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seiwas · 9 months ago

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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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mangoslixes · 8 months ago

Text

“Shadow and light are the most stable and perfect tools of creation: they unite colors, shapes, and dimensions,” says Moldovan artist Sergiu Ciochină, adding that “shadows move us through diversity, enhancing our perception, while light fills us with the joy of discovery.” In saturated hues, he captures dappled sunlight as it filters through the trees and the rich tones of the golden hour as it casts deep bluish-purple shade onto the sides of houses.

Taking cues from the Impressionists, Ciochină focuses on the nuances of light and its ability to reveal outlines and forms. He works in thick, impasto oil paint on board, emphasizing the shapes of windows, doors, and stoops and transforming otherwise ordinary buildings into compositions glowing with the patterns of foliage, architectural angles, and the texture of brushstrokes. “The symbiosis I create between nature and architecture is intended to evoke a love for space,” he says.

on Sergiu Ciochină

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ace-turned-confused · 4 months ago

Text

proud to be yours

marcus acacius masterlist | main masterlist

pairing: marcus acacius x f!reader summary: it's the first time you've seen acacius since he took your virginity, and he has plans for a different kind of training word count: 2,7k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied / shorter than acacius / very inexperienced, unspecified age gap, pet names, smut, vague references to past p in v & loss of virginity, cock & ball worship hooray! (blowjob & ball sucking), brief fingering, comeplay & come eating, spitting, praise kink, size kink, smidgen of corruption & innocence kink, dirty talk, possessive acacius extra info: subligaculum = underwear a/n: written for @joelmillerisapunk's PPCU body worship challenge! i asked for Big Gladiator Man + C, which very fittingly stands for cock :) this has the same pairing, teeny references to & carries on from mould me for ruin, but could be read on its own :) hugs & cookies to @morallyinept for reading this over <3 <3 <3

You haven’t seen Acacius since your last training session when he took you on the ground and claimed you for himself. He informed you he was busy, saying he’d find you as soon as possible. You weren’t sure what to expect when he sought you out today and led you down an unfamiliar path, still away from prying eyes but also your usual hideaway.

You wonder if he regrets what the two of you did and doesn’t want to train you anymore, if he’s changed his mind and is simply taking you somewhere he can let you down without an audience.

The sun is already well below the mountains, the sky like a painting of pink and purple with cirrus clouds like brushstrokes. Kicking the gravel as you walk, Acacius’ bulky frame towers alongside you. You watch his hand glide through the air, remembering how his touch had blazed across your skin.

“Where are we going?”

“You will see.”

“Why are we not heading for the forest?”

“Today’s lesson will be far more pleasant at my home.”

“Your home? Are you… are you sure?”

“Relax, my girl.” He stops and turns to you, steadying you by your arms. “You know I would not endanger you — even if I did, you have proven you are more than capable.”

“What are we doing?” You call out to him as he walks ahead.

“You have quite the… inquisitive mind, rascal. I imagine it gets you into trouble, hm?”

“I suppose I do ask too many questions… you're the only one who really listens to them.”

He turns and waits for you to catch up, head cocked to one side as you come to stand in front of him. You feel a strange sense of comfort around him, comfort that nobody else has time or energy to give you. Why would they, when you spend all day longing to chase your dreams?

“It is not too much, you are not too much. I enjoy listening to you. You are far more intelligent and witty than any soldier I’ve trained… Far more beautiful, too.”

He resumes walking with a soft smile and you follow in silence, trusting that you’ll be fine to do whatever he has planned, and fighting the heat that flows under your skin at his compliments.

Stepping through wrought iron gates, a cobbled pathway wound up to an impressive stone and brick home, the surrounding gardens neat and manicured. High arches tapering down towards mosaic-tiled floors as you head inside, it’s a spectacle compared to the cramped buildings of the town centre.

He led you through the open space towards the back of his property, dim lamps lining the walls as you reached his bedchamber. You stood in the doorway, unsure if you should have followed him inside. He assured you nobody would know your whereabouts, and if they did, he’d make sure they never spoke it, a menacing grip on his sword as he unsheathed it to place down.

Now you stand, watching him remove his armour, place his chestplate on its stand and hang his skirt. His chest is still just as broad, arms and thighs still just as thick even only in his tunic. You’ve never seen him like this, neither noble nor clad in armour — just Acacius, just Marcus. The lamplight flickers across his face, catching on the silver in his hair and the scruff of his beard.

“Still so eager to learn?” He chuckles as he drags his hand down your neck and across your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering closed as your skin rises in goosebumps.

“How will we train if you have stripped yourself of your armour? I… I do not wish to hurt you.”

“We are doing a different kind of training tonight, my girl. You did so well for your first time, I knew you were born to take me.” He steps into your space, one hand rising to cradle your cheek and you lean into his touch, still desperate to please him.

“Have you dreamt of me again? Touched yourself and seen stars?”

“Yes, General,” you whisper to him.

“It felt good to become mine, yes?”

You whimper as you think back to that night — your body ached as he pushed you down into the hard earth and split you open, pinned you beneath him so he could just take from you. He did take from you, something you can never get back but something you don’t want back, not now that he’s had you for himself.

“I assume you have not sought out another man.” You shake your head in response, gaze tracing over his features as he stares you down with a dark glint in his eyes. “No other man will have you how I did… I will make sure of it.”

“As you said, my body craves yours.”

“My good girl.” Acacius smiles down at you as he curls his hand around your waist, fingers digging into your side. “And my body craves yours, remember?” He takes your hand and guides it down atop his tunic, pressing himself into you.

“Do you feel just how much I still crave you?” You nod as you stare at your hand, feeling him for the first time through the rough fabric. “There are more ways you can be mine, and many more ways I can ruin you. On your knees, my girl.”

You sink down to the floor, the hard tiles digging into your kneecaps as you shift around and try to find a comfortable position. You look up at Acacius from the floor, about to voice your discomfort when he stops you before you can speak.

“Tonight I want to show you how to make a man — me — feel good.”

“Was it not… did you not feel good when, uh… when you…” You drop your eyes, feeling heated as you stumble over your words. Your brows knit in concern — did you do something wrong the other night?

“It was well beyond good, my rascal — a sweet girl like you, so pure.” He crouches down to level with you and holds the back of your neck. “Any man would feel good with you, but no other man ever will now that you are surely ruined.”

Looking away, you notice a white tunic laid out, a gold leaf pattern running along the shoulders and down the side seams. You wonder when he wears it, or who he wears it for, distracting yourself from the worries swirling in your head.

It’s as if he could hear your concerns before you voiced them — he grabs you by the chin to force your attention back to him. “No other man will have you, and I will not have any other woman. Now that I have you, why would I need someone else?”

He drops his hand and straightens up — you feel wet between your thighs as he towers over you. You clutch your hands together, unsure what you’re meant to do for him.

Your eyes flit between his chest and arms as he pulls his tunic off, smirking at you as you realise your mouth had fallen open. He wastes no time pulling his subligaculum off and your eyes go wide seeing him up close for the first time.

You don’t care what he thinks anymore as you stare at his cock instead — he takes himself in hand, stroking lazily up and down and reaches with his free hand to cup the heft of his balls. His skin looks soft, and the small pearls that grow from the tip of his length turn him shiny the more he fists himself. You lean back on your ankles as he lets go and holds his hand out.

Placing your hand cautiously into his waiting palm, he lifts it and wraps it around his cock. Your fingers just don’t meet — it’s not just his arms and thighs that are thick. You try pressing your legs together, that familiar nightly ache having returned.

“Are you wet?” You nod mindlessly as he starts moving your hand in his, mesmerised by the feel of him and watching the skin pull back and forth over the head. “Too bad tonight is not about you. Maybe if you are a good girl I can give you what you want so desperately.”

He uncurls your fingers and holds your hand open to rest his cock against your palm, hunching over as a trail of spit falls from his mouth and onto his length. He closes your hand around him again, a small gasp slipping from your lips as the cool, wet sensation covers your palm and fingers. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he instructs you to stroke him again, before dropping both arms to his sides.

You look at him curiously as his skin glides against your hand; you tighten your fist experimentally, feeling just how hard and heavy he is. He grunts above you and you let go immediately, looking up at him in question, worried you’ve already done something wrong.

“Do not stop, my girl — all those noises you made when you felt good? Well, I make noises, too.” He winks at you and curls your hand around him again for you to continue. “You have always been such a curious girl — I want you to explore me.”

“But what… What should I do? And, what if you do not like it?”

“I would like anything you can do, my girl. You were fearless when it came to your combat training, I want that same fearless girl with me now.” You glance away as you consider what to do, your nerves clearly evident on your face as he starts making suggestions, “Stick your tongue out for me.”

You do, and he guides his cock towards your face, the tip prodding into your cheek before he drags it towards your waiting tongue.

“I want you to explore, with your hands, your mouth… I’m sure you will find you quite like this, too. Go on, taste me.”

You lean forward and lick the tip of his cock — he twitches as you do, and you taste the precome that’s been pearling since he took his clothing off. Looking at him again, he nods and it encourages you — you hold his cock up against his body, licking the entire underside of his length and he moans, his head lolling back as you keep eye contact.

“My sweet girl, I knew you would be good at this.”

You warm at his words, feeling your skin and ears go hot at his praise — you’ve only just started, and you still have no idea what you actually should do, but hearing how much Acacius is enjoying this only makes you want to do better for him.

You take his advice and flick your tongue across his tip again, breaking to stroke him and pepper small kisses up and down his length, peering up at him with a wide grin each time. Once you work up the courage, you take the tip of his cock into your mouth and try swirling your tongue around him — even barely inside you and it feels a stretch. His hips jerk forward when you push your tongue along his slit, sliding himself further into you.

It takes some time, but you work him progressively into your mouth, your boosted ego taking over as you push too far — coughing as you pull yourself off him, strings of saliva connect your bodies, one hand still around what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

“Slowly, my girl. You do not have to win the war all in one night.”

“Can I…” You trail off, embarrassed by your inexperience and the vulgar thoughts clouding your mind.

“You can do whatever you want, my rascal. There is no need to ask — explore, remember?”

You nod, reassured by his guidance and stroke him languidly again. He’s even harder than when you started, throbbing in your hand with an almost permanent bead of precome leaking from him.

Your eyes drop to his balls — you watched how he held them, felt them earlier. Does that mean he likes that too?

Avoiding his eyes this time in case you make a mistake, you lift a hand to feel the skin — it’s soft, with wiry hairs littered across him. You roll your fingers over him and he groans at the contact, his hand squeezing the back of your neck.

Smiling sweetly as you look up at his face again, he looks gone, and your sweet smile turns cocky — you’ve rendered him practically speechless. You take in his unburdened features as you run through everything in your mind — he likes your mouth on his cock, he likes your hands on his balls…

You don’t overthink it as you duck forwards, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle into the crease of his thigh and take one of his balls into your mouth and suck him gently, one hand tightening around his cock, the other grounding yourself on his leg. He pulls you impossibly close to him and you giggle, the sound muffled but coursing through his whole body.

You keep stroking him as you switch sides, shifting your hand from his leg to scrape your nails through the coarse hair surrounding the base of his cock. He groans, a string of saliva connecting your bodies again and trailing down your chin when you release him.

“Can I, um… can we do this again? Not necessarily tonight, of course! But…” You ask timidly, your voice becoming hoarse.

“I am glad to know you take great pleasure in this.”

“Are you going to cover me like you did last time?”

“Keep going and you will soon find out.” He sounds breathless as he looks down at you, “I am close — you have done so well for your first time, you have been such a good girl.”

You clench your legs together as he showers you with praises again, hoping that he’ll let you touch yourself — or touch you himself — when he’s done.

“Take me again, my rascal.”

It doesn’t take long before his body starts stiffening, cords of muscle in his thigh tensing against your hand and his grunts become louder. You sink your nails into his leg as he thrusts forwards and knocks into the back of your throat, his cock pulsing as he spills into you. The sensation overwhelms you as you feel it settle under your tongue and thicken around your gums; Acacius is doubled over above you, his large and weathered hands borderline crushing your skull from how he pulls you into him and keeps himself upright.

Unsure what to do next, you wait. The tiles are cool and hard against your knees — much like the earth he’d pushed you into previously — and his cock is slowly softening, still kept in the wet warmth of your mouth.

Finally loosening his grip to stand, everything falls silent as you look up at him. He pulls himself out and grabs your chin, digging his fingers into your cheeks to keep your mouth open and angle your head back. He leans over you, all firm chest and broad shoulders, with that same wild expression you recognise from the night he first had you.

He spits into your mouth and you whimper below him. Sliding two fingers between your teeth, he presses them down onto your tongue and dips them into the mixture of his spit and salty come, pushing it around your mouth. You grab onto his wrist to keep him longer as you lick between his fingers and swallow.

“My perfect girl.”

Pulling his fingers from you, he crouches to level with you and wipes your cheeks with his clean hand — you’re not sure when the tears had streaked your face, overwhelmed by him filling your mouth and the now unbearable throbbing between your legs. He lifts your tunic and bunches it at your waist, huffing a laugh when he sees you’re bare underneath it.

Still caressing your cheek, he dips his sticky fingers between your folds, dragging them through your slick. You tilt your hips to grind yourself against his fingers; he pushes them into you when they catch on your entrance and he laughs, watching you work yourself higher and higher, your small whines growing louder.

“My poor girl, does it not feel good by yourself anymore, hm? Now that I have shaped you for myself… You are always so good for me, let me help you.”

tagging some pookies that left kind words on my wip wednesday snippets of this, lmk if you wanna be taken off <3 @burntheedges @milla-frenchy @sixhours @luxurychristmaspudding

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @cafekitsune

#marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius smut #gladiator fanfiction #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge

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elysiaheaven · 2 months ago

Note

Maybe Ronin X cannibal reader? But the reader hides it and our fav boy discovers them in the middle of "grabbing dinner"?

Happy halloween!-Ronin x Cannibal reader!

TW: Blood, Gore, Cannibal (reader), Cannibal jokes, Mention of body parts etc

"Bon Appétit" — Ronin x Cannibal!Reader

Ronin always knew something was off about you. Not in a bad way—just different.

Maybe it was how you always turned down dinner invites with a lazy excuse, or how you avoided restaurants altogether like they were some kind of trap.

It was a quiet night. Too quiet for Ronin’s liking. Normally, by now, you'd be spamming his phone with some dumb memes or asking if he wanted to hang out. But you’d gone radio silent.

He moves silently, the familiarity of sneaking around fitting like a second skin. Crowbar tucked loosely in his hand, boots crunching against the dusty floor.

He rounds a corner, and there you are—squatted low, your back to him, hands deep inside a body that still twitches, like a machine winding down. Blood coats your hands, sleeves stained from wrist to elbow. And the sound—the wet, ripping tear of flesh and sinew—makes something stir in him.

You’re so focused that you don’t even hear him. It’s almost funny. Almost cute.

He leans against the doorway, a smirk slowly curling on his lips.

"Well, well, well… what do we have here?"

You freeze. Every muscle in your body locks up, heart slamming in your chest. For a brief, foolish second, you think about pretending. Saying it’s not what it looks like, that you tripped and—yeah, no, that won’t work. You’ve got chunks of someone’s kidney in your hands.

Slowly, you turn your head, blood splattered across your face, meeting Ronin’s amused, knowing gaze. And shit, the way he’s looking at you—it’s not disgust, not fear. It’s something far worse: entertainment.

"Grabbing dinner without me?" he teases, cocking his head. "Kinda rude, don’t you think?"

You blink, momentarily thrown off by the calmness in his voice. "This isn’t... It’s not—"

Ronin cuts you off with a sharp laugh, like the situation is the funniest thing he’s seen in weeks. "Relax, sweetheart. You’re not the only freak in the room."

He steps closer, the crowbar tapping lightly against his thigh. The corpse at your feet is still fresh—blood pooling across the floor, the metallic scent thick in the air. But Ronin? He doesn’t flinch.

"Didn’t think you had it in you," he muses, crouching next to the body. His dark eyes flick between the dead man and your stained hands with an expression that can only be described as impressed. "Guess I underestimated you, huh?"

You stare at him, mind scrambling for some kind of response—some way to salvage the situation. But Ronin’s grin only widens, like he’s already five steps ahead of you.

"So... you always eat 'em like this, or is tonight a special occasion?" His voice is playful, like he’s making small talk about the weather.

"Relax, sweetheart," he interrupted smoothly, crouching down beside the dismembered body, inspecting the work with genuine curiosity. "You didn't really think you could hide this from me forever, did you?"

You shot him a glare, though it felt more like a defense mechanism than anything. "It’s not what it looks like."

“Oh no, it’s exactly what it looks like." Ronin’s grin widened. He leaned closer, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "You’re a freak."

Your heart skipped, panic simmering beneath your skin. "Don’t tell anyone."

Ronin snorted, clearly amused by your fear. "Oh please. What am I, a snitch?" His plum-colored hair fell into his eyes as he tilted his head, studying your expression. "I’m not here to rat you out, babe. I'm here to see what makes you tick."

You didn’t know if that was more reassuring or terrifying.

Then he reached out, swiping his thumb across your cheek to wipe away a streak of blood. He held his thumb up, inspecting it like an artist admiring a brushstroke. “You’re messier than I thought you’d be. Kinda cute, actually.”

You slapped his hand away, scowling. "This isn't a joke, Ronin."

“Oh, it’s not?" His grin remained infuriatingly intact. "Could’ve fooled me. You're acting like this is some big shameful secret." He gave a mock gasp, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. "Oh no! Reader’s a cannibal!"

"Ronin—" You started, but he was already laughing.

"Relax, I’m not judging." He smirked, straightening up and brushing his hands off on his pants. “Not my place to tell you how to live your life. I mean…” His gaze flickered to the half-eaten remains. “At least you have good taste.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exasperated. "You’re impossible."

“And you,” Ronin replied smugly, leaning in close enough that you could feel his breath against your neck, "are way too cute when you’re trying to look innocent."

Your stomach twisted—whether from embarrassment, guilt, or something much darker, you weren’t sure.

Ronin knew exactly what he was doing. Knew how to make your skin crawl and your heart race all at once. And the worst part? You liked it.

He clicked his tongue, patting your cheek with mock affection. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your little secret’s safe with me."

he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder, tossing you one last grin.

"You know, if you were hungry... you could've just told me."

Your breath catches, caught between the weight of his words and the dangerous glint in his eye. He tilts his head, watching your reaction with interest, like you’re some puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

"Next time," Ronin says, dragging the crowbar lightly across the floor, "let me help."

Your heart stutters at the offer—half a threat, half a promise.

Then, as casually as if he’s offering to grab takeout, he adds, "I’d love to see how you do it up close."

You blinked, stunned into silence, as he sauntered off into the night—like walking in on a literal crime scene was just another Tuesday.

And somehow, you knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t the last time Ronin would come snooping around about this.

The next time you saw Ronin, he came bearing… gifts.

The sun had barely set when you heard a knock—three soft taps against the flimsy metal door of the same old building you'd started using as your… dining room. You knew it was him before you even opened it. Only Ronin knocked like he owned the damn place.

And sure enough, there he stood on the other side, a mischievous grin stretching across his lips. But what made your stomach drop (or maybe growl) was what—or who—he had slung over his shoulder.

"Look what I found," Ronin said cheerfully, like he was showing off a stray dog. "Nice and fresh."

The man groaned—still alive, barely—but Ronin adjusted his grip on him like he was nothing more than luggage.

You stared. "Ronin, what the hell—?"

"Relax," he cooed, brushing past you like this was some kind of surprise party. He dumped the man onto the floor with a careless thud, crouching beside him to give the guy’s cheek a little pat. "This one won’t be missed. Scumbag. Thought I’d save you the trouble."

You crossed your arms, feeling a mix of dread and something uncomfortably close to excitement swirl in your gut. "You’re really okay with this?"

Ronin shot you a sly grin, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Let’s just say… I’ve got a flexible moral code." He stood, nudging the guy with the toe of his boot. "Besides, I figured—if you're going to do this, might as well have some company, right?"

The man groaned again, half-conscious, as Ronin turned to you. His gaze softened just a little—just enough to make your stomach flip. "You gotta eat, babe."

You swallowed thickly. "I don't think—"

Ronin stepped in close, tilting his head so his lips were almost brushing your ear. "C’mon, sweetheart. No use playing shy now. You’ve already got blood on your hands."

His voice was low, warm—like a devil tempting you to cross the line you were already standing on. And the worst part? You wanted to. You really wanted to.

He leaned back, hands in his pockets, watching you with that lazy grin. "Or do I need to feed you myself?"

You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "I can handle it, idiot."

"That's the spirit," he chuckled, stepping aside to give you room to work. "Now let’s see those culinary skills in action."

The hunger gnawed at you, sharp and insistent, and before you knew it, you were crouching beside the man, the world narrowing down to the sound of his shallow breaths and the promise of iron on your tongue.

Ronin crouched next to you, utterly unbothered as you began. His hand brushed lightly against your back—comforting, almost affectionate—as if this were some intimate little date instead of… well, this.

He stayed close, watching with fascination as you fed, his smirk never wavering. When you paused to catch your breath, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he tilted his head and grinned.

"You look good like this, y’know."

"Shut up," you muttered, though the heat in your face betrayed you.

He rolled his sleeves up lazily, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. "Alright, sweetheart. Open wide."

You shot him an incredulous look, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "I can feed myself, Ronin."

"Yeah, yeah. But where’s the fun in that?" he teased, plucking a choice piece from the victim’s bloodied arm like he was sampling charcuterie at some upscale event. "C’mon, let me spoil you a little. You earned it."

The way his voice dipped sent a chill down your spine—like this was a game to him, and you were the star of his twisted little fantasy. It was equal parts infuriating and… intoxicating. He was good at that, pulling you in just enough to leave you breathless, unsure whether you wanted to kiss him or hit him.

"Ronin—"

Before you could protest further, he pressed the piece of flesh against your lips, grinning wickedly. "Say ‘ahh.’"

You glared, but the hunger gnawed at you relentlessly, and damn it—he looked so pleased with himself, like this was the most romantic thing he could do. With a heavy sigh, you parted your lips. His smirk widened.

"There we go," he murmured, almost reverently, as he slipped the morsel into your mouth. "Tastes better when someone feeds you, right?"

The warmth of the meat, the metallic tang still lingering on your tongue—it sent shivers down your spine. But the worst part wasn’t the taste. It was him. The way he looked at you with a blend of admiration and possession, like you were his favorite meal.

"Good, yeah?" he whispered, as if he needed the confirmation.

You bit down slowly, savoring the taste and the strange thrill of it all. He watched every movement—eyes dark and full of satisfaction—like he'd just pulled off the most intimate act in the world. And maybe, in his twisted way, he had.

"See?" he whispered, wiping a stray drop of blood from your lip with his thumb. "Told you I’d take care of you."

You swallowed, the heat in your chest spreading, equal parts shame and satisfaction.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you muttered, voice low.

Ronin just chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours. "And you love that about me."

And as much as you hated to admit it… he wasn’t wrong.

He fed you again, slow and deliberate, like this was some dark, sacred ritual between the two of you. Each bite came with a grin, each touch a silent promise—he would never judge you for what you were. Hell, he loved it. He thrived on it, the corruption, the intimacy, the shared depravity.

When the meal was over, you leaned back, exhaling a shaky breath. Ronin wiped your mouth again, his touch lingering.

"Feel better?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

"Yeah," you admitted reluctantly.

His grin widened, a spark of triumph flashing in his eyes. "Good." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "Next time, I’ll pick someone even better."

You knew you should feel horrified. You knew you should push him away. But instead, you smiled.

"Deal."

Now, you know Ronin wasn't the man of his words. He's a snitch. That just told your secret to Angel, You know both of them were close, You just felt happy Ronin could share some things from his chest.

But, he did snitch you.

Happily, Angel was your type so, same blood in the same habit?

Later in the server. In the channel where all past Ronin's past and present love interests reside (literally)

#ur-angel-or-yuor-devil-or writer darlin who's a maneater

[Angelic]- I can't believe you're actually a cannibal y/n...

[You]- Fucking Beaufort.

[Goreboy]- Darlin, you Have a Friend now. Angel will be very happy right now. she has gotten a new best friend.

[Angelic]- Don't bully them, Ronin.

[Goreboy]- I'm not, This just Made Y/n x 666 Interesting! I have a new Goal.

[You]- lemme guess, another 666 kills?

[Goreboy]- Ding Ding, Have you ever eaten a detective? Your deduction skills are ultimate. You're Right, But, It's for you. 666 kills for you darlin! Be prepared. As a good Boyfriend it's only Valid that I gift you something Like this. Mark NeXT's year V-day.

[You]- .......................

[Angelic]- Never thought, He will become seriously damned this much.

[Goreboy]- Tho, It's interesting how the past lover and the present lover is both Cannibal. My god this is a miracle.

[Angelic]- Hey, Y/n? Have wanna the devil for dinner? He's speaking too much isn't he?

[You]- Be my guest angel, Also yes.

[Goreboy]- Getting Eaten by Two Angels. No Thank You. This is such a Boring Way to Die.

[You]- then just shut the fuck up edgy-boi

[Goreboy]- You Have to Face my Bullshit Darlin, Be prepared from now On, Cause shit- you need to realize it's a Lifetime relationship.

[You]- Thank god, I took lessons from Miss Ai hua to deal with people like you. Apparently she used to use memes to shut up Mr. Vince,

[Goreboy]- Oh? You think A meme? can Stop me?

[You]- I believe it's the person in the meme is our god 'twink'

[Angelic]- I get it.

[You]- Ronin, I love you but God Christ, Please shut up for now.

If you speak tormenting me and angel, I will compare you to JD because of the twink reason. If you think the meme was unfunny. I wasn't talking about the meme Mr. Beaufort.

[Goreboy]- ........

I cease.

Congrats, you made the devil to shut up! HAPPY HALLOWEEN LOSER!

#ronin beaufort x reader #ronin killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort #killer chat vn #killer chat angel #killer chat #killer chat x reader #killer chat ronin x reader

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hoshifighting · 4 months ago

Text

minghao as a sugar baby!

— WARNINGS: sugar baby x sugar mommy relationship, smut, penetrative sex, wax play, hao is a bit reluctant at first. — (Seventeen as Sugar Baby's Series)

you met minghao at an art gallery, of all places. the kind of place where the air feels thick with pretension, and every other person is silently judging the brushstrokes on canvases they pretend to understand. you weren’t there for the art, though. you were scouting—looking for something that would catch your eye, something different. that’s when you saw him. he was standing in front of a massive abstract piece, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted like he was trying to decipher a secret code hidden in the swirls of paint.

“what do you think?” you asked, walking up beside him. you weren’t talking about the art, though.

he glanced at you, surprised at first, but then his lips curved into a small, almost amused smile. “i think it’s a mess,” he said, eyes flicking back to the canvas. “but sometimes, messes can be beautiful.”

you smirked, recognizing the double entendre, and that was it. you knew you had to have him.

he was reserved, his words carefully chosen, and his gaze, while intense, held a certain distance. but there was something about him that intrigued you, something you couldn’t quite place.

the relationship started slowly. minghao was cautious, almost wary, as if he didn’t want to get too close too quickly. you showered him with gifts—designer clothes that suited his lean frame, tickets to exclusive art exhibits, and, eventually, those pearly white veneers that made his smile even more captivating. at first, he accepted these things with a polite nod, a quiet “thank you,” but you could tell he was holding back.

the first time you took him to an exclusive gallery opening in paris, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than most people’s yearly salaries, you saw something shift in his eyes. minghao loved the attention, loved the way people looked at him when he was with you. from that point on, he became more than just your sugar baby—he was your partner in crime, the one who could match your energy, your hunger for more.

and then there was the sex. minghao was a fast learner, eager to explore every kink and fantasy you threw at him. you remember the first time you introduced him to wax play. the way he flinched when the first drop of hot wax hit his chest, but then he bit his lip and looked up at you with that mischievous smile, his pearly white veneers catching the low light of the room.

he tried to stay composed, his lips pressed into a thin line, but you saw the way his body responded, the subtle arch of his back, the way his hands gripped the sheets.

“you can let go, you know,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing as you ran your fingers over the hardened wax. “i want to hear you.”

minghao’s jaw tightened, his eyes locking onto yours. for a moment, you thought he’d resist, but then he let out a soft moan, his control slipping. the sound making you clench around his cock, and you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that you’d broken through his carefully constructed walls.

from then on, the dynamic shifted. minghao still maintained that cool exterior in public, but behind closed doors, he was different. there was a rawness to him, a desperation that surfaced when you were alone together. he kissed you with a hunger that surprised even him, his hands rough as they tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

you remember that night in the french hotel vividly. you’d been louder than usual, the combination of minghao’s skilled hands and the intense pleasure he brought you pushing you over the edge. he’d tried to stay quiet at first, but as your moans grew louder, he couldn’t hold back anymore. he kissed you, hard, swallowing your cries as he thrust into you, his own moans vibrating against your lips.

“fuck, you’re so—” he didn’t finish the sentence, too lost in the sensation to find the words. his fingers dug into your hips, pulling you down onto him as he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

you knew you had him hooked when he started buying things for you—little trinkets from his travels, rare pieces of art that he thought you’d like, things that showed he was thinking of you even when you weren’t around. it wasn’t the price tag that mattered, but the thought behind it. minghao had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered, and that was something no amount of money could buy.

together, you became a force of nature, tearing through life with a passion that few could understand. you were the power couple everyone envied, the ones who seemed to have it all, and for the most part, you did. but it wasn’t just about the material things—the luxury cars, the designer clothes, the extravagant vacations. it was about the connection you shared, the way you brought out the best and worst in each other, pushing each other to new heights, both in and out of the bedroom.

and as you lay there, watching minghao sleep, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of someone who’s truly at peace, you couldn’t help but smile.

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entername322 · 1 year ago

Text

Beautiful Symphony

Minji (New Jeans) x Male Reader

Length: 13204

Previous part

Next part

Warm, that's the first thing Minji noticed as her consciousness starts to come back. Then the smell, an addicting brew from the mixture of bodily fluid that you and her ooze last night. “Morning cutie”, Your voice, reverberating all over the empty room, kick-starts her brain. She opened your eyes to see your smiling face, not the lusty and hungry smile from last night, rather a warm and loving smile. “Morning oppa”, She smiled before crawling forward to kiss you.

“Hmmm, you need to brush your teeth”, She scoffed and retaliated by slapping you, “Are you tired?” She nods her head, although it's more like she's rubbing her head all over your chest with a motion that resembles a nod, but that's a mouthful to say. “Hey, stop that, you'll leave a burn mark”, You pulled out her head making her frown at you. “Hahahahha, oh god, you're so cute sometimes”, She knows it, but she wants you to reward her for being cute.

You gave her a kiss which is enough, for now, “Hey stop daydreaming”, You blow some air into her face making her open her eyes. “I'm hungry, so why don't you go brush your teeth and wash your face so we could go out and get breakfast”, Minji shook her head and hugged you tighter, “Babe, please?” She sighed and sat up, “Let's go then”, She grabbed your hand trying to pull you up. “Oh no, I've already brushed my teeth and washed my face when you are busy sleeping”, Minji frowned at you before leaping in to get another kiss. “Still come with me oppa”, She grabbed your hand and pulled you up.

“I have to go till night today, I might not come back here today”, Minji glared at you through the mirror as she is brushing her teeth. “I got some matters to attend to, I'll see you tomorrow”, She quickly finished brushing her teeths and cleaned her mouth. Then she turned around to look at you, anger and jealousy was written all over it.

"Night?" Minji's voice was husky, thick with sleep and something else – a shadow of suspicion that sent a shiver down your spine. You met her gaze, her eyes narrowed, searching for cracks in your façade. "Band practice, internship, the usual grind," you said, your voice lighter than air, barely a brushstroke against the taut canvas of her suspicion. "Thought I'd give you the morning to yourself”, How thoughtful of you.

The silence that followed was pregnant with unspoken accusations. You knew this game was dangerous, playing with fire you couldn't control. Minji's possessiveness, once endearing, now loomed like a storm cloud, ready to unleash its fury. "And Haewon?" she spat, the name a poisoned dart piercing the fragile bubble of your lie. "Is she part of your 'usual grind' too?” The question hung heavy, a bitter pill coated with suspicion. Haewon. Just a name, a footnote in a story already written. You hated yourself for using her, for dangling her ghost before Minji's eyes, just to see the flames of jealousy lick at the edges of her love.

"Haewon is-" you started, but Minji cut you off, her voice cracking with a raw vulnerability that twisted your insides. "Nothing? Like I'm just a distraction until your precious Haewon decides to make up with you again?" she hissed, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Thrill starts to crept up on you, this charade, this twisted puppet show you were orchestrating, it's beautiful. The urge to push, to see how far you could bend her before she snapped, remained a serpent coiled in your heart. Taking a deep breath, you reached out, a tentative touch tracing the curve of her jaw. "No, Minji," you whispered, the words choked with regret. "You're not a distraction, you're… everything. I'm just…”

With inhuman speed she jumped into you, her hand grabbing your cheeks as she crashed her lips onto yours. You had to hold her up again, the same way you did on your first kiss last night. The kiss felt raw, passionate, filled with unbridled rage that has ignited inside her. It was ecstatic, you wonder how much can you get away with? How far is too far until the relationship between you and Minji got ruined? For now, you'll carefully dance around the edge, try to find the line you can not cross, try to, ruin her.

“I'll spend time with you until lunch, but at lunch I'll have to go meet up with my friends”, Her body tensed up, the paranoia and anger has overtaken her. “You don't have to go, just stay here with me oppa”, She's right, you don't have to go, especially because you don't really have plans for the day. “I do, but come on, stop being so gloomy, I'll spend time with you till lunch. I promise I'll make it up for you”, She felt itchy all over her body, just the thought that you'll be gone, doing god knows what, it infuriates her. “You don't have to make it up to me, if you stay at home with me”, You carry her back to the bed, gently laying her down as your hand starts to undress yourself. “How about this then, I'll fuck you and emptied my balls inside you. That way I won't be able to go and have fun with Haewon even if I want to, not that I ever want to do it”

The proposal intrigues her, but she still doesn't want you to leave her. Her life has been so empty for a while that she just can't let go of the person who manages to bring some warmth into it. “Come on babe, don't you want me to fill you up again”, You pull up her hoodie and your finger starts tracing around her belly. Instantly she remembered the hot burning sensation you gave her last night. How addictive and pleasurable it was. Just like that, you managed to convince her.

“Fine”, She undressed herself as well, her eyes staring at you hungrily, wanting nothing else but to eat you whole. “I want to try something first oppa”, Her hand grabbed your cock, gently holding on to it as if it might just break if she wasn't being careful. “Oh? Here I thought you were a pure girl”, Oh she is, until two days ago. Scared of embarrassing herself Minji has done a few, research, regarding sex. She did it just for you, how romantic.

Minji slowly caressed your cock to make it erect. It was a bit of a slow process but seeing how eager she was to suck your cock made you feel a little excited. Her hand wrapped around your shaft and stroked your cock up and down as she looked up to me and smiled. She moved in closer and kissed the tip before licking it like a popsicle. Her small face made you feel like your cock has grown larger, maybe your ego needs to be kept in check soon, before it gets out of control.

She slowly moved her lips down to the head of your cock and started to suck. It goes in halfway before she starts letting out some gagging sounds. “Don't need to take it all in babe, it's your first time after all”, Your word of reassurance only made her feel insecure. “Don't give me those eyes, I mean it, it's okay, nobody can't take my full length with their mouth anyway”, Damn, calm down with the bragging dude. Minji felt content with your words, slowly she moved her head back and forth as she sucked on it, looking up to you while she did it. Her eyes are begging for your approval.

“Good girl”, She squeals, giving you some funny feeling on your cock. The compliment made Minji feel more excited as she stepped up her game. She slurped on it doing some very sloppy and messy blowjob. She looks up at you, her eyes red and tears falling down her cheek, she sucks your cock like her life depends on it. Moan after moan came out of her mouth, which made you wonder, how dirty of a girl is she? She grabbed the back of your thighs and pulled you closer to her as she sucked you harder. Her spit starts bubbling around her lips making a very thick liquid concoction as it mixes with your precum.

“Enough baby girl, let's get to the main course shall we?” She wanted to protest as you pulled her off your cock, “Did I do bad?” The cute pout seems to contrast very hard with all those saliva running down her lips and chin. “You did great, I just want to fuck you right now”, Hearing that you didn't stop her out of pity, she excitedly turns around and offer you her pussy. “Look at you, so wet already?” Your finger starts playing around with her hole, “Ahhhh, oppa, you said you want to fuck me already”, Minji doesn't like when she's being bullied like this. “I'll do what I want, babeee~” Yet she really likes it when you get so aggressive and dominant.

As you start fingering her, you wonder how on earth did you managed to fuck her last night. “Oppa, stop playing around”, Her stomach is already hungry for your cum. “Fine, take a deep breath”, She smiled full of anticipation as you slowly slid your cock into her pussy. The tightness is almost suffocating to you, yet you persist and push deeper. The moment she swallowed your whole cock her leg starts to quiver, “Oppaaaaa”, You just made her cum.

“Hehehehe, this is fun”, The sight is amusing to you, especially since Minji's face is trying to keep her cool and fails. “Haaaa, haaaa, haaaa, oppa, move”, Despite her apparent fatigue she still wants you to fuck her. “Okay babe”, You started slow, not wanting to break her. Yet with how sensitive she is, even the slow movement is enough to make her moan and shivers. “You're gonna lose your mind if I continue this”, You tried to warn her, but Minji doesn't like that you're pitying her. “Just, fuck me, oppa”, Whatever Minji wants, she'll get it. You pick up your pace and start pounding her for real this time.

Minji tried her best to keep herself in check, yet her moans can't lie to you. After a minute of pounding she already reached her second orgasm. “Oppaaaa”, She screams, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, her legs locked on to your waist, her pussy is strangling your cock as she squirts all over you. Due to the leg lock you can't really continue fucking her, although you really want to.

“Baby, look at you, you're already so defeated”, Come on now, stop bullying the poor girl, “I can still take it oppa”, Her tears are falling down her cheeks already. “Really?” She nodded furiously, “Okay, one more chance okay? If you cum again then I'll stop”, She nodded. Of course you wouldn't make this easy for her, you leaned down and started kissing her as your waist went to work. Minji tried her best to focus on your mouth, the sweet taste of your lips, the fight between your tongues, the… it's really hard to disregard the huge cock that's breaking her in two right now.

“Oppa, cum sooner please”, She said it with such adorable tone you can't help but laugh, “I'm not joking, cum in me oppa, I can't wait anymore”, Thankfully for her, those cute gestures really push you over the edge. “Fuck I'm cumming”, Minji immediately grabbed your head and pull you for another kiss. She moans and screams into your mouth as she is trying to hold her orgasm. Then the warm feeling she's been waiting for came and all her walls crumbled. Both of your bodies are intertwined, Minji is pressing on to you so hard there's probably not a single pocket of air between the two of you.

It was heavenly, for both you and her. Minji felt like she might pass out any moment, the sudden increase of dopamine in her brain caused it to short circuit. Her body is also dying from the three consecutive orgasm, yet her hand just won't let you go. “Babe, let go of me, let's cuddle for a second”, You drag her to get in position in the bed for cuddling. Her breathing starts to slow down as her eyes are struggling to stay open. “Go rest up baby, you had your breakfast already”, She smiled victoriously before dropping her head on your shoulder.

“I don't want you to go oppa”, She whimpered, “I have to baby”, One day she will learn how to read through your lies, then you will be fucked. “But what about me?” She looks at you like a lost puppy. “You’ll be fine baby, you're a strong girl. You can handle one day without me right?” Minji felt scared, just the thought of going back to her quiet lonely days is haunting. “I need you oppa”, She sobbed, “Ssshhhh, babe, I'll be gone for one day, I promise I'll make it up to you didn't I?” Always pull her harder after you pushed her away, you've mastered this scummy technique huh. “I want a date”, Yeah that was already part of your plan, “I want oppa to sing for me”, That one too, “And I want oppa to make me pregnant”, Okay not that one though.

“You're insane babe, you're not ready for a baby, neither am I”, You can't really see Minji since she's pressing her back to you, yet you can already tell she's frowning. “I don't care”, With how childish she is, getting a kid would end up with you babysitting two childs. “You’ll care when you realise getting pregnant means we won't have sex for 8 months”, She didn't think of that, “Oppa, please?” Oh right you're forgetting something, “I need to buy you some birth control pills, I'll be back”, Minji was thoroughly pissed when you let go of the cuddle, she turned around to find you already leaving the room. “OPPAAA”, You hear her screams echoing the hallway as you run off into the sun. “This will be fun”

“Alright, so you're gonna tell me everything or what?” Your dad finally got home after 3 days in vacation, yes you do realise it was a vacation as soon as you heard your mom also left. “Dad, did you and mom plan this out?” He shrugged, acting carefree despite there's some excitement and worry in his mind. “Weirdos”, Quite hypocritical of you, “Says the guy who cheated on his girlfriend for his new sister”, You know what? Your dad is weirder than you since he doesn't seem to care that much about it. “Okay, just tell me what did you and mom planned for me and Minji?” You decide that it's not the time to talk about Haewon.

“Well, as you may have known, Minji is not exactly a very sociable person. Jinwoo is very concerned for her. So as any parents would, she tried to find someone to befriend her”, You put out your hand to stop him, “Befriend?” He laughs and nods. “That was the initial plan. However she met me, and we got in a relationship. The talk about introducing you to Minji has been around for awhile. I think it was around the time we plan to announce our relationship to the two of you that she plan to just play matchmaker and try to hook you two up”

You stay silent for a while, “You two are an idiot”, Well that's kinda rich coming from you don't you think? “I told her it might have gone wrong, but she insisted that you won't be able to handle Minji's charm. Your mom is very good at judging characters you see”, Is it judging characters or just straight up omniscience? “Okay so now me and Minji have become a thing, and you two are fine with it?” He nods, hiding his worry for now. “And if things went wrong, the two of you will take full responsibility for the family drama?” They won't, but your father nods.

“So, you two are getting married then?” You tried to change the topic, “Yes, in December”, There's this little question that hangs around in your mind, which surprises you. For now you'll just leave that question alone, after all you might still be too high with the moment to think clearly. “I think, Minji wants us to move together”, It was pretty obvious due to how vocal she is with her dislike of leaving you for the last few days. “Figured, we do plan to move in together soon, me and Jiwoo of course”, Living together like that might prove to be complicated.

“Why don't you, move with mom, Minji and I can stay here”, Very bold proposal bro, “That can be arranged”, Seeing your dad just approve it makes you anxious. “Really?” He laughs seeing your bewildered face, “Yeah boy, we can deal with that. Do you want us too or not?” Do you want to have a full empty house to yourself so you can have sex with Minji everyday? “Yes”

The next day, you came back to Minji to update her on the talk you had with your dad, also the future plans. The words, "we're moving in together," hung in the air, vibrating between you and Minji like tangible threads of your future. Her eyes, wide with a disbelief that morphed into pure, unadulterated joy, were like fireworks exploding in slow motion, each spark a reflection of the sunbeam dancing on her nose. "Really?" she breathed, her voice a delicate whisper, barely audible above the excited thump of her heart. You could see it, the question hanging in her eyes, the echo of past insecurities threatening to steal the spotlight from this moment.

"Really," you confirmed, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. Your thumb lingered on her cheek, tracing the soft curve of her smile, a silent assurance that this wasn't some fleeting dream, but a sturdy brick laid in the foundation of your love. The dam of her happiness burst then, flooding her entire being. A shriek that contained all the pent-up joy, excitement, and relief of a thousand insecure whispers, erupted from her. She jumped into your arms, her laughter a melody against your heartbeat, her tiny fists pummeling your chest playfully.

The sunbeam on her nose flickered like a dying ember, replaced by a glint of something darker, something predatory. An unnerving stillness descended, broken only by the frantic drumming of her heart against your chest.

Just you and me oppa. No distractions, no Haewon, no whispers and touch from any other girls. It will only be you and me.

You've noticed these changes, Minji's golden eyes, once pools of sunshine, shimmered with obsidian depths as she spoke of your shared home. No, it wasn't just joy radiating from her, it was the glint of a dragon guarding its hoard, the intoxicating aroma of a love so absolute it bordered on smothering. And you, my oh my, you relished every charred note. "Together," she breathed, the word a possessive caress, "just us...in our own world", You chuckled, a low, dangerous rumble that sent shivers down her spine, just to watch the fire in her eyes flicker with a touch of uncertainty. Yes, let the doubt creep in, let the fear linger, for it was in those cracks that your obsession took root.

"Always, Minji," you murmured, the word dripping with honeyed deceit. You traced the curve of her jaw, her skin like warm satin under your fingertips, a fleeting touch that promised eternity. She leaned into you, a moth drawn to a flame, unaware of the inferno she danced with. "No secrets, oppa," she purred, a silk-wrapped threat. "No more 'band practice' or 'internships' to hide behind. Just us, woven together, you know what moving in together means right?" You smiled, a predator savouring the thrill of the hunt. Yes, let her weave her web, let her trap herself in the gilded cage of her own devotion.

The possessive tremor in her voice, once a source of amusement, now sang a melody of exquisite dissonance. This love, hers, it wasn't a symphony; it was a cacophony of desperation, a twisted masterpiece you were eager to conduct. You, the orchestrator, the puppeteer, the master of this danse macabre. "A haven, oppa," she whispered, her fingers tracing invisible circles on your chest, branding you with her touch. "A haven just for us”, You let the word echo in the air, a gilded cage morphing into a labyrinth of your own design. Yes, let her believe you were the captive, the bird trapped in her song. The irony, oh, the intoxicating irony.

For as she spun her web, thread by thread, brick by brick, she was building not a prison for you, but a mausoleum for herself. Each whispered promise, each possessive gesture, etched your name deeper into her soul, leaving no room for anything but you. You, the poison in her veins, the obsession in her eyes, the only melody her heart could play. You, the wolf in sheep's clothing, the puppet master playing with strings of devotion. She, your willing prisoner, slowly, deliciously consumed by the inferno of her own making.

The lines, oh, the lines had blurred beyond recognition. Were you the hunter, or were you the hunted? The answer, a delicious enigma that danced on your lips, was both and neither. You were two sides of the same coin, bound by obsession, tethered by the twisted cord of a love that devoured and consumed. In this game of hearts, there were no winners, only survivors. And as you watched Minji's eyes, once radiant, now burning with the feverish glow of your design, you knew, with a wicked twist of your lips, that the only real prisoner here was her, her heart a gilded cage locked around your name. “Take off your clothes oppa”, Minji said, removing her sweater, “Isn't your mom right down the hall?” Look at her, such an innocent sheep, broken beyond belief after tasting the sweet fruits of sins. “She won't mind”

The two of you dived into each other, both of your hands are busy undressing the other person while your lips are interlocked together. As you take off her sweater you abandon the kiss and went to her tits. “Oh, yeah oppa, that feels good”, Your held her body close as your mouth start devouring on her tits. You bite her nipple, maybe a little too hard than you usually do, “Fuck oppa, more”, Yet she likes it. Oh yeah, she will be perfect for your sadistic tendencies. “Let me leave you a mark okay babe? So you don't miss me when I'm gone”, She nods so quickly her head might fall off.

First one, right around her nipples, a beautiful cage right around her stiff nipple. “Fuck, oppa, that's it, just like that”, Minji starts to whimper as her hand are pushing your head deeper into her. “Beautiful”, You kissed her nipple as you watch the first mark. “Ohhhhh, I love you oppa”, Minji moaned as she sees the bite mark, “Now, now, I'm not done yet”, The second one, at her cleavage, usually you left this on Haewon and let her parade it around. Of course Minji never leave her house, but the hickey will be enough for her to see everytime she glances under her shirt. “Fuck oppa, come here” as you finished your second mark Minji pulled you in for another kiss, her hips start grinding on you.

“Babe, one more?” You break off the kiss and start grinning, “One more okay? Then we fuck”, Minji's pussy is sorry itchy for you, but the whole marking things are too good to pass on. “Thanks babe”, You peck her lips before moving to the final mark, her collarbone. “Ohhhh, oppa”, She shivers as your lips touched her skin. Your tongue slowly licked around the bones, sending shivers down her spine. Then your lips created a vacuum like seal before your teeth sinks into her skin. “FUCKKK OPPA, you're gonna make me CUMMM”, Her legs wrapped around your waist as her hand locked your head in, then her orgasm came.

“OPPAAAA”, You would go deaf if she keeps screaming like that, also her mom probably has figured out what's happening in here. “Oppa, you're such a bully”, Minji panted as her exhaustion starts to show, “Am I? Don't you like being bullied babe?” You kissed her cheek before throwing her off to the bed. “No I'm not”, Yet her squirming legs tells you otherwise. “Sure babe, I trust you”, You laughed and pull down her pants and then yours.

“Fuck me oppa, and stop bullying me”, You laughed and aligned your cock with her entrance, “You're ready?” She nodded furiously. Then you shoved it in, except that it doesn't went in, your cock just slid through her pussy, grinding on the outside. “Oppa”, She let out s frustrated cries, “Oh ooppps, my bad”, Minji frowns harder trying to show she's angry, although you can see she's getting aroused by this. “Should I put it in babe?” You used your cock to rub around her pussy, making her body shakes around. “Yes, oppa please”, She moaned, “Be a good girl and beg for it”, You said.

“Oppa please fuck me, I need your cock, I need your hot load inside me, please split me in two oppa”, Well, she got you there. “Fuck you're so tight babe”, You moaned as you plunge into her. “Fuck, you're just too big oppa”, She moans, her hand grabbed on the sheets as you pound her. “Fuck oppa, harder, fuck me harder and cum inside me, please fill me up oppa”, Her small whimpers are getting more and more desperate as another orgasm is building up inside her.

Her walls are tightening around you again, milking out the warm milk she's been addicted to. Your hips keeps on crashing on to hers making her body jiggle in every touch. With every thrust your cock is fighting against her inner wall. Every day, slowly but surely you've been reshaping her pussy to be the perfect vessel for your cock. “Fuck oppa, I'm cumming”, Minji moaned, your hand pinched her nipples making her let out a scream of ecstasy, “Take my seed babe”, You groaned as you plunge yourself as deep as possible. The two of you are connected, the waves of pleasure and ecstasy are washing over each other.

As the waves subside, you collapse on to her, not our of fatigue, you just want to press her down on the bed. “Oppa, you feel so warm inside me”, Minji also like it, being pressured like this by you, it's so hot. “I know babe, we should take a shower”, She smiles and kiss you, “Let's go together, the bathroom has better sound insulation, so mom don't need to hear us longer than she needs to”, Well, one round is certainly hasn't been enough for the two of you.

Haewon's voice, normally a sweet melody, turned into a serrated knife scraping against your nerves. "Breaking up? What do you mean breaking up?!" Her anger, raw and palpable, hung heavy in the air, suffocating the sterile atmosphere of her room. You swallowed, forcing a smile filled with deceitful guilt and anxiousness. "Haewon, sweetheart”, You began, choosing your words carefully, "It's not you, it's me." The age-old cliche, twisted to serve your purpose. "These fights, they're tearing us apart. You deserve someone who makes you happy, someone who doesn't…" your voice dipped low, feigning regret, "bring out the worst in you."

Her face, a storm cloud of fury, contorted with disbelief. "The worst in me?" she spat, her voice cracking. "Is that what you're calling it? Me not wanting you to spend every night at the 'office' me questioning your sudden need for 'alone time,' me asking for some semblance of… normalcy?" You shook your head, acting as the sorrowful martyr. "See, that's what I mean. The accusations, the mistrust. It's toxic, Haewon. We're just… incompatible." The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but you held firm. You had to. This façade, this twisted narrative, was your only escape from her, an escape, to the gilded cage you've prepared for the one true love you have.

"Incompatible?" she scoffed, a hollow laugh escaping her lips. "We were perfect, remember? You said it yourself, you and I were made for each other. Just a few weeks ago, and now… incompatible?" You sighed, feigning exasperation. "Things change, Haewon. People change. I'm evolving, moving on, and you… you need someone who can handle being left behind." The cruelty of your words, veiled in concern, struck her like a physical blow. You saw it in her eyes, the flicker of pain battling with the rising tide of rage. This, you knew, was your most dangerous gamble. Push her too far, and you risked losing control, your meticulously crafted web unravelling before your eyes.

But the alternative, it's too disastrous, she is an unpredictable variable in your game with Minji. Having her around could be, unwise. You needed to let her go, even if it meant breaking her in the process. "Left behind?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You're the one leaving, the one choosing your ‘internship’ fantasies over me, over… us."

You leaned closer, your voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Haewon, baby”, you murmured, "think of it as… a sacrifice. I'm setting you free from this unhealthy attachment, from a love that was… consuming you." The gaslight, subtle yet potent, began to take hold. You saw the doubt creep into her eyes, the flicker of self-blame replacing the fire of her anger. It was a delicate dance, this manipulation, a waltz on the edge of her emotions.

"Consuming… me?" she echoed, her voice trembling. "Is that what this was? My love for you… toxic?" The final blow. You placed a hand on her cheek, your touch a feather-light caress. "It wasn't healthy, Haewon. We both know that. And sometimes, the greatest act of love is letting go. Do you remember how you were before you met me? A model student, perfect attendance, perfect grade, perfect, everything. When was the last time you got an A in a test? How many class did you attend this last few months?" Her eyes, once pools of adoration, were now glazed with a mix of pain and confusion. You had woven your web, spun your narrative, and she, trapped in the cocoon of your lies, began to believe it.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the unspoken consequences of your manipulation. You had won, for now, but the victory tasted like ashes in your mouth. You have to let her go, yes, but at what cost? As you looked at Haewon, her spirit slowly withering under the weight of your deceit, you knew one thing for certain: even if the chain you formed on her neck was opened, the memory you've left in her heart will not go away. An invisible mark to the darkness that danced within you, the darkness, that had corrupted her.

I never hated you Hae, I always looks up to you. You were such a perfect girl, you just happened to catch my eyes.

You like her, it's just that, she's not Minji. It was her greatest sin, not being the girl you loved. Even the sight of her crumbling down isn't fun to watch. Those perverse thoughts can not manifest in your mind. It was as if Hyde looked at her and just snorted before looking the other way. The only things you feel for her, are compassion, and empathy. “I'm sorry Hae, I really do, but things got complicated at dad's place. I might have to drop out”, A flurry of emotions washes over Haewon, on one hand, she was panicking that the two of you might not meet again. On the other hand, she felt somewhat glad that she can go through her breakup without having to deal with meeting you everyday.

“Hae, I like you okay? I really do, which is why I wanted what's best for you. We both know that we can't deal with distances. If we continue this, things would just crumble even harder. I really hope, and I mean it when I say this, I really hope you didn't see this as me being selfish. Sometimes, people just don't work out. I was, this sounds so cringe, but I was honoured to be your first love. I just wish I would never have to be your first heartbreak”

Such a beautifully crafted poem, sounds so natural too, Haewon really finds that speech to be something you would come up with. “I really didn't expect things to go down this way”, Never in her mind she thinks that you found someone else, you've crafted a perfect image of herself in her mind. “Neither do I, but you know, life”, Her laugh was filled with pain and nostalgia. “Can we still be friends?” Yeah, that could work, a friendly ex is much more manageable than a public girlfriend. “Yeah, sure, why not?” A glimmer of hope blossoms in her heart, but this isn't hope, even though she acknowledged this friendly relationship could turn this break up to be much harder for her, she disregards it. “Then, can we do it one more time? A farewell for our love?”

After calming Haewon down, you promised her that you'll still be friends, before leaving her to own her demise. You decided to go to Minji's place, without changing your clothes. Once you got there, you saw Minji's anger simmered like a neglected pot of tea, the air thick with her unspoken accusations. You stepped through the door, weary from the emotional battlefield you'd just navigated, only to be met with her fiery gaze. "Where were you?" She spat, her voice tight with suspicion. "Hours. Gone. Alone."

You feigned a weary sigh, slumping onto the couch. "Haewon," you mumbled, the name of a bitter pill on your tongue. "She needed me, breakup, you know, messy stuff."

Minji's eyes, normally shimmering with adoration, narrowed to dangerous slits. "I know, but you said it won't take more than an hour”, Thousands of voices start painting a sickening picture in her mind. "Things changed”, You cut in, your voice clipped, playing the role of the reluctant victim. "She couldn't handle it well. She needed someone to calm her down, someone who…" you trailed off, letting the silence hang heavy, an eerie pause to fuel her insecurities.

The smell, of course, hadn't escaped her scrutiny. The faint sweetness of Haewon's perfume, the musky aroma of a hurried embrace, clung to you like an invisible accusation. Your clothes, rumpled and slightly damp, spoke volumes of the emotional storm you'd weathered. "Liar", she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and hurt. "You reek of sweat, and her”, she added, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Whose sweat was it oppa?" She sat on your lap, pressing her body against you.

The question struck you like a drug. The haphazardly constructed lie, your bait against her possessiveness, it was a fuel to the fire. You stammered, acting weirdly, mumbling around some nonsense, letting out some choked words here and there. “It's hot, Minji”, you choked out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "We… talked, cried, you know how it is”, But Minji wasn't buying it. Her eyes, once pools of molten gold, were now icy daggers, piercing through your facade. You saw the doubt slithering in, a venomous snake coiling around her heart.

"Talked?" She scoffed, a humourless laugh escaping her lips. "For hours? In a sweaty mess, smelling like her cheap perfume? Do you think I'm a gullible idiot oppa?” The heat of her anger was both intoxicating and addicting. You felt the familiar thrill of manipulation rising, the urge to twist the narrative, to turn her insecurities into weapons against herself. A seed of doubt had been planted, a tiny crack in the dam of your lies. "Minji," you began, trying to reach for her hand, but she recoiled like a frightened animal. "It's not what you think. I swear…" Your words hung in the air, unanswered, as the silence between you grew louder than any accusation. You had pushed her, toyed with her insecurities, and now, the monster you'd created stared back at you, its eyes filled with a raw, primal rage.

Minji's touch, once a feather-light caress, became a desperate claw digging into your arm. Her scent, the sweet lavender now laced with the acrid tang of unshed tears, filled your lungs like a storm cloud. The air crackled with unspoken accusations, the silence a gaping maw waiting to swallow you whole. "Promise me," she rasped, her voice raw with a mix of fury and exhaustion. "Promise me it was nothing."

Each word was a jagged shard, slicing through the carefully constructed facade you'd built. Her eyes, once pools of molten gold, were now storm-tossed seas, threatening to drown you in their depths. You tasted the usual cocktail of amusement and control, slowly getting drunk off of her. "Of course, it was just a rough break up for her”, You stammered, showing off a made up guilt to poison her mind further. The puppeteer clinging to his strings, the predator savouring the edge of the precipice.

She leaned in, her face inches from yours, searching for the flicker of truth behind the mask of your devotion. Her breath, hot and ragged, mingled with the cloying sweetness of your lies. "Then tell me," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea. "Tell me everything. Every touch, every word, every stolen glance. Make me see her, make me understand, so I can fill the space she left in your heart"

The challenge, the raw vulnerability in her eyes, ignited a spark of something akin to… respect. This wasn't a pawn anymore, not a puppet dancing to your tune. This was a queen, battered but not broken, demanding answers, reclaiming her throne. You tried your best to hide your smile, suppressing the urge to welcome the new Minji into your world. For the first time, the thrill of manipulation exploded, enthralled by a flicker of…. The final act.

"Minji," you began, your voice rough with a truth you hadn't planned to share. "It… it wasn't much. Just a conversation, a hug, a reminder of what we almost-" But her lips, once a source of endless pleasure, cut you off. A kiss, fierce and desperate, slammed into yours, a drowning man grasping at straws. It was a plea, a demand, a desperate attempt to exorcise the ghost of Haewon from your soul. As you kiss her back the taste of sweet victory is mingling on your lips. Every day you spent with her has ruined her, soon she will be the perfect doll for your puppet show.

She pulled away, her eyes searching yours, not for confirmation, but for a flicker of understanding. A silent plea, not for forgiveness, but for a future where Haewon was a forgotten memory, a footnote in the epic novel of your love.

"Just… promise me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Promise me she's just a whisper in the wind, a memory soon to fade. Promise me she's nothing”, The plea, so naked and desperate, ignited a strange, twisted thrill within you. A beautiful symphony ringing in your ears. “Of course baby, Haewon and me is just an old tale, something you no longer need to care about”, The moment your lips touched her cheeks she felt a suffocating hunger for control. “And the smell", she whispered, her voice barely audible, "It'll vanish, right? It will wash away, alongside all the marks she left you?” The desperate plea in her voice has changed into a stern demand for your obedience.

"My love belongs only to you, Minji”, You purred, your fingers tracing the curve of her jaw, a phantom brand claiming her as yours. "The scent, the touch, they are nothing but a vivid memory, they'll fade away soon enough”, Her thumb gently caressed your cheek as you speak, and the moment you finished your answer it moved to start tracing around your lips. “Then let's have sex”, In a split second you decided that you wanted to plant seeds of doubt in her mind, and having sex would turn that doubt into a confirmation of your affair. “We have to move out tomorrow, let's get some rest for that. Also, dealing with Haewon for the day has drained me, I need some rest”, All the bells are ringing in Minji's mind, those paranoia are tearing her mind apart.

“Okay”, Her voice sounds cold and distant, even her eyes are hollow and emotionless, “Thank you babe, let's get some rest”, Unlike usual she didn't react at all as you kissed her cheek. “Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and so on until forever. You'll only have me right oppa? I'm your one and only?” Her voice almost sounds robotic, cold and stiff, jeez you don't plan to break her down this fast.

Minji's voice, once a melody that wrapped around you like silk, now scraped your nerves like a rusty blade. You leaned in to kiss her cheek, but she remained stiff, a porcelain doll devoid of warmth. "Of course, babe", You murmured, the lie tasting like ashes on your tongue. "Always just you”, Her cold, hollow eyes stared into yours, searching for something you were careful not to reveal. The thrill of manipulation, usually intoxicating, curdled in your gut, replaced by a gnawing unease. You hadn't meant to break her, not this quickly, not to turn her into this emotionless servant. You'd envisioned a slow burn, a gradual descent into obsession, not this robotic devotion devoid of even the embers of anger.

As you crawled into bed, Minji followed, her movements strangely mechanical. She nestled close, her body has become a foreign landscape you barely recognized. You craved the firecracker warmth she used to radiate, the spontaneous touch, the whispered secrets. Now, she was a chilling mirror reflecting the monster you'd created. Sleep eluded you. Minji, despite her stillness, pulsed with an unsettling energy. You felt her gaze burning into you, a dark star charting the map of your body. Was this part of the new Minji? This cold calculation, this predatory gleam in her eyes? Your twisted amusement had given way to a prickling sensation of uneasiness, a whisper of regret playing on the edge of your mind. Had you unleashed a force you could no longer control? A puppet is only fun to play with they can struggle, when they don't know the strings above them and have the illusion of control. A literal puppet, an inanimate doll that would just follow your every move isn't an enjoyable toy. You want the struggle, the possibility of losing, this Minji, isn't in the form you want her to be in.

Her hand grazed yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you. Before you could react, she sank her teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder, a hiss escaping her lips. Pain lanced through you, but it was the raw possessiveness in her eyes that truly aroused your reaction. It was a brutal mark, a claim in crimson ink, the first brushstroke on her twisted masterpiece. You felt annoyed by the sheer audacity of it all, should you calm her down? Or just finish her transformation soon? Would finishing it cause her to be even more boring for you?

"Minji," you croaked, the word catching in your throat. "What are you doing?" Her smile, when it came, was devoid of warmth, a predator eyeing its kill. "Marking you, oppa", she whispered, her voice a silken snare. "Making you mine, forever and always. Just you and me, a world with no distractions”, You were caught in a whirlwind of your own making, the thrill of manipulation swirling dangerously close to the edge of terror. You saw the future stretching before you, a path painted in blood and obsession, a cold path with no one else but you and her.

The crimson mark on your shoulder throbbed, a pulsing reminder of the new Minji, the one you'd sculpted from the ruins of her trust. You weren't scared, not truly. The thrill, the raw audacity of it, was a potent cocktail coursing through your veins. Yet, a shadow of doubt, a flicker of something akin to….. responsibility, perhaps, gnawed at the edges of your amusement. The hunt, oh, the hunt was exquisite. The dance of manipulation, the gradual unravelling of her sanity, that was where the true pleasure lay. Watching her transform into this possessive, cold-blooded creature, a twisted reflection of your own desires, was like watching a masterpiece unfold stroke by agonising stroke.

But the kill, the final act of conquest, held no allure for you. It was the chase, the slow, agonising descent into obsession, that fueled your twisted fire. The kill, the moment of surrender, felt like the closing of a chapter, the end of the game. And you, the puppeteer, craved the endless, exhilarating performance, not the curtain call. Slowing it down, yes, that held promise. Dragging out the game, relishing each twisted step, each mark of her devotion, each whisper of her descent. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill that was both exhilarating and unsettling.

But there was a risk, a precipice you teetered on. Minji, this new Minji, was a firestorm, a force you'd unleashed and could no longer fully control. Slowing it down meant playing with fire, dancing on the edge of a volcano, and the flames, you knew, could easily consume you both.

The night stretched before you, a canvas painted in shades of crimson and gold. You held Minji close, her cold fire branding your skin, a constant reminder of the power you wielded, the chaos you'd unleashed. This wasn't the ending you'd envisioned, not the final act of your twisted play. This was a new chapter, a thrilling, terrifying improvisation, and the symphony, you knew, would be sung in blood and obsession, a symphony conducted by your own twisted desires. You would slow it down, yes, but not out of fear. You would enjoy the hunt, the exquisite dance of control, and watch, with a predator's glee, as Minji, your creation, your queen, became your most devoted follower.

The silver moon, a tarnished cymbal kissed by rust, clanged discordantly against the silence of the night. Minji, a watercolour portrait smudged by storm clouds, lay beside you, her gaze a piercing brushstroke dissecting the secrets you pretended to conceal. Sleep, a lullaby lost on deaf ears, would not grace her tonight, her heart a frantic drum solo fueled by the cacophony of lies you'd orchestrated. And thus, you played your part. A sigh, a melancholic cello serenade, escaped your lips, laced with the practised vibrato of feigned anguish. "Haewon, no", You whispered, your voice a mournful bassoon lamenting a love you never felt. "Don't take her again."

Each word, a barbed arrow stab in the canvas of Minji’s insecurities, sank deep into her heart, cultivating poisonous vines of doubt. You watched, through narrowed eyes, as the melody of suspicion rose in her, crescendoing into a possessive symphony that almost drowned out the echo of your fabricated despair. It fucking work, Minji was a whirlwind of abstract expressionism, her emotions shifting between obsessive brushstrokes and jealous splatters. Haewon, the spectre you'd conjured in your sleep, became her thematic nemesis, a distorted oil painting dripping with paranoia and misplaced passion. She dissected your every phrase, your every touch, searching for the phantom brushstrokes of this imaginary rival. When she found nothing, the relief in her eyes was a fleeting sunbeam on a rain-slicked canvas, swallowed by the ominous charcoal clouds of disdain that pulsed beneath.

Her charcoal sketches morphed into a nightmarish collage. Haewon, inside Minji's mind, became a grotesque cubist portrait, her features fractured and reassembled into a discordant jumble of envy and rage. You watched, a silent maestro conducting the chaotic orchestra of her descent, as Minji poured her insecurities, her growing madness, onto the canvas, each stroke a dissonant testament to your manipulation. This isn't just control anymore; this is a twisted opera for a broken soul, a crescendo of obsession where Minji, blind to your cruel scherzo, worshipped your fabricated villain. You revelled in the spectacle, the way she clung to your lies, turning Haewon into a monster so she could feel safer, more secure in your fabricated devotion.

Midnight, a velvet curtain, draped the room in hushed expectation. Minji, a tigress coiled and simmering, lay beside you. Her breathing, a low growl, vibrated against your arm, a promise of the storm brewing within. You felt her gaze, a laser beam drilling through the veil of your feigned slumber. She let out a vow to your ‘sleeping’ body a thunderous oath echoing in the darkness, "No one will bother you again," she'd hissed, her devotion, a tangible entity coiled around you. A perverse smile played on your lips, hidden in the shadows. You craved the storm, the tempest of her jealousy fueled devotion. And so, you played your part. A sigh, a whispered secret meant for no ears but hers, drifted from your lips. "Only you, Minji," you murmured, your voice a silken snare laced with feigned passion. "Forever."

The words, a barbed arrow dipped in the twisted concoctions of love, struck their mark. Her breathing hitched, the tigress recoiling in surprise, then settling with a low purr that reverberated through your bones. You felt the anger drain from her, replaced by a fiery possessiveness that licked at your soul. She shifted closer, her body a furnace branding yours. Her touch, once delicate, was now an insistent claim, a possessive map drawn on your skin. You revelled in it, the power she unwittingly surrendered feeding your twisted amusement.

In the ensuing silence, you spun another lie, a cruel melody whispered into the night. "Haewon… no….. more”,you breathed, your voice a mournful cello lamenting a fabricated sorrow. "Only you…… Babe”, The lie, a venomous kiss, landed on the raw wound of her insecurity. You saw the flicker of doubt, the spark of jealousy reignited in her eyes. But this time, it was different. The doubt was a flickering torch, drawing her closer to your darkness, not away. Minji, your tigress, rose from the bed, a predator prowling the room. Her movements were predatory, fueled by the twisted cocktail of love. Her limbs coiled around you, trapping you inside her embrace. “I love you oppa”, The final movement has been averted, replaced by an interlude.

Sunlight crept through the curtains, chasing away the shadows of the night. “Morning oppa”, Minji hasn't slept for a moment, yet her body feels rejuvenated. “Morning babe”, Your hand caressed her back making her purr. “I love you”, Under her bubbly and innocent smile, you can hear her demand for your answer. “I love you too babe, let's get ready for the day”, The answer is correct. Minji, a butterfly reborn, fluttered around the room, her laughter like wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. The storm of the night seemed a distant memory, replaced by a sunny facade that clung to her like a second skin. But you saw it, the glint of the monster you'd sculpted, lurking beneath the bubbly surface. A flicker of a possessive glint in her eyes when she caught you glancing at the phone, a subtle tightening of her grip when you spoke about another woman. The tigress slept, but it dreamt of fire, its claws honed and waiting.

The day stretched before you, a journey marked by boxes and goodbyes. Your parents, a melancholic cello duet, stood in the doorway, their faces etched with bittersweet smiles. “Take care of each other now”, your mother whispered, her voice filled with joy and excitement with her successful plan. You watched Minji's hand steal into yours, a vine coiling around your fingers. A smile, practised and perfect, bloomed on her face. "Don't worry, mom", she chirped, her voice a bright soprano masking the darkness beneath. "Oppa and I will be just fine", Of course, it was also an ultimatum for you, she won't let you mess anything up from now on. "Of course, we will be just fine”, Well, fine is a pretty wide term, but in some way and form, the two of you will be fine. “Don't get pregnant while-”, You dragged Minji out before your dad could finish his sentence. “Oppa, I want to get pregnant”, Minji whispered in your ears, a clear test for your own devotion for her. “I'll get you pregnant, after we got married”, The little monster consumed her eyes, emitting ecstasy and anticipations, “We'll get married soon right?” Her voice was laced with poison. “Soon enough”, And so does yours it seems.

The drive to your new home was a silent opera. Minji, a capricious soprano, chirped about decorating and future plans, her voice a sugary veneer over the churning turmoil within. You watched the scenery blur past, a discordant landscape mirroring the dissonance in your heart. The house, when you finally arrived, stood cold and empty. A blank canvas waiting for the splatters of your twisted masterpiece. Minji, with a childish glee you knew was feigned, skipped through the rooms, claiming them as her own.

“This bed is kinda big oppa, there's plenty of space for us”, Minji really wants to take the main bedroom for the two of you. “Listen, I'm not fucking you on my dad's bed okay?” Just, no, you hate the possibility of imagining your dad while you're rawdogging your girlfriend. “Come on, pleaseeeeee?” However Minji really wants to claim it as a way to show this house belongs to the two of you. “No, I'll ask for a new bed soon, come on let's move to my bedroom”, For now she'll be content with filling your bedroom with new memories of her.

The moment she got to your bedroom she dived into your bed. Smelling to find any scent of a bitch on it. “Oppa….” She does not like what she finds, “Yeah, I haven't changed my sheet in a while”, You did two-time Haewon and Minji for a week or two after you took Minji's virginity. “You've been sleeping here? With that whore’s cheap perfume staining this place?” You shrugged, letting her let out her anger. “I hate this place”, The walls, the bed, the floor, the sheets, it's all tainted by the touch of a whore. “Ssshhhhh, we can drown out her smell, just you and me. Wouldn't that be fine babe? Erasing her trace with your own?” It is so easy to poke at her weak spot.

“Fine, come here oppa”, Slowly you take off your clothes, making sure to let her suffer through the wait. Minji has already turned fully naked when you only opened your top, which frustrated her. “Oppa, come on, stop teasing me. Don't you want to fill me up again?” She spread her legs as her fingers started playing around with her pussy. The desperate looks she gave you push you to move faster. You get on your knees, enjoying the food that has been presented for you. “You, are so fucking perverted babe”, You kissed her inner thighs making her body shivers, “Oppa, I need you, please”, She let out a desperate plea. “Well, thank you for the food”, Your tongue slowly rubbed her pussy, giving her some surge of arousal.

“Yeah oppa, just like that, do that again”, Minji has slowly become more and more vocal with her moans ever since you told her how much you like hearing her scream. Of course you can't really hear much since your hearing is being hindered by the thighs ear muff wrapping your head. “Fuck oppa, you're gonna make me cum”, Her body jolt out, raising her waist while her leg is cutting the blood circulation to your ear. Grabbing her waist you keep her in place before your tongue starts going ham inside her pussy. “Fuck oppa, that's not fair”, She moans as her hand grabbed your hair. “Fuck, oppa, I'm cumming”, It was a split second after that did you feel the sudden sprays of her juice on your face.

Your head is being squeezed by her thighs, your hair is being torn off by her hand, your face being soaked by her juice. What more could a man ask for? “Oppa, that was incredible”, Finally she let you go, you just let out a sigh before taking her t-shirt and wiped your face with it. “I'm not eating you out ever again”, It's okay, she'll find a way to talk you into it. Oh my, she is growing, into something as scummy as you are.

“Well come on, fuck me oppa”, Despite the state she's in, Minji still fingers herself to prepare her hole for you. “So fucking eager aren't you?” She nodded before turning her back to you, without hesitation you plunged into her making her let out a scream. “So fucking tight too”, Your hand moves by itself and slaps her ass, “Ahhhhhh, oppa”, Her cries of pains made you feel even hornier. “Shut up you”, You slaps her again making her shriek, “You like this don't you slut?” Another slap, this time you felt her walls tightening around you. “No”, Yet the moan doesn't lie to you, “Liar, tell me how much you like it”, Minji is loving it, but she doesn't want to show it to you.

“I'm not a slut”, You spank her again, “Lies, tell me how much you like this babe”, You leaned down and kissed her back making the playing field less even for her. “No, I hate it”, She moans again, completely failing in convincing you. “Babyyyy”, Your hand reached to her neck, gently wrapping around it. “I don't like liars”, With one rough pull you dragged her up. Now she's standing alongside you, although her leg doesn't really reach the ground. “I'm not lying”, Being grabbed like a useless doll makes Minji feel so aroused. “Is that so?” You bite her ears, you use one hand to hold her by the waist, you open your legs wider so that she can stand on her own two feets.

“I know you're lying, sluts”, You tightened your hand on her neck as you pound her harder. “Aggg, not… lying…” The ecstasy, the feelings of being absolutely used as nothing but a tool for your pleasure, it overwhelmed her. “Say it slut”, Your hand slapped her tits this time making her let out a choked cry. “I’m cumming”, She managed to let out a squeal as her body started to spasm out of control. Yet you didn't stop, you continued strangling her while your waist continued pounding her. The absolute thrill of being degraded like this makes Minji's orgasm last a long time. Long enough by the time she finishes you actually feels yours getting closer.

“Fucking slut”, You throw her to the bed letting her fall limply to it as you grabbed her waist and fuck her harder. “I'm cumming bitch”, Minji was out of it, the oxygen deprivation had sent her mind wandering off somewhere. Of course, the moment your hot load fills her up she immediately gets another orgasm.

Did I pass out? Have oppa been fucking my unconscious body this whole time? That's so hot.

Yeah she's definitely broken, you did this by the way. Soon she will be nothing but a sentient sexbot who only has one variable in her mind, you. “Fuck, Minji are you okay?” Your hand reached out to grab her head, “Hold me oppa”, She whimpered. You jumped on the bed and cuddled her closer to you, “I'm sorry babe”, You laughed as she started crying on your shoulder. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you” that's all you hear from her for an hour or so.

As the time passes, you get bored, thinking about what's the next plan, how do you slowly turn Minji into much, well, degenerate. “Oppa, let's go again”, Minji already starts stroking your cock, “Do you want to have a house tour with sex baby?” Why bother asking, just go and spread your mark all over the place.

"Promise me you'll be back by ten”, she rasped, her voice strained with a tremor that tugged at your heartstrings. "Ten, oppa. No later”, You stare at her through the reflection of the mirror as you put on your tie, “Ten? Baby the shows end by 11, and as the leader I need to stay around for some after-party for the band chemistry”, The last month of living together has calm her down a lot, no longer is she a dragon anxious for her treasure trove being stolen, you are the treasure by the way, now more like a needy cat that doesn't want its owner to leave for work.

The knot in her chest tightened. Minji's pleading eyes, reflected in the mirror like twin pools of worry, chipped away at the carefully constructed nonchalance you wore like a shield. "But it's just a formality, baby” You soothed, forcing a smile to calm her down. "A quick toast, maybe some pictures, and then I'm out of there. Back before you can finish that book you've been reading", The book is about a guide on how to navigate through marriage for a newly wed wife. Your words seemed to hang in the air, caught in the web of her suspicion. Haewon, the phantom you'd conjured, loomed large in the unspoken spaces between you.

Minji hovered by the window, sunlight glinting off the nervous tears clinging to her eyelashes. You finished tying your boots, the leather laces a stark contrast to the fragile tendrils of doubt she was weaving around you.

"Haewon won't be there", You assured her, your voice firm yet it has no effect on her. "I told you, it's just the band and those basketball kids. Trust me, my spotlight tonight only shines on you”, But her smile, usually as bright as a sunflower, remained wan, painted with the worry of shadows not yet cast. "You promise?" she whispered, her voice a trembling melody in the morning air.

You crossed your heart, the gesture feeling almost sacrilegious in the face of your web of lies. "Promise," you lied, the taste of ash settling on your tongue. "No Haewon, just me and the boys”, Of course Haewon will be there, it will be fun. Unfortunately for you Minji starts to notice the signs of your lies, which means she's still hesitant about your departure. A playful sigh escaped your lips, laced with a touch of deceptions. "Look," you pleaded, turning towards her, "how about a compromise? I'll sneak out as soon as the formalities are done, okay? I'll text you the second I'm in the car, even give you live updates through if you want."

Her expression wavered, a fragile pendulum swinging between doubt and reluctant trust. You knew the fear still lurked beneath the surface, a predator coiled and ready to pounce at the slightest hint of your betrayal. But amidst the tension, you saw a glimmer of the Minji you'd grown to cherish, the girl who believed in your promises, the girl who craved your return, not your confinement. "Fine," she whispered, the word falling from her lips like a reluctant concession. "But no later than half-past eleven. And text me every step of the way, even if it's just a boring picture of your shoes under the table."

A wave of relief washed over you, warm and cleansing. You pulled her into a tight embrace, inhaling the scent of her lavender perfume, letting her imprint her scent on you. "Deal," you murmured, your lips brushing against her temple. "I'll be back soon babe”, You won't.

The ride was quiet for you, yet your phone is bombarded with Minji's text, since she knows the address to the venue you decided to answer her just in case she would come and wreak havoc. “Baby I'm driving right now”, A glint of worry attacked her, “Why did you call me then?” Minji hurriedly closes the call and sends a long text telling you why texting while driving is dangerous and other stuff. You only read her text once you arrived at the venue, “Why does her book have a chapter about drunk driving?” The book was supposed to be for a newlywed wife right?

“Well, well, well, look who decides to show up”, Bae said, drilling her gaze into your eyes, “Bae”, Haewon grabbed her hand trying to calm her down. “Evening Bae, as pleasant as always”, You ignored the two of them and went to find Jin. “You can't just keep running to me to escape Haewon”, You can and you will continue doing this, “I'm running for her own sake”, How noble of you. “Yeah whatever, what's up?” You look around to see that everyone is fully ready for the performance, “Is there any plans for after the performance?” It would be nice if there is, after all things has been going too well for you and Minji. “Drinks? Karaoke? Dinner? Whatever you want dude”, Come on now you're the shot caller for your band of misfits. “Karaoke fuck it?” Doing karaoke after a straining performance will be very tiring even for you, of course it was the best option to wreck Minji's heart.

“You're the boss”, It's nice that Jin reminds you of that from time to time, or was it a complaint for your lack of responsibility? “Alright boys, gather up, briefing time”, Ah, you get his hint. A quick briefing for the performance, rundown on the songs you've prepared and of course a little soundcheck. Throughout all this you managed to sent some text to Minji just to update her. These text is the only thing that's keeping her sane throughout the hours. She can't even focus on anything else but your text, trying to analyse every pixel for any detail you might try to hide.

Who is that girl oppa?

You?

What? The girl in the room with you. That's a girl's leg on the top left corner.

That's Bae, one of the boy's girlfriends. You want to meet her?

Why is she there?

To meet her boyfriend?

Stop answering with questions. You said there will only be your ‘boys’, or is she on of the ‘boys’ as well?

It's 2023 babe, we need to be inclusive, boys, bros, it's all universal term.

Your text certainly doesn't help, Minji's hand was gripping the phone so hard it could've broken. “Who is that bitch”, A low whisper more akin to a growl came out of her.

STOP EVADING THE QUESTIONS

Yeah okay, there's a few girls here, they're my boys’ girlfriends.

YOU SAID THERE WILL ONLY BE THE BOYS

IT'S ZE BOYS, but yeah they are bringing their girlfriend. It's okay babe, they won't even bat an eye on me.

If you come back.

With their scent on you.

I won't let you leave the house again.

Okay, I need to do some soundcheck, I'll text you before the performance.

Minji gnawed on her thumbnail, the bitter taste of nail polish mingling with the sour cocktail of worry churning in her stomach. Your band's music pulsed through the apartment walls, a distant but tantalising echo of the world you were currently inhabiting. She tried to focus on the self-help book titled "Newlywed Wife's Guide for Marriage," the words blurring before her eyes. Each sentence about "trusting your spouse" and "maintaining healthy communication" felt like a hollow balm on her burning anxieties.

The image, the one you'd sent from the venue, had burrowed into her mind like a malevolent worm. It wasn't even the girl's face, just a glimpse of legs beneath a short skirt, a flash of tanned skin that, to Minji's twisted perspective, screamed calculated seduction. While you basked in the spotlight, she wrestled with the phantom threat of another woman stealing your gaze, your touch, your entire universe.

The book, supposed armour against these insecurities, offered nothing but platitudes. "Accept your husband will be flirted with," it droned, "but trust his commitment." Trust? How could she, when every laugh shared on stage, every casual brush with a friend, felt like a tiny betrayal chipping away at their fledgling relationship? Frustration, acrid and bitter, welled up inside her. She slammed the book shut, its pronouncements useless in the face of her torment. Outside, city lights winked like mocking eyes, each twinkle a stark reminder of the gulf between her and you.

The stage pulsed with energy, sweat and amplified riffs painting a portrait of your adrenaline-fueled world. Your voice soared, carrying the melody of the band's hard work for the last few months. Amidst the cheers and ambiance lights, a phantom audience of one haunted your every note. Minji. Back in your apartment, she continues biting on her nails, a habit she has developed from dealing with you. Each text message, a bland chronicle of "soundcheck done”, "opening act killed it”, felt like a brushstroke obscuring a hidden canvas. No mention of the ‘girlfriend’ , no picture of the whore’s leg. The silence, louder than any roar, amplified her anxieties.

You'd promised the picture wouldn't come, and yet, the absence felt like a deliberate omission, a carefully crafted lie. The silence between your texts, once filled with the comforting buzz of the concert, became an abyss of doubt. Minji slammed the phone on the bed, the screen's blue light leaving ghostly afterimages on her tear-filled eyes.

She tried to focus on the book, the "Newlywed Wife's Guide," but its platitudes about communication and trust felt like hollow echoes in the face of her mounting suspicions. You, her rockstar, her sunshine, were now a phantom figure dancing in the shadows, your every move shrouded in a veil of deceit. The book is mocking her with its empty promises of trust and communication. Trust? How could she, when every update felt sanitised, every emoji a carefully chosen mask? Finally, unable to bear the torment any longer, she typed out a message, her fingers trembling making her have to retype the whole message a couple of time. "When are you coming home?" the words screamed, a desperate plea for a shred of truth in the labyrinth of your lies.

I'm chilling until the closing for now.

The response was read almost immediately.

Karaoke????

You said it will be dinner

It came back, the question mark a venomous punctuation mark. You smiled, picturing her curled up on the couch, the book abandoned on the floor, her mind spinning with suspicion. You knew the image too well, the monster you'd created reflected in her haunted eyes.

There was a change of plans

I'll just drink a little and sing a song or two and I'll be right with you.

She read it, but she didn't respond at all. This radio silence caused some uneasy feeling inside you, so you left the bathroom and called her up. The call was answered instantly.

“Hey babe”

“Why are you going to a karaoke oppa? Please just come back home”

She's crying.

“Baby don't cry, it's just an hour at most”

“Oppa, please, I need you”

She's crying, hysterically.

“Baby, I promise, after this I won't leave your side for a week”

“You're not leaving my side for a week regardless”

Good point, how do you counter this.

“A month, I'll take you out to my internship”

“Baby, please, just come home. I miss you already”

Her heart wrenching wails can be heard echoing around your bedroom.

“Baby, why are you like this? Please it's just a karaoke, nothing is gonna happen”

“Babe, I miss you”

The pain whimpering she let out made you realise, if you push it harder she will do something stupid.

“Okay, I'll see what I can do okay?”

Have you gone too soft?

“Hey, are you still busy with your ‘internship’?” Haewon’s voice can be heard followed by the knocking on the door. “Who's that?” Minji roared, “I'll be back soon, and stop following me weirdo”, Right, let's feed Minji's insecurities of finding you getting flirted on. “I can't believe I dated you”, This time Haewon's voice is lower and you're not really sure that it can be heard through the phone. “Oppa, please, come home now”, Minji pleaded, it's all just too much for her. “Baby, once the performance end I'll come home okay? There's only half an hour left”, That's like 30 minutes too long for Minji. “Oppa, please, come home”, She sounds so pathetic already, “I'll be back soon babe, I love you”, She didn't answer with words as the only thing you can hear is her sobbing. You stay in line for a minute or so, then you hang up, making her cries even harder.

As you get out of the bedroom you find Haewon just standing there in the hallway. “Evening, Hae, anything I can help you with?” Her eyes narrowed, then she strides over to you and grabs your collar before pulling you down. “I know that internship is just a fucking lie”, Well, it seems things are getting annoying now. You frown and tilted your head as if you're not getting what she means by that. Haewon's eyes, once smouldering embers of adoration, now crackled with the fierce heat of suspicion. Her accusation hung in the air, a tangible thing you could almost hear "Don't play dumb with me, Oppa", coming out of her mouth. Yet her lips stay still, she knows that you're getting her message.

The urge to scoff, to dismiss her claims with a smirk and a well-placed lie, warred with a prickling sensation at the back of your neck. Her sudden awareness, like a rogue vine twisting towards your carefully cultivated garden of deception, was starting to annoy you more than frighten you. "Hae," you began, playing the clueless card like a well-worn suit, "you're scaring me. Really. What on earth are you talking about?" Your voice, a touch too high, a shade too rehearsed, was met with a sardonic smile that sliced through your feigned innocence. "Oh, spare me the ignorant act”, she spat, her voice laced with the bitterness of betrayal. "The internship, the space – everyone knows it's a charade. And I know more than just that."

Her words, each one a subtle jab, prodded at the carefully constructed walls you'd erected around your secret life. Haewon, once a pliable puppet in your game, was now a tigress clawing her way out of the cage. Your puppets, it seemed, were becoming a touch too sentient for your liking. "Hae, come on," you sighed, spreading your hands in a gesture of mock bewilderment. "Fantasies? Look, if you think there's someone else… well, that's your prerogative. But don't drag me into your suspicions."

Haewon's eyes narrowed, scepticism dancing in their depths. Her hand reached behind your head and pulled it into her neck, you can feel her breath tickling your ears, just like old times. "Fantasies, you say? I know your secrets better than you think, Oppa. And let me tell you, I'm not going down like this. Whoever that bitch is, I'll find her. Also, you might be a father soon, so don't run too far, daddy~”, Then she let go, and before you can get a glimpse of her face she already turned around.

Haewon's footsteps, once sharp staccato, faded into the distant hum of the city like a final, angry cymbal crash. You didn't chase her, nor did fear twist your gut. This, you realized with a chilling thrill, was the finale, the crescendo of your intricately orchestrated chaos. Silence, filled with anticipation, settled on the stage. The piano, normally your bandmate's playful confidante, now hummed a melancholic blues, each note heavy with the weight of revelation. The drums, a once-joyful pulse, echoed like distant thunder, a rumbling premonition of the storm you'd unleashed.

And then, Minji's imagined cries, not screams of accusation, but soft, wounded whimpers, joined the symphony. They twined around the piano's melody, a mournful oboe solo weaving through the discordant tapestry of your unraveling masterpiece. This wasn't fear, this morbidly exhilarating waltz of consequences. No, this was the conductor relishing the final flourish, the maestro gazing upon the wreckage of his deliberate chaos with a cold, artistic detachment. Haewon, the scorned tigress, had merely been the catalyst, the final push needed to send your marionette strings flying, the puppets tumbling into their inevitable fall. Her sudden sentience and defiant is only a step back to your plans for Minji's transformation.

You pictured Minji, eyes red-rimmed, tears tracing silent melodies down her cheeks. The sight, far from being a gut punch, fueled the perverse fire within you. Her pain, you imagined, was another instrument in your twisted orchestra, a mournful cello adding depth and despair to the symphony of your destruction. The crowd, their chatter a distant, muffled chorus, became the audience to your private tragedy. Their oblivious enjoyment of the band's now-sombre performance merely emphasized the irony, the cruel disconnect between the staged entertainment and the real-life drama unfolding in the wings.

You closed your eyes, the music swirling within you, a dark, intoxicating vortex. And in that swirling chaos, you saw not the wreckage, but the possibilities. This wasn't a failed performance, it was a liberation, a shedding of the puppeteer's mask, a descent into the raw, unchained melody of your true self. A sick and twisted smile starts to form on your face, filled with anticipation, ecstasy and most importantly, sadistic perversion.

No longer would you play by society's rules, dance to the rhythms of expected outcomes. This was your symphony, discordant and raw, yours to conduct until the final note, the bitter aftertaste of chaos clinging to your lips like a final, triumphant encore. As the jazz band, oblivious to the storm they'd unwittingly orchestrated, ended their set with a soft, resigned coda, you stepped back into the shadows. The curtain hadn't fallen, not yet. This was merely the intermission, the pause before the final movement of the song, the grand finale where the puppeteer became the protagonist, the villain, the tragic hero of his own twisted, beautiful symphony.

AN: I really wanted to wrap things out in this chapter but my hand just start writing and I lost control. Anyway, second chapter out of three, the third one might take a while since i have some plans for new years. Till then, cheers

#kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop smut #newjeans minji #kim minji #minji smut #male reader

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