracted her helmet, her brunette hair coming into view when the four of you heard gagging and sounds of bile hitting the floor from across the room.

All of you whipped your heads around to stare at the sound before standing in alarm—the blonde pointing her gun at the phasing woman, her pointing it at John and John pointing his at you. You stood with your arms extended, fiery swirls emanating from your fingertips, body charged with adrenaline as the dark and moody environment helped your magic strengthen.

All of sudden, the three of them slowly turned their heads towards you, three guns pointed in your direction.

Your hands raised up further in defense, "Wait. She hired me like...a few hours ago. I don't work for her. I'm just here to take you out", you admitted while pointing at the blonde, the flames moving with your hand.

Suddenly, a voice spoke up from behind a huge container.

"Oh...Is she actually..?"

All of you turned to the voice, their weapons and your magic up in defense towards a…

Tall man in hospital scrubs?

He tried to run away from your group, running towards the opening of the room when the heavy metal doors shut close, making a loud bang and causing him to stop abruptly before he turned around in loss.

He had shaggy brown hair that curled at the ends, arms up in the air and even though he was quiet tall, the scrubs were oversized on him, making the sleeves cover his hands and pants pool around his feet a little.

There was something weirdly charming about him, his voice was solid and very deep but his features were soft, a dopey smile and dazed expression on his face that made you think he was either high or had just woken up from a nap.

“the…”, he continued while pointing at the armoured person lying motionless on the floor.

You felt an odd tug in your chest, something about him was drawing you in, a faint flutter in your stomach and a bell going off in your head that he was not as ordinary as he seems.

“Oh. Oh, no”, your target replied, sparing a glance at the dead body in the room.

“Hello, Hi…I-I’m Bob”, Bob nervously introduced himself, a hand raised in greeting. You noticed the way he kept jittering and shuffling, as if his body couldn’t stay still for more than 5 seconds.

The phasing lady squinted her eyes at him, “Who are you?”, getting closer to him with her gun still raised.

Bob furrowed his eyebrows, “I-I’m Bob. I-I told you, I’m..yeah. I’m Bob”, he replied in a shaky voice, his arms raised above his head in surrender.

You tilted your head, trying to figure him out.

“Jesus Christ, Stop saying ‘Bob’”, John complained and you rolled your eyes.

“Who sent you, Bob?”, Yelena questioned him.

Bob’s face shifted in confusion, “Nobody. Why would they send me?”, he pointed at the four of you then, “were all of you sent?”

His eyes sweeped over the group before landing on you, body momentarily freezing in place, eyes widening just a fraction. You felt your body light up with goosebumps, your concentration wavering and the flames around your hands disappeared completely.

“Whoa. Are you doing that? That came out of your body?”, Bob said in awe, his eyes wide with wonder.

You felt your mouth twitch slightly, his enthusiasm was magnetic and you shrugged casually.

“That’s so cool. Wh-”

“Hold on. Who are you?”, your target cut off Bob and turned her attention towards you. Bob closed his mouth and observed you closely.

You coughed lightly before introducing yourself, “I’m (Name). I wo—I used to work with the Avengers.”

Walker snorted in humourlessly, as if your introduction personally offended him. You looked at him furiously, an eyebrow quirked in irritation.

“You got any problem with that?”, you seethed.

“Oh, nothing, except the fact that you are one of their strongest members, you have a mysterious past that nobody has found out yet, you worked with Stark, Wilson, and now you work with Bucky. Isnlt that right, Miss all rounder?”, he sassed.

Bob let out a breathy ‘Wow’ while your hands shook with agitation, a violent purple glow slowly taking over them before your target cocked her gun and pointed it at you and Walker, the phasing lady watching the three of you in boredom.

“That’s enough! Why are you here, (Name)?”

You clenched your hands into fists and looked at her, “Valentina sent me kill you. Said you were stealing OXE’s assets. I don’t even know who you are. Are you a widow?”

Yelena’s face shifted in shock, her gun slightly lowered, “I’m Yelena, why do you ask?”

Shrugging, you crossed your arms around your chest and pointed at her wrists, “Those are widow’s bites. I was trained by Natasha Romanoff.”

Yelena’s eyes widened, her eyes coated with a light sheen of tears. The phasing lady rolled her eyes again.

The phasing lady exhaled, “I'm not sure what's going on here, but you're all exhausting and my job is done”, she moved away from the group and you furrowed your brows. Yelena quickly recovered from her moment to reply.

“Oh, I bet. You see my job, is watching you. So, no, you're not going anywhere else”, Yelena rebutted, her gun pointed at the other woman’s direction.

Walker scoffed again, “So you're watching her, huh? That's a halfway decent cover for someone stealing OXE’s assets.”

You paused before jumping in, “He’s kinda right about that.”

Yelena gave you a brief glare, “I'm not stealing. She's stealing.”

All of you stared at her silently and the blonde closed her eyes in resignation before lifting her arms up in surrender, “Okay. It’s clear that we have all worked for Valentina in some kind of shadow ops role.”

“So what?”

Yelena moved her hand with the gun in a circular motion, “So all of this is OXE’s mysteries. But so are we.”

“Which makes us the unknown liabilities in this…”

“Speak for yourself”, Walker defended.

“We're the evidence and this is the shredder. She wants us gone”, Yelena snapped, her hand making a ‘cutting the neck’ motion.

When she said the word ‘shredder’, you truly looked around the warehouse. There were four large openings above you, covered in heavy metal, dark and hollow inside, making it look unsettling. You should’ve noticed that the moment you came in.

“Your theory is flawed”, Walker brushed her off.

“Oh please. Go on.”

Walker cleared his throat before beginning his speech, “Fine. Well, let's look at the facts. The infamous Ghost, Ava Starr, A SHIELD reject on the run across 15 nations”, he pointed at the phasing lady— whose name was Ava, as you just found out, “Dead girl over there, she destroyed half of Budapest—”

“Don’t talk about that”, Yelena frowned.

“—You, A former Red Room assassin. Only God knows the blood on your hands”, Yelena rolled her eyes.

Then Walker turned to you, a stupid smile plastered to his face, his equally stupid helmet making him look like a raccoon. You raised your eyebrows in challenge.

“And you. Well, you’re quite special, yet we know nothing about you. If Valentina selected you to take out someone like Yelena, then she must have some interesting dirt on you, for sure.”

You pursed your lips in subtle annoyance and nervousness, Valentina’s threat ringing in your ears.

“Pretty rich coming from a dime-store Captain America”, Ava scoffed and you let out a breathy chuckle.

“I want you to know I was actually the official Captain America, so—”

“Yeah, for like two seconds”

“Before you publicly murdered an innocent man in the streets”, Ava added.

"Really? Define innocent.”

You whipped your head to look at Walker, a surprised look on your face.

“Are you sure you to be publicly embarrassed like that, Walker?”, you challenged him.

Walker pursed his lips, his face flashing with something akin to regret before he puffed his chest out again, “Hey, look. I'm a decorated war veteran, okay? I have a loving wife and a son. Let's be honest. You guys are just cheap mercenaries, alright? So clearly I wasn't supposed to bring you in.”

You, Yelena and Ava let out disbelieving snorts. Walker stared in a dumbfounded manner.

“That was funny. Thanks. We needed that”, Yelena taunted him in between chuckles. John rolled his eyes.

“It's getting pretty tense in here….”, Bob’s voice rung out and all four of you turned to look at him.

Your eyes lingered on him and his smile, the way his fidgeting and nervousness bled into his chuckle, before he suddenly stopped, his energy dimming by looking at Walker’s glare.

“…For a second”, he cleared his throat and ducked his head down, hiding behind the container again.

You glared at Walker, hating the way he seemed to take out the good energy in the room just by being his insufferable self.

“I'm not leaving here without completing my mission. Valentina gave me a clean slate guarantee and I'm not going to blow it. But this weirdo wasn't part of the job, so I need to know. How did you get in?”, he asked Bob in irritation.

Bob shuffled, “I don’t remember.”

You narrowed your eyes. He was lying. You could feel it.

“Are you sure about that?”, you asked him carefully, his wide eyes looking at you now, mouth agape and hands wringing each other.

“I-I-”

“Excellent answer. Alright, tie him up”, Walker interrupted him.

“Can you shut the fuck up for a minute?”, you gritted your teeth.

“Wow”, Yelena flatly replied.

“No, and goodbye”, Ava announced and moved around the dead body to take out all the weapons.

“Hey. Job or not, could you have some respect, please?”, Yelena chided.

“Yeah, Jesus. Get outta here”, Walker mock agreed with Yelena before moving around Ava to remove the knives from the body.

You and Yelena stared at him in disgust.

“What? She’d want me to have it”, he defended himself and you rolled your eyes.

“Who is that?”, you asked Yelena curiously.

Yelena’s face dimmed, “We…worked in the Red Room together. She was the commander, General Dreykov’s daughter, Antonia Dreykov.”

You stared at Antonia’s body before your face shifted in recognition.

“Dreykov….Oh shit. Natasha told me about this. She went through a lot”, you mumbled solemnly and once again Yelena stared at you in that emotional way, her eyes shining with a pain that you couldn’t pin point yet.

You looked at her closely, trying to decipher what was going on in her head but she was already focusing on something else. Likely avoiding any type of confrontation.

Suddenly there was a low hum and a gradual increase in the room’s temperature, bouts of hot air hitting the top of your head, like someone was breathing down your neck. You looked around in alarm, hands tingling with adrenaline.

“What was that?”, you questioned, unsure if you were imagining it.

“Doesn't sound like a shredder.”

“It's an incinerator”, Ava informed, confirmed your fear. Yelena turned around and then you noticed it, the timer on the wall. It was counting the minutes and seconds till your imminent death.

“Two minutes. Then Valentina's slate is clean”, Yelena replied.

“You don't know that for sure. It could be for anything. It could be for when they come to pick me up”, Walker was being as delusional as ever.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Good god.”

“You feel that? Temperature's rising dramatically like heat is involved?”, Ava seethed and that got him to look around, the smug smile wiped off his face.

“Well, it is an incinerator.”

“Oh, boy. That is not a way to go”, Bob spoke from behind you.

You jumped a bit and turned to face him, curls framing his eyes and eyes blown wide. Since he was so close, you could finally see that his eyes were blue in colour. Not the kind of pale blue like Bucky, a deep blue, a colour that was close to that of a clean ocean body surrounded by healthy reefs. A colour like the brightest sapphire. It suited him well.

Suddenly his eyes shifted, looking down at you in interest. He was quite taller now that he was right next to you, so you had to crane your neck to look at him properly.

His eyes sparkled and you felt a tug in your chest, something that was pulling you close to him, something that made you feel like there was a connection between the two of you. Your heart was beating faster for some reason.

Bob wasn’t doing any better.

He wasn’t sure why, but right from the moment your eyes met across the room, he felt like you had hypnotised him. He couldn’t help but feel his hands twitch from the effort to not put them on your face. Almost like there was this invisible string that was tying you both together. He swore he saw your eyes sparkle in the low light of the shitty warehouse. And he was captivated by the purple glow that would take over you, the way your natural eye colour would blend into it and fade away depending on your emotions.

He felt his heart thunder against his ribs and he cursed inwardly, because Bob could feel that he was falling for you. Already.

“How would you like to die, Bob?”

Fuck John Walker and his nasty little attitude.

Bob and you jumped apart and you whipped your head around to throw another glare at Walker, Bob sulking once again after his comment.

If looks could kill, Bob was so sure Walker would be so dead right now. But also, your annoyed face was kinda hot, he thought. Bob felt his cheeks warm up at that and he bit his tongue to calm himself down.

“Alright, Ghost lady”, Yelena called out.

“Ava.”

“Sure, whatever. I don't care. We need to help you phase through these walls so you can open the door.”

“She already tried”, Walker said.

“I know she did, but we haven't tried shutting down the sound barrier. They built it just for her. It has to be an independent power source”, Yelena instructed and started looking around for any panel that had the controls to the sound barrier.

Bob looked around aimlessly and you grabbed his forearm, suddenly feeling brave enough to touch him, “Come on, let's go”, you told him while pulling him away in the opposite direction with you.

Bob stared at you in shock but he let you manhandle him, even though he was several pounds heavier, taller and stronger than you, “What exactly are we looking for?��

"For-" "We're looking for, not stupid questions, Bob", Walker interrupted you once again.

"I will make sure you don't leave this place alive, John", you threatened him and dragged Bob along, taking his help to move the boxes and touching the walls to look for any clues.

"I think I found it. Come here", Yelena called out and you made your way over to her, gathering around a protruding panel that was barely visible against the red light.

"Alright, I can override this", you offered and braced yourself to use your magic against it when suddenly--

"On your left!", Walker warned you barely in time, you felt hands pull you out of the way before Walker rammed into the panel with his shield, breaking the panel open.

You stared at him with your mouth open, "Not a single, original, bone in your body, huh?", you spit at him before the hands on your elbows gently pulled you away.

It was then, that you turned around to see who it was.

Bob. His warm yet huge hands engulfed your elbow completely. Your stomach fluttered.

He looked at you with his gentle eyes before slowly releasing your arm, "I-I'm sorry."

You just stared at him and he averted his eyes shyly.

"Well, that works."

"I hope."

A muffled sound rang in the room, signaling that the sound barrier was broken.

"Go, go, go go go", Yelena instructed Ava, who activated her helmet and successfully phased through the door.

The timer was ticking.

15 seconds till you're all burned alive.

"You think she's coming back?", Bob's scratchy voice asked in worry.

You furrowed your eyebrows.

10 seconds.

"Should have seen this coming. I'm sorry", Yelena muttered lowly.

You felt your stomach lurch at the fact that Ava had really left you all behind to die.

"She left us", you whispered, your throat closing up with the anxiety clouded in your lungs. You didn't even get to say goodbye to Bucky or Sam. They don't even know where you are.

5 seconds.

The room got hotter. You felt beads of sweat roll down your temple and neck, your breathing laboured. Hot puffs of air were hitting you constantly, your eyes burning with the heat and the unshed tears pooling in them. Your body shook with the need to release the pent up frustration but the panic clawing up your throat, and the darkest parts of your mind whispering that you deserved this, made you stand helplessly.

3 seconds.

You said a silent goodbye to your small family--to Bucky, Sam, Joaquin and Isaiah. To Pepper, Rhodey, Happy and Morgan, and closed your eyes in resignation, your luck had finally run out.

At least you'd reunite with your dad, Tony, Nat and Steve--the thought comforting you in a bitter-sweet manner.

The doors suddenly opened.

Your eyes snapped open before someone grabbed your hand and pulled along, running towards the door.

The moment you stepped outside the threshold, there was a loud blast, the entire room lighting up in red, hot, tendrils of fire and throwing you all against the stone walls. Some of the hot smoke and puffs of fire licked your skin, your head smacking against the rough stone, causing you to pass out promptly.

Your hand was still clasped tightly by someone.

Chapter 3

AN: WOOO this was big one!! hope you all liked this! please let me know your thoughts <3

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