wonluhver

[wonluhver]

⭑ INCH BY INCH ⸻ park sunghoon

you have a boyfriend gifted with a pornstar cock, but he refuses to use it on you, too scared he'll end up hurting you. so your best shot is to devise a plan to get him to crumble, and even if things don't unfold quite as expected, what matters is the result anyway... right?

starring ⋆ f!reader x park sunghoon, besties!jaykewon

this work contains ⋆ smut ⋆ minors so not interact ⋆ barely any plot, way too much smut, sunghoon being diabolically hung, my extremely poor attempts at humor, established relationship, nasty nasty shit... brat tamer sunghoon, alcohol consumption, implied driving under the influence, jealousy, slut shaming (not from hoon), a tiny bit of violence, blood, size & bulge kink, fingering, dry humping, slight degradation, partially clothed sex, a freaky voice message, edging & overstim, oral (f!rec), mutual masturbation, lube, squirting, unprotected sex ⸻ rules m.list

length ⋆ one shot ⸻ 23.6k words

⭑ NIA ⸻ i'm in pain and my period is abt to start ANDD antibiotics fucked my stomach up so if you see typos no you don't. anyways. big fat cock. who agrees!! shoutout to my homies vivi and stella for putting up with my ass and deactivation threats anytime i write anything ever!!! and for having read this before anyone else

Having a dick so big multiple people suggest you make a career out of it isn't half as nice as it sounds, Sunghoon would know that better than anyone.

Even before getting any experience, he'd been aware of just how comically large his dick was. He'd known ever since he had to go out of his way to search for porn with ‘massive cock!’ in the title for it to look anything like his, and even then he often found himself thinking they had to be exaggerating a bit for the sake of clicks.

Turns out, the comparison with real life average sizes is even more ridiculous.

He knows it sounds silly, there are hordes of men out there that would pay good money to swap places with him—his dear friend Jake being the first in line.

Sunghoon still cringes when he remembers the first time he'd oh so innocently asked Jake for his opinion on the matter. Truthfully, all he wanted to hear from his bleached blonde friend was some reassurance, maybe how it was all in his head, or how at the end of the day the right person would love and appreciate every part of him no matter what, or whatever you tell people in situations like these. His first mistake was believing Jake out of all his friends would do the most tactful thing.

“That thing’s like—fucking huge!” Jake shrieked, grabbing Sunghoon’s phone out of his hands, every protest falling on deaf ears. “There’s no fucking way, man.”

“It’s not that b—” Sunghoon tries to speak, but Jake stops him before he even gets a sentence in, calling Jay’s name at the top of his lungs. 

“What are you—”

“WHAT,” Jay yells back from the kitchen, over the deafening sound of the food processor in use, annoyed by Jake’s continuous interruptions that day. Of which at least four were to show him some nasty looking recipe he found on tiktok.

“You gotta come take a look at this!”

At the time, Sunghoon was still vaguely uncomfortable around Jay. He was nice enough, and he was a great roommate, so there was that at least. It was a good trade off because the other option was staying at the way too crowded shitty dorms, and he liked the privacy that this deal got him. He wasn't always on board with it, Jake had to talk him into it when high school ended, but he swore him and Jay would be the bestest of friends if only he could let his reservations behind for a little, at least give him a chance.

Sunghoon moved away halfway through the second year of high school, and for a while it felt like Jay had swapped places with him and taken the life he was supposed to live for himself. First his best friend, Jake. Then the girl of his dreams, the one he never found the courage to confess to, you.

Thing is, while Sunghoon could recognize Jay had done absolutely nothing wrong to him per se, he still felt betrayed by him in a way. Truly it was just envy.

The food processor comes to an abrupt halt, and all that can be heard from the other room is a deep sigh, followed by the sound of dragged footsteps as their tall friend walks into the messy—in the way only college boys living spaces can be—living room with resignation. “Fine. But this better have nothing to do with Cheetos or tacos.” 

“Much better.” Jake winks at him, nudging Sunghoon’s hands away with his elbow, the younger hissing in pain. “Behold,” he turns the phone towards an unassuming Jay, aware of the fact he's about to change the older's view of Sunghoon forever.“Sunghoon’s monster of a cock.”

Jay’s hands stop on his apron, (the ridiculous one with a bodybuilder torso and cheetah boxers Jungwon got him for a secret Santa) and his mouth hangs open for a second too long, before he comes back to his senses and notices how Sunghoon slumps back on the couch, cheeks burning red. Jay swats the phone out of Jake’s hand. “What the fuck is your problem, dude.”

“What? I’m just saying it’s way larger than average!”

“He’s uncomfortable.” Jay says, going back to drying his hands on the apron. “Leave him be.”

This only makes Sunghoon’s cheeks redder, his ears a bright pink too. Jake scoffs, eyeing him suspiciously. “Sure. I’m sure having a porn star cock must be so mortifying. Who even complains about stuff like this?” he snickers before making his voice a pitch higher. “‘Poor me! My dick’s too heavy! What will I do!”

“Oh my god,” Sunghoon runs a hand through his hair, pulling the ends a bit. “It is not that big.” He looks at Jay for support, expecting him to disagree with Jake.

Jay’s gaze falters to his pants for a split second. His mouth twists but he remains silent.

“Not you too.” Sunghoon's hands now hold his face as he sinks into the cushions further, legs spreading. “Just say what you wanna say.”

“I mean…” Jay gestures towards Sunghoon's crotch. “I suspected you were big but… that’s crazy, man.”

“It’s not that cra—”

“Yes it is! You’ve got a fucking gas storage tank in your pants and you wanna sit here and tell us it’s not crazy?” Jake says, exasperated by that point. “And stop playing dumb. It’s big. That’s good. I’m sure the ladies go crazy over it. Or the gentlemen. Or whoever it is you fuck.” He kisses his teeth, muttering under his breath. “Lucky bastard.”

“Jake’s right, Hoon. I don’t know why you're so… negative about it. It's a good thing."

“I wouldn’t know,” Sunghoon mutters under breath, more to himself than to the guys, but it’s still loud enough for them to catch it.

“Oh? Then whenever the time comes, you’ll see how much they’ll love it,” Jay says.

"I'm just worried." Sunghoon tries his best to avoid both sets of eyes staring intently at him. "What… what if I end up hurting someone?"

Jake coos, then moves closer to Sunghoon on the couch, his breath fanning over his ear as he whispers, “Always so concerned about other people. Aren't you such a cutie pie?”

The boys weren't exactly wrong, but with big dick come great responsibilities—as Jake said. Yup, roll your eyes at him, not Sunghoon. He's innocent—like having to finger and eat out your partners for what feels like an eternity before even trying to push the tip in, which is not exactly the best situation to be in as a virgin. Current Sunghoon thinks that's the best part, but it took a while to get here.

Sunghoon has always been a very patient man though, a gentle giant in every sense of the phrase. The last thing he would ever want to do is inflict pain accidentally on another human being.

When he got his first actual girlfriend, he'd been so nervous and honestly quite scared to have sex with her. So he got on Google whenever he had free time to study ways to make it as comfortable as possible, watching all kinds of video explanations or reading through feminine pleasure blogs written by women for women specifically, because that's where Jay told him the good stuff was at.

By the time he got to actually have sex with her, his mind was so overwhelmed by all this information that he essentially forgot how to even think. It was anything but romantic, so deeply embarrassing Sunghoon still cringes even after all this time when his mind betrays him and reminds him of it while trying to fall asleep at night.

And then, to add insult to injury, his girlfriend cheated on him and left him for this guy she'd only just met, because 'it might not be as big, but at least he knows how to use it'.

Heartbroken and with an hurt ego, Sunghoon did that thing all boys do when their first relationship doesn't work out: hit the gym and promise themselves they're never gonna fall in love ever again.

That second part ended up failing, because from the moment you showed up at his doorstep to visit (your now ex boyfriend, but a beloved friend nonetheless) Jay and Jake, five different bags around you, with eyes as big as saucers and staring at him like he had invaded his own apartment, all the feelings younger Sunghoon had for you hit him like a brick to his nape all over again.

You two dating came as a shock to everyone around you, mostly because while you were aware of Park Sunghoon's existence and vice versa, you'd never given it too much thought. You remembered him as the scrawny kid with the cute moles from math that you used to always catch staring. He was often around Jungwon because they were neighbors, but was way too shy to even say hi to you. That, and he was also always around Jake—who you were not exactly fond of, given his reputation—so you steered clear of him when you could manage to.

Then, when the third year of high school started, you stopped seeing him around, and Jungwon told you he had moved away to follow his dad's business. You wouldn't admit it at the time but the hallways seemed duller than usual for a few days, but that probably was also due to Jake not being as loud and energetic with his best friend gone.

Last year of high school, you went on a few dates with Jay from history class, and while he was the closest you have ever thought a man to be perfect, you both agreed you worked better as friends than anything more. Usually that means 'you're cool but I'm gonna try my best to not have to say hi to you if I see you around', but Jay is so wonderful, you actually kept in touch and became quite close, even if platonically.

By the time the year ended, you had a very tight group of friends consisting of yourself, Jungwon, Jay, and even Jake—who, for the record, isn't nearly as bad as all the crazy rumors make him out to be. It saddened you that it took so long to find your group, but you were grateful you had one nonetheless, a lot of people never get that luxury, so you weren't about to let a little graduation get in between you all. You spent a good five days consoling Jake that no, no one was going anywhere and yes, you will all be best friends for life.

But then college started, and it became difficult to stay in touch because Jay and Jake had to move. Jake reassured you that you and Jungwon would be more than welcome to visit and stay over at their apartment—which you found funny because that is technically not Jake's apartment at all, at least not until Hoon moved in too and the three of them started sharing the costs, but he has a way of making every place he steps foot in his, like he's meant to be there, so Jay let it slide.

So the first thing you did when you finally had some free time was getting on the cheapest flight available to go visit your friends. Heavy luggage in hand and stained sweatpants on, you were dumbfounded when the one who opened the door for you was none other than Park Sunghoon, and not Jay like you expected.

He was no longer the shy kid you remembered him to be, and he had grown nicely into his features, his hair now a jet back instead of the brown you were accustomed to see. Over those two weeks you realized that while you have know Sunghoon all your life, you had never really seen him, and it made you want to go back in time and hand a little paper note to the shy boy always staring at you during class.

Your head sinks further into your pillow with a whine, the case enveloping it sporting gray spots of wetness, where your tears and drool had accumulated over the last torturous half an hour Sunghoon spent fucking you open with his fingers. You don't know what he means, because you feel like you could take his entire fist by now, that's how wet you are. If your pillowcase is such a mess, you don't even wanna think about what your bed sheets look like.

"I can– take you," you protest, breath hitching mid sentence at a particularly deep curl of his fingers inside you.

"Yeah?" Sunghoon quirks an eyebrow at you, moving his thumb to suddenly hover over your clit. It's not a full touch, nor does he really move it from there, but just the expectation of it has your walls involuntary flutter around his digits. A wicked grin overtakes his face, in a way you think it would clash with his prince-like features. But it looks right at home on him, the canines poking out only adding to his devilish charm.

"Then what's this? Gripping me even tighter," he says against your lips again, like he can't pick between kissing you or speaking, like anything he does he needs to do it with your taste on his mouth. He shakes his head, pouting at you before you get the chance to retort. "Squeeze me this tight when I'm inside you, and I'll believe you're trying to push me out, baby."

The press of his length against your thigh doesn't help, and when your eyes roll to the back of your head, half the reason is the new spot he's now reaching making you see stars, the other is your frustration with him. You know he's huge, and you know he cares about your comfort above all, but a little sting as he bottoms out inside you would be a hundred times better than the 'prep' he's subjecting you to. It took so long to even get here, and now he plans on making you wait even more? You have half the idea to push him off of you and get on top of him, take what's yours. If he's not gonna believe you can take him, you might as well just show him.

Of course, that wouldn't work, because Sunghoon is infinitely stronger than you are and the only thing you would accomplish is looking stupid thrashing under him as he keeps you pinned down. Probably with one arm only too, to really get his point across.

"Add another finger then." There's a certain bark in your tone that makes him chuckle. That's all it is: bark and no bite. You can do nothing but demand, and demand, and demand again, but if he's not willing to give it to you, there is close to nothing you can do about it. And it makes Sunghoon's cock twitch against the slick skin of your thighs. He loves knowing he has you at his mercy.

"Woah!" he gasps, and the fake surprise only irritates you further. Or at least that's what you tell yourself, because Sunghoon doesn't miss the way you clench around his fingers whenever he talks to you like this. "Missy, you're so bratty today… where are your manners?"

The retort is ready on your tongue, but the words mold into a surprised hiss when he actually prods your hole with a third digit, feeling around for a way to slowly ease it into you. You fear it won't be as easy as you hoped, but you also don't want to back down now that he's giving in.

"Just put it in." You angle your hips to give Sunghoon easier access.

"Easy there." He leans back on his knees, and you hate how you're so needy. Even when he's still so close, fingers pumping in and out of you at a torturous pace, you crave for every inch of your body to be touched by his, for your breaths to mingle for as long as possible. You wonder how it's possible to miss someone who's right in front of you, but your heart yearns to hear the rhythmic beat of his own against your chest all the same.

You don't get to dwell on it too long, because the sensation of something wet dribbling right where Sunghoon's fingers meet you rips you out of your thoughts.

It takes a few seconds for you to realize what's happening, but when it sinks in, your mouth slowly hangs open in a moan, eyes closed to relish the feeling.

"You like that?" Sunghoon asks, and for once you can't bring yourself to care about the cockiness in his tone. In fact, it's the last thing you could care about—not when his digits are working to spread his spit all over you, and his third finger is slowly making its way inside you right next to the others. It's a tight fit, and Sunghoon can't really move his fingers like he wishes to, but it'll do for now. He can always do it over and over again until you're ready, as long as you keep making those faces for him. "Look at you," he continues. "You were so demanding earlier, now you're falling apart and I'm barely just getting started."

You clench around him hard, body all tensed up as you accommodate the sudden change in thickness.

Sunghoon bends down again when he notices you're not easing up, trailing his way back up your body with pecks, giving you a few on your lips once he reaches your face. "Does it burn, baby?" he asks, the playful edge in his tone from earlier completely gone, smoothed down to the usual soft timbre you love so much. "Do you want me to take it out? I'll make you cum with two fingers, it's okay."

You shake your head. The stretch does burn, but you also want to prove to him that you can take him.

"You sure?" The murmur vibrates against your ear, the sound of his voice close enough to have you arching your back, pushing your stomach against his harder figure. If you had any sort of reservation about continuing, it's totally gone now. His insistence to make you comfortable always ignites pure want in you.

You nod, but your eyes are still screwed shut because of the burn, so it's not enough for Sunghoon to let go yet.

He slows down his movements, trying to help you out, but the whine you let out is enough to let him know you actually want what he's giving you and more. Still, he needs to hear it. "Use your big girl words, I know you can."

"Wanna keep going."

"Aaand?"

"Please, Hoon." You know you're far gone when you don't even care about how whiny you sound, you would get onto your knees and beg if he asked you to right then. You would want to forget about it right after, but still, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Thankfully, your boyfriend is very nice to you, so 'please and thank you's are enough to keep him satiated, at least for now.

"Good girl."

The praise goes straight to your cunt, further tightening the grip you have on his fingers. Sunghoon is flattered, but that's not what you need in that moment. So he reminds you.

"Take deep breaths, baby. It's only gonna hurt more if you don't ease up."

"Hoon, want more."

"I know baby, I know. But it'll feel better if you stop tensing up. Here, follow my breaths and let go." He kisses both of your shut eyelids. "Eyes on me, pretty. Okay?"

You obey him like it's second nature, but when you open your eyes and you're met with the downright angelic sight of your boyfriend, black strands of hair framing his face and his chain dangling slightly from his neck, you don't understand how you're supposed to calm down. He starts taking deep breaths, ones you try your best to mirror. And despite what you thought, the focus on your chest rising and falling and the warmth in Sunghoon's eyes does make the stretch a lot better. You were enjoying yourself before too, all things considered. Now it's different, you're struggling to keep your sounds in, and any other time you would be mortified by how much wetness is seeping out of your cunt, but Sunghoon's presence is relaxing in a way no one else's has ever been for you.

The more you explore each other's bodies, the more you start to think that maybe, just maybe, there is not a single thing you could do with Sunghoon that you would ever regret. The safety of a judgment free zone with someone who obviously cares deeply for you makes the experience so much better than you could have ever imagined. What other people did to you, no matter how pleasurable, just didn't measure up to what Sunghoon does with you. And you haven't even gone all the way in.

"Theeere we go, see how much better it feels when you're not being a brat?"

Sunghoon is careful with you, watching your every reaction and studying your expressions so he can learn exactly what makes crumble and what brings you closer to the edge, what makes you forget you have to breathe and when to pause so he can drag your pleasure out for as long as he wants, for as long as you can handle. His cock is rock hard, casually rutting against you from time to time. You have half a mind to reach into his boxers and help him out, but you're not sure you could do a good enough job at it, not when he's starting to bend the tips of his fingers to reach right where you need him.

You can feel yourself getting closer, so you grab his wrists—whether to stop him or push him further, you don't know yourself. What you do know, is that just fingers have never felt this good before, and if you had the choice to feel like this forever, you would take it.

The sudden grip doesn't deter Sunghoon, it encourages him instead. His movements are faster, deeper, but still just as precise. It's like he already knows the ins and outs of what brings you pleasure. "Gonna come all over my hand, baby? I know you're close."

You nod desperately, throat too raw and dry to produce sounds more complex than little whines—which Sunghoon finds adorable, he can't wait to find out what sounds you make when he's splitting you open on his cock. He coos, and that alone almost makes you cum. Almost, because what really does you in is his thumb moving to finally circle your clit, really touch it.

Your body tenses up again when your vision goes a searing white, but Sunghoon's other hand finds your thighs right away to prevent you from caging his hands between your legs. He worked hard to make you cum, so you're not gonna take the sight of your fluttering pussy away from him, not when he has rightfully earned it.

"You did so well," he says, his hand caressing the skin of your inner thigh as a reminder to relax your muscles, his thumb slowing down its movement on your clit as your walls flutter around his digits at longer intervals each time.

You eventually even out your breathing, your vision still a little fuzzy, but you feel lighter and content. Once Sunghoon is sure you're okay, he pulls you in for a sweet kiss, like he wasn't just rearranging your guts with his fingers alone moments ago.

"Perfect, you're so perfect," he whispers between kisses, landing a wet smack on your nose when you scrunch it in response. "You're always gorgeous but this—fuck, you're beautiful." He keeps kissing you, each kiss waking up a different butterfly in your stomach. You feel giddy like you haven't ever since you were a kid running through the meadow on a spring evening. You giggle when he reaches the valley of your breasts, and run your fingertips through his hair, his head resting on your chest.

"I love you," Sunghoon whispers, and for the first time in your life you know those words to be true, no hidden intention behind them, no cruel joke waiting for you at the end of the line. It feels right when they're coming out of Sunghoon's mouth.

"I know, I love you t—what are you doing." It's much more of an accusation rather than a question, because you see the little wicked glint in his eyes as he resumes kissing his way down your body—first down your navel, then between your thighs.

"Showing you how much I love you, duh." He spreads your legs as open as he can get them before you start protesting again. "Besides, I haven't gotten a taste yet."

You should stop him, because suddenly you're reminded of how he still hasn't come yet, and you would feel bad to neglect him. The look in his eyes though—needy, almost feral— keeps you pinned right in your spot. "What… about you?"

Sunghoon looks at you, genuinely confused. "What about me?"

"Yeah, I should be… helping you out." You glance down at him, and the wet patch on his boxers makes you clench around nothing. Had you not witnessed first hand how messy Sunghoon can get, you would assume he cummed already. Knowing that's only pre though, makes saliva flood into your mouth at the mere thought of your boyfriend's cock pumping load after load down your throat. Screw 'not hurting' you, you would be happy gagging and choking endlessly around him if it meant you got a tiny little taste.

"Oh baby, but you are helping me out. Just lay back and let me." Sunghoon pops two of his fingers in his mouth, tasting the residues of you high still lingering on his skin, rich and divine on his tongue. "So good, now let me get a real taste."

He trails his wet fingers up your body, relishing in the way you shiver under his touch when he brushes over your nipples. He grabs your face once he reaches it, and forces you to look at him. "Wanting to please me… aren’t you such a generous girl? So, so good for me. So eager to please, you’re so cute.” He doesn't miss how your lip twitches in response to his words, and how your hand slides between your thighs and how they close around it. “But, I'm still not done.”

“But—”

“Shhh,” he silences you right away. He parts your lips with his thumb, and your response to it is immediate, sucking on it without needing to be told what to do. You swirl your tongue around his finger eagerly, as if trying to show him what he is missing by not letting you take his cock out his pants. “See? So perfect for me. Such a pretty and obedient girl, am I right?” 

You nod subconsciously, like he has you under a spell, ready to comply with anything he asks out of you. Maybe he does.

“I know that’s right.” Sunghoon takes the thumb out of your mouth, coating your lips with your own spit as he caresses them with it. “Then do what you’re told and lay back. I can fuck you another time. Now spread those legs for me mkay? Yeah, just like that. So much we can do in the meantime."

"I just don't get why he won't stick it in me."

"You have such a way with words."

You throw a fry at your best friend, only to get more irritated when he catches it midair with his mouth. Jungwon chews it loudly with his mouth open—because he knows it annoys you to death—then washes it down with his coconut milkshake that he won't let you get a sip of because 'using the same straw as me counts as cheating now that you're dating Sunghoon'.

"Okay but why? You're a man. What's the thought process behind this? Tell me."

"Girl, it's your boyfriend. You tell me."

"What if he doesn't fine me att—" A fry hits you right on your forehead, and it's like the impact activates your brain cells, because of course Sunghoon finds you attractive, that is not the problem.

"Now, let's be honest with ourselves please. None of that shit."

Your back hits the bed with a soft thud, arms spread out as you stare at the very familiar ceiling of your room. A sight you've been taking in quite often recently, while trying to come up with a plan to get Sunghoon to dick you down good.

Jungwon shoves a fist of fries in his mouth, barely chewing before speaking again. "I don't get why it's such a big deal."

You roll onto your side, facing the blonde little gremlin occupying the space next to you. "It's a big deal because— why is your ass on my pillow. Jungwon get—"

He silences you by feeding you a handful of fries from the container on his lap. "You were saying?"

You gulp them down quickly before replying, because you're civilized enough to do so, unlike someone else. "We've done it all, and I know he's scared of hurting me, but I can also tell he's holding back. I'm ready– I've been ready. It's just… whenever I think it's gonna happen he pulls back so suddenly, like he's restraining himself."

"Mhh… you've talked to him about this, right?" Jungwon looks at you in a way that feels entirely too judgmental, like skipping the communication part is something you do often enough for it to be a pattern. Something he needs to check off of a list before he gives you more advice.

He's not completely wrong. As in, at one point in your life you had made an habit out of assuming people's thoughts and intentions, but that is in the past. And those people are not your Park Sunghoon.

The polaroids messily scattered on the wall above your desk, like someone had dropped them and they'd defied gravity to stay there, glimmer as the sun starts its golden descent into the horizon. Old, more ruined around the edges ones you took right after Jungwon got you a polaroid camera with his very first salary from working at an ice cream shop over the summer. Pictures of sunsets and dumb words carved into sandy beaches, of thumbs digging into teenager Jungwon's dimples. Newer, glossier ones that you took when Sunghoon gifted you a new camera, after the one Jungwon got you finally broke down after years. You'd cried so hard that day, because it had felt like growing up.

The charger is still hidden under all the mess of receipts in your comforter's drawer, you still hope one day the pink sticker covered camera will turn on if you charge it long enough.

But some things are meant to stay in the past, and better ones are always hiding behind the corner, ready to come your way.

You aren't the young girl with the pink polaroid camera anymore, just like you're not the girl that is scared to voice her thoughts and troubles any longer.

"Of course I have."

"And?"

"Won, he just tells me I need more prep. I've had plenty of that, trust me. Like, he's spent the last month using this toy on—"

"Okay, okay I get it. I trust you, spare me the details."

"—Point is, I'm more than ready. I know it's gonna be uncomfortable and a bit painful at first, he's like… so huge it's—"

"I get it."

"—but that's a given with how big he is. I think it's just… him being nervous, really."

"Have you… tried to, uhm. Take charge? Maybe you calling the shots would make it easier for him to let loose." Jungwon looks down on his lap as he plays with the rings adorning his fingers. You wouldn't say he has ever been particularly shy per se, not when it comes to discussing your sexual life, even in heavy detail. He was the boy your mother made you take a bath with after a whole day of rolling around in dirt as a kid, because his wasn't around a lot of the time. The same boy who has seen you toothless and with horrible haircuts, who has seen all your embarrassing phases. Talking to Jungwon was much more akin to talking to yourself rather than venting to a diary, because he stored secrets in his heart that you would never be comfortable writing down on paper. Except he also calls you a dumbass when he needs to.

It's been a little different ever since you started dating Sunghoon freshly out of college, but you imagine it can't be helped since Jungwon is also very close to him.

You take a deep breath, shoulders slumping with the motion. Yeah, like that would ever work. "He doesn't give up dominance ever, really. I have tried a few times but…" you trail off, thoughts suddenly plagued with images of Sunghoon putting you back in your place instantly whenever you tried to take charge. You have already given it some thought, a lot of thought, actually. What wouldn't you do to have Sunghoon under you and at your mercy, so responsive to every touch, perhaps even tied down. Yeah, you're gonna have to bring it up more seriously to him, maybe then he would let you—

"Are you seriously fantasizing about dominating your boyfriend right in front of my cheddar fries?"

But you're gonna continue that thought another time.

"Let's see then…" Jungwon continues, evidently determined to find a solution to your problem. "Maybe act out? Would that work? Mhhh… I don't know, you're already very annoying day to day and he puts up with that…so."

Jungwon genuinely looks like he is putting so much thought into it, somehow it makes it more offensive.

"Yeah. And who grew up next to him? You. Exactly. You trained his patience, if anything," you retort, but Jungwon doesn't even give you the satisfaction of acknowledging it, because you both know that you do love to be a nuisance to your boyfriend whenever you get the chance.

"Wait." Jungwon perks up after a seconds of deep thought, making the plushies on your bed fall on the floor, but the situation is so dire that you don't scold him. Instead, you cast a hopeful glance in his direction. Please let his brain cells work for once in his life.

"Isn't Hoon like, terribly jealous every time someone brings up that time you and Jay dated in high school?"

The cogs in your brain turn, and if someone was to walk into the room at that moment they would be able to smell the fumes coming out of your and Jungwon's head.

Jungwon continues, though he doesn't need to, because you have caught what he is hinting to already. "You need him to snap? What better reason to if not some good ol' jealousy. Am I right?"

But of course he is, that little gremlin genius.

"And, it just happens that a few high school acquaintances are organizing a get together soon. You know people will bring up you and Jay, just drag Hoon along. It's fate."

"Have I ever told you that you're my bestest friend ever and that I owe you my life, Won?"

Your plan is not working out as expected.

Getting everyone on board took you and Jungwon some time, but they all eventually agreed to come along. Sunghoon himself was the one with the most reservations, since he moved away halfway through high school and he missed a good chunk of it. Most importantly, he missed how you and the others became friends in the first place, so he's always been a little bitter about it.

Calling it a plan was an overstatement. You wore a skimpy little outfit, black miniskirt and sheer thighs, and bet on someone bringing up how you and Jay used to date in front of Sunghoon. You hoped that would make him jealous enough to grab you and drag you home, maybe teach you a lesson that you would inevitably learn nothing from.

Instead, you get sulky Sunghoon with a beer in his hand, looking at you like a kicked puppy as you and Jay make conversation with your old acquaintances. It doesn't help that Jungwon refuses to pick up his phone so you two can come up with something quick to stir the night towards your desired outcome.

The call goes into voicemail again, and you sigh for the hundredth time that night as you end it and open up his chat to type in another text.

"No answer yet?" Jay asks, smoothing his pink dress shirt. He's always the classier looking guy in the room, no matter where he goes, but the hue of pink he chose for the night makes him stand out further in the sea of swarming bodies.

You shake your head. You're in a quieter corner, away from the thumping speakers, but your throat is sore after all the screaming you did over the deafening music. You thought you would get used to the volume when a few of the people at the reunion suggested moving to a club across the street to end the night with a bang, just like the old times, but it somehow got progressively worse instead.

From your side, Jake puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles to catch someone's attention, and when it doesn't work, Jay laughs at him.

"Sunghoon looks bored, I think we should call it a night," Jay says.

"Bored? He looks like he's gonna murder the next poor soul that steps too close to Y\N," Jake takes a swing of the drink he's holding, something that looks like aged whiskey. Very much unlike anything Jake would order. He hisses after the liquid burns his throat, even when diluted by the melted ice. "Jay, my man, your taste is so ass."

You give the interaction a half hearted laugh. Despite your original plan, you hate seeing Sunghoon so uncomfortable, especially when you know he only came along to make you happy. He insists he doesn't belong surrounded by people who pretend to remember who he is and keep bringing up stuff that happened in the past expecting a glint of recognition from him. You tell him there are multiple people with a similar experience to his even when they attended all years, you tell him he belongs anywhere as long as you and the other guys are there. He tells you those are the people that don't get invited to these sort of events.

"It's getting late anyway, maybe we should just go," you say, checking your notification bar for any sign of life from Jungwon. Still nothing.

"I'll go get Won." Jake throws back the remaining drink, scrunching his eyes and hissing at the bitter taste he still isn't accustomed to.

You take a second to scan your surroundings, and the swaying mass of sweaty bodies makes you nauseous. You used to love getting rocked back and forth by the music, uncaring for a single thing in the world if not the overwhelming love you felt for everyone and everything around you when alcohol buzzed through your system. When you were younger, it felt like ibuprofen for your soul. Now, it only amplifies the hurt in your chest when you think about how heavy this night must have been for your boyfriend.

Before you can make your way to him, someone grabs your attention.

"Jay! And you over there, it's been a while."

You instinctively turn towards the loud voice, finding a vaguely familiar face cockily grinning in your direction.

"She has a name." Jay takes a deep breath and gives you a look, his jaw tense, and that alone is enough to let you know right away the guy in front of you is nothing but trouble.

The guy continues as if you weren't even there to listen to the conversation. A ghost. "Doesn't matter, being your girlfriend is all she was known for back then." He takes a swing of his beer, taste as bitter as his voice. He's very obviously drunk out of his mind, words slurring and step unsteady, but his words annoy you anyway.

"Excuse m—" you try to interject, but he speaks right over you.

"You two back together?"

Jay looks like he's seconds away from punching him, but you simply shake your head no. "Oh! No, and I'm not single actually. My boyfriend's here—" you turn around to look for Sunghoon where you last saw him, and beam when you find him right as he walks up to you. His shoulders relax just the tiniest bit when he notices how relieved you look when you meet his gaze, the way you reserve that look to him only, the way you light up as soon as you spot him. "There he is! Perfect timing, baby."

Sunghoon slides a hand around your waist possessively, placing a soft kiss to your temple to really get the point across. "I was looking for you."

Truth is, he wasn't. He had his eyes on you the entire time, but you were playing with your rings and kept readjusting your clothes as the conversation was unfolding, and Jay looked uneasy too, so he figured nothing good was being said.

"Yeah, sorry! Just catching up with friends from back in the day. Y'know, reminiscing and stuff. Have you seen Won around?" You want to diffuse the situation before the idiot in front of you says anything he might regret. You want Hoon to be a little jealous, not for him to get you all kicked out of a party because someone decided to run their mouth a little too much. Your hand finds his exposed biceps, and it looks like he made the right choice by stepping in, because now that he is all up in your space, you're visibly more comfortable.

Sunghoon shakes his head. Last time he caught a sight of Jungwon in the crowded space was when the night had barely started, and he wore a cowboy hat as he shoved his tongue down some girl's throat. Good for him. "He's probably… catching up with acquaintances too."

You look like you are about to say something, but the nameless guy interrupts you before you get a single word out. It gives Sunghoon all the more reason to dislike him, even before he listens to what he has to says. "And you are? I don't recall seeing you around."

"Oh! Hoon just moved to a different school halfway through high school, but we're all friends," Jay replies instead, familiar with his best friend's feelings about his high school years.

"Then why is he here?"

Sunghoon's jaw clenches. You squeeze his arm as if to remind him you are next to him, and he melts instantly into your touch.

"I'm here because my girl and my friends are. Now if you'd be so kind, we are trying to have a nice night, and you're interfering with that." Sunghoon turns around, holding you against his chest as he starts to make his way to the bar to grab another beer.

"Yeah? You know your friend and your girl used to fuck? Maybe they still do."

Sunghoon was raised to be a patient man. One that counts to ten before reacting, a man who wouldn't even hurt a fly. So it must be the alcohol fueling his actions, because before he realizes what he is doing, he grabs the guy by his shirt, knuckles white as a ghost making the material wrinkle in his hold. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Sunghoon knows he is being provoked, but not even Jay trying to step between them can do anything to calm his anger, not when the poor bastard spits on his shirt, then says something that he really shouldn't have.

"I mean look at her." The man laughs, and it's bitter, filled with something more sinister than mere disgust. It's envy. "Are you surprised? She's dressed like a whore."

Sunghoon moves before you have the time to grab him, right fist colliding with so much force against the man's face, his lip breaks on contact. He wobbles a bit, hit taking him by surprise, but he just gathers the blood dripping inside his mouth and spits it by Sunghoon's feet.

"Hey! Hey." Jay grabs the guy's arm, roughly yanking him back as a crowd of people starts to notice the commotion, heading to take a look at what's happening, a few bodyguards included.

"So tough," the man starts a laughs interrupted by winching when his broken lip curls too much. "Take that out on your so called friend—"

Your voice drowns out the rest of the sentence. "Baby, please."

Sunghoon looks at you, and for a second you doubt he sees you. There's so much anger in his eyes, like he wants nothing more than to rip the little bitch in front of him to pieces. They're almost unfamiliar in a way that send shivers down your spine. You hate the fact that you can't tell if it's fear or lust. But the storm behind his gaze clears out for a second when he sees the alarm on your pretty face, just the one you need. "I wanna go home."

No matter the anger coursing through Sunghoon's bloodstream like venom, thick black poison inciting him to turn back and finish the job, his conscience always prioritizes your well being and what you want. So when you take his hand a make a beeline for the exit, he follows without a single complaint.

The car ride back home is uncomfortably silent.

Sunghoon doesn't hum the random tune playing on the radio like he usually does, he doesn't hold your thigh nor does he even spare you a glance, and you start worrying he might be mad at you.

The words said about you earlier sting, but they don't hold a candle next to Sunghoon's silence. You want to speak up, fill the void that is so uncharacteristically awkward, but the words die in your throat the second you try to push them out.

A ding! followed by your phone screen lighting up signals a new notification, and you swipe through your phone to find out if Jungwon has finally made his existence known.

It's a text from Jay. You notice how Sunghoon's eyes dart to your phone for a split second before going back to focusing on the road ahead, his jaw twitching under the street lights.

00:27 AM. Jongie <3: You guys made it home yet?

00:28 AM. you: not yet, you? did you find the others?

Last thing you heard as you dragged Sunghoon out of the club was Jay arguing with both the still nameless guy and two bodyguards who had been notified of commotion next to the bar. Your main goal was to get your boyfriend the hell out of there before he broke someone's face in, but now that you're away from the mess and the dizziness from the alcohol has started to die down, leaving your muscles and bones tired, you worry for your friends too.

00:29 AM. Jongie <3: Heading back now, Jake texted me he found Won.

00:29 AM. Jongie <3: Wasted, ofc. But apparently Jake's taking care of him now.

00:31 AM. you: don't know if i like the sound of that. will they ever let us back in there?

00:33 AM. Jongie <3: Yeah no chance, Won won't be happy when he finds out.

00:35 AM. you: how did him and jake even get home?

You lock your phone for good after Jay confirms Jake mumbled something about a really nice girl with a great rack driving them home, deciding you'll deal with their bullshit another day, when you're completely sober and not worried about what your unusually silent boyfriend might be thinking.

Just in time for Sunghoon to pull into his driveway. He doesn't remind you to take your bag with you as he always does, he doesn't wait for you to be out of the car before heading straight towards his front door. Truth be told, you're more shocked he didn't just drop you off at your own apartment because now you're really sure he must be upset with you.

It's dumb, really. What that guy said is anything but your fault. But your panicked mind makes up scenarios in which Sunghoon knows you wanted to make him jealous, wanted to get a reaction out of him for something as silly as getting him to properly fuck you. It convinces you he has every right to be upset.

His hand twitches in pain for a second while unlocking the door, dried blood—both his and not—staining his pristine knuckles, and it only aids in making you feel worse. You follow him through the entrance, and he waits for you to walk inside before locking the door for the night. It's now or never.

It takes all the courage you can find within yourself to speak, and still your voice comes out uneven, shaky, things your voice has never been when talking to Park Sunghoon. "I'm really, really sorry."

He turns back to you like you just said the most shocking sentence he's ever heard in his life, and he quickly grabs you by your hips when he notices just how scared you look. He quickly realizes you must've mistaken his silent attempt at calming down his anger at the situation for coldness towards you for some reason, and his heart breaks a little at the thought of having made you doubt yourself. When he answers, it's the softest you've ever heard him. "What for, pretty girl?"

Tears well in your eyes when you fail to find the words. You're sorry for so many things, you don't even know where to start. You're sorry for dragging him somewhere he didn't even wanna be in the first place, sorry for taking advantage of his kindness for your own benefit, you're sorry his knuckles are raw and bloodied just because he had to defend you. Above all, you're sorry for being so damn selfish.

Sunghoon carefully caresses your face with his clean hand, so none of that bastard's blood goes anywhere near your pretty features. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip like it's second nature, silently waiting for you to say what's on your mind. He searches your gaze, but you're too busy trying to not burst into tears right there in front of him, so he lowers his hand to your jaw and gently angles your head upwards.

His eyes are kind and warm, no hint of the searing coldness they held mere minutes ago. "None of what happened today is your fault," he speaks slowly, sincerely. He makes sure every single word leaving his lips is loud and clear, no room for misunderstanding or doubt. Sunghoon is smart, he knows you like no one ever has put in the effort to. "I'm sorry if I made you doubt yourself back there, I should've said something. I'm sorry." He sounds secure and confident in what he's saying, but the little unsteady breath and the sharp swallow that come right after betray him. His hand slightly trembles on your skin, and it makes your heart sink even more.

Something else to add to the list. You're also sorry for making Sunghoon feel guilty over your emotions when he never did anything wrong to begin with.

You still struggle to speak, especially when Sunghoon is looking into your eyes as one would towards the light shining through the water surface after holding their breath in far too long, like it means being able to breathe again. There's a devotion in him you've never seen, something actors on a stage cannot replicate, something you don't think words to describe it have been spoken out yet. Something purely unique to you and him.

When your words fail you, you show him your own devotion in a different way.

There's a medication kit Sunghoon got forever ago solely to patch up Jake and Won whenever their Jake and Won antics get them hurt (very often, comically often). Never in your life would you have imagined Sunghoon to be on the receiving end of the care, but here you are.

Sunghoon follows you wordlessly to the couch, giving no protest when you point to sit down while you take your spot next to him.

The saline stings as you carefully clean the wound, but Sunghoon makes no show of it. You finally have a reason to look at somethings else other than his eyes as you gather your thoughts, but he doesn't lose sight of the frown deepening on your face.

Sunghoon watches you intently through his now messy bangs as you hold his bigger hand in yours as if it were made out of the most precious, frail glass. His fingers are way thicker than yours are, but you brush against his knuckles with the cotton just as softly as he kisses your forehead seconds before you let yourself be taken by slumber in his arms every night. He sees all the expressions fluttering on your face, he gives you the time he knows you need. He knows there's something you need to get off your chest.

When the blood stains the cotton instead of his skin, you speak up, "Does it hurt?"

Sunghoon hums in disagreement, the sound dry in his throat. You press into the raw skin a little harder, earning a low hiss from him. "Don't lie to me. We don't lie to each other."

"We don't, but you're hiding something from me." He stops before continuing, his voice a mere whisper, "what's wrong?"

"You got hurt because of me."

"That's not—"

"Yes you did." And once the river of words tumbling out of your mouth starts, it can't be stopped any longer. "I know how you feel about high school and—"

"It's not that—"

"But it is. I don't care if it was five years ago or ten or fifteen, I know you feel a certain way about it and don't lie to me to spare my feelings because it makes me only feel worse. You feel a way about it and I still went out of my way to take advantage of it for such a stupid reason and now I feel like a fucking idiot. And it also got you hurt."

"Baby," Sunghoon says after a moment of quiet, only filled by your heavy breathing. "Hey."

You busy yourself by grabbing the gauze in the little med kit next to you, but you make the mistake of glancing at him for a second, and the little smile dancing on his lips keeps your eyes glued to the sight.

"It's only a few scratches. What's all this really about?"

"I just… fuck, I'm never living this down." You stretch the white bandage over Sunghoon's wound, wrapping it a few times to fully secure it. You take a deep breath, buying yourself more time by inspecting your boyfriend's fingers like they're the most interesting thing you've ever seen in your life. He playfully taps his index against your palm. It makes you smile despite your best efforts not to. "I just wanted to make you jealous."

You say it so quietly even Sunghoon, barely inches away from you, almost misses it. Almost, because you hear the teasing in his tone loud and clear. "Jealous?"

Cat's out of the bag anyway, so you might as well explain yourself. "Before you say anything, Won gave me the idea."

"Of course."

"I just, y'know. Best friend stuff," you say, as if it's the answer to everything.

"Best friend stuff… as in?" Sunghoon keeps prodding, and the faint smile you hear as he speaks without having to take a look at him simultaneously makes you want to grin and roll your eyes at him. You bite your inner cheek instead.

"As in… complaining about my boyfriend…"

"Oh, you must have so much to complain about."

"Well, for starters, my boyfriend doesn't want to fuck me—"

Sunghoon erupts in a fits of boyish giggles when he finally figures out what's going on, delighted to see how embarrassed you are by this whole ordeal. He grabs you by your hips and sits you right on top of his lap so suddenly you let out a little shriek of surprise. "Trust me, your boyfriend would love nothing more than to fuck you through the mattress."

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and you lower your chest against his, noses brushing each other. "Then what's stopping him?"

Sunghoon's warm breath tickles your lips when he whispers, "Maybe he thinks your pretty little pussy can't take it yet."

A warm feeling travels through your body, settling into your lower abdomen, and just when you think he's gonna kiss you, he pulls back and rests his back on the cushion behind him, sinking further into the soft couch and pulling you down with him.

"Hoon—"

"Mh-mh. You haven't told me what Won's idea was yet."

"You know it." You raise your hand to playfully hit his chest, but he's faster than you are and catches your wrist midway with his injured hand.

"I don't know a damn thing," Sunghoon says as he brings his lips to the back of your hand, letting them brush gently against your soft skin before placing a small peck. "Go on, enlighten me."

You pout, but Sunghoon's set on making you talk, and even though you're stubborn and embarrassed, you know he won't let it go until he's satisfied with your response.

And, the slowly growing hardness under your exposed panties, combined with the residuals of alcohol still buzzing through your system are making it hard for you to stand your ground. Not when Sunghoon looks as good as he does with his bangs messily covering his eyes, and fitted short sleeve highlighting his hard chest underneath the cotton. Unfortunately for you.

You move on his lap, adjusting your position so you can feel more of him through the thin material covering you. You crave the harsh coarseness of his jeans on you, for the heat seeping out of him to envelope you fully. You're on top of him, thighs straddling his, yet you feel the invisible push to be even closer. As close as you physically can be.

Sunghoon sees the hunger in your eyes, he has all this time. He too is barely hanging on by a thread, and the self restraint he's miraculously managed to keep until now is dwindling by the second. All the times you've begged for him, all the times he's fucked your pretty pussy open with different toys, bigger and thicker each time. All the times he's had to take cold showers after seeing the raw need for him to claim you fully reflected in your eyes, even after coaxing orgasm after of orgasm out of you. You're so insatiable, but he might be even worse. Once he gives in, he doesn't think he'll be able to let you go ever.

Sunghoon knows you've felt ready for a long time, and even if he thinks you could use more getting used to bigger sizes before he allows himself to finally sink into you, the temptation gnaws at him all the same.

He just needs a little confirmation.

"Tell me, what was this master plan of yours?" he speaks with his mouth pressed to your palm, softly running his nose down to your wrist, allowing himself to bask in the warmness of the scent you chose for the night.

"Won's, not mine."

"That you willingly agreed to."

"I just… wanted to make you jealous." You finally admit, avoiding Sunghoon's gaze at all costs.

"How so? Wearing this tiny little dress?" His voice is lower, more dangerous. He slides his free hand to grab a handful of your barely covered ass, the skirt having ridden up to your waist almost completely. "You know I like it when the attention's on you. They can look all they want, you're mine." The movement causes you to jerk up against his crotch, earning a low grunt from the man beneath you.

"Tell me, baby," Sunghoon rocks you slowly against his hard bulge, caging his bottom lip between his teeth as he takes in your needy and embarrassed form. "How did you plan to make me jealous? Why?"

Your hand slides down his chest and dips under the thin shirt before caressing just over the waistband of his underwear peeking out of the dark jeans. "I thought it would be a smart idea to drag you along to the get together, and I guess I hoped someone would bring me and Jay up. I know how you feel about it and I wanted to use it to my advantage, but I also didn't consider how you'd feel surrounded by strangers reminding you of all the time you and the guys lost. All the time we lost. You came to make me happy and I was being selfish the entire time. You even got hurt because of me—"

"Not because of you. He should be thankful you were there to stop me or I would've broken his ugly face in."

"Still. I'm so sorry. It was childish."

A beat passes without either of you saying anything, and you twitch uncomfortably in his lap.

"Why?"

Your lip trembles, and your heart sinks at the thought of having angered your angel of a boyfriend. Tears well up in your eyes before you even attempt to explain yourself, but Sunghoon gently angles your chin toward him until you're met with his gaze. It's intense, darker than you've ever seen in all your time knowing him. He searches your face for something, and you realize it's not anger casting shadows behind his eyes. It's pure, unfiltered lust.

"Why did you want me jealous?" His voice is raw, like it pains him to produce a single sound, like whatever you answer him with is the honey that will soothe it.

You twitch again, and this time you're not scared, but your insides twist all the same. He rest heavy and hot under you, and you don't know how you'll handle another rejection if that's what this is leading to.

"I wanted you to fuck me, really fuck me. I hoped it would be enough to push you to the breaking point, Sunghoon.“ You swallow hard, and the saliva in your mouth feels thicker than usual. Maybe it is, maybe you're just more aware of all the sensations within your body. "I need you to break."

It's all Sunghoon needs to hear.

He lurches forward to capture your lips with his, harsh and messy, like an animal that has finally broken out of the restraint keeping it chained. His hands roam all over your body, eager to explore every single inch as if it's the first time he ever does.

You reciprocate him with just as much hunger behind every movement, hands slipping from his body to his hair to pull his head back. You grind your hips against his, moves deliberately slow compared to the feverish kiss. "I need you. I don't wanna wait anymore."

Sunghoon moans into your mouth when you release his hair, and he doubles his efforts, sliding his fingers through the wide gaps of the fishnets covering your thighs, big palms fully working you on top of his bulge.

"You want it so bad, baby?" He says between open mouthed kisses, full lips raw and red from the fight with yours. "I'm gonna give it all to you."

Uncaring for the mess of knocked over stuff you two leave in your wake, from Sunghoon's keys loudly hitting the ground to your heels abandoned somewhere on the carpet, you make your way to his room without ever letting go of each other. All around you is just background noise and things you'll think of later, the only thing that seems to matter is to get in bed and get rid of all the pent up frustration clouding your minds.

The door shuts closed and soon your back hits the bed with a soft thud, Sunghoon's hands heavy on your hips and mouth hot on your neck as he carves a wet path on your sensitive skin, caging you between his hard chest and the mattress. He wraps your leg around his middle, and when your cores touch again, you both sigh in relief.

You've spent all this time on the cusp of finally getting something more, waiting—albeit not so patiently on your part—for the right moment, and now that you both know you're just moments away from it, seconds seem to stretch out into hours and even the slightest teasing feels unbearable.

That's what you think, at least. Because Sunghoon is nothing but a tease at heart, and he has very different plans in store for you.

You take advantage of the little moment of pause to undress yourself, but Sunghoon stops you as soon as he notices what you're trying to do.

"Keep it on," he murmurs along your neck, feeling your pulse quicken right under his full lips. He kisses along your collarbones, to your shoulder, exactly where the strap of your dress rests. His teeth graze the material, and he draws back slightly before letting it snap back into place, the slight sting making you jump just the tiniest bit in his hold. "You wanted to make me jealous in this? Then I'll fuck you in it." He mouths his way back up, until he reaches your ear, teeth gently biting right where he knows it makes shivers spread all over your body. "Next time you wear it, my cock is all you'll be able to think about."

You can't hide the way your body reacts to his words, thighs pressing together from the sheer excitement.

Sunghoon toys with the strings of your fishnets, and for a moment you think you should take them off, but he just rips a hole through them, allowing his hand to finally slide underneath them and grab your ass as harshly as he wants. "These were getting on my nerves."

"I can take them—"

Sunghoon silences you with a kiss, slower than the previous one, calculated and meticulous but every bit as passionate. His teeth sink into your bottom lip until you gasp against his mouth, his tongue gently licking away at your lip to soothe the sting. He pulls your core closer to his, unabashedly moaning into your mouth as he ruts his hips into yours.

The tights start to frustrate you the more he works himself against your panties. You want to be closer, you need to feel him push against you completely, and they're in the way. So once again, you try to rid yourself of them.

Sunghoon keeps you still. "These stay on until I tell you to take them off." His tone is commanding, but not abrasive, muffled by your skin. "Understood?"

You barely nod when suddenly he's bending you at his will like you're his to drag around as he pleases, and while usually you would've fought back just for the sake of it, you play nice this time, doing anything to not have him changes his mind and leave you hanging once again.

He sets you on your knees, facing the headboard of his king sized bed, a sturdy and thick thing, wood carved with elegant loops and twirls all around the edges. They gleam and cast shadows alike when Sunghoon reaches over you to turn on the bedside lamp.

The same hand steadies your hip as he lowers himself onto you, pressing his chest to your back and littering kisses from your temple to your neck. "Aren't you such a cute little thing?" he whispers into your ear, chucking when he feels you shudder under his weight. "So needy and desperate, making up plans just to have my cock in your tight pussy." He's so big, so warm. So strong. It makes your knees weak, and you would crumble on the soft mattress if not for his large hand keeping you still. "Should've just come to me right away, should've begged for my cock like the good girl I know you can be." His other hand starts to travel down your body, and your thighs instinctively spread open to accommodate him.

Pride blooms in Sunghoon's heart. You're so pliant for him, sweetly allowing him to touch you all over, your body responding so well to his slightest touch, to his softest word. The trust you have in him makes his cock harder in his pants, but he's always been a patient man. A man that enjoys taking his time playing with his meal before sinking his teeth into it.

That, and you still have a lesson to learn. "But you've been bad, so bad." He bites your earlobe as his fingers hook onto one of the little holes in your tights, right over your throbbing core, so needy and ready to be claimed by him. You hear a loud rip before you realize what's going on.

His fingers immediately find your panties, slick and stuck to your drooling lips, and he starts touching you over them like all the teasing he's subjected you to until then isn't enough to satisfy him. "You'll make it up to me, yeah? You'll make me proud and happy." He licks along the shell of your ear, and your thighs shake, spreading open once more to coax him into touching you better. "I'll only fuck you when I'm satisfied with how sorry you are."

"Hoon—"

"Don't worry, baby." His fingers dip under the fabric, finally really touching you for the first time that night. He slides two fingers between your lips to coat them in your juices as he keeps talking to you in a tone that almost seems belittling, the pout in his voice too heavy and pronounced for it to be honest. "I'll make it worth it. All the time we waited will be worth it. I just have to get you nice and ready, dripping for me."

You have half a mind to turn around and fight him, because you don't understand how you could physically get wetter even if you wanted to be patient and take it. "I'm already wet," you say, and it comes out a little harsher than you intend for it to.

"Look at you," Sunghoon mocks you, the bite in your response only making him chuckle lowly in your ear, the vibrations from the sound make wetness pool on his digits, much to his amusement. "Can't keep the brattiness in check even when you should feel sorry. How can I take your apologies seriously?"

You open your mouth to answer, but his fingers pinch your clit before you get a single word out, replaced by a shriek that sounds something right in between pleasure and pain.

"Less talking." Sunghoon doesn't stop or lessen his touch on your poor sensitive bundle of nerves. Instead, he rolls it between his fingers, coaxing loud moans out of you with every single movement. "More of this."

The bed creaks under Sunghoon's knees as he detaches from your already quivering form and gets up to grab something. You complain with a little whine at the sudden loss, but just a quick glance in his direction tells you to stay still and be patient.

"Where's your phone?" Sunghoon asks. It sounds a lot more like an order.

"My… huh? My phone?"

"Your phone. Where is it?"

You gawk at him for a second, still in the same position despite the dull ache in your knees slowly but surely setting in, your mouth agape as you try to rack your brain for an explanation as to why the fuck Sunghoon needs your phone since he doesn't seem to be planning on offering you one. "In my bag. On the couch, I think."

It's only a few seconds before your boyfriend returns with your phone in his hand, and throws it carelessly on the bed next to you. He returns to his previous position, the warmth radiating from his body soothing you even when you don't know what to expect next.

You'd be lying if you said you don't enjoy this stricter version of your ever so loving and doting boyfriend, thighs clenching at the thought of the danger lurking behind his sweet demeanor.

"Unlock your phone and open Jay's chat." Sunghoon's calm facade is completely gone, replaced by pure fire.

"What?"

"You heard me." His grip on your thighs tightens, possessive and angry. "You're gonna open Jay's chat and record while I fuck your pussy with my fingers, and you'll have him hear how good I make you feel."

You're breathless, adrenaline pumping through your system and ears ringing at the thought of doing something so obscene, with one of your best friends on the other end of it no less. "Hoon, Jay didn't have anything to do with this… we shouldn't—"

"I don't care." Sunghoon bites your neck, sharp canines poking you just enough to elicit a gasp out of you. "You'll do as I say and tell him you won't ever go back."

He sounds so possessive, so unlike any version of him you have experienced, and just this little taste has you obsessed. You love the soft spoken, big sweetheart he always is, and you love the sleeping beast hidden just beneath the surface too. You love the anticipation of what's to come, not knowing which side of Sunghoon you're gonna get.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the phone, his is sure and steady as it makes its descent down to your wet pussy again. Sunghoon takes his time, letting his fingers ghost on your thighs for a little before sliding the panties off of you. You hear him moan behind you, and you're glad you don't get to see what you suspect is him licking off the wetness off the fabric he just rid you of. That would be way too much for you in the moment, you think.

The Jongie <3 contact in your favorites section seems so silly now that you're mere seconds away from letting him hear how your boyfriend fucks you, so you take a few deep breaths in preparation. As if sensing your hesitation, Sunghoon quickly places a gentle kiss to your temple, and just like that, he's back to his caring self. "You said you're sorry, baby. You should show me, but you don't have to."

You press the voice message recording button moments later, heart thrumming loudly in your ears as you slide your finger up so it keeps recording hands free.

"Such a brave girl. So, so good for me." Sunghoon praises you, and it soothes some of the anxiety you feel, his tone thick and sweet as honey, you barely recognize it as the same one that was giving you harsh commands earlier.

The downright filthy sound of Sunghoon's digits spreading your pussy lips open has you cowering in embarrassment, but your boyfriend doesn't care. He needs Jay to hear how absolutely soaked you are. He wastes no time, pushing in three fingers inside you.

Your mouth is hung open in a silent moan, eyebrows knit together and eyes closed, taking a moment to adjust to the sudden sensation. It stings, even when you're so wet it's dripping down your thighs by now, but his fingers are so long and thick the initial stretch is always uncomfortable, despite all the training.

Sunghoon doesn't like that, so he gives you no time, no warning, and just starts pumping in and out of you, curling the tips just like he does when you're about to cum and need the tiniest push. He's unfair, so unfair, because how are you supposed to keep your sounds down like you planned to when he's finger fucking you like it's his life mission to have you come undone in record time?

You don't know if it's an ego thing, or he just wants to make your punishment that much harder. It must be both, because within seconds you're moaning and gasping out in pleasure for him and Jay so beautifully, really putting on a show for the both of them. But it's so hard to focus and remember what you're supposed to say, and the longer the voice message is, the more mortified you'll be in the morning.

For now, satisfying Sunghoon's thirst for punishment and placating the jealousy you yourself caused is your top priority. You'll think about the consequences another time.

"Aren't you gonna say hi? Where are your manners?" Sunghoon's mouth drops to your ear, the movement of his fingers inside of your cunt relentless and not giving you a single second to breathe properly. It doesn't matter to him, how much harder he's making for you to accomplish your task. He basks in it, even. He's proud of how just his fingers are enough to turn you dumb with pleasure.

"I—mh," you try your best to muffle the moans cascading from your lips, to no avail. Even if you managed to do so, the incredibly loud squelching noises in the background would betray you.

"Need a hand?" he laughs dryly, and you feel the faint presence of a fourth finger next to the other three, waiting to slide in and stretch you open further.

"Hoon!" you gasp in surprise.

"That's right, baby. That's who you belong to. Tell Jay."

"I—I belong to—Hoon! I can't!"

His fourth digit keeps prodding around to find a possible entrance, but you're already so full you think any more would actually break you. "How do you plan to let me fuck you, then?"

He's teasing you. You both know you can and you will. It's just a matter of taking it slowly. His finger is suddenly not trying to inch inside you anymore, despite how lost you both are in the moment, your comfort comes first always. It just means Sunghoon will find another way.

He speaks lowly against your ear, but it's enough for your phone to pick it up clearly, "Once I'll split you open on my cock like you've been begging for, nothing else will ever satisfy you. No one else will. Once I claim your little hole, it's mine. Jay's seen how big I am. He knows it too. Tell him whose pussy I'm about to split open."

"Mine." You gasp at a particularly harsh thrust.

"No. Mine." The sheer command in his voice makes you clench even more around his fingers, as if the fit isn't already tight enough. "Try again."

"Yours! It's yours."

"Good fucking girl." He moans against you, his hot breath rising goose bumps all over your skin. "Tell him you'll never go back to him," he adds after a moment, quieter.

The pace he is fingering you at slows down just enough so you can actually get a coherent sentence out, and you're silently grateful for this little show of mercifulness on Sunghoon's part. If not for this, the voice mail would probably end up being an hour long.

"I'll never—mh. Go back to you."

"Good. So good. Now tell him how happy you are with me, happier than you ever were with him. Tell him you love me," he rasps, high on the reassurance you're providing him. High on how obedient you are for him.

"Love Hoon so much, I love him. I love him so so much. Hoon, please." You're a mess, dripping down onto the bedsheets and clamping around his fingers so hard any more would probably cut Sunghoon's blood flow. The more you grip him, the wider you spread your thighs to accommodate him, like you're silently begging for him to be harsher. He has half a mind to fulfill your body's wordless plea.

"Look at you, spreading your pretty legs for me. You like it when I talk to you like this? Does it make your little pussy wetter?"

You're so tight, so wet, and Sunghoon is so impossibly hard. He could cum right there just thinking about how good you'll feel wrapped around him, walls convulsing and milking him for all he's worth with every orgasm he gives you. For every orgasm you bless him with.

A sight for sore eyes, one Jay will never see nor hear. Because as soon as he can sense you climbing up your high, getting so close, your walls fluttering against his curled up digits in preparation and juices plentifully seeping out of you, he grabs your phone and ends the recording himself.

Sunghoon moves, and suddenly you miss the weight of his chest pressing into your back, but the pace of his fingers inside you slows down again. You wail as you feel the climax you were so close to dissipate, and suddenly you feel like invisible ropes are keeping your front tied to the bed. Your back gives in under the pressure, arching in ways that should be uncomfortable but it's the only outlet other than the plentiful sounds being pushed out of you your body has to ground itself in the midst of all the pleasure.

The loneliness your heart feels whenever he deprives you of his body heat for as much as a few seconds has tiny broken sobs and whines lurch out of your throat, but like every single time, Sunghoon is there to soothe you. "I know, baby, I know. Just let me help you feel good. Yeah?"

Even when you're supposedly being punished, he can't help but go a little easy on you, his gorgeous angel. His spoiled baby. But it's okay, because you did such a good job, listened and obeyed to his every command.

Sunghoon's warm breath tickles the skin of your bottom, and his nose brushes up from your mid thigh to your ass, giving you a playful yet gentle bite on the plushy skin. Air gets stuck in your throat in anticipation, but like every single thing he does, he takes his time in savoring all the moments leading up to finally get your sweet taste to coat his tongue like he's craved for this entire time.

You're twitchy and so responsive in his hold, and Sunghoon is enamored with the sight of your fluttering walls trying their best to suck his thick digits in even more. Greedy little cunt for a spoiled little girl. A perfect match.

He watches intently how you react to every single thrust of his fingers inside you, how your knees shake and body flops forward when he bends the tips in just the right direction when you least expect it. He pushes in deeper, and deeper, until you're gushing on his palm, your essence dripping down his wrist and a few droplets down to his elbow too. He registers your every moan, every beg for more, imprints all your sounds in his memory like they're the dearest ones he's ever made.

Sunghoon remembers all your reactions from times you'd consider unimportant, from the little moan when you first bite into anything he's cooked—whether you really like it not—to the way your leg bounces when following the rhythm of a song you said you despised because they played it on the radio too often, to the way your eyebrow twitches when he mentions a name you haven't heard before.

When you catch him with that sweet look in his eyes, staring at you with a toothy grin and canines peeking out, it's because he's watching you and storing everything in his mind, no matter how mundane, no matter how dumb, no matter how silly. It's a no brainer he'd do this in times like these too, even when he's witnessed you come undone under his gaze plenty of times, he doesn't want to miss a single one.

It's not really about learning what brings you pleasure faster and what prolongs it, he's familiar with all of that already, Sunghoon just happens to really enjoy watching you, even if you think it's the most embarrassing thing in the world.

So he does exactly that, inspects you carefully as he keeps fucking you open with his fingers, taking guesses about how hard or deep he should make his pumps, pride blooming in his chest—and cock throbbing in his pants—when you react exactly like he expects. While usually he watches you with a lovesick smile, the grin on his face and fiery glint behind his eyes are different now, hungrier and needier, but every bit as obsessed.

Because that's exactly what Sunghoon is, deeply and unashamedly obsessed with you.

He builds your orgasm up again, brick by brick, flick of his wrist by flick of his wrist, until you're quivering and shaking and begging him to not take it away this time.

"Please," you moan, hand clenching onto the bedsheets beside you so hard you'll be shocked if by the end there won't be a hole ripped in them. "I'm so close."

Sunghoon notices how you hold onto your orgasm, waiting for his approval. It makes his hips twitch forward involuntary, eager to please and eager to give you anything you want. "I got you baby, let go. Let me hear the pretty sounds you make when you cum for me."

It's all it takes for the coil in your stomach to completely snap, and the second your warm walls flutter around Sunghoon's fingers for the first time, you feel a sense of emptiness that lasts only a moment, before you're full again. It's not as thick, shorter but so much wetter, and through the thick fog clouding your mind as your body is overtaken by uncontrollable shivers spreading from your core to every extremity of your body, you realize he just replaced his fingers with his tongue.

Another lightning strike shoots right through you, head to feet, as Sunghoon keeps fucking you through your orgasm with his tongue. You're still fluttering around it and releasing all of your juices right into his awaiting mouth when the ringing in your ears slowly fades, replaced by the downright obscene sounds of Sunghoon slurping up all he can get out of you. It's messy and nasty, the lower half of his face completely coated in your essence but he doesn't care. He wants more.

He moans into your pussy like he's the one being pleasured, and once that single second of bliss between fully coming down from an orgasm and overstimulation setting in goes by, he pulls you in closer when you start moving too much. You're still too sensitive, but if Sunghoon thinks you're greedy, you have to realize he's even worse. Feeling the dull throbbing of your walls as you come around his tongue one time just isn't enough. If it were up to him, he'd have you wet his mouth again and again until you physically can't withstand any more. Until you're barely coherent and slipping into a peaceful sleep, completely tired out.

Sunghoon grabs a handful of your ass with his still dripping hand as he licks a stripe down from your hole into your lips, spreading them open with his tongue to find your clit, throbbing and raw from your previous orgasm. He rolls it between his lips, toys with it with his tongue, uncaring for the way your body pushes away from his mouth. After all the begging you did, you have no business running from it, if you ask him.

"Stay still," he growls into you, both of his hands tied together on your lower back as he fully pushes you down on the mattress with his strength, leaving you nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He nuzzles his face into you, enveloping all he can get with his warm mouth, sighing and groaning contently with every bit of wetness you gush right on his tongue.

He explores every inch of you, every nook and cranny he can get into, cleaning you up with each lick and wetting you even more with every other. "So fucking good," he moans into you, dragging you back against him when you think you can't physically be closer, when the tip of his nose pushes into your hole and when the only way he has to breathe is through his mouth which is full of you. He pants and gasps against your cunt so much you fear he might suffocate himself just to not come up for air a single time.

Your own face is pushed against the bed, mouth biting down on the cotton fabric beneath you to ground yourself in the immense cloud of pleasure Sunghoon is giving you. He's so lost in your taste he doesn't even remind you to not muffle your sounds, the only thing in his mind is to have you come undone on his mouth once more.

Sunghoon knows he's close to his goal when your little pained whines start turning into longer, more drawn out moans, when you stop running away from his tongue and instead start thrusting yourself back into his hold, back into his mouth. All your senses are ablaze, nerve endings lit and confused but so pleased at the same time. You yourself don't know when the it stopped hurting and became that dull, impending feeling of almost there to something more that both maddens you and keeps you hooked, but you roll your hips anyway in search of just the little nudge in the right direction your body violently craves.

Like always, Sunghoon knows exactly what you need.

"Go on, baby. Touch your little clit for me." His voice is full and rich of that low gravel you barely get to hear, but that has tingles run down your body when you do. "Help me make you cum." Sunghoon lets his tongue run back up from your clit to your slit again, inching closer to your throbbing hole as you let a hand sneak under your body to your pussy, immediately finding your sensitive bundle of nerves.

You're so drenched by now you don't need to wet your hand before drawing circles all over it, dragging it in all the directions you know have your toes curl. Sunghoon likes it messy though, so he gathers a glob of spit and loudly releases it on your cunt, the position making it dribble down right where your hand is working to bring you closer to your peak.

The onslaught of wetness pooling down only adds to the already embarrassingly loud noises coming from your cunt, and you're so wet, your own fingers slip a few times. It doesn't help that your arm shakes under you even when pinned down by your entire body weight when Sunghoon shoves his entire tongue down your hole again, using both of his hands on your lower back to move you so you're fucking his muscle as if it were a toy. His nose drags on your perineum with every movement of your bottom half against his face, and under any other circumstance you'd be mortified, but Sunghoon has a way of soothing you in the most embarrassing situations without really having to do anything but be there with you, like nothing matters in the grand scheme of things when his body is heating yours.

You speed your movements up to match the pace he sets, and with every thrust of his tongue combined with every flick of your wrist, you feel the band in your lower tummy stretch and warm up, until your sight turns searing white and warmth envelops your body from your core to all your limbs in rhythmic waves, first every other second, and then gradually slowing down.

You release on Sunghoon's tongue, and he wastes no time, gulping down all he can manage to, moaning into your heat like he's tasting the most divine nectar. You can't see it as you're busy catching your breath and slowing down your heartbeat as the rush of pleasure dissipates into a calmer buzzing felt all over your body, but Sunghoon's eyebrows crease in the middle, his eyes closed as he commits the taste of your cum to his memory, right beside all the indecent bits of you he treasures in his mind.

Sunghoon pulls his tongue out of you, already missing the way you flutter against it when you come undone, and leaves a trail of pecks all over your bottom, first on the plush of your ass still kept up by his strong hold despite you having completely given up on keeping yourself upright long ago, then all over your thighs, switching from one to the other as he runs a reassuring hand all over your skin, wordlessly soothing you. His palms are big and thick on your thighs as he moves to wrap his hands to the front, steadying you one last time to capture your clit in a gentle suckle, just enough to have your body convulse in overstimulation, but too tired and spent to fight back.

He pulls off of you with a pop after hollowing his cheeks around it one last time. "Did so good for me, baby. You're so perfect."

Without Sunghoon's hands keeping you up, you slump on the bed, completely this time, groaning when the burn in your lower body fully sets in now that you can move it again. It's dull and persistent, and especially fiery right where Sunghoon's hands stayed locked for most of it.

"You okay, pretty? Was I too rough?" He sounds concerned when you take longer than usual to regain your strength, his hands immediately roaming all over your body to massage any sore spot. His touch is light like a breeze but welcome like the sun on a spring day, warming up all the knots in your muscles. The dangerous edge seems to have completely evaporated, only leaving your sweet boyfriend behind. In the moment, it's exactly what you need.

You give him a vague sound of approval in response, but you know it's not enough for him when he gently maneuvers your body around to face him, holding you so carefully one would think him scared of damaging you.

The warm light shining from the night stand casts shadows on his face, but the slight concern etched on his features is bright as day. It's an intimate moment, and you'd giggle because of the sheer difference in his behavior if you had the energy to do so. Instead, you reach for his hand. The same hand that held a bruising grip on you just moments before, the same hand that hit the man who disrespected you.

Sunghoon returns you touch right away, locking your fingers with his as if second nature. You place a featherlight kiss on them, allowing your lips to linger on his salty skin as you speak. "I'm great. Perfect even." It comes out a little raspy, like you haven't fully caught your breath yet, but it's a start.

"Yeah. You are."

"And you? You doing okay?"

Sunghoon gifts you one of his cannot-possibly-contain-it smiles, the ones where he looks down for a split second as his eyes crinkle and somehow smile wider than his lips do. Your favorite kind of Sunghoon Smiles you'd say in the moment, though if you were to compile a list they would all be in the number one spot.

"Perfect, even."

"Hey, that's my line—" you start, but Sunghoon finishes your sentence for you.

"—Don't steal it."

You hum, the taste of skin still on your lips as you bask in the moment for a little, neither of you daring to break the peaceful quiet that wraps like a fuzzy blanket around you. Sunghoon flinches just the tiniest bit when your fingers graze the bandaged scratches, making you ease up your hold on his hand. He immediately squeezes yours to tell you it's okay.

"You know," you say after you let the silence linger for a few more seconds, only your heartbeats and shallow breaths filling the air in the dimly lit room. "You look really hot when you're mad."

Fits of giggles pour in the almost nonexistent space between you—first Sunghoon's, yours following suit.

"I must look super hot when I'm jealous then," he says with that teasing edge in his tone you're all too familiar with. He dips down to catch your lips in a slow kiss, suckling on your bottom lip gently, the corners of his mouth still raised. He hasn't stopped smiling once.

"Absolutely," you say before Sunghoon pecks you again, and then keeps doing it as you try to continue. "And when you're happy—" another peck. "And when you're bored." Another peck. "And when you're—sorry if I say this but you look like a cute kicked puppy—sad.

"So you're gonna keep finding ways to make me jealous, I assume."

It's not meant to be a jab, you know he's being playful. But it stings you just in the right way, and suddenly you're in the passenger seat of Sunghoon's black Bentley again, worrying about having hurt his feelings past redemption.

Like all things you, Sunghoon catches it right away.

"Hey there, it's okay. I'm not upset, baby." Sunghoon's hands are secure around your hips, his thumb running soothing circles on your skin while your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer because it's simply never enough.

"You should be. You're too nice."

Sunghoon presses his lips on your fluttering lashes. "You being a little brat is nothing new. I think I know how to handle you pretty well, don't I?" His breath, minty but also vaguely bitter from the beer still, warms your cheekbone. Sunghoon's proximity to you is intoxicating in ways no amount of alcohol could ever be, and you hate beer, but god, what wouldn't you do to taste it off of his lips for the rest of your life.

Whoever is up there must be gracious because your prayers are answered the very next second, with Sunghoon ghosting his lips on yours, looking at you with tenfold the intensity and fire from earlier, like someone drenched the space behind his eyes with gasoline and lit it up without you noticing it. The switch is so sudden, and by now you should be used to this, but you don't think you ever will. Not when your boyfriend is looking at you like he might devour you whole any moment, and you'd let him. You'd love to let him.

"Act out all you want," Sunghoon says, voice dripping in possessiveness, right against your awaiting mouth. You want to swallow every last bit of it. "Go out there in short little skirts barely covering your ass. Make up all the silly plans you want, even ones where Jay's involved. Let everyone get a good look at you because that's all they'll ever fucking get." His hand reaches for your inner thigh, then folds it to give himself better access. His bulge is heavy and hard against your bare core, the weight of it enough to have you shiver and mewl, but when Sunghoon starts grinding his hips into yours, the noises spill out of you like you have no control over them. "At the end of the night, after you've had your fun, you'll always come back to me. In my bed, soaking my pants with your little pussy because you only get wet like this for me."

It's embarrassing how fast you feel like you could come again, but Sunghoon's hard thickness slides so perfectly over your folds even through the fabric, and the harshness of his jeans catches your clit every so often in such a delicious way. His pants are soaked through in your essence, both of you moaning and panting in each other's mouths so messily you don't even know if it could be classifies as a kiss or a mere exchange of spit.

"You're mine," Sunghoon rasps, like his life depends on it. He fumbles with his pants, depriving you of the mouth watering friction. You make a few noises of complaints, but his teeth are quick to sink into your bottom lip to silence them. "A spoiled little brat. But mine."

The heaviness of him finds your dripping core again, this time so much warmer, only his underwear separating your most sensitive parts from touching. It's the closest you've ever been to feeling his cock on you, and it's overwhelming. Electricity shocks run through your body when he starts moving his pelvis against you, completely coating the already damp material with the mix of your arousal and release. He's not unaffected—his own precum shows up right where the little slit in his tip is, the fabric of the boxers a darker shade of gray there.

"Mine to love, mine to discipline, mine to train. Mine." You don't know wether the hoarseness coming from his throat is due to the anything but proper activity you two are partaking in or simply the raw need for you to really let his words sink in, but the effect it has on you is clear. The proof is right where your cores meet.

You tentatively roll your hips into his, movements emboldening when you earn a few low grunts from him.

"This pussy is gonna be mine too now. Mine to worship and please. Mine to fuck open like she never has been before. I'm gonna ruin you for everyone else. You want that, right?"

You nod frantically, your hips running after Sunghoon's in a relentless chase, like they have a mind of their own.

"Say it. Say you want me to ruin your little hole."

"Ruin it—Hoon, please."

His hips falter when he hears just how desperate you sound, his eyebrows scrunched up in the middle and you can tell he's biting down on his tongue to ground himself. It only encourages you.

You reach for his boxers, wrapping your hand around the outline of his bulge and trying to contain your facial expressions at the reminder of just how ridiculously large he is. You squeeze it with your palm, his eyelids fluttering closed and his chest heaving from your touch alone. You try not to think too much about how outrageously wet the fabric is, all thanks to you. "Please, I need to feel you inside," you beg, arms pushing your tits—now basically spilling out of your dress—together and looking up at him with the most innocent doe eyed expression you can muster up.

Sunghoon's jaw leaps, and you feel like under a microscope as he watches you. "Little minx you are." He reaches for the first drawer of his night stand, rummaging though it quickly before pulling a tiny bottle out of it. It's lube.

"I don't need—"

Sunghoon silences you by spitting right on your pussy, your complaint turning into a whimper at the contact. "You do, baby. You need all the help you can get." Complaining more will get you nowhere but tucked into bed, still needy, horny and with a wet pussy, so you decide to play your cards cleverly and let him do his thing.

You paw at his boxers, fingers dipping into the waistband and trying to tug them down to get to the prize hidden behind. You spread your legs open even more as Sunghoon rips a larger hole into your tights, the veins running down his arms slightly bulging from the effort.

The sudden coldness of the lube dripping down on your puffy folds surprises you enough to rip a little yelp out of you, and Sunghoon's wide palms find their rightful place on your thighs, pushing them against your hips and lower stomach. He takes a good look at your cunt, spreading you open to his liking and leaving no inch of your skin hidden from his sight. "Such a pretty pussy." Your joints still ache and burn from all the exertion they already endured, but Sunghoon's words are like a soothing balm for your body and mind. "Prettiest cunt in the whole fucking world, all wet and ready for me to fuck."

You finally manage to free his cock fully, despite his filthy words sending waves of weakness through your body, and immediately wrap your palm around the middle, mouth watering when your thumb doesn't reach your other fingers. Not only is it way longer than average, it's also thick beyond comprehension, perfectly curved to hit all the right spots in you and so fucking veiny you can feel more slick pour out of you in anticipation. You quite literally cannot stop gawking at it, trying to move your hand up to his tip, just as thick if not thicker than the base, and you gulp as you watch beads of semi transparent liquid pour out of it.

"What is it, baby?" Sunghoon asks, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he tries to not buck his hips into your hand. "We can stop if you want."

"No!" Your grip around him tightens, earning a gasp and a shallow thrust from him. Your thumb swipes over the head to spread his need all over, making it easier for you to slowly jerk him off. "Please," you add, quieter, afraid he might take the opportunity away from you.

The sight of you laying down so prettily with your much smaller hand enveloping his length, has all the blood in Sunghoon's body rush straight to his groin. He could cum at any moment, just from having you right in front of him like this, but he's set on making it worth the wait.

"You're so fucking hot like this." His hand finds your cunt again, fingers spreading your folds open so he can take a good look at the sensitive bud he loves so much, finding it so swollen he wishes to just bend down and suck on it again.

Once the lube fully coats his digits, he brings them down to your hole again, prodding it just enough to make sure it's slick with the cold essence. He squirts more of it right onto his cock while you keep fisting him as best as you can, spreading the lube all over it until all that can be heard in the room is the loud squelching noises and both of your heavy pants and low groans. His fingers keep rubbing your folds, coaxing more of your own arousal out of you, the feeling so distracting the pace you set on his cock falters a bit. To compensate, you add your other hand too, milking him with both at the same time.

"Fuck yeah, just like that," Sunghoon moans, and he looks divine above you with his lip caught between his teeth, gaze flickering from where his hips have started fucking into your fists, to where his fingers are playing with your pussy, like he cannot decide which view is best.

His cock throbs in your hands every time your hold tightens or your movements get faster, and you're stuck watching every reaction. His chest heaves, sometimes he looks like he forgets to breathe and then he has to make up for it. His cheeks are flushed, and when you notice how his bangs are sticking to his forehead because of the sweat accumulating on his hairline, you suspect he might be close.

"Gonna come?" you ask, battling your lashes at him, hoping he'll do just that from your hands alone. That's enough to wake him from his daze, and you almost regret asking when he breaks free from your hold and stops playing with your pussy.

The disappointment is short lived, because without wasting any time, Sunghoon brings your legs close together around his cock and sets both of your feet on one of his shoulders. He fucks your thighs just like that, with slow thrusts, making sure to slide his cock between your folds and let you feel every single vein running down his length. "You'd love that wouldn't you? Me coming all over your pussy. You're so fucking messy."

The shirt still covering his torso leaves close to nothing to the imagination now, clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest because of the sweat, and you're basically drooling at the sight. The feeling of Sunghoon's cock between your thighs and on your cunt is too much for you already, clit throbbing with need every time his tip catches on it, balls pushing against your hole every now and then, but you make the mistake of looking down when his thrusts get faster, and the view you're met with has you absolutely obsessed.

The head of Sunghoon's cock peeks out from your thighs every time his hips move forward, red and leaking so fucking much on your lower tummy it looks like he's cumming all over you already. But then it just keeps going, reaching close to your belly button, and when his head rests right on it, your mouth goes slack. It's one thing to see how big he is normally, but to have it compared directly against you, it makes the room spin in circles and your body feel even weaker. You need him inside you now.

"You like the view, baby? That's how deep I'm gonna be inside you, how deep I'll be fucking you," Sunghoon laughs, a little manically, and you hate how much it turns you on, like you need to be any more than you already are. "You'll feel me riiight here." He stops his thrusts to tap his cock on your stomach, the sounds of the tiny slaps reverberating through the room. "All up in your guts."

You gasp out his name when his hips go back to working his cock between your thighs, in an attempt to get his attention, but he already knows what you want.

"I know, baby. I know. Just a little more I promise." His gaze flicks up to meet yours, watching you intently for any sign of discomfort, any indication that you might want to stop. He knows it's unlikely—Hell, he's sure you were about to beg him to fuck you for the nth time that night just now—but he needs you to be absolutely sure. The weight on his chest, the slightest hint of uneasiness looming over him despite all the excitement fades in the background when all he finds on your face is pure lust, unfiltered need for him.

The pace slows down a little, and Sunghoon keeps eye contact with you as he speaks with his full lips brushing the skin of your ankle, giving you a few kisses there to ease up any anxiety you might feel. "Are you sure, pretty? We can wait a bit more. We don't have to—"

"Hoon. For the love of God just put it in or i might actually die within the next two minutes."

An amused wheeze tickles your skin, followed by a gentle nibble right where his lips kissed you. He rests your legs back down while he still kneels on the bed "Alright, alright."

He's spent all this time preparing you, telling you to take it slow for your own well being, but as you watch the way his eyes hesitantly shift focus around your body, you think maybe he's not the one ready yet. "Hoon?" you catch his attention, voice meek but it's like music to his ears, always.

Sunghoon hums in acknowledgement, but he looks deep in thought. His thumb follows the ridge of your jaw to your chin, then swipes over it a few times as if to encourage you to continue.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Had a change of heart? Weren't you just about to die a few seconds ago?"

"I'm asking you."

He exhales, then bends down to place a soft kiss right on your parted lips. "Of course I'm sure. I'm just…" He trails off, but you already know what he's thinking.

"You won't hurt me," you say, keeping eye contact to really get the point across. "Besides, even if you did. I'd enjoy it a bit."

The corner of his lips lift up, and you know you've finally cracked through him. "I suppose you would."

His elbow rests by your head, while his other hand grabs his cock and gives it a few pumps in preparation—not that he needs it, Sunghoon doesn't think he's ever been this goddamn hard in his entire life. "Give me a few taps anywhere if you want me to stop, if it helps you can bite me when it hurts." He positions himself, hand still guiding his tip to your leaking entrance, but doesn't push in just yet. "Where should I cum?"

You're about to lose your mind, hips slowly rolling against his tip to try to coax it inside of you and he's still talking instead of doing something about it. "Huh?"

"Where do you want my cum baby? You won't be able to talk when I'm fucking you."

The sheer seriousness in his tone has shivers run down your spine, but you don't dwell on it too long. "Inside. Anywhere you want just please—Oh my god."

The sting of his tip slowly pushing in stops you from finishing your sentence. It's a mild discomfort for now, but the feeling of it stretching you open is better than any of the toys you and Sunghoon experimented with could've ever provided. He's just getting started, but your mouth is already ajar, and more wetness seeps out of you when your boyfriend rewards you with the most beautiful moan you've ever heard.

"God, it's like she's begging me to slam all the way in." His thumb swipes over your clit in circular motions to help you ease up so the first few inches aren't too harsh on your poor drooling pussy, and even though the tip isn't even the entire way in, the sight of his cock slowly disappearing inside your heat quickly shoots up to his favorite spot. "Deep breaths baby, remember what I taught you—No, don't tense up, it's okay. You've got this."

Your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head, pleasure and discomfort blending into one slowly as he waits for you to adjust. How are you supposed to not clench around him when he's encouraging you like this? It's beyond you.

Your hand shoots to grab Sunghoon's muscular biceps when he starts moving again, and he stills right away, waiting with bated breath for the taps to come.

They don't.

"Is it all in yet?" you ask, because truly, you feel so fucking full already, fuller than you have ever been. But the amused look on Sunghoon's face tells you exactly what you need to know.

"I mean." He moves a little more, and the burning—even if eased up a bit by all the juices and lube coating both of you—resumes. "A little more than the tip is."

"The tip?"

"The tip." Sunghoon thrusts out gently before pushing in again, both of you moaning at the same time. "I can fuck you with just that, it's enough to make you come harder than you ever have." He doesn't wait for you to tell him what to do, opting to give you shallow thrusts to test the waters, his thumb never parting from your clit.

The way you shudder and the little sweet sounds you make because of his tip alone has his stomach knot in all kinds of ways and his cock leap and throb so much it fucking hurts. Sunghoon would want nothing more than to shove it in and claim you fully, mold your pussy around his girth so perfectly no one else would ever be able to give you a cock half as good as his—like he would let that happen in the first place.

You're writhing under him, legs kicking a little when he feels the slide in and out slowly get more comfortable and slippier. That doesn't mean you're not clenching around him so hard he could cum at any given moment, but for your own pleasure—and his, really. He wants to shoot his load as deep as he possibly can—he tries to hold off to the best of his capabilities.

But fuck if it's not the hardest thing he's ever tried to do.

He almost breaks when your own hand reaches down for the one working on your pussy, smaller palm attempting to cover the back of his and to coax it into moving faster. There's a bit of drool on the corner of your lips, and you look so wrecked already, Sunghoon hates how a shiver runs down his spine at the mere thought of how you'll look like when he's balls deep inside you. "Hoon—fuck. I want more."

He coos at you, pretending he's not a wreck himself, pretending the thread thin sliver of sanity he has left isn't the only thing preventing him to fold your legs all the way up to your chest and fuck you into oblivion, but the arm next to your head shakes with restraint, and the knuckles on his fist are ghostly white by now, even if you're too blissed out to pay attention. His voice is shaky, uneven, but his words are careful and patient, even when you'd rather them not be. "We gotta get your pretty parts used to it first baby, come like this just once, it's only the last stretch."

Your whines turn into moans when his movements on your clit fasten and his tip nudges inside you a little deeper, just enough to momentarily satisfy your craving for more.

"Aren't you a greedy little thing," Sunghoon rasps, holding back his own impending orgasm with all his strength, beads of sweat now rolling down his neck deliciously, and you kinda wish you could bend forward and lick them off of him. "Asking for more, and more, and more after the stunt you pulled today. My pretty baby," his thumb pushes more forcefully on your bud, making it hurt so good for a second as you adjust to the pressure, then giving you harsher drags, meant to have you come undone and quivering under him in no time. "So desperate for cock you just had to go ahead and try to make me jealous. You like it when I'm jealous?"

You gasp, nodding frantically as you feel the familiar knot in your stomach tighten more and more, an embarrassing amount of slick pouring out of you and running downwards.

"You're so fucking lucky this is the first time we do this," his voice is rough, an octave lower than usual. "Or I would've bent you over and fucked you so silly the second we got home without stretching your pretty pussy open. But I'm so kind. Thank me for it."

You clench hard around him at his words, toes bending because you don't know what else to do with all the pleasure coursing through you, and he gives a gorgeous deep groan in response. "I'm gonna—"

"Then thank me for it."

You come around him hard, harder than you ever have, thank you's pouring out of your lips like a broken prayer, entire body shaking head to toe from the intense orgasm. The buzz in your ears persists for a while as you try to come down from it, and you can see but it feels like you can't, like your brain isn't registering any of the images your eyes capture. Bright, static, dark spots, so many things at once. It feels like you blacked out for a second even if you didn't, all your senses dulled to make space for all the other sensations your climax provides.

When you slowly start to regain power over them, you're met with the sight of Sunghoon panting like a dog, eyes closed and fist wrapped around his cock, the head poking out and redder than you've ever seen it, looking like he just ran a fucking marathon. Somehow, he managed not to cum. He was so close though, so close he had to pull out the second your walls started to involuntary flutter around him or he would've been done for.

The tight black shirt is still clinging to him like a second skin, and the first coherent thought of yours after the fog around brain clears is to get him out of it as soon as you can. You tug at the hem, still panting and blood buzzing from the release. "Off."

Sunghoon doesn't answer you with words, but he rips the shirt off his torso, throwing it somewhere on the floor behind him. His hands are shaky as they travel from your waist to your hips, then reaching your thighs, spreading you open further in front of him and allowing him to take a look at the big mess you—both of you, really—made. Sunghoon's cock is rock hard, tip oozing enough precum to make all the prep you've endured so far pointless. (Not really, you know better than that.)

Sunghoon goes back to nudging his tip on your hole, just holding it there without pushing in quite yet, casting a last questioning glance your way because he needs the reassurance that you're okay with this one last time before he fully commits.

When you nod, he slowly eases himself back into you with a low moan accompanying the motion, this time his gaze holding yours. The face you make as his tip stretches you open makes it a hundred times harder for him to keep his chill, wanting nothing more than to say fuck it and pound you stupid like you've been begging him to do ever since things first got handsy between you two.

The burn isn't nearly as bad as it was the first time, leaving space for so much more pleasure to course right through you, and you can't help the relieved sigh that leaves you when his tip is fully back inside you again, like it's a need for you to be filled by it. And Sunghoon sees that. He sees the fire in your eyes, the greediness slowly pooling behind those pupils he loves so much, how your hips look for his even if taking any more in hurts.

His hips jerk forward more than he intends them to, but he can't help it, not when you're looking at him like he's the prey. More of your wetness coats him, and both of you loudly moan into the night.

"You feel so fucking good, baby," Sunghoon whines, actual tears filling his waterline because he can't believe how much you're gripping him, pussy fluttering around his girth with every little bit he pushes forward, welcoming him like no one has ever done. "Tightest little pussy ever."

The hold on your thighs is bruising, but it helps you stay at least a little grounded so you wouldn't have it any other way. Whenever you think you're too full and cannot possibly take anymore, you feel a little more of Sunghoon's cock slide in you, so you get on your elbows with what little strength you have left and take a look for yourself. He's barely halfway in, and the burning sensation is starting to set in again. It hurts, but it hurts so good, you need more and you need less at the same time.

"Yeah, that's right, angel. Watch how your greedy needy cunt swallows me." Sunghoon's eyebrows are creased, sweat now not only dripping from his scalp, but little droplets constellating his broad chest, following the paths preset by his sculpted physique, all the way down to his vline. A mouthwatering sight.

"So full," you sigh, eyes never leaving from where you're connected, clit throbbing the more he fucks his cock into you, begging for a lick of attention.

"You'll be so much fuller. Can you behave and handle that for me, mhh?"

You bite down on your bottom lip, nodding along to his words and sneaking down your hand to play with your clit when you come to the conclusion that Sunghoon's hands are way too busy gripping your plushy skin like his sanity depends on it.

"Smart girl," he praises.

The wetter you become, the easier and more pleasurable the slide is. Sunghoon watches you for any sign of unbearable discomfort, slowing down when you bite your tongue or picking his speed back up when you bless him with those precious needy whines of yours. "You're doing so well, my gorgeous girl. So fucking amazing, making me feel so good already, God, you're perfect."

His words of encouragement play a big part in easing the pain for you, soothing you enough to make it easier for you to not tense up when his cock nudges a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. Your hand flies to your lower belly and you swear you feel him right there, so much deeper than you've ever had anyone—or anything—be.

"There we go," Sunghoon puffs out like he's been holding himself back from breathing this entire time, his pelvis grinding against your folds deliberately. And you finally realize he's all the way in for the first time ever. "Squeezin' me so tight, are you scared I'll run away?" He pulls back a bit before fully thrusting inside again, the curve of his cock aiding in making him hit all the right spots you could've never reached yourself. "No fucking chance. Not after I've got a taste of this. Gonna fuck your pretty pussy open every fucking night, until I've trained her to take me in without any complaints."

He sets a slow pace, not wanting to overwhelm you just yet, then adds, in a softer tone, "Does it hurt too bad, baby?"

If he keeps the back and forth up for much longer, you're gonna end up getting whiplash. But between groans and higher pitches sounds, you manage to answer him. "Any more and you would've popped me like a balloon."

Sunghoon giggles as he bends down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, hands finally loosening his grip on your legs and traveling all over your body. "You begged, and begged and—"

"I'm not complaining, am I?" you ask, breaking the kiss and resting your forehead on his, the saliva string connecting you two shining under the warm light of the lamp. "Harder."

Sunghoon complies instantly, speeding up his movements and giving you actual thrusts instead of the messy mix of grinding and nudges he'd taken a liking to. His hot, wet mouth finds your neck, too greedy and selfish, in desperate need of hearing the beautiful sounds you make instead of swallowing them down. His tongue skates over your pulse point, a shiver traveling down your entire body when he gives you the lightest nibble right there before licking it up again in apology.

"I can still taste you in my mouth." His breath tickles the wet skin of your neck, your front arching into his when goosebumps appear all over your exposed arms. "Always want to—mh, taste it. You'll let me eat your pretty pussy again after you gush on my cock?"

Even if you want to reply, you really can't, not when the pace he's drilling into you at is knocking the air out of your lungs, and the bolder his movements get, the more you understand why he asked where he should cum before even staring. You want to look at him, take in every expression on his beautiful face, but the pleasure is too much to handle and the only thing that seems to help is closing your eyes and letting them roll back into your skull.

Your lips are raw from all the biting, and you're so incredibly thankful when Sunghoon's hand swats yours away from your clit to replace it, allowing you to sink your fingers into his broad shoulders, clawing at them with every languid thrust he gives you. He feels so perfect, filling you up to the brim and then some more, stretching you out so fucking good you suspect you won't ever be able to scratch the itch if not with his cock.

"I'm in love with this fucking pussy, baby," he moans, loud and unapologetic, making his way with open mouthed kisses down your neck, then following the line of your clavicle, only to dip down between the valley of your breasts. Your tits have spilled out of the tiny little dress due to bouncing around with every precise thrust Sunghoon gave you, and your nipples are perky and hard, begging for his attention right in his face.

"And your tits, fuck. So pretty, I'm gonna eat you right up." He licks a stripe on one of your hardened buds before enveloping it fully between his lips and sucking on it lightly, sighing contently into it when you push your tits on his face further, loud whines spilling out of you.

The very familiar band in your tummy starts to tighten again the more he works on your nipples and clit at the same time, thrusts never once faltering. All of your senses are heightened to such a degree you don't even know what to do with yourself anymore if not lay under Sunghoon and let him absolutely ravage you, not a single thought but 'feels so good' crossing your mind. But it's fast, too fast, and you want it to last for longer, want Sunghoon to keep fucking you for hours until the only word you remember is his name.

You try to push his hand away from your clit, only earning a reprimanding yet gentle bite on your nipple, a warning. "I c-can't."

"Can't what, pretty girl?" He rolls your nipple between his lips, lapping away the tingling sensation the nibble left on it that has you jolt in his hold. "Use your words."

You throw your head back in frustration, feeling the impending climax approach you once again, the nth that night. "Don't want it to end," you gasp, using up all the strength left in you form a coherent sentence.

Sunghoon coos at you. Fucking coos at you only to deepen the strokes of his cock inside you, angling his hips to reach even deeper. "Cum for me baby, I'll just keep fucking you."

Your thighs shake as they wrap around his waist to pull him closer, his hips switching to grinding his cock into you instead of thrusting it, the fat tip poking the most delicious sensitive parts of your heat. You gasp and wheeze, claw and scratch and draw blood from his skin but it never hinders or stops his strokes. You clench around him time and time again, wrapping around his cock so nicely Sunghoon can feel his own orgasm build up in the pit of his stomach.

You come around him with a silent scream, every single part of your body twitching under him as he keeps fucking into you, now chasing his own high. He still takes a moment to watch you and how beautiful you look at the highest of your peak, eyes glazed over and mouth hung open, sweaty skin glistening so beautifully he wishes to be a painter and capture it forever. It's a sight he's never gonna grow accustomed to, and it has his stomach twist in knots. "That's it baby, so fucking gorgeous, keep cumming for me like that, milking my cock so well."

Even in the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body looks for his, hips rolling into his as if to silently ask for him to cum inside you, now that your voice has completely failed you.

"Just a bit more. We're almost there, my perfect little baby, so good for me," Sunghoon is babbling too by now, so damn enamored with the sight of you trying to keep your twitching under control even though you're still cumming around him and teetering on overstimulation so he can fully savor his own high. "The most perfect angel girl ever. I love you so fucking much."

Your head is light and Sunghoon's words reach you as if in slow motion, muffled by your own blood buzzing in your ears. You're completely drenched, and the bedding underneath you is too, but neither of you can bring yourselves to care. The slide is not painful anymore, and everything feels so warm and slippery, you never want it to end.

The image of Sunghoon still grinding and fucking his cock into you, his pace now reduced to a desperate mess and nowhere near as precise as it was, clears up slowly as your ears stop ringing, but your pleasure never does. You don't know if you're still cumming or if Sunghoon fucking you just feels this good you can't tell the difference, but you feel like you're on cloud nine and lighter than you've ever been.

Sunghoon's torso is completely glistening, and you feel some of that slick coat your skin too when he bends your legs into you, folding you against the bed and hitting even deeper inside you.

You're a moaning mess as he pistons his dick inside your heat, dragging perfectly against your gummy walls. You look down and see a bulge poke your lower tummy with each deep stroke of his. The sight alone is enough to have you on the edge again, but it feels different this time, like you cannot possibly contain what's about to happen.

"Hoon—"

"Shh," he silences you, hair a sweaty mess and dripping all over your figure. The squelching sounds of his skin slapping against yours, connected by white strips of slick on both of your thighs get even louder when his pace gets faster, the hand that played with your clit suddenly pushing down on the bulging of your stomach. "Give it all to me, soak my fucking dick—fuck, I'm gonna cum baby, gonna cum so deep inside you."

You cannot stop the dam from breaking, juices shooting out of you so suddenly you're taken aback too, coating his entire lower abdomen in it. Your cunt throbs around him so hard, almost like it's trying to push his cock out of you. You can't think of anything, cannot fathom anything that's not Sunghoon, and his perfect cock, and how good you feel, going completely limp on the bed.

He moans louder than you at the sight of your wetness drenching the bed and his cock. "Fuck, take it all baby. I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm—"

His hips stutter one final time against you, burying his cock deep inside you and shooting his seed in multiple thick spurts as deep as he possibly can, filling you up perfectly. He dips down to catch your mouth in a messy kiss, panting into your mouth even as you two are still both trying to catch your breath from your orgasms, but your lips on his are all the oxygen he needs.

"I love you," you whisper into the kiss, your words finally having found the way out of your throat again.

Sunghoon hums, his body weakened and tired but still hovering above you instead of slumping on you. "I love you more." He gives you a sweet peck like he wasn't just putting you through the matters moments ago. "You were perfect, baby. Did so amazing." He lets his body go beside you on the bed, dragging you between his arms and grimacing when the wet mess you made on the covers touches the back of his body. "A rag won't be enough."

You smile, weak but content. "And who's fault is that?"

Sunghoon pretends to think about it, but from the look on his face you can tell the answer is ready on his tongue. "I think it might be yours for being too hot I couldn't help myself."

You swat your hand on his chest, but there's no force behind the gesture.

"Aaand for making me jealous."

A groan leaves your lips, your arms coming up to cover your face. "How am i gonna ever face Jay again after this."

Sunghoon's chest vibrates against your skin. "You'll think about that after I clean you up."

You make a low noise of complaint, rolling over to push yourself on top of your boyfriend's body, hands resting on his toned chest as you reach for his huge cock and slowly sink yourself onto it, head thrown back in pleasure even if it's not fully hard anymore. Sunghoon's breath catches in his throat as he watches you lower yourself against him again, your head finding refuge on his shoulder. "Later."

You stay like that for a while, breaths slowly synchronizing in the peaceful quiet, Sunghoon's cock comfortably nested in your heat while his fingers lazily ghost over the entire expanse of your back. You could fall asleep at any moment, but you raise your head one more time to look at your boyfriend, his half lidded eyes meeting yours instantly. "You did not strike me as the type of guy to edge himself that much."

"Just go to sleep."

BONUS

You roll over to tentatively search Sunghoon's bedside table, ignoring the sound of the lube bottle hitting the floor, until the cold screen of your phone meets your spread hand.

Sunghoon is snoring lightly behind you, his nose nuzzled against your nape, and you hope to not wake him up as you unlock your phone. You recoil when the light that feels like a million suns momentarily blinds you, but even that is not enough to discourage you from completing the life-or-death task ahead of you.

You open up messages—promptly ignoring Jay's "never do this shit again. you two are nasty."— and click on Jungwon's chat, not wasting time to watch the several unloaded video files sitting in it (you can easily recognize the blonde silhouette of Jake's hair in half of them, so you're free to assume it's nothing of particular importance anyway) to type a quick text.

05:34 AM. You: mission accomplished ;p (cancel the hiking thing we planned for next week unless you carry me yourself. your girl can't walk)

Shockingly enough, he replies within the minute.

05:35 AM. twin: you shameless being (a whole week is crazy)

05:37 AM. twin: whatever, but I'm dragging you out for brunch so you figure out your means of transportation yourself. we need to catch up

05:38 AM. You: crazy night for both of us i assume

05:38 AM. twin: oh you have no idea

[wonluhver]

ten reasons to avoid italy

pairing kim mingyu x fem! reader genre fluff | 11.5k words | exes to lovers summary when your ex joins you and your friends on a week long vacation to italy, you have no choice but to avoid and make the best of it… so how is he always next to you? warnings mentions of alcohol consumption, fear of heights, flashbacks, being seasick, taking pills for medicine (motion sickness), eating seafood, and floating away in the ocean (not far). use of y/n and seventeen member's korean names. also jeonghan and seungcheol being parents.

HEAVILY INSPIRED by the nana tour with seventeen show. please watch if you haven't, it's so fun. IF YOU HAVE WATCHED, there are many inside jokes and scenes from the show that are in this writing, so hope you can pick it out!

P.S. i included seungcheol to join the trip!

italics are flashbacks!

The Korean barbecue restaurant was filled with the delicious scent of grilled meat and spices. With you were Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung for dinner in honor of Seokmin's birthday.

“Speaking of,” Soonyoung pours you a shot of soju from across the table, his face red from the alcohol, “We’re going to Italy with the other members in the summer if you want to join?”

Seungkwan and Seokmin study your face silently, anticipating your reaction. They knew mentioning the friend group was a sensitive subject.

“Won’t Mingyu be there?” You don’t miss a beat, “I don’t think I’m ready to see him yet.”

You had met all of SEVENTEEN through Seungkwan, your long-time family friend, and had grown close with every member. Your relationship with Mingyu blossomed from this friendship, leading to three years of dating.

Mingyu was the love of your life, but soon it became increasingly difficult to see him due to his comebacks and hectic schedules. He stopped putting effort into the relationship first so after two weeks of fighting every night, and both of you being too stubborn to apologize first, you both called it quits.

You were heartbroken, crying for a month, and since then, you hadn't been attending the monthly group dinners, concerts, and events, trying to give yourself space to heal. However, after Seungkwan spent more time with Seokmin and Soonyoung for their BSS group, the four of you started hanging out.

The three never talked about Mingyu in front of you, that was, until now.

Seokmin nudges your side, his expression playful as he tries to lift the mood. “Everyone but him. He's not available to come because he's going to Paris for a fashion show.”

Seungkwan shakes his head, focusing on the grill. "We'll get busy after summer for our comeback preparations."

You sigh, looking at the hopeful faces of your friends. You know what Seungkwan is doing; you definitely wouldn’t want to pass up a chance to relax and have fun with all your close friends, especially if it would get hard to see their faces.

Soonyoung tilts his head with a smile, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Come on, it’s also our first time in Europe! We have to experience that together,” he says, his voice filled with anticipation.

Seungkwan finally looks up, his expression softening. “And Jeonghan is planning the entire trip so there's no need to worry,” he reassures, his gaze meeting yours with warmth.

You let out a reluctant sigh, they were making it hard to say no. “Fine. Text me the details tomorrow.”

“Okay, it’s going to be so much fun!” Seokmin cheered, raising his glass in a toast.

"Salute!"

"Flight to Rome is now boarding,"

“Finally,” you mumble, rising up from the uncomfortable chair and making sure you didn’t leave anything behind.

Seungkwan informs you, gesturing towards the boarding sign. “Looks like first class is boarding now. Let’s go,” he says, urging you to follow him.

At the announcement, all of your friends make their way to Jeonghan to grab their boarding tickets. Jeonghan had organized the entire trip and booked first-class tickets for everyone, claiming it was supposed to be a relaxing vacation. You were surprised he knew someone who could help him book first-class, but you weren't complaining.

“Thanks, Jeonghan,” you say, holding the ticket in your hand and turning back to Soonyoung. "So, like I was saying..."

You walk away with him and Seungkwan to line up with everyone else, too busy explaining the plot of a new show you started.

Behind you, a curious Hansol receives his ticket last. “Jeonghan, why do you have another ticket left?”

Jeonghan informs Hansol, "That's because Mingyu’s coming soon. I have to wait for him, so we’ll board later.”

Hansol tilts his head in confusion. "Isn't he supposed to go to France today? He was packing excitedly and even looking for places to eat there."

Jeonghan shrugs, "He told me that the show got canceled in advance because it's expected to rain the entire week in Paris."

“What does rain have to do with a fashion show?”

Jeonghan’s face looks unsure, but he tells Hansol what Mingyu told him. “Uh, it was an outdoor show. I don't know, he just gave me the money to buy his ticket.”

“Okay, I'll see you both on the plane then.” Hansol places his headphones on before lining up behind Seungcheol and Junhui.

“Is anyone sitting in the same row as me?” Chan asks, and immediately everyone looks down at their tickets.

“I’m sitting in row two,” Wonwoo answers, waiting for someone to speak out.

Seungcheol grins. “Wonwoo, I’m sitting in the same row as you!” He cheers, and the two walk next to each other.

You study your own ticket.

“Does no one have row four?” you speak out loud, hoping you aren’t next to a complete stranger.

Everyone starts finding their seat buddy while you stand alone.

On the plane, the seats were isolated, but the seats were in pairs, so two people had their own space but still sat next to each other.

“Last time I checked, I’m with Jeonghan,” Joshua announces, showing everyone his boarding ticket.

“I guess I’m the only one in my row,”

You hand your head low, realizing that since the group was an odd number of thirteen, someone was bound to sit alone if there were pairs of two. It was just weird because you were in one of the middle rows, being row four, and you assumed a later row would be a single person.

“It’s okay,” Seokmin reassures you. “If it’s a stranger, you can just sleep the whole time.”

You board the plane with your friends, the luxurious first-class cabin welcoming you with spacious seats and attentive flight attendants. The atmosphere is a mix of excited chatter and the soft hum of the airplane engines.

In front of you, your friends start to find their seats and settle down.

"This feels great," you say, finding your cubby, immediately sitting down and leaning back in the comfortable space.

Junhui and Minghao walk down the aisle and spot your relaxed state, laughing at how quickly you settled into your seat.

You look for the sleeping mask that is given to everyone, planning to get a blanket later and fall asleep.

It was a habit of yours to sleep on the plane, and plus, you had been working until last night, so you needed to rest now before landing.

"Are you looking for a sleeping mask?" A voice asks from beside you. You remain busy rummaging through the gift bag to turn your head.

"Yes, I think it's in this bag, thank you," you answer, assuming it is a flight attendant.

To your luck, the sleeping mask was not inside the bag; instead, there was a toothbrush, toothpaste, and hairbrush.

"Here," the person says again. You freeze, staring at the sleeping mask.

"Wait, that's mine..." you trail off, staring at your old sleeping mask.

It was the one that you used when traveling with Mingyu.

Your eyes slowly look up to the owner of the voice.

"What are you doing here?" was the first thing Kim Mingyu heard from you after exactly six months of not talking.

His hand is still out, the sleeping mask you used to wear during vacations with him in his hand.

Mingyu's expression is calm, “This is my seat,” he motions at the empty cubicle next to yours.

You don't have anything to say as your mind races, anger bubbling up inside you.

Mingyu sighs, glancing at the sleeping mask. “I brought this because I know you like to sleep on planes. I thought it might help you.”

"Everyone said that you're not availab-" You stop mid-sentence, deciding it is not a priority to interrogate him.

You glance around, desperately wanting to change seats with one of your friends.

When you catch the stewardess’ eye, she smiles and announces to the plane, "Everyone, please remain in their seats for takeoff."

Frustrated, you comply and turn back, determined to ignore Mingyu.

He quietly sits down, a frown on his lips.

He hoped to be on talking terms with you, but he expected too much.

You place your headphones on and look out the window, ignoring his presence as the plane taxis down the runway and ascends into the clouds.

You close your eyes, trying to block out the thoughts of Mingyu. You take a deep breath, trying to focus on the soothing hum of the airplane engines.

You were not going to get any second of sleep now.

1. YOUR EX IS ALSO GOING TO ITALY

“We swear, we had no idea Mingyu was coming!” Seungkwan's voice is frantic, trying to prove his innocence. His eyes remain wide since the moment he witnessed Mingyu walking behind you out of the plane.

“Seungkwan, then tell me why my ex,” you point behind Seungkwan's head to where Mingyu is standing, talking to Wonwoo and Minghao, “is here, in Rome, with us right now.”

You kept your cool on the plane, although seeing Mingyu would have made you emotional, and tried to fall asleep to express your anger after getting off the plane.

It was night when you arrived, and Jeonghan was trying to call the arranged transportation to take you all to the villa he booked.

All your friends stood around waiting for Jeonghan to finish talking to the airport receptionist while you pulled your three friends to a secluded corner, away from earshot.

"I still can't believe he's here though," Soonyoung spoke, taking a peek at Mingyu.

Seokmin nodded along with a slight grin, thinking of all the chances for Mingyu to sit with you, "And that Y/n had to sit next to him the entire eleven-hour plane ride."

Soonyoung, noticing your irritated state, chimes in, “Before we asked you to join us on the trip, we checked the group's schedule. Mingyu was supposed to be the only one not available to come because of his event.”

Seokmin steps in, his expression earnest. “We seriously don’t know why he’s here, either!”

Maybe your best friends are telling the truth.

They have been going out of their way to prevent you and Mingyu from crossing paths, but still, how did this happen?

“Wait,” Seungkwan mumbles, his eyes looking behind you. "It must have been Jeong-"

“Hey,” Jeonghan approaches your group first, causing Seungkwan to bite his tongue. "Time to head to our villa now," Jeonghan points to the exit of the airport, where the rest of your friends are socializing.

You glance back at Mingyu, who is laughing at something Wonwoo said.

You take a deep breath, this vacation is supposed to be about relaxation and fun, not dealing with feelings from the past.

“This is not going to be fun,” you say while all of you trail behind Jeonghan to leave.

“Okay, the transportation is sorted,” Jeonghan briefs, glancing at each of you. “Let’s head to the villa and settle in for the night.”

The group was split into four cars, so obviously you chose to ride with your close friends.

You sit in the passenger seat, placing on your seatbelt, while Soonyoung gets in the driver's seat. You place the villa's address into your phone for directions while Seungkwan and Seokmin place the luggage into the trunk of the car.

"Do you have space for me?" You spot Hansol outside your window with his suitcase.

"Oh, hey Hansol, we have one more seat, you can drive with us." You offer and point to his suitcase, "You should give that to Seungkwan and Seokmin now before they finish loading the trunk."

"Okay, thanks," Hansol walks behind the car so you and Soonyoung can set up the navigation once again.

"Are we ready to go?" Soonyoung asks once Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Hansol place their seatbelt on.

After hearing the choruses of yes, Soonyoung starts the car out of the airport's parking lot, leading the rest of the cars to the villa.

You stare out the window at the passing city lights, until Seokmin turns on songs to sing along to.

"I'm excited for this vacation," Seungkwan sighs while looking out the window at the streets of Rome.

Hansol agrees, "Yeah since all of our friends are here,"

You sigh from the front row, "I hope this vacation gets better,"

Hansol reads the room quickly, "Oh, is it because of Mingyu?"

"Yeah, we all thought he wasn't coming so I wasn't mentally prepared to see him." You turn your head to face Hansol and offer him a smile, "But I'm still glad I came because I haven't seen everyone in so long."

Hansol drums his fingers on his knee, "Jeonghan told me that Mingyu's fashion show got canceled so he joined us."

Seungkwan's eyes widen, "It got canceled? Wow, he really looked forward to that trip."

Hansol replies, "Yeah, that's what I thought when I heard. I guess no one really expected it either."

Suddenly, Seokmin gets excited over the next song from his playlist, singing along to the lyrics. The burst of energy causes Soonyoung to chuckle from the driver's seat, while you and Seungkwan try to record a video of this moment.

The way your friends know how to make you laugh in a situation like this, made you feel hopeful for the vacation.

"Y/n, wake up! We have to check out the sandwich shop!"

Soonyoung steps into your room and walks over to open the window curtains, hoping that the sunlight will wake you up. Your first instinct is to cover your entire body with the white blanket, snuggling your head deeper into the fluffy pillow.

"Soonyoung, let me sleep in."

You hear another voice entering the room, "Y/n, get up!"

This time you let out a loud groan, "Guys," You peek an eye open and move the covers, "Why are we going to buy sandwiches in the morning?"

Seokmin stands near the door, holding a toothbrush with toothpaste on it.

"It's actually lunchtime," Soonyoung stares out to admire the view from your room, comparing it with his.

Jeonghan had found a villa with a lot of bedrooms, so a lot of people were able to get single rooms, including yourself.

"Everyone woke up late from traveling yesterday," Soonyoung tells you.

"You have twenty minutes before we head out." Seokimin starts brushing his teeth in your room while Soonyoung walks past to leave, "Come on, they're all waiting." His voice is muffled by the toothpaste, but nonetheless, you can make out his words.

After a sigh, you turn to rise from your bed and decide to join them.

"Seokmin," He turns around by your door, the white toothpaste threatening to spill from his lips.

“Who's they?”

Seokmin smiles sheepishly, before running to the bathroom down the hall.

2. YOUR FRIENDS WILL DRAG YOU TO FIVE-STAR SANDWICH SHOPS

"Okay, let me pay, you can all wait outside," Chan announces, waving the group off as he nears the counter.

You allow Joshua, Mingyu, Jun, and Jihoon to walk out of the sandwich shop near your villa, leaving yourself with Soonyoung and Seokmin inside the store, while Chan attempts to pay for the sandwiches in Italian.

"So," You turn to Soonyoung and Seokmin, who suddenly decide to help out Chan. To them, the prices on the menu look very interesting right now.

Chan's eyes slightly widen in surprise at your state, before he takes a few steps back to listen to his Google Translate for Italian.

"Okay, in our opinion," Seokmin starts, scratching the back of his head.

"This sandwich shop shouldn't be passed up just because Mingyu was going."

"How do you even know this place is good? You've never been to Italy before." You start waving your hands around, hopefully not scaring the store owner who is making eight sandwiches behind the counter.

Soonyoung opens his phone, showing his screen with a grin, "Look here, the Yelp rating says five stars."

"Seriously?"

"But, it's five stars!"

Your mouth thins into a line, "You know what, okay," you pinch the bridge of your nose, "I know I can't just avoid him forever. But next time, please let me know in advance so I'm aware."

Before they agree, an alert voice interrupts your conversation.

"Hai appena detto che sono cento euro?" [Did you just say it’s two hundred euros?]

After the delicious lunch and a new five-star Yelp review from a satisfied Soonyoung, you were joined by everyone else to head to the Arco di Constantino.

A giant bus stood in front of you, one that Jeonghan had rented for the rest of the trip for easier travel, so you went in with Seungkwan and sat in one of the two-seat rows in the middle.

The rest of your friends trail in loudly, most of them walking past you to sit in the back row.

To your surprise, Mingyu plops down on the seat in the row next to you.

When Seokmin comes to sit next to Mingyu, he stands up for Seokmin to sit in the window seat.

After Seokmin sits down, Mingyu sits to place his seatbelt on and meets your eyes, "What? I like the aisle seat."

You shrug, turning your head away from Mingyu.

It wasn't your business where he sat down although right now, it was right next to you.

"After a war ends, Constantino walks under it to celebrate his victory."

"No way, that's correct!"

"How did you know that, Mingyu?" You hear a curious Seungcheol behind you.

"I guessed, I can't even believe I got that right," Mingyu admits, stunned at his own response.

Wonwoo is next to them, asking another question to entertain the two.

The bus arrived at the location and everyone was walking closer to see the building.

The Arch of Constantine was breathtaking, its ancient structure standing tall against the bright blue sky. As you walked through the historic site, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe.

"There are carvings on the gate," Soonyoung points out while walking down the gray stone path. "How do you think they made it?"

Jihoon stares up at the gate next to you, "They probably placed a stone down and carved it, then added more stones on top."

You tilt your head, "The attention to detail is insane,"

"It's next to the colosseum," Minghao says, taking out his phone to take photos. The group splits up to take photos of the arch and the colosseum.

While walking back to the bus, Junhui suddenly says, "I'm kind of craving gelato right now."

"You want some?" Jeonghan asks Junhui from beside you.

"Yeah, I want some," Soonyoung responds, spotting the little stand in front of you.

"Can we agree on a flavor?" Seungcheol asks while staring back at the entire group.

"Is lemon good?" You suggest while staring back at the flavors.

It was easier to agree on a flavor when getting food with a big friend group.

"Yeah, I'll order." Joshua offers, so you step back from the stand to wait for a cone with Seungkwan.

You see Seokmin and Hansol walk over to Minghao to ask for a bite, both of them complimenting the gelato.

Wonwoo joins the two of you with a cone, licking the gelato, "I feel so happy while eating this,"

Mingyu and Junhui join your circle, both holding lemon gelatos in hand.

"I feel like I can travel the world with just a camera," Wonwoo adds, engaging in the conversation with Seungkwan.

Mingyu taps your shoulder quietly, handing you his gelato.

Your mouth is open in surprise, "What about you?"

Mingyu shrugs, following after Junhui, Wonwoo, and Seungkwan who start walking to the bus.

"Thanks," you tell him before hurrying to the group.

When you were busy talking to Wonwoo and Junhui about your hopes to travel in the future, you hear Seungkwan scolding in the back, "Mingyu, why didn't you get your own, stop talking mine!"

3. YOU WILL HAVE TO BE CIVIL WITH YOUR EX

"We're back!" You hear Chan from downstairs.

Seungkwan, Chan, and Mingyu went to get groceries at a nearby market for dinner, while the rest of you returned to the villa.

"Can we make kimchi stew?" You hear Soonyoung ask from the kitchen when you reach the end of the staircase. As you enter the first floor, you see Mingyu and Chan unloading the groceries into the refrigerator while Soonyoung, Wonwoo, and Seungcheol open the other non-perishable items.

"Ask Seokmin when he comes down, but I think we can," You answer, studying the packages of food that peeked out of the boxes.

"This is egg," Mingyu says to Chan, handing over a carton of eggs. "Be careful."

"This is ice cream," Mingyu takes out a box of ice cream this time, "It's melting!"

Chan hurries to place the ice cream inside the freezer, matching Mingyu's energy, "Emergency!"

You smile for a second at their behavior, before snapping out it. If Soonyoung notices from beside you, he doesn't say anything.

"Okay, I'll cook the meat," Mingyu suggests after everyone forms a circle around the kitchen island.

"I'll work on the stew," Seokmin adds, walking over to grab some pork.

You stand across Seokimin, with Soonyoung and Wonwoo by your side, watching as Seokmin cuts up the pork.

"Honestly, we have to leave the cooking to the professionals," Wonwoo says next to you, staring at the rest of your friends who are in the kitchen.

Minghao stirs up eggs to include it with the fried rice, Jihoon adds kimchi and pork into the pan, and Jisoo goes to help wash the vegetables.

"You're right," You decide to sit on the table away from the kitchen and watch the rest of your friends with Hansol and Seungcheol instead.

Eventually, the food is prepared and everyone walks outside to the backyard, where Chan and Wonwoo had already set up the chairs.

"Food coming through!" Seokmin yells as you take a seat in the middle area. You laugh at Seokmin's actions, swerving by a surprised Junhui who was also on the way out to sit.

"Is everything done?" Jeonghan asks, taking a seat next to you.

You nod, "I think so, I'm starving!"

As you guessed, other friends started coming outside, some with the food that they made.

"This looks so good," Wonwoo says across from you, staring at the fried rice and eggs placed on a white plate.

"This tastes good!" Soonyoung compliments the fried rice, after taking a bite.

Mingyu walks outside with the plate of meat spread with barbeque sauce, from Chan and Jisoo's request.

You open your chopsticks, gazing around at the table. All your friends have sat down around, somehow leaving the only empty seat next to you.

"Hey," You nudge Mingyu quietly, "Can we talk?"

Mingyu meets your eyes, placing down his shot glass, "Here?"

You shake your head, scanning the situation around you. The meal had made everyone happy, resulting in more drinking games.

Thankfully, you and Mingyu had not drank too much, and no one seemed to notice you and Mingyu talking in the first place, everyone being too drunk already.

"Inside, I'll go first."

You rise from your seat, taking the chance of Seokmin and Seungcheol singing a karaoke song as the perfect distraction to go inside.

Two minutes later, Mingyu finds you leaning on the kitchen island, pouring yourself a cup of water.

"Hey," He approaches you while playing with his fingers, "What did you want to talk about?"

When you look up from the glass cup, Mingyu's standing on the other side of the island, waiting for you to answer.

"Oh, hey, I just wanted to talk about us..." You trail off, tracing over the top of the cup.

"Listen. I know we haven't spoken since our breakup." Mingyu has a frown on his lips, allowing you to continue.

"But I also care about our friends, and I want to be civil, so we don't make our friends feel awkward or uncomfortable."

Mingyu nods slowly, "Okay, so what are you implying?"

"We stay on talking terms for the remainder of the vacation, just until we get back.."

You run a hand through your hair, "So, friends?"

You place a hand out, waiting for Mingyu to shake it.

"Yeah, friends," Mingyu finishes, shaking your hand.

"I'm going to go head back out first." You take your glass cup and walk past him.

"It's time for Yoon-zino!"

4. YOU WILL CARE FOR YOUR EX

“I can’t wait for this hot air balloon,” Minghao says before yawning.

It was the third day of the vacation. The plan was to wake up early and enjoy a hot air balloon ride over the Italian countryside.

The bus was silent, with everyone sleeping during the ride, but after arriving, the group was loud in excitement.

As you approach the balloon, you overhear Wonwoo and Seungcheol talking enthusiastically. “This is going to be amazing,” Wonwoo says, his camera ready to capture every moment.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Seungcheol adds with a grin.

Mingyu stands with them, nodding in agreement, but you can see the fear in his eyes. “Yeah, definitely,” he says, trying to sound convincing.

The balloon ascends, and the view of the Italian countryside is breathtaking. The rolling hills and vineyards spread out below, bathed in the golden light of dawn.

Mingyu is gripping the edge tightly, his knuckles white. He tries to mask his fear with a tight-lipped smile, but it is clear to anyone paying attention that he is struggling. His eyes dart around nervously, avoiding looking directly down.

You notice Mingyu’s discomfort immediately. You want to reach out and hold his hand, to comfort him like you used to, but you hesitate. Mingyu notices, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment and pleading silently for some form of reassurance.

“Y/n, look at this view!” Seungcheol calls out, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, forcing a smile as you turn your attention back to the scenery. You can still see Mingyu from the corner of your eye, his grip on the edge not loosening.

Hansol is taking pictures with his phone, while Wonwoo quietly admires the scenery through his camera lens.

You watch as Mingyu’s discomfort grows. His breaths are shallow, and he keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m going to take some pictures too,” Seungcheol says, moving around the basket and giving you a clearer view of Mingyu. He glances at you, his eyes silently begging for support.

You almost reach out, almost say something comforting, but you stop yourself. It isn’t your place anymore. You have decided to stay friends, nothing more. But seeing his clear distress, you can't ignore it any longer.

Carefully, you inch closer to Mingyu, making sure none of the others are watching. You reach out and take his hand, squeezing it gently and trying to hide the gesture from the others.

Mingyu looks at you in surprise but he squeezes back, finding comfort from your touch.

“Thanks,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of the wind.

You nod, offering a small, reassuring smile. For the remainder of the ride, you stay close, your hands intertwined and hidden, providing the comfort he needs away from the others' eyes. Gradually, you notice Mingyu relaxing, his grip on the edge loosening as he starts to enjoy the view.

“Wow, it’s really something,” he says, his voice steadier.

“It is,” you agree, feeling a warmth spread through you at his newfound ease.

Wonwoo continues taking photos with his camera, capturing the beautiful landscape and candid moments of the group. Hansol leans over the edge, enjoying the view with a wide grin on his face.

Later, Hansol bursts into laughter, pointing across to the second hot air balloon where Seungkwan and Seokmin are making exaggerated faces and gestures.

“Look at those two,” Hansol chuckles. “They’re having the time of their lives.”

You look over and can’t help but smile at Seungkwan and Seokmin’s antics, their laughter carrying across the distance between the balloons.

The group is split into three hot air balloons, and you can see the others waving and enjoying the ride just as much.

The ride finally ends, and as soon as the basket touches the ground, you gently pull your hand away. Mingyu lets go reluctantly, a hint of disappointment flashing across his face, but he understands.

As the group gathers for a photo, you find yourself standing next to Mingyu. He looks at you, a small, tired smile on his lips.

“Thanks for sticking close,” he says softly, though you know he means more than just the balloon ride.

“Of course,” you reply, equally softly. “What are friends for?”

For a moment, you catch a glimpse of Mingyu's smile falling, before you turn to walk away. Maybe you're both struggling to define the boundaries of your relationship.

“You guys ready to explore more?” Minghao asks his camera in hand.

“Yes!” Joshua replies enthusiastically.

Jihoon, who has been quietly enjoying the ride, chimes in with a rare joke. “Wow, that was fun. I should leave the house more often,” he says, making everyone laugh.

You walk away, mingling with the others, but the memory of Mingyu’s fear and your shared moment stays with you. Maybe, just maybe, there is still something worth salvaging between you two.

5. YOU WILL STILL HAVE FEELINGS FOR YOUR EX

As the group returns from their hot air balloon adventure, the energy is still high as they gather in the backyard to enjoy the karaoke machine set up outside the villa.

Wonwoo and Seokmin finish singing the final line of their song, and the karaoke machine score comes out with a neat 100 points on the television screen, prompting cheers and applause from everyone.

Seungkwan and Seungcheol take charge of choosing the next song, and Seungcheol suggests, "Let's do an old song!"

He looks over the song choices from their discography, while Hansol points from the couch next to you, "What about 'Run to You'?"

Soonyoung eagerly agrees, asking for a microphone from Seokmin to sing. The familiar intro starts, and Seungcheol decides to sing Jisoo's part in the beginning, causing the group to laugh before they all join in singing.

As the song plays, you find yourself laughing along with the others, but as the lyrics fill the atmosphere, a sense of melancholy washes over you. The words hit close to home, reminding you of the past and the promises made.

"지금 난 너와 똑같은 무엇이든 필요해 하지만 나에겐 있지 않으니까 우리 다시 만나자 내가 도착하기 전까지 잘 지내고 있어야 해 지금 널 찾아가고 있어"

[Right now, you and I, we both need the same thing But I don't have it so let's meet again later Please be well until I get there I'm going to you right now]

Soonyoung finishes his line and Junhui excitedly calls from the kitchen, announcing that dinner is ready and to go outside to the people inside.

While everyone comes out to the backyard for dinner, you can't shake the bittersweet feeling that lingers from the past conversation with Mingyu.

You get up from the lounge chair, making your way over to take a seat between Soonyoung and Mingyu, the latter observing quietly as you and Soonyoung engage in light-hearted conversation.

As the meal progresses, you find yourself feeling increasingly nostalgic and sad, the memories of your past relationship with Mingyu weighing heavily on your mind. To distract yourself, you accept the drink offered by Soonyoung, the liquid warmth soothing your troubled thoughts.

"Will you always come back to me?" you hear Mingyu ask, his tone serious, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turn your head to Mingyu, currently cuddling in bed together, and his sudden change in mood surprises you. "Baby, that's such a dumb question. Where would I go?"

But Mingyu's face remains serious, causing you to pull him closer to you, seeking reassurance. "No seriously, Mingyu. I'm not going anywhere."

Mingyu sighs, resting his head on top of yours, your bodies tangled under the covers. "If we were to ever stay apart, can you promise me that you'll come back to me?"

Confused, you pull slightly away, trying to meet Mingyu's eyes. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Mingyu shakes his head, his expression pained. "No, never, but if anything were to happen between us, can you promise me that you won't stop loving me?"

Your heart aches at his words, realizing the depth of his fears. You trace over his facial features, feeling a pang of sadness. "Baby, you're seriously scaring me. Why would I stop loving you?"

But Mingyu pouts, his worries still evident. "Just in case, if we were to ever have anything come between us, promise that you will always come right back to me."

You smile softly, understanding his fears. "Yes, I promise that if anything were to happen between us, I will always come back to you."

“What if you don’t?” Mingyu presses on, “What if you don’t come back?”

You think for a second, before answering him, “If you keep loving me, I will always go back to you.”

As the evening progresses and the drinks flow freely, you find yourself drinking more than usual.

Mingyu notices your increasing intoxication and leans over, his voice low with concern. "Hey, maybe you should slow down on the drinking," he suggests gently, but you brush off his concern, insisting you're fine.

Seeing that you're not listening to Mingyu, he calls out to Seungkwan, who is engaged in conversation with Jeonghan a few seats away.

"Seungkwan, could you help Y/n out? I think she's had enough," Mingyu says, taking away the glass full of alcohol before you take a shot with Soonyoung.

Seungkwan nods and quickly comes to your side, gently taking your arm. "Come on, let's get you back to your room," he says softly, guiding you away from the table.

As you walk back to your room with Seungkwan, the alcohol clouding your thoughts, you can't help but open up to him about your feelings for Mingyu.

"I think I like him again," you confess, "I don't know what to do."

Seungkwan listens intently, offering comfort and support as you grapple with your emotions.

6. YOUR EX ALSO CARES FOR YOU

The next day, the plan was to visit a wine festival nearby. It was the last day of the festival, so there were going to be a lot of people.

The group split off, Junhui far ahead first like a curious child, sampling different wines and enjoying the picturesque surroundings. Mingyu, Seokmin, and Chan stayed close by, though you spent most of your time with Seungkwan and Soonyoung.

“Try this one, Y/n,” Seungkwan hands you his glass of red wine after the vendor stops pourng into his glass.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a sip. You could feel Mingyu’s eyes on you, but you refused to look his way.

After a few more sips of wine, your trio was walking in different directions and giggling after every word.

"Soonyoung, you know you're a great friend, right?" You hear Seungkwan say next to you.

Soonyoung finishes his nth cup of wine before flashing a grin, "Aw, you're a great friend too, Seungkwan."

"What about me?"

As the wine tour continued, Mingyu found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you. He hovered nearby, subtly keeping an eye on you as you laughed and chatted with Seungkwan and Soonyoung.

Meanwhile, you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, the effects of the wine starting to take hold as you giggled and stumbled your way through the booths.

Seungkwan handed you another glass of red wine, and you accepted it with a grin, taking a sip and savoring the rich flavor.

"Thanks, Seungkwan," you say, feeling the warmth of the wine spreading through your body. "This is delicious."

Soonyoung, equally intoxicated, chimes in with a laugh, "Seungkwan's our wine connoisseur today!"

The three of you continued to wander down the path, sampling different wines and enjoying the picturesque surroundings.

Mingyu stayed close by, though he kept his distance, watching over you from afar. But as the night progressed, Mingyu couldn't help but feel a pang of concern as he watched you grow more and more tipsy.

Eventually, as the group make their way back to the bus, you stumble, nearly tripping over your own feet.

Mingyu quickly moves to steady you, his hands gripping your shoulders to keep you upright.

"Careful there," he says softly.

You blink up at him, a playful grin on your lips. "I'm fine, Gyu," you insist, though your words are slightly slurred.

Mingyu sighed, knowing there was no reasoning with you in your current state. Instead, he simply nodded, guiding you back to the bus with a gentle hand on your back.

Once on board, you quickly found a seat and slumped against the window, exhaustion starting to set in. Mingyu sat down beside you, watching over you protectively as you drifted off to sleep.

As the bus rumbled back towards the villa, Mingyu took you back to your bedroom, tucking you in and closing the door behind him.

He already knew you wouldn't remember anything tomorrow.

7. YOUR EX WILL HELP YOU

You do not recall anything from yesterday, except that you had a lot of fun with Soonyoung and Seungkwan in the beginning.

When you went downstairs, Hansol told you that Mingyu took care of you the entire time and you couldn't help but stand in shock.

The rest of your friends came downstairs to eat a quick breakfast before departing.

The plan was to travel to Port de Marlei and ride a big yacht, that Jeonghan had pulled some strings for, before having a seafood dinner to end the night.

"Has anyone seen my volleyball?" Seungkwan asks while looking around the boat, hoping it miraculously jumped from the port to the yacht.

Including you, everyone shakes their head no.

While Seungkwan left his tote bag on a bench at the port, the ball rolled away. He was upset because he had grown attached to the volleyball during the vacation, taking it everywhere with him.

Seokmin is right behind Seungkwan, attempting to help him find the volleyball. The two head towards the front of the boat, while the rest of you remain sitting around the lounge area.

"I'm going to feel seasick," Wonwoo says, trying to prepare himself for the ride.

Jeonghan also agrees with Wonwoo, "Me too, I didn't bring any medicine."

Mingyu, who had disappeared earlier, returns to the group, standing in front of you with a small bottle.

"Here," he opens his hand to give you medicine for sea sickness, "I asked the boat crew and they had some."

Everyone stares, except Chan who is busy trying to connect to the Bluetooth speaker. "Oh, thanks," you say, surprised at Mingyu's thoughtfulness.

"Wow, Mingyu, what about us?" Jeonghan teases and you take out a pill before giving the medicine to Jeonghan and Wonwoo.

"There's enough to go around," you roll your eyes, taking the medicine with water, before giving the water to the two.

Your heart warms from the caring gesture, but you don't want it to show.

"It's time to depart," the captain of the boat informs everyone, and Seungkwan and Seokmin return from the front, Seungkwan still frowning.

Chan starts playing a ballad song and everyone starts singing along, especially Seungkwan.

Everyone laughs as your best friend starts to sing loudly as if he wasn't upset over losing his volleyball moments ago, and soon others join in to sing.

"Is that a jellyfish?" Seungkwan questions clutching his volleyball.

Everyone had already hopped into the ocean to swim, so it was only you, Seungkwan, and the boat crew left on the yacht.

You stop placing on the snorkeling equipment, turning over to the ocean surface that he was gazing at.

"Wow, that is a jellyfish. Do you think it's safe?" you ask, before tapping the shoulder of a nice lady who was part of the boat crew.

Earlier, she helped Seungkwan find his missing volleyball. Apparently, after the volleyball rolled out of Seungkwan's tote bag at Port de Marlei, the captain of the boat happened to pick it up and throw it onto the front of the yacht.

When the boat crew members finally realized that Seungkwan was looking for a volleyball, the nice lady went to retrieve it from the front, giving it to a now-happy Seungkwan.

You and Seungkwan had taken a liking to her ever since.

She stopped talking to the other crew workers, eyes following where Seungkwan was pointing.

"That is safe," she explains politely, "Not poisonous."

With a sigh of relief, you decide to hop into the ocean first.

"Did you say piranha?" Is the last thing you hear from Seungkwan, along with the crew laughing at him being gullible from their jokes, before swimming away.

"Water taxi coming through." After snorkeling around, you come up to the surface, still swimming, only to see Soonyoung and Chan sitting on top of a paddle board and using the paddle sticks to move around the ocean.

You watch curiously while Jisoo asks to get on the board, which results in the entire board flipping over.

You shake your head while laughing then go back into swimming in the deep waters.

Jihoon is near you, with snorkeling gear on and exploring the water too. You join him and Junhui to dive deeper.

After about an hour in the water, and many explanations from Seungkwan to others that the jellyfish is safe, you notice Hansol leaving the floatie to hop back on the yacht.

You swim toward the floatie, deciding to tan a bit on top of it.

What you didn't realize, is that swimming had worn you out, resulting in you taking a slight nap.

"Where's Y/n?" Mingyu hears as he climbs back on the yacht.

"She was swimming with Jihoon and Junhui earlier..." Joshua trails off, realizing that Jihoon and Junhui were back on the boat, resting on the chairs with others.

"Wait, actually though, where is she?" Seungcheol and Joshua see Mingyu on alert and realize you are nowhere to be found from the group of people still in the water.

Soonyoung and Seungkwan climb on the yacht to look for you too.

"Is anyone next to Y/n?" Mingyu yells from the yacht to the people in the water, hoping you were just diving for a solid two minutes and someone saw you go under the waters.

"Wait, don't tell me that's her," Joshua points from the edge of the boat to a floatie that seems to get further by the second. "How did she get so far?"

"Oh my god, I think she's napping. Does she have a life jacket on?"

Seungkwan recalls you before the two of you went into the water, "I don't think she does."

"We have to tell the boat crew," Soonyoung says, staring at how you were closer to the rocks than the yacht now.

However, before anyone can get to the captain, Mingyu has a life jacket on, and a spare one in his hand, and jumps into the water.

"Don't tell me he's swimming to her." Seungkwan puts a hand over his mouth in surprise.

Seungcheol shakes his head at Mingyu's actions, a smile still ghosting his lips, "Kim Mingyu, I guess that's what love does to you," He jokes while Soonyoung walks past to still inform the crew.

"Y/n!" You groan, opening your eyes and coming to your senses. There's sunlight directly on your eyes, making you squint your eyes.

"What? Oh my god," You yell, before realizing that you had fallen asleep, on a floatie. You sit up and see that you were far from the yacht.

Among the big gap of water from the boat, you spot someone close and swimming to you.

Mingyu's life jacket prevents him from drowning, and he swims to reach your floatie.

"Mingyu? Why are we so far from the boat?"

"Hey, it's okay, here," he hands you a spare life jacket that he took with him, which makes him thankful to bring because you weren't wearing one.

Mingyu holds onto your floatie while you place the life jacket on.

"So, are we swimming back to the boat or," you smile slightly, feeling embarrassed that this situation happened.

"I think the boat is coming closer, then we can go swim to it," Mingyu explains, watching how your friends had started to leave the ocean waters and a few were staring at all of you from the edge of the boat.

"Thanks," You say quietly, still sitting on top of the floatie. Mingyu remains in the water, running a hand through his hair.

"Be more careful next time, what if Seungcheol and Jisoo didn't realize you went missing? What if something serious happened to you?"

You remain quiet at Mingyu's lecture, staring down at your fingers.

"I'm sorry, I was just so tired that I fell asleep on the floatie." Before Mingyu can answer, you hear the yacht coming closer to you two.

"Guys, swim over now." Jeonghan yells from the edge of the boat.

You laugh at him, before sending Mingyu a smile and swimming back with him.

"The menu looks so cute," Seokmin says loudly, passing on the extra menu pamphlets down the row.

It was time for dinner, at a nearby seafood restaurant.

"I can't read what it says," Junhui says from in front of you, handing Mingyu a menu next to him.

Hansol and Soonyoung sit on either side of you and you receive a menu too.

"What food do you want?" You ask Junhui, trying to read the menu. The menu is filled with Italian, hence why it would be difficult for someone to order.

"I want a lobster with butter," Junhui answers, and you look down the menu for anything that seems to match what he wants.

"I want grilled lobster, too." You say out loud, closing the menu because you can't find the lobster selection on the menu.

"We should just ask," Mingyu suggests, placing his menu down.

"Do you guys have lobster?" Mingyu asks the nice waitress, "Grilled lobster?"

The woman looks confused, answering "We have pasta,"

Hansol, Soonyoung, Junhui, and you burst out laughing at the conversation going on.

"Pasta?" Mingyu repeats what she said, "Yes," the waitress replies.

Mingyu holds out his hands, imitating lobster claws, "No, lobster,"

Again, you and Hansol laugh at his actions, and you realize how determined Mingyu looks to help you and Junhui out.

The waitress seems to understand what Mingyu asks, nodding her head with a smile, "Oh, lobster, okay."

From next to you, Soonyoung decides to joke around, "We are superstar," he adds, "He is popstar,"

You and Hansol stop mid-laugh, trying to shush Soonyoung so that he won't expose the group's identities.

"Grazi" [Thanks] Hansol says when he receives his seafood pasta.

You stare down at the table, as your food hasn't arrived yet, trying to see what your friends ordered.

The waitress places a plate of oysters on the table for your group and Soonyoung immediately digs in to eat.

Eventually, all of your food arrives, including yours and Junhui's grilled lobster with butter, and Seokmin decides to hold a toast.

"Everyone, salute!"

"I'm so full," you hear Seungcheol pat his stomach after walking out of the seafood restaurant. The sky above is a canvas of deep blues and purples, as the sun has just set, casting a glow over the streets of Port di Marlee.

"We should stroll around before going back on the bus," Jeonghan suggests, and everyone agrees.

The group splits into three, all walking down the cobblestone streets which are bathed in the soft light of street lamps. The air is filled with the scent of the sea and distant music from street performers.

As you walk, you find yourself in a group with Mingyu, Jihoon, Junhui, and Joshua. The streets are quieter now with fewer tourists, making the area peaceful.

"I'm kind of craving gelato," Junhui says suddenly, his eyes lighting up at the sight of a small gelato stand up ahead.

"Let's get some," Joshua agrees, leading the way. The stand is quaint, set up on the street with colorful displays of gelato flavors visible through the glass counter. The ground beneath is paved with grey tiles, worn smooth by years of footsteps.

Jihoon, Junhui, and Joshua step up to order first. They chat with the vendor, a man with a thick Italian accent. You and Mingyu take a moment to decide on your flavors.

"What flavor would you like?" The owner asks you and Mingyu after your three friends have ordered their flavors.

"Can we get one mint chocolate and one vanilla?" you order for Mingyu and yourself and the owner nods, starting to scoop all five gelatos.

Mingyu looks at you, surprised. "You remember my favorite flavor?"

You nod with a smile, recalling the past, "Of course, do you not remember how many times we bought mint chocolate ice cream? I lost count."

The three overhear this exchange and share mischievous glances.

As soon as they get their gelato cones first Joshua quickly pays for all five gelatos before the three run laughing down the street, leaving you and Mingyu behind just as the vendor starts scooping your orders.

You and Mingyu exchange amused looks but decide to ignore their antics, waiting patiently for your gelato cones. The man works efficiently, handing over your gelatos.

Mingyu takes the mint chocolate cone and hands you your vanilla one. "Here you go," he says with a smile.

"Thanks," you reply, savoring the creamy sweetness. After a moment, you look at him. "Do you want a bite?"

Mingyu's eyes light up. "Sure," he says, taking a small bite of your vanilla gelato. He then offers his cone to you, and you take a taste of the refreshing mint chocolate.

"Thanks for going out of your way to save me earlier," you say, genuinely grateful.

"It was nothing," Mingyu responds, but there's a softness in his voice. "Really, I couldn't just leave you out there."

"I really appreciate it," you insist, feeling the warmth of the moment. The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, walking side by side down the quiet street.

Mingyu wants to hold your hand but hesitates, remembering that you're not dating anymore. Still, the closeness feels right.

Meanwhile, Jihoon, Joshua, and Junhui catch up with Soonyoung, Seungkwan, Chan, and Wonwoo, who are further up the street, sharing their gelatos and talking animatedly.

"Did you leave them behind?" Seungkwan asks with a grin, noticing that the three were out of breath.

"Yeah, we gave them some space," Jihoon replies, laughing.

"I wonder if they'll get back together," Chan muses, looking back down the street.

"I hope so," Junhui says, taking a big bite of his gelato. "They were so good together."

"I've never seen Mingyu swim that fast," Joshua adds, shaking his head. "The moment Y/n started floating away, he was in the water like a submarine."

The group laughs, their voices blending with the distant music and the gentle lapping of the waves against the port.

As you and Mingyu continue your walk, sharing bites of each other's gelatos and exchanging quiet smiles, you can't help but wonder if he still has feelings for you, too.

8. YOU WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH YOUR EX, AGAIN

"Y/n! Drink up!" Your group of friends roars around you while you close your eyes in defeat.

"I didn't understand the game rules" you whine, but across from you, Soonyoung starts to pour you a shot. "Come on, that was a practice round!"

Nonetheless, the filled shot glass is placed in front of you on the wooden table.

It was the last night of the vacation and the group stayed in during the morning to pack their luggage for tomorrow's afternoon flight. Now, it was time for the traditional drinking night.

You take a deep breath, picking up the shot glass, preparing yourself to drink for the nth time tonight.

"Wait," a hand reaches out to grab the shot glass out of your grasp.

"Woah, is Kim Mingyu drinking for Y/n?" Seungcheol yells from the edge of the table. He and Seokmin get up from their seats to clap in excitement.

Without a reply, Mingyu gulps down the shot, finishing off with a big grin. You stare in shock at Mingyu, ignoring the choruses of teasing from your friends.

Mingyu smiles, feeling satisfied. "For her? Anytime."

"Simp," Jeonghan comments beside you, clapping his hands at the unexpected action.

"Okay, time for Joshua’s favorite game, game start!" Chan sings, moving on to another game.

Thankfully, the next game was one you were good at, so this time Jihoon lost.

"Okay, since you lost," Seungkwan points across to the Bluetooth karaoke machine placed in the backyard of the villa. "Sing us a song, please."

Jihoon laughs. "Any requests?" He stands up from his seat and makes his way to grab the microphone.

Seokmin yells from his spot, "Can you sing 'Circles' please?"

Seungkwan nods, although Jihoon is busy turning on the machine and finding the song. "Yes, karaoke break!"

Everyone turns their head to watch Jihoon sing, and soon Seungkwan and Seokmin have joined Jihoon, all singing perfectly despite their drunk states.

"I'm going to go grab a glass of water," you announce to the table, rising to head inside the kitchen.

You have to admit, looking for a glass cup, or any new cup for that matter, is quite a quest, as it is placed in a random cabinet.

You hear a new voice while sliding the backdoor closed; it's Mingyu and Wonwoo singing "To You," and some of your friends recording the duo. You stand still in front of the sliding doors, deciding to quietly admire Mingyu's vocals.

"그대에게 그대에게 전해주고 싶은 이야기 그대에게 그대에게 말하고 싶어 이렇게 더 Oh, 소용돌이치는 바람 속에 영원한 사랑이 있다면 그건 당신이겠죠"

[In a swirling day You've given me a piece of happiness You've placed all of the smiles in the world in my hands So even if I run out of breath on a steep road Even when I lose my path during a cold day We're still holding hands with warmth]

You sober up, feeling as if someone had poured a bucket of ice over your head. The shock on your face isn't because the vocals are incredible while drunk; it's because Mingyu stared at you the entire time while singing.

"Wow, I caught that on video!" Minghao happily shares from the table.

He stares at his phone. "Wow, Mingyu, you're great at singing without the lyrics." He laughs but everyone else is silent, gazing between you and Mingyu.

"Um, I'm going to head to bed. We have a long flight tomorrow." You don't meet Mingyu's eyes and quickly walk by to grab your phone to go to bed.

The others break the awkward moment, complimenting the two before deciding to stop drinking and start a karaoke session instead.

"Who wants to sing with me?" Chan's question is the last thing you hear while you go upstairs.

You let out a breath, closing your eyes when you make it inside your room.

"So, what's your favorite song so far?" Mingyu asks, sitting next to you on the couch.

You were watching Mingyu record in Jihoon's studio for the new album, Attacca, since Mingyu had told you that there were great tracks for this comeback.

Your eyes light up, staring up at your boyfriend. "Definitely, 'To You'. I love the message of the song. It feels like someone singing to their lover."

Mingyu chuckles, staring at you in awe. "I'll always imagine I'm talking to you when I sing my lyrics," he admits before pressing a kiss on your forehead.

You smile widely. "I'm your person?"

Mingyu reaches out to hold you. "Yes, and you've placed all of the smiles in the world in my hands."

"Hey," Seungkwan opens your door, walks into your room, and sits on the edge of your bed.

"How do you feel?"

You place your head in your hands. "Seungkwan, it just hurts, you know? I came here and was reminded of my past relationship, but in reality, after the vacation ends, Mingyu and I will go back to being strangers."

Seungkwan frowns. He was internally thankful that the two of you didn't drink that much tonight.

"Would you consider confessing to him again?"

You stare at Seungkwan wide-eyed. "No! I can't. I think it's best if we leave whatever happened here, here. If we were to get back together, we may break up because of the same reason."

You wanted to give Mingyu and your relationship another try but remind yourself that Seventeen will have another comeback after this trip, and the reason you broke up with Mingyu was because he stopped putting in the effort, so you didn't want to go through that again.

"I don't know what to do," you feel overwhelmed, tears welling up in your eyes. Seungkwan grabs a box of napkins from the bathroom counter and walks back to you, sitting closer.

"I just don't want to be hurt again, Seungkwan."

Seungkwan sighs while handing you napkins. "Listen, I really want you to talk to him. But if you don't want to, we can always just go back home tonight."

You take a shaky breath. "Tonight?"

Seungkwan shrugs. "You packed, right? We're both pretty sober, so let's tell Jeonghan and buy some tickets back home. You don't have to see him if you can't face him right now."

You nod slowly. "I think that's what I need. I know I'm running from this, but I really don't know how to act in front of him anymore. I want to get back together so bad, but at the same time I know our relationship won't work out."

Seungkwan understands. "Okay, I'll tell Jeonghan. You book the tickets right now. We can call a cab and go back to the airport."

Seungkwan gives you comforting pats on the back. "Just promise me, in the future, if Mingyu were to ever try and make it work, you will accept it."

You stare up at Seungkwan, laughing while tears roll down your cheeks. "Oh, Seungkwan, I know he won't... He's too busy to make the effort, but it was great to spend time with him again."

Seungkwan shakes his head. "No, promise me."

You nod. "Okay, I promise. Now go tell Jeonghan while I book us tickets."

Seungkwan gives you a supportive squeeze on your shoulder before heading out to find Jeonghan, leaving you alone with your thoughts as you quickly search for flights on your phone.

It was déjà vu.

"Please, Y/n, okay this time Mingyu's there, obviously, but can you please come?" Soonyoung begs with pleading eyes.

His voice is loud enough for nearby tables to stare at, so you shush him to lower his voice.

"I agree," Seungkwan says, assembling rice on lettuce. "You haven't attended our concerts in so long!"

"It's our first concert for the tour after our comeback!" Seokmin adds. "Don't you want to support your best friends?"

You shake your head at their eagerness. "God, this is peer pressure."

"You're coming, and it's final," Seungkwan concludes, waving you off so you agree.

"Fine, one concert." You decide it couldn't hurt.

"But," you raise your finger, "I don't want anyone to know I'm there, especially Mingyu."

Seokmin looks at you confused. "Why Mingyu?"

You didn't want to admit that you couldn't face Mingyu. Since the vacation, your buried feelings had opened up, but you knew everything would return to the way it was after the trip.

It was too much to expect anything to change after a week.

"To be honest, I hoped something would happen for you and Mingyu after the vacation," Soonyoung says. "I haven't seen him be himself, cheerful, until I saw him on the vacation, always smiling when he was near you."

You grow annoyed. "Guys, it's not that simple. We broke up because he was too busy and we both stopped putting in the effort. What changed?"

"He's changed. You know, eight months is enough for someone to change," Soonyoung insists.

Seokmin stares between you and Soonyoung, making sure he's not stepping over any boundaries. "We watched you both after the breakup. But we can assure you Mingyu's changed. Just talk to him once about it, instead of thinking of the 'what ifs'. That's all we ask."

Soonyoung takes your shot glass from your hold, gulping that down, too.

Later, Seokmin and Soonyoung excuse themselves to the bathroom, leaving you and Seungkwan at the table.

Seungkwan turns to you, his voice gentle. "Y/n, you owe me one, remember?"

You nod, curious about what he wants.

"Come to our concert," he says softly. "I know it's hard, but you owe me, and I think it will help."

"Seungkwan, I don't know if I can face Mingyu, not when I know I'm still in love with him," you admit.

"I know, but I also know that if you show up, Mingyu will try to make things right between you two. Just think about it, okay?"

You take a deep breath, contemplating his words. When Soonyoung and Seokmin return to the table, you make your decision.

"Fine, I'll go," you say, looking at them. "But I'm going to support you guys, not for Mingyu."

"Here's the VIP pass, by the way," Soonyoung pulls out a single pass from Seungkwan's bag pocket, sliding it across the table.

"How did you even know I would agree?"

9. YOUR EX IS STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU, TOO

The concert was about to start and you were heading to the VIP seats with Seungcheol because he wasn't performing due to his injury. Seungcheol was walking with you, chatting about the upcoming performance.

Suddenly, Mingyu runs over from behind, yelling your name, a look of urgency on his face.

"Y/n, can we talk for a moment?" he asks, breathless.

Seungcheol nods, understanding the situation. "Go ahead, Y/n. We'll catch up later."

Mingyu takes your hand and leads you to a quieter area down the hallway.

"Y/n, you left the vacation early before I had a chance to talk to you on the last day," he begins, his voice trembling slightly. "I've been thinking a lot lately, and I realized how much I miss you. I miss us.”

Your heart skips a beat as you listen to his words.

"Mingyu, how will we work? You’re still so busy…" you start, remembering the reason the two of you broke up in the past.

"Please, Y/n, I will change, I have, and I will put in more effort into our relationship," he pleads, his eyes searching yours.

You feel a rush of emotions flood over you, memories of your time together flashing through your mind.

"I don't know, Mingyu," you say softly, torn between your heart and your head.

Mingyu takes a step closer to you, his gaze intense. "I understand if you need time to think about it. But just know that I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

Before you can respond, Mingyu presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

"I have to go," he says reluctantly, pulling away. "The concert is starting soon. But I'll talk to you after, okay?"

You nod, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside you.

Mingyu gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go and heading off towards the stage.

As the concert approached its climax, the energy in the arena surged, filling the air with excitement and anticipation.

You stood beside Seungcheol in the VIP section, caught up in the electrifying atmosphere of the event. The pounding bass reverberated through the stadium, matching the rhythm of your racing heart.

But amidst the exhilaration of the concert, your mind drifted back to the hallway encounter with Mingyu. His heartfelt confession lingered in your thoughts, leaving you torn between the past and the present.

"Y/n," Seungcheol suddenly begins, "I wasn’t going to interfere but after seeing two of my close friends hurting, I need to tell you something."

Your eyes stay on him, waiting for his next words.

Taking a deep breath, Seungcheol continues, "After the breakup, I saw Mingyu at his lowest point. He wasn't himself during our comeback, but in Italy, he was different. Happier. And... I was the one who told him that you were coming. He dropped the fashion show, even though it wasn't canceled, and told Jeonghan to book his ticket."

“He did that for me?” You ask, and Seungcheol nods, staring down at his twelve friends on stage.

"Y/n," You suddenly hear from the stage, it is Mingyu's voice. The crowd quiets down, sensing the situation.

"Will you come back to me now?"

The question hangs in the air, suspend between you and Mingyu as the stadium erupts into cheers.

The jumbotron focuses on you and Seungcheol, trying to capture your answer to his question.

At that moment, surrounded by the energy of the crowd and the pulsing rhythm of the music, you knew what your answer was.

With a nod and a resounding "Yes!" that echoed through the arena, you made your decision.

As the notes for 'Aju Nice' fill the air, you feel a sense of happiness wash over you, knowing that you are finally back with Mingyu again.

The crowd erupted into cheers once more, their excitement echoing off the walls of the stadium.

Seungcheol is beside you, a knowing look in his eyes.

"I knew you two would eventually find your way back together," he says with a smile, both of you staring at Mingyu who jumps around with Seungkwan, Soonyoung, and Seokmin on the stage happily.

As you settle into your seat, surrounded by the sounds of the crowd and the anticipation of the performance, you can't help but wonder what would have happened if Mingyu had never gone to Italy. But for now, you're content to enjoy the music and the company of your friends, knowing that you have Mingyu, again.

10. YOU WILL GO BACK TO YOUR EX

new title: ten reasons to avoid go to italy.

© MINGYUSCOFFEE. All rights reserved. This work is original and may not be copied, reposted, or distributed on any platform without explicit written permission.

taglist @christinewithluv @kokoiinuts @kimingyuslover @hobiiimingyu @gyuwoosbabie @btsvt-bar @hyuckcrush @junniesoleilkth @gaslysainz @callmemadhatter @tootheiass @softrnjn @chaoticstrawberryland @1010-oclock @writingbarnes @roguesthetic @tacosandbitch @minmangyu @iarayara @chaoticqueen18 @chuuubornpink @lolawlolawlol @ziyaexe @jaaannaaaaa @rarawrwonulover @kars-in-space13 @weirdoome @playgirlfabi

[wonluhver]

OFF THE GRID… ✦ only the beach waves know what you almost did that night [1.4k followers special]

˗ˏˋ 12.1k ˎˊ˗ — word count. ୨୧ 𓈒𓂂 ˖ beach ✧ sunburnt feelings ✧ lingering stares ✧

pairings ༉‧₊˚ bf!choi seungcheol ꒰ best friend!cheol ꒱ × fem!reader tropes ✿ best friends to lovers · tropical vacation · shared bed · jealousy (her) · slow burn · 16+ tension (no sex) · cuddles · angst · emotional confession · soft boy possessiveness · shirtless!cheol supremacy

warnings ୨୧ 16+ content, heavy physical tension, suggestive touching, shirtless cuddling, mutual pining, emotional vulnerability, mentions of a toxic ex, angst, crying, jealousy, grinding, neck touching, hands wandering, insomnia due to feelings, no smut, i have a feeling i missed smth

synopsis ✧ there’s a reason you never crossed that line— because once you do, there's no going back. ⠀ what was supposed to be a peaceful getaway turns into everything you weren’t ready to feel: sweaty tension under a shared blanket, almost-kisses in moonlight, and the way he touches you like he’s forgotten how to be just your best friend. ⠀ he told you he wanted peace. you didn’t realize he meant you.

author’s note ⊹ this one is sweaty, soft, and just a little bit stupid. i wanted to bottle that feeling of "are we really just friends?" and stretch it out until you’re screaming. if you like tension that never gives, jealousy that hurts, and hands lingering a little too long — this one’s for you.

REQUEST ARE OPEN!!

For years, you and Seungcheol had operated under the unspoken, yet rigidly enforced, rule of "just friends." You were the kind of best friends who shared too much, touched too often, and flirted shamelessly, but always with that invisible, unbreakable barrier keeping things strictly platonic. Or so you told yourselves. Your hands would brush, linger, and pull away. Your jokes would skirt the edge of something more, then snap back into comfortable banter. It was a dance you knew by heart, a familiar rhythm that kept you close but safe. You'd perfected the art of casual intimacy, the kind that convinced everyone else – and sometimes even yourselves – that there was nothing more to see here.

That dance, however, felt particularly fragile after your latest toxic situationship imploded, leaving you feeling hollowed out and raw. You were wallowing, nursing a bruised ego and an even more bruised heart, when Seungcheol called. His voice, usually so steady and confident, had a subtle tremor that told you he was burning out. He'd been working himself ragged, the stress evident even over the phone. "You know what we need?" he'd declared, cutting through your self-pity with his characteristic directness. "An escape. A proper, off-the-grid island getaway. Just us. Recharge and reset."

The idea, so sudden and yet so perfectly Seungcheol, was like a cool splash of water on a fevered brow. A few days later, you were booking flights, a spontaneous decision fueled by your heartbreak and his undeniable exhaustion. He found a gorgeous one-bedroom villa – beachfront, private, idyllic. It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

"Only one bed, huh?" you'd teased, trying for lightheartedness, a practiced smirk on your face. "Guess we'll have to share." The words felt easy, familiar, but your stomach did a clumsy, surprising flip, a secret reaction you quickly squashed down. You told yourself it was just the excitement of the trip, the novelty of it all. He just chuckled, a deep, warm sound that did nothing to settle your nerves. "Yeah, well, you snooze, you lose, right?" he'd shot back, his eyes twinkling. It was all so normal, so you two, and yet, something felt subtly, irrevocably different.

The journey itself was a blur of chatter and comfortable silence. You talked about work, about your recent breakup (or, more accurately, you vented, and he listened, offering quiet support and the occasional, perfectly timed sarcastic jab that made you laugh despite yourself). He played your favorite songs as you drove from the airport to the villa, singing along off-key just to annoy you. It was pure Seungcheol – your rock, your confidant, your oldest friend and the bestest one you could ever ask for.

Arriving at the villa, the air was thick with the scent of salt, hibiscus, and something else entirely – a quiet, electric hum that wasn't quite tension, but not quite relaxation either. The main room was open-plan, leading directly onto a veranda overlooking the turquoise ocean. And right in the center, a massive, inviting king-sized bed. It seemed to dominate the space, a silent third party to your carefully constructed friendship.

"Alright, pick your side," Seungcheol had announced, tossing his duffel bag onto the foot of the bed. You’d chosen the side closest to the window, claiming the view. He’d just grinned, taking the other. You unpacked quickly, trying to ignore the way your eyes kept drifting to the shared sleeping arrangement.

As dusk settled, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, you found yourselves on the veranda, sipping cold drinks, listening to the gentle lapping of waves. The conversation flowed easily, tales of childhood mischief mixing with recent work dramas. It felt good, familiar, safe. This was exactly what you needed. Just friends, unwinding.

Later, after a simple dinner and a couple more drinks that loosened your limbs and tongues, you both retreated indoors. The soft glow of bedside lamps cast long shadows across the room. You changed into your sleep clothes in the bathroom, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and nerves. When you emerged, Seungcheol was already in bed, propped up against the pillows, scrolling on his phone. He glanced up, offering a tired but warm smile.

You climbed in carefully, creating a chasm of sheets that, despite the vastness of the bed, felt surprisingly small. You lay back to back, the cool sheets a thin barrier between you. But the mattress dipped slightly where he lay, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, just inches from yours. Your shoulders brushed his, a small, innocent contact that felt anything but. Every nerve ending in your back seemed to be screaming an alert, hyper-aware of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing. The ocean outside whispered secrets you couldn't quite decipher, and the distant calls of night birds felt like a soundtrack to your racing thoughts.

You must have drifted, a light, restless sleep barely skimming the surface of your consciousness. Because the next thing you knew, a warm, heavy weight draped across your waist. Seungcheol had rolled over in his sleep, his arm settling naturally around you, pulling you closer. Your back was pressed flush against his front, and his breath, soft and even, ghosted across your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You froze, every muscle in your body locking up. Your mind raced, screaming at you to move, to break the contact, to preserve the sanctity of "just friends." But your body refused to obey. You could feel the steady beat of his heart through his arm, a rhythm that was now inexplicably syncing with your own frantic pulse. The air between you, once comfortable and easy, now crackled with an undeniable energy. The scent of him – clean laundry, faint cologne, and something uniquely him – filled your senses.

You lay there for what felt like an eternity, rigid and awake, while he slept on, blissfully unaware of the havoc he was wreaking. Every instinct screamed at you to pull away, but another, far deeper part of you, the part you rarely acknowledged, yearned to lean back into the warmth, to melt into his embrace. The 'just friends' rule suddenly felt like a flimsy excuse, a paper-thin wall against a rising tide.

Sleep didn't come. Your heart, it seemed, had forgotten how to, too. It throbbed a frantic, uncertain rhythm, a stark counterpoint to the quiet, steady beat of his. You closed your eyes, but the darkness offered no escape from the undeniable truth slowly dawning in your chest: this trip, this shared bed, this casual touch… it was already changing everything.

The insistent, melodic trill of exotic birds outside finally pulled you from your restless, half-sleep. It wasn't the harsh squawk of city pigeons or the monotonous hum of traffic, but a sweet, vibrant chorus that felt utterly alien and utterly perfect. Sunlight, impossibly bright and golden, streamed through the sheer curtains, painting stripes across the pristine white sheets. For a blissful second, you were just here, wherever 'here' was, free from the crushing weight of your last relationship and the gnawing anxiety of everyday life.

Then, the weight around your waist, the soft, rhythmic breathing on your neck, jolted you fully awake. Seungcheol’s arm was still draped over you, warm and heavy, his body a solid, comforting, and utterly terrifying presence pressed against your back. Your breath hitched. Your heart, which had just begun to slow, picked up an anxious flutter again, a hummingbird trapped in your ribs. This wasn't just a sleepy shift, you realized. This was a deliberate, intimate cuddle, even if he was still lost in the depths of slumber. Every nerve ending sang with an awareness of him – the subtle scent of his skin, the gentle rumble of his breathing, the undeniable heat radiating from his side.

Carefully, painstakingly, you began to disentangle yourself. It felt like defusing a bomb, each tiny movement a risk. Don't wake him. Don't make it awkward. Just… slide away. You slid his arm back onto his side of the bed, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, holding your breath until your lungs burned. He stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips, and your heart leaped into your throat. You braced for him to open his eyes, to catch you mid-escape, but thankfully, he just settled back down, his breathing deepening. You slipped out from under the covers, tiptoeing to the bathroom with a silent, fervent prayer of relief. The cool tile beneath your feet was a welcome shock after the warmth of the bed.

After a quick, almost frantic, shower, you dressed in your swimsuit – a simple, dark one-piece – and emerged to find the bed empty. A damp towel lay crumpled on Seungcheol’s side, and the faint, fresh scent of his shower gel lingered in the air, oddly comforting. A pang of something you couldn't quite name – disappointment at his absence mixed with a profound sense of relief that you hadn’t had to face him right then – went through you. You felt a little like you’d dodged a bullet, but also, surprisingly, a little bit cold.

You found him outside, and the sight immediately stole the breath from your lungs. He was standing at the edge of the private plunge pool, shirtless, his swim trunks riding low on his hips. The morning light caught the slight sheen of water on his tanned skin, highlighting the lean, understated strength of his frame. His hair was slicked back, dripping wet, water still clinging to his eyelashes and tracing rivulets down his neck and shoulders. He looked utterly relaxed, a stark contrast to the stressed-out workaholic who’d boarded the plane with you just yesterday. This version of Seungcheol, with his sun-kissed skin and easy confidence, was… dangerous. He was no longer just the comfortable best friend from your everyday life. This version was a whole new level of attractive, an almost primal appeal you weren't prepared to confront.

You must have been staring, openly, unashamedly, because he turned, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face. His eyes, crinkling at the corners from the bright sun and genuine happiness, met yours.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said, his voice a low rumble, richer and deeper than usual, as if the ocean air had smoothed out any lingering stress. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence, huh?" Then, his eyes narrowed playfully, a hint of something else sparkling within them. "See something you like?"

He was teasing, you knew that, the familiar Seungcheol banter you’d grown up with. But there was an undertone in his voice, a deeper resonance that made your stomach clench. Your cheeks heated instantly. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck.

"Just admiring the view," you retorted, trying to sound breezy, trying to inject enough sarcasm to mask your sudden shyness. You gestured vaguely at the shimmering ocean behind him. "Couldn't tell where the horizon ended and your abs began."

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that made the birds momentarily hush. It was a sound that always made you smile, a deep, full-bellied laugh that started in his chest. "Smooth, real smooth. Come on in, the water's perfect. Best way to wake up, trust me." He extended a hand towards the pool, inviting you in.

You shook your head, still trying to compose yourself, trying to shake off the effect his shirtless presence had on you. "Nah, I'm good. Need coffee first. And maybe an hour to adjust to this level of… brightness." You gestured vaguely at his gleaming, wet chest, trying to make it a joke. It barely sounded like one to your own ears.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, a considering look in his eyes that felt too intense for just friends. You felt like he was seeing right through your feigned nonchalance, past the easy banter, right into the confused flutter of your heart. "Sure. I'll get you a cup," he said finally, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before meeting your eyes again. "Make yourself at home." He disappeared into the villa, and you took a long, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. Get it together, you chastised yourself. He’s your best friend. He’s always been handsome. This is just the vacation air getting to you, the lack of sleep, the… everything.

After a much-needed cup of coffee – which Seungcheol had thoughtfully prepared just the way you liked it – you decided to explore the rocky coastline near the villa. Seungcheol, ever the adventurous one, insisted on leading the way, bounding over rocks with an almost childlike enthusiasm. "Come on, slowpoke! There's a cool tide pool just around this bend!"

The rocks were smooth and dark, slick with sea spray in places, and you were laughing about some ridiculous incident from your university days, a story about a botched science experiment that involved a lot of smoke and a very angry professor. You were mid-sentence, gesturing wildly, when your foot slipped on a particularly wet patch, hidden beneath a thin layer of seaweed.

You yelped, arms flailing, bracing for an embarrassing, probably painful fall onto the sharp, uneven rock. Before you could hit, Seungcheol was there. His hands shot out, gripping your hips firmly, steadying you with an almost instantaneous reaction. His fingers dug in just enough to anchor you, preventing the fall, and the unexpected strength of his grip, the warmth of his palms through your thin swimsuit, sent a jolt right through you. You were acutely aware of how close he was, the faint scent of salt and his sun-warmed skin filling your nostrils.

"Whoa there, careful," he murmured, his voice close to your ear, a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "Almost took a dive. You okay?"

You nodded, your voice a little breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Thanks. You, uh, you caught me." You tried to pull away, but his hands remained, a comforting, yet thrilling, weight on your hips. He didn't release you until you were completely steady, his eyes searching yours for any lingering sign of distress, concern etched on his face. The brief touch felt like it had stretched into an eternity, leaving a tingling sensation long after his hands finally left your skin.

Just as you managed to regain your composure, to pretend that moment hadn't completely thrown your equilibrium, your phone vibrated insistently in your pocket. You pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Your breath hitched. Your stomach twisted into a painful knot. It was your ex. Mark. The name glared back at you, cold and unwelcome. You hadn't heard from him since the messy, confusing breakup weeks ago. Why now?

You quickly silenced the call, your thumb hovering over the delete button, a flicker of panic in your chest. You turned your back slightly to Seungcheol, trying to shield the screen from his view. "Everything alright?" he asked, his voice sharp with a hint of suspicion. You could feel his gaze on you, probing.

"Yeah, just… spam," you mumbled, the lie feeling flimsy and transparent even to your own ears. You shoved the phone back into your pocket before he could see the caller ID, but the quick movement, the sudden evasiveness, hadn't gone unnoticed. You felt his gaze on your back, heavy and questioning, but he didn't press it. The air between you, which had just been lightened by the shared laugh and the near-fall, thickened again with unspoken tension.

The rest of the day passed in a pleasant haze of swimming in the clear, warm ocean, reading on the veranda, and more easy conversation. Yet, that brief, unsettling moment with your phone, and the way Seungcheol’s gaze had sharpened, clung to the back of your mind like a persistent burr. You found yourself subconsciously avoiding the topic of your ex, skirting around any mention of your life before this trip. You felt a new, unfamiliar layer of guardedness settling over you.

As night fell, a gentle, tropical rain began to patter on the villa roof, creating a soothing melody that lulled the island to sleep. You were both curled up on the large sofa in the living area, a movie playing softly on the screen. The day's activities, combined with the rhythmic sound of the rain, slowly started to lull you into a heavy drowsiness. Without realizing it, your head drooped, your eyelids growing heavy, the exhaustion of your sleepless night catching up.

The next thing you knew, you were waking up, truly waking up this time, to the soft glow of the television and the undeniable warmth of a body next to yours. You were no longer just on the sofa; you were nestled against Seungcheol. Your head was comfortably tucked into the crook of his shoulder, his arm was wrapped loosely around you, and your ear was pressed against his chest. You could hear it, clear as day, a strong, steady thump-thump, thump-thump. And it was fast. Not frantic, but definitely faster than a resting heartbeat should be. Your mind, still hazy from sleep, tried to make sense of it. Was he cold? Was he having a bad dream? Was he… excited about the movie? The excuses felt hollow, even to you.

Your fingers, nestled against his chest, felt the subtle vibration of his breathing, the warmth radiating from him, the solidness of his muscles beneath your cheek. You longed to ask, to break the comfortable silence and query the frantic rhythm of his heart, to understand what caused it. But a strange, potent fear held you back. Fear of what the answer might be. Fear of what it might mean if his heart was racing because of you. You stayed perfectly still, feigning sleep, listening to that wild beat beneath your ear, your own heart echoing its frantic pace, far too afraid to ask why. And as you listened, you realized that the soft rain outside wasn't the only sound filling the villa. It was the increasingly loud, undeniable beat of a truth you were desperately trying to ignore.

--

The next morning dawned with a relentless sun, burning away any lingering mist from the night’s rain. You woke feeling surprisingly refreshed, the confusing tangle of the previous night’s closeness pushed to the back of your mind by the sheer brightness of the day. Seungcheol was already up, clattering around in the kitchen. When you emerged, he was whistling, flipping pancakes with an almost professional flourish.

"Morning, stranger," he chirped, setting a plate piled high with golden pancakes in front of you. "Slept well?" His eyes, bright and unreadable, met yours, and for a fleeting second, you wondered if he remembered draping his arm over you, if he'd felt your heart hammering against his chest. You quickly averted your gaze, focusing intently on drizzling syrup.

"Like a log," you lied, hoping your cheeks didn’t betray the heat rising in them. "The rain helped."

He just chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Good. Because I've got a surprise for you." He gestured towards a neatly tied mesh bag by the door, and inside, you could make out the unmistakable orange of a basketball. "There's a court down the road, part of the resort. We're getting some shots up."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? On vacation? Cheol, I haven't played basketball since high school gym class."

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Exactly! Time to relive the glory days. Besides," he winked, "you owe me. I made breakfast."

You tried to protest, but Seungcheol was notoriously persistent when he had an idea. Ten minutes later, you found yourself walking down a sandy path, the warm concrete of a half-court shimmering in the distance. The court was surprisingly well-maintained, nestled amongst palm trees, the ocean visible through a gap in the foliage.

"Alright, princess, first one to twenty wins," he declared, bouncing the ball with an easy grace that made you feel acutely aware of your own rusty skills. He dribbled around you, feinting left, then right, effortlessly sinking a lay-up. "Still got it."

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. "Show-off. Okay, fine. But no mercy."

The game quickly devolved into less a serious match and more a chaotic, breathless flirt war. You were rusty, sure, but the competitive fire ignited something playful between you. You'd duck under his arm, snatch the ball, and make a clumsy dash for the hoop. He’d laugh, long and genuine, then be right on your heels, his shadow looming large over you.

"No fouling, Cheol!" you gasped, winded, as he managed to box you out, his broad back pressing against your front.

"What, this?" he teased, his voice vibrating through you. "I'm just playing defense. Close defense."

You elbowed him lightly. "Yeah, too close!"

He stole the ball from you mid-dribble, effortlessly spinning it on his finger before passing it back. "You’re off your game today. Need some pointers?" His eyes twinkled.

"I’m just warming up, don't worry," you retorted, though you knew it was a losing battle. You took a shot, your aim completely off, sending the ball bouncing off the rim. You groaned in frustration.

"Here, let me help you with that form," he said, stepping behind you. Before you could react, he pressed himself flush against your back, his chest against yours, his thighs brushing the back of your legs. Your breath caught. His arms came around you, reaching for yours, his palms sliding along your arms until his fingers intertwined with yours around the ball. You were hyper-aware of everything: the heat of his body, the faint scent of sweat and sunscreen, the rough texture of his swim shorts against your skin. His voice, now a low, husky whisper, was right by your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"Relax, princess," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your inner forearm, a feather-light touch that sent goosebumps blooming across your skin. "Let me take care of you. You gotta follow through, like this." He guided your arms, his body moving with yours, a single, fluid motion that felt electrifyingly intimate. The ball swished through the net.

You pulled away abruptly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Okay, okay, I got it. Thanks, Coach." Your voice sounded far too shaky, even to your own ears.

He just chuckled, a knowing glint in his eyes, but didn't comment on your sudden retreat. The tension between you, though, was suddenly palpable, humming beneath the surface of the game.

Later, cooling off with drinks at the resort’s small beach bar, the easy camaraderie returned. But it was fleeting. A few tables over, a girl with long, dark hair and an infectious laugh caught Seungcheol’s eye. She was clearly a tourist, her skin glowing with a fresh tan, and she was undeniably pretty. Seungcheol, ever the charmer, exchanged a friendly smile and a brief nod with her. No big deal, right? Just being polite.

But then, she caught his eye again, a little too quickly, and this time she offered a wider, more inviting smile. Seungcheol returned it, and a polite, brief exchange of words followed – something about the great weather, a shared laugh. You smiled politely too, a fixed, slightly brittle expression on your face. Inside, though, you felt a cold, sharp stab in your chest. It was irrational, ridiculous. He was just being friendly. But the ice spread, a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the cool breeze coming off the ocean.

You watched them for a few more seconds, the easy way she tossed her hair back, the way her gaze lingered on him. A knot tightened in your stomach. She's definitely flirting with him. And he was… well, he was being Seungcheol. Polite, charming, completely oblivious to the sudden chill radiating from your side of the table.

When she finally turned away, you felt a disproportionate sense of relief. You took a long, exaggerated gulp of your drink.

"She seemed nice," Seungcheol commented, completely oblivious to your internal turmoil. "Cute, too."

You bristled, an unexpected sharpness in your tone. "Oh, really? You think so? Just 'nice'?"

He looked at you, surprised by your sudden bite. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Yeah, I mean… she seemed friendly. Why? What's wrong?"

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but your jaw was tight. "Nothing. Just commenting. You're very observant today."

He leaned back in his chair, studying you, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You know, you get this particular wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're trying to hide something." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "Are you jealous?"

The question hit you like a splash of cold water. Your heart leaped into your throat. "Jealous? Of what? Don't be ridiculous, Cheol. We’re literally on vacation. And she's… she's just some random tourist." You heard the defensive edge in your voice, hated it, but couldn't seem to stop it.

He chuckled, a low, soft sound that did nothing to soothe your ruffled feathers. His expression, though, wasn't amused. It was something else – something unreadable, but definitely not convinced by your denial. It was a look that said, I see you. I see exactly what's happening here. He just took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence hang heavy between you, charged with the unspoken truth of your denial. You suddenly felt very exposed, and very, very frustrated. With him, with her, and most of all, with yourself.

--

The next day unfolded under a sky so intensely blue it almost hurt your eyes. The air hummed with the gentle thrum of island life, a stark contrast to the buzzing confusion in your head after yesterday’s basketball court skirmish and that infuriatingly knowing look from Seungcheol. You tried to brush it off, to tell yourself his "Are you jealous?" was just a tease, but the sharp sting in your chest when that tourist girl had flirted with him was undeniable. And worse, he knew.

You found Seungcheol already on the beach when you ventured out, setting up a couple of lounge chairs under a wide, thatched umbrella. He looked unfairly good, relaxed in swim shorts and a loose, unbuttoned linen shirt that billowed slightly in the breeze, revealing tantalizing glimpses of his chest. He caught your eye and offered a casual wave, as if nothing had happened yesterday. His nonchalance almost infuriated you.

"Morning, feeling less murderous today?" he asked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as you settled into the chair next to him.

You narrowed your eyes. "I wasn't murderous. Just… competitive. And you were annoying."

He chuckled, stretching his arms above his head, his muscles flexing. "Right. And I'm sure that look you gave that poor girl yesterday was pure 'competition.'"

You bristled. "She was practically draped all over you! And anyway, what's it to you? You're just my best friend, remember?" The words felt harsher than you intended, a desperate attempt to re-establish the boundary you felt slipping away.

His smile faded, replaced by a strangely intense gaze. "Right," he echoed, but his voice was low, laced with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher. He turned away, picking up a bottle of sunscreen. "Want some?"

The sudden shift in atmosphere was jarring. You nodded, feeling a strange mix of regret for your sharp words and a defiant refusal to back down. He poured a generous amount into his palm, then started rubbing it onto his own shoulders. You watched the play of muscles under his skin, the smooth, powerful movements of his hands, and suddenly felt a fresh wave of heat.

"My back too?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, pushing the boundary back just a little, unable to resist.

He paused, then slowly turned. His eyes met yours, a silent question passing between you. He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of his head. You turned, pulling down the straps of your swimsuit to expose your back. You felt the cool smear of sunscreen first, then the warm, firm pressure of his hands as they began to rub it in. His touch was deliberate, slow, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder blades, his thumbs pressing gently into the small of your back. Every brush of his skin against yours sent a shiver through you. It was far too intimate for 'just friends'.

"You're tense," he murmured, his voice a low hum against the backdrop of the waves. His thumbs worked circles into your tense muscles, dangerously close to the sides of your waist. You bit your lip to suppress a gasp. The line between platonic comfort and something entirely different was not just blurring; it was dissolving under his hands.

When he finally pulled away, your skin tingled, and you felt oddly exposed, despite being fully covered by your swimsuit. You didn't dare meet his eyes.

The afternoon rolled into evening, the golden light softening as you found yourselves at a quaint little beachside bar. You were under the same umbrella you’d claimed earlier, now strung with fairy lights, creating a cozy, almost magical ambiance. Cocktails, vibrant and fruity, arrived, their clinking ice a cool counterpoint to the growing heat between you two.

You were halfway through your second drink, laughing at one of his ridiculously bad puns, when a drop of condensation ran down the side of your glass and onto your lip. Without thinking, Seungcheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping the moisture away. His touch was feather-light, barely there, but his thumb didn't pull away immediately. It lingered, brushing softly against your bottom lip, tracing its curve. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then slowly, deliberately, lifted to meet your eyes.

The air thickened, crackling with unspoken words. The soft music from the bar, the gentle lapping of the waves, all faded into a distant hum. All that existed was the warmth of his thumb on your lip, the intensity of his stare, and the sudden, overwhelming awareness of his proximity. Your heart hammered, a frantic drum against your ribs.

"What are you doing?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His thumb slowly, reluctantly, pulled away. He leaned back slightly, but his eyes never left yours. "Nothing," he murmured, though his expression said otherwise. "Just… wiping your lip."

The flirt-off, already a staple of your dynamic, escalated. "Why do you look at me like that, Cheol?" you challenged, the alcohol loosening your tongue, making you bolder than you would have been sober. Your voice was soft, but laced with a dare.

"Like what?" he countered, his voice equally low, his eyes dark and intense.

"Like you want me," you breathed, the words out before you could stop them, raw and honest and terrifying.

A flicker of something—surprise? desire? satisfaction?—crossed his face. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. "Maybe I do," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "What if I do?"

Your breath hitched. The honesty was disarming, shattering the carefully constructed wall you'd maintained for years. You had no response. You just stared at him, your mind reeling.

He didn't press it. Instead, he just raised his glass. "Another round?"

Before you knew it, another hour had passed, then another, and the "too many drinks" threshold had well and truly been crossed. The world felt softer, brighter, and all your inhibitions seemed to have dissolved into the warm island air. The music, which had been background, suddenly felt irresistible.

"Come on!" you giggled, pulling him from his seat. "Let's dance!"

He followed, a smile on his face, though he swayed a little. You both stumbled onto a small, makeshift dance floor near the bar, joining a few other tourists. You danced badly, laughing loudly, your arms flailing, bumping into each other. He caught your waist, steadying you, and you leaned into him instinctively, the world spinning just a little.

His grip tightened, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, then tangled in his hair as the music swelled around you. You pressed against him, moving to the beat, your hips swaying against his. The laughter died down, replaced by a breathless awareness. His head dipped, his forehead resting against yours, then lower, until his lips were just inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your mouth, the faint scent of his drink, and the intoxicating pull of something you'd denied for so long.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice rough with something that sounded like raw longing. His eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded, fixed on your lips.

Your breath hitched. This was it. The moment. The line, stretched to its absolute breaking point, was about to snap. He leaned in further, his lips just barely brushing yours, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. Your heart hammered, a wild bird desperate for escape.

But then, the familiar, insistent voice of reason screamed in your head. He’s your best friend. Your best friend. Don’t ruin this. Don’t lose him.

You stopped it. You put a hand on his chest, gently but firmly pushing him back, just an inch. The world, which had been spinning, crashed back into focus. His eyes opened, suddenly clearer, and a flicker of something—disappointment? confusion?—crossed his face.

"Cheol," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, filled with a sudden, overwhelming regret for the proximity, for the almost-kiss, for the chaos of your own feelings. "I… I can't. We're… we're best friends."

He looked at you for a long moment, the warmth in his eyes slowly cooling, replaced by a familiar frustration. He just nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of his head. He pulled his hands from your waist, his arms dropping to his sides, the distance between you suddenly feeling vast. The spell was broken. You felt a wave of cold sobriety wash over you, leaving you chilled despite the warm night.

You stumbled back to the villa in a tense silence. The comfortable ease had evaporated, replaced by an awkward chasm. When you got back, you both went through the motions of getting ready for bed, but the unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

That night, in bed, you lay awake for what felt like hours. He was next to you, shirtless, the covers half off, his body a dark silhouette in the dim room. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the soft rise and fall of his chest with each breath. You desperately wanted to reach out, to touch him, to erase the distance you had just created. To pull him back into the almost-kiss, to let the line completely dissolve. You rolled over, facing the ceiling, biting your lip hard enough to taste copper. Your mind replayed the feel of his thumb on your lip, the raw longing in his voice, the weight of his body against yours as you danced. The 'best friend' mantra, which had been your shield for so long, now felt like a cruel prison. You could hear his soft, even breathing, and knew he was asleep, utterly unaware of the storm raging within you. And that, somehow, was the most frustrating part of all.

The morning after the almost-kiss hung heavy between you, a tangible weight in the humid air. The vibrant blues and greens of the island seemed muted, overshadowed by the awkward silence that had settled in the villa. You woke to the dull ache of a hangover – both from the too-many drinks and the emotional whiplash of the night before. Seungcheol was already up, sitting on the veranda, staring out at the ocean. His back was to you, rigid, giving nothing away.

You showered quickly, trying to wash away the lingering tension. Every movement felt self-conscious, as if he could feel your nervousness from across the villa. When you emerged, he still hadn't moved. The silence stretched, becoming unbearable. This wasn't how your mornings with Cheol usually went. There was always laughter, easy banter, the clatter of breakfast being made. Now, there was just this oppressive quiet.

You decided to break it, to pretend everything was fine, to re-establish the "best friend" boundary you’d so desperately clung to last night. "Hey," you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too forced. "Beautiful morning, huh?"

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. His eyes, usually warm and crinkling with a smile, were cool, almost distant. "Yeah," he said, his voice flat. "Real beautiful."

You walked over, trying to project an air of casualness, and leaned against the railing beside him. "Rough night?"

He scoffed, a short, humorless sound. "Rough night? You stopped me. You physically pushed me away. After everything." His voice was low, laced with a quiet anger that made your stomach clench. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

Your carefully constructed facade crumbled. Your heart hammered. "Cheol, I… I just. I can't. We're best friends. What happened last night, it was the drinks. It was… a mistake." The words felt like sandpaper in your throat, a betrayal of your own swirling emotions, but you felt trapped, desperate to pull back from the edge.

He finally stood, turning to face you fully. The sudden proximity, the raw anger in his eyes, made you instinctively take a step back. "A mistake?" His voice rose, though he kept it under control, a dangerous undertone to its controlled volume. "A mistake? Are you serious right now? You think all the flirting, all the touching, all the tension between us for the past how many years has been a mistake? You think that kiss you almost let happen was just 'the drinks'?"

His gaze pinned you, sharp and accusatory. "You think I haven't seen the way you look at me? The way your breath hitches when I get too close? The way you go stiff when some other girl even looks at me? Don't you dare tell me that was a mistake. Don't you dare act like it's nothing, and then shut me out the second it gets real!"

His words hit you like a physical blow, each one echoing the truths you’d been so desperately trying to suppress. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring the perfect ocean view behind him. The anger in his voice was a whip, but it was the hurt beneath it that truly stung.

"I just… I don't want to lose you, Cheol!" you finally yelled back, the words tearing from your throat, ragged and desperate. "You're my best friend! What if we… what if we try this and it ruins everything? What if we lose us? I can't risk that!"

The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. Your voice cracked on the last word, and a tear finally escaped, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The fear of losing him, of shattering the foundation of your friendship, was a deep, primal terror. It felt safer, easier, to stay in the familiar, even if it meant denying a burgeoning desire you couldn't control.

His face softened infinitesimally, the anger in his eyes dimming, replaced by a profound sadness. He stepped closer, reaching out a hand. You flinched, expecting him to pull away, to turn his back on you entirely. But his hand simply cupped your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the tear. His touch was feather-light, tender, a stark contrast to the angry words that had just passed between you.

"You think I haven't thought about that?" he murmured, his voice now low, rough with emotion. "You think I'm not scared?" His thumb moved, stroking your wet cheek bone. "But what if… what if we've already lost 'us' by pretending we're just friends? By denying what's been between us for so long?"

Another tear escaped, then another, and soon you were openly sobbing, the floodgates opening on weeks, months, years of suppressed feelings. The fear, the confusion, the longing – it all poured out. Your shoulders shook, and you buried your face in your hands, the shame of your emotional breakdown overwhelming you.

Suddenly, his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. He held you tight, a warm, solid anchor in the storm of your tears. He didn't say anything, just let you cry, his hand stroking your hair, murmuring soft, comforting sounds. Your body sagged against his, finding an unexpected solace in his embrace. The anger had dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of relief, of being held and understood.

"You always shut me out right when I get close," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your ear, his words a gentle accusation. His hands started rubbing your back, a soothing, rhythmic motion that felt both comforting and subtly spicy, sending shivers through your damp skin. "Every time I think we're getting somewhere, you pull away. You put up that wall."

"I'm scared," you choked out, your voice muffled against his shirt. "I'm so, so scared, Cheol."

"I know," he whispered back, his voice thick with empathy. He pulled you even tighter, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "But you don't have to be. Not with me." His fingers tangled in your hair, gently massaging your scalp. The quiet intimacy of the moment, the raw vulnerability, felt more profound than any physical act. His warmth seeped into your bones, chasing away the chill of your fear.

You clung to him, your tears slowly drying on your cheeks. The soft sounds of the rain outside had stopped, replaced by the gentle hush of the ocean. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, a comforting rhythm that finally began to soothe your own frantic one. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, washed over you.

You fell asleep right there, held tightly in the crook of his neck, the scent of his skin and the gentle rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a peaceful slumber. His fingers were still tangled in your hair, a silent promise of comfort and closeness. For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, you felt truly safe, truly at peace, despite the raw honesty that had just erupted between you. The anger had passed, leaving behind a fragile, yet undeniable, bridge built from shared vulnerability.

The morning after the storm, a fragile peace settled over the villa. The air felt lighter, the tension that had been a constant companion since your arrival having finally broken, giving way to a raw, tender honesty. You woke still curled against Seungcheol, his arm a gentle weight around you. This time, there was no panicked escape, no frantic disentangling. You simply lay there for a moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. When you finally stirred, he was already awake, his gaze soft as he looked down at you.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep, a faint smile playing on his lips. He didn't move, just let his fingers trace lazy circles on your back, sending shivers through you.

"Morning," you replied, your voice still a little thick with sleep and lingering emotion. You finally pushed yourself up, the warmth leaving your side immediately missed. You felt a blush creeping up your neck, but this time, it was less about embarrassment and more about a shy awareness of the shift between you.

Breakfast was quieter than usual, but it was a comfortable quiet, punctuated by soft glances and small, knowing smiles. The elephant in the room hadn't vanished, but it felt less like a threat and more like a shared secret, something still too new and delicate to articulate fully.

After eating, you decided on a lazy beach day. The sun was already high, promising a scorching afternoon. You pulled on your favorite bikini – a simple, classic black one – and then, almost as an afterthought, grabbed a loose, oversized tank top to pull over it. It was more for sun protection than anything else, or so you told yourself.

When you stepped out onto the veranda, Seungcheol was already there, spreading a large beach towel on the sand. He looked up as you approached, and his eyes, which had been scanning the horizon, fixed on you. His gaze lingered, trailing from your face, down the loose fabric of your tank top, to your legs. A slow, appreciative warmth spread through his eyes. He paused, his movements stilled, openly watching you.

You felt the heat of his stare, an entirely new sensation, even after all your years of casual flirting. This wasn't the teasing, friendly gaze. This was something else. Something possessive, hungry, and deeply, undeniably masculine. It made your stomach flutter and your skin tingle. You felt oddly exposed, despite the loose fabric.

"Eyes up here, bestie," you teased, your voice a little breathy, trying to break the intensity of the moment. You batted your eyelashes playfully, but inside, your heart was hammering.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the air. His gaze finally lifted, meeting yours, a spark of pure mischief in his eyes. "Hard to do when the view's so distracting, princess." He pushed himself up, still looking at you, and walked over to where you stood. "Need help with that?" He gestured with his chin towards the small tube of sunscreen in your hand.

Your pulse quickened. You swallowed, trying to appear nonchalant. "Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure. My back, anyway." You turned, pulling down the straps of your tank top, then your bikini top, exposing your entire back. It was a bold move, an unspoken invitation. You felt the warm air on your skin, and then, the cool, smooth slide of sunscreen as he squeezed a generous dollop onto your shoulder.

His hands began to work, his touch slow, deliberate, almost agonizingly so. His palms glided over your shoulder blades, down your spine, the movement languid and sensual. His fingers seemed to drag, almost imperceptibly, along the curve of your back, taking their time. Every brush of his skin against yours sent electric currents through your body. You felt your breath hitch in your throat as his thumbs, with agonizing slowness, brushed the sides of your waist, just above the line of your bikini bottoms, lingering there for a fraction too long before moving up again.

His touch wasn't rushed or hurried; it was a patient, exquisite torture. You could almost feel the heat radiating from his hands, seeping into your very bones. You bit your lip, trying to control the shivers that threatened to erupt. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the waves and the frantic thrum of your own heartbeat. You closed your eyes, utterly consumed by the sensation. It was an exercise in pure, delicious slow burn, every inch of his contact a whispered promise of what you now knew he wanted.

"You're going to burn if I don't get this all the way down," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble right by your ear. His fingers slid further down, lingering just above the curve of your buttock, then returning slowly. "Or maybe I just want an excuse to keep touching you."

You gasped softly, a little sound escaping your lips. The honesty, delivered in that husky tone, sent a jolt right through you. "Cheol," you whispered, his name a plea, a warning, and something else entirely.

He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "Done," he said, but his hands didn't immediately pull away. They lingered on your lower back, his thumbs still stroking gently. You felt his chest brush your back as he leaned in slightly. "Go enjoy the sun."

You practically bolted to the beach towel, throwing yourself down, your skin still tingling from his touch. You could feel his eyes on you, even from a distance, and it was all you could do to try and regulate your breathing. This was a whole new level of 'spicy without sex,' a simmering cauldron of unspoken desire.

The rest of the day was a blur of swimming and sun, punctuated by glances that lasted too long, touches that lingered, and a constant, almost unbearable awareness of each other. You felt like you were walking on a tightrope, every step a delicate balance between pulling away and leaning in.

As evening approached, Seungcheol suggested a special dinner at the villa. "Candlelit, just us. I’ll cook."

You agreed, a nervous excitement fluttering in your chest. The villa transformed. Candles flickered on every surface, casting warm, dancing shadows that made the familiar space feel intimate and new. The scent of a delicious, savory meal wafted from the kitchen.

You watched him as he moved around, effortlessly chopping vegetables, searing meat. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his casual shirt, revealing strong forearms, and a lock of hair kept falling into his eyes, which he’d push back with an impatient flick of his wrist. He looked utterly masculine, utterly captivating.

"Need any help?" you asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, your voice softer than you intended.

He glanced up, a grin spreading across his face. "Just moral support, princess. And maybe some dancing." He reached for your hand, pulling you gently into the center of the kitchen. A slow, romantic song was playing softly from his phone.

You laughed, a little shyly, but let him pull you close. His hands found your waist, and yours linked behind his neck. You swayed together, slowly, to the music, the flickering candlelight making his eyes seem darker, more intense. The comfortable silence settled, filled only by the soft melody and the brush of your bodies.

His hold tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your chest was pressed flush against his, your legs brushing with every subtle sway. You could feel the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart mirroring your own frantic rhythm. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a silent question passing between you.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice raw, thick with unexpressed desire, "how hard it is not to touch you the way I want to. How hard it is to just stand here, holding you like this, when all I want to do is…" He didn't finish the sentence, but his eyes said it all.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp, ragged sound. The intensity of his gaze, the raw honesty of his words, was overwhelming. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the potent pull drawing you closer. He leaned in, slowly, his head dipping, his lips just inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your mouth, the desperate longing in his eyes. Every cell in your body screamed to lean in, to close the distance, to finally give in to the magnetic pull that had been building for days.

But the fear, the familiar, insidious fear, clawed its way back. The memory of your breakdown, of your desperate plea not to lose him, flashed in your mind. This was it. The point of no return. And you were terrified.

You put your hands on his chest, gently but firmly, and pushed. Not a harsh shove, but enough to create a small, desperate space between your bodies. He stopped, his eyes wide, confused, but he allowed the distance. You were shaking, your hands trembling on his chest.

"I can't do this," you whispered, the words choked out, raw with emotion. The decision felt like tearing a part of yourself away.

His eyes, which had just been filled with longing, hardened, a flicker of that familiar frustration returning. "Why?" he asked, his voice low, controlled, but laced with a simmering anger. "Why can't you? Because I make you feel something? Because it's not 'just friends' anymore? Because you're scared?" Each question was a jab, a direct hit to your most vulnerable spots. He knew. He knew your fears, your denials, and he wasn't letting you hide from them anymore.

The kitchen, once so warm and inviting, now felt suffocating, filled with the bitter taste of your unresolved emotions. You couldn't meet his gaze, unable to deny the truth in his words, unable to voice the overwhelming terror that held you captive. The line, which had blurred so beautifully under the candlelight, had once again become a chasm, separating you from the very thing you secretly craved.

The morning after your retreat, the villa felt colder, despite the tropical heat. The air crackled with unspoken frustration, a stark contrast to the fragile intimacy of the previous day. You woke up feeling raw, exposed, and deeply, terribly regretful of pushing Seungcheol away. You could still feel the phantom warmth of his hands, the ghost of his breath on your lips, and the sting of his unanswered questions: “Why can’t you? Because I make you feel something? Because you’re scared?”

You found him in the living area, meticulously wiping down the kitchen counter, his back to you. The silence between you was a thick, oppressive blanket. He usually left that kind of tidying to the staff, a clear sign of his internal agitation.

"Morning," you offered, your voice small, tentative.

He didn't turn. "Morning," he replied, his voice devoid of warmth, clipped and distant. He continued wiping, his movements precise and stiff.

You hovered awkwardly, wanting to bridge the gap, but unsure how. "Look, Cheol, about last night… I just… I panicked. It's a lot, okay? All of this." You gestured vaguely around the villa, trying to encompass the sudden intensity of your shared space.

He finally stopped wiping, slowly turning to face you. His eyes were cold, shuttered, a stark contrast to the open vulnerability of the day before. "Yeah, I get it," he said, his voice flat. "It's a lot. Too much, apparently." He dropped the cloth onto the counter with a soft thud. "Maybe we should just… stick to the original plan. Relax. Be friends. No more 'spicy without sex' moments, right? Wouldn't want to make you 'panic' again." The sarcasm in his tone was a bitter sting, cutting deeper than any anger.

Your heart ached. "That's not fair," you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes again. "You know it's not that simple."

He scoffed. "Isn't it? Seems pretty simple to me. I make a move, you run. Classic." He walked past you, out onto the veranda, leaving you standing alone in the suddenly silent kitchen, feeling utterly abandoned.

The rest of the morning was unbearable. He avoided your gaze, spoke only when necessary, and maintained a polite, impenetrable distance. It was worse than anger; it was indifference, a stark reminder of what you truly stood to lose. You tried to suggest activities – a snorkel trip, exploring the local village – but he just gave non-committal answers or suggested you go alone. The easy camaraderie had completely evaporated, replaced by a chasm of hurt and frustration.

Around midday, you decided to take a walk along the beach, desperate for some space and fresh air. You rounded a bend in the coastline, near a cluster of vibrant coral reefs, when you saw them. Seungcheol, standing by the water's edge, talking to her. The same tourist girl from the beach bar. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her dark hair catching the sunlight. And Seungcheol was smiling, a wide, genuine smile that you hadn't seen directed at you all morning.

Your breath caught in your throat. He looked relaxed, engaged, completely at ease with her. He even reached out, his hand briefly touching her arm as she pointed at something in the water. It was just friendly, you told yourself. Casual. Harmless. But it stung, a deep, hot ache in your chest. The ice from yesterday had returned, but this time, it was laced with fire.

You quickly ducked behind a cluster of palm trees, your heart hammering. You felt a wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy wash over you, hot and undeniable. You watched for another minute, the sight of them together, so easy and carefree, twisting the knife in your gut. She's everything I'm not right now, you thought bitterly. Easygoing. Uncomplicated. And she clearly wasn't afraid to lean in.

You turned and practically ran back to the villa, the beautiful beach now feeling like a personal affront. You burst through the door, your blood still simmering, and found Seungcheol already inside, getting a bottle of water from the fridge. He looked up, his easy expression from the beach still lingering.

"Oh, hey," he said, his voice still too casual, too normal, after what you’d just witnessed. "You're back quick. Find any cool shells?"

You slapped your hands on your hips, your eyes narrowed. "Actually, I found something much more interesting." Your voice was tight, strained. "Looks like you had a very pleasant conversation out there."

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about," you shot back, your voice rising. "The girl from yesterday! The one you find so 'nice' and 'cute.' Looks like you two are getting along famously."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The casual indifference was gone, replaced by a weary frustration. "Are you serious right now? I was literally just talking to her about the best snorkeling spot. We ran into each other. You're going to make a scene over that?"

"A scene?" you scoffed, feeling the irrational anger bubble up. "I'm making a scene? You're out there, flirting with some random tourist, acting like everything is perfectly fine, while I'm in here, completely losing my mind because I don't know what we are anymore!" You knew you were being unfair, lashing out, but you couldn't stop. The jealousy was a live wire, sparking and burning.

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes hardening. Then, a slow, infuriating smile spread across his face, a challenge in his gaze. "Oh, so now it's about you losing your mind? Interesting. Because last night, when things actually got 'interesting,' you were the one who pushed me away. You don't want me, but no one else can have me either, huh? Is that it? You want to keep me on a leash, just in case?" His voice was low, dangerous, hitting every raw nerve.

The accusation, so close to the truth of your own fear, felt like a direct punch to the gut. "That's not fair!" you yelled, your voice cracking. The villa, usually so peaceful, now echoed with your raised voices. "You think I want to keep you on a leash? I just… I just don't want you with anyone else! Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I don't want you with anyone else!"

The words burst out of you, raw, unplanned, and laced with every ounce of your desperate, painful jealousy. The confession hung in the air, heavy and undeniable, silencing the argument instantly.

Silence. The only sound was the distant murmur of the ocean, a stark contrast to the storm that had just erupted between you. Seungcheol’s eyes, which had been hard and challenging, softened, a flicker of something new replacing the anger – surprise, then a slow, dawning understanding. He took a single, deliberate step closer, then another, closing the distance you had so desperately tried to maintain.

You watched him approach, frozen, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He stopped directly in front of you, just inches away, completely invading your personal space. The tension that had been building for days, for years, was now a palpable force, thick and electric. His gaze was intense, unwavering, reading every single one of your unspoken thoughts.

"Then show me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent shivers down your spine. He didn't raise his voice, but the quiet demand was more powerful than any shout. "Stop running. Stop hiding. Show me."

Before you could even process his words, he moved. He didn't grab you, didn't pull you in forcefully. Instead, he simply reached out and placed his hands on either side of your head, framing your face, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. Your breath hitched, your eyes wide as you watched his face draw closer. His forehead came to rest against yours, skin to skin, the contact sending a jolt right through you. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the slight tremor in his hands, reflecting the tremor in your own.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours, seeking confirmation, demanding a final answer. He was so close you could feel the soft brush of his eyelashes, the faint scent of his skin, and the raw, hungry longing in his gaze. His lips were just a breath away, so tantalizingly close. Your own lips parted slightly, an involuntary invitation. Every instinct screamed to close the distance, to finally give in to the magnetic pull that had been building between you for so long.

This was it. The culmination. The moment you’d denied, fought, and secretly yearned for. You felt the delicious, terrifying pull towards him, your body aching to melt into his.

But then, just as your eyes fluttered closed, just as you leaned the last fraction of an inch, he pulled back. Not completely, but enough to break the imminent contact. His forehead remained against yours, his hands still cradling your face, but his lips were no longer hovering. His eyes, now clear and resolute, looked deeply into yours.

"If we do this," he said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, filled with a gravitas that made your heart skip a beat, "you better be ready. Because once we cross this line, there's no going back to 'just friends.' Understand?"

The question hung in the air, a final challenge, a demand for complete honesty. The spice and tension of the moment weren't in a kiss, but in the raw, aching anticipation, the undeniable craving, and the terrifying weight of his words. He was putting the choice squarely in your hands, asking you to be as brave as he was. And the silence screamed with the magnitude of that decision.

You woke to an emptiness beside you, a cold dread seizing your chest before your eyes even fully opened. The bed, vast and silent, swallowed you whole. The last thing you remembered was Seungcheol's intense gaze, his raw question hanging in the air: "If we do this, you better be ready. Because once we cross this line, there's no going back to 'just friends.' Understand?" And then… nothing. You had been too overwhelmed, too terrified, to answer.

Panic, sharp and cold, hit you like a physical blow. He was gone. Had you pushed him away for good this time? Had your fear finally driven him away, just as he’d warned? Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the silence of the villa. You scrambled out of bed, a frantic search beginning. The bathroom was empty. The kitchen, usually smelling of his morning coffee, was cold. You called his name, a desperate whisper, then a little louder, but only the gentle hum of the villa’s air conditioning answered.

You rushed to the veranda, your eyes scanning the horizon, your breath held tight in your throat. He wasn't by the pool. He wasn't on the lounge chairs. For a terrifying moment, you thought he'd packed up, hailed a cab, and left you there, stranded with your regret. The thought sent a fresh wave of tears pricking at your eyes.

Then, you saw him. A lone figure on the beach, far down the shoreline, near the water’s edge. He was sitting on a fallen palm log, staring out at the vast, indifferent ocean. His shoulders were hunched, a posture you rarely saw in the usually confident Seungcheol. Relief, so potent it made your knees weak, flooded through you, quickly followed by a resolute determination. This was it. No more running. No more hiding.

You didn't hesitate. You practically ran down the steps, the sand cool beneath your bare feet, then warm as you hit the sun-drenched expanse of the beach. Your heart pounded, not just from exertion, but from the immense gravity of the conversation you were about to have. With every step, your mind cleared. The fear of losing him, which had shackled you for so long, was now eclipsed by the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of not having him. Not truly having him, in the way you now realized you desperately wanted.

As you got closer, you could make out the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness of his form. He looked like he was deep in thought, perhaps coming to his own painful conclusions. You reached him, your breath a little ragged, and stopped just a few feet away. The sound of the waves crashing softly on the shore filled the silence between you.

He didn't look up immediately, lost in his own world. You swallowed, trying to find your voice, your hands suddenly clammy.

"Cheol," you finally managed, his name coming out as a soft, almost broken whisper.

His head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise as he registered your presence. They were shadowed, tired, but held a flicker of something that looked like hope, quickly masked. He started to say something, perhaps another cutting remark or a dismissive question, but you cut him off. You couldn't let him retreat again.

You took another step, closing the remaining distance, until you were standing right in front of him. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and gently took his. His fingers, initially stiff, slowly relaxed, intertwining with yours. His skin felt warm, familiar, comforting. Your eyes locked.

"I want you," you said, your voice clearer now, stronger, despite the tremor in your hand. You squeezed his hand gently. "Even if I'm scared. Even if it changes everything. I want you. I'm ready."

The words hung in the air, simple, honest, utterly raw. His eyes widened slightly, a profound relief washing over his features, chasing away the shadows. He searched your gaze, as if trying to find any trace of doubt, any lingering fear. But there was none, only a desperate, aching longing that matched his own.

A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes like the sunrise. He stood, pulling you gently towards him until you were standing directly in front of him, hands still clasped. His other hand came up, gently cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking softly.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, barely audible above the waves. "Because once we do this, there's no going back, princess."

"I'm sure," you breathed, leaning into his touch, your own hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. "I've never been more sure about anything in my life."

His eyes devoured yours, a silent communication passing between you that transcended words. Then, with a low groan that vibrated through your chest, he leaned in, finally, definitively, closing the last agonizing inch between you.

His lips met yours, not tentatively, not as an "almost," but with a fierce, unleashed hunger that took your breath away. It was a heated, desperate kiss, months—no, years—of unspoken longing pouring into it. His mouth was soft yet firm, demanding and receiving. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your body arching into his, a soft moan escaping your lips as his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, crushing you against him.

His hands, restless and eager, roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine, pulling you even tighter against his hard body. You could feel the rigid strength of him, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressed against your swimsuit-clad body. A delicious friction started as your hips instinctively pressed closer to his. Your soft moans were muffled against his lips, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a sensual dance that left you dizzy and breathless. The world spun, but it was a joyous, exhilarating spin, not the dizzying fear of before.

He broke the kiss for only a moment, pulling back just enough to graze his lips over your jawline, down your neck, scattering hot, open-mouthed kisses that left a trail of fire in their wake. You gasped, your head falling back, granting him more access.

"God, you don't know," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with emotion, his breath hot against your neck. His hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your hips, pulling you into an undeniable grind against him. The exquisite pressure, the body-to-body tension, sent a fresh wave of desperate longing through you. "You don't know how long I've wanted this. How long I've dreamt of touching you like this. Of having you like this."

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, more possessive. He guided you down, gently pulling you to sit on the warm sand, then pulling you into his lap, facing him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to him, your bodies pressed together, swimsuit to swim shorts, the friction delicious. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, his hair, pulling, demanding more.

"Mine," he whispered against your mouth, a fierce, primal claim that sent a thrill through every nerve. "You're finally mine."

You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. Your whispered confessions mixed with desperate moans as you kissed him again, your mouths fused, the taste of salt and him filling your senses. His hands were everywhere, roaming, exploring, pulling you impossibly closer, eliciting soft, breathless sounds from your throat. The sand was rough beneath your bare skin, the sun warm on your faces, and the ocean roared its approval.

He pulled back, just slightly, to look into your eyes, his own dark with desire and a profound, overwhelming happiness. His thumb stroked your cheek, brushing away a stray grain of sand.

"From now on," he said, his voice husky, filled with a new, beautiful certainty, "I'm not just your best friend."

You smiled, a wide, genuine smile that reached your eyes, feeling a profound sense of rightness, of coming home. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, a promise in the touch. You were tangled in his arms, the ocean breeze ruffling your hair, the stars slowly beginning to emerge in the vast expanse above. The fear was gone, replaced by an exhilarating sense of freedom and belonging.

"Guess we’re not going back the same way we came, huh?" you murmured, your voice soft, content, nestled against his chest.

He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated through your body. He tightened his arms around you, pulling you closer still, his lips brushing your forehead. "No," he whispered, his voice a possessive murmur, filled with triumph and adoration. "We’re going back as mine."

The End

Divider credits: @uzmacchiato

[wonluhver]

SWIPER NO SWIPING

pairing: lee chan x reader genre: mdni, smut, strangers to lovers, tinder au warnings: a little angst, a reference from the movie “the notebook,” horny! chan, horny! reader, somewhat closed off reader, emotionally unavailable reader?, pervert! chan, a little pining, switch! chan, switch!reader, loser! chan if you squint, sexting?, mentions of sending nudes, a public handjob, blowjob, face fucking, face sitting, pussy eating, begging, penetrative sex with no mentions of using protection word count: 18.2k synopsis: love has always felt too risky, too vulnerable, and too terrifying. but when your all too convincing of a best friend signs you up on a dating app against your will — lee chan comes hurtling into your life when you least expect it. he’s charming, funny, and impossible to ignore. you never planned to get roped in this deep, especially not because of someone you met on tinder. but when a casual match turns into something more, some feelings just can’t be ignored no matter how much you try to resist.

sidenote: this is the longest fic i’ve ever written and i just so happened to do it in a little less than three weeks. it’s actually atrocious and i hate it, but we all start somewhere so bare with me. i had to show dino some love !! thank you to @sanaxo-o for being a doll and beta-reading <3 ALSO thank you sm for 3k <3 reminder to interact !!! enjoy :)

When your best friend imposed the idea of needing a way to let out your pent-up stress that had been building from your new job, you thought she would suggest something – you don’t know – maybe normal? Perhaps a spa day or shopping spree would have sufficed, but then again, when has your best friend ever known normal? She was quite far from it, actually.

Your eyes were wide, a sign that you were taken aback as she held up her cell phone. A bright smile stretched across her face, completely differing from the utter look of horror displayed across yours. “Absolutely not,” you shook your head, “No, no, no.”

“Oh come on.” The girl threw her hands up, slightly annoyed by your quick refusal. “Don’t knock it till you try it.” 

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, hoping it would somewhat appease the attitude she was beginning to form. “Tinder?” Mild disbelief laced your voice. “Really Yunjin? Of all things?” 

Your best friend rolled her eyes, picking up her latte and taking a sip of the drink. “Don’t be so close-minded,” She scolded, “What if you end up finding the love of your life?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you scoffed at her words. “I highly doubt that, considering Tinder is what most people resort to for booty calls…not to find love.” 

“Hey,” She glared at you slightly offended, lips formed into a childish pout, “I use Tinder.”

You raised an eyebrow at her in amusement. “And what do you use it for?”

“Well I-,” Yunjin was rendered speechless. She racked her brain for possible excuses, but could not seem to come up with one that would paint the app in a positive light.

“Exactly my point,” You smirked.

Sighing, the girl sitting across from you set her coffee cup down on the table. Her full attention was now on you and she was more than determined to get her point across, no matter how stubborn she knew you could be. “Look,” she started, “I love you and all, but ever since you started working again, you’ve turned into a real bitch.”

“Gee, thanks!” You said, tone heavily laced with sarcasm.

“Now, I’m not saying that you’ve been awfully hard to be around lately, but I do think you need an outlet to let out recent frustrations.” 

“Spit it out, Yunjin.” You snapped, growing impatient. It was only after the words left your mouth that you began to gain consciousness of what she meant. 

Damn. You really have been a bitch lately. 

“What I’m trying to say is….” She trailed off, taking your hands gently in hers as if she was about to break bad news to a little child, “You need to get laid.”

Almost immediately, you pulled away from her touch. Your cheeks slightly bloomed a light shade of red from her blunt words and you wiped your palms off on your jeans when you began to feel them grow clammy. “No I don’t.” You said quickly, glancing around to make sure no one heard her.

“Uhm, yes you do,” She insisted, “You haven’t had an orgasm in ages.”

Narrowing your eyes at her, you suddenly regretted ever telling Yunjin anything that had to do with your sex life. However, unfortunately for you, she’d been your best friend for ages and nothing is ever considered TMI for your friendship. 

“Yes I have,” You stated firmly, attempting to defend yourself from her harsh, and much too sexual, accusation. 

“One that doesn’t include masturbation,” She sent you a pointed look, less than amused by your claim. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you crossed your arms over your chest defiantly. “Oh fuck off.”

Yunjin smiled to herself, perking up despite your negative attitude towards her. She struck a nerve, that’s for sure, but she also knew that whatever she was on to, she was doing the right thing – or somewhat the right thing. “Great! So you’ll try it.”

“I never said I would try it.”

“Too late!” Fishing out her phone from the back pocket of her pants, she scrolled through the device before turning it towards you. The loading screen for TINDER popped up before it was replaced with the sight of an account. At first, you disregarded it, expecting to see the way her profile had been set up – only, it wasn’t her profile. No. Instead, you were staring right at a photo of yourself, taken on a beach trip last summer in one of your skimpiest bathing suits. 

Your jaw clenches as you take in the situation at hand, gaze trailing back up to the girl holding the phone and grinning at you. “I already made you one.”

It’s a Match.

The three words displayed across your phone screen in bold black writing had you squirming in anticipation and slight fear. The anxiousness settled in the pit of your stomach, spreading through your body like a wildfire. Quickly, you shut your phone off, throwing it to the side as you couldn’t, for the life of you, process the reality of your situation. 

Your very first TINDER match – well you’d be damned.

Lee Chan, twenty-six, aquarius, 3 miles away.

When you came across the very man while swiping through the dating app that you swore you’d never use, you didn’t expect to find someone as attractive as him – Chan. With a face as charming as his and a body perfectly sculpted, it was all too good to be true.

There was no possible way he wasn’t a catfish. 

The loud ding of your phone caught you off guard. The sound had your heart thumping in your chest, and if possible, you’d think the organ was trying to jump out of it.  Slowly, you turned your head towards the device lying face down on the mattress before looking away. Your hands formed into fists, doing your ultimate best to resist temptation. 

You didn’t need a man. Certainly not now, when your career was just taking off and you’d finally gotten a glimpse into a successful future. But god damn was your best friend right. You needed a good fuck and it had been far too long since you’ve properly gotten laid. 

It took approximately three minutes and seventeen seconds for you to cave. Not like you were counting, even if the alarm clock ticking on your nightstand begged to differ. 

You jumped from your spot on the bed, scrambling to clutch your phone in your hands. The device fell off the mattress as you moved with such urgency, drawing out a curse from you as it was retrieved from the floor. Hastily, you typed in the passcode, yet again finding yourself staring at the TINDER inbox page as soon as it was unlocked. 

At first glance, you thought it was a joke.

You thought it was a joke the same way you’ve recently began to think your entire sex life was a joke. 

CHAN: dtf?

The notification flashed across the screen, taking you by surprise. Adjusting your position to sit more upright, your eyes widened at the bold text message. 

What the actual fuck. 

Your finger hovered over it, mind racing wildly as you opened the text before you could formulate a response. You had half the right mind to call Yunjin and enlist her help in setting something up with this guy. She always knew what to say, and when it came to all sex-related things, it just so happened to be her forte. 

“No,” You shook your head, despite being the only person in the room. 

You could do this. You’re a big girl, and you sure as hell don’t need anybody’s help when it comes to relationships or men.

Before you could think, your fingers were moving across the keyboard. You hit the send button as soon as you typed out your response, knowing yourself all too well. If it wasn’t then, it would be never.

YOU: yes

A swish sounded from the speakers of your phone, signaling that it had been sent. However, as soon as the words delivered popped up below your message, another text from the man on the other side came through. 

CHAN: i was kidding pls don’t swipe on me CHAN: damn, really?

“Fuck,” You muttered, suddenly regretting ever getting back to him so soon. With how quickly you agreed to it, your spiked confidence at the time had unfortunately led to your embarrassment, completely unbeknownst to the man who caused it.

Going back on your word now would be a pussy move, not to mention, an obvious attempt at saving your dignity. You had no other choice but to own up to it. After all, Chan was the one to suggest it in the first place, even if it had in fact been a hopeless gesture to break the ice. 

YOU: a little sex never hurt anybody

CHAN: haha CHAN: agreed

Your eyes scanned over the chat as you tried to bite down the feeling of shame that was starting to rise. 

Sure, you were desperate, but were you really that down bad to rely on a TINDER hookup to satisfy your needs?

It had been far too long since you’ve had an orgasm that wasn’t caused by your own hand, and the last man you slept with left you feeling a hell of a lot more than dissatisfied. It was boring – vanilla, if you must say. You preferred your men with a little more humility than the Alpha Sigma frat boy you’d chosen that particular night. 

CHAN: so…. CHAN: when and where should we meet?

His question had you coming back to your senses. You were about to turn twenty-five years old for crying out loud. God forbid, it was time for you to grow up. One night stands, friends with benefits, your much too often used collection of dildos – you just couldn’t be that person anymore. 

Where’d this newfound sense of responsibility come from? You had no idea, but you were glad you were finally beginning to think with your brain rather than your pussy. 

YOU: not so fast YOU: you have to take me out on a date first

Chan’s response was quick, and it was shocking how easily he agreed. Most guys who wanted nothing but sex would have gladly unmatched by now and moved on to try with the next. 

CHAN: deal

YOU: AND you have to pay

This time, it took a while. You stared at the screen for much longer than you would’ve liked to admit, waiting for his response. Did you just ruin your chance? Maybe. But did you regret telling him to pay? Hell no.

Men used to go to war, and now all they want to do is split the bills. 

CHAN: 2pm, sunday, jenni’s ice cream parlour

YOU: what?

CHAN: our date CHAN: do you need a ride?

You didn’t even notice your mouth was open as you were somewhat taken aback. He’d already scheduled a date with a time and place. Either he’s been in this position far too many times with way too many girls, or his planning skills were a sign from cupid that he was exactly your type.

YOU: no YOU: what if you’re like a serial killer or something and trying to find out where i live

CHAN: okay first of all, wtf CHAN: second of all, i can assure you i’m not

YOU: better safe than sorry YOU: i’ll meet you there

CHAN: great! CHAN: see you then, pretty girl ;)

You stared at his text, the pet name causing the butterflies in your stomach to flutter just a tiny bit. You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face and once again you threw your phone on the bed, this time with a squeal of excitement. 

It was pathetic, really, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as a rush of giddiness coursed through your veins. Everything about this was so unlike you – from using a dating app to actually deciding to go on the planned date.

Was this really going to work? Were you, of all people, finally going to end up settling down in a relationship? 

However as your eyelids fluttered and sleep overtook you that night, there was the slight twinge of recognition that you actually may be thinking with your pussy again instead of your heart. 

Sunday came a lot sooner than expected. The skies were a pretty shade of blue, with the sun beaming brightly and heat of the summer season simmering in the air. It was borderline unbearable as you navigated through the streets of downtown, however, there was no denying that it was perfect weather for a cold sweet treat.

You opened the door to the parlour, the calming sound of wind chimes signaling that a new customer had entered the building. Jenni’s was a cute little place, a mom-and-pop ice cream shop that had been open in your city for as long as you could remember. It was small and should have expanded a while ago due to popularity, but that didn’t stop it from becoming a very well-known tourist spot. They had the best soft serve in town and their waffle cones were never stale. In fact, with every bite you could practically taste the love that the workers put into it.

As per usual the shop was crowded, filled to the brim as it typically was over the weekend. Despite the herd of people, your eyes scanned the area to hopefully come across the familiar face in which you were searching for. 

Your heart pattered in your chest as you spotted the man towering over the rest as he stood out amongst the flurry of people. He was even more beautiful in person, with a gold chain hanging low around his neck and a black t-shirt clinging to his body, outlining the muscle hidden underneath. 

Timidly, you stalked towards him until you stood directly behind his figure. A wave of nervousness washed over you as your hand raised to tap his shoulder gently. His reaction was immediate and before you knew it, he spun around quickly and barreled into you by accident. The action almost knocked you off your feet at the force, but his arms darted out to steady you with his hands settling on your waist. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

You collected yourself, flattening out the creases in your sundress before addressing him. “Don’t worry about it.” You glanced up, shooting a small smile his way. “Hi.”

Now focused on your face instead of panicking about the situation that had just erupted, the man returned the smile. “Hi,” He responded softly, almost breathlessly. The way his eyes pierced your own left you trapped in a trance. For a split second, it was as if time had stopped. 

Silence loomed over, making it seem like it was only the two of you that existed in the current moment. You only snapped out of your daze when someone from behind yelled at you guys for not moving up in line. With an apology, you both moved forward, grinning at each other sheepishly in embarrassment. 

“Y/n.” He stated.

“Chan.” You said back with a smile, standing next to him as you two waited for your turn in line. “You look even better than the photos,” You joked, hoping to skip over the awkward stage that typically occurs on a first date. 

He let out a laugh, one that sounded like music to your ears and almost infectious. “Are you trying to rizz me up?”

“Is it working?” You wiggled your eyebrows, happy that he was playing along. 

“Maybe,” He winked at you and this time it was your turn to giggle. However, your laughter died down as fast as it started and you were left wondering where to take the conversation next. It seemed like you didn’t have to think about it for too long as Chan got the hint and took over for you. “So, do you still think I’m a serial killer?”

“Oh god,” You raised your palm to your head, completely forgetting about the small accusation you made towards him earlier in the week. Wincing, you looked at him apologetically, “Sorry about that.”

Chan smiled, obviously amused at your predicament, “Well like you said, better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right,” You agreed with the nod of your head. Although being confronted about it caught you off guard, you would never feel guilty for putting your safety first. 

As if somewhat saving you, the girl behind the counter called out for the next person in line. Dropping the topic, the two of you stepped forward together. “What flavor are you getting?” You asked, eyes darting over the various tubs as you also tried making the decision for yourself.

Chan hummed, scanning over the flavors himself, “Probably superman.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him quizzically. “Superman?”

He nodded with a bright smile, repeating the flavor back to the worker so they could begin scooping. 

“Like…the one with all the colors?”

Chan shrugged his shoulders, glancing at you, “Yeah.”

Looking at the option he had chosen, you scanned over the bright neon and rainbow ice cream, “Okay…,” You trailed off.

Noticing your somewhat negative attitude peaking through, Chan suddenly perked up at your reaction. “What?”

“Nothing,” You brushed it off with a shrug, “I just think what flavor someone chooses, says a lot about that person.”

“Oh really,” Chan raised an eyebrow, entertained with your words. “Well then, what does superman say about me?”

“Let's see,” You crossed your arms over your chest, mind wandering elsewhere to think about your answer. “Fun,” You give him a once over, gaze trailing down his body and subtly admiring his physique while you’re at it. “Bold,” You state, referring to the first text message he sent you. “A little wild,” You tilt your head, not so sure about that one yourself. “And childish,” You finish off, meeting his eyes once again.

Chan’s jaw was clenched, a clear sign that he was not impressed by your take. “Childish?” He scoffs. He was enjoying everything leaving your mouth up until the very last part. To say it threw him for a loop would be an understatement. “You think I’m childish?” He asks, slight irritation lacing his tone. You could do nothing but smile sheepishly at him as he took personal offense towards your words. “I’m older than you.” 

“Only by like a year.”

He took a deep breath in, exhaling loudly to calm his nerves. “Okay then,” He nodded, finally accepting your perspective. His hand reaches out to take his cone from the worker, a giant scoop of the chaotic colored ice cream making it stand out. “It’s your turn now.”

You peered at him skeptically, confused by his sudden change of heart, “My turn for what?”

“Pick a flavor.”

You hummed in amusement, turning back towards the tubs and looking at them once more before smiling at the lady behind the counter. “One scoop of vanilla on a waffle cone please.” As soon as you had chosen, Chan couldn’t help but snort from beside you. The sound had you snapping your head towards him as you wondered what was so funny about your choice. “What?” You asked through gritted teeth.

“Vanilla? Really?”

“I like vanilla,” You stated, “It’s classic. It’s simple. You can never go wrong with it.”

Chan squinted at you, watching as you took the cone from the employee and followed behind him to the register. “Yeah, it’s also plain, boring, and severely overrated.” He pulled out his debit card from his back pocket, paying for the both of you before walking further into the parlour in search of an open seat. 

You stayed close on his tracks, trying to keep up with him as he weaved through the crowd. “Okay, but that’s the flavor. What does that have anything to do with me?”

He sighed, glancing back at where you walked behind him. “You’re a perfectionist,” He found a vacant spot and jumped at the chance to secure it as he pulled out a chair for you. “Not fun whatsoever,” He signaled for you to sit down and you did so with a huff, refusing to quit glaring at him. “You’re afraid to take risks, and you’re secretly judgemental.”

Your jaw dropped. Sure, you could’ve avoided calling him childish, but you didn’t think he would be so harsh with you. Seriously, you had only just met this guy and you already had the urge to walk out on him.

Who does he think he is?

You opened your mouth to bite back an insult on the tip of your tongue, but before you could get it out, he took the seat across from you and continued to speak. “So, I guess the real question is –,” He paid you no mind as you narrowed your eyes at him, “What’s a girl like you doing on Tinder?”

The unexpected interrogation left you puzzled. You were typically good when it came to quick thinking and formulating witty responses, so why does nothing come to mind whenever he poses a question?

You stuttered, trying to think of something to respond. Chan leaned back, taking a bite of his cone as he smirked at you. Scowling, you stared daggers into the man in front of you. “Forget about me,” You raise your chin to exude confidence, “What about you huh? Why are you on Tinder?”

Unfortunately, Chan didn’t exactly feel threatened nor put on the spot like you had been when he asked. “Did my text not make it obvious?”

Wow, this man really had no shame.

You rolled your eyes, remembering very well what he was recalling. “Yeah, you also said you were kidding to save your ass.”

“Between you and me,” Chan leaned in closer over the table, teasing you as he spoke in a playfully hushed tone, “I really wasn’t.” He winked, and to say it didn’t have you feeling mildly turned on would be a lie. You squirmed in your seat, adjusting to grow accustomed to the sticky feeling beginning to spread between your thighs. 

Over the past six days leading up to this date, you have gotten to know Chan very well. He was a passionate guy who wore his heart on his sleeve and spoke his mind no matter the consequences. He had a slick mouth, much to your dismay, and a very flirtatious personality which you figured out through all the dirty jokes he would slip into a casual conversation. 

When it comes to getting to know you however – Chan didn’t have much luck in that area. You were the complete opposite of him, a tough cookie with walls that were disappointingly difficult to break through.

Shaking your head, you looked back down at your cone in annoyance. Noticing the ice cream that had dripped onto your hand, you innocently licked the crevice between your thumb and pointer finger to clean it up. Chan’s attention diverted from your face to your tongue, watching very intently as you did so. You were fast to pick up on it, becoming aware of the way his fun and flirty expression dropped and his adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat.

With a slight smirk, you repeated the action, except this time, you concentrated on the actual scoop of ice cream. “Mhmm,” You moaned seductively, eyes rolling to wordlessly convey how delicious it tasted despite it being exaggerated. If you could see yourself right now, you would probably laugh or curl up from humiliation, but Chan’s keen fixation on your movements had spiked your confidence levels tremendously. “So good.”  

Chan made a sound in acknowledgment, not trusting his voice as he was still unable to tear his vision away from you licking at the dessert. He watched as your tongue twirled, almost professionally around the scoop, collecting the white cream on your tastebuds and swallowing. His cock twitched in his pants and he shuffled in an attempt to hide his now growing boner, the view of you in front of him giving leeway for his mind to conjure up something a little more – lewd. He was dirty minded, that was for sure. 

He thought that getting ice cream on a first date was an easy way to play it safe, but maybe it wasn’t after all. At least not with you. 

Ever since he stumbled across your profile on TINDER, your picture popping up of you in a bikini that left little to the imagination, Chan knew he had to get you all to himself. He almost coiled in excitement when the screen stating you two had matched flashed across his screen. Without thinking much, he was sending the very text message that started it all, and needless to say, it worked out in his favor. Atlas, here you were, sitting right across from him licking at an ice cream cone and moaning, even though it wasn’t because of him. 

He was already one step ahead.

Realizing the way his eyes zoned in on you, specifically the way you glided your tongue around your vanilla flavored ice cream, you suppressed a giggle. “Is something wrong?” You asked innocently, perking up. Leaning forward to express concern, you propped both elbows up on the table, causing the subtle action to accentuate your cleavage in the dress you were wearing.

Chan trailed his gaze down to your chest before quickly darting his eyes back up to your face. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. “No,” He shook his head, taking another bite of his cone as he finally turned his attention towards anything but you, “Nothing wrong.”

You nodded, taking another lick of your sweet treat, more than happy that you had a much stronger effect on him than you thought. Needless to say, for the rest of the date, Chan was quite distracted from both you and the massive hard-on growing in his pants. 

Men were too easy.

Surprisingly enough, despite the constant back and forth banter that occurred at Jenni’s parlour, it had been pushing a little over a week since and you still found yourself texting Chan a little more than you’d like to admit.

He was starting to break you out of your habits slowly, one of them being your early bedtime. You were always the type of girl to hit the sack before eleven p.m, especially since you were expected to be at your job way before noon. But ever since you’d met the man, staying up late became your new normal. 

Like right now, curled up between the sheets comfortably at two a.m although your brain was telling you that you needed to go to sleep. Somehow, at the parlour, Chan convinced you to swap numbers with him and just as you were about to put your phone down to call it a night, a ding sounded from the device. 

CHAN: you up?

YOU: ??? YOU: yeah

CHAN: send nudes ?¿

It was meant as a joke, really. The past two, almost three weeks, you’ve grown quite accustomed to his constant use of dirty jokes and references. But to you, this was a perfect opportunity to prove him wrong about the first assumption he made about you. It still sat on your mind, bothering you a lot more than it probably should. 

You were anything but vanilla. 

Giving it some time to think over, you bit your lip before glancing at the mirror across your bedroom. Hastily, you sat up to turn on the lamp and illuminate the space with a warm yellow glow. Throwing off the comforter, you swung your feet over the bed to stand up. Not thinking twice, you pulled off your thin tank top, pants following soon after. Without delay, your nipples hardened into buds in the cold air and you decided to ignore the growing goosebumps forming on your skin. 

You paused, wondering to what extent you were willing to take this, but quite frankly, fuck it – it was your turn to be bold. 

You slide your panties down, stepping out of them and tossing the fabric over to the side. Grabbing your phone, you stalked over to the mirror with a smile. If there was anything you learned about Chan so far, it was that he was one horny motherfucker. Two a.m be damned, he was desperate enough to take what you give him regardless of time and place. 

You held your phone up, glancing at yourself through the camera. You used the device to hide your face and brought your other hand up to place on your bicep, your arm effectively covering your nipples, yet still allowing the underside of your round plump tits to be seen. Your hip jutted out to angle your body in a more flattering way, crossing your legs over while you were at it because nudes or not – if he wanted to see what was between them, then he would have to do it in person. 

You snapped the photo once you were satisfied with your position, taking a few more just for safe measures. Moving back to your bed, you settled under the covers without even bothering to get dressed. Instead you were too focused on swiping through the pictures. You picked your favorite one and quite unlike you, without any hesitance, you hit send. 

Biting your nails, a habit you often did in anticipation, you watched as the bubbles on your screen popped up to notify you that he was typing. 

CHAN: holy fucking shit CHAN: excuse me while i go fuck my fist 😃

To be honest, with humor like his, you didn’t know if he was serious or not. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to care if he actually was, especially since he would be getting himself off to a photo of you. 

YOU: lmaooo, you’re excused 🤭 YOU: make sure you add me to your spank bank ;)

Typically Chan was fast, often having a text message ready to go by the time yours goes through. This time however, it took a lot longer than usual to get back to you.

Your eyebrows knot together, wondering if what he said was true and if he was in fact jerking off to you. Giving him a few minutes, you glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand as you wait. Doing the mental math, you would only get a short few hours of sleep in before you had to wake up for work. Sighing, you decided it was time to wrap it up before you got a little too carried away and ended up pulling an all-nighter instead. 

YOU: …..hello???

Again, your text was left on delivered and you figured that he was rather… busy. Chuckling to yourself, you went to turn your phone off, but before you could, you noticed your messages were now marked as read. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you waited for what he had to say and you couldn’t help the grin that stretched across your face as your eyes scanned over his words. 

CHAN: i think we should go on another date

In any other instance, you would’ve scolded yourself for giggling like a teenager slowly falling head over heels. But Chan brought out a side of you that even you didn’t know existed. 

YOU: i think so too

Ever since you met Chan, you’ve come to notice that time seemed to move rather fast. 

Somewhere between the constant late nights spent texting each other and the days in which you two planned to meet later in the afternoon – you were now nearing two months since matching with him on TINDER.

Safe to say, date two went a lot better than planned – if you didn’t count the fact that Chan paid more attention to your tits as opposed to you. 

The push-up bra you decided to wear that day had done its job perfectly. Not only did it turn your B cups into a C, but it also accentuated the curve of your breasts, making them look plump. 

“My eyes are up here,” You told him with a pointed look. Chan hummed with a nod but didn’t bother to tear his gaze away or even look mildly ashamed of himself. The only thing on his mind was nuzzling his face between them. 

Though, who were you to judge? 

Later that night, after you both parted ways and agreed on seeing each other again sometime that week, you sent him a surprise in the form of a photo message. This time, unlike the first, you weren’t trying to cover anything, and the view Chan was pathetically trying to see under the top at the cafe earlier, was on clear display for him. 

You were stunned. Initially, you were certain that all you were looking for was a good fuck and you would be on your way, but there was just something about Lee Chan that had you completely captivated. 

What was it, is the question.

By the time your third date came around, you realized just how much Chan seemed to love your ass. To say it was a shocker would be a lie considering the reason he most likely swiped right on your TINDER profile was because of the thin bathing suit you were wearing in your photo. 

On that exact day, he had chosen the beach on purpose, and in return, you showed up in bikini bottoms that were far too small just to get a rise out of him. You strutted around shamelessly, and he couldn’t resist eyeing the way your ass jiggled and bounced from behind. He thought he was going to die of blue balls when you asked him to rub sunscreen on your back, and even more so as you requested for him to take it a little further down your backside so you would avoid getting burnt. 

Suddenly, the Chan you initially met – the one that always had a slick mouth and never shied away from sexual innuendos, was poof – gone.

Honestly, as much as you’ve taken a liking to playing a game of seeing just how flustered you could make him, the fourth date was when you decided that enough was enough. 

The past few days left you more than horny. From the constant lewd photos you would send him that would only get dirtier the longer you two talked to each other, and the fact that he hadn’t exactly made a move on you yet despite consistently talking a big game – your vibrator just hadn’t been doing its job lately. It was frustrating, to say the least, and your body was yearning for something a little more – real.

The restaurant, a location that you had the hand of picking for the night, was dimly lit. The warm glow of a candlelight flickered between your bodies, casting soft subtle shadows on your faces. It was a change of scenery from the casual dates you two had been on and it did its deed in fulfilling the sensual intimate atmosphere you’d been craving as of recently. 

You’d taken your sweet time to get ready, picking out a dress that hugged every curve of your body and a bold red lip to match with the shade of fabric. Your heels, though somewhat uncomfortable, assisted with boosting your confidence, and with every step you took, it only grew more. You looked the best you’ve had in months and to think all this was to meet up with a man. 

Chan picked you up at the exact time on the dot, jaw nearly dropping when you walked out the elevator of your apartment complex. He was rendered speechless, but unlike usual, there was a feeling of something other than the typical horniness brewing inside of him. He just couldn’t put his finger on what. 

The gentleman side of him was something you hadn’t seen before; at least since you first met him. Throughout the night, he opened every door and showered you with compliments, but as you sat across from him, you couldn’t help but notice that his attention was beginning to drift elsewhere.

Chan tried his best to focus on what you were saying, he really did, but as regular, your tits distracted him, and the red lip you had opted for instead of your typical clear gloss, had an effect on him more than he’d prefer to acknowledge. 

You huffed, eyebrows knitting together in pure annoyance, “Are you even listening to me?” 

Chan’s eyes slightly widened as he was caught red-handed. You looked as if you were ready to bite his head off and he knew then that he had to tread carefully. Upon taking too long to respond, you got up from your spot and threw the cloth napkin down on the table. Hastily, you picked up your purse and shot him a glare, “I’ll be right back,” You muttered, before turning on your heels and heading straight for the restroom. 

Even as you walked away, heels clicking angrily, Chan couldn’t help but stare at the way your dress made your ass stand out as you sashayed further from him. 

He was doomed. 

Finally, away from him and in an enclosed space, you gave yourself a once over in the mirror as your emotions whirled inside of you – anger, frustration, and a little bit of lust too. You were sure that if you mentioned it, Chan would surely take the hint. But proper communication was a skill that you sadly lacked. 

Fixing your lipstick and poofing your hair, you admired your reflection before nodding to yourself. If plan A and plan B didn’t work out (not like there was one anyway), that just meant it was time for plan C.

Time to strike.

You strutted out of the bathroom, right back to the table you were once sitting at with your date. This time, instead of sitting across from him, you made yourself comfortable in the booth right next to him. He noted the change of seating from the corner of his eye but had no time to comment on it before a waiter showed up ready to take orders back to the kitchen. 

Chan was oblivious at first, not thinking anything of it when you rested your hand gently on his knee. He continued his conversation with the waiter, asking for the specials and recommendations of what to order. Your hand lingered, slowly trailing your acrylic nails against his pants as you inched it further and further up his knee. Again, he didn’t mention the gesture, most likely thinking it was just a way of showing your affection. It wasn’t until the waiter turned their attention towards you that you figured the perfect opportunity was granted.

Without missing a beat, you asked the same questions Chan had, trying to find out which dish was precisely suited for your tastebuds. You smiled as the employee listed the options, your grin only growing wider when you saw Chan’s eyes widening from your peripheral vision when you grazed your palm over the bulge in his dress pants. Your fingers played with the zipper, casually brushing against the obvious tent beginning to grow and Chan could only be grateful that the tablecloth was covering it from the waiter’s view as he uncomfortably cleared his throat. 

You held your composure quite well, caressing him softly through the fabric; and dare Chan say he was crazy to wish the layer of clothing wasn’t there in the first place.

“That sounds great!” You tell the waiter, turning to look at the man next to you. “Doesn’t it, baby?” You ask, pet name taking him by surprise almost as much as when you undid his zipper. 

Chan swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he tried to hide his shock. “U-uhm…yeah, great,” He managed to say, maintaining eye contact. You looked so innocent, smiling at him as if your hand wasn’t currently sneaking its way down his pants. Your fingertips glided against his pelvis, sending goosebumps all over his skin. And finally, the moment you both have been waiting for – you gripped him firmly, feeling his cock twitch in your hold. 

“Will that be all?” The waiter asked. 

You nodded, thanking him before he looked at Chan patiently for an answer. He went to speak, but instead, his knee shot up, causing the table to shake at the same exact time you slid your thumb over the slit of his tip.

“Oh my,” You express with worry. Chan avoids the urge to scoff at your faux sympathy, fully aware of your mocking tone. “Is something wrong?” 

He sends you a tight-lipped smile, nodding at you before doing the same to the waiter who finally walks off after being content with the answer he received. You kept your eyes on his back, but not for long as you could feel the way Chan was peering into the side of your face. You turn to meet his gaze, sending him the most naive look you could muster while your hand worked slowly up and down his cock. 

“What?” You asked, lashes fluttering with a confused expression. 

“Bold.” He stated through gritted teeth. 

You smirked, bringing the same hand you were using on him up to your face, acting as if you were covering your mouth to laugh. Instead, you gathered enough saliva in your mouth and held eye contact with him as you spit in your palm and returned it back to where it was under the table. Chan sucked in a shuddered breath, the spit making it easier for your hand to glide and work him up to a high in record time. As pathetic as it was, it took him all but three minutes and a few dirty words whispered into his ear before he was cumming all over your hand. 

You raised both eyebrows in amusement, enjoying the flush look on his face post-orgasm. “Not so vanilla now, am I?”

And so it began – the constant cycle of Chan between your legs and in return, you on your knees for him. However, as much as you enjoyed his fingers and his tongue, it was never him inside of you. 

He was driving you crazy.

The fifth official date was when you finally concluded that it was time to put your foot down, your sexual frustration getting the best of you. 

Much like the first time, Jenni’s ice cream parlour was packed to the brim yet again. Chan suggested the location when you gave him the option of choosing, saying that it would be adorable to take a visit back to where it all started.

Started what, exactly? You have no clue, but there was no denying that over the past couple of months, something was lingering in the air between the two of you. 

Perhaps, love? 

No. It was too soon… you think. 

“I bet I can guess what flavor you’re going to get.”

Chan’s words cause you to let out a small laugh. You raise your sunglasses to your head, shooting him an amused look. “Really?”

He nods, a smirk growing on his face as if he’s got you all figured out. “Really.” He confirms, voice unwavering in confidence. 

“Okay,” You urge him to continue, “What is it then?”

“Vanilla.” 

Your tongue prods at your cheek in mild annoyance. You send him a tight-lipped smile, doing your best to hide your irritation. Vanilla was your go-to, it always has been and you always thought it would be; however, ever since you met Chan, you’ve learned to step out of your comfort zone more often. Change has never really been your thing, but you were growing more accustomed to your routine shifting the longer you spent with him.

Not giving you enough time to say anything back, not like you were so sure that was a good idea given your attitude, an employee greeted the both of you. She smiled, going over all the options available before asking what flavor you wanted. 

You could feel Chan’s eyes on you, expectantly waiting for you to choose what you’d usually go for. Your jaw clenched, not sparing him a glance as you smiled back at the staff behind the counter. 

“Superman.” 

Chan’s eyebrows shot up and he stammered over his words in surprise, “Superman?” 

You hum, still refusing to look at him as the lady hands you the cone. You silently grimace at the arrangement of colors, but nevertheless, aren’t too disheartened by your change of ice cream flavor. It was time to try something different, even if it included vibrant colored food dye. Licking the scoop of ice cream, you turned to the man next to you.

Chan stares at you for a short while, still in shock, but quickly composes himself as his lips twitch into a small smile – almost as if he’s proud. “Never thought I’d see the day.” 

“Expect the unexpected,” You wink at him playfully.

He shakes his head, laughing to himself before slowly looking at the lady waiting for him to order. “I’ll take vanilla please.” 

You almost scoff, narrowing your eyes at him. He looks at you teasingly, smirking at your reaction. “What?” He asks. “I thought we were exchanging orders.” 

You don’t say anything, instead watching as he takes his own ice cream cone and walks over to the register. You follow behind him, a little ticked off, but still appreciative when he once again, like he has every other time, pays for the both of you. 

You take the lead, walking over to the same booth you two secured on the first date. The family previously occupying it left just in time for the seats to become vacant despite multiple other customers looking for a place to sit as well.

Just as you got comfortable on the padded cushion, Chan backtracked as he watched you lick your ice cream, this time the color on your tongue being a mix of red and blue instead of white. He cursed under his breath, swiftly turning around and walking away. You watched confused, but everything clicked into place as he returned with a wad of napkins. Sending him a knowing smile, you huff out a laugh, knowing all too well how much the little drops of melted ice cream on your hand affected him during date number one.

“I’m playing it safe,” He mumbled, finally sliding into the booth. 

Conversation flowed easily, kept mostly casual with undercurrents of teasing and sexual flirtations that neither of you fully addressed. With each passing minute, you subtly noticed Chan inching closer and closer. Whether he was doing it subconsciously or not, you had no idea but chose not to mention it. 

You take another slow lick of your dessert, tongue swiping along the edge of the cone as your eyes flicked up to meet Chan’s. The sentence he was in the middle of saying catches in his throat and although soft, you can hear his breathing quicken. His gaze is glued to your mouth and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, cheeks darkening in the slightest bit. You watch him confused, scanning over this new flustered state of his.

That’s when you notice it. 

The tablecloth he was using to help provide a barrier of cover, did very little to shield the obvious tent in his pants. It was different from just a regular bulge in jeans too tight. In fact his jeans fit him perfectly, he just had a massive raging hard-on at the very moment. 

“Chan,” You say his name, trying to capture his attention. It does nothing as he avoids confrontation, almost as if he is ignoring you entirely. “Chan,” You try again, more persistently, “Will you just look at me?”

He shakes his head no, just like a stubborn toddler would. You sigh heavily in both frustration and annoyance. The tension in the air is thick, only growing more suffocating the longer Chan refuses to meet your eyes. You grit your teeth together, feeling your heart hammer in your chest, except instead of it being from infatuation as per usual, this time it’s from anger.

You throw your cone down on the napkins in front of you and aggressively get up from your seat. It’s only then that his head snaps towards your figure with widened eyes, a hint of fear lingering behind them. He opens his mouth to finally speak, but it’s already too late; you’re halfway across the parlour and heading straight for the door by the time he musters the courage. You can’t find it in you to care, already too wound up and tired of the ridiculous push-and-pull dynamic that only seems to go nowhere every time things get close to tipping over. 

You storm out of the building, not bothering to stop despite the constant calling of your name from him. Chan follows hot on your trail, completely oblivious and wondering what on earth he’d done wrong to piss you off to this extent.

He moves fast to unlock the door of his car as he sees you approaching the vehicle, wanting to refrain from pissing you off any further than he already has. You slam his passenger door shut as you get in, the aggressive sound causing him to flinch. Cautiously, he slides into the driver’s seat, taking a short glance at you. He quickly observes the way your jaw ticks and arms are crossed as you stare out the window, and he decides that maybe now is not the best time to address whatever elephant it is that’s in the room. 

“Take me home.” 

Your words cut through the air like a knife. Immediately Chan starts up his car, pulling out of the parking space and navigating through the streets. He opted out of the use of a GPS, and you were thankful that he seemed to know the route back to your place by heart, making it easier to not talk to him as he didn’t need your assistance. 

He knows he shouldn’t speak and he most certainly knows that he’s on thin ice, but it’s already too late and the words are leaving his mouth before he can even register. “You seem pissed.” 

You release a shudder of breath, swallowing hard as you resist the urge to scream. “No shit,” You say, voice laced with venom. 

He shuts up immediately, grip on the steering wheel tightening as he takes a turn and pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex. Before he can even park, you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt and grasping at the handle. He changes the gears, rushing to unlock the doors before you can unleash your wrath on him any further. As soon as he does so, you’re out of the vehicle and storming straight for the entrance of your building.

Chan sits in his car for a minute, watching as you strut off angrily. It takes him a second to process everything, but as soon as he does, he’s taking action. 

He grabs at his handle, yanking the door ajar and stumbling over his own two feet as he gets out. He calls your name as he struggles to catch up, but you decide he’s not worthy of your attention as you ignore him entirely. He looks utterly pathetic, trailing after you like an abandoned puppy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

If only a second shorter, the elevator doors would’ve closed directly in his face, but his arm darts out just in time to catch it. He stumbles into the enclosed space just as you click your floor and you don’t bother to say anything. Instead, you stare at the electric indicator, watching as the number rises with each level the elevator moves up. Chan takes a spot in the corner farthest from you, yet you can feel his eyes peering into the side of your face and hear his foot tapping nervously. 

A ding rings out and the doors open on the seventeenth floor. You step out of the small space, enjoying the breath of fresh air from the suffocating silence that once consumed you. Chan lingers, but as soon as you start moving in the direction of your living space, he’s not too far behind. The questions tumble out rapidly, and he follows you all the way to your apartment, pleading for you to tell him what’s wrong. 

“For fucksake, will you shut up already?” You don’t spare him a glance as you fumble with your keys. 

“No,” He states stubbornly, “Not until you tell me what I did wrong.” 

You roll your eyes, the lock to your apartment clicking as it finally grants you access. You look back at him with bitterness, hand resting on the doorknob. “You really are an idiot,” You say as you take in the desperation written all over his features. Your words come out more as a statement, as if they were a note to yourself instead of an insult said straight to his face. Still, Chan takes offense.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, completely oblivious. “You’re mad at me because I’m an idiot?” 

You straighten up, turning your body around to face him. A sigh falls from your lips as you shake your head, “It’s been nearly five months Chan,” Your hand moves to hold the number up, “Five,” You repeat exasperatedly. 

He looks at you puzzled, mouth opening yet not saying anything as he struggles to process the meaning behind your reasoning. “Okay…” He says slowly, “What does that have to do with anything?” 

You throw your arm down, even more frustrated than before as it was obvious he didn’t get the point. “All that time and we still haven’t done anything yet,” You say, hoping to clear things up.

Much to your dismay, his eyebrows only furrow. “We’ve done plenty of things,” He states.

You don’t have to ask to know that he’s talking about the countless times your dates have become handsy. 

You massage your temples, stress building with every argument he makes to your claims. “Yes, but I need more,” Your tone is daring and you look at him with a yearning that he’s never quite seen from you before.

Your pupils were dilated, gaze being so intense that it almost caused him to look away. It leaves his mouth dry as he struggles to mutter a soft, “Oh” in final realization. 

It’s as if all the stars in the night sky finally align when you see the exact moment he puts all the pieces together. “Oh.” You repeat back to him, the word being a final confirmation and all that he needed to know to affirm he was on the right track of figuring you out. 

A beat passes and for the first time since he’s met you, Chan uses it to survey you – actually take you in for more than what he saw you as. 

Sure your face was beautiful and body damn near perfect, but if he takes a closer look, he can notice the tension in your shoulders and the way your fingers always fidget. 

He wonders how he missed it before, the evident sexual frustration that you’ve had since day one that he knew needed more to cure. He hadn’t thought about it, no, he’d looked right past it, putting off his own desires as he formed an opinion of you for more than what he saw you as. 

Hair, face, tits, and ass be damned. That’s only the surface level of you. What was easily displayed on a platter for him. But if you asked him to explain anything about you, from thoughts to interests to what makes you the happiest girl in the world – he could easily write an entire book.

Chan’s not exactly sure what this feeling is, but what he does know is that it’s been there for a while and it’s something that starts with an L and ends with an E.

“How long is it going to take for you to finally fuck me?” You breathe out, eyes staring deep into his with a look etched on your face that silently screams for a sense of intimacy. 

That was all it took, a simple question and he’s automatically leaning in to kiss you like his life depended on it – like you were the air he needed to breathe in order to survive. Your lips meet his with just as much fervor, kissing him back with a burning passion. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you pull him impossibly closer to you as your hands entangle in his hair.

Chan doesn’t take his sweet time, he’s passionate and heated all at once. For a second he wonders why he hasn’t done this before. How on earth was this the very first time he’s ever kissed you? But to a certain extent, he understands. You’re intoxicating, and now that he’s had a little taste, he's not sure he can ever let you go.

Pulling away isn’t an option, not like you could fathom the idea of being apart. You think you could stay like this forever – his lips on yours till the end of time. 

Your back hits the door with a thud and Chan places his hand behind your head to break the impact. His fingers thread through your strands of hair, forcing a soft moan out of you and he jumps at the chance. You hum in content as your tongues dance together in perfect harmony, exploring each other’s mouths like they’ve belonged there the entire time.

Not bothering to break apart, your hand darts out behind you to clumsily find the doorknob and Chan follows your mouth as you lean back, not wanting to part ways just yet. Once found, you jiggle at it, opening the door before finally, and quite sadly, pulling away from the kiss. 

That was the first time you invited Chan into your apartment – your home and what has come to be known as your ultimate safe place turned filthy after a hot and steamy night with the man you’ve been waiting to have all to yourself in bed. 

“You –,” The expression etched onto Yunjin’s face is borderline comical as she nearly chokes on her drink. She puts the mimosa glass back on the table, looking around to make sure no one is listening before leaning in and whispering, “Dommed?”

You roll your eyes at your best friend’s dramatics, “Yes.” 

“Holy shit,” Yunjin leans back in her chair, brunch completely forgotten about as she stares at you in awe. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“There’s just something about him,” You mumble, taking a bite of your french toast, “He brings out a side of me I never really knew was there.” 

Yunjin hums, fully examining you as if a science project is on display. She crosses her arms over her chest with a devilish smirk. “No way,” She giggles, “You have a mommy kink.”

Immediately, you stop chewing to look at her unimpressed. “No I don’t,” You deadpan. 

“What’s next? Gonna peg him?”

“Shut the fuck up,” You snap, sending her a pointed look.

Her arms shoot up in surrender as she laughs, her intent on provoking a reaction out of you being successful. She quiets down when she realizes you’re not half as amused as she is, and it causes her to fully address the situation as it is.

This was more serious than she thought – than you thought.

“My god. You really do like this dude, don’t you?”

It’s a question asked innocently, and one that means no harm, but still it causes you to tense up. Suddenly, your walls are rebuilding themselves, and best friend be damned, you oh so badly wanted to freeze her out at the very moment. 

“What makes you say that?” You shrug dismissively.  

Yunjin scoffs, knowing what you were trying to do. All those years spent together, you would be damn stupid to think she doesn’t catch on to your habits of shutting people out. You’ve always hated talking about deep emotional connections, let alone forming one and it was the main reason as to why you’ve never had a boyfriend all throughout both high school and college.

As your best friend, it’s her rightful duty to – how should she put this nicely – slap talk some damn sense into you.   

“Y/n,” She states firmly, raising a stern eyebrow, much like your mother did when you were younger. “You can’t keep on doing this.”

“Doing what?” You play coy, “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re avoiding your feelings.” 

You let out a gasp, hand clutched over your chest as you pretend to take the accusation personally. “Am not!”

Yunjin grumbles in annoyance and shoots you a glare. “Y/n, we’re not kids anymore. We’re full grown adults and god forbid, you like someone. So what? It’s not going to be the end of the world.” 

You take in her mini pep talk, yet it does nothing to affect your stance. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

She lets out a sound of dissatisfaction, knowing better than to trust your words. “Keep this up any longer and you’ll end up like one of those old and lonely cat ladies.”

“I like cats.”

“That’s not my point!” She bites back, and although she’s currently looking at you like she wants your head on a stick – you also know, she just wants what’s best for you. 

You sigh heavily, throat constricting as you nod in defeat. “I’m scared.” You manage to say, voice so soft that she almost misses your confession. “I’m scared and you’re right, I do like him – at least, I think I do.”

“You do,” Yunjin confirms for you, “Maybe even a little bit more than like.”

You know what she’s trying to entail, but instead of dwelling on it, you choose to take it one step at a time.

You like Lee Chan.

You bring your hands up to bury your face in them, wincing at the thought. “I should’ve swiped left on him,” You groan. 

Yunjin smiles, content and slightly proud that you’ve finally begun to accept your feelings for what they are. “Swiper no swiping.”

It’s been four days.

Four days, and Chan thinks he has a reason to justify going insane.

No calls, no texts, no signs that you’re even alive – absolutely nothing. 

He waits with as much patience as he can muster, phone clutched tightly as he stares down at the screen. It takes a few minutes before he sighs and tucks the device away into his back pocket.

Chan wasn’t as naive as you made him out to be. He was smart and clever, but when it came to all things regarding you, it threw him for an impossible loop. However, even now, he could make out that you were ignoring him. 

Sometimes you slip up. He was hard to forget about, and more so harder to resist whenever his contact would pop up here and there. At first, it was easy to swipe up on the notification. But as the days rolled by and felt longer than before, trying not to miss him wasn’t an option anymore. 

Read receipts will forever be the bane of your existence. 

— MONDAY, day one 

2:08 pm (delivered)

CHAN: hey, i know you’re at work rn, but wanna go on a date this weekend? CHAN: the carnival is coming back to town and i think it would be fun yk 

4:36 pm (delivered)

CHAN: just lmk

6:45 pm (delivered)

CHAN: how was work?

8:15 pm (delivered)

CHAN: y/n? CHAN: if you don’t answer i’m gonna take your silence as a yes lmao 

10:23 pm (delivered)

CHAN: rough day? CHAN: that’s fine, we can just talk more about it tmr and make plans  CHAN: goodnight 

— TUESDAY, day two 

7:00 am (delivered)

CHAN: morning  CHAN: have a good day, i’ll txt you later 

10:56 am (delivered)

CHAN: wanna get lunch together on your break?

11:02 am (delivered)

CHAN: hellooooo ???? CHAN: i’m free around the same time you’re supposed to take your break so lmk

12:35 pm (delivered)

CHAN: or i can pick something up and bring it to you CHAN: i know you like that one little sandwich spot downtown with the freshly baked sourdough 

1:15 pm (delivered)

CHAN: so i guess that’s a no then ?

6:30 pm (delivered) 

CHAN: y/n  CHAN: am i just texting myself 

8:32 pm (delivered)

CHAN: alright i’ll just go fuck myself then 😃 CHAN: KIDDING  CHAN: ….maybe

11:56 pm (delivered)

CHAN: night 

— WEDNESDAY, day three

9:08 am (read)

CHAN: is today the day you’re finally going to hmm idk TEXT ME BACK

11:47 am (delivered)

CHAN: guess not 

1:23 pm (read)

CHAN: y/n, you’re killing me here CHAN: did i do something wrong?

6:17 pm (delivered)

CHAN: y/n

10:13 pm (read)

CHAN: are you ignoring me?

12:01 am (delivered)

CHAN: gn

— THURSDAY, day four

1:04 pm (read)

CHAN: hey CHAN: i don’t know what i did to piss you off and make you ignore me, but i just wanted to let you know that i’m sorry

7:38 pm (delivered) 

CHAN: okay, your silence is making me become borderline psychotic  CHAN: i think i’m losing it 

8:15 pm (delivered)

CHAN: they’re setting up the carnival, i can see the ferris wheel from the highway CHAN: i used to ride it all the time when i was a kid CHAN: call me lame or whatever, but it was lowkey my favorite 

10:52 pm (read)

CHAN: say something CHAN: anything, please 

11:14 pm (read) 

CHAN: are you starting to regret things? 

12:54 am (read)

CHAN: whatever 

— FRIDAY, day four 

7:15 am (delivered)

CHAN: you know what? CHAN: yeah i’m not gonna let this happen 

10:14 am (delivered)

CHAN: text me back

1:37 pm (delivered)

CHAN: y/n i’m not kidding  CHAN: text me back

2:37 pm (delivered)

CHAN: last chance 

2:45 pm (delivered)

CHAN: okay then CHAN: call me crazy idc

3:15 pm (delivered)

CHAN: fuck it 

Chan thinks this is a stupid idea – Chan knows this is a stupid idea. 

Showing up to your workplace might be pushing boundaries, but over the past four days, now going on five, he can’t find it within himself to care. 

Fridays were always your favorite day of the week. The office was always a buzz, food was supplied by your company, and you got to get off your shift three hours earlier. However, now, as the clock struck 3:40, the usual time in which you would be clocking out, you still sat in your chair. Your desk was a mess, scattered with papers and loose staples.

Sighing, you look at your planner sitting on the edge. Out of the multiple tasks written on your to-do list, only a few were actually checked off and there was so much more to complete.

The endless nights of no sleep were catching up to you. At first, you tried to go to bed early, but it was a hopeless attempt with the constant dinging from your phone. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to mute Chan’s incoming messages. When you did catch yourself dozing off, the bed felt too empty, despite never having anyone spend the night before. 

How is it possible to miss something that was never there in the first place?

“Hey, what are you still doing here?” Your co-worker asks as she’s heading out. She glances at you curiously as she adjusts the bag strap on her shoulder.

You smile, although it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thought I should stay a little while.” 

Gesturing to the array of paperwork in front of you, she seems to understand where you’re coming from. The sympathetic expression on her face makes your stomach turn, and you know she doesn’t approve of your choice to stay back.

“Okay, well don’t be too long,” She nods, looking you over from head to toe, “Also, make sure you go home and get some sleep.”

She says it in the best interest, but that doesn’t stop annoyance from spiking within. Your shoulders tense and you nod, trying not to look irritated. It’s only when she leaves, your smile drops.

“Fucking hell,” You mutter to yourself, fed up. 

You know you shouldn’t be here and you also know that your work isn’t going to get done properly while you're exhausted – but you need a distraction. Refusing to look at Chan’s messages is harder said than done, but today, giving in is not an option. 

The last thing on your mind is Chan – or at least you try convincing yourself of that. 

“I don’t suppose you know of someone named Y/n, do you?” Chan believes that bumping into the girl leaving your company’s building was a blessing in disguise. He’d seen her before, noting as soon as he saw her face that she was a friend of yours from work. 

She smiles, glancing up at the tall building, silently giving him an answer. “Hi, yes! She’s staying back to catch up on some work.” 

Chan’s eyebrows furrow and he looks at his watch. It’s twenty minutes past the time in which you would already be on your way home. He thought he missed you, but suddenly he thinks that road raging and swerving between traffic wasn’t needed on his way here.

“She’s still up there if you’re looking for her,” Your coworker pipes, “Floor thirteen.” 

Chan smiles and thanks her before entering through the sliding doors. He walks with a pep in his step, making it to the elevator just in time before it closes and pressing the button. With each floor he passes, he begins to feel something faint starting to stir in him. It starts in his toes, making its way up to his abdomen, then chest, and finally his ears. He clenches and unclenches his hands repeatedly, anxiousness getting the best of him. 

He hesitates to get off the lift when it finally reaches, but he steps out and takes a short look around. The office is quiet, a lot less people being around now that the workday is over. The big windows throughout the space let in bright light from the sun, hitting the cubicles perfectly. He walks slowly, scanning the place as he tries to spot you.

You stand out – sitting at your desk, fingers typing away at the keyboard and drawing out clicking sounds in the quiet atmosphere. You’re entirely too focused, but still, he can see the bags under your eyes and slouch to your posture. 

He approaches carefully, not wanting to alarm you. “Hey,” He greets softly.

You snap your head up, eyes wide in shock as you take him in. “What are you doing here?” You ask, pushing your chair back and standing while you try to process the situation. 

Chan shrugs, “You never texted me back.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest, “So what? You think showing up to my job was a good idea?” 

There’s an undertone of venom laced within your words and it causes Chan to slightly flinch. He acts like the glare you sent his way doesn’t faze him and instead keeps his composure calm.

“You’re ignoring me.” 

Your heart beats rapidly at the confrontation. “Leave Chan,” You dismiss, raising a stern eyebrow at him.

“Hell no,” He laughs, but it’s half-hearted and not from amusement, “I’ve been going insane Y/n. Insane and it’s all because of you.” 

You avert your eyes from him, staring at your desk as you don't respond. 

“We can’t keep doing this. It’s either you want me just as badly as I want you, or you just don’t want me at all.” He uses his hands to speak, gesturing sporadically out of frustration. “I could be anything you want. You just tell me what you want and I’ll be that for you.” 

You glance up at him, eyes threatening to fill with tears. You hold them back to the best of your ability. His words pull at your heartstrings, but you try not to let them phase you. You shake your head, barely holding it together as you mutter softly, “Leave.” 

A few minutes roll by, but no words are said. The tension between the two of you grows thick. 

Chan nods, eyes narrowing as he studies you. “Fine,” He agrees, “I’ll go.” 

“Fine?” You uncross your arms, regretting your decision of not wanting him around. You forgot how desperately you craved the feeling of him, let alone enjoyed it. The thought of losing him again was unbearable as dramatic as it may seem, but it was from your own doing. Chan was just simply obliging by what you said and you had absolutely no right being mad at him for doing so. 

He’s quick to catch the way you react as he turns to look at you from over his shoulder. However, he’s not surprised. Your walls may be built up now, but he’s knocked them down once and he’s certainly not afraid to do it again.

“Unless you don’t want me to?”

You stiffen slightly, mouth going dry as you grow used to the feeling of your throat tightening. You’re afraid to speak, scared that your words might leave your mouth with a sob. Your silence seems to be enough and Chan exhales deeply before he tilts his head in recognition. 

“Tomorrow. Five p.m.” His tone leaves no room for argument, plans already set in stone. “Be ready. I’ll pick you up.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, teeth digging into the soft flesh, but nevertheless, you nod in agreement. 

Chan offers you a tight-lipped smile, happy with your answer. For a second he was beginning to fear that you were going to reject him, but his worries were now at bay. 

You’re all his once again and this time around, he has absolutely no intention of letting you go anytime soon. 

“Now, let me take you home.”

The sound of sneakers against pavement and the distant chatter of people filled the air as you and Chan strolled through the carnival. The night was alive with energy – the scent of popcorn and funnel cakes drifting through and excited screams from roller coaster passengers blending into the upbeat music playing from the overhead speakers.

It was pushing just past sunset, and as adamant as you were about going on this date, you surely did enjoy the man’s presence. Being within his vicinity was always the most comfortable you’ve ever been. Similar to a fluffy warm blanket draped over your body on a cold winter night. 

You look over at Chan, the bright neon lights of a few rides nearby casting colorful reflections across his face. It caused him to look impossibly more attractive than he already is; his side profile standing out from the mild shine of a spotlight. 

“What?” 

You blink in surprise as he turns his head towards you. Not having expected him to catch you in the act of admiring his good looks, you quickly avert your gaze.

“Nothing,” You mutter. 

Chan’s lips curve into the smallest smirk and he playfully nudges his shoulder against yours. “Tell me,” He insists.

Your shoulders roll back as you try to save face and divert the topic. “You know, we’ve been here for a few hours already.” You glance up at the dark shades of blue and purple painting the sky. “Whatever happened to that ferris wheel you were telling me about?” 

Your diversion seems to do the trick and Chan’s eyes immediately light up at the mention of his favorite ride. For a split second, he looks like a starstruck child. But soon his excitement dulls down into something smaller and laced with disappointment. 

“What?” You frown. “What’s wrong?” 

Chan tries to smile, but it falters halfway through. “So you did see my texts.” 

You freeze, breath picking up as you register your mistake. The only reason why you knew the ferris wheel was his favorite was because Chan mentioned the ride before – specifically on Thursday when you’d been on a deadset mission of shutting him out.

“Fuck.” The expression on your face morphs into one ridden of guilt and shame. “I’m really sorry,” You apologize. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Chan shrugs, “It’s fine.” 

You sigh, shaking your head, “No Chan it’s not. You didn’t deserve the way I treated you and instead of just talking things out like adults, I decided that avoiding you was the best option.” 

He regards your heartfelt apology, reassuring you, “Really, it’s okay.” 

You continue with your speech, not properly registering the acceptance in his tone. “I behaved stupidly, and immaturely, and –,” You wince with remorse plaguing your mind, “God, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“Y/n,” Chan interrupts and you half expect him to be angry with you. Instead, he’s calm, nonchalant almost. “I told you, it’s fine. I understand.” His hands are shoved into his pockets as he observes you, unfazed by everything that’s happening. You kind of want him to be angry with you – maybe then you’d feel a little less shitty for throwing yourself a pity party, although it seems unreasonable. “You just need to understand.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together, not sure what he meant. “Understand? Understand what exactly?”

Chan smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. It causes the butterflies in your stomach to erupt and heart to swell in your chest. “You’ll see.” He holds his hand out and you take the offer, enlacing your fingers with his despite still being skeptical. “You just need to figure some things out for yourself.”

You choose to stay silent and ponder while you allow him to guide you through the crowds of people. He eased through them and before you know it, without having enough time to even think over what he said, you were standing in line for the ferris wheel. 

The tall spinning frame rose above everything else, outlined in golden bulbs that blinked brightly and illuminated the night. Each cart swung gently in the wind, going around slowly and giving each rider enough time to appreciate the view from the top. 

The queue moved forward and you followed, stepping up to the platform as Chan led you into a purple cart. You take your seats, just the two of you alone as the wheel starts moving and you embark on the journey upwards. 

At first it’s quiet, and the only thing you can hear is the whipping of wind the higher the cart moves. But as Chan scooted closer until his thigh was pressed up against your own, the sound of the wind was soon replaced with one of your own heartbeat. 

You tried not to pay any attention, but it became progressively more difficult when his hand brushed yours. The jitters were hard to push down and you were no longer able to focus on the view of the city. The silence that loomed over kept you on edge and you began to bounce your leg to help calm yourself. 

Chan’s hand darts out to rest on your thigh and the movement immediately stops at his touch. You snap your head over to him, but instead of saying anything, he offers a comforting smile as he squeezes your leg to provide reassurance. 

That’s when you understood. 

The ferris wheel wasn’t just a ride – it was the kind of place that held the weight of too many confessions and almost kisses. The kind of place where everything you’ve been avoiding, starts to inevitably feel closer, clearer, and harder to deny. 

Up here, where it feels like you’re on top of the world, makes it easier to think and harder to lie. And now as your cart is at the highest peak of the ride, there is no longer anywhere to run and hide. You didn’t want to be up here, not with him, and definitely not now when you could feel your walls starting to slip.

“Y/n,” He says your name softly. 

You make the mistake and meet his eyes, catching glimpses of the warmth that swirled in them. The way he peered at you was almost too knowingly. Like he already has you all figured out and was just waiting for you to finally stop pretending.

You turn your body towards him to observe his expression – and there it was. That look you’ve been running from. Not because you didn’t want it, but because you did. 

You’ve spent the last week dodging it, thinking you would break if you thought about the softness in his voice whenever he said your name or the way he could list all the little things about you that no one else knows. 

“What you said earlier,” You swallow hard and it’s almost painful as you accept what you’ve been trying to hold back since the first time you met him. “About understanding.” You could feel the anticipation curling in your chest, quiet and warm like a secret you hadn’t meant to bring with you that was finally going to be aired out. 

Chan nods in acknowledgment, urging you to continue.

“I didn’t know what you meant then – but if I did, I think I was trying to disregard it.”

His eyes search yours, glazing over your features before he asks gently, “And now?”

You breathe in the night, gazing at him as if he’d strung all the stars in the sky. The quiet certainty settled and you found yourself being brave enough to speak. “Now,” You start, nodding in final acceptance, “I understand.” 

Chan doesn’t wait a second longer. As soon as you say the words, your admittance now out in the open, his lips are on yours. His hand snakes up to the side of your face, cradling your cheek as your lips welcome his own. The kiss is everything your first one wasn’t – it’s slow and calculated, with passion poured into it with every fiber of your heart and souls. The truth that once lived in the shadows between you is now loud – shouting, screaming, draining all the oxygen from your lungs to be heard as you refuse to pull away. 

Loving Chan came as easy as breathing, and you didn’t want to hold your breath for any longer. You were tired of suffocating when it felt like he was the only thing you needed to survive. 

You slowly pull away from the kiss, forehead resting against his. “Chan,” You whisper his name. He hums, holding your gaze, being able to see all the thoughts practically swimming in your head. “I love you.” 

The edges of his mouth slightly curve and he looks at you tenderly as he tucks a stand of loose hair behind your ear.

“I know.”

Six days ago, when Chan was here, it marked the first time you invited him into your apartment. But as he steps into your bedroom, lips attached to yours, this time he was here because you had finally invited him into your heart.

Clothes are shed on the way to your bed. You toss your jacket carelessly to the side, not caring where it lands. Chan reciprocates your actions, only pulling away to rip off his shirt before he’s right back to kissing you. Your hands find his belt, fumbling to undo the buckle. He helps you, the clanking of metal reaching your ears as he takes it off and throws it to the ground. 

“Let me suck you off.” You glance up at him, eyes blown and pupils dilated. 

Chan lets out a breathless laugh, “I’m the one that’s supposed to be taking care of you.” 

“Please,” You plead, voice desperate with want – no – need. “I want to make you feel good.”

He sighs, studying the eagerness you’re emitting. “Fine.” He gives in much quicker than expected.

As soon as you get the green light, you’re sinking to your knees, pulling his jeans down with you. The carpet of your floor digs into your knees, causing them to feel scratchy, but it’s the least of your worries. Your fingernails graze over the skin on his pelvis, causing him to flinch and goosebumps to arise. You can see the bulge in his thin boxer briefs waiting to be freed when you cup him over the fabric. 

Chan lets out a shuddered breath, his chest rising and falling in anticipation. You send him a playful smile, knowing all too well from your previous encounter last week, the effect you have on him. 

To hear him whine, and moan, and beg again – oh the things you would do. 

You slip a finger under his waistband, letting it linger before leisurely pulling his boxers down. His erection springs free, standing tall and leaking of pre-cum. You ghost your fingertips over it, a shit-eating grin spreading across your face as Chan sucks in a breath of air from the feeling. 

You loved toying with him. Chan had learned that the hard way before. But now it seems to be harder to deal with the second time around. 

Your thumb swipes over his tip, spreading the fluid that had seeped out. You gaze up at him as innocently as you can, observing the way he reacts to your teasing. The muscles in his stomach flex as he tries to endure it, but as you grip his cock firmly, only squeezing him and nothing else – he grows more and more frustrated by the minute. 

“Y/n,” He breathes out. His lids flutter open to peer down at you. Your eyebrows raise in acknowledgment, and Chan nearly scoffs at the audacity you have to look confused.

“What’s wrong Channie?” You ask, lips forming into a pout. 

“I thought you said you wanted to suck me off.” He tries to be stern, but his tone is breathless and higher pitched than usual.

You shrug, “I do.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

You tut in disapproval, shaking your head. “Patience is key, Chan. I thought we already went over this.”

He groans in annoyance, flashbacks of the last time y’all slept together still fresh in his mind. His reaction causes you to laugh and you can’t help but enjoy his misery just a little bit. However, yearning for him the past week has you feeling needier than usual and you throw in the towel as you feel your panties dampening at the sight of him. 

You slowly slide your tongue from the base of his cock to the head, taking small kitten licks when you finally reach the top. It’s barely anything, but still, it gives Chan something to work with as he sighs in satisfaction. 

You take your time, tracing every vein that protrudes and coating his length in your saliva to make it easier for your hand to glide and twist around him. You suck on his tip, softly moaning at the taste of salty pre-cum on your tastebuds. It encourages you to slide down further, stuffing your mouth full of cock as your nose hits his pelvis. 

Chan watches as you work with ease, and a groan escapes at the lewd scene of you taking him whole. It’s almost as if his cock is in its second home, your warm mouth wrapped around him and tip brushing against the back of your throat. 

You press your thighs together at the sound of pleasure he emits and focus on your breathing to grow accustomed to the length of him before you slide off.

“Better?” You ask.

“God yes.”

You chuckle, and you’re right back on him yet again. This time you focus your hand on the lower half of his cock, jerking him off whilst you bob your head up and down on the top half. You keep the same speed for both, and the synchrony assists in drawing moans from Chan. You could feel him growing more tense with every move you make and you start to go faster when you recognize the signs. 

You stifle a whimper when he tangles his fingers in your hair, gathering the strands into a makeshift ponytail. He doesn’t guide you however. Instead, he allows you to keep the same pace and suck his cock at your own speed. It’s only when you moan around the size of him, Chan’s cock spasms. 

He’s almost there – he can feel it, and so can you. 

Your tongue flattens against the underside of his length and you hollow your cheeks to suck him with such an intensity that it makes his knees buckle in the slightest. He regains his composure, tightening his grip in your hair as he pants heavily.

“Fuck Y/n.” He makes the mistake of looking down to where you stared back up at him with doe eyes. The sight makes him weak and the familiar feeling of pleasure thrums throughout his body. “I’m, I –,” He tries his best to speak clearly, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” 

You hum and he feels the vibrations of the sound around his cock. It only helps push him closer to the edge, and just as he tilts his head back and thinks he’s going to be sent over – it vanishes. 

He snaps his eyelids open, glaring at you incredulously. You mock his expression, before smirking. 

“I never gave you permission to cum.” 

“Then what’s the fucking point?” Chan asks angrily. His jaw is clenched and you can sense that he’s trying to keep his anger at bay.

You brush off his attitude, acting nonchalant. “For fun.” 

Chan bites his tongue, knowing that if he let himself speak, his words might come across as too harsh. The head of his cock is red, covered in your spit, and throbbing for attention. It’s an unpleasant sensation, and he can do nothing but crave for you to continue your ministrations from before. He considers begging but decides that it would only fuel your drive for dominance. The realization turns him away from the thought until he’s left with another idea rattling around in his brain. 

Growing uncomfortable to the feeling of the rough carpet against your skin, you lift a leg to help yourself get up. You try to stand, but Chan’s arms settle firmly on your shoulders, pushing you back into the same exact position you were in before. You scowl at the man, wincing as you adjust your posture to avoid rug burn.

The look in his eyes is something you’ve never seen before. It’s possessive, determined, almost – dominant.

He’s moving fast, too quick for you to fully process as both of his hands settle on either side of your face. Your mouth opens in shock to ask him what he’s doing, but it seems to be a slip-up as he takes advantage of your mistake. He thrusts his cock deeply past your lips and you almost choke at the intrusion. Tears prick your waterline, threatening to fall over as he begins to ram into your mouth, groaning as he takes control of the situation. 

Surprisingly enough, you let him. You don’t try to stop him, and he’s somewhat thankful that you understand how badly he wants this. You’ve made him wait far too long, and god forbid what can he say? He’s needy.

“Holy shit,” He groans, “So fucking good.” He adjusts his grip on your face, speeding up. “Perfect. Made just for me, yeah?” 

You try to nod your head to agree, but when you figure that you can’t, instead you let out a loud whine. It’s muffled, but still, it reaches his ears. 

The sound evokes something out of him, and when his cock jerks in your mouth, that’s when you feel the spurts of cum shooting down your throat. 

Chan’s mouth falls open as the bliss runs through him. He shamelessly allows high-pitched moans to fall from his lips as he stills completely, shoved all the way in, to where his balls are pressed against your chin. 

You soak up every last bit of his cum, the taste of him almost addicting. He finally lets go of your face when his orgasm fades, breathing heavily as he tries to pull himself out of your mouth. Before he can remove his cock completely, you suck on his tip, causing him to whimper in sensitivity before whipping it out entirely. With a loud pop, you grant him grace by letting him go. 

As you get up from the floor and Chan moves to rest on the bed, it’s obvious that he’s a little out of it. His cock rests against his stomach, softening, but still half erect. The view of him ignites something close to desire within you, and you can feel your underwear sticking to your skin as you grow wetter. The ache in your core only worsens when he brings an arm up to push back his hair, abs flexing at the stretch. 

It’s almost comical how fast you remove your clothes; somehow being able to do so without the man glancing up to admire the sight of you. He’s still in a post-orgasmic daze when he feels the mattress move from you climbing on and shifting the weight. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows that you're close when your thigh brushes against his shoulders. 

Your hands find the headboard, and you use it as leverage to swing your leg over him, knees on both sides of his face to position yourself directly above his lips. His lids flutter open and he’s presented with a sight that is what he considers to be, mouthwatering. He can feel his cock hardening once again, excited at the view of your wet folds. 

“Be a good boy Chan,” You taunt, lowering yourself further down, “I know you want to.” 

If heaven existed, then this would surely be it. There’s no other place Chan would rather be right now than in between your thighs. 

His arms wrap around your legs, tugging you closer. The sudden jolt causes you to lose your grip on the bed frame, but you’re quick to grab hold of it again. It seems fruitless as you use the wooden structure to ground yourself, hands loosening when you feel his tongue on you.

Chan eats you out as if you’re his last meal, gathering every drop of arousal and savoring the taste. His tongue works fast and efficiently, swiping through your folds and poking at your entrance every now and again. The sloppy sounds he makes causes you to become impossibly hornier than before, and you let go of the headboard to fondle your breasts instead. Your fingers dance around your nipples, feeling them turn into hard buds as you pinch and tug at them. You don’t bother to contain your moans, letting Chan be well aware of how good he’s making you feel.

When you look down, his gaze is set on your face, observing your reaction to every move he makes. You whine at the eye contact, and when his lips wrap around your clit to suck harshly, your pupils roll back in pleasure. You grind on his face, merely just using him as a way to help get you off. Your pussy enjoys the attention he gives it, messy with your slick and Chan’s saliva. 

“Holy shit Channie,” You whimper, “S-so close.” 

He flicks at your bud with the tip of his tongue, continuously keeping the same pace. Your body feels as if a fire is igniting, coursing through your veins, and making you all hot and bothered. It’s harder to hold yourself up, and when your legs almost give out, Chan makes sure he clings on tight to help you stay upright. You move your hips persistently against his face, relishing in the feeling of his tongue flattening against your clit. The coil tightens in the pit of your stomach. When Chan groans, sending vibrations straight into your core, it makes the knot unravel.

“Oh god, I’m gonna –,” You don’t get to even finish your statement. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, sending pleasurable sensations through your spine. You’re unable to hear the noises that escape from you, ears ringing as you bask in the bliss. 

Chan continues to lap at your cunt until your orgasm fades. It dies down slowly, leaving you heaving with beads of sweat forming on your forehead. “Fuck,” You manage to force out in between breaths, “That was amazing.” Your body rolls over and you lay beside him trying to collect yourself. 

Your brain is clouded, thick with fog and impure thoughts. Chan tilts his head to look at you, scanning your figure before humming. “I’m hard again,” He states the obvious and you look down to see that it’s true. 

You laugh at his cock laying thick and firm against his lower abdomen. The urge spikes within you again, and although you’re tired and much more sensitive than before, your pussy greedily throbs in need. 

You can’t help it – Chan is intoxicating. 

Shifting closer to him, your breasts brush against his shoulders as you lean in. You trail kisses up his neck, nipping at his skin. He shudders, angling his head at a better angle so it would be easier for you to continue. 

Slowly, you work your way to his ear. “I can do something about it,” You whisper, voice sultry, like velvet laced with silk. You pull back just enough to let the tension simmer, eyes locking with his. 

A flash of something darker flickers across his gaze at your invitation. His pulse beats swiftly under your touch, and there’s the smallest hint of impatience in his posture. “And what will you do exactly?” He murmurs, voice low and rough, betraying his growing desire. 

The heat between you intensifies and you can feel the magnetic pull between your bodies as you silently crave each other's touch. 

“Let me show you.” 

Your offer is more than enough, and Chan moves his hand to make it easier for you to throw your leg over his torso. 

“Be my guest, baby.” 

You smirk at him, sitting directly on top of his fully erect cock. When he feels himself between your folds, he can’t help but grind up into you, making you tut in disapproval. 

“Patience Channie,” You scold, hands roaming over his body and mapping out every nook and cranny. You take your time, leaning down to ghost kisses from his abdomen to his jawline. The action causes Chan to become restless, and he betrays himself by letting a desperate whimper loose when you mark his neck with a hickey. 

Leaning back to inspect your work, you run a finger over the bruise now turning a light shade of purple before averting your line of vision to look him in the eyes. 

“Beg.” 

Chan scoffs. “You’re kidding right?” 

“No,” You shake your head. “You heard me – beg.” 

Defiantly, Chan stills underneath your frame. You can feel his muscles tense, faint lines of his abdomen becoming more prominent when he does so.

“Come on Channie,” You taunt, leaving teasing touches along his stomach, “Tell me how badly you want it.” 

He stays quiet, refusing to give in. He tries to ignore the way your hands wander, knowing that if he pays attention, it would cause him to break.

You let out a sigh, but it doesn’t sound as defeated as it should. “Fine,” You state, moving to get off of him. “Suit yourself.” 

Chan lifts his body from the bed slightly, arms darting out to grab your waist. “Wait,” He plops you right back down on him, fingers gently digging into your flesh. “Please,” He says, face scrunching as he gives in to your demands.

You chuckle, enjoying the desperation that radiates from him. “Please what?” You raise an eyebrow, playing dumb.

“Y/n, please,” His tone is pleading. “I need you so bad.” 

“Keep going,” You encourage, hand shifting between your bodies to slowly jerk his cock. He bucks into your hand as you pump him, only making him all the more needier. 

“Want to fuck you,” He whimpers softly, mind side-tracking when he feels you line your hole up with his cock. His tip prods at your entrance. “Make you feel good. Make me feel good. I don’t care – just wanna make us feel good.” 

“That’s all you had to say.” 

When you finally sink down on his cock, it draws out a moan from the both of you. The stretch is bordering on the edge of stinging and satisfaction as you get used to his size. Chan fills you deliciously, almost as if you were made for him. 

“Full,” You stammer, “So full.” 

The man below you is equally as speechless as you are, brain turned somewhat into mush at the feeling. In that moment, he’s positive, he would never get tired of you. 

You place your palms on his chest, using his body as leverage to test the waters and grind against him gently. The feeling is undeniably addicting, and you can’t help but do it again. What was once a dominant persona is now washed away, faded completely as your sensitivity takes hold of you. The whines that leave your mouth should be shameful, but you can’t seem to care when it all just feels so incredibly good.

When you begin to bounce, clenching around the length of him, Chan’s certain he might just cum then and there. Despite this, he holds on for a little longer, nails digging into your hips. The slight pain only adds to your own personal pleasure. Your noises of bliss and desire blend into the air, filling your bedroom with unholy sounds. With each bounce, Chan’s hips meet you halfway, thrusting up into your core. His cock drags against your walls, the head of it slamming into your g-spot every single time without fail. 

“You like that, huh?” You try to keep the upper hand, but it gets progressively harder to do so the more you bounce. “So desperate for my pussy.” Your breasts jiggle in perfect harmony as you fuck yourself on his cock, and Chan can’t tear his gaze away from them as he reaches out to take hold of one.

You whine at the feeling of him squeezing the mound of flesh. One of your hands come up to cup over his own, while your other hand stretches lower to your cunt. You rub fast circles on your clit, not caring about being precise as you frantically try to get yourself off. 

“Holy shit Y/n,” He groans, hips lifting off the bed urgently to keep the same pace when you begin to falter. “What’s wrong baby? Getting tired?” This time it’s his turn to mock you, realizing that you can only keep up with riding him for so long.

Your thighs burn, silently screaming for mercy as they start to cramp up. You don’t let his words take effect as you send him a sharp glare. 

When you start to rely more on him than your own abilities, that’s when Chan stills. You stop along with him, taking deep breaths. You can feel your baby hairs sticking to your forehead and sweat trickling between the valley of your breast at the hard work you were putting in. 

“No, no, no.” Chan’s hand comes down, landing a loud smack to your ass. “Don’t stop now.” His attitude is much different from before. He sounded more firm, dark even. More like – he had the upper hand now. 

Chan sees your defenses crumble before you can stop them. He senses the exact moment you come to the conclusion that you are no longer in control and that your pleasure now lies with him. 

You wish you could continue, you really do, but the subtle ache in your legs tells you that now is the time to stop before it gets any worse. The last thing you want is pain distracting you from sex.

“Please.” 

Your voice is so soft that Chan almost doesn’t hear it. He has to lean closer, asking you to repeat yourself. All pride pushed aside, hesitantly, you say it again. The plea falls from your lips and thankfully he wastes no time. Chan’s arm wraps around your back, and in seconds he’s rolling the two of you over so you’re under him.

“That’s all you had to say,” He mocks your words from earlier, but instead of provoking a reaction out of you, it instead draws a whine. It travels straight to Chan’s cock, and you can feel him twitch inside your walls.

“Move Chan,” You pant pathetically, “Need you.” 

Your eyes are glazed over, filled with desire and temptation. Chan struggles to hold himself back. He wants to draw it out for longer and push you to your limits, but he can only have a grip on himself for so long.

When your nails dig into his back, marking his skin as you scratch along it – he snaps. Something unknown takes over him and he rams into your core at a deadly pace. The speedy movements create squelching sounds as you clench around him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” He groans through his teeth as your cunt grips around him tightly.

With every thrust, you’re seeing stars. Chan shows your pussy no mercy, fucking into you as he tries to bring both of you to a mindblowing orgasm. Your sensitivity from your earlier orgasm helps to reach that recognizable feeling that you know so well, and your toes curl when the head of his cock hits your cervix straight on.

“Don’t stop,” You almost shout, when you feel the knot forming in your stomach. Your arms circle around his neck, pulling him closer to your body. He happily follows you, kissing along your jawline and marking your flesh just like you marked his. “Oh my god Chan, that feels so good.” 

With a few more thrusts, and a few more moans to accompany each one, your orgasm slams into you like a tide pulling you under. The hairs stick up on the back of your neck and your jaw falls open as the pleasurable sensation takes over your body. You can feel it everywhere – from your head, to your toes, to your pussy that squeezes Chan like a vice. 

He slows down, rocking his hips into you before pulling out and jerking himself off with his hand. His cum shoots out, thick and white all over your cunt, and he grunts at the view. 

The mattress shifts when he falls next to you on the bed, both of you trying to catch your breath as you come down from the high. Your chests rise and fall in sync, completely burnt out post-orgasm.

“Y/n.” It’s a few minutes of trying to collect yourself before Chan breaks the silence. 

You hum, not bothering to open your eyes to visually acknowledge him next to you.

“For what it’s worth, I love you too.” 

Showering together may, or may not have been a good idea. 

Chan might be strong enough to hold you up against the door, but certainly not for a long period of time; even more so, when he’s thrusting into you for round two. The floor was slippery and the condensation on the glass wasn’t any better. In mid-frustration, you were both able to be transported into a state of euphoria yet again, although it wasn’t quite as satisfying as the first.

“You know, when I showed up to your work –,” Chan’s voice cut through the air.

You laugh, remembering the thought. “You mean when you invaded my personal space.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” He winces, before turning on his side to look at you, “But I think we’re way past personal space at this point.” 

You huff out amused. You match his position, facing him while you scan over his features. 

Soft lamplight spilled over the bedroom walls, warm and gold tones illuminating your faces. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, causing you to shiver as your damp hair pressed into the pillows.

“Anyways,” Chan continues, “I said I could be whatever you want. Remember that?” 

You nod in recognition, humming softly. “You’re dumb.” 

“No,” Chan states firmly. “I’m yours,” He corrects.

“Yeah,” A faint smile spreads across your face, “You are.”

If you told the you from a few months ago that this is where you would be now – indirectly declaring a relationship with a man you match with on TINDER – she would’ve surely screamed, called you an idiot, and slapped you across the face. 

The you now however, well she’s no longer afraid to admit that she’s in love. 

“I should’ve swiped when I had the chance,” You joke, legs tangling with Chan’s underneath the bedsheets. His skin is warm against yours, bringing you a sense of comfort at the contact. 

“Why didn’t you?”

You shrug, “You told me not to.”

Chan shakes his head, scoffing playfully at your antics. He stares at the ceiling as silence looms over, the quiet atmosphere not lasting for long when you whisper his name. He glances back over at you, clocking your emotionally vulnerable state before you can mutter your next words.

“I’m yours too.”

He smiles at your confirmation and it doesn’t take much to know that both of your hearts are now full, content, and happy.

“You always have been.”

[wonluhver]

𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢 ☾ 𝔬𝔫𝔢

PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan

SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don't expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.

WC: 11,069

AU: Romantic Fantasy, Werewolves, Omegaverse Dynamics, Polyamourous

GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst, Fluff, Romance

WARNINGS: Fantasy violence, graphic depiction of combat and bloodshed, death and loss of named side characters and assumed loss of family/friends, war and destruction, emotional depictions of grief, loss and despair, depictions of captivity/reader being held against her will, physical violence (none from the members) between reader and characters (enemies), forced compliance, threats of punishment, brief second where the reader experiences fear that an alpha is going to sexually harass/assault her (just a brief assumption she has), omegaverse dynamics including biological reactions to scents/commands and experiencing various biological reactions.

SCHEDULE: This fic updates on full moons and new moons.

A/N: Happy first chapter day! I hope you love this story as much as I do. It's been a super long time since I took on a project this large, and I'm really hoping it lives up to the expectations people usually have when I write fantasy. For those unfamiliar with me - fantasy is my ThInG so to speak and this is really the first time I'm getting to lean into it on this blog. Enjoy :)

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading this and always being willing to edit my messy, very disorganized docs.

SERIES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | PLAYLIST | SERIES TAG LIST | ASK | NEXT

SMOKE CHOKES THE AMETHYST HORIZON, DRIFTING UP FROM THE TOPS OF THE PINES IN THE DISTANCE. The trees that once stood sentinel around your kingdom glow orange in the light, lit by the cookfires of your enemies. Soon, that smoke will seep into every crevice of Valen. It will fill the corridors, wrap itself around the stone foundations laid by your ancestors, turn everything to ash, every handwritten page to dust. 

Every piece of this place that remembers your people will be unmade. Broken. Burned. Destroyed. Turned to nothing but a skeleton for the wretched wolves of Bloodhaven to rebuild in the hateful image of their goddess. 

But for now, the only fire that burns is the one behind you. 

It crackles softly in the hearth, unaware of what the dawn will bring. Its glow dances across the polished stone floor and flickers up the pillars of the room you’ve always called home. The study is silent but for that fire and the slow, even breath of your mother, who dozes lightly on the chaise nearby. 

You turn away from the window, turning your back to the distant smoke to instead sweep your gaze across your father’s study. 

Trying to commit it all to memory makes your throat tighten. Tomorrow, none of it will be here. So tonight, you must memorize everything. 

You memorize the way your mother’s braid spills across the velvet cushions like a river, her hand curled protectively around the spine of her favorite book. The cover is cracked, the pages soft and yellowed, corners worn from her years of rereading. She holds it even in sleep, a last shared moment with her and the pages she’s lost herself to countless times. 

You commit to memory the way your father stands near the hearth, framed by the flame, dressed in his fighting leathers and light armor. His hands are clasped behind his back, his gaze steady and sharp, fixed only on the fire. The flames reflect in his eyes, burning and gold. Wolf’s eyes. A king’s eyes. A father’s.

A soon-to-be-dead man’s. 

The heat glints at the fine lines at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t speak. He hasn’t for nearly over an hour now. Words have run their course. There is nothing left to plan, only to wait. 

You turn to look at the walls. They’re draped in rich, red tapestries. You grew up tracing them with your fingers as a child, learning the stories embroidered into them. The story of your pack, of your people, of the fierce omega who had led her people away from the bloodshed and bondage after an age of alpha tyrants. Sirya carved Valen out of wilderness and war, built it into a kingdom for those like her, for wolves who remembered the old bloodlines and the power in their own names. 

As a child, you dreamed about becoming like her. You still do. 

You’ve committed these tapestries to perfect memories. You know the threads, the colors, the dyes. The hands that wove them. You know where they fray, where the gold thread glints the brightest, where something has been mended.

Tomorrow, they will burn.

This room you’ve grown up learning to read in, learning math and strategy and politics in, will be filled with the acrid scent of scorched silk and oil. The history that once lived on these walls will vanish, turned to ash and rubble. 

Outside of Valen’s walls, the Order of Selyne’s banners crawl like red veins through the valley, a tide that your father and his advisors thought they could reason with. The Order of Selyne, with their false priestesses and their fanatics had come under the guise of faith and order, but there is no mercy in them.

You learned it too late. 

Your father had dismissed the rumors at first. The Order was distant and its power only came from the kings and queens who bent the knee to a new goddess, abandoning the Old Gods. He’d called them a cult that would burn itself out on the fringes of the continent, far enough from Valen’s gates that it didn’t matter.

Tomorrow, he will pay a heavy price for not taking the threat seriously, for sending word to allies who will not answer for fear of being next. 

Tonight though, the room is heavy with the scent of lavender oil, clinging to the cushions, your mother’s hair, the hem of your sleeve. You inhale it deeply, as if that smell might anchor you. As if it might survive the night. 

It won’t, but you still try. You’ve always been determined. Unbefitting of a princess in most kingdoms, but valued here, where blood is strong and the kingdom is small and tight-knit, founded on the principles that all wolves - alphas, betas, omegas - are created equal. 

When the armies of Bloodhaven burn that legacy to the ground in the morning, you will still believe in those principles. 

“Come here.” 

The sound of your father’s voice makes you jump. It’s low, cutting through the quiet like a blade. You move before you can think, stepping away from the window. Your boots echo faintly as you cross the floor, steps quieted by the carpet. 

He turns to face you as you approach. Behind you, your mother sighs and sits up, wiping the sleep from her face. Your father’s face is worn but steady, every line etched by time and battle and worry. You’ve never loved him more than this morning, standing tall despite knowing what the rising sun will bring. 

“The smoke is at the southern wall?” He asks. You nod and he hums. “By morning, the gates will be gone.”

“I know.”

Your mother rises from the chaise, her joints popping and cracking as she stretches. She crosses the room to stand behind your father, a looming shadow that’s just as imposing as he is. Regal. A queen. 

“The eastern passage will remain clear,” your father continues. “Take it when the fighting takes a turn. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“I can’t.”

“You will,” your mother says, voice quiet but firm. “You’ll fight until then, but no longer. You know how important this is. It is your duty to carry on our name, and your birthright. You cannot risk them capturing you.”

You clench your fists. “I will make them bleed until the end.” 

“You will.”

Your father steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. It’s warm, placating. Gentle and full of love, so much said in a single touch. He smells like pine and lemon, and the thought that it’ll vanish tomorrow nearly makes your knees buckle. 

“You fight. You lead. But when the walls fall-”

“I run,” you growl. 

“And you don’t look back.”

A silence settles over the room, one final breath before the storm. Your parents stand in front of you, these two wolves who have been a bulwark your entire life. They’ve molded you - shaped you - into being something they could be proud of. Something that could carry on the legacy of your family name, of that omega warrior who built your kingdom with her bare hands and teeth. 

Sensing the rising grief in you, your father steps forward and presses his brow to yours. You close your eyes, feeling the tears escape no matter how hard you try. The muscles in your throat constrict and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to sob. 

“Our ancestors fled to protect their bloodline once. You’re not a coward for following in their footsteps.” You swallow hard and nod, nails biting into your palms. “When the fires have passed, you will have survived. And you’ll help our people rise again and take back what is ours.” 

Tomorrow, your parents have no intention of leaving their halls alive. Tomorrow, they will fight until their final breath, a king and queen who stood shoulder to shoulder with their people until their bloody end.

But tonight, they are alive. Tonight, they love you.

Tomorrow, they will still love you.

-

The sky above is thick with smoke. Violet bleeds into red, an open wound spilling across the blue. Sun rises with the smell of spilled blood and the sound of war in the distance, the screams and smash of metal echoing on the wind to the eastern gate where you stand among the soldiers of Valen. 

Heavy silence hangs among you. The wind stirs your cloak around your ankles, bringing the smell of your burning city along with it. You adjust the grip on your sword, fixing your eyes ahead to the people of Valen in a mix of human and wolf forms that line the wall, archers at the ready as their squad leader commands them. 

“Archers!” The unified voices ring out across the wall and you feel your heart skip. The enemy has reached the treeline outside the walls. “Hold!” 

Beside you, Taran stiffens. He stands tall and broad, the green armor of Valen’s guard gleaming under the sickly dawn. His wolf hums under his skin - you can feel it simmering, ready. He turns, eyes bright and wild, grinning at you. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

You growl. “There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”

A growl ripples through the wolves and soldiers on either side of you, hearing you. You’re among them, standing in the front line, waiting for enemies to come over the wall while they batter at the gate a few hundred yards in the distance. 

“Fire!” 

The thrum of bows vibrates in the air. You swallow hard. You’ve fought before - killed, even, in small skirmishes with other border kingdoms. But this is battle. It is larger than anything you’ve ever seen, and you’ve already lost. But you’re here to hold the line and kill as many of your would-be-conquerors as possible, to fight until the gate comes down. 

Your archers take enemy fire from the other side of the wall. You can do nothing but watch with held breath as they take arrows to the chests and shoulders, twisting as they’re ripped from the walls and fall to their deaths. 

Behind you, you hear Captain Erid bark orders to the reserves. He’s old guard - older than your father’s father - his gray hair bound at the nape of his neck, his voice clear and strong enough to rally a thousand. “Wolves of Valen! Hold the line! Die with steel and claw! Make them bleed!”

Rage simmers inside of you, ancient and primal. You feel your wolf simmer under your surface, your teeth clenching, eager to tear the throats of your enemies, nails turning to claws, thirsting to draw blood. There is no desire to submit hardwired into you, especially not now, when the enemy soldiers dressed in red begin to appear over the east wall, fighting your people in earnest. 

A growl ripples through your ranks. You realize that it comes from you, echoed by those at your sides. Not a single person here will die in vain today - you’ll make sure of it. 

Just ahead, a figure sails cleanly off the wall, boots slamming into the hard-packed earth beneath him. He’s in red leathers, the red symbol of a blood moon over a mountain painted on his armor.  This is the enemy, a wolf pledged to the Divine of Bloodhaven, a leader of a violent and powerful church turned regime. 

You don’t hesitate. You lunge before the enemy has risen, a blur of green armor, all snarls and teeth. He blinks in surprise, no doubt confused at the lone soldier that charges him. Good. It makes him falter and you capitalize on it, catching him in the side with your sword. You stab, plunging the blade up under his ribs. He folds with a choked noise and you twist, yanking your sword free to pivot as another enemy lands on your side of the wall. 

This one is faster, her alpha scent sharp in your noise, cutting through smoke. She slices high but you dodge and cut low, carving a crimson gash across her thigh. She screams and stumbles but you don’t wait for her to fall, slicing upward and catching her across the neck. 

Blood sprays and you keep moving, the discipline of your ancestors and the rage of someone who knows this is the last stand turning you into something unrecognizable. You pull your second blade from its sheath, feeling your blood roar in your ears as you take on another assailant. 

From the line behind you, soldiers scream your name. They rally behind their heir, emboldened by your desire to defend them, to cut and hack and bite your way through the red lines of your enemies. You don’t need to look to know the citizens of Valen are there, a sea of verdant crushing against the crimson banner of Bloodhaven. 

The courtyard explodes into chaos. More enemies follow, wolves in red, their scents unfamiliar and sharp, touched by something foreign and wrong. The mark of the Divine hangs over them like a curse. 

The world narrows to metal and movement. You’re a storm of steel and blood. Metal rings through stone. Bodies collide. You press forward, blades slicked with blood, armor slippery. You are the last child of Valen’s sacred bloodline, raised with a blade in your hand and a wolf’s heart.

Around you, the green banner of Valen floods the enemy. Where you cut down someone in red, another is slow to appear, and for a second, you have a single, euphoric thought that maybe your kingdom won’t fall today, that maybe-

A loud crack splits the air. You turn in surprise, watching with abject horror as a sea of carmine spills through the east gate like blood. The wolves of Bloodhaven burst through like a river, sweeping your green soldiers in their vicious wake, both shifted soldiers and soldiers in human form overtaking the yard.

The distraction is costly. A blade slips through your guard. You feel it immediately, cold and hot at the same time. It sinks into your side, not deep enough to kill but enough to stagger you. You drop to a knee, breath hissing between your teeth. The world tilts, the taste of copper rising on your tongue. You press your hand to your side and see it comes away slick with blood.

Thankfully, a soldier in green cuts down your enemy. It’s Liora, tall and broad-shouldered, her face streaked with soot and blood. She drops to a knee, pressing her hand to your wound. You hiss but nod when she asks if you’re okay. 

“The wall is down,” she pants. “We must leave.” 

Forcing yourself to your feet, you look around through the swirl of smoke and steel. There’s a tight ring of green-clad soldiers and wolves - your army - holding back the red tide just long enough for you to breathe. You recognize every face: Liora at your side, Jian just behind her, Hikari next to you, her cheek split and bleeding, Yordan slight but unyielding, his armor scorched.

“No,” you grit out. “We have to hold the line. That was the plan.”

“And you did, Your Majesty, but the gate is down.”

The words cut deeper than the blade in your side moments ago. Your Majesty. Not Your Highness. Not Princess. Not heir. But a title reserved for the king and queen, which means-

Liora’s eyes in front of you swim at the edges. “You know your duty.”

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “Eastern tunnel. With me.”

Battle rages around you. You don’t stop moving, working as your guard works together to cut down anyone in your way. Moments ago you’d had the silly hope that perhaps there was more green than red, but now you see that it is a world of red: blood, gore, flags planted in the ground, red soldiers, red shields, red swords, wolves painted red-

You break through the line of crimson and full-out sprint. Arrows whistle in the air and your soldiers close rank around you. There’s a harsh thud and Yordan behind you yelps before you hear him lose his footing and stumble. Jian replaces him immediately, covering your flank as you bolt for the gardens. 

Air punches in and out of your lungs. You tear through the garden, sliding on loose gravel and tripping over curated rosebuds. You don’t stop to think that you’ll never see your mother and the gardener, Iliana, trimming hedges together again. You don’t stop to think about how during full moon festivals the  gardens would be full of life and costume and party. You don’t stop to think how moments ago, Yordan took an arrow for you. 

You launch over a fountain, feet crashing into the rocks, spraying them as you continue on your escape. On the other side of the gardens, it’s silent. War echoes behind you, but it grows quieter. You don’t know if it’s because you’re getting further from the battle or because your people are dying, no longer able to put up a fight. 

The tunnel entrance is hidden underneath a massive mausoleum that is made of old stone and weeping ivy in monument to Sirya. It stands near the southeast side of the palace, just beyond the final hedge of the gardens. 

You skid as you near the break in the hedge, jaw working. You smell them before you see them, Bloodhaven soldiers leaning against the crumbling mausoleum. Their swords are wet with blood, scarlet armor half-burned. Somehow, they’ve circled around from the southern gate. Somehow, they knew. 

There’s no time to think. The first lunges. You roar, throat raw, as your sword buries in his shoulder. Another lunges low but Hikari intercepts him, small and furious, knives flashing like lightning. Liora drives her blade into a throat, but a red wolf’s axe catches her from behind, splitting bone and spine.

“Liora!” you scream, but she’s already gone, eyes wide with shock before she hits the dirt.

Jian grabs your shoulder, forces you forward even as Hikari screams behind you, her voice cuts off in a wet choke as a blade finds her ribs. Jian drags you on, teeth bared, blood splashing your boots as you stumble toward the tomb.

Then an arrow finds Jian, a clean shot between her shoulders. She shudders, sagging into you. You try to hold her up, but she pushes you hard toward the stone door. Her eyes, bright, steady, fierce even now, pin you in place for one last heartbeat.

“Go,” she rasps.

She falls.

And it’s just you. 

Your shoulder is screaming and you’re breathing too fast, but you’re still standing. An arrow whizzes and you duck while snapping your dagger at it, knocking it off target. You strike forward with your sword, catching the archer through the chin. 

Another Bloodhaven wolf swings her axe at you, baring her teeth. You roll out of her way, the axe sinking into the wet earth, getting stuck. She grunts, trying to pull the axe out of the ground but you’re already striking, cutting the back of her hamstrings to make her crumple to her knees before driving your dagger through the back of her head with a dull crunch. 

No one is left to challenge you. Heaving, you stumble toward the mausoleum. You just need to open the door and get inside where the empty tomb is. If you push the lid -

A new scent cuts through the haze, sharp and clean and unlike the other scents of the wolves you’ve just killed. You spin toward the sound of heavy footfalls, baring your teeth at the slowed approach of a new soldier.

An alpha steps toward you, slow and sure, his gaze sweeping over the fallen bodies scattered around you before landing on your blood-soaked figure. He’s dressed in black armor, battered and worn, though a single red scarf is tied at his belt like a brand. No sigil. No crest. But you know without question he belongs to the Divine. 

His skin is tan, streaked with sweat and blood. His eyes are twin embers, glowing amber and catching the light like fire behind smoke. Beneath the iron and sweat, his scent curls toward you, bergamot and cedarwood. Comforting, if he weren’t staring at you with a blade in hand.

He’s handsome. It’s an afterthought, but an observation nonetheless. Dark black hair that hangs in his eyes, pressed against his sweaty forehead. Broad shoulders with thick arms, honed from being a practiced fighter. He has a sharp jaw and his plush lips are downturned in a frown, thick brows pinched together as he tries to puzzle you out. 

He doesn’t move. He just stares at you, something on his face akin to horror lurking beneath the surface. You’re not sure what he sees that leaves him stricken, but his game eventually flicks to the mausoleum entrance behind you. Then back to you. 

“Alright then,” he murmurs, voice soft and deep. “Go ahead.”

Your heart begins to pound. He isn’t attacking and he hasn’t moved. He’s seemingly letting you go.

It doesn’t make sense. The wolves of Bloodhaven are brutal and loyal, borderline fanatics. They kill on command and conquer without mercy. This is the kind of alpha who should strike you down immediately, who should already have you on your knees. He’s the kind who razes cities because his Divine tells him to.

You step toward him, fury tightening your limbs.

“You’re going to die today,” you murmur, voice raw. 

He takes a step back from you. “I’m offering you a chance to live. Whatever tunnel that is, I suggest you use it.” You take another step toward him and his eyes dip to the necklace at your throat, the crest of Valen. His eyes dilate. “Princess.”

You grip your sword tighter, a warning pulsing through you - do not submit. You bare your teeth. “One that bites.”

You lunge. Your blade sings through the air and he’s barely fast enough to parry. His sword slides against yours with a metal shriek, steel on steel. He’s strong, but you’re fast, even bleeding, even tired. You duck under a wild swing and slash across his arm. He grunts, jaw tightening as you draw blood.

He doesn’t take the offensive. He defends against your blows, but he doesn’t strike back, instead holding you off as he dances away from you.

“Stop,” he growls, shoving you back. You stagger but recover fast, pivoting on your heel as you launch your dagger at his chest.

He knocks it aside with a clipped snarl, frustration flashing across his face. “I’m trying to-”

You cut off whatever he’s trying to say with a roar and charge again, blade raised. His sword meets yours, but the wind shifts, the scent of other wolves hitting you. He spins you away from him, leaving you panting and bleeding. 

Heavy boots thud through the garden behind him, armor clanking. Six Bloodhaven soldiers, two in wolf form, appear around the hedge, dressed in full red, scarlet tabards emblazoned with the mark of the Divine, their faces painted in ritual ash. 

The alpha leading the newcomers is tall and impossibly wide - wider even, than the alpha you’d challenged. “Found an omega, Seungcheol?”

In front of you, the alpha - Seungcheol - growls. “Move along. I can handle her.” 

“Orders are to bring all omegas to Bloodhaven.”

For a second, Seungcheol’s jaw works. You think he’s about to protest when he sighs and nods. He steps toward you, his expression unreadable. You lift your sword and he growls, this time knocking his weapon against yours hard. The blade breaks from your grip, knocked aside with a single, vicious sweep. You try to step back, but he grabs you and spins you, pressing you against him with a firm hand across your middle. 

“Yeah. I’ll bring her.”

A snarl rips from your throat, spit flying. No no no no no this is exactly what you didn’t want to happen. “Like Hells,” you spit, tasting blood. “I’ll fucking die-”

“You will die if you don’t shut up,” he hisses in your ear, voice like smoke. “I promise I am trying to help you.”

His hands tighten around you, turning to iron. You can’t overpower him, but the blood in your veins screams, your omega thrashing violently as one of his arms drifts upward to the front of your chest. Your stomach drops, thinking he’s about to have his way with you when his hand closes over your necklace and yanks. You feel the pop of the chain, a protest bubbling to your lips as he drops it and discreetly steps on it, burying it in the ground.

“Do not tell them who you are. I beg of you.” 

You crane your neck to look at him, eyes full of questions. But before you can ask him anything, you’re being taken from his grip and you’re kicking and snarling again. A hand lashes out and presses a wet cloth to your face. Your head swims, vision blurring. 

You fight until you hear someone curse as you rake your claws down their face, but the world fades into nothing.

-

Pain pounds through your skull as the world swims into focus. Bark digs into your back, the sharp burn of ropes biting into your wrist almost as bad as the copper tang of blood lingering at the edge of your tongue. Your boots have been taken and your armor is gone, leaving you in shredded remains of a tunic and pants, damp with sweat and filth and ash. 

And you’re tied to a fucking tree. 

You lift your head, sluggish from whatever drug they’d pressed to your nose. Pain blooms in your jaw when you open your mouth, trying to work your teeth back and forth.

Around you, the forest stretches wide and dim. It’s evening, the soft glow of campfires casting orange light in pockets for as far as you can see. Shadows move around the camp, a cacophony of scents, mostly alpha and beta. 

Toward the center of the camp, there’s a wooden cage with a few omegas. They’re small and frightened, dressed mostly like local farmers. They’re all bound and huddled together, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. 

But you’re by yourself, the lone wolf bound and tethered to a tree with ropes that are too tight, cutting off the circulation in your arms and making them tingle with an unpleasant numbness. You think of shifting to break the ropes but as you start to wiggle, you smell the spicy tang to the ropes lashing you to the tree.

Wolfsbane. 

You exhale through your nose, jaw clenching. It hurts to do it and you hiss, relaxing your mouth. There’s a deep throb in your side from where you’d caught a blade earlier, but from the pinched feeling in your skin when you move, you can tell it’s been stitched. You have no idea why. 

Footsteps crunch through the leaves, making you look up. A young guard - a beta - approaches with a small tin cup of water. Her hair is scraped back beneath a red headwrap, the mark of the Divine stamped on the front. Her boots are new and she looks irritated when she crouches down.

“Water, courtesy of Commander Choi.” 

She lifts the cup toward your lips, leaning toward you. Her mistake. You surge forward, slamming your forehead into her face with a wet crack. She screams and blood erupts from her nose. She falls back hard, dropping the water as she clutches her face. 

Pain blooms in your face tenfold and for a second, you’re blinking away stars. Then you bare your teeth at her, setting as you spit blood in her direction. “Fuck your water.”

She scrambles in the leaves to get away from you, yelling. The altercation has attracted attention but you don’t care. You lean against the tree, staring hard into the firelight, willing them to come beat you again. You may be tied to a tree, but you’re the Heir of Valen and you’re not done fighting. 

Heavy footsteps signal that it hasn’t taken long for the beta to stumble to the nearest person available to show them the damage. The steps are deliberate and calm, no urgency or rush to them. You smell the bergamot and cedarwood, grounding and warm. You hate that on a biological level, his smell is supposed to comfort you. Instead of letting it lull you into a sense of safety, you strain against the rope, growling.

The commander - Commander Choi, you assume - is smart enough to stay out of striking distance as he crouches down. He’s clean from battle, dressed in a linen tunic and leather pants. Again, he’s in all black but the crimson sash knotted at his waist denotes his allegiance. His arms are crossed over his chest, eyes unreachable as he drinks you in. 

On instinct, you feel yourself squirm. Your omega recognizes the dominance of an alpha, but your fear and hate for him wins out, your teeth grinding as you glare at him with as much hate and vitriol as you can muster.

“You almost drove her nose into her skull.”

“It was a bad angle,” you agree. “I won’t miss next time.” 

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You keep fighting like this, and they’ll stop treating you like cargo and instead treat you like a threat.”

“I am a threat.”

“If they think you’re a thing to teach a lesson, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.” 

He fishes a clean flask from his belt, his movement slow and deliberate like he doesn’t want to provoke you, like he doesn’t want to corner a rabid animal.

“Do not,” he warns, “try to bite me or take my fingers off. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Then don’t come near my mouth.”

He sighs. “Are all the people from Valen this frustrating?”

“I don’t know. Looks like you and the Divine’s whores killed them all.” Your eyes drift to the cage a few meters away and you soften. “Let them go. You don’t need them. You have plenty of prizes from your other conquests. I’m all you need.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Does it feel good? Wearing her leash? Do you preen under the command of a false priestess?”

He says nothing, uncapping the flask. 

“You’re all cowards. Leashed dogs with no loyalty, no courage-”

He grabs your chin and you spit. He ignores it, shoving your head backward as he brings the flask to your mouth. “Drink,” he orders. 

You glare at him, lips sealed. He sighs heavily, and without hesitation, forces the flask against your mouth. Water floods your throat, bitter and cold but relieving. You try to choke it down without giving him the satisfaction, but your body betrays you. It’s the first real drink you have in you don’t know how long, and it cools your throat as it goes down. 

When he pulls it away, you cough and sputter, trying to catch your breath. He wipes your mouth with his thumb, almost absently, as he caps the flask again. 

“I don’t answer to her,” the commander says at last, standing. “But I have orders I cannot disobey.”

“Sounds like you do answer to her, then.”

He turns, pausing for a second. The firelight catches the side of his face, casting the curve of his jaw in shadow. 

“Get used to doing what I tell you. It’s the only way you’ll survive this.” 

He turns on his heel and leaves you tied against the tree, furious and tired, aching for home and for everyone and everything you’ve lost. 

No one else bothers you. The tree you’re tied to is at the edge of a clearing, half-shielded by ferns and a dark rock. Your body aches and the wound in your side hurts something awful, but your eyes are just fine. 

So you watch. 

Guards rotate at the fire every hour and a half. You count their shifts, watching how they move in pairs, but peel off separately near the stream. You clock which ones are lazy, which ones are tense. You memorize the distance between where the other omegas are kept and the edge of the trees. You note who brings food. Who gets water. Who carries keys. 

Your thoughts are sharp and cold. They have to be, because your rage is going to get you killed if you let it bubble. 

The stars blur above you, hidden in the treetops. The crackling campfires grow quiet as the camp settles in for the night. Eventually, your chin begins to dip and the firelight blurs as you give into exhaustion, body sagging against the tree.

Until a lilting voice whispers, “If you snore, you’re doing it very quietly.” 

Your head jerks up. An alpha crouches in front of you. He’s dressed in all black, a single red scarf at his waist. He smells like citrus and something fresh, surprisingly sweet for an alpha. He is infuriatingly pretty, with wind-tousled silver hair and a grin painted across his face. 

His eyes are soft yellow, pale as morning light, and they shine with too much amusement for your liking. You shift uncomfortably and he tilts his head as though he’s fascinated. 

“Enjoying the show?” You grunt.

“I did enjoy the way you broke Serefina’s nose. That was sick. Surprised you didn’t take off Seungcheol’s fingers.”

You realize he’s talking about the commander from earlier. Seungcheol. “I’ll try harder next time.”

“I like that. I’m Soonyoung.” He rests his elbows on his knees and leans in just slightly, as though he’s daring you to break his nose. “You’ve got some kick to you, huh?” 

“Untie me and find out.”

He looks you up and down. “You smell like you want to bite my head off.”

“I’d start with your throat.”

“Romantic,” he sighs dreamily. 

You lunge, teeth snapping at the soft flesh of his throat. It’s quick, the ropes tugging at you. It catches him off guard and he lets out a surprised laugh as he falls back into the leaves with a graceless grunt. He lies there for a second laughing, hand on his stomach before he rolls over and blinks at you. 

“Noted,” he says, shaking his head. “Throat first.”

Soonyoung gets to his feet slowly, brushing off his clothes with an exaggerated flare. His grin never fades as he regards you again. “You’ve got fire. I like it. Probably will get you killed, but it’ll be fun while it lasts.”

He turns, waving lazily over his shoulder as he walks away. You don’t say anything, but your eyes zero in on the spot he fell, something glinting in the firelight. A small blade where he had been sitting. Simple, but good for cutting. You stare at it, eyes snapping back at him to see if it’s a test. He doesn’t come back, ducking into a tent and vanishing.

You immediately kick out with a foot, stepping on it and dragging it back to you, your heart sparking with something dangerous. 

-

Above you, the stars shift in the sky. You don’t have long until morning, and you’ve decided your fingers aren’t going to get any less numb than they already are. The knife sits under your thigh, just barely barely concealed in the dirt. 

You count each one of your heartbeats, waiting as the patrols near. Finally, you hear footsteps, already knowing which guard is completing his circuit near  you. He’s younger and alone, walking the edge of the clearing with lazy steps. His eyes slide over to you with interest, and you capitalize on it. 

“I need to relieve myself,” you croke, making your lip tremble. “Please don’t make me do it right here.” 

He groans. “Really?”

“Please.”

“Ugh.”

The guard approaches with slow, reluctant steps. He bends down and hesitates, waiting to see if you’re going to break his nose. When you do nothing but let out a pitiful whine, his alpha instinct to help you takes over. He unties the ropes, fingers quick.

Relief floods your arms, but you ignore it and strike like a viper. The knife is in your hand and sinks into his neck over and over before he can register what’s happening. He can’t scream, only gurgles as blood pours from his throat into your fingers. You stab him again and again until he crumples like a sack of bone and meat at your hip.

You snatch the sword from his belt and the keys to the cage from his pocket. Covered in blood, you stand on shaking legs, limbs trembling with adrenaline and terror as you slink toward the cage holding the omegas.

Your body's aching and wounded but your blood is singing with fury. You slip through the trees like a wraith, keeping low as you weave toward the cage of omegas. You crouch near a brush, waiting a few beats to map out your path there, trying to keep to the shadow.

As you slink forward, someone yells. You freeze for half a breath then bolt right toward the cage. Boots crash through the underbrush behind you, angry voices flaring up as soldiers leave tents. 

The hot breath of someone right behind you alerts you. You spin and slash, cutting down a guard with a wet groan, blood pouring from his ribs. You turn to bolt for the omega’s cage again, hoping that if you can just free them -

Someone slams into you. An alpha, massive and scarred, takes you down to the dirt. Your sword flies from your hand. He snarls, fists slamming in your ribs once, twice, before he pins you face-down in the mud with a knee in your spine. 

“Fucking bitch,” he snarls.

Your ears ring, your body nothing but an ebb and flow of pain. Hands tear at your arms and then you’re being dragged. You shriek, twisting as someone hauls you by the ankle. Your fingers rend through the earth, pulling at weeds and roots, anything to get them to stop dragging you. 

Mud and blood coat your arms and legs as they haul you into the firelight of the central camp. A post waits in the center. It’s thick and iron-studded, stained from recent use. You can smell the death and see the blood-drenched earth of whoever was here moments before you. 

You’re tied to the post with thick rope that smells like wolfsbane, high above your head. Pain sparks in your shoulders as your weight drags you down. Your breath is wet and ragged in your throat, blood running down your face from where your head struck a rock during the fight. 

The camp watches, chuckles and jeers muffled below the ringing in your ears. There are dozens of soldiers and wolves, red-cloaked and laughing as you’re left at the post, bloody and tired. 

A bloom of black cloaks catches your attention. Your eyes dart to the flap of a tent opening, four men stepping out of a canvas tent, all of them dressed in black with some sort of red scarf embellishment to signal who they answer to. 

Seungcheol stands at the lead, staring at you. Behind him, Soonyoung watches you and shakes his head, dropping his head into his hands. But your eyes drift back to Seungcheol, locking with him. You lift your chin and spit a glob of blood from your mouth in his direction.

Fuck them and the Divine they answer to.

-

You dream of lavender. 

It drifts like smoke through your mind, curling under your nose, coating your lungs. Soft. familiar. Your mother’s scent, the oil she rubbed behind her ears and on her pulse points, enhancing her lavender and chamomile scent that came to her naturally. 

The smell fills a room that doesn't exist anymore. 

You’re a child again, curled in the crook of her side. She hums, voice a haunting lullaby. There’s rain rapping on a window that you can’t see, a steady drumbeat to her dreamy melody. You feel safer than you have in a long time, curling into her, feeling her warmth. 

“One day,” she whispers, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll protect them all.” 

Protect them all. 

Smoke and oil replace the smell of lavender. Crackling fire and stone breaking replaces the rain. Screams replace your mother’s singing. You open your eyes to see tapestries curling to ash, the room churning with acrid and sour smoke, thick with the smell of blood and fur.

You’re running now, stumbling through halls that twist and vanish, your bare feet slipping on slick stone. You see warriors with throats ripped open, children screaming, wolves in full form tearing through limbs and running with bloody paws.

You see the king - your father - pinned to a column by a black spear. His eyes still glow and his mouth forms your name, but you cannot hear him. Cannot reach him. 

You cannot protect any of them. Not your parents, not the sea of dead soldiers in Valen green, not the caged omegas. Their bodies fall from the sky, piling until you’re drowning in charred remains and -

A savage kick to the ribs wakes you up. You wheeze, the air leaving your lungs as your eyes snap open and you cough violently. The pain that greets you once you’re awake is nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. Every part of you is raw and hurting, so many places on your body lighting up in pain that your vision pulses black at the edges. 

You’re still lashed to the stone post in the middle of the camp. It’s cold now, the ground wet and cool underneath you. Your shoulders are screaming with the ache of holding your weight all night, and the only blessing is that you can barely feel your hands at all. 

A savage alpha leans over you, grinning. “Stop whining in your sleep.” 

“Rin, enough.” You recognize Seungcheol’s deep timbre immediately. You lift your head a fraction to look at where Seungcheol enters the central area between tents. “She’s barely alive.”

“Good, the little bitch-”

“It’s not for you to decide what’s done with her.” Seungcheol’s presence looms a few feet away. You glare at him through dry eyes. He looks perfect in the grey morning light, his inky hair damp after a fresh wash, his black leather making him look like a massive shadow. “Velkar will make that decision.” 

Somewhere behind you, a presence approaches. You can’t turn around and see them, but both Seungcheol and the other alpha - Rin - bow their heads. The alpha’s scent is thick and cloying, too spicy for your preference. Your lip curls and you lean away from him on instinct, hissing when your joints remind you of why you can’t do that. 

“Seungcheol is right,” the voice grunts, gravelly. “I’ll decide what to do with the wretched bitch.”

“She’s dangerous, Lord.” Rin, again. 

You look up at him, glowering. Rin is wire-thin and sniveling, which is strange for an alpha. He’s within range if you were to kick him back. Perhaps right behind the knees to make him buckle so you could get your other leg around him and squeeze.

Seungcheol shifts, catching your eye. His gaze is bleak and dark as thunder, as though he can sense where your thoughts have gone. His head twitches a fraction, telling you no before he turns his attention to where Rin pleads his case to who you assume is Velkar.

“She’s too dangerous to march with the host,” Rin insists. “She’ll rile up the other omegas. She could spark a rebellion.”

“They’re hardly dry kindling that will catch fire,” Seungcheol grunts. “Their spirits were broken long before they came to his camp.” Something flickers in his eyes. “My pack will take responsibility for her.”

For a second, everything is quiet. You squint up at Seungcheol to see that the rest of his pack have approached, all of them in black. They’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, fanning out behind him. You recognize Soonyoung, arms crossed and silver hair glowing like steel in the morning light. 

“Any damage she does, any rule she breaks,” Seungcheol says, voice low, “put it onto us.”

“You’re offering yourselves to take her lashes?”

“Yes.”

“Each rule she breaks is ten lashes. Each. If she gets away, death.” 

“We understand,” Soonyoung replies smoothly. He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can take a lash. We won’t need to, though.”

Velkar grunts. “Fine. See if you can keep her in check. Otherwise…” There is a chorus of dark chuckles. “I’ll have fun lashing you, Choi.”

Soonyoung drifts toward you immediately, crouching and reaching for your hands. He hesitates, living a sharp look at you. His eyes are honey, watching you. When you don’t react or leap to bite out his throat, he makes a pleased sound and begins to undo the restraints at your wrists. 

Your arms fall limp and you sag, pain roaring through your shoulders. You whimper when the rope is free and he winces in sympathy.

His voice is too soft for anyone else to hear when he says, “I left you the knife to escape and slip away. Not murder four guards and start a revolution.”

You meet his gaze, jaw clenched. “I won’t leave my people behind ever again.”

He huffs. “Good enough of an answer as any.”

Seungcheol looms behind him, staring down at you. His expression is unreadable, his pack standing silently behind him like shadows. There’s two more of them outside of him and Soonyoung, both staring at you. 

He turns his head to the side to address one of them. “Seokmin, try to get her in condition to ride.” 

There’s a quiet shift among the men, and one of them steps forward. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown eyes threaded with hammered gold. He moves toward you with a confidence you don’t expect, and when he drops down beside Soonyoung, his eucalyptus and lavender scent wrap around you.

Lavender. You’re startled by the familiarity of it, lulled into a tense silence as he regards you with gentle eyes. Beta. It puts you at ease and you relax a little, showing no signs of wanting to bite him.

For now.

“Hey,” he says gently, like you’re familiar. “I’m Seokmin. I’m gonna get you out of the dirt, alright?”

You look at him, then glance at the others. No one moves, but Seungcheols’ stare reminds you that if you act out, the four of these strangers will have to take lashes for you. It doesn’t make sense, but you’re suddenly hesitant. 

Nodding, you give Seokmin your consent to help you up. He doesn’t touch you at first - not until you try to get up and you fail. Your knees buckle and you let out a pained cry, body collapsing painfully on itself. He tuts at you once before he bends and lifts you in one smooth motion, careful not to jostle you too much. 

There’s a sharp twinge of pain and he mutters an apology before he spins you away from Velkar and the beady eyes of Rin. His shoulders are a bulwark between you and enemy eyes as he carries you toward the tent. 

The tent is tucked into the corner of the center of the encampment. It’s larger than most, secured with black and crimson ropes, its flaps pinned down and stitched with the symbols of a Bloodhaven vanguard. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant, lit dimly by a brass brazier in the corner, its belly full of glowing coals and slow-burning pine resin. 

It’s a utilitarian space but there’s something homey about it at the same time. A thick rug covers most of the floor, and shelves have been hammered into a wooden support frame along one side. On it are rolled bandages, clay jars, dried herbs and folded linen.

Seokmin sets you down on one of the cots as gently as he can, apologizing when you make a pained sound. He begins his work in silence, the sound of water and the faint rustle of cloth filling the space between you. You sit on the edge of the cot, back stiff, jaw clenched, but your body still temples with exhaustion. You don’t trust him, but you don’t move away from him either, the smell of him dulling your edges. 

You know he’s doing it on purpose. You let him.

He dips the cloth in a basin and wrings it out carefully before coming back over and kneeling to eye level. He hesitates before pressing it to your temple, waiting for permission. You nod and a smile flickers across his face, so warm that you almost forget where you are. 

Seokmin cleans the dried blood at your temple, making you hiss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Just breathe. I’ll go slow.” 

Up close, you take in the details of his face. Pretty, almond-shaped eyes the color of chocolate and gold, framed by thick lashes. Smooth, tan skin with a light smattering of freckles beneath both eyes. His jaw is sharp but not harsh, softened by the faintest cleft in his chin. There’s a single freckle just below his right eye that stands out from the rest. You find it endearing, despite everything. 

He swipes the cloth and you growl at him, bruise smarting. 

“Try not to do that. It’s unsettling when you growl at me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

That gets a soft laugh out of him, low and easy. He smiles again, warm but not put out. “I see why Soonyoung likes you.”

Carefully, he wipes under your eye, where a bruise is already blooming. His touch is steady and sure, incredibly gentle, which is entirely unexpected. He doesn’t poke or prod. Doesn’t comment on the dirt or the fact that your fingernails are broken and that blood crusts the corners of your mouth.

Seokmin doesn’t flinch when you growl again, just has that same twitching smile like he’s glad you’re still doing it, like you’re allowed to disobey here. You find yourself watching his hands. They’re large, with calluses, but they move like he’s done this before. You don't know why that unnerves you more than it should. 

His scent drifts toward you again, that barest hint of lavender and eucalyptus. It makes you close your eyes, thinking of your mom. Of the smell of lavender oil in her hair, the warmth of her skin when you used to crawl into her lap. 

The sting behind your eyes is instant and violent. You clench your jaw and go rigid. Seomkin notices but says nothing, wringing out the bloody cloth before dipping it in the basin again to move toward your neck and shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t have been out there alone,” he notes.

“We’re alone now.”

He snorts. “Not what I meant.”

“Perhaps omegas don’t fight where you’re from.” Your voice turns to ice. “They do where I’m from.”

“I can see that.” 

Instead of arguing with you, he finishes wiping the last of the blood from the visible places. “I’ll give you space to change. There’s clean water in the basin and clothes. They won’t fit you well, but they’re something.” He hesitates. “I assume you don’t want me to touch you, but… ask for help if you need it. Please.”

You say nothing. He nods and stands up, the tent rustling behind him as he vanishes through the entrance to leave you alone. You sit in silence for a moment, hands curling into fists. Your eyes start to burn and you try to swallow past the knot in your throat but you can’t. 

The lavender and eucalyptus hang in the air, like something safe and warm. 

And it breaks you. 

You lean forward, arms wrapping around yourself. For the first time since the gates fell, you cry. You don’t sob, hand pressed to your mouth to keep your choked sounds in. You shatter in silence, shaking tears that rock through your chest, salt on your tongue, pain in every inch of your body. 

You cry for your kingdom. For your parents. For failing to do what they had asked, for being stubborn to the end and not managing to escape. All they had asked of you was to get out, and you hadn’t even done that. 

Slowly, the tears dry. You’re not dead - not yet - and you still want to uphold that final promise to them. So you drag yourself toward the basin, tears spilling over again at the sheer pain spreading through your body, and you begin to wash. 

Your hands are shaking, barely functioning from the lack of circulation all night. You have wounds in places you didn’t know existed and cuts and bruises that look like they would kill most people. You think perhaps only rage is keeping you alive. 

Rage is all you have left. You have no kingdom, no people, no parents. No allies as far as the eye can see. No plan and no way out. But you have your wits and the wrath festering inside of you, turning you into ash from the inside out. 

You intend to use that flame to burn your enemies. 

By the time Seokmin returns, you’ve managed to dress yourself in a plain black tunic, sleeves rolled to your elbows. The fabric is stiff, but clean. You sit quietly on the cot, legs drawn up, watching the tent flap as he ducks back inside. 

He pauses when he sees you, assessing, like he knows something has shifted. Deciding it doesn’t matter, he holds out a waterskin and a loaf of bread. “I brought you water and bread and yarrow tea. The tea will help with the pain, so drink it last. The bread is awful, but it’s not nothing.”

“Thanks.”

The water does help, and the bread is awful, but you scarf it down anyway. It goes down painfully, followed by gulps of water that make your stomach hurt. The tea is warm and soothing. It’s not a miracle but you know it’ll help with the general aches and pains and you’re eager to be rid of the violent throb you have… well, everywhere.

When you're done, Seokmin offers to help you stand. You deny him at first, but after a few shaky steps toward the tent's entrance, he has to steady you by the elbow when you wobble. You bare your teeth at him but he holds you only long enough for you to gain footing. He drops his hand and gestures for you to lead the way.

The camp outside the tent is already shifting. Seungcheol’s pack is small, moving like shadows as they douse fires and toss bags toward one another. Seungcheol leads horses by the reins, all saddled and ready to go. 

“You’ll ride with us. Seungcheol says it’s non-negotiable,” Seokmin says. 

“Seungcheol should fuck off.”

One of the passing soldiers hears you and snickers. Your eyes drift toward him. He’s younger than the rest, with unruly brown waves that curl around his ears and a mouth that looks like it’s always just finished smiling. He carries himself with the loose, casual confidence of someone who knows they’re good looking. He’s lean and coiled, steps too light for someone his size. 

He winks at you as he walks by, hazel eyes glittering. You frown and look at Seokmin. “Do I have to ride with you?”

Seokmin frowns. “Are you opposed?”

“You smell like lavender.”

“Oh. Yeah. Um. Is that alright?”

“I guess.”

That’s all. No more questions, just the quiet hum of understanding. He leads you over to his horse and helps you up onto the saddle. The horse is surprisingly patient and sturdy, waiting for him as Seokmin swings up into the saddle behind you. You shift forward, trying your best not to lean into him. 

Your body tenses anyway, omega instincts curling inward, defensive and on edge. But his grip is gentle. Measured. Nothing in him is trying to dominate or command. His thighs bracket yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his breath, in and out, like a silent metronome trying to teach your body a slower tempo.

The others mount, and before the rest of the camp is ready, Seungcheol reins in his horse. “Let’s go.”

You frown. “You don’t wait for the others?”

His eyes flash tawny as he looks at you. “We ride ahead. The host follows. We wait for them in Bloodrest.” 

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Before you can say anything else, Seungcheol pivots his mare and urges her into the treeline. Seokmin clicks his teeth and urges his roan stallion forward, following Seungcheol into the pine and leaving the camp behind. 

The morning is gray and overcast, the sky bruised with clouds. The sounds of the camp fades behind you as your small party navigates to the main road to travel north. 

Your wrists still ache. You flex them inside of the gloves Seokmin gave you, the leather worn but pliable. Your borrowed clothes fit better than expected, though the smell faintly of smoke and blood. Seokmin is silent behind you, one hand on the reins, the other resting lightly on his thigh. He doesn’t touch you unless the path dips or the trees crowd too close, and even then, it’s gentle. Careful.

Ahead, Seungcheol leads at a steady pace, his posture upright and relaxed, though you can feel the tension rippling beneath the surface. He rides like someone practiced in a saddle, and it makes you wonder where he was from before he pledged himself to the brutalism of Bloodhaven and the red reign of the Divine who lords over them. 

To Seungcheol’s right is Soonyoung, who seems to be chatting with his horse. His mare is pale grey, nearly white, and she moves quickly, never quite still, dancing forward and backward. You’re somehow unsurprised that his horse seems just as spirited as her rider.

The last of your group brings up the rear. The young wolf hasn’t said anything to you since mounting, but you can sense his gaze on you occasionally. You haven’t been introduced and he hasn’t offered his name. Not that you’ve asked. 

Hours pass in silence, only broken by the creak of leather and the occasional rustle of wings from the canopy above. The saddle hurts your thighs and your back aches from sitting rigid, trying not to lean against Seokmin’s chest. The pain in your side from the sword wound is getting worse as you ride, and you’re nearly sweating in your seat, body in agony.

You refuse to ask them to stop, though. Seokmin senses your pain, asking several times if you’re okay. You meet his questions with steely silence, staring ahead and getting your teeth, refusing to ask for help again. 

Eventually, he makes the decision for you and asks Seungcheol to stop. Sighing, their leader calls for a brief halt at a shallow creek to water the horses. You dismount stiffly, knees immediately buckling beneath you. You catch yourself on the saddle and Seokmin reaches out to steady you, but you snap your teeth at him in a savage bark. 

Soonyoung clucks his tongue as he walks by, grinning. “Careful, Min. She’ll go for the throat first.” 

You hobble to the edge of the creek, nearly collapsing to splash your face with freezing water. Behind you, the four men talk amongst themselves, low and quiet and out of reach. You close your eyes, breathing in deeply for a moment, listening to the pines groan in the wind. 

Opening your eyes, you glance in their direction. Their heads are bent low as they talk, not watching you. You tap your fingers to your thigh, staring at them before turning to look into the shadow of the pine trees. 

It’s stupid. It’s reckless. But it’s something. 

You surge upright, ignoring everywhere you hurt as you splash through the creek. The water sloshes into your boots and you’re soaked to the knees, but you ignore it. You vault the bank, stumbling once in the loose soil before taking off at a full sprint. 

Every single part of you radiates pain. You ignore it, pushing yourself as you hear them splash across the creek after you. Your mind empties of all thoughts, only focusing on a single thing: running.

Your breath claws its way through your chest. You weave between the trees and vault over a rock, barely missing a low branch. The end of it catches you in the cheek anyway, stinging as it opens up a line of blood on your face. Every step tugs the bandaged wound in your side, but you grit your teeth and keep going.

The forest opens up a little, just enough to give you false hope that you can sprint all out.

Then an impact lands on your back like a wall that collapses on you. Your body slams into the ground and your vision blurs. A sharp grunt leaves your mouth as you hit the dirt, your limbs tangled with someone else’s. You thrash instinctively, elbows flying, heels kicking. 

“Would you just - stop -”

You twist under the wolf that has you pinned but your side lights up in agony, making you gasp, tears at the edge of your vision. “Get off me!”

He grabs your clawed hands away from his face, pinning them above your head and you sag. It’s the youngest one, his face inches from yours, flushed and breathless. His hazel eyes are bright with adrenaline, pupils dilated from the chase, teeth bared in a half-snarl. He smells like black tea and cloves, scent soured with irritation.

“You don’t even know where you’re going,” he growls. 

You gnash your teeth. “Anywhere is better than here.” 

You start thrashing under him again and he shifts his weight, pinning you to the ground. You yelp in pain, feeling the stitches in your side pop open. You freeze for a fraction of a second, your omega reacting instinctively to the strength in his grip, to the pressure of his scent now so close to your own.

“Enough!” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the trees like a blade. Your omega immediately reacts to the command of a powerful alpha and you go boneless, dizzy and blinking up at the trees. You can’t remember the last time you reacted to a command like this, immediately melting. 

Embarrassment and anger licks through you, white hot. 

Footsteps crash through the brush as Soonyoung and Seokmin appear, weapons half-drawn. The young alpha sits back on his haunches, but doesn’t let go of your wrists until Seokmin strides forward and grabs his shoulder.

“You reopened her wound, Chan. Get up.”

The alpha - Chan - lifts both hands, finally stepping off of you. He scowls but doesn’t argue as you curl onto your side, teeth gritted against the fire in your ribs. Blood seeps through your shirt.

Seungcheol looms over you, a thundercloud of anger. “I should have tied you down.”

“Yes, you should have.” 

He stares at you for a long, unreadable moment before he pivots on his heel. “Get her up. Soonyoung, tie her to your saddle.”

Soonyoung snorts and walks over to you, crouching. “Stupid.”

“I had to try.”

“I respect that.”

He stands, offering you his hand. You don’t take it, struggling to get to your knees. You walk back toward the horses, snapping your teeth as Seokmin offers to look at the wound and stitch it shut again but you smack his hands away. Chan smirks as you walk by, brows raised when you bare your teeth. 

“No more delays,” Seungcheol warns Soonyoung when you approach the horses. 

Soonyoung binds your wrists together before lashing them to the horn of his saddle. He does it with bright, almost cheerful efficiency, humming under his breath like this is just another morning chore and not a public shaming. When he finishes, he swings himself up behind you in the saddle without warning. 

You stiffen instantly, bristling at the proximity, at the heat of his chest against your back. You can feel the way his thighs cage you in, the press of his knee at your hip, the soft exhale against your hairline as he settles in. The bindings tug against your wrists when the horse shifts beneath you, and you flinch.

He smells bright and citrusy, like orange rind crush under your heel. It hits you in a slow wave, sliding over your senses, comforting in a way that makes your omega instincts perk up. Something in your chest loosens before your brain catches up. 

“Don’t do that,” you snap, leaning away from him. “I don’t need you to do the calming pheromone thing.”

“Sorry. I was trying to make you less on edge.”

“I’m tied to a saddle with a bunch of men holding me captive after burning my kingdom down. If you think a little hint of oranges is going to make me less on edge, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Well stated. Fine - no more running, at least,” Soonyoung admonishes, nudging his mare to a slow walk. “I’m not chasing you down for a week straight.”

“You wanted me to run yesterday.” 

“That was when your behavior didn’t reflect on me - or potentially, my back.”

You don’t answer.

It’s silent as you start riding north again. Seungcheol leads, silent and severe. This time, Seokmin and Chan flank either side of you, perhaps to keep you from diving off the mare. Soonyoung goes back to humming behind you, a tuneless thing low in his throat. Every jostle of the horse makes your teeth grit, but you refuse to cry.

Your side continues to bleed. You feel the scabs crack and reopen, blood pooling again with each uneven step of the horse. You grit your teeth, trying to keep your breath even. You’re exhausted, bleeding, and a bit shamed, pride burning nearly as much as your injury. 

“You know,” Soonyoung says eventually. “You don’t have to keep acting like this. We know you’re tough.”

“Get over yourself. I’m not performing for you.”

He seems satisfied with your answer, falling back into silence.

Eventually, your head tilts forward, heavy with sleep and a bit dizzy from the blood loss and injuries. Your eyes drift shut, the cool wind kisses the back of your neck. You feel Soonyoung shift behind you, thighs tightening to help you keep your seat as you start to doze. 

You’re just too tired to care.

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[wonluhver]

distance. (choi seungcheol x reader)

summary: When your roommate Seungcheol decides that he likes your coworker, he wants your help in pursuing her. Unbeknownst to him, you have been in love with him for years.

word count: 8.7k

warnings: roommates AU, friends to lovers, angst, unrequited love until it isn’t, mentions of drinking, smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, dirty talk.

Towards the end of your shift, it’s almost easy to block out the sound of the phone ringing or the printer humming. To be fair, it isn’t really a bother since these things sound like white noise to you after working in the same office for the last six years. Pair that with your exhaustion after a long week, and you are more than ready for the clock to hit 5 o’clock so you can get the hell out of there.

There’s a brushing of clothes above you and you tear your bleary eyes from the screen to look up, finding arms clad in a pretty pink sweater draped over the edge of your cubicle wall. Mina sighs down at you, leaning her cheek against her forearm and pouting slightly. You give her a sympathetic look.

“It’s almost time to clock out. Hang in there.”

Mina rounds the wall then, entering your space and leaning against the table. You turn your stare back to the screen, feeling irrational anger as you eye the spreadsheet open in front of you, looking way more complicated than it needs to be. You find yourself glaring at it.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Mina makes small talk. You decide that you would rather engage with her than do even a morsel of more work. You swivel in your chair to face her.

“Not really. This week has been so exhausting I think I will just stay in.” You wondered if Seungcheol would be up for a disgustingly long movie marathon. Maybe not. He can’t sit still for too long.

“I should start packing up.” You announce, pulling your bag out from under your desk so you can shovel your belongings into it. Mina eyes you as you move.

“Is your roommate coming to pick you up?” She gestures to the picture you had taped to your wall, Seungcheol with his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind and cheek resting on the top of your head. It was graduation. He had dyed his hair blond for the occasion. You had called him ridiculous. You had also secretly thought he looked amazing with blond hair, and your heart had raced when you saw the color on him for the first time, nearly as pale as his skin, and had cursed the gods for creating someone who could look good in literally anything.

It was your favourite picture of the two of you.

You nod at Mina’s question. Seungcheol’s car is in the shop, and since his workplace is way farther than yours, you lent him your car for the week, provided he drops you off and picks you up from work. It was a good arrangement, and you contemplate continuing it even after his car is fixed. It would save a ton on gas money.

Mina hums, looking a bit giddy. “He’s quite the eye candy, isn’t he?”

You purse your lips, trying not to give anything away. Of course Seungcheol is eye candy. He’s the most handsome guy you know. But funnily enough, you like him best when he just rolls out of bed, hair all over the place, eyes swollen from sleep and mouth twisted into a pout. He’s endearing, and he is smart, and he is understanding to a fault.

You’re in love with him. She doesn’t have to know that.

When the clock strikes 5, you and Mina are the first ones out of the door. She tells you about her weekend plans as you descend the stairs, foregoing the elevator, something about karaoke with old college buddies and drinks at a local bar. You hum along, spotting the silver of your car and sharply turning its way. Seungcheol is waiting outside the car for some reason, despite how cold it is, biting his lip as he stares at something on his phone. The sound of footsteps makes him look up and he smiles, eyes flitting to Mina.

“Hi.” She waves at him despite the close proximity. He waves back and echoes the greeting.

“Hello to me too, I guess.” Your words are dry, and Seungcheol sticks his tongue out childishly. Mina giggles, and his attention is caught on her again. Something in your chest sinks a bit.

You don’t listen to them exchanging pleasantries. You are tired, exhausted in fact, and you don’t have it in you to watch Seungcheol flirt with your coworker. He’s a naturally friendly guy, and anyone with eyes can see how attractive Mina is, so you can’t really fault him for that. It’s only when you hear his question that your mind snaps back to the present.

“….. maybe I can take you out sometime?”

You stare at the side of his face. Then at Mina’s. Neither of them looks back, and you realise acutely that you have no place in this conversation. Before you can think about it, your mind is already responding.

“I’ll be in the car.” You mumble, walking past them and pulling open the passenger side door. You settle in and pointedly avoid looking at both of them from the window, pulling your phone out to give the illusion of being busy. Instead, your head is spinning.

This shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t. You have known Seungcheol since the first year of college. He has been on countless dates, with people who you know and people who are complete strangers. You may be hung up on him, but he isn’t yours. He can date who he wants.

But something about it being Mina.

You have known Mina since the first day you started at this company. She was still fairly new when you arrived, so you two had bonded over not knowing anyone else. Mina was bubbly, impossibly friendly, and you two had formed an alliance of sorts at work. But it was still strictly confined to work. You two had no overlapping interests, so the friendship never progressed. Both of you seemed fine with that. You were work-friends.

Somehow, this felt like a violation. Like she was encroaching in a part of your life she shouldn’t be involved in. With someone who you were deeply possessive of despite having no claim on him.

You scowl at your phone screen. Way to make it about yourself.

The car door opens and Seungcheol falls heavily into the driver seat, bringing with him the chill of the winter air. He tugs the door closed and rushes to turn on the car, adjusting the heating.

“Ah, I’m excited.” He grins over at you. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a hot coworker our age?”

You roll your eyes at his words. “For this very reason.”

He pouts as he turns the car into the road, focusing straight ahead, but you still feel his indignation.

“Come on! I don’t date everyone you know.”

“Right. You just sleep with them.”

He reaches towards you and grips your cheeks hard, pinching until you squeal and tear his hand away, glaring at him.

“She seems very nice.” He is referring to Mina.

You sigh. “She is. So stay away from her.”

He really isn’t some kind of heartless player, you both know this. So he doesn’t really react with offense to your words. Instead, he ploughs forward.

“Tell me about her. We have a date tomorrow.”

You stare blearily at the road. Are you really going to be Mina’s hype woman? In front of the man you love? Is the universe laughing at you?

“She likes cute things. She’s kind of a romantic. Go classic. Flowers, dinner, a nice walk.”

He nods as if taking mental notes. “Okay, good.”

You feel the sudden, desperate urge to start bawling. You tamp down on it. Seungcheol changes the subject, thankfully, and you try not to think about tomorrow.

When you get home, you pour over the contents of the refrigerator and wonder what you can make for dinner from the bits and scraps you can find. You make a mental note to get groceries, and Seungcheol starts cutting and prepping some vegetables while you look at the meat options.

Dinner is a casual affair. He regales you with stories of his day. His company is going through a bit of a rough patch in terms of profits, so there’s always drama to report. You move around each other seamlessly. The aroma from the food slowly starts filling the kitchen as you cook, and you laugh particularly hard at one of his jokes. He grips your waist to keep you from falling, and squeezes the tiniest bit before letting go. You smooth the hair out of his eyes. This is a normal Friday night.

Seungcheol’s side presses into yours as you eat despite the ample space on the couch. He has always been affectionate with you. It had started as a thing of comfort during stressful college times and had eventually just before the norm for you both. Some sitcom is playing, neither of you care for it, as he wonders if he should get a haircut. You wholeheartedly oppose it. He fishes for compliments, and you gladly give them to him. He laughs when you compare him to his dog back at his parent’s house.

Mina is the last thing on your mind.

……………………………

“You could’ve just said no.” Soonyoung’s mouth is full of popcorn so his words are muffled, though you hear him clearly. He doesn’t wait to finish them, adding another handful in. You don’t even flinch. You are pretty used to his eating habits at this point.

“It’s not my place to.” You retort, looking at the screen but not really watching. You reach into the bowl on his lap, surprised by how empty it already is.

“We’re ten minutes into the movie!” You glare at him. “You’ve nearly finished the bowl. Can you slow down?”

“You’re right, but you still could’ve said no.” From your other side, Jihoon chimes in. He’s scrolling on his phone instead of looking at the TV. Neither you nor Soonyoung minds. He usually shows up to movie nights because he wants to hang out. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whatever you two choose to play. It usually ends up devolving into conversation anyway, mostly your woes about Seungcheol.

“He cares about you too much.” Jihoon continues. “If you seriously didn’t want him to date someone you know, he wouldn’t hesitate in dropping them.”

You sigh, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “I know that. I know. But I really don’t think I can do that. It’s not fair to him.”

Jihoon hums, eyeing you from the corner of his eye. “None of this is fair to either of you, but you don’t listen to me anyway, so what’s the point?”

You pointedly ignore his jab. Jihoon is very much in favor of you telling Seungcheol how you feel. He has been advocating for it for years. Now, after so long trying to convince you, he has pretty much given up, sticking to little digs here and there. You’re too stubborn to listen.

“I think this is good.” Soonyoung chimes in, and you turn your head to look at him incredulously. He nods, as if affirming himself, before continuing.

“Mina is different for you. She’s not some casual acquaintance. Seungcheol dating her should light a fire under your ass to move on. Look, it’s been years. If it hasn’t happened yet, what makes you think it will happen now?”

“It won’t.” You respond, though you feel irritated. “I know it won’t happen.”

“So, what are you doing?” Soonyoung’s tone has softened, even if his words are harsh. “What’s the point of staying hung up on him?”

You know he is right. You know it. But as you contemplate his words, Seungcheol emerges from his room, and your eyes find him. He looks good, white button up shirt, dark brown slacks, and he is smoothing something into his thick head of brown hair, pushing it off his forehead.

“I think I should just go for roses, if we are going to keep it classic.” He sounds urgent, and your eyes remain trained on him as he fastens his watch and smooths a hand down the shirt to straighten it.

“You look great.” You manage to throw out, and he gives you a smile that has your eyes melting in their sockets. He reaches a hand out to ruffle through your hair affectionately, and Soonyoung’s words fly out the window like he never said them in the first place.

“Don’t wait up!” He teases, and you roll your eyes. He says goodbye to Jihoon and Soonyoung, flying out of the door as quickly as he came in. Soonyoung sighs.

“You’re screwed.”

………………………………….

You don’t remember when exactly your friends end up leaving. Predictably, the night had progressed to all of you just talking, the next movie playing automatically when no one paid attention to it. Before you know it, your eyelids are getting heavy and both of them are wrapping it up, ready to head home. You wave them goodbye and fill a glass of water for yourself, carrying it to your bedside table and flopping down on your bed. You fall asleep before you can even think about doomscrolling on your phone.

You don’t wake up until almost 10 the next day, grateful for the lack of annoying alarm. You stare at the light filtering through your curtains, willing yourself to get up. The apartment is quiet. You wonder when Seungcheol got home last night. You wonder how his date with Mina went.

You walk past his closed door, then the bathroom where the shower is running. It seems he woke up just now too. You put on a pot for coffee, enough for two cups, before opening the refrigerator door and contemplating if you want breakfast or if you can wait and just pick something up for lunch later. You hear bare feet padding into the kitchen, and turn around to give Seungcheol your suggestion. When you take in the sight in front of you, the words die in your throat.

Mina waves at you awkwardly, her hair still wet and flowing over the towel draped around her shoulders. She is wearing a very fancy purple dress, and you realise it’s probably what she wore to the date last night. Despite her bare face and your frantically beating heart, you can’t help but think of how beautiful she looks.

“Sorry.” She has the decency to look embarrassed. “Seungcheol said you don’t usually wake up before noon on the weekends.”

You jerk out of your shock, letting out a laugh you hope doesn’t sound too strained. There’s more sounds of doors opening and closing, and then Seungcheol is stepping into the kitchen, shirtless and clearly just woken up. He smiles at Mina in a way so sickly sweet that you have to physically turn away, staring at the refrigerator again. Bile rises up into your throat. You wonder where your running shoes are. In the foyer or your room? You couldn’t bear to walk past the kitchen again on your way out. The refrigerator door shuts a bit too forcefully than you intended.

“Oh, we don’t have enough coffee.” You hear Seungcheol say.

“Sorry.” You choke out, not knowing who to look at. The air in the kitchen is painfully awkward, or maybe it’s just you, and you put your mug on the counter. “I just poured it. I didn’t drink it yet. You can have it.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “What about you?”

“I was just heading out.” You lie. It’s so obvious nobody believes you that Mina just ends up looking at her feet. “Jihoon just texted. I’m gonna head over to his.”

Seungcheol doesn’t comment on the fact that your phone is nowhere in sight. You leave the kitchen quickly, heading to the foyer. You are relieved to spot your shoes, shoving them on and realising your hands are shaking, before you slip out of the house.

……………………………………….

“What the hell?”

Soonyoung tugs at your arm until you stumble into the apartment, shutting the door quickly behind you to keep the chill out. His hand is warm on your bare arm, and you realise only then that you had been running on the streets in nothing more than a T-shirt and sweatpants. No wonder the old lady down the road looked at you weirdly. It is nearly December.

Soonyoung doesn’t speak as he leads you inside, rushing to grab the blanket draped over the couch and wrapping you in it. It’s warm, and one look at the plate on the coffee table tells you that he had just vacated the couch in the middle of breakfast to answer the door.

“Sorry.” You manage to throw out, though you don’t feel it. You don’t feel much of anything. You can’t get Seungcheol’s face out of your head, how he melted when he saw Mina. She had spent the night. After the first date. Seungcheol doesn’t do that. That’s not like him at all.

“You want pancakes? There’s batter left over.” Soonyoung doesn’t wait for an answer, trudging to the kitchen to begin working on them. Now that he has mentioned it, the house does smell like vanilla. You sit on the stool at the kitchen island, still swimming in the blanket, taking comfort in the soft fleece. Jihoon starts when he walks into the kitchen, clearly not expecting to see you. You feel a wave of remorse for crashing into what was likely a peaceful Sunday morning. It doesn’t last long. You sink back into the hollow feeling in your chest.

“He brought her home.” You supply without prompting. “She- they were in the kitchen. And he was looking at her. And I couldn’t stay there.”

You don’t know if you make sense, but by the way Jihoon’s eyes soften, you know you don’t have to.

They sit with you as you eat. Your motions are almost mechanical. Someone’s phone vibrates. Soonyoung stares down at it.

“He’s asking if you’re with us.” He comments, glancing at you. “No wonder he’s worried. You walked out into the street wearing a shirt.”

“He doesn’t get to be worried.” Your voice wavers. Incredibly, you feel anger surge up inside you. Unwarranted, irrational anger.

“He’s still your friend.” Jihoon nearly whispers.

“I don’t-” Your voice catches. “I don’t think I can be his friend. I don’t think I can take this.”

Soonyoung laughs, but it isn’t unkind. “You can’t stay away from him.”

Your face crumples because he is right. You had stuck with Seungcheol because no one in your life understood you like he did. You had known him for so long that it was hard to imagine a time when you didn’t. You two were inseparable. You had spent all of college attached at the hip, and had gotten an apartment together immediately after graduation. You had years of history.

You still remember your first job interview, how you had bombed it completely and came home near tears that you would never get a job and your degree would be wasted. Seungcheol had indulged your wild imagination, comforting you, even rubbing your feet and running you a bath. You remember when a bakery opened around the corner and both of you fell in love with the blueberry croissants, to the point that it was all you ate for a week straight. Then both of you got so sick of them that you didn’t touch another croissant for months.

You remember when Seungcheol got a promotion at work, and you had spent the evening making him a three course meal to celebrate, all his favourite dishes from home. He had raved all through the meal, nearly in tears when he bit into the meat you had smoked all on your own, claiming it melted in his mouth. You had complained about the skillet and how the meat stuck on it because it was so old. The next day you found a brand new one on the kitchen counter, with a note that said you had to cook more food on it for him as a thank you.

There was a set of red Russian nesting dolls on the shelf in the living room that you bought at a flea market. Seungcheol thought they were hideous but you loved them. He always had something to say about them when he saw them, and it was never anything nice.

“Those are the eyes of someone planning murder.” He had said once, staring at the largest one. You snorted.

“They have every right to, after the way you’ve been shit talking them.”

When the smallest one got lost, Seungcheol spent the entire afternoon looking for it with you. When he found it, you nearly yelled with joy, planting a messy kiss on his cheek and promising him a reward.

(There was never a reward. He never brought it up.)

You remember when Seungcheol brought a girl home to the apartment one night. He had been seeing her for months by that point, but it didn’t hurt any less when he introduced you to her. It didn’t hurt less when they went into his room, and you heard the shuffling of clothes, and the dampened squeaking of the bed. Their efforts to keep quiet.

The walls were thin in that apartment.

In fact, they were so thin that you were woken one night to the sound of Seungcheol constantly shuffling around outside, footsteps heavy on the floor of the living room. When you poked your head out to look at him, he was surprised.

“Trouble sleeping?”

He just nodded. You opened your bedroom door farther, gesturing for him to come in. That night, he had curled into your side, half his weight heavy on your torso, cold toes pressing into your shins. You let him, feeling how he slowly relaxed as you ran your fingers through his hair, his breath evening out. He was so warm. You slept better than you had in weeks. And by the looks of him the next morning, so did he.

You loved him more than you had ever loved anyone else. You also felt more pain from him than anyone else. None of it was his fault. This was a monster of your own making, and now you were living with the consequences of it.

You don’t go home that day until well past sunset, and when you get back, Seungcheol is cooking dinner. It’s something spicy, by the smell of it, and you park yourself next to the counter. He looks at you expectantly, though you can see the worry etched on his face.

“Sorry about this morning.” You give him an apologetic smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see Mina. I guess it’s just a little weird to see her here because I see her at the office all the time.”

Seungcheol’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “That’s my fault. I should’ve texted and warned you.”

There’s a small silence before he continues. “I guess…. you will get used to it slowly.”

Oh. You blink and nod, sending him a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Of course.”

Seungcheol has been the dealer of a lot of pain in your life. But you would rather have that than nothing at all.

……………………………………

Mina does start coming over more often, unsurprisingly. When it isn’t her in your apartment, it’s Seungcheol who leaves to spend the night at hers, and you try to adjust to cooking one portion instead of two. You slowly get accustomed to her presence in your life outside the office, but funnily enough, you two talk less now. She seems to be more engrossed in work, and when she isn’t doing that, she’s on her phone (You try not to think of Seungcheol texting her). It isn’t until a few weeks later that you realise what exactly caused the shift in her.

You are baking in the kitchen, which you rarely do, but you know Seungcheol loves your brownie recipe and you had nothing else going on, so you start making a batch. He whooped in celebration when he found you folding flour into the batter, draping himself over your back to look down into the bowl. You are trying to push his arm away from the bowl to stop him from licking the batter, and failing terribly, complaining about how heavy he is, when a throat clears behind you. Seungcheol rips himself away from you at the speed of light, and you are confused by his reaction until you see Mina’s gaze hardened, lips twisted, staring at you both. You nearly shrink back, bending over the bowl immediately to avoid looking at her, ignoring the sound of Seungcheol shuffling towards her and following her out of the kitchen.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s only understandable. You and Seungcheol are uncomfortably close to the outside eye. He thrives on attention and physical affection, and you love giving it. Seungcheol had only been serious with maybe one or two girls, so it hasn’t been an active problem. Clearly it is now.

You hadn’t noticed before, but thinking back, there is now an established distance between you two. You had chalked it up to Seungcheol just not being around as much, but you wonder if it was intentional on his behalf. Perhaps Mina had told him to. You feel a zip of irritation at the thought, but you tamp it down quickly. You have no claim on Seungcheol’s affections. That is all her. You are not entitled to his love even though it feels like you are.

As Christmas nears, you begin struggling with this new ‘distance’ a lot more than you thought you would. Seungcheol sits with the littlest of gaps between you two on the couch now, and you miss the warmth of his arm and leg pressed to yours, the cushion on his broad shoulder that you could rest your head on. He plays with your hair less, hugs you less, and never offers to rub your feet after a tiring day at work anymore. The pet names are all but gone, not even the teasing use of “cupcake”, which he knows you hate, and conversation gets so formal you wonder if you did something to secretly offend him.

You realise how ingrained Seungcheol is in every part of your life when his absence suddenly leaves your days empty. Winters in particular feel too lonely, when there is no noise from your desk fan to fill the space, when your windows have frosted over and you sit on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. Not coffee, hot chocolate. Seungcheol loves it when you make the real stuff, not the powdered one that comes in little packets, but the one with whole milk and melted chocolate. You indulge yourself by adding marshmallows in your mug, and you wonder if you are just doing tiny things to fill space, in your mind and around you.

There is less of Seungcheol in the apartment too. His shoes aren’t in the foyer, and his jacket isn’t draped over the back of the couch for you to find and scold him over (‘the cupboard is right there!’). Your idea of commuting together pretty much evaporates, and you are back to separate cars. His perfume, a characteristic scent he has worn since college, doesn’t waft unbearably in the corridor outside his room as often as it used to. When it does, now occasionally, you pause in the space, breathing him in.

You miss him.

You remember that first morning you had seen them together in the kitchen, when you had looked back on your times with him and decided, you would rather have him as a friend than not have him at all.

Is he even your friend anymore? Or is he just your roommate?

On the last day of work before Christmas holidays, Mina shows up at your cubicle for the first time in a while. It catches you off guard, but you try not to let it show.

“Seungcheol and some of his friends at work are going out for drinks later. You should come.”

You bristle at the words, at her tone. Why does she sound like she’s doing you a favor by inviting you? Or are you just paranoid now, biased against her? You agree nonetheless, and are left wondering why Seungcheol wouldn’t just ask you instead of relaying the word through his girlfriend. The thought sends knives searing through your chest.

Distance.

He picks you two up after work, insisting he would drop you off at your car later. On the way there, you watch their heads from the backseat, and you contemplate, for the first time in years, if you should look for a place of your own and move out. It wouldn’t work, obviously. The rent in this area is too steep for one person. You wonder if Soonyoung and Jihoon can take you in, dismissing the option almost immediately. Their place isn’t built for three people. And you have burdened them enough with your problems already.

You are still in your head a bit when you arrive at the bar, and exaggerated cheers stun you from your musings when you approach the table. You smile at Jeonghan, Joshua and Mingyu. You had known them almost as long as Seungcheol did, but you obviously saw them way less. They worked with him, and were some of the most fun people to have drinks with. You decide you will let loose tonight, shunning the woeful thoughts in your head. You had spent too long suspended in this feeling of not being wanted.

It quickly devolves into chaos from there. Mingyu doesn’t let you breathe between the first three shots, claiming you need to ‘loosen up first’. By the time you get around to updating them about your life, you are already swaying, making Joshua laugh and throw an arm over your shoulder to still you. His entire face is flushed a comical shade of red, and you wonder how much he had drunk already in such a short time. You can feel eyes on you, and you choose to ignore them, feeling like your company is wanted for the first time in weeks.

“How’s the new place?” You ask over the music at Jeonghan, who is busy mixing two or three drinks into whatever atrocious concoction he wants to drink. Jeonghan and Joshua had shared an apartment for the longest time, and had just upgraded to a better place some weeks ago. Something with a balcony like Joshua always wanted.

“Oh, it’s great! Empty, though.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“It’s three bedrooms.”

You stare at him, and in your inebriated state, you don’t think of the consequences of your next words. “I could move in with you.”

Three sets of shocked, wide brown eyes look at you. You flush under the attention and thank the gods that Seungcheol has gone to the bar with Mina for more drinks.

“You’re moving out?” Mingyu scowls at you, and you feel almost offended by how accusatory his tone is. You shrug.

“I’m thinking about it.”

Joshua worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Are you sure? I mean- does Seungcheol know?”

You fidget a bit, regretting saying anything at all. You weren’t being entirely serious, fuelled by alcohol and the slight anger you had been harbouring towards your best friend. Jeonghan doesn’t say anything as you sputter over your words trying to answer his friends, his eyes boring holes in the side of your head. His silence unnerves you. He is closest to Seungcheol out of all of them.

“Maybe you should.” He finally says, and his words are unexpected. “Change might shock both of you awake.”

“Maybe you should what?” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through your confusion at Jeonghan’s words.

You don’t answer him, grabbing a shot glass instead of saying anything, immediately downing it and reaching for the next one already. Jeonghan doesn’t stop looking at you.

“Move out.” Jeonghan answers him, and Seungcheol’s head immediately shoots to your direction. He looks stricken, like he can’t believe his ears.

“You’re moving out?” He asks you, and you shake your head vigorously.

“Then why is he saying you are?” His tone turns accusatory, and you frown at him.

“Even if I am, what’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal?!” Seungcheol looks positively angry at your words, standing up abruptly to leave the table. You all watch him make his way over to the bar, plopping down on a stool.

You have to give Mina props for not saying anything at all about Seungcheol’s massive overreaction, instead just giving you all a smile and excusing herself from the table. She doesn’t walk over to Seungcheol though. You watch her make her way to the door of the bar and disappear out of it. Jeonghan whistles.

“Well, that happened quicker than I thought it would.”

You tsk at him, reaching for another drink. You had expected Seungcheol to react badly, but not as bad as this, and not in front of his girlfriend. You feel a bit bad for Mina. But you feel almost worse for yourself. You will have to deal with him when you get home.

Or you could get shitfaced, and avoid confrontation altogether. You choose option 2.

Jeonghan ends up driving everyone home, since the rest of you decided no work tomorrow meant drinking until you can’t see straight. You whine at him to not leave you with Seungcheol, who has gotten even more pouty after drinking, cheeks flushed and eyes barely open. Jeonghan pointedly ignores your pleas and dumps both of you in front of your building.

“C’mon.” Seungcheol holds an arm out. “Hold on to me for support.”

You snort at him. “You aren’t exactly stable.”

“Hold on to me right now or I’m going to lose it, cupcake.”

You boo at him but do what he says, gripping his bicep, and slowly you two begin the impossible trek upstairs. He is humming a familiar tune when you finally push the apartment door open, raising his arms above his head in triumph.

“We’re so good at being drunk.” He grins at you, and you giggle back, unable to resist digging your fingertips into his dimples. His gaze is hazy but his eyes sparkle bright regardless. You can feel yourself forgetting being angry at him already, just happy to feel his so close, his hands on your arms and waist, his head falling on your shoulder, his body heat so near your own skin.

Taking your shoes off takes much longer than expected, Seungcheol is tugging on your boot at one point, and then both of you make a beeline to your room, still in suspiciously wet socks, collapsing on top of the covers.

You don’t know if you imagine it. If you’re just drunk and in your feelings, but Seungcheol mumbles something quietly. It’s barely above a whisper, but in the dead of the night it sounds as loud as a siren.

“Don’t move out.”

You turn to look blearily at him. His hair is spread like a halo around his head, falling over your pillows. He hadn’t cut it in a while, determined to grow it out. He reminded you of a prince. His eyes are trained on you through the strands of brown falling over them, and they look clearer than his drunk state might suggest. Despite the blush high on his cheeks, his skin looks like porcelain. You turn your gaze to the ceiling.

“I can’t be around you, Cheol. It hurts.”

He watches you, unblinking, until he moves a bit, shuffles closer to you so you can feel his breath in your cheek.

“And I can’t live without you. It hurts.”

You smile bitterly. “You’ve been fine with Mina.”

He scowls and shakes his head. “Mina isn’t you.”

You turn your head to him then, and his nose brushes against your own. At this proximity, you watch the streaks of brown in his eyes, dark and welcoming, like bottomless pools. You want to kiss him so badly it makes the pit of your stomach ache. Instead, you let your eyelids flutter shut, resigned to being so close, but never close enough.

When you wake up the next morning, you are swaddled in what feels like ten blankets, and it’s only when your haze clears that you realise it’s actually Seungcheol attached to your back like a koala bear, one leg pushed between your own and arms so tight around your middle that you are unsure if you feel nauseous because of the hangover or because of the pressure he is putting on your stomach. You dig your elbow back into his ribs, and he groans.

“I’m gonna be sick.” His voice is throaty, and despite your raging headache, your breath hitches.

“If you yarf on my bed I’m making you clean it up.”

He lets out another pained noise, pushing away from you and groggily standing up to walk straight out of the room. Minutes later, you hear him throwing up in the toilet. You sigh.

You can’t bring yourself to think of last night, how normal it felt to be around Seungcheol like that after weeks of not speaking more than a few words at a time. You have missed him terribly. And you think once more of how painful it was trying to move on from him while living in the same place, surrounded by everything you two built together.

Mina isn’t you.

You can’t bring yourself to think about what he meant. You are exhausted. You feel sick and your head is pounding. And your throat feels dry as sandpaper. You slowly get up to trudge to the kitchen, downing two whole glasses of water and feeling much better afterward. The shower is running at this point, and you check your messages while you wait.

When you hear the bathroom door open and close, followed by footsteps and another door, you realise Seungcheol has disappeared into his room. You take that opportunity to use the bathroom yourself, letting the water wash away last night, the feeling of his fingertips, still like ghosts on your skin. You wonder what it would’ve felt like if you really had pushed forward last night and kissed him.

You would never do that. But still. A girl can dream.

By the time you reemerge, the apartment is eerily quiet. Seungcheol’s bedroom door is wide open, and his shoes are gone from the foyer. Good. You needed space anyway. If he hadn’t left, you would’ve.

He doesn’t return until late that night. You meander through the apartment. Ordering lunch and wasting time on the internet. Jeonghan texts to ask how you’re doing, you reply shortly. You still aren’t particularly happy with him for telling Seungcheol that you were considering moving out. Hell, you are sure it wouldn’t have amounted to anything anyway. You would’ve chickened out and stayed there, not exactly a fan of change. All this should never have been mentioned in the first place.

When the door finally opens, it’s well after sundown. Seungcheol is breathing heavily and he pushes his shoes off, and you glimpse a thin sheen of sweat over his hairline.

“You were running? It’s freezing out.” You comment, watching him from the couch. He pushes his hair off his forehead and it stays there, likely because it’s wet too. The seriousness on his face makes you pause.

“I broke up with Mina.”

You gape at him. “You what?”

He makes a beeline for you, both hands gripping the back of the couch on either side of you with a thud, knee on the seat holding him up, before his lips are crashing into yours. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, mind and body scrambling to catch up with what is happening. Your hands automatically rest on his shoulders, gripping hard. You don’t know if you want to pull him closer or push him away. His teeth nip on your bottom lip, and the sensation zips through your body, making a decision for you.

You kiss back hard, using his sweatshirt to pull him closer until he is collapsing on top of you, both of you sliding down the couch. Your leg hooks around his waist, and you breathe in his sigh. It hits you, mid kiss, that you are finally kissing Seungcheol. After so long of imagining it, his lips are on yours, softer than anything. He tastes like that mint chewing gum he often carries around, and you can still smell his shampoo, now mixed with the heady scent of his sweat cooling on his skin.

He pushes you into the cushions, and his weight feels therapeutic, like a weighted blanket on your limbs after a long, tiring day. His hand grips your thigh hard, encouraging you to hitch it up further around his torso. His skin is slightly sticky from the sweat, and his hair is falling over your eyes. His tongue is dancing with your own, running over your teeth and the roof of your mouth, engulfing you so completely that you feel like you cannot breathe. You feel a rush of emotion.

“I’ve wanted this,” you manage to mumble into his lips, voice cracking, “for so long.”

He breaks away from you for just a second, enough to look down at you, but you already miss him. He brushes a hand over your cheek, and you realise you really are crying.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, voice clogged with such intense regret that you feel another wave of tears coming. “I’m so sorry. It should’ve been you. It was always you. It could never be anyone else.”

He means it, you can tell. And it makes you tug him down until you’re kissing him again, reveling in the feeling of how his lips meld so perfectly with yours. His cheeks sink under the pressure of your fingertips, his eyelashes brush delicately against your skin. He engulfs all of your senses until you don’t know where you end and where he begins.

When it isn’t enough, because it could never be enough for you, you are too greedy for every inch of him, you paw at his clothes. You want them off, want to feel his bare torso attach itself to your own. It’s a desire so acute you nearly scream. Seungcheol obliges, pulling his sweatshirt off in one fluid motion and throwing it away somewhere neither of you care to look at. He doesn’t reattach to your lips until your sweater is gone too, and then his arms are snaking under your back to pull you flush against him, kissing you briefly before his mouth is traveling down past your face to nip at the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath sends shivers down your spine, tensing up at the sensations. His tongue flicks out to swipe at the skin below your ear before he is biting down at it, softly at first to test the waters, before digging deep enough to elicit a satisfied sigh from you. You run your fingertips delicately up his spine, basking in the way he shivers under your touch, lips still sucking, now harsher, as if determined to mark you as his. You let him, encourage him even. You are his. You have been his for so long, and he is finally laying his claim.

His hands fiddle with the waistband of your pajamas, fingertips dipping in and out in little intervals. Your hips buck up, impatient, and he chuckles, biting down on your collarbone in warning.

“Be good.”

His voice is firm and deep, and you know he means business. It makes you want to rebel even more, and you buck up again. He grips your hips tight, holding you in place, lips leaving you with a last, delicious slurping sound before he is looking you in the eyes.

“Is that how it’s going to be, baby?” His hips come down, grinding into you, and you can feel that he is rock hard already. A thrill runs up your core at the feeling, and suddenly you want him to be completely naked. You want to see his cock, feel its weight in your palm, on your tongue, inside your pussy, stretching you until you can’t think straight. You can feel how wet you are already, clenching desperately around nothing at all. You feel hot all over, and the remaining clothes you have on feel like they are too much.

“Please, Cheolie.” You whine, trying to jerk up again. It doesn’t work, his hold is too strong. “Take my clothes off.”

He tsks then, smirking down at you. He’s enjoying this a little too much, watching you squirm under him. But it seems he wants you just as bad, because then he is sliding down your bottoms and panties at the same time, leaving you bare for his eyes to wander over. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing them back until they are touching your chest and you are laid open for him. You have the decency to flush at the hungry look in his eyes, but you bask in the attention anyway. You like how his eyes roam over your naked body, how they zero in on your sopping cunt. You arch your back slightly and his gaze flickers up, lips twitching with amusement.

He lets you go long enough to discard his own pants, and you don’t have time to admire him in his nude glory before he is pulling you close again, bending over you to bury his face in your neck.

“I want to pamper you and spoil you,” he whispers. “And I will, promise. But I need to be inside you so bad right now.”

You buck up into him again, his cock sliding through your slit in a delicious drag that has your legs twitching. He pulls back to grind into you again, but the tip catches on your hole and pulls groans out of both of you, and you can’t take it anymore.

You scramble to reach for him, lining him up and encouraging him to push forward, spearing through you in a way that makes your jaw go slack and your toes curl.

He’s big. Thick and curved up slightly so that the head of his cock presses urgently into the spongy spot inside you. His hips press flush into your skin and he stays there for a second, voice broken and pitched in a way you had never heard before. He has a flush high on his cheekbones, and his eyes struggle to remain open. You watch a drop of sweat roll down the side of his face, watch the slight tremble of his biceps as they frame your face. You are in awe as you watch him fall apart in real time. All because of you.

When he pulls back just a bit just to thrust into you again, you clench hard, feeling the familiar tug in the pit of your stomach. He curses roughly, breath coming in staccato.

“Don’t-” His jaw ticks. “I’m gonna cum. I’m so serious. Don’t do that.”

You let out a breathless laugh, only responding by clenching again. He groans and pulls out again, and this time he wastes no time in setting a punishing pace. You immediately arch up, head falling back as your body locks at the feeling. He seems to know exactly what angle to take, what spot to hit, despite this being the first time you two are having sex, and you would wonder why if all rational thought wasn’t leaving your head at that very moment. You gasp and moan with very thrust, unable to hold back your sounds. Seungcheol is only encouraged more, propping himself up by his hands on either side of your head to thrust harder.

Your world spins and turns on its angle, and you feel heavy with sensation. Your hands try to hold on to something, scraping against the rough material of the couch, but there’s nothing. There’s only Seungcheol above you, thrusting hard and heavy into you until you feel full enough to burst. Your cunt weeps, leaking around him, and Seungcheol’s stare is hard locked on where his shaft sinks into you over and over, collecting a thin rim of white foam around it. He curses again and you cry out at a particularly hard thrust.

A thin layer of sweat is slowly forming over your body, despite how cold the air around you is. Your breath comes fast and staggered, and breathing is the least of your concern at this moment, frankly. You are laser focused on how he is tearing your poor pussy open over and over, and on the feeling of his strong thighs just under your legs, stiffened with the strain of his movements, his strength that you had wondered about for so long, now on full display. You wonder if he will break you. You hope he does.

His hair covers half his face, and your eyes zero in on the cushion of his lips, parted, tongue poking out just a bit, and you want to bite them. You want to mark him up, scratch at his back, dig your teeth into his bottom lip until he is locking up and pouring ropes of his cum deep into your cunt. You reach up to dig your nails into his biceps, trying to tug him down to your mouth. You catch the skin of his jaw and you nip at it, making his hips stutter a bit.

“Greedy girl.” His voice is rough with need, clogging his vocal cords, making him sound as wrecked as you feel. “My cock isn’t enough for you?”

“‘S so big,” you whine, batting your wet eyelashes up at him. Predictably, it drives him crazy, his motions get rougher. “You’re so big, Cheolie. I can barely take it.”

He chuckles. “I disagree, baby. You’re taking me like a champ.”

His hands wind into your hair, pushing it from your face so he can take in your sweaty forehead, your flushed cheeks. He tugs hard until you are arching up, and chills run through your scalp.

“Opened up for me so well. You were just made to take my cock, weren’t you? Just perfect for me. God, I could fuck you for hours.”

You sob when his hand reaches down, pressing on your clit hard before he starts rubbing. You jerk up against him, but he is unphased, continuing to dig his cock through your insides while his fingers insistently pull you closer to the edge. Your orgasm, simmering just below the surface, catches fire, and you can’t even warn him before you wail and gush all over his cock, limbs locking in place as his cock drags over your wildly contracting walls, prolonging the feeling. You can hear him curse again through the roaring in your ears, and then warmth floods your walls until you feel full with it. White hot lava rolls through you, and you try hard to breathe through it, eyelids fluttering open to watch as Seungcheol rides through his own high with you.

All is silent for a few seconds apart from the heavy breathing. Seungcheol lowers himself gently down on you, burying his face in your neck. He kisses the skin softly, and you tilt your head to let him plant more along the surface. You feel him slowly soften inside you. Something wet trickles out of your hole. You flush at the feeling.

“We’re going to have to shower again. In this cold.”

His chest rumbles with a laugh, and he looks up to grin cheekily at you. “I won’t let you get cold, sweets.”

You slap his shoulder playfully, making him laugh more. He pulls out of you, not bothering to offer a hand, sliding his arms under you to pick you up. You let him, burrowing your face into his neck, trying hard to fight off a growing smile.

[wonluhver]

Be My Tigress?

Synopsis: After moving halfway across the world to Korea, you landed a job as an Assistant Manager at Carat Company, a media company known for television production, music management, and digital content creation. Your boss, Soonyoung—though he insists everyone call him Hoshi—turned out to be an absolute whirlwind of chaos. From tiger-themed stationery and tiger-themed office décor to a full-on tiger fursuit, his relentless dedication to his so-called "tiger agenda" has left you questioning your sanity on more than one occasion. (Seriously, what even is a horanghae??) As you adjust to your new life and career, one question keeps nagging at you: how has he not been fired yet? No, really—why hasn't anyone reported this insane man to HR?

Pairing: marketing manager!Hoshi x assistant manager!afab!reader ft. marketing intern!Jun and human resources manager!Woozi

Genre: crack, fluff, slightest of angst, smut, office romance, office! au

Rating: mature

Word count: 6.6k (for this part)

Warnings: tiger agenda is strong in this one, Hoshi is very unserious (and a diva), unrealistic workplace environment, mentions of alcohol, HR pls don't fire Hoshi

Smut Warnings: penetrative sex, protected sex (we cheered!), body worship, big dick!Hoshi, aftercare, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: This is part of the 'That's Showbiz Baby!' collab! Check out the masterlist here! Be sure to check out all the other amazing fics in the collab!

Thank you so, so much @studioeisa and @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping me beta and giving me motivation to get through the fic! This fic wouldn't have escaped the vault without them!

HUGE thank you to my twin @tomodachiii for helping me with the amazing banner!!

PART 1 | PART 2 (soon! ...hopefully)

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Reblogs are appreciated ♡

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Deep breaths. In and out.

A shaky breath escapes your lips as you try to steady the nerves crawling up your spine. New city, new people, new job—it's all a bit much. But new beginnings are good, change is good…or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself.

With one final breath, you shake off the jitters and step into your new workplace—Carat Company.

Smoothing out your skirt, you walk onto your assigned floor. The receptionist greeted you so warmly that it sparked a small comfort in your chest, easing your nerves just a little. Fidgeting with your freshly issued ID tag, you glance around in search of your new boss—

Kwon Soonyoung.

When you told the receptionist you were the new assistant marketing manager, she gave you a pitying smile and muttered, "Good luck, you're going to need it—especially if you're working with him." You still have no idea what that means. Is your boss a tyrant? A slave-driver? Whatever the case, you're determined to prove you're not someone who backs down from a challenge.

Your eyes scan the floor—and then stop on something…strange. Someone's wearing what looks like a tiger fur coat? Okay, bold fashion choice. Their back is turned, but you can tell it's a man. Blonde hair—very unnatural.

Then he turns.

You blink. Sunglasses. Indoors. Coupled with the tiger coat and the flashy hair, he looks like the walking embodiment of a diva.

Must be a client, you think, attempting to ignore him and continue your boss hunt. You wander the floor, eyes peeled for any signs of the marketing manager.

Suddenly, a gasp—and footsteps. You turn around, startled, as the man in the tiger coat bolts toward you.

"Are you the new hire?!" he exclaims, eyes shining.

"I—uh—yes?" you answer, unsure and slightly alarmed.

He gasps again, practically vibrating. "Oh my god! A new horangdan!" he squeals.

A what? Did he just…call you a slur?

"I'm Hoshi! The marketing manager!" he beams.

Hoshi? Marketing manager? Did this man break out of the asylum and assume the role of your boss? That must be it, he must be an insane person who broke into here and just started to call himself the manager. That's the only explanation. There's no way this is the person you're supposed to report to.

"Hoshi?" you repeat, uncertain.

"Well, my government name is Soonyoung, but I prefer Hoshi!" he chirps.

Oh. So…this is the Soonyoung you were looking for.

"You're Kwon Soonyoung?" you ask, still trying to reconcile the name with the image before you.

"Yup! That's me!" he grins. "Oh! I have to initiate you into the Horanghae Club!" he gasps and dashes off before you can react.

You stand frozen, dumbfounded. Did you just join a cult? Is it too late to back out? You glance toward the elevator, calculating how fast you could make a run for it and disappear from this fever dream of a first day.

Before you can act on your escape plan, Soonyoung—Hoshi?—returns.

"Here!" he says cheerfully, handing you a tiger-themed pen.

You take it cautiously and give it a once-over. Despite the ridiculous design, the pen is surprisingly high quality.

"I give one to every horangdan when they join. It's official now!" he says proudly.

You nod slowly, offering the most forced smile in your entire life.

"Oh! And we have to take a horanghae selfie!" he gasps again.

"A what?" you ask, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Just follow my lead!" he instructs, holding up his hand and curling his fingers into a tiger-like claw. You hesitate, then mimic the pose. His smile only widens as he pulls out his phone and snaps a selfie. You stare blankly at the camera, still trying to make sense of everything.

"Perfect! You're officially part of the team! I'll send you the photo on Teams and get it framed too!" he says enthusiastically. "And hey—if you ever need help, don't hesitate to call me!"

With that, he flashes a final grin and heads off toward what must be his office.

Your hand slowly drops from the claw pose as you attempt to process what just happened. One thing's for sure: you'll definitely, definitely hesitate to call him.

Is it too soon to quit?

You think to yourself as you blankly stare at the monitor in front of you. You were prepared to take on anything—prepared day and night for the possible work they might throw at you, learned the latest marketing trends, heck, even braced yourself for the possibility of a boss straight out of a corporate nightmare. But this? This, you did not see coming.

Kwon Soonyoung is in love—no, scratch that—obsessed with tigers. You're convinced that if a genie popped up and offered him three wishes, he'd use every single one to become a tiger.

Somehow, he's also made it his personal mission to transform your desk into a shrine to tiger-kind. The tiger-striped pen was only the beginning. Now you've got a matching mug, keyboard mat, and coaster. Even your desktop wallpaper is tiger-themed—and for some reason, you can't seem to change it. A grinning cartoon tiger stares back at you, almost like it's mocking you. You've never wanted to punch a screen more in your life, but seeing as you'd rather not owe the company for damages, you've restrained yourself.

You lean back in your chair with a resigned sigh, already thinking about quitting—and it's not even lunchtime yet. A boisterous laugh snaps you out of your thoughts, and you look over to see Soonyoung approaching you.

Shit.

You quickly sit up straight and pretend to look busy, hoping that he'll leave you alone if he sees you're busy. But unfortunately, he doesn't.

"Hey Y/N! How's everything going so far?" he beams, adjusting his fur coat and slipping off his sunglasses like he's stepping onto a runway instead of into the office.

"Uh—yeah, it's going fine. Just slowly getting the hang of things," you reply with an awkward smile.

"Did you see your wallpaper?!" he asks, practically bouncing. "I personally begged the IT team to set everyone's desktop to adorable tigers!"

"It's…cute?" you manage to say.

"I knew you'd love it!" he beams, proud of himself.

Then, he gasps like he's just witnessed a crime, clutching his chest with theatrical flair. "Wait—don't tell me—you don't have your custom keyboard and mouse yet?!"

"My what now?" you blink at him, completely lost.

"I made a special request—a custom tiger-themed keyboard and mouse just for you! Only the best for my assistant manager!" he beams proudly. Then he pouts. "But they're not here. I think IT might've ignored my request."

Thank god, you think.

"It's no problem, Soonyoung. I'm more than happy with what I have," you say with a polite smile, hoping to end this tiger crusade.

"No! Absolutely not! My assistant manager does not use cheap equipment!" he declares with righteous conviction. "I'll make sure you get them—I promise!"

"I-it's really okay, Soonyoung—" you try to reassure him, desperation creeping in.

"Nonsense!" he grins, throwing you a wink. "Only the best for my assistant manager."

"Wow…how generous of you," you say through gritted teeth.

"I'm heading to IT right now!" he announces before dramatically striding off.

You stare after him, completely defeated. With a deep breath, you rise from your seat and let out a long, weary exhale.

You're going to HR.

You can't do this anymore. You don't even know what you're going to say, but you'll figure it out when you get there. All you know is that something has to be done about this lunatic. And so, you march. Straight to HR.

[…]

You let out a slow exhale and knock twice before stepping into the HR manager's office. Inside, a man is furiously typing away at his keyboard, too engrossed to notice your presence. You glance at the nameplate on his desk—Lee Jihoon; Human Resources Manager.

You take a cautious few steps in, but he doesn't even flinch. Still typing. Still scowling. You clear your throat.

He finally looks up and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to file a complaint," you say, shifting awkwardly.

"Is it a Hoshi-related complaint?" he asks with a resigned sigh.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and your mouth parts slightly. How did he know?

"Uh—yes?"

He exhales again, shaking his head as he mutters something under his breath that you're pretty sure was "not again".

"Put it in that box," he says, pointing to the corner of the room before returning to his screen.

You follow his gesture and turn to look, and your jaw practically hits the floor. A cardboard box, overflowing with paper. It's stuffed so full that several complaints have spilt out and are lying abandoned on the floor around it.

How is this man still employed? You wonder, genuinely baffled.

Staring at the box, you come to a decision. It's not worth it. Filing a complaint won't make a dent in the madness that is Kwon Soonyoung.

With your soul dispirited, you accept your fate and drag yourself back to your desk in defeat.

Taking another long sip of your coffee, you step onto your floor, hoping that the caffeine would give you enough fuel to get through the day. You went home completely exhausted yesterday despite having been given very little work; you suspect it has something to do with your tiger-obsessed boss.

Speaking of your tiger-obsessed boss, you spot him chatting with someone, his back facing you, and you do a full double-take. He's wearing a normal shirt. No stripes, no tiger prints, nothing. Just…normal. For a second, you wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but that unmistakable bleach-blonde hair confirms it—it's definitely him.

"Huh, maybe I misjudged him too quickly," you mutter to yourself as you take in his office-appropriate outfit.

Just as the last words leave your mouth, Soonyoung turns around, revealing a tiger print tie.

"Never mind," you sigh. You can't believe you actually had hope for this man.

His face lights up the moment he sees you, and he jogs over, grinning from ear to ear.

"Good morning, Y/N!" he greets you with his horanghae pose.

"…Good morning, Soonyoung," you mutter, forcing a tight-lipped smile.

"I told you to call me Hoshi," he pouts, his shoulders drooping like a scolded kid instead of a grown marketing manager.

"…I've got work to do, so I'll be heading to my desk now," you say, keeping the forced smile plastered on your face.

"Good luck with work!" Soonyoung cheers as you walk away.

You reach your desk and sink into your chair with a sigh. That's when you notice something new—something that definitely wasn't there yesterday. Sitting proudly on your desk is a picture frame…with the selfie you took with Soonyoung yesterday. You pick it up, scoffing in disbelief. He actually framed it.

Your expression in the photo is pure confusion, while Hoshi's is pure joy. The contrast is almost comedic—almost.

Grumbling, you shove the frame into the nearest drawer, silently vowing never to look at it again. You boot up your desktop, only to be greeted by that same infuriating tiger wallpaper, grinning back at you like it knows exactly what it's doing.

You let out a heavy sigh and rub your temples, trying to ground yourself. It's only the second day, you remind yourself. Taking one last deep breath, you open your email and dive into work.

[…]

A notification blinks on your screen, snapping you out of your work-induced daze. Team meeting in 20 minutes. Deciding that a quick snack might help you survive whatever chaos awaits, you head toward the break room.

As you step inside, you spot Soonyoung already there, happily making himself a cup of coffee. You inwardly groan—talking to him was the last thing you wanted. Still, you figure it wouldn’t hurt to gather a little intel about the upcoming meeting.

"Hello, Soonyoung," you greet, but he doesn't react—he simply carries on making his coffee.

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion; did he not hear you? You clear your throat and greet him again, louder. But once again, his focus is only on the coffee in his hand.

Worry etches onto your face. Is he upset with you? Did you do something to offend him? Does he hate you? Oh god—

Wait.

"…Hoshi?" you murmur.

Soonyoung turns to look at you, a bright smile on his face.

"Yes?" he chirps.

Your shoulders slump, and your expression says it all—you're done. With an audible sigh, you drag a hand down your face, trying to gather whatever scraps of patience you have left.

"We have a meeting soon, do you think you could brief me about it before we attend?" you mutter.

"Oh, right! Tuesdays are meeting days!" he remarks.

"We don't have meetings on other days?" you ask, tilting your head in confusion.

"Well, I don't anyway," he shrugs.

"Oh," you mutter, confused as to why he only has meetings on Tuesdays—but you don't think too much about it.

"It's just an introduction meeting about the new campaign we'll be carrying out to promote an upcoming show. Don't worry too much about it!" he reassures you. You nod, feeling slightly relieved at his words.

You glance at the time and immediately panic—only five minutes left until the meeting. Without wasting a second, you make a beeline for the meeting room. Well, you speed walk like your life depends on it, while Soonyoung strolls behind you at a leisurely pace.

You slip into your seat next to Jun, the intern you've chatted with a few times. You exchange a polite smile before turning your attention to setting up your things. Moments later, Soonyoung bursts in, grinning from ear to ear, practically glowing with energy.

"Hello, everyone!" he chirps. "Horanghae!" he grins, throwing up that cursed horanghae gesture you've grown to resent with every fibre of your being.

You give him a look of pure disbelief, quickly glancing around the room in hopes that someone—anyone—might share your pain. But no. One by one, every single person in the room mimics the gesture and echoes, "Horanghae!" Even Jun, who you thought was normal.

Your eyes widen, and your jaw nearly hits the floor. Is everyone in this company actually insane?

Soonyoung turns to you, eyes full of hope. Then you realise—everyone is staring at you, waiting. Expecting. You freeze, panic flashing across your face. With no escape in sight, you force it out, "…horanghae?"

Soonyoung beams like you just gave him the greatest gift in the world, then launches into the meeting.

You sit there, staring blankly at your laptop screen, questioning every life choice that led you to this moment.

The meeting finally wraps up, and to your genuine surprise, everything went…smoothly. No unexpected tiger trivia, no random bursts of energy—Soonyoung actually acted professionally. And not just that—he was good. A competent, clear, and oddly charismatic leader. If he weren't so obsessively in love with tigers, you might actually respect him as your boss.

As the final remarks are made, Soonyoung closes out the meeting, thanking everyone for their hard work.

"Good job, Horangdans!" he grins, throwing up the horanghae gesture with far too much enthusiasm. And of course, like some sort of cult ritual, everyone mirrors the gesture—except you.

And once again, every single head turns in your direction, all eyes locked on you, waiting.

With the weight of a hundred stares on your shoulders, you give in, raising your hand in defeat. "…horanghae," you sigh, dead inside.

"Great! Meeting dismissed!" Soonyoung chirps, already bouncing out the door.

You stare after him, unmoving, lost in thought.

Should you start drafting your two weeks' notice?

Heavy footsteps echo in the office as you trudge to your desk; you haven't had your morning coffee yet, and the despair radiating off of you makes that very obvious.

Plopping your stuff on the desk, you trudge your way over to the break room to get your fix. As you try and drag your feet along the office floor, a bright orange figure grabs your attention from the corner of your eye. You do a double-take and see that there's a…tiger? In the middle of the office?

You rub your eyes, making sure you're not hallucinating from the lack of caffeine, but to your dismay, there really is a giant tiger fursuit roaming around the office.

To your horror, the tiger fursuit turns around and looks at you—it's looking directly at you. You let out a shriek in panic when it starts running towards you. You turn around and prepare to run away, but stop when you hear a familiar voice speaking through the fursuit.

"Good morning Y/N!"

You face the tiger fursuit, pure bewilderment etched onto your face.

"…Soonyoung?" you manage to choke out through your shock.

"Horanghae!" he chirps, holding up his hand (paw?).

"Soonyoung, why the hell are you in a fursuit?!" you shriek.

"Cause it's Wednesday!" he casually responds, as if he hadn't just reduced your lifespan by half. You simply stare at him, too perplexed to form a sentence.

"I'm just gonna…go now," you state, too baffled to even come up with an excuse.

"Okay! Have a great day!" he says cheerfully before skipping away to god knows where.

Plopping down at your desk, you bury your face in your hands, your mind spinning from everything you just endured. A troubling thought creeps in.

Is your boss a…FURRY?!?!!

"Hey, uh, you okay?"

You peek through your fingers to see Jun standing beside you, a concerned look on his face. You glance over at Soonyoung—now scaring another poor employee in his fursuit—then back at Jun.

"Is this…normal?" you ask, voice low and laced with disbelief.

Jun follows your gaze, then looks back at you with a shrug.

"Yeah, pretty much. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

"Oh…" you mumble, slumping further into your chair.

Determination blazing in your eyes, you storm into Jihoon's office. He's at his desk, eyes glued to his computer, unbothered even as your heavy footsteps approach him. He doesn't even flinch when you slam your hand on the table.

"You need to fire Soonyoung," you demand.

"I'm afraid we can't do that without proper reason," he states, eyes still focused on the screen.

"He is a furry! That should be a good enough reason!" you blurt, hands waving around wildly.

Jihoon lets out a long, weary sigh before turning to you, an unmistakable look of annoyance written across his face. "Unfortunately, that is not a good enough reason to fire him. Once you have a good enough reason, please do hesitate to come see me."

He shoots you a sarcastic smile before turning back to his computer, clearly unbothered. A defeated sigh slips from your lips as your shoulders sag. With a permanent pout etched onto your face, you begrudgingly trudge back to your desk, defeated once again by none other than Kwon Soonyoung.

It's a new day; a fresh start.

You chant the words in your head like a mantra as you make your way to your desk. But the moment you arrive, you stop dead in your tracks. Something new catches your eye—bright orange with unmistakable black stripes.

No way.

He actually did it.

Kwon Soonyoung actually got you a custom keyboard and mouse. Both tiger-themed.

You run your fingers across the keyboard, pressing a few keys. You hate how satisfying they feel—each press giving a perfect thock under your fingertips. The mouse is just as bad: sleek, ergonomic, dangerously comfortable. It's the kind of setup your wrists would write a thank-you letter for.

God, you hate it. You hate how high-quality it is. You want to throw it across the room, never touch it again—but you can't. It's too good. Way too good.

With great reluctance, you've decided to keep the tiger keyboard and mouse.

"Good morning, Y/N! How do you like your new keyboard and mouse?!"

You yelp, startled, and look up—only to see Soonyoung standing there in a…tiger onesie.

At this point, you're not even surprised anymore. And this is definitely one of the more tamer outfits you've seen him in.

"Good morning Soonyoung. The keyboard and mouse are definitely…more of a higher quality than I expected," you admit, begrudgingly.

"Of course! Only the best for my assistant manager!" he grins, beaming with pride. "I made a super special request just for you!"

Your fingers trail across the keys again. If it weren't for the obnoxious design, you'd almost be touched. You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. You know you won't get a logical answer, but you have to ask:

"Soonyoung, why're you in a onesie?"

"Cause it's Thursday, duh!" he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"…of course," you sigh.

"Would you like a tiger onesie? I have plenty of new ones! I would gladly give you one!" he chirps.

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm good, Soonyoung," you reply with a tight-lipped smile.

"Aw, okay." He pouts, shoulders drooping—and for some reason, your heart skips a beat. You weren't expecting him to look that cute. The way his bottom lip sticks out and his cheeks puff slightly made you feel some type of way. You quickly shake the thought away and clear your throat.

"I have work to do, so if you'll excuse me," you mumble, praying he doesn't notice the blush creeping up your cheeks.

"Oh, okay! Have a nice day, Y/N!" he says cheerfully before heading off to his office.

You watch him leave, and before you realise it, a small smile finds its way onto your lips.

You step into the office, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, humming a tune that's been stuck in your head all morning, ready to seize the day. It's Friday, after all—just need to survive one more day before the sweet release of the weekend.

As you make your way to your desk, you pause.

Something's…off.

Half the office is empty. The usual buzz of chatter and clacking keyboards is nowhere to be found. You glance around, double-checking. Nope—definitely not your imagination. It's eerily quiet.

You spot Jun at his desk, the only familiar face in the sea of emptiness, and decide to ask him what's going on.

"Good morning, Jun! Where is everyone?" you ask, tilting your head in confusion.

"Oh, good morning, Y/N!" he replies cheerfully. "We don't really work on Fridays."

"Huh? Why not?"

"Hoshi lets people leave early or take the day off if they want. Says we all deserve a long weekend," he states.

You nod, slowly starting to connect the dots as to why Soonyoung hasn't been fired yet. Maybe…maybe he's not such a terrible boss after all.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement. You turn your head, and instantly regret it.

Soonyoung is approaching. Not just any Soonyoung, no. This Soonyoung is dressed in a blinding, tiger-striped three-piece suit. Your eyes sting just from looking at it. You're convinced that if you stare any longer, you'll lose your vision permanently.

"Good morning, guys! Happy Friday!" he beams as he struts over.

You mumble a half-hearted greeting while Jun responds with matching enthusiasm.

"Do you like my Friday suit, Y/N?" He grins as he twirls around, showing off the god awful suit.

Before you can answer, Jun subtly nudges your side and whispers, "Just say yes."

"Uh…yes?" you begrudgingly say, and Soonyoung's eyes light up. It's as if your single yes made his whole day.

"Thank you! I had it custom-made!" he says proudly, practically glowing. "Oh—and if you two don't have any urgent work, feel free to head out early!"

He throws you a wink before skipping off to his office.

You're left blinking in disbelief.

Jun turns to you, voice light. "It's better to just accept him for who he is than try to fight it."

You raise an eyebrow.

"If you can't beat him, join him, or at least tolerate him. Life's easier that way," he shrugs.

You glance toward Soonyoung's office as Jun’s words sink in. And, somehow, you know he's right. Fighting the cosmic chaos that is Kwon Soonyoung will only lead to your mental decline. It's best to accept it.

Accept that he's a furry.

Accept that he owns more than one tiger suit.

Accept that, somehow, this man is your boss.

And with that, you make peace with your fate.

Smiling to yourself, you hit the print button, finally wrapping up the report you've been working on for weeks. Several weeks have passed since you accepted your fate, and honestly, it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

Soonyoung has gone from insufferable to…tolerable—a massive achievement for him. Grabbing the freshly printed report, you do a final read-through before heading toward his office to get it signed.

You pause in front of his office door, a bit nervous. This is your first time stepping into his office, and you have no idea what to expect. Taking a deep breath, you knock and wait.

"Come in," Soonyoung's muffled voice answers.

Exhaling slowly, you open the door—and instantly freeze.

Your jaw, along with the report in your hand, drops at the sight before you. A life-sized tiger statue stands near the entrance, so realistic you swear its glass eyes are following you. Dominating the back wall is a massive tiger painting, looming over the entire room.

"Y/N!" Soonyoung yelps when he sees you, quickly hurrying over, eyes scanning you with concern. "Are you okay?!"

"H-Huh?" Your focus snaps back to him. "Uh, yeah…I'm fine," you mumble.

"Soonyoung, why in the world is there a giant tiger statue in your office?!" you blurt out, wildly gesturing at the intimidating figure.

He glances over at the statue, then back at you. "Oh! That's Hochi! I somehow managed to convince the finance department it was essential for marketing a film once," he grins proudly.

"I—how?!" you exclaim, exasperated.

He simply shrugs. "I don't know. They kind of just told me I can do whatever I want with the budget as long as I leave them alone."

"Oh…" you trail off, still processing.

Soonyoung bends down to pick up the report you dropped, handing it back to you.

"Here's your paperwork. You're really okay, though?" he asks again, his voice soft with concern.

You take the documents, and as your fingers brush, a spark shoots up your spine, making your breath hitch.

"Y-Yeah," you stammer, quickly retracting your hand. "I just need you to sign this report."

"Oh, yeah! Sure thing!" he smiles and heads over to his desk to sign. While he scribbles his signature, you take the chance to steady your breathing and rub your trembling hands together.

Once done, Soonyoung hands the report back to you. And again, as you grab it, your fingers graze each other—and once again, your heart skips a beat.

You snatch your hand back, mumble a quick thank you, and make a speedy exit, silently praying he didn't notice the blush on your cheeks.

You plop down at your desk, head in your hands, brain on overdrive. Your heart won't stop racing, and the worst part is—you know exactly why.

Why the hell are you feeling like this around your boss?

Your eyes drift to your drawer. Hesitating for a beat, you reach out and pull it open. Inside, right where you left it, is the picture frame you had shoved out of sight weeks ago. The photo stares back at you—Soonyoung smiling so brightly, you almost want to return the smile. Almost.

You slam the drawer shut with a groan.

"Get your shit together, Y/N," you mutter, rubbing your face. "You cannot be catching feelings for the furry."

You inhale deeply, trying to collect yourself, only for your eyes to flick toward his office door. The memories creep back in, uninvited—the way your heart stuttered when his fingers brushed against yours.

Your heart skips again at the thought.

You groan and slam your forehead onto the desk.

Jun, who just happens to be walking by, pauses. He leans over your desk slowly, staring at you with a mix of confusion and concern.

"Uh…bestie, you good?" he asks, cautiously.

"Yup. Just peachy," you mumble, voice muffled by the desk and soaked in obvious, soul-crushing denial.

Jun blinks. "…okay then," he says slowly, backing away and deciding it was best to leave you alone.

You let out a long, suffering sigh.

Damn you Kwon Soonyoung.

Friday night—you should be home, sprawled on your couch, eating junk food and binge-watching your favourite shows to unwind from the workweek. Instead, you're here at a restaurant with your entire team, all thanks to Soonyoung's spontaneous company dinner announcement that landed in everyone's inbox earlier this week.

And of course, by some cruel twist of fate, you've ended up sitting right next to Soonyoung. The random butterflies you've been getting around him lately haven't exactly gone away, and being this close isn't doing anything to help your steadily growing crush.

Staring at the shot glass in your hand, you sigh and down it in one swift motion, silently hoping the alcohol will help calm your nerves. You glance over at Soonyoung, who's tossing back his own shots like they're water.

It doesn't take long for the alcohol to work its magic. When you glance back at him again, his cheeks are flushed, his usual high energy somehow even more amplified.

"Y/N! Take a shot with me!" he shouts enthusiastically, sliding another shot your way. You glance at the glass, then back at his bright, flushed face and figure: why not? With your buzzed state already clouding your better judgment, you knock it back. And another. And another.

Before you know it, you're just as drunk as he is—if not worse.

The alcohol makes you bold. Too bold. Before you even realise what you're doing, you're straight up flirting with Soonyoung. And what's worse? He’s flirting right back.

You lean in—close, dangerously close. The noise of the restaurant, the chatter of your coworkers, the clinking of glasses—all of it fades into nothing. Right now, it's just the two of you suspended in this charged moment.

You can feel his breath against your lips, warm and inviting, as his eyes search yours, wide and glimmering with a mixture of surprise and anticipation.

With a boldness only liquid courage can provide, you whisper, voice soft and sultry, "Wanna bring me back to your place?"

The two of you stumble into the apartment, a tangled mess of limbs, heated kisses, and wandering hands. Neither of you remembers exactly how you got here, but neither of you cares.

As soon as the door shuts, Soonyoung spins you around, pressing your back against it before crashing his lips onto yours once again. The kiss is frantic, desperate, full of pent-up tension that's finally being released. You're both breathless, but neither of you wants to pull away—the taste of him is intoxicating.

Finally, he breaks the kiss, forehead resting against yours as both of you struggle to steady your breathing. His hand gently cups your flushed cheek, thumb brushing along your skin as his gaze locks onto yours, dark and searching.

"Are you sure you want this?" he whispers, voice low and full of restraint.

You meet his eyes, lips brushing his as you mumble, "Soonyoung, just shut up and fuck me."

A breathless chuckle escapes him. "Yes, ma'am."

Without hesitation, his arms sweep under you, lifting you effortlessly. You squeal softly, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he carries you through the apartment.

He brings you to the bedroom and gently lays you down onto the bed as if you were something precious, never once breaking eye contact—his gaze burning with desire.

His lips crash into yours again—hungry and desperate. Your fingers twist in his hair, tugging sharply, and he groans against your mouth. His hands caress your body, sending shivers down your spine.

He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his fingers already working to strip you. Your blouse and skirt are gone in seconds, leaving you bare except for your underwear.

He pulls back just enough to drink in the sight of you, trembling, breathless—his gaze dark with hunger.

"Fuck, your gorgeous," he groans, and you squirm under the intensity of it.

"Stop staring and put your dick inside me already," you mutter, cheeks burning.

Soonyoung laughs, low and amused. "Gotta prep you first, beautiful."

Gentle fingers make quick work of your bra, his teeth grazing your skin in a teasing scrape. You gasp as your breasts are freed, and he wastes no time, claiming one with his mouth while his hand kneads the other. A moan spills from your lips as pleasure arcs through you, back arching into his touch.

He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from you, then nips playfully just to hear you gasp. You feel his smirk against your skin as he switches sides, lavishing the same torment on your other breast. Already, heat pools low in your belly, your body aching for more.

Teasing fingers drag your underwear down slowly, and you squirm beneath him. A single digit slips into your slick heat, your body's need undeniable. Your mouth falls open as his finger curls inside, coaxing a gasp from your lips. He smirks, drinking in every reaction.

His kiss is deep, possessive, as he adds a second finger. The stretch burns just enough to make you choke out a whimper, especially when he scissors you open, stretching you for what's coming.

"Taking my fingers so well," he murmurs, admiring the way you clench around him.

You whine, hiding your flushed face, and his low chuckle only deepens your embarrassment. When he withdraws his fingers, you protest with a needy whimper.

"Don't worry, beautiful," he taunts, stripping off the rest of his clothes. "I'll fill you up soon enough."

Your eyes widen at the sight of him—fuck, he's huge, even bigger than you'd imagined. You can't fathom how he’s going to fit, prep or not. Soonyoung smirks at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself.

"I'll take it slow, I promise," he promises, and you swallow hard before nodding.

He grabs a condom from the drawer, rolling it on before joining you again on the bed. His fingers brush stray hair from your face, his touch tender as he cups your cheek. Leaning in, he captures your lips in a soft kiss just as he pushes inside.

You gasp against his mouth, fingers flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he stretches you impossibly wide. He's so deep it's dizzying, and for a moment, he stills, letting you adjust despite the tension in his muscles.

A shaky nod and a squeeze of his shoulders is all it takes—he starts moving, slow and deliberate, and you melt at the sensation. Soonyoung groans at the way you clench around him, his breath ragged.

"S-Soonyoung, more," you whimper, and with a growl, he obliges.

His thrusts grow harder, faster, your moans filling the room as his name spills from your lips. Sweat glistens on his skin, his abs flexing under your wandering hands, and the way he shudders at your touch only spurs you on.

"Close?" he grits out. "Need you to come with me."

"R-Rub my clit," you beg, and his fingers are there in an instant, circling just right, relentless.

Pleasure coils tight in your stomach, your back arching as your vision whites out. Soonyoung fucks you through it, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release.

"F-Fuck!" he snarls when he comes, hips jerking, refusing to stop until you're both spent.

You tremble beneath him, oversensitive and breathless, as he slows, dragging out the last waves of your climax before collapsing onto you.

The room falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of your heavy, laboured breaths mingling in the air. After a moment, Soonyoung gently pulls away, earning a soft whine from you at the loss of his warmth.

He presses a tender kiss to your temple, softly shushing you. "It's okay, I'll be right back," he whispers reassuringly.

Your eyelids grow heavier, the exhaustion finally catching up to you as the adrenaline wears off. You feel yourself drifting in and out of sleep, your mind hazy and your body relaxed.

The last thing you register is the comforting sensation of a warm, damp washcloth carefully tending to your skin, his touch delicate, as he takes care of you.

You bring your arm up to block the sunlight filtering in, trying to get in a few more minutes of sleep. A low groan escapes your lips as a sharp throb pulses in your head—you really shouldn't have drunk that much.

You try to roll over, but something warm and solid prevents you from doing so.

Cracking open your eyes, your blurry vision adjusts just enough for you to make out the figure beside you. Blinking a few times, you finally realise what—or rather who it is.

"S-Soonyoung?!" you gasp, sitting up abruptly.

Your eyes dart around the unfamiliar room, panic surging through you as the memories slowly piece themselves together. You clutch your head, wincing both from the headache and the horrifying realisation. Oh no…oh god no.

You just slept with your boss.

Your breathing quickens, heart racing as worst-case scenarios flash through your mind like a disaster reel. Fired. Unemployed. Homeless. Your entire life crashing down because of one drunken night.

Beside you, Soonyoung stirs, sensing your frantic energy.

"Y/N?" he mumbles groggily, voice still thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Soonyoung, we—you—I—ugh!" you exclaim, words stumbling over themselves as your brain short-circuits.

He sits up beside you, clearly still half-asleep, and you quickly avert your gaze to avoid taking in his very naked state.

"Hey, hey, relax," he says gently, trying to calm you. "Why are you freaking out?"

"Why am I freaking out?! We just slept together!" you yell, flailing your arms in panic.

He blinks at you, tilting his head like a confused puppy. "And?"

You gape at him, utterly dumbfounded by his calm reaction.

"What do you mean 'and'?! If anyone finds out, we could get fired! This is serious!"

He simply shrugs, completely unfazed. "Well, I won't tell if you won't tell. So, no one's gonna know."

Your jaw drops again as you flail your arms one last time before groaning and collapsing into your hands in defeat.

"I'm way too hungover for this," you mutter, massaging your temples.

"Come on, lie back down," Soonyoung coaxes, slipping his arm around you and gently guiding you back into the bed. Too exhausted to protest, you let him.

You stare blankly at the ceiling as your mind races, anxiety swirling with every possible consequence of last night's mistake. But one thing's painfully clear:

This is definitely going to change everything.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen @kwanniehae @ateez-atiny380 @junnhuisworld @horangipower17 @cheolsbb26 @scoupshawty @shuas-winnie30 @amaranthar @cherriecsc @shadowkoo @winterisnt @combinatoright-blog @my-neurodivergent-world @jennwonwoo @smiileflower @senxgwha

[wonluhver]

the way the cookie crumbles 🍪 chan x reader.

you need one good story to get your career off the ground. lee chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in seoul. better start somewhere, right?

🍪 pairing.  interviewee!lee chan x food journalist!reader.  🍪 word count.  14.4k.  🍪 genre/warnings.  alternate universe: non-idol. slice of life, romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have); profanity. themes of food/memory/grief, svt ensemble as journalists. 🍪 footnotes.  this is part of the milestone: 100 collab. it’s been a while since i’ve written something that i feel like actually means something, and this is that fic for me. it’s my soul on a baking sheet, and i’m grateful that i got the chance to bring it to life. the two halves of my heart, a @chugging-antiseptic-dye & tara @diamonddaze01, proofread the outline for this months ago. thank you, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, @gyubakeries, and @shinysobi for the trust!!! 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ the way the cookie crumbles.

It’s taunting—the way the Google Docs cursor is blinking up at you. 

You swear you’re going mad. How long have you been staring at this empty document? An hour? Three? 

You heave out a sigh, slouching at your work desk until your forehead has landed on your mechanical keyboard. A couple of keys are smashed in the process, and you find an intelligible smatter of letters on your screen when you look up. 

That’s the most progress The Story has had in a couple of days, unfortunately. 

“You know,” a bemused voice calls from behind you, “maybe you’re trying too hard.” 

The thought draws a snort of laughter from you. Trying too hard. It’s more like you’re not trying hard enough. How else to explain the sheer lack of progress in what was supposed to be your magnum opus? 

You don’t wheel around to face your workmate. You already know who it is, anyway. 

“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. “Aren’t you accepting a Hinzpeter Award next week, Mr. Humans-Write-Recipes-Better-Than-A.I.?”

Joshua lets out a low chuckle at the light jab about his capital-s Story. You poked your fun at your senior, but you had to give credit where credit was due; the article had been a riveting read, and Joshua deserves all his flowers for tackling it with such finesse. 

“It’ll be your award next year,” he says with a certainty that should be comforting. 

Instead, it reminds you of looming deadlines, of your prickly Editor-in-Chief, of your empty fucking Google Doc. Another sigh. This time, heavier. 

“Or Seungkwan’s,” you say. “His ‘swicy’ story is doing crazy rounds on SNS right now.” 

That was Seungkwan’s Story: A bold declaration of sweet and spicy— aptly called ‘swicy’— being the flavor of the 2025 food scene. Even the new guy, Vernon, had already managed to write something worth reading. Some feature about how foreign candy puts American candy to shame. 

And you? Dozens of listicles and a couple of How-To’s later, you’ve yet to make your dent in The Korea Post’s Food beat. 

You can’t see Joshua’s face, but you can imagine his expression when he sympathetically chides, “What did I say about comparing yourself to other people?” 

You swivel around in your computer chair. Sure enough, Joshua is sporting a disapproving look.

“I’m not comparing myself to Seungkwan,” you say defensively. “I’m just factually saying that his article has over twenty thousand hits already.” 

“Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” 

Joshua’s demeanor softens a bit when he notices the palpable frustration on your face. “You’ll get there,” he reassures. “I’m sure you’re closer to it than you think.”

You’re tempted to call Joshua out for the platitude, to wax poetics about the Google Doc collecting cobwebs on your screen. Instead, you flash him a tight smile and go to change the topic—bringing up instead his most recent baking endeavor. 

By the time Joshua has flounced away to go bother someone else, you’re ready to call it a day. Head home with your tail between your legs and watch Culinary Class Wars until you crash. It sounds as good of a plan as any, you gingerly think as you click on to Reddit one last time. 

Crawling the web was typically a good source for inspiration. You’d been coming up empty-handed for the past couple weeks, but it never hurt to try. As you click through r/foodkr, your mind wanders to mala cream shrimp dim sum and—

A post catches your eye. You have to backtrack a bit to check it out, having scrolled too fast the first time around. 

r/foodkr • 2hrs ago pichanlin

I want to try EVERY CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE in Seoul 😃

Now that I have your attention: Please name a cafe/bakeshop that sells chocolate chip cookies. Criteria: MUST be in Seoul, should be PURELY chocolate chip (no raisins, nuts, et cetera). Price is NOT an issue. Even if you personally think it is the worst cookie known to man, please please please name it. I am on A MISSION.

↑  12  ↓     🗨  8     ↷  Share

It’s a lot to unpack. The abysmal use of all caps. The ambitious declaration. Who the hell is this ‘pichanlin’, and what sort of death wish does he have? You tongue the inside of your cheek. 

Closer than you think, Joshua had said. 

The words ring in the back of your head as you go to send an invite message to start chatting.

--

For all intents and purposes, user ‘pichanlin’ isn’t the type who looks insane.

He’s bright-eyed and boyish in his attractiveness. He looks like he’s around your age, too, though that’s an assumption you make solely based on his megawatt smile.

Lee Chan, he had introduced himself prior to your meetup at Taegeukdang Bakery. 

He sits across from you now, one leg crossed over the other. When the waiter comes to give him the warmed cookie he had ordered, he flashes the stranger a charming grin. It occurs to you that he’s not trying to be particularly winsome; it seems to be a natural quality. 

You notice that his order doesn’t come with a drink. 

“Just service water for me,” he explains when he catches your scrutinizing eye. “I’m already going to be blowing so much money on cookies, so I have to cheap out somewhere.” 

You respond with a fake laugh. Such was the life of working in a corporate-adjacent setting. Mastering the art of the fake laugh was a must, and you’re convinced you’ve somewhat perfected yours. 

You’re not on the same budget as Chan, so you can at least enjoy an iced latte. You absentmindedly stir the drink as you ask the million won question. “So, what’s up with this insane cookie run?” 

The query is posed to be one that’s almost casual. When Chan responds just as coolly, you figure that you’re partly to blame. 

“I like cookies,” he says simply. 

You offer him a tight grin. “I like coffee,” you say, “but you don’t see me running around the city chugging Americanos.” 

Chan’s responding laugh is far from fake. He sounds genuinely tickled. “Are you making fun of me?” he jokes, feigning hurt as he places a hand over his chest. “And here I thought you were a serious, no-nonsense journalist.” 

A part of you bristles at this virtual stranger trying to poke and prod at you. You know he’s kidding, but the topic of being serious at work is a sore spot you’ve yet to find a balm for. You sip at your drink to try and forget the fact. The coffee is scaldingly hot, which makes you wince. 

“I need to know what I’m getting into.” Your tone is surprisingly sage for your internal conflict. That gut feeling is beginning to tug again—that fear you’re pursuing a dead end, interviewing someone who’s not about to make sense.

It doesn’t help that Chan’s smile only breaks at your words. You want to snap that this isn’t a joke to you, but you’re trying to reign in that temper that’s given your editors so much grief in the past. 

Fuck it. You should cut your losses. Head home and consider this yet another freak hoping to find his five minutes of fame with a viral TikTok series that won’t get more than a couple hundred views. 

You open your mouth to excuse yourself to the bathroom from where you have no intentions of returning when Chan, seeming self-aware of how insane he sounds, motions for you to wait. He fishes through his backpack and—

It’s a map of the city. Not one of those folded, English maps you can pick up at the airport, promoting tourist traps like N Seoul Tower and Nami Island. No, it’s meticulously scribbled, with splotches of ink and hasty scribbles. Chan lays it out in the table between you with excruciating care, as if the map isn’t already battered with its torn edges and faint coffee stains. 

There are dozens of hand drawn, red pins, indicating what you can only presume are the destinations that Chan wants to hit. Pain d’echo. Aoitori Bakery. Samarkand. It’s extensive, obsessive, and the work of either a genius or a lunatic. 

Said genius-slash-lunatic smiles up at you, unashamed of what he’s presenting. “This,” huffs Chan, “is what you’re getting into.” 

Touché, you decide, as you settle back into your chair. 

--

Your editor, Minghao, doesn’t look impressed. 

To be fair, it’s hard to impress a man like Xu Minghao. A part of you feels silly, proposing this cross-country cookie run to him. Minghao is a serious journalist. He brings to the table—no pun intended—narratives that are unheard of in the field of food writing. 

His Story was a thrilling investigative on Chinese fleets and their impact on the seafood industry. It landed him in this gorgeous corner office, where he edits drafts with a 0.3mm Muji Gel Ink Ballpoint Pen. In red, of course. 

He’s holding that very pen now as he surveys your pitch, printed on an immaculately crisp piece of A4 paper. Minghao is old school like that. He doesn’t believe in Microsoft Word; he wants you to get blood on your hands, in the form of his editorial genius. 

He clicks his tongue. You wince, bracing for impact. 

Instead, you get grace. “This has potential,” he says. 

To hell with I love you. Those are the three words you want to hear most in the world. This has potential, from the world’s most anal proofreader. 

You exhale. Let your guard down. “But,” he starts, and you have to scramble to bring your wits back together. “You haven’t filled out this part.” 

You knew it’d be called out. Before Minghao can even tap his pen at the empty portion of your pitch, you’re already prepared. 

Rationale. That’s what you’re missing. The reason why Chan is trying to speedrun himself into diabetes. 

“Yeah, well.” You shift from one foot to another as Minghao peers at you from over his glasses. “I was hoping I could fill that out later on.” 

“You’ve got balls,” says Minghao dryly, “for making a pitch when you haven’t got a reason for it.” 

“It’s interesting.” 

“So is the fact that cheese is the most stolen food in the world, but you don’t see us writing 7,500CWS for that, do you?” 

You bite back a laugh. A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward despite himself. He’s not as formidable as people make him out to be. He just has the tendency to make interns want to cry, and writers question their entire existence. 

You were already full of doubt the moment you stepped into his office, so—it cancels out, you suppose. Minghao sees right through you nonetheless. 

“Is this guy a frustrated baker? Is he someone planning to start a bakery?” Minghao poses, handing you back your pitch. The carnage isn’t bad today. A couple of struck-out adverbs, some dangling sentences with eight question marks next to them.  “You’ll have to figure that out, or else your story will have no gravitas. It will float.” 

“Float,” you repeat, clutching your pitch closer to you. 

“Float,” he confirms. “Like an astronaut jettisoned out into space.” 

You’re not sure you get the analogy, but you suppose a man who gets paid an annual salary of ₩100,000,000 deserves to be a little cuckoo. He rattles off your deadlines. You mumble gratitude and get ready to chase leads for a short-form listicle. 

You’re only halfway out Minghao’s office door before you’re pulling out your phone from your pocket. It’s your latest saved contact, which makes things infinitely easier. 

To: [INTERVIEWEE] Lee Chan 🍪 I’m in. 

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Lee Chan has a plan: To try every single chocolate chip cookie in Seoul.

Not every cookie, you realize a little later on. Just around a hundred. Which is still certifiably insane. 

A bakery and dessert café off Itaewon is where you two start your mission. Passion5 is gorgeous in that probably-overpriced way, set in an art-gallery like space. They boast of everything being made in house—cakes, ice cream, sandwiches. 

You and Chan don’t look too out of place. If anything, the two of you look like a couple on a date. It’s a horrifying realization, but it’s also a good cover. You like to think of your stories like that, sometimes. Like they’re something Actually Important instead of a lead followed from Reddit. 

Chan orders his chocolate chip cookie. You get an iced matcha that you put on your company card. 

“So,” Chan says loftily, setting the cookie down between you two. 

“So,” you respond, voice carefully measured. 

You wait. You weaponize the silence. It’s the first good tip you got about interviewing: letting the quiet stretch, so your subject might divulge more than necessary. But Chan doesn’t look like he’s about to spill his entire life story. He just stares at you for a moment too long. 

“Are we gonna half or what?” he asks instead of—I don’t know, giving you a quote you could use for your story. 

You force on a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “Go ahead.” 

Chan doesn’t have to be asked twice. 

Being a writer has made you more attuned to the little things. Mannerisms that might make or break a sentence. Tics that could point to something just below the surface. Most of these habits are the kind you have to dig for, the one you need 20/20 vision to be able to clock. 

Lee Chan is as subtle as a foghorn. His fingers are stiff when he picks up the cookie. His bite is deliberately slow. When he chews and drawls out a comical, exaggerated ‘mmm’, you resist the urge to face palm. He’s putting on a show. 

You couldn’t care less, though. Chan can perform all he wants. You give him a beat, and he cracks. “Very chewy,” he says through his mouthful of pastry. “Uses chocolate chips. Mmm. Nice.” 

You jot it down in your notepad, even though it makes you feel like a student highlighting things that won’t be on a test. “Anything else?” you prompt. 

“It’s… sweet,” he says lamely as he swallows. “A bang for your buck.” 

At least that makes you laugh. Bang for the buck. “I didn’t know value for money was part of your criteria,” you jab. 

“It’s not,” says Chan, and you feel that slight thrill that comes with having an opening. 

You spring the question on him. “What’s your criteria, then?” 

It’s meant to be the first question to a dozen more. What’s your end goal? Do you come from a family of bakers? What’s the worst cookie you’ve ever had? 

But Chan doesn’t give, doesn’t bite. He only gives a noncommittal hum, finishes off his cookie, and wipes the crumbs off his fingers. He pulls out his city map from his bag and crosses out Passion5. No ceremony, no fanfare. 

You stare at him incredulously as he chirps, “Next stop?” 

--

You build your days around Chan. 

On days when you’re not expected to report to the office, you follow him on his mission. He agrees to not try anything while you’re gone lest he find himself finding whatever he’s looking for while you’re in Google Docs hell.

He always gets the same thing: a chocolate chip cookie, and a glass of service water. You get mostly drinks. Every now and then, you give in to something novelty—a cheesecake-cookie hybrid at Songpa’s Au de Cookie, a s’mores-flavored cookie at Cafe Chunk. You’re convinced you’re going to both be very broke and a couple pounds heavier by the end of this story. 

If you can even call it a story. The visits go like this: he orders. The two of you sit across from each other for seven minutes, tops. He eats his cookie, gives a half-hearted commentary on it, then crosses it off his map.

You’re not stupid. Chan obviously has no fucking idea what he’s talking about when it comes to the cookies. He doesn’t make any particular comments about the ingredients, about the consistency. He isn’t consuming them with the criticality of a pastry chef. By the fifteenth café, you realize maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions. 

You’re at Breadypost—another recommendation that looks like it’s about to be struck out—when you try a new approach. 

“What do you do?” you ask, the end of your pen tapping the table. “When you’re not on a cookie rampage, that is.” 

Chan chews at his cookie thoughtfully. You’re bracing for another evasion, some lackadaisical comment about his personal life, so you nearly jump when he answers, “I’m a dancer.” 

Your pen skids across your notebook. Dancer, you write down without ever looking away from Chan. “Oh?” You fail to sound casual. At least you sound interested, which, to be fair—you are. “A professional one?” 

“You could say that.” Chan brushes some crumbs off the front of his shirt. “My parents own a dance studio. I help run it.” 

Dance studio, you jot down. “Like… ballet? Hip-hop?” 

A boyish sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “All sorts of things,” he says vaguely. “I’ve been training since I was a kid, so it was pretty natural for me to start teaching once I got old enough.” 

You feel dizzy. A dance instructor. No, dance prodigy. Has a better ring to it. You have a feeling you’ve struck gold, but there’s still that hint of suspicion. Whether the gold is real. Whether it’s just the truth wrapped in gold. 

“Being a dance teacher,” you start, brain already working on overdrive, “is that something you’ve always wanted to do? Or is this one of those, like, tiger parent situations?” 

Chan seems to catch on to the underlying question. Really, you have to start giving him some more credit. His smile breaks into a laugh, one that’s still rattling through his chest as he pulls out his map. “I want it on record,” he teases, “that whatever you’re thinking is wrong.” 

You hiss in some air through your teeth. He knows you’re still trying to find that rationale, still trying to land on a reason for all this. “What is it, then?” you ask, frustration leaking into your tone.

It’s highly unprofessional; Minghao would probably flay you alive for speaking to a source like this. But going on just enough cookie runs have made you kind of crazy, and perhaps a little too comfortable around Chan. 

He doesn’t clock you on it. He just gives the same, infuriating answer. “I like cookies.” 

Your pen jabs into your notebook. A period to the same sentence spoken time and time again. Chan pretends not to notice. 

You do notice, however, the slightest quiver in his fingers as he crosses Breadypost off his map.

--

“What should I do if my interviewee is lying to me?” 

Seungkwan levels you with the most vicious side eye mid-salad bite. Vernon pulls off one of his earphones, pausing his transcription of his Ahn Sung-jae interview. 

You’re caught somewhere between the two of them. A working lunch. Greasy fingers flying over your keyboard, chasing a deadline, as you try out KyoChon’s new dakgalbi.  

“Is this the cookie monster?” Vernon asks. 

“Ha. Cookie monster.” You snort out a laugh. “Nice one. I should have that somewhere in my title.” 

“Only if you want Minghao to murder you,” Seungkwan deadpans, and Vernon gives a jerky nod of agreement. 

You take a quick bite of your lunch. The gochujang is a little on the sweet side, but the perilla leaves are a nice touch. You briefly contemplate paying extra to have it with cheese next time. 

“I’m just saying,” you say after swallowing. “He’s hiding something.” 

“Everybody’s hiding something,” Seungkwan says loftily, brandishing his plastic fork at you. “That’s why you have to build trust with your interviewee.” 

“This is a story,” you shoot back. “Not a relationship.” 

Vernon, who has gone back to transcribing, grunts. “Most stories are just situationships,” he says absentmindedly, already half-tuned out of the conversation. 

A muscle in your face twitches. “What does that even mean?” 

“He means,” Seungkwan interjects, “that you’re building something with every story. Like one does with a relationship or—fuck it—a situationship. Conversation. Rapport. All that shebang.” 

You’re sure the three of you sound crazy. Such was the life of the newsroom, anyway. Long-winded metaphors, thinly-veiled critique. You’ve all mastered the art of saying things the way each of you can understand, and Seungkwan’s explanation—no matter how insane—makes sense. 

You rub the heel of your palm into your temple. “Okay,” you sigh. “Build trust. Got it.” 

Seungkwan and Vernon share a look. Quick enough that it could be missed, but you catch it. Before the scowl can fully form on your face, Vernon is jumping in to explain. “What if he’s just… dunno.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “A guy who likes cookies?”

“It’s pretty interesting in itself,” Seungkwan offers as he pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. His next couple of words are muffled. “A dancer with a sweet tooth.” 

“Right.” You hit your Enter button a little too hard. The key gets stuck, and so you jam on it a second time until it clicks back into place. “Interesting.” 

It could be, really. Chan’s attractive enough for the article to fly as one of those cutesy photo essays, and the mission is amusing in that semi-viral TikTok sort of way. 

But you don’t want fifteen seconds of fame. You don’t want fluff about a ‘cookie monster’ dance instructor. You want a capital-S Story. The Story. 

Seungkwan demolishes his salad and makes unsolicited comments about the croutons that came with it. Vernon complains under his breath about Ahn Sung-jae’s lack of decent audio recording despite being filthy rich. 

You nod along as you think about what it means to trust and be trusted. 

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There’s a secret to the perfect chocolate chip cookie, and only Lee Chan knows it.

The days start to blend together. Cookies. Iced coffees. Cafés and patisseries, places you’d never have thought to visit if it weren’t for Chan. 

He keeps crossing out places on his map. You keep prying, slow but sure, snatching up every little piece of information he drops. Born in February. Came from Iksan. Graduated from Seoul Broadcasting High School. A breadcrumb trail. 

After a productive day (five cafés!) that was ultimately futile (all crossed out!), you find yourself on the same path with Chan. Something about the nearest bus route being the same one you two could take. 

You’re making small talk about the day’s weather when Chan’s ears perk up at a commotion. “Oh?” He cranes his neck in the direction of the crowd. “Let’s check it out.” 

You really, really don’t want to. You want to go home, order takeout, and start your fourth rewatch of Inventing Anna. But Chan is already moving before you can politely deny him, and so you drag your feet towards the loose circle of people gathered in Seoul Plaza. 

The noise hits you first. A The Boyz song on full blast. THRILL RIDE, you think it might be. People squeal, rush to the center. 

Chan smiles. A kind of smile you haven’t seen yet. This isn’t cookie-induced, isn’t a grin given after you’ve made a dry joke. This one is bright and wide with realization. “It’s a Random Play Dance,” he says in explanation. 

You give a small ‘ah’ in response. It’s not really something you care much for. You’ve seen it on your For You Page, sure, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you sought out. Chan, on the other hand, starts to shoulder through the crowd. You follow a couple of steps behind, mumbling apologies to the people you squeeze past.

“Have you ever?” Chan asks once you’ve come up to his side. 

“Me?” A high-pitched laugh escapes you. “God, no.” 

Chan’s grin is lopsided, a little crooked. You really wish he wasn’t so pretty; when he’s smiling like this, it’s so easy to get distracted. “Why not? Shy?” he prods. 

Your nose scrunches on instinct. “Let’s go with that,” you say, and Chan drops it. For now, at least. 

He has his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the dancers in the middle. You realize he’s leaning down a bit, stepping into your space so he can whisper into your ear. “The girl in red has good form,” he says, his voice taking on the type of quality you personally reserve for discussing the merits of one-pot meals. “And see the guy over there—the one wearing Converse? His footing’s a bit off. Watch.” 

You watch. Chan is right. Budget Juyeon is one step behind for the t-thrill ride, t-thrill ride, how ya feeling. “I wouldn’t have noticed that,” you say, eyes still fixed on the people have Chan pointed out. 

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. The smugness rolls off him in waves anyway. “‘S my job,” he says. 

A new song strikes up. You’re startled when, only a beat in, Chan is already laughing to himself. Instant recognition. He shoots you a sideways glance before breathing out, “Give me a minute, yeah?” 

And then he’s gone, again, but not somewhere you can’t see. You watch, both awed and mortified, as he skids to the center of the circle with practiced ease. A couple more people follow suit. The new song bleeds into the crowd. Hey girl, take you home tonight. Get that give me, get that give me, give me. 

Lee Chan transforms before your eyes. 

Gone is the boy who said ‘you too’ when a barista told him to have a good day. (Twice.) In his place, somebody else. Someone entirely new. A Lee Chan who moves like water, who hits all the marks. A dancer. 

People make room for him, as if sensing just how much of a force he is to reckon with. Chan doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care, maybe. He just dances—perfect steps, controlled movements, one well-placed wink that isn’t cringe at all.

He’s so happy about it, too. You see it in the looseness of his limbs, the spark in his eye. He laughs with the people at his side, sharing that secret language that only dancers can speak, as he hums along to 2PM’s it’s alright, alright, it’s alright. 

When the song transitions to something by aespa, you expect him to keep going. Maybe you even want him to keep going. He doesn’t, though. Just half-jogs back to you with beads of sweat clinging to strands of his bangs. 

“Ready to go?” he asks offhandedly, and you can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak yet. 

The two of you go back on your merry way to the bus station. “That was nice,” he huffs out; you have some vague sense that he’s fishing. 

You bite. He deserves that much. “You were good,” you say. “Like, really good.” 

His grin is very what, me?, but you cut him some slack. “I told you,” he shoots back. “Dance studio.”

Even the way he says it. The word ‘dance’. You notice, now, how his voice lilts a bit. Reverence for the craft. There is no doubt: Lee Chan loves to dance. He lives to dance. Which means—

You let out a groan. “I really thought you were a frustrated baker,” you admit, drawing a breathless laugh from your interviewee. 

“I told you it wouldn’t be something like that,” he sing-songs. 

Your shoulders briefly bump into each other. You put a half-step of distance between the two of you. After he’s caught his breath, Chan catches you off-guard: “What about you?” 

“Hm?” 

“You know. Is journalism just a pit stop before you become Seoul’s genderbent Gordon Ramsey?” 

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “No,” you answer without missing a beat. “Journalism is… it.” 

“How long have you known you’d get into the field?” 

You feel it, then. The bricks of the wall, sliding into place. Your next words feel like mortar sealing the cracks. “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions,” you tease, your fingers unconsciously flexing at your side. 

Chan does that thing again where one shoulder rises and falls with attempted nonchalance. Having spent enough time with him, you’ve started to keep a mental repository of his quirks. How he is when he’s faking it until he can make it. How he is when he actually thinks something is good. 

He doesn’t say anything more. You wonder, briefly, if this is a page right out of your book. Waiting for the silence to stretch unbearably so the other person might be forced to fill it. 

You clear your throat. You think of Seungkwan, of Vernon. Build trust. Conversation. Rapport. 

You will have to give as much as you want to get. 

“I’m a bit jealous,” you admit, your voice low like you’re sharing a secret. Maybe you are. It feels like it. “I don’t think there’s anything I’m passionate about outside of writing. And even that, I’m a slave to, you know?” 

It’s supposed to be light. Supposed to be a joke. But Chan is looking at you like he understands, like he sympathizes. It’s in the wry way he smiles, the way he shoves his hands into his coat pockets as if to keep them from clenching and unclenching. He does that, you realized. When he’s excited about something. 

“I hear you,” he says, and it strikes you that he means it. 

So you keep going. It might not be the most ideal situation—could this qualify as trauma-dumping?—but Chan listens well. He nods in all the right places. Throws in a joke or two himself. The two of you are still discussing the whole turning-what-you-love-into-your-job debacle by the time you get to the bus stop, and the conversation is good enough for you two to linger by the benches and let at least two buses pass. 

“Yeah,” you say as the conversation comes to its natural end. “It’s just—I guess I want to write something that matters.” 

You don’t expect Chan to meet you halfway on that sentiment. You don’t doubt his dancing has its own legacy-making end goal, but story-telling is in an entirely different league of its own. Chan understands that much. 

He looks at you, his smile softer at the corners. “Let’s hope I can give you that, then,” he says, the teasing dulled by the sincerity he can’t tamp down. 

A story that matters. 

--

The cookie list is halfway conquered now, sugar and flour and cocoa powder a familiar terrain you navigate with something bordering on affection. Each crossed-off name feels like a mission completed. Almond crinkle from a hole-in-the-wall near Hapjeong that melted on your tongue, a New York-style chocolate chip so thick it could double as a doorstop, a miso caramel that you and Chan argued about for a full subway ride.

You’re walking side by side, crumbs on your sleeves, when Chan, entirely unprompted, drops the bomb like he’s been carrying it in his pocket all day.

“Buttery. Chewy. Thick.” He ticks each word off with a finger, eyes trained straight. “Semi-sweet chocolate chips, probably. Definitely not milk chocolate.”

You stop mid-chew, blinking. “Wait. Are you—are you just now telling me your cookie criteria?”

He nods with all the gravity of someone revealing state secrets. “Yes. I’ve decided you’re ready.”

Your phone is in your hand within seconds. Notes app open. “Say that again,” you prompt. You’ll transfer it to your notebook later. “Slower.”

Chan repeats himself, voice low and deliberate. You transcribe dutifully, thumbs flying over the screen, but your brow pinches at the word thick.

“Thick?” you echo, narrowing your eyes.

“You can’t trust a cookie that flattens like a pancake.”

You honest-to-goodness gasp. “That’s slander. Thin cookies are elite,” you argue. “They’ve got edge crisp. They shatter when you bite in. That’s half the joy.”

He looks at you like you just confessed to liking soggy cereal. “And no raisins,” he throws in for good measure. 

The indignation rises in you like steam. “That’s a hate crime. Raisins have their place!”

Chan grimaces theatrically. “In oatmeal, sure. But not in cookies.”

“But oatmeal is a cookie. It’s nostalgic! Textured! Wholesome!”

“It’s betrayal disguised as dessert.”

You snort. A full, undignified laugh escapes you, loud enough that a couple of people passing by glance over. You duck your head, pretending to examine a croissant in the bakery window. Chan, of course, is utterly unbothered. He’s basking in the win. In riling you up after days of indifference. 

And then—

“See?” he half-joked. “You’re passionate about other things, too.”

You’re not ready for it. The words land like a thud in your chest. You blink, trying to play it off.

Because it’s such a throwaway thing for him to say. A casual observation. Still, it knocks something loose.

You’ve been clawing at meaning lately. 

Tired drafts. Half-finished essays. Interview transcripts that go nowhere. You thought writing about food would save you, would make it matter. That if you turned love into narrative, maybe it would give you something to hold onto.

But here’s Chan, not even trying, reminding you of something you forgot: it’s okay to love something without needing to spin it into something useful. To just love.

You let the thought settle. The warmth of butter. The snap of a crisped edge. The comfort of chewing something that tastes like your childhood.

Maybe you’re allowed to love food for food’s sake. Maybe you’re allowed to love writing separately, too. And maybe—maybe it’s okay not to love them both at the same time.

You glance sideways. Chan’s attention is on a chalkboard menu now. He has no idea that he’s just pulled the rug out from under your existential crisis. No idea that you’re reordering your worldview between bites of cookie.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he says, already stepping toward the register. “If we’re about to argue for another hour, I want to be awake for it.”

He grins at you before he leaves, a flash of teeth and a crinkle of eye. Easy. Unbothered.

You nod mutely, still holding your phone like a lifeline. The cursor blinks at the end of your note.

Buttery. Chewy. Thick. Semi-sweet.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. Some conversations should be off the record. 

--

You’re supposed to be writing about Seoul’s independent café renaissance. Instead, you’re staring at a blinking cursor and a blinking Chan.

Well. A photo of Chan.

He’s mid-bite in this one, cheeks puffed out slightly, eyes wide with theatrical delight. The cookie in question is half gone. There’s a second photo, blurry, of him doing a little wiggle in place, what you’ve now internally dubbed The Happy Dance. You remember the exact sound he made, too. Something like a muffled mmmph! that might’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

You exhale through your nose, set your phone down screen-first. Focus.

You pull up a different document and try to switch gears. An interview transcription. A listicle about croffles. A half-finished pitch about post-pandemic dessert trends. You give each one a valiant 30 seconds of attention before your mind veers off course.

Back to Chan.

Your fingers sift through the pages of your notebook. It started structured. Professional. Clean. Now?

hates raisins in cookies

buttery chewy thick semi-sweet ONLY

says thank you to bus drivers. every time.

does the happy dance when cookie is a 9.9/10, but will still cross it out on the map wtf

crinkles by the eyes when he laughs (every time??)

once said “i think choreography is just storytelling with muscles”??? what does that MEAN???

You stare at the last one for a second too long. You shake your head, as if that will rattle the thoughts loose.

You have a Google Doc named [Writer’s Close] Lee Chan Cookie Tour. You open it. Read the first sentence. It’s fine. Serviceable. You could probably write four more paragraphs after it, waxing poetics on Chan’s criteria and the fifty cookies you’ve seen him try so far. 

It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t say anything. 

It doesn’t say that Chan cares deeply and easily. That he notices things like foot placement and poor form in a crowd of strangers, not to nitpick but because he believes people should move like they mean it. That he lights up when he talks about his students. That he grins with his whole body. That he likes cookies the way some people like vinyl. Specific, devotional, particular.

It doesn’t say that he’s surprised you.

You chew your bottom lip, flipping through your camera roll again.

Chan, reaching for a cookie with both hands. Chan, trying to stuff half of it into his mouth at once. Chan, dramatically pretending to faint after a good bite. You catch yourself smiling. Oh no.

You sit back in your chair, stretch your arms above your head like it might pull you back to objectivity. Like the physical act of recentering your spine might recenter your heart, too.

The blinking cursor waits. So does the draft. And you, God help you, are still thinking about the boy who hates raisins.

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How many cookies can a man have before he starts to go insane?

Coconutbox Cafe & Gallery smells like burnt sugar and acrylic paint. It’s the seventy-something café on Chan’s map—an exact number he could recite in his sleep but one you stopped trying to keep track of after number forty-three. 

Today’s pick is sun-drenched and quiet, tucked between a pilates studio and a bookstore with faded signage. The playlist is indie enough to make you feel cultured but familiar enough not to distract you. Mismatched furniture fills the space in organized chaos: chipped wooden stools, velvet armchairs in colors that were probably fashionable once, and a swing bench that no one actually sits on. 

Chan seems to like it immediately. He always does. There’s something about the newness of a place that makes his face go soft at the edges.

You’re halfway through your drink—something frothy and complicated that you didn’t mean to order but didn’t correct the barista on—when he leans across the table. Chin in hand, eyes curious. “Can I read it?” he asks.

You don’t look up from your laptop. “No.”

“Aww.” He drags the syllable out, mock-wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be honest,” you say. “No preconceived biases. No shifts in behavior. You might start… posing more.”

He glares at you, dramatically offended. “You think I’m that self-conscious?”

“You wore a beanie for three days straight because you didn’t like how your ears looked in that one photo.”

“Wow,” he mutters, sitting back like you’ve physically wounded him. “Low blow. Personal foul. Yellow card.”

You glance up. He’s pouting, full-lipped and cartoonish. You don’t feel bad about it.

“Just give me a little spoiler,” he pleads. “One sentence.”

You don’t tell him that one sentence is all you have. That you’ve written and rewritten that first sentence countless times in the past couple of months. To be fair, it’s the golden rule of journalism. 

An article is only as good as its hook. With all the time you’ve spent with Chan, you want that hook to be foolproof. The kind they give a Pulitzer to. 

Met with silence, Chan amps up his act. He gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just told him he’s being cut from the final edit. “Am I that boring?” he bemoans. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m still trying to find the right angle. The perfect execution. I’m biding my time.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

Then he leans back, and you can see it happen. The spark. The tiny gleam of mischief in his expression. You’ve come to fear it. “Oh,” he says ominously. “Well, if I’m not interesting enough as is, maybe I just need to give you material.”

“Chan—”

Too late. He’s already on his feet. He grabs the empty coffee cup from your tray and balances it on his head like a crown. Then, he plucks a single dried flower from the centerpiece and tucks it behind his ear, like he’s a painter’s muse from a pretentious student film.

“This,” he announces in a deep, solemn voice, “is my artistic era.”

You stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work. “I’m a tortured soul,” he goes on, arms wide, spinning slowly in place. “Fueled only by caffeine and existential dread.”

“Please sit down.”

“Would a boring subject do this?” He strikes a pose in front of the gallery wall, back arched as if he’s modeling for an extremely niche fragrance ad. The dried flower falls out of his ear and lands in his sleeve.

You cover your face with your hands. When you peek through your fingers, he’s still going. Shuffling dramatically across the floor like he’s in a modern dance interpretation of heartbreak, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re watching.

You are.

You’re even laughing now, full and real and impossible to suppress. Your stomach starts to ache in the way it does when you laugh too hard and too long. The barista looks vaguely concerned. Chan doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Eventually, he returns to the table. Smug and satisfied, like this was all part of a well-rehearsed plan. He sips the last of your drink without asking.

“I take it the writer’s block is gone?” he says, not looking at you as he adjusts the empty cup back onto his head.

You shake your head, trying to steady your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums. “But useful.”

You glance down at your laptop. The sentence still blinks, alone, on the screen. But your fingers twitch. The weight that’s been pressing into your ribcage for days now loosens, just a little. 

You think, maybe, you’ve got your second sentence now. Maybe even a third.

--

You meet Minghao at a tiny place near the newsroom, the kind of café with two outlets per table, quiet lo-fi playing through ceiling speakers, and a chalkboard menu written in both English and a half-hearted attempt at French. It’s clean, minimalist, and exactly the sort of place he’d approve of. Muted palette, simple typography, no nonsense. Even the pastries are geometrically intimidating.

Your coffee arrives first. His, second. Then, without thinking, you add a chocolate chip cookie to your order. It’s not until the cashier bags it that you realize what you’ve done.

Minghao raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “That for you?”

You stir your drink like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. “No.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods. Like he already knows, but he’ll let you say it anyway. He’s good at that. Letting you inch your way to honesty instead of forcing it out of you. It’s what makes him editor material; you both adore and despise him for it. 

“It’s for Chan,” you finally admit, not meeting Minghao’s gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. “You’ve grown to care for him.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, too quickly. “This is just—part of the mission. A gesture. Fuel for the fieldwork.”

“Sure.”

You glance at Minghao. He sips his coffee like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just called your bluff in six syllables or less. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment, voice neutral but not unkind. “It’s not a sin to care about your story and the people who comprise it.”

You nod slowly, but wait. There’s always a but with Minghao. You know it’s coming. He’s not the type to leave things at kindness. You sip. You brace.

“But,” he says, as expected, “remember why you’re here.”

There it is. The bucket of cold water. No dramatics, just clarity. The kind that slices right through the comfort you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

You look out the window, where a new wave of commuters spills onto the street. People moving with direction, with purpose. Everyone headed somewhere. No one wondering if they’re already too close to what they’re supposed to be observing.

You came into this story ready to dig. To get close enough to see the seams and the flaws, to understand what drives a person to visit dozens of cafés in search of the perfect cookie. You thought it would be clinical. Interesting, maybe even charming. But not this.

You didn’t account for how Chan would worm his way in—through humor, through dance, through the moments between café visits. You didn’t expect to memorize the sound of his laugh or learn the difference between his fake pout and the real one.

And now, you’re too close. Not just to the story, but to the boy at its center.

“This is work,” you say as firmly as you can manage.

“It is,” Minghao agrees. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t need to. “So do the work.” 

You nod, even if part of you bristles. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s too right. You hate how much sense he makes.

The conversation mellows from there. You finish your coffees. You talk about deadlines, the new layout for the online features page. You trade stories. He tells you about the intern who once spelled sablé as sable and defended it with a passionate monologue about endangered animals. You laugh, and the sound is not forced. Minghao smiles, rare and real, like a crack in glass that somehow makes it prettier.

When you stand, he reaches for the cookie bag, peeking inside with an appraising eye. “Thick. Buttery. Semi-sweet,” he observes. He’s seen your notes. He has the memory of a goddamn elephant. “You remembered.”

You snatch it back with a roll of your eyes. “It was a coincidence.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, tone dry.

He lets you go with a knowing look. Doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. That’s the thing with Minghao. You always leave with more questions than answers, and a better draft because of it.

Late afternoon has dipped into early evening, and you pull your coat a little tighter around you. The cookie bag swings lightly at your side. You walk toward the train station, footsteps steady.

When you pause at the corner, waiting for the light to change, you glance at the nearest trash bin. The thought creeps in: maybe it would be simpler to toss the cookie. Make it a clean break. Cut the thread before it knots.

You hover. One step closer, maybe two.

But you don’t throw it out.

You grip the bag a little tighter instead.

The light changes. Green. You cross the street, the lines, until your feet are taking you where you have to be. 

--

The park is quiet, brushed in soft gold. Everything is painted in warm tones. Leaves, benches, kids on scooters, the worn path beneath your shoes. A dog runs off-leash in the distance. There’s a couple on a blanket sharing earphones. The air is warm, but not oppressive, touched by the early edge of evening.

You spot Chan before he sees you, and for a second, you don’t move. He’s crossing the field, steps light, head tilted slightly like he’s listening to music only he can hear. That same bounce in his gait. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair caught in the breeze. The sight of him tightens something in your chest.

You hate that it does.

You’re supposed to be the one in control. The observer. You even practiced the speech in your head on the train ride over. Professional boundaries, clarity, distance. Reminders of what this is and what it isn’t. You swore it wouldn’t get messy.

But then he gets closer, his joy unrepentant in the face of your internal conflict. “I got you something,” he says, lifting a small paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

Your hands tighten around your own little gift. “What?”

“Oatmeal. Thin as cardboard,” he sings. “Thought of you when I saw it.”

Your fingers close around the bag when he offers it, but you don’t look inside. You look at him. You were just about to tell him. Just about to say all the things you rehearsed. How this needs to stay professional. How you can’t afford to blur the lines any further. But now you’re holding this ridiculous cookie, and he’s looking at you with the kind of warmth that comes with preheated ovens.

The bag smells like raisins. He remembered, too. 

You don’t think. Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You kiss him.

The bag falls, forgotten between you. The cookie, you suspect, is probably flattened beyond salvation.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then one hand finds your waist, tentative but sure, while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck. He kisses you like he’s catching up. Like he’s been holding back and didn’t realize until now. There’s the briefest hitch in his breath, then something else takes over.

He kisses you like he means it—and for a second, you let yourself mean it, too.

But it doesn’t last.

Reality crashes in all at once. Too sharp, too loud, too late. You pull away fast, like the kiss burned you. Like the world has snapped back into focus and left you gasping for air. “This isn’t—” You inhale sharply, taking a step back. “God, it’s not right. Fuck!”

Chan looks stunned. “Wait, what?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, still backing up, swiping your hand over your mouth like it might erase the taste of his Chapstick. “It’s not appropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

“But you kissed me.”

“It was a moment of weakness,” you say, harsher than you mean. “It didn’t mean anything.”

His face falls, just a little. “Didn’t mean anything,” he repeats.

You can’t look at him. You start to turn, hoping maybe the wind or the silence will carry you away from this. “Don’t do that,” Chan says. His voice cuts through the stillness. More steady than you expect. “Don’t walk away like that didn’t just happen.”

You whirl back around, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.” 

He’s not screaming. Not really. But his voice rises just enough for a couple of heads to turn, and your stomach churns at the thought of this being some teenager’s tweet of the day. saw a couple breaking up at seoul park lol omg frfr. 

You’re not supposed to be part of that. Part of anything, really. 

“I can’t care about you,” you say. Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “I’m not supposed to. This is a job. You’re—”

You stutter. He waits. You wish he wouldn’t.

“You’re just a guy who likes cookies,” you finish, flat and hollow. “You’re nothing but a story to me.”

Silence follows, thick and immediate. 

You can practically hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. The pain doesn’t register on his face all at once. It unfurls, slow and soft, like paper tearing. Chan nods once. He swallows. His mouth curves, barely, into something that might look like a smile if you didn’t know better.

“Okay.” He swallows hard. His shoulders are tight, drawn inward. As if he’s keeping himself from unraveling. 

You want to claim you’re not being cruel. This was just the way of the world, the unsigned contract you two had drafted up. You were the journalist; he was the interviewee. You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel. You’re doing your fucking job. 

Right? Right? 

“Well,” Chan says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, “if a story is all I am, then I’ll make sure it’s one that matters.”

Your own words, thrown back at you. You dare say you deserve it. There are some lines you can’t uncross, and this feels like one of them. 

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You’re back on the trail. Kind of. Not really.

Chan’s walking beside you, but the lightness in his step is gone. You feel it before you see it. Something dulled at the edges, like music with the treble turned down. The city hums around you, oblivious. There’s a café on every corner, but none of them look promising. They all look like endings.

You try to make conversation. About the weather. About the new seasonal menu. About how one of the cafés you visited last week now sells espresso in waffle cones. Chan nods, polite but absent.

The cookie tasting continues. Technically. The first café’s cookie is overbaked. Dry. Crumbles like disappointment.

The second one has promise—a good smell, a nice shape—but too sweet. He barely chews before passing you a napkin to spit it out. The third café? He doesn’t even bother tasting. One glance at the chalkboard menu and he’s out the door.

You finally say, “I’m sorry.”

Chan cocks his head to one side. “What?”

“For earlier. The park. The kiss. The... everything.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he slows. Just enough to let the moment catch up. “Let’s just finish,” he says. Not cruelly, but measured in a way that indicates he is truly done with all this. He’s just… going through the motions. “One more left.”

The final café is small and tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. It’s got a handwritten sign and a cinnamon-heavy smell. There’s a single cookie on display.

You both get one. You eat in silence. It’s chewy, at least. You observe Chan carefully, wondering if this is it. It would be a nice climax. The one hundredth store being the one.

Chan pulls the map from his back pocket. 

You watch as he crosses off the last location. 

He stares at it for a second too long. The whole thing is covered in tiny red x’s, like battle scars. You swallow your bite of cookie, tasting the weight of the world in the chocolate chip that’s not what either of you needed. “So,” you say delicately, “what now?”

He folds the map neatly, tucks it away. “You write your story.”

“And you?”

Chan exhales through his nose. A humorless little breath. “I never eat another cookie again.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but the punchline never lands. You laugh anyway, the sound unconvincing and weak, because it’s better than silence. It’s better than the look on his face, the one a man gets when he’s lost something. When he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. 

It’s beginning to feel like neither of you are about to get what you want. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, this time softer. Not for the kiss. For this. For the empty hands and crossed-out boxes.

Chan doesn’t speak right away. His jaw flexes. Then he turns to you, eyes catching yours—and this time he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat. Two.

His gaze lingers, and it does something to you. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I’m sorry, too.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is.

You stand there beside him in the dying light, two people who went searching for something sweet and ended up with something else entirely. You don’t ask what that something is. You’re not sure you want to know.

--

The cherry on top is that you get tonsillitis.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not the kind of ache that curls under your ribs or hides behind your ribs or flares to life when you pass a bakery that reminds you of a certain boy who used to smile like he’d invented happiness.

No. This time, it’s literal.

Your throat is on fire. Your glands feel like someone slipped rocks into the hollow of your neck. Your voice is gone, your sleep disrupted, and you can’t even swallow without it feeling like glass.

And of course, of course it had to come after all of that. After the story. The kiss. The silence that followed. The slow disintegration of something that was never meant to be more than an assignment.

You sit slouched in a hospital hallway, head tipped against the cold wall, wondering if you’ve somehow earned this. Tonsillitis as divine retribution. An inflamed throat to match an aching heart. An article that hasn’t even gotten past the first sentence.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone down the corridor is watching a mukbang on full volume. You are seconds away from shoving a tongue depressor in your own ear just to make it stop when a familiar voice cuts through the din.

You freeze.

It can’t be.

You look up—slowly, cautiously—and there he is.

Chan.

He’s standing not far from you, wearing a navy baseball cap and an oversized hoodie like he’s trying not to be noticed. He’s not alone. There’s an older woman beside him. Elegant. Unsmiling. Her features are drawn in that unmistakable way of someone with experience in the art of shutting people out.

You don’t catch everything they say, but you see it. The subtle tension. The way Chan follows half a step behind, reaching out like he might steady her. She brushes him off. Keeps walking.

Something twists in your stomach.

You don’t know what she is to him. A relative, maybe. His mother? An aunt? The resemblance isn’t glaring, but there’s something in the posture, the deflection, that feels practiced.

Chan calls after her softly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. You watch as he jogs after her, gentle hand at her elbow. She doesn’t stop. He falters. He looks around, helpless, and that’s when he sees you.

It’s a split-second flicker of recognition. His eyes widen, just a little. The barest twitch of his mouth. You can’t tell if it’s surprise or guilt or something else entirely.

But you look away.

Because it’s none of your business. Because whatever this is, whoever she is—you’re not a part of it. 

For once, the Universe is on your side. The receptionist calls your name. You scramble towards the doctor’s office, the feeling of Chan’s gaze burning into your back. Dr. Jeon asks everything you expect him to, but all you can really manage are a few choice words that feel like barbed wire being dragged through your throat. 

“It hurts,” you tell your doctor, voice broken and raspy. “It really, really hurts.” 

--

Joshua pokes his head into your cubicle with a grin that immediately puts you on edge. “You have a visitorrr,” he croons. 

You glare at him, throat still raw from last week’s tonsillitis-adjacent hell. “What kind of visitor?”

“The attractive kind.”

You already know who it is.

Still, you don’t expect to see Chan standing in the lobby of your workplace, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes trailing absently across the ceiling like he’s rehearsing something in his head. When he notices you, he straightens. Offers a small, careful smile. Not his usual one. This one’s dimmed, as if someone turned the dial down on him.

You don’t say anything as you lead him to the cafeteria. The air between you carries the ghost of too many almosts.

The coffee here is terrible. The cookies are worse. Neither of you bother.

Chan settles across from you at a small table scratched with initials and hearts carved by interns who fell in love with the wrong people. His hands are clasped together on the table, thumbs twitching in search for rhythm. You realize you haven’t seen him this still in a long time.

“After everything,” he begins, voice forcibly steady, “I think I deserve to ask you one question.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth and ready for impact. For something heavy. Something that might break the room in half.

Do you love me? Why did you kiss me?

Instead—

“What’s your story with food?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. You stare for a minute too long, and he stares right back, as if saying yeah, that’s what I want to know. When you laugh, you’re surprised by how much it aches.

“Do you have the time?” you start, your heart rattling in your chest.

He nods. 

You tell him about your childhood kitchen. The yellowing linoleum, the faded recipe cards, the way your mother used to hum while slicing scallions. You tell him about the little step-stool you stood on to watch her stir soups, how you’d sneak pinches of dough and get scolded half-heartedly.

You tell him about the messes you made trying to bake from memory. About the apple crumble that turned into applesauce. The birthday cake you forgot the sugar in. The ramen experiments that ended in smoke alarms.

You tell him that food was love before you ever had a word for it. That it stitched you and your mother together in ways language never quite could.

Then you tell him about your first story. The one that got you published. A noodle shop three blocks down from where you grew up, run by a ninety-two-year-old widow who spoke in proverbs and gave out extra toppings when no one was looking. You wrote about her hands. Her children. The lineage of flavor passed from one generation to none, and how storytelling, like cooking, could preserve things.

People. Taste. Time.

You tell him about the guilt, too. The constant, low hum of it. How ridiculous it sometimes feels to write about something so soft in a world that feels like it’s made of broken glass. How food writing isn’t just about what’s delicious. It’s about what’s been lost. What you’re desperate to hold on to.

Chan listens. He buys you a bottle of water when you start to stutter. He never looks away. 

When you run out of breath, out of steam, he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his own this whole time. His turn. 

“I guess,” he says, “if I had to pick one story to explain me, it’s her.”

You don’t need to ask who. You already know.

“She always had this chocolate chip cookie in her purse. Same brand. Same crinkle on the packaging,” he says, and the look on his face shows he’s already half-lost to memory. “I don’t even think she liked them, but she made sure I always had one. She’d hand it to me at the end of every visit. Channie, for you.”

His eyes are glassy, but not wet. Not yet. “I know it was store-bought. She wasn’t a baker,” he goes on. “She burned toast. But that cookie—it stuck. It was her. A kind of love language, I guess.”

“And that’s what this was all about?” you ask. Gently. So gently. “Finding it again?”

He nods. “I thought if I could find that exact one, maybe it would… I don’t know. Bring her back. Even for a second. Maybe time might crack open a little and let her through.”

The implication hits like a truck. Your voice lowers. “She’s sick?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

He doesn’t say it for sympathy. He says it like he’s still talking about the weather. Inevitable. Slow and cruel and impossible to predict.

“She started forgetting where she put her keys,” he narrates. “Then names. Then faces. I thought it was just age catching up to her. I didn’t… I didn’t think it was this.”

He glances away for the first time, and you don’t demand he keep his eyes on you. You don’t ask if you can pull out your recorder so you can get all this verbatim. This isn’t that kind of moment. 

“And now, she barely knows who she is,” Chan goes on. “I visit. I talk. Sometimes I sing old songs she used to like. Mostly, I just sit. I just sit there and hope. I sit with my hope, you could say.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. Just grief. Lived-in. Paper-thin. There is no teeth in your silence. Not this time. There is only space for Chan to be, and that’s exactly what he does. What he gives you. 

“I thought maybe if she tasted it again—just once—it’d click,” he finishes. “She’d remember me. She’d call me Channie again. I thought that would be enough.”

You want to say something. Anything. But there are places that words don’t reach, where no degree in journalism can help. Where you can hear the quiet, It was not enough. 

You do what is second best. 

Your hand rests over Chan’s. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate either. He just lets the warmth of your palm stay there. In fact, he stares at it as if the answer might exist in the spaces between your fingers. You have taken what he’s come to give. You’ve given what he’s asked. 

He stands after a long while. The chair scrapes back with a reluctant sigh. “I should go,” he says, tight-lipped and dry-eyed despite the waver in his voice.

You rise with him. “Chan—”

“Thanks for listening.” It’s plain and simple. No frills. An echo of affection, maybe, but not the kind that demands. 

You draw back. You give him grace. “Thanks for trusting me with it,” you respond.  

This is where the sentence should end, where the line should break. But Chan offers you a rueful smile, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted just slightly. “You’re missing the point,” he says.

He walks away before you can ask what the point is. What’s the point of anything, really. 

You’re left there at the table with its long-forgotten initials and hearts, feeling like something else is carving within you. 

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Food is magic, because food is memory. A man named Lee Chan has tried to chase that magic for over half a year.

Minghao reads your first draft in silence.

You hate that you’re watching him instead of looking over your own work. Every flick of his red pen feels like a personal attack, even when it doesn’t land on anything at all. He’s halfway through page three when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You pick at your thumbnail. Regret it instantly. It throbs under the pressure, but the pain feels easier to manage than the tension building in your chest. When Minghao finally sets the pages down, you sit up straighter and prepare for carnage.

“It’s good,” he says simply.

You blanch. “Good?”

He nods. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Solid structure. Strong voice. A little long, but it’s got bones.”

You know you should be relieved. Instead, there’s this twisting in your gut. It’s like you ate something bad, and you try not to let it show on your face. 

Minghao narrows his eyes, immediately catching on. “But?”

You try to deflect. “No but.”

“Liar.”

You deflate. “I’ve been so scared of screwing this up,” you blurt out. “Of letting you down. When you said ‘remember why you’re here,’ I thought... I don’t know. That maybe I wasn’t doing enough. That I was getting too close. That I was crossing a line.”

Minghao tilts his head. The sharpness of him softens, just a little. “You misunderstood me.” 

He leans forward. Taps a finger on the table between you. “What’s the most important thing about a cookie?” he asks. 

Your eyes twitch. “The... flour?”

He stares. “Okay. No,” he rephrases. “Let me rephrase. What’s the most important thing about food?”

“Salt?”

“God.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “People. It’s people.”

You stare. He continues, more gently now. “Vernon’s story about candy shone because it was about tradition. Culture. Community. The way a single sweet tied together generations. Seungkwan’s was about food tech, but really, it was about ingenuity. Human innovation in the face of resource scarcity. Even Joshua’s piece about AI ramen wasn’t just about automation. It was about how technology still tries to mimic human intuition.”

His voice is measured, but there’s something in it. A belief. The kind that only comes from loving something deeply, and for a long time. You’re silent, letting it wash over you. Letting it settle in the hollows of your chest.

“At the root of food,” Minghao continues, “behind every recipe that’s unwritten or winged, every craving, every comfort—there’s people. Someone made that dish for someone else. Or remembered it. Or passed it down.” 

“The food we love is only as good as the people who make it,” he says. “The stories we tell are only as good as the people behind them.”

You don’t realize you’ve stayed quiet until Minghao looks at you with that familiar editor’s patience. The kind he uses when he knows you’re on the edge of a revelation, only needing a push.

You think of Chan. Not the cookie-searching version. Not the boy who tried and failed to track down a taste from his past. Just Lee Chan. His grin. His terrible jokes. His self-assured rhythm. 

The corners of his eyes, the crumbs underneath his nails. The way his voice wavered when he talked about his grandmother. The weight he’s carried all alone. The hope, still flickering.

“I made him a punchline,” you murmur, the horror settling low in your gut. “I made him a mission.”

Minghao shrugs. “You made him a start,” he says, forgiving in a way you’re not sure you deserve. “Now you get to decide where you finish.”

You exhale. A long, unsteady breath. There’s a beat of silence. The air feels different now. Lighter, but charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks, or the second before a leap.

“I need an extension,” you declare. 

Nobody asks Minghao for extensions. He runs the newsroom with military precision, and you can’t blame him. Journalism relies on clockwork—press cycles, deadlines in red pen. But you’ve come to understand that some things are bigger than that. More important. Worth going against everything you believe. 

“Yeah.” You meet Minghao’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “I want to tell the story right.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he taps the table once. When he smiles, it’s slow and small. Real. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “Go write something that matters.”

This time, you know what that means.

You just have one thing to do before that. 

--

You show up to Chan’s studio and immediately wonder if this was a mistake.

He answers the door in a hoodie too big for him, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp like he’s just showered or maybe it’s sweat-slick from rehearsal. There’s a beat of surprise in his expression before it hardens, folding in on itself like wet origami.

“Hey,” you try, voice quiet but even.

“Hey,” he echoes, flat.

It stings more than it should. A hollow ache opens up in your chest, sharp and cold. You shift on your feet, offering a small, uncertain smile. “I have something for you.”

He raises a brow. “Unless it’s the cookie I’ve been looking for, I’m not sure I’m interested.”

You breathe through your nose. “Give me one chance,” you say, wincing at the sound of your own begging. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Chan looks at you, unreadable. For a second, you think he might actually shut the door in your face. You’d deserve it. 

But then he sighs, grabs a jacket hanging from a hook behind the door, and mutters, “Lead the way.”

You’re not sure why he agreed, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he took pity. Maybe there’s still some residual respect from the moment shared in your company cafeteria. Whatever it is, you know it’s temporary. Fleeting. One shot to get things right. 

You take Chan to a co-baking studio tucked into a homely alley in Mapo-gu. 

The air inside smells like vanilla and ambition. Stainless steel counters stretch out in clean lines. There’s sunlight pouring in through high, smudged windows. Rows of labeled jars—sugar, nutmeg, semisweet chocolate chips—stand like small sentinels. It’s industrial, but cozy. Clean. Bright. Full of possibility.

Chan squints. “What is this?”

“A baking studio.” You gesture around with a tilt of your head. “I booked us a session. You have everything you need to try again. One last time.”

His head snaps to you. “You want me to bake?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize I don’t know how to bake, right?”

“That makes two of us.”

You see it, then. The tiniest crack in his demeanor. The corner of his mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile surfacing, then retreating like a wave too nervous to reach the shore. He gives you the ultimatum you were already half expecting: “I’m not doing this without you.” 

You sigh, mostly for show. “Fine.”

The instructor gives you two a brief rundown, gesturing toward the pre-measured ingredients and the recipe card in bold type. Then, mercifully, she disappears, leaving you alone. 

The two of you pull on aprons that are slightly too big and immediately begin fumbling like contestants in a reality show neither of you signed up for. The butter isn’t soft enough. The sugar spills. Chan nearly drops an egg on the floor, and you burn your hand lightly on the oven door.

There’s flour on the counter, on your sleeves, in your hair. The vanilla extract sloshes over the measuring spoon. The dough looks more like cement than something edible. 

It’s a disaster, but it’s yours.

You glance at Chan after a particularly clumsy attempt at whisking, and the two of you dissolve into laughter. It bubbles up from your chest, full and warm, like something you’d forgotten you still had in you. Chan looks startled to hear it, like he hadn’t expected joy to make an appearance.

“This is terrible,” he says, grinning despite himself.

“Objectively,” you agree, shaking your head.

His smile stays this time. 

You lean over the counter to scoop a bit more flour, and in doing so, you miss the look he gives you—soft, open, maybe even wanting. He reaches out without thinking. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and sure, wiping away a smudge of flour you didn’t know was there.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you. You don’t have to. The moment stretches, unspoken and delicate, like a string pulled tight but unbroken. There’s something in his eyes when you finally meet them. Something fragile and fierce all at once.

You look away first.

The cookies make it to the oven. You’re both perched on metal stools, watching the timer count down. The smell starts to fill the room. Warm, chocolate-laced, a little too sweet.

It’s not quite forgiveness. Not quite love, either.

But it feels like it could be.

--

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, which translates loosely to I don’t have to be here for this. 

Chan shakes his head, as if to say, You should be here. 

The fluorescents of the hospital lights are unforgiving. The only warm thing in the hallway is the tupperware of cookies nestled in Chan’s death grip. Your fingers instinctively brush over his knuckles, and he loosens his hold enough to let the plastic grip. 

You’re standing in front of the hospital room. Once again, you have that striking feeling that you don’t belong. That this isn’t somewhere you should be, not a story you should be a character in. 

But Chan is looking at you with please written all over his face, and who are you to deny him? 

Your throat works around the words. “Ready?” 

He takes a shaky breath. “Give me a minute.” 

You would give him the world, really, if he asked. The two of you stand side by side for a couple more moments, until Chan breaks it with words that are edged with a healthy dose of nervousness. “Do you remember the conversation we had at the cafeteria?” 

You nod wordlessly in response. His eyes dart skyward for a moment. “I said you were missing the point,” he notes. 

Right before he’d left. You’re missing the point. 

You think of Minghao’s claws retracting enough to tell you about the people behind food. You think of the stories you’ve written, the voices that bleed into every single one of them. You think of your own mother. 

You think of kitchens you’ve outgrown, and people you’ve loved, and you understand. You know, now, what the point is. To Chan’s mission. To your article. To everything. 

Your hand rests at his elbow. You give it a gentle squeeze. This story is bigger than the two of you. It’s always been, hasn’t it? 

Chan nods and pushes the door open. 

It’s all a little clearer with context. The silver-haired woman you’d seen way back then is undoubtedly a blood relative of Chan’s. The same nose, same set of lips. She’s still unsmiling, still closed off, and the knowledge of what she’s gone through has the puzzle pieces in your mind falling into place. 

She looks up when you and Chan walk in. She says nothing, though, even as Chan pauses by the door. As if he’s waiting to be yelled at, to be told to leave. It makes your heart clench in your chest. 

Chan’s voice is impossibly soft as he pads further into the sunlit room. “Halmeoni,” he greets. “It’s me. I’ve brought… a friend.” 

She glares at Chan, face devoid of recognition, before glancing at you. You raise your hand in an awkward wave before folding into a clumsy bow. Chan’s grandmother says nothing about your abysmal manners. 

You’re a stranger to her. That adds up. But Chan being a stranger to her—

You feel the sudden urge to cry. You have to glance away from this shell of a woman lest you actually do start sobbing. This moment is not supposed to be about you.  

Chan approaches her as if he were nearing a particularly skittish animal. “I’ve brought you a snack,” he says, already popping the top off the Tupperware. His fingers are shaking as he says, “Do you want to try one?” 

The smell of chocolate and sugar wafts through the room. Something shifts in the old woman’s expression. The slightest twitch. You watch, wretched, as Chan perks up. 

His grandmother reaches into the Tupperware. Her bony fingers bring the cookie to her mouth, and she takes the smallest of bites. 

Despite having already said earlier that the cookie is nothing like the one he used to have as a kid—too sweet, too crumbly, too obviously made by someone without experience—Chan looks devastatingly hopeful. He doesn’t look his age. He looks like a child waiting in the pleats of his grandmother’s skirt, hoping to be handed the love that was his since the moment he was born. 

His grandmother chews, careful and slow. Considering, you want to believe. 

She keeps chewing. She takes another bite. 

Nothing in her face changes.

Chan’s shoulders fall. 

You’re at his side in the next moment. You don’t say anything, don’t do anything drastic. A hand at the small of Chan’s back. That’s all you offer. A reminder of what has been done, who has been loved. Despite, despite, despite. 

Chan looks towards you and breathes. In, out. An inhale that bears the weight of memory. An exhale that lets the grief unravel. 

“Well,” he says, managing a smile, “I guess that’s it.” 

You smile back at him. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it’s not, and Chan nods, even though he doesn’t think so, either. 

Chan lingers for just a couple minutes more, giving his grandmother updates about his day even though she says nothing in response. She just works her way through the cookie, blank eyes fixed on Chan as he talks about his parents and the dance studio. 

Eventually, Chan catches your wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We should head out,” he says. “Visiting hours are over soon.” 

You nod. You look to his grandmother who still has crumbs at the corners of her mouth. 

“It was nice meeting you, halmeoni,” you say, and though you’re not quite sure why, you feel compelled to add, “Thank you.” 

That, at least, makes Chan’s smile a little more genuine. Like he understands the weight of you thanking her. He keeps his hold on your wrist as you two turn away. 

When his grandmother speaks, it’s with the musicality that undoubtedly runs through Chan’s veins. You catch the way her eyes crinkle—a joy that is inherited, passed down. Pressed into a grandchild’s hands at family gatherings. 

“Where did you get this cookie, boy?” she asks Chan. “I think my grandson would like it.” 

--

The cashier offers you a free cookie at the register—some kind of promotional thing—and Chan immediately shakes his head.

You glance at him. He glances back. A shared look. A brief pause. Then, unbidden, a laugh slips from your lips. It startles you in its ease. He chuckles, too. 

You take the cookie, cradling it like something precious. “Old habits die screaming,” you say as the two of you slide into your seats.

Chan grins fondly. "Some things are worth keeping alive."

You sit across from each other, mugs nestled between your palms, steam curling into the space between you. The café hums around you. Low music, clinks of cutlery, snippets of conversation that blur into background noise. It acts like a privacy screen. Cocooning. Comforting. There’s a subtle stiffness to it, like a page that’s been folded one too many times.

It’s been a couple of months.

After the hospital. After your deadline. After you had to text Chan that the story was being banked for a bit, and he responded with a GIF of a cartoon otter sobbing. Romance didn’t click into place like you thought it might; it’s not like you were owed that, either. The two of you didn’t really keep in touch, but the tension nonetheless lingered in every pastry listicle, in every dance video, in every article about being one step closer to a cure for Alzheimer’s. 

You were the one to eventually invite him out for coffee. You made it a point to choose a place that hadn’t been on his map, which had been a near-impossible feat. 

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” he says first, thumb grazing the lip of his mug, his voice pitched low.

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “Life just shifted.”

Shifted. That’s one way to put it. Chan nods, taking the grace. “My grandmother’s back home now. Out of hospice,” he tells you. 

Your breath hitches a little at that. “That’s good,” you say, and there’s nothing feigned about your enthusiasm.

“It is. I’m with her most days now. She doesn’t always know who I am, but…” He cracks the smallest of grins. “Sometimes, she smiles when I sit beside her.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, bruised kind of way. You reach across the table, let your pinky hook against his. The contact is small. It feels monumental. “I’m glad she has you,” you say.

He gives you a look you can’t quite name. It lands somewhere between gratitude and grief. “And you?” he asks, pinky curling around yours like muscle memory. “What’s the story these days?”

You shrug, take a sip of your coffee. It’s a little too hot, but you welcome the burn. It grounds you. “Got assigned something called The Joy of Food.”

Chan’s face lights up. That same rare brightness you’ve always been drawn to, like a match flaring in the dark. “That’s your Story.”

You tilt your head, smile lopsided. “You’d think so. But I’ve spent more time polishing yours.”

He mimics you. Head tilted to one side, grin crooked in an endearing, confused sort of way. “Mine?”

“It’s not ethically sound to show an interviewee the final article,” you say, trying for professionalism. Failing miserably. You’re nervous. More nervous than when you pitched the sugar conspiracy article to Minghao. 

“But—” you say, “I could show my boyfriend.”

Chan’s brows shoot up so high they disappear behind his bangs. Then, he laughs. Really laughs. Wide and real, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that familiar way you’ve come to adore. It makes something in your chest loosen. “Are you asking—”

You shrug again, casual in that not-so-casual way. “Depends,” you say, too quick to be casual. “Are you saying yes?”

He leans across the table, hand sliding over yours. “Let me have a taste first,” he hums, “and then we’ll figure out the rest.”

You meet him halfway. 

His lips are soft, a little coffee-warmed, a little sugar-slick. There’s a stillness to it, the kind that comes after a storm. You feel the curve of his mouth against yours, and so you let yourself smile, too. Let the kiss be nothing more than a kiss. Not a story to tell, not a metaphor for anything else.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Sweet.”

“Like cookies?”

“Even sweeter.”

You groan, but it’s affectionate. He kisses you again just to prove a point. You pull back this time, breathless and just the right amount of dizzy. “Don’t you want to see my first sentence?”

“Let me kiss my girlfriend for a little more,” he argues, mouth already chasing yours.

The Google Doc glows faintly on your phone screen beside the mugs, open but unattended. It bears the title you agonized over for weeks. The cursor blinks after the last sentence. 

You don’t care if a thousand people read it, or if only one does. You don’t care if it wins awards or garners likes or clicks. It holds everything that mattered, all in a few thousand words. 

It’s not your story anymore.

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

In a Seoul hospice, there is a grandmother who loves her grandson more than anything in the world—even if she may not remember him.

[wonluhver]

why have i genuinely read every hoshi x reader fic ever…? i’m continuously searching 😖

[wonluhver]

wowwww holy moly!! thank you for the love on my new recommendations posts <33

[wonluhver]

Mingyu Focus

M = Content Warnings for Smut

! = Personal All Time Favs.

Red Card [M] - smut/fluff, non-idol au, 80s au (aesthetics only), childhood friends to lovers, oneshot.

Mingyu's been there through everything. From childhood to now. What happens when he gets hurt and someone else has to step in and play the hero?

! Clarity [M] - bf's best friend mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut, you could say there's a drizzle of fluff, one shot. side of bad bf!jungkook.

Mingyu doesn't want to pay you any mind. To him, you're just another girl that'll get her heart broken by his dumb best friend.

Why would he care, right? He shouldn't care about the crying sounds he hears from his bedroom when his friend stands you up for the girl he's actually in love with. And he shouldn't be getting close to you. He shouldn't dread the day his friend decides to end things with you and bring someone else home. He shouldn't be wishing to have met you first.

! Save the Date [M] - smut, fluff, angst, frenemies to lovers, oneshot.

5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.

Theories and Heartstrings [M] - Neighbours AU! Fake Dating AU! (but only one is fake dating. It’ll make sense when you read it, lol). Non-Idol AU!. angst, fluff, smut. completed series.

As a writer with a mildly cynical take on love, you’ve always believed people have a “type”—a pattern they never stray from when it comes to dating. And Kim Mingyu? He’s the textbook definition of someone who wouldn’t go for someone like you, nor would you go for him. But you test your theory when a fateful run-in with your charming neighbour sparks an unexpected attraction.

The plan? Go on dates with him and count how many it takes before your heart gets involved—if it ever does. But Mingyu is unpredictable, effortlessly breaking down your carefully constructed walls with every smile, every late-night conversation, every moment that feels too easy to be just an experiment.

The real problem? Secrets never stay secrets for long. And when Mingyu finds out the truth behind your so-called theory, will it prove you right, or that love doesn’t follow the rules you thought it did?

! Again and Again [M] - exes, fake dating, mutual pining, idol!gyu, vet!reader, mild angst, fluff, smut, oneshot.

your mother calls one day, asking if you’re bringing mingyu along for chuseok this year. in your panic, you end up giving her an affirmative—never mind the fact that you and mingyu have stopped seeing each other over half a year ago.

Covert Desires - spy au, mafia, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, mutual pining, spies, angst, fluff, killing, oneshot.

he mission is simple - infiltrate a high-stakes auction that the top leaders, businessmen, women, and politicians of the world attend every year and steal one of the most highly guarded and hidden-away paintings from the target’s collection. the only downside, you had to work with kim mingyu, whom you absolutely hated. and to make it even worse, you had to pretend to be his wife for this mission to work.

! Challenge me [M] - College!Au, porn with plot(s), crack, OT13 x afab!Reader (mingyu/scoups focused), smut. unfinished series.

you have never been a person to turn down a challenge, but when your best friend challenges you to hook up with 13 boys in one semester you kinda wish you were.

Wicked Games [M] - angst, fluff, smut (18+), bartender mingyu, friends to rebound fucking, no strings attached (fwb to lovers), mingyu/wonwoo focused. unfinished (? i think) series - still ongoing.

Kim Mingyu came into your life at a time when you needed a friend the most. And that he was: a friend that you could confide in and laugh together, share your secrets with and perhaps, share a burden that was too similar to his.

Kitty Claws - a svt spiderman x jujutsu kaisen au, spiderman!mingyu, blackcat!reader, lots of banter, mild fighting scenes = mentions of blood and injuries !!, fluff with angst if you squint. oneshot.

being a superhero isn't as easy as it seems, and it's even harder when you're notorious supervillain black cat with a past threatening to catch up with you and a pesky spider that won't leave you alone.

Get Him Back [M] - lead guitarist!kim mingyu x lead singer!fem!reader, romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex (please stay safe irl!), wall sex, angry sex, overstimulation, dirty talk), exes to lovers au, band au, oneshot.

years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mingyu are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mingyu slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

What Do I Call You? [M-ish] - college au, idiots friends to lovers au ; angst, fluff, suggestive ? slightly smutty? themes. football player!kim mingyu x fem!college journalist!reader. oneshot.

your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you.

! Dessert First [M] - baker! mingyu, wedding planner!YN, fluff, smut, angst, exes to lovers, oneshot.

You've got a great life. Your wedding planning business is booming, your clients are great, and you're finally over your ex-boyfriend after years of pining. Or you are, until the universe decides to test if those three things are actually true.

! Lost in the West [M] - fake dating (kind of), friends to lovers, holiday!au | fluff, smut, romance, oneshot.

where your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend for the holidays so you can avoid more nagging from your mother. except your whole family thought you were already dating.

!!! Kim Mingyu's (unhelpful) Guide to Losing your Virginity [M] - smut, fluff, humor, college au, best friends to lovers au, friends with benefits au, oneshot.

after accidentally telling your friends that kim mingyu took your virginity (he didn’t), you’re shocked when he proposes to relieve you of the fabled v-card for good (he does).

! The Very First Night [M] - angst, smut, exes to lovers au, roommates au. oneshot.

the search for a new place to live takes a turn for the worse when the only person willing to split rent with you is your ex-boyfriend

for my best friend who i promised i would post mingyu recs for,, youre welcome. ignore how half of these are exes to lovers, or fake dating to lovers... i'm okay...

other recs

[wonluhver]

Only the Dead Get Standing Ovations | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Detective!Choi Seungcheol x Detective!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 23,459 words (crazy, I know-) Reading Time: 1 hr 30-ish mins

Genre: Crime Thriller | Romance | Psychological Mystery

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Forced Partners | Protective Male Lead | Mutual Pining | Slow Burn

Warnings: Graphic violence, serial murders, blood/gore, psychological manipulation, PTSD themes, language, obsessive behavior, death mentions. MINORS STAY AWAY.

Synopsis: When a killer obsessed with theatrical “roles” starts leaving bodies across Seoul, two rival detectives—Reader and Seungcheol—are forced to reunite. He’s cold, calculating. She’s headstrong and haunted. Together, they decode cryptic notes, wooden masks, and staged corpses. But as the killer targets her, the case turns intimate. And for Seungcheol, losing her was never an option—even if it means becoming the bait.

Note : For the girlies who love slow-burn tension, protective men who don’t know how to express feelings unless death is involved, and a female lead who isn’t afraid to pull the trigger—this is for you. She’s his match in every way. His enemy, his partner… and maybe his only weakness.

--

The very air of Seoul, a city typically a symphony of kinetic energy and relentless ambition, had begun to thicken with something far more sinister than its usual summer humidity. For a month now, an insidious dread had been slowly suffocating its vibrant pulse. Two murders, eerily precise in their execution and chillingly similar in their macabre presentation, had been reported. Each victim, found in a disturbingly artful pose, was accompanied by a cryptic, handwritten note and an unsettling, crudely carved wooden mask, a blank stare frozen on its expressionless face. The pattern was undeniable, yet baffling. The police force, usually a bastion of unwavering efficiency, found itself stalled, its usual methodical pace disrupted by the sheer, unsettling artistry of the crimes. The killer, or perhaps a team, operated with a chilling precision, a tactical brilliance that mocked conventional investigative methods. This unnerving sophistication, this calculated, almost theatrical signature, had pushed the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency to its limits.

It was this very deadlock that led Captain Kim, a man whose face was usually etched with the weariness of decades in law enforcement, but now showed a hint of genuine desperation, to make a decision he knew would be met with an explosive clash of personalities. He stood before the two most brilliant, yet utterly incompatible, minds in his precinct. On one side, Detective Choi Seungcheol, a man whose reputation for solitary, almost reclusive brilliance preceded him. His sharp intellect was undeniable, his methods meticulous, but his demeanor was perpetually guarded, his eyes often carrying a distant, analytical gleam. On the other, Detective Y/N, equally gifted, equally incisive, but with a fiery streak of independence and an uncanny intuition that sometimes bordered on the prophetic. You and he did not merely "not get along"; you actively, spectacularly, and consistently disliked each other. Your antagonism was legendary, a simmering rivalry forged not out of personal animosity, but out of an infuriating, almost mirror-image equality. You had both attended the prestigious Seoul University of Criminology, each a prodigious talent in your own right. Your academic careers had been a relentless, neck-and-neck race, culminating in an unprecedented tie for "Best Student of the Year"—a shared triumph that, far from fostering camaraderie, had only solidified your mutual, competitive disdain. He couldn't bear your presence, a fact he rarely bothered to conceal, and you, in turn, found his stoic confidence, his occasional cutting remarks, and his general air of superiority utterly insufferable. You never trusted him, a feeling that had only intensified with every forced interaction since your university days.

Now, Captain Kim’s booming voice, laced with a weariness that cut through the tension, delivered the unwelcome news. "You two," he stated, his gaze sweeping from Seungcheol’s rigid posture to your own defiant stance, "are on this case. Together. These tactics, these plans, these methods… they’re too complex, too nuanced. I believe only the two of you possess the unique, albeit clashing, minds required to crack this." The words hung in the air, a mutual sentence of professional purgatory, a shared nightmare that neither of you had signed up for. The implications settled like a heavy cloak: the serial killer was operating with a level of psychological depth and strategic planning that demanded the combined, albeit begrudging, brilliance of the city’s two top, and most adversarial, detectives.

Just hours after that fraught meeting, the city unveiled its latest, most gruesome horror, a macabre performance staged for an unwitting audience. The call had come in just as the first hesitant rays of dawn touched the city’s skyline, painting the grey concrete in hues of bruised purple and pale gold. You arrived on scene to find the flickering blue and red lights of emergency vehicles already painting the grimy facade of the abandoned Grand Theatre. The building itself, once a beacon of entertainment, now loomed like a forgotten mausoleum, its ornate entrance marred by graffiti, its windows like vacant, staring eyes. Inside, the scene was a grotesque tableau. A body, meticulously arranged, its limbs unnaturally wired like a grotesque puppet on strings, hung suspended in the cavernous, dust-mote-filled silence of the main stage.

The stage lights, usually dormant, seemed to have been rigged to cast a single, haunting spotlight on the victim, highlighting the horrific spectacle. A cracked, wooden mask, identical to those found at the previous crime scenes, obscured its face, a chilling void where a human expression should have been. The scene was meticulous, almost theatrical in its gruesome artistry, a silent, damning indictment of a killer with a flair for the dramatic. A profound shiver, cold and unwelcome, ran down your spine as your eyes landed on the quote carved deeply and deliberately into the victim's forehead: “She didn’t know her role.”

The silence of the theatre, usually filled with the echoes of past performances and forgotten applause, was amplified by the sheer horror of the discovery. Every creak of the old floorboards, every gust of wind through the broken windows, seemed to carry a whispered accusation, a chilling sense of being watched. The entire city was shaken; the media ran rampant with wild theories, speculating endlessly, and the cop/detective parliament found itself in an unprecedented state of panic, demanding answers the force simply didn't have. All the police had to go on, the only tangible proof the killer seemed to leave, was that unsettling wooden mask. Everything else was meticulously, frustratingly, absent.

Seungcheol was already there, a rigid silhouette against the faint light filtering through the grime-streaked windows, his back to you as he surveyed the grotesque tableau. You could practically feel his distaste for your presence radiating from him, a tangible force in the cold, dusty air, even before he turned slightly, his eyes narrowing, catching your gaze with an almost imperceptible flick of his head. "Well, Y/N," he drawled, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, "looks like we're stuck. Again. In a damn theatre, of all places." His tone implied that your presence somehow made the situation even more absurd.

"Don't worry, Seungcheol," you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion, professional stress, and your innate irritation at his very existence. "I can handle being stuck with a brick wall. Just try not to get in my way, or stand there looking… stoic and superior. Some of us actually work on cases, you know."

He ignored your jab, his attention already back on the body, his gloved hands beginning their meticulous examination, his mind undoubtedly cataloging every minute detail. "No signs of forced entry. No visible struggle. The scene is disturbingly clean, almost sterile. This wasn’t a spontaneous act of violence. This was… planned. Every single aspect. Every wire, every angle of suspension. It’s almost surgical in its precision." His voice was analytical, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the horrifying display before them. "The previous victims, the same calculated approach. No haphazardness, no frenzy."

You circled the suspended body slowly, your mind already racing, your instincts screaming, connecting the nascent dots, ignoring the tremor that ran through you as you noted the intricate wiring around the victim's limbs. "The previous victims… similar staging, similar masks, similar cryptic notes. This isn't just about a murder, Seungcheol. This is a performance. A grotesque, meticulously directed show for an unseen audience." You took in the empty seats, the silent stage, the single spotlight. "He's not just killing them; he's presenting them."

"A performance for who?" he scoffed, his gloved fingers meticulously tracing the lines of tension on the wires, examining the ligature marks. "A deranged artist with a flair for the dramatic? A frustrated playwright finally getting his audience?" He clearly found your dramatic interpretation a little too… theatrical, a little too close to the speculative side of things for his logical, fact-driven mind. "We're dealing with a killer, Y/N, not a theatre critic."

"No," you countered, your voice gaining conviction as a wild yet strangely fitting theory began to coalesce in your mind, a sudden flash of insight amidst the horror, like a spotlight illuminating a hidden corner. "This isn't an artist; it's a director. Someone utterly obsessed with control, with guiding the narrative of his own twisted play. He’s not just killing people; he’s ‘casting’ them. And these victims? They’re his reluctant cast members, forced into roles they never auditioned for, roles they clearly ‘didn’t know.’" You gestured around the vast, empty theatre, encompassing the silent rows of seats and the vast, dark wings. "He’s using this space as his stage, his backdrop. He sees life as a play, and he’s the one holding the script, orchestrating every scene, every 'act.' And these notes? They’re his personal, scathing reviews of their ‘performances,’ his ‘stage directions’ to the audience, telling us how they failed their ‘roles.’ And the masks? They’re more than just props; they’re deeply symbolic. Perhaps to hide the true identity of his victims from the audience, or more chillingly, to symbolize how he sees them – as interchangeable players, faceless and devoid of individual identity in his twisted, grand production. He’s not killing people; he’s taking them off the stage. The chances might be less, yes, far from the most probable, but what if he's not just killing people, but 'casting' them? What if these are all 'failed' actors, or people who didn't 'play their part' in some earlier, unknown ‘production’? Perhaps an actual play that flopped, or a group of people who betrayed someone. He’s correcting their ‘bad acting,’ as he perceives it, forcing them into a final, fatal role." You looked at the wired limbs. "He's making them puppets in his grand, horrifying finale."

He just stared at you, his silence more unnerving than his usual arguments. His gaze, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. You braced yourself for the inevitable rebuttal, the logical dismantling of your theory, the scathing critique that usually followed your more unconventional insights. But it never came. He simply turned back to the body, a new intensity in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment that your theory, however outlandish, held a disturbing resonance. The only proof they had was this unsettling wooden mask, and your theory, however unlikely, offered a lens through which to examine everything else.

Later that afternoon, back at the precinct, the air in Captain Kim’s cramped office was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the palpable frustration of a case spiraling out of control. Other detectives, their faces grim and defeated, sat around the worn conference table. You presented your theory, detailing the chilling parallels you saw between the current string of crimes and a twisted theatrical production, painting the killer as a malevolent "Director." You felt the skepticism in the room, the hushed whispers of your colleagues, their eyes darting to Seungcheol, expecting him to deliver the final, logical blow to your "imaginative" idea. Instead, to your profound shock, he supported it. He didn't just passively agree; he actively defended your reasoning, lending it the weight of his own calculated intellect, adding layers of logical deduction that bolstered your more intuitive leaps.

“While it’s undeniably unconventional, Captain,” Seungcheol stated, his voice steady and authoritative, effectively silencing the murmurs of doubt from other detectives gathered around the table, “Detective Y/N’s theory of a ‘director’ rather than a mere serial killer, while speculative, aligns remarkably well with the pervasive theatrical elements of these crime scenes. The meticulous staging of the bodies, the ‘roles’ carved into the victims’ flesh, the specific wording of the notes, the distinct wooden masks… it all strongly suggests a mind preoccupied with a narrative, with a perverse sense of dramatic structure. It gives us a new framework to consider, a potential motive beyond simple random violence or a personal vendetta. It’s a leap, but one worth taking, given the complete lack of other viable leads. The pattern suggests a level of premeditation and an underlying message that a simple 'artist' or random killer wouldn't typically possess.” He even went so far as to elaborate, "The 'she didn't know her role' could imply a deep-seated grievance, an adherence to a specific script the killer believes these victims deviated from. It connects the victim directly to the killer's narrative, elevating them from mere casualties to characters in his 'play.'"

You felt a reluctant, almost forced "thank you" escape your lips as you left the captain's office, the word barely audible, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of your gaze towards him. The tension between you was still a palpable, prickly third presence, a static charge in the air, a silent hum of competitive energy. Yet, for a fleeting, unsettling moment, a sliver of grudging, professional respect had edged its way in, a tentative acknowledgment of shared intellect and a surprisingly complementary approach. You had anticipated his scorn, but instead, you received his unexpected, almost clinical, defense. It was a bizarre development, adding another confusing layer to your already strained relationship.

Back at the theatre, now that you had Captain Kim's begrudging blessing to pursue your joint theory, you and Seungcheol returned to the scene, each moving with a focused intensity that bordered on obsessive. The puzzle deepened, growing more twisted with every passing moment. You meticulously re-examined every inch of the stage, the wings, the backstage corridors, the dusty dressing rooms, and even the exterior, including the back gate and alleyways. Despite the elaborate staging and the gruesome nature of the murder, there wasn't a single trace of blood anywhere – not on the stage, not in the wings, not in the dusty dressing rooms, not even at the back gate where a body of this size would undoubtedly have been moved into the building. The victim’s body, suspended above you, was visibly leaking, a slow, steady seep of crimson staining the fabric beneath, yet the entire theatre was pristine, unnervingly clean, as if no violence had ever marred its aged grandeur.

How could a human possibly carry a bleeding body without dropping any blood at all? It defied logic, defied physics, creating another chilling layer to the enigma. You exchanged a look with Seungcheol, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the impossible. This wasn't just clean; it was surgically, impossibly clean. It implied a level of control, of planning, that was almost supernatural. And the note… “She didn’t know her role.” The initial reports had confirmed the girl wasn’t an actor at this particular theatre, or any theatre for that matter. Or was she?

Had she been involved in some amateur production? Had she been cast in some personal drama the killer had concocted? The questions hung heavy in the air, echoing the unsettling silence of the abandoned stage, a silent, chilling challenge from a killer who seemed to mock your every step, daring you to understand his twisted play. The wooden mask, the only tangible evidence, seemed to stare back at you, holding its secrets close. The hunt, you knew, had just begun.

--

The first horrifying act of the "Director" had concluded, leaving the city in a state of suspended terror and two mismatched detectives at a reluctant stalemate. The immediate aftermath of the theatre discovery had been a flurry of activity, forensic teams swarming the scene, every potential shred of evidence meticulously cataloged, however scarce. But the core of the puzzle remained maddeningly elusive. The victim, the girl found suspended like a grotesque puppet, was quickly identified.

Initial reports poured in, painting a picture of a young woman named Ji-eun, who had only recently moved to Seoul, barely a week prior. She had arrived with aspirations, her dreams tied to the vibrant theatrical scene, preparing to begin an acting course at a small, independent theatre not far from where her body was found. The timeline was grim: she had gone missing since Sunday, her disappearance initially dismissed as the typical fading act of a new arrival getting lost in the city's labyrinthine anonymity. Her body was discovered on Wednesday, a horrifying three-day window of unknown terror.

Seungcheol, ever the pragmatist, had immediately gravitated towards a more conventional line of inquiry. While he had begrudgingly acknowledged your "director" theory in front of Captain Kim, his analytical mind still sought a simpler, more personal motive. He believed that the theatrical staging might be a distraction, a smokescreen for a murder rooted in a personal vendetta, a jealous rival, a jilted lover, or a debt gone wrong. He spent hours, days, buried under a mountain of Ji-eun's personal history: her phone records, social media accounts, financial transactions, a sparse list of contacts in Seoul, her family history back in her hometown.

His office, usually a beacon of sterile order, became a chaotic landscape of printouts and notepads. He was looking for any crack in her life that could explain the violence, any personal grievance that might have escalated into such a theatrical and brutal end. He meticulously cross-referenced names, addresses, and any fleeting connections, convinced that if he just dug deep enough, the true, human motive would surface, proving his initial instincts correct and disproving your more outlandish, 'performance'-centric theory. He was utterly convinced this was a one-off, a deeply personal murder, not the work of a serial killer on a city-wide spree.

He was about to be proven devastatingly, horribly wrong.

The fluorescent hum of the precinct office felt particularly oppressive that afternoon, heavy with the stale scent of coffee and unspoken tension. You had been sifting through similar data, but with a different lens, trying to find commonalities between Ji-eun and the previous two victims, no matter how disparate their backgrounds seemed. Your own leads were equally cold, equally frustrating. The phone rang, a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet. You answered, your voice crisp, and listened, your expression slowly draining of color. Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk, a silent understanding passing between you. He paused mid-sentence, a pen hovering over a file, sensing the shift in the air, the sudden, cold dread that radiated from you. You hung up, the click echoing in the sudden silence. Your face was grim, a mask of cold certainty.

"The church," you stated, your voice low, cutting through the silence of the office, "another body. We need to go. Now."

The scene at the historic Gwanghwamun Church was even more disturbing than the theatre. If the first victim was a puppet, this one was a twisted, blasphemous marionette of faith. The second victim, a man in his late fifties, was strung up like a praying marionette, suspended from the towering rafters of the nave, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in eternal supplication. But the grotesque details told a different story.

His knees had been meticulously shattered, not cleanly broken, but mangled, as if deliberately destroyed to prevent him from ever truly kneeling. His mouth, distended and unnatural, was grotesquely filled with hardened wax, sealing his final prayers or screams within him. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old wood, a cloying sweetness that made your stomach clench. Outside, the usual throngs of tourists and worshippers were held back by a hastily erected police tape, their horrified murmurs a low hum against the distant city sounds.

Seungcheol, despite his initial professional detachment, was visibly disturbed. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in his gloved hands as he pulled on a mask, his movements precise but uncharacteristically quick. He was the first to step inside the crime scene, past the uniformed officers, his trained eyes immediately scanning, dissecting, absorbing every horrifying detail. The subtle disturbance in his usual composure didn’t go unnoticed by you.

He moved around the suspended body, a silent, grim silhouette against the stained-glass windows, inspecting the ropes, the mangled knees, the wax-filled mouth, his mind already racing to connect this new nightmare to the last. The sheer depravity of it, the intimate violation of a sacred space, seemed to shake even his formidable composure. He didn’t utter a word, but his silence was louder than any scream.

Your gaze, meanwhile, swept the periphery, your instincts guiding you away from the immediate horror of the body itself. You knew the killer was theatrical, that he left messages. Your eyes scanned the shadowed corners, the dimly lit alcoves, the high ledges. And then, a glint. Small, almost imperceptible, tucked away in a shadowed recess near a confessional booth, barely visible against the dark wood. A tiny, almost insignificant flicker of light. You moved towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Hidden, cleverly disguised against the ornate carvings, was a miniature camera, its lens still pointed directly at the scene. He had filmed the entire thing. The realization sent a cold wave of dread through you. This wasn't just about killing; it was about documentation, about forcing an audience to bear witness.

Back in your shared office, the silence was heavy, punctuated only by the soft whir of the computer tower. The camera, carefully extracted and tagged as evidence, was now connected, its internal memory being downloaded. The raw footage began to play, filling the screen with grainy, horrific clarity. Ji-eun, the first victim, had been alone on the stage. This new victim, a man, was struggling, praying, his desperate movements growing weaker. The screams, muffled by the wax in his mouth, were still agonizingly clear. The sickening sounds of struggle, the glint of blood, the methodical, chilling precision of the killer as he worked – it was all there, laid bare.

You watched it once. And again. And again. Each time, your eyes scanned for the slightest detail, a flicker of something missed, a hidden reflection, a tell-tale shadow. The killer remained frustratingly out of frame for the most part, a disembodied force, a presence rather than a person. The angle of the camera was deliberate, chosen to maximize the terror of the victim's plight while preserving the killer's anonymity. The tension in the small office was suffocating. Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation, closing his eyes briefly as a specific moment replayed on the screen, his mind struggling to process the sheer depravity. The killer, in the grainy footage, moved closer to the victim, his arm extending into the frame for a brief moment as he meticulously pinned a note to the victim’s chest.

It was a fleeting glimpse, perhaps only a second, but your trained eyes caught it. Your breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that made Seungcheol open his eyes, startled. "Seungcheol!" you exclaimed, pointing frantically at the screen, your finger practically jabbing the monitor. "There! His arm! On the outer area, just as he pins the note to the victim's chest. A distinct burnt patch… it looks like a birthmark. On his left arm!"

He snapped his eyes open, his gaze immediately darting to where your finger pointed. He rewound the footage, frame by excruciating frame, pausing at the exact second you indicated. A sharp nod, a silent acknowledgment of your keen observation. The detail was minute, easily missed in the chaos of the scene, but undeniable once pointed out. It wasn’t a scar; it was too irregular, too organic. A birthmark. A unique identifier. Hope, cold and fragile, sparked in the room.

His gaze hardened, a new determination setting in. Without a word, he immediately pulled out the history papers of both victims, spreading them across the desk. Ji-eun's sparse background, the second victim's equally unremarkable life. This had to be the joint link, the connection that had eluded them, the invisible thread that tied these disparate souls together into the killer's twisted narrative.

He started cross-referencing their personal histories, their professional lives, their social circles, not just for a personal motive now, but for any possible overlap, any shared experience, any common thread that could lead them to a single individual with a distinct birthmark. The chilling realization settled over both of you: this killer was far more messed up, far more dangerous, more strategically deranged than they had initially imagined. He was not just killing; he was carefully selecting, choreographing, documenting.

The hours blurred into an overnight paper trail, fueled by stale coffee and the mounting pressure from Captain Kim. Sleep was a distant, unreachable luxury. The small office became your claustrophobic world, filled with the flickering glow of computer screens, the rustle of paper, and the oppressive weight of your shared burden. The argument, when it finally erupted, was inevitable, a predictable explosion born from exhaustion, stress, and the inherent friction between your personalities.

"We're going in circles, Seungcheol!" you snapped, slamming a file shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet room. Your voice was strained, your temper fraying. "We have the footage, the victims, the masks, the methods, now even a distinguishing mark, but nothing concrete on him! We have a birthmark, but no name, no face!"

"And what do you propose, Y/N?" he retorted, his voice dangerously low, edged with his own deep exhaustion and a growing frustration that mirrored your own. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "A magic trick? A psychic vision? This isn't a show, this isn't a performance for us! It’s a murder investigation, and we're dealing with a ghost who leaves behind meticulously curated scenes but no tangible footprint!"

"It's clearly a show for him!" you shot back, rising from your chair to pace the small office, your movements agitated. "The 'acts,' the 'performances' he references in those notes, the way he orchestrates these scenes! It's all part of his twisted narrative, his obsession, and we're stuck here, desperately trying to understand the script when we don't even know the prologue! And you, with your focus on 'personal motives,' wasted valuable time!"

"And what about your 'director' theory, Y/N?" he countered, his voice dangerously quiet now, filled with a biting sarcasm. "How’s that working out for us now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance'? You said the chances were low, but you stood by it. Well, it's not giving us a name now, is it?"

The words stung, igniting a familiar spark of anger, resentment, and a strange, vulnerable hurt within you. You stopped pacing, turning to face him, your chest heaving with barely suppressed fury. "And your 'personal vendetta' theory? How's that working out for you now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance' that you now grudgingly admit to? We're no closer to finding him!"

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and the raw tension of shared stress. You stood, chests heaving, eyes locked in a furious battle of wills, a silent war waged in the heart of the police station. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the anger began to dissipate, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion that was almost palpable. The argument had drained the last vestiges of your energy, leaving only a heavy silence, punctuated by your ragged breaths.

Your gazes, once sharp with defiance, softened, then lingered. A moment stretched, held too long in the quiet hum of the office, the unspoken tension of shared stress, overwhelming pressure, and an unwilling, yet undeniably potent, partnership hanging heavy between you. It was more than just professional frustration; it was the raw, human toll of staring into the abyss, shoulder to shoulder, with the one person you were least prepared to acknowledge as an equal, or even as something more. The night, thick and starless outside, seemed to press in on the small room, holding its breath.

-----

Two weeks bled into nothing. Two weeks of relentless, soul-crushing work since the horror at the Gwanghwamun Church, and yet, the case remained as elusive as smoke. The precinct hummed with a desperate, unproductive energy, every lead dissolving into a dead end, every forensic analysis yielding no new revelation. The burnt patch, the birthmark on the killer’s arm, was a frustrating phantom, a distinct detail that remained maddeningly unattached to any known individual.

You and Seungcheol had chased down every remote possibility, sifted through databases of reported burn victims, scanned security footage from the vicinity of the church, but the Director remained a ghost, his chilling performance echoing in your minds with no clear identity. The tension from your argument in the office still lingered between you, a palpable, unspoken barrier. It hadn’t exploded again, but it hadn’t dissipated either; it was a tight, invisible wire you both navigated, working with it rather than through it, a constant hum beneath the surface of your strained collaboration. The exhaustion was a living entity, heavy in your bones, blurring the edges of your vision, making every thought feel like pushing through thick mud.

You had been hunched over the cold steel of your desk, eyes glazing over a cascade of digital files, for what felt like an eternity. The fluorescent lights hummed a monotonous lullaby of despair. Your head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against your temples. The figures on the screen began to swim, blurring into an indistinguishable mass of data.

Your stomach, hollow and protesting, let out a pathetic growl. You finally pushed away from your chair, the screech of metal on linoleum a jarring sound in the quiet office. You stretched, your muscles screaming in protest, feeling the stiffness that had set in after countless hours of immobility. The windows showed the first faint blush of dawn, painting the Seoul skyline in hues of soft grey and pale pink. Six in the morning. You had been here all night, again.

"Cheol," you mumbled, your voice raspy, a mere whisper in the vast, empty office. He was still at his desk, his formidable concentration unbroken, a profile etched in grim determination. You could see the subtle slump of his shoulders, the way his hand rubbed his temple, betraying his own profound exhaustion. "I need food. My brain's turning to mush. We've been here all night. Do you want to grab something to eat? The CVS is probably open."

He grunted, a noncommittal sound, not looking up from the documents scattered across his desk. "I'm not hungry. You go."

Right on cue, as if betraying his stoic facade, his stomach let out a loud, indignant rumble, echoing through the silent office like a clap of thunder. He froze, his hand still hovering over a file, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You couldn't help it. A small, tired giggle escaped your lips, a fragile bubble of humor in the oppressive atmosphere. It was a genuine sound, unexpected from you in his presence, and it seemed to crack the rigid shell around him. He slowly pushed back his chair, the wheels grating softly, avoiding your amused gaze. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a rare moment of vulnerability. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the last two weeks, he rose and strode out of the office, feigning indifference, and you followed, the lingering giggle still threatening to escape.

The CVS store was only a few blocks away, nestled in the main, bustling artery of Seoul. Even at this early hour, a few vendors were beginning to set up, their low voices a distant murmur. The walk was silent, the hum of the city a low backdrop to your shared fatigue, the morning air crisp and cool against your faces. The silence wasn’t comfortable, not yet. It was still heavy with the remnants of past arguments, with the unspoken burden of the case, and the strange, unwilling proximity that had been forced upon you. You kept a cautious distance, aware of his presence beside you, acutely aware of the space that still existed, a testament to your long-standing rivalry.

As you approached the convenience store, the bright neon glow of its sign a beacon in the pre-dawn light, a chilling sight stopped you both dead in your tracks. On the other side of the road, on a deserted sidewalk, lay another body. A stark, horrifying tableau presented itself on the cold pavement.

This was the third victim since y'll took the case. A young woman, later identified as a politician’s daughter, was found posed disturbingly in a public square at sunrise, her lifeless form arranged with a grotesque, almost artistic precision. The details were stomach-churning: her lungs, meticulously removed post-mortem, were not just placed, but arranged like macabre roses on her lap, a final, horrifying flourish from the killer. The scene was devoid of chaos, an eerie stillness that spoke of deliberate, unhurried action.

But it was the note, carefully pinned to her clothing, that sent a cold, agonizing shiver down your spine, colder than the morning air. Your name, stark and undeniable, stared back at you: “Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?” The words were a direct address, a personal challenge, pulling you from the role of investigator into the terrifying spotlight of the victim. This wasn't a warning; it was an invitation to his next performance, and you were the unwilling star.

The wooden mask was there again, sitting eerily beside the body, its blank eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul. But this time, unlike the church scene, there was no camera, no evidence of filming, no obvious trace of his presence beyond the note and the mask. He was adapting, changing his stage directions.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his face hardening into a mask of grim resolve. He hadn't needed to read the note aloud; your gasp, your sudden rigidity, had told him everything. His gaze flickered from the note to you, then back to the mask, then to the vast, indifferent city around you. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Y/N was a risk. A profound, protective instinct, raw and unbidden, surged through him, eclipsing every past animosity. The killer might go for you next. The Director was no longer an abstract entity; he was a direct threat, specifically targeting you.

That entire day unfolded under the shadow of this chilling realization. Seungcheol’s protective instincts, usually buried beneath layers of professional detachment, were on full display. He refused to let you out of his sight. When it was time for you to go home and freshen up, he insisted on driving you, the car ride permeated by a tense silence. He waited in the living room while you quickly showered and changed, his presence a heavy, unwavering anchor in your apartment. He then drove you straight back to the office, ensuring you weren't alone for a single moment, not even for the short commute. Only after you were safely back at your desk did he finally return to his own place to freshen up, returning within the hour, his eyes constantly tracking your movements.

You worked together, side-by-side, a silent, almost desperate efficiency guiding your actions. You tried to stay strong, to project the image of the unshakeable detective, but the words on that note echoed in your mind, a chilling mantra. You found yourself spacing out, your gaze unfocused, your thoughts drifting to the terrifying implication of being the killer's next target. Every time your concentration wavered, Seungcheol, with an almost uncanny awareness, would subtly shift, his presence a quiet anchor, his gaze a silent vigil, making sure you didn't leave his sight, making sure you didn't slip too far into the terrifying abyss of fear. He’d push a file closer, offer a quiet observation, anything to pull you back to the task, to keep you grounded.

The night deepened, wrapping the city in a cold, anxious blanket. The office was quiet again, most of the other detectives having retreated, leaving only you and Seungcheol amidst the dim glow of computer screens. The exhaustion was absolute, but the fear was sharper, more immediate. You still felt the tremor in your hands, the faint vibration that ran through your core. Seungcheol, having packed up his own things, gestured for you to do the same.

"This guy’s getting too close, Y/N," he said, his voice low, a rough rumble that seemed to vibrate with suppressed tension. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were shadowed with a concern that was almost palpable. "Let me drive you home. Let me stay." It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet, firm declaration.

You hesitated. Every fiber of your being, every ingrained instinct for self-reliance and the desperate need to maintain your professional distance, screamed to refuse. To push him away. To insist you were fine. But the cold dread in your stomach, the image of your name on that note, the raw, visceral terror of being watched, overridden your stubborn pride. You knew. You knew, with a certainty that was both humiliating and profoundly unsettling, that it wasn't safe for you. Not tonight. Not after this. The words died on your tongue, replaced by a barely perceptible nod. "Fine," you murmured, the word a reluctant admission of vulnerability, "just… fine."

He parked in front of your apartment building, the familiar facade offering little comfort. Inside, he moved with a quiet, methodical efficiency. He locked every door, every window, testing them twice. Then, to your surprise, he began to subtly "set stuff around" – a chair angled just so against the door, a stack of books on the windowsill, mundane objects strategically placed to make noise if anyone tried to enter. It was a simple, old-school detective trick, a primal way to create an alarm system, and it spoke volumes about his deep-seated unease, his primal need to protect. You watched him, your fear a tangible weight in the air. You were visibly shaken, your body trembling with a fine tremor that you couldn't quite control. You knew you had signed up for this life, for the risks, for the nightmares. You knew you had to stay strong, and you were trying. Every ounce of your being was dedicated to holding yourself together, to not break down.

He finished his silent work, the apartment now a fortress, however flimsy against a determined killer. He turned to you, his gaze soft, surprisingly tender, devoid of judgment. He didn’t say anything. He didn't offer empty platitudes, didn't try to reason with your fear. He simply reached out, pulling you gently into his arms. For the first time, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no pushing away. His embrace was firm, comforting, a silent, solid anchor in the terrifying storm that raged within you. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart, a stark contrast to your own frantic rhythm. In that quiet, terrifying night, surrounded by the unspoken threat outside, Seungcheol just held you. And for the very first time, the two of you didn't push each other away. You just leaned into the warmth, into the unexpected, raw comfort of his presence, seeking solace in the one person who understood the terrifying reality you now faced.

-----

The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into a month, an indistinguishable stretch of relentless work and a strange, forced intimacy. The chilling note, "Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?" had fundamentally altered the dynamics between you and Seungcheol. The grudging professional respect, born from shared peril, had deepened into an unspoken agreement of constant vigilance. He was always there. Sometimes, exhausted beyond measure, you found yourself waking in his bed, the morning light filtering through unfamiliar blinds. Other times, he would crash at your apartment, his presence a silent, reassuring anchor in the suffocating dread. Always together. The city breathed a collective sigh of relief as a full month, and then another week, passed without a new murder report. But for you and Seungcheol, this silence was not peace; it was fishy, a deceptive calm before an inevitable, more terrifying storm. The Director was merely orchestrating a long intermission, a strategic pause before his next, grander act.

You stirred from a deep, dreamless sleep, the unfamiliar weight of an arm locked around you. Seungcheol. He was still deep in slumber beside you, his breathing soft and even, his face, usually so taut with concentration, softened by sleep. Despite your lingering, deeply ingrained aversion to him, a flicker of warmth, an unsettling sense of comfort, spread through you. You still told yourself you hated him, despised him, that your rivalry was as fierce as ever. But in the quiet intimacy of his apartment, after weeks of shared terror and sleepless nights, you were undeniably, profoundly glad for his unwavering presence. He was a shield, an unexpected bulwark against the rising tide of fear.

Carefully, meticulously, you began to slip out from under his arm, your movements as silent and practiced as a shadow. You shifted your weight, easing your leg from beneath his, then slowly, painstakingly, lifted his arm from your waist. He mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, a soft sound, and you froze, your heart seizing. But he didn't stir further. Once free, you replaced your body with a pillow, tucking it gently against him, a silent, almost tender gesture that surprised even yourself. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, its screen glowing dimly in the pre-dawn light.

Your fingers instinctively navigated to the video file. The footage from the Gwanghwamun Church. The second victim, the praying marionette. You replayed it, your eyes scanning, your mind still searching for the invisible thread, the missed detail. The grainy images flickered across the screen: the suspended body, the killer's fleeting appearance, the chilling moment he pinned the note. You watched the killer's arm, the distinctive burnt patch, hoping for a clearer glimpse, a new angle. And then, as the killer moved slightly, just before he pinned the note, your gaze drifted past his arm, past the victim, to the background. The background. It looked… terrifyingly similar. A chill that had nothing to do with the cool morning air snaked down your spine. Your breath hitched. You’d been there before. Once. Years ago, with a colleague during a mundane, forgotten investigation. It was the underground base of the Premium Theater. A forgotten, derelict space back then, filled with dust and cobwebs, devoid of any hint of life. But now, it was imprinted on the killer's video.

You looked over at Seungcheol again. He was still asleep, a deep, exhausted sleep he hadn't known in weeks, dark smudges under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights. He looked vulnerable, peaceful. You didn't want to disturb him, didn't want to break that rare moment of reprieve. You had to go. Alone.

You dressed quickly, pulling on the first practical clothes you could find, your movements swift and decisive. The urgency propelled you forward, an insistent whisper in your mind. Before you left, another strange, almost involuntary impulse guided your hand. You leaned down, hovering over him, then softly, tentatively, pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was fleeting, barely a touch, but the gesture itself was profound. Why did you care about HIM? You hated him… you despised him. The thoughts swirled, a chaotic storm in your mind, battling against the undeniable, quiet warmth that had settled in your chest. You pushed those confusing, contradictory thoughts away, shoved them deep down, and walked out the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silent apartment.

The underground space beneath the Premium Theater was exactly as you remembered it – dark, damp, and smelling of decay and forgotten dreams. But it was also horrifyingly transformed. The dust had been disturbed, the silence replaced by an unsettling aura. The walls, once bare concrete, were now lined with photos of the victims, each one meticulously arranged, posed like macabre rehearsals. Ji-eun, the first victim, a ghostly ballerina. The man from the church, a silent, suffering saint. The politician's daughter, a broken, beautiful sculpture. Each tableau a chilling re-enactment, captured in unsettling detail. And then, your breath hitched, a gasp caught in your throat. Among the gruesome collection, a photo of you. Posed in a way that mimicked the other victims, starkly stood out, a terrifying prophecy. He had been watching you. Watching your every move, planning your "role" in his twisted play.

Your gaze fell upon a stack of leather-bound journals. The killer’s journal. You pulled on your gloves, making sure to be meticulously careful, aware that every surface could hold a clue, a fingerprint, a strand of hair. You opened one. His handwriting was precise, almost elegant, but the words were a descent into madness. He called himself “The Director.” His entries detailed his "castings," his "rehearsals," his "performances." And then, a line that made your blood run cold, confirming your worst fears about your inclusion: “Detective Y/N, you remind me of Act I.” You were not merely a witness; you were part of his narrative, a recurring character from his past. You quickly snapped photos of the journal entries, of the photos on the walls, making sure to capture every detail.

As you moved around, your detective's eye scanning for any physical evidence, you noticed something else, something equally unsettling: no blood. Just like the first scene at the theatre, just like the church, there wasn't a single drop anywhere on the floor, on the walls, no staining, no residue. It was impossibly clean, defying the gruesome nature of the crimes. How was he doing this? Was he moving the bodies after they bled out? Or was there a ritual, a method, that prevented any spillage at the final staging? The question gnawed at you, amplifying the sense of unreality.

You were crouched, examining a collection of carefully labeled props, when a sudden, jarring sound echoed through the underground space. The heavy metallic clang of the access door being violently shoved open. You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Seungcheol. His face was a mask of unadulterated fury, his eyes blazing, a dangerous storm brewing behind them. He took one look at you, alone in the killer’s lair, and surged forward. Before you could even utter a sound, he grabbed your arm, his grip like a vice, and practically dragged you out of the theatre’s underground base, his movements swift and brutal. He didn't slow, didn't release his grip until he had you in the backseat of his car, shoving you in with a force that left you momentarily breathless. He slammed the door shut, rounded the car, and got into the driver’s seat, slamming that door too. The engine roared to life, and he drove straight to the office, the tires squealing as he pulled away from the curb.

The car ride was silent, a suffocating silence more terrifying than any shouting. You tried to explain, to tell him what you'd found, the photos on the walls, the journal, your own picture. "Seungcheol, I found his journal! He calls himself–"

"Shut it, Y/N," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut you off mid-sentence. He didn’t even look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You tried again, a desperate urgency in your voice. "But Seungcheol, my picture! He's been watching me, he called me 'Act I'–"

This time, he didn't bother with words. He merely flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, his eyes burning with an intensity you had never witnessed before. It was a single, furious glare, but it was enough. It sliced through your words, through your bravado, through your very will to speak. You had never seen him so angry, so utterly consumed by a cold, terrifying rage. The glare was enough to shut you up, your throat closing, your words dying, leaving only the frantic beat of your heart.

He parked the car haphazardly outside the precinct, not bothering to find a proper spot. He strode in, his movements stiff and purposeful, ignoring everyone who greeted him, the other detectives and uniformed officers quickly parting ways as they sensed the dark cloud hanging over him. You followed him, feeling the curious, slightly alarmed stares of your colleagues, mumbling apologies on his behalf as you walked into your shared office. He didn't even bother to turn around, his back to you, rigid with fury.

"Seungch–" you began again, desperate to explain, to make him understand that your solo venture had yielded crucial information.

He didn't even bother to let you finish. Before you could take another step, he spun around, his face a mask of incandescent rage, and you were suddenly, violently, pinned to the wall. His hands were on either side of your head, bracing against the cold plaster, effectively trapping you. His body was close, too close, vibrating with suppressed fury. He exploded, his voice a low, furious growl that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Y/N?! What the hell were you thinking?! You went in without backup! Without telling anyone! You could have walked into a damn trap! He’s looking for you, he's targeting you, and you just waltz in there like a sacrificial lamb?! Do you have a death wish?!" His grip on your chin was firm, almost bruising, forcing your head up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze burned into yours, a desperate, raw anger. "Don't you ever go without a fucking backup, Y/N!"

You nodded, wide-eyed, shocked by the sheer intensity of his anger, by the raw fear that laced his voice. The force of his words, the desperation in his eyes, rendered you speechless. He held your chin for another long moment, his chest heaving, his anger slowly, visibly deflating, replaced by a profound weariness he let go of your chin. His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath ragged, a desperate sigh escaping him. And then, the confession, raw and unbidden, slipped out, a broken whisper that seemed to echo in the sudden, heavy silence of the office. “I can’t do this case if you’re not breathing, Y/N….”

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. All the anger, the rivalry, the professional distance, seemed to melt away, leaving only a startling vulnerability. His admission, stark and painful, spoke of a fear far deeper than any professional concern. Your hand, almost instinctively, reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head, your touch gentle, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion he had just laid bare. The moment hung there, thick with unspoken feelings, with the sudden, terrifying realization of what his words truly meant, what your connection had become.

BACK TO WORK.

The unspoken command hung in the air, a necessary return to the grim reality. You pulled away slightly, gently, your hand still lingering on his head for a moment before dropping. Your eyes met, a shared understanding passing between you that bypassed words. The moment of raw vulnerability had passed, but something fundamental had shifted.

You began to speak, your voice steadier now, recounting everything you saw in the underground theatre. "He calls himself 'The Director.' The walls are lined with pictures of the victims, posed like rehearsals. And my picture, Seungcheol. He has a picture of me, posed like them. And in his journal… he wrote that I 'remind him of Act I.'" You showed him the photos you’d taken on your phone, the eerie tableaux, the chilling journal entries. "And there was no blood, Seungcheol. Just like the theatre. No blood at all in the entire space."

You were back at work, the cases and evidence spread out before you, the computer screens casting their pale glow over your faces. The facts, grim and undeniable, were laid bare. But the feelings between you two were anything but orderly. They were a messy, tangled knot of fear, anger, grudging respect, and a newly acknowledged, terrifying tenderness. The boundaries had blurred, irrevocably. The Director's play had just taken an unexpected, deeply personal turn for both of you.

The weeks that followed the chilling encounter in the Premium Theater’s underground base, and Seungcheol’s raw, unexpected confession, had been a tense, volatile truce. The boundaries between you had irrevocably blurred, replaced by a complex tapestry of professional obligation, shared fear, and a nascent, terrifying tenderness that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. The Director’s chilling game, however, had gone quiet. A full month and a week had passed without a new murder, a lull that felt less like peace and more like the ominous silence before a storm. You and Seungcheol had worked relentlessly, poring over every detail of the killer’s journal, every photo, every piece of fragmented evidence, trying to decipher his twisted "Acts" and his personal connection to your past. The silence was unnerving, an agonizing wait for the curtain to rise on his next, unpredictable performance.

That night, the quiet was shattered. Not by a phone call to a distant crime scene, but by a frantic, breathless shout from just outside the precinct. The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth, a cruel twist of the knife. The killer hadn't chosen a remote, theatrical stage this time; he had chosen the very doorstep of law enforcement.

A fourth victim was found, not dead, but left alive—barely. He lay crumpled in the narrow alleyway directly behind the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency building, a grim, defiant tableau just steps from the very heart of the investigation. The air was thick with the scent of fear and something metallic. You and Seungcheol were among the first officers to reach him, pushing through the stunned onlookers and uniformed police. He was a man in his late twenties, his body contorted in a way that suggested agonizing torture, yet his eyes, wide with terror, still held a flicker of life. He was bleeding, heavily, from multiple lacerations, but it was his posture, his hands reaching out as if grasping for a lifeline, that spoke of a deep, psychological torment. He was a survivor, a witness, and therefore, an immediate, invaluable, and terrifying lead.

You dropped to your knees beside him, Seungcheol mirroring your action, both of you keenly aware of the urgency, the fragile thread of life clinging to the man. Your medical training kicked in instinctively; you assessed his breathing, his pulse, the worst of the wounds. "Paramedics! Now!" Seungcheol's voice, usually so controlled, was sharp with urgency. As a medic worked to stabilize the man, your eyes locked onto his face, desperate for any information. His lips moved, barely, a faint rasp against the harsh whisper of the night air. You leaned closer, straining to hear, your ear almost touching his trembling mouth. He was trying to speak, desperate to convey a message before the darkness claimed him.

He whispered, his voice a ragged, terrified gasp, each syllable a monumental effort, “He… he said… I was off-script…”

The words were barely audible, but they hit you with the force of a physical blow. "Off-script." The Director. This was his language, his lexicon of terror. Seungcheol, leaning in from the other side, heard it too. His eyes, already grim, darkened further. The message was clear, chillingly so: this victim had failed the Director’s expectations, had deviated from his meticulously planned performance. He was a testament to the killer's escalating cruelty, a live message meant to terrorize not just the city, but you.

Back in a hastily secured interview room at the precinct, the atmosphere was suffocating. The paramedics had done their best, but the victim's condition was critical, his life hanging by a thread. He was delirious, his body wracked with pain and shock. He mumbled incoherently, fragments of terror, but his whispered message, "off-script," resonated with unnerving clarity in your minds.

You and Seungcheol stood, leaning against a cold metal table, the sterile scent of antiseptic mingling with the lingering coppery tang of blood. The sheer audacity of the killer, leaving a victim barely alive right behind police headquarters, was a slap in the face, a direct challenge.

"He's escalating," you stated, your voice low, your gaze fixed on the closed door behind which the survivor lay. Your mind was racing, trying to process this new, terrifying development. "Leaving him alive… it's not a mistake. It's a statement. A deliberate choice."

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. "A message to us. To the entire department. To you." His eyes flickered to yours, the unspoken weight of the last note, your name, hanging between you. "He's getting bolder. More confident."

"Sloppier, maybe?" you countered, running a hand through your hair, a nervous habit. "Taking more risks? Leaving a live witness? That's a huge gamble, even for him. Or is it a calculated risk? A way to prove his superiority, to show he can do anything, even under our noses?" You paced a few steps, the arguments forming in your head. "If he leaves a live witness, it means he's either incredibly arrogant, or he thinks the message itself is more important than the risk of being caught."

"Arrogance, certainly," Seungcheol murmured, his gaze distant, processing. "But perhaps not sloppiness in the way we usually perceive it. This isn't a slip-up; it's an escalation of his 'performance.' He’s not just killing his ‘actors’ anymore; he’s now publicly humiliating them, making an example of them. He’s pushing the boundaries, testing us, taunting us. He wants us to see his work, to hear his message directly. It feeds his ego, his 'Director' complex."

You stopped pacing, nodding slowly. "So, the 'off-script' line isn't just about the victim's failure; it's about our failure too. He's telling us we're not following his script. He knows we're close, or he thinks we're close enough to understand his twisted meaning. He's turning up the heat."

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the interview room. A nurse's frantic cry. The door burst open, and a junior officer stumbled out, his face ashen, gagging. You and Seungcheol exchanged a look of pure dread.

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step towards the room, a horrifying, visceral sound erupted from within – a sudden, wet gurgle, followed by a sickening thud. Then, silence. A terrible silence.

You and Seungcheol reached the doorway simultaneously, pushing past the frozen officers. The scene inside was a nightmare. The survivor, in a desperate, final act, had seized a piece of broken equipment – a medical clamp, a discarded shard of something – and had plunged it into his own throat. He lay on the floor, convulsing for a brief, agonizing moment. And then, he stilled.

The worst part: the sudden, violent surge of blood. It erupted from his throat, a thick, dark geyser that sprayed outwards, a horrifying crimson arc against the sterile off-white walls. Both you and Seungcheol, standing closest, were caught directly in its path. The hot, sticky liquid splattered across your faces, your clothes, your hands. It dripped from your hair, ran down your cheeks, stinging your eyes. The metallic tang filled your nostrils, overwhelming everything else.

The shock was absolute, primal. The sight of a life, so recently clinging to a fragile thread, extinguished so brutally, so deliberately, and the sickening sensation of the victim’s own blood soaking into your skin, left you reeling. The air was thick with the silent screams of the traumatized junior officers, the hushed whispers of horror from the paramedics, and the profound, gut-wrenching despair that permeated the room.

That brutal, self-inflicted act, the blood still wet on your faces, left Seungcheol and you, and indeed the entire department, fully, utterly disturbed. It was a violation not just of the victim, but of every single person who witnessed it. The weight of it was suffocating. The killer had managed to reach inside their very sanctuary, their place of supposed safety, and orchestrate a final, devastating act of despair, turning their only live witness into another casualty, another ghost.

The Captain’s office was a cold, sterile box, the polished table reflecting your grim faces. Captain Kim sat opposite you, his expression a tight mask of disapproval and deep frustration. The news of the survivor's suicide, the bloodbath in the interview room, had spread like wildfire through the department, eroding morale and confidence. His gaze was sharp, accusatory, landing heavily on both you and Seungcheol.

"This is unacceptable," he stated, his voice low, but vibrating with barely suppressed fury. "A live witness, murdered inside our own building, under our own watch. This is a complete failure, Detectives. A catastrophic failure." He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "I put my faith in you two. I chose you despite your… historical differences, because I believed you were the only ones who could crack this psychopath. But now…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, the full weight of his disappointment pressing down on you both. Then, he delivered the ultimatum, his voice steely, devoid of any leniency. "If you don't find this killer, if you don't bring him in, and soon, I will have no choice. I will be forced to give this case to someone else. Regardless of your past achievements, regardless of your so-called 'unique insights.' This cannot continue. The city is in a panic, the media is demanding answers, and we are losing control."

You and Seungcheol stood side by side, heads bowed, silent. There was nothing to say. No excuses, no deflections. The shame, the frustration, the deep, abiding failure to protect the victim, weighed heavily on both your shoulders. You simply nodded, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the immense pressure, the ticking clock. The case, your careers, perhaps even your lives, now hung in the balance.

The city felt colder that night, heavier, burdened by the day’s horrors. You were back at your apartment, the silence inside a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed the precinct. The first thing you did was strip off your blood-splattered clothes, the sticky, cold feel of it on your skin making your stomach lurch. You stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you, scrubbing frantically, trying to wash away not just the blood, but the memory, the chill of it seeping into your very bones. You scrubbed until your skin was raw, but the phantom touch of that final, horrifying spray lingered.

You emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, feeling raw, exposed, and utterly, profoundly exhausted. The tremor you had felt earlier was now a full-blown shake, your hands trembling uncontrollably, your knees threatening to buckle. You walked into the living room, intending to find some clean clothes, but froze. Seungcheol was there. He had let himself in, probably with the spare key you’d given him weeks ago, an unspoken agreement in the face of the killer’s targeting of you. He was sitting on your sofa, still in his blood-stained clothes, staring blankly ahead, his face pale and drawn, his own shock palpable.

He must have heard you. He turned, his gaze sweeping over you, his eyes immediately catching the uncontrolled trembling in your hands, the pallor of your skin, the vulnerability in your stance. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched you, his expression softening from its earlier, grim mask. He slowly pushed himself up from the sofa, his movements stiff, and walked towards you.

Without a word, he reached out, gently taking your shaking hands in his. His grip was firm, warm, a stark contrast to your own icy fingers. Your hands were still visibly trembling, the tremor echoing throughout your body. He held them, not trying to stop the shaking, but simply offering a steady anchor. His eyes, dark with shared trauma, met yours.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, barely above a whisper. It was an unexpected kindness, a profound understanding that cut through all the layers of your professional rivalry, all the years of competition. He wasn’t asking you to be the unshakeable detective, the impenetrable mind. He was simply acknowledging your pain, your fear, your humanity. He was telling you it was okay to break, just for a moment, in his presence. The words were a balm, a quiet permission to simply feel the terror that had been building inside you.

You didn't answer, couldn't. You just looked at him, your eyes wide, unshed tears blurring your vision. He held your gaze, his own eyes mirroring the exhaustion, the horror, the deep weariness. The tremor in your hands slowly, imperceptibly, lessened, not because the fear was gone, but because you were no longer fighting to hide it.

That night, the cold reality of the case, the horrifying image of the survivor's last act, pressed down on you both. The argument with the Captain, the chilling ultimatum – it all converged into an unbearable weight. You lay together in your bed, not speaking, the silence a shared understanding of profound trauma. He pulled you close, his arm wrapping around you, and you instinctively curled into him, burying your face against his chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady rhythm, a comforting counterpoint to the racing pulse in your own ears. He smelled faintly of the hospital, of blood, and something uniquely Seungcheol even after the shower – his scent maybe his perfume or whatever it was, despite everything, had become strangely comforting. He had become comforting. And you knew you were falling.

You didn't fight it, didn't question it. You simply clung to the warmth, the solid presence beside you. His fingers gently stroked your hair, a soft, soothing gesture. Neither of you said anything about the shift, the collapse of your long-standing animosity. The exhaustion was too deep, the shared trauma too raw. For the first time, you didn't feel alone against the creeping dread of the Director. You didn't push each other away. Instead, you found a strange, desperate solace in the close proximity, the quiet comfort of shared fear and unspoken longing. Cradled in his arms, you both finally succumbed to sleep, finding a fragile peace in the darkness, side by side. The Director's game had indeed escalated, but so had the bond between the two detectives tasked with stopping him.

The fragile peace found in each other's arms, a desperate solace against the terror of the man who had killed himself, and was brutally short-lived. The shared warmth, the quiet comfort, evaporated with the first rays of the dawn, replaced by a cold dread that clung to your skin. You woke before Seungcheol, the weight of his arm still a familiar anchor around you, but your mind was already racing, the recent horror of the survivor’s suicide burning vividly behind your eyelids. The Captain’s ultimatum, his icy disapproval, echoed in your thoughts. You knew the clock was ticking, not just on the case, but on your very involvement.

You disentangled yourself from his embrace, carefully, so as not to disturb his heavy sleep. He had barely rested in weeks again, and even this brief reprieve felt stolen, precious. You moved silently through the apartment, the early morning quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city beginning to stir. The lingering metallic tang of blood seemed to cling to everything, a phantom scent that wouldn't wash away.

You were halfway through preparing a rushed, lukewarm coffee, trying to gather your thoughts before the onslaught of another grueling day, when the call came. It wasn’t a precinct alert, not a general broadcast. It was a direct call to your secured line, bypassing the usual channels, hinting at an urgency, a personal gravity that made your blood run cold even before you answered. You picked up, your voice tight, sensing the shift in the universe around you. The voice on the other end was clipped, strained, an officer you knew well, but whose tone was now laced with an almost disbelieving horror.

The words hit you like a physical blow, stripping the air from your lungs. Fifth murder. The victim's name, whispered grimly, resonated through the phone, vibrating in your bones. Retired Detective Lee Chang-min. Your mind reeled. Detective Lee. Not just any retired detective. He was a legend, a mentor to so many, a towering figure in the police academy. But more than that, he was Seungcheol’s old mentor. The man who had guided his first steps in the force, who had championed his quiet brilliance, who had been a surrogate father figure in his formative years. The one person Seungcheol spoke of with uncharacteristic warmth, a rare glimpse into the fiercely guarded corners of his heart.

A choked sound escaped your throat. You didn’t even think. You just ran. Ran to the bedroom, throwing open the door. Seungcheol was still asleep, a peaceful, unsuspecting silhouette against the pale light. You reached for him, shaking his shoulder roughly, the words tumbling out of you in a strangled gasp. "Seungcheol! Wake up! It's… it’s Detective Lee. He’s… he’s gone. Murdered."

His eyes snapped open, a sudden, disoriented clarity in their depths. For a moment, he didn't comprehend, his mind still clouded by sleep. But then, the raw, unvarnished horror on your face, the tremor in your voice, slowly registered. He bolted upright, his mind catching up to the devastating truth. "No. No, it can't be. Lee-sunbaenim?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief.

You nodded, tears already stinging your own eyes, a profound empathy overwhelming you. You had seen the worst of humanity in this job, but this was different. This was personal, a direct, cruel blow aimed squarely at him. The Director wasn't just killing actors; he was destroying the support system of those trying to stop him.

The crime scene was a muted horror, a stark contrast to the theatrical flamboyance of the previous ones. It was Lee’s small, unassuming apartment, quiet, almost reverent in its stillness, save for the hushed, grim movements of the forensic team. The body lay on the worn rug of his living room, no wires, no grand suspension, but a chilling intimacy in the setting. It felt less like a stage and more like a final, private execution.

Seungcheol broke down. He saw his mentor, lying there, lifeless, and a guttural cry tore from his throat. It was raw, unadulterated grief, a sound of pure agony that you rarely heard from anyone, least of all from the perpetually controlled Choi Seungcheol. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, oblivious to the other officers, oblivious to everything but the crushing weight of his loss. His face was contorted, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands clenching into fists, trembling with a fury so profound it seemed to vibrate the very air. He buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with violent sobs, each one a testament to the depth of his bond with the man who lay before him.

You didn't hesitate. You dropped to your knees beside him, wrapping your arms around his shaking frame. He was rigid at first, resisting, his body taut with pain and disbelief. But you held him tighter, pulling him against you, letting him lean into your embrace. You felt his body shake, the tremors transferring to you, mixing with your own rising anguish. You held him through it, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, meaningless reassurances, offering what little comfort you could against the overwhelming tide of his despair. His tears soaked your shoulder, hot and relentless. He clung to you, his grip desperate, as if you were the only anchor left in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis. For the first time, all walls between you crumbled, replaced by the raw, undeniable humanity of shared grief and desperate need. You were no longer just colleagues; you were two shattered souls clinging to each other in the face of unspeakable horror.

A detective, grim-faced, approached, holding a small, folded piece of paper. The killer’s signature. You gently disentangled yourself from Seungcheol, who remained slumped against the wall, his sobs subsiding into ragged breaths. The officer handed you the note. It was personal, chillingly so. Addressed directly to Seungcheol, a cruel mockery of the mentor’s legacy: “He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.” It was a direct declaration of war, a promise to dismantle Seungcheol, piece by painful piece, starting with the very foundations of his training, his identity. The Director was not just avenging; he was indoctrinating, claiming Seungcheol as his next, most crucial, character.

The rest of the morning was a blur of interviews, forensics, and the numbing efficiency of police procedure. Seungcheol remained largely unresponsive, a hollow shell. He answered questions mechanically, his eyes distant, his grief a heavy shroud around him. You handled the rest, directing the teams, coordinating the search for new leads, all while keeping a constant, watchful eye on him. You felt the raw edge of your own emotions, but you pushed them down, focusing on the task, on being strong for him, even as your own heart ached with a profound sense of injustice.

As the afternoon wore on, a different kind of dread began to settle. You realized Seungcheol was gone. He had simply disappeared from the precinct, slipping away unnoticed in the controlled chaos. A cold knot formed in your stomach. You overheard a hushed conversation between two junior officers near the coffee machine. "…think he went to that place again. The one near Gangnam…"

A terrible certainty washed over you. That place. You knew exactly which one. The club. The same one he'd frequented since your university days, a dark, pulsing escape from the pressures of life, where he would drown his sorrows in anonymity and cheap whiskey. He hadn't been there in months, not since the case began, not since… since your forced proximity. But now, with the devastating loss of his mentor, you knew he would seek oblivion there. The memory of his vulnerability earlier, his shattered composure, filled you with a desperate urgency. This wasn't just about finding a missing detective; it was about saving a man on the brink.

The club was exactly as you remembered it – dark, loud, reeking of stale beer and desperation. The pulsing bass vibrated through the floor, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet despair you carried. You pushed through the throngs of dancing bodies, your eyes scanning the dim corners, the crowded bar. And there he was. Slumped at a secluded booth, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, his tie askew, his usually immaculate hair falling across his forehead. His eyes, when he finally looked up at you, were bloodshot, unfocused, clouded by alcohol and raw, incandescent pain.

You walked straight up to him, your expression grim. "Seungcheol. We're leaving. Now."

He squinted at you, a slow, drunken smile spreading across his face, devoid of mirth. "Y/N? My knight in shining… well, something. Came to rescue the damsel in distress, eh?" His voice was slurred, laced with a bitter sarcasm that cut deep.

"Don't be an idiot," you said, reaching for his arm. "You're coming home. You're drunk. You're not stable."

He pulled his arm away, his eyes suddenly flashing with a dangerous anger, fueled by grief and liquor. "Stable? Stable?! My mentor is dead, Y/N! Murdered! By that bastard! And you want me to be stable?! What kind of machine do you think I am?!"

You grabbed his arm again, firmer this time. "A detective. And a human being who needs to mourn, but not like this. Not here." You began to pull him up, but he resisted, a surprising strength in his drunken state.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped, pushing you away with unexpected force. He stumbled, almost falling, but caught himself, bracing against the table. The anger in his eyes was replaced by a raw, profound despair. "He taught me everything, Y/N. Everything! And I couldn't protect him. The Director… he's just playing with us. He's right. He taught me wrong. I'm a failure." His voice broke on the last word, choked with self-loathing.

You stared at him, your heart aching with a pain that wasn't entirely your own. The grief, the self-recrimination, the sheer, unadulterated vulnerability in his eyes was overwhelming. He wasn't the impenetrable Seungcheol you knew. He was a broken man, exposed and raw.

"You are not a failure, Seungcheol," you said, your voice low, trying to reach through the drunken haze, through the wall of his despair. "This isn't on you. This is on him. And we will get him."

He laughed, a harsh, broken sound that held no humor. "Will we? He's rewriting me, Y/N. He said so. 'I'll rewrite you.' And he's starting with erasing everyone I care about." His gaze sharpened, locking onto yours, fueled by alcohol and a desperate, confused longing. "Maybe… maybe this is what he wants. To break me down. To make me… like him."

The tension in the booth was suffocating. He leaned in, his face close to yours, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath. His eyes, usually so clear and controlled, were wild, a desperate fire burning within their depths. "You don't understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "what it's like… to lose everything. To feel so helpless. So… alone."

And then, fueled by grief, by alcohol, by the raw, unspoken longing that had been building between you for weeks, the tension exploded into a rough, breathless kiss. His lips crashed down on yours, desperate, uninhibited, tasting of whiskey and tears. It was a chaotic, almost violent embrace, born of despair and a desperate need for connection. He pulled you closer, his hands grasping your face, his fingers tangling in your hair, deepening the kiss, pouring all his anguish into it.

For a moment, you responded, lost in the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it, the desperate heat, the raw emotion. It was primal, visceral, a moment divorced from logic or consequence. But then, a cold clarity cut through the haze. This wasn't him. Not truly. This was his grief, his drunken emotions, his shattering pain seeking an outlet, a comfort, any comfort. This was not the confession of a clear mind, not the delicate blossoming of a conscious choice. This was regret, shame, and unspoken longing, warped by alcohol and overwhelming trauma. You knew. You knew this might be his drunk emotions, and acting on them now would only deepen the regret for both of you later.

With a sudden, decisive surge of strength, you pushed him off. He stumbled back, his eyes wide, confused, the daze of alcohol mixing with a dawning realization of what he had done. The kiss ended as abruptly as it began, leaving behind a profound silence, thick with shame and unspoken words. His face, still flushed from the alcohol, was now etched with a raw, mortified regret.

You stared at each other across the small booth, the pulsating music of the club a distant, meaningless thrum. The unspoken longing that had simmered between you for so long, now brutally exposed in that rough, breathless moment, hung in the air, heavy and painful.

You finally broke the silence, your voice tight, strained. "We're leaving." Your tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. You grabbed his arm again, this time he didn't resist. He allowed you to half-drag, half-support him out of the chaotic club, into the cool, biting night air.

The car ride back to your apartment was a suffocating silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, replaying the scene, the kiss, the raw exposure. You pulled into your building's parking lot, the familiar space offering no comfort. You helped him stumble into your apartment, guiding him towards the sofa. He mumbled something, a broken apology, but you didn't acknowledge it. You simply helped him lie down, throwing a blanket over him, and turned away.

That night, the bed felt cold, empty, a vast expanse of loneliness. You slept on the couch, the worn cushions offering little comfort. The memory of his lips on yours, rough and desperate, was branded onto your mind, a bitter reminder of a boundary crossed, of emotions unleashed in a moment of utter vulnerability and despair. The shame was suffocating, the regret profound. You couldn't sleep, your mind replaying the scene, the stark realization that you were teetering on a precipice, not just with the case, but with the man sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, on your sofa. The Director's game was not only about victims; it was about unraveling the minds of those trying to stop him, twisting their emotions, and throwing them into chaos. And in that moment, he had succeeded, leaving behind not just a dead mentor, but a shattered, complicated dynamic between the only two people who could stop him.

-----

The first light of dawn, pale and hesitant, crept through the blinds of your living room, illuminating the quiet aftermath of a night steeped in raw grief and unsettling intimacy. You had spent the night on the couch, the worn fabric offering little comfort, but the distance felt necessary, a fragile barrier against the emotional wreckage of the previous evening. The memory of Seungcheol’s desperate kiss, fueled by despair and alcohol, still burned on your lips, a bitter brand. The shame, the regret, the sudden, brutal exposure of a longing you had both fiercely suppressed, hung heavy in the air.

You heard a stirring from the sofa. Seungcheol. You tensed, bracing yourself for the inevitable awkwardness, the unspoken weight of what had transpired. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements stiff, almost hesitant. The dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced, but the wild, desperate fire that had consumed them hours earlier had been extinguished, replaced by a dull ache, a profound weariness. He was sober now, or at least, significantly more so, and the clarity seemed to bring with it a wave of fresh mortification.

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the room, finally landing on you. His eyes held a mixture of deep shame, lingering pain, and something akin to quiet desperation. He pushed himself off the sofa, moving slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a skittish animal. He stopped a few feet from you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture reflecting a hesitant vulnerability you rarely saw.

“Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, rough, a testament to the tears and the alcohol of the night before. He swallowed, visibly struggling to find the right words, to navigate the immense chasm that had opened between you. “About last night… I… I’m so sorry. I was… I was out of line. I was drunk, I was grieving, and I… I lost control. It shouldn’t have happened. I deeply, deeply apologize.” The words were strained, heartfelt, laced with a raw regret that pierced through your own guarded defenses. He didn't offer excuses, didn't try to blame the alcohol entirely; he simply accepted responsibility, a rare and profound gesture from the usually unyielding Seungcheol. He looked directly at you, his gaze unwavering despite the shame, waiting for your response, for your condemnation.

You looked back at him, your own heart a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. Anger, frustration, embarrassment… but also a strange, unexpected pang of empathy. You saw the genuine pain in his eyes, the self-loathing. It wasn't just remorse for the kiss; it was a profound apology for his entire collapse, for exposing his deepest vulnerability. You knew his words were sincere, that he was trying to mend something irrevocably broken.

“It’s… it’s fine, Seungcheol,” you managed, your voice softer than you intended, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. It wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. But a part of you couldn't bear to add to his already crushing burden. “We both… we were both pushed to the edge. It was a moment of… weakness. For both of us.” You didn't acknowledge the shared longing, the raw attraction that had been momentarily unleashed. You focused on the trauma, the stress, the exhaustion, the only acceptable explanations for such a breach of your carefully constructed walls.

He nodded slowly, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him, as if a great weight had been lifted, however momentarily. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the lingering fatigue and despair. He was still reeling from his mentor’s death, from the Director’s chilling message, and from his own humiliating fall from control. But now, he was way more stable, the raw edges of his grief softened by a night of uneasy sleep, and perhaps, by your reluctant forgiveness.

He walked over to the armchair, slumping into it, his shoulders still hunched. You moved to the kitchen, resuming your task of making coffee, the mundane act a welcome distraction. The silence stretched, uncomfortable but less volatile than before. Then, he spoke, his voice low, almost contemplative, laced with a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within you.

He began to tell you about his mentor, Detective Lee Chang-min. He spoke about him not just as a superior officer, but as a genuine friend, a guiding light who had seen something in a young, introverted Seungcheol that others had missed. “Lee-sunbaenim,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, but clearer now, no longer slurred by alcohol, “he treated me like a son, Y/N. Not just a student. He… he saw me. He didn’t just teach me procedures; he taught me how to think, how to see the patterns others couldn’t. He taught me how to trust my instincts, even when they went against the grain.” His gaze drifted to a distant point, lost in memory. “He was the one who encouraged me to pursue the criminal psychology specialization, even when everyone else said it was ‘too theoretical’ for police work. He said it was about understanding the ‘why,’ not just the ‘what.’ He said true justice meant dissecting the mind of the perpetrator, not just catching them. He stood by me, defended me, when I made my first big mistakes. He never judged. He only guided.”

He continued, his voice wavering occasionally, painting a vivid picture of the man he had lost. “He used to take me fishing on his days off, even though I hated fishing. Just to talk. To listen. He helped me through my toughest times at the academy, through family struggles. He believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. He was a rock, Y/N. Unshakeable. And now… now he’s gone. Because of him. Because of me.” His voice cracked on the last word, the grief returning in a fresh, sharp wave. “And that note… ‘He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.’ It’s like he’s trying to erase everything Lee-sunbaenim gave me. To corrupt his memory. To break me down piece by piece. He’s taking everything, Y/N. Everything.” His fists clenched, a raw, silent fury battling with the profound sorrow.

You listened carefully, silently, letting him vent, letting the raw grief pour out of him. You didn't interrupt, didn't offer empty platitudes. You simply sat, your own mug of coffee cooling in your hands, offering the silent, unwavering presence he needed. You watched the pain etched on his face, the slow, agonizing process of him grappling with a loss so profound it threatened to shatter his very foundation. For the first time, you saw past the rivalry, past the stoicism, to the deeply human core of him. And in that quiet space, your understanding of Seungcheol deepened, evolving beyond the confines of competition and mutual dislike. You saw his humanity, his vulnerability, and a quiet, fierce empathy blossomed in your own heart.

The morning bled into afternoon, then evening, a relentless cycle of work. The grief remained, a heavy shroud, but it no longer paralyzed him. Driven by a grim determination, fueled by a desire for vengeance for Lee-sunbaenim, Seungcheol threw himself into the case with an almost frightening intensity. You worked alongside him, matching his furious pace, sifting through mountains of old papers, archived police reports, newspaper clippings, anything that might connect the victims. He pulled every dusty box from the precinct archives, every neglected cold case file, convinced that if the Director was so meticulously "rewriting" his past, then his past had to be hidden somewhere in the city's forgotten records. You ordered every digital archive of Seoul's cultural events from the last decade, every theater production, every concert, every play – successful or failed.

It was late, the precinct office almost deserted again, save for the two of you and the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were both slumped over separate desks, surrounded by mountains of paper, discarded coffee cups, and the stale smell of desperation. Seungcheol, with a frustrated groan, pushed aside a pile of unrelated files. His fingers, numb from hours of flipping through pages, brushed against a dusty, unassuming folder at the bottom of the stack. It was a thin, old file, labeled simply: "Seongsan Arts Center - Incident Report - 20XX." Something about the date, the name, nagged at him. He pulled it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He opened it, and as his eyes scanned the faded print, his body stiffened. A sudden, sharp intake of breath. He was no longer slumped; he was ramrod straight, his eyes wide, fixed on the page. “Y/N,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with a profound shock, a terrible realization. “Y/N, I found the one.”

You looked up, startled by the intensity in his voice. You watched as he pulled out a faded program, a stack of cast lists, and a series of police reports from within the folder. He laid them out on the desk, his hands trembling slightly.

A new clue emerged, chilling and undeniable. His finger traced names on the cast list, then moved to the victim profiles you had pinned to the wall. “Ji-eun… she was listed as an understudy, though the program says ‘chorus member.’ The church victim… he was the stage manager. The politician’s daughter… her father was a major investor, pushing for the production.” His voice gained a desperate urgency, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a horrifying inevitability. “Lee-sunbaenim… he was assigned to the initial complaints about the production, the financial irregularities, the on-set accidents.”

He looked up at you, his eyes blazing with a mix of horror and triumph. “Every victim,” he stated, his voice hushed, “every single one of them, had a connection to this. To a failed local play from four years ago—The Crimson Mask. All of them were either in it, or intimately involved in its spectacular shutdown.”

The realization hit you like a thunderclap, echoing your own earlier, wild theory, but now grounded in concrete evidence. The Director. This wasn't just about random "roles"; it was about specific, predefined roles in a long-forgotten tragedy. You realized with a sickening clarity: the killer is avenging something from that production’s cancellation. The play, The Crimson Mask, had been notoriously troubled: accusations of fraud, a leading actor injured on set, unexplained delays, spiraling budgets, and ultimately, a spectacular, very public cancellation just days before its grand opening. It had been a scandal that briefly dominated local headlines, then faded into obscurity. But for someone, it was still a live wound, festering, demanding retribution. The Director’s notes, his theatrical staging, his “acts” and “performances”—it all suddenly made horrifying sense. This wasn't a serial killer; it was a ghost, haunting the memories of a failed artistic endeavor, exacting a terrible price for a forgotten slight.

The exhaustion that had weighed you down for weeks suddenly evaporated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. This was it. The link. The motive. The path to the killer. You and Seungcheol, now a single, driven unit, began to sift through the newly discovered documents with furious intensity. Every name, every incident report, every piece of forgotten gossip, now held a terrifying new significance. You started cross-referencing names from the play’s production with any reported incidents, any disappearances, any disgruntled individuals from that time. You meticulously built a new timeline, charting the rise and spectacular fall of The Crimson Mask, hoping to identify anyone with a motive, anyone who might harbor such a deep, burning resentment for its cancellation. The blurred birthmark from the church video now felt like a desperate plea for identification, a singular mark on a vengeful phantom.

You were deep in the new rabbit hole, the office buzzing with your renewed energy, when your phone rang again. A private number, withheld. You hesitated, glancing at Seungcheol, who was now pulling up old police records related to the Seongsan Arts Center incident. He nodded, gesturing for you to answer. You picked up, your voice crisp despite the underlying tension.

“Detective Y/N,” a woman’s voice said, soft but firm, with a slight, almost imperceptible accent that wasn’t local. “My name is Lee Min-jun. I’m Detective Lee Chang-min’s daughter. I understand you’re handling his… case. I’d like to speak with you.”

A cold prickle of suspicion immediately ran down your spine. It was suspicious. Highly suspicious. You knew Lee Chang-min’s daughter. You had met her briefly years ago. She was an accomplished architect, based in Rome, Italy, according to his last update. She was definitely not in Seoul. The subtle accent, while perhaps a result of living abroad, was just enough to raise a flag. This wasn't a distraught daughter calling from a grief-stricken flight. This felt… off. Too calm. Too precise.

Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk. He had heard your end of the conversation, caught the subtle change in your expression. He was already reaching for his sidearm, his hand hovering over it, his body tensing, his gaze fixed on you. He picked up his own phone, dialing a silent, internal number, preparing for a trace.

“Ms. Lee,” you said, keeping your voice steady, injecting just enough formality to mask your growing alarm. “Thank you for calling. I’m so sorry for your loss. Where are you calling from?”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle on the other end, devoid of humor. “Oh, I’m… closer than you think, Detective Y/N. Much, much closer. I just need to speak with you. Urgently. Alone. There are things about my father, about this ‘Director’… things I can only tell you in person.” She named a specific, secluded café, tucked away in an old, quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul, known for its antique charm and discreet corners. A perfect place for a private, deadly meeting.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. This could be the killer itself. A trap, meticulously laid, designed to lure you out, vulnerable and alone. The Director’s message to Seungcheol: “I’ll rewrite you.” What better way to rewrite him than to take the one person he was desperately trying to protect? This was personal bait, and you were the one being reeled in.

You spoke into the phone, keeping your voice even. “I understand, Ms. Lee. I can meet you there. But it might take me a little while to get away. Give me twenty minutes.” You were buying time, letting Seungcheol set up a perimeter, gather backup.

You ended the call, your hand trembling slightly as you placed the receiver back in its cradle. Seungcheol was already on the internal line, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, describing the location, giving orders, his eyes never leaving yours. He had heard enough. He was already reaching for his jacket, pulling his weapon. He didn't need to ask if you were going alone. He knew the risk, knew the potential for a trap. He was already planning how to shadow you, how to keep you safe. He stays in reach. Closer than anyone, the one person who would break every protocol to ensure you walked away from this. The Director’s stage was set, and you were about to step into his deadliest act yet.

The twenty minutes you had bought felt like an eternity, a slow-motion countdown to an unknown horror. The address provided by “Lee Min-jun” led to a cluster of deserted warehouses on the forgotten industrial outskirts of Seoul, a landscape of crumbling brick and rusting metal. It was the perfect stage for the Director, isolated and grim, far from the bustling heart of the city. You drove there, every nerve ending screaming, every instinct on high alert. You knew it was a trap. You felt it. But the lure of the information, the desperate hope that this might be the breakthrough, compelled you forward.

Seungcheol had been a phantom presence from the moment you left the precinct. You hadn't seen his car, but you knew he was there, a shadow in your rearview mirror, a guardian angel you begrudgingly relied upon. His instructions, relayed in terse, urgent whispers over your comms, were precise: "Maintain speed. No sudden stops. I'm three blocks back, heading your way. Backup is five minutes out. Don't go in alone, Y/N. I mean it." The last words were a low growl, a direct echo of his fury in the theatre's underground base. You knew he meant it. You just also knew you couldn't wait.

You parked your unmarked car a block away from the designated warehouse, pulling into the shadow of a crumbling, abandoned factory building. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and forgotten industry. A cold wind, carrying the ghosts of long-dead machinery, whipped around you. The warehouse itself loomed, a vast, decaying monument to neglect, its windows shattered like vacant eyes. It looked exactly like the kind of place where a director of death would stage his most personal act. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

You checked your sidearm, the familiar weight a small comfort in your trembling hand. You wore a covert comms earpiece, feeling Seungcheol’s distant, watchful presence, an invisible lifeline. He would be close. He had to be. You took a deep, shaky breath, pushing down the rising tide of fear. You were a detective. This was your job. But the thought of your name on that note, the chilling prophecy of your "role," made your skin crawl. You were the bait.

Stepping out of the car, you moved with practiced caution, your footsteps muffled on the cracked asphalt. The warehouse seemed to swallow the light, its vast interior a gaping maw of shadows. You crept towards a gaping hole where a loading bay door once stood, the rusted remnants like broken teeth. The silence inside was oppressive, heavy, broken only by the drip of water and the distant rattle of metal. Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe, morphing into imagined threats. You moved slowly, methodically, your eyes scanning, your senses heightened, straining for any sign of movement, any breath, any sound. The cold prickle of unease intensified, a growing certainty that you were not alone.

And then, he was there.

A blur of motion from your peripheral vision, a sudden, swift lunge from the darkest corner. You had barely a split second to react, your detective instincts screaming. A figure, cloaked in black, emerging from the deep shadows of the warehouse. Not Lee Min-jun, the architect from Rome. This was the Director. His movements were swift, calculated, terrifyingly efficient. Before you could even raise your weapon, before you could articulate a single syllable, he was on you. His arm, strong and unyielding, clamped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, unyielding chest. A thick, coarse hand, gloved, clamped over your mouth, stifling your cry. The scent of dust and something metallic, something vaguely like old stage grease, filled your nostrils. He was disturbingly close, his breath warm against your ear. You felt the cold, hard press of something against your side – a knife.

Your heart exploded in your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Fear, cold and absolute, washed over you, paralyzing you for a split second. This was it. This was the "role" he had promised. Your body reacted instinctively, violently. You thrashed, kicked, elbowed backwards with all your might, trying to dislodge his grip, to break free. His hold was iron, unyielding. He pulled you back, further into the deepening gloom of the warehouse, away from the distant opening, away from any potential light, away from…

A guttural growl, low and dangerous, ripped through the silence of the warehouse. Not your own. Not the Director's. It was Seungcheol.

He arrived. Not a second later, not a breath out of sync. Just as the Director began to drag you deeper into the shadows, just as the cold edge of the knife pressed a little harder against your side, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the entrance of the warehouse, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Seungcheol. He had seen the struggle, timed his intervention with a precision that bordered on miraculous. He hadn't bothered with formalities, hadn't waited for backup. He had burst through the entrance, gun drawn, firing a warning shot into the ceiling, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. And then, with a desperate, almost feral roar, he acted. He killed the lights.

The warehouse plunged into immediate, absolute darkness. The sudden transition was disorienting, a violent assault on your senses. The Director’s grip faltered for a mere instant, a moment of confusion in the chaos. That was all you needed. You twisted, elbowed him hard in the stomach, and pulled frantically against his weakening hold. He grunted, a sound of frustrated surprise, and you felt his grip finally break. You stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty floor, gasping for air, the metallic taste of fear filling your mouth.

The next few seconds were a terrifying symphony of sounds: Seungcheol’s rapid footsteps, the click-clack of his gun being reloaded, his urgent, shouted commands – "Y/N! Are you okay?! Stay down!" – and the frantic, retreating scuffle of the Director. You heard the sounds of shattering glass, the scraping of metal, as the killer scrambled to escape into the pre-dawn night, vanishing as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. The brief, chaotic battle was over. The killer escaped, but you were safe.

You lay on the cold concrete, trembling, your lungs burning, struggling to regain control of your breathing. The phantom sensation of the knife at your side, the rough hand over your mouth, lingered like a physical wound. The adrenaline surged through your veins, leaving you nauseous and dizzy. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, trying to orient yourself in the oppressive darkness.

Then, Seungcheol was there. His footsteps were heavy, urgent, closing in on you. You heard the click of his tactical flashlight, and a narrow beam of light cut through the gloom, momentarily blinding you before it settled on your face. His eyes, in the harsh glare, were wide, filled with a raw, desperate fear that eclipsed everything else. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands immediately sweeping over your body, checking for injuries, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. "Y/N? Are you hurt? Are you hit?" His voice was hoarse, thick with barely suppressed panic.

You shook your head, still gasping for air, your throat raw. "No. No, I'm okay. He… he just had a knife. He didn't use it." You pointed vaguely into the darkness where the killer had vanished. "He went that way. Towards the back alley."

He didn't pursue. Not yet. His priority was you. He pulled you up, his arm steady around your waist, helping you to your feet. You leaned into him, suddenly weak in the knees, the terrifying reality of how close you had come hitting you with full force. Backup sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, closer. They had made it. Just a little too late.

That night, after the chaos of the crime scene had been processed, the statements taken, and the lingering dread had settled like a heavy fog, Seungcheol drove you both back to his place. The car ride was steeped in a profound, unsettling silence. The usual witty retorts, the simmering arguments, the barbed comments that usually filled the space between you were absent. There was only the quiet hum of the engine, the glow of the dashboard lights, and the crushing weight of the near-abduction. Your body thrummed with residual adrenaline, and the image of the Director’s cloaked figure lunging from the shadows replayed endlessly in your mind. Seungcheol’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw clenched, his profile grim. He glanced at you occasionally, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes, filled with an unreadable mix of concern and something else you couldn't quite decipher. The air between you crackled with unspoken words, with raw, unacknowledged emotions that had nowhere to go, no safe space to land.

You arrived at his apartment, the building feeling like a fortress against the unseen terrors of the city. He unlocked the door, the click echoing in the sudden quiet, and you stepped inside, the oppressive silence following you. The lights were low, casting long shadows across the familiar, minimalist living space. Neither of you spoke. You moved slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance, shedding your jacket, leaving it slumped on a chair. The scent of him, faint but familiar, was surprisingly grounding.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click final. He didn't move immediately towards you. He remained by the door, his back to you, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched into fists. He was processing, reliving the moment he burst through that door, the sight of you in the killer’s grasp. The agony of that near-miss, the terror of almost losing you, was etched into every rigid line of his body.

Finally, he turned. His face was pale, drawn, his eyes shadowed, but clear. There was no anger now, only a profound, almost desperate vulnerability that stripped him bare. He walked towards you slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure whether to approach or retreat. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze locked onto yours, raw and unblinking.

Seungcheol confessed. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, thick with unshed tears and a pain so deep it resonated in your very soul. It was a broken whisper, a stark admission that tore through the last vestiges of his carefully constructed composure. “Y/N,” he began, his voice barely audible, “when I saw him… when I saw him grab you… when I thought he was going to take you, just like the others…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, struggling to control the tremor in his voice. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide, haunted by the image. “My blood went cold. My entire world… it just narrowed to that moment. To getting you out.”

He took a shaky breath, his confession pouring out of him, raw and unvarnished, stripped of all pretense. “I swear to God, Y/N, in that moment, all I could think was… I would rather. I would rather take his place. I would rather die. I would rather take the killer’s place than see you hurt again.” The words were a desperate plea, a confession of fear so profound it was almost a physical ache in the air between you. He wasn't just saying he'd protect you; he was saying he'd sacrifice himself, willingly, without a second thought. It was the most selfless, terrifyingly vulnerable admission he had ever made, revealing a depth of feeling that stunned you into silence. The implications were staggering, monumental. He feared for your safety more than his own life, more than any case, more than anything.

His admission hit you with the force of a tidal wave. All your carefully constructed walls, the years of competitive rivalry, the lingering distrust, the recent awkwardness – they shattered. His words were raw, primal, stripping away everything but the terrifying truth of his feelings, and by extension, your own. You saw the agonizing fear, the desperate, protective love, blazing in his eyes.

You didn’t think. You didn't intellectualize. You didn't pull away. Instead, driven by an equally desperate, raw instinct, you surged forward. Your hands, trembling slightly, clamped onto the lapels of his shirt, pulling him towards you with a force born of overwhelming emotion. His face, still etched with raw confession, was suddenly inches from yours. Your eyes, wide and blazing, locked with his.

“Then push me away,” you whispered, your voice fierce, trembling with a mixture of terror and defiance, a desperate plea and a challenge. “Push me away if you don’t like this. Push me away if you don’t feel it too. Because I can’t… I can’t do this alone anymore.” The words were a dare, an invitation to a precipice you both stood on, terrified but unable to retreat. You were laying your own vulnerability bare, mirroring his, demanding a response, an acknowledgment of the terrifying, undeniable connection that had forged itself in the fires of shared trauma.

He didn't push you away. He didn't hesitate. His eyes, wide and filled with a sudden, answering fire, dropped to your lips. In that moment, all the unspoken longing, all the suppressed attraction, all the shared terror and desperate need, exploded.

The kiss was raw. It was desperate. It was utterly consuming. His mouth descended on yours with a fierce hunger, a primal urgency that left you breathless. His hands, no longer clenched, found your waist, pulling you against him, crushing your bodies together, eliminating every last inch of space between you. It was a torrent of pent-up emotion, a release of weeks of tension, of fear, of silent longing. It was the kiss of two people who had stared death in the face and, in doing so, had finally seen each other, truly seen each other, for the first time.

It was also soft, a tender counterpoint to the wild hunger. His lips moved against yours with a surprising gentleness amidst the ferocity, a quiet acknowledgment of the vulnerability, the profound connection that was forming. His fingers tightened at your waist, holding you impossibly close, as if afraid that if he let go, you would simply vanish.

You responded with equal intensity, your hands rising, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still. Your lips moved in sync with his, a desperate dance of fear and burgeoning love. You were both terrified of what you felt, of the monumental shift, of the implications this would have on your already complicated lives, on the very fabric of your professional existence. This wasn't just a physical act; it was a devastating emotional confession, a complete surrender to the terrifying truth that had been building between you.

But neither of you stopped it this time. There was no alcohol to blame, no exhaustion to excuse the lapse. This was real. This was a choice. And in that moment, in the suffocating silence of his apartment, illuminated only by the faint city lights filtering through the blinds, you both chose to fall. He didn't push you away. He held you closer, his body molding against yours, a silent promise, a desperate comfort, a terrifying, beautiful beginning. The world outside, with its Director and his chilling plays, faded into insignificance. For now, there was only the two of you, lost in the overwhelming, undeniable current of your shared vulnerability, and the sudden, breathtaking reality of what you felt for each other.

The first light of dawn, tinged with a fragile, almost hopeful pink, barely touched the windows of Seungcheol’s apartment. You were already awake, the events of the previous night — the near-abduction, his desperate confession, and the raw, uninhibited kiss that had followed — replaying in your mind like a fever dream. The tenderness of his embrace still lingered, a phantom warmth that both comforted and terrified you. You were no longer just colleagues, not even just rivals. The boundaries had dissolved, replaced by a profound, undeniable connection forged in the crucible of shared trauma and raw, burgeoning emotion. But the case remained, a dark shadow hanging over this fragile new intimacy. The Director was still out there, and he was getting bolder, more personal.

You slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Seungcheol, who was still deeply asleep beside you. He had finally found a true, exhausted respite, and you couldn't bring yourself to break it. Your mind, however, was already racing, furiously assembling the fragments of what you knew, what you had learned from the Director's journal, what he desired. Control. Performance. A final, grand spectacle. A plan, dangerous and audacious, began to form in your mind. A trap. The only way to catch a madman obsessed with orchestration was to give him a stage, and then, to flip the script.

You moved silently into the living room, grabbing a notepad and pen. The faint glow of the city lights outside provided just enough illumination. You began to sketch, to write, to diagram, your thoughts flowing freely, unchecked by the usual caution. The Director considered you "Act I" – a character from his past, essential to his narrative. He wanted to "rewrite" Seungcheol. He played on theatrical themes. He craved control, but perhaps, in his arrogance, he could be controlled.

An hour later, Seungcheol stirred. You heard the creak of the bed, then the soft padding of his bare feet on the floor. He walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair endearingly disheveled. He stopped short when he saw you, hunched over the notepad, the determined set of your shoulders, the frantic energy emanating from you. He looked from your intense face to the scribbled notes, then back to you, a question in his eyes, a dawning realization of your focus.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, a faint awkwardness lingering from the night’s overwhelming events, yet beneath it, a new, almost tender possessiveness in his gaze.

You looked up, a manic gleam in your eyes. The plan was crystallizing, demanding to be voiced. “Morning. I have an idea. A… dangerous one.” You pushed the notepad towards him, tapping a finger on your intricate diagram. “He’s obsessed with control, right? With his ‘performance.’ He sees us as characters. He wants to rewrite you. He wants a grand finale.”

Seungcheol leaned over, his brow furrowed as he read your notes, the lines of exhaustion still etched around his eyes, but now tinged with sharp intelligence. Your plan was bold, terrifyingly so. It involved luring the Director out into the open, using his own obsessions against him. It was a high-stakes gamble, risking everything.

As he absorbed the details, his eyes widened slightly. He looked up at you, a silent question passing between you. He knew what you were suggesting, implicitly. He knew the risk. And then, slowly, a grim resolve settled over his features.

“I’ll be the bait,” he said, his voice quiet, firm, utterly resolved. The words hung in the air, a devastating pronouncement. You had considered it, of course, but pushed it away as too dangerous, too personal. Yet, his logic, even in this terrifying proposal, was impeccable. “It makes sense,” he continued, almost dispassionately, as if discussing another detective’s fate. “He sees me as the ‘flawed hero’ from that original play. I was the male lead, after all. He wants to ‘rewrite’ me, to correct my role, to make me part of his ultimate production. I’m the logical choice for his grand finale. He’ll come for me.”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t want him to do it. The thought of him, alone, exposed, walking into the killer’s trap, sent a spear of pure terror through you. The idea, once an abstract possibility in your planning, now materialized into a horrifying reality. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. All the raw emotion from the night before, the desperate fear of losing him, surged to the surface.

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat, your voice thin with desperate fear. You reached out, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into his bicep. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous, cheol. He’s unpredictable. He’s obsessed. He’ll hurt you. He’ll kill you. In the most fucked up way possible-” Your voice rose, bordering on a plea. “We can find another way. We can use a decoy, someone else. This isn’t… this isn’t necessary!” You clung to his arm, your eyes wide with desperate entreaty. “Please, cheol. Don’t do this. I can’t… I can’t lose you.” The words, raw and unbidden, tumbled out, laying bare the depth of your fear, the terrifying realization of how much he had come to mean to you. The very thought of him in the Director’s hands, of him becoming another victim in this twisted play, was unbearable.

He looked down at your hands, then back into your eyes, his gaze steady, unwavering, despite the obvious pain and apprehension flickering within their depths. He gently covered your hand with his own, his thumb stroking your knuckles, a comforting gesture that belied the terrifying decision he had just made. His voice was soft, laced with a quiet, heartbreaking resolve. “If it means protecting you, Y/N,” he said, his gaze holding yours, unflinching, “I’ll take the stage.” It was a silent vow, a terrifying declaration of love and sacrifice, echoing his confession from the previous night, solidifying it into an undeniable truth. He would offer himself, willingly, if it meant keeping you safe. His own life, his own pain, was secondary to your survival.

You choked back a sob, tears stinging your eyes. There was no arguing with that kind of resolve, that level of selflessness. He had made his decision, and his stubbornness, usually a source of irritation, was now a heartbreaking testament to his devotion. He was willing to become the Director's final act, if it meant ending the play.

The meeting with Captain Kim was tense, the air thick with unspoken anxieties. You and Seungcheol stood side-by-side, a united front, but the strain was visible on both your faces. You had laid out the entire plan: the lure, the staging, the precise timing of the backup. You explained how the Director's obsession with Seungcheol as the "flawed hero" from The Crimson Mask could be manipulated, how his need for a final, grand performance would draw him out. The Captain listened, his face grim, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his desk.

“This is… an extreme risk, Detectives,” Captain Kim stated, his voice tight. “Putting a detective in harm’s way, intentionally using him as bait… this could cost someone their life. Let alone, Detective Choi’s.” His gaze was fixed on Seungcheol, a mixture of paternal concern and professional apprehension in his eyes. He knew Seungcheol was invaluable, a rising star. The thought of losing him, especially in such a calculated maneuver, was clearly agonizing. He had trusted you both with the case, but this… this pushed the boundaries of every protocol, every acceptable risk.

The Captain questioned Seungcheol directly. “Detective Choi,” he said, his voice firm, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. “Do you truly want to do this? Are you absolutely certain about this plan? Are you willing to walk into a trap that could be your last?”

Seungcheol met the Captain’s gaze, his own eyes clear, resolute. He didn't look at you, didn't seek your approval or your protest. This decision was his alone. He squared his shoulders, his voice calm, unwavering, filled with a quiet conviction that echoed through the room. “I trust her, sir. I trust her more than myself.” The words were simple, profound, a testament to the absolute faith he now placed in you, in your plan, in your ability to bring him back. It was a startling declaration, publicly acknowledging the depth of his reliance, his dependence on you, the woman he had once despised.

The Captain’s gaze shifted to you, a new intensity in his eyes, searching your face for any sign of uncertainty, any hint of recklessness. He saw only grim determination, a fierce resolve that mirrored Seungcheol’s own. He saw the same unwavering trust, the silent promise.

You stepped forward slightly, your voice ringing with a conviction that brooked no argument. “I won’t let him die, sir.” Your declaration was fierce, a vow forged in the fire of fear and a desperate, burgeoning love. It was a promise to the Captain, to the department, but most profoundly, to Seungcheol himself. You would bring him back. You would not allow the Director to claim him.

The Captain sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of his entire career. He looked from you to Seungcheol, then back again, seeing the unbreakable bond, the unspoken commitment that radiated from you both. He saw not just two detectives, but two people utterly, irrevocably intertwined, bound by a shared purpose and a terrifying, personal stake. He knew, intuitively, that there was no dissuading either of you. He finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, a reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, “alright. I’ll approve it. But every single unit, every man, every resource, will be at your disposal. Set up the backup exactly the way you need it, Detective Y/N. Every contingency. Don’t leave anything to chance.”

Relief washed over you, cold and sharp, immediately replaced by a surge of renewed focus. The plan was in motion. The trap was set. The stage was being prepared for the Director’s final performance. You worked tirelessly for the next few days, meticulously planning every detail. The location, chosen to evoke a sense of theatrical grandeur and isolation, was an abandoned opera house on the city's outskirts, its decaying beauty a fitting backdrop for the Director's macabre art. You studied the blueprints, coordinated with SWAT teams, arranged for surveillance, drone coverage, every escape route sealed, every entry point monitored. Seungcheol, his resolve unwavering, trained with the precision of a soldier, preparing for his role as the bait. He practiced signals, evasive maneuvers, every possible scenario. The weight of his impending sacrifice, his terrifying gamble, hung heavy in the air, a silent, constant presence between you. But beneath the fear, beneath the professional intensity, lay a deeper, more profound connection, a shared destiny that would either lead to triumph, or to an unimaginable tragedy. The final act was upon you.

The air in the abandoned opera house was thick with anticipation, a ghostly silence preceding the final act of a twisted play. Days of meticulous planning had culminated in this moment. The grandeur of the decaying theater, with its velvet-draped boxes and peeling gold leaf, was an ideal stage for the Director's twisted obsession with performance. Every detail had been considered, every contingency mapped out, every escape route covered. The city’s best tactical units were positioned, invisible in the surrounding darkness, waiting for your signal. The Captain, despite his lingering apprehension, had given his full support, his trust in you and Seungcheol absolute.

Your plan hinged on the Director’s insatiable ego, his desperate need for control and recognition. You had carefully orchestrated a lure designed to be irresistible to him. Anonymous, cryptic invitations, crafted with phrases lifted directly from his journal – “A final performance,” “The grand unveiling,” “A rewritten destiny” – were disseminated through the dark web channels he was known to frequent. You created a buzz, a digital whisper campaign hinting at a secret, exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime show featuring the very detective who had dared to defy him. The bait was Seungcheol himself, framed as the “flawed hero” finally stepping into his true role under the Director's guidance. The trap was meticulously set, an intricate web of digital and physical cues designed to appeal directly to his grandiose delusions.

And he walked right in. Just like you wanted.

The first sign was a flicker on the surveillance monitors. A solitary figure, cloaked in black, moving with an eerie familiarity, slipped through a pre-identified access point at the back of the opera house. No alarms triggered, no sensors tripped – a testament to his uncanny stealth. He moved like a phantom, utterly confident in his dominion over this stage. The comms crackled in your ear, low and urgent. "Director confirmed. Entering perimeter."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. You were positioned in a makeshift command center, set up in a dusty box seat high above the stage, overlooking the vast, empty auditorium. Seungcheol was already in position, a solitary figure illuminated by a single, carefully placed spotlight at center stage. He stood there, a beacon in the cavernous space, a bait for a monster. The comms between you and him were open, a fragile, direct lifeline.

“He’s here, Seungcheol,” you whispered into your mic, your voice tight with apprehension. “He just entered the main hall.”

“Understood,” his voice was calm, steady, devoid of the fear that was twisting your gut. A professional, playing his part. “Curtain’s up.”

The next few minutes were agonizing. You watched on the thermal imaging, seeing the Director’s heat signature move slowly, deliberately, towards the stage. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring the moment, preparing for his grand entrance. You saw him emerge from the shadows backstage, his black cloak billowing slightly as he stepped onto the stage, facing Seungcheol. He held something in his hand, something long and glinting.

Seungcheol was taken mid-operation. It was a crucial part of the plan. You watched as the Director moved, with surprising speed, to overpower Seungcheol. A brief struggle, perfectly choreographed, designed to appear convincing without putting Seungcheol in actual immediate danger – though the line was terrifyingly thin. The Director struck, and Seungcheol went down, seemingly unconscious, just as planned. The Director then dragged his seemingly lifeless form deeper onto the stage, towards a pre-set pulley system, an old, rusty mechanism designed for theatrical backdrops.

The Director straightened, his masked face turning to Seungcheol, who lay seemingly inert. "A true hero's fall, Detective Choi," the Director's voice echoed, cold and clear in the vast space, carrying an almost theatrical cadence. "A fitting end for the flawed protagonist." He then stepped over Seungcheol's body, moving towards the ropes.

But Seungcheol, despite his feigned unconsciousness, was listening, his mind already working, dissecting the Director’s words. He had to know. "Why?" Seungcheol's voice, though weak, cut through the silence, surprising the Director. "Why all of this? The murders, the 'roles,' the suffering… Why, Director? What twisted motive could drive this madness?" His voice was laced with an anger that was slowly rising, battling against the pain of his mentor's death.

The Director paused, turning slowly back to Seungcheol, a chilling smile evident even behind the mask. "Why? Because they failed. They destroyed my vision. They didn't understand their roles, Detective. They butchered the script! They cancelled my play! They deserved to be rewritten, to play their final, true parts under my direction. And you, Detective, you allowed it. You failed to see the truth. You failed to save them. You failed your mentor, just as he failed me." His voice rose, filled with a manic, self-righteous fury. "Now, you will understand. You will feel what it means to be truly directed. To have your destiny dictated." He reached for the rope again, his hands moving with renewed purpose.

“He’s got him,” a voice crackled in your ear from the tactical team. “Moving to secure.”

“Negative!” you snapped, your voice sharp with command, overriding their impulse. This wasn’t just a capture; it was the final act of his play. “Hold your positions. This is part of the plan. He’s going to move him.”

Your gaze was fixed on the screen, your heart leaping into your throat. You knew what was coming. The Director’s next move. His “final performance.”

“Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a mere whisper, came through your earpiece, strained but audible. “He’s… he’s going for the ropes. The old fly system. He’s going to hang me.”

The words sent a cold spear of pure terror through you. You had anticipated it, of course. Planned for it. But hearing it, the grim reality of it, was sickening. This was the moment.

The Director was indeed at the old pulley system, beginning to meticulously prepare the ropes. He looked up, his masked face turning towards the empty audience, as if addressing his unseen patrons. You could almost feel his perverse satisfaction, his triumph. He was savoring this, his grandest, most personal act.

“He’s setting up the noose, Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a little weaker now, came through. “He’s talking… about the ‘flawed hero’s final curtain.’ His voice is right… I can almost see the birthmark.”

Your hand automatically went to your own ear, pressing against the comms earpiece. It wasn’t just for listening; it was for tracking. Weeks ago, knowing the Director’s obsession with control and his desire to disappear without a trace, you had insisted on a radical, almost crazy contingency. After the Director started targeting you directly, after Seungcheol had volunteered for this, you had taken a drastic, unauthorized step. One night, while he slept, exhausted from training, you had gently, painstakingly, inserted a minuscule location chip into a molar on his back tooth, securing it with a dental adhesive you had acquired through… unconventional means. It was barely the size of a grain of rice, undetectable by conventional means, and broadcasting a silent, constant signal only you could track on your encrypted device. It was a secret you had kept from him, from everyone, knowing he would never agree to such an invasive measure. But you couldn't risk him disappearing, couldn’t risk not finding him in the chaos of the trap. It was your desperate, silent promise that you would find him. And now, that chip was your only guide.

Your eyes darted to the small, specialized tracker nestled in your palm, its single red dot blinking steadily, its signal unwavering. It led directly to Seungcheol, now a helpless figure on the stage. The Director was wrapping the final loops of rope, pulling it taut, preparing to suspend him. There was no more time.

“He’s almost ready,” Seungcheol’s voice, tight with strain, resonated in your ear. “Y/N… now.”

“Team 2, team 1, team 3, on my mark!” you barked into the comms, your voice clear, sharp, cutting through the fear. “Engage on my signal! Do not fire unless absolutely necessary!”

You didn’t wait for backup to flood the stage. You moved. Your training, your instincts, every raw emotion you had suppressed, exploded into action. You burst from the box seat, not through the controlled entry points the tactical teams were using, but directly, impulsively, launching yourself from the balcony, a desperate, almost reckless leap that would make any commanding officer furious. You landed hard on the stage floor, rolling, coming up in a crouch, your sidearm already drawn, pointed directly at the black-cloaked figure of the Director.

You broke in.

The Director spun, startled by your sudden, impossible appearance. His masked face snapped towards you, a moment of genuine surprise in his calculated performance. He dropped the rope, pulling out a gleaming, wickedly sharp knife from within his cloak, its blade catching the single spotlight.

You didn't hesitate. You squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed, loud and precise. It struck the Director in the leg, just above the knee. He gasped, a guttural cry of pain, stumbling backward, his body spasming from the impact. A dark stain bloomed on his black trousers.

But despite the searing pain, despite the blood immediately blooming on his leg, he didn't fall. His eyes, even through the mask, seemed to burn with an insane fury. He snarled, a bestial sound, and with a terrifying, impossible surge of adrenaline, he lunged at you, his knife a silver blur, aiming for your chest.

The final fight was brutal, chaotic, a desperate ballet of life and death on the dusty stage. Gun. Knife. Blood. He moved with a frightening, almost supernatural speed, his knowledge of the stage, of its hidden passages and shadows, giving him an advantage even with his injury. You dodged, his knife missing your ribs by mere inches, the air hissing where it passed. You fired another shot, aiming for his shoulder, but he twisted, the bullet embedding itself in the wooden floorboards with a splintering thud. The knife flashed again, cutting across your arm, a sharp, searing pain as your sleeve tore and warm blood welled up. You hissed, pressing against the wound, but you didn't break focus.

He came at you again, swinging the knife in a wide, desperate arc. You parried with your gun, the metallic clang echoing, the impact jarring your arm. You saw a flash of his left arm, the distinctive burnt patch clear even in the dim light, confirming his identity, confirming the nightmare, confirming the monster was finally within your reach. You fought with a ferocity born of pure vengeance and desperate self-preservation. He was bleeding from his leg, his movements hampered, but his madness made him relentless, unpredictable.

You found an opening. As he lunged again, you anticipated his move, twisting sharply, bringing your gun up. You fired, not to kill, but to incapacitate. A shot to his knife-wielding hand, a sickening crack of bone. He screamed, dropping the weapon, clutching his mangled hand. Another shot, tearing through his other arm, rendering it useless. Then, a shot to his remaining good leg, and another, and another, aiming precisely, not for the kill, but to shatter his ability to move. You emptied your magazine into his limbs, each shot a deliberate act of dismantling his control, his movement, his ability to ever stand or direct again.

He collapsed, a broken heap on the stage, screaming, whimpering, his body a twisted mess of shattered bone and bleeding wounds. He couldn't move. He was alive, barely, but utterly, completely incapacitated.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol, recovering from the initial blow, had been stirring, groaning, his eyes fluttering open. He was now fully awake, watching the brutal, one-sided fight, witnessing your terrifying efficiency, your unwavering resolve.

You stumbled towards him, dropping your now-empty gun. You tore at the rope that was still around his throat, frantically loosening it, pulling it away. You freed him. He gasped, clutching his throat, his face pale, but his eyes were open, clear, filled with a profound shock and an overwhelming relief. He coughed, drawing ragged breaths into his burning lungs.

The Director, a broken figure bleeding on the stage, slowly lifted his head, his voice a ragged, desperate rasp. He was blabbering nonsense, his voice filled with a mad, defeated fury. “You… you can’t end me! This isn’t over! I’ll find you! I’ll end you, Y/N! In hell! I’ll end you there! This… this is just the beginning of your real torment!” He coughed, a gurgling sound, blood bubbling at the corner of his masked mouth, but his eyes, blazing with an insane light, were fixed on you. “I’ll torture you there! Every single day! I’ll make you beg for the final curtain!”

You looked at him, a cold, dark satisfaction settling in your chest. You walked slowly towards him, your footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent theater. You stood over his broken form, your gaze unwavering, devoid of pity. “In hell?” you scoffed, your voice low, laced with a chilling, defiant sarcasm. You knelt, leaning close, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, filled with a promise that was more terrifying than any threat he could conjure. “You can’t even get up, you pathetic excuse for a Director. And even in hell,” you snarled, your voice gaining a terrifying intensity, “I will track you down. And I will kill you again. And again. And again.”

The tactical teams burst onto the stage then, their weapons raised, their comms barking, their flashlights sweeping the scene. They froze, witnessing the raw, visceral intensity of the moment.

You looked at Seungcheol, who was now pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes wide, fixed on you, a profound understanding and a dawning, terrifying realization in their depths. You reached out, your hand, still slightly trembling from the adrenaline, cupping his face. Your thumb gently stroked his cheek, leaving a faint smear of the Director's blood. You looked straight into his eyes, a silent conversation passing between you, a shared vow, a love forged in the deepest darkness. He understood. He saw the cold fury in your eyes, the unwavering resolve, the desperate need for absolute finality.

His gaze searched yours, a question, an acceptance. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement, giving you his silent permission, his complete trust.

With a profound, devastating certainty, you retrieved your gun, its weight familiar and deadly in your hand. The magazine was empty from incapacitating the Director. But you had another. Without breaking eye contact with Seungcheol, you smoothly ejected the empty clip, inserting a fresh one. The click was loud, decisive, in the sudden, utter silence of the opera house.

Your gaze drifted from Seungcheol’s face, to the broken, blabbering figure of the Director, now muttering incoherent threats. You raised the gun. With a chilling, unwavering intensity, you emptied your bullets, one after another, into the killer’s head and chest. A series of brutal, definitive shots. Each one a final judgment. Each one a liberation. His body convulsed one last time, then fell completely, finally still. His mad play was irrevocably, utterly ended.

The last shot echoed, long and drawn out, then silence. Heavy, thick, blood-soaked silence. The only sound was your ragged breathing, and the shocked gasps of the tactical team.

Seungcheol, now sitting up, still weak, watched you, his eyes filled with a complex mix of understanding, awe, and a fierce, possessive pride. He coughed, then a faint, tired smile touched his lips, a ghost of his usual smirk. His voice was hoarse, but clear, filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Still just as good at it. They called you tigress back then in uni. Still are, just my tigress now.”

You lowered the empty gun, the adrenaline slowly draining from your body, leaving you feeling profoundly weary, but strangely, utterly free. You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, a profound love shining through the trauma, through the blood, through the echoes of the nightmare. “Glad to know,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your own tears finally falling, hot and free. “I love you more.”

With that, you leaned in, and kissed him. A real kiss. No longer desperate, no longer confused, no longer tainted by fear or alcohol. It was a kiss of triumph, of survival, of a fierce, enduring love that had found its way through the darkest of times. The sirens wailed louder, the flashlights of the tactical teams swept across the stage, but in that moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, standing amidst the wreckage of a nightmare, finally, truly, together.

The end.

Author’s Note: If you made it to the end, thank you. I know this wasn’t an easy ride — the murders were gruesome, the emotions sharp, and the romance? Messy in all the right ways. Writing this story was like performing a dissection: peeling back layers of rivalry, grief, obsession, and love. Seungcheol and Y/N didn’t fall for each other easily — and they weren’t supposed to. But in all the blood and chaos, they still found something human. Because sometimes, the sharpest minds carry the softest hearts. And sometimes, the one who’d kill for you…is also the one who’d die for you.

— Katha <33

[wonluhver]

S.Coups Focus

M = Content Warnings for Smut

! = Personal All Time Favs.

! The Great War [M] - historical! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, fluff, oneshot.

there was only one thing you hated more than your restricted life, and that was choi seungcheol—the greatest venetian general who has ever lived. when a marriage is arranged between the two of you, you were sure it would end in bloodshed. however, as you and seungcheol are forced to attend balls and share a few hard truths, you realise you have more in common with the mysterious general than you thought.

Please [M] - Alpha!Seungcheol x Omega! f.reader, Smut, A bit of Fluff, the barest hint of angst, oneshot.

A heatwave in your city makes dealing with your hormones more difficult than usual. Getting locked in a lobby at work for an hour with an alpha makes it ten times worse. Thankfully, Seungcheol is there to help you - and maybe a little more. 

Amortentia - fluff, angst, one-sided love, oneshot (series for other members)

Being head-over-heels for the Gryffindor captain is harder than it seems, especially when everyone knows about your little crush on Seungcheol and he takes it lightly. Until when you’re partnered up and forced to be in each other’s lives on a daily basis, that’s when things take a bit of a turn

! You Think You Might [M] - Seungcheol x fem!reader angst smut fluff fake dating!au, kind of sort of exes to lovers? Fake exes to lovers? I guess? completed series.

Seungcheol agrees to be your fake boyfriend at your sister’s destination wedding, under the condition that it “stays there”. You didn’t expect it to hurt when he holds you to that promise.

! The Hidden One [M] - pirate!choi seungcheol x assassin!fem!reader, smut, fluff, humor, some action, historical au, assassin's creed: black flag au (although you don't need to know the lore to read this), pirate au, royal au, strangers to lovers au, oneshot.

choi seungcheol is supposed to be dead. following a tropical storm, the notorious pirate loses both his ship, the golden corsair, and a majority of his crew to the cruel tides. now stranded in sevilla, spain, seungcheol and his three remaining sailors must find a way back to england; however, an unexpected altercation ends up tying their fate to you, an assassin who wants nothing to do with the four of them. despite your reluctance, he must work alongside you in exchange for a way back home. of course, complications arise once his heart decides to have a say in the matter, and, somewhere along the way, seungcheol realizes this mission is bigger than himself.

Up in Flames [M] - seungcheol x f.reader, smut, action, slow burn, firefighter au, author au, damsel in distress au, ‘let me help you’ wildland firefighter!cheol x ‘i can do it myself’ miss independent yet clumsy!reader, completed (i think) series.

When your sister calls with an emergency, you drop everything to house-sit while she’s out of town. What she forgets to mention is that her fiancé’s friend, a handsome stranger who might have saved your life earlier, is already expecting to stay there too. Awkwardly sharing the space, you manage to get through two weeks with Seungcheol—only to unexpectedly cross paths again when he saves you from another dangerous situation outside your therapist’s office.

Seungcheol, a wildland firefighter, is back in the city taking his leave and debating whether to join Station 17 or return home. While sorting out his own issues, he keeps finding himself in situations where he has to save you—the fiery, stubborn little sister of his best friend’s fiancée who has a terrible habit of calling him the most obnoxious nicknames ever. Despite your resistance to being rescued (and his denial of how much you affect him), the sparks between you two continue to ignite. As you grow closer, it’s only a matter of time before everything goes up in flames.

! Camp Seventeen [M] - Afab!reader x ot13 (Focused on Reader x Seungcheol), Greek Demigod AU! crack, smut, fluff , angst, hurt, comfort, uncompleted series.

It's been a week since you stepped foot in Camp Seventeen - as you navigated the days trying to wrap your head around the 13 boys, one's touch and another's voice start to become a bit too bothersome....

! Too Many Beds [M] - Choi Seungcheol x afab! Reader, Rivals to lovers? Frenemies to lovers? Lovers to lovers? Idk man, these two are idiots, that's all. Oh and smut. oneshot.

Choi Seungcheol may be your parent's best friend's son, your next door neighbour for 20 odd years and the one face you saw every damn time, every damn where but that didn't mean the two of you wanted anything to do with each other. But a business trip - one room, three nights, and seven beds - might just be what it takes to change it all....

! Challenge Me [M] - College!Au, porn with plot(s), crack, OT13 x afab!Reader (Scoups/Mingyu focused). Unfinished series.

you have never been a person who turns down a challenge, but when your best friend challenges you to hook up with 13 boys in one semester you kind of wish you were.

Only the Dead Get Standing Ovations - Crime Thriller | Romance | Psychological Mystery, Enemies to Lovers | Forced Partners | Protective Male Lead | Mutual Pining | Slow Burn. Oneshot.

When a killer obsessed with theatrical “roles” starts leaving bodies across Seoul, two rival detectives—Reader and Seungcheol—are forced to reunite. He’s cold, calculating. She’s headstrong and haunted. Together, they decode cryptic notes, wooden masks, and staged corpses. But as the killer targets her, the case turns intimate. And for Seungcheol, losing her was never an option—even if it means becoming the bait.

Still reading through a lot of scoups fics on my tbr !! but as soon as i make it through them i will add a part 2.. apologises for a smaller rec list than my hoshi one !!!!! :,( i will make up for it soon.

other recs

[wonluhver]

hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi… final exams… hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi… getting my license… hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi… a job… hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi hoshi…

[wonluhver]

The Tiger & The Moon

Pairing: Circus performer! Kwon Soonyoung x Artist! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | Found Family | Forbidden Love | Slow burn | T.W.: mentions of violence, trauma, panic attacks, prostitution, infertility and miscarriage.

Wordcount: 12.7K

Playlist: 'Rescue' - Lauren Daigle | 'Colors - Stripped' - Halsey | 'Terrible Love' - Birdy | 'I Found' - Amber Run | 'Youth' - Daughter | 'War Of Hearts' - Ruelle

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Slight Bodyworship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames - Reassurances and clear consent (this is incredibly soft lovemaking)

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

It’s the sound of drums that draws you in.

Not hunger, though that gnaws in your stomach like it always does. Not the wind, though it hisses cold through the hem of your tattered skirt. Not even the need for safety—because that’s something you stopped believing in the moment your legs carried you across the city’s edge, away from the suffocating perfume and filthy hands of the brothel.

It’s the drums. Low. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.

You stumble across a dew-drenched field just past midnight, led only by the flickering glow of distant lanterns and the echo of music that feels like something ancient. It beats like a second heart inside you. Ahead, the tents bloom like massive, sleeping flowers—red and gold, navy and cream—sprawling beneath the stars in messy rows.

A travelling circus.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Dancers who bend like willow trees, men who swallow swords, tigers that leap through hoops of fire. But in the city, in the brothel, dreams were things beaten out of you with the back of a hand. Here, dreams seem to shimmer above the grass like fireflies.

You hover at the edge of the makeshift grounds, wrapped in a stolen cloak two sizes too big, fingers curled into the sleeves. You don’t belong here. You know that.

But then the drumbeat quickens, and something else begins—something theatrical and alive. A cheer from the crowd. The hush of anticipation. And the metallic snap of spotlights flooding the massive tent’s entrance.

You slip through the shadows, heart racing, eyes darting. No one sees you. No one cares to. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.

You crouch behind crates stacked near the back of the tent—costumes, ropes, props—and peer through a narrow flap left ajar. The scent of sawdust and sweat curls in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. Not like the sweet, rotting perfume they used to force on your skin.

Inside, the ringmaster stands in the centre, announcing acts with a booming voice and a sharp smile, cracking his whip-like punctuation. The audience roars as a woman juggles knives on horseback, her braid flying behind her. A man in glittering blue dives through a column of fire.

You watch, wide-eyed, breathless.

But then he appears.

Not from the center. No. From the shadows. From the ceiling. He swings down from a rope like gravity never applied to him at all—legs bent, body twisting midair, tiger stripes painted onto his chest in glittering gold and black.

You forget to breathe.

He’s wearing nothing but loose black pants, his shoulders flexing with each spin. His movements are sharp, primal, choreographed to the beat of the drums. When he lands, the entire tent goes silent, as if waiting for him to roar.

And he does. Not with sound. With movement.

A flip. A clawing gesture. A slide across the floor that ends with him kneeling, hand outstretched toward the crowd. They erupt.

Your pencil is in your hand before you realise it.

You pull a crumpled sheet of paper from your pocket and begin to sketch, hands working almost on instinct. Curves. Angles. His shoulders. The grace. You don’t think. You just draw.

And then his gaze flicks sideways, right to where you are hidden.

Your fingers still. Your chest goes tight. You convince yourself he doesn’t see you through the curtain of crates and outfits.

His eyes are impossibly warm and impossibly dark. And for a second—just a second—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t grin. He just looks.

But then he’s gone again, dancing, spinning, leaping into the air as if the moment never happened. You watch him until the lights dim, the applause roars, and the ringmaster calls for the next act.

You don’t realise your drawing is finished until your pencil slips out of your grip.

Hours pass. You stay hidden.

When the crowd finally disperses and the lights begin to dim, you sneak through the back of the grounds—quiet as a shadow—until you find an empty wagon stacked with boxes. You curl into it, pulling your knees to your chest, using the cloak as a blanket. Your fingers still smell like pencil lead. You close your eyes.

And then a voice startles you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s his voice. Rough. Low. Accented in something lazy and teasing.

Your eyes fly open. He stands at the opening of the wagon, still shirtless, a towel around his shoulders and a smirk on his lips. His hair is damp.

“You know that, right?”

You sit up sharply, preparing to bolt. But he raises his hands in surrender.

“Hey—hey. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head. “You were watching me earlier.”

You stay silent. He saw you? He steps closer.

“You’re not a thief, are you? You don’t look like the type to steal. Except maybe hearts. But that’s a performer thing, too.” His grin widens. “Unless you’re here to audition. In that case, great hiding spot. But we don’t usually hire ghosts.”

You speak for the first time in what feels like days. “I’m not a ghost.” He pauses. Cocks his head, like a tiger curious about a mouse.

“No. I don’t think you are.” You glance at the door. He follows your gaze.

“If I was going to turn you in, I would’ve done it already. The ringmaster doesn’t like strays. But me? I’m a sucker for sad eyes and good timing.” You don’t answer.

He hops up into the wagon without asking. You flinch. He notices. The grin falters for just a moment.

“Sorry. I’ll stay over here.” He drops onto a crate across from you, towel still looped around his neck, eyes scanning you with less mischief now and more curiosity. “What’s your name?”

You shake your head.

“No name? Mysterious. I like it.” He leans back and stretches his arms behind him. “Alright, no-name. You look cold. And like you haven’t eaten in a while. You planning on sleeping out here all night?”

You blink. “I have nowhere else to go.”

He studies you for a long time. “Fine. You can stay in my wagon. Just for tonight. I won’t touch you. I talk a lot, but I’m not a creep.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re probably better off there than out here, where Rigo might see you.”

You hesitate.

“You trust me?” he asks. You shake your head.

He laughs. Loud and unashamed. It startles you. “Good. That’s smart. But I’ll still offer.” He hops down and gestures. “Come on, Moon.”

“Moon?”

“You didn’t give me a name, so I gave you one.” His eyes soften. “You look like the moon tonight. Pale. Quiet. Far away from all of us.”

You say nothing, but you follow him.

You tell yourself it’s because anything is better than the cold.

The inside of his wagon smells like lemon oil and dust.

Not in a bad way—just lived-in, like someone’s been here too long without changing anything. Crumpled shirts hang from hooks, performance pants tossed over a stool, and a tiny mirror edged with fairy lights blinks at you from the wall. There’s a faded photo stuck in one corner—him as a boy, maybe fifteen, grinning with his arm around a tiger statue.

You hover at the threshold.

“It’s not much, but it’s warmer than outside,” he says, flicking the light on with a sharp click. “You can take the bed.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Come on. I’ve slept in worse places. The hay pile behind the giraffe cart? Unbelievable back support.” He grins again. He does that a lot, it seems—too easily. Too brightly. You don’t trust it.

You settle into the corner farthest from the door, your cloak pulled tight. He doesn’t push. He just throws himself onto the small bench under the window and crosses his arms behind his head like he hasn’t just invited a total stranger into his home.

“I’m Soonyoung, by the way,” he says. “But everyone calls me Hoshi.”

You don’t reply.

“‘Hoshi’ means ‘star’ in Japanese. My mom called me that when I was little.” He lifts a shoulder. “Thought it sounded cooler on posters than ‘Kwon Soonyoung the dancing idiot,’ so I kept it.”

Still, you don’t speak. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your name, not your trust.

He shifts, observing you. His tone changes—softens.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know what it’s like to… want to disappear for a while.”

You watch the way he fiddles with a gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s shaped like tiger fangs. Sharp. Delicate. Probably fake.

“Everyone here’s running from something. That’s kind of the circus’s thing, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You run away, you join the show, and suddenly you’re someone else. Someone shinier. Safer.”

He lays back again with a sigh that sounds too tired for someone who laughs so much.

“I’m happy here.”

The words hit the floor between you with a dull thud. You don’t believe him.

The next few nights pass in a hush of repetition.

You wake in silence, hide during the day, and slip out only when it’s dark enough not to be seen. Hoshi smuggles you small pieces of fruit, leftover meat pies, and, once, a package of coloured pencils he claims he “borrowed indefinitely.” You nod your thanks, never quite sure what to do with his kindness.

He talks a lot.

About the time he tried tightrope walking and fell into the cotton candy machine. About the fire-breather who accidentally singed her own eyebrows. About the night a tiger escaped its cage and wandered into his wagon like it owned the place.

“I offered it my dinner. We’ve been cool ever since.”

You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches. He notices. He always notices.

You stay hidden, but he never questions it. Never asks you to explain. And each night, when the music starts and the big top floods with light, you creep to your place behind the crates and watch him come alive.

He moves like he’s been set on fire and only the rhythm can put him out. Like if he stops dancing, he’ll vanish.

You draw him every time. The curve of his spine, the snap of his arms, the wildness in his grin when he lands a perfect flip.

You sketch until your fingers ache.

Until you know him by lines alone.

It happens five nights in.

You can’t sleep. The roof drips, the blankets itch, and something inside you is restless. Hoshi had told you he’d be late—extra rehearsals, he said. You slip from the wagon quietly, boots soft in the mud, coat pulled tight around your frame. The circus grounds are mostly dark—tents closed, wagons locked, fire pits reduced to embers.

You walk past a row of cages—empty now—and head toward the supply wagons when you hear it.

“You said it’d be done by now.”

It’s Hoshi’s voice. You freeze and duck behind a barrel.

“And I said the debt doesn’t clear just because you’re popular,” replies another voice—older, crueller. “You still owe me three hundred thousand. You want to leave, Soonyoung? Pay up. Until then, I own your name. Your act. Your body.”

"I’m trying. I’m performing every damn night—”

"And drinking away your cut by morning.”

"That’s not—”

"Don’t lie to me.”

You peer around the edge. Rigo—the ringmaster—stands with his back to you. Hoshi is in front of him, shirtless again, glitter smeared down his jawline. He looks smaller. Angrier.

“You said I’d be free by the Paris tour,” Hoshi mutters.

“And maybe you will be. If you keep earning.” Rigo steps closer. “But if you try to leave early, if you even think about running—I’ll find you. And I’ll break every bone you use to dance.”

Silence.

“Don’t forget who gave you a stage when the world laughed you off it.”

The ringmaster walks away. Hoshi stays still for a long time, fists clenched, chest heaving. When he finally turns, you’re already gone.

Hoshi comes back late that night, humming some off-key melody, sweat dripping from the nape of his neck.

“Moon, I brought—hey, you okay?”

You’re sitting on the floor, paper and pencils scattered around you. One sketch lies in your lap, the most detailed one yet.

You don’t answer. You just hand it to him. He looks down.

A tiger in a cage.

Its shoulders are hunched, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Its paws are bruised. Its tail is curled tight against the bars. But its eyes… its eyes are still burning.

He blinks. “Is this… me?”

You look up at him. And for once, you don’t hide the sadness in your face. “You’re not happy here.”

He doesn’t smile this time. He just kneels down slowly beside you, gaze never leaving the drawing. He places it gently on the bench, then leans back on his heels.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”

One morning, without warning, he throws a scarf at your face.

“You need air,” Hoshi says, grinning as he pulls on his boots. “And you’re gonna get it.”

You flinch when the scarf hits your cheek, even though it doesn’t hurt. He notices. His grin falters but doesn’t fade completely.

“You’ll come with me. I’ll show you around. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been living in my wagon rent-free.”

You hesitate. Fear creeps into your stomach like spoiled wine. If they find out what you are—who you were—there’s no telling what Rigo will do. Or worse, who he might call.

Hoshi holds out his hand. Open. Steady.

“I’ll tell them you’re the new sketch artist. That the boss approved it. No one questions my mouth anymore. Too loud to argue with.”

You don’t take his hand, but you follow him anyway.

The circus in the daylight is nothing like the spectacle at night.

The glitter is dulled. The costumes hang in long rows on wires, limp and sequined. Elephants bathe lazily near buckets of water, and smoke curls from frying pans where breakfast burns on open fires.

You walk closely behind Hoshi, the scarf clutched tight around your neck, chin tucked low into the fabric. He’s all motion and brightness—waving, laughing, tossing casual greetings around.

“Morning, Andrei!”

"Hey, Mira! Save me a biscuit this time!”

People nod. Smile. Some glare. He doesn’t seem to care.

When he finally introduces you, it’s with a flippant gesture and a wink. “This is Moon. She’s our new sketch artist. Bit shy, but brilliant. Like a raccoon with talent.”

You keep your eyes down. Offer a small nod. Most people nod back with vague disinterest—too tired or too wary to care. Some squint.

A few notice the tension in your shoulders.

One of the acrobats—a tall, wiry man named Luca with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile—lingers. He steps close. Too close.

“Didn’t know we were letting in strays now,” he says, eyeing you like a spider eyes a fly. “You get her off the street, Hoshi? Or also into your bed?”

The words land sharp and cold. You stiffen. Hoshi goes quiet.

Then he steps between you and Luca, shoulders squared. His voice loses its brightness.

“Watch your mouth.”

Luca raises an eyebrow, smirking, as he walks off.

“I’m just saying—Rigo won’t like it when he finds out you’re hiding runaways. You know how he feels about… damaged goods.”

That word—damaged—splits something open inside your chest.

You turn away, hands shaking, throat closing around the ache that’s been building since you stepped out of the shadows.

“He’s got the personality of spoiled cabbage,” Hoshi mutters as he catches up to you. “Ignore him.”

But you’re already spiralling.

As the tour continues, a juggler brushes too close behind you. A fire breather claps a hand on your shoulder in greeting, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been burned. Hoshi sees it. Every time.

When you finally slip away after dinner, you think no one notices.

You sit behind the main tent, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your ribs like you’re trying to keep your bones from shattering. The sounds of rehearsal echo nearby—drums, whip cracks, the creak of wires overhead—but they feel far away.

Your breathing’s shallow. Your cheeks are damp with fallen tears. You hate how familiar this feeling is.

Powerless. Exposed. Vulnerable.

You thought you were past this. Thought the circus would be different.

A shadow moves in the corner of your vision.

You tense, expecting harsh words, maybe worse—but it’s just Hoshi.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits cross-legged beside you, arms resting on his knees, not touching. Not pressing. Just breathing beside you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to share the same air with someone breaking.

You wait for questions. There are none. The minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the tent or the distant bray of a donkey.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breath evens out.

And then—“I hate his guts.”

Hoshi’s voice is low. You glance at him.

“Luca,” he adds, as if it needs clarification. “Always sniffing around like he’s the ringleader’s favourite pet. I’m gonna replace his shampoo with glue one of these days.”

Your laugh comes unexpectedly. A real one. Crooked. Barely there. But it’s enough. He grins, but not in a triumphant way. In a relieved one.

“Better. That suits you more than silence, Moon.”

You don’t reply.

But when he rises and offers his hand again, you take it.

And when the two of you curl up that night in opposite corners of the wagon—backs to each other—there’s something binding in the silence.

And you sleep. For the first time in years.

You’ve never had someone bring you gifts before.

Not ones that weren’t dripping in expectation. Not ones that didn’t come with strings wrapped around your throat.

But Hoshi doesn’t tie bows around his kindness. He just… offers.

First, it’s a bundle of dried flowers—pressed and quirky, the kind that only bloom in colder months. He drops them beside your sketchpad one morning with a wink and a shrug.

“Found them near the trapeze wagon. Figured you might like dead things that look pretty.”

You don’t react. But you take them.

Then it’s a tin of coloured charcoal blocks—half-used, dull at the tips, but vibrant in your hands. The reds are bright, the blues deep. You don’t ask where he got them.

“Artist tools for my artistic shadow,” he says. “Now you can sketch me with proper flair. Make me taller, okay?”

Later, two perfectly peeled oranges, tucked in a napkin.

“You don’t eat enough,” he says, plopping beside you on the wagon step, his shoulder close but not touching. “You’re gonna float away at this rate. Then who’ll sketch my dramatic death leaps?”

You split one in half and hand it back to him without a word. He grins. Like he always does.

That night, he lights a candle in the middle of the wagon and sets it between you. The wax pools golden, flickering against the walls, throwing soft shadows across his face.

He talks while you draw. He always talks.

About his tiger routine, and how he once landed wrong and cracked two ribs but didn’t tell anyone. About a show in Prague where the audience threw roses—and one pair of underwear—onto the stage. About the time the tightrope snapped mid-performance and the crowd thought it was part of the act.

“I stuck the landing, though. Obviously.”

You glance at him.

“Barely broke my ankle. Ten out of ten.” He winks.

Your hand pauses on the page. A laugh itches in your throat but doesn’t come out.

“You’re hard to crack, Moon,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “I’m trying not to pry, I swear. But sometimes I look at you, and it’s like... I dunno. Like you’re made of glass, but all the sharp parts are turned inward.”

The candle flickers. So do you. He doesn’t ask anything else that night. Just hums while you sketch.

You don’t show him the drawing, but he smiles like you did.

You start watching him at night.

When the circus sleeps, and only the stars keep time, you slip out barefoot and perch behind the tent. He practices long after the others have stopped. Moves with a fever in his body, like he’s chasing something no one else can see.

Tonight, his shirt is discarded in a heap on the floor, and sweat slicks his spine as he flips, lands, stretches—again and again. No music. Just the beat of his breath and the slap of his feet against the pallet floors.

He stumbles. Not hard, but enough that he swears under his breath. You hear it—“Shit.”—followed by the dull sound of him sitting heavily on the edge of the platform.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Then—“Moon?”

You freeze. He turns toward your hiding place, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

“You always watch from the dark, don’t you?”

You don’t move. But he doesn’t seem upset.

“I don’t mind,” he says, softer now. “Just wish I knew what you saw when you looked at me.”

You step into the candlelight. Not fully. Just enough to be seen.

He smiles, but it’s tired. Raw.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly. “Not running. Just… stepping out. Free. New city. New name.”

You say nothing.

He looks down at his hands.

“I wanted Paris.”

The words are quieter now. Less Hoshi, more Soonyoung.

“I used to dream about it every night. Dancing in Montmartre. On a stage that mattered. I wanted to be someone people wrote about. Someone remembered.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Instead, I sold my soul to a man who locks animals in cages and calls it art.”

You take another step forward. He doesn’t look at you. Just continues to stare at his palms.

“I owe him too much. Money. Time. My best years. I perform, and he lets me breathe. That’s the deal. That’s the cage.”

Your heart twists. Because you understand. More than he knows.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “I think I could just disappear. Walk out into the night and never stop walking. But then I remember—no one would come looking.” He says it with a crooked smile.

Your voice is rough when you speak. Barely a whisper. But it slices through the night like a thread of silver.

“I would.”

He freezes. His head lifts. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

You’re not sure why you said it. Or maybe you are. Perhaps you’ve known since the first time he called you Moon and smiled like he meant it.

The silence that follows is the kind that lands heavily on your skin.

“Say that again,” he breathes.

You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.

Instead, he stands. Walks over. Stops a step away. You brace—but he doesn’t touch you. He sits down beside you. Cross-legged in the dirt.

Like he did the other night. No questions. No explanations.

Just two lonely things pretending—for a moment—that they are not alone.

They call it The Velvet Night.

Once a month, the circus throws a masquerade for its wealthiest patrons—aristocrats in velvet, merchants with too many rings and not enough kindness, and strangers with mouths that never smile unless they’re closing a deal. The ringmaster loves them, of course. Their wallets are heavier than their morals, and they pay for illusions like addicts pay for Nirvana.

Tonight, the tents are lined with gold silk. Wine flows like water. Lanterns flicker from every beam and rope. The world smells like roses, sweat, and something sour beneath.

You spend the day in the costuming wagon, where Mira and the others chatter and laugh around you, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands shake every time you touch lace or ribbon. The feel of silk between your fingers makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of curtains. Of rooms that locked from the outside.

You sew quietly. You keep your head down.

Hoshi pops in at one point, barefoot and smiling. “Moon,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come watch tonight. I’ve got a new finish. It’s dramatic as hell. Might pull a muscle for it.”

You nod. He winks and disappears.

Night falls; the masquerade begins.

You don’t risk going near the centre tent where the patrons gather, but from a side flap, you catch glimpses. Silk gowns. Flashing jewelry. Glasses filled with golden liquid. Painted lips and empty laughter.

You know this kind of party. The kind where you aren’t a person—just something to look at, to own, to touch if no one’s watching. Your stomach turns.

Still, you stay. Because Hoshi is in there. And for reasons you can’t name, you need to see him. You lean against a pole, hidden in the dark, mask in your hand, breath held.

And then he steps into the ring.

He wears black tonight. A fitted, sleeveless top that sparkles under the lights and tight pants that hug the strength in his legs. His face is hidden behind a white and gold mask that glints with each movement.

Every turn, every snap of his limbs is poetry. He spins for them. Leaps for them. Smiles for them. And none of them know how much it costs him.

You know. You see it in the way his shoulders dip just a fraction too low when the music fades. How his chest rises with effort, not excitement.

And then— It happens.

A woman in red—older, tall, with lips the colour of blood—pulls him in with her fingertips. She slips folded bills into the waistband of his pants. Laughs. Says something you can’t hear.

And he—He kisses her hand. Grinning. Flashing that perfect, practised smile.

You stagger back as if struck. The breath leaves you in a rush.

You turn before you can see anything else and walk—fast—into the darkness behind the wagons.

You don’t stop walking until your legs shake.

You end up behind the animal cages, near the row of hay bales where the fire breathers warm up in the mornings. No one comes here at night. It’s too quiet, too far from the music and the masks.

You sit. And the tears come.

You don’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not because of him. Not because he kissed someone’s hand and smiled like it meant something. But it pulls at a memory buried so deep inside you, you had almost forgotten about it.

You curl your knees up. Bury your face in your arms. Try to pretend you’re somewhere else. But the memory creeps in anyway.

Men with cold rings and even colder hands. A room that smelled like wine and roses. The sharp click of heels. The way they’d touch your face like you weren’t even there.

Used. Brushed aside. Forgotten. Always forgotten.

You thought it might be different here. And that makes you hate yourself more.

“Moon?”

Your body jolts, instinct screaming hide—but it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Hoshi approaches slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.

“I saw you leave. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “Can I… sit?”

You nod without looking up. He lowers himself onto the hay beside you, hands between his knees, gaze turned away. Silence stretches.

Then, in a voice you barely recognize as your own—“They used to make us smile, too.”

He stills.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But the words keep spilling out, hoarse and thin, like something cracked inside you and finally let loose.

“At the brothel. We were supposed to laugh. Greet them like old friends. Let them touch us. Call it work. Call it love.”

You swallow hard. “They paid for what they took. That made it okay, they said.”

The air grows heavier with every word you whisper.

“Some of them liked it when we cried. Said it made us look real.” You feel your hands shake in your lap.

“I learned not to cry. Not to move. Not to exist, if I could help it.”

You finally look up. And he’s watching you. Not with pity. Not even with shock. Just quiet, fierce grief. Tears fill his eyes but don’t quite fall.

“Moon,” he whispers.

You flinch when he reaches out. His hand hovers near yours. But he stops.

“Can I hold you?” he asks.

Your throat closes. Your nod is barely a twitch. But he sees it.

He wraps his arms around you. Not tightly. Not hungrily. Just… safely. You don’t know the last time someone held you like this. Not to use. Not to consume. Just to be there.

He doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or, promises or empty words.

He just breathes. You feel his chest rise and fall. Feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His hand rubs gentle, slow circles across your back—no pressure. Just presence.

You cry again. This time, without shame.

And he stays.

The circus rolls into another town. Another foggy field. Another string of faceless patrons with fat wallets and vacant eyes. You’ve stopped caring where you are. All that matters is the tent. The rope lights. The sketches you leave scattered across Hoshi’s wagon table.

You sketch him constantly now. Not just onstage.

As he braids Mira’s hair between acts. As he sleeps curled on his side, hand under his cheek. As he rubs ointment onto his bruised knees.

Your pencils know the shape of his body like religion.

One night, you wait behind the curtain as the show ends.

He finishes his routine, glittering and breathless, but tonight, he’s a half-second off. His landings are sharp, but not as sharp as they should be. His final pose holds less punch, like his mind is somewhere else.

And Rigo notices.

As the crowd erupts into applause, the ringmaster stalks over to him like a storm cloud.

“What the hell was that?” Rigo snaps, grabbing Hoshi’s arm before he’s fully off-stage.

“It was fine,” Hoshi mutters, panting slightly.

“No. It was distracted. Sloppy. You’re better than that—so what’s got your head up your ass lately?”

Hoshi wrenches his arm free, jaw clenched. He sees you, just over Rigo’s shoulder, and his eyes soften for half a second.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” he offers.

“Then wake up,” Rigo growls. “You don’t get tired. You get perfect. That’s the deal.”

He walks off before Hoshi can reply.

You slip back into the shadows, heart hammering. The guilt feels sudden. Sharp. You wonder if you’re the reason his landings aren’t clean anymore.

You wonder if you’re unravelling him.

That night, you sit together outside the wagon.

The stars are unusually bright—clear for once, not clouded by fog or smoke. Hoshi sits beside you, hands clasped in front of his knees, chin resting on them. You watch the wind curl through his hair.

“We’re going to Paris next month,” he says suddenly.

You glance at him.

“It’s our biggest show. Rigo’s been hyping it for years. We’ll be at the Palais Garnier, if you can believe it.” He laughs once. “Me. In a building with gold ceilings. What a joke.”

You nudge your shoulder against his gently. He sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“After the Paris show. Slipping out during the night. Starting over. No more debt. No more cages. Just a train. A map. A backpack. I’ve saved enough. Barely, but enough.” He finally turns his head toward you. His voice is quieter now. More vulnerable. “I want you to come with me.”

You freeze.

His eyes search yours—not pleading, but open.

“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. But I trust you.” A beat. “You’re the first real thing I’ve found in years, Moon.”

You stare at him, and your heart twists.

Because you want to say yes. You want to leave.

But part of you still believes you’re a shadow. Something cursed. You don’t want to ruin whatever light he has left.

So you lower your gaze.

He just whispers, “Think about it.”

You don’t sleep that night.

And by morning, everything has changed.

Hoshi bursts into the wagon, jaw tight, eyes furious.

“He knows.”

The words are like ice in your veins.

“Rigo. He knows about you.”

You rise slowly, heart pounding. “How?”

"Luca.” His mouth twists. “Little bastard must’ve told him last night. He told Rigo everything. That you’re not crew. That you’ve been staying in my wagon.”

You swallow hard. He sees your fear. Tries to soften it.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”

A voice cuts through the air like a whip.

“So this is the little stray.”

Rigo stands at the entrance, dressed in dark green and gold, his ringmaster cane tapping ominously against the threshold.

You shrink back. Rigo steps into the wagon like he owns it. Because he does.

“No name. No papers. No protection. You know what that makes you, sweetheart?” His voice drips like poison. “Sellable.”

Hoshi steps between you, blocking Rigo’s path.

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”

Rigo lifts a brow.

“Brave words for someone still owing me two hundred grand.”

"Take me instead,” Hoshi spits. “Whatever it is you want from her, I’ll do it. I’ll clean cages. Dance double. Fucking wear a leash if you want—just don’t touch her.”

You’re trembling.

Rigo narrows his eyes. Then—without warning—he strikes.

A backhand. Brutal. Fast.

Hoshi stumbles back with a choked sound, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.

You scream. Instinct. Terror. Rage.

You move forward, but Hoshi lifts a hand, even through the pain.

“Stay back.”

"You want to keep her?” Rigo sneers. “Fine. She’s your debt now. Double it. Four hundred grand. Pay it, or I send her back to the brothel myself.”

He turns, storming out as the door slams shut behind him.

And the silence that follows is deafening.

You wait until Hoshi falls asleep in his bunk—after you’ve cleaned the blood from his lip and kissed his forehead so softly he doesn’t stir—to leave. You pack nothing. Take nothing.

Just your cloak, your boots, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of him.

You run. To protect him. To protect yourself.

He might hate you for leaving, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay.

You don’t know the name of the city you end up in.

The circus had stopped on the edge of somewhere cold, grey, faceless—one of those in-between places that no one dreams about and no one stays in unless they have nowhere else to go.

You walk around with your cloak pulled tight, eyes darting with every step you take. No one notices you. That’s good. That’s the goal.

Disappear. Blend in. Be nothing again.

It’s easier than it should be.

By mid-afternoon, your stomach is growling with hunger.

You pass a street market where vendors shout over one another, hands waving, eyes hawk-sharp. You linger near a bread stall. Time it. When the seller turns his back to argue with a customer, you slide a roll off the edge of the cart and disappear into the crowd.

You do the same with an apple not long after. Your hands still shake when you tuck it into your pocket. But your feet don’t stop moving.

You’ve learned that survival means guilt becomes background noise.

That night, it rains.

You find shelter beneath a wide stone bridge, its arch stretching over a river that smells of metal and sewage. You press your back to the cold wall, knees drawn up, the stolen bread long gone. The apple you save for tomorrow.

You watch the raindrops trace lines across the river’s surface and pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You miss the wagon. The scent of lemon oil and warm blankets. The candle he lit each night—flickering against wood-panelled walls. You miss him.

The way he called you Moon like it was sacred. The way he let you be quiet without demanding answers. The way he looked at you like you weren’t broken.

You don’t allow yourself to cry.

You just press your forehead to your knees and breathe through the ache of everything.

The next morning, you wake soaked, sore, and starving.

You spend the day trying to find a way out.

You walk into a café, asking if they need help in the back. They glance at your dirty clothes and shake their heads.

You try a laundry service. A florist. A small bookshop with dusty windows.

Every time:

“We’re not hiring.”

"No experience?”

"Come back another day.”

You leave each time with your head lower than before.

By sundown, your apple is gone, and your coin purse is empty. You can feel the panic start to creep in again—sharp, familiar, suffocating.

You turn a corner, not even sure where you’re going, and walk faster.

You’re trying to think, trying to plan, when you hear it.

“Angel?”

The name slices through the air like a whip. You haven’t heard that in a long time.

“Angel, is that you?”

Across the street, under a flickering lamp post, stands a man in a long coat with a hat pulled low around his eyes. Older. Heavy. His mouth curls into a grin you know too well.

“Thought I’d recognise that little walk anywhere. Been years, but damn. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Your heart launches itself into your throat. You turn and keep walking.

“Don’t be like that, Angel!” he calls louder. “Come say hi to an old friend!”

You walk faster.

“Come on, you remember me, don’t you? You used to like me. Said I was your favourite.”

That sets you off. Your feet slam against the pavement. Your eyes scan for an escape. Shops are closed. The street is empty. You don’t dare look back.

“ANGEL!”

The shout becomes a bark. A threat. You start running.

Your breath comes out sharp and ragged. Your boots slip on the slick stones. You round a corner, then another. Behind you, footsteps thunder.

He’s chasing you.

And this time, it’s not for a transaction. You stumble past an alley and are about to keep going when a hand grabs your arm.

You scream—but another hand clamps over your mouth, and you’re yanked into the shadows and dragged underneath a rusted fire escape.

Your body thrashes until you hear the voice.

“Shh. It’s me.” Your blood stills.

“Moon. It’s me.” The voice presses against your ear like a balm. “It’s me. It’s Hoshi.”

You don’t believe it—not for a second—until you turn your head and see his eyes in the dark. Wide. Familiar.

And then footsteps pass.

“Angel! Where the fuck did you go?”

You go rigid. Hoshi’s arm around your waist tightens just a little. His other hand stays over your mouth, steady but gentle. You both breathe as silently as you can.

“I know you’re out here!” the man shouts, voice slurring now. “You can run, but I will find you. You’re mine, you little—”

The words cut off as his footsteps fade down the street.

You wait. Long after he’s gone. Until the only sound left is the wind shaking loose a gutter pipe above you.

Hoshi finally lowers his hand. You suck in a breath like you haven’t in hours. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers tremble as you look at him—really look at him.

He’s soaked. Panting. His shirt is half untucked. Eyes brimming with worry.

“You—how—what are you doing here?” you whisper.

He exhales through a shaky laugh.

“Looking for you, obviously.”

You stare, stunned. “How did you find me?”

"You’re not exactly subtle when you run away in the middle of the night with nothing but your coat.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the sketch you made the first night you saw him. The one you left behind.

“I figured you wouldn’t go far.” His voice is softer now. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off. Looks down. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.”

Your throat is thick. Your hands curl at your sides.

“But Rigo—he’ll kill you if you keep protecting me. He said—”

"I don’t care what he said.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll sell my ring, my shoes, I don’t care. I’ll dance until my legs break.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you disappear again.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He keeps going.

“You said once that you would come looking for me.” His hand brushes your sleeve. “So now I’ve come looking for you.”

You don’t mean to. You don’t plan it.

But you step forward, fists balling into his shirt, and you crash into him like the sky’s falling.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his chest.

He melts around you instantly. His arms wrap around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Moon.”

The wagon looks exactly as you left it.

Your coat drapes over the corner of the bench, the coloured charcoals still lay scattered across the table beside a stack of half-finished sketches. The candle is fresh now, a new stub melting quietly in the jar you used to stare at every night.

You sit down in the same spot you slept in for weeks, staring at the flame until your hands stop shaking.

Hoshi hovers like he’s afraid you might vanish again. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t take his eyes off you either. You don’t mind. For once, it’s comforting. A tether instead of a chain.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

The circus moves two days later.

Another town. Another dirt lot. Another field where fog clings low and the ringmaster’s voice cuts through the morning like a cleaver.

No one knows you’re back except for Mira and the twins from the rigging crew, who catch glimpses of you slipping into Hoshi’s wagon at odd hours. They don’t say anything.

Hoshi’s return, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment he sets foot near the main tent, Rigo is on him.

“Gone two nights,” the ringmaster growls through gritted teeth. “Two full shows missed without a word.”

"I was scouting a location. Spoke to the fire-breather about it weeks ago,” Hoshi lies smoothly, with just enough annoyance in his tone to pass for truth.

You listen from behind a canvas divider, heart in your throat.

Luca stands nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.

Rigo eyes Hoshi but doesn’t press.

“If it happens again,” he says, voice dropping, “I’ll have another very interesting conversation with a friend of mine back in the city. Runs a brothel. Says he’s been looking for one of his girls. Thought she’d vanished. Sad story.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You leave again without permission,” Rigo continues, “and I’ll be sure to point him in the direction of our last stop. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Hoshi says nothing. But his fists are clenched. You can see it even from here. The trap is set.

And there is nothing either of you can do.

Because if he leaves, you’ll be taken back.

And if he stays, he’ll be ruined.

When he finds you later, you act as if you haven’t heard anything. You reassure him, a smile gracing your lips that doesn’t reach your eyes. “All good. Nothing to worry about.”

On your way to the next stop, Hoshi tells you he wants to debut something new.

“A solo,” he explains, eyes lit up. “But not just me. I want it to be our piece.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Your sketches,” he explains, stepping closer. “You capture me better than any mirror ever could. I want to bring that version of me to the stage.”

You hesitate, he notices.

“Come on, Moon. We’ll choreograph it together. In secret. It’ll be just ours.”

You nod. Because how could you not?

You spend nights in empty tents and behind curtains, moving with him. Not dancing, not really—but guiding. Sketchbook in hand, you draw each frame. Each leap. Each reach. He watches your eyes more than your lines, and listens when you say “Again”. It becomes something else. Something that belongs to both of you. Not the circus. Not Rigo. Just you.

The night of the performance, he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing.

He steps into the center ring in silence, no music at first. The crowd murmurs. Rigo frowns from his usual spot near the edge of the tent but says nothing.

Then the lights dim. A spotlight blooms. And Hoshi begins to move.

It’s slower than his usual routines. Less about spectacle, more about story. Every line of his body carries emotion—grief, yearning, rage, release. He uses space like it’s water, shifting in and out of it with the grace of something both wild and controlled.

You watch from the shadows, breath caught. Because this—this is not a cage.

This is art. This is flight. This is freedom.

He ends on his knees, back arched, chest heaving, arms thrown wide like he’s asking to be struck by lightning.

And for the first time in months, the audience is silent.

Then—Thunderous applause. They stand. They shout.

Yet, Rigo doesn’t smile.

While you help Mira gather some of the costume bins behind the dressing tent, you hear voices again.

You duck behind a rack of sequined jackets, crouching low.

“What was that tonight?” Rigo snaps. “That wasn’t the act we approved.”

"You said as long as he performs, you don’t care what it looks like,” Luca mutters.

“I said I want obedience. That little stunt was defiance dressed up in glitter.”

A pause. Then—

“How much does he owe you again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rigo growls. “I’ll change the amount however I want. Interest, late shows, fines. He’ll never pay it off. That’s the point.”

“And if he tries to leave again?”

"We remind him what happens to little strays who don’t know their place.”

You don’t hear the rest. You’re already slipping away, eyes wide, chest tight.

Hoshi doesn’t know. He thinks the debt is manageable. That there’s an end to it. But there isn’t. There never was.

The next city is louder than the last.

Cobbled streets overflow with carriages and clamour. Street performers clog every corner. Posters for the circus flutter on every lamppost.

You help him dress backstage that evening, hands tightening the clasps of his costume as he stretches his arms above his head. He hums off-key, as usual, pretending not to wince when his shoulder cracks.

“Nervous?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Always,” he says with a grin, though the tremor beneath it betrays him. “But it helps that I know you’ll be watching.”

You smile. It’s faint. But real.

He cups your chin with one gloved hand, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorise you again. You lean into his palm before he can pull it away.

“Come back to me after,” you murmur.

“Always.”

You don’t see the man in the suit approach him.

You don’t hear the words exchanged at the edge of the ring after the show when the lights are dimming, and the crowd is dispersing.

You don’t see the glint of a silver card passed from one palm to another.

But Luca does. And that’s enough.

Hoshi returns later than usual that night.

You’re in the wagon, seated cross-legged on the bench, one of his shirts in your lap. Mending it. Or pretending to. Every sound outside sends your heart leaping.

When the door finally creaks open, you look up—and freeze.

He’s pale. His mouth is drawn tight. He walks like he’s trying not to breathe too deep.

“You’re late,” you whisper, rising quickly.

“Got caught in the crowd,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

You cross the floor in two strides and reach for his arm. He jerks it back instinctively. Your heart drops.

“What happened?”

"Nothing, Moon. Really. I’m just tired.”

You narrow your eyes, and you step closer.

He won’t meet your gaze.

“Take off your shirt.”

"What? No, I—”

"Take. It. Off.”

His jaw tightens.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you add, softer now. “Not here.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.

Bruises bloom like dark petals across his ribs and chest. Long, red welts streak across his back—angry, raised, and recent. Some are still bleeding. Others already begin to purple.

“Rigo,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Hoshi says nothing. Just stands there, eyes closed, like he’s waiting for you to flinch away.

Instead, you reach out. Your fingers brush gently across one of the bruises, barely touching. He hisses softly—but not from pain.

“He beat you.”

"It’s not the first time.”

"Because of me?”

"No.” His eyes flash open, fierce. “Not because of you. Because I might’ve had a way out. Because someone else saw what I could be, and he can’t stand that.”

"A scout?”

He nods.

“Asked if I was under contract. Told me he’d seen my last two performances. Said I had something rare.” He swallows. “I didn’t even say yes. I just took his card.”

You don’t need to ask what happened next.

Your stomach churns. Rage bubbles in your throat, bitter and thick.

“I’ll kill him,” you whisper. “I swear to god, I’ll kill him.”

"It’s nothing.”

"Don’t say that.”

He finally looks up.

And it’s you he sees now—not the artist, not the runaway—but the woman who’s watched him from the shadows every night since he met her.

“This place will kill you before it frees you,” you say.

“Then what do we do?"

Your hands reach for his.

“We burn it down.”

It begins with Mira.

You approach her first. The seamstress with needles tucked into her bun and burns on her fingers. You show her Hoshi’s bruises. You don’t say a word. Just let her see. She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then she nods.

“It’s about time.”

Then Andrei.

The tall, silent strongman with eyes like storm clouds and a permanent frown. He’d always been kind to Hoshi. Had once given you half a sandwich without asking why you were hiding behind crates.

He listens. He nods once. Then he spits on the ground.

“I’ll handle the locks.”

Then, the twins—Illya and Ivan.

Aerialists with matching red hair and scars on their ankles from the silk ropes. They’d grown up in the circus. Their parents hadn’t been as lucky.

When Hoshi tells them the plan, they glance at each other—then smile, cold and sharp.

“We’ll give them a show they’ll never forget,” Illya says.

“And if Rigo ends up gagged in a lion cage, well…” Ivan shrugs. “Oops.”

It becomes something more than revenge. It becomes a rebellion.

One by one, performers start pulling their weight for Hoshi, stalling for him, hiding you in plain sight.

You and Hoshi begin mapping out everything.

You sketch the grounds, mark the weak points, the tent poles soaked in oil, the ropes fraying after years of neglect.

Hoshi studies fire escapes like choreography. Practices his flips in silence. His eyes burn with purpose again.

And every night on your way to Paris, before the candle goes out, you sleep with your hand in his.

The Palais Garnier gleams like a dream—its chandeliers sparkle, marble stairs echo with polished footsteps, and every guest inside wears something that costs more than your entire life.

It is Paris. And tonight, the circus burns.

You stand just outside the main tent, your body cloaked in dark rain-slick fabric, the matchbox clenched in your hand.

The performers pass around each other like whispers—disguised in their roles, eyes meeting in split seconds of silent code. Tonight isn’t a performance. It’s a war.

Mira helped you lace your boots extra tight. Andrei handed you the rope soaked in kerosene. Illya gave you a pocket knife, “just in case.”

No one says goodbye.

You’re not sure if that’s superstition, or fear.

Across the field, on the opposite end of the canvas, Hoshi slips into the beast tent. You catch one last glimpse of him. His white and silver costume shimmers against the lighting. No mask. Just his face, taut with focus, damp hair clinging to his temples.

He looks back once. His eyes find yours. And you nod.

Then, he vanishes into the shadows.

Inside the ring, the final act is about to begin.

The guests—drunk on champagne and artificial wonder—roar in their seats. Rigo stands just behind the curtain, adjusting his cuffs and sipping dark liquor from a cut-crystal glass. His cane, tiger-head-topped and gold-plated, rests against his thigh.

“They think they’ve seen a show already,” he smirks to Luca. “Wait ‘til the beast steps out. Solomon’s presence raises the price of the ticket by tenfold.”

"Are you sure it’s wise?” Luca murmurs. “He was twitchy this morning.”

“They’re all twitchy before a crowd.” Rigo scoffs. “That’s what makes them pliable. And Soonyoung knows better than to disappoint me again.”

He chuckles, cruel and smug. “Besides, the tiger knows who owns him.”

You circle the outer rim of the tent now, fingers trembling as you reach the section Mira marked in chalk—just behind the main structure, near a weak seam in the canvas wall. It’s here you strike the match.

The sulfur flares with a hiss, gold against the grey.

The flame eats the rope greedily.

The wind carries the flames faster than expected, wrapping around the edge of the tent. The fire is elegant at first—just a shimmer. A flickering glow.

Then, the fuel kicks in. And the tent goes up like a furnace.

Inside, Rigo freezes mid-sip.

The crowd begins to murmur—then shout.

“What the—” he barks, turning toward the entrance. The smoke has reached the curtains. Flames curl upward in waves.

“Someone put that out! What’s happening?!”

Luca runs out with two other crew members. Chaos explodes like firecrackers. Chairs overturn. Guests push toward exits, masks slipping from sweat-soaked faces.

Then, a roar splits the air, but it doesn’t come from the crowd.

It’s deeper. Wilder. Rigo pales.

“That’s not possible.”

He turns— and sees the gate of Solomon’s cage wide open.

The chain lies coiled on the ground.

“No. No, no, no—WHERE IS HE?! WHO LET HIM OUT?!”

He stumbles back as the tiger emerges.

Solomon moves slowly at first, padding across the ring with terrifying grace. He is not panicked. He is not afraid. He is free.

The audience flees. Performers scatter.

And in the centre of the smoke and madness, Rigo stands—frozen. His cane shakes in his grip.

“Easy now,” he whispers, stepping backwards. “You’re trained. You know me. You know your master.”

But Solomon does not stop.

He snarls low as his eyes gleam with something cold. You watch from outside the tent, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Rigo lifts his cane like it’s a sword.

“You obey me!”

And then Solomon pounces.

The cane flies from Rigo’s hand as claws tear through his coat and skin. Rigo screams—a high, broken sound that echoes like a death rattle inside the inferno. He stumbles to the floor, arms flailing, trying to crawl, trying to beg, but Solomon bites down.

The tent is fully ablaze now.

A final scream is lost in the roar of collapsing canvas and shattering beams.

And just like that—Rigo is gone.

There’s only one last thing left to do.

You reach his wagon on the far edge of the circus grounds.

It’s massive—more like a carriage fit for royalty than a travelling performer’s quarters. The door, somehow, is unlocked.

Of course, it is. Overconfidence always did follow arrogance.

You slip inside and close the door silently behind you. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and expensive cologne. The velvet drapes are half-drawn.

You move quickly.

The room is cluttered—brass fixtures, crystal glasses, boxes of cigars. But your eyes are sharp now, your purpose clearer than fear. You open drawers. Tear through desk cabinets. Rifling past letters, ledgers, and a pile of guest receipts.

Nothing.

Then—you find it.

A narrow cabinet beneath the liquor shelf. Locked. You pry it open with the tip of your knife.

Inside, you find a thick stack of bound papers, folders, and cash.

You search quickly until your fingers close around one with a name written in thick black ink across the top.

Kwon Soonyoung.

You grab it. Beneath it is a yellowed envelope, fat with bills—more than you’ve ever seen in one place.

You shove both into a satchel, sling it over your shoulder and turn toward the door.

“Going somewhere, Angel?”

Luca stands in the doorway, his face dirty with ash and smoke, eyes wide with fury.

“You stupid, stupid bitch.”

Meanwhile, Hoshi is running.

Rain pelts down in sharp slashes. His chest heaves as he pushes through the brush and out toward the clearing.

The rendezvous point, where you should already be.

He drops the bags—his and yours—by the base of the tree where you promised to meet.

“Moon?” he calls. Nothing.

“Moon!” Still nothing.

He turns, scanning the tree line, frantic.

Mira appears first, drenched and panting, dragging a case of costumes behind her. Then Andrei, carrying one of the twins—Illya, maybe—with blood on his shirt. Ivan stumbles in next, singed and coughing.

One by one, they arrive. Except you.

Back in the wagon, Luca steps inside and slams the door behind him. “You think you can just destroy us and walk away?” He bellows. “You think he’s free? He’ll never be free. Not from this. Not from what he is.”

You stand your ground even though your body is already coiled like a spring.

“Rigo owned that tiger,” Luca spits. “He made all of this. You think you’re better than us? You think you’re something because Hoshi likes you?”

He spits the words like it’s poison.

“You’re still just a broken whore who’s good at looking sad.”

You don’t have time to answer.

He lunges.

His hand strikes your face first—hard, open-palmed, knocking you into the desk. Pain blooms across your cheekbone.

Before you can recover, he kicks you in the side. You cry out and crumple against the cabinet.

“You ruined everything,” he growls, dragging you up by your hair. “He could have had a future. We all could. But no—you had to make it about you.”

You thrash, kicking. Your elbow connects with his ribs, but he punches you in the stomach. Air flies out of your lungs. Your vision swims.

You hit the floor hard.

Then—you see it. The brass tiger paperweight on the edge of the desk.

You lunge for it.

“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, dragging you once more. “You can’t even fight.”

You close your fingers around the cold metal.

And without thinking, you swing.

The sound of impact is dull and sickening. Bone cracks. Luca stumbles backward, stunned, blood pouring from his temple.

He sways, then crashes to the floor.

The smoke is crawling into the wagon now. The wood slowly engulfing into flames.

You grab the satchel, stagger to your feet, your ribs screaming in protest. The velvet curtains are alight.

You throw open the door, choking, stumbling into the open air. And run.

Hoshi is pacing.

“She should be here.”

"Maybe she went a different way,” Mira suggests gently.

“No. We had a plan.”

Then—movement.

You burst through the trees, soaked in blood and soot, your dress torn, your lip split.

Hoshi turns and runs to you.

“Moon—Moon, what the hell happened?”

He cups your face, frantic, hands shaking.

“Are you okay? What—did someone—”

"I’m okay.” You gasp. “I’m okay. But we have to go. Now.”

You hold up the satchel. “I have it. Your contract. The money. Everything.”

His eyes widen.

“You went back.”

You nod once. Then: “Train. Now.”

You run.

The entire company—burned, bruised, breathless—runs together through the wet fields, dragging bags and trunks and instruments and cages. You help Andrei lift Illya. Hoshi carries your satchel when your arms give out. Mira wraps a scarf around your bleeding arm without a word.

In the distance, you hear a whistle.

The tracks shimmer in the dark.

An old freight train rumbles past, slow and moaning.

You run faster.

Hoshi helps Mira up. You push Illya into the cart. Andrei hoists Ivan. Hoshi jumps up next, then turns and grabs you.

Your knees almost buckle from exhaustion—but his arms are around you, pulling you in.

The doors close. The train rolls on.

And as the last glow of the fire dies behind you—you are free.

The train groans against the tracks, the kind of sound that settles into your bones like an old ache. It’s been three days since the fire. Three days since the circus ceased to exist. Three days since Rigo’s scream was swallowed by a blaze you lit with your own hands.

You haven’t spoken about it.

Not with Hoshi. Not with anyone.

The others are gone now, scattering like embers from a dying flame. Andrei leapt off at a sleepy station near the border, chasing rumours of a woman who once promised him she would wait. The twins disappeared into fog-cloaked hills, saying something about a cousin’s vineyard and never setting foot in a tent again. Mira kissed you both goodbye, said Paris was too heavy and lacework was lighter.

Now, it’s just the two of you in an empty freight car, rocking slowly toward the south. The sea, maybe. Or some small town with cheap rent and no haunting past for either of you.

The silence between you grows louder with every mile.

Hoshi crouches in front of you, his hands gently pressing a warm cloth to your cheek. The swelling has gone down, but the purple bruising still blooms over your ribs, your jaw, and your hip. He’s been nursing you like this every day, his fingers careful, his voice low.

But tonight, you’re both too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Stop fidgeting,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in a tin cup of boiled water.

“I’m not.”

“You say that right before you wince.”

"That’s because you’re hurting me.”

He sighs, but there’s a flicker of something under the breath—something sharp and coiled.

“I’m trying to help, Moon.”

"I didn’t ask you to.”

It slips out colder than you intend, and the moment you say it, you regret it. His hand stills on your skin.

You flinch, not from pain but from the look in his eyes.

He stands slowly, tossing the cloth aside.

“You don’t have to bite me every time I get too close.”

"I’m not—”

"Yes, you are.”

He steps back, the space between you stretching like a chasm.

“Every time I try to touch you, really touch you, you act like I’m going to burn you alive.”

"That’s not fair.”

"Neither is the fact that I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if you’ll be gone when I wake up.”

That stuns you.

The candlelight flickers. Rain begins to tap softly on the metal roof above.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.

“I know you’re scared, Moon. God, I know. But I’m scared, too. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what this is.”

You want to say something. You do. But the words are stuck in your throat.

He turns away slightly, his voice quieter now.

“And I’m starting to think you’ll leave now that I’m not something to fix.”

That breaks something in you.

“So that’s what you think this is?” you whisper. “That I stayed because you were broken?”

His silence says enough.

You stand, even though your ribs scream. You move closer until there are only inches between you and the man in front of you.

“I’ve never stayed for anyone, Soonyoung. Not once.”

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Your voice shakes when you speak next.

“But I want to stay with you. Every day.”

The words hang in the air between you, trembling like your breath.

Hoshi’s eyes search yours—wide, stunned, reverent. Like you just handed him a whole galaxy and asked him to hold it.

Then, slowly, carefully, he steps toward you, his hand lifting to your cheek.

And his lips finally meet yours.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but you don’t. You melt.

The kiss deepens, slow and aching. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he backs you gently toward the soft pile of blankets laid out on the freight car floor.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.

“Don’t,” you breathe, voice small. “Please. Just—don’t.”

Soonyoung kisses you again, slower this time. Fuller. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth from scratch. His hands stay at your waist, not roaming, not demanding. You press your chest into his, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.

You whimper when he grazes your lip with his teeth.

His thumb strokes over your hip.

“Still okay?”

"Yes.”

He unbuttons your shirt slowly, each pop of a button a small act of worship. He kisses your shoulder as it slips off, trailing warmth in his wake. You’re trembling—but not from fear.

His eyes drink you in as he pushes the fabric down your arms.

“You’re so—” he swallows. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

You flush, chest tightening.

You’re not used to this. Not this kind of looking. Not this kind of wanting.

He kneels in front of you like one would at an altar, before his hands softly remove your pants.

When you’re bare in front of him, shivering in only your underwear, he leans forward—pressing his lips gently to the bruises on your ribs. Your stomach. The cut on your collarbone.

“You survived so much,” he murmurs. “And you’re still here.”

You bite your lip, fighting tears.

“I want to make you feel good, Soonyoung,” you whisper. “I want to—”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

You blink.

“You don’t have to give anything tonight. You don’t owe me pleasure, Moon. You never did.”

"But—”

"Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says softly. “Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”

You shudder as he leans in again.

“You deserve to be worshipped, not used.”

He gently instructs you to lay back on the blanket, your hair fanning out like a halo. His lips trail along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Every kiss is slow, like he’s savouring you. Every glance between kisses makes you ache deeper.

When he finally pulls off his shirt, you see the bruises still healing across his ribs, and your breath catches. You reach out, kissing the darkest one.

“You got this for me.”

“I’d do it again.”

His hand slips between your thighs, fingertips brushing the cotton of your underwear.

“Can I?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat.

He eases the fabric down, then settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be.

The first touch of his fingers against your clit is gentle. Careful.

He strokes between your folds, collecting your building juices and learning every gasp that leaves your mouth, every arch of your back, every shiver of your hips. He watches you with the same expression he wears on stage—focused, present, enchanted.

And when he slides a finger inside your wet heat, his mouth meets your breast, kissing, sucking, syncing the rhythm of his tongue with the one from his fingers.

You reach for him—needing him closer, needing his weight, his heat.

“Soonyoung—please—”

He groans against your skin.

“You feel like heaven.”

Your pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising, until you’re trembling beneath him, and the world is spinning behind your eyelids. His fingers continue their steady push and pull inside of you as his thumb gently flicks your clit.

You don’t even realise when you fall.

You suddenly cry out his name, shaking, as waves of pleasure ripple through you, raw and real and overwhelming.

Hoshi guides you through it, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your jaw.

When the aftershocks fade, you pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

He hesitates.

“Are you sure?”

"I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Your bodies slide together, skin to skin, as he removes his pants. His hard cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. He doesn’t break eye contact when he guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You gasp softly, your legs falling open wider to make space for him. He stills halfway through, his brows drawn in concentration, the corded muscles of his arms shaking where he holds himself above you.

“You’re okay?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whisper, overwhelmed by the stretch of him within your walls, by the way your heart cracks wide open under the weight of being cared for.

“You feel like… fuck, Moon. You feel like home.”

He finally bottoms out with a groan, hips pressing flush to yours. Your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips at the feeling.

He doesn’t move at first. Just lets you adjust. Your hands trace his spine, nails dragging lightly. His breath is ragged against your neck.

When you lift your hips, he takes it as permission.

He moves. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

The friction sparks something deep in you, something raw and tender. Your body arches into him, chasing each slow grind of his hips.

He kisses your lips again.

“You’re so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrusts deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside of you, you never bothered to search for.

The rhythm builds—deliberate and measured, but full of heat. He rolls his hips against you, his body moving like a dance, like the final act of a performance meant only for you. Each thrust pushes in just right, pulling soft, gasping moans from your throat.

“Soonyoung—please—don’t stop.”

"I won’t. I’m right here.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building in waves again, dizzy from the closeness, from the way he never looks away from you. His forehead presses to yours. Your lips brush as you breathe each other in.

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your aching bundle of nerves again and circling it gently with his fingers. You cry out at the combined sensation, your hips jerking, pleasure blooming fast and deep.

“Come for me, Moon,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You shatter beneath him—back arching, a sob torn from your throat, the orgasm rippling through you so hard it steals your breath. Your whole body trembles, tears spilling from your eyes.

Soonyoung kisses them away.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

Your walls cramp around him with your orgasm, and he groans—a low, desperate sound—and thrusts faster, his hips losing their rhythm as he chases the edge as well.

"I love you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “I love you, I love you, I—”

And then he comes too, with a shudder and a cry against your skin, his come pouring into you, his body collapsing into yours.

You wrap your arms around him as he trembles through the aftershocks, your hands stroking his back, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

You simply hold each other, sweat-slick and breathless and ruined in the most sacred way.

And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—those eyes soft with everything he doesn’t know how to say—you whisper, “You’re mine now.”

He smiles.

The sea is quieter in the mornings.

You like to think it’s listening.

The breeze carries the scent of salt and citrus, the sky soft with watercolour light. Your little studio stands just beyond the dunes, tucked beneath an olive tree that’s older than you’ll ever be. The walls are whitewashed and cracked in places, but the inside is alive—with your brushstrokes, with the stories only colour can tell.

You painted the studio walls with everything you couldn’t say. A tiger in flight. A girl with stars in her hair. Fire that doesn’t burn but frees.

Soonyoung says it feels like walking into your soul.

He still calls you Moon.

Even now. Even after all this time. Even when your given name hangs on your business sign in elegant cursive: Galerie de Lune.

You laugh now, more than you cry. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s no longer unbearable.

Soonyoung teaches dance in the community hall just down the road. Most days, he brings home sand in his shoes and glitter on his neck from the children, who insist on decorating him like he’s part of the show.

He teaches them rhythm, footwork, and how to roar on stage without fear.

“No one can take your voice if you learn how to use it,” he tells them, tapping their chests where their hearts beat bold and wild. “Even when it shakes.”

Sometimes, you watch through the open windows as he twirls a girl in pigtails or lifts a boy with stage fright into the air until he forgets to be afraid. You still can’t believe he’s real.

Sometimes you touch his back in the middle of the night just to make sure he’s still there.

The bed is a little fuller now.

There’s a child who curls up between you most nights, her little body warm and soft and full of questions. She has a gap in her teeth and a temper that rivals thunder. She calls him Papa and you Maman and insists she was a tiger in her past life.

You might just believe her.

The adoption wasn’t easy. Your body, marked by things you never asked for, couldn’t carry life without danger. It broke you once, quietly and completely, in the dark of a hospital room. But he never blamed you. Not for a second.

He only kissed your tears and whispered, “Then we’ll find the child who’s already waiting for us.”

You did. And she is perfect.

Sometimes you still flinch in your sleep. Sometimes he still wakes from dreams of iron bars and snapping chains, sweat beading on his skin, whispering names he never told you.

But it’s not like before.

You soothe each other back down, palms on hearts, kisses against temples. The panic no longer owns you. It visits. It passes.

You have anchors now. You’ve built a world where no one owns you. Where no one watches from behind velvet curtains. Where no one pays to touch you, or beats you for dancing too slow.

Here, in this quiet coastal town with your studio and his stage and a child that carries light in their palms—you are finally free.

And you are still in love.

Tonight, the stars are out.

You sit on the porch with your sketchbook, legs tucked beneath you, your child asleep inside. Hoshi brings you tea and a kiss on your cheek, still sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Whatcha drawing, Moon?”

"You.”

"Again?” he laughs.

“Always.”

He sits down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, he says, “Do you ever think about the fire?”

"Sometimes.”

"Do you regret it?”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “No. It saved you.”

"It burned everything down.”

"Only what needed to die.”

He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “You rebuilt me.”

"No,” you whisper. “You just finally had room to bloom.”

He hums, content. And as the tide laps against the shore, you realize something so simple it nearly brings you to tears.

You are safe. You are free. You are loved.

And your tiger still sleeps beside you.

A/N: Don't ask me where this came from, I have no idea. Did I cry while writing it? Yes. Am I also incredibly proud of it? Yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy and that it breaks your heart like it did mine. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[wonluhver]

Texas Sun (l.sm)

ASSIGNMENT: Outrider!Seokmin x f. reader 

MISSION DEBRIEF: Seokmin remembers nothing before the Station. Just the unending desert, the cobalt sky overhead, and kill any machine he sees. Then one day, he finds you and forgets everything he’s ever been trained to do.

LOG COUNT: 27,020

ASSIGNMENT TYPE: Dystopian AU, Futuristic

MISSION ELEMENTS: Angst, Strangers to Lovers, Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

DANGERS: Ambiguous world building, a bit of an unreliable narrator, depictions of intense loneliness and depression, depictions of hallucinations/heat exhaustion, intense combat scenes with machines, depiction of minor injuries, mentions of reader being held captive, some light social commentary on life vs. machine/what constitutes a Thing as Living, reader and DK are a bit awkward (they're never around people ok!!!!), depiction of blood/minor hand injury, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (v awkward convo about this because .. you'll see in the context it makes sense), implied both DK and reader are virgins, multiple orgasms, a bit of a distressing scene at the end.

MISSION NOTES: This is an idea I have had for about eight months and I am finally taking the time to do it. I am so so excited to bring you this fic, and it has been so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy this very unique world as much as I do. This story is a bit inspired by Horizon Zero Dawn, Fallout, Zoids and The Creator. 

MISSIONS NOTES 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and leaving several comments telling me to stop writing for free I love you

MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷ NOW PLAYING: TEXAS SUN

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … EIGHT

AN ENDLESS COBALT SKY STRETCHES OVER STATION 0218. Always endless, always fathomless. Seokmin has never seen where the sky begins or ends. He doesn’t know if the blue is different in other parts of the world. Doesn’t remember if everywhere else the sun sizzles against the blue, a burning orange hole singeing its way across the entire expanse of sky before it sinks toward the horizon and turns the world purple. Pink. Gold. 

The days are hot, even when he manages to keep the Station cool. It’s an old, small Station, meant to only occupy a single Outrider. He’s been the only one that he knows of here. Just him, the groaning generator, the cracked sunpanels, and the orange dust. 

Seokmin thinks the dust is the worst part. It clings to every part of him, crawling into places he doesn’t know existed, never reachable, always there. It dries out his mouth, makes his teeth feel gritty. Burns his eyes, turning them red and raw and stinging. 

He can’t escape the dust. It’s everywhere. He thinks if he cracked open his chest cavity to look at his beating heart, he’d find the dust there, encasing the very soul of him. 

In an attempt to keep most of the dust out of his mouth, he’s pulled his cloth high up on his face. It hugs him just under the eyes, digging in and chafing him as sweat runs from his hairline in rivulets. Every part of him is dripping in sweat, the sun baking him through the layers of sun protection he has on.

This part he doesn’t mind so much. He stays hydrated, pumping cool, crisp water from the well just outside the station. The well is the only place the dust doesn’t reach, and he’s thankful, especially now as he paused to sip from a thermos, pulling the cloth off his face to take long draughts. 

In the distance, the Gods loom. They’re not really Gods, but he doesn’t know the name of the terracotta-colored mountains that stretch against the cobalt sky. They’ve watched him for as long as he’s been at Station 0218, so he feels like they’re the closest thing he’s ever had to protection of a higher power. 

Station 0218 exists in the middle of a flat desert, a few thousand yards away from the foot of a small range of mountains to the north at the edge of a dry basin. To the south, there’s nothing but packed clay, tall weeds and agave plants dotting the ground, and a tiny smear of shadow that he knows is a large limestone formation, cracked and crumbling as it bakes in the sun before washing out in the rainy season. 

It’s far past the rainy season now. The air hangs heavy and heated like the simmering air of an oven. He feels it when he breathes in, sees the shimmer of heat in the distance. Thirst satiated, he takes a moment to pant, wiping a sleeve over his sweating brow. 

There’s no fence to denote the proper perimeter of the Station, but Seokmin knows the property line even in the dark. He had to learn it, knowing that there are mines planted under the ground. While they’re only supposed to go off when triggered by a Dig Machine, they’re old and he’d rather not take his chances. 

For most of his small life on Station 0218, Seokmin’s days are wash, rinse, repeat. He does his scouting, he maintains the Station, he logs his day. He keeps himself alive. He kills machines when they enter his territory, which stretches in a perfect 20 mile radius. He still watches the land outside of that, sometimes catching machines traveling outside of their usual paths. 

Machines learn. It’s what makes them so dangerous, and is ultimately what had led to the Machine War. But machines, like humans, are creatures of habit. They know the shortest way to cross a barren wasteland. They move in the same syncopated patterns they always have. They are, at the end of the day, beholden to their settings, driven by an instinct they cannot always override. 

In a way, Seokmin feels like that. His life before being assigned to his post is blurry at best. They say it’s better to not remember and to reflect on all of the people you wouldn’t be able to see, that it’s better not to drift in your memories while you’re in solitude. 

So they take the memories, leaving only the training and instinct gained from preparing to be an Outrider and man his solitary post. 

This life is lonely. He tries not to think about it. Throws himself into his work. Scouts. Maintains. Logs. Kills. 

There is nothing else that he knows. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES OVERNIGHT, 72 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … NINE

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

The song plays throughout the station, backtracking the crackle of a hot pan. It smells like spiced chicken, oil popping. Seokmin hisses and snatches his hand back. Cursing softly, he lowers the heat on the stove, realizing it’s too high in an attempt to cook it faster.

The kitchen around him is small, but well put together. The metal cabinets are a bit dinged up and the fridge hums louder than it should, but everything works. Even the stove, which he had to rewire by hand a few months ago when it went out.

Scavenged parts and aging tech litter the counters of the living space just beyond. Faded schematics cover the walls alongside yellowing warning labels for the various tech inside the Station. A cracked touch screen interface blinks near the entrance, looping with various descriptions of the machines commonly found in this part of the world. 

Behind him, a ventilation fan clanks unevenly, blades ticking like a slow metronome. The overhead lights flicker as the general air conditioning kicks on and settles again, all while his favorite song backtracks the sounds of his everyday life. 

Seokmin hums along with the melody, swaying slightly as he flips his chicken. Cooking isn’t a daily ritual for him, but he likes to do it on Friday nights. Most nights, he settles for the nutrient meals the Alliance Against Machines provides. They’re efficient and protein rich, but they’re forgettable. 

So on Fridays he cooks a real meal to celebrate the weekend. 

It doesn’t matter that there’s no such thing as a weekend for Seokmin. He has nowhere to spend it. No one to spend it with. He doesn’t do less work because there’s always work to be done, and it doesn’t mean that he can ever drop his guard. 

The weekend is something he only has a vague concept of, but like this little ritual carved out of monotony: chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, using up fresh ingredients dropped by airship earlier that week. 

He cooks. He plays his favorite song, worn and warbling slightly through the old Station speakers. He pours a glass of wine. And he pretends, for just a little while, that he’s someone else. Somewhere else. 

And for a short while, the possibilities are endless. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 105 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

Alarms yank Seokmin from sleep. He’s already vertical and moving before he’s fully awake, body reacting on instinct. He’s halfway into his gear before he realizes it’s a machine warning. The overhead lights pulse red, strobing in the company room. It’s enough to give him a headache, the shrill and surgical blare of the alarm doubling the irritation. 

He buckles his weapons belt around his waist with practiced efficiency. The satisfying click of the holster lock centers him, grounding him more than the metal floor beneath his heavy boots. He grabs a rifle off of the wall, modded for heat signatures and pulse interferences that come from machines. It feels heavier than usual, but then again, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

He glances at the clock and curses. 0300. 

The screen in his bedroom flickers, blue text drifting across as a readout from the sensors scroll in. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … SKULKER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 095… 4 MPH NORTHBOUND

He grimaces. They’re not his favorite machine to eliminate. They’re built to blend in, to hide. Covered in chameleon plating, their panels are made with adaptive AI that uses sensors to replicate the scenery around them, making them near invisible. In the daylight, they’re difficult to see. At night, they’re near impossible. 

Seokmin will need to go into this blind with only heat maps to help him, but even that’s a challenge. PLEDIS CORP Skulker models made from the Unit 093 and up all have internal cooling systems to combat being detected on thermal scopes and readers, even with equipment far more advanced than what Seokmin has. 

Hunting them is difficult. The desert is vast, but not empty, and if he’s smart - patient - he’ll manage. Stealth is the name of the game. Though Skulkers don’t travel in packs, they’re one of the few scout machines that are designed to fight back, and he’s not exactly looking for a brawl with a heavy duty scout. 

Pulling on a lightweight mesh that will shield him against heat and a spray of light-ammo bullets, he thinks of a game plan. He pulls his tactical vest over the mesh, zips it up. Pulls a pair of clear glasses that flicker to life, red text appearing across the lenses as they calibrate. 

The glasses flicker and he curses. Of course. Skulkers emit low-frequency pulses that jam basic tech, and though his Station might be able to continue data pull and readouts, something as simple as his glasses won’t. He takes them off and throws them on the bed. He’s just going to have to do it without the help of the Station, which serves as his only companion in these fights, serving as a base and intelligence system. 

Stations are the closest that the New World will come to using AI ever again. 

Sighing, Seokmin goes for more analog tech. A homing beacon that uses radar instead of data reading sensors or internet signals, but will at least tell the Alliance where to look for his body if he dies - he doesn’t know if they’ll come get it - and glasses made for switching between night and thermal vision. 

He moves quickly now as the Station finishes the readout. The machine is ambling along, in no rush. Based on its movement, he thinks it’s scouting the perimeter of Seokmin’s sector, which most likely means the machine knows there’s a Station nearby. 

Seokmin will have to be extra careful. The last time he’d been caught unawares by a Skulker had nearly been his last, and the Alliance had needed to send extra medical supplies in his weekly drop from the passing airship. Not that they sent a doctor, of course. Isolation was Seokmin’s duty here. They’d just given him enough to fight off the infection and seal his wounds himself. 

Tonight, he’s not in armor to protect him, either. Wearing the heavy tech armor that is life-saving against Dig Machines or War Machines is detrimental against a scout. It’s too heavy and filled with too many sensors, essentially leaving him dead in the water to a machine built for scanning. 

Heading to the door, he powers down the Station to all but the reserve energy. He doesn’t need the hum of electricity serving as a beacon, and he doesn’t want any light giving him away. 

Outside, the world is velvet-black. The stars are scattered across the sky like shrapnel, the moon low behind the mountains, giving it a ghoulish halo. Shadows shift with each gust of wind, dust peppering Seokmin as he heads north.

If it were another machine, he’d used the speedbike. It would certainly get him there a lot faster. But Scout Machines are built to sense things at a far greater distance, and even though Seokmin has a scatterwave on to attempt to hide himself from the machine’s sensors, he’ll be more vulnerable tonight than he is with any other machine. 

Skulkers are designed for darkness. They wait, camouflaged against rock and plant life, listening and watching, gathering data to broadcast whatever they see, hear, and smell to whatever machine territories they belong to. 

During the war, they were scouts. Now, they serve more or less the same purpose, but there’s not exactly thriving machine territories to report back to anymore. After humanity had finally defeated most of the machines with a virus, there were very few pockets of machine society left. Most of them had fled to the west, forming small societal hives. Occasionally, they tried to re-enter human society, which is where Seokmin came in handy.

The desert night is a different kind of alive. Every one of Seokmin’s footsteps feels like a mine going off. The cold air cuts through his clothes, but it’s nice. The wind plays tricks on him, whispering through the agave plants and spinning up dust devils that look vaguely like human shapes. 

He moves at a steady, deliberate pace. After a while, he checks his watch. He’s about halfway to where the Skulker originally triggered the alarm system, so he crouches behind a dead scrub brush, lowering to a single knee to press the side of his glasses. They flicker to life and he sets them to thermal vision. 

A smear of colors appear before him, most of them various shades of blue and purple, indicating a lack of heat. Some plants are almost pink in nature, cool but retaining a little warmth from the long day in the sun. He spots a tiny flare of red in an underbrush - a desert mouse, nosing around. 

No immediate danger appears on the horizon. It doesn’t mean the Skulker isn’t out there. The thermal isn’t a foolproof system, especially if the machine knows an Outrider might be lurking around the night looking for it. 

So he gets up and starts walking again. Takes a sip from the small straw in his jacket that’s attached to the water pack lined in his vest. He keeps the thermal on, scanning the horizon back and forth, on alert. He thinks of the lyrics to his favorite song, missing the taste of the meal from last night and the sweet, cherry taste of the wine. 

The blots of red desert mice vanish at some point. Seokmin slows down his pace before dropping to his knees again, pressing the side of his glasses to expand his thermal reach. There’s no chirping bats, no singing crickets, not even the howl of wind here.

Heavy silence sits on him. 

Slowly, he scans back and forth. Then, just for a second, the terrain stutters. A barely perceptible shimmer of pink to purple appears several hundred yards away near the rim of the salt basin. It looks like a tear in reality trying to sew itself shut, there and gone again. Black. 

Seokmin marks the spot on his wrist pad. Swipes his fingers across it to zoom out and look at the overall map, despite the fact that he knows exactly where he is. He taps his knee and then pulls a pulse beacon from his vest. It’s tiny, barely larger than a marble, and he drops it into the brush before getting up and turning to the west, where he knows there’s a rocky outcrop he can climb.

He heads there swiftly, keeping his steps light, leaving the pulse beacon behind. His breath is coming in short and labored by the time he gets to the outcrop and starts climbing, eager to get in position and ready before the Skulker vanishes into the dry, cracked mud of the salt basin. 

A scorpion crunches under his boot as he finds a narrow outlet to crawl in. He grimaces. Feels guilty. He doesn’t like them, but he feels a sort of kinship with them, alone in the desert. Survivors. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, then slides down to the ground to lay on his belly. 

It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to lay himself flat. He braces his rifle on the edge of the outcrop and takes off his glasses to peer through the scope. 

The desert stretches before him like a graveyard. Silent. Still. Cold. 

Carefully, he taps his wrist pad to remote turn on the pulse beacon. For a second, nothing happens. He clenches his teeth, knowing that the signal to the device is struggling to go through. He does it again, finger tapping the side of his rifle. 

This time, it works. A green dot flashes on his wrist pad before he turns it to dark mode and turns on his scatterwave to hide any remaining frequency and signals from the tech on his person. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin levels his eye with the scope again, watching. At first, there’s nothing. Then, he sees movement. The pulse beacon has done its job. It’s not exactly bait, but the low frequency it emits is similar to the same tech humans used in the war. The Skulker, out of pure instinct, won’t be able to resist investigating. 

Seokmin watches, waiting for the movement again. For a while, there’s nothing. He chews the inside of his cheek. Feels dust bite at him as wind crests over the outcrop. A ripple catches his attention, not where he marked it last. It’s closer now, moving away from the basin toward where he left the beacon. 

Without the moon, Seokmin is in a blanket of midnight. All he can see are the blue shapes of plants and the occasional shiver of pink as it reforms, twisting faintly in the dark before it vanishes again. 

A thermal outline appears again. This time, lighting up red as a desert mouse catches the Skulker off guard, making it flare into a quadrupedal silhouette with a lean body that stands roughly two meters off the ground. He can’t make out all of the features of the machine, but he knows them by memory: elongated legs, an angular head with a sharp muzzle, glowing eyes that swap between spectrums, dangerous claws that can shred through limbs. 

The shape vanishes and Seokmin holds his breath. He slides his finger to the trigger, sliding his thumb across the safety. He feels the weight of the weapon in his hand, the coolness of the rock beneath his stomach. He inhales. Holds it. Lets it out. Inhales. Holds it. Lets it out.

A ripple appears as the Skulker crawls on its belly toward the beacon and Seokmin lines the shot before the glimmer vanishes again. He inhales again. Holds it. And squeezes the trigger. 

The crack of the rifle splits the night. The Skulker jerks violently as the bullet tears through one of its front stabilizers. Red and yellow explode in the scope as sparks fly off the machine. It’s not hiding now, colors violently glimmering. Seokmin doesn’t panic, flipping the scope to night vision. 

Bursts of heat and red are replaced with flat green. He can see the machine now, writhing as it lets out a scream - not a sound exactly, but something like a spike in air pressure, a raw pulse that explodes outward like a sonic wave. 

Dust blows in Seokmin’s face but he doesn’t flinch, letting it burn his eyes. The Skulker doesn’t need to use thermals to find Seokmin. It’ll know where the bullet came from and it charges, fast and erratic right at the outcrop where Seokmin hides.

He doesn’t panic. He tracks the machine through the scope, even as it zigzags, moving in wide, jerking arches that might fool a worse marksman. 

He exhales and fires again. The second shot hits center mass, cracking the machine’s chestplate. It falters, but doesn’t fall. Instead, it speeds up, closing the distance fast enough that Seomkin hears it now, all grinding machine and metal screeching against metal. 

It nears the outcrop. Seokmin reloads. Aims. Fires. 

The machine drops. He watches it through the scope, watching as the lights go out, the gears stop working, and the wires stop sparking. He doesn’t move for a long time. Machines don’t typically play dead, but he doesn’t like Skulkers. 

Eventually, he lowers his rifle and yawns. Wind howls around him and he gets up from his spot, muscles spasming, joints cracking. Slinging the strap of his gun over his shoulder, he makes his way down, hopping and landing carefully. 

He finally lands with a thud next to the Skulker. He toes the machine, squinting in the dark night as he looks at the bullet holes. They had torn through the metal, but he’s surprised to see just how thick the metal is. That unsettles him. He doesn’t recall this unit having reinforced metal but… well. He hasn’t come across one in a while, and he’s tired.

Instead of worrying about it, he leaves the machine there, turning to head home. He’ll go get it later when it isn’t dead in the middle of the night, and after he’s had a well-deserved cup of coffee. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … TUESDAY, JULY 2, 8099

WEATHER … PARTLY CLOUDY SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An endless sky stretches over Station 0218. It’s hot and bone-dry. Tufts of clouds drift in the distance, curling the Gods' heads like frothy halos. It’s just past dusk, a bruised sky yawning overhead. The sun has vanished beyond the rim of the world, the last few streams of gold light fading rapidly. Wind stirs up dust around his boots, but he doesn’t give it a lot of mind. 

The work bench outside the Station is half-shadowed under a metal canopy. He’d welded it together from the metal plates of a Dig Machine he’d eliminated a few years ago. On top of that are solar panels that he has to dust off constantly, trying to keep them in tip-top shape to power the Station..

The bench itself is scorched and dark with old burns, gouges, and acid stains. He’s not a mechanic by trade, but over the last few years, he’s managed to figure a few things out - and keep all his fingers. It’s a reliable work space. Solid. Like everything else he manages to keep running. 

Now, he works on stripping parts of the Skulker. He removed the armored panels from the main body, which he had dragged with the armored truck there the morning after he’d eliminated it. Now, the carcass is nothing but twisted metal and a vague shape as he disassembles it for whatever he can use. 

He’s managed to start separating the fine mesh-metals that cover the panels of the Skulkers body. He doesn’t know if he can use it to sew into his own gear to imitate the camouflaging of the machine, but he intends to try. The metal is a strange material, almost biological in nature with butterfly-wing texture. 

The skull of the machine sits on the top of the work bench. The sharp angels of the snout catch the hanging lights outside the station. One side is blown open, the optics shattered and fused, but the other lens is intact. He leans in close, working a flat tool between the housing and the mountain plate, brow furrowed in concentration. 

It pops free with a soft click and he grins, placing the eye in the tray of salvageable parts he’s got going. He can wire the eyes of machines like cameras around the entire sector, setting them up so they run extra information for him. Scout Machine eyes are particularly useful, and he’s glad to have one eye if not both. 

Seokmin pulls off his gloves and flexes his fingers. They’re sore and callused, a few knuckles raw from where he’d scraped them earlier when trying to pry the mesh-metal off the armor plates.

It’s quiet in the desert now. No new alerts coming in, no scream of metal. No machines prowling. Nothing but the buzz of wind and the occasional hawk as it dives to catch one of the various prizes the desert floor has to offer. 

He wipes the sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist then picks up the disassembled parts. He stands, propping the tray against his hip as he swings his leg over the bench and heads inside. Crickets choir as he walks up the step, kicking his boots against them to knock as much dust off as he can before he ducks inside. 

Cool air kisses his sweaty skin. He dumps the tray on the kitchen table and sits down, melting into the chair. He’s tired, but he wants to sift through the tray of parts before he finally gives up and scrubs the sweat and dust off his skin. 

Heaving a sigh, he starts to sort through the parts. He turns on his favorite song, the guitar strums humming through his speaker, turning to deep vibrations when the drums and base set in. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

He starts sorting. Optics and sensors to the left, cooling coals to the right, screws and bolts that he can add to his collection for around the station in their own pile. He comes across a joint mount, thumb-sized and not out of place except - when he grabs it, it’s light. Lighter than most pieces that exist in the joints of machinery. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin turns it over a few times in his hands. There’s nothing off about it… no, there is. He brushes his thumb across something and squints, holding it closer to the light burning above his head. There are tiny marks on it, imperceptible lines where it’s been welded, like it’s been refitted with different metal. 

He sets it down. Stares at it. Grabs a tablet and pulls up his schematics logs of every machine ever built in the span of hundreds of years. He taps in the maker and the unit number, a hologram appearing above the tablet screen of a circling replica of the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

Chewing on his lip, he taps the parts section and narrows it down to all of the parts, items and exact details that make up the moving joints of the Skulker. Each part has the type of metal listed, the exact weight of it, the way it was built, the supplier - everything he needs to know and more. 

It confirms his suspicion that no part of a joint mount is welded, crafted by a factory machine in one, single metal piece. He leans back in his chair and thinks about it. It’s entirely possible that the Skulker is a veteran of the Machine War, one of the many machines serviced for being damaged in the fight. He doesn’t find that often, though, especially outside of the War Machines. 

Still, it’s the most probable answer. He can’t figure out another reason for a makeshift piece - like someone had fixed this - could exist. 

He suddenly remembers the armor of the Skulker, the way the metal was far thicker than he anticipated. On a hunch, he picks up his tablet and walks back outside. 

The sun is long gone now, leaving behind a midnight blue sky. The neon blue glow of the bug zapper casts an eerie light on him as he passes, walking down to the yard where the pile of metal sits until he can melt down what he can’t keep. 

Big plates of metal that served as the main body remain there, too heavy for him to lift over to the table, but perfect for being melted down for him to remake into something later. He squats, holding the schematic up and looking at the material used for the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

VANTACORE ALLOY. MATTE-BLACK. NONREFLECTIVE. 14.4 KG.

Seomkin looks at the plate again. It’s definitely not 14.4 kg. He could lift that easily. He puts the tablet down and slides his hands under the disassembled plate again. He sucks in a breath, and tries to lift it, heaving upward with the strength of his legs, arms rippling. 

He’s not weak by any means. Beyond needing to keep a healthy lifestyle to fight machines, Seokmin has nothing else to do but workout and continue to build his strength. So when he tries to lift the metal plating and fails again, falling on his ass with a huff, he knows there’s no way it only weighs a couple of kilos. 

Scrolling on his tablet, he opens a scanner. Taps the screen. A small light appears as the device scans the metal, doing a reading on color, size, texture and thickness. A proposed list of metals appears in order of most to least likely. Sitting at the top is one he recognizes: Obelium. 

OBELIUM. MATTE-SILVER. NONREFLECTIVE. 8.2 G/CM3 DENSITY. USED BY PLEDIS CORP AND HYBE CORP FOR…

The list of machines stretches on. It’s a list of Dig Machines and War Machines, but as he scrolls, not a single unit of Skulker is on the list. Which confirms his suspicion that this Skulker was modded. If his calculations are correct, the piece of armor plating he tried to lift isn’t 14.4 kg - it’s 88.8 kg. 

Strange. He’s never come across a modded scout from the war before. He supposes there’s a first time for everything, but his gaze lingers on the machine when he finally gets up to dust himself off, needing to log it. 

When he finishes his logs and decides it’s finally time to shower, it occurs to him how close to death he was the other night, assuming it had been a simple Scout Machine. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JULY 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 118 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIFTEEN

The lights hum. Not loud, but just enough to make Seokmin aware of the silence beneath them. He stares at the bowl on the table. It’s rehydrated protein stew, thick and gray and flavorless. He wishes it was Friday and that he was making something he likes to eat, something with flavor. 

He wonders if he’s ever had dinner with someone before. If he enjoyed it. If he liked the way it tasted. Did he cook or had they? Has he ever sat across the table from someone? Laughed with them as chairs dragged across the floor or hit elbows while cutting into a meal? 

He doesn’t know. 

Sometimes, he imagines it. Pretends to hear a voice, something warm and teasing. Maybe they used to call him Min. Maybe they touched his wrist as they passed by, or said things like slow down or save me some. 

Seokmin has no idea if anyone has ever told him that. Or maybe no one has. Would he feel like someone had, if they had? Would he remember the feeling of it, if not the specific memory?

The Alliance Against Machines mandates that memories are irrelevant to an Outrider position, which means Seokmin doesn't even remember why he wanted to become one, or what inspired him. Memories make positions like this inconsistent. Dangerous. They make you miss too much of what you can’t have. 

But he seems to do that anyways - want what he can’t have. He wants what he can’t remember, wants it with a viciousness that sometimes feels so feral he doesn’t know what to do. 

He drops the spoon and it clatters too loud in a room too small, too empty. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breath shaking. He doesn’t cry, because the dust has dried his eyes too much and crying feels like it needs a witness.

Seokmin has no witnesses. 

Just the humming lights. The silence. The blank nothing of something he can’t remember, but wants all the same. Just the same song he listens to, trying to find a gap in the ache of being alone.

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 120 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT, HEATWAVE WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

The sun is merciless. Every part of Seokmin bakes under it. Sweat pools at his brow, singing his eyes. He is soaked through with sweat, finally peeling off the shirt to reveal tawn, muscled skin. There’s no breeze today, just dead air baking the sandblasted yard of the Station, rippling heatwaves rising off the ground in varied distortions. 

He’s been out here too long. 

The casing he’s working on slips from his fingers again, clattering across the workbench. 

“Shit,” he mutters, voice horse. 

He blinks hard, trying to steady his hands, but they won’t stop trembling. His gloves feel too tight and his skin feels wrong. He stands, swaying slightly as he wipes at his forehead again, smearing grease with sweat. 

Turning to reach for a towel to wipe his face, Seokmin freezes. A couple hundred yards away, there's a figure. Blurred. Far off. But human. He stiffens, eyes narrowing, heart pounding. He rubs his face with the towel, putting pressure on his eyes before he drops it and opens them again, blinking.

Someone is out there, walking slowly across the simmering white, arms at their sides. They’re walking right toward him, not fast, but casual. Like they know where they’re going. 

Seokmin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t know what to do. He can’t remember what talking to someone is like, what seeing someone is like. His heart begins to pound in a way that makes his rib ache. 

He takes a step forward and the figure flickers. He freezes, staring long and hard. The legs blur first, then the entire body seems to stretch, rippling with the heat. One moment they’re upright, the next, they fold in on themself and vanish like they were never there.

Gone. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He feels the dizziness of the heat, the rivulets of sweat. He sways, feeling the way his skin goes from warm, to hot, to scorching. And yet he stands, frozen. Waiting. 

There’s nothing there, though. Just an endless wash of pale dust and scorched rock. 

Finally, he turns. Steps inside the Station, looking out the window as he cools down. His ears are ringing and he feels the tunnel vision come, like he might pass out. He stumbles to the fridge to get water, yanking out a bottle and cracking the top, all but dumping it down his throat as he gulps.

Then, for the first time in a long time, he cries.

That night when he goes to bed, he keeps the porch light on. 

Just in case.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 95 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

The sun is lower today, washed in a pale orange haze that settles over the Station like dust. It’s been cloudy, shifting between pale grey to splashes of tangerine. The wind has returned again, blowing clouds fast across the sky and pulling at the tarp that Seomkin had put over grain barrels to keep the heat off. 

A cloud crosses over the sun and turns the world grey. He squints and waits for his eyes to adjust as he bends down. The ground here is flat and dry, baked hard. He sets down a bottle of water. A protein bar. A packet of dried fruit. Nothing more. 

He doesn’t think too hard about it. Just stands, brushing his hand off of his pants. His shadow stretches long across the sand behind him. He looks at the display a beat longer than he means to before he glances at the mountains - his Gods - and turns to walk back toward the Station. 

That night he eats in silence. It weighs heavier than it usually does, and like a bad habit, his eyes keep flickering to the window that looks out to the dark flat where he left the rations. Just in case. 

In the morning, he heads out. Sees the materials untouched and covered in dust. He brushes them off. Stands and heads back. 

Leaving them there again. Just in case. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ELEVEN

Seokmin bolts upright, heart pounding and hand reaching to rip his blankets off as the alarm cuts through the silence. The room flashes red, making him dizzy as he slides to his feet and stumbles toward his pants. The emergency lights stutter against the walls like a warning heartbeat. 

The screen on the wall flares to life. It makes him flinch, shielding his eyes with his hand until he can bear the added light. A feed of readout data scrolls on the bottom of the screen and a camera visual pops up from the perimeter. It’s coming from the eye that he had ripped out of the Skulker a few months ago and put it near the basin where it had been wandering. 

He scans the data feed first, reading as the words appear. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … RAVAGER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 156… 25 MPH SOUTHBOUND… ADDITIONAL UNIT… BLOODWOLF… HYBE CORP… UNIT 234… 20 MPH… ANOMALY DETECTED… BLOODWOLF PURSUING RAVAGER… 

He frowns. He’s never seen anomaly detected. Stranger, though, is the fact that he’s never heard of one War Machine pursuing another. Machines do not attack one another. At least, not since the start of the Machine War. Prior to that, War Machines had been used against one another in battlefields and conflicts between countries, but a Bloodwolf chasing a Ravager? 

Bloodwolf units were deployed right before the machines turned against humanity. They were also the hardest to get rid of, savage hunter-killers designed for hunting down their prey and engaging brutally. They were meant to hunt enemies of other countries and then meant to hunt humans. 

Ravagers were also violent machines, demolition tanks to tear down front lines and break any obstacle. He’d never faced a Ravager before and always hoped he wouldn’t - there’s a strange beauty about them that he loathes to put down, and a deep-rooted fear that he won’t live to do so. 

Chewing his lip, he squints at the grainy feed as the shapes move closer. They blur in the darkness, the lens tracking their movements as they approach. The Bloodwolf is fast, four-legged, sleek and low like a predator on the hunt. The Ravager is swift but massive, lumbering with effort, trying to accommodate for something…

Seokmin blinks. Rubs his eyes. Watches as the Ravager runs past the camera. He immediately lifts his hand to press a button on the screen, opening the feed and rewinding it. Slows it down. The Ravager had been running fast, the Bloodwolf on its tail, but it had been running like it was afraid to sprint full out like it was afraid… someone might fall off.

Because there is someone on the back of the Ravager, bent low between its massive shoulders. A small figure - a human. For a few long moments, all Seokmin can do is pant. His breath comes out short, gasping. He stares and stares and stares, unmoving as he stares at the frozen screen. 

This is different from the person he imagined all those weeks ago when the heat got to him. This isn’t a mirage. This isn’t a trick of the lonely mind and aching heart. This is real. On the screen. Evidence in front of him that somewhere out there is another person. 

Seokmin lets out a curse and starts tossing clothes around his room as he looks for the suit he wears under his heavy armor. He almost never needs it and suddenly his hands are shaking so bad he can barely find it in the flashing red lights of his bedroom. 

He finally does, yanking the thin material over his skin. It glides, buttery soft but sweat resistant and made to keep him cool and safe from chafing under the hard plates of armor he wears against War Machines.

His fingers tremble as he flips the lock on the trunk he never opens - hasn’t needed to. The armor waits inside, silent. Matte black. Heavy-plated. Laced with segmented joints of high-density lightweave, flexible underlayer, and bullet-slowing surface tension. The surface is layered with a thin plating of Obelium and the inside is padded with shock absorbent material to keep him from cracking open like an egg on impact. 

It’s a suit, in a way. All of the armor pieces lock together, their mechanisms whirring and clicking as he puts them on piece by piece. The chest plate hums as it fully seals, the arm bracers hissing as they click and lock into place, flexible at the elbows, wrists, shoulders.

The helmet clamps onto the collar ring with a soft sound, and the HUG flickers to life, scanning his vitals, connecting to the Station, gearing up for his fight. Readouts scroll like ghosts across the inside of the visor, telling him the Bloodwolf and Ravager have now engaged.

He can feel it. He swears there’s a tremble in the earth as he grabs his weapons and extra charges. His suit is outfitted with minor artillery, but he has to open up the locker for this one, gleaming rifles and assault weapons, both with metal and energy artillery rounds. 

Seokmin is silent now. His thoughts don’t scatter to the wind. He only has a single thing in mind, and it’s getting to that person, getting to whoever was on the back of that Ravager. This is what he was made for - bred for, perhaps, he’s not sure. 

With the heavy guns in hand and fully suited, he steps outside. 

The wind is howling. It kicks up dust that he hears scraping against the armor, but it doesn’t bother him, for once. The moon slices the sky above like a silver wound, sand shifting under his feet as a signal beeps in his HUD display. Artillery fire. 

Seomkin runs. 

He doesn’t know how long he has. Doesn’t know if he’s fast enough. The suit gets him there faster, upping his power and speed beyond what he would be physically capable otherwise. It’s why they’re made for heavy machine battle only, invented in a time where humans had to fight machines up close and personal.

He’s never used one to fight. Never needed to. He remembers using them in training, in simulators - part of the training that he’s allowed to remember - but he’s never had to go toe to toe with something bred to kill him as brutally as a Ravager or a Bloodwolf.

And now he’s running full speed into the fray, the sounds of metal scream, explosive sparks peppering the sky like fireworks, all because of the chance there is a person out there. 

Nothing else matters to him but getting there. Seeing someone else. Knowing he isn’t alone. 

Sand kicks skyward in a blinding storm as Seokmin reaches the fray. The Ravager crashes sideways into the Bloodwolf, metal shrieking against metal. Sparks bloom, lighting up the entire basin. Seokmin hits the edge of the fight just as the Ravager slams into the Bloodwolf again, sending it airborne. 

He watches as the wolf-machine twists midair as it lands, claws rending the sand for traction. It lunges forward, opening its jaw unnaturally, barring rows and rows of teeth. The Ravager roars, a low grinding sound that vibrates through Seokmin’s armor. 

The Ravager shifts to intercept the Bloodwolf as it comes down. The shift reveals you and Seomkin’s heart thunders. You’re small, knocked to your ass on the sand. You roll away from the machines as they clash, the Bloodwolf hitting the Ravager with enough force that Seomkin hears and feels the crack in one of the armor plates. 

You start to get to your feet, slipping in dust and sand to put distance between yourself and the machine. Seokmin raises a weapon, his HUD connecting with the scope of the automatic rifle when he pauses, blinking unbelieving eyes as he watches the Bloodwolf leap for you.

He starts to shout a warning but the Ravager is there, blocking the blow. It takes one of the Bloodwolf’s taloned paws to the face, sparks and metal flying. The Ravager screams, shaking its head violently back and forth as it’s rendered blind in one eye. 

Shrapnel flies from the damaged machine. He hears you yell out in distress and stagger before falling to a knee. Blood soaks your side and you’re struggling to keep behind the Ravager’s bulk, letting the machine shield you. 

Move. 

Seokmin launches forward, sprinting at a full tilt. The HUD in his helmet paints live readouts across his vision, a swirl of machine signatures, structural analysis, and environmental factors. The Bloodwolf shows up red on his screen, agile, lethal, set to kill mode. The Ravager pings orange, engaged but defensive and critically damaged. You flash blue, entirely human and purple in spots where you bleed. 

He dives to a knee as the machines collide and roll away from you, the Ravager on top. It savagely attacks the Bloodwolf, swiping claws against metal, sinking its saber teeth into the shoulder of the other War Machine. 

Lifting the gun, Seomkin hesitates. He doesn’t know where to shoot, suddenly. Both of the machines are dangerous and to be killed with impunity… and yet he sees you on your knees, screaming something at the Ravager like it can hear you. Understand you. 

He aims his weapon at the Bloodwolf and squeezes the trigger, firing bursts of heavy artillery at it. He feels the vibration of the gun’s kick against his shoulder, feels the heat from the muzzle, watches as both machines startle. The Bloodwolf lets out a sonic shriek, knocking Seokmin backward. 

Rolling to recover, he curses when he sees his attack left both machines startled, distracting the Ravager, losing its advantage as the machines untangle. The Bloodwolf skirts backward, zeroing in on Seokmin as he rises to his feet, aiming. A ripple goes through the Bloodwolf and Seomkin’s HUD calls out that it’s engaged in a projectile shield. 

“Fuck,” he kisses. 

You’re on your feet again, but your back is to the machines. You look right at him, chest heaving, bloody and so entirely human that it nearly takes Seokmin right out of the fight from the shock of it. The Bloodwolf notices and goes for you again, but the Ravager lurches forward.

As though the Bloodwolf had expected the defensive mode, it pivots at the last second and sinks its teeth into the neck of the Ravager. The machine screams, metal grinding on metal. You hear the sound and turn, a look of acute horror coming to your face as you scream. Seokmin hears it and his blood turns to ice. 

You’re upset for the machine. 

He doesn’t have time to think about it. He runs for you as the Ravager screeches, limbs flailing and kicking as the Bloodwolf’s lockjaw engages, crushing through heavy plating and machinery in the Ravager’s neck. Warning signals light up along the machine’s body as it goes into failure, its savage attacker ripping at the rest of it with its claws, tearing it to pieces. 

You’re screaming when Seokmin reaches you, barely aware of him as he skids next to you. He realizes there’s a gun in your hand, his HUD picking it up with a readout: PLEDIS CORP… STANDARD ISSUE VOLT… CORE BATTERY DEAD…

“Come on,” Seokmin urges, voice shaking. He can hear his breath, feel the adrenaline making him shake. “Come with me.”

“I’m not leaving her,” You growl, voices savage, eyes wild and wide. Your voice is broken, not what he expected. “Zahra!” 

The Bloodwolf gives a hard jerk and twists the Ravager’s neck. There’s a loud crunch and the HUD in Seokmin’s helmet flashes as the Ravagers system flashes before shutting off, the machine going cold, nothing but metal and sparks. 

“Zahra!” Your scream this time is broken. A cry. A plea. 

The Bloodwolf lets go and twists its head toward you. The Ravager - Zahra, a named machine - doesn’t move. Steam hisses from its ruined chassis, and a guttural grinding noise follows as something inside of it whirs all wrong until it stops, leaving only sparks and twisted metal. 

It’s gone.

And then the Bloodwolf is climbing over the wreckage. You’re nearly doubled over in agony, hands wrapped around your middle as you let out a scream that Seokmin thinks will haunt every one of his dreams for the rest of his life. 

There are bigger problems, though, like the eyes blazing like twin suns that have settled on you. Seokmin lifts the gun, swapping from traditional artillery to energy, like the gun you had been using. The weapon hums as it charges, and he commands his HUD to fully charge the weapon - it means he’ll have a single shot. 

“Get down,” he barks at you. He doesn’t mean to be harsh. You don’t seem to care, ducking behind him and covering your head. 

The Bloodwolf lunges just as the weapon in Seokmin’s hand reaches full charge. He aims and pulls the trigger, feeling the intense kick of the gun and the heat as the world turns blue from the pulse of energy that cracks through the open sky between him and the Bloodwolf. 

A burst of blue detonates against the machine’s armor. Sparks, fire and something thick and black sprays out with it. He thinks it’s fluid or oil - maybe both. The force of the impact knocks the Bloodwolf backward and it crashes to the ground hard, rolling in a shriek of metal. 

It’s down, and somehow not dead. 

Warning lights flash across Seokmin’s HUD as the Bloodwolf’s stabilizers engage, grinding into the dirt to force the shattered frame upright. Its energy core is flickering but alive, pumping heat and power through ruptured conduits. It’s running on fumes and rage, clinging to its last command to eliminate. 

Fucking Bloodwolfs.

Seokmin doesn’t wait. He slaps the mag release, the spent cartridge ejecting with a hiss. His hand finds another on his belt and jams it in, resetting the rifle with a practiced snap. 

“Full charge,” he orders, voice clipped. 

It flashes red. 

FAILURE. CHARGE TO 60 PERCENT.

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Charge to sixty.” 

The weapon hums in response, power surging through the coil. In front of him, the Bloodwolf lurches forward, broken and staggering but still on the hunt. 

A greenlight flashes for the full charge and Seokmin fires, a steady stream of energy rounds tearing through the night. Blue-white flashes slice into the Bloodwolf’s exposed internals. Seokmin’s HUD tags each weakness and he shoots for it with deadly precision. 

With a final warbled howl, the Bloodwolf collapses onto its haunches. It stutters, kicking in death throws as Seokmin goes through a full round of energy again. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, popping the mag and replacing it, charging the weapon again. 

Fires. 

The HUD flashes. 

CORE FAILURE. STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE.

The War Machine shudders, a final convulsion racing down its frame. Smoke vomits from its shattered maw, limbs jerky. Then nothing. Just the hiss of burning fuel and the slow drip drip drip of hydraulic fluid onto scorched earth. 

Seokmin eases his finger off the trigger, lowering the rifle slowly. Only then does he realize his hands are shaking. And then he remembers you’re there, standing behind him.

Slowly, he turns to look at you. You’re crusted in blood and dust, hands trembling at your sides. You’re still staring at the lifeless Ravager, the machine you called Zahra. Silent. Tearstained. But you’re alive, which means for the first time since he can remember, Seokmin isn’t alone. 

The weight of it nearly drops him to his knees. 

“Are you okay?” He manages to ask. The words scrape his throat raw, feeling foreign and unused. 

You don’t answer. You just keep looking at the Ravager, and he sees it in your eyes. Grief. A grief that he’s carried for years, somehow, grief that he didn’t know until this moment he felt. The grief of realizing you’re utterly alone and that you always will be, that no one else will ever be with you again. 

And then you crumble, standing one second, gone the next. He barely catches you before you hit the ground, spent and unmoving. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The power flickers in the Station as Seokmin sets the med scanner over your chest. Bruised ribs. A fractured arm. Signs of energy weapon burns along your shoulder. He works in silence, moving efficiently as he dresses wounds and resets the fractures.

His touch is hesitant. He doesn’t want to do too much, doesn’t want to violate your space. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work or how he is allowed to fix you, just that he feels like he’s supposed to. He’s a trained medic, mending is part of his instincts. 

You don’t speak. Don’t even flinch, eyes fluttering in a fever dream from the pain medication dripping through the IV. 

If he’s honest with himself, he is afraid you’ll vanish, that he’ll wake up and this will all have been some strange dream, that this won’t be real. 

“Zahra,” you mutter.

He freezes for a beat. Looks down at your face, expression slack in fevered sleep. He doesn’t know why you keep calling out for the War Machine, but the way it leaves your lips makes him think you had some sort of relationship with it. That it was important to you.

He thinks back to how the machine protected you - sacrificed itself from you. 

And he doesn’t understand. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Seokmin hears the sound of the blanket before he sees you move. For a second, he thinks it’s nothing, just the wind outside or the walls of the Station creaking like they sometimes do. But then it happens again, followed by a gasp of pain. 

He whirls around, heart hammering. You’re trying to sit up and he freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, hands half-curled, hovering like he’s forgotten the steps of being a person. And well… he has. He doesn’t know how to do this - wasn’t meant to. 

And then he realizes you’re watching him. 

“You’re awake?” It comes out like a question, his voice rough and too dry.

You don’t answer. You just blink at him with wide, wary eyes. He’s not prepared for whatever this is. He knows blood and metal. Machine signatures and isolation. Not idle conversation and people.

“You’ve been out for a few days,” he says slowly, like he’s remembering how to shape the words. “I’ve been - um. Giving you fluids. You were hurt so I tried to help. Obviously didn’t get to all of it, didn’t want to like… trespass.” 

Silence. You look around the room, trying to make sense of your surroundings. He watches you track the ceiling fan, the water canister, the half-mended patch on the wall. You frown.

“This is my Station. Station 0218.” Your eyes drift back to him and he clears his throat, clarifying, “I’m an Outrider. I eliminate machines that cross back over the Edge.” 

Still nothing. Your mouth parts like you’re going to say something or ask a question, but the words don’t come. You lean back instead, slow and cautious. Your eyes never leave him, like you’re not sure if you’re really safe. That makes his heart pang, but he understands.

He wants to say more, wants to ask who you are. To tell you that he’s never met another person before. But it’s too much all at once and he doesn’t know where to start, so instead, he stays silent. Sits down on a chair far away from you, knee bouncing, fingers playing with that same loose thread on his shirt. 

The conversation starts with a question so soft, he swears he imagines it. 

“What’s your name?” 

He glances up at you. You’re propped on a folded arm, eyes watching him. Your blanket is pulled tight, like you’re cold. He reaches up to adjust the temperature in the room, trying to keep you comfortable. 

“Seokmin.” 

You nod slowly. “Just Seokmin?”

“Just Seokmin’s enough, I guess.”

You go quiet again. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to the silence. It’s the talking that challenges him, the putting together what he’s supposed to do and say. 

“Where are we?” Your voice stirs the air, turns it to static.

“Umm, Station 0218.”

“But where is that?”

“I’m not really sure. I always thought it might be Texas.” Something flashes across your face but it happens so fast he thinks he imagined it. You nod your head, staring up at the ceiling. “What about you? What were you doing out there alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. I had Zahra.”

“The Ravager?”

“The Ravager has - had - a name.”

“You named it?”

Your eyes snap down to his, licking with fire and irritation. “Zahra already had a name. She’s not - wasn’t - a thing. She was sentient, and intelligent, and alive in the ways that counted. She was trying to get me somewhere safe and she died for it. For me.”

Your voice cracks hard and you bite your lip, looking away from him as tears pool in your eyes. Seokmin’s mouth opens but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to any of that. None of this makes sense to him, machines with names, machines that think, machines that are alive.

Well, since the Machine War, at least. 

“That was a War Machine,” he says slowly, trying not to anger you. “I’ve spent years killing machines that come through here, a threat to the rest of the world. War machines are meant to kill people. That is their entire purpose.”

“Well don’t you know everything? Not all machines are like that.”

“There’s no like that or not like that. Machines are programmed-”

“Machines are more than programming, Outrider. They’re not just circuits and metal. How do you think the War started in the first place? They can think for themselves and make choices. That's why they rebelled.”

Rebelled? 

Seokmin starts to think that maybe you had hit your head. He frowns at you, trying to puzzle out your words. If you hit your head hard enough to start spouting nonsense, he might have to try and contact the Alliance to get you real medical help, the kind that he can’t give you.

He doesn’t know what the process is for that. They never trained him on how to help another human being. 

As though you can sense where his thoughts are going, you glare. “I’m not crazy.” 

Seokmin thinks about that night, the way the Ravager ran, the way it shielded you with its body. The way it turned to face the Bloodwolf, even when it meant its own destruction. That’s not how machines fight - at least not in his experience. It isn’t how they were designed. 

But…

“Alright,” he relents. “Alright.”

Your expression softs, just slightly. You look down at the nightstand and see the water, reaching for it to take a few long draughts. When your thirst is satisfied, you sag, like this conversation has taken everything out of you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, eyes fluttering. “For taking care of me.” 

“Yeah. No problem.”

You don’t hear it, though, already asleep. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Chicken crackles in the pan. It’s not Friday, but now that you’re semi-functioning, Seokmin feels like it’s important to give you real food. He flips it with a practiced flourish, mindful not to burn the bottom. He doesn’t play his favorite song, trying to let you get your rest, so he hums it under his breath instead. 

Footsteps draw his attention. He turns sharply to see you standing at the end of the kitchen, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a makeshift cloak. Your eyes are wide and curious as you scan the room. Your hair is a bit messy and there’s still dried blood on you, your expression hollowed out by exhaustion. But you’re on your feet and, most importantly, awake. 

“Hey,” Seokmin greets tentatively. He’s trying not to sound overeager, but he’s not sure it’s working. “You should be resting.”

“Smells good,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the pan before they roam again. “Wanted to see exactly where I am, too.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to protest but you’re already walking further into the room, cautious but determined. You glance at every console and shelf like you’re in a museum of forgotten things, the curiosity turning your face from wary to delighted. 

He steps back from the stove and gestures to one of the four chairs at the table. He always wondered why there were four chairs - he’s only ever needed one. “You can sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Can I look for a minute?”

He nods, not wanting to stop you. How could he? He’s loathe to say anything that’ll make you want to leave, desperate to keep you happy and here. The only human he’s ever known, the only one not taken from his memory. 

You approach one of the wall panels and point. “What’s that?”

“Environmental stabilizer. Keeps the temperature manageable. Pretty difficult with us being in the desert and all, but I keep it as well-maintained as I can.”

You nod, absorb it. Move on to a different screen near the kitchen, pointing. He smiles to himself, understanding what you mean. “Sensor relay. Connects to the perimeter motion detectors and shows the feed from the mounted cameras. I have a ton now, I use spare parts from the machines I… decommission.”

He chooses the word carefully, suddenly not wanting to say that he kills machines. From the narrowed eyes, he thinks you notice. Instead of saying anything, though, you continue to move around his home, fascinated by all the things you find there. It’s like you’ve never been in a building before, pointing with a question at objects even basic homes should have. 

Everytime you ask a question, his heart skips a little, like it’s a test he might fail. Everytime you glance at him, his throat goes dry. He’s never talked this much to another person that he can recall, and he feels so out of practice. 

He clears his throat and lifts the pan. “Dinner’s ready.” 

You tilt your head when he shows you the chicken in the pan. Lured by the promise of a meal, you drift to the table and sit down, hugging the blanket closer around your shoulders. He lets you keep it, sure that it feels warm and secure. 

When he plates the food, you smile at him. It’s small and fleeting but it’s real. His stomach twists in the best kind of way, like maybe this isn’t just a glitch in the simulation of his life. Like maybe you were meant to be here. 

Seokmin sits down across from you. Both of you hesitate before giving awkward smiles, cutting into your meal. He can’t help but watch you struggle with the knife, holding it awkwardly in your hand. Almost like you’ve never used one before. 

He doesn’t ask. You don’t explain, instead using it to stab and tear chunks of chicken off before popping it into your mouth and chewing vigorously. Grease drips down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand before chasing it with gulps of water.

You turn your attention to the large window overlooking the yard and sprawling desert. The glass is dirty and reinforced with shatter-resistant polymer, but the dying sun still leaks through in warm streaks of orange and violet. 

“It’s quiet here.”

“Always. I’m the only person here so… just having you is unusual.”

“Only person?” You ask, raising your brows. “Is that why you went out on a limb to save me?”

“Not at all. That was my job - the entire reason I’m here. Outriders protect the perimeter of the world from the machines who try to pass back into the New World.” 

That makes you hum, brows pinched, mouth twisted furiously. He can tell you don’t agree, like there’s something in what he says that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t press you further though, afraid again to push too hard, to make you leave. 

“Seems lonely.” 

“I…” He exhales. Doesn’t know how to answer, hand tightening around his fork. He doesn’t have a response that sounds light or comforting. The truth is ugly and tender. “Yeah. It is.”

You nod. “I’m lonely too now.” Your eyes shine in the light of the Station and he can tell you’re thinking about the Ravager - Zahra. “Can we bring her body back? Whatever's left of it?” Your eyes drift to the tray of spare parts on the counter. “Not to salvage. But to… honor.” 

“I… Yeah. Yes we can do that.”

 You nod. Bite into chicken. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 67 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An orange sun crests the horizon when Seokmin steps outside. The air is dry and tinged with the sharp metallic scent that always follows a machine's death. The wind’s low, kicking up dust in little curls around his boots. 

Behind him, the door hisses open, followed by your footsteps. You don’t say anything as you step beside him. You haven’t said much since dinner last night. He doesn’t need you to speak, though. Just your careful presence, starling him when he remembers you’re there or the extra sounds of another person existing in his living space is all that he needs. 

You look at the edge of the yard, biting your lip. He can tell you’re trying not to cry, eyes landing on the piles of scrap he’d spent the early hours of morning bringing back to the Station. The Ravager is nothing but a broken silhouette now. 

You step off the porch and he follows, the two of you walking in silence. As you near the debris, you slow before dropping to your knees beside the twisted metal. He’s hauled countless machines back to his Station but for the first time, this feels different. Personal. He hesitates a few yards away, stuck between fascination and disturbance at the way you sniff. 

Reaching outward, you rest your hand on a curved plate of the machine’s shoulder. It’s dented and scorched, reflecting the desert sun. 

“She was gentle,” you tell him, though you’re not looking at him. “I know she’s a War Machine. That she was programmed for something else. But she was far superior than what the Makers ever dreamed for her. Smart. Emotional. Decidedly clever. She was more than a machine.”

Hesitantly, Seokmin approaches you. He drops down to a crouch, looking at the twisted machine. “She protected you.”

You nod, knuckles bleeding of color from how hard you grip the edge of the frame. “She was more than a machine. I know you don’t understand.” 

“I…” He wants to say something. Anything. Doesn’t know how to relate to the loss of a machine, doesn’t know how to console you when all he’s ever done is butcher them. “Do you want to reconstruct what we can? We can place her in the back, like she’s still protecting you.”

Wordlessly, you nod. 

Together, you start gathering parts. Seokmin moves with you, unsure at first which pieces matter and which don’t. He tries to watch what you pick up - armor plates, ruined slats of legs, twisted remnants of jaw - and he helps you. The pieces are heavy, sometimes needing both of you to lift and carry while stopping in between. 

Ravagers are massive machines, standing several meters high when they’re on four legs and nearly as tall as a two-story building when on their hind legs. Built like massive cats, they have powerful shoulders and legs, made for speed and tearing. This Ravager - Zhara - seems to be missing a tail, but Seokmin knows they’re like powerful whips tipped with blades. 

In tandem, you lay out the pieces. Seokmin starts building from the base. There’s so much damaged metal and twisted parts that it’s hard to sort out. You cry while you work, silent and calm but steady, an endless stream. This isn’t collecting pieces and building a machine for you. For you, this is remembering something that was important. 

Seokmin jogs to the work bench to collect extra items. Strips of metal, rods and sheets that he throws into a wagon before hauling over. You look up at him, watching curiously as he dumps it all out. He grabs a piece of metal and starts melting it down, hammering it into the shape he wants before fitting it into the gap between shoulderplates needed to piece together the basic frame.

“Oh.” Your smile is brief and wobbly. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t know what to say. So he starts welding other pieces together, trying to fill the gaps. Slowly, Zahra comes together. It’s clumsy and haphazard and doesn’t properly capture the glory of a Ravager, but he watches light return to your eyes as the sun rises to its zenith. 

You pause for a quiet lunch. Some protein bars, water, dried fruit. He thinks about the offering of food he left out in the desert all those weeks ago and wonders if it really was a mirage or not. He shakes it off because it doesn’t matter. Now he’s not alone and there’s a machine to finish piecing together. 

The sun shifts overhead. The wind comes and goes. Seokmin loses track of time in the rhythm of labor, in the strange companionship of your shared silence. For once, he’s not alone. And though this isn’t how he imagined meeting someone would go, he doesn’t hate it. 

He glances over at you as you carefully place what’s left of one of the machine’s sabers into the ground. There’s only one, but it doesn’t batter. Carefully, he welds what’s left of the skull into the mainframe. 

It’s the last piece to the skeleton. Both of you take a few steps back, sweaty and covered in dust, dirty and tired. It’s crude and raw, barely more than a silhouette of damaged metal and bastard pieces from other machines. But it has weight to it. A shape. A bit of presence. 

“Thank you.” He looks at you. You’re staring at the sculpture. “She would have liked you.”

“I don’t… think she would.” 

You seem to consider his words. His job. “She would have understood.” You look at him then, eyes fathomless. Beautiful, if he’s honest. “I told you, machines are more than what they’re programmed for. Given time, she’d understand.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he nods. You look back at the machine and sit down, crossing your legs. Unsure what to do but not wanting to leave you alone - or be alone - he sits down beside you. It’s strange, but not awkward, two strangers honoring something, familiar to one, foreign to another. 

Somewhere in the silence, Seokmin realizes that something new is being built between you, too. Hope, maybe. His hope that maybe he’s not alone, your hope that maybe Zahra’s legacy can live on here. He doesn’t know how long you’ll stay. Has no idea what happens next.

But he’s not alone.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

Seokmin wakes up to a strange morning. Cloudy skies stretch over the desert and fall strays closer to winter, making it colder than usual. He checks weather reports to see cold winds coming through from the northwest, cooling off everything and bringing heavy winds. 

That’s not what makes it strange, though.

When he wakes up and heads into the kitchen, there’s a mug on the counter. Soft footsteps echoing through the Station that don’t belong to him. The quiet hum of someone else’s existence, someone else orbiting his space.

You’re quiet, but he’s not used to the sounds of someone else. The extra breath he hears when you walk into the living room from the medical room and see him, gasping like you’ve forgotten you’re not alone. The slow but wobbling smile you give him, unsure what to do with yourself.

That makes two of you. 

He likes this strange, though. He’s a little unwilling to acknowledge the way you make his heart pound, the way he wants to ask you a million questions, the way he wants your voice to fill every gap in the Station because finally - finally - there’s someone else to fill the empty spaces. 

Instead of pressuring you into talking, he sits down at the kitchen table and starts to tinker with some of the spare parts he’s collected over the years. It’s a flimsy excuse to distract himself as you pad the Station, barefoot and trailing your fingers along the edges of shelves as you continue your exploration from the other night. 

“So,” he says, trying to make his voice normal. “You sleep okay?”

“No. All I did for a few days was sleep, though.”

“Right. I could give you something for that if you want?” 

You shake your head. Drifting to the living area, you stand near the window. It’s massive, one giant floor-to-ceiling portal. You hover near it, eyes distant as you watch the passing grey of the day. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Seokmin starts slowly. “But where are you from?”

You don’t answer at first. Your eyes stay focused on the desert, as though you’re waiting for something. Watching for something. That makes him a little nervous, glancing at the panel on the wall. Nothing picks up on the scanners, so he tries to relax. 

“I don’t really know.”

He looks at you, brows raised. “You don’t know?”

“I was raised in a machine facility. It was underground. I don’t think I was ever supposed to see the outside world. I don’t even know what it was called. There’s a few humans they keep around for convenience. Testing. Maintenance. That kind of stuff.”

“How… close to here?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe a week. Zahra and I had been running from Gariel for about a week.”

“Gariel?” You shiver when he says the name. “The Bloodwolf?”

“Yes. He was sent after us.” You turn away from the window suddenly, like maybe you’re afraid the Bloodwolf - Gariel - will suddenly appear on the milky horizon. You pad to the couch, sitting down and curling your feet under you. “They studied us but mostly they liked to keep us for things like helping fix their damage. Trying to puzzle us out. Sometimes as a spy.” 

Your fingers tighten on the couches arm and you stare off into the distance, eyes unseeing. “Some of the machines were kind. They make their own decisions. A lot do not support what the Machine Empire has turned into, that it’s lost its way. Zahra wasn’t the first to try and help me.” You hesitate, swallowing. “She was the last, I guess.”

Seokmin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clenching his jaw until it starts to ache. He takes a deep breath. There are so many questions he wants to ask you, so many things that don’t make sense. He thinks about the modded plating on the Skulker all those weeks ago, the way it seemed like someone had been mending and modding machines. 

“So you weren’t born in a colony or a city?”

You shake your head. “Not a lot of humans in that place. Probably less than fifty.”

“I don’t understand,” he says after a beat of silence. “If machines have humans hostage, how has the Alliance not done anything? There is no more Machine Empire. You talk about it like it’s present, but the Alliance won.”

Your face darkens at the mention of the Alliance. He wants to know why, but you don’t say anything. You pick at loose threads on the arm of his couch, decidedly silent. His hands tighten on the wrench in his hand. He wants to know more. 

But you look fragile. Wary. Your guard is up and the last thing he wants to do is push you away. He has the feeling that the second you perceive him as a threat, the moment you think you can’t trust him, you’ll be gone, nothing more than another hallucination to keep him up at night. 

So instead of pushing you further, he says, “Well. Do you want lunch? I’m starving.” 

You give him an appreciative smile. “Alright.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 46 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

He doesn’t remember the last time he tried this hard for Friday night dinner. He always levels up his game for Fridays, but this is new, because he’s not just doing this ritual for himself. He’s doing it for you. His nerves make his stomach coil and he glances at you nervously from the corner of his eye as you enter the kitchen, toweling your damp hair. 

The Station smells good. He pan sears steak, the garlic from the most recent airship drop popping in the oil. The butter has browned and melted, soaking in rosemary before he starts to baste the steak, spooning the mixture over tender meat. Vegetables roast in the oven, the timer ticking down.

“You’re cooking cooking,��� you say, surprise in your voice.

“It’s Friday.” When you give him a confused look and tilt of your head, he smiles fondly. “Friday’s are my favorite day. On Friday, I cook real meals with real food. Play my favorite song. Make a night out of it. Try to enjoy it.”

You drift closer, watching him. “What’s your favorite song?”

He smiles, happy that you ask. He taps the panel on the wall quickly, turning on the speakers in the Station. The thrumming starts low and soft and you tilt your head, eyes going round as you listen. He watches as the surprise turns into utter delight, a smile spreading across your face that is so blinding he drops the spoon.

It clatters and he curses, snatching it out of the pan and hissing at the heat as it bites at his fingers. You’re none the wiser, so focused on the song as a raspy voice comes through the speaker that you miss his sputtering entirely. 

Seokmin feels hot all over, a combination of embarrassment, the heat of the stove, and watching silver tears pool at the corners of your eyes as you listen to the music that has kept him afloat all this time, like you’ve never heard something more moving.

A tear spills over, rolling down your cheek. You wipe it quickly, laughing and giving him an embarrassed smile. 

“I’ve never listened to a song.” He pauses, open-mouthed. “Zahra told me about music. I’ve never heard it before, though. I like this.”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I like this one. You can listen to music any time you want. Use any panel in the Station and hit the button that says playlist.” 

“I can’t read.”

“Alright. I’ll show you, yeah?” 

You nod and Seokmin feels himself smile. Real. 

He turns back to finishing dinner, flipping off the oven and the stovetop. He sings a little as the last verse to the song begins, soft and low, mostly to himself. He hasn’t had an audience ever, and as he turns to take the pan off the stove, he suddenly remembers you’re there and his voice tapers off. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, a little breathless.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I’m not used to having people here.”

“Oh. Your voice is nice.” 

It hits him in the stomach like a punch. He feels his throat constrict and it takes him a second to form an answer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You can sing any time you want,” you tell him, drifting to the table to sit, knowing he’s ready for dinner. “I’ll listen.”

Seokmin’s heart soars. He doesn’t know what to do with that, what to do with you. You’re new and uncharted territory, and seeing you sitting at the table, eager and waiting… it does something to him that he cannot explain, that he doesn’t understand. The ache inside of him all these years finally subsides and he thinks that for the first time in his life, he might be thankful for the machines.

All because they brought you to him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE

Without the sun beating down on him, working outside is almost tolerable. The dust still sucks though, biting at Seokmin and getting into his eyes as the wind rips through the Station. He could work inside, but he’s loath to open the door until the wind dies down. 

You seem content, despite the dust. You lean over him, chewing your lip as you watch him sitting on the workbench, elbow-deep in the guts of a broken energy conduit. If the wind ripping at the metal roof and making it flex bothers you, you don’t let on. 

He supposes you’re just content to be outside. He’s noticed that you like to linger near the window a lot, whether you’re waiting for something or because you’ve never seen the topside of the world, he isn’t sure. He still has questions to ask you, things he needs answered. 

Instead, he lets you enjoy your peace. Lets you grow accustomed to him as he attempts to get accustomed with you. You both navigate one another, two unsure satellites that are curious. 

“Want to learn how to strip these?” He asks, pretending his heart isn’t hammering at how close you are. 

“Strip them?”

He lifts the panel he’s working on. “See the copper threading and core plating? You don’t want to break them - they’re still usable.”

“Okay.”

“We want to remove them, though. We can use them for repairs, other things in the Station… they’re always good to keep on hand. We don’t have a lot here and…” 

He trails off, realizing he keeps saying we. Like he’s already decided you’re a part of the Station, like this lone operation has already adapted to a two-man system. It makes his mouth go dry and he looks at the plating, hands shaking. He hates how quickly he’s already adapted to you, the way he just… wants you to stay. 

“So you use materials from the machines you kill. I… have some skill with that from where I’m from. Not a lot. I was more of a study subject than a mechanic.” 

That makes his heart ache. He explains, “It’s about using what’s left. I don’t like to waste.”

You nod. He scoots over on the bench and lets you step over, sitting down stiffly next to him. He places a few pieces in front of  you and passes pliers and a heated plasma knife. “Try - and please don’t burn yourself on the knife. It could cut through your fingers.”

Tentatively, you pick up the tools. They’re a little awkward in your hands, but you figure out a grip that feels comfortable to you. He watches as you start to follow the motions he shows you, listening to his quiet tutelage. You’re clumsy at first, but he doesn’t correct you unless you ask. 

After a while, you free a copper wire and look up at him, a small smile twitching on your lip. “Is that okay?”

He smiles, larger than he intends to. “Yes. That’s perfect. Here, let’s keep going.” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 71 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SEVEN

It’s the middle of the night when the Station’s power grid flicks off. It snaps him from his sleep, his eyes popping open and his heart hammering temporarily in panic. He realizes that the emergency lights are on, and the sudden silence is just because air isn’t rattling through the vent in the ceiling. 

Groaning, he swings his legs out of bed. Stretching, he feels all his joints pop and he lets himself sit for a second, blinking away the sleepiness. Then he hears your soft voice call him from a distance. He looks up sharply, so unused to hearing his name. 

Seomkin jumps to his feet and out the bedroom door, panic nipping at his heels again. You’re standing in the living room though, shrouded in the barest light from the emergency lights. You’re in a baggy shirt and sweatpants that don’t fit - his - your eyes cast to the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” The question is soft but firm.

“What happened?”

It takes him a beat to realize the power going out woke you up. “Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s just the power grid. It does that sometimes. Whenever the days are cooler it works less hard but now that the temperature climbed back up, it probably overloaded. We can fix it.”

Your eyes drift from the ceiling and settle on him. Something passes on your face, an emotion he doesn’t understand. You stare at him, your silence so heavy that he’s about to ask you what’s wrong again until he realizes in his hurry he didn’t put a shirt on. He’s in just sweats, slung low on his hips. 

A shiver threatens to climb up his spine under your intense stare. He clears his throat and just his thumb back toward his room. “Let me just get dressed and we can fix it. Not a big deal.”

“Alright.” 

The way his heart hammers all the way back to his room makes him curse himself. He hopes you don’t feel weird about the missing shirt - he has made a conscious effort to make you comfortable, to adjust his own living habits now that you’re here. 

It’s important to him, making this space safe for you too. Though he doesn’t think you were bothered, the thought weighs on him as he pulls on a soft cotton tee and slides boots onto his feet. When he reappears in the living room, he hopes he’s more composed than he was a moment ago.

You’re standing by the door, a sliver sliver of moonlight splashing across your face. His steps slow as he approaches, watching you as you look out the door, eyes unfocused. You look like a wraith in the dark, the moon flashing in your eyes, turning them silver. 

For the briefest of seconds, Seokmin wonders if you're actually human. Then you turn to look at him and he shoves the ridiculous thought away. Your eyes are round, pupils dilated in the dark. Entirely human. Soft. a little unreadable.

Silently, he grabs two flashlights from the drawer in the kitchen. He passes you one and you take it from him, fingers brushing. He ignores the flare of heat from where your fingertips brush his in favor of turning on his flashlight and leading you to the massive shed on the southside of the Station’s yard that houses the generator. 

While it doesn’t keep most of the dust out, it does an okay job at keeping the grit out of the machinery and keeping the sun off the humming generator. Fueled by the energy the solar panels collect on the roof of the station, the generator is pretty trustworthy for the most part. 

Inside of the shed, he ties his flashlight off to a rope in the ceiling used for exactly this purpose. You stand tentatively behind him, shining the light over his shoulder as he removes the massive side panel, grunting with effort. 

With the side revealed, Seokmin slowly walks you through the schematics of the generator, pointing to circuit boards and how everything is routed from the external solar banks to the emergency thermal core that is powering the few lights in the Station and keeping it online.

You nod along, pointing to a flashing light. “Why is this pulsing red?”

“It’s a surge indicator. It means it’s getting overloaded, probably because of the sudden increased input to keep the station cooler. We’ll need to reroute it to a different, stronger breaker until we can fix this one.”

“Can you show me?”

“Mhmm.”

He guides his hands along the switch board, fingers slow as you track his movement. When he stops at the switcher, you tentatively lift your hand and set it daintily on top. He nods his head and you shift closer to him, chest almost pressed to his back. 

You hesitate. “You smell like copper and dust.”

He snorts, cheeks turning red. “Sorry, I sort of-” 

“I like it,” you interrupt. “It’s familiar. Safe.” 

That stops him cold. Whatever joke he was about to make dies on his tongue. You say nothing else, just flip the switch like he showed you. The generator rumbles to life, and you flinch, hand snapping back. His lips twitch, trying not to laugh. The overhead light sputters, then glows steady, casting the room in pale warmth. He squints against it until his eyes adjust.

“Nice,” he says with a smile, giving you a thumbs up. You grin back at him and his heart flips again. “We should be good now. Thanks for the help.” 

“I like helping.” 

“I’m glad.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little awkward. “There’s, uh… always plenty to do around here.”

It comes out softer than he means it to, less a statement, more an invitation. A quiet offer. Stay. Stay longer. Please don’t leave him. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t know if you catch it, if you understand what he’s really asking. But you nod, your smile curling gently at the corners. “Okay. I’ll help, then.”

Just like that, something anchors inside him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 62 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TEN

Outside, the sun begins its slow descent behind the spine of the Gods, bleeding molten gold across the horizon. The sky fades from cobalt to amber, rust, rose, each color sliding over the sand in a hazy gradient. The wind picks up, gentle and cool tonight, stirring up dust into soft spirals that catch the last of the light and glow like embers. 

The jagged silhouette of the landscape stretches long and thin, shadows etching sharp lines across the dirt. Seokmin stops in the doorway, eyes scanning the world as you tinker with something on the workbench. Everything slows beneath this kind of sky, like the world is holding its breath.

He looks at you, haloed by the slowly fading day. The sun’s final edge slips behind the mountains and for a heartbeat, it's as if time halts. You are painfully beautiful - radiant, even. Something he could only ever dream of. And it’s not because you’re the only person he knows or the only person around - well, it’s a little that. 

But there is a quiet something about you that makes his heart beat a little faster.

Above, the lights on the metal roof kick on, bathing you in a honey-warm glow. It catches in your hair and he fights the urge to reach out and tuck the loose strand behind your ear to keep it from distracting you as you work. 

Instead, he steps fully out of the doorway and toward the work bench, gently setting down a tray of cleaned parts. 

“Have you ever met one?” 

Your question is loud in the silence, catching him off guard. He looks at you, brows pulled together in confusion. “One what?”

“A machine.”

“No.” 

“Do you kill them all?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

You nod, pulling wire out a circuit board. “Do they run? Or do they try to kill you?”

“They’ve all tried to kill me.” 

You chew on your lip, nod your head. “That’s not always how it is, but there’s not very many machines this side of the Tilt that are sympathetic to humans. They don’t really like the Empire but… humans don’t try to understand them.”

He sits down. “This side of the Tilt?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “That’s what the machines call this part of the planet. The Tilt. There’s a lot of magnetic distortion here that makes machines’ orientation systems tilt off course. I think it’s… why your Station is where it is. It makes it harder for machines to find it and they get put right in your kill path.” 

He just stares at you.

“What?” 

“I’ve never heard it called that before. It’s not on any of the mapping or manual or training materials. The Alliance doesn’t call it anything. Beyond this is the nameless lands where the dead pockets of machine society have crawled to.”

Your fingers stop moving for the first time since he walked in. There’s a pause, a sharp, uncertain stillness, and then Seokmin clears his throat. “What do you know about the Machine War?” 

It’s the first time he’s asked the question. He barely keeps his voice from shaking, looking at you nervously when he does. Your shoulders draw up slightly and you don’t answer him right away. 

“What do you know?” You ask, turning the question on him instead.

Seokmin shifts, a little thrown by the question. He answers anyway. “It was a global uprising. Machines turned on their makers. They wanted independence, but all they really did was slaughter. Cities fell, millions died. They became humanity's greatest threat. The Alliance Against Machines formed and pushed back. After we won, they created posts like this, dotted along the places the machines remain. We don’t take an offensive approach - just a defensive one.” 

The story comes out of him immediately. Confident. Decisive. It isn’t pride that spurs the clear way he speaks - just facts. The Machine War is something he is intimately familiar with, one of the few things he is allowed to remember and to think on. Seokmin is pretty sure he can rehearse the major events of the war in order in his sleep. 

There’s a shift in your expression. Your face is a little drawn, a faint shake of your head. You blink down at your hands like you’re trying to find something to say and you fail.

“What’s wrong?”

“We learned about the war differently and…” Your mouth pinches. “I don’t think your understanding of the world is accurate.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then tell me what you think it is.”

Seokmin sees the chance for his answers vanish like the mirage all those weeks ago. You close up in front of him, shoulders folding in like a shield. You drop the things in your hands and pull your knees up on the bench, hugging them to your chest. You look away from him to hide whatever expression is on your face and he suppresses a sigh, not wanting you to hear how defeated he suddenly feels. 

There is a yawning ravine between the two of you, and he’s not sure how to fix it. Doesn’t even really understand what it is. There is something about the way you tiptoe around him that makes him feel like he’s not seeing something, like there is an obvious clue he’s missing. 

He really wishes he could understand what it was. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 61 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY SIX

The days trailing your conversation on the workbench are quiet. Sometimes uncomfortably so. Seokmin doesn’t know how to broach the topic again, and you seem reserved, like you’re afraid he’s going to ask. 

You still help him with the Station. You’re a quick learner, good with your hands it's helpful to have you around. You’ve turned the medical bay into your room, and he’s helped you make it less sterile and more homey. It’ll be inconvenient if either of you needs it, but he doesn’t think about that when he gives you a little metal sculpture of a Ravager he made to put in there.

All he wants is for you to feel like maybe it’s home.

You still eat dinner with him every night. You help him cook on Fridays and now you know most of the words to the music he likes, singing about the Texas sun beneath your breath. He likes to hear you sing, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it's a little offkey. 

You still sit next to him on the workbench and strip wiring or help recalibrate the solar panels, but the rhythm is a little off. Like it’s almost perfect, if it weren’t for that conversation hanging over your heads. 

It gnaws at him.

At night, he can barely sleep. He sleeps with his bedroom door cracked open, just in case you need to talk - want to talk. It’s also because he’s so afraid you’ll leave, that he won’t hear your footsteps as you decide to leave him here in his solitary confinement once again. 

Seokmin doesn’t know what he’ll do if you leave. He’d let you, of course. Your stay here is voluntary. He thinks it might kill him, though. He thinks of the silence before you were here, the way it would press against the inside of his ears like static, like something waiting to collapse.

Just the sound of you coughing in a room a few yards away or the sound of the shower while he’s writing his daily logs now keeps him afloat, keeps him connected. 

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had atrophied - not his muscles, but his personhood. Something deeper. Something spiritual, deep inside of him. Being alone had never mattered before because it had never been optional. 

But now… 

He doesn’t know how he can go back to that. 

He remembers reading passages in the Outrider guidebook that loneliness is a common symptom of his job and how to deal with it. The routine of his life had always worked: build something. Fix something. Clean. Maintain the Station. Kill the machines. 

What it failed to explain was how solitude could sharpen a person like a blade, but it could also dull someone if left too long and abandoned. It hadn’t captured how it felt to rust, how it felt to break apart bit by bit. Erode. 

It keeps him up at night, spiralling and spiralling and spiralling and spi-

The Station’s proximity alarm goes off, making him flinch. It’s a sharp, shrill sound that splits the silence like lightning. Seokmin is out of his bed and in the hall in seconds, his immediate first thought not being on the machine that the alarm warns of, but the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the alarm. 

You stumble into the living room, silhouetted by the red emergency lights. He taps the panel in the kitchen, silencing the alarm and the lights. The Station comes to life, low lights flickering as readout data stars coming in across the screen.

“Sorry, it goes off when machines enter my territory,” he explains, lifting his hands like he’s going to soothe you. He catches himself and drops them, turning to the screen. You dart over toward him, looking up at the screen. “It’s near the basin. Probably a scout.”

“I want to see.”

You step forward, brushing past him to squint at the screen. You might not be able to read the words, but he’s set the Station to do verbal readouts now, the audio coming through the speakers as a halting robotic voice reads the script on the screen. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 9 MPH EASTBOUND

“It’s a War Machine,” he breathes, heart squeezing in his chest. 

“It’s not hostile,” you whisper.

“You cannot tell that from a blip on the radar,” he shoots back, jaw tight. “I’m not risking the Station - or you - on a guess.” 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516147, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 13 MPH SOUTHBOUND.

“Fuck. It’s coming toward the Station.”

“It’s a PLEDIS Corp machine from the early manufacturing era,” you say quickly, chasing after him as he strides toward his gear. “Check the unit number. That’s a first-gen War Machine. PLEDIS specializes in how machines think, how they feel. They were the first to implement decision-making tech based on state of consciousness, not algorithms.”

He stops mid-step, turning to look at you. The expression on his face is somewhere between disbelief and dawning realization. You’re breathless, fists clenched at your sides.

“How do you know all of that?”

“I grew up around these things. That's all I know.”

“Well I know that a Stalkjaw is a lethal War Machine.” 

“Stalkjaws weren’t even outfitted by PLEDIS until nearly a decade later,” you continue, voice tight with urgency. “They were part of the first experimental batch sent into the field with that conscious-state tech, and they were decommissioned almost immediately. You know why.”

He does. “They wouldn’t kill.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t know for sure this one is from the same batch of decommissioned machines. That possibility is almost zero.”

“But it’s not zero.” Your voice is like steel now. “You’re not the only one who understands machines. Let me take the lead. Come with me, wear whatever armor you want. Bring whatever weapon you need. If it’s hostile, you kill it.”

“I can’t risk this on a theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s an informed judgment, shaped by years spent growing up in a machine hive.” Your tone softens, eyes searching his. “Please, Seokmin.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you kill it.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. You’ll be at risk.”

“That isn’t your choice to make.” 

Seokmin stares at you, breathing hard. Your face is set in stone, resolute and wild and a mix of something else he can’t explain. There’s a fire in your eyes, lit up by conviction. For the first time since you arrived, Seokmin realized just how deeply you believe that machines are capable of mercy and understanding. 

He swallows. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I have to believe that machines are not monsters.” Something in your voice makes him narrow his eyes at you. You’re looking at him in a way that is hesitant - afraid. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how he feels about you looking at him like you’re talking about him and not the machine. “And I think you need to understand, too.” 

Another readout comes in over the screen. The Stalkjaw is still moving toward the station. It’s slowed down, like it doesn’t care about being noticed. They’re stealthy, ambush machines and yet… This one triggered the sensor, which is rare.

Purposeful. 

“Please,” you breathe. 

He closes his eyes. War churns in his gut. Fear. Doubt. But when he opens them again, you’re still there, waiting, whole and alive and more human than anything he’s seen in years. So he nods once, sharp. 

You spin to leave, but he grabs your arm and pulls you back, too fast, too strong. You stumble into his chest. His body reacts before he does: he steadies you by the waist, and the smell of his shampoo clings to your clothes.

“Not so fast,” he mutters, voice low. “You go armored. You carry a weapon. You take point, but no heroics. The moment it makes a wrong move-”

“Deal.”

Seokmin’s bedroom is dim, lit only by the cold glow of the screen on the wall. The armor is sitting on top of the trunk where he left it the last time he wore it - the night he met you. He hasn’t needed it until now. 

Seokmin’s fingers shake a little as he lifts the chestplate and fits it carefully over your shoulders. It’s heavy, not built for someone your size, but you don’t flinch. You just stand there, letting him adjust the straps and tighten the latches at your sides.

“You know,” he says a bit sourly, eyes flicking up briefly to meet yours, “This isn't made for you. It’ll fit all wrong.”

“I’ll manage.” 

That makes him snort. The sheer gall of your confidence. 

His hands are warm where they graze your arms as he helps you pull on the thin layer of suit over the top of your clothes to keep you padded and safe in the armor. You don’t shy away from him. You lean toward him a little, like his proximity is something you welcome, like it's something you want. It sends a quiet pulse through him, a little ache of something he didn’t expect.

He first the forearm guards next, wrapping the hardened plating around your wrists and fastening them, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pulls the plating over you. He listens to each of the joints hiss and click, locking in place. 

Your breath catches as he carefully maneuvers the neck ring over your head, locking the top half of the suit to you. Last thing is the helmet, but he leaves that off for a second. You watch him with dark eyes, fathomless like the bottom of a sea.

He suddenly wants to dive in. 

“You’re not afraid,” he notes quietly, taking a breath and stepping back from the intoxication of you. 

“I am. But not of the machine.”

He pauses, breath caught. There is a tension that hums between you. He’s not quite sure he knows what it is, but it sizzles.

“You should be afraid of the machine.”

“I trust you if I’m wrong.” 

He looks at you then, really looks. Your face is steady, your eyes calm. There’s fear there, yes, but also belief. In him. In what you’re about to do. It cracks something open in his chest.

He wants you. Wants you in a way that is new and foreign. Wants you in a way he didn’t know until right now, like he had to discover it under pressure. But all that want isn’t what matters right now, so he swallows past the thick knot in his throat and passes you the helmet.

“Put this on. I’ll have your back.”

“I know.”

His heart pangs again but quickly dresses himself in lower class armor, pieces that he would use against a machine that poses a lower threat. It is scarce in comparison to the armored beetle you’ve become, but he prefers it this way. 

Taking weapons off the wall, Seokmin hands you one he thinks you’re familiar with. He can’t see your face through the tinted glass of your helmet, but your armored fingers close around the Volt and you nod, like you understand what he’s asking you to do. 

“Um,” your voice is small, halting.

“What?”

“Is… I can’t read what's on the screen.” 

He softens. He presses the side of the helmet three times. You make a sound as the helmet talks to you. “Is it reading it out loud now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Outside, the desert is black glass and silence. He walks with every muscle wound tight, armor heavy on his shoulders, his fingers twitching near the safety on the gun in his hand. He’s a shadow beside you, pacing a half-step behind and to your left, letting you lead but watching everything. Your step is confident, steady. 

The Station glows like a beacon behind the two of you. You follow the beacon to the Stalkjaw blinking in your HUD. He uses the less high-tech wrist pad, but it’s still accurate. He swipes to the machine details, just in case. 

STALKJAW… PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… LOW CENTER OF GRAVITY… SIX METERS TALL… HYDRAULIC JAW… 

That hydraulic jaw is made to crush things. It also has reinforced legs made for speed, one of the fastest machines ever built. He knows what it’s made for and what it’s supposed to do, and that knowledge knits a tight ball of tension low in his stomach. 

The ground crunches beneath his boots, soft and muted against the sand and dry earth. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, voice crackling through his ear piece. He flinches at your voice, heart fluttering at the way you say his name. “Stay close. Don’t posture. Don’t make a sound unless I say so.”

“I don’t like this.” 

“It’s walking toward us. It already sees us - the heads up display notated it. It’s moving slowly but hasn’t engaged.”

Suddenly he feels blind. You have so much more information than him and it terrifies him. 

“Maybe it’s trying to lure us out.”

“Maybe it’s just walking.”

Metal catches in the moonlight and the grip on his gun tightens. The Stalkjaw comes over the ridge, slow and deliberate. It moves unlike other machines, all of its parts compressed and greased to silence. It’s less like a hunter and more like a wanderer, pausing on the ridge as it looks down at you.

It’s built like a raptor, leaning its long neck down as its red eyes flash in the darkness, scanning you. Its body is patched with mismatched metal, all even colors. Its eyes flash green and it takes a few tentative steps down the slope toward you. Its steps are uneven and he realizes its limping - it is an old machine.

Seokmin tenses up, starting to lift his gun as it approaches, ambling closer and closer. You hold up your hand, sensing his tension and he curses, keeping himself still. The Stalkjaw gets closer. Ten yards. Seven yards. Five yards.

Stops.

The machine doesn’t move. Seokmin hears the breath of its gears whirring, blue eyes focused on you as the machine takes you in. His heart is slamming against his chest, his pulse so loud he almost doesn’t hear the whirring of the optical lenses of the machine. 

“Zahra is preserved on the Station,” you tell the machine. 

Something inside of it tickets. Seokmin is squeezing his gun so hard he thinks it might fracture in his hands. 

“You don’t need to go any further. I’m safe, Orin.”

“RECEIVED.” The robotic voice comes from the machine and Seokmin feels his stomach drop, mouth opening. “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. ORIN WISHES YOU WELL.”

The Stalkjaw steps forward, one careful foot in the sand, assessing you. Then, it pivots its torso, staring toward the Station in the distance. A second foot lifts, shifting weight, like it wants to head to the Station to see its old friend.

His heart pounds in his chest, heavy and frantic like it’s trying to break out of his ribcage. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and his fingers fumble against the grip of his rifle. 

Its metal joints hiss and vent with each movement, and Seokmin can hear the subtle, rhythmic grinding of its fractured leg. A breath gets caught in his throat.

“Stop.” His voice is raised, cutting. “There are mines embedded in the Station’s perimeter. You’ll trigger them if you try to approach.” 

The Stalkjaw doesn’t move for several seconds. A hush falls over the desert, thick and unrelenting. Then the machine slowly lifts its head, turning to face Seokmin. Its optic core glows blue-white, narrowing and adjusting. The pitch of its internal systems rises with a hum that sets Seokmin’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t realize he’s slid his thumb toward the gun’s safety until it’s already resting there, halfway to flipping it off.

“WARNING RECEIVED. PATHING RESTRICTED. ORIN THANKS YOU, OUTRIDER. ORIN INITIATING MEMORY WIPE SEQUENCE. SEQUENCE TO BE COMPLETED IN FIVE MINUTES.”

Before Seokmin can say anything, before he can even register what’s happening, the Stalkjaw turns. Its retreat is measured, slow. Each step leaves a heavy imprint in the sand. It doesn’t run. It doesn’t hide. It just leaves, one footfall after another, until it crests the ridge, moonlight painting its armor in fleeting glints of silver,  and vanishes over the edge like a shadow swallowed by night.

Seokmin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. He watches the spot where it disappeared, where the sand still shifts faintly from its passage. Nothing about this feels real.

He turns to you, voice hoarse. “Did you know that machine?”

“Yes.”

“Are we compromised?” 

You shake your head, but your breath hitches. He hears it, the start of a sound he mistakes for a sob, but then a thunderous boom tears through the night. Light flashes in the distance beyond the ridge, flaring bright as day for a heartbeat. A plume of fire erupts against the stars. Sparks scatter like embers across the sky, followed by darkness.

Seokmin doesn’t think. He throws his arm around you, yanking you close as the shockwave rolls over the desert like thunder. You collapse into his chest, trembling. His other arm comes around your back instinctively, grounding you as smoke begins to curl into the sky like a final breath.

You’re crying now. He can hear it in his earpiece, shallow, broken sobs, the kind you try to stifle but can’t. Your whole body shakes in his arms, and his own chest tightens with something he can’t name.

Then it hits him. 

Initiating memory wipe sequence. The memory wipe was a self destruction mode because of course the machines couldn’t wipe their memory without paying the ultimate price. They were never designed to be able to do that but… 

Seokmin stares at the glow on the horizon, heart sinking. The machine - Orin - wiped its own memory not to protect itself, but to protect you. It chose to die rather than risk exposing your location. Not out of programming. Out of loyalty. 

It made a choice. Not programming. Not design. 

Free will. 

It makes him question everything he’s ever known. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… WINTER STORM WATCH

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The sun rises, slow and swollen, dragging its light across the desert in streaks of gold. The Station glows at the edges, metal reflecting warm tones. Seokmin’s boots crunch softly through the sand as he follows the only trail that matters now - yours - leading away from the front door to Zahra’s grave marker that stands like a secret. 

He finds you sitting there, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The breeze is soft, but soothing, the dust manageable. He just stands and watches you for a moment - it feels like he’s watching something sacred. Untouchable. 

His chest is still tight from the night before. He could barely sleep, sick with the adrenaline, the machine’s voice, the weight of you curling against him when he pulled you close. The way you cried, long and aching, until you wore yourself out and let him take you back to the Station. 

And now you’re here, sitting alone in the morning light, and he can’t make sense of anything, least of all how he feels. 

He steps closer. You don’t look at him, but you don’t ask him to leave either. So he sits beside you, dust kicking up under his knees. There’s a quiet between you, but it doesn’t feel heavy. He glances at you. You’re staring at the small, worn marker, the name Zahra carved with care into its surface.

“I thought the Machine War was over,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

You’re quiet for a long moment before answering. “Not from where I grew up.”

“I - everything I know about machines is jumbled up. My training and everything I’ve ever been taught tells me that what I know is fact. There is nothing else. No deviation.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

His heart is pounding. “That maybe I don’t know as much as I thought I did. Before last night, all I did was kill machines that came through. And then I watched a War Machine arrive with you on its back, protecting you. All for last night to hear one speak. To hear it reason and to watch it choose.” 

You look back at Zahra’s name. “It had a name, you know.”

“Orin,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

He exhales hard, fingers digging into his palms. “It walked into the dark and exploded itself rather than risk giving away our position. And I’ve been told my whole life that machines can’t feel. That they’re just wires and protocol. I don’t even know what my purpose here is. I thought I was a guardian for humanity but it doesn’t feel that way.” 

“It’s a killing corner,” you say quietly. “We’re somewhere near the edge of the Machine Empire. It’s a dead zone for directional systems, sometimes. They get lost.”

“And I send them to their graves.” 

You glance at him now, and something in your gaze makes his breath catch. It’s the quiet pain of someone who’s had to carry the truth alone for too long. “Machines deploy from the colony I was raised in. There are Stations like this dotted across the Tilt. You pick them off as they go through before getting to society. There are more… aggressive Stations, I think. I’m not really sure.”

A few months ago, that would have made him proud. It is close enough to the truth of what he does - picks off strays trying to creep back to the reaches of humanity. Now it feels like something worse, like there is something missing in what used to hold valor. 

“Some of them,” you whisper, your words halting, “aren’t lost at all. They’re leaving. Trying to escape the tyranny of the machines. They’re not all killers - a lot aren’t. But the Machine Empire is… brutal. Crushing. Violent. Some of them would rather risk the Outriders and a chance of going somewhere that doesn’t demand violence from them.”

His heart stutters. “So every time I pulled a trigger, I might’ve been putting down a machine who just wanted peace?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him. Like that truth has been buried in your chest from the moment you met him. He thinks of your conversation on the workbench a few weeks ago, the guarded expression you wore anytime he asked questions or tried to unpuzzle things. 

Seokmin bows his head. His whole world feels like it’s tilting beneath him. All the discipline. All the protocol. The isolation. The memory wipe. The idea that he’s only able to do this job if he is totally alone, a watchful guardian whose sole purpose is to kill. 

He’d told himself it was duty. That it was worth it. That his solitude was a shield protecting others from what still crawled out of the machine war. What if it was all just a cage built on old lies?

That thought carves something deep out of him. A hollow that aches. Because if this purpose he’s clung to, if all the loneliness and fucking sacrifice of having no one wasn’t what it was made out to be… then what was it for? 

It hurts him more than any injury he’s ever sustained. Hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to heal from. 

The heat is starting to press against his skin, but Seokmin barely feels it. He sits with his elbows on his knees, Zahra’s monument still and silent at his side. His fingers are locked together, knuckles white from the pressure, like if he holds tight enough, the world will stop tilting.

“Seokmin.” You say his name and it pulls him from the edge. He looks at you, lost and unmoored. Your eyes are steady as you offer him a hand. 

When he takes it, you stand, lifting him with you. His legs are stiff, his spine aches, but he doesn’t let go of you. Your grip is steady, like you know where to go when he doesn’t. Like you’re tethering him to something he forgot he needed.

Inside the Station it’s dim and quiet. You press him down into a chair with a soft touch on his shoulder, and he lets you. His hands rest in his lap, useless. He watches you walk away, still half outside his body, still trying to make sense of everything. He doesn’t even ask what you’re doing.

Then a sound fills the room, low and familiar. 

Texas Sun. 

The opening notes bloom out of the speakers like light cracking through storm clouds. His throat tightens. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

“I know it’s not Friday,” you say, and your voice is soft, playful in a way that surprisingly disarms him. You’re already in the kitchen, pulling the fridge open. “But I don’t think that matters.”

“Why not?”

You turn your head just enough to look at him, a smile tugging at your mouth, though your eyes stay serious. “Because you deserve more Fridays. You’ve given enough to the world to earn them. All those years. All that silence.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

The scent of eggs and instant coffee starts to rise, curling around him like comfort. His eyes sting. He hasn’t had anyone cook for him in… well. Has anyone ever cooked for him? He doesn’t know. The Alliance robbed him of his memory to keep him anchored to the mission they tasked him with, so he has no idea if anyone has ever cooked for him. 

“I…” He scrubs a hand down his face, breath shaky. “I don’t think I realized how much damage it’s done. Being alone my whole life.”

You turn, slide the plate in front of him with a quiet clink. You don’t rush to sit. You don’t push him. You sing the song, moving back to the fridge to pull out juice. He doesn’t even know when you squeezed it, realizing that you’ve made a habit of doing things around here like it's your home too. 

The song plays on. You sit down across from him, and when you smile at him, he nearly melts into the chair. He doesn’t know how things got here, how he ended up with everything he’s ever known upside down. But he does know that he’s not alone anymore and even better - he’s got you. 

He doesn’t know how it happened. How he went from certainty to standing on fractured glass. But you’re here. And somehow, that’s more grounding than anything the Alliance ever trained into him. He picks up the fork and pierces the eggs. His hand trembles, just a little.

One truth rings louder than all the chaos still ringing in his chest: He would do anything to protect you.

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

Texas sun

Texas sun

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SIXTEEN

It’s a cold day, winter sweeping down the orange sands. You’re halfway up the comms tower, tightening the solar panel bolts with a wrench that is far too big for your hand. Seokmin stands at the base of the tower, ready to catch you if you fall.

You swear you won’t fall, but you’ve already dropped several nuts and bolts that he’s had to toss the fifteen feet back up to you. He shields his eyes from the brightness of the sky, endless blue and blinding. He sees you struggling to tighten a bolt and he starts to laugh.

“You know I’m literally stronger than you, right? You should have let me do it,” he calls up to you.

He hears you curse. “You complain more than me.” 

An object speeds toward him. He dodges the wrench as it hits the dried dirt with a heavy thunk. He looks up at you, mouth agape. Your hand is pressed over your mouth in shock, clearly having dropped it on accident and not thrown it at him.

Sighing, Seokmin picks up the wrench and shoves it into his belt. He grumbles as he climbs the tower. You scoot to make space for him, thighs bumping his. 

“Hold this,” he says, leveling you with a stare that says don’t drop this as he passes you the wrench.

Chagrinned, you take it. Your fingers brush. His grip almost falters. You’re not wearing gloves - despite him asking you to - and there’s dirt under your nails, a smudge of grease across your cheek. When you grin at him, sweat glistening on your brow, Seokmin’s chest tightens.

You are real, and close, and warm, and somehow the most vivid thing in a world built from sand and silence.

Focusing, he puts the bolt back on and holds out his hand for the wrench. You drop it into his hand and he arches a brow at you. You give him a playful smile that makes him shake his head as he uses the wrench to tighten the bolt and finish securing the panel. 

“See,” he says, finished. “Was that so hard?” 

You sniff, indifferent. “Yes.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 43 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY TWO

Seokmin is sitting on his bed reading when there’s a pop and a flicker, and suddenly the lights in the station go out. The hum on the fan next to him dies and the airflow stops from the vent system above.  

Down the hall, he hears you shriek, followed by the sound of plastic clattering. He bursts into laughter, deep and uncontrollable, setting aside his book as he hears more banging and curses as you struggle in the darkness of the bathroom. 

The stale emergency lights hum on, casting the hallway in a sickly amber glow. Seokmin sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, slightly dented flooring. He’s already crossing the hall when you rip the bathroom door open, towel wrapped around you, still dripping.

“Fix it,” you growl at him, soap still foamy in your hair. “I can’t prove it, but I know it's your fault.”

“I was on my bed reading!”

You narrow your eyes. “Even more suspect.” 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s crouched in the generator shed again, this time at the breaker box trying to read his own scrawled notes, cluttered switch labels and marker that’s rubbed off. You stand behind him towel drying your hair, assuring him that you just want to make sure he does it right. 

He messes with a switch, followed by a faint click. You run to the shed door, sticking your head out to look at the Station.

You cheer, signalling that the lights are back on inside. You turn to him, crossing your arms. “I rescind my accusation. You are moderately useful.”

He rolls his eyes, rising to his feet and brushing dust off his knees. But he doesn’t miss the way your smile tugs sideways, damp lashes casting little shadows down your cheeks. His fingers linger on the metal of the switch box just a second too long, tingling from the static, or maybe from something else entirely.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 56 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE 

The sky is a broken fire above you, gold spilling into orange, bleeding into a deep indigo that smudges the edges of the desert. Long shadows crawl across the sand and crawl up the walls of the Station like ghosts. Everything smells like heat still clinging to the metal roof and the sharp scent of ozone from a power relay down below.

Seokmin’s still in his boots. You aren’t. You’re barefoot on the roof, skin dusted with grit, ankles smudged with grease from rechecking the solar relay. There’s a portable speaker propped up on an overturned crate beside you. It whines for a second before it finds its footing

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Seokmin squints into the dying light, one hand lifted to block the sun as he watches you. You don’t say anything. You just turn your head slightly and offer him your hand. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him, but this feels like a new thing entirely.

You’re serious?” Seokmin says.

You don’t answer, just take his hand, tug him up to his fit. He’s stiff, all elbows and unsure angles, heavy boots thunking awkwardly on the corrugated metal. His armor’s been stripped off for the night, just the undersuit clinging to him like a second skin. He doesn't know where to put his hands, or how to move his feet. His training never included anything like this.

But then your hands find his, one at your hip, one twined with yours. You start to sway. It’s barely a dance. More like a strange, stumbling rhythm you both fall into. A side-to-side step, uneven and unsure. Like you’re making it up with every beat. 

Because you are. Because you’ve never danced either.

You were born into the wires of a machine hive. You’ve never seen anyone dance. And Seokmin? He’s spent every moment of his existence killing. Executing targets. Patrolling edges. He has no idea how to dance either, but he likes the way you do it.

He likes everything you do. 

The music folds over you both, soft and slow, washing the world away. His boots scrape clumsily against the roof, but you don’t flinch. You just move with him like none of it matters.

He can feel you breathing. The shape of your exhale brushing against his neck, the warmth of your body bleeding into his. You look up at him, and the sun catches in your eyes like a flare, and he suddenly can’t look away.

He’s not thinking about protocol. Or the perimeter alarms. Or the mission logs that haven’t been updated in days. He’s thinking about how you smile when you're trying not to. How your fingers fit into his. How he let a war machine walk free days ago - let it pass, unquestioned, unchallenged - because you told him to.

Seokmin listens to you. It’s like a new programming he cannot shake. But he doesn’t mind, content to follow your lead, to follow your dance. 

“I’m not sure we’re doing this right,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we’re not. But I like it.”

He wants to say something else. Maybe something about how his entire world has unraveled in your hands. How his rules don’t make sense anymore. How he’s not sure if he’s still the weapon they built, or if he’s becoming something else entirely.

Instead, he just lets the sun drop below the horizon. Lets the music curl around you both like a cocoon. Lets you press in close, your bare feet stepping on the toes of his boots, your nose brushing his collarbone. 

He swallows hard. 

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

As the song comes to an end, the sun slips beneath the horizon like it’s trying to hide. You’re still in his arms, not dancing anymore but swaying slightly, like your body hasn’t realized the music’s gone. He feels the weight of your head against his chest. Your hand curled against his side. Your breath, soft and steady.

Seokmin doesn’t know what to do with that.

He forces himself to move. A breath. A step back. Your arms fall away, and it leaves him cold in a way he doesn’t want to examine. You don’t seem bothered. You just step over to the edge of the roof and sit, legs dangling, silhouetted against the faint purple fade of evening. He follows, dropping down beside you, boots thudding against the ledge.

The stars begin to show themselves, pricked through the thinning light, sharp and bright in the open sky. Neither of you speak for a while. Seokmin glances sideways. You’re watching the sky, knees pulled up, chin resting on them. You look peaceful. Or like you’re trying to be.

He shifts, arms draped loosely over his own knees. “Have you ever seen stars like this before?”

“No. I could look at them forever.”

It feels cruel, suddenly, that for years, he was able to see this sky every night. That it’s yours now too, but only because you ran. Because you escaped. He thinks about Orin - of Zahra. 

“I used to think this work meant something,” he says, the words small and hoarse in his throat. “Killing the machines. Keeping the edges clear.”

You turn slightly toward him, but don’t speak. You let him find it. He turns his head slowly. You’re watching him, and it hits him all over again, how close you are. How gently you look at him. Like you already know what he’s afraid to admit.

“I think that was all a mistake.” 

The quiet that follows is thick. Heavy. Then, you break it with a soft voice. “You’re more than what they made you.”

It carves through him.

That’s the thing about you, though. You always find the exact place where he’s weakest, where he’s aching, and you press your words there like salve. You don’t even seem to realize how you do it. It’s just in the way you look at him. In the way you see him, not as an Outrider or someone confused about their loyalty to the Alliance, but Seokmin.

The way he always dreamed of someone seeing him, of knowing him. 

It makes him feel human and it terrifies him because fuck he likes you. More than he should. More than he knows how to carry. It keeps him up at night, lying in his room, hand behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering what your hand would feel like in his again. What it would mean if you wanted it there.

And now, in the stillness, with your face turned to the stars and your body leaning just barely toward his, he starts to wonder if you feel it too or if that’s just the years’ worth of loneliness making him starving for you. 

You’re quiet, but your eyes are bright, fixed on him in a way that steals his breath. The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile. Your fingers, resting near your knee, are so close to his he swears he can feel the heat of them.

“Thank you,” he says, and it comes out low and rough.

You look at him for a long second, and then you lean your head to his shoulder. You don’t say anything. You don't really have to. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare to breathe too hard, afraid you’ll vanish like the mirage that haunted what feels like ages ago.

Instead, he lets you rest your head against him under the stars, wondering what would happen if he turned his head just a little and kissed your hair. Wondering what else he’s allowed to want now that he’s finally starting to believe he deserves it.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 60 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE 

Night sky stretches over amber sands. Seomkin is fiddling with a pipe under the sink while music plays through the speakers and you’re somewhere outside fiddling with a sensor on the workbench. He has the door open, risking the sand just so it can feel like you’re both in the same room. 

Something metal clangs outside followed by a yelp and a curse. He’s outside before he’s even realized he’s moving, stepping through the door and sweeping to where you sit on the workbench. You’ve got the casing to a sensor half-pried open and your left hand clutched to your chest, blood seeping between your fingers. 

“Ugh, what happened?” 

You try to wave him off. “It’s nothing, just slipped.” 

He sees the jagged piece of metal you broke off. Your hand is scarlet, the metal having bit through your skin, opening it up. 

“That’s not nothing.”

You protest, “I was careful-” 

You falter when he reaches for your wrist. Your skin is warm and trembling under his touch. The moment stretches, taut. Neither of you speak for a beat too long, your eyes darting up to meet his. There’s something electric in it, something unsaid that hums between your bodies. But the blood still shines in the light, and Seokmin exhales tightly.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you gently but firmly back toward the Station. “We need to clean that.”

You don’t fight him. You just follow, your shoulder brushing his every few steps. It’s only when he gets you inside back to the old medical bay turned into your bedroom that the tension comes back full force. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and the lavender sachet you keep tucked near your pillow. The bed’s unmade, the sheets slightly rumpled. 

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bed.

You do, cradling your hand. He kneels in front of you, his fingers deft as he opens the med kit he pulls from where you’ve shoved it in a cabinet to make room for all the clothes you’ve stolen from him. His pulse drums louder the longer he’s near you, feeling how close you are, watching him like you trust him with more than just fixing your hand. 

“Let me see,” he says, and you slowly uncurl your fingers.

The cut is long, but not deep. Still, it’s raw and angry, and the skin around it is already puffing with inflammation.

He dips a cloth in the alcohol solution, glancing up once. “This’ll sting.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He snorts, shaking his head. You’re not wrong about that, but he doesn’t want to think about the first time he brought you in here, unconscious and bleeding and broken. 

Your breath catches when he presses the cloth to your palm and your other hand tightens in the sheets. Seokmin keeps his focus steady, jaw tense as he wipes away the blood, but every second feels like it’s coiling tighter between you. Your knees bracket his body. Your breath lifts and falls, shallow, your eyes pinned to his mouth. He feels the shift, the very moment something inside the room tips.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

He looks up. Your face is inches from his. Your lips parted slightly, skin flushed. You nod. “You’re being gentle.”

And then his knuckles brush your thigh accidentally as he reaches for the bandage roll, and you breathe in sharply. Softly. A small, involuntary sound that is almost a whimper in the back of his throat and it makes him fucking dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make that sound.” 

Your mouth pops shut. You let him finish wrapping your hand in silence, but the air is charged now, something sizzling. He can barely see, can barely hear the way his pulse is throbbing in his ears. You’re so close to him, smelling like his soap, the lavender from your sheets fucking intoxicating.

He goes to stand but your knees tighten, pinning against his shoulders, squeezing him so that he doesn’t stand, but rather is pinned in place. He looks up at you. Your eyes are blown, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice shaky. 

“Like what?”

“Like… you want something. Me, maybe. I don’t know.”

“And if I do?”

Seokmin finally snaps. 

He surges up, his hands cradling your face, and kisses you. It’s not clean or practiced. Your lips collide with a kind of desperation, the kind that’s been weeks in the making, the kind that has been haunting his every dream and thought from the moment he realized you weren’t just a salve to his loneliness - you were something else that he wanted. 

Desperately. 

You gasp against his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you off balance and onto him as he stumbles back onto the floor and your knees land on either side of his thighs. His hands are everywhere - your face, your waist, the small of your back. Touch-starved, wild, aching. He cannot ever remember touching someone before and he’s glad, trying to burn the way you feel into his memory so that it can never be taken away. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, breaking the kiss with a gasp as his mouth trails down, grazing the line of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone through the open neck of your shirt. 

You whine, squirming in his arms and he panics, pulling back. “Shit,” he curses. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

You interrupt his apology, turning his fear that he’d done something you didn’t want into a groan as you claw at him. Your whine hadn’t been a protest but a plea. His heartbeat thunders, drowning out everything but you. Your lips slide against his, warm and messy, a tangled clash of tongues and heat, and he groans, raw, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

Your hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. His hands roam, greedy and starving, one slipping under your loose shirt to trace your spine’s warm curve, the other digging into your hip, sinking into soft flesh. He breaks the kiss, panting, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, tasting salt and sweetness. You shudder and slide your fingers into his hair, twisting and tugging hard. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled against your collarbone, nose brushing the soft skin of your throat, inhaling you. You smell like lavender and salt. “You being here has haunted me for months.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Your voice is raspy, gasping as he squeezes you tighter. 

“No. Never.”

He stands suddenly, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressed flush against him. Clumsy, desperate, he stumbles to the bed, your lips hungry, kissing him until his head spins. He lowers you, mattress creaking underneath your shared weight. 

You drag your hands under his shirt and he lets out a throaty sound. It feels so fucking good having someone touch him like this, having someone want to touch him like this. Sexual release isn’t a foreign concept to him, but this sort of untamable lust is, the desire to give and to take and to want - it’s new and it’s overwhelming and he feels drunk. 

Seokmin peels the shirt from your sun-warmed skin. He groans, kissing his way to the soft swell of your chest, pressing his tongue flat to your skin to drag toward an aching nipple. His tongue flicks tentatively over a nipple and when you whine for him, he turns greedy. He sucks it into his mouth, warm and wanting, watching as you writhe under him while he swirls his tongue around your pert bud. 

Your nails bite into his back. He doesn’t care. He only separates from you when you growl at him to take his shirt off, your hands clawed and forceful as you yank his shirt up and over his head. 

Seeing you laying on the mattress, shirtless, skin pebbled from the cold, nipples hard and aching, skin glistening in his spit nearly makes him come in his pants. He has never wanted anyone this bad - never wanted anyone period, that he knows of. It’s just you that he wants, his desire for you spilling through the very seams of him.

Ducking back down, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, sinking lower. He hooks his fingers in your pants as he goes - his pants - tugging them sharply down your legs. He adds them to the growing pile of clothes in the corner of your room, ignoring how you keep forgetting to do laundry in favor of pressing his hands against the softness of your thighs to open you.

Your glistening folds makes his breath catch, heart pounding. He’s never done this. Not really sure if he’s supposed to, really, but he wants to taste you - needs to taste you. He bides his time, nervous. Instead of pressing his tongue through your cunt the way he wants to, he kisses the insides of your thighs, sucking soft flesh between his teeth. 

It makes you insane for him. You squirm under him, grabbing at the sheets, grabbing at him, panting so hard he thinks you might pass out. He mouths his way up to your slick heat and gives in, pressing his tongue flat as he licks a broad, slow stripe up your pussy. 

Both of you make broken sounds, him at the headiness of you on his tongue, you at the feeling. He does it again, watching you this time, entranced with the way you twitch under him, fisting the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as you pant under him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily. 

He licks you from top to bottom, slow and inquisitive. He savors you, loves the way you melt in his mouth. He gives a gentle suck and likes the way it makes you sound, so he does it again, alternating between sucking at you gently and rolling his tongue in circles over your cunt. 

His tongue flicks, precise, and you shudder, thighs clamping his head, fingers tugging his hair. He dives deeper, pressing his tongue into your entrance, nose brushing your clit. He can’t get enough of you, watching through heavily-lidded eyes as you come apart under his mouth. 

 “Seokmin,” you gasp, and he hums.

He can tell you’re on the edge of spilling over, your eyes squeezed shut, your legs closing around his shoulders. Your head thrashes and he goes for it, sucking harshly at your clit as your hips lift off the bed, a squeak leaving your mouth. 

Your first orgasm hits. He tongues you through it, gentle until you’re shaking and pulling away from him, whining and voice cracking. He eases up, content to roll his tongue in lazy circles around your clenching hole. He licks up every drop of you, feels it running down his chin, and doesn’t care.

He wants more. 

“Can you take more?” He asks, licking his lips. His voice is deep, feral in a way he’s never heard. “I want to give you more.”

“I don’t know,” you gasp, letting him press your thighs further apart. He kisses your cunt gently, avoiding too much stimulation, but gives you something, giving himself something. You sigh, sagging on the bed before you eventually nod. “I can.”

He might love you. Seokmin sucks at you softly, rubbing his hands up your thighs gently to soothe you. Your hips cant against him and he thinks he could do this for the rest of his life, drinking in the taste of you, hearing you fall apart again and again. 

He keeps that slow pace for a while, content to drag his tongue up and down your cunt, letting you shiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Slowly, he picks up his pace, sucking your clit into his mouth gently until your grip on him is bone-bruising tight. 

“Seokmin, fuck, I can’t-” you start, dissolving into a cry as your second orgasm crashes into you. It’s harder this time but he doesn’t care, mouthing you until you’re spent and shaking and pushing at him. 

He crawls up, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself, and you moan. You drop your hands to his pants, desperate for him in a way that sets his entire world on fucking fire. You're both panting when he finally pulls back, his lips slick and red from kissing you, from tasting you. His breath fans against your cheek as he leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours.

You’re flushed and wrecked beneath him, thighs still trembling from your second orgasm, your fingers tangled in the waistband of his pants like you’ll go mad if he doesn’t give you more. 

“Please,” you beg. He has no idea what you’re asking for, isn’t even sure if you know what you’re asking for.

He kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he needs to. And you melt under it, whining into his mouth as your hips roll up against the hard length of him, still trapped behind too much fabric.

He groans, breaking the kiss to rest his weight on his forearm beside your head, his free hand still gripping your thigh. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. You soften, pulling your hands back. “Do you want? We can stop whenever.”

“Of course I do,” he laughs, throaty. “You have no idea. I don’t have preventatives or anything. Those uh - don’t come down in the supply shipments.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

It occurs to him that of course you don’t. He doesn’t even know how he knows, just that he does. “I’m trying not to get you pregnant.” 

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “Can you just… pull out?”

He’s endeared by the way you ask. He nods, dragging his mouth along your jaw, peppering you with kisses. He supposes he could do that. Isn’t sure what else to do, given the situation. Getting to have sex isn’t exactly in the Outrider handbook and he’s making it up as he goes. 

“I trust you.” His whole body shudders. Your hand rises to his face, cupping his jaw. “I want you. I’ve wanted you. Please.” 

This time when he kisses you, it’s soft. Meaningful. Saying everything he’s wanted to say the last few nights but can’t. Admitting how he felt that night on the roof, dancing as the sun set. Spilling the way he felt when you curled up on the couch and listened to him read after giving up on learning how yourself. Admitting the way he dreamed of you, even if it wasn’t quite you he had been dreaming of at the time. 

You work at the button on his pants between kisses, clumsy and rushed. You finally manage, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He’s harder than he’s ever been, so much that it’s almost painful. The moment your hand brushes him - bare, flushed, hard - he gasps, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a groan.

“Shit,” he breathes, trembling as you wrap your fingers around him. Your grip is light, unsure. He is twitching, leaking into your hand as you drag your fingers up and down his shaft. “No one’s ever touched me. No one’s ever - fuck - you’re the first. The only.” 

“You’re only the seventh person I’ve ever met in my life, and I definitely have never touched any of them.”

He laughs, throaty. “Then we’ll figure this out together.”

You complain when he pulls away from you to kick his pants the rest of the way off. He clucks his tongue at you, giving you a narrowed eye look that makes you pout. But you wait for him, eyes glued to the way he grips the base of his cock and pumps himself, spreading his precum to make his skin slick. 

Seokmin curses under his breath as he knees onto the bed and guides himself to your entrance, and pauses. He feels the way your cunt flutters against the crown of his cock and it makes him light-headed. He kisses you again, slow this time, full of something that borders on reverence. On what he swears could be love, given time. Then he pushes in slowly, the stretch pulling gasps from you both. You’re warm and wet and fuck. You’re unbelievably tight, struggling to take him.

He goes slow. Pauses to let you breathe along the way, hearing the way your breath comes out in short, labored hisses as he sinks in inch-by-inch. He does this at your pace, watching each time you nod and let him push in more until his hips are pressed flushed to your ass, buried into your heat all the way. 

You quake under him. He doesn’t move, hearing the discomfort in your voice. Instead, he catches your mouth with his, kissing you slowly, tongues tangling. He takes one of your hands, lacing your fingers and pins it above your head, letting your twined hands ground him. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I’m okay,” you whisper, urging him.

He moves tentatively. When you don’t immediately make him stop, he sets a slow and steady pace, pulling all the way out before sinking back in, drawing weak sounds from both of you. Each thrust answered by a honey-dipped moan from your mouth. He loses himself to it, dropping his head to your shoulder as he fights to keep himself collected. He fucks you deep and steady, both of you barely able to breathe as his cock drags along your walls. 

“Seokmin,” you gasp. You’re fucked out, lashes fluttering, barely aware you’re whispering his name over and over again.

After going so long with never hearing his name, he never wants you to stop. Wants to hear you say it every day, wants to pull it from you like this, gasping, moaning, messy. 

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, the angle letting him sink fully, each thrust a spark. The tension coils and he feels the way his body is seizing, cock jumping as he quickens his pace. Your shallow breaths signal you’re close and you’ve gone boneless, hand squeezing his as your hips twitch upward, seeking another release. 

Finally, you shatter, pleasure rippling through you, your pussy clenching so tight around him he nearly breaks his promise and comes inside. He’s close, nearly bursting at the seams, but holds back, letting you pulse around him through your high until you’re coming back down. 

He pulls out and you whimper, making him shake his head because of course you want more. He strokes himself, slick with you, throbbing in his hand until he comes, spilling his release hot across your thigh. His entire body shudders, cock pulsing until he has nothing left to give. 

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead to yours, hand on your hip, grounding. 

You’re both breathing hard, bodies tangled, bare skin pressed so tightly it feels like you’re sharing the same heartbeat. Seokmin is still above you, his weight braced on trembling arms as he hovers just enough not to crush you. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder, mapping all the places he wants to kiss again and again. 

He starts to shift, intending to get up and wipe the come from your leg. You panic, grabbing at him. “Don’t go.”

He stills, eyes searching yours. “I’m not,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t. Just want to wipe the come off your leg.”

“Oh. Proceed.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, diving to grab a towel from your laundry pile to smear it across your thigh until it’s gone. You tug him down to the bed as soon as he’s done and he tries not to land on you, hitting the bed awkwardly.

“I am trying not to crush you, you know?” 

You laugh under your breath, but it’s soft. Fragile. “You’re so careful with me.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admits. “Not with you.” 

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not, trust me. But it doesn’t mean you have to be treated like metal all the time.”

Seokmin thinks of the first night he saw you, bloody and smelling of metal, screaming and bruised and a little broken but vicious none the same, ready to fight. He doesn’t know a lot about your world, but he knows it was all machinery and fire, brutal and hard. 

He sees your expression soften as you come to the same conclusion he has. “Fine,” you amend. “Continue.”

You curl into him, tucking your head under his chin. He wraps an arm around you, palm splaying across your lower back, grounding. You stay like that for a while. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to. He reaches for your injured palm, brushing his thumb over the pink-stained gauze. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise.

“Would you tell me if it did?” You shrug and he rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he urges gently. “Let’s shower.” 

“Carry me.” He gives you a look and you grin.. “Glass treatment, remember?” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 8100

WEATHER … HEAVY RAIN, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THIRTEEN

The rain comes in soft at first. Barely more than mist on the wind. But it thickens as the day wears on, turning into a steady rhythm against the metal roof of the Station. It smells like earth and static, music playing over the speakers, the same old song you both have come to love. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

That Texas sun, oh yeah

Seokmin stands by the window, watching the rain bead along the glass. It doesn’t happen often, this kind of weather. But lately, everything feels like a slow unraveling of what used to happen. What used to be. What used to matter.

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

Behind him, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, lit by the halo of the lamp you dragged over to turn it into your makeshift workbench. Wires snake around your feet, and the interference device you’ve been working on is slowly taking shape: a copper coil, repurposed military tech, a handheld transponder cannibalized from a buried drone. 

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

You’ve been trying to work on something to help reroute machines. Not destroy them or disable them, but to guide them. Seokmin can only let so many go unchecked through the Tilt, and there was that one Gloom that wasn’t friendly a few weeks ago that you’d helped him put down. 

Seokmin’s chest aches a little when he watches you work. Your hair’s a little damp from stepping outside earlier, and your sleeves are pushed to your elbows, grease staining your skin. You’ve made this Station your home - make it feel like his home, after never having felt that way before. 

He’s about to tell you that when a sudden sound shatters the air. A high-pitched frequency screams out of the device. He freezes. His breath cuts short in his chest. It’s like something clamps down behind his ribs, not pain, not even fear, but response. A reflex. His limbs go still, fingers twitch once like he's waiting for a command. His vision tunnels, sound dulls to a cotton-muffled throb.

Seokmin is nowhere. 

System halt.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t dream.

System halt. 

Then, warmth. Your hands are on his face, thumb brushing over the hinge of his jaw. You speak, barely above the soft patter of rain on the roof. “Seokmin. Seokmin, hey. It’s okay. Look at me.”

He blinks, breath hitching, and then his eyes find yours. The static inside him breaks like glass underfoot. He inhales hard, one step back from whatever edge that was. One breath away from something he doesn't understand.

“I-” His voice croaks. “Sorry, that was weird.” 

Texas sun

Texas sun

Your expression softens. Still close. Still touching him like it’s second nature. “Sorry, I should have known. Sorry, I won’t do that again.” 

You say it gently, like you’re talking about the weather. Like you didn’t just catch him spiraling into a shutdown. But Seokmin hears the rain again, and now it’s louder than the frequency ever was. The smell of rust, rain, and your skin pulls him back to earth.

Texas sun, oh

Texas sun

He nods slowly. Swallows. And then the thought blooms quietly, horribly: He hadn’t frozen like a man. He’d frozen like a machine.

And you’d kissed him and apologized with a gentle I should have known. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Texas sun

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