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sunsburns · 4 months ago

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no. 1 party anthem — clark kent (superman) ! ᢉ𐭩

⟢ synopsis. what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.

⟢ contains. clark kent x reader, ots and lots of fluff! it is one of the more romantic things i have written, cute blind date, characters are dumb, set up date, lois is a mastermind, i do not know anything about journalism, pinning from both sides but too shy to do anything about it.

⟢ word count. 5.8k+

⟢ author’s note. i can’t get this man outta my head pls help me 😣 the voices!!! also feel free to imagine this as any clark (and i mean any i swear: comic book, adventures with superman, tom welling, david corenswet, henry cavill, or even reeve)

“Hey, you’re gonna hate me but I’m gonna be like 10 minutes late. You go ahead and check in and order. The table should be under my name. I’ll pay the bill. I’m so sorry!”

You weren’t exactly surprised when the message lit up your phone screen. You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose. If there was one thing you knew about Lois Lane, it was that urgency wasn’t always her strong suit—unless it involved an exclusive scoop or a headline-worthy disaster with Superman. Still, considering this was supposed to be a work-related meeting, you had half-expected her to arrive early, not leave you waiting.

You typed out a quick reply, telling her it was fine when it really wasn’t, telling her to take her time when you wished she wouldn’t. Then, slipping your phone back into your bag, you made your way toward the hostess stand.

“Table under the name Lane?” you asked, offering a polite smile.

The hostess nodded, flashing you a warm smile in return. “Right this way.”

As she led you through the restaurant, you took in your surroundings with subtle curiosity. The place was charming—exactly the kind of cozy, floral-accented spot Lois would dig up for an ‘informal work chat.’ The kind of place that felt like it had stories tucked between its soft candlelit tables and ivy-draped walls.

You tried to dress the part, too—professional but approachable. You weren’t here for a casual dinner, after all. This meeting was supposed to be a quick sit-down with a lawyer Lois had arranged, someone who could confirm a few key details for a piece you were both working on. A case involving a corporation and some shady legal maneuvering—Lois had the sources, but you were the one handling the research. You’d spent the past week buried in legal jargon, piecing together statements and contracts, and now you just needed a professional to verify what you suspected before the article could go to print.

By the time you reached your table, you were already running through the questions in your head, mentally preparing for the conversation. The restaurant wasn’t grand, but it was stunning in its own way. You admired the decor, taking in the quiet hum of conversation and the delicate clink of silverware.

At least if Lois was late, you had time to go over your notes one more time.

You ran your hands over your portfolio, smoothing the cover absentmindedly as you flipped through the pages. The neatly typed notes stared back at you, but none of the words really registered. All you could do was wait—for the lawyer, for Lois, for some sign that this wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time.

With a sigh, you reached for the glass of wine you ordered a few minutes ago, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. You had to pace yourself, or you’d drain the whole thing before anyone even showed up. You checked your phone, hoping for an update, but the screen remained frustratingly blank.

Disappointed, you rested your chin on your hand, eyes drifting across the restaurant. The warm glow of golden light reflected off polished wood and delicate floral centrepieces, the soft murmur of conversation blending with the occasional clink of silverware. Your waiter had already stopped by twice, politely offering more appetizers while you tried not to look as painfully alone as you felt. If they came by again, you weren’t sure if you’d accept out of politeness or embarrassment.

And then, just as you took another sip of wine, a familiar figure walked through the entrance.

Clark Kent.

You blinked, watching as the hostess led him inside, guiding him through the rows of neatly arranged tables. Even from where you sat, you recognized the way he carried himself—like he was constantly trying to shrink his presence, shoulders slightly hunched, movements careful and deliberate. It was ironic, really, considering how much space he naturally took up. Clark was tall, broad-shouldered, and impossible to miss, yet he carried himself like he didn’t want to be noticed.

You knew him, but not really.

Not as much as you want to.

You were office acquaintances at best—two reporters who shared the same workplace, desks across from each other, but rarely the same conversations. There had been moments, though. Fleeting ones. Catching his lingering glances during late nights at the Daily Planet, both of you working in near silence, save for the tapping of keyboards. A handful of polite exchanges over the coffee machine, his voice always gentle, soft-spoken. And then, of course, there were the times someone would call out "Hey, Smallville!" across the office, earning a sheepish smile from Clark as he adjusted his glasses and ducked his head.

He looked nice tonight. Not too different from his usual work attire, but more relaxed. A crisp button-up, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a strong line of his forearms, dress pants fitted just right. He had forgone the tie, leaving the top button undone. Simple, but put-together. Effortless in a way that shouldn’t have been so charming, but somehow was.

And then you realized the hostess was leading him closer.

You quickly dropped your gaze, staring into your half-empty wine glass like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. The last thing you wanted was to be caught staring, especially while sitting alone, nursing a drink, and very clearly sulking.

Maybe, just maybe, if you looked busy enough, you could avoid drawing any attention at all.

And for a moment, it worked.

You picked up your phone again, checking the time for what had to be the hundredth time that night. With a little too much urgency, you started to type out a message to Lois—something casual, something that wouldn’t sound desperate, something that would make it seem like you weren’t upset about currently sitting alone in a nice restaurant, swirling the last remnants of your wine waiting for her to get there. You were so focused on forming the perfect text that you almost missed it—

Your name.

Spoken softly, but clear. Familiar.

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. The voice had a weight to it, warm and steady, like someone genuinely surprised but pleased to see you. You swallowed and glanced up, feigning a search for the source before your gaze finally landed on Clark.

He wasn’t seated directly beside you but rather at the table across, angled just enough that you had to turn your head slightly to meet his eye. His lips curled into a sheepish smile, glasses slipping just a little down the bridge of his nose before he quickly pushed them back up again.

“Hi.”

That was all. Just hi. Simple, unassuming, but it made something settle in your chest, something you hadn’t even realized was tense.

You couldn’t bite back the smile forming on your own lips. “Hi, Clark.”

“Hey.”

A kind man with few words.

Though you’d heard him talk endlessly before, especially with Lois—deep in discussion, debating headlines, getting lost in conversations about ethics and reporting. But with you, it was always something short and sweet. A few words here and there. And yet, even the simplest conversations had a way of lingering. Would it be silly to admit that your brief, slightly awkward chats with Clark kind of made your day? Even when it was just him asking to borrow an extra pen?

God, you felt like a teenager again, having a crush on a classmate.

You watched as he rubbed at his cheek, the scruff there catching the soft glow of the restaurant lighting. His pointer finger rested idly at the seam of his lips, and you forced yourself to focus—not to stare at his mouth, not to let your gaze linger anywhere it shouldn’t.

He was your coworker, for fuck’s sake.

A really pretty one.

A really kind, really good-looking coworker.

You exhaled lightly, pressing your fingertips against the stem of your glass as if that might ground you. “It’s nice to see you.” The words came out before you could stop them, but they were true. It was nice.

It was almost like he perked up at that, his posture straightening just a little. “Yeah, great to see you too. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I... I could say the same.” Your cheeks were starting to hurt from how much you were smiling. You tried to temper it, but it was hard when Clark Kent was looking at you like that—all honey-eyed.

“Are you here for work?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio by your hands, stacked neatly beside your drink.

You glanced down at it as if you had momentarily forgotten it was there. “Um, yeah. I’m meeting with a source, so... they should be here any minute.”

Clark’s brows lifted slightly. “It’s your story on LexCorp, right?”

Your fingers, which had been absently tracing the condensation on your glass, paused. “Yeah, it is actually.” You blinked at him, a little surprised. “How’d you know?”

His smile was almost bashful, his hand brushing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was being modest. “Oh, I just remember you mentioning it a few days ago. It’s a great story.”

Something in your chest tightened—not in a bad way, just in a way that made you feel warm all over. You hadn’t expected him to remember, let alone bring it up. The conversation you’d had at work had been so brief, just an offhand remark about how you were stepping outside your usual comfort zone. No one else had really asked you about it since.

“You think?” You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I thought it was kind of a stretch. I mean, like—a stretch from what I usually write, you know? I don’t really deal with politics and corporate stuff and all that.”

Clark shook his head, that gentle, reassuring look in his eyes making it impossible not to believe him. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’re an amazing writer.”

You were smiling even wider now. Compliments weren’t uncommon at the Daily Planet—people gave each other nods of approval, a “good job” here and there. But Clark said it like he meant it, like he had read your work, thought about it, believed in it.

It reminded you of the time he had quietly left a sticky note on your desk after an article of yours had been rushed to print. Really great work on this one! -CK. You’d found it hours later, after everyone had gone home. It had been such a small thing, but you’d kept the note tucked inside your notebook anyway.

You felt your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Clark. I think you’re a great writer too.”

He ducked his head slightly, smiling. “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just something familiar to the pauses between you two at the office. Expect this time you didn’t have any work to distract yourself with. You hesitated before finally breaking it.

“If you don’t mind me asking… what’re you doing here?”

“I, uh… I have a date, actually.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But for some reason, you felt your stomach drop slightly, and you almost wanted to smack yourself in the head for not catching on sooner. Of course, he was here on a date, looking like that—all charming and shy.

He even smelled good, like fresh linen and something warm, something undeniably Clark.

“I know how it looks,” he started, and you noticed the way his shoulders began to hunch in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Feels strange. I don’t think I’ve been dating since college.”

You let out a breath of amusement, nodding slowly. “Wow. Uh—good for you, though. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah, I mean…” He hesitated, then glanced up at you, a little sheepish. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s a blind date, so I have no idea what this person looks like or who they are.”

You blinked. “You don’t know anything?”

“They’re a friend of Lois.” He exhaled lightly, shaking his head. “But that’s as much as I got.”

“Oh.” Your lips parted, then closed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Clark.” You shot him a small, hopefully reassuring smile. “I’ll be here for moral support.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve got your thing to worry about.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend out too.”

The words left your mouth before you had a chance to really think about them. Friend. You wondered if you could even call yourselves that. You were more acquaintances if anything—a friend of a friend. But Clark always did little favours for you, and he was always kind to you.

Like the time he had grabbed you a coffee when you’d been stuck in a seemingly endless editorial meeting, dropping it off at your desk without a word. Just a small smile, a quiet “figured you could use one.”

Or the time he’d helped you carry an entire box of research binders up three flights of stairs because the elevator was down. He had done it without hesitation, without you even asking, took it from your hands like it was weightless.

Then there was the time he had lent you his jacket when an assignment had left you stranded in the rain. It had been late, the Daily Planet nearly empty, and you had been standing by the windows, arms wrapped around yourself, shivering slightly as you tried to figure out how to make it home without getting completely drenched. Clark had passed by, paused, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. “Just give it back tomorrow,” he’d said.

But it wasn’t just him.

You had done things for him too.

The time you had stayed late to help him rework an article after an editor had torn through it with a red pen, sitting beside him as the newsroom emptied, tossing ideas back and forth until it finally felt right. He had looked at you then, something warm in his eyes, and said, “I owe you one.”

Or the time he had misplaced his glasses—how he had checked every possible spot, growing more and more flustered, only for you to walk over and pluck them from where they had been resting atop his head. You had laughed, shaking your head as you handed them back. He had gone pink in the ears, mumbling something about being forgetful, but the way he had smiled after made you think he didn’t mind the teasing.

Then there was the time you had covered for him when he had mysteriously disappeared right before a meeting. Lois had been looking for him, impatient and muttering about how he always seemed to vanish at the worst times. You had lied—just a small one. Said he had mentioned stepping out for a quick errand, and that he’d be back soon. You weren’t sure why you had done it.

Helping him out never hurt. So it shouldn’t hurt one more time.

Well, maybe it would. Just a little bit.

It might hurt your pride, mostly.

“Besides,” you continued, “I’ve been here for almost twenty minutes and no one’s showed up.”

“That’s... odd.”

“I know,” you muttered, glancing at your phone again, the screen glowing with no new notifications. You hesitated, thumb hovering over your messages before sighing and picking it up. “Can you excuse me for a second?”

“Of course,” Clark said, ever patient, though his brows knit together slightly in concern.

You slid out of your seat, weaving through the dimly lit restaurant. The warm hum of conversation filled the air, glasses clinking, silverware scraping against plates. A jazz melody played softly from the speakers, almost drowned out by the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. You stepped toward the front, near the entrance, where it was quieter, and pressed the phone to your ear.

Lois hadn’t answered your last two—three?—messages. You tried calling her once. The line rang and rang, then went to voicemail. You exhaled sharply and called again, tapping your fingers against the wooden counter near the hostess stand.

On the last ring, she finally picked up.

"Hello-?"

“Where are you?” You didn’t bother hiding the frustration in your voice, pacing a little near the door.

"I'm... on my way, I swear."

“You said that almost half an hour ago, Lois.”

"I know, I know—I’m sorry. I was just about to call—"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through your teeth. “And the lawyer, do you know when they’ll get here?”

A pause.

"I… I don’t know."

Your stomach dropped. “You don’t know?”

"No… now that I think about it… I don’t think I confirmed a time."

“Lois,” you breathed, dragging a hand down your face.

"I’m sorry. Maybe we should rain check. I’ll leave them a message or something and we can do this another day."

You glanced back toward your table, then toward Clark, who was politely minding his own business, idly staring at his menu. Your eyes flickered to your untouched portfolio, the very reason you had come out tonight in the first place.

“I need the papers approved by Wednesday.”

"And it’s Saturday night. You have plenty of time."

“This is rich coming from you,” you deadpanned, rubbing your temple.

"I know, just… maybe it’s a sign you gotta take things slow. You know, focusing on yourself instead of work. Maybe you should go to a club or something."

You scoffed, barely biting back an incredulous laugh. “Lois… this fucking sucks.”

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, okay? I’ll take you out tomorrow for brunch, swear on that. I promise. And I’ll transfer you for whatever you order tonight. Keep the receipt and give it to me."

You sighed, glancing down at your shoes. “I’m just gonna go home.”

"What? And waste a perfectly good night? You should stay out, meet new people, socialize with things that aren’t your laptop. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

You exhaled, staring blankly at the floor tiles. “I think a movie from my bed sounds really nice.”

"I’m not even gonna fight you on this."

“Bye, Lois.”

"Bye. Love you."

You ended the call with a quiet sigh, lingering in place for a moment, letting the frustration settle. You had spent the entire day mentally preparing for this meeting, running through questions, making sure every document was in order. Now, all of it felt like wasted energy.

With another steadying breath, you pushed off the pillar you had been leaning against, shoulders still tight with frustration, and made your way back to your table. The restaurant hadn’t gotten any quieter in your absence—if anything, the crowd had only grown as the night grew longer.

Clark glanced up as you returned, and the way his expression softened told you everything—he didn’t even need to ask how the call had gone. He just knew.

Still, before he could say anything, you beat him to it. “Your date’s not here yet?” You sank back into your seat, brushing a stray napkin aside as if the small action would help ground you.

Clark shook his head, and he didn’t seem too disappointed. “No, not yet.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, observant way of his. “Is everything alright?”

You blinked at him, still half in your own thoughts. “Hmm?”

“The phone call,” he clarified, “you seem… a little… annoyed.”

That was putting it lightly.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should push further, then asked, voice gentle, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The simplicity of it—the way he just offered, no pressure, no expectations—unravelled some of the tension in your chest.

“I don’t wanna bother you about my stuff,” you said honestly.

“It’s no bother.”

You glanced up at him, at the unwavering patience in his expression. “You’re really sweet, Clark. You know that, right?”

A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears. “I wouldn’t say that…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s in your nature?” you teased.

He let out a small, awkward laugh, shaking his head. “I definitely wouldn’t say that either.”

That made you smile—something small, something real.

“Well, it’s true,” you insisted. “Must’ve been the way you were raised.”

“Must’ve been.”

Before you could say anything else, a waiter arrived, carefully setting a starter plate and a drink down in front of Clark. He thanked her politely, offering a small nod before she walked away.

“I, uh…” He gestured to the plate. “I ordered some nachos if you want some.”

You raised a brow. “Shouldn’t those be for your date?”

He gave you an easy, lopsided smile. “They won’t have to know.”

A small chuckle slipped out before you could stop it. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The nachos were surprisingly good, crisp and warm under the layer of melted cheese, but you barely tasted them. Instead, your focus kept drifting—to Clark, to your phone, to the door.

At first, you thought about calling it a night. You could have told Clark you were heading home, and he probably would have understood, probably would have even offered to walk you to your car or wait with you for an Uber. But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the way he seemed at ease, talking to you like there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Maybe it was how easy it was to talk to him tonight, without work looming over you, without deadlines keeping your conversations clipped and efficient. Or maybe—maybe it was the nagging feeling in your gut that kept telling you he was waiting on someone who wasn’t going to show.

You hated that thought.

You didn’t say anything, though, not when another ten minutes passed, not when he checked his phone for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time. You just sat with him, keeping him company, even if you dreaded the moment someone else walked through those doors.

Clark kept insisting his date would be there soon. But every time he said it, the confidence in his voice waned.

By the time another twenty minutes passed, you were sitting with your phone open in your lap, ready to call an Uber. You should go home. It had been a long day, and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be out any more. But you hesitated when Clark spoke again.

“They should be here any minute now,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You glanced up at him, watching the way his brows pinched slightly as he checked his phone again.

He had said that before. More than once.

You were starting to feel bad for him.

You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to get stood up for a date (work was something else you could get over by tonight but a date?)—to wait around, watching the minutes tick by, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the person you were waiting for was running late instead of ignoring you altogether. And worse, you were starting to get peeved. How could anyone ghost Clark Kent?

But you didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t seem upset.

Or maybe he was just pretending not to be.

Either way, you didn’t want to remind him of the rejection. If he was pushing through it, then so were you.

It wasn’t until another thirty minutes flew by—until the sky outside had fully darkened, the city lights reflecting off the windows—that you finally exhaled and set your phone down.

“My source isn’t coming.”

Clark blinked at you, pulling his gaze away from the door. “Oh?”

“Yeah, there was a mix-up with the times or something.” You waved it off like it was no big deal, even though frustration still sat heavy in your chest. You weren’t nearly as mad as you had been earlier, but you had still wasted your night on something that should have been simple.

Clark studied you for a moment, then gave a small, almost amused huff. “Looks like we’re both out of luck then.”

You watched as his gaze flickered back toward the entrance, and then, after a beat, he sighed.

“I don’t think my date’s coming either.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” you said, and you meant it.

“Don’t be,” he told you, and before you could say anything else, he was already flagging down the waiter, asking for the bill. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he turned back to you and said, “Wanna get out of here?”

You blinked. “And go where?”

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Anywhere. I don’t mind.”

And somehow, that was how you ended up walking down the streets of Metropolis, shoulder to shoulder with Clark Kent.

The night air was crisp, cool enough that you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. The sidewalks were busy with people, cars rolling lazily through the streets, their headlights casting soft glows against the pavement.

You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how a frustrating, dead-end night had turned into this. But you didn’t hate it.

In fact, you were enjoying every minute of it.

The streets of Metropolis buzzed with an early-night energy. Neon signs flickered, storefronts cast golden light onto the pavement, and the hum of conversation from passing pedestrians filled the air. You walked close to Clark, close enough that your arms brushed with every step.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was something trusted about it—something new.

You risked a glance at him. He was looking straight ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. But when the light of a passing car swept over his face, you caught the way his jaw tensed slightly, like he was thinking about something.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable for a split second before softening into something reassuring. “Yeah. Why?”

You lifted a shoulder, tucking your hands into your coat pockets as you shrugged. “Just… getting stood up sucks. I figured you’d be at least a little upset.”

Clark exhaled a small huff of amusement. “I mean, yeah, I guess I could be. But I’d rather not waste my night sulking about it.”

You nodded, accepting his answer. But then, after a few seconds, you heard him add, quieter, “Besides… I’m having a nice time.”

Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

You kept your gaze forward, pretending like those words didn’t sink into you in a way that left you warm despite the cool night air.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time, it felt different. More aware. More weighted.

And then Clark suddenly spoke.

“Can I show you something?”

You blinked at him, surprised by the shift. “Uh… sure?”

He smiled, but there was something almost shy about it, something hesitant like he was second-guessing himself. “It’s not far.”

Curious, you followed his lead, stepping off the main sidewalk as he turned down a quieter street, where the glow of streetlights gave way to something softer, something greener.

Within moments, you realized where you were headed.

The city park.

You’d been here plenty of times before—Metropolis had its fair share of green spaces, a welcome contrast to the steel and glass of the skyline—but Clark led you past the more well-known paths, past the benches where couples sat talking in hushed tones, past the fountain that usually served as a meeting place.

Eventually, he guided you toward a narrow, gated pathway, tucked between a stretch of trees. He reached for the gate, pausing before glancing back at you.

“It’s, uh… it’s kind of a secret spot.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Secret?”

His lips quirked. “Sort of. I mean, it’s public, but not many people know about it.”

“Riiight... totally not a cheesy thing to say.”

“Just, come look.”

You watched as he pushed the gate open, stepping aside to let you through first.

You hesitated for only a second before slipping past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you stepped inside.

And then you saw it.

A sheltered little garden.

It wasn’t grand, but it was beautiful. A small, enclosed space, with an arched trellis overhead wrapped in evergrowing vines. Flowers bloomed in neatly arranged clusters, their colours muted under the soft glow of the moon and city. A narrow stone pathway curved through the space, leading to a bench beneath another canopy of vines.

The whole thing felt… unreal. Quiet. Removed from the city entirely.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is…” You exhaled, searching for the right word. “Wow.”

Clark smiled, stepping further in behind you. “I found it by accident a while ago. It’s kind of nice, right?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Kinda nice is an understatement, Smallville.”

The two of you lingered in the quiet, the city’s distant sounds muffled by the greenery around you. And when you looked at Clark again, you caught it—

That brief hesitation. That barely-there glance.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he cleared his throat, looking away, suddenly busying himself with adjusting his glasses.

It was awkward. Endearing.

And for some reason, it made your heart beat just a little faster.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to break the silence. “So, what, you bring all your failed dates here?” you teased lightly.

Clark huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. Just you.”

His voice was light, teasing back—but something about it stuck with you.

Just you.

You had no idea what to say to that.

So instead, you just smiled. And hoped the darkness hid the warmth rising in your face.

Clark shifted beside you, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets, gaze flickering toward the night sky. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just... don’t tell Lois about this place.”

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Or else it’ll be on the front cover of the Daily Planet and it won’t be so secret anymore.”

You snorted. “Figured.”

Then, almost immediately, your lips twisted into a frown. “Ugh, you know what? I’m still kinda pissed off with Lois.”

Clark’s eyebrows lifted. “Lois? What—why?”

You sighed, rubbing at your temple. “She was the one who arranged the whole meeting with the lawyer today. My source. She forgot to confirm or something and cancelled last minute. Can you believe it?”

Clark blinked. “Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither. She’s probably got caught up with Superman again or something—I don’t know.”

Clark’s head tilted slightly, brows drawing together. “Sorry? Superman?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s just an inside joke between us and our friends. Since she’s so close with the guy, we joke that whenever she’s acting weird, it’s because of him.”

Clark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Does she usually?”

“Not really. But we like to watch her squirm when we bring it up.” You smirked. “Anyway, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been acting weird all week.”

Clark hummed, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I noticed that too. When she was telling me about this date, she just... wasn’t herself, I guess. Left a lot of things in the dark.”

Your steps faltered slightly, your brows knitting together as something in his words made your stomach twist. You turned to look at him, trying to piece together the implications of what he was saying.

“Wait—” You exhaled, mind racing. “Lois set you up?”

Clark slowed as well, blinking as if he’d only just realized you hadn’t put it together yet. “Uh… yeah?” He frowned slightly. “I did say my date was a friend of hers.”

“Right.” You blinked, mind catching up. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The sounds of the city—distant honking, the chatter of pedestrians, the hum of neon signs—faded into a dull blur. It was as if the entire world had taken a collective breath and was holding it, waiting for the two of you to catch up.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The pieces clicked together—Lois arranging your meeting, forgetting to confirm, being strangely vague about the details.

Oh.

Your stomach flipped as realization crashed over you like a tidal wave.

Clark’s eyes widened just a fraction, his breath hitching. And then, almost at the same time—

“…No way.”

You exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking your head as your mind reeled. Clark let out a chuckle of his own, one hand running through his hair, his fingers ruffling the strands at the back of his head. His ears—just barely visible under the glow of a nearby streetlight—had turned the faintest shade of pink again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just looked at each other, as if confirming that, yes, this was real, and yes, Lois Lane had absolutely just played matchmaker.

“Well,” Clark finally said, voice warm, laced with amusement. “At least we won’t have to spend the whole night getting to know each other.”

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Yeah. Guess not.”

The tension in your shoulders, the nervous energy, the awkwardness of the night—it all melted into something else entirely. Something softer. Something that felt… kind of nice.

Clark was still smiling, his blue eyes bright behind his glasses, and you had to resist the urge to look away, to keep from giving away the way your heart had started beating just a little faster.

He shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced down for a second before looking back up at you.

And then, with just the slightest hint of something almost timid in his voice, he asked—

“Can I be honest?”

You tilted your head. “Sure.”

“When Lois was telling me about the date... I was hoping it would be you.”

“…Really?”

Clark nodded, lips pressing together like he was debating whether he should keep going. But then, in a quieter voice, he admitted, “Yeah... It was the only reason I agreed. And when I saw you at the restaurant, I was really excited—until you told me you were there for work.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Sorry I let you down.”

His head snapped up. “No.” He shook his head, quickly, almost too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I still had fun,” he added, a little sheepishly.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit. “You should’ve just said something.”

Clark exhaled a laugh, glancing down again. “I know. I just... I’m not really good at this stuff.”

You smiled, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re doing pretty good so far. Had me swept off my feet.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice just a little lower, a little softer.

“Oh yeah.”

A pause. A lingering look.

And then—

“We should do this again.” His lips curled, a little nervous but hopeful. “On purpose next time.”

You grinned widely, feeling warmth spread through you, from your chest to the very tips of your fingers.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I’d like that a lot.”

2K notes · View notes

withlovemark · 2 months ago

Text

“FLYING KISS”

pairing: childhood best friend! lee jeno x nerd! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 23k

synopsis -> you and lee jeno go way back, as in diapers and all that. before he was known as the chill fuckboy, he was an all time nerd! just like you! tired of being a loser who can’t even get the guy you wanted, you badly needed tips and a makeover. who’s better to ask for help than your childhood best friend, who has proven that a nerd can be hot?

warnings -> guaranteed giddiness! pet name unlocked: bunny, two dumb idiots, jeno is a yearner!!!, slow burn? kinda but once it starts, it starts, mentions of: car crash, a deceased parent, too many side characters from other groups, +18, crude language, mentions of fuck-boys, parties, drinking, a fight between the boys, blood, a nasty cut, heavy on the smut! reader is a virgin, lots of fingering, oral (m+f), handjob, blowjob, mention of mutual masturbation, corruption kink, pop the cherry!, soft sex, exhibitionism, jeno is a dirty dirty boy with lots of dirty thoughts and a dirty mouth.

an -> the second installment of the loverboy series is yours! this one literally just flowed through me, i could not stop writing, squealing and giggling at this trope. i’m dreading leaving them behind. you do not need to read stupid cupid to understand this story but here are some important things to take note of: 1) jeno is the chill fuckboy, he does not like the whole hopping to one girl to another thing so he gets into a lot of meaningless situationships with girls he does not care about 2) jaemin is currently the only happily taken member of the dream fraternity, he calls his gf: angel. k, have fun reading, with love, c!

the library buzzed with the soft hum of university life filled with quiet chatter, the occasional laugh and the rustling of pages. there were small groups of friends in heated discussions, catching up on life or laughing over a joke. some were hunched over textbooks, deep in concentration, others were lost in their books, barely blinking, while a few had surrendered to sleep, heads resting on their arms. and, tucked away in the back, were the ones who thought they were subtle – furtive glances, sneaky touches, stolen kisses.

there was a place for everyone in the library and it was your favorite place in the entire world.

but right now, as you watch your long-time crush, third year business major, the soccer team’s mvp, jung sungchan, stick his tongue down a random girl’s throat, you can’t help but feel like your safe haven has been tainted.

the grip you had on your pencil tightens as your eyebrows furrowed at the scene that played out, jealousy taking over your features. out of all the places on campus, he had to choose your spot. you have half the mind to report to the librarian. you were already classified as the school’s nerd, why not add snitch to your dictionary?

“what’s that look on your face?,” your best friend’s voice pulled you back to earth, playful, as he plopped down on the seat next to you.

jeno has been fated to be your best friend way before you were even born. with your dad’s being the best of friends, it was written in the stars, whether you liked it or not.

but you liked it, and so did he.

if it wasn’t for jeno, you might have ended up a complete social outcast. thanks to his status and the fact that you were always seen together, people decided you were tolerably weird. you weren’t nose-picking weird or talking to yourself in the hallways weird, just…a little awkward.

and if it wasn’t for you, jeno probably wouldn't have made it into university to begin with. you tutored him in almost every class, every time he struggled with anything school related, he ran to you, from elementary school to university, you were practically his teacher.

they say university is supposed to be the place where you let go of your childhood self and finally grow up. yet here you are now, a third year student and you still haven't quite grown into the lady you were supposed to be. trends went over your head, fashion didn’t interest you and makeup was harder than your architect class. half your wardrobe was made up of high school leftovers, you were still sporting bangs that you had from middle school and you never really saw the point in “fixing yourself up.”

at least, one of you did — jeno somehow made his way into the dream fraternity and somehow earned the title the chill fuckboy. it was odd, seeing people start treating him differently. even odder when you started to see girl’s eyes follow him like he was some kind of lead in a main k-drama and then land on you with a confused gaze. like they couldn’t understand why he was friends with someone like you.

“nothing,” you say quickly, finally tearing your eyes away from sungchan and forcing your attention on the assignment in front of you.

jeno, not satisfied with your answer, followed your earlier gaze, a light chuckle slipping past his lips, “aww, does my little bunny wunny have a crush?,” he cooed, reaching over to pinch your cheek, his trademark eye smile on display.

bunny was the nickname he had given you when you both were eight years old. in some twisted doom, like you were always going to be life’s punching bag, all your baby teeth fell out at the same time, leaving only the two front teeth behind. these days, he throws in a ridiculous wunny at the end just to piss you off.

“shut up jeno,” you scowl, swatting his hand away and adjusting your glasses back into place.

he chuckles, unfazed, before pulling out his own assignments and settling in beside you. a comfortable silence draping over the two of you, easy and familiar.

but your mind was still reeling. you wanted, so badly, to be the girl who was kissing sungchan instead of the nerd he only acknowledged when he needed answers for a test. you wanted to hold his hand, to walk around campus with him, to be the one sitting in the back of the library.

you wanted to be the girl that people wanted to be.

your gaze drifts to your best friend. jeno hadn’t always been this effortlessly put-together, with his hair perfectly styled, clothes fitting him properly, and those annoying sculpted arms that somehow always had a girl clinging to them.

you’re reminded of a different version of him – the times when you had matching glasses, his head way too big for his body, the endless rotation of naruto and pokemon t-shirts he always had on and the way he would stutter every time a pretty girl would even look at his direction.

if he could grow into the handsome, confident man he is now, why couldn’t you?

and then, just like that, a lightbulb flickers on.

“...neno,” you call out to him, sweetly.

jeno eyes you with immediate suspicion, you only use that nickname when you want something from him, “what?,” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

“we’re best friends, right?,” you ask, innocently blinking up at him.

“is the sky blue???,” he shoots back, voice dripping with playful sarcasm. you ignore it, too caught up in the plan buzzing in your head.

“so, as my best friend, you’d do anything for me, right?,” you press, excitement coursing through.

he narrows his eyes, “that depends on what you’re about to ask from me,” he says, looking at you with a mixture of suspicion and mild horror.

“make me hot,” you say, dead serious.

jeno chokes on absolutely nothing, eyes going wide as the words hit him, “what?!.” he hisses, half-whisper, half-scream, as if you just confessed to a felony. a few heads turned your way and you can’t help but blush under the sudden attention.

“you’re so dramatic!,” you whisper, shrinking behind your books. all your previous confidence, going down the drain as you finally realized what you just asked him to do.

jeno charmingly waves, muttering his apologies until the curious stares faded and the library’s usual hush returned.

“y/n,” he said, suddenly serious, gaze locked on you, “what do you mean by ‘make you hot’?” his entire focus on you.

you sigh, heat crawling up your neck, “nevermind, jeno, it’s nothing,” you say, grabbing the nearest book, hoping to bury this conversation along with your pride.

before you could turn a page, jeno snatches it away from you, “hey, no secrets between us remember,” he said, gently but firmly.

you stared at the table, lips pressed into a thin line, weighing the embarrassment against the aching truth in your chest, “i just meant…help me be desirable, i’m tired of being a nerd, jeno. i just want someone to look at me and think i’m pretty,” you admit, too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

“i think you’re pretty, bunny,” he says quietly.

you groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. this was too embarrassing. you felt like you were fishing for compliments.

“ugh, you’re only saying that because you’re my best friend and our dads will literally kill you if you don’t,” you say, voice muffled by the table below you.

jeno chuckles lightly beside you, “i’m not just saying that.”

you sit back up slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “jeno, i’ve never been asked out, never held hands with someone, hell, i’ve never even kissed anyone,” you reason, head plopping back into your chair.

“—that’s not true!, you’ve kissed me,” he points out earning an eye roll from you.

“jeno we were 14 and i kissed you like how i would kiss my mom,” you say, “it doesn’t count,” you shut your eyes, silently begging the universe to erase this entire moment from existence.

but your words lingered in jeno’s head – the quiet desperation in your voice, the way your eyes had pleaded without meaning to and before he could even think twice, his mouth moved on its own.

“i’ll see what i can do,” he said. your eyes flew open, locking onto his with a sparkle that transferred over to his own.

“thank you, neno,” you grinned, ruffling his hair with a smirk, excitement bubbling through you.

he groaned in protest, batting your hands away but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

a second later, his phone flashes on his side. one glance at the screen and he was already gathering his things, “gotta go, lia texted,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

you nodded, smiling up at him, “have fun, don’t get pregnant,” you teased.

he chuckled, messing your hair up on his way out, “no promises,” he winked, making your face scrunch up in disgust. the image of your best friend having sex was not appealing at all.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

after spending a couple of hours buried in his current situationship’s legs, jeno finally made his way back to the dream house.

the conversation you had in the library constantly playing in his mind as he quickly barges into jaemin’s room, “dude-i oh…sorry!,” his eyes widen, apologizing as he redirects his stare at the ceiling, but doesn’t make an effort to leave.

jaemin scrambles to wrap the blanket around his girlfriend, who is currently face down, ass up with his dick still inside her, “dude!, get out!?,” he yells furiously, throwing a pillow at him.

“i need to ask you something,” jeno says, making jaemin groan, “can you ask me later?, im busy,” he grunts, his girlfriend still clenching tightly around him.

“oh…yeah, sorry…hi angel,” jeno mutters out, a playful smile on his lips before leaving and locking the door behind him, hearing an embarrassed, muffled, “hi jeno,” from jaemin’s girlfriend, on his way out.

“learn to lock the door!,” he laughed from the other side, the sound of skin slapping resuming as he made his way down the living room.

for the past few hours, your words had been playing on a loop in his head. he wasn’t sure where to start or how to go about helping you. not because he didn’t want to but because he’d never realized you needed that kind of help.

sure, he noticed that there were never any boys around, other than him, but he thought you preferred it that way. always scowling in disgust when a guy tries to get near you or even breathe the same air as you.

and besides the fact that he wanted to repay you for always helping him without asking for anything in return, he’d always thought you were pretty.

when you were six, with a scraped knee, and tear streaked cheeks after falling as you chased after his hamster who escaped - pretty.

when you were eight, missing all your teeth except the two in the front, food always ending up smeared all over your face - pretty.

when you were eleven, threatening all his bullies to stay away from him or you would call your dad - pretty.

when you were fourteen and you kissed him because you were curious why your parents were always kissing - so pretty.

when you were fifteen, drowning in a pink puffy dress that ate you up whole - ridiculous, but pretty.

when you were sixteen, at your mom’s funeral, crying on his shoulder, not allowing anyone else near you but him - hauntingly pretty.

when you were eighteen and you both had gotten your acceptance letters for university, excitedly jumping around together - pretty.

when you were twenty and crashed his car because you thought there was a dog on the road, only for it to be the shadow of the tree you crashed into - annoying, but still so damn pretty.

as your best friend, he wants you to see yourself the way he saw you.

if this was what it took to help you finally claim your confidence, then he’d do whatever it takes to make sure it worked. whether or not this was about impressing that boy you liked, he didn’t care. he just wanted to help you feel more sure of yourself.

an hour passed before jaemin finally joined him in the living room, immediately punching him in the arm, “learn to knock,” he huffs out before sitting next to his friend.

jeno chuckles, rubbing his arm, “i didn’t see anything, promise,” he turns to his friend, “you better not have or i’ll literally scoop your eyes out and feed it to you,” his friend grunts making him scrunch up in disgust.

“that’s disgusting,” jeno comments, the mental image making both of them squirm before bursting out into laughter.

“so what did you need?,” jaemin asks as soon as their laughter dies down.

“i actually need your girlfriend’s help,” he smiles sheepishly, piquing the other boy’s curiosity.

“with what?,” jaemin asks.

“with y/n,” jeno says before jaemin nods, getting up to get his girlfriend out of his room and into the living room. the rest of the boys knew who you were, of course, and as jeno had requested, they all looked out for you.

jaemin’s girlfriend listens intently at the plan jeno had - a makeover. he knew he needed a girl’s touch since he didn’t really know anything about the work that girls put into themselves to make them look ‘hot’.

he could argue he thought they just came that way. just like how you have always been pretty.

“well, im kind of done with all of that makeover and stuff,” she briefly smiles at her boyfriend, “but i do know the perfect girl,” shes says smiling, as jeno notes down the girls’ name, paying her a visit.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

two days later, jeno came prepared. plopping down in his usual seat in the library, right next to you, armed with a notepad that was opened to the page:

operation bunny’s glow-up

step 1: the makeover

step 2: closet cleanse and wardrobe upgrade

step 3: posture, confidence and flirting 101

step 4: bunny’s party reveal

you blinked at the notebook in front of you, registering the words written in jeno’s extremely neat handwriting, “what is this?”

“this,” he said, tapping the page, “is how i'm going to help you,” jeno explains.

there were too many steps and you’re suddenly so very aware how ridiculous this actually was, “can we just magically skip to step four where i’m already pretty and perfect and partying?,” you sigh, already feeling exhausted.

jeno almost wants to scold you for thinking you weren’t already pretty and perfect but remembered this is why he was doing this in the first place. to make sure you know you were pretty and perfect.

instead he says, “nope, this is a full process. you asked for my help and that’s what you’re getting, no backing out and definitely no easy way out.”

the sternness in his voice made you realize how serious he was about this. “you’re really gonna do all this for me, neno?,” you ask, a hint of gratitude shining in your eyes.

“of course i am, that’s what best friends are for,” he shrugs, ruffling your hair once again.

which is how you ended up here, seated in a salon chair with the girl you met just a couple minutes ago, your best friend leaving you all by your awkward self with no other than — giselle, third year cosmetology major and one of the school’s hottest girls.

her preppy personality was overwhelming, confidence radiating off her like perfume. you had no idea how to interact with her, no clue how any girl could be so aware of her beauty and completely own it the way she did.

it’s almost unfair how nice she was too. hot, popular girls were supposed to be mean, rude, intolerable. that’s how they’re portrayed in every teen movie you’ve seen. but giselle is kind, easygoing, talked to you like you weren't several social status’ below her in the pyramid you’ve made up.

“alright, so we’re gonna make sure your hair frames for your face perfectly and get rid of all your split ends,” she explains, hands already in motion as she fluffs your hair out, moving it around, parting it here and there to visualize what looks best on you.

once she figured it out, she let out a satisfied hum and got to work. the scissors glide gracefully, almost like they were an extension of her fingers and you can’t help but be mesmerized.

“so, how did you and jeno meet?,” she asks, casually starting the conversation as her hands continue to move through your hair.

“uhm, our parents are best friends,” you mumble, trying not to sound as stiff as you feel.

“ooh, that’s fun!,” she comments and you’re not entirely sure if she means it or if she’s just trying to be polite. either way, you appreciate her effort.

“and you’ve never had a crush on him?,” she adds, eyebrows raised. the shock on your face is evident, the very idea of having a crush on your best friend making your stomach twist.

“uhh no, i’ve never seen him that way,” you reply, a shudder slipping down your spine.

giselle laughs, clearly amused, “i see,” she hums, “your best friend is hot though, you know?,” you smile up at her, nodding, blush creeping up your cheeks.

of course you knew people considered jeno hot but you’re not entirely sure you agree with that statement.

he was the same boy who was crying to you because his hamster escaped, the same boy who got his braces stuck in your sweater, the same boy who ran away when you kissed him, the same boy who almost cried when your acceptance letter came in the mail first, his nowhere to be seen until a week later – your best friend was cute, the same way a puppy was cute.

“soo, who do you think is hot?,” she asks, playful curiosity dancing in her eyes.

is this what girl talk is?

“uhmm,” you shy away under her friendly gaze. you’ve never really had anyone to talk to about boys. with your mom passing away at an early age and all your girlfriends more interested in their anime crushes than real ones, this kind of conversation feels like uncharted territory.

“don’t worry, i'm really good at keeping secrets,” she says, urging you to go on. there’s something about her aura that you trust. and you knew that if jeno didn’t trust her, he wouldn’t have left you alone with her in the first place. so for the first time in your life, you indulge in girl talk.

“i think umm…i think sungchan is hot,” you mutter, shy, eyes immediately darting to the floor.

she gasps, an exaggerated, delighted sound, “i totally agree” she says giggling, “you have great taste,” she giggles. then, leaning in with excitement, she whispers, “i’m gonna make sure sungchan falls in love with you.”

you glance at her reflection in the mirror and despite yourself, a smile appears on your face, giddy and a little disbelieving.

“and…we’re done with your hair!,” she announces, your focus darting at your own reflection. your eyes widen slightly. she made your hair look like what you would see in the magazines – sleek, soft, effortlessly perfect.

the change in your appearance already reflecting back at you.

“this is just the beginning,” she whispers again, a friendly smile displayed on her lips.

she gently reclines the chair you were sitting on then tilts your chin up with practiced fingers, her eyes scanning your face with focused curiosity as she takes your glasses off, “hmm, okay,” she murmurs, turning your face side to side. you can’t help but feel awkward, gaze drifting everywhere else, avoiding eye contact.

“okay…i’m just gonna clean up your brows, and wax a little peach fuzz if that’s okay?,” she asks, voice light and reassuring. you nod, unsure what all that means but trusting her anyway.

giselle gets to work immediately, a new tool in her hand, and wax paper placed on your upper lip and in just twenty minutes, she steps back, satisfied.

your face looks softer…more defined. more you, somehow.

“you’re so pretty, y/n,” she says warmly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “and we barely did anything.”

the compliment hits you harder than you expect. pretty wasn’t a word you would ever describe yourself yet here is one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen calling you that. tears sting the corner of your eyes before you can blink them away.

“c’mon,” she says, voice still gentle but laced with excitement, “we’re not done, grab your stuff, we're going somewhere.”

after spending exactly thirty-two minutes in giselles car, singing along to the radio and laughing at her endless stream of chaotic stories, which you thought was something you’d never ever do, you were now at the mall. more specifically, standing in front of a waxing salon.

you shoot her a nervous glance, eyes wide with suspicion.

“i figured you’d be more comfortable with a stranger you’d never have to see again,” she says with a casual shrug, and suddenly it clicks why you’re here.

you knew what a waxing salon was, you just never thought you’d voluntarily stepped foot into one.

“this is my go-to, they get everything and it doesn’t hurt that bad,” she promises, reassuring, and you swore you look like a tomato with how much you’re blushing.

when giselle said they get everything, she meant they get everything.

even body parts that you didn’t think would have hair on them, body parts that no one else has seen but your own eyes. you almost can’t believe you were in this position right now, but giselle was right – a stranger was better for this. the only thing keeping you from bolting was the comforting knowledge that you’d never have to make eye contact with the person who was currently in between your legs again.

after an hour and several compromising positions later, you were finally done. your skin felt smoother than a baby’s, which was honestly kind of mind-blowing.

giselle was waiting for you at the reception, a bag in her hand, her eyes lighting up as soon as she saw you, “okay!, so i got you a little starter kit filled with makeup, skincare and all the other essentials,” she said, practically bouncing, “let’s go back to my place and i’ll teach you how to use it!”

her excitement was infectious and you couldn’t help but smile just as wide – her bubbly energy sinking into your bones in the best way.

making your way to giselle’s bedroom, you notice how different your rooms were. while yours was covered with posters and music records from all your favorite bands, her’s was covered in magazine clippings of what you assumed are the most popular fashion trends.

while your shelves were filled with books of all genres, she had an entire shelf dedicated to makeup and skincare products. another filled with several handbags and shoes. you weren’t even aware that girls had to have that many.

“sit, my canvas,” she says, lightly teasing, pointing to the chair in front of her vanity mirror as she pulls things out of the bag she gave you.

“we’re keeping it simple, just the basics: primer, foundation, brows, blush, and lipstick of course.”

you nod like you understood anything she was saying. she caught the panic in your eyes and smiled softer this time, “don’t worry,” she said, uncapping a small bottle of primer, “i got you.”

she talked you through every step. primer, foundation, blending like your life depended on it. she filled in one of your brows and handed you the pencil, urging you to try it out yourself. you tried to mimic her, hand shaky, tongue slightly poking out in concentration. this was definitely harder than she made it out to be.

“you’re a natural,” she says, satisfied with your work and you can feel your confidence growing with every second you spend with her. it’s as if she was sharing the amount of confidence she had with you.

by the end of it, you stared at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized your own reflection. not because the makeup was dramatic, it wasn’t, but because you looked like someone who belonged.

like someone who chose how she wanted to be seen.

“there…you look beautiful,” giselle murmurs behind you, chin resting lightly on your shoulder, “i have one last thing for you,” she says, reaching for another bag and you’re not sure how you could ever repay her for all of this.

as if she could read your thoughts, she quickly says, “don’t worry about it, jeno paid for it”

“glasses can be hot, but the ones you have now, completely hides your face so…,” she pulls out two things, “first, i got you these silver ones, they’re smaller but they’ll sit on your face better,” she hands it to you.

you take them, fingers brushing over the smooth metal. the glasses were cute, not your usual style, but when you slipped them on and looked in the mirror, you instantly understood what she meant. they frame your features instead of swallowing them whole.

giselle pats herself on the back, clearly happy with her decision, “and if you’re feeling a little braver,” she trails off, pulling out the last item, “-contact lenses, i asked jeno for your prescription so those should be good, they’re pretty easy to put on too but just in case, i’ll message you a youtube video with step by step instructions,” she smiles at you, soft and sincere.

and you can’t hold it in anymore. her kind actions pull at your heartstrings as the dam breaks – tears sliding down your cheeks before you can stop them.

“thank you, giselle,” you say in full gratitude, voice thick with emotion.

“of course,” she whispers, her eyes matching yours as she pulls you into a hug.

“-now stop crying, okay, makeup is expensive,” she says, laughing as she wipes at her own damp lashes. you both burst into giggles, the room light again despite the weight in your heart.

and then a knock makes its way to her bedroom door, echoing throughout her room.

giselle quickly fixes your tear stained cheeks, “alright, if you ever need anything else, just let me know okay?,” she says, and you nod, thankful for her kindness.

“let's see what your best friend has to say,” she squeals as she rushes over to the door, swinging it open and revealing jeno on the other side.

you hadn’t even thought about how jeno would react or how other people would take in your new appearance. you suddenly felt extremely nervous. he was the first person who was going to see you like this — you wanted him to react well.

jeno steps into the room, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, expression casual until he sees you and suddenly he feels like every air has been knocked out of his lungs.

you have always been pretty but right now you look absolutely, breathtakingly, beautiful.

he realizes he’s been staring in silence for too long when he notices you shift in your seat, the words, “what?,” slipping from your lips, almost harsh, trying to sound casual.

he blinks a few times, gulping “n-nothing y-you just look–,”

“different?,” you complete his sentence, afraid he will start teasing you. his stare becomes more uncomfortable with every second of silence that passes.

“-r-really p-pretty,” he finally manages to say. a smile takes over your features, his compliment completely blowing away the feelings of doubt that were starting to cloud.

jeno almost wants to beat himself up for stuttering so much.

“ahh, my work here is done,” giselle beams, looking in between you with a knowing look only she knew the meaning of. she clapped like she’s the proud host of a makeover show, as she should. jeno clears his throat, immediately reminded that you both had an audience.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

a soft knock echoed at your dorm room’s door, followed by jeno’s familiar voice. when you opened it, you caught the tiny flicker in his eyes. he was still trying to get used to your new appearance. its been two days since giselle’s successful makeover and he still hasn’t fully adjusted to this version of you.

but it was time to start step two of the operation - closet cleanse and wardrobe upgrade.

“wait,” you say, squinting at him, “you’re the one that’s gonna look at my clothes?,” you say, bewildered.

what did jeno know about ladies’ fashion?

“yeah, who else would it be?,” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“i don't know, i thought you would’ve brought giselle or another one of your lady friends,” you mumbled as he casually made himself at home on your bed.

he grinned, flopping back against your pillows like he owned the place, “nope, just me, don’t worry…i know what looks good,” he says, a playful smile on his lips as you eyed him suspiciously, “and how exactly are you going to rate my clothes?,” you ask.

he shrugs, “i’ll figure it out as we go, now come on, show me what you got,” he says, making himself comfortable in your sheets.

truthfully, his rating was completely unscientific and wildly biased. he was judging your clothes based on the question: if a girl walked by in this outfit, would i say hi?

and he knows damn well that if you ever found out you were being styled based on his imaginary dream girl, you’d kick him right where the sun won't shine. so he kept that little detail to himself.

“ugh, okay,” you groaned, giving in as you started taking your clothes out of your wardrobe and holding them up for him.

jeno leaned back, arms folded behind his head, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. he was way too comfortable in your space but then again, he always had been.

one by one you pulled clothes from your closet – the shirts you’ve had since middle school, some with funky patterns, others just straight up horrendous. pants with weird patterns and those that didn’t help accentuate your figure at all.

for once, you were thankful for being one of the lucky ones who didn’t have a roommate. no one else needed to witness this humiliation.

jeno, however, was getting the full show. he has never realized how bad your wardrobe was until now. each new item of clothing you pulled out seemed to be worse than the last. and then came the final blow.

the naruto and pokemon shirts. his oversized naruto and pokemon shirts. jeno’s jaw slacks open, like the very memory of those shirts carried his own personal trauma, “why the hell do you have those?!,” he blurted, sitting up like he’d just seen a ghost.

“your dad gave them to me when you outgrew them, i just kept them,” you shrug.

“burn it.” his voice was flat, non-negotiable.

“what?! no!, these are comfortable and i like wearing them to sleep!,” you defend, clutching the shirts like they were priceless heirlooms. jeno stares at you wide eyed, expression teetering somewhere between disgust and betrayal “you cannot let anyone see you in those,” he says, deadly serious, making you chuckle.

“stop being so dramatic, i bet if you wore these now, people would think it’s cool,” you say and jeno shakes his head furiously, like he can't even fathom the idea of ever wearing it again, “no, absolutely not, i’ve buried that version of myself. deep.”

“well, i’m not burning them!,” you declare, shoving the shirts deep into your drawer, making sure he can’t pull it out behind your back.

by the end of it you had two piles. the “i guess that’s okay” pile and the “don’t ever wear that again, that’s going straight to donation,” pile which was unfortunately about three times bigger.

“jeno, i have like no clothes left!,” you say, plopping down on the bed next to him, limbs heavy with defeat.

your room looked like it was run through by a tornado, clothes scattered in every corner.

without a word, jeno pulls you into his arms, fingers brushing your hair out of your face with an ease that only comes from years of friendship, “we’re gonna go shopping,” he murmurs against your temple, “it’s gonna be fine.”

you let yourself melt into his side with a sigh, “okay, but like…in five minutes, i’m too tired to even attempt being a hot girl right now,” he chuckles softly and you feel the sound more than you hear it, sleep tugging you under.

jeno lets his eyes flutter shut too, a small contented smile on his lips.

five minutes, she said. he’d give her ten.

ten minutes turned into three hours and you woke up with your legs tangled with the boy beside you, “neno,” you groaned, shoving him off of you, “you’re so fucking heavy,” you whine.

jeno slowly wakes up, blinking the sleep away as he sluggishly rubbed at his eyes, “fuck, what time is it?,” he says before reaching out for his phone and answering his own question.

it was only 6PM, still plenty of time to run to the mall and get you your new upgraded outfits.

and exactly thirty minutes later, jeno was dragging you around all the stores with the latest fashion trends. you didn’t even know your best friend knew these stores existed, “how do you know so much about this?” you ask him, eyeing him suspiciously.

he shot you a grin over his shoulder, “well, i do listen to every girl i talk to, you know” he points out and you’re reminded of the fact that your sweet, nerdy best friend was also one of the university’s hot, sexy, fuck-boy.

you rolled your eyes, “gross.” you still can’t believe he even has that reputation. wanting to smack yourself every time you get reminded of it. how could your glasses-wearing, braces-clad, cried-over-a-hamster best friend turn into some kind of lady killer? it didn’t feel real.

“hey, it’s called research,” he teased, “gotta keep them interested somehow.”

he grabs a shopping cart, pulling at everything he thought looked nice on the mannequins, as well as a couple of pieces of clothing that fit his previous criteria.

you follow him around like a lost child. you don’t even remember the last time you had a shopping trip and bought something for yourself. you were usually only here to buy gifts or if you’re forced to buy new underwear.

after a while of aimlessly wandering as jeno does all the work, you find yourself in the dressing room, a shopping bag filled with clothes in your arm.

now here you were, staring at your reflection in pure disbelief. the first matching outfit jeno picked out was a tiny pink skirt and an even tinier pink crop top that left your midriff exposed, “uhhm, jeno i dont know about this one,” you say from the other side of the door, nervous.

“step out, let me see,” he says, patiently sitting outside of your dressing room stall, voice relaxed, clearly unbothered.

slowly, hesitantly, your fingers hover over the lock before unlocking the door, debating on whether or not you should let him see you in this ridiculous outfit that is showing way too much skin than you’re used to. before you could completely psych yourself out, you took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself before finally swinging the door wide open, revealing the outfit to him.

jeno looked up and almost choked on air.

the outfit definitely hugged your curves in all the right places, made your skin glow and your legs look longer, and god, yes, he would definitely go up to you and say hi if he saw you at a party.

but then he thinks about all the other boy’s who would also go up to you and say hi and do god knows what else and the thought almost knocks him out.

“yeah, that doesn’t look comfortable, i don't like it,” he says a half lie. you quickly agree, relieved, as you go back into the dressing room to try on your next outfit.

jeno feels hot.

the air was too thick and he wanted to dunk his head in cold water to remind himself that this was you.

he shakes the thoughts away. these are thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking about, especially with his best friend. but it was no use. because the next time you stepped out of the dressing room you were wearing a white skirt a little longer than the last one and a light blue top that covered what needed to be covered but was just enough to exude that sexiness he liked in a girl and he swore he needed to get into a bathroom. now.

“this one’s a bit better, i could actually wear this,” you comment, innocently looking at him through those silver glasses that makes your eyes pop out, a small smile on display and all he could do was nod, “yeah…t-that one’s nice,” he says, disguising his stutter under a fake cough.

you smiled, pleased with his answer, and he felt his stomach flip.

he was in so much trouble.

this torture went on for a good fifteen more outfits, tiny side comments coming from him while his sanity continues to slip just a little more. his pants feel more restricted every time you walk out dressed in the cutest outfits that looked like they were made for you.

the worst ones were the ones you liked. the ones that made your eyes twinkle in the mirror and made you smile like you were finally starting to see yourself the way he saw you – absolutely beautiful.

there’s a million f words running through his head.

why the fuck did he think this was a good idea? why the fuckity fuck didn’t he just ask giselle to add this to her makeover process? why the fuckity fuck fuck did he throw all those tiny tops and short skirts into your basket? why the flying fuckity fuck fuck fuck shit fuck are you so fucking pretty? and more importantly – what the actual fuck are you, his best friend, doing to him?

after a long three hours of internal screaming – it was finally over.

you emerged from the mall looking like you’d just won a game show, all smiles and sunshine, bubbling with excitement, happy with the outfits your best friend picked out for you while jeno trudged behind you, hauling ten full shopping bags, half amused, half in pain.

he drove in near silence as you yapped on and on about your makeover with giselle, every detail you hadn’t had the chance to spill yet now tumbling out all at once.

in the middle of your yapping session, you noticed the boy wasn’t as active as he usually was, no silly side comments, no teasing remarks.

“neno..,” you sweetly called out to him and jeno nearly swerved.

god, the things that nickname did to him.

“you okay?,” you asked, eyes flicking over to him.

“yeah bunny, just tired,” he said with a small smile, trying to play it cool.

“that was a lot of shopping for a guy, y’know?” he glanced at you quickly, then back to the road, “keep going, tell me more about your day with giselle,” he says.

you eyed him for a second longer, as if trying to read him, then picked up right where you left off.

he dropped you off and made sure you were safely in your room. before he could leave you surprised him by reaching out and pulling him into a hug. with your arm tight around his waist, face pressed against his chest, you let out a soft sigh, “thank you, neno, sorry for taking up so much of your time.”

jeno chuckles, gently smoothing your hair down with one hand, hoping you don’t realize how fast his heart was beating, “you can never take too much of my time, bunny, you know that” he says, reassuring you.

you look up at him, with that sweet, grateful smile that’s currently driving him crazy, “you’re the best best friend in the entire world,” you say, before leaning up and pressing a sweet, innocent kiss to his cheek.

jeno should’ve been used to it.

you’ve been kissing his cheek ever since you were five years old and playing in the mud together. he argues today just wasn’t his day.

maybe it was the outfit? maybe it was the soft curve of your smile? or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t had sex in so long (two days) it was affecting his logic?

whatever it was, that little peck nearly sent him spiraling.

“go and rest,” you said, pushing him towards your door and out of your dorm room, “thanks for shopping with me,” you ended the night with a lopsided grin before shutting your door as he finally made his way out.

he didn’t go home right away. instead he found himself at lia’s place, hands roaming and mind elsewhere, trying to exorcise whatever the hell was clawing at him from the inside out.

he kissed her like he meant it, touched her like he was desperate – because he was. so, so desperate for release. he fucked the shit out of her, releasing all his sexual urges as he guiltily pictured you in those tight, revealing outfits.

pictured you smiling up at him having absolutely no idea the effect you left behind. pictured your sweet voice calling him that nickname you gave him when you were fourteen before you stole his first kiss.

and when he finally finished, breathless and sweaty, staring up at the ceiling of a room that wasn’t his, next to a girl he barely knew, all could think about was: what the actual fuck is wrong with me?

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the easy part of this transformation was over — the shopping spree, the haircut, the subtle change of your appearance had all been external.

you could already feel the power your new look gave you. for the first time in your life, you realized that pretty privilege wasn’t just some exaggerated social theory. it was real. you felt it in the smallest gestures.

on your way to the library, retracing steps you’ve taken hundreds of times before, everything felt a little different. the way people intently held the door open for you, even if you were still several steps away. the way they’d immediately made space for you in the elevator. and the way someone had already rushed to help you grab a book from the top shelf – you used to have to drag the ladder with you just to get it before.

however, just because life became a tad bit easier, doesn’t mean you felt comfortable.

what had once been comfort in invisibility was now replaced with the pressure of being seen. you weren’t used to the lingering glances or the compliments or the catcalls — it made your skin crawl, making you want to hide under the table until everyone leaves.

when jeno finally walked into the library, his eyes landed on you immediately. you wore a soft white top with jeans that finally hugged your frame and a light blue cardigan around your shoulders, collarbones out for display. it was one of the outfits you bought last night.

the guilt on his shoulders felt heavier as he was reminded of what he did — what he thought of.

forcefully shaking the thoughts away, he quietly sits right next to you. his gaze drifts to your legs anxiously bouncing under the table. a sign that something was clearly bothering you. gently, he placed a hand on your knee. you flinched slightly, then looked up at him, your expression distant – like you just realized he was there.

“bunny, what’s wrong?,” he asks, voice low and tender, threaded with concern.

“they’re all staring, jeno,” you whispered, almost like you didn’t want the words to exist.

he looks around the room, noticing the way everyone was too deep into their own worlds and while he didn’t see anyone obviously gawking, he knew it didn’t matter. it wasn’t about them. it was about what you were feeling inside.

“no one’s staring, bunny,” he murmured, voice delicate, like handling glass.

he knew better than to dismiss it. he recalls what it was like when he stepped out without the comfort of his thick-rimmed glasses and oversized t-shirts for the first time. remembers the way his heart was pounding in his chest, afraid of the judgments he might receive. he didn’t need to guess what you were feeling. he’s sure you were battling the same internal conflict right now. but just like how he got through it, he knows you will too. he’ll make sure of it.

you shut your eyes, taking a deep breath, “sorry,” you whispered, exhaling like the breath had been stuck in your chest all day, “im just- being paranoid, i’m not used to people noticing me,” you say softly.

“that’s okay,” jeno said, a warm smile blooming on his face as his hand moved to your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles, “that’s our lesson for today.”

jeno gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he set his bag down beside you, “okay bunny, first thing’s first is it’s all about your mindset,” he taps his head, pointing to his brain and you can’t help but giggle at the silly antics.

“im serious,” he insisted, lips twitching into a smirk, “if someone stares, don't spiral and think ‘they’re judging me.’ instead think ‘i look good, that’s why they’re staring,’” he says.

your eyes pop out of your head, he says it like it was so easy, “doesn’t that sound a little too egotistical?,” you said, nose wrinkling.

“not egotistical, just confident,” he counters, “there’s a difference.”

you gave him a skeptical look but he was already sitting up straighter, leaving no room for arguments.

“next is posture, stop hiding behind your books and sit straight, shoulders back, chin up,” he demonstrates.

you copied his posture, finding his seriousness amusing as you rolled your shoulders back, “like this?,”

“yeah,” he nodded, approving, “you already look more confident”

you laughed quietly, already feeling silly, “i feel like i’m pretending to be someone i’m not,” you point out.

“well, confidence is pretending, at first anyway,” he replied, shrugging, “eventually you start owning up to it, it starts becoming comfortable.”

you studied your best friend for a minute or two. there was a time where he would hide behind his books as well, would even hide behind you. you realized now that his change didn’t just come out of nowhere – it wasn’t just a random growth spurt. it was something he’d worked on, something that took time and practice, just like you were doing now. you wondered how he ever managed to do this alone.

“and the most important thing to know, bunny,” he adds, voice gentler now, “you’re allowed to take up space, don’t ever apologize for being seen.”

you carried his words with you, tucking them somewhere deep, somewhere that had always longed to hear them.

you sat there in silence for a beat until jeno shifted beside you, nudging your arm lightly, “okay,” he said, eyes glinting with a mischievous spark, “time for your first assignment.”

you turned to him, instantly suspicious, “assignment?,”

he nodded, already scanning the room, “see that guy by the window,” he points to possibly the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen reading a worn copy of the hunger games: catching fire. you recognize him. you’re pretty sure he was in your elective art class.

“you’re going to flirt with him,” jeno smirks and your eyes almost bulge out of your head.

“you’re joking! that’s hyunjin,” you whisper, head whipping toward jeno.

“so?,”

“so, he’s…he’s too cool and i don't even know how to flirt!,” you whisper-shouted, hands flailing helplessly at your sides.

he chuckles, “you were the same girl who threatened to beat up my bullies when we were 11, you’re telling me you’re afraid of a boy now?,” his smile is playful, lightly provoking you. and when you don’t reply, he knew you knew that he was right, “just compliment him, smile, say he has nice hands or something.”

your mouth fell open, staring at him in horror, “that’s so dumb, jeno. what if he thinks i'm hitting on him?”

“...you are hitting on him,” he said slowly, like it was obvious.

you groaned, dragging your hands over your face, “i’m not comfortable with this.”

“that’s the point. confidence doesn’t grow in comfort zones,” jeno says and you wonder when he’s gotten so wise. usually you were the one who had these motivational words ready for him.

staring down at your lap, nerves buzzing like static in your fingertips, you take a moment to think it through. you glanced back at your best friend, he was already looking at you proudly – like he believed in you more than you believe in yourself.

you let out a breathy laugh, the absurdity the situation weighing on your chest, “if this ends in disaster–,”

“it wont,” he cuts you off and you knew there was no way to back out of this situation. besides you were the one who asked him to help you. slowly, you got up from your chair, taking a deep breath and making your way towards the boy.

“hi, hyunjin,” you start off quiet, timid, slightly afraid.

hyunjin darts his eyes away from his book, looking up at you, “hey” he replies. when you don’t say anything else right away, he shifted in his seat, “did you need anything?,” he says, an awkward smile on his lips.

you swallowed hard, nerves tangling in your throat, “i uhm…just wanted to tell you—you have nice hands!,” you say, a little too cheerful for your liking. you were internally screaming. curse jeno for putting that in your head. you actually can’t believe you used it.

he blinked. then a soft laugh escaped him, not mocking, but surprised, amused. “oh? uhm, thanks?,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes, “i like what you’ve done with your hair,” he compliments, leaving you shocked.

“what?”

he points vaguely in your direction, “you got a haircut, right? it look’s nice.”

you blinked, stunned into silence for a second too long. “thank you,” you finally breathed, cheeks warming instantly.

you didn’t realize he noticed you before. let alone remember you enough to notice a change.

“you’re welcome,” he smiles and you awkwardly wave goodbye.

you made your back to jeno, so certain that you looked like a tomato. dropping into the seat beside him, burying your face in your hands, “that was so embarrassing,” you mumbled through your fingers.

jeno tried to hide his laughter behind his fingers, afraid to be called out by the librarian for being too loud, “you actually told him he had nice hands,” he wheezed.

“shut up!,” you groaned, “that was your fault!,” you swat at his arm, “my brain just – stopped working.”

jeno calms himself down, sitting up straighter now, the teasing falling away just a little, “yeah, but you did it…and he talked to you, noticed your hair, said he liked it.”

the memory of hyunjin’s compliment flickers in the back of your mind and a small swell of pride flutters in your chest, “he did, didn’t he…,” a shy smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

jeno nods, eyes full of tenderness, “see? you’ve never been invisible,” he points out.

the words settle over you like a warm blanket and for a moment you just sit with them, the weight of the realization sinking in.

“i still felt like i was going to pass out though,” you admitted, a thin, embarrassed smile on display.

“that’s okay, confidence is scary,“ jeno said simply, “but the more you practice, the easier it’ll be,” he sends you a warm smile, never making you feel like these feelings were wrong.

without thinking, you leaned into his shoulder, seeking the steady comfort he always gave you, “thanks, neno,” you breathe out.

he freezes for a second, just for a second, before bumping his head lightly against yours, “anytime.”

then he pulls back just enough to grin mischievously, “now, go back to hyunjin and say something a little less awkward.”

“wait? right now?!,” you whip your head toward him, horrified once again.

“yes, right now…go,” he’s already pushing you up and out of your seat, laughing under his breath as he watches you stumble forward, nerves buzzing anew.

trying to ignore the way your heart pounds against your ribs, you walk back up to hyunjin, this time with a bit more confidence, capturing his attention once more.

“actually i…i wanted to say that’s a really good book,” you nod toward the hunger games book in his hand and hyunjin lights up instantly.

“right?, i’m on my third re-read,” he says excitedly.

with a casual gesture, he pulls out the chair next to him inviting you to sit as you talked about the masterpiece that is suzanne collins and the hunger games trilogy. the conversation went on for a good twenty minutes, it was easy and light and fun, a little playful sometimes. you lose yourself in the exchange, forgetting the nerves that once clawed at your chest.

when hyunjin bid his goodbye, you practically floated back to your seat. your heart was pounding in your ears but in the best way possible. you can’t believe that just happened. you usually only talk to people in class, if you’re required to.

jeno watched you. watched that twinkle in your eye appear, your smile beaming as the conversation continues and it’s the first time throughout this whole process that he sees the change.

you were slowly bringing back the girl he knew. the girl you lost along the way. the girl he always knew was still there, just waiting for a reason to shine.

when you returned to him, he can’t help but tease you just a little bit, “look who’s suddenly ms. social butterfly,” he grins, earning an eye roll from you as you tried to wipe the giddy smile off your face, “shut up”

“no seriously,” he says, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on the table, “twenty full minutes, i was about to send a search party,” he smirks.

“always so dramatic,” you huff but your smile betrays you, “i didn’t think it’d actually go that well,” you admit, cheeks still pink.

“you flirted, you sat down, talked about hunger games lore like it was natural…if i didn't know you, i’d think you do this every day,” he smirks.

you narrow your eyes, “are you mocking me or hyping me up?,” you say playfully.

“why not both?,” he shrugs, clearly enjoying himself. his tone softens just enough to say, “but seriously bunny, im proud of you,” and you smile at him like he just handed you the stars in the sky.

“thanks…i feel kinda…good.”

“confidence will do that to you,” jeno says, nudging your foot under the table.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the next few days turn into a full crash course in flirting 101 with lee jeno.

one afternoon, he dares you to make eye contact with the cute guy handing out flyers in campus, not just a glance, real eye contact. it sounds simple but it makes your palms sweat. you were able to managed a flirty smile too and when the boy stammers mid-sentence, jeno practically fist-pumps the air behind you.

another day, he made you strike up a casual conversation with the barista at the cafe. told you to be a little playful, a little flirty. you passed with flying colors, only stumbling over a few words, the barista writing his number on your cup as well as giving you an extra cookie “on the house.” you nearly skip back to jeno, face lit up like christmas morning.

each small win builds on the last, stacking slowly, steadily until the idea of putting yourself out there and owning up to your confidence doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

through it all, jeno watches with the same steady pride adoring the fact that you were learning how to take up space and shine again.

but then comes the moment that even he isn’t prepared for.

it’s a warm afternoon, golden light slanting through the library windows, when jeno leans over the table, a mischievous glint in his eye, “alright, new assignment.”

you smirk at him, accepting his challenge, “what now?”

he tips his chin toward the entrance where sungchan – tall, charming, the boy you’ve had a quite, hopeless crush on for years – walks in, balancing a coffee and his bag slung casually over one shoulder.

the air is knocked out of your lungs and you suddenly feel dizzy, hoping jeno doesn’t follow through whatever he had in mind.

“sungchan,” jeno says, making your heart skip a bit. he grins, already knowing the effect he has on you, “go invite him to the dream frat party this weekend.”

you stare at him like he’s grown two heads, “are you insane?!, that’s sungchan!”

“which makes this the perfect challenge,” he teases.

you open your mouth to protest but jeno cuts you off with a nudge on your arm, “c’mon show me you’ve learned something,” he mocks playfully.

you groan dramatically but your feet somehow move anyway, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure jeno can hear it from where he’s sitting. you were determined to show jeno (and yourself) that you have completely embraced the confidence.

you gather every shred of courage you have and cross the room toward the boy who inspired this whole glow-up.

sungchan looks up just as you approach, his smile lighting up the whole room. you send him a smile – a little flirty, a little too sweet.

“hey,” sungchan says, voice warm, “you’re in my psych class, right? you always ace every test”

you blink, a little thrown by the fact the he paid attention to you, “oh yeah, that’s me,” you say with a soft, bashful laugh, earning a chuckle from the boy in front of you.

he leans against the shelves a little, eyes raking over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. it’s not the uncomfortable kind of stare you’ve been learning to dodge lately. it’s something softer, curious, warm. like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“you look different today,” he says, tilting his head, studying you, “—in a good way.”

you feel the heat rush to your cheeks but you force yourself to stay steady, remembering everything jeno has taught you.

“thanks,” you manage, giving him a more playful, more bold smile, “maybe you just weren’t paying enough attention before.”

this surprises him, eyebrows shooting up before a slow, impressed grin stretches across his face.

“maybe i wasn’t,” he admits, the easy charm in his voice sending your heart into a full sprint.

for a second, neither of you moves. the space between you humming with quiet tension – intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

you clear your throat lightly, breaking the spell, “come to the dream frat party this weekend,” you say it like it wasn’t an invitation. wasn’t a question. didn’t give him any room to deny.

sungchan’s grin turns teasing, a spark lighting in his eyes, “am i coming as your date or…?,” he leans toward you, trailing off, leaving the question open, playful.

you bite back a laugh, finding just enough courage to meet his gaze head on, “i guess you’ll have to come to find out.”

he stares at you for a heartbeat longer. you’ve definitely piqued his curiosity. and then he laughs, easy and alluring, “okay beautiful, you’ve convinced me. i’ll be there,” he whispers for only you to hear before sending you a wink and walking away.

back at the table, jeno watches. something inside him shifts. it’s subtle, a small, tight pull low in his chest but it settles in bitterly.

he pushes it away, refusing to acknowledge it because this wasn’t supposed to matter. he wasn’t supposed to care about anything but seeing you happy.

you make your way back to him, beaming, “he said yes!,” you practically squeal, dropping into your chair like your knees might give out at any second.

jeno chuckles, reaching out to ruffle your hair, a familiar, easy gesture that suddenly feels heavier than it should.

“of course he did, you’re impossible to say no to,” he tries to tease, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and you’re too giddy to notice any of it. you bat his hand away, cheeks flushed and full of life.

jeno is forced to swallow past the uncomfortable lump rising in his throat.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

tonight is the dream fraternity’s party.

the night where you finally put everything you’ve learned, everything you’ve worked for, to the test. this was it. the final step in your glow up and you felt that electric sense of anticipation crackling just beneath your skin.

you were done waiting. done watching from the sidelines.

you were ready to let loose, to fully step into this new version of yourself.

you stepped into the house, the air thick with excitement. a tight white dress clings to your body, a bold choice you would have second-guessed before. you ditched your glasses for the night, switching it with the contact lenses giselle gave you — embracing the braveness.

this time, when you notice the stares, the double takes, the whispered comments, you don’t shrink back. you don’t flinch. you let them wash over you, feeding the fire inside you.

all those lessons with jeno clearly worked. that change in mindset was all you needed. the attention makes you glow. makes you feel powerful.

looking around the room, you searched for your best friend before finally spotting him in the corner at the back, near the kitchen.

you send him a tiny wave, he sends one back, excitement bubbling through you but before you could make your way towards him, a hand on your arm stops you.

“y/n! you look so pretty oh my god!,” giselle screeches over the loud music, a smile beaming on her face as she pulls you in for a tight hug. she was clearly already intoxicated, her balance a little wobbly but her energy still infectious.

“c’mon,” she says, already dragging you around the room with her, “you have to meet my friends!”

you happily followed her around, giggles escaping your lips, nervousness falling away with every step.

before you know it you were three shots in, dancing with the girls – giselle, somi, and angel, who you already knew before as jaemin’s girlfriend.

the music was loud, your laughters were louder.

and for the first time, you aren’t overthinking a single thing.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

when jeno saw you walk into the front door, it was like time had slowed down, like a thousand cherry blossom petals had burst into the air around you, everyone else blurring into a side character of your story.

you have always been pretty. always been beautiful. but tonight, you were absolutely radiant.

and it wasn’t even the dress, though he can’t deny how much he loved the way white clung to you, soft and luminous.

it was the way you walked around the room with your head held high. the way you glowed with every step, not shying away under anyone’s gaze. the way your smile beamed.

you weren’t hiding anymore.

you have finally stepped into your own skin, finally brought back the girl he knew.

in that moment, it wasn’t just the girl standing in front of him that he saw. it was every version of you that was always beautiful – the girl that was the first one out of the house, chasing after his hamster. the girl that didn’t care if she only had two teeth left, she would still eat what she wanted. the girl who was fighting bullies three times her size just to protect him. the girl who was brave enough to kiss him first. the girl who learned to pick up the pieces.

when you waved at him, he felt like he was on cloud nine. it felt like he had stepped into his shoes all those years ago – a boy hopelessly in awe of the only person he ever wanted to see him.

and when you started walking towards him, it was like his lungs could no longer function. you stole every breath he had.

but before you could give it back to him, giselle pulls you away, spinning you into the chaos of the party, leaving jeno standing there, fighting the urge to follow.

“was that, y/n?,” jaemin says, popping out from nowhere, almost giving him a heart attack as he clutches his chest.

he punches the boy in his arm before confirming that it was in fact, you. jaemin looks at him with a knowing glance. he recognizes the familiar twinkle in jeno’s eye.

“wow,” jisung comments from his other side, making him pause.

when did all his friends show up?

“she looks really hot,” jisung adds, eyes following your figure across the room.

a devilish grin appeared on jeno’s lips and in one quick motion, he had jisung under his arm, ruffling his hair, “no, no, no…not the hair hyunggg!,” he struggled from the older boy’s grip before jeno finally released him.

“point taken, won’t say anything about her ever again,” jisung pouts, fixing his hair back into place.

“i don’t know what you mean,” jeno smiles playfully, “i just wanted to play with you.”

chenle chuckles from nearby, “oh definitely, it’s totally not because you’re possessive and way too protective of y/n,” he points out.

“i am not possessive,” jeno argues, his voice defensive, “protective, sure, but she’s my best friend guys, our parents will kill me if something bad happens to her,” he says.

“she’s also a grown woman,” renjun points out, “you can’t keep pushing away every guy who thinks she’s hot, you know?”

“im not pushing away every guy!…just you guys,” jeno protests. he would never let any of his friends touch you, knowing what he knows.

there’s a pause as the group stares at him, “mhm, cause her really tall, really muscular, really intimidating, doesn’t smile at anyone, guy best friend being by her side almost all the time isn’t pushing away any boys,” haechan adds, teasing.

“it’s not my fault those boys don’t have the balls to ask her out,” jeno mutters, looking at mark for some support, hoping that he’d somehow take his side and tell the others that they were being ridiculous.

mark shrugs in a don’t look at me kind of way and jeno can’t help but groan in defeat.

“well, that boy definitely has the balls,” jaemin nods towards the dance floor as jeno follows his line of vision, his eyes immediately on your figure once again.

you're still with the girls but this time, sungchan and a few other guys from the riize fraternity have surrounded you, laughing and chatting with you.

“shouldn’t you get your girlfriend, jaemin?,” mark asks casually, “i know that wonbin guy has a thing for her,”

jaemin just laughs, completely unbothered, “nah, he doesn't stand a chance,” he says, sipping from his drink as the boy’s laugh.

but jeno knew that sungchan definitely had a chance with you. nothing is funny.

sungchan leans in close, whispers something in your ear and you were laughing. the laugh he thought was only reserved for him. he feels his fists clench up on his sides.

“you gonna push him away, jeno?,” haechan teases by his ear, a smirk playing on his lips, earning him a punch right on the stomach.

“shut up,” he says, haechan clutching over, his laughter mixing with his pain. he totally deserved that.

“c‘mon jisung, let’s find your girl for the night,” haechan manages to say in between choked breaths, before he dragged jisung and mark out of the room, resuming their fuckboy101 classes.

jeno watches as sungchan and you continue to talk, his gaze never wavering from the two of you. every inch of him wants to march over there and pull you away but he doesn’t. instead, he stays rooted in place, his eyes burning holes in the back of your head, feeling his pulse quicken in ways he can’t explain.

lia, his current situationship, walks up to him.

“okayy, that’s our cue,” chenle whispers before all the boys dispersed leaving jeno alone.

he doesn’t even greet her, doesn’t make an effort to say hi, eyes still glued on your figure.

“hi handsome,” lia drags her hands up his shoulders, settling on the back of his neck, her lips finding the side of his jaw.

it all happened so quickly.

one second you were still with the girls, the next sungchan dragged you to the side, his lips on yours. jeno’s jaw clenches. his heart dropping.

he needed to stop looking. he needed a distraction.

he finally acknowledges the girl clung to his neck. she reeks of alcohol and vape smoke. jeno turns to kiss her anyway.

he let’s lia drag him up the stairs, taking one last look at you. he let’s her lead him into his bedroom. let’s her strip off his clothes.

he knew you were going to be okay, knew you could handle your alcohol after many beer nights with him and he definitely knew that you were too smart to get yourself into any real trouble.

he can’t ruin this night for you.

“fuck me like you did last time,” lia whispers in his ear, trailing kisses down his neck, “fuck me like you mean it,” her hand travels down, wrapping around his already hard cock and jeno did.

he fucked her like she was all he needed. abused her hole, used her to release all his sexual tension, trying to push away the image of you from his mind.

but he found that every time you appeared, the better it felt and soon he was clenching, body shaking, his orgasm taking over as he came…with your name spilling from his lips.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

bunny: come over please it’s an emergency.

jeno was banging on your door in under eight minutes of that text. which was absolutely ridiculous considering the fraternity house was a twenty minute walk away from your building. a million thoughts were racing in his head.

what happened after he left you at the party that constitutes this emergency text? were you hurt?

you swung the door open, perfectly intact. no tears, no bruises, just you – in shorts and one of his your oversized naruto t-shirt, blinking at him like he was the one being ridiculous.

side note: it’s insane how you manage to make that shirt look sexy.

he exhaled hard, one hand bracing on the doorframe as he caught his breath.

“did you run here?,” you ask, stunned, noticing the sweat dripping down the side of his face.

“you said it was an emergency,” he shot back, chest still heaving.

you offered a sheepish smile, “sorry, come in,” before walking into your room. jeno followed, shutting the door with a soft click.

“what happened?” he asked, eyes scanning you again, just to be sure, as he sat on the edge of your bed watching you pace back and forth.

“sungchan kissed me,” you tell him.

he blinked, processing, he knew that. he saw you. the reminder leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. he pushes it away, playing the best friend card once more.

“that’s good? right?,” he says cautiously, cursing the fact that he was your best friend right now and had to listen to you talk about another guy, “that’s what you wanted?”

“yeah but,” you swallowed, embarrassment already creeping up your neck, “but i didn’t know what to do!”

“what do you mean?,” he asks dumbfounded, “you just…kiss him back.”

“it’s not that simple, you weren’t there – i panicked! i-i froze! i was too into my head and then i just – i ran,” you ramble, cringing as you relived what happened last night.

a snort escapes jeno before he could stop it.

you narrowed your eyes, “don’t laugh!, it was so humiliating, i can’t believe i ran away like a literal child!,” you groan in your hands.

he tried to control his expression but the corner of his mouths betrayed him, eyes twinkling with amusement, “y/n, it’s not a big deal, you were nervous,” he reassures, “just tell him you were drunk and then try again, it's not the end of the world,” he says it so easily – like you didn’t just go through the worst moment of your life. and that’s saying a lot considering you had a dead mom.

“that’s the problem, i don’t know what i'm doing, i always thought when it happened i’d just know but i didn’t,” you whine in frustration, pulling at your hair.

he must be crazy to think you’d get a different result if you went up to sungchan now and kissed him. you’re almost sure the same thing would happen.

“you’ll be fine next time, you’ll be prepared for it,” he says. the thought of there being a next time makes you panic.

“will i?,” you cut in, “what if i freeze again?,”

“you won’t”

“you don’t know that.”

he opened his mouth to argue, but you beat him to it.

“can you teach me?,” you said, voice quiet.

jeno stills, looking at you with wide eyes like he almost couldn’t believe what you just said – “what?”

“teach me,” you sat next to him, eyes locked on his, “add a step five, teach me how to kiss, teach me how to–” you couldn’t bring yourself to say the other things, the dirtier things you wanted to learn, “–how to do other things,” you mumble.

his jaw tensed. he can’t believe what it is you’re truly asking from him. teaching you how to kiss was already absurd but teaching you how to kiss for another man? it makes him want to throw up.

“bunny –no. i don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“why not?,” your head turns like a genuinely curious puppy.

“because best friends don’t–,” he faltered, “we don’t cross that line.”

“but it’s not like that,” you looked up at him, voice softening, “it’s just…practice.”

he didn’t move. didn’t blink. he can’t fathom the fact that he was actually starting to entertain the idea.

“it’s for educational purposes…just another step in the glow up,” you added, looking at him with those innocent eyes that makes him want to give you the moon, if you asked for it.

his throat worked as he swallowed, holding on to the last bit of restraint he had, “we can’t,” but it came out too quiet, too unsure, his resolve breaking with every second.

“neno,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. it’s not fair and you know it but you’ve already convinced yourself that this is necessary. that you needed to be taught.

“please…you’re the only one i feel comfortable with, just so i could learn, so i could know what to do when these things happen and i don’t make a fool of myself again,” you say, your tone low, almost pleading.

jeno’s breath hitches in his throat. he must be crazy or maybe you truly have him wrapped around your finger because now his eyes are flickering down to your lips and he can’t look away.

he realizes just how close you actually were and just like that, everything else blurs.

he leans in slowly, cautiously, searching your eyes for any flicker of hesitation.

you remain still, you don’t move, you don’t pull away. just watching him, a mixture of quiet excitement, nerves and something warmer, something softer, spreading through you like wildfire.

“just for practice,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours.

“just for practice,” you breathe back.

and that was all he needed to finally close the final inch – kissing you slowly, carefully.

it hits him instantly. fireworks. the same ones he felt when he was fourteen. the same one burned at the back of his memory. all this time he thought it was just because it was his first kiss, that feeling never once coming again. but here it is. bright, real and alive in his chest.

and this time he sees it for what it is – it’s you.

he feels you stiffen up and he pulls away softly, “don’t think about it too much, just follow my lead, okay, bunny?,” the once innocent nickname leaves you feeling hot, your heart pounding in your chest as you nod.

his hand makes his way to your cheek, warm and gentle, brushing the soft skin just beneath your ear, the small smile on his lips bringing you a sense of comfort as you as he pulls you back in. lips melting in his. you gave in, shutting the rest of the world out and only focusing on the boy in front of you.

jeno tilts his head, deepening the kiss as you follow his every move. his tongue licks your bottom lip, begging for entrance as yours part on instinct. body reacting before your mind could even process what was happening.

you kiss him back – not perfectly, not practiced but with all the pent-up wonder and want you’ve never let yourself say out loud. it was so natural with jeno. like you were always meant to be kissing him.

you can taste the faint mint of the altoids he always had, feel the heat radiating off his skin.

the makeout session grows heavier and heavier as you continue to keep up with him, learning to breathe through your nose.

you shift slightly and your knees brush, thighs pressing together and suddenly you’re aware of how close you have gotten. the lack of space between your bodies is dizzying. your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, wanting him even closer.

as if he could read your mind, jeno moves his hand from your neck to your waist, fingers splaying wide, grounding you and then in one swift motion, like you had absolutely no weight, he pulls you into his lap.

you gasp softly into the kiss and he swallows the sound, “sorry,” he murmurs against your lips, not pulling back. he was completely lost in you. in this feeling that only you could give him. he swears he could kiss you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“don’t be,” you shake your head, straddling him now. your hands find his shoulders, wrapping around his frame and threading through his hair. he kisses you harder now, less careful, lips moving in a messy rhythm, teeth clashing.

almost like it had a mind of it’s own, your hips instinctively grind down on his clothed bulge. the action sending jeno into a frenzy, a strangled groan transferring from his mouth to yours, his hold on your waist tightening.

the sound was so addicting, so intoxicating and it wraps around your head like a sweet drug.

you do it again, not entirely sure what you want to achieve but it felt good. it feels like a million butterflies flying in your stomach. there’s a growing tension in your belly that you can’t pinpoint. the feeling is new, exciting, hot.

jeno was right there with you, every boundary, every line he tried to draw was completely vanishing.

his lips trail down to your jaw, then lower, to the edge of your throat and you tilt your head back with a soft breath. your heart’s pounding. his is too. you can feel it, fast and erratic against your chest.

“y/n,” he grunts your name, like a warning – hoping you would stop him because he no longer couldn’t.

“what were the other things?,” he asks you, eyes completely blown out as he looks at you with a kind of hunger. and when all you do is grind against him once more, leaning into his touch, he’s decided he wants to see you on your knees.

“lesson number two, you’re going to suck my cock,” he whispers in your ear. the vulgar words make you feel hot, your body clenching, “do you want to learn that, bunny?,” he says, voice raspier, teasing, waiting for your go signal.

you nervously look up at him, all you could do was nod, an innocent glow in your eyes and jeno swears he could bust right there.

he reaches for one of your pillows, placing it on the floor beside your bed, “get on your knees,” he gently commands. you’re quick to follow, almost like you were in a trance. jeno tugs his sweats down to his ankles, his bulge prominent in his boxers and you can’t help but stare.

“go ahead, bunny, touch it,” he says. you almost can’t believe this is the same boy who was hiding behind your back, crying, every time the older kids would tease him.

this situation was absolutely ridiculous but that doesn’t stop your hand from wandering. following the outline of his cock as you palm him through his boxers. jeno lets out a hiss, the friction already fucking with his head.

“you can take it out,” he says, almost pleading. carefully you push his boxers off, his cock springing free, slapping against his thigh. you can’t help but gulp at his size, “i-its so big,” you say, making him laugh.

“thank you,” he says with a smirk on his lips and you playfully roll your eyes.

“what do i do?,” you look up at him, waiting for the answer. his eyes darken, that simple question snapping something inside of him. you were so innocent. so pure. and he was about to corrupt you.

he gently grabs your hand, redirecting it to your mouth, “spit,” he orders and like an obedient student, you follow, spitting in your hand.

“you can do anything, you can squeeze it,” he says, making you wrap your hand around his cock. your hand looks so tiny around his member and jeno almost just wants to skip this lesson entirely and fuck your hand dumb but he contains himself.

large hands envelop yours as he guides you on what to do, squeezing just the right amount.

“you can pump it up and down,” he says, guiding your hand to slide up and down his throbbing cock. he releases a sigh of pleasure, the warmth of your hand already making him weak.

“you can twist,” he says, twisting your hand around his cock, “you can put your mouth on it…lick it, swallow it, just keep the teeth away,” he smirks and you take a mental note of everything.

jeno releases your hand, giving you the space to experiment on his body. you’re excited, nervous but excited. you wanted to be good at this.

slowly, you continue his previous ministrations, pumping his cock up and down, squeezing and twisting your hand, just like how he showed you. jeno can’t help but let out a shaky breath, and you’re worried “does it hurt?,” you ask.

“no, bunny–feel’s really good, j-just go faster, please,” he begs.

it was sweet torture – how slow you were going, how much you were edging him on and you weren’t even aware of it. you pick up the speed, giving into his request and jeno grunts, his elbows coming in contact with your bed.

his cock looked so pretty, red and swelling, leaking.

your mouth exploringly wraps around his red tip and jeno curses under his breath, “fuuuck, oh my god.”

your confidence grows, feeling your pussy twitch at the sight of him. clenching your thighs, wanting some sort of relief. the sinful sounds he was making goes directly to your senses — the same sound you heard earlier but clearer now, more desperate, more whiny, and it knocks the breath out of you.

your hand continues to pump him, as you start sucking. you wouldn’t describe the taste of his cock to be good or sweet or like candy but it was addicting — it makes you want more. especially when every swipe of your tongue was accompanied by a breathy groan from him. it fuels you.

you take more and more of his length in until you could no longer fit him in your mouth and slowly you start bobbing up and down. his grunts and groans becoming more frequent.

jeno can’t do it anymore. this teasing was killing him. and the worst part is that you don’t even know how much you were affecting him.

his hand finds it’s way to your hair, gripping lightly, controlling the pace, increasing the speed, until you were choking, gagging, tears brimming in your eyes, “s-sorry bunny, it just f-feels so good,” he growls, thrusting his cock down your throat.

it was too much. he was too big. but you don’t care. you shut your eyes tightly, fighting the urge to gag as he continued to hit the deepest part of your throat.

this image of you on your knees, spit drooling all over your chin, tears in the corner of your eyes as you take what he gives you is absolutely heavenly.

jeno feels the coil about to snap, his breaths coming in heavy pants, thrusts getting messier and messier.

“o-open your eyes, bunny,” he orders. he wants you to see it. wants you to see him unravel. wants you to know how good you’ve been for him.

“p-play with my balls,” he instructs. your hands immediately follows through, squeezing him just where he needed it. heat travels all throughout his veins as he pulls you off, not wanting to force you to swallow his cum.

and then he falls apart – hard.

jaw going slack, eyes rolling back as his body fell into your pillows, abs clenching, cock pulsating. his cum shoots out of his tip, messily squirting everywhere, orgasm completely washing over him.

you watch him fall apart and you’re absolutely mesmerized. he looked so beautiful. so fucked out. and there’s that knot building in your stomach that you still can’t quite place.

you lick him clean, swallowing every drop that has landed on his stomach, his thighs, everywhere.

jeno’s eyes shot open as he tried to slow his breathing, slowly sitting back up, watching you clean him up like he was your last meal.

“how does it taste?,” he smirks and you look up at him through your damp lashes, “not very good,” you smile, earning a laugh from both of you. he guides you back up, as you stand in between his legs.

he lifts the naruto shirt off your body, leaving you in your light blue bra, flower patterns detailing it, “cute,” he playfully smirks and you suddenly feel embarrassed, arms protectively going across your chest.

“nu-uh don’t shy on me now, this was your idea, remember,” he says, before pushing your hands away and placing a soft kiss on the flesh on top of your breasts, looking up at you. your breath catches in your throat. that knot in your belly growing and growing making you push your legs together.

jeno notices.

“you did such a good job,” he compliments you, licking and sucking the skin of your breasts as he continues to look at you. your hands find comfort in his shoulders, stabilizing yourself.

“i did?,” you ask, “mhm, you’re such a good girl…made me feel so good,” he groans in between your breasts before traveling lower, placing a soft kiss on your stomach. his dirty talk has your mind reeling, feeling weak in the knees.

“-and good girls, must be rewarded,” he says, his fingers making their way to the hem of your shorts, squeezing the fabric between his fingers.

“how do you like being touched?,” he asks, softly, waiting, looking up at you.

“what?,” you ask, blush creeping up your cheeks.

“when you touch yourself, how do you like it?,” he asks, littering your stomach with soft kisses, his tongue lightly grazing on your skin.

“i-,” you stutter, “i-i dont,” you say, embarrassed of your lack of experience.

“what?” it was his turn to be surprised, gently sitting you on his thigh, like you just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

sure he knew you were a virgin and had zero experience with men but you had to have touched yourself before? there had to be some part of you that gave in to the desires of the night and experimented?

you groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, “i-i’ve tried but nothing ever happens and i just feel silly with my hand down my pants,” you reason out and that very image alone makes his cock twitch again.

you were going to kill him.

“so you’ve never fingered yourself? never had an orgasm?,” he asks, completely shocked.

“i don’t even know how i’m supposed to do that,” you shrug.

“ok,” jeno says, taking it all in.

he thinks for a minute or two before he finally comes to a conclusion.

you stole his first kiss, it was only fair he stole your first orgasm. right?

“lesson number three, i’m teaching you how pleasure is supposed to feel like.”

his strong arms lift you up, making you squeal at the sudden action before he turns around, gently laying you on your bed.

jeno gets rid of his shirt, throwing his remaining piece of clothing over his head and holy fuck…your best friend is hot. his abs are on clear display, his semi-hard cock hung to the side, and you feel very hot as his gaze focuses back on you.

“when did you get those?,” you ask, fingers ghostly dancing over his six pack, trying to push away the nerves you were feeling.

he chuckles before leaning over, body trapping yours, lips finding that spot he left off of, as he continues to trail kisses on your stomach. your body can’t help but react, arching towards him. his fingers tugging on your pajama shorts.

“let’s take this off, bunny,” you comply, hips raising up, shorts sliding down your legs and you almost curse yourself at the underwear you decided to wear – a white one with cute little brown bears all over it.

jeno smirks, “really mature choice of underwear,” he teases and you scowl, “shut up, jeno,” you say, trying to hold onto the little pride you had left. he chuckles until he spots the dripping arousal your underwear has collected and something inside him shifts.

he wants to ruin you…so bad.

“look at you, bunny,” his voice drops an octave deeper, “already so wet and i haven’t even touched you,” he kisses the inside of your thigh and you feel your pussy clench, “you don’t even know what we can do with all this, huh?,” he says, gazing up at you. you watch him, as he got up, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

jeno’s hands wrapped around his cock and you tense up, “neno, are we about to have sex?,” you ask, your voice soft, timid, a hint of fear – it drives him absolutely nuts.

“no bunny, i won’t take that from you,” he says softly, “just want you to feel something, okay? just a little clit stimulation,” he explains and before you could even ask him what that means his cock was inside your underwear — collecting all your juices, tip hitting your clit over and over again as he slides up and down your wet folds.

“ohhh,” you release a sigh of pleasure, eyebrows furrowing as you try to understand this new feeling.

“feel’s good?,” he says, smirking at you.

“y-yeah,” you manage to breathe out and jeno absolutely loves the way your face was contorting.

he was playing a dangerous game with himself and this is supposed to be all about you. all he wants to do is insert his tip. just the tip. before he could lose control he stops, pulling his cock out of your underwear.

“why’d you stop?,” you ask, frustrated, already missing the lack of contact.

he chuckles, “my fingers will feel better,” he says for his own sanity.

he finally tugs off your underwear, the cool air hitting your pussy, before his thumb starts circling around your sensitive bud – rough, slow, precise circles that elicited a loud moan from you.

you slap your fingers across your mouth, surprised at the sound you made.

“don’t do that,” he orders, grabbing your fingers and latching it onto his before bringing it up over your head, a strong hand keeping it there, “want to hear you moan, bunny,” he whispers, sucking that sensitive spot just below your ear, earning another breath of moan from you.

your body arches up towards him, hips raising to his touch and he knew you were ready for more.

“gonna stick a finger in,” he warns, not giving you time to respond as his digit slides inside your hole, making you tense up, “relax,” he places a soft kiss on your lips, distracting you from the stretch, “it’s okay,” even with your dripping arousal, you were so so so fucking tight. he didn’t even know it was possible for someone to be this tight.

with a tiny bit of force, he pushes his finger in through your walls, “gonna make you feel real good, bunny,” he soothes as you slowly relax into his touch.

“gonna add another okay?,” he says and you just nod, trusting him completely. this stretch is definitely larger, and you find yourself biting down your lip. his fingers were so thick.

he slowly, gently thrusts them in and out, giving you time to adjust, “it’ll feel real good soon,” he seals with a kiss to your lips as he continues to stretch you out. fingers scissoring your walls until your pussy finally sucked him in.

the feeling of having something inside you was entirely new, strange, and you’re still trying to figure out if it felt good or not. but then jeno curls his finger and that knot in your stomach is rising faster and faster.

you want to know what happens when it finally breaks.

“ohh…neno,” you breathily moan, the pain completely morphing into pleasure. your walls completely adjusting to him, “please” you plead, not entirely sure what you were begging for.

your sweet, innocent, delicious moans of his name awakens something in him.

“im gonna eat you out now,” he tells you.

before you could protest, the idea of it making you feel embarrassed, he was already in between your legs, sucking on that spot that makes your eyes roll back.

“ohhh fuck, jeno,” you cry out, his tounge lapping up your juices, swirling around your sensitive bud, fingers still curling inside of you.

“neno, s-something’s happening,” you say in heavy pants, your breathing becoming shakier.

“p-please,” you beg, eyes wide, jaw going slack as you start panting, your hands gripping his hair, trying to ground yourself.

that coil in your stomach is hanging on by a single thread.

jeno looks up at you, he can feel you coming to a close. your walls pulsating around his fingers. he decides to finally send you over the edge, fingers rubbing fast, harsh, circles around your clit as the other continues to hit that sweet spot.

“let it happen, bunny,” he whispers, “let go…come all over my hand,” your best friend’s voice was the final push.

the thread snaps. the knot breaks.

you came crashing apart, stomach clenching, toes curling, eyes rolling to the back of your head. vision slipping into absolute darkness, feeling like you were floating.

jeno coaxes you through your orgasm, letting you ride out every wave. the sight of you unraveling drives him completely insane and it takes every nerve of self control to not ram his cock into you.

“such a good girl, bunny” he praises, littering kisses along your jaw, slow, reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. your breathing is erratic, chest rising in short, shuddery pulls as you come down from everything.

he shuffles around your room quietly, grabbing a clean towel out of your bathroom before making his way back to your bed, gently cleaning you up.

your eyes flutter open at his touch. your best friend’s smile greets you, safe and warm, “you okay?” he asks and his voice is too tender. too full of something you don’t see.

“t-hat,” you clear your throat, a weak laugh slipping out, “that was a really fun lesson,” you smile, still caught in your daze.

jeno smiles back at you but it’s hollow and empty and he hates himself for smiling at all.

reality slaps him in the face, something in him crumples as he’s reminded that all of this – all the care, all the closeness wasn’t for him. it was all just for practice. a rehearsal for someone else. and now he’s drowning in the realization that he’s just the one you trust, not the one you want.

he’s helping you be prepared for another man, still pretending like it doesn’t kill him.

he almost wants to kill every man in the world for you to finally see him.

he stands, needing to put space between you, between what just happened and everything he’s feeling. but you catch him.

“where are you going?,” you ask, when he pulls his clothes off the ground, pulling his sweats up, getting ready to leave.

“back to the frat”

“jeno, it’s late, just stay the night,” you say, casually, easy. like it’s nothing. like it’s normal. like he didn’t just get a taste of something he’ll never recover from.

and it should’ve been easy. it should’ve been nothing. it should’ve been normal. he has stayed countless nights before.

but it’s not easy. it's not nothing. and it’s definitely not normal.

“please,” you say, moving over, making room for him and patting the space he usually took up.

jeno hesitates for a second or two before doing the one thing he never does if you were any other girl — he crawls back into your bed, your sheets and pillows molding to the shape of his body.

you immediately curl into his chest like it’s instinct. filling in that space that’s always been yours. legs tangle. skin touches skin.

it feels normal but it’s not. not with so little between you. not with everything unsaid.

jeno holds you close like he always does but this time he wonders if it’s the last. the sound of his heartbeat lulls you to sleep but he stays awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the cracks in his heart, wondering how much longer he can survive being just your best friend.

his fingers thread gently through your hair, slow and careful, memorizing the feel of you beneath his touch. the familiar scent of your strawberry shampoo wraps around him, soft and warm and absolutely cruel. it smells like home, like comfort, like everything he’s always wanted.

and then, in a voice so quiet it barely disturbs the silence, he whispers into the night air, words only for the moon to hear:

“i’m in love you, bunny.”

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the sun filters in gently, casting golden lines across your bedroom floor. you stir before he does, eyes blinking open to the soft rise and fall of his chest, quiet snores filling the air.

jeno’s arm is still wrapped around you, strong and secure, holding you like he didn’t want to let go. his face is relaxed, lips parted slightly, his usually styled hair falls softly on his features — he looks so vulnerable, peaceful.

he looks like the version of himself you remember all those years ago.

you should pull away but you don’t. instead, you study him — every line of his face, older now, more defined, but still him. you’ve seen him like this before, countless times, but something feels different now. you feel different.

and then it hits you, soft and sudden.

the feelings you had for him after you kissed him. the feelings you had for him when you wore your pink puffy dress, him in a pink matching tie as you danced the night away for prom. the feelings you had for him when he held you that night your world was falling apart.

you’ve always just needed him.

all of it crashes back into you at once — feelings you’d buried under years of pretending. years of silence. feelings you quickly tucked away the first time he talked about another girl.

the way you trained yourself to look away. the way you learned to smile through the ache. the way you accepted your fate of being his best friend.

your eyes drop to where your legs are still tangled with his, you notice the bulge in his sweats and memories of last night play in your mind. you feel his warmth everywhere and you wonder how you ever got used to not feeling this. how you ever convinced yourself that this didn’t mean something.

you knew that once he woke up. this would all be over. you would go back to being his best friend. back to the operation. back to the almosts that were always never enough.

so for a moment you let yourself have this, just for a minute longer. the closeness, the warmth, the boy who’s always been there. you snuggle into his side once more, nestling into the warmth of him, letting your eyes fall shut again.

the next time your eyes flutter open, you’re met with the cold reality you’ve always lived in. the warmth that surrounds you is gone. the space beside you is empty.

jeno is gone.

you sit up slowly, a heavy thud echoing in your chest, not of panic or confusion but just that quiet, hollow ache that settles in when you’re reminded that he will never be yours.

your eyes scans the room, no shoes by the door, his shirt nowhere to be seen. no signs he was ever there at all except for the faint scent of his cologne lingering in your sheets.

swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you wrap the blanket around yourself as if that would fill the space he left behind. you check your phone, hoping for a message but there’s nothing.

something twists in your chest — you were just another name on his list.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

forty-eight hours.

that's how long it has been since you’ve last seen your best friend. forty-eight hours of sitting in the library alone. forty-eight hours of him not showing up to your shared classes. forty-eight hours of absolutely no contact. your messages were left on delivered. no goofy tiktoks. no instagram reels. nothing. and you hated every second of it.

you miss him and you’re not entirely sure why he had suddenly fallen off the face of the earth.

giselle: hey girly! <3 go to the party at the dream frat tonight, the girls and i are all gonna be there! <333

giselle: and sungchan will be there ;)

you stare at the messages.

you had nothing better to do and you’re hoping that maybe you’ll get a glimpse of your best friend while you’re there. just to see if he was doing okay.

you slipped on a light blue mini dress that accentuates your figure, did your makeup, paired it with white heels and you were good to go.

the dream fraternity still had a pretty huge crowd considering it was a wednesday night. bodies pressed together, bass shaking the walls, the usual laughter and shouting blurring into one.

you spot jeno almost immediately, in that same corner he seemed to always be in. there’s a new girl on his arm — pretty, tall, fair-skinned. you don’t recognize her. something in your heart twists.

you knew all the girls he was seeing. every girl he flirted with, hooked up with, even the ones he ghosted. usually you were the first one he would tell it to. the first one to know everything about him.

but now? he’s shut you out. it was loud and clear. he has drawn a line between you. the same line he draws once he’s gotten all that he wanted with whoever was his current conquest.

you felt absolutely sick. the years of friendship going down the drain just like this. your heart splitting into two while he’s just standing there, laughing, flirting, completely unaffected by the wreckage he left behind.

if he doesn’t need you then you don’t need him either. if he can act normal then you can too.

you force yourself to look away, scanning the crowd until you spot giselle and the rest of the girls in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, “y/n! you’re hereee!,” she squeals, giving you a tight, buzzing hug that makes you laugh for the first time in days.

“here! take a shot!,” she hands you a drink and you down it quickly, the alcohol burning your throat in the best way possible.

the dj plays a song that gets everyone hyped up and you feel yourself letting loose, having fun, with the girls beside you, already feeling better than you did when you walked in here.

then a hand taps your shoulder and you turn to see the boy that makes your mind race into a million happy tunes, “sungchan!,” you greet him with a wide smile. he looks down at you, amused.

“hi, pretty girl,” he whispers in your ear, hands settling on your waist. his touch is warm against your skin but it doesn’t burn the way jeno’s did. doesn’t leave you branded.

“you’re not gonna run away this time are you?,” he teases, playfully, earning a giggle from you.

“sorry about that, i was just…too drunk,” you lie. the lie jeno taught you.

“are you too drunk now?,” he asks, leaning in, a twinkle in his eye.

you smirk, biting your lips, “no.”

sungchan kisses you, rough, fast and with no room for gentleness. this time, you don’t freeze. you kiss him just as hard. you let his hands roam around your body from your waist to your hips to your ass.

but kissing sungchan wasn’t like kissing jeno.

it doesn’t feel the same. doesn’t feel as good. there were no butterflies, no fireworks, no dizzy, floating feeling.

you’re still grounded. still painfully aware that you’re in the middle of drunk, sweaty strangers. he didn’t take you to a different dimension. your body was just there – moving your mouth against his like a robot programmed to do so. but your heart? your heart’s somewhere else.

and it was so annoying that at a time like this, your lips on your long-time crush, that you’ve made the realization that your heart was where it always was — in the hands of the boy in the corner.

the same boy whose lips, touch, words imprinted your heart in a way that you could never forget.

the same boy who could never see you the way you see him.

suddenly you pull away, too fast, too sharp – the feelings rushing into you all at once, suffocating, overwhelming.

sungchan stares at you like you were crazy and perhaps you are. “i-i need to use the bathroom,” you murmur, forcing a small, apologetic smile. he nods slowly, “alright, i’ll just be here.”

you quietly slip from his arms, pushing through all the bodies, barely noticing the music or the people pressing in on all sides.

and when you finally push open the bathroom door, it’s like exhaling for the first time in minutes. you grip the edge of the sink, chest heaving, trying to gather the pieces of yourself that scattered the moment you woke up alone.

you wished jeno was here.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

almost like he had a radar that went off, everytime you were near him. the second you walked through the door, jeno felt it. his gaze snapped to you instinctively but he looked away just as fast.

he’s not ready to face you. not ready to continue pretending.

the next time he saw you, you were making out with sungchan. kissing him the way he taught you. and god, he needed a drink. lots of it. the image burns in his mind, cruel and unrelenting.

he wants to chop off the guy’s hands. wants to make sure he doesn’t touch you ever again.

he wants him to know that his hands were on you first. that it was his lips he was tasting. that you were his.

but that’s not the case. so he goes and grabs another drink, another shot, another mix of poison to blur the pain.

the sound of your name snaps him back to reality.

“why do you keep waiting around for y/n anyway, there’s so many hotter girls around,” the voice is lazy, mocking, it was that wonbin guy from the riize fraternity.

jeno leans against the the wall, hidden in the shadows as he listens in on their conversation.

“well, one she’s hot,” sungchan snickers and jeno’s jaw tenses.

“and two, rumor is she’s still a virgin,” there’s a wicked amusement in his tone, “and we all know virgins are the hottest in the room.”

laughter erupts around them, sharp, cruel, echoing off the walls and that was all it took.

jeno doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate.

in one quick second, he marched over, fist landing right on the sungchan’s jaw, the crack loud and satisfying, sending the soccer player tumbling backwards.

“what the hell?!,” sungchan yells, rubbing at his jaw before his expression twists in rage. in the next breath, he lunges. his fist catching jeno clean across the cheek.

jeno barely flinches. the soccer player was stronger than he thought, he’d give him that. but nothing is getting past his rage, adrenaline coursing through him.

he’s not done. not even close.

he charges forward, ramming sungchan into the wall with a force that rattles the shelves beside them, “don’t ever fucking touch her again,” he growls, voice low and deadly.

sungchan pushes back, shoving him hard, “she’s not yours,” and his words hits deeper than any punch could. because it was true. you weren’t his. and he’s almost sure you would kill him for this but he doesn’t care.

jeno throws another fist, connecting with sungchan’s ribs, making him grunt and double over for a second before retaliating with a wild swing.

more people gather now, phones out, flashes going off, chants of “fight, fight, fight,” increasing all around them.

sungchan, lunges, tackling jeno to the ground as they roll, fists flying, shouts echoing.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the loud commotion coming from outside the bathroom door forces you to pick up the pieces.

shouts. thuds. chaos.

you quickly gather yourself, pulling open the door and following the swarm of bodies funneling toward the noise like a moth drawn to a light.

and then you see him — you know that figure immediately, even with his back towards you.

your best friend was on top of someone, fists repetitively slamming down. your heart lurches, legs moving before your mind can catch up.

they roll and you see sungchan’s face bruised and battered.

what the fuck?

around them, the crowd erupts in shouts and arguments, phones raised like this was some kind of show.

the dream boys were trying to get a hold of the situation but they too just ended up shouting and arguing with the riize fraternity, voices overlapping in a haze of testosterone and ego.

“your guy started it first!”

“you’re on our turf!”

the room was absolute chaos and no one’s doing a damn thing. you finally push through the roaring crowd, running over to them, until you’re at the center of the storm.

“stop!,” you shout, but your pleas are swallowed by the noise as they continue to take jabs at each other.

with all your strength, you yank on sungchan’s shirt, sending him stumbling off jeno.

you finally take a good look at your best friend, he had a nasty cut forming on the side of his forehead, face flushed and bruised.

“y/n,” he breathes your name like he’s shocked you’re here.

he stumbles to his feet, eyes darting behind you “get out of here,” he says urgently.

you whirl around only to see that sungchan wasn’t done. he was charging at your best friend again.

without thinking, you step in – fist connecting with his throat – sharp, clean, brutal. completely flying him backwards as he gasped for air.

the crowd cheers.

of course you knew how to punch, you grew up with three men three times your size.

“okay, that's ENOUGH!” mark’s voice rips through the room like a whip – loud and absolutely furious. the crowd freezes, the chaos dies down. he grabs sungchan by the arm and shoves him toward his crew.

“get the fuck out of here,” he commands the room, controlling the crowd. bodies scattering like cockroaches under a light.

you turn to jeno, chest heaving, fury radiating off you, “what the fuck was that?”

jeno flinches at your tone like it was more painful than any of the punches he had just taken. you were never mad at each other. not like this.

when he doesn’t answer, you turn around, jaw tight, ready to leave.

“wait–,” jeno jolts back to reality.

you pause, barely looking over your shoulder, “what?!,” your anger is palpable, brows furrowed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

he softens, “your hand is bleeding,” he says gently. you glance down at your knuckles, raw and stained red, the adrenaline fading just enough for the sting to set in.

“c’mon,” he grabs your uninjured hand carefully and without another word, he leads you through the dispersing crowd, up the stairs and into the safety of his room.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

you stand in jeno’s bathroom, the fluorescent light above casting a soft glow on both of you. he dabs the small, barely any, blood that had stained your knuckles, applying ointment on the tiny wounds.

“you’re being dramatic, there’s barely anything there,” you mutter, watching how focused he is.

“just don’t want it to get infected,” he says quietly, his brows still drawn together.

then with a soft chuckle, “i can’t believe you punched him,” he smiles his trademark smile and for a second, you forget you were currently angry at him.

“no one hurts my neno and gets away with it,” you tease, the words light on your tongue, but they steal the air from jeno’s lungs. you were always protecting him.

your eyes meet his and the moment stretches. but then you remember yourself, remember why your chest is tight and your heart is sore. so you press your lips into a thin line, forcing away the smile that appeared.

a quiet silence hangs in the air, heavy, almost awkward, until jeno’s voice breaks it, “done,” he says, turning to leave the bathroom and into his bedroom.

before he could take another step, your hand captures his wrist.

“your face is bleeding,” you point out.

you guide him to sit on the edge of the tub, slotting yourself between his legs. no matter how mad you guys are at each other, this is what you do. you take care of each other. your fingers are careful, precise, as you press a cotton pad soaked in alcohol to the gash on his temple.

a particular swipe on the cut stings him, a hiss slipping past his lips as his hands instinctively finds the back of your thighs, gripping, like he’s grounding himself through you. the small contact is enough to bring back that familiar knot tightening in your stomach.

“stop being a baby,” you say, dabbing again, “this is your fault.”

he smirks faintly, “how are you so sure i started the fight?”

“please,” you scoff, “in what world would sungchan go up to you and punch you? especially since he’s in your territory,” you point out, quite familiar with the whole fraternity rules.

he sighs in defeat.

“what happened anyway?,” you ask cautiously, not sure if you were ready for the answer.

“nothing,” he says, a little too quickly.

you stop, eyes narrowing, “no secrets between us remember?,” you remind him.

right, that silly rule you made when you were eight years old and still held on to to do this day.

jeno sighs, his shoulder falling, “he said something about you. i didn’t like it,” he confesses and you still.

“what did he say about me?,” you ask, curious.

“that he only wanted you because you were a virgin,” he mutters, jaw clenching again like it’s the first time he’s hearing it. the urge to punch sungchan in the face coming back in seconds.

it was supposed to hurt. it was supposed to leave you angry, embarrassed, hollow — to hear those words coming from the boy you’ve had a crush on since freshman year. but that feeling of heartache never came. instead, confusion clouds your chest.

why did he care? that wasn’t supposed to be his battle.

“hmm,” you hum thoughtfully, tone laced with challenge “and what if i was okay with that?”

his hands on your legs twitch, just slightly

“you shouldn’t be,” he snaps, “you shouldn’t lose it to a guy like him.”

and just like that, the anger ignites. your hands finish cleaning him up in cold, calculated movements. you removed yourself from his space, placing the first aid kit back in the drawer with a little too much force, organizing everything just to keep from exploding because who the hell was he to decide who you should have sex with?

“oh? and who should i lose it to?,” you seethe.

“a guy like you?,” there’s a sort of anger in your voice that jeno can’t quite read.

“aren’t you the same?,” you throw at him, voice trembling with fury.

jeno furrows his brows at your insinuation, like he’s been slapped, “y/n–,”

“you left, jeno,” your voice is quiet, but it slices through the space between you like a blade. you give him one last look before storming out of the bathroom. and jeno finally understands it all.

“wait, bunny–”

you don’t stop. not even as you hear his footsteps close behind you, not even as your chest rises with every breath that feels too heavy to hold.

you make it into his bedroom but before you can reach for the door, his hands close around your wrist, gentle but firm and in the next second he spins you around and crashes his lips onto yours.

the fire in your chest blazes and still, you kiss him back.

the kiss melts into something deeper, hungrier. your hands grip his shirt as his thumb brushes your jaw. he pulls away just enough to press his forehead against yours, both of you breathless, hearts racing.

“that’s why i left,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper between your shared air.

your brows draw together, confusion clouding your gaze, “what does that even mean?”

“can’t you feel it,” he says, guiding your hand to his chest, letting you feel the frantic rhythm beneath your palm, “the way my heart is beating, it only ever races like this because of you,” he confesses.

you swallow hard, barely finding your voice, “but you left,” you remind him, “why did you leave?”

his eyes flicker with something raw, something that’s been buried for too long, “because i couldn’t pretend anymore,” he says, voice shaking with the weight of it, “i couldn't go another day being your best friend–not when im so fucking in love with you that it hurts.”

his confession leaves you stunned and you can’t believe how blind you’ve both been. all these years of mutual pining, years of missed moments, of stolen glances and silent aching all leading up to this moment.

a tearful laugh escapes you, half breathless, half broken, “you’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, voice shaking with the force of everything you feel, a mixture of love, frustration and the tenderness of finally hearing the truth.

with urgency, a quiet desperation, you pull him back in, leaning up to kiss him.

the kiss is slow but intense, full of everything you’ve both kept hidden, everything you’ve both wanted for so long.

jeno doesn't need to hear you say it. he feels it in the way your lips meet his, the way you kiss him like your very existence depends on it. he knows now that you’ve been waiting for this – waiting for each other, for the truth that was always there.

you deepen the kiss and jeno meets you with equal fervor, tongues moving with an ease that feels natural, as if it’s a rhythm you’ve both known forever.

you guide him towards you, steps slow but deliberate, until the back of your knees hits the edge of his bed, falling into the softness of his sheets, pulling him down with you, lips never once breaking from his.

pushing yourself up until your head hit his pillows. jeno follows your lips like you were magnets drawn together. he couldn’t get enough.

you pull on the hem of his shirt. jeno quickly tugs it off over his head, tossing it to the side, diving right back into you. the kiss is hungry, steamy, full of tongue, leaving you no room to breathe.

your fingers dance through his skin, feeling every muscle. jeno guides you to sit up, quickly finding the zipper in the back of the dress, sliding it off your body, leaving you in a lacy blue underwear that makes his cock twitch.

the dress didn’t warrant a bra, your breasts immediately exposed to the cool air, making jeno groan in satisfaction, his large hand latches on to your tit, loving the way it fits perfectly in his hand.

“you’re so beautiful, bunny,” he praises before his tongue circles against your sensitive nipple. he looks up, not wanting to miss your reaction. light, breathy moans spill from your lips, back arching at his touch, feeling every warmth he left behind.

he moved all throughout your body, taking his time, memorizing every detail, worshipping you with every brush of his lips.

his hand slip under your panties, wet and soaking for him. the familiar circles of his fingers on your clit immediately sends a wave of pleasure through you. you were already shaking, that fire inside you growing.

that delicious stretch of your pussy as he stuck two digits in makes your eyes roll back, overwhelming in the best way possible, a broken moan spilling from your lips. your hips move on their own, grinding on his hand, chasing that friction you can’t get enough of.

jeno has already memorized you. curling his fingers just right, dragging them against that spot that made your thoughts scatter, heat spreading through you so quickly.

“jeno—” his name left you as a gasp, pleasure building deep inside you. this time you knew what it was, “i-m coming,” you moan.

“i got you bunny, let me hear you” he whispered, his pace quickening, matching the frantic way your body moved with his touch, until you were spilling into his hand.

he coaxes you through it, littering soft kisses on your ear, along your jaw, down to your neck — making sure to leave a mark.

making sure everyone knew that you were his.

your eyes flutter open. there was still that growing fire inside you, burning hotter, higher. you needed more.

when you reach down for his belt, fingers clumsily fumbling at the buckle, urgency pushing you faster than your hands could manage, jeno snaps out of the trance he’s in, making his way back to your eyes.

“are you sure?,” he gasped, the words rushed, like he was forcing them out before he lost all sense of reason.

you nodded so fast, so desperate, “jeno, please.”

“we don’t have to do this, bunny, we can take it slow…i don’t want to rush you,” he panted, voice fraying at the edges. the thought of stopping absolutely wrecks him but you are more important than the desire spreading through him.

you refuse to wait any longer, you’ve already waited years. your whole body aches with the need you’d kept buried for so long. the need only he could fulfill.

“neno,” you whispered, voice trembling with need, “i want this…i need you.”

his resolve shattered at the sound of your plea.

“okay,” he breathed, kissing you gently before finally discarding his pants, boxers following suit, leaving him completely bare.

slowly, he removed your panties, the last remaining cloth between you. he reaches over his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom and wrapping it on his hard cock, a grunt spilling from his lips.

“still sure?,” he searches your eyes for any signs of hesitation because if there was, even the tiniest one, he would stop immediately. no questions asked. no regret. no matter how badly he didn’t want to.

“so sure neno, it’s always been you,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, letting him know that every single piece of you wanted him — heart, body and soul.

that was his final confirmation.

he kissed you once, slow and tender, before his hands roamed, leaving goosebumps that made you ache even more, “i’ll go slow,” he promised, voice thick with emotion “tell me if you need to stop, okay? at any point bunny, i’ll stop.”

you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs so loudly you were sure he could hear it. fear and want and overwhelming love swirling in your chest.

finally, he aligned his cock against your hole, hand shaking slightly as he guided himself into you.

the stretch burns — it was nothing like his fingers, his cock was harder, thicker, fuller. and you’re not entirely sure if he could fit.

instinctively you tensed, eyes shutting close at the pain, a whiny hiss slipping from your lips.

jeno immediately froze, his thumb stroking soothing circles against your hip, “you’re doing so good, bunny,” he praises, forehead resting against yours, “breathe for me okay? we can take all the time you need,” he was so soft, so caring, so gentle.

your fingers tighten on his shoulder, just for a second, letting him know that you understood.

jeno fought to stay still, fought to put you first. but god, it hurts. you felt so good around him. so tight. so warm. he needed to move.

you forced yourself to relax, letting out a shaky breath and he pressed forward again, slower this time, giving you time to adjust to another inch of him.

“almost there, bunny, just a couple more,” he says softly, treating you like glass. you were so fragile. so pretty. your eyebrows furrowing in pain, lips parted slightly.

it hurt but it was jeno, and that made it bearable. your tight walls continued to adjust around him, molding to the size of his large cock.

with one final, gentle push, he was fully seated inside you, grunts spilling from his lips onto yours.

he stayed there, not moving, just breathing with you. trying to control his own desires. one hand cradles your cheek, carefully pushing away the hair that has stuck to your skin, “you’re amazing,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, “taking all of me,” he continues praising, “so perfect, bunny.”

a few tears slid from your eyes. from the sting, from the love, from everything. jeno kissed them away with such tenderness.

“i love you,” you manage to whisper, his lips on yours in an instant, savoring it. the words makes jeno shift inside you.

that small burst of friction is enough to ignite the pleasure. it still hurt but you needed to feel it, to feel more.

and when you finally whispered, “move, please,” jeno felt like the air was rushing back in his lungs.

only then did he start rocking into you — careful, controlled, every movement meant to bring you closer to pleasure.

he angles his cock perfectly, each thrust sending a a wave of butterflies in your stomach. the pain slowly disappeared as your walls sucked him in, until you were only left with pleasure so mind numbing, you can no longer think about anything but the way the tip of his cock kept on kissing that spot that made you see stars. he was perfect.

“fuckkk bunny, you take me so well, pussy was made for me,” jeno grunts hopelessly. he was coming undone embarrassingly fast. for someone who was supposed to be an expert, you had him trembling, shaking.

it was different with you — he loves you.

every emotion hits him to the fullest. he feels you all around him. his rhythm starting to stutter, abs starting to clench as he tried to hold on to the remaining sanity he had left.

“you’re making a mess out of me,” he grunts, “please come on my cock,” he begs, whines, pleading for permission. his fingers finding your sensitive bud, rubbing slow but harsh circles.

you’ve never felt fuller. never felt more satisfied. that heat spreading down to your toes, your head rolling back in complete bliss as the high came crashing over you in breathy, broken moans of only his name — pussy immediately tightening around him, sending him to his own release as he spilled into the condom.

through it all, jeno whispered against your skin, grunts of i love you’s and praises hitting your ears in the most melodic way.

when you both calmed down, he pulled you into his arms, head resting on the heart that’s always been yours.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

you woke up to jeno’s brown eyes already staring at you, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

“good morning,” he murmured, eye smile on display and in an instant the memories of last night came rushing back, vivid and electric.

“good morning” you whispered back, both of you grinning like lovesick fools.

“how are you feeling?” he asks softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you smile at him, “i feel amazing,” you say, leaning up to kiss him.

his hand on your waist is hard to ignore. as well as the bulge that’s currently hitting your inner thigh.

“and you’re feeling excited, aren’t you?,” you pull back, slightly teasing him.

“shut up,” he smiles, cheeks flushing, “it’s not my fault i woke up next to my very hot girlfriend”

your eyes widen slightly, “girlfriend, huh?”

“mhm, is that okay with you, bunny?”

“hmm,” you pretend to think about it but the smile tugging on your lips betrays you, “sounds perfect.”

jeno pulled you in for another kiss, his smile pressed against yours. before he could deepen it, you pushed him down to his bed sheets, hovering over him with a gleam in your eyes.

“what are you doing?,” he rasped, the bold movement catching him off guard, making his breath shift, excitement coursing through his veins.

“girlfriend duties,” you smirk.

you littered kisses down his body until you were head to head with his cock, already flushed, thick and throbbing for you.

without hesitation, you licked a slow stripe up his length, tasting him, humming in satisfaction before wrapping your lips around his tip and taking in as much of his length as you could.

jeno watched you, his hands behind his head, a proud smirk on his face. and when you look up to make eye contact with him, his smirk fades into a helpless groan.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” his hand instantly threading into your hair, bunching it up and pushing it out of your face. he wanted to see you. wanted to see your mouth around him.

you hollowed your cheeks and started to move, bobbing your head at that speed you knew he liked.

what can you say? you’re a quick learner.

his hips twitched, barely holding back from fucking your mouth.

every wet, obscene sound filled the room, and you loved the way he was falling apart for you, chest heaving, hands gripping you tighter. his grunts make you clench around nothing.

jeno came in minutes, gasping for your name as he struggled to breathe. his hot release shoots down your throat. this time, you swallowed every single drop, milking him dry, only pulling off when he whimpered from overstimulation, pushing your hand away.

“how the hell are you already so good at that?,” he groans, the aftershocks of his orgasm still hitting him.

“i have a really good teacher,” you chuckle, making your way back to him, kissing him, making him taste his own juices as your tongues battled for dominance.

jeno flips you over, roughly, quickly, the sudden shift making you squeal in laughter, as he settles in between your legs.

“your turn,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

his mouth immediately laps around you, licking, sucking, spitting — filthy and hungry. it was so messy, so wet, so crude, and yet it felt so so good. your head is spinning, heart racing, thighs trembling

you’re right there, at the edge, ready to fall — and then the door swings wide open. you shriek, arms crossing, immediately covering your chest just as jeno scrambles to hover over you, covering every inch of you with his large frame.

“jeno what do you want for break—?” jaemin barges in, stepping into the room like he hasn’t just shattered the moment.

“oh,” jaemin smirks, this situation extremely familiar, “i see,” he teases, tone dripping with fake innocence.

jeno’s entire body stiffens, his butt literally clenching as he growls, “jaemin, get the fuck out.”

he doesn't spare the boy a glance, focused only on making sure he doesn’t see any part of your body.

jaemin bursts out laughing, “alright alright, enjoy your breakfast,” he says before locking the door behind him and leaving the two of you alone.

the second he’s gone, jeno exhales a heavy breath of relief. you both lie there, faces burning red.

“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters before the two of you erupted in giggles, your shared laughter harmonizing in the air.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

a week of being jeno’s girlfriend could only be described as pure bliss. the perfect balance of best friends and lovers. you were the power couple, always walking into the room like you owned it.

not much has changed between you two, you still tell him to shut up, he’s still dramatic, still the best of friends, except this time there’s a million shared kisses, lingering touches, whispered confessions and sex (lots of sex).

he’s unlocked something in you. something wild, primal, greedy — desire wrapping it’s hands around you. you can’t get enough of him. you craved him again and again and again.

and jeno was just undone, just as hopelessly in love. he thought his sex drive was bad before, it’s even worse now. every little thing you did triggered him — a smile, a glance, a soft laugh, it all sent him spiraling, desperate to have you. his need for you was overwhelming, a fire he had no intention of putting out.

he taught you how to touch yourself, you watched him masturbate. he kissed you in places you never knew were sensitive, made love to you in so many different positions, locations, each one leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms — making up for all the lost time.

today, when jeno walked into the library, he noticed your figure missing from your usual shared table. you were supposed to be here by now, you were always here at this hour.

his eyes quickly scan the space, feet walking around, searching every corner, every dusty nook, trying to find a glimpse of you. he finally spots you at the corner, tucked away in the back with the old shelves filled with forgotten books.

“what are you doing all the way over here?,” he asks, snapping your attention towards him, as he placed a soft kiss on your temple.

“just wanted a quieter place to read,” you feign innocence, picking up your book and pretending to be interested once more. jeno doesn’t question it, just pulls out the chair beside you and sits, his thigh pressed hard against yours. he pulls out his assignments, busying himself.

“neno,” you call out to him, a playful flicker in your eyes as you put your book down, “want to know a fun fact?,” you say.

he smiles at you, still unaware of what you had brewing in your mind, “sure, bunny.”

you lean in close, your chest brushing against his arm, “i’m not wearing any panties,” you whisper, only for his ear to hear.

he gulps, eyes quickly scanning the room, afraid someone was close enough to hear that. when he realizes you two were definitely alone, he finally takes in the fact that you were wearing a cute pink skirt, “fuck, are you serious?,” he whispers.

you shrug, “why don’t you find out?,” picking up your book, a playful grin on your lips, you flipped through the pages pretending to be interested, excitement bubbling inside you.

you didn’t have to tell him twice.

you flinched slightly when his cold fingertips first made contact with your thigh, slowly slipping underneath your skirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps. you barely had time to react before his fingers slipped between your thighs, urging them apart.

and when he finds you bare and soaked for him, jeno can’t help but let out a groan, his cock twitching in his pants.

you just started a dangerous game and he was eager to play. eager to ruin you in this public space. excited to watch you try and hide your moans.

“so fucking warm,” he muttered, fingers collecting your juices as he slowly swiped up and down your folds, making you feel every graze of his finger.

you grabbed the edges of the book, trying to stay calm, trying to act normal even as jeno slowly, deeply slid a finger inside you.

you choke on a silent gasp, disguising it with a fake cough and jeno finds it absolutely amusing. he has no plans of taking it easy on you, especially since this was your brilliant idea.

he moved lazily at first, curling his finger inside you, feeling every clench, every desperate little twitch of your body. watching you bite your lip as you tried to contain the moans that we’re begging to be released.

“good girl,” he murmured, kissing you on the temple.

his free hand picks up his pencil, as he continued to work on his assignment, like you weren’t falling apart under the table, “just stay quiet for me, yeah?,” he smirks.

you don’t even manage a response. afraid that once you open your mouth, a loud moan of his name would slip out.

he starts writing in his notebook, fingers still moving inside you, edging you on with every second. you shifted in your seat, hips tilting up without meaning to, chasing the rhythm he set. needing him to go faster — to finally take you there.

jeno knew exactly what you needed, even without voicing it. he adds a second finger, stretching you wider, making your eyes flutter shut, your grip on your book tightening, holding onto it as if it was your lifeline.

your boyfriend grinned cockily as he fucked his fingers into you.

you thought you were safe, hidden enough until you heard distant footsteps of someone wandering nearby.

your eyes immediately snap to jeno, silently begging him to stop as you tried to shut your legs close.

but his hand was too strong, keeping you open for his fingers, “you wanted this, you’re gonna take it,” he mumbles into your hair. he didn’t stop. in fact, his thumb brushed against your clit, harsher, faster.

you buried your head in your book, biting your lip so hard it hurt, but still a tiny strangled whimpered escaped.

the footsteps paused, just for a second.

you held your breath, heat traveling up to your head, jeno still working under your skirt. the danger of being caught made it even hotter. your pulse pounding loud in your ears, body burning under his touch. and then the footsteps continued, fading into silence again.

jeno chuckles under his breath, fingers thrusting deeper, faster, his thumb never leaving your clit.

“almost got caught, bunny,” he teased, voice low and thick with lust, “bet you’d love that, huh?”

the thought made you tighten incredibly around his fingers, orgasm crashing over you like a wave you couldn’t stop, body jerking slightly in the chair as you hunched over the table, hiding your moans in your arms, desperately trying to stay as quiet as possible.

jeno’s fingers continued to work you through it until you were limp against the table, panting softly.

he pulled his fingers out slowly, letting you feel every second of it. you already felt so empty without him. he brings his fingers up to his lips, sucking them clean with a soft, sinful groan.

you sit up, watching him, wrecked and cheeks flushed, your heart pounding so hard it was all you could hear, a small satisfied grin on your lips.

jeno leans in, kissing you gently. you taste yourself on his lips, then he smirks, that devilish smirk, whispering against your ear, “next time…you’re sitting in my lap.”

𓏲 the end.

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: this is so lee jeno x bunny coded -> click here

—

an: posted this earlier than i planned because if i even spend one more day with this, i’m never gonna stop writing but ahhh i can’t believe my time with this couple is over, i love them so bad!!! i hope you loved them too!

marks story is up next! since he did technically win the poll — pls give me nickname suggestions for mark’s girl! i’m currently thinking kitty but im not 100% sold >.< — she’s going to be a little more feisty than the others! slide in my ask for suggestions or simply comment here! pls!

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

tagging: @bluedbliss [if you would like to be tagged in future stories of this series, please let me know <3]

#lee jeno x reader #lee jeno fluff #lee jeno angst #lee jeno x y/n #lee jeno smut #lee jeno #lee jeno x you #nct x reader #nct smut #nct dream x reader #nct dream smut #nct dream x you #nct dream angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream au #nct dream #withloverboyseries

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 10 months ago

Text

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x female reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fanfic #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fic

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

Text

Whatever You Say, Fruitcake

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (established marriage)

summary: Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

warnings/content: Fluff, Hospital setting, strong language, married intimacy, mild sexual tension(?), bodily fluids (mentioned), chaotic workplace dynamics, Myrna.

word count: 1,767, not beta read.

a/n: I’ve written so much smut and angst lately… felt like I needed a fluff filler. Honestly, with everything Robby’s been through too—he deserves one just as much as I do.

Someone left the remains of a hoagie in the trauma fridge again, and now the back hallway reeks of vinegar, cold cuts, and poor life choices.

The smell hits you as soon as you clear the curtain bay—sharp, sour, unmistakably fermented. You pause mid-step. Behind you, Dana makes a strangled noise in her throat and immediately starts waving a clipboard in the air like it’s going to do something other than stir it up.

“If this is Whitaker’s doing,” Dana says, already pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m pulling him from patients and assigning him to mop duty and moral reflection.”

You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not in the union handbook.”

She’s already striding ahead. “Then I’ll write my own damn handbook.”

Just ahead, Robby moves through the corridor like a man who’s been paged three times too many. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, coffee in one hand, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a look that says he’s thirty seconds from announcing his retirement.

Whitaker’s hustling to keep up, slightly flushed and fumbling with a stack of blank admission forms and a clipboard clearly marked for peds. He’s also holding an empty emesis basin and a bag of saltine crackers.

“I dropped the kid off in Pediatrics like you told me to,” he says, catching his breath. “Then someone threw up on my shoes, I handed over some crackers as a peace offering, and I think I accidentally took this chart on my way out while trying to avoid a loud debate about Paw Patrol and screen time.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Why are you holding a puke tray?”

“Someone in Peds handed it to me. I panicked and said thank you.”

“You don’t work there, Whitaker. You work in emergency.”

“Yeah, well, try telling that to the four-year-old who called me Doctor Crackers and wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

Dana watches Whitaker veer off toward supply, jaw tightening just slightly. “If he volunteers himself into another department’s meltdown, I’m having his badge color-coded for liability.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a charge nurse threat?”

“It’s preventative management.”

Before you can reply, the air shifts—like it always does when Myrna materializes. The low squeak of her wheelchair wheels, the jingle of cheap bracelets, and then—

“Hey, fruitcake.”

Robby slows when he sees her. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just—ready, in that way he gets when Myrna’s name is involved in a trauma note or a psych hold request.

He hesitates, jaw clenched, clipboard tucked tighter under his arm as he steps in behind the wheelchair—slow and deliberate, one hand on the back like he's guiding a live grenade disguised in costume jewelry.

Myrna is cuffed, of course—standard protocol—but she’s sitting tall like she’s holding court. Her walker is bungee-corded to the back of the chair, and there’s a half-empty Styrofoam cup in the side pocket that no one remembers giving her. She smells like menthols and peach Schnapps. Her lipstick is smeared. Her eyes are sharp.

She cranes her head slightly to look up at Robby and grins with all the self-satisfaction of someone who knows exactly how to ruin your day and plans to do it slowly.

Robby exhales. “Myrna. What brings you in today?”

“I murdered my husband.”

“How’d you do it this time?”

“Meat grinder.”

She shifts in her seat, adjusting the tilt of her chair. When he stops, she immediately starts wheeling herself toward the empty staff breakroom like she owns the place—completely ignoring the Employees Only sign.

“Where do you think you’re going, Myrna?”

“Oh, none of your business, fruitcake.”

His jaw ticks. The clipboard drops half an inch.

“Actually, everything that happens in this department is my business. And you know what? I put up with a lot around here. I take very good care of you. So you can call me Dr. Robinavitch, or Dr. Robby, or you can use my first name, Michael. But I do not appreciate being called fruitcake.”

Dana leans toward you. “He’s two years and one more nickname away from tossing his pager in the East River and moving into a cabin with no electricity.”

You snort. “He can move to the woods if he wants, but I’m not following him into a life of compost toilets and mosquito nets. He’ll be back the second he realizes I’m not coming with.”

Back in the hall, Myrna shrugs.

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings, cocksucker?”

Dana snorts. You press your fingers to your mouth.

Robby takes a breath. “That said, it has a certain whimsical quality I can probably learn to live with.”

“Whatever you say, fruitcake.”

Without missing a beat, she pivots her wheelchair and rolls with precision toward the ambulance bay doors. The automatic sensor doesn’t catch her on the first pass, so she backs up, then rams the base of the door with enough force to jolt the frame—and nearly set off the motion alarm. A “Wet Floor” sign topples in her wake.

Then, slowly, she lifts her cuffed wrists and waves them at the security camera like she’s on parade.

Robby doesn’t move. Just watches her, unreadable.

She pauses at the edge of the exit, half-turned in her chair, chin tilted up like she’s daring someone to try and stop her.

A nurse nearby mutters, “Do we stop her… or let natural selection take it from here?”

You find him later in the breakroom, elbows braced on the table, fingers pressed into his brow like he’s trying to force the day out through his skull. His coffee sits untouched beside a chart he’s clearly given up pretending to read. The overhead light is flickering, unresolved, adding to the static hum that no one has the energy to report anymore.

You slide your coffee beside his and drop into the seat next to him. No words, not yet. Just your knee brushing his under the table—light, intentional, familiar. He doesn’t look at you, but he exhales like you just gave him permission to breathe.

After a beat: “I’m fine.”

You sip your coffee. “Mmm. Then why have you been brooding like a cursed Victorian husband.”

He drags his hands down his face and groans. “She called me a cocksucker in front of the whole emergency department.”

“And you didn’t throw anything,” you say. “Which, frankly, is a win.”

You nudge your foot against his. “Do you want me to fight her?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Outside. Ambulance bay. High noon.”

That earns the smallest crack of a smile.

“I’m serious,” you add. “I’m fully within my spousal rights to go feral.”

“Pretty sure that’s not in the HR manual.”

“Pretty sure it’s in the vows.”

He huffs out a reluctant laugh, and you feel the air between you shift. Lighter. Less taut. The corner of his mouth tilts in that way you’ve learned to love—subtle, fleeting, like warmth in a place that rarely allows it.

“Dana probably already has a memo drafted,” he mutters. “Something official—‘Effective immediately, all consults will refer to Dr. Robinavitch as Fruitcake.’”

You grin. “She has. It’s laminated. I signed off on it.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m married to you. I take my entertainment where I can get it.”

He finally leans back, posture loosening. “One of these days, I’m torching this whole department.”

“You won’t,” you say. “You love this place too much.”

“I love you. Everything else is negotiable.”

You fall quiet at that, the kind of quiet that makes room for a hand to reach across the table. Yours. His. You’re not even sure. But they find each other easily, like always.

“You were good today,” you say. “The way you handled her. All of it. You didn’t give her the chaos she wanted.”

“She got under my skin.”

“But she didn’t get a reaction. That’s power. That’s control. I'm proud of you.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, it’s quiet in a way this place rarely is.

“You’re always proud of me,” he says, voice softer now.

You smile, just a little. “Not always. Just when you deserve it.”

A pause. He huffs, but it’s fond. “You should put that on a sticker.”

“Already did.” You nudge his elbow. “Slapped it on your locker right under the one that says ‘Fruitcake of the Month.’”

He groans. “I married a menace.”

“You married smart.”

“You tricked me.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I’d do it again.”

The silence that settles next isn’t heavy. It’s married silence. Full of the things you don’t need to say because you’ve already said them a hundred different ways over coffee cups and night shifts and shared exhaustion.

You glance toward the hallway, then back to him, voice lower now. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still standing in all this. You, me. This place.”

He watches you for a long moment, then says, “Because you make it worth it.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’m not kissing you in the breakroom,” he says eventually, eyes still on yours.

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“I know that too.”

Another small smile. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re mine.”

The moment hangs there—warm and quiet and stupidly rare. It's the kind of silence that only happens when two people know each other too well to need more words.

His pager buzzes on the table. You both glance at it but don’t move right away. Then, like muscle memory, he stands and grabs his clipboard. You collect the two half-finished coffees and toss them without comment.

When you step toward the door, your hand brushes his—not by accident. He doesn’t take it, not here, not with the door just about to swing open. But he squeezes your fingers once, fast and familiar. It’s not affection, exactly. It’s reassurance. A habit. A promise.

You exit the breakroom together.

The hallway feels colder by comparison. Brighter. Louder. Someone’s calling out discharge instructions. A gurney wheel shrieks as it sticks on the threshold. The ER is alive again, like it never paused.

He walks ahead of you, falling back into his role like pulling on a second skin—focused, efficient, slightly intimidating. But you know that look. You know the weight he’s carrying.

When his hand grazes yours again at the hallway bend, he doesn’t pull away right away.

You don’t hold hands. You don’t need to.

But the warmth lingers.

That’s the thing about marriage in a place like this : there’s never time. So you take the seconds. And when you find each other in them, you hold on.

#filler post #dr robby #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #noah wyle #dr robby x reader #fluff

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youthguk · 3 months ago

Text

Encore 2: Intermission

“Some scenes only happen when the lights go down.”

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You’ve worked too hard to become untouchable. He still knows exactly where to touch. After one night of stolen pleasure, you’re determined to walk away — but Jungkook isn’t ready to let you go again. Between silk sheets, half-spoken regrets, and a black-tie dinner where flirtation becomes revenge, your past and present spiral into something dangerous. It was supposed to be physical. But feelings don’t follow the script.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, rimming (f receiving), protected sex, angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 10k

author's note: ugh, this part really broke me🖤 writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

part 1 | part 2 (you're here) | final part 3

You stand in front of Seo In-kyung’s office door in borrowed heels and smudged eyeliner, praying your face doesn’t betray the night carved into your body.

The morning light bleeds through the glass walls like scrutiny. Her office is pristine — sharp angles, a curved leather chair behind a white marble desk, walls lined with editorial archives and thick matte prints. A minimalist arrangement of white orchids sits perfectly still in one corner, untouched by dust or emotion.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice cuts through like the heel of a Louboutin.

You step inside, clutching your tablet too tightly. Your hair is pulled back — barely — in a low twist that you smoothed with shaking fingers in the backseat of a cab thirty minutes ago. Underneath the oversized Saint Laurent blazer, your dress is the same one from last night. You're hoping it passes as intentional. It doesn’t.

Seo In-kyung is already seated. Flawless. Impeccable. A navy Mugler blazer sharp enough to slit throats, heels lacquered, wrists bare. She doesn’t smile. She gestures to the chair opposite her without looking up.

You sit, spine straight. For a moment, silence.

“You really outdid yourself, Y/N.”

She’s flipping through a printed copy of the BTS campaign spread — full bleed photos, minimalist layouts, editorial perfection. The same layouts you stayed past midnight refining. The ones you pushed through legal, color, and styling approvals with nothing but caffeine and willpower.

She taps her manicured nail on the cover.

“This,” she says, “brought the entire industry back to us.”

You exhale. Just slightly. “Thank you, Director Seo.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes still scanning the page. “Thank your instinct. You were right to strip it down. No gimmicks. No clutter. Just tension.” She turns a page. “Even Jeon looked like a man worth remembering.”

You freeze. But she doesn’t elaborate. Just closes the folder, places it gently beside her, and finally looks at you.

You wish she hadn’t. Her gaze is cool. Calculating. The kind that scans and files away. You feel it — the mess behind your eyes. The mascara you didn't have time to fully erase. The faint redness at your mouth. The scent of a man that no water could completely wash off.

She leans back in her chair. “Fondo di Luce.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

Her fingers tap the marble. Once. Twice.

“It’s an international art and fashion initiative,” she says. “A luxury gala held annually at Villa Fioretta, Lake Como. Private guest list. Couture-only. Funded by Dante Seo’s Light Fund and Vogue’s European partners.” A pause. “And we’ve been invited.”

Your breath stirs.

“I want you to represent Vogue Korea,” she says.

Silence blooms between you. “Me?”

“Yes. You pitched this campaign. You shaped it. People in Milan want to meet the girl who made the cover go viral.”

You feel lightheaded. Not from panic this time — from the taste of possibility. Of respect. Of validation earned, not handed.

Your mouth opens to thank her but then she speaks again.

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

The room shifts. Your spine locks. Her gaze hardens. She doesn’t blink.

“I don’t tolerate editors who sleep with clients,” she says. Voice smooth. Flat. “It’s unprofessional. It’s disgusting. It makes us look like we earned our place on our backs.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“You, Y/N, are better than that. You’ve proven yourself. Your instincts are rare.” A pause. “It would be a shame to lose someone like you because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

You don’t breathe. You can’t. You nod once, eyes fixed on a nonexistent spot on her desk. She stands.

“That’ll be all.”

You rise mechanically. Thank her. Bow. And walk out of the office with your pulse screaming in your ears. The moment you step into the hallway, Kara is there. Perched by the espresso machine in the break corner, sipping an oat milk latte with glossy lips and smug silence. She doesn’t say anything.

Your fists clench. Your face burns. You want to tear the smugness off her face and throw it back at her in headlines.

Instead, you walk past her — heels echoing like threats — and your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check it.

Unknown Number

Still quiet, hm? Should I send someone to pick up my jacket or do I get a kiss as collateral?

Buzz.

I’ll take the kiss.

Buzz.

…or both.

You delete the thread. Turn off your notifications. And get back to work.

You don’t cry in the hallway. You don’t clench your jaw, or turn on your heel, or demand Seo In-kyung look you in the eye when she delivers the kind of warning she never would’ve given to a man. You don’t remind her that half the board she answers to built their careers on affairs with photographers, designers, founders — powerful men who never had to answer for the women they fucked.

You just breathe.

Measured. Controlled. Counted down like pills in the morning. You walk back to your desk with your back straight, your heels clean against the tile, pretending you don’t feel the ghost of his hands still pressing into your hips. You can almost hear him still — that teasing, velvet-coated filth, low and smug against your skin. You hear it in the vibration of your phone every hour since sunrise. You hear it in Kara’s eyes every time they rake over you. You feel it in the way your own body responds when you close your eyes at night — when your fingers trail down beneath the sheets and it’s his name that sits between your teeth, no matter how hard you bite down.

You tell yourself it was just sex. A one-time indulgence. A lapse in judgment that began and ended in a penthouse no one else has to know about. You tell yourself it was closure — that there’s no gravity to the way he held your face in his hands like he still knew how to ruin you. That the ache still curling inside your chest is nothing but delayed shame.

But the problem is, it wasn’t just the sex.

It was the way he looked at you like five years hadn’t passed, like you weren’t a stranger in that room, like you were still the girl he used to know in a borrowed hoodie and scraped-up Nikes, standing in a dingy kitchen, editing your first column with red pen on a ten-thousand-won table. It was the way he kissed you with a hunger that felt older than his fame. It was the way he let you bite him, claw him, curse him — and still whispered “come back to me.”

And now you're here. Perfectly poised in the office you fought tooth and nail to climb into, barely holding yourself together while your editor-in-chief — a woman born with the title stitched into her spine — calls you brilliant and disposable in the same breath. She will never know what it feels like to be called a genius on Monday and a whore on Wednesday. To be handed praise with a choke chain wrapped around it. To have your best work reduced to who you might have let touch you after hours.

She can talk about dignity. She can afford to. You, on the other hand, know exactly how fragile power can be when it’s built from scratch.

✦✦✦

The message comes barely an hour after you walk out of Seo In-kyung’s office.

You didn’t even say goodbye.

You don’t open it. You don’t need to — the preview alone is enough to make your stomach twist. You swipe it away, fingers rigid, and tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. Not the message. Not the sender. Not the way your name still looks when it rolls off his voice, even in text.

That night, another one arrives.

Was it the blazer? Should’ve left you something softer.

You laugh, once. Quietly. Then delete it like it burned you. You don’t respond. You won’t. Because if you let yourself type anything — a word, a punctuation mark, the space before a breath — you won’t stop. And you’ve worked too hard, pulled yourself too far out of the wreckage, to let one night drag you back into the ruin you barely crawled out of.

But the texts don’t stop.

Sometimes they’re careless. Teasing. Written like he’s still in your bed with your thighs pressed against his hips and your nails in his back. Other times, they’re sharp with weight, like he doesn’t know which version of himself you’ll tolerate — the boy who left you, or the man trying to come back.

You never reply. But you read every word.

And at night, when the world finally stops demanding your time and your poise and your reputation, when the silence of your apartment feels too loud to ignore — you remember how he touched you. You remember how it felt to let go of everything for one hour, one night, one man who once shattered you so completely that you forgot what it meant to breathe without him.

You touch yourself like it means nothing. But it’s his voice you hear when your fingers slip lower. It’s his mouth you imagine when you bite your own shoulder to muffle the sounds. It’s his hand around your throat when you finish — sharp and soft at once — and it’s his name that almost slips out, pressed against the inside of your teeth like a secret you’re still ashamed of wanting.

You don’t look at your phone after that. You tell yourself it was just sex, you’re smarter now.He’s just another mistake in a long line of things you’ve learned how to survive.

And when another message arrives — two days later, right as you're finalizing your flight details for the gala in Lake Como — you don’t even read it.

You just close your eyes, and try not to remember how he looked at you when he came.

✦✦✦

You arrive at Incheon International two hours before your flight, slipping through security behind oversized sunglasses and an air of quiet efficiency. The blazer you’re wearing is Dior this time — borrowed from the archive rack, boxy at the shoulders, sleek across your hips. Beneath it: a slate-gray satin blouse tucked into wide-leg ivory trousers, pressed razor-sharp. You look like someone who’s going to Lake Como for work, not for war.

It isn’t until you reach the boarding gate that you see the line of black masks, tailored airport coats, and hush-voiced assistants clustered like chess pieces around Gate A7.

BTS.

Of course.

Your stomach doesn’t sink. It knots — tight, controlled, slow — like the warning of turbulence long before the plane leaves the ground.

You keep walking, silent, graceful, aware of every click of your heels on the polished floor. You don’t let yourself search for him. You don’t have to. You feel him before you see him — a presence that presses against your awareness like heat against skin, impossible to ignore.

It isn’t until you’re lowering yourself into your business class seat, reaching for the strap of your carry-on, that you finally glance up — and meet his eyes.

Row 2. Aisle seat. Black mask, black cap, rings on both hands. And staring at you like he hasn’t blinked in days. You look away.

The plane boards slowly. Assistants murmur. Photographers keep their cameras off. The boys move like shadows, trained to blend, to disappear behind the shape of fame. You keep your posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle, your tablet open with your flight agenda already pulled up — even though you’ve read it three times.

He doesn’t approach until you're halfway into the sky.

You excuse yourself from your seat, nod politely at the stewardess, and head down the narrow aisle toward the lavatory — slow, deliberate steps in heels that whisper money and control. The tiny hallway near the restrooms is dim, quiet, muted beneath the drone of altitude and distance.

You don’t expect the hand on your wrist.

It’s not rough. But it’s firm — and you know that grip. You’ve felt it around your waist, your neck, your thighs. You turn slowly, breath already caught halfway between fury and something far more dangerous.

He's right there. Closer than he has any right to be in this narrow corridor with no eyes but yours and his. The door to the lavatory is behind you. His body blocks the path. His scent — soap, leather, the faint trace of your perfume still clinging to his jacket from days ago — wraps around you like memory.

You keep your voice cold.

“Do you seriously think now is the time?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, face half-shadowed by the cap, eyes hungry in a way that makes you press your thighs tighter, just to feel something grounded.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, rough.

“I keep dreaming about the way you moaned my name.”

Your stomach tightens. You don’t blink. You lift your chin instead “That’s all it was. A dream.”

But his eyes drop — once — to your mouth, and then lower. “I remember the way your legs shook. That wasn’t dreaming.”

You inhale sharply, but your expression doesn’t change.

“You should go sit down.”

“Or what?” His voice dips lower. “You’ll pretend again you don’t want me to fuck you right here?”

His hand doesn’t move. His body doesn’t touch yours. But you feel every inch of him like a scream in your skin — heat, memory, friction.

You smile — slow and cutting. “I’ve learned how to control myself. You should try it sometime.”

His gaze flickers. Just slightly. Then he leans in — not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel his breath near your neck, his voice low and ruinous.

“I’m not the one squeezing my thighs together.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your heartbeat is in your throat, that your body is already lit from the inside out. You hate that you want to kiss him. Bite him. Tear him open. But you won’t. Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You step aside, brushing past him with a look that could frost steel, and say nothing as you return to your seat. You don’t check to see if he follows.

You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway through an article you can’t remember reading, with his gaze still burning a hole into the back of your neck from three rows behind.

✦✦✦

The wheels touch the tarmac just past four in the afternoon, and the landing is smoother than expected, the kind that glides into the runway with practiced quiet, as if even the aircraft has been told to behave. Outside the small window, the northern Italian sun pools in long, soft ribbons over the hills, stretching across the landscape like liquid gold, tinting everything it touches with the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn — only stuns.

You disembark without ceremony, your sunglasses still in place, your coat folded over one arm, and your expression carefully blank. The assistant from Vogue Italia is waiting beside the hangar — her posture perfect, clipboard in hand, dressed in cropped white linen and flat shoes that probably cost more than the flight. She greets you by name, with polite English and a smile that’s too curated to be real, then leads you across the quiet concourse, past shuttered photographers and a cluster of sleek black cars idling behind a discreet security perimeter.

Your name is listed on one of the placards. Y/N — Vogue Korea.

So is theirs. BTS.

You don't react — not outwardly. There is no visible shift in your posture, no flicker in your gaze. You’ve already taught your body how to lie better than your words ever could.

The assistant ushers you toward a waiting Mercedes, its interior cool and leather-scented, the seats butter-soft beneath the press of your thighs. A silver tray holds still water, a lemon wedge perched just so. Your phone buzzes once in your lap. You don't check it. Not yet.

The drive from the airport is postcard-perfect in a way that feels intentionally cruel — narrow country roads wrapped in vine-laced stone, the distant glimmer of Lake Como revealing itself in flashes between tall cypress trees and crumbling terracotta villas. Each bend in the road opens into a view more breathtaking than the last, until you almost forget where you're headed and why your chest has been tight since the gate at Incheon.

The car finally slows as it pulls through ornate wrought-iron gates that gleam with gold filigree under the light, winding up the long private drive that spills into the front courtyard of Villa Fioretta. The estate rises from the hill like it was carved directly out of the cliffside — all creamy limestone and tall shuttered windows, manicured terraces spilling over with ivy and white flowers, and delicate copper details that catch the dying sun like jewelry. It looks like something you’ve seen on a Vogue Italia cover in a past life, or maybe a perfume ad from the early 2000s, the kind where everything was just slightly out of reach, and nothing ever truly belonged to you.

As the driver comes around to open your door, you exhale once, slow and silent, and allow your face to settle into something calm and beautifully unreadable.

Inside, the villa is all elegance in hushed tones — soft marble beneath your heels, pale walls washed in ivory and cream, every piece of furniture chosen for quiet power rather than comfort. The concierge greets you by name and with reverence, offers you a key card embossed with the letter “F” in deep matte black, and explains with the expected level of practiced charm that you’ve been placed on the fifth floor, lake view, courtesy of Fondo di Luce, and that a welcome aperitivo will be served on the lower terrace shortly after six.

You nod, thank them, and enter the elevator with the same stillness you’ve been wearing since you boarded the flight. It’s not until the doors begin to close that he enters behind you.

You don't need to look to know it's him. The presence is immediate — heavy, hot, undeniable. His cologne clings to the air, low and sharp, the same one you woke up wearing four mornings ago in his bed, still tangled in his heat.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

The silence in the elevator stretches, long and taut, the kind that drapes itself over the walls like velvet, pressing in on all sides. You keep your gaze forward, focused on the panel, the floor numbers blinking upward. You can feel him beside you — not touching, but close enough to undo you all over again if you let yourself lean even an inch in his direction.

The mirrored wall reflects the shape of him — rolled sleeves, black slacks, tattoos visible where the cuff is turned, sunglasses tucked into his collar like he never needed to hide. He’s looking at you. You don’t return it.

The elevator stops at five.

You step out first. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, touched with the kind of warmth that money doesn’t have to brag about — just suggests. He follows.

Your room is halfway down the hall. You can hear the soft tread of his boots behind you, steady and measured, but it’s the silence between you that rattles louder than any footfall.

You stop at 506. Slot the card into the reader. The green light flashes. Still, you don’t turn.

"If you're going to say something stupid, Jungkook," you murmur, voice calm but edged, your hand resting on the doorframe like it might hold you steady, "don’t waste it here."

The door unlocks with a soft click. You step inside and let it close behind you without another word.

You never heard his footsteps retreat — which is exactly why your hands are still shaking when you set your bag down on the velvet bench at the end of the bed.

✦✦✦

The evening descends in a soft, golden hush, the lake catching the last streaks of sunlight and bending them into mirrored ribbons that stretch across the manicured garden lawns. The terrace is already glowing by the time you arrive — dozens of floating candles bobbing in the villa’s pool, crisp white tablecloths draped over stone tables, wine glasses catching firelight like they were designed to burn. Waiters move like shadows through the crowd, balancing trays of Campari spritzes and white truffle canapés, slipping between conversations spoken in Italian, French, and English laced with old-money vowels.

You’ve dressed for the kill.

The gown you chose is a strapless black number that ends just above your mid-thigh — sculpted to your body like it was designed for this exact kind of dusk, this exact kind of attention. The satin clings in all the places you used to hide and now let sharpen you. Your back is bare, your collarbone glistens with a soft sheen of skin-warmed perfume, and your heels are high enough to demand silence when you walk. The neckline dips low, the hem even lower, and there’s a part of you that knows—without even needing the confirmation—that if Jungkook looks at you tonight, it won’t be casual.

You tell yourself you wore it to feel powerful. You tell yourself that it’s just about proving a point.

But deep down, beneath all the polished rationality and strategic poise, you know it’s a lie. You wore it to tempt him. Or maybe to punish him. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

You glide through the terrace like you belong to it. Conversations flicker as you pass — Vogue Paris, L’Uomo, a few senior figures from Condé Nast and K-Media International — all familiar faces from the inner circle of fashion and luxury publishing. You smile, you nod, you take a glass of wine with the hand not gripping your clutch, and you keep moving.

He’s here. You haven’t seen him yet, but you feel him. You’ve felt him since the moment you walked in — like a change in air pressure, like heat blooming in places that should be cold. Each time a new shadow approaches, your chest coils tight, your gaze flicks once, and you brace yourself.

The first time you actually see him, he’s standing on the far end of the terrace near the balustrade, surrounded by three men in Tom Ford tuxedos and a woman from Vogue Italia who is laughing too easily at something he hasn’t said. His hair is pushed back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hoop in his ear catching the light each time he turns slightly, and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry. He looks devastating. You don’t look twice.

You spend the next hour performing avoidance like an art. Each time he moves in your direction — and he does — you change course. A conversation with a photographer. A compliment to someone’s emerald earrings. A turn toward the pool just in time to keep a table between you. He’s watching. You know he is. And you never let yourself look back.

Until you meet Dante Seo.

He arrives like an entrance — tall, olive-toned skin that speaks of Italian summers and Seoul winters, his suit perfectly fitted in bone-white silk with a single black brooch gleaming on the lapel. His hair is dark and swept back with the ease of someone who doesn’t try hard and never has to. His smile is clean. Curated. Dangerous.

“You must be Vogue Korea,” he says as he offers his hand, eyes tracing over your form like he’s calculating how many men in the room already hate him for standing beside you. “No one told me you’d be this stunning. I’ll have to send my regrets to our editor-in-chief for not coming in her place.”

“Y/N,” you reply, slipping your hand into his. “Campaign editor. But I suppose the title doesn’t matter so long as I’m stunning.”

He laughs — low, indulgent — and motions to a pair of older executives hovering behind him.

“You all remember Jeon Jungkook, I’m sure?” Dante glances sideways, eyes sparkling. “The face of Vogue Korea’s revival, the star of the cover that’s been circulating Milan for two weeks straight.”

Your spine tenses.

“I think it’s fair to say Korea brought us something exceptional,” one woman offers, sipping from her wine. “He was brilliant. Magnetic. I hadn’t seen that kind of restraint from an editorial in years.”

“I think that was more the editor’s eye than the idol’s,” Dante says, looking directly at you now, one eyebrow lifted with the kind of mischief that always ends in trouble. “Tell me, Y/N. How did you convince a man like that to surrender so completely?”

You force a smile, swirl the wine in your glass, and answer coolly.

“Sometimes all it takes is silence.”

More laughter. More praise. More commentary on how sharp he looked, how he carried the shot, how Vogue Korea must be so proud. The room keeps saying his name. Over and over, like it means something, like it doesn’t still taste like sweat and regret and begging on your skin.

You excuse yourself twenty minutes later, your glass half-full and your teeth aching from how hard you’ve clenched your jaw.

The moment you step back into the villa’s interior, the noise blurs. You walk past the grand staircase, through the velvet-draped hall toward the elevator, your heels muffled against the thick cream carpet, your throat hot from wine and words you didn't say.

You don’t notice he’s following you until you reach your door. The moment you slide the keycard into the reader, he’s there.

One hand planted against the door beside your head, the other grazing your hip, his body closing the space so completely that all you can smell is him — clean, woodsy, sharp with the memory of what he did to you last time.

You turn slowly, your back brushing the wood. His breath is hot against your cheek, his voice low and intimate, like a confession laced with filth.

“Do you want me to say it?” he murmurs. “Do you want me to say I couldn’t stop staring at your thighs all night? That I imagined dragging this dress up your legs while the whole fucking party watched?”

Your body tightens. You keep your voice steady.

“Move.”

He leans in closer, lips brushing just beside your jaw.

“I saw how you avoided me. Like I was the one who begged. You think I don’t know you wore this dress for me?”

You swallow. Hard. His fingers trail lightly along the line of your jaw, down to your mouth, hovering there as if waiting for a tremble he already knows is coming.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “I could make you cry with my fingers before you even reach the bed.”

You hate the way your knees weaken. Hate the thrum building between your legs, the ache in your stomach, the heat spreading low and sharp like fire beneath your skin.

You should say no, open the door and disappear into the room and lock it behind you.

But when you meet his eyes — dark, hungry, full of something wild — you fumble the key, and he catches it with a smirk, sliding it into the lock like he’s been there a thousand times before.

And when the door opens, you step inside without a word. Not because you forgave him. Not because it means anything.

Only because your body stopped asking for permission the moment his mouth said your name.

✦✦✦

The door shuts behind you with a heavy, soundproofed click, and the moment it does, you feel it — the shift in air, the sharp electric drag of his presence right at your back.

You barely make it three steps into the suite before his hand circles your waist and drags you back against him. You don’t gasp, you don’t whimper, but your body tenses with something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the ache that’s been clawing at your stomach since the moment he stared at you from across the terrace like he wanted to fuck you blind.

His mouth finds your shoulder first — soft, open, hot — pressing through the thin fabric of your dress, kissing along the slope of your neck while his other hand skims down the silk curve of your thigh. You smell wine on his breath, wood and heat and hunger, and he’s already hard against your ass, pressing into you like he can’t believe you’re real again.

“Fucking knew this dress was for me,” he breathes against your skin. “Knew it the second I saw you.”

You turn your face slightly, just enough to graze his jaw, your voice calm even as your blood roars beneath the surface.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

His grip tightens.

“This.”

He spins you — smooth, practiced, fast — and pins you against the suite wall, just beside the blackout-curtained window, one knee between your thighs, your heels barely catching grip on the polished wood floors. His hands are under your dress in a second, sliding up your thighs, growling when he feels just how little you wore beneath it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and guttural. “You didn’t wear anything for me?”

“Maybe I wore it for someone else,” you murmur, tilting your head, letting your lips brush his but never touching fully.

His teeth graze your chin. “Don’t fucking test me tonight.”

“I thought you liked being tested.”

He laughs — dark, breathless — and you both know you’re seconds from snapping. His hands glide over your ass, gripping, kneading, dragging you harder against the bulge in his pants. You rock your hips back, just once, just to feel how badly he wants it.

And then you pull away. “Sit.”

His eyes flicker, and you see it — the surprise, the interest, the way his breath catches just slightly before he obeys. He backs up toward the edge of the king-sized bed and lowers himself slowly, legs spread, cock straining against the fabric of his tailored black trousers.

You follow him. Drop to your knees between his legs like it's a throne, not a man.

His eyes are already half-lidded, hands braced on his thighs, watching you as you reach for his belt with smooth, practiced fingers. You undo the buckle with no urgency, and when the leather slides through the loops, he hisses under his breath like it’s your mouth around him already.

When you reach into his boxers and pull him out, you exhale softly — not from surprise, not from awe, but from the rush that starts between your legs at the sheer weight of him in your palm. He’s hard. So hard it makes your mouth water. The tip’s flushed, leaking, pulsing against your skin.

He looks like he wants to say something — maybe a tease, maybe a curse — but the second your lips close over the head, all he does is moan. Long. Deep. Raw.

You don’t rush.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, one hand still stroking the base, the other flattening against his lower abdomen to keep him exactly where you want him. You suck slowly, carefully, letting your mouth shape around him like you’re molding heat out of gold. You glance up — and the sight of him nearly undoes you.

His head is thrown back, mouth parted, hands gripping the edge of the mattress now. The muscles in his thighs are shaking under your palms. When you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, his hips jerk, his voice cracks.

“Fuck— Y/N… don’t… I’m gonna—”

You pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips like a threat.

“You’re gonna what?”

He opens his eyes, looks at you like you’re the devil himself, and chokes on a groan when you go down again — this time deeper, wetter, your tongue pressed under the shaft, saliva dripping down your hand. You let your mouth contour around him, let him feel every inch of heat and slick velvet you can give.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut now. “Please don’t stop. Please—fuck—just like that—”

The begging shocks you. It makes your core throb, makes you grind your own thighs together as you take him deeper still, lips stretched wide around him, hand working what your mouth can’t reach. You love the way he sounds, the way he begs, the way this man — who fucked you like he owned you just days ago — is now unraveling in front of you with your name gasped like a prayer.

You pull off again, let your lips drag down the side of his cock, tongue licking up the vein, and you whisper:

“You taste better than I remember.”

He grabs your shoulders, dragging you up fast, lips crashing against yours like he’s trying to climb back into control.

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he mutters, voice shaking. “Get on the bed. Now.”

You don’t resist. Because you want it too — filthy, breathless, and only getting darker from here.

He doesn’t let you move far — his hands are already on your thighs, on your waist, pushing you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and he shoves you down with a grip that’s firm but reverent. He follows immediately, kissing you deep, tongue filthy in your mouth, his taste mixed with the sharp salt of his own arousal. You moan into him, still breathless from the way he sounded minutes ago — the quiet begging, the desperation, the way he came undone just from your mouth.

But now he’s reclaiming the space.

He pulls away, eyes black, chest heaving. You barely register your own dress being pulled up, bunched around your waist, before he drops to his knees between your legs and drags your soaked thong down with both hands — slow, savoring the way the fabric clings to you, the wet string pulling along your folds.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, and you feel it in your spine — that growl, that tone, the sound of someone starving.

He spreads your legs wide, pushes your knees up, and leans in with no ceremony. His mouth finds your clit in the same breath as his fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed until you feel like you’re going to slide off entirely — right into the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks once, then twice, then circles until your hips buck.

“You’ve missed this,” he says against your cunt. “This pussy remembers me.”

You try to argue. You try to speak. But your breath stutters when he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he’s tasting sugar.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the soft strands, anchoring yourself. You can’t stop the sounds that escape you now — soft, sharp gasps, your head falling back as he devours you, his mouth relentless and wet and so good you can’t think straight.

And then he slides lower.

At first it’s a tease — his tongue licking below, over the tight ring of muscle, making your thighs twitch. But then he spreads you wider, his thumbs parting your ass, and before you can process it, his mouth is there, licking into you with slow, filthy indulgence.

You moan — loud, uncontrolled, broken — and your entire body tries to lift off the bed. He holds you down.

“Jungkook—” It’s the first time you’ve said his name like that tonight, and it cracks at the edges. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t stop.

He eats your ass like he’s done it before, like he’s memorized you, like he owns the right to taste every inch of you. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, and when his tongue drags back up to your clit again, your vision blurs.

And in the haze of your unraveling, one thought claws through everything: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hips grind up into his mouth, chasing the friction, chasing the high. And when he slides two fingers into you — slow and deep — your back arches, your moan breaks apart, and your orgasm hits like a wave dragging you under.

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling beneath him, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering around his fingers.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick, his eyes feral, and he climbs back over you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

“You good?” he whispers, voice raw with pride.

You glare at him, chest still rising and falling, and mutter, “You’re disgusting.”

He smirks, kissing your collarbone, licking a stripe up your neck.

“And you’re wet.”

He’s on you before you can gather your thoughts — his body pressing you into the mattress, heavy and solid and far too familiar. His chest brushes yours, warm skin meeting your peaked nipples, and the friction makes you hiss between your teeth. You try to push him back, just enough to reassert something, anything — but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You scowl, but it’s weak — half-hearted, half-turned-on, and he knows it.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He leans in, licks into your mouth like he owns it, and then slides his cock slowly through your folds — hot, heavy, dragging along your slit until you’re whimpering despite yourself. You feel him reach for a condom, hear the crinkle of foil, and then his hips notch forward, the thick head of his cock pressing at your entrance.

“You still feel like fucking heaven,” he groans, and when he pushes in — slow, so slow — your nails dig into the sheets.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows. He’s big. He always was, but this time it feels deeper, sharper, like every inch is a punishment you didn’t see coming.

“God—” you breathe, blinking up at the ceiling. “Why the fuck do you still feel this good?”

“Because your pussy remembers me,” he says through a ragged exhale, hips still rolling forward. “Because it’s mine.”

You clench around him at the word — mine — and hate how much it turns you on.

“You really think one night erases years?” you bite, trying to pull your voice together, but it’s breathy and cracked.

“No,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “But it reminds you.”

He bottoms out, and the sound you make is caught between a moan and a curse. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, trying to pull him deeper even as your pride screams at you to shove him off. He feels too good. It’s too hot. It’s everything you didn’t want to feel again, wrapped in silk and sweat and his goddamn voice.

He starts to move — slow and deep, every stroke dragging across every nerve ending you have.

“You’re clenching,” he growls in your ear, licking down the side of your neck. “You missed this. Missed me.”

“I missed being fucked,” you shoot back, voice shaking. “I could’ve found that anywhere.”

He snaps his hips once — hard — and your gasp betrays you. Your hands fly up to his back, nails digging in.

“You’re lying,” he pants. “You never let anyone fuck you like this. Never let them see you like this.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you’re already close again, already tightening around him like he’s the only man who’s ever made you come this hard.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you come,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands from your face. “Wanna feel it again. Wanna watch you break.”

You pull him closer, arch your back, and mutter into his neck:

“Then make me.”

That’s all it takes. He fucks you harder now — still deep, still deliberate, but with that edge of hunger he’s been holding back all night. His pelvis rubs your clit with every thrust, and when his hand slides between you, fingers circling your swollen nerves, you see stars.

You’re writhing now, moaning his name like a warning, and he’s kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds, your curses, your surrender.

And when you finally come — tight and fast and gasping — he moans something filthy into your mouth that you’re too far gone to understand. You feel him tense, feel the thick roll of his hips as he buries himself one last time, and then he’s groaning through clenched teeth, coming with your name against your lips.

For a moment, the room is nothing but breath and sweat and silence. Then you turn your face away. And the next wave starts building.

You should’ve gotten up. You should’ve pushed him off and walked into the bathroom, should’ve wrapped yourself in a robe and poured a glass of water and reminded yourself who you are now — not nineteen, not in love, not wrecked by the memory of a boy who never said goodbye.

But instead, you stay. Lying there, trembling in the aftermath of an orgasm that still echoes in your spine, your thighs slick and sore, your heartbeat pressed somewhere up in your throat.

Jungkook shifts beside you, his palm still on your stomach, his breath still hot against your shoulder. You can feel him stirring again, thick and half-hard between your legs, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re moving — rolling onto your side, facing away, pulling the sheet off your skin like you’ve surrendered to something you’ll never admit out loud.

He presses up behind you, his chest flush to your back, his mouth trailing down the slope of your shoulder with reverent hunger. One hand slides over your hip, gripping it as if anchoring himself to reality, the other skating down between your thighs to find you still soaked.

“Still dripping for me,” he mutters, voice hoarse with lust. “You love this.”

“I hate you,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers, pushing your legs apart. “That’s why you’re letting me do this again.”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, to get out, to stop twisting everything into something so ugly and true — but then the head of his cock is sliding between your folds, and your breath catches in your throat like betrayal.

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch burns — not painfully, but beautifully, the kind of fullness that makes your spine arch and your mouth fall open. His hand finds your throat from behind, just a gentle pressure under your jaw, guiding your gaze up to the full-length mirror across the room.

“Look.”

You shake your head.

“Look, Y/N.”

Your eyes flicker open. And what you see takes the last bit of air from your lungs. Your body — flushed and glistening, breasts bouncing gently with each slow thrust, his chest pressed to your back, his hand wrapped around your throat. His face — focused, wild, desperate. Yours — wrecked.

“Fuck,” he groans, picking up speed. “You look so fucking good like this.”

“Shut up,” you bite, but it’s weak, broken, your voice shaking.

He pulls out, slaps your ass once, then sinks back in deep. You whimper, your head falling forward, but he doesn’t let you look away.

“I want you to see what I do to you.”

You do. And that’s the problem. Because it’s not just the sex. It’s the way your mouth falls open when he rolls his hips just right; your nails claw the sheets when he says your name like a curse and a prayer. The way your eyes can’t lie in the mirror — how wrecked you are, how undone, how his.

“You’re just a dick to me,” you spit, desperate, cruel.

But he only groans and fucks you harder. “Then why are you dripping down my thighs?”

He reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and filthy, and your body convulses around him, your moans high and breathless. He fucks you through it, relentless now, slamming into you as your muscles clench around him.

The mirror fogs. Your eyes blur. And when you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue and your pride somewhere back in Seoul.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, curses tumbling from his mouth as he spills into the condom with his forehead against your shoulder and your scent all over his skin.

The sound of your own heart, thudding against your ribs like a warning.

You pull away first. Walk into the bathroom without a word, leaving him in the bed where he just ruined you all over again.

✦✦✦

You take your time in the shower, as if hot water can rinse off regret. You wash his hands from your thighs, scrub the taste of him from your mouth. You tilt your head back and let the water hammer against your eyes until it’s impossible to tell what’s tears and what’s steam.

But none of it works. Because when you walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe that still smells faintly of jasmine, he’s still there. Shirtless. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them like he’s praying to something he stopped believing in a long time ago.

You walk to the desk in the corner, grab your phone, place it face-down, and then turn around — arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You should leave.”

He looks up. And he doesn’t move.

“Jungkook,” you repeat, slower now, sharper. “This doesn’t change anything.”

He rises, but he doesn’t close the space between you. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Stop pretending it was just sex.”

You laugh — bitter, quiet, worn thin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His jaw clenches. “You felt it too.”

“I felt your cock inside me,” you snap. “I thanked you for the orgasm. What else do you want?”

“That’s not what it was.”

“You’re right,” you say, folding your arms tighter. “It was nostalgia. A stupid, warm, familiar fuck. That’s all. It’s easy to miss someone when you’re lonely.”

He steps closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

There’s a pause. A thick, excruciating silence.

“You and I…” he says, softly now, like the words might shatter in his throat, “we were made for each other. Even our bodies—”

“Oh, right,” you cut in, vicious now, unable to hold it back. “You’d know. You’ve had so many to compare.”

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, he has no clever retort. You press forward, rage slipping between the cracks of your voice.

“How many, Jungkook? Since me? How many fans, idols, influencers, pretty things to fuck between tours? Don’t act like I was unforgettable when you replaced me every goddamn night.”

“I didn’t replace you,” he says — broken, breathless. “I was just trying to forget.”

“And did it work?”

“No.” His voice cracks. “No, it didn’t. I was stupid. I was young and insecure and fucking terrified. I hated myself for what I did. I still do.”

You shake your head slowly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, the robe cinched too tightly around your waist now.

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk out when things get hard and come back years later with apologies and expect me to what— forgive you? Believe that you’ve changed?”

“I have changed.”

“Good for you.”

He takes a trembling breath. “I don’t want to be defined by the mistakes I made when I was twenty.”

You inhale sharply — then exhale through your teeth like it burns.

“You think I wasn’t twenty too?” Your voice rises, high and brittle. “You think I didn’t feel lost? I moved to Seoul with you. I started everything from scratch. My job. My name. My future. I met people too. Rich ones. Brilliant ones. Men who would’ve killed to touch me, to claim me, to give me the fucking world—”

He flinches.

“—but I never said yes. Because I wanted to go through it all with you. I was building something. A life. A career. A future. And I wanted you beside me.”

Tears fall now. Hot, fast. You don’t bother to wipe them.

“But you left,” you whisper. “No explanation. No closure. Just silence. Like I meant nothing.”

He takes a step toward you while you step back.

“You broke me,” you say, and your voice finally cracks — full and sharp and agonizing. “You left me alone in a city that already hated me. You made me beg for your attention without saying a word. And I still had to show up to work. Smile. Climb. Watch my dreams come true with no one beside me to see it.”

“I should’ve been there,” he chokes out, eyes shining now. “I was a coward. I didn’t deserve you then. But I want to be the man who does now. Please—please just give me a chance to prove it.”

You stare at him and your heart is breaking. But you shake your head.

“Every time I look at you,” you whisper, voice like shattered glass, “I see the version of myself you left behind. Nineteen. In love. Hopeful. And you stole her from me. You robbed my nineteen year self of her happy future.”

His lips part, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive you for that.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there in the quiet of the room that still smells like sex and sweat and the bitter rot of everything they’ve broken again. His eyes are red-rimmed now, chest rising like it physically hurts to speak — and maybe it does.

“I love you.”

He says it softly, like the words themselves might vanish if he says them too loud. Like he doesn’t quite believe they’ll land.

Your lips part, barely. But you don’t answer. Not at first. You just stand there, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, robe clinging to damp skin, trying to shield yourself from a wound that’s already been split open at the seam.

“I never stopped,” he whispers, stepping closer, not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him, even now. “Even when I fucked up. Even when I disappeared. Even when I hated myself for it.”

You blink once. Your throat tightens. And then you speak — slowly, like every word is a blade you have to pull out of yourself to hand to him.

“No.”

He freezes.

“No, you didn’t love me then,” you say, voice low, calm, terrifying in its precision. “You loved how I made you feel. How I adored you. How I was yours when you wanted me, and gone when you didn’t.”

His breath hitches, but you go on.

“And now you’re doing it again. You’re confusing lust with love. Familiarity with fate. You’re looking at me and thinking this means something more than it does, because you want it to, because it makes you feel less guilty.”

“It does mean something,” he argues, stepping forward like he’s desperate to close the space. “You and me—”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that. Not anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you lift your hand — not to strike, not to touch, just to stop him.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and you mean it. “And even if I did… it’s too late.”

You turn then, slow and sharp, like your heart is finally made of steel instead of longing, and you gesture toward the door — toward the end of the night, the end of the echo, the end of whatever illusion he came here chasing.

He doesn’t move at first. But when he does, he doesn’t say anything else. Just walks to the door with quiet steps, like the weight of everything he never said is finally too much to carry.

The door opens and shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And in the silence that follows, you don’t cry. You just stand there, still barefoot, still breathing, staring out across the lake through the glass windows as the lights of Villa Fioretta shimmer back at you in the dark.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself whisper the truth. He broke you. And you’re still not sure if you’ll ever recover.

✦✦✦

Villa Fioretta sparkles like something out of a Renaissance painting — golden lanterns swinging in the breeze, shadows stretching long over the polished marble as the evening unfolds with practiced luxury. The terrace for tonight’s formal dinner is carved into the cliffside, overlooking the dark silk of Lake Como, each table draped in white linen and framed with tumbling white roses. Candles flicker in crystal holders. Soft jazz rolls under the clink of silverware and laughter that never reaches the eyes.

You arrive later than planned.

Hair pinned. Makeup fresh. The kind of dress that breathes elegance from the front and vengeance from the back — low-cut, high-slit, sharp where it needs to be and soft where it shouldn’t. Midnight navy satin hugs your waist, drapes over your thighs, whispers down your legs with every step you take. On your ears: diamonds. Around your neck: a pearl choker — delicate, pointed, surgical.

No one would know that you didn’t sleep last night. Except maybe him.

Jungkook sees you before anyone else. Of course he does. He’s already seated when you arrive, across the long dinner table, dressed in black-on-black with his hair slicked back and his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His eyes meet yours. Then drop. Then return. He doesn’t look away after that.

You let your gaze sweep past him like he’s any other guest — beneath you, behind you, not even worth remembering. Because tonight, you’re not here to feel. You’re here to make sure he does.

“Ah, Y/N.” Dante Seo stands when you’re led to your place, a slow grin blooming on his face like he’s waited the whole day for this exact moment. “You’re late.”

You slip into the chair beside him without apologizing. “I had to recover from a… long night.”

His eyes spark at that. You don’t let them linger.

Around you, the table is littered with people who make headlines for a living — stylists, designers, fashion house CEOs, cultural editors from every Vogue in the western hemisphere. BTS is here too — seated near the far end, spaced out perfectly so the illusion of randomness doesn’t look like security protocol.

You don’t look at them either. You focus on Dante’s hand as it grazes yours every time he reaches for his wine. You focus on the warmth of the candlelight on your collarbones. On the way people lean in when you speak.

“You truly spearheaded something magnificent,” the director of Vogue UK says, dabbing at her lips. “That October cover… everyone’s talking about it. Jungkook’s never looked so refined.”

“Or so raw,” someone else adds. “There’s something vulnerable in it. Almost like…”

“Like he was seen,” Dante finishes, smiling sideways at you. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

You sip your wine.

“That was my job,” you reply coolly. “To see him as something more than a headline.”

Your words hang between you, and Jungkook doesn’t speak even once.

But you feel him. Every time Dante laughs too loud. Every time Dante leans too close. Every time his hand brushes your thigh under the tablecloth and you don’t move it away. You feel Jungkook watching like it’s a punishment. And maybe it is.

Because he doesn’t look powerful now. He looks like a man barely holding himself together — knuckles white against the stem of his glass, jaw so tight you know it aches. And still… he says nothing.

Dinner ends slowly. Plates are cleared. Dessert is offered. Liqueur appears in tall, thin glasses, and conversations bloom into something silkier, messier. Looser.

Dante leans toward you again, the scent of spice and ambition warm against your cheek.

“I have a bottle I’d kill to open with you,” he murmurs. “Private cellar. Ten minutes. Just us.”

You smile without showing teeth. Your heart is thudding like betrayal behind your ribs. But you nod.

“Lead the way.”

You stand. And that’s when he stands too. Jungkook.

You pretend not to see him following, just a few paces behind, not fast, not loud — but steady.

The hallway is dim, the sconces casting long shadows across marble walls as you and Dante make your way toward the private wing. At the turn, Dante checks his phone — a call from someone downstairs. He excuses himself for a moment, promises to be right back.

And then you feel it — the heat behind you. A presence you’ve memorized in your bones.

He says nothing at first. Just breathes. Then, softly — like a ghost afraid to be exorcised, “You don’t have to do this just to hurt me.”

You turn, slow and sharp, and there he is — no stage, no audience, no press-ready expression. Just Jungkook. Tense. Broken. Bare.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” you reply. “I’m leaving.”

“With him?”

Your smile is tired. “He asked nicely.”

His voice drops, rough and unsteady. “He doesn’t know you.”

“No one does,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

His eyes close for half a second — like that one cut sliced too deep.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re just angry. You’re trying to prove something.”

“I’m proving I can walk away from you now.”

Jungkook steps closer. Just one step. Barely enough to touch. His breath hits your collarbone.

“If you walk out with him right now… I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

You blink. But your voice doesn’t break this time.

“Then think about it.”

“Please,” he says — and it’s not performance, not charm, not strategy.

It’s desperation. Raw. Quiet. Real.

“Please don’t do this. Not like this.”

You hesitate. Just a second. But it’s enough to break you.

“Don’t ask me for anything,” you say, voice soft and surgical. “You already took everything that mattered.”

And when Dante reappears at the end of the hall, you turn without another word.

Your heels echo across the marble as you disappear down the corridor. You don’t look back.

Not even when Jungkook breaks in the silence behind you.

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