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hexonthepeach · 3 months

Text

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International.

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one.

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather.

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters.

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm.

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand.

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails.

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas.

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo.

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper.

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation.

Frustration.

You've seen this man before.

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation.

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it.

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?"

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said.

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses.

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it.

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps.

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say.

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life.

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun."

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it.

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed.

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that,"

"Stop what?"

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer.

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs.

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained."

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?"

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed.

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it.

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky.

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head.

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief.

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship.

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down.

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.”

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest.

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories.

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling.

"Last I checked, neither have you."

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately.

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core.

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider.

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.”

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.”

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too.

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path.

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild.

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one.

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men.

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest.

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say.

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy.

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?"

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can."

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it."

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it.

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more."

"Salt," you say, immediately.

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes.

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors."

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises.

An unrefined palette, he'd called you.

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?"

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?"

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready."

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis.

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him.

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut.

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say.

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses.

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags.

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed.

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think.

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap.

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent.

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination.

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?"

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart.

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise.

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food."

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes.

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head."

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business.

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents.

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in.

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance.

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne.

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast.

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?"

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row.

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard.

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime.

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say.

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. "Did you touch yourself?"

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?”

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright.

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.”

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.”

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.”

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.”

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.”

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping.

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal.

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him.

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room.

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again.

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.”

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night.

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years.

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel.

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book.

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt.

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting.

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears.

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war."

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction.

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it.

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends.

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality.

Orange Blossom for innocence.

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation.

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.”

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses.

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it.

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him.

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now.

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments.

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach.

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.”

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze.

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper.

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.”

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something.

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips.

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle.

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it.

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders.

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth.

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier.

“Is that my perfume?” you ask.

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched.

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again.

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead.

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response.

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours.

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is.

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly.

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction.

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful.

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with.

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk.

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both.

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.”

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips.

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly.

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?”

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win.

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved.

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too.

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips.

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through.

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs.

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him.

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch.

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping.

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs.

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up.

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose.

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm.

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow.

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin.

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away.

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose.

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.”

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration.

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room.

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally.

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you.

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?”

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself.

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow.

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat.

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch.

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all.

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International.

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number.

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club.

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help.

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.”

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either.

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus.

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said.

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club.

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder.

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen.

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline.

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago.

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry.

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him.

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say.

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness.

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold.

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him.

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep.

He’s not allowed to.

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades.

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply.

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down.

And you needed it, too.

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back.

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.”

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly.

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts.

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.”

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose.

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead.

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him.

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants.

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now.

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread.

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first.

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room.

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds.

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety.

He only has this one chance.

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets.

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind.

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity.

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep.

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day.

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it.

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,” you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone.

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling.

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering.

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?”

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?”

“You do,” you gasp out.

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.”

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt.

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust.

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth.

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.”

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck.

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.”

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.”

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back.

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.”

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip.

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him.

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur.

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips.

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it.

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him.

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.”

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it.

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty.

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?”

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.”

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh.

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.”

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs.

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.”

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.”

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access.

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels.

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed.

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon.

“Do you see the light?” you ask.

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one.

The bank: Sa.

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang.

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light.

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.”

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona.

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment.

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.”

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.”

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply.

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Did I win?” you ask.

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed.

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

#kim doyoung x reader #kim doyoung fic #kim doyoung smut #nct smut #doyoung x reader #doyoung smut #doyoung fic #nct x reader #nct fic #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct djj fic #nct dojaejung fic #nct djj smut #nct dojaejung smut #nct f4 au

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jisungsdaydreamer · 9 months

Text

Anti-Romantic | CHAPTER TWO | 18+

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»

THE MATCHMAKER MEETS HIS MATCH

“Ruin me, please.”

«PREVIOUS CHAPTER» · «SERIES MASTERLIST»

Pairing: Hyunjin x Fem!Reader Genre: Non idol au, fluff, smut, romcom, drama, opposites attract Chapter Warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of emotionally abusive ex, mutual fantasizing, brief mentions of virginity loss, heavy drinking, Hyunjin is delulu, heavy dom/sub dynamics: dom!reader, sub!Han Jisung (yes, there's Jisung smut in a Hyunjin story SUE ME), degradation, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), rough sex, drunk sex (both are consenting parties), semi-public sex (?) Word Count: 15.1k

P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡

“And now, here’s what we really want to ask you, Dr. Hwang: are you single?”

The interviewer swivels her head to look at Hyunjin, her Botox-enhanced mouth spreading into a wide, magenta-lipsticked smile. Hyunjin barely registers her question, distracted by her disturbing resemblance to a vulture, with her beady eyes, hooked nose, and razor-sharp nails clutching a microphone like talons grasping prey. Her garish pea-green pantsuit and cat-eye glasses, combined with a frizzy blonde perm, remind him of that creepy reporter from Harry Potter, absolutely not helping his currently depleted Zen levels.

He can already feel a sweat breaking out on his neck, permeating his satin button-down and threatening to ruin the outfit he had chosen this morning. Usually, picking out what to wear is one of Hyunjin’s favorite parts of the entire day; breathing in the Coco Noir scent of his walk-in closet is like Hyunjin’s own expensive version of aromatherapy. Today, however, it felt like a chore; It took him forever to find the perfect accessories to tie everything together, before he finally settled on his new gold Cartier earrings and the matching Juste un Clou bracelet. Hyunjin knows he looks amazing in his tastefully vintage yet sleek ensemble. He looks every bit the title of a sexy savant, one that he so rightfully carries. He looks ready to slay an interview on California’s most popular talk-show, The L.A. View. But for the first time ever, he doesn’t feel it.

It could have been the coffee that he had hand-pressed for himself this morning, his usual brew of arabica beans imported from the misty slopes of Guatemala. But then again, the coffee brought a much-needed buzz that Hyunjin needed to drag himself out of bed, no matter how temporary. More likely, it was the margarita that he’d downed in the car that was sent to pick him up and bring him to the studio to tape the interview. Tequila always makes Hyunjin’s stomach turn. Or maybe—

“Dr. Hwang?”

Hyunjin snaps out of his reverie, plastering a charmingly mysterious smile onto his face. One, two, three… work that charm. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Sharon?”

The audience oohs beneath the dimmed stage lighting, and Sharon turns red, a shade visible even under the lurid bronzer that’s caked onto her face. Hyunjin would really love to book Sharon an appointment at HWASA Skincare and Cosmetics, his go-to beauty consultant whenever he’s visiting Seoul. The founder and CEO, his old friend Hye-Jin, would personally host her just so that Hyunjin could be relieved of the horrible bout of trypophobia he’s getting right now, staring into Sharon’s cavernous pores.

“Oh, stop it!” Sharon giggles, clapping her hands together. “There definitely must be a lucky lady in your life. You’re the Love Doctor. And not to mention, but very handsome.”

Sharon winks over exaggeratedly at the camera, and Hyunjin has to hold himself back from cringing away when she palms his shoulder, eyeing him hungrily. He can’t blame her, of course; the sleeves of his shirt squeeze his arms in such a way that his toned biceps are shown off— thank you very much, Better Body Pilates. But he needs his personal space. Out of everything, he hates when people treat him like some sort of an animal at the zoo, petting and prodding at him. He sees himself as more of the Mona Lisa, a masterpiece to be marveled at, not touched. His Zen is important, after all.

Still, Hyunjin just shoots her a disarming smirk, crossing one Valentino-clad leg over the other. “The only lady in my life is Princess Diana. But I’d say I’m the lucky one.”

Both Sharon and the audience members aww, utterly captivated by Hyunjin when he pulls out a small Polaroid of his puppy from his breast pocket, holding it out so that the cameras can zoom in on it. As expected, his answer seems to have satisfied Sharon’s invasiveness, but beneath his beaming expression hides the building tension in his chest.

What Hyunjin said is the partial truth; he may not currently have a significant other, but did he have someone in mind, when romance is in question? Yes. Is said person completely off-limits? Also yes. And would his reputation be completely tarnished if that very classified information got out? Yes, yes, and yes.

“Thank you so much for sitting down with us, Dr. Hwang,” Sharon says, thrusting out her hand for Hyunjin to shake it. Ever the professional, he accepts it like a champ. “And that’s all for now, folks! Stay tuned to watch my little chat with Meghan Markle about her ex-royal lifestyle. The teapot is boiling!”

The cameras cut and Hyunjin quickly excuses himself, waving to all of the people wistfully gazing after him. He enters the little hallway behind the filming room and breaks into a run very unlike himself, practically having to swerve around crew members and stage equipment. As soon as he’s locked away inside his dressing room, Hyunjin slides off his patent leather loafers and falls back onto the couch.

It’s been exactly three months since he first set eyes on you, kickstarting his unsavory fantasies and therein, digging himself into an early grave. And maybe it would have been okay, because as a male, sometimes he’s inclined to think with his dick. It’s a biological reaction that he can’t control. But it’s not, though, because the constant image of you printed like a tattoo on his mind has been interfering with his life and sense of normalcy. It’s a feeling that’s only grown in magnitude, especially now that with your weekly sessions, you’ve rapidly blossomed into the strong, confident woman that he always knew you were. So it’s not the fact that he’s horny— well, not the only fact— it’s that he might have feelings for you. Feelings that could get him into trouble, bigtime.

And the list that you wrote for him a while back definitely didn’t help. Hyunjin sits up, reaching for his notepad that he left on the little coffee table in front of the couch. He leafs through the pages, before pulling out the small slip of paper that he saved. Reading over the words for what feels like the umpteenth time, Hyunjin involuntarily smiles to himself. This time, it’s genuine.

The first thing that I don’t absolutely hate about myself is my imagination. I’ve been restricting myself a lot, lately, because I hated the thought of coming up with new ideas just to never bring them to life. It’s probably my post-Jisung and ITEM Tech trauma. But I felt kind of inspired by our first meeting today. I have a lot of great ideas, and I think that one day, I have the potential to beat Jisung’s ass and make a better company than his.

My fucking patience. You know, you might think otherwise, because it may seem like I have the patience of a single mom at a birthday party. But today proved differently. My friend/coworker Minho and his wife invited me over for dinner, which would have been fine, except they’re one of the most disgustingly perfect couples ever. They can’t go two minutes without giving each other a sappy ass look or holding hands or singing a song or something. And then Minho’s wife asked me if I wanted some ice cream, like she and her man weren’t just all over each other a millisecond ago. I just smiled and nodded. You can say I have the patience of the saint, now.

I like how I’m perseverant. For example: this. I could have given up after the first two days and ditched this piece of paper. But I didn’t. I want to be better. I’m very perseverent. Okay, my hand hurts. I’m putting down the pen for today.

My resilience. For the billionth time in my life, my boss made me want to drive out of work and jump into a lake. Long story short, Mark Lee is the worst motherfucker to ever exist (well, after his bestie Park Jisung. My boss and ex-boyfriend are friends. FML). But after one of his daily rants about how I’m not up to mark for some random reason, I walked out of his office and into the office kitchen. I got a Sprite from the fridge, crushed the full can with my bare hands, and then proceeded to calmly clean up the spilled soda before going back to work. I deserve a medal for my healthy anger management technique of smashing things and then bouncing back like a friggin’ spring.

The only home cooked meals I can really stomach are the ones that Minho shares with me at work. You know, he’s really such a menace. When I moved into my current apartment, he got me a cutting board as a gift, knowing damn well I don’t cook. But nowadays, I’ve been slowly getting more comfortable in the kitchen. I still don’t think I trust myself in cooking, but I’m kind of a really good baker, I’m realizing. Today, I made brownies. I’m eating one right now, and I guess I don’t hate that.

I am very patient, Part 2. My dumbass cousin, Yeonjun, called me up to hang out. Knowing him, that means me buying him a crap ton of expensive food. And he’s pretty loaded, too. I think he just loves pissing me off. First, he wanted pizza. That would have been fine, if we hit Domino’s or something, but he made me take him to this ridiculously upscale restaurant downtown. Their damn pizzas had caviar and truffles on them! Like, what the fuck happened to good old pepperoni? And as if that wasn’t enough, he then started complaining that he wanted fucking dessert too. So he ordered this fruit charcuterie board that cost another fortune. On the way home, I had to get him an $8 boba because “the cheese made him thirsty.” His metabolism is amazing. I’m kind of jealous. But anyway, I’m practically Mother Teresa at this point, because dealing with Yeonjun is no easy task. He’s lucky I love him.

Fundamentally, I think I’m a good person. And I think I deserve to be happy. There. Seven things, seven days. I’m done now. See you tomorrow.

Hyunjin sighs, sliding the paper back into his book and setting it inside his little Prada bag. This tiny scrap of paper had him seeing stars, when he first read it in the office, in front of you. There’s just something about you that he couldn’t and still can’t put his finger on. Maybe it’s how delightfully pugnacious you are, or that comically angry tone you approach the world with, no matter what. And he had to bite his tongue too, because there’s no way you came up with just seven things, not when Hyunjin felt like he could give a whole recitation on your very attractive qualities, just after meeting with you once. You’re unintentionally hilarious. Real. Tough. Inquisitive. Also, you’re simply the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

You’re like an impossible puzzle to him; all the pieces are there, and yet, he can’t seem to put you together. Or rather, he can’t seem to figure out how to get his own shit together and finish the damn puzzle. Because he’s oh-so down bad, and he knows it.

“Dr. Hwang? Are you in there?”

Hyunjin stands up immediately, locking away his daydreams about you and brushing off his trousers. He quickly smooths back his artfully slicked wolf cut and opens the door for Wonyoung to step inside with her trusty tablet. Momentarily, Hyunjin is sidetracked by her outfit, a stylish mini paired with a silky lilac bomber jacket— because where the fuck are those heels from— before he remembers himself.

“What’s up?” Hyunjin nonchalantly flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes, trying not to seem like he wasn’t just having a panic attack on that stupid couch just five seconds ago.

Wonyoung taps on the screen of the tablet for a few seconds, before looking up. “You have an appointment with your personal trainer in twenty minutes. You’re running late. And then at four, you need to get back to SeoulSpark for a meeting with a client. Here’s your change of clothes. I’ve already called a car for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Hyunjin accepts the gym bag, before jerking back in dreadful realization. “Wait. Which client do I have to meet with today?”

Wonyoung gives him a strange look. “Miss Y/L/N. Hey, are you alright, Dr. Hwang? You always stay on top of all of your engagements, but you haven’t been yourself lately.”

At the mere mention of your name, Hyunjin literally wishes he could melt into a puddle right then and there. Of course he hasn’t been himself, not when you waltzed into the office and wreaked havoc on his very humble life— for example, yesterday, he forgot to wear his Versace pajamas to sleep, and not his Fendi ones. Hyunjin knows that Saturdays are strictly for Versace; he promised Donatella years ago at the Met Gala. This is all your fault— how can it be poor Hyunjin’s, when he’s just a mere mortal cowering in your goddess-like presence?

“I- I’m okay, Wonyoung. I, uh, just ate some bad sushi.”

“You ate bad sushi every day for the past three months?” Wonyoung suspiciously raises an eyebrow at Hyunjin. She isn’t buying it, unfortunately.

“Uh-huh. It’s a terrible addiction that I’m trying to break. My raw seafood intake is off the charts. Guess I’m not perfect after all,” Hyunjin babbles, adding onto his already horrendous lie.

Wonyoung still doesn’t look convinced, but Hyunjin flounces out of the room before she can say anything else and uncover his deep, dark secret: you. Besides, his ride is waiting outside and his quads really need working.

“See you later, Changbin.” Hyunjin waves to his trainer as he grabs his belongings and exits the gym after a grueling workout. Usually, he prefers more low-impact routines, like aerial yoga or cycling around Marina del Rey. But because he’s been skimping out so much these days, Changbin made him do an endless round of jump squats before beating his ass in boxing.

Hyunjin presses his fingers to his aching back muscles, sore with both exhaustion and worry. The slim hands of his Rolex alert him to the fact that there is only one more hour before he must face you, and he is nowhere near ready. He’ll just have to skip the sauna today. Quickly, he gets into the car standing for him by the curb, slipping on his Gucci shades and sliding down below the window in the backseat, like a celebrity escaping a paparazzi cloud.

As soon as he gets back to Oasis, the opulent complex that houses his beloved penthouse, Hyunjin practically flies into his bathroom and locks the door. Without even bothering to set his eucalyptus shower steamer, Hyunjin cleans himself up as much as he can, scrubbing off the sweat and grit of the gym from his skin.

Once he’s finished, he gets dressed and sits down in front of his bedroom mirror that’s designed to look like a Hollywood-style vanity. Taking a deep breath, he inspects his face for any signs of something off. Nope. He looks as dewy and fresh as a pink rose petal, minus the slight red rings under his eyes, which are the courtesy of many, many sleepless nights over you.

Hyunjin, however, is incredibly proud of himself for getting to the office with fifteen minutes to spare, therein being able to fit in a little solo pep talk in the car. His third outfit of the day is a show-stopping black Celine suit, practically designed to make heads turn. It definitely isn’t to impress you with his impeccable style— no, he did it for himself, obviously. That’s the only reason. And it’s a little extravagant, even for Hyunjin, but then again, he’s never been known for his subtlety.

His post-workout clarity gives him hope that everything will go back to normal, before you. All he needs to do is focus on himself. Everything else will pass, eventually. At least, that’s what Hyunjin keeps telling himself to believe, right before he crashes headfirst into you in the hallway outside of his office.

“Hey, Hyunjin!” Grinning, you hold out a small gift box tied with a sunny bow, which is coincidentally the exact same yellow as the dress you wore when Hyunjin first met you. Today, you’re sporting salmon-colored shorts and a cream blouse with an adorable sailor collar, and Hyunjin immediately has to tamp down the urge to whisk you away to go on a private boating vacation on a yacht in St. Barts. God, you really have amazing style.

Hyunjin swallows roughly and takes the box, trying to look more excited about it than how utterly taken with you he is. “Afternoon, darling. What’s this?”

You reach your hand over to where the box rests in Hyunjin’s hands, toying with the bow. Hyunjin automatically feels himself internally hyperventilate at your proximity that’s too close for comfort.

“Mango cheesecake. I’ve been trying to perfect the recipe for a while now, and I think it finally turned out really well.” You break into a bright smile that makes Hyunjin’s brain short circuit. “I want to thank you for all of your help, besides me being less-than-cooperative sometimes. Coming here has really changed my perspective on things, and for the better.”

Hyunjin clutches the box to his chest. He had always suspected that you are the sweetest, under your stormy exterior, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get a taste and confirm the truth for himself. Nevertheless, he’s both touched and now even more delusional, because you spent time on him, making something to give him. “Darling, you shouldn’t have.”

You pout in response, and Hyunjin grasps the box even tighter, nearly crushing the contents in an effort to get a grip on himself. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Hyunjin grins, feeling himself relax a little. That’s one more thing about you— you have this contradicting ability to induce both calmness and anxiety into him, another kind of black magic that you definitely harbor in your bewitching eyes. “Well, thank you. I can’t wait to try it.”

You look away shyly and gesture towards Hyunjin’s office. “Should we head in?”

Smiling to himself, Hyunjin steps ahead to open the door for you as you duck your head and scramble in, folding yourself onto the sofa that you both are now well-acquainted enough to often share. After setting his velvet tote bag onto his desk, Hyunjin sits down beside you, holding out a glass of mango juice to you, a drink that you now frequent whenever you meet. Plus the cheesecake? You really must love mangoes.

As you sip on your juice, Hyunjin decides to take the reasonable course of action available: ask you about your day, not if you’re available next Friday night at six. “How have you been? I’m sorry I couldn’t see you last week.”

You shrug, waving off Hyunjin’s apology like it’s nothing. It isn’t, though; he would rather have spent time with you than having to fly to Shanghai for some brand endorsement deal that his agent made him take. “Don’t worry about it. And I’ve been good. Evidently, in a much more agreeable mood these days. It’s certainly a step-up from the grumpier me, isn’t it?”

“I like you however you are,” Hyunjin blurts out without thinking, before freezing in realization. In a better world, he would have had the sense to at least clamp his hand over his mouth before he could say something stupid, but unfortunately, he’s stuck here. He wills the stammering, bumbling idiot that he turns into when you’re around to disappear, to be replaced by his usual, suave self. It doesn’t quite work, because he feels a furious blush building on his neck.

You’ve also turned a light shade of pink, and Hyunjin prays to God that you can’t see through his bullshit. “Because I’m your client. You accept me however I am.”

Hyunjin has to mentally stab himself with a fork as a reminder that he cannot, under any circumstances, disagree, although he really, really wants to. You could never be just a client to him. You’re too precious to him for that title. Yet, he keeps a straight face as he nods, disgusted with what he’s about to say. “Exactly. You’re my client.”

You down the rest of your drink, setting the glass down on the coffee table. “Anyway, you emailed me that you had something special planned for today. What is it?”

“Right.” Hyunjin clears his throat, getting up from the sofa to make his way over to his desk. He opens one of the drawers and pulls out the thick binder he’s been dreading using with you for a while now. It weighs his hands down like an unpleasant secret as he sits back down next to you.

“What’s this?” You inquire, leaning in closer to Hyunjin. The movement allows the sugary scent of your vanilla perfume become even more prominent to Hyunjin, which is definitely not helpful right now. Hyunjin stares down at the binder, adopting a robotic tone that won’t betray his thoughts.

“We’ve worked on just you for the past few months, and now it’s time. You’re finally ready to explore dating.” Hyunjin opens the binder, trying to ignore the sour taste of the words on his tongue. “And as I’ve told you before, SeoulSpark has an incredible matchmaking service that caters to everything you desire in a potential partner.”

“Cool! How does it work?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices your shorts ride up slightly, further exposing the soft skin of your upper thigh. Think of the fork, Hyunjin. Think of the damn fork.

“Well, I’ve already compiled a number of candidates in our database whose profiles complement yours. We’re going to be setting up a time when you can speed date them.”

You quirk your eyebrow in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is to Hyunjin. “Speed dating? That’s…”

“I know, I know. It might seem weird at first, but that’s why we’re doing it the SeoulSpark way, to reduce awkwardness and make it really worth your time. We’ll go over the candidates briefly, and weed out the ones you really don’t want to see.” Hyunjin opens the binder, going to the profiles. “But I won’t tell you their names, so we can maintain at least a small element of surprise.”

Your eyes widen as you take in the first candidate’s picture, and Hyunjin has to fight the burning jealousy in his chest. “Wow. He’s handsome.”

“Swipe left or right?”

“Right.”

“Okay.” Hyunjin turns to the next page. “What about him?”

“Uh, left. He reminds me of my uncle. No thank you.”

Hyunjin stifles his smile as he continues flipping through the profiles, noting down your answers. He tries to enjoy your unfiltered reactions and not think about the fact that one of these lucky bastards could be your future husband. Finally, he gets to the last candidate.

You frown. “He looks kind of like a chipmunk. A quokka, maybe.”

“So is that a left?”

“I’ll say right. He seems like he’d be interesting.” You shrug, your eyes glittering with mischief. “Actually, I’m kind of excited now. Some of these guys are lookers.”

Hyunjin laughs in spite of himself, shutting the binder and standing up. “I’ll email you the details of the event by next week, when we’ll be holding it. ”

You nod, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear— oh, how Hyunjin wishes he could just casually do that for you. “Got it. I’ll make sure to look dazzling.”

“Darling, you always look dazzling.” Hyunjin smirks in self-satisfaction when you flush at his quip. It’s not exactly a reaction that’s foreign to him, but seeing you like this, all cute and bashful, is new. And it’s a look that’s very attractive on you. Hopefully, you attribute the flirting to Hyunjin’s naturally charming personality, not the fact that he’s impossibly gone for you. Not that the truth would make a difference, however. You’ll never be his.

“Thanks, Hyunjin.” You get up from your seat, letting Hyunjin walk you out, like he always does. “I feel like you have a vision going on for this matchmaking event.”

“Oh, I always have a vision.” Hyunjin chuckles, opening the door for you. “We’re considering a tropical theme, or a garden party, maybe. Or something glamorous. Kind of like prom, but without the bad music and horny teenagers, you know?”

You shrug. “Actually, I never went to my high school senior prom. But all of these ideas sound incredible.”

He pauses, his eyes widening. “You never went to prom?”

“There was this guy.” You look uncomfortable, but before Hyunjin can assure you that you don’t have to tell him about it, you decide to continue. “I wanted to go with him, but long story short, he rejected me. And I didn’t really have any friends I could go with either. I could have gone on my own, but I wasn’t brave enough. It’s one of the things that I did when I was younger that I regret now. I guess it just speaks volumes about how I hold myself back a lot.”

Hyunjin frowns. “Who in their right mind would reject you?”

“My first love, apparently. And a bunch of others.” You sigh, fiddling with the little bow on your sleeve. “But whatever. I’m going to find a real man.”

“They’re idiots. And prom isn’t even all that.”

You snort. “Says you. I’ll bet you were the kind of guy who got invited by all of the girls to be their date to prom, even if you weren’t even a senior yet.”

“Exactly. I would know precisely that prom is overrated as fuck.” Hyunjin gives you a smile. “Maybe we’ll just go with the garden party.”

You stay quiet for a moment, as if thinking something over, before looking directly into Hyunjin’s eyes. “Shame. I think I would’ve liked to see you in a tux.”

And with that, you turn around and leave, as Hyunjin just stays rooted on the spot, dumbfounded. Because how can you just so easily shoot an arrow straight into his heart and walk away? You’re a threat to society. You’re a wicked enchantress. You’re the bane of Hyunjin’s existence, and yet, he wants you to come back and string him along like a fucking bow. The dilemma is clear: Hyunjin absolutely cannot just move on from you. This is an extremely deafening cry for help.

“Wonyoung?” Hyunjin croaks, as he steps back inside and collapses onto his chair.

Hyunjin’s loyal secretary sticks her head into the room, her glossy locks tumbling over her shoulders like a Pantene commercial. Hyunjin makes a mental note to ask her later about her hair care routine. “Yes, boss?”

“Call Dr. Kim for me, please. I don’t feel so good.”

“Of course. I guess the bad sushi really got you this time.”

“Strep throat? Negative. Flu swab test? Negative. Every single other test you made me administer for you? Ditto.”

Hyunjin aggressively rubs his palms over his face. “Is there anything else, Seungmin? Are you sure there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? Should we do anything again?”

Seungmin rolls his eyes, setting his clipboard down on the bench space next to him. “It’s Dr. Kim. And I did a Barium Swallow test for you, Hyunjin. You don’t just do those for any idiot who walks in begging to be examined for no apparent ailment. Took thirty minutes and nothing at all. Chief resident would be on my ass if she knew.”

“You’d think we haven’t been best friends since our Stanford days,” Hyunjin says. “There is something wrong with me.”

Hyunjin stares down at the upper right leg of his pants, picking at a small loose thread. He’s never seen one appear in his clothing ever since he was eighteen and quiet being so fashionably challenged, but instead of disgust, he feels a strange sense of solidarity. Just like the thread, he feels out of place; confused and lost, even though he’s standing right in the middle of half of the world’s dream. But wanting someone who he can never have isn’t a dream, surely, and neither is the phantom pain in his abdomen, the one that Dr. Kim claims doesn't exist.

“‘Our Stanford days’ were literally only three years ago. And I was in med school while you were getting a PhD in the study of crazies. I knew there were a couple screws loose up there,” Seungmin scoffs, tapping his temple in flourish punctuated with impudence. “I should have known better than to befriend your ass.”

“Seung-min, you’re lying,” Hyunjin retorts, emphasizing the syllables of his friend’s name. “I swear, I’m sick.”

Seungmin groans, fed up with Hyunjin’s stubborn mindset. “You’re twenty-eight years old and have your own booming practice. Hell, you wear head-to-toe designer, even underwear— yes, I saw the Gucci briefs in your bag, that one time you made me go shopping with you. Meanwhile, I’m a stressed, overworked, and underpaid surgery resident who has to listen to his rich and famous best friend complain that he’s not feeling well. Oh, poor baby. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m trying! I’m trying, okay?” Hyunjin finally explodes, throwing his hands up in the air. Usually, he maintains that peaceful temperament that puts up with Seungmin’s attitude. Not today, however. “Honestly, Seungmin, you want to know what’s wrong with me? Her. She’s all over me, inside and out! Everywhere I look, I’m reminded of her. Everywhere I go— her. And you know what? It’s not all in my head. It’s not a fucking crazy case. I physically feel myself wanting to throw up every five fucking minutes. I have a horrible headache that won’t go away, no matter how long I rot in my bed. I’m sore all over and I just want to go home!”

Hyunjin’s best friend just glares at him in shock for a good few seconds, watching as he pants from the ferocity of his words. And then he recovers, smoothing his face over into that signature judgemental expression, because he’s Kim Seungmin. “I should’ve known this was about a girl.”

Hyunjin sighs. Thankfully, no one overheard his rant, because this is Seungmin’s lunch break and whenever Hyunjin insists on an emergency meeting, Seungmin brings him over to this empty corridor tucked behind the equipment storage rooms, where no prying eyes wander.

“It’s not just any girl, Seungmin. It’s the girl. She’s… all I do know is that she’s my client who walked into my life three months ago and proceeded to destroy it. She came in like a tropical storm and now she smiles at me like the fucking sun. She confuses me and makes me forget random shit and she doesn’t even know about any of it. And all I want to be is hers, even though I can’t be.”

Seungmin doesn’t say anything, before he bursts into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that makes his body shake with impact. “You… are… acting… so stupid.”

And this only makes Hyunjin even more frustrated. “Well, that’s the whole damn point! I’m not stupid, but I’m obviously acting it! I don’t know what to do, Seungmin! Help a brother out!”

After he calms himself down, Seungmin sighs loudly and wipes the traces of any tears caused by amusement of Hyunjin’s plight. “I’m not an expert in this, Hyunjin. But to be honest, it seems to me that you’re falling for her, and you’re just in denial.”

Hyunjin feels nothing short of horrified. “But… I can’t be. Are you sure?”

“Aren’t you the friggin’ Love Doctor or some shit? How the fuck am I supposed to be sure?”

But Hyunjin barely hears Seungmin, getting off the bench to pace back and forth in the little hallway. He can’t be falling for you, because— he just can’t! The plethora of problems that would arise from him falling in love with you are fucking endless, the worst being that you could end up negatively impacted. And all because your stupid, idiotic dating coach couldn’t keep his stupid, idiotic feelings in check. He would rather give up his beloved Versace brand deal than ever see you hurt, and that’s really saying something.

Seungmin tries to get to Hyunjin again. “Or maybe you’re not falling for her. Maybe you’re just horny.”

Hyunjin whirls around, side-eyeing Seungmin with disgust. “The hell you mean?”

“When’s the last time you, you know? Got some?”

“You put it so eloquently.” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “And it’s been ten months.”

“See? That’s definitely it. You need to get laid, and you’re taking your sexual frustration out like this. You’re always the one lecturing everyone else on having healthy sex and love lives and shit, but really you’re a hypocrite. Tell me, why are you such a hypocrite, Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin crosses his arms, irritated yet able to see Seungmin’s point. He had his share of relationships, enough to augment his experience and research in the whole field. It’s not like they all ended badly, though— quite the opposite, really. The majority of them were amicable splits, or awkward conversations, at the very most. The only notably sour memory is Hyunjin’s ex-girlfriend from ninth grade, the one who broke up with him in a fit of jealousy when another girl confessed her love for Hyunjin. But then again, all high school relationships are basically doomed to crash and burn.

Hyunjin was careful to never get into anything too serious anyway, because his only love would be his job; he broke up with his last girlfriend— which might be a strong word for someone who merely considered him a wine-and-dine booty call— because he just didn’t feel that same spark with her that he felt when running his business. And he didn’t think he had that capacity to feel it anywhere else, but that was all before you.

“I don’t know, Seungmin.” Hyunjin looks down glumly at the concrete flooring, his body completely exhausted of all of the fight in him

The look in Seungmin’s eyes softens as Hyunjin slumps back into his seat. “Don’t you think that you’ve been so busy thinking about helping other people with their loves that you’ve completely neglected yours? When are you going to stop being so goddamn perfect and care for yourself?”

“But I do care for myself! Why else would I have a fourteen-step skincare routine and Gucci boxers?” Hyunjin protests, stalling more than really arguing. He just doesn’t want to admit to what’s really bothering him.

Seungmin rolls his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. He should get back to rounds; lunch will be over soon. “That’s not self-care, that’s called being fucking weird. And I’m talking about your head. You have this illusion up there that in order to help others, you need to be flawless. Get out of it, man. Whether you want someone to have a one-night stand with or have your freaking children, you need to be open and pursue it. Life is messy and unpredictable, even for neurotic perfectionists like you. It’s okay to be horny. It’s okay to be in love. It’s okay to be you.”

Hyunjin ponders over Seungmin’s advice, before looking up. “I hate when you’re right.”

“I know.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t you ‘fine’ me, dumbass. Go put on your Armani shit and get going, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t Mission Impossible. I can’t believe I have to tell you this.” Seungmin shakes his head, dusting off his scrubs. He leans forward to tighten the laces on his special work sneakers; the clock is really ticking down now.

Hyunjin gives Seungmin a withering look. “I wear Versace on my missions.”

“Welcome to SeoulSpark’s third biannual company-wide Matchmaking Event!”

The small crowd of hopeful singles crammed into the gazebo politely claps as the speaker looks down at all of you from his perch on the little elevated platform, like some kind of an all-knowing benefactor.

“Thank you everyone. You can call me Jin, and I’ll be your emcee and operations director on this fine afternoon.” He beams. “And can I just say, you people look so good today? Obviously not as much as me, but still.’”

A scattered collection of horribly faked laughter ripples throughout the gathering, and you have to resist rolling your eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jin does actually serve as great eye candy, you would’ve already been putting on your sunglasses and trying to fake being awake.

“Dr. Hwang will be here in a few moments to intro, and then we’ll get on with it!” Jin states, continuing his unnecessary theatrics. “But while we wait, can someone answer this question: what do you call an ice cream that parties too hard?”

Before the inevitable awkward silence can ensue, some bored-looking man who stands a little further away from everyone else pipes up. You recognize him as the very first candidate whose picture Hyunjin had presented to you— the hot one— except now, his short, preppy haircut has grown out into a wavy mullet. “Just say it.”

Jin looks temporarily taken aback by the man’s unfiltered attitude, before correcting his expression back into a winning smile. “It is out of CONE-trol! Get it? Because of the ice cream cone? Isn’t that funny?”

There isn’t a single person in the crowd who looks impressed, least of all mullet-guy. “No. And it still wouldn’t be funny even if I was seven years old and actually liked horrible dad jokes.”

There’s a bite to his tone, and Jin seems to have taken it personally. Jin clears his throat, stuck while clearly trying to think of something to say, when relief comes over his face as he looks directly at you. “There he is! Dr. Hwang: the man of the hour.”

You turn around so fast that you nearly get whiplash, and of course Hyunjin is right there, towering over you like some sort of gorgeous sunflower. Fuck— you knew you smelled that stormy jasmine in the air, but you passed it off as just your imagination. And because there are so many people packed into this tiny pavilion, your bodies are practically pressed together as everyone else cranes their necks to get a load of the Love Doctor.

“It’s so good to see you, darling. You look stunning,” Hyunjin says to you, in a way that seems so genuine that your baby blue gingham sundress from Target doesn’t feel so childish anymore, like you thought after seeing all of the other ladies’ stylish getups.

“Thanks.” You blush, averting your eyes. The last time you met up with him, your bolder alter-ego possessed you for a second and threw a flirty one-liner at Hyunjin, when you realized yourself and walked the hell away, before you could gauge his reaction. “You look very stunning yourself as well.”

And he truly is, as always, dressed in another quirky yet stylish look: a high-neck jacket and camel cargos, complete with a chain link shoulder leather bag. The thick gold crosses dangling from his ears don’t look gaudy, instead bringing out a youthful glow in Hyunjin’s skin. God, you really love a man who can dress.

“Everything alright, Dr. Hwang?” Jin calls out, breaking you out of your trance.

“Yes, Jin. I’ll be up in a second.” Hyunjin doesn’t take his eyes off of you, just serenely blinking like he has all the time in the world. “I absolutely adored your mango cheesecake, darling. You have to tell me about the recipe later.”

He shoots you one last disarming smile, before heading up to the platform, and you’re left to longingly stare after him like a dessert enthusiast on a sugar-free diet. You watch him take the mic from Jin, who dramatically holds out his hands towards Hyunjin when backing off of the platform.

“Hello!” Hyunjin chirps, and really, the wind is a paid actor here, breezing in and perfectly tousling his midnight mane.

This time, the audience’s response is more authentic, everyone responds in their own greetings out loud. You can’t help but feel your heart swell at the sight; your crush really is so charismatic.

“So, we’ve already explained how today’s going to work in the emails that were sent out to all of you a couple days ago. But to debrief: we will be having fifteen six-minute speed dating rounds today, each held at one of the designated tables,” Hyunjin explains, gesturing to the space surrounding the gazebo.

For the matchmaking event, SeoulSpark booked out Cafe Fiorella, a posh little eatery nestled in the heart of Vista Hermosa Natural Park’s dusty garden trails and meadows. Hyunjin and his planners did an outstanding job of organizing everything, and even you can’t help but note how impossibly romantic it is— for a speed-dating gig, at least. There are dainty bistro tables set up in the grassy outdoor dining area and nestled on top of them, multiple tiered platters loaded with hors d'oeuvres and decorative blossoms. You don’t even want to think about how much this would have cost.

“Before each round, you will all get a text providing you with the number of your table, where you will be able to chat with your partner, one of the candidates that corresponded with your profile.” Hyunjin catches your eye, and you feel yourself heat up. Focus. “After every round, take note of who you want to see again, and at the end, we’ll give you a form to fill out and submit. When you have your next appointment with us, we’ll let you know who you’ve matched with. Any questions?”

No one raises any, probably because they’re too self-conscious to ask in front of their potential partners, which leaves Hyunjin to just nod. “My team and I will be present as chaperones, just making sure everything is going smoothly. And I’d also like to thank our Dr. Jeon’s brother, Mr. Kim Seokjin, for volunteering to time and emcee the event!”

“Oh, Hyun. Always so formal. Call me Mr. Worldwide Handsome instead!” Jin calls out from the back. He does an exaggerated little bow and you— along with many other attendees— have to stifle a laugh. What a cheeseball.

Hyunjin just smiles graciously, eyes crinkling with mischief. “Let’s get the party going!”

The up-tempo, raunchy sound of girl rap blasts out of speakers that you didn’t even know existed, scaring the shit out of you momentarily. You have no doubt at all that the afternoon’s garden party beats were compiled by your eccentric Love Doctor, before you start to subconsciously sway— and mentally twerk— to “Body.”

“Ladies and gents, this is just in with Jin! Make sure to find your seats in the next five minutes, and we’ll start the clock!”

Your phone chimes with your first table assignment of the day, and you make your way over there, dodging the throngs of men and women antsy to discover their matches. You sit down at your table, trying to ignore the nervousness building in your chest. With the presence of Hyunjin, his beautiful self lingering somewhere barely a few feet away from you, you’re not sure you can give today your best. And for the first time— it’s not you. It’s the fact that you have feelings for your unsuspecting charmer, and deep inside, you can’t fight the thought of not being able to get over him.

But a lively ambiance courtesy of Megan Thee Stallion doesn’t fit the deep, contemplative mood, so you resort to pushing away your qualms and blankly gazing out at the high rise views while waiting for your partner. If this doesn’t work out, at least you can say you had a nice time humming to lovably NSFW music and raiding the appetizers.

“Beefing with you bitches really getting kinda boring—”

“You know, I kind of vibe with this shit.” Mullet-guy from earlier plops down into the chair across from you. “Don’t tell Mr. Worldwide Handsome that, though. I’ll never give him the satisfaction.”

You giggle at the comically blank expression on mullet-guy’s face. “Don’t worry. I don’t think Jin would’ve added the EDM remix of “Savage” to the playlist.”

Mullet-guy doesn’t smile, but you catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Fair enough. I’m Yoongi.”

“Y/N.” You carefully take a mini slice of flaky herbed pastry off of the stand and place it on the china plate in front of you. Now that everyone has settled down, the music has been turned down to enable better conversation. “Maybe I’m being blunt here, but you don’t exactly strike me as the type of guy to go to a speed-dating event.”

“Well, what kind of guy do I strike you as?” Yoongi asks, settling back comfortably into his chair. If it was anyone else talking, you would have thought they were flirting with you. But not with Yoongi— you can’t quite put your finger on it, but he feels incredibly familiar to you. This could be just another regular talk with a good friend.

You make a show of taking in his beat-up leather jacket and the silver stud in his left ear, all add-ons to his roguishly handsome aesthetic. “Wannabe SoundCloud rapper meets Fuji Kaze, except with an even worse fashion sense.”

Most people would have already shrank away from your sarcastic sense of humor, but Yoongi claps back. “I could say the same for you. Don’t tell me you’re actually going for The Stepford Wives with that dress. You even have the Mary-Jane shoes.”

“These are discounted flats from Old Navy, don’t even. And I’ll bet your emo ass was stuck in Hot Topic since grade school.”

Yoongi bursts out laughing. “Okay, you win. But you’re not wrong though— I am a rapper, of sorts.”

You lean forward. “Really?”

“Of sorts— I haven't had much time to really get into it and improve myself, ever since I started my own record label last year, D-2 Music,” Yoongi says, picking at his peach scone. “Managing other artists is my focus these days. Been writing my whole life, though.”

“What do you like to write about?” You take a bite of your pastry, savoring how it nearly melts in your mouth. Maybe this thing isn’t that bad; good food and good conversation. Besides, this Yoongi is totally intriguing to you.

“Dreams, depression, obsession.” Yoongi steadily holds your gaze, and you don’t look away.

“Refreshing.”

“I get that a lot.” Yoongi takes a sip of his mimosa, before making a face and putting it back down.

“No, but seriously. I hate pretending, most of all. Perfection doesn’t exist, and a lot of people can’t get a grip on that.” You shrug, wiping your mouth with one of the provided lavender napkins. “It is refreshing that you don’t seem to give a crap about others.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi smiles, and you think it’s a good look on him. It doesn’t fade even after what he says next. “We’re not going to be a match, are we?”

In that moment, you can confidently say that you are both the same exact person, and while it feels so good to finally speak with someone who might remotely understand exactly what you are, you know it can never be a sustainable relationship. The two strong-minded pessimists that you both are would only clash or just further bring each other down, in the end. So you return his smile, not a hint of sorrow in it.

“Probably not.” Both of you clink your champagne classes together and drink on it, before collectively gagging at the taste.

“Time’s up, people! Please bid your partners adieu and get on to your next table!” Jin’s voice breaks out through his microphone, and immediately, the music resumes as the frenzy starts all over again.

You stand up, smoothing out your skirt and looking over at Yoongi, who stays seated, taking his own time finishing his scone. “Catch you later, Hot Topic.”

“Likewise, Mary-Jane.” Yoongi snickers, tilting his head up in a casual goodbye.

You make your way to your new assignment, and as you approach, you remember him. The next person sitting there is the final candidate that Hyunjin had shown you, the one with the rather squirrely look to him. You have to admit, however, that he isn’t bad-looking, with wavy brown bangs falling into his eyes and a soft smile painting his features. He looks simple, a pretty boy waiting for a girl. You feel like you’re reading a picture book with a happy ending, because there are no puzzles to stay sleepless over. You see the bistro table becoming a kitchen counter, frequented for coffee talk and family dinners— there is no smoke-cracked glass desk that costs more than your entire salary. And you’re not Pygmalion sculpting Galatea, the gender bended Grecian rendition of the Hyunjin who plagues your thoughts; instead, you can see the elementary construction paper dotted with finger-painted sunny skies.

“Hi,” you greet, dragging out your chair and locking eyes with the stranger. Strangely, you don’t feel that telltale thump of your heartbeat in your panting chest— you sense a steady rhythm, and perhaps you could get used to it. Think: the picture book over the puzzle. You like staying in check and control— Hyunjin doesn’t allow you that power, no matter how unknowingly he keeps it for himself.

“Hi,” he responds. “I, uh, thought you had a nice smile in your picture. It’s even better in real life.”

You stay unfazed; compliments don’t affect you much— when they come from anyone but Hyunjin. Still, it’s a cute try, and you decide to dig in deeper. To you, directness is key— again, when dealing with anyone but Hyunjin.

You slide your finger down the damp side of your champagne flute, tracing a haphazard shape in the water drops. The man falls quiet again, and you don’t bother saying anything else, just taking him in. You don’t have much experience with conversation loaded with romantic intent, and this holds true even with your infamous ex-boyfriend.

Park Jisung had spied you at a holiday festival on your college campus, and then proceeded to ask you out. It was pretty unceremonious, to say the least, and thinking in hindsight, you can’t remember a time when he actually tried to get to know you. You were so enamored with him that you didn’t bat an eye, not even when he insisted on having sex with you on your very first date. And it was also your very first time, actually— but you didn’t question it. And the sex? It was over in less than five minutes and he left right after he finished, but it just felt nice to be wanted, for once.

In the following months, you realized that when he wasn’t sleeping with you, Jisung was in his own world. You barely existed to him, while you memorized his Chipotle order and silently bought new soap for him when it ran out. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he just wanted a warm body in his bed to replace the other ones he’d fucked with all day.

“You should know that I have asthma, just in case you intend on taking my breath away on a regular basis,” the man blurts out, snapping you out of your depressing Jisung-reverie.

You bite back a snort— looks like Mr. Worldwide Handsome has new competition for the corniest person at this place. “Thank you.”

He coughs, no doubt embarrassed by his poorly executed pick-up line. “Sorry. I can’t help it. Pretty people make me nervous.”

“You’re pretty too.” You shrug nonchalantly as the man blushes. “What’s your name?”

“Han Jisung.”

You nearly throw the champagne in his face. “Come again?”

“Jisung. My name is Jisung.”

You clench your fists under the table, trying not to break something. Of all the people in this world— of all the fucking names in this world— you just had to get set-up with a guy who shares the same name as a monster who did nothing but hurt you. What the fuck, universe? You glance at your phone screen peeking out of your purse— there are still four minutes left in this stupid round.

“Hey, is everything good?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” You look up, giving him a venomous smile. Screw the picture book. “What do you like to do in your free time, Han Jisung? Don’t tell me you like to day-drink and play beer pong.”

“I’m not really a drinker. And you can just call me Ji-”

“Tell me, Han Jisung, is your zodiac sign Aquarius? And do you work in tech? Do you work for NCT Corp? Do you?” You inquire without a break, gulping down your glass before refilling it with more of that horrendous champagne. The angel on your shoulder implores you not to project your ex-boyfriend’s personality onto the poor sucker sitting in front of you, but the devil whispers a different tune. You decide to follow the latter’s advice; raging hellfire is always more fun.

Han Jisung looks bewildered, but answers your question anyway. “Um, I'm a Virgo. I do work in tech, but with JYP Electronics.”

“Wonderful.”

“Anyway… I never got your name,” Han Jisung tries, visibly shaken by your suddenly aggressive line of questioning.

You scowl at him. “That’s because I already made the mistake of trusting someone like you, Han Jisung.”

There’s still a few seconds left in the round timer, but you don’t pay any mind to it. Your social battery has been exhausted, and all of the progress you’ve made in a long time has gone to dust in a mere five-minute parameter. You grab your bag and stalk away from the table, leaving Han Jisung staring after you, openmouthed and utterly perplexed by the unmerited hostility. But screw him— you can’t even live for a day without being reminded by your douchebag ex who traumatized the fuck out of you.

In your fury, you barely notice the rolling cart of lunch items that accidentally rams into your side. Bowls of pesto pasta fly off the cart, the roasted cherry tomatoes arching in the air in perfect semi-circles before splattering onto the pristine grass. The restaurant staff immediately attends to the mess, while the other guests just glance carelessly at the mess before continuing onto the next round. You rub your hip as Hyunjin rushes over to you.

“Darling, are you alright?” Hyunjin drapes his arm around your shoulders, gazing at you with concern. You melt into his touch for a moment, the frustration simmering with the longing inside of you. “Where were you going?”

You back away from him. “This was a bad idea. Maybe I’m not ready for this. I need more time.”

He frowns, stepping closer to you. “But—”

“Han Jisung?” You interrupt, more animosity in your tone than you intend for there to be. “You knew his name when showing me his profile.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widen in both remembrance and regret. “Oh my god. I didn’t realize— I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. Even taking into account how you feel right now, you don’t want to take it out on Hyunjin. Never. “It’s not your fault. But I’ll be on my way.”

Ducking your head, you turn and walk away, furiously blinking the tears away. A small part of you wishes Hyunjin would call you back, hug you close to him and ask you to stay. But he doesn’t, because he knows his boundaries. It’s you who doesn’t know their place, because regardless of the smarting pain inside of you, you want Hyunjin to bandaid your emotional damage.

And as you pick up your pace, you realize that maybe you really are doomed to be Pygmalion, yearning for someone who no one else can even compare to, someone who’ll never be yours. No matter what sorts of grotesque demons haunt you, the most sinister of them all is the off-limits adonis who disturbs your heart even when you’re still reeling from the previous break. Han Jisung’s sunny skies woke you up from your dreams— Galatea is a fucking statue, art that will never come alive.

“Well, that was a colossal disaster.” Hyunjin covers his face with his palms and shrinks into the buttery leather upholstery of his seat.

Wonyoung glances over at him as the car starts up. “What do you mean? I think it went great. I saw a sickening amount of flirting going on. Pretty soon, you’ll be officiating a bunch of weddings.”

Hyunjin groans, shaking his head. “But did you see the way Y/N left, Wonyoung? The whole Jisung thing? God, I screwed things up colossally.”

“It’s not your job to remember the names of all of your clients’ ex-boyfriends. It was an honest mistake that we both overlooked.”

“Still.”

“Dr. Hwang, I feel like there’s more to this than you’re letting on.” Wonyoung crosses her arms. “Since when did you get so worked up over a client— over anything?”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes like a petulant child. “I’m not getting worked up.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Sure.” Wonyoung looks back down at her tablet, tapping away at the screen. “I’m already seeing so many matches.”

“Nice.” Hyunjin looks out the window pointedly. “It’s always fucking raining these days.”

“Dr. Hwang.”

Hyunjin ignores Wonyoung, just leaning forward to instruct the cab driver. “Actually, can you drop me off at The North End? Thanks.”

“Seriously. What is going on?” Wonyoung presses once more. “You can’t just go drinking now, not like this.”

“I’ll be fine, Ms. Jang.” Hyunjin doesn’t meet her eyes as he gets out of the car, placing a few bills covering the whole cab fare into her hands. “Get home safe.”

Before she can protest, Hyunjin closes the door and lets the drizzle envelop him, effectively ruining his new logo-motif jacquard set. But he doesn’t give a fuck as he steps into the bar like a shivering stray cat, because the stench of liquor and greasy peanuts is strong enough to incapacitate his inner fashion police.

“Bourbon, on the rocks,” Hyunjin orders glumly, looking down at his phone screen, a shot of Princess Diana on her birthday last year. She looks absolutely precious in that fluffy pink tutu that he dressed her in, a sight that never fails to make Hyunjin melt. Today, however, not even his adorably stylish puppy can cure him. He downs the whiskey the bartender sets in front of him, wincing at the burn he so rightfully deserved.

When you stormed out of the party just barely two hours ago, it took every fiber of Hyunjin’s being to not run after you. He’d wanted to ditch everyone and just kiss it better for you. He’d take you back to his apartment, run you a bath, cook you a comfort meal, and massage all of your sore spots. And then he’d cuddle with you on the couch, holding you while you fall asleep in his arms. But his stupid common sense held him back, rooting him to the spot like a big, dumb boulder.

After speaking with Seungmin, he realized how precisely he’s gone for you. And it obviously wouldn’t end well, so he decided that distance— complete professionalism— would be the way to go. Last night, he’d tried a crapload of healthy methods to try and fix himself, from watching porn to reading porn to even listening to porn on some sketchy podcast— anything to distract him from the thought of you. But nothing worked, because he wasn’t horny. No, he had an emotional boner— the worst kind of boners. In the end, he’d realized that the only way to move on from you would be get his ass out there and find someone else,a rebound— which is what he’d been dreading all along.

Therefore, he’d turned around like a fucking moron and went back to the party, listlessly floating around like a trash bag discarded on the highway. And now, he’s at some bar with high end cocktails that are just a pretentious way of saying “fuck me” to strangers.

“Hey there handsome, need company?”

Hyunjin looks to his left, where the sultry voice has originated from: a young woman— a pretty one, too. She’s wearing the kind of tight, black dress and matching coy smile that can only mean she wants one thing. Luckily, Hyunjin’s on the same page as her.

“What’s your name, darling?” Hyunjin asks her, ignoring the guilt inside his chest. That term of endearment was once reserved for you, and only you. He’d have to get over the sting of that too.

She sits down next to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder and exposing the smooth skin of her neck. “Lisa.”

“Lisa,” Hyunjin repeats, signaling to the bartender for another round. “Tell me, what do you do?”

“I’m hoping it’ll be you tonight.” Lisa smirks at him, raising an eyebrow seductively.

Well. That was fast.

Hyunjin chuckles, trying not to think of the nausea rising in his stomach. He accepts the drink from the bartender, clinking his glass against Lisa’s, meeting her darkened eyes over the rim.

“I’m Hyunjin. It’s nice to meet you.”

You haven’t watched trashy Youtube videos in months, thinking you’d left that disgusting habit behind, and yet, here you are, watching said trashy Youtube videos. Today, it’s a shotgun wedding getting upstaged by one of the bridesmaids proclaiming her love for the groom. You feel an old chips packet somewhere inside the bedsheet hollow you’ve burrowed yourself into, the crumbs poking into your back like unwanted intruders. However, you just try to ignore the nasty feeling and slump into the mattress, pulling the bedcovers up so they cover your chin.

It’s been almost a full week since the matchmaking debacle that you absolutely made a spectacle of yourself at. You’ve spent the entire time drifting off to work, getting yelled at by Mark for no reason at all, and then coming home and lazing around. At this point, your gym membership must be a mere accessory, and the nearby 7-Eleven that you frequent for junk food is practically your second home. Fuck— you’re disgusted with yourself.

Resorting to self-destructive yet containable activities has always been your go-to for whenever you’ve been down— you’ll let yourself be fine with the world falling apart as long as it’s inside the confines of your humble abode. For months, however, you’d truly believed that you were past it. Hyunjin’s presence in your life inserted a certain desire inside of you— not to be better for him, but to be better because of him. Hyunjin opened your eyes to the real beauty of living, of having passion for any trade and a lust for happiness. That kind of positive outlook kept you climbing up that hill, no matter how arduous it was to maintain good spirits for the majority of the time. But as soon as a crisis hit, you bailed on your trek and fell back down the cliff.

You feel truly guilty as well, an emotion that usually got lost in the web of pity and hatred that you spun yourself into whenever you know you’ve done something wrong. Han Jisung didn’t deserve to be subjected to your outburst, you know that— that should have been reserved for the person who actually wronged you. You never actually got the chance to confront Park Jisung, not after he walked out like he didn’t just fucking break you. Deep inside, you know that you take out that inky mixture of unresolved frustration and regret on every single person who dares trigger you, even if it’s unintentional. Han Jisung was one such unfortunate target today.

A small chime alerts you to a new message, and you tear your eyes away from your laptop, reaching for your phone on your nightstand. In the notifications on your home screen, you see that it is not an email from Hyunjin like you’d unrealistically hoped for— instead, it’s a text from Yeonjun, your cousin who’s a constant thorn in your fucking side.

Yeonjun: hmm i’m thirsty :P

You: no yeonjun, i will not take you out for drinks.

Yeonjun: pretty pls w a cherry on top

You: fuck off

Yeonjun: u seem upset :(((

You: i’m having adult problems, yeonjun. leave me alone.

Yeonjun: well then i will help you with ur adult problems

Yeonjun: u know, i’m an adult too OMG

Yeonjun: come on, when have i ever not given u great advice?

Yeonjun: i missed my fucking calling in therapy. i woulda been an excellent shrink.

Yeonjun: i’m an amazing cousin who always is there for u. y/n i lysm, u know that?

Yeonjun: u know what else i love? Vodka.

Yeonjun: but i love u too <3

You: Yeonjun, stop fucking spamming me or I’m not coming.

Yeonjun: YAYY!

With a defeated sigh, you shove the blankets to the side, the cold air conditioning gripping your body like a vice. But begrudgingly, you have to admit that it feels refreshing to get out of your sweaty hideout and step into the shower, cleaning yourself up as much as you can on the outside— the inside issue can be attended to with the drinks.

A half hour later, you find yourself in a skeevy dive bar on the Westside, doing shots with your cousin, because even though he irritates you to the core, he’s all you have. You really could use that drink, anyway. But no amount of alcohol seems to mask the way your heart hangs heavier than the full moon outside. In fact, the liquid courage just manifests your sadness even more, leaving you a sniveling mess on the bar counter.

“And, he was actually really cute, you know? But I could never date him,” you sniffle, after downing your fifth drink. “It’s just, I just can’t deal with any reminders of Jisung.”

Yeonjun knocks back his vodka. “I take it back. If therapy means dealing with saps like you, I’d rather die.”

You frown at him. “It’s better than being a failing TikTok influencer. When’s the last time any of your thirst traps got views?”

Yeonjun shrugs, unbothered by your jab; he’s as used to you as you are to him. “You could’ve at least hooked up with him, if he was that cute.”

You swirl your straw in the melting ice as you get on your phone, pulling up the follow-up email in which Hyunjin had sent you online scans of the candidate profiles. Yeonjun looks over your shoulder and whistles as you zoom-in on Han Jisung’s picture. “But I’ve only ever slept with Jisung before. I may be a scary bitch, but I’m not bold enough for that.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” Yeonjun cackles. “Well, it’s only a better reason to have a one-night stand. Do you really want to give your trash ex-boyfriend the power of being the only person to have had sex with you? That’s kind of sad.”

Yeonjun makes a face, shivering in disgust, and you sock him in the elbow in retaliation. “For someone so bitchless, you really have such strong opinions about me and my love life.”

“Who says I’m bitchless?” Yeonjun grins deviously. “Besides, you’re the one who told me all this crap in the first place.”

You glance up at the ceiling, feeling an indescribable sense of loss. “Perhaps I wouldn’t mind a one-night stand, though. I guess getting laid is something I kind of need right now. I need to stop letting Jisung control every aspect of my life.”

“Well, if you’re not averted to the idea, a person of interest just walked in.”

You whip around to look at the door, and of all people, Han Jisung from the matchmaking event walks in. He doesn’t notice you at the counter, just making his way over to one of the booths near the entrance and sitting down in solitude. The waiter takes his order and walks away, leaving him to put on his headphones in wait.

“I think I must be living in a social experiment.” You groan and look over at Yeonjun. “Hell if I’m sleeping with him.”

“Did you or did you not just say that you don’t want to let your ex control your life?”

You stare at Yeonjun. “I can sleep with someone else. He’s probably too scared of me anyway. I kind of verbally-knifed him the other day.”

“Please. Everything about that guy screams ‘degrade me.’ He probably liked that shit. You might as well use him as a punching bag again— this time, more productively.” Yeonjun waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively, and you wrinkle your nose in distaste.

“The fuck do you know about productivity?”

“Nada. But I do know a lot about getting a fix when needed.” Your cousin winks at you, producing a packet of condoms out of nowhere and slapping it into your palm. Before you can react, Yeonjun is already slinking off to go and flirt with a pretty girl sitting by herself on the other end of the counter. And alas, you’re left alone again. With a packet of XL condoms— Yeonjun sure is optimistic.

You glance over at said person of interest, who is currently immersed in whatever song that’s got him bopping his head to the beat, eyes closed as if in a dreamy trance. He’s not your type, for sure. But the thing is, you don’t even know what your damn type is at this point— if it wasn’t for Hyunjin’s ability to make you feel inappropriate things so vividly, you’d have thought you had fucking cobwebs down there. Speaking with Yeonjun really was a reminder that you’re still young, after years of both an emotional and physical dry spell. Emotionally, you might not be ready. Physically, however, there’s an opening, and you know it.

When you were dating Park Jisung, sex was always initiated by him. It was always for himself too, because he never cared about making you feel good. But you didn’t see it as a red flag, since you were so in love with him. You just followed him around like an innocent, lovesick puppy that was eager to please. And in the end, even that wasn’t enough.

Your first orgasm— and first experience with a deeper kind of desire— was alone, some time after your relationship ended. It was a quiet night, and you’d just fallen back onto the couch after another long, uneventful day at work. You flipped through the TV channels before settling on a network that was playing The Notebook, and despite its fame and reach, you’d never watched the movie before. Everything was normal until the main characters started kissing each other in the rain, a scene that would remain something you’d download and revisit many, many times when you were locked away in your room.

You’d never seen that level of lust before. You’d never felt it directed towards you or ever even experienced it when you discovered porn in your teenage years. Yet, these two people seemed to want each other on a whole other level, risking everything— their home, their reputation, their love— for something you’d always thought would be over in two minutes. And as your hand undid the button of your jeans and slipped down even lower, you realized just how wrong you were.

In the years that followed, you learned to become so much more comfortable with your sexuality. Hell, you have a drawer dedicated to storing your sex toys and on nights that you’d had too many glasses of wine, you wind up writing filthy erotica just for fun. However, you’d never actually considered having sex outside of a committed relationship, not until now. And in complete honesty, you really are curious about if Han Jisung is as subby as Yeonjun insinuated— if that proves to be true, you wouldn’t mind taking your pent-up Jisung-frustrations out on him. Productivity, and all.

You slap your payment down on the wooden counter, shaking it slightly, before marching towards Han Jisung’s table.

“Hey,” you start, but Han Jisung doesn’t notice you. “HEY!”

Han Jisung’s eyes fly open as he jerks in his seat and pulls off his headphones. At the sight of you approaching him so determinedly, he eyes you with both wariness and renewed interest, and you have to keep yourself from sighing exasperatedly at his hesitant desperation. You’re here for a reason, after all.

“Oh, hello. Y/N, right? I asked Hyunjin for your name after you left.” He gives you a nervous smile, brushing the bangs off of his forehead. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I just wanted to say—”

“I’ll get to the point, Han Jisung.” You cut him off, ignoring the surprised expression on his face. It’s like he’s never in his life encountered a woman who knows what the hell she wants. “I want to have sex with you. What do you say?”

For a good minute, he says nothing, just gaping at you, shocked. And then he does a double-take, looking you up and down as if checking to see if you’re real.

“Is this a ploy to kidnap me and steal my organs, or something? Because when I last saw you, I got the impression that you severely disliked me.”

“No, I’m not going to steal your organs. The truth is complicated,” you scoff. “But you’re hot, and I’m over everything else, at least for tonight. Are you up for it?”

You stare Han Jisung down, making him shift in his seat. He scratches his nose and blinks at you like a trembling mouse. “I… wait. You think I’m hot?”

What an idiot. Good thing he’s pretty.

“Is that a yes?”

“Fuck yes.”

With no warning at all, you grasp his hand, pulling him out of the booth while he scrambles to grab his belongings and shove them into his pockets. You feel his gaze on the back of your neck as you drag him through the bar, walking with your chin pointed up with purpose. You wind your way between the tables expertly, but this Jisung stumbles, making you glare at him over your shoulder.

“Watch your step,” you snap.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking down at the floor as you barge into the bathroom in the back of the building, tugging him inside with you. “Wait, are we not going to your place, or—”

“Stop asking so many fucking questions, Han Jisung.” You slam the door behind you both and click the metal latch in place, leaving you both locked in the tiny room. It isn’t so cramped that there isn’t any space for movement, but it’s small enough to force you both into facing each other in a charged silence.

You eye Jisung from head to toe, taking in his baggy t-shirt and ripped jeans. He clears his throat, making you raise an eyebrow at him. “So, um, do you really have to call me by full name? Don’t you think that’s a little formal, considering what’s about to happen?”

You roll your eyes, your mind going back to the other Jisung you know. Never— there must be something to differentiate the two. You take an intimidatingly emphasized step towards him, backing him up against the wall. “No. I don’t think that’s too formal, Han Jisung.”

“But—”

“Shut the fuck up.” You trace your eyes down his body once more, gaze landing on the noticeable bulge in his pants. Bless Yeonjun— how right he was, for once. You look up, giving Jisung a mean smile. “Are you actually getting turned on right now?”

“Uh, wow—” He squeaks, as you reach your hand out and place it on his warm thigh, tracing it up his limb at a painful pace both dedicated to your desire to tease and be cautious.

“I asked you a fucking question.” You retract your hand right before it reaches its destination, glowering at him. “Answer me.”

“Just, um. I…” Jisung stammers, closing his eyes before opening them again, as if preparing himself. The honeyed tone of his skin exposes a light blush and therefore, his answer. “Ruin me, please.”

That’s all the permission you need before you’re placing your hands on Jisung’s surprisingly toned shoulders, roughly turning him around and swapping places with him, so that now you’re the one with their back to the wall.

“Han Jisung…” You speak slowly, punctuating your words with the kind of loathing that has Jisung panting like a dog waiting for a treat, eyes wide with anticipation tinged with delicious fear. “If you’re a good boy and do as you’re told, I’ll see about giving you a reward.”

“Oh my god.”

“Take off your clothes.”

Jisung nearly trips over his own two feet trying to wrestle the suddenly irksome swaths of fabric off of his body, tossing the garments onto the gross bathroom floor like he doesn’t give a fuck about getting a staph infection later. When he’s fully stripped, you trace your eyes over him in your own leisure, reveling in the way he shivers when you do. Your gaze washes over his defined abs, dipping even lower until you reach his hardened cock, flushed a pretty pink and glazed with pre-come— the condoms would come in very handy, after all.

Seeing him bared to you and your mercy rouses you up like you never thought it would; you never thought that feeling wanted yet being in control would work you up so much, but it does, and you love it beyond reason.

“You’re really something else. Getting off on me being so mean to you.” With a sadistic smirk, you cross your arms. “I bet you thought about me even after I ditched your ass at the party, didn’t you?”

“I— I did,” he admits, with a nervous giggle. “You’re so fucking hot, I just couldn’t help it. Seriously. I’m sorry if— mmph.”

You interrupt his rambling by winding your hand into his soft hair and forcing him closer to you, meeting his soft lips in a harsh kiss, one that has him moaning shamelessly into your mouth. You kiss him deeply, like you want to punish him for it, like you want to both hurt him and make him beg for more. Jisung’s lips are small but full, moving against yours in a sloppy yet heated exchange, fighting for more in an unwinnable battle; he tastes like brandy, strawberries, and the promises of a good time, and you’re drunk on it.

“You’re disgusting, Han Jisung,” you spit out, prompting a whimper from Jisung. “Get on your fucking knees.”

He wastes no time dropping to his knees and letting you lead the way, fully submitting to your tantric commands. Quickly, you clutch at his hands and direct them to where they should be, tilting your head back against the wall as Jisung satisfies your wishes. With an eagerness that doesn’t even compare to your own, Jisung loosens the knot on the elastic band of your skirt, not bothering to untie it fully before he’s tugging the skirt up so that it’s bunched around your waist.

And without you even demanding him to move faster, he’s pushing your panties aside and attaching his greedy mouth to your cunt. You nearly jerk away at the overwhelming sensation of pleasure; your ex-boyfriend never went down on you, and oh, how profoundly you’ve missed out. But you’ve researched enough to know exactly what you want.

Jisung’s eyes flick up to where you’re looking down and showering him with breathy sighs, spurring on his performance. When you shoot him a warning glare, he goes back to completely making-out with your cunt, easily spreading you apart with two of his fingers so he can focus on your throbbing clit. Jisung uses his other hand to squeeze your thigh gently, rubbing circles into the smooth skin as he works.

He delves deeper into your pussy when you run your hands through his silky hair, lapping at your arousal like it’s honey and he’s been starving for days. “You taste so good…”

Immediately, you yank back his hair and hold him in place as you start to grind onto his pretty face. “I don’t remember saying you could fucking talk.”

Jisung groans, taking every insult you hurl at him in such a measured but unbridled way. He makes up for his lack in precision with his enthusiasm, suctioning his mouth around your tender clit and swirling his tongue in patterns that have gotten you seeing the fucking stars. He lets you use him entirely, body going slack as he helps you ride out your high. The obscene sounds of Jisung slurping at your cunt fill the room as you come, gripping his head between your thighs as you feel that beautiful wave of euphoria fall over you. You pat Jisung’s shoulder in silent instruction, and he rises, cupping the sides of your arms and running his hands down them gently, soothing the way you quiver at any touch.

“Are you okay?” Jisung whispers, making you open your eyes in surprise. Your ex-boyfriend never once checked up on you, not even when you were clearly in discomfort that first time he made you his own. This complete stranger however, one that you have been anything but gracious with, inspects your face with concern. A strange feeling of warmth spreads throughout your body as you nod your head.

“I’m good. You did well.” You grasp the bottom of your top, pulling it over your head so that all you’re standing in now are your skirt and basically ruined panties. You didn’t bother with putting on a bra before you left the house, and now, you’re thankful for the decision that was ultimately a byproduct of your laziness; Jisung gazes at your body with utter reverence, like just the sight of your tits has blessed his entire life.

“Please…”

“Please what, Han Jisung?” You bite your lip, both amused and flattered by how desperate he is for your pussy. “Use your words.”

“Fuck me. Please, fuck me. I’ve been good, haven’t I?” Jisung whines sadly, clearly on the verge of tears. His cock is now rock-hard, flush against his stomach, and it turns you on so much to know that eating you out has reduced him to such a pathetic mess.

“Yes, you have…” you murmur, before jutting out your hand to hold his chin tightly. “Spit.”

Without a single protest, he obeys, a single string of saliva connecting his lips to your hand, before you’re reaching down and palming his cock. He lets out a gasp as you wrap your fingers around the base, spreading the dampness and pumping a few times for good measure, as if the mixture of his spit and your own arousal coating your pussy isn’t lubrication enough.

You take the condoms out and help Jisung slide one onto his cock, chuckling when he places his hand over yours to help quicken the process. And then you’re finally guiding him into your entrance, circling one leg around his body and caging him into your fantasies.

“Fuck—”

Jisung enters you as you both collectively moan out loud, him at how tightly your cunt clenches around him and you at how wonderfully his dick curves into you, hitting your sweet spot inside each time. Jisung cups your face as he kisses you again, but this time, it’s slower and more drawn-out, a vast juxtaposition to how rigorously he thrusts into you. You drag your nails down his back in a way that’s sure to leave marks for days to come, but he just increases his pace on your aching pussy, lost in pleasure.

You grip Jisung’s ass and squeeze at the flesh, eliciting a throaty groan from him as your sweat combined creates a sticky layer between your bodies. Your breasts are pressed against Jisung’s chest, and he ducks his head to attend to them, licking and sucking at your sensitive nipples. The heightened attention goes straight to your sweet pussy, making you buck your hips as you hold him even tighter.

“Oh god— I’m fucking— I’m gonna come—” Jisung chokes out, his movements now erratic and even more rushed, if possible.

“Not yet.” You just laugh cruelly, shaking your head. “You’re going to wait. I’m first.”

“I— I don’t think I can—”

“Suck it up like the little bitch you are, and make me come again,” you snarl, digging your nails into the arch of his ass.

He cries out, and for a brief lapse in time, you think he will not be able to outlast you, but then he slides his hand down, rubbing frantic circles onto your clit. The attempt to get you off a second time works, and the orgasm washes over you like a cool breeze in the summertime. You can’t help what escapes you next.

“HYUNJIN!”

“Did you just—”

You clench your jaw and give Jisung a menacing look, warning him of a topic that should not be broached under any circumstances. Luckily, your harsh expression just seems to spur Jisung on even more, and he follows you into ecstasy not long after, squirming in your hold. When he finally finishes, hot spurts of him coat your pussy and trembling thighs.

For a moment, Jisung slumps against you limply, and you let him, enjoying that blanket of heat and protection against your exposed skin, another gift you’ve never been given before. But then you remember that’s all he is to you— a body that has warmed you up for one night. You don’t feel guilty though, because you never did offer more than you could actually give.

You pat Jisung’s back, prompting him to draw back and give you a fucked-smile. His bangs are plastered against his forehead in a sweaty mess, and his skin is tinged pink from his great efforts to please you. It’s a sight that you’ll be tucking away in your memories for any future lonely nights.

After putting your blouse back on, you walk over to the sink as Jisung just stays leaning against the wall. Wetting a paper towel with some water, you run it between your thighs and clean up the remnants of Jisung’s come smeared there. And then you pull your skirt down and help Jisung, because no matter how you don’t see him as more than a fling, he is still significant to you. He’s the first person to make you come and show you that physical care that you’ve been craving for so long, and that amounts to something. Besides, you’d never just toss someone aside after using them so intimately, not like your ex did with you.

You get a fresh towel for Jisung, placing it against his forehead to cool his heated skin while assisting him in putting his clothes back on. When you both are completely dressed, you place a chaste kiss on Jisung’s lips and give him a small smile, before turning for the door.

“I’ll be on my way now, Han Jisung.”

Jisung leaps forward quickly, grabbing your head before it can reach the doorknob. “Hey, I know you said this was just a one-night, but can’t we maybe get dinner or something?”

“Jisung.” The plain name is still sour on your tongue, but you swallow it down. “We aren’t going to work. This isn’t going to happen again.”

“Wait. Are you just, like, crazy edging me right now?”

Shaking your head, you let out a tired laugh. “No, I’m not. Look, I think you’re a really nice guy. I’m sorry for how I treated you at the party last week. You definitely didn’t deserve that, and I definitely still need to resolve my own issues. I’m sure there’s some other sexy lady out there just waiting to dom your pretty face off. You deserve better than me.”

You leave Jisung speechless, finally getting out of the bathroom. You have a very important meeting tomorrow, one that you absolutely cannot miss. Besides, he really does deserve better than you, someone who definitely doesn’t make his whole life an enigma. Someone who doesn’t have the same impact on him as Hyunjin does on you.

And in your post-coital clarity, you also finally accept that there will be no compromising with your feelings for Hyunjin. You’re falling in love with him, so much that even when another man is balls-deep in you, he’s all you can think of. It’s so profound that it hurts, the thought of never being able to fuck him into oblivion like you just did with Han Jisung. You can never have those nights with him in dirty bathrooms, or the ones tangled up in bedsheets for hours at an end. Late night conversations about the banalities of life and playful interviews about where he buys his amazing clothing will never be yours. You’re playing a dangerous game, ignoring your feelings like they’re a hazy insect that will eventually buzz away. Because you know they won’t. They’ll come back to sting you.

As you beeline for the bar exit, you run straight into Yeonjun, who seems to have been waiting for you all along. And by the looks of the Cheshire grin on his face, he knows exactly what you’ve been up to.

“I knew his dick was big.”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“So… want to talk about last week?”

“There’s not much to talk about.” You shrug, toying with the hem of your dress. It’s green, a new look from the various shades of pinks that you donned whenever visiting Hyunjin. The change doesn’t feel refreshing— really, it’s restricting and strange, somehow. Like it doesn’t belong on you.

Hyunjin sighs, getting up from his fancy chair to sit down next to you. So understanding, so caring, so gentle. Everything you don’t deserve and that you will never have. “Darling, please. Open up to me.”

You snap, looking at him directly. “I had sex with Han Jisung.”

Closing your eyes, you lift your up palm, effectively silencing whatever you know that Hyunjin was about to say. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself. You have to mend the cracks before you break completely. Again. It’s now or never, no matter how much it will hurt you to do so.

“And I think we should stop seeing each other.”

«NEXT CHAPTER» · «GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»

AUTHOR'S NOTE Here she is!! We're 2/5 of the way there 💪 Thank you for all of the love for this series! And again, I apologize for the atrocious wait-time. Please leave your thoughts, I don’t really mind if you leave a whole essay ;) -Dreamy

TAGLIST @skzfelixlove @army-stay-noel, @hwangjuhong, @chizumiyoshi @hyunjinswifeee @geneziesm @sherryblossom @yeetfellx @bennetbutton @chillseo @hyuneyeon @seosalad @nhyunn @hyunjinnie2000 @ajxreads @n2tl4na @yeahhspider @8makes1scream @jetblackbelle @143hyunes @raginghellfire @sinforsuccubus @lixiesw1fe @chartrucewhore @freckleboilix @ultimatestayandminoronce @cheesytangerine @leyknowsbin @stay278 @strawberry-dreamland @lvrgrl-xo @moasworld @hyunnielix @httphans @chaotic-world-of-the-j @nyasstars @beautifulmusicaddict-blog @imasimplol @1clickawayfrominsane @xsw-void @queen-klarissa @hyunjinsamdl @heavenhannie @moasworld @kykeu @sxlxna ***The users that I could not tag are written in pink***

If you'd like to join the taglist, click here!

NETWORKS @kflixnet @k-films

©jisungsdaydreamer 2023 | All rights reserved. I do not condone translations or transfers of my work onto other platforms such as Wattpad, AO3, etc. Tumblr is my only platform. Acts of plagiarism are strictly prohibited.

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book-place · 1 year

Text

Anti-Hero

Warnings: tua season 1 spoilers, mentions of killing and death, cursing, mentions of drugs, mentions of heart attacks, drinking, let me know if I missed any :)

Pairings: Hargreeves siblings x sister reader

*not my gif*

Summary: When you left, all of your siblings hated you, and now you were facing them once more

A/N: Welcome to book place’s one year event!!

Inspired by: Anti-Hero by Taylor Swift

Please don’t plagiarize my work, you may reblog if you like but I’m asking that you don’t steal my hard work

I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser

You let loose a long breath and glanced hesitantly up to the tall, menacing building before you. The building of your childhood, if you could even call it that.

To be completely honest, you didn’t even know why you had come back. You hated your father and your siblings hated you, so why would you show up to the man’s funeral, when they would all be there?

As much as you wanted to turn back around and hail another cab to get you as far away from this place as possible, you put on a brave face and pushed the door open, stepping into the vast entryway.

Barely three small steps had been taken inside by you when you froze at the sound of your name being called.

“Y/n,” Allison had her lips parted slightly in shock from where she and Vanya stood at the end of the hall.

You swallowed thickly, “Hey, guys,” You greeted in a voice that was barely even audible to yourself. You toyed with the ends of your gloves nervously.

“Oh, um,” Allison cleared her throat and strode across the room to see you, stopping a healthy three feet away, “It’s so good to see you, Y/n.”

The words were forced, and you knew it, but you gave her a tight lipped smile and a nod anyway.

“Yeah, same here, Y/n!” Vanya called, and you knew in that moment that after everything, she must have been almost as uncomfortable with being here as you were.

If your original gut instinct wasn’t any indication before, then this interaction told you everything about how this visit would go.

The sight of Diego crossing to the staircase caught all of your attention and he snapped something about Vanya not being welcome back before his eyes snapped over to you.

“Y/n,” He spoke in an awkward greeting before skirting past the three of you and clambering up the stairs.

Not only did your siblings hate you, but you just got confirmation that they were also still scared of you. After all these years, when they had grown up beside you and learned how to deal with your ‘gift’, and yet, they were still wary of what you could and possibly would do.

Midnights become my afternoons

You sat on the windowsill in the attic, legs dangling out the window as you looked up at the moon and stars.

“I figured that I would find you up here, Miss. Y/n.” You heard a voice sound behind you.

Unconsciously, you smiled and turned around, “Pogo,” You greeted kindly.

His smile was something that hadn’t changed a bit over the years, “It is so good to see you.” He said genuinely, walking over until he could grasp your gloved hand and squeeze it gently.

He had always been the only one who wasn’t afraid of you. Of what touching you could do to them. Of how painful their deaths would be if they laid a single finger on your bare skin. How without meaning to, you would slowly and excruciatingly kill them.

That’s why you wore gloves and long sleeves at all times, so that no one would unintentionally be hurt by you.

“It’s late,” You hummed when you pulled away, “What are you doing up?”

“Why, I came up here to ask you the same question.” He mused.

You shrugged nonchalantly, leaning your back against the wall, “I don’t usually go to sleep until really early in the morning.” You informed him.

“Well, that can’t be healthy.”

You laughed loudly, the first time you’d done so in what felt like many months, “It’s probably not.” You agreed once you sobered up.

Too busy looking back out the window, you failed to notice Pogo glance behind him and give a hidden figure a single nod of reassurance.

The only thing that brought your attention back to him was once he gave you a slight pat on your clothed knee, “I am always available if you wish to speak about anything.”

You smiled genuinely, “Thank you, Pogo.”

“Hey, n/n.”

Your head snapped up at the sound of a new voice that spoke as soon as Pogo had left.

“Diego,” You breathed out.

“Listen,” He cleared his throat awkwardly as he shuffled into view, coming to a stop right in front of you- less than a healthy distance away, “I’m sorry about earlier. I just didn’t think you were actually gonna show.”

You smiled tightly, pulling your knees up to your chest, “Yeah, that makes two of us.”

He sighed, dropping down into a crouch before you and looking up into your eyes, “I know none of us left off on a good foot- especially with you- but I want you to know that I’m sorry. For everything.”

Your chest tightened at his words. After all these years of thinking every last one of your siblings despised you for who you were- what you could do- you never thought one of your brothers would be telling you that he didn’t actually hate you at all.

“T-thank you, Diego.” You choked out, eyes filling with tears, “That means a lot.”

When my depression works the graveyard shift

Your eyebrows furrowed as you took tentative steps towards your fathers old office, the one that was supposed to be vacant now that he was dead.

The clattering of objects only got louder the closer you got, and it was making you nervous. Perhaps someone had broken in when they heard that the billionaire was dead? The last thing you wanted was to have to resort to using your powers, because you doubted any of your other siblings would come to your aid. Expect of course, maybe Diego.

“Hello?” You called out slowly when you stepped into the room. At the sound of your voice, a head popped up from behind your fathers old desk with a wide grin, and you couldn’t help but relax slightly, “Klaus.” You breathed out.

“N/n!” Your brother squealed, jumping up the rest of the way and scrambling over to you with outstretched arms.

Alarmed, you took a sudden step back, and he stopped short when he noticed.

“Oh!” He giggled, placing a hand near his mouth, “I forgot about the whole no touchie thing!”

“What are you doing in here?” Your eyes shone in curiosity, pushing down the thoughts that threatened to swarm your mind about Klaus’s first instinct being to hug you.

“You know,” He waved a dismissive hand, “Just getting ahead on my inheritance.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched upward slightly at the words, “Really?” You asked in slight amusement.

The man’s jaw dropped open and he stared at you with wide eyes, “Was-was that a smile I just saw? Gosh, my memories from when we were kids consisted of you being completely stone-face.” He let out a shrill giggle again, “Though, I suppose I’m now the one that’s stoned!”

Whatever form of a smile had adorned your face immediately fell and you crossed your arms tightly over your stomach.

All of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room

This was terrible.

The silence was painful to sit through. You must have looked like you had an itch with the way you were shifting back and forth on the couch you stiffly sat on beside Vanya.

Nobody was making eye contact with one another, it was just all of you- once siblings, now complete strangers- sitting in a tense circle in your childhood living room.

Finally, Luther cleared his throat and pushed himself off of the couch that was directly across from you, “So, I guess we should get started.” Everyone’s eyes snapped over to the man that had grown more than a little bit over time, “So, I figured we could have a sort of memorial service in the courtyard at sundown. Say a few words, just at Dad's favorite spot.” He spoke awkwardly.

“Dad had a favorite spot?” Allison’s eyebrows had shot up alongside yours in surprise.

Luther’s own eyebrows furrowed, “You know, under the oak tree. We used to sit out there all the time.” He looked around for anyone to agree with him, only to be met with bewildered looks, “None of you ever did that?”

You shook your head softly, looking down at your hands that fiddled with one another from where they rested in your lap.

Klaus strolled over and began talking loudly, and you sat back and watched silently as everyone went back and forth a little bit.

“Listen up,” Luther tried to reign the family in once more when they got off track, “Still some important things that we need to discuss, all right?”

“Like what?” Diego asked with a roll of his eyes from where he was leaning against a pillar near the fireplace.

“Like the way he died.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped open a little as you looked at him, everyone else adorning similar looks.

“I don't understand. I thought they said it was a heart attack.” Vanya piped up in confusion.

“Yeah, according to the coroner.”

“Well, wouldn't they know?”

“Theoretically.” It was clear that Luther was beginning to realize that he had made a mistake by bringing this all up.

“Theoretically?” It was the first time you had spoken up, and you felt a couple of the others glance at you as you did so.

Yet again, your siblings began to bicker back and forth, and you sank lower into the couch cushions, not at all liking the way their voices raised more and more by the minute.

“Oh, isn't it obvious, Klaus? He thinks one of us killed Dad.” Diego’s voice snapped you harshly back to the present and a dangerous silence overcame the entire room again.

You looked up at Luther in disturbance, only to find him already staring down at you. And all at once, you felt your mouth go dry and your throat begin to close up slightly, “You don’t actually think-“

All around you, your siblings caught onto what Luther was really indicating and they adopted looks of shock. Diego let out a low whistle, “That’s messed up, man.”

“Look,” Number one stressed, “I’m just saying, according to the corner, there was nothing wrong with him. With your powers- you could painfully kill a person without showing a mark.”

You hadn’t even realized when you had stood up, but flinched back violently, as if struck, “You think I would kill him?” You whispered with tears forming in your eyes against your will.

Allison pursed her lips and averted her gaze when you desperately looked around for help, making you realize that she was uncertain as well.

“Wow,” You breathed out tearfully, shaking your head back and forth softly before shuffling out of the room.

“Y/n, wait-“

“Good job, Luther.” Diego scoffed and hit his shoulder against his brothers as he trailed after you, “Way to lead.”

I should not be left to my own devices

Somehow, not too long after leaving the living room, you ended up in the courtyard surrounded by your sibling, gazing up with wide eyes at something floating in the sky.

“What is it?”

“Don’t get too close!” Allison called, moving to place her arm in front of you and Vanya, who had your mouths dropped open and took unconscious steps forward.

“Yeah, no shit!” Diego yelled back over the wind, eyes glared against the harsh wind whipping straight at all of you.

Per usual, everyone kept shouting back and forth at one another about what to do, and in doing so, Allison dropped her arm and you were able to slowly creep forward.

Just then, someone fell out of the thing in the sky, landing in a heap right in front of your feet, but everyone was too busy glaring at each other to notice.

“Guys…” You called back cautiously, “Does anyone else see little Number Five, or is that just me?”

They come with prices and vices

You sat on the stairs with your head in your hands, still trying to wrap your mind around everything.

At the beginning of the day, you had come back home expecting to say your goodbyes and possibly even make peace with your father. But now, your long lost brother is back, and not only that, but he claims to have been way older than any of you, whilst being stuck in the body of his thirteen year old self.

“Hey, n/n,” Said brother greeted, strolling over to where you sat with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a sandwich.

You linked your fingers behind your head and tried to smile at him, but you had no doubt that it came out as a grimace, “Five.” You greeted.

Before his disappearance, Five had been the only one who truly was never afraid of you. Even if Diego claimed not to be now, you knew he was still slightly wary, and with good reason too.

“I take it things didn’t go well after I left?” He asked, plopping down onto the stairs beside you.

A small chuckle left your lips at his bluntness. Same old Five.

“No,” You agreed, “They never stopped being scared of me. And I never stopped being scared of myself.” You admitted.

He had always been the only one you could tell everything to about yourself without the fear of judgment.

The two of you fell into a silence that consisted of him munching on his sandwich thoughtfully, “You know,” Five spoke up once he had polished it off, “I think the others have always been more intimidated by you than anything.”

Your eyebrows went up, “How so?” You never really saw yourself as an intimidating individual.

“Because you’re so much more powerful than we all are… and the old man knew that.” He stood up and gave you a tight lipped smile, patting you once on your clothed shoulder and disappearing up the stairs, leaving you to dwell in your thoughts.

I end up in crisis (tale as old as time)

Allison placed a finger over her mouth to signal for you and Vanya to stay silent from where your backs were pressed up against a wall opposite of her.

A large figure in a mask came creeping through the door that you stood on either side of with a large gun resting in his grip, making your heart tighten.

Right on cue, your sister lunged out, kneeing him in the stomach and punching him in the face the second he doubled over in pain.

Quickly, you ushered Vanya out of the room and made sure she was a safe distance away before spinning on your heel to face Allison and the man, the two now throwing punches at one another with the gun discarded to the side.

Without hesitation, you dove at the man and jumped onto his back, throwing him off balance and sending him to the ground.

When he fell, Allison reeled her foot back and sent it straight into his head, effectively knocking him out cold.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, panting and trying to catch your breaths.

“You know, Y/n,” She spoke up, surprising you, “I don’t actually think you killed dad. I would never think that of you. I was just in shock that Luther would say such a thing that I didn’t know how to react. A-and I’m sorry for not saying anything when he accused you and I know I should have-“

“Allison.” You cut her off gently, “It’s okay.”

She visibly relaxed as if a weight had been taken off of her shoulders, “And listen, I know you think we all hate you,” She took a step forward and slowly placed a hand on your shoulder, eyes searching yours for any sign that you were uncomfortable with the close proximity. “But we don’t, I promise you we don’t. You were just always isolated from us by dad- and I’m not saying it isn’t partially our fault- because it is, but we’re not kids anymore so there’s no excuse for how we acted. I’m sorry.”

First Diego with the apologies, Klaus acting like everything was normal, and then Allison. You couldn’t believe that your siblings were actually trying to make up with you.

Similarly to how when your brother first talked to you like this, tears began to form in your eyes and you smiled up at her, “T-thank you, Allison. That- that means a lot.”

She shook her head gently, “I’m just sorry that it took so long for me to be able to say it.”

I wake up screaming from dreaming

You gasped, shooting upright with heavy pants as you tried to regain your breathing and keep it under control.

You have been through this routine enough times to know what to do so well that it’s almost like second nature to you at this point.

“Y-Y/n?”

Your head snapped up at the sound of Vanya's voice. She stood in the slightly opened doorway of your childhood room, where you had just been sleeping.

“Vanya,” You breathed out, leaning your back against your headboard, “What’s up?” You swallowed thickly and tried to seem as normal as possible.

The woman hesitated, “I… I left something here so I came back for it but I heard a scream…”

You let a breath loose and allowed your head to fall back, “Sorry,” You apologized in a whisper.

She shook her head back and forth vigorously, “No, no, it’s not your fault. I get it… I get nightmares too…”

You lulled your head to the side and looked at her, “Yeah?”

She nodded, hesitantly shuffling into the room before slowly sitting down on the end of your bed when you moved your feet for her.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She asked gently.

It was then your turn to shake your head, “No, no, it’s nothing I can’t handle- nothing I’m not used to.” You reassured.

“Well… I’m here if you ever need anything.”

You smiled softly, “Thank you, Vanya.”

One day I'll watch as you're leaving

“Five?” You looked up from your plate filled to the brim with breakfast foods your mother had cooked for you as you watched your brother swiftly walk by, “What’s going on?”

“I need to run an errand.” He answered curtly, “I’ll be back soon.”

Anxiety began to set in the pit of your stomach, “O-oh, do you want me to come with you?”

He quickly shook his head back and forth, “There’s no need, it could be dangerous.”

That made the fear double inside of you, “Are you sure you have to go?” You saw him freeze in his steps when he heard the worry seeping through your tone.

He sighed softly and turned around to face you, “It’ll be fine, I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

You gnawed on your bottom lip, “It’s just… you didn’t come back once. What’s to say it won’t happen again?”

“Me.” He reassured you, “I say that it won’t happen again. I won’t let it. I promise.”

With that, he gave you one last of his rare smiles and continued out of the kitchen.

'Cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)

“Oh, sorry,” You mumbled, eyes immediately turning downwards the second you entered the living room, “I didn’t realize anyone was in here-“

“Y/n.” Luther immediately shot up from where he had been sitting on the couch, “No, I’m glad you’re here.” Your quick steps to exit the room paused, “We should talk.” He cleared his throat.

You eyed him hesitantly, “About what?”

“I’m sorry for saying that you killed dad!” He blurted out, cheeks turning red as he spoke, “It’s- it’s just that I was so upset and I didn’t know what really happened so I was creating scenarios that I didn’t even want to come true and-“ He stopped himself and took a deep breath to calm down, “And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I’m still very sorry for saying that you would ever be capable of something like that.”

You stayed silent for a moment before slowly nodding your head, “It’s okay,” You said softly, “I forgive you.”

“Really?” He sighed in relief, “Good, because I was scared for a moment there because I was acting like such an ass and-“

“Luther.” You tried to push away the small smile that threatened to grace your face, “I already said it’s fine, just leave it.”

It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me

“We’re like outcast buddies!”

You looked over at Klaus with a raised eyebrow at his words.

The two of you sat on the stools near the bar in your living room, sipping on some concoction of alcohol that was no doubt older than both of you combined and would have given your father a heart attack at seeing if he was still alive.

“I’m pretty sure all of our siblings are outcasts.” You reminded him.

He sat there, pondering your words for a moment before signing and swirling his straw in his drink, “No, no, I suppose you’re right.” He frowned a little bit and slumped his shoulders slightly.

“Do you… want to be outcast buddies?” You asked hesitantly, eyeing your brother.

Immediately, he perked up with a large grin, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” He shrieked, “We can start a club! We can print t-shirts! We can invite new members-“

You chuckled, sitting back and watching in amusement as your brother got excited over seemingly nothing.

At tea time, everybody agrees

“Thanks for the food, mom, it looks delicious.” You said sincerely.

The woman smiled softly and reached over to cup your cheek, and you immediately leaned further into the touch. Because she wasn’t actually human, she could touch you without consequence. And though you knew it wasn’t the same as if another person touched you, you still took what you could get because it was all that you would get, even if it wasn’t real.

“Of course, sweetie.” She answered with that wide, kind smile of hers gently removing her hand after a moment and leaning down to place a ghost kiss on your forehead, making your eyelids flutter shut.

I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror

“It’s really weird to look at, isn’t it?” Five asked, walking up and standing beside you, gazing up at the wall.

It was a portrait of you and all your siblings, before Fives disappearance and Ben’s death, hanging in some random of the many hallways of the home.

“It is.” You agreed with a sigh, eyes taking it all in.

The way Five was the only one standing even remotely close to you in the painting didn’t escape your attention. Nor did the way everyone but him seemed to have their bodies angled away from you just slightly.

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away and you cleared your throat, “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we never had these powers?” You asked suddenly.

It had been a thought that had been eating away at you since you were at least seven, never having been voiced out loud by you.

“I try not to dwell on it,” Your brother admitted, “‘Cause there’s nothing we can do to change it.”

Despite his words, you allowed yourself, just for a moment, to picture what it would be like. To be able to hug people and shake hands without them having to worry for their life. To not be the scariest, most deadly person in any room you stood in.

It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero

All around you, walls were crumbling down and falling every which way. Each small piece of flying debris threatening to hit you.

Not so gracefully, you stumbled through the shaking building, blindly grasping onto the walls for support as you watched in horror as the house came apart all around you for reasons unknown to you.

“Y/n!” You whipped around at the sound of Luther, Allison, and Diego each calling your name and you began sprinting in their direction at the opposite end of the hall.

They each took a large step back when you neared though, causing you to pause, despite the fact that you needed to push on so that you didn’t get hit.

“What is it? What’s happening to-“ You began asking anxiously

“What did you do?” Luther’s words and tone of horror made the rest of your sentence die in your throat.

“How could you do something like this?” Allison whispered, and despite all the chaos, you somehow were still able to hear her. Her eyes shone with betrayal.

“What?” Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

“Dad always said that you only reached the tip of the iceberg with your powers.” Diego was glaring at you coldly in a way that made even your heart freeze, “But I never thought you could be capable of something like this.”

“What-“

“Your powers are to destroy.” Luther hissed venomously, “You can kill everything around you, so why can’t you demolish everything in your path as well with just the touch of your bare fingers?”

Your lungs felt like they were collapsing in on themselves, much like the walls around you, “I would never- I can’t even-“

“I can't believe we trusted you.” Allison shook her head and slowly began backing away once more, “We’ll never make that mistake again.”

The other two trailed after her once they threw more harsh glares your way, not even caring as you sank down to your knees in shock, oblivious to the house that was still caving in on itself all around you.

You had nothing to do with this, you had no idea what was happening. How could they think that you did? After everything, all the progress you all made?

Your suspicions that you had first stepped into this house what felt like years ago- when it had only, in reality, been days- were true.

Your siblings truly did hate you.

The Hargreeves 🦹- @lovanitu @your-local-questioning-agender @jvdethirlwall @ineedmorefanfics2 @sambucky8 @spidyyparker @mukbee @i-writes-things @kiyomi-uchiha777

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cyberpunkgyu · 9 months

Text

Power of Love - C.YJ

pairing: flirty yeonjun x cold at first (anti-love?) fem reader!

genre: school drama, angst, fluff (5k words!)

warnings: cursing, strict (a bit toxic and controlling) mom, panic attack (?), not proofread (let me know if there are more)

inspired by true beauty (soojin), all of us are dead, and penthouse.

this is the longest fic i've written :0 let me know what you think!

☆…━━━━━·:*☆…━━━━━·:*☆…━━━━━·:*☆

yeonjun thinks you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

he is aware of your cold demeanor. although that didn’t stop him from wanting to get to know you. he told himself that he would make you his, no matter how hard that is. he is up for the challenge.

you are the school president, having to organize and deal with events, being a member of the opera, and having clubs that you are part of in addition. you have a lot in your hands, so stuff like having crushes or a boyfriend isn’t in your dictionary. there are things you need to prioritize in your life, such as graduating high school, getting into your dream university, and traveling the world. you have a lot of dreams that you want to accomplish, and you weren’t going to let anyone distract you from that, or so you thought.

currently, you were taking some books you needed for your next class in your locker, humming softly to yourself, having your headphones blasting your favorite playlist. closing it, what you weren’t expecting is the famous player, choi yeonjun, behind the locker door, making you flinch, the books in your arms falling down.

huh, how cliche.

you let out an annoyed sigh, kneeling down to grab the books that fell down, as well as the papers that slipped out from it. yeonjun quickly did the same, grabbing them hurriedly. good job yeonjun, way to go.

he stood up before you but held onto your stuff. “give me those.” you tried taking them from his arms but he stepped back, an innocent smile on his face. “well hello to you too, pres.” you let out a soft sigh, forcing a smile on your face. you do not have time for his shenanigans.

yeonjun was wearing a gray jacket on top of his uniform, his favorite headphones around his neck, his hair blue (which he dyed recently), and his usual double small hoop earrings.

“can i please have those?” you asked, keeping your composure, stepping forward closer to the boy and about to grab your stuff once again but he refuses.

“nope! i’ll carry them for you. we have the same class next don’t we?” he turned around and started to walk, much quicker than you as his legs were very long. he stopped when he saw you still standing by your locker, tilting his head cutely.

“you wouldn’t want to be late do you?” smirking, he continued walking, making you groan. what is he up to? a new target perhaps? with no choice, you start to walk after yeonjun, your mary janes clicking on the tiled floor of the hallways.

students gossiped with each other as they saw you and yeonjun walking together (finally being able to catch up with him). “woah, yeonjun and yn. two people i’d never thought i’d see together,” “she’s probably yeonjun’s new target,” and “are they a thing?”

placing your books on your desk, your friend, karina watching your small interaction with yeonjun. “here you go, gorgeous.” he winked before walking towards the back of the room, sitting on his seat.

you shook your head and sat down on your seat which was located at the front next to karina. “what was that?” karina whispered, leaning forward by the edge of her desk to look at you, a playful smile displayed on her lips.

“nothing important.” you said nonchalantly, organizing the books in front of you, placing them on the edge before you wrote stuff on your planner, ignoring karina’s stare.

“do you think love is an important part of life?” the prompt on the board pops up, any students now express their opinions.

you raised your hand first (something everyone expects), “yn.” ms. sakura, your philosophy teacher, nods at you.

“i think love is imporant, yes, however, it is not the most important thing in life. love can destroy things in your life, it can prevent you from doing things you really want in life. love can make things worse. your happiness can be found in much better ways, not just with love.” your tone was bland, expressing what you truly feel about that word. love isn’t real anyways.

“i disagree with that,” you heard a familiar voice, making you turn your body a bit, watching yeonjun stand up, his hands behind his back. “i think love is the most important thing in life. no matter how hard life can be, love can keep you moving. you can do a lot of things by yourself, yes. however, it is much more fulfilling to accomplish something with your loved one by your side, supporting you. love is a very powerful thing that can keep you going.”

“wow. good job yeonjun. great words, you should definitely participate more,” you huffed softly, sitting back down, clenching your first on your lap under your desk. “good job too, yn.” ms. sakura smiled softly at you before picking other students.

love? the most important thing in life? what a joke. love is a fucking joke and doesn’t exist.

you were so caught up in your head that you didn’t notice yeonjun staring at you from behind.

your heart beats loudly in your ears, watching as your mother frustratedly looks at you from the piano.

“dear, focus! we’ve been here for a whole hour, and you can’t get that one note right?” you closed your eyes for a second. “you have a competition in a week, you need to get this right.”

“again.” you let out a sign and began singing the chorus after hearing her start the piano, which felt like the 100th time already, holding your head up high.

your mother is a perfectionist and competitive. she wants and needs everything in her life to be perfect, including you, her only child. she wants you to always be on top of everyone, to be the best, to be perfect.

she is the only family member you have left, after your dad left for another woman. she tried giving you everything she thought was best. she would schedule everything for you, such as tutoring, enrolling you in additional classes outside of school, and other things that you thought weren't even important. she controlled pretty much everything, but she forgot to give you her affection, and spend time with you without raising her voice.

what seems like forever, you finally finish your practice, quickly walking into your room. you exhaled, pressing your back on your bedroom door after you got inside, wiping the tear that just dropped down your cheek. you sat down on your bed, grabbing the teddy bear that was by your pillows, pressing it on your chest, hugging it tightly. a hug would be nice. but, hugging your small teddy bear was the closest thing that can give you comfort.

you spent the rest of your night by yourself, preparing for another day.

yeonjun had been consistent, determined to win your heart. so for the next few weeks, he has done everything just to talk to you or get your attention.

he would find ways during classes to flirt with you, making your roll your eyes. during chemistry class, he would always help you carry things around, and would take over the lab when it became “dangerous” as yeonjun would say.

he always insisted to carry your books to your classes together, and you can’t even say no because he’d walk quickly away, and you have no choice but to follow him.

there was also a time you walked to your first class and you got startled when yeonjun started to sing to you while playing the guitar, your classmates going along with him, clapping their hands with the beat.

he would always compliment or praise you, either how pretty you look or saying “good job” when you get an A on a paper or exam.

although you kept scolding him or rolling your eyes at him, he never gave up, and that actually persuade him even more.

as soon as you stepped in the school building, you were blocked by yeonjun with that stupid smirk on his face. it’s as if it was on default.

“morning gorgeous!” you passed by him but he quickly catches up to you. “i bought a ticket for your opera performance by the way, are you excited for it?”

you kept walking, letting everyone go from one ear to another, walking to your first class. unfortunately he was in most of your classes, now having to deal with him bothering you.

sitting on your seat, you quickly organized your desk. as you were about to write on your planner, a very familiar beverage is placed on the corner of your desk, looking up to see yeonjun smiling down at you.

confused, you glanced down at the strawberry milk, which is your favorite drink that you always get from the cafeteria. “what is this for?” you looked back up at him, your brows pushed together.

“for you.” he said, as if it was obvious. your classmates glanced at you two.

“well you don’t need to buy that for me. i can do that myself.” you said with a monotone voice, looking back down to write on your planner, updating the things you need to do and have finished.

“well, i’m not taking it back. so you either drink it or throw it away. your choice, pres.”

he walked to his seat, looking from behind you.

what is this guy even up to? you looked back at him for a moment, him already staring back at you before giving you a wink, making you scoff.

staring at the strawberry milk that you held, you contemplate whether what to do with it. i mean, it would be a waste to throw it, and plus, it’s already mine. you thought.

how did he even know what your favorite drink was?

something not many knew about the yeonjun is he had always been attentive, noticing a lot of things from his surroundings. so when he noticed how you’d always buy a strawberry milk from the cafeteria’s vending machine, he kept that in mind. it’s not creepy okay! just the dude admiring you from afar. totally not creepy.

“yeonjun really seems to like you.” karina looked down at the strawberry milk then back at you, laughing softly to herself as you struggled deciding.

shaking you head, “pretty sure he flirts with everyone. he is titled the school player.”

you two were seating on the bench by the rooftop, under the big tree that protected you from the heat. it was breezy at the rooftop which you liked. the cafeteria for some reason made you feel suffocated, not liking how everyone is near one another.

twisting the cap of the bottled beverage, you then took a gulp. you let out a content sigh, admiring the view. though you stayed at the rooftop for lunch everyday, you never got sick of it. you felt relax and free.

“do you not think he’s cute?”

you’d lie if you said no. yeonjun is probably one of the most attractive people you’ve seen. his fierce eyes, cute nose, and his pretty pouty lips. but you can’t seem to admit that. “he’s average.” you lied, taking another sip from your drink.

“pres?” you closed the beverage, the guy that gave it to you now in front of you, then nodding at karina to acknowledge her presence.

“speaking of.” karina mumbled, suddenly grabbing her bag, standing up. “i remember i have something to do for another class, so i’ll leave you two. bye!”

“wait, rina!” you called out, watching her leave the rooftop, sighing to yourself

a smirk on his face. stupid smirk. “i see you decided to drink that strawberry milk i gave you.” a smirk on his face. stupid smirk.

“why are you everywhere?” your tone annoyed, glaring at him. why can’t this guy just leave you alone even for just one second?

“okay, i’m just here to give you a deal.”

you tilted your head, watching the guy suddenly become… nervous?

“go on a date with me.” there was a second of silence and you just staring back at him. of course he expected your response.

“no.” you stood up, grabbing your belongings.

“what. hold on, i’m not done yet.” he pouts, trying to give you puppy eyes. he did look adorable- gosh yn what are you saying?!

he followed you like a puppy as you walked towards the elevator, a pout forming on his lips when you ignored him, deciding to take the elevator of the building instead.

“do you really think i’m mid?” huh, so he was eavesdropping.

you stepped in the elevator, not even being able to close it on the boy as he kept close, following you inside. he’s like a baby duck following momma duck, and he looked exactly like one.

“pres.” he kept calling you out, making your roll your eyes. you looked up at the boy, smiling down on you.

“do you have nothing to do with your life that you keep bothering people?” you scolded, crossing your arms as you waited for the elevator to go down to the first floor, which seemed like forever.

“no, i just want to get to know you.” he said, his eyes remaining on you. yeonjun is someone who aren’t afraid to say what he truly feels, although you weren’t convinced.

“yeah, right. don’t you say that to every girl you see?” you snicker, shaking your head.

“no. i’m serious- oh shit!” he held onto the side railing of the elevator as it shook, the light starting to flicker. his arm quickly wrapped around your waist as you almost fell down, your hands fisting on his uniform, keeping yourself balanced.

you were breathing loudly, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. this is literally your nightmare. out of all the times this damn elevator has to malfunction.

“oh my god.” you breathed out, closing your eyes for a moment, a habit you do when you feel stress, such as when your mother screaming at you for not doing good enough.

yeonjun has been pressing the emergency button, still holding you. his eyes went on you, seeing your panicked expression. “pres? yn?” he gently shook you. you looked so pale it made him worry, sweat starting to form on your forehead.

“hey, look at me.” his free hand placed on your cheek as his arm remained on your waist, finally seeing you open your eyes.

your eyes stared back at yeonjun’s, his thumb stroking your cheek. surprisingly, that slowly started to calm you down. “you’re alright, i got you.” a reassuring smile on his face. how is he good at this?

so you do have things you’re afraid of. he thought to himself. this is the first time he has seen your vulnerable state, and all he wanted to do was hold you and protect you.

the elevator stopped moving, but you kept your hold on him. “i’ll call just call beomgyu to tell someone that we got stuck here.” he was about to let go of you but you grabbed his hand, wanting him to keep holding you somehow.

“keep holding me... please.” he nodded with no hesitation, holding your hand in his as his other hand grabbed his phone from his pocket, pressing under his recent contact.

“beom, can you tell a teacher or someone that i got stuck in the elevator, i’m with yn.” his eyes remained on you as you were in your own thoughts, not noticing how tight your grip was on him. “yeah. hurry up.” he hung up and placed his phone back in his pocket.

he gently tugged on your hand, making you look up at him. “let’s sit down, it might take a bit for them to fix it.”

you complied, both of you sitting down on the carpeted floor, his hold on your hand remained. you have also grabbed your phone with your free hand, messaging karina.

yeonjun was softly smiling at you, glancing down at your intertwined hands. he ignored the butterflies in his stomach, gulping.

“you okay?” he asked you sincerely, giving your hand a squeeze.

“yeah. sorry you had to see me like that.” you were looking down and it was very new for yeonjun to see. shaking his head, he placed your hand that he held on his cheek.

“you don’t have to apologize for that.” you felt your heart soften. maybe you judged him a bit too much. he was the only one who has comforted you like that, an actual person and not just the teddy bear that you sleep with.

the elevator soon started to operate, indicating it had been fixed, and both of you stood up. the numbers decreased, moving down to the first floor. once it opened, it revealed beomgyu, karina, the elevator repairers, and students who were just curious from behind them (or probably to gossip).

letting go of yeonjun’s hand, you smiled at karina who hugged you, asking how you were while yeonjun went to beomgyu who patted his back.

you and yeonjun looked at each other at the same time, giving him a soft smile. “thank you, yeonjun.” you sincerely told him, karina and beomgyu glancing at the two of you. both of them can see how different you acted. karina, someone who has never seen you look so relaxed and calm, knew it was the moment you finally start to open up.

you and karina left the building first, then beomgyu turned to yeonjun who was watching you walk out. the way yeonjun looked at you was very different. it was genuine, not in a flirty way. yeonjun didn’t even realize he was smiling to himself.

the next few days has been chaotic. it was the last week for you to practice, and you need to do everything right.

you were able to get through the weekday, and that’s because of yeonjun.

the guy has been placing stuff on your desk with a sticky note on it.

monday: “are you ready for your performance on saturday? wishing you all the luck!”

here’s your favorite drink :)

tuesday: “i was walking to school and saw a cute maltese dog, it reminded me of you.”

wednesday: “halfway there! also, i know this is not strawberry milk. i searched ‘best drink for singing’ on google and it said herbal teas are good. so i got some from nearby cafe. hope it’s alright!”

don’t worry, strawberry milk will be back next week :)

thursday: “kinda heard you practice yesterday, and you definitely have nothing to worry about! i honestly thought i was in heaven, because you sounded so angelic.”

friday: “you must be nervous, huh? but i know you got this. i’ll be there tomorrow to cheer you on!”

i’m sick, that’s why i can’t attend school today. i got the stupid flu. but i told beomgyu to bring these to you. don’t worry about me, i’m doing everything to speed my recovery!”

you haven’t interacted with yeonjun as much because of how busy you were, even during lunch you stayed in for practice, just having a quick meal to fill you up, wanting to have more time for practice. though he understands.

you were able to have quick conversations a bit before class starts and during passing period. it was an odd thing for everyone to see you two interact, but you didn’t care.

monday, he asked if you were feeling better, which you replied with a yes, and he was relieved to hear that. that was what your conversation was about, not knowing what else to say to each other.

tuesday, yeonjun got you not just a strawberry milk, but also a flower that seemed like he picked from someone’s garden, making you laugh softly to yourself. when you would look at him during class, he would always send you a wink.

wednesday, yeonjun not only got you a herbal tea (which you actually really enjoyed), but it also came with a sandwhich. it warmed your heart. no one has ever done that for you.

thursday, he still got you that herbal tea with a blueberry muffin. you now couldn’t wait to go to school, always looking forward for what he has for you.

it is now friday, the day before your performance. you were extra nervous for some reason.

you went on with your day, except yeonjun wasn’t there, missing his absence. you didn’t even realize how much of an impact yeonjun had on you.

he still had something for you even though he wasn’t there, but you now realized that it wasn’t the herbal tea or a new food item that came with it that you were looking forward to, it was him. it was him that makes you excited to go to school.

the last class soon ended and you quickly gathered your belongings before walking up to beomgyu’s desk. “uh, hey. beomgyu?” he looks up at you and raises his eyebrows before giving a smile.

“hey, yeonjun’s girl.” he teased, the nickname making your stomach flip.

“um, do you think i can get yeonjun’s number?”

you were sitting on your bed, staring at your phone, having a hard time deciding how to message yeonjun. you would type then press delete. why is this so hard?

sighing to yourself, you then thought of something else. what if you just call him? maybe that’s a good idea.

before thinking, you pressed call, you breathed out nervously.

“hello?”

yeonjun’s voice was very raspy and low, soon hearing sniffles from the other end.

“uh. hey.” you started off, taking your teddy bear to your lap and started to play with its ear.

a gasp left his mouth, hearing shuffling. “pres!” the name made you smile immediately, humming to him. “beomgyu told me he gave you my number, so i’ve been waiting for a text. but hey, this is even better because i get to hear you.”

“i just wanted to ask how you are now? how did you even get the flu?” you laid down, putting your phone on speaker before hugging your teddy bear tightly.

“i’m feeling a bit better now. i’ve been drinking a lot of water and some medicine. i think i got this from my friend soobin, when we shared a drink. i didn’t know he was sick.”

“you have to be careful yeonjun.” you lightly scolded, making him laugh for some reason.

there’s the yn he knows. “i know, i know.”

“well, what about you?” he asked, before he coughed, feeling his throat tingling.

“are you okay? maybe i can just call once you’re better-”

shaking his head, then realized you couldn’t see him. “no. please, i want to hear you. i want to hear about your practice and stuff. how you’re feeling.”

you grinned widely, “i’m okay. kind of nervous actually, but i should be fine.” yeonjun felt happy that you were open about what you were feeling.

“are you-” you started, but cut yourself off. what you wanted to ask was if he’d still go to your performance tomorrow, but you didn’t want to be selfish. he’s sick, so of course you knew he’d most likely stay at home to rest during the weekend.

“what it is?” his voice into a whisper.

“nothing. you should go rest now and sleep. i should probably do that too.”

“yes, of course. good luck tomorrow. you’re good, so you have nothing to worry about. you’re going to kill your performance, i know it.”

“thanks. well, night yeonjun.”

“night, gorgeous.”

surprisingly, you slept well that night with a soft smile on your face.

you woke up in such a good mood that you didn’t notice you were smiling walking in the dining room till your mother pointed it out.

"morning, mom." you greeted her, kissing her on the cheek, something you do every day.

"you seem in a good mood today, darling." she said as she had her cup of coffee, tilting her head at you.

your smile slowly faded, sitting down on your seat which was right next to hers, breathing out softly.

"just excited for later." you watched as the maid started to prepare your meal, placing a glass of water before a bowl of your favorite food, a hot steaming congee was placed in front of you. you looked down at it with a bewildered expression.

you haven't even had congee in a long time, and it was something your mom always made you to comfort you, either when you got sick or feeling down. however, she did stop that after your dad left.

"i made some for you earlier. i know it's been a while since i cooked congee, i know it's your favorite. i hope it still tastes the same."

you felt her hand find yours under the table, making your heart soften. "i know i have been hard on you these past weeks, well, in these past years that is. but, i want to let you know i was just trying to do what's best for you. although i think the way i'm treating you these past years has been... not the best and i want to change that."

it seemed like she was struggling with her words, looking up at her. "well, i do have to go now, but I'll see you tonight at the venue." she gave your hand a squeeze before she got up to leave.

you blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall. it felt a bit weird, but it also felt nice. you scooped some congee on your spoon, eating it happily, a smile back on your face.

it seems like yeonjun became your good luck charm.

the venue filled up pretty quickly, recognizing a lot of students, parents, as well as opera enthusiasts. all performers busy behind stage, some having their makeup touched up, some practicing, and some just waiting for their performance.

you were currently peaking through the curtain by the stage, your eyes scanning the crowd. you were looking for a specific someone, but you knew that won't happen. you can't help but feel a bit upset, but you knew he had a reason for not being there.

you did see karina with her parents and little younger brother, as well as your mother, which you felt grateful for.

“ready everyone!”

you all went to your places, letting out an exhale, the show soon began.

the show felt so quick, everyone doing their parts flawlessly. it felt so surreal being on stage, the spotlight being on you, singing your heart out. you had always been good at singing, although the way you sung was different. it was full of emotions and it was because now, you have a muse.

a wide smile displayed on your face as you finished the show off, soon hearing cheering and whistling, people standing up from their seats. all performers then held hands, bowing to the audience before the curtain closed.

“oh my gosh! you did so good, i’m so proud of you.” karina engulfed you with a hug before giving you a bouquet of flower, smiling excitedly at you.

“thank you rina, i appreciate you coming here.” you said genuinely, smiling at her before glancing behind you.

looking around, you mother smiled softly at you, slowly opening her arms. without hesitation, you quickly walked up to her, hugging her tightly, something you’ve been wanting to do.

“i’m so proud of you, darling. i knew you’d do amazing. phenomenal.”

she stroked your hair, holding you so gently. “thank you, mom.”

“i ordered a lot of food at home. you can definitely invite karina and any of your friends. you deserve to celebrate.” your mom glanced at karina, smiling at her before back at you.

karina walked up to get closer to you, before taking your hand. “is it okay if i steal her for a moment? i have a surprise to show her. i can’t really wait to show it to her.”

“of course, dear. i’ll just wait in the car. here, i’ll take care of karina’s bouquet for you.” you handing her the bouquet before looking at karina, raising your brows before excusing yourself, following the girl.

she led you to a garden, which you were not aware of, looking around in awe. it was full of flowers, different types and different colors. you looked back at her, “you know you don’t have to give me anything.” you smiled softly.

she shook her head before letting go of your hand. “just wait here, okay?” she turned around and left before you could even say anything, leaving you alone in the garden.

there was a water fountain in the middle, and a few benches surrounding it. you took a coin from your purse, standing in front of the fountain, deciding to entertain yourself while you wait for your friend. closing your eyes, you quietly wished to yourself before you opened your eyes, throwing the coin it, hearing a splash. you also then hear quiet footsteps, assuming it was karina, making you turn around.

“i knew you’d kill it.”

yeonjun stood in front of you, just a couple steps away. he has a black mask on, wearing a blue and white thin striped button up long sleeve with a tie, a black pants that paired with it. he looked so handsome even when he had a mask on. you quickly noticed the bouquet of flowers her had, along with a familiar drink, of course your favorite, strawberry milk.

it seemed like everything overwhelmed you, tears starts to form in your eyes.

yeonjun had made such a big impact in your life, he doesn’t even know it. what he didn’t know is you started to form feelings when he gave you that strawberry milk. every day after that, he would be always be in your mind. you even dreamed about him one time, which is something you will never tell him, knowing he’ll tease you about it.

you always thought love isn’t real, but that definitely has changed. this man changed that.

you can’t help but run up to him, wrapping your arms around him, feeling him stumble a bit. “you missed me that much?” he laughed softly, his voice was still a bit raspy, wrapping his arms around you, holding the bouquet in one hand.

your face buried in his chest, not wanting to let go. “i thought you wouldn’t be able to make it. aren’t you still sick though?” you pulled your head a bit to look up at him, seeing him staring back at you. you knew he was smiling even with the mask on because of his eyes.

“just a little bit. i only have a cold now, and just a little bit of cough,” he patted your head softly, “and i needed to come. i had to see you perform. i knew how hard you’d been practicing.”

you were listening to him intently, your eyes full of love, sparkling through the night. you knew you wanted him to be part of your life, to have him meet your mother, for him to be there next to you.

“be my boyfriend.” you whispered, watching as his eyes widened, being caught off guard. he let go of you and just looked at you shockingly.

“wait, what? really?” he smiled, his nose scrunching behind his mask. “oh my gosh.” he placed down the bouquet on the bench nearby him before running up to you, picking you up from the ground, feeling yourself being swirled around.

you giggled, your arms around his neck, closing your eyes. you felt you were on top of the world.

“holy shit. am i dreaming?” he put you down back on your feet, his palms caressing your cheeks.

“so it that a yes or a no?” you jokingly said, laughing softly.

“of course! yes!” he said, the smile never leaving his face. “damn. i wish i could kiss you right now. this flu came at the wrong time.”

without a warning, you pulled his mask down, now seeing his face. his face was a bit flushed, his cute duck lips pink and soft. pulling him by his tie, you smashed your lips on his, a soft gasp leaving his mouth.

he can’t help but kiss you back, his arms around you tightening, pulling you as close as possible.

“wait, you’re going to get sick.” he mumbled through your lips, slightly pulling away, his lips hovering over yours.

“then we can be sick together. i wouldn’t mind.” your hand went up to his face, your thumb stroking his bottom lip, feeling how plump it was.

yeonjun wasted no time and quickly brought his lips back to yours, “you have no idea how crazy you’re making me, pres.”

oh yeonjun, you don’t even know.

#yeonjun x reader #choi yeonjun #yeonjun scenarios #yeonjun angst #yeonjun fluff #txt scenarios #txt imagines

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cardansriddle · 1 year

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You're so dark - (tom riddle x fem!reader) (modern au)

Summary: A mysterious stranger in a bookshop takes a sudden interest in you when he notices your peculiar taste in literature.

Warnings: not proofread bc i'm a bitch like that.

A/N: inspired by arctic monkeys' song "you're so dark" because I'm obsessed with it and I had to incorporate it into my writing somehow.

༻♛༺

The bell chimed distinctly in the dimly lit library, announcing the arrival of a yet new customer. You kept your head hung low, eyes fleeting over the words inked on the pages of the book with brows furrowed in concentration.

It was only when you heard the thump of shoes against the wooden floor did you raise your gaze from the page, only to be met with the sight of a man who looked like he walked straight out of a dark fantasy book. You assumed he would be the anti-hero, with his chiselled features, and dark hair. His face was unfairly handsome, and the self-assured yet stoic expression on his face only proved your theory further. Definitely a villain.

“How may I help you?” You asked after a brief moment of silence, marking the spot where you had left off and carefully setting your book aside to help out the customer.

His dark eyes flickered down to the book, fleeted over the cover before it locked with your own leather jacket clad form.

He was about to say what he had come after; you could tell he knew what he wanted, but then in a split second, he seemed to change his mind, and he cocked his head to the side, stare still on you.

“What would you recommend?” He asked, and the deep rumble of his voice sent a shiver straight down your spine. He gestured to the book you had just put down. “How about that one?”

You rose an inquisitive brow. “Not many people are fond of Lovecraft’s works. Too dark for their particular tastes.”

The stranger did not seem bothered by your answer, if anything, he was spurred on to continue. “What if I want to read dark literature?”

He watched as your eyes roved over him, lingering for a second too long on the perfect frown of his lips, before you tore your gaze away. “Perhaps you may want to try Edgar Allan Poe.” You suggested. “Dark and poetic.”

“And that is what you like? Dark and poetic?” The stranger asked again, and you felt his stare burn through your whole being as the implication of his question ran deeper than simple literature. He was watching you, in that intense manner of his, and it was enough to ignite fire in your entire being.

You bit your lower lip, before slowly looking up at him. “I think everything dark is naturally poetic.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and you could sense that he was strangely pleased with your reply. A raven cawed from somewhere outside, and a chill ran down your spine at the sudden tension that seemed to hang around the two of you.

“Then Allan Poe it is.” He decided with a subtle smirk tugging at his lips.

You nodded and began making your way between the shelves to find the book you presumed the stranger would enjoy from the author’s works. You felt him following your trail but did not notice how his eyes had become glued to the tattoo on full display thanks to your shirt that exposed some of your back. The black ink engraved on your skin in the form of a murder of crows sent a sense of thrill through his veins, and with every new thing he discovered about you, he was becoming more and more hooked.

Rising on your toes, you reached towards the upper shelf to grab the book you presumed the stranger would enjoy, and as the pads of your fingers barely grazed the spine of the object, you suddenly felt warm as a body pressed against your back to retrieve the book with ease.

Your lungs stuttered, struggling to find air to breathe while his chest brushed your back, and then you felt his hand grabbing a firm hold of your waist.

Tom usually withheld himself from such urges, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that he wanted you bad. It was as if all rational thoughts had been drowned by the need to have you. He wanted you down on all fours as he made you scream his name into the night, and he wanted his teeth to be marking your throat with bruises that would stay on you like a tattoo.

You turned around in his hold to face him and the sight of his form half shrouded in shadows and the other half illuminated by the winter sun seeping through the windows was enough to send your mind reeling. You caught his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. As if on instinct, your own dropped to his mouth, and it did not go unnoticed by the stranger.

You did not know who moved first, you did not care, because one second you were staring at one another, and the next his lips were moulded against yours. His hand on your waist circled to your back to hold you tighter against his body, while the other grasped your hair. It was messy, desperate, and urgent— the way he kissed you as if he was a man starved. But you were just as eager, with your back pressed against the bookshelf and your hands running over any part of him you could find as you allowed yourself to get ensnared in his trap.

When you finally pulled away to catch much needed air, you were both panting. His dark eyes roved over you once more before he stepped closer, entirely blocking the sunlight from your view.

"I'm Tom Riddle." He said with his gravelly voice.

And when you gave him your name, it felt as if you willingly handed your soul to the devil instead.

༻♛༺

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#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle one shot #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fic #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle x you #tom riddle au #tom riddle modern au #tom riddle fluff

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madschiavelique · 9 months

Text

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Chapter 1 : First Day

pairing : teacher!miguel o’hara x student!reader summary : you visit your new university with the help of Hobie, and when coming back to your new apartment you meet your charming neighbour Miguel. turns out, he is not only your neighbour, but your teacher. (not proofread) content warnings : none word count : Route A : 4,2k | Route B : 4k masterlist of the fic : here.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Your lungs fill with the cool air of mid-September. The leaves are beginning to turn brown, a few falling onto the perfectly cut green lawn of the campus park. You can't wait to walk on them and hear them crunch under your shoes.

But for now, the sky remains blue on this late afternoon, dotted with a few cottony clouds, the gentle caress of the sun's warmth licking the skin of your cheeks. You breathe softly, calming your excited little heart for the new terrain that now stretches out before you.

At the end of this weekend, you'll begin your new year at the Academy of Science and Polytechnics, otherwise known to its students as ASP. Your previous university didn't live up to your expectations, nor did the one before that, but as they say, third time's the charm! At least, you hope so...

You're expecting to have a little more experience on various subjects than your future comrades, and you're quite happy to be starting out with a head start. Not that it's a competition, but the comfort you have with certain subjects is reassuring.

You're a little worried that the age gap might divide you from them, but you try to reassure yourself that, just in case, other people your age who want to change course will be along for the ride?

You give a quick nod, in the hope that it will give you enough courage and uprightness not to stumble and spread yourself like a pancake in a profoundly ridiculous fashion anywhere on campus, and start your walk to its entrance.

You're supposed to meet up with a certain Hobart Brown, who's supposed to be your guide for today - perhaps he's a student representative?

Whatever the case, you hope the visit won't be too long. Because not only is today your visiting day and the first time you've set foot in your new college, it's also the day when a good deal of your belongings are moved into your new apartment, which is located just a few blocks from the campus.

You'll receive several boxes containing, among other things, your books and the few manuals you've bought in previous years, clothes, your hygiene kit and a mattress to inflate. The apartment would be empty, with nothing but a refrigerator already installed as furniture.

You'd be on the third floor, the last one, as the building isn't very big or wide, with only two apartments per floor. You just hope your next-door neighbour won't be unpleasant. The reason you're hoping the visit won't be too long is that you'd like to take advantage of the delivery men’ presence to help you get everything up to your floor. Since the building is small, it lacks an elevator.

When you arrive at the large, imposing door of your university building, your gaze inevitably falls on a young man with an atypical style leaning against the wall right next to the entrance. Piercings, free hair, punk clothes and an aura of I-don't-give-a-shit to match, you wonder what degree he must be in.

With a toothpick wedged between his lips, he looks up at you, a shiver running down your spine as he tilts his head to the side.

"It's you? [Name] ?" he asks, calling your name, taking the toothpick from between his lips with his fingers.

It's at this precise moment that the realization hits you that the Hobart Brown you're supposed to find was this young man.

"Hobart?" you ask, raising both eyebrows.

"It's my name, but I prefer Hobie. Well," he nodded, rolling his eyes, "Hobie's a derivative of the one I was given at birth. Let's not get into the habit of names please, it's bad."

The scent of the anarchist anti-system was a perfume he nonetheless seemed to wear gracefully.

You pout understandingly, your lips forming into an inverted smile as you answer simply.

"Gotcha."

He smiles, nodding.

"Well, you're here for a tour," he says as he starts walking towards the interior of the building and you follow him, "but that's a particularly broad and useless term in this context. A tour only lasts once, and you discover things. But since you're going to be coming back here frequently, and you're still likely to discover new places, you could say I'm introducing you to the building."

"Are you in Arts?" you suggest as he walks down a corridor which you look at on either side where classes with their numbers are inscribed. "No, let me guess, you're in Philosophy."

"And you're perceptive." he smiles. "I like you, you seem to catch on quickly."

The university is, after all, home to the vast majority of the sciences, including the humanities. So Hobie is in philosophy, which is not surprising. It's interesting that he was the chosen student for your tour - sorry, introduction to the academy.

"Here's a typical corridor, nothing special, you'll come across lots of them," he sighs as he swings his hand in the air as if chasing a flying insect around him. "On the other hand, on this floor there are a few empty classrooms that we use from time to time, and obviously without the knowledge of the professoriate."

"Makes perfect sense," you say with a shrug.

"It's very useful for the meetings we hold about blockades," he informs, turning to you while walking backwards. "FYI," his ring-fingered hand rests on his chest, "I'm kind of the leader of our blockade committee, although being a leader or having one at your head isn't something I endorse. You could say I'm... the spokesman, the one who makes the speeches at our rebellion events, because let's face it, when you get tear gas thrown in your face, it can be confusing."

He seems to look you up and down, weighing up the pros and cons for a few seconds.

"Would you like to join us?" he finally said, with a jerk of his chin in your direction.

You crossed your arms, looking up at him.

"I'll think about it," you reply simply.

He smirks before turning again and walking straight ahead.

"Now, let me show you what will really matter here for you. You're in 'real' science, aren't you? You like playing chemist? Toying with vials?"

Hobie's little prejudices make you smile and laugh slightly.

"If you're nice, the one who toys with vials will show you how to make a better assortment of components to respond to tear gas."

He turned to you, laughing heartily and pointing at you as he walked to the staircase at the end of the corridor.

"I like you," he repeated as he led you upstairs.

"This is the second floor, in case you can't count. I don't know all your stuff and your complicated scientific words for this or that or such-and-such subject," he says, his head tilting this way or that, "but one thing's for sure: this is where you'll have most of your classes."

In the hallway in question, coming from a room that had just been locked by her, a lovely dark-skinned lady with gorgeous afro hair was walking towards you.

"And you may well find yourself in class with Mrs. Drew," he said, almost raising his voice and smiling as you walked towards her.

She walked slowly, unhurried, chin high as she smiled at the young man's call.

"Hobie, convincing one more person to tag the campus lawn with a capital A?" she said in a voice that was half sigh and half sneer as she came up to your level.

"You know me at this point, you know I never do the same thing twice," he says with a shrug before plunging his hands into his back pockets. "But for once I'm bringing in a bright element that will go into your side." he turns to you.

"A new student?" asks Professor Drew as her eyes settle on you.

"Nice to meet you, I'm [Name]," you smile simply.

"Welcome, miss." she says, inhaling heavily. "I hope you'll get used to the rhythm here, it can sometimes prove to be merciless."

"Jess, don't be so hard on a new arrival, you'll scare her away," warned a new voice.

A slightly disheveled man with light brown hair came towards you.

"This," Hobie began, "is Professor Parker. You're going to have to put up with him too."

"Eh, I'm not someone you 'put up with'," commented the aforementioned Parker, imitating a finger-crunching reaction to the use of words, "it's not my fault your religion is Spinoza and mine is Mendeleev."

"It's crazy how you're both so distinctly the same mental age," Jess sighed. "Anyway, welcome to our midst miss." and she headed off down the hall.

"Oh, so you're new!" realized Peter, "welcome to ASP."

"Stands for Appearant Soporiphic Problem," Hobie sneers.

"Does Freud have an acronym too?" puffs Peter.

"Of course," he says before raising his hand as if viewing an imaginary title in the air, "MI."

"Mission impossible?" asks Peter, frowning.

"Mommy Issues." corrects Hobie.

"Very funny," laughed Peter falsely, "I hope that as a reconversion option you've chosen the circus?"

"I'm already there. "

"I am fully convinced you never graduated kindergarten." This little chat lasted a few more minutes before Peter in turn left to go home and the visit continued. Ten minutes later, the visit was over.

You told Hobie that you were new to the city, and that everything was a bit of a discovery. You learnt that the building was very old, just like a few others in the town, and that many changes of direction had led to it being rebuilt over the years, while preserving its charming, slightly old-fashioned setting. "Well, I've shown you the parts that are important to you here," says Hobie as he descends the few small steps leading to the building's main entrance. "You mentioned that you were new to the city, so do you need a mini 'tour' of it too? Just the surrounding area, to familiarise yourself a little", he suggests.

Here's your first choice! Select the option you want.

Choice A: Decline and go straight to your flat. Choice B: Accept and take a short tour of the surrounding area.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

tag list : @deceitfuldevil @allysunny @zkelecr0w @chichimisaki @luvrdonny @oooof-ifellforyou @aisyakirmann @carelesswister @jojos-wife @akiras-key @love4saturn @simpychaotic

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portaltothevoid · 7 months

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Between Breaths (An XXX Perspective) - Terzo x Reader

Summary: You're the Head Witch at the Ministry. Arguably at times you hold more power than the current Papa, Papa Emeritus III. You've always hated him and you assumed the feeling was mutual. But what happens when he calls you out on it?

song: between breaths (an xx perspective) by blaqk audio

A/N: had an idea that was encouraged by @copias-juicebox, @fishwithtitz, and @da-rulah. you can thank them or blame them for this. idk i guess i have terzo brainrot. enjoy the absolute filth that is this one shot. (pictures for the mood board all found on pinterest)

word count: 6.5k

warnings: MDNI. enemies to lovers, angst, female reader, hate sex, semi-public sex, library sex, oral m-receiving & f-receiving, face fucking, deepthroating, dom!terzo, brat!reader, edging, fingering, squirting, p in v, face slapping, unprotected sex, cream pie, using a belt as a makeshift whip, choking, lots of bickering banter before the smut, not really proofread, self-translated italian

Being the Head Witch of the Satanic Church definitely had its perks. For example, you could go in and out of the restricted section of the library as you pleased without having to provide any explanation as to why you needed a certain book, your living quarters rivaled that of the highest clergy members, and you were the one calling the shots with anything related to magic, be it a conjuring or a protection spell, a cord cutting. Sometimes your power within the Ministry rivaled that of Papa, the Anti-Pope, much to his chagrin, of course.

Brothers and Sisters of Sin alike flocked to you, not only for your expertise, but because you were drop dead gorgeous, charismatic, feisty, and because you had power. With your office being directly across from Papa’s, you would often catch him glaring at you from his desk as the door to your office might have been a revolving one with how many people were in and out of it. And especially during major holidays, did the Children of the Ministry come knocking at your door. It sometimes seemed like they had forgotten about their darling Papa Emeritus III. They only had eyes for you. That drove him crazy and thus, your rivalry was born.

Despite seeming to have it all, it grew tiring to be constantly surrounded by so many people. Having company at night was great and all, but the connections were vapid. You had no choice but to keep any and all suitors at arm’s length; it was safer that way, both for you and for them. Your work was demanding and that would always come first. There was an aching loneliness that gnawed at you, but you refused to acknowledge it. Relationships, true connection, only got in the way. You weren’t the youngest Head Witch the church had ever seen, barely even in your thirties, because you spent time curating intimate and genuine relationships in the hopes of one day starting a family. You had ambitions, goals, and nothing would get in the way of that.

This led to quite the paradox: you were surrounded by people, loved and excelled at your job, and even craved solitude, but the loneliness that clawed at your heart could be suffocating.

Tonight was one of those paradoxical nights where you wanted nothing more than to be alone, but you wished there was someone you could be alone with – no expectations, no ulterior motives, just the mere act of coexisting with someone who had chosen you and you had chosen them. Often, you would find yourself in the library on nights like this. People would be too engrossed in their own studies to pay you any mind. Or you would just stay in the restricted section, knowing very few people had access to it.

It was quiet enough that you found yourself just outside the off-limits occult books. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, perhaps you’d know when you found it.

Too lost in your own thoughts, you didn’t notice the last person you wanted to see walking towards you until it was too late to make a swift getaway. “Buona sera, cara mia (my dear),” greeted the illustrious Papa as he leaned his back against the bookshelf, an arrogant smirk on his face.

You set your book on the shelf in front of you as your head tilted back with an exasperated sigh escaping you. “What do you want, Terzo? I’m not in the mood for your bullshit tonight.”

He put a gloved hand to his chest and gasped dramatically. “I am offended.”

“Clearly not enough to leave me alone.”

“Ah, you see, that I cannot do, because I’m looking for something, a book actually, and I just so happened to see you, and perhaps you could find it in your cold, black heart to help me.”

It was your turn to gasp dramatically as you slowly turned to face him. “You can read?!”

Terzo rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Will you help me or not?” he asked curtly.

“Sure! The children’s section is downstairs, to the left, all the way to the back. You can’t miss it.”

“I didn’t rise to Papa with the reading level of a toddler,” he retorted with an edge to his voice.

“You’re right, my mistake. It must have been the nepotism.”

He let out a frustrated puff as he pushed himself away from the bookshelf and started to walk away. Your quiet chuckle was loud enough so that he turned on his heel and walked right back up to you. “I don’t understand why you hate me so much.”

“Because you’re a pompous figurehead with a constant need for attention who’s had nearly everything handed to him and the fact your dick sees more traffic than the 405 on a Friday night during rush hour.” You spoke with an air of nonchalance like you were just spouting off a common factoid as you turned to face him, crossing your arms. The bookshelves now against your back.

His eyes turned to slits. “Who am I to turn down those that hand themselves to me willingly? And don’t act like your body count isn’t as high as mine. If anything, I’d bet it’s higher judging from how many people I see – and hear – coming and going from your office,” he spat.

“Well, at least the lives of the people I fuck actually improve afterwards when the spells come to fruition. They aren’t just fucking me for clout and just to say they did only to find out you’ve already moved on to your next conquest.” Your upper lip started to curl upwards into a sneer, but you did your best to control it. The last thing you wanted to do was give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of you.

“Oh, spare me the righteous act, dolcezza.”

“It’s not a ‘righteous act’ to make my intentions clear to my partners. Maybe you should try that out sometime. Sure would save me a lot of work.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, glaring at you as he took a step towards you.

“It means that your escapades upset enough people that they come to me to seek retribution. Against you. You have no idea how much thankless damage control I have to do for your pathetic ass.”

Clearly, that jab had the opposite effect you intended. A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes as he took another half step closer to you. “Are you implying you… protect me?” he asked slyly.

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself. I’m implying that I’m doing what I have to to keep Sister Imperator off my back.”

“But that is still protecting me from hexes and curses cast by the ones who let their feelings cloud the reality of the situation. And for the record, cara…” With another step forward he placed his hand on the shelf next to your shoulder, leaning in, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I make my intentions very clear.” You refused to acknowledge the way that made your stomach flip and your heart rate picked up speed.

You tried to take a step away from him, but were only met with shelves digging into your back. The crease in your forehead deepened as you clenched your jaw. It wasn’t until you saw his eyes dart between your eyes and your lips did your arms uncross from your chest as you pushed him to the side. “You’re an insufferable rompicoglioni (pain in the ass), you know that?” After turning your back on him, you only managed to get a few steps away before his next question stopped you in your tracks.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it…”

You tilted your head to the ceiling, your eyes shut, as you let out a deep breath. “Thought about what?” you asked through your still gritted teeth. He stayed silent. You shook your head and turned around to face him again. “Thought. About. What?” you practically growled your repeated question.

He stood there, leaning against the bookshelves, with his bottom lip seductively in between his teeth as he raised his eyebrows at you. “Do I really need to answer that question?” he chuckled.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” you said as you turned to leave his stupid, smirking face behind you. Again, you didn’t get very far when you felt a gloved hand grab your wrist, his grip just tight enough to halt you and turn you to face him.

“Have you ever thought why that is, streghetta mia (my little witch)?” he cooed, bringing his other hand to gently caress your cheek.

“I am not your little—” you began defiantly until he interrupted you. His words suddenly became harsher, much more serious.

“Rispondimi (answer me),” he demanded, his grip tightening on your wrist. His hand on your cheek went from a feather light touch, to forcefully grabbing the side of your neck, aiding in the way he pulled you to him so that almost no space remained between you.

“I already told you why,” you said through your teeth. Your whole body tensed being this close to him. If it was a losing battle, you desperately tried to fight the lost cause of keeping your composure. His deliciously delicate Italian cologne didn’t affect you. The heat from his body didn’t affect you. How roughly he handled you definitely didn’t affect you.

“No. I don’t think you did, because I don’t think you can admit the truth.” The intensity of his stare burned into you (but it absolutely did not affect you). He pulled you into the crook of his neck. Biting the inside of your cheek was the only way you could ground yourself, focus on the task at hand — not letting him win. He was so close to you that you could feel his lips moving against your ear as he murmured, “Everything you hate about me… is what you hate about yourself, amore.”

You lost sight of him; all you could see was red. Twisting your wrist, you broke free from his grasp. Your hands flew up to his chest as you shoved him back. He stumbled slightly, bracing himself on the bookshelves. The amused half-smile on his face told you everything you needed to know: he was loving every second of this. “Seems I’ve struck a nerve, hm?”

“You fucking asshole! I am nothing like you.” The venom clinged to your words.

“You’re not? You don’t enjoy the company of others under the guise of tending to the flock when all you crave is real connection? You don’t flaunt your ‘power’ to make up for every inadequacy you feel about yourself?” He sauntered up to you, placing his hands on your shoulders as if the slightest movement would shatter you.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you mumbled through barely parted lips.

“How long are you going to keep telling yourself that, hm?” he purred, hooking his finger under your chin, which you pushed away. You tried to back away from him, but yet again, you were stopped by the bookshelf.

“If you’re so self aware, then why do you still act like a piece of shit?”

He leaned forward, putting a hand on either side of you, caging you in. “Because, streghetta, the only connection worth pursuing thinks I’m a pompous pain in the ass fucking asshole piece of shit figurehead with the reading ability of a four year old. Did I remember everything?” he smirked.

His mismatched eyes burned into yours. His white iris seemed to be almost glowing in the dim library light. The heat that was starting to burn in your center made you stay put. Your only movement came from your head quickly turning to the side as you heaved an insolent breath. Breaking eye contact was the only thing you could think of doing right now, but even that was short lived. He emphatically grabbed your face, silently ordering you to look at him, your cheeks smushing together between his thumb and index fingers. “I asked you a question. Stop being a brat and rispondimi,” he hissed.

“Kinda hard with my jaw in your hand,” you managed to mutter.

“I understood you just fine.” He pressed harder into your face. The longer you were silent, the more pressure he added.

“F-fine! Yes! That’s what I think of you, stronzo,” you spat.

“Brava ragazza. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” he praised softly. The back of his fingers returned to graze your cheek.

You couldn’t help but press your lips into a thin line as you mulled over when he said “...the only connection worth pursuing…”

“Thinking about what I said?” His hand slid down your neck to your collarbone.

“No,” you replied immediately. Your eyes quickly flitted up to the ceiling at how easily you gave yourself away, which earned you a light, airy laugh. “Wait. Yeah. If this is the ‘only connection worth pursuing’ then what’s taken you so long? Did you have to test out all the others to make sure it was the right choice?”

“You’re too busy scowling at me to notice me noticing you.”

“No, not quite. Try again.”

“This is one of the very few times I’ve been able to catch you alone.”

“Oh, please. Your office is directly across from mine. And I have seen you on multiple occasions staring at me when your door is open,” you scoffed.

“And every time, before I can even think about getting up from my chair, you slam the door shut,” he countered, twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers.

Swatting his hand away, you said, “Still not the real answer.”

“Then what is?” He let his hand fall to your shoulder and slowly began to cascade down your arm.

“You don’t think you’re good enough for someone like me.” With a challenging tilt of your head and raise of your eyebrows, you watched as astounded annoyance clouded his eyes. “Yeah, two can play this game.” You straightened out the collar to his shirt and trailed your fingers down to adjust the top buttons with your eyes focused on your small task. They only looked back into his eyes when you mockingly added, “Caro.”

Finally, you struck a nerve. He took both your wrists and pinned them down beside you. “Before tonight’s over, I’ll show you I’m more than good enough for you.”

You tossed your head back as you laughed, craning your neck to watch his reaction. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’ve seen the way your conquests look when they leave your office. It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re a good fuck. It does, however, take a certain kind of person to notice how you never seem completely satisfied… like something’s missing…”

Pressing his body flush against yours, he leaned down and whispered, “Like I said earlier, amore, it’s the craving for real connection, which of course, you of all people would notice something like that.” You could feel the warmth of his breath dancing over a sensitive spot on your neck. “Because… you’re just… like… me…” he added breathlessly as he dragged his lips along your neck before he pulled himself away to stare into your eyes.

The desire pooling between your legs was inescapable. Your eyes darted from his to his lips before returning to the mismatched eyes that watched your every subtle movement. That was all the invitation he needed before he released your wrists to take your face in his hands as your lips crashed together. Just because you lost the battle didn’t mean you couldn’t win the war.

Your hand flew to the nape of his neck where you threaded your fingers in his hair. He moaned into your mouth when you started pulling. Your other hand balled the fabric of his shirt at his hip into your fist.

He broke the kiss only to leave a sloppy trail of kisses down our neck where he began to suck and nip at it. You let your head fall back and your grip in his hair tighten. He maneuvered himself so he was pressing his thigh between your legs and without a second thought, as a breathless moan escaped your lips, you began to rut against him. “I still… fucking hate you…” you panted.

Before he could make his clever retort, your heads turned towards the sound of the door opening. You could hear the light sound click-clacking of heels on the floor below. Terzo couldn’t even get his suggestion out before you pushed him off you, taking his hands in yours and leading him deeper into the library. He eyed you curiously, an impish grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

When the sounds of the other patrons faded, you slammed back against a random stack and pulled him against you, assuming your previous formation. “Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asked in between open mouthed kisses on your neck.

“I wouldn’t have dragged you over here if I wasn’t.”

His gaze lingered over you as if to double check you were telling the truth. He nodded once. “Bene. Safe word?”

“Rigatoni.” He tilted his head at you, a quizzical look on his face. “What? Do you prefer ziti?”

“No, just an… interesting choice.”

“Non verbal is two taps and a pinch, but first,” you said as you held his wrist one hand and started taking off one of his gloves in the other, “the Mickey Mouse gloves are coming off.” His eyes narrowed into slits as he let you remove his gloves, placing them in his back pocket. You gave his ass a hard slap when you were done, leaning back on the stack behind you, with an exaggerated and triumphant smile on your face.

Taking your face in his now bare hand, he held it like he did just moments ago. He put his other hand beside your head, pressing his body into your and leaning forward, “I’m not going to hold back, streghetta.” He lowered his voice, making it sound husky and gravelly. He let go of you, roughly pushing your head to the side as he did so.

“Good. Don’t want you to,” you paused before you giggled, doing your best Mickey Mouse impersonation.

That earned you a smack across the face. It wouldn’t leave a mark, but you felt the sting go straight down to your core. You looked up at him with a daring smirk.

You could see the anger ice over his eyes. His features darkened. “Be careful what you wish for.”

You yanked him toward you, your fists grabbing his shirt as leverage as you purred in his ear, “Do your worst, papino.”

His hand wrapped around your bicep so tightly, you knew there would be a bruise there tomorrow. He dragged you through the aisles of books to the study area. He let go of you only for a moment to turn you away from him as he pushed you down onto the table in front of you. Biting your lip, you pressed your thighs together, needing some semblance of relief.

Mismatched eyes watching you like a hawk, of course he noticed. “Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted. You heard the faint clinking of a belt buckle and the slide of leather. Using his knee, he nudged your legs away from each other. “Brats like you don’t get anything until they’ve been properly punished.” You chewed on your lip as he folded his belt, allowing for him to have more control.

The brisk air hit the back of your legs as he lifted your maxi skirt up, exposing yourself to him. He put the belt in his mouth, freeing his hands, so he could yank your panties off you. Your ankle lifted off the ground, causing you to throw one of your hands to the edge of the table to save your balance. The belt went into his left hand, he placed it beside you as he leaned over you, pressing his still clothed erection into your bare ass. “Mmm, you say you hate me so much and yet here you are, already so fucking wet for me.” Not giving you any chance to make a smart ass comment, he shoved your underwear into your mouth.

Pushing off of you, he caressed your ass like he was mapping out where the belt would strike you. He went from the left corner down to the right, being mindful enough not to even graze your cunt, giving no reprieve whatsoever. Then he repeated the motion going from the right corner down to the left.

Thwack!

Without warning, the belt made contact with your skin. Tears instantly sprang in your eyes, having been taken by surprise. The force of the blow made you cry out, but the sound was muffled; it just sounded like a poor excuse of a whimper.

“Still think you can handle this, streghetta mia?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed as you nodded – your tone still defiant.

Thwack!

You were actually thankful for the makeshift gag in your mouth, which gave you something to bite down on as you took the pain.

“If I had known–” thwack! “ –That this is what it took–” thwack! “ –to get you to shut your goddamn smart ass mouth up–” thwack! “ –I would have done this so much sooner.” Thwack!

He leaned over you again, this time pressing a kiss to your shoulder before asking if you were okay. Blinking tears away, you nodded. You were more than okay. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this alive.

“Hmm, I’m not sure I’m completely convinced…” he mused as he stood up. Just as you went to loosen the white knuckle grip you had on the table’s edge, you felt his thumb trail down from your taint, through your folds, and onto your clit, which he circled twice. You moaned loudly. “Mmm,” you could hear him sucking your arousal off his finger, “yes, you are doing quite alright.”

You practically squealed when suddenly one of his fingers slid right inside you. He wasted no time finding the spot that could make you scream. You whined when he removed himself from you, but it was only to flip you over onto your back. Without thinking, your leg hooked around his waist, anchoring him to you. He looked down at you, smirking, before he plunged his middle and ring fingers inside of you. Your eyes rolled back with your head that rested on the table. Your back arched.

And then he began the assault of pressure; his fingers curled up, furiously tapping on your sweet spot. You swear you had never been this wet for anyone before. The noises coming from your cunt only made you clench harder around his fingers. His movements were so hard and so fast, you were almost being lifted off of the table. You were so close, so close. Despite the makeshift gag, you were screaming. Just as the coil in your core was about to snap, he was gone. Your eyes snapped open, wide with rage. Instantly you sat up. If looks could kill, he would have been dead at your feet.

“Stand up. Get on your knees.” For the first time tonight, you followed his instruction, but that was where your obedience ended.

“Figlio di puttana del cazzo (you fucking son of a bitch!)!” you snarled, looking up at him, after throwing the gag to the side.

Shaking his head, he gathered your hair into a ponytail, tugging your head back. You earned your second slap of the night. He undid and took off his pants, tossing them haphazardly to the side. You watched as his leaking cock sprung out. At the sight of it, your mouth immediately began to water. “If you can stop being a fucking brat and actually put your mouth to good use, then maybe you’ll get a reward,” he seethed. He shoved two of his fingers into the corners of your mouth. “Open.”

There was no getting used to him. In what felt like mere milliseconds, his length was down your throat. The only thing you could think of, for just a fraction of relief, was to open your jaw as wide as you possibly could, but even that wasn’t enough. He held your hair like he was holding on for dear life, deep growls rumbled from his chest. With every thrust you could feel whatever leftover animosity he had towards you pouring into you.

A near constant stream of tears cascaded down your face. You could barely see his smirk as you gagged around him. Abruptly, he stopped, pulling himself away from your mouth. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. “Get up,” he commanded as he pulled you up by your hair. He only let go when you were standing. “Back on the table. On your back.” You relished the break, taking your time to do as you were told. He stayed looking down at you, a lust-crazed look on his face. Expectantly, you looked back up at him, waiting for whatever he had planned next. Grabbing you by the shoulders, he slid you to him so your head was hanging off the table. “Apri (open),” he breathed.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you braced yourself for the second onslaught that never came. He slowly slid himself into your mouth, down your throat. You let the spit you saved from before getting on the table bubble up around him. This angle was a bit easier for you to take him. He used your ribs as leverage to thrust in and out of your mouth. A moan floated from his lips as his eyes closed, letting himself get lost in his own pleasure. You placed your hands on the back of his thighs. His lips curled over his teeth as he moaned again when you dug your nails into him. “Satanas, sei bella (you’re beautiful),” he murmured. Dragging his hands up, he wrapped them around your neck as he kept thrusting down into your mouth.

“Cazzo,” he groaned as he could feel himself in your throat. By this point, you said to hell with your gag reflex. It was easy to ignore while he incessantly fucked your face. He was slightly less aggressive with your neck bent over the edge of the table, his pace slower. As if savoring every inch of the feel of you, he pushed himself into you until your lips curled around his base. You couldn’t help, but moan. “Lucifer, fucking hell,” he growled. He repeated this a few more times before he backed away from you again, his breathing growing labored. You never took your eyes away from his as you spun around and got off the table.

Kneeling in front of him again, you looked up at him with your tear-stained face and doe eyes sparkling. You started stroking his length before you took him in your mouth, tongue swirling around his swollen tip. Then you licked down his shaft until you took his balls in your mouth, gently sucking on them. He groaned as his head fell back. After you licked back up his length, teasingly slow, and took him back in your mouth did you begin bobbing your head up and down. When you moaned again, his hands tangled in your hair again. This time it wasn’t to cause you pain, but to find purchase and ground himself. “Fuck,” he hissed. He was close. You could see it. You could feel it. So you took his hips in your hands, digging your nails into his flesh. Looking up at him, you subtly nodded to him. His fingers curled and pulled at your hair. He sloppily thrusted into your face again and soon you felt his hot seed spilling down the back of your throat as he cried out.

He slumped forward somewhat as his high waned. You stood up, making sure to catch his dichromatic gaze as you did. You wiped the corner of your mouth and swallowed every drop he had given you. He cupped your face in his hands and kissed you feverishly. As you gripped his wrists, he pulled you to him, pushing you back toward the stacks of books behind you until they met your back. You eyed him hungrily as your hands reached for his shirt, your nimble fingers sliding down as you unbuttoned it. Not even bothering to shove it all the way off him, you let your hands explore his chest. The only thing you heard was each other's heaving panting. He was on your lips again the second you made eye contact with each other, his tongue diving down your throat, doing an exploration of its own.

You moaned as you hooked your leg up on his hip, pulling him even closer to you. Resting his forehead on yours, he held your face in his hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Time for a reward, sì? La mia brava ragazza (my good girl),” he cooed softly as he sank down on his knees.

Your breath got caught in your throat as he lifted up your skirt to dive under it. “Oh fuck,” you breathed as he dragged his nails up your thighs. Throwing your leg over his shoulder, he dove right in, his tongue lapping up your wetness seeping from your slit. You moaned again as his nose nudged your clit and his tongue dipped inside you. Your right hand grabbed at his hair under your skirt while your left was sliding up and around on the shelves behind you as you tried to find the best angle to help keep yourself propped up.

Taking his tongue out of you, he dragged it up to your bundle of nerves that were desperate for attention and started to suck on it as his tongue swirled around it. “Shit, s-shit!” you cried out. “Right… th-there. F-fuck. Fuck, Terzo. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

His ministrations stopped, but only to shove two of fingers inside you. You mewled loudly; it didn’t matter if anyone was nearby or not. They could enjoy the free show at this point. Just as he had before, he was hitting your g-spot as if this was the thousandth time. You were seeing stars, but what you wanted to see… was him. “W-wait, wait, stop!” you panted. You were so close, you couldn’t finish just yet. You tapped him twice and he stopped before you could pinch him. He rushed out from your skirt, a confused look on his face that glistened from your arousal.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said as you discarded your skirt. “I want to watch. I want to watch you make me cum,” you said lustfully as you perched your leg back onto his shoulder. Your hand threaded into his hair, holding on tightly as he resumed where he had left off. This time, his pace returned to that of the first time he had you like this. You bucked into his face, adding even more friction. “Holy fuck, yes. Terzo, please, don’t stop. P-please. Fuck! There! Yes! I’m cumming! I’m–”

Removing his fingers from you, he aggressively rubbed your clit. You opened your eyes just in time to see him get showered with your juices as they streamed out of you. And that man lapped it up like it was his first drink of water after a hike in the desert. You sunk back into the stack behind you as he looked up at you through wet lashes. He looked like he got caught in the beginning of a downpour – and it was probably the hottest thing you’d ever seen. Maybe you should fuck the people you hate more often if this was the result, because… this was still hatred you felt burning inside you. It had to be…

Afraid your shaky legs would give out on you if you tried to move, you stayed frozen in place. At some point your hand attached to Terzo was helping keep you upright on the shelving behind you. He stood up in front of you, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him. When you were secure in his hold, his finger hooked under your chin, directing your hazy eyes to him. “Can you give me one more, amore?” he softly asked you. Eagerly, you nodded. He tilted his head, giving you a warning look. “Is la streghetta at a loss for words?”

“Yes,” you said, still nodding. “One more.”

“Va bene (okay), hard or easy?”

Your eyes darkened as more lust flared up in them again. “Don’t take it easy on me.” His lips curved up into a half smile that turned into a menacing smirk.

A sharp gasp fell from your lips as he spun you around so you were facing the books in front of you. One hand reached in front of you, circling the sensitive bud between your legs. Your head fell back onto his shoulder, while his other hand encapsulated your throat. “Do you still hate me?” he questioned through his teeth as his hips bucked up into you, using your ass to provide himself with the friction he needed.

“Yes,” you moaned wantonly.

You felt his breathy laugh on your ear as his grip tightened around your neck. The blood supply being cut off shot pangs of heat right down to your center just as he removed his hand from there. The whine you were about to make died in your throat as you felt him dragging his cock through your still sopping folds. With a squeeze to your throat, and a bite to your shoulder, he pushed himself inside you. You wanted to be so irritated at how perfectly he filled you up, how your walls stretched to accommodate him, but you couldn’t, at least not right now. Not when it felt so good. Most of all, there was no hiding it from him. Not when the pornographic sounds were spilling out of you. The war was lost way before it even began.

At first, his thrusts were slow. It was like he was committing how you felt around him to memory. You mewled when he hit that perfect sweet spot. And then came the attack.

With steady rhythm, he mercilessly pounded into you. Sounds of skin slapping skin, your unrelenting moans, the heaviness of both your breathing, filled the room. There was nothing else going on in the world, not in that moment. In that moment, there was just you. And there was just him. Coupled with the feeling of ecstasy. All you could do was claw at the shelves in front of you.

You felt the coil tightening again. With your head still back on his shoulder, you could feel your legs growing weak. His arm enclosed around you. His forearm pressing against your lower abdomen introduced a new sensation of pleasure that turned your vision white. Or maybe that just from the way his hand was still constricting around your throat. Probably both, but whatever the cause was, you didn’t care.

“A-aga– I– I’m–” was all you managed to say as you felt even more of your juices gush from between your legs. He bit down onto your shoulder again as he moaned wantonly with it. You could feel he was about to pull out of you, probably to release his spend on your face, but you managed to wrap your arm around his back, letting him know to stay in place.

With his erratic thrusts your arm fell. The overstimulation made it so the only words you could get out were “Inside. Cum inside.” As if on command, you could feel him emptying himself into you, filling you with his seed. After his hips stopped, you both stayed as you were. The hand on your throat slid down and across your waist as he held you there. He supported you as you put your weight back on him and your hands covered his.

Time stood still as you both caught your breath. Once your breathing returned to semi-normal, did he finally pull out of you. You sighed at the feeling of emptiness.

Hesitantly, you stepped forward. You felt shaky (in the best possible way), but you weren’t going to fall over. “Hold on, amore.” You heard him whisper as you folded your arms on the shelf in front of you and rested your head on them. You hummed in response, staying where you were. You closed your eyes, basking in the blissful peace that was settling over you.

Behind you, you could hear the rustling of his clothes and his footsteps as he walked back over to you. In your near boneless state, you didn’t even register the absolute mess that was dripping from you until you felt soft fabric between your legs. You looked down to see Terzo cleaning you up with one of his gloves.

“See? These Mickey Mouse gloves are good for something,” he teased.

You let out a genuine laugh. “Grazie,” you said tenderly.

“That’s as good as we can get for now,” he said once he finished, punctuating his sentence with a couple light pats on your ass.

Playfully, you rolled your eyes and shook your head as you turned to go put your skirt back on. He followed suit. As you were smoothing out your outfit, he was doing the last few buttons on his shirt. You surveyed the scene around you. “I kinda feel bad for the Ghoul that has to clean this up,” you giggled.

Terzo just smirked at you as he put his arm around your shoulders, guiding you both out of the library at a very leisurely pace. Wrapping your arm around his waist you said, “For the record, I still hate you.”

He rolled his eyes at you. “Has anyone ever told you that you are very stubborn, principessa (princess)?”

“Nope, never,” you said with an exaggerated smile.

His light laughter was cut short when you both noticed someone grumbling with their head down as they headed towards you. "Buonasera, fratello. Little late for a library visit, no?”

Secondo looked up at the sound of his brother’s voice. You could see his eyes scanning over the two of you, taking in the disheveled sight. The annoyed look permanently etched on his face deepened. “I could say the same to the both of you.”

“I was minding my own business before this stronzo bothered me,” you said.

“Bothered is a funny way to put it, principessa,” Terzo grinned.

“Why are you here this late, Secondo?” you quickly asked in hopes of preventing Terzo from saying an offhand comment. The way one of Secondo’s eyebrows raised in suspicion wasn’t lost on you.

“An uncrossing spell. One of the Ghouls fucked up. Again,” he glowered. “And it’s falling to me to fix, since someone was unreachable.”

You tugged at Terzo to start walking again, too tired to deal with Secondo’s disgruntledness. “Of course, they did. Well, just, um, don’t go too far past the restricted section.” You and Terzo exchanged a look before picking up your pace. “Buonasera!” you added without looking behind you.

Secondo saw both yours and Terzo’s shoulders shaking with laughter. He just shocked his head as he continued getting the book he needed. “About fucking time…” he grumbled.

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