#spring breaks about to start I need a line up

[mellozine]

Scrapbook

I don't normally write fanfic, but I have a bunch of vague ideas that I really gotta get out.

ReaderxJerry, Gender Neutral reader, past male love interest briefly mentioned. Fluff. The scrapbook can't be dateviated, don't worry about it. Not beta read, we die like Hank no. 6

“Whatcha’ got there, friend-o?”

You jump, startled to find Jerry peering over your shoulder, looking with interest at the old composition book sitting on your desk. It has a tattered cover, littered with peeling stickers with miscellaneous things sticking out all over. It hardly even closes.

“Just something I found in the attic,” you reply. “Lady Memoria really wants me to get on cleaning it out. I knew I had a lot of stuff up there, but I never realized how much.”

“A lot of stuff, huh…?”

“Jerry, we talked about this.”

“No, no, you’re right, the attic wouldn't be a…healthy environment for me,” he says, with a bit of a frown. “But, if you ever decide you needed a little assistance with curating-”

“Jerry.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Anyway, to answer your question…it's my old scrapbook.” You hope that if you sate his curiosity, it will distract him from the idea of all the potential lost items in the attic. “I used to paste everything and anything in here for years.”

“Cheese n’ crackers…! Uh, may I?” he asks, gesturing toward the well worn book.

“Sure. Actually…” you rise from your office chair and gesture for him to sit.

As Jerry thumbs through the well worn pages, you point out photographs and little notes, explaining the context behind each one. Jerry, however, is less interested in the photographs than he is the various bits and bobs taped and glued to the pages.

“Oh, that?” you ask, referring to a chunky star shaped button. “I grew out of my favorite coat that year. One of the buttons fell off before my mom donated it, so I decided to keep it. It's really kinda cute, isn't it?”

“And what about these?” Jerry asks, pointing out a series of candy wrappers adorned with cute cartoon characters, lined up neatly, each adhered to the page with decorative tape.

“Oh, a candy company did a promo for a show my friends and I liked! Each wrapper had a different character on it! We spent the whole summer trying to get a full set,” you laugh. “I was the only one of us who managed it. We were so sick of that stuff by the end of it. I haven't eaten any since.”

He turned the page, revealing a photograph of a young man right in the center, the entire rest of the page adorned in heart shaped glittery stickers.

“Oh-ho, and who is-”

“You don't need to see that right now,” you say, turning the page.

“But-”

“You don't. Need to see it.”

“I uh, guess I don't need to see it. Hey, look, a four leaf clover! And so well preserved!”

“Oh, yeah! Some friends and I went on a hike during spring break that year! I found that while we were having lunch!” you smile, as the memory of that day comes flooding back. “I was nearly dead by the time we got to the end of the trail, but I was so excited to find that. Like that made the sweat and hard work of getting there all worth it.”

Your eyes light up at the next page and you point out an old concert ticket, covered with a large piece of clear packing tape.

“That was my first concert!” you exclaim loudly, causing Jerry to startle as a broad smile grows across your face. “I saved my money for months to afford tickets to see Warp live! I still remember feeling the bass all the way in my chest! It was amazing!”

Jerry looks at you. He's not sure he's ever seen you quite so excited, even among the beauty of his various exhibits in the junk drawer. Not even the spare change exhibit has ever caught your interest this way and that was always a crowd pleaser. The crowd was usually just him, but still. 

“Bedknobs and broomsticks, it certainly seems that way. I guess those were pretty good times!”

“They really were,” you say softly. Your expression dims, as sadness starts to creep over you. “It's weird, suddenly being reminded of people I don't talk to anymore and stuff I used to like doing. Maybe I should just throw this out…”

You reach towards the book, but Jerry snatches it away, jumping to his feet. For a moment, he splutters in disbelief, holding it to his chest, almost protectively.

“Wh- How…How could you ever consider throwing this away?! All these stories, these memories…?!”

“Jerry, it's not even a proper scrapbook. It's a composition book with crap glued in it.”

“It's not crap! It's a rich history! It's incredible! It's beautiful! It's…it's you!”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, silence hanging heavy in the air. After a few moments, Jerry laughs nervously.

“I…I meant that…you, you don't…haha, listen to me, going on! That's uh, that's ol’ Jerry for you, huh? Just, uh…oh boy…”

You're quiet for a moment more, as your eyes settle on the ragged notebook in Jerry's hands. He notices you staring and his own gaze flits around the room anxiously, feeling as if your eyes could bore holes into his chest.

“I guess keeping it a little while longer might not be such a bad idea. Actually, why don't you hold on to it for me?”

His face lights up and he holds the scrapbook to his chest, a little tighter, as if it were some precious treasure.

“Really?!”

“Sure. …Just don't take anything out of it.”

“I-I wasn't going to!”

Later, in the cramped confines of the junk drawer, Jerry wanders, looking for the perfect place to place…the Tome of Memories.  But nothing seems quite right. It's not a Lost Item, after all. It's a Found Item with no mysteries held within. He already knows all of its secrets. Well, most of them. He thumbs through it again, smiling fondly at the memory of you, radiating joy as you told him all of your stories. Carefully, he tucks it into a pocket inside his overstuffed jacket. Perhaps this treasure will be part of his private collection for now.

[daryltwdixon]

Sundress

Joel Miller x Reader

Joel prides himself on his patience, but that little sundress of yours that you’re wearing to the summer solstice? It’s his undoing. He does his best to behave...until he gets you alone.

|| smut mdni 18+, he sure does fuck you in the sundress, pinv, f!receiving oral, teasing, pussy pronouns whoops, daddy kink, pet names praissseeeeeeee kinkkkkkkk, joel is in love, jackson!joel, established relationship, I pictured game!joel but you do what ya want || Inspired by these wonderful requests x x If you found this before I updated the banner sry

First and foremost, Joel was a polite man.

He was raised to say yes ma’am and no ma’am, never forgetting his please and thank you’s. It was something a Southern man like him held onto, even after the world had gone to hell.

Respect came first. Restraint. Control.

But then spring came to Jackson, and your layers of clothing started to shed. Bit by bit, the cold loosened its grip, and so did his discipline. Your neck was no longer hidden beneath those thick scarves you loved, your arms bare when the sun was shining, and every so often, he caught a glimpse of soft, warm skin—the dip of your lower back, the curve of your stomach when you stretched to reach something, the way your t-shirts lifted just enough to tease.

He told himself it was nothing—just the natural way of things. He’d seen you naked in his bed enough times to know your body like the back of his own hand. Cherished and kissed and loved every inch. Warmer weather just meant lighter clothes, more sun on skin.

Nothing to make a man lose his damn mind over.

And then—Christ—summer arrived, and he was no better than any other man.

Somehow, this was worse. Because now, that soft, sun-kissed skin he worshipped in the quiet of your home was everywhere. 

Teasing him. 

Tormenting him.

Joel had spent the whole morning baking under the sun, sweat clinging to his skin, dust settling in the creases of his shirt. The construction site had been brutal—hauling lumber, setting up new fencing, fixing the shit that kept breaking down in town. His muscles ached, his skin was hot, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, all he wanted was a cold beer and a quiet place to sit.

But Tommy had other plans.

“C’mon,” his brother had grinned, clapping him on the back as they finished up for the day. “Solstice picnic’s startin’.” 

And as Joel opened his mouth, about to argue that he needed to get back to you, Tommy had cut him off, already a step ahead.

"She’s already there. Maria put her to work stringin’ up lights and pickin’ flowers or somethin’. Now get movin’ before she starts wonderin’ if you forgot about 'er."

Joel grunted, stripping off his work gloves and tucking them into his belt. His palms were rough, lined with grit, and as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he swore the damn heat had sunk into his bones.

Wouldn’t be the first time he showed up to one of these things straight from work, sweat-streaked and worn. No one gave a shit. So he walked beside his younger brother, looking forward to getting through another one of the town's little parties.

That was when he saw you. 

That little sundress. White, lacy, soft. Light enough that it barely touched your skin, the summer breeze slipping beneath it and lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the bare skin of your upper thigh.

Joel swallowed hard, the heat rolling through him having nothing to do with the damn sun.

You were glowing—golden in the late afternoon light, hair catching in the breeze, your smile easy as you laughed at something Maria said. Just standing there, sipping something cool, completely oblivious to the way he’d stopped in his tracks the second he laid eyes on you. Tommy excused himself as they arrived, saying a short ‘catch up with you later’.

Joel made himself move, rolling his shoulders, setting his jaw. 

Polite, he reminded himself. Gentle.

Joel had been raised right, after all.

So when he walked up to you, he made it seem easy, effortless. Like his hands weren’t itching with the need to touch. Like his pulse hadn’t just kicked up something fierce.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured as he approached behind you, his wide grip settling low on your hips.

You twisted around to face him, eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “Hey, handsome.” Your hands slid around his neck as you pressed up for a kiss—soft, warm, sweet with the taste of iced tea and that cherry chapstick you always wore.

Joel had to fight with every fiber of his being not to haul you over his shoulder and carry you straight home.

Didn’t help that you hummed against his lips, content and tender, fingers brushing at the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Pretty thing like you’s got half of Jackson lookin’.”

You grinned, fingers still playing lazily with the curls at his nape. “That so?”

Joel huffed, the corner of his mouth tilting up, but there was something weighted behind the way his fingers flexed against your hips, pressing in just a little firmer.

“Mm,” he hummed, voice dipping low. “S’pose I can’t blame ‘em.” His thumb brushed the fabric of your dress, right where it pressed into the soft skin of your waist. His restraint was hanging by a thread. “Ain’t their fault you’re the prettiest thing out here.”

“You’re sweet,” you said, a tinge of pink painting your cheeks. 

His hand squeezed at your hip, just once, and then he exhaled sharply, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before finally—finally—forcing himself to step back.

Because if he didn’t, this picnic was about to end real fast.

You turned to grab him a beer from the cooler, Tommy’s homemade brew—practically gold now that the days were creeping past eighty degrees. The glass was cool against your fingertips as you popped the cap and turned back, pressing it into Joel’s waiting hand.

“Figured you could use one.”

Joel took it with a small nod, taking a slow sip. “Thanks, darlin’.”

His voice was warm, easy like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes imagining what he planned to do you tonight.

You tilted your head, teasing. “Anything for you, cowboy.”

His mouth quirked up at the corner, “Don’t say that just yet,”

Something in the air shifted, something subtle, something unspoken but you felt it coursing through you, a warmth that brought a flush to your neck.

Joel’s eyes lingered, dark and steady, holding yours like he had all the time in the world. A slow, searching kind of stare, like he was committing the sight of you to memory, like he had something he wanted to say if you were surrounded by a crowd.

You felt the heat of it traveling from your cheeks to your stomach with toe curling intensity..

The fire crackled nearby. Someone laughed in the distance. The music played on.

But before either of you could say anything else, someone clapped him on the back—Tommy again, grinning, dragging him into conversation with a few others, leaving you standing there with a knowing little smirk.

Still, you stayed close.

And so did he.

The afternoon passed in a slow, easy blur. Music drifted through the warm air, laughter rang across the field, and Joel—Joel was everywhere.

His hand at your lower back as you walked through the crowd.

His arm slung over the back of your chair when you sat beside him at one of the makeshift picnic tables.

His fingers brushing over your thigh when he leaned in to murmur something low in your ear, just for you.

It wasn’t deliberate, at least not in the way most folks would notice. But you felt it—felt the way his touches lingered a second longer than necessary, the way his gaze dropped to your legs when the hem of your dress rode up just a little, the way his jaw clenched whenever you gave other men any of your attention–as kind and endearing as you were. It wasn’t your fault. You were kind, warm, effortlessly magnetic. People were drawn to you, it was just who you were.

Joel Miller was trying to behave.

And failing miserably.

By the time the sun had long dipped below the mountains, the stars shining in the dark blue sky above, he was done pretending.

You were settled on his lap, your bare legs draped over his, firelight flickering against your skin. The air was balmy, thick with the scent of burning wood and cool summer breeze, but your skin was warm against him.

His hand rested easy on the outside of your thigh at first, a casual thing, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. But as the fire burned lower, so did his restraint. Slowly, lazily, his palm inched higher—skimming up, up, until his fingers slipped beneath your dress, disappearing into the soft folds of fabric.

And then he gripped you, fingers pressing into the juncture of your thigh and ass, squeezing like he just needed something to hold onto.

You jolted slightly, a sharp breath slipping past your lips as you swatted at his arm. “Joel.”

“Hmm?” He didn’t even pretend to be innocent, his fingers flexing again, kneading the flesh beneath his palm.

You tried to glare, but the traitorous smile pulling at your lips ruined the effect. “Behave yourself.”

Joel huffed out a quiet chuckle, looking up at you with something wicked in his eyes. His hand stayed exactly where it was.

“You gon’ make me?” he murmured, voice low, rough enough to leave goosebumps in its wake.

Your breath hitched. And then, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—like it had slipped past his lips before he could stop it—he exhaled, voice all gravel and want:

“This dress.”

His hand beneath your dress slid back down, fingering at the hem of the white lace, so pale now compared to your warm skin.

Your breath caught, eyes flickering down to where his fingers toyed with the fabric. His own gaze stayed locked on your face, watching every little shift, every little reaction.

When his thumb ghosted over your kneecap, you swallowed hard, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Look so pretty, baby,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with want as he leaned into the shell of your ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were tryin’ to drive me outta my mind.”

And maybe you were.

You knew how much Joel loved you in dresses. It was something about the way they softened you, how the fabric clung to your curves just right, how effortless and feminine you looked draped in lace and light cotton. He never outright said it, but you saw it in the way his hands lingered, in the way his eyes darkened whenever you wore something delicate—something that made you look like you were made for pretty things.

Joel might have been a rough man, all grit and strength, but it was the softness that undid him.

Your back arched into him just an inch, barely anything, but enough that he felt it. Enough that the warmth of your body, the scent of you, the soft brush of your hair against his cheek made his brain go sluggish, thick with something hot and needy.

And then you looked at him.

Heavy-lidded, dazed, lips parted just slightly—like you were already halfway gone before he’d even laid his hands on you. It made something tighten in his chest, made his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh, an involuntary reaction to just how badly he wanted to feel more of you.

Your hand came up to his face, and before either of you could think twice, you were leaning in.

The kiss was nothing like the ones you’d shared earlier—no teasing, no gentle sweetness. This was urgent, all heat and hunger, your tongue kitten-licking at his bottom lip, testing, tasting, making his half-hard cock twitch beneath his jeans. He nearly groaned, nearly let it slip from his throat, but his grip on control was thin, fraying at the edges.

Because when you pulled away, instead of giving him space, you leaned in, lips brushing his ear, your breath warm and an octave lower than your usual sweet lilt.

“Let's go home,” you whispered, kissing along his earlobe, voice barely there—but it hit him like an electric shock.

That was all it took.

Joel was like an animal waiting for his trigger word, waiting for the command to be free, to take what he wanted.

He stood slowly, deliberately, trying to keep himself cool, calm, polite—saving face only because he owed that to you. Not because he cared what people thought. Hell, half of Jackson already had enough to say about him.

But he behaved for you.

For his girl.

Joel stood slowly, setting your legs down gently as he rose, his palm grazing the small of your back—just barely, just enough to feel the warmth of you beneath his fingertips. You stayed close, bodies still humming from the heat of each other, lingering even as you murmured your goodbyes.

But the further you got from the crowd, the needier your touches became.

Your fingers curled around his arm, holding tight, your body leaning into his, pressing into the solid warmth of him with every step. And Joel—Joel wasn’t any better. His hand had already found its way around your waist, fingers spreading over your hip like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

It wasn’t until you turned the corner onto your own street—finally alone—that Joel came to a sudden stop.

Your brows furrowed, about to ask what was wrong, but before you could even get the words out, he bent down and hauled you over his shoulder in one smooth, effortless motion.

A sharp gasp left your lips. “Joel!”

“Shoulda done this an hour ago,” he muttered, not even remotely apologetic. His grip tightened around the back of your thighs, adjusting you against him like you weighed nothing. And then—just to make sure you knew exactly what kind of mood he was in—his palm slid up the back of your legs, landing a sharp swat against the bare skin of your ass.

A squeak slipped from your throat, your fingers digging into the back of his shirt as you squirmed in his hold.

“Joel!” you hissed, but he could hear the grin despite the scandalized tone.

“Shh…” He chuckled, his grip tightening around your thighs as he strode up the porch steps. “Don’t want the neighbors pokin’ their heads out, do ya?”

The wood groaned beneath his boots, but he didn’t so much as hesitate, not even as he crossed the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking stride. He had one thing on his mind.

One destination.

You barely had time to process the familiar path of your home before Joel was hauling you up the stairs like you weren’t even there—still slung over his shoulder, still gripping onto him as your laughter mixed with the sound of his heavy footfalls.

And then suddenly—you were airborne.

A startled gasp left your lips as he bounced you onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you, breathless and winded. You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair tousled and wild, looking up at him as he stood at the edge of the bed, staring you down like he was about to devour you whole.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse thrumming with a mixture of anticipation and amusement.

“What’s gotten into you, old man?” you teased, breathless but grinning.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he pulled off your boots. Once discarded, he hooked his arms under your knees, dragging you down the mattress, pressing you into him. The motion sent your dress hiking up around your waist, leaving you spread open beneath him, your panties on perfect display.

“Oh, hunny,” he drawled, looking at the damp patch on the fabric, “you keepin’ this from me?”

Before you could answer, he leaned down, hands trailing up your thighs, easing them over his shoulders. The first brush of his lips against the fabric was slow, deliberate—a kiss to your panty-clad mound, soft but enough to make you shudder. 

Then he kept going. Mouth trailing lower, teasing.

Your head tipped back at the feeling of his beard grazing your sensitive skin, a breathy moan slipping out as your elbows gave, dropping you onto the bed completely. One hand found his hair, gripping, your fingers tangling in the dark curls streaked with silver. He watched you, eyes drinking you in. 

“N-no,” you breathed, “Always yours, Joel,”

“I know, baby, I know.” he cooed, voice softer now, full of reverence. He reached up, gripping the gusset of your panties, wrapping a thick finger around the damp fabric, tugging it to the side to reveal exactly what he wanted. His beard scraped against you when he kissed the skin of your thigh, sending a shockwave through your body, making you twitch beneath him.

A whimper left your lips, your hips lifting without thinking.

Joel chuckled, low and knowing, watching as your pussy clenched around nothing.

“Aw, she’s flirtin’ with me, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss against you. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted. “Wish you could see just how pretty she looks right now.”

“Joel.” It was a whimper, a plea, a warning.

His lust blown eyes flicked up to yours, his mouth still hovering just over where you needed him most. “What is it, baby?”

You swallowed, hips shifting, heat pooling low in your belly.

“Please.”

Joel hummed, dragging his mouth closer but still not giving you what you wanted. “Please what?”

Because hell, he’d spent all damn day watching you, aching for you, burning with want while you smiled and laughed and let that damn dress drive him to madness. If anything, he deserved to have his fun now. He needed to hear you say it.

Your fingers flexed in his hair, a little tug, a little desperation, “Please touch me, Daddy.”

Joel’s blood turned molten. Heat roared through him so fierce, so instant, it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. And maybe you knew exactly what that word did to him.

He dipped his head back down, tongue sliding through your folds, groaning against you as he finally gave in. You were so warm, so slick, so ready for him that he had to take a second just to breathe, just to let himself have this.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh as he held you open for him, his mouth working slow, savoring. You shuddered beneath him, your fingers twisting into his hair, your body already arching toward his mouth like you couldn’t help yourself.

His tongue flicked against your clit, lazy at first, teasing, before dipping lower to drink you in, groaning as he tasted you properly. Slow and deep, his tongue pressed inside you, inching in, sliding out, before licking back up and pursing his lips around your clit, sucking and grazing his teeth, making your hips jerk against his mouth.

His beard scraped against your thighs, rough and warm, the contrast making you tremble harder beneath him. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, like he was relearning you all over again, savoring every sound, every twitch, every sharp gasp that slipped past your lips.

Joel’s hands flexed against your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin, grounding you as his mouth worked you into a pliant mess.

“Need to get her ready for me,” he murmured, voice muffled against you, words spoken more to himself than to you. His mouth never left you as one broad hand slid between your legs, and you gasped as his fingers traced over your entrance, prodding the pool of arousal there.

“So damn soft,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down to kiss the inside of your thigh, his breath hot against your slick skin. “And already so wet for me. She likes it when I take my time, don’t she, baby?”

You could barely think, barely breathe, too lost in the slow, perfect way he touched you.

You only nodded, voice failing you as his finger finally pushed inside—just one at first, easing in with aching patience, stretching you open. A ragged moan left your lips, fingers twisting in his hair as he curled it just right, pressing against that spot inside you that made your whole body shudder.

He hummed in approval, lips finding your clit again, his tongue swirling slow, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

“You make the prettiest noises for me," he murmured against you, his voice thick and rough with hunger. He slid another finger in, stretching you wider, pumping them in and out in a slow, steady pace, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him.

Your body was already tightening, your thighs trembling, your breath hitching into soft, broken whimpers. You couldn’t stop yourself from rocking into him, chasing that feeling, your pleasure building with every slow, deliberate stroke of his fingers, every teasing flick of his tongue.

Joel could feel it, the way you clenched down around him, the way your legs shook against his shoulders.

“There she is,” he murmured, pressing a kiss right over your clit before sucking it back into his mouth, his fingers pressing up into your soft, velvety walls. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel her.”

That was all it took–your body tensed, the pleasure cresting and crashing all at once as you came around his fingers, a sharp, broken cry slipping from your lips. Your thighs squeezed around his head, but Joel didn’t stop, didn’t slow, working you through it, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him.

He groaned low, almost like he was the one falling apart, dragging his fingers slow as he eased you down, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh.

“So goddamn sweet for me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.

Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you as Joel pressed one last lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling back.

He looked wrecked.

His beard glistened, slick with your release, lips swollen and parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, drinking you in like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

His hands slid up your legs, slow and deliberate, until they gripped your waist, spreading you open beneath him as he crawled over you, pressing his weight into you. The fabric of your dress was still bunched around your hips, the lace soft beneath his calloused hands, but he liked that you kept it on.

Something about how pretty you looked in it, something about knowing he was the only one who got to see you like this.

His hands found your face, cupping it, tilting your chin up, and then his mouth was on yours. Hot, deep and unyielding.

You moaned softly into the kiss, your fingers sliding into his hair as he stole every breath from your lungs. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, his beard damp against your chin as he pressed in harder, hungrier. It was so much—too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, you were looking up at him, your thumb brushing against the slick sheen on his jaw, your heart pounding.

"Can I take care of you, daddy?" you whispered, voice warm and so damn sweet it made his chest ache.

But he was already shaking his head, already unbuckling his belt, already too far gone to let you do anything but take him.

"Not tonight, baby," he murmured, his low drawl barely audible. His belt hit the floor, his jeans sliding low on his hips as he leaned down, pressing another kiss to your lips, softer this time.

"I need to feel you," he admitted, his voice quieter now, more raw. His hand ran down your thigh, fingers pressing into soft skin, feeling you, grounding himself in you. "If you put that pretty mouth on me, there won’t be a chance in hell I get to feel you cum on my cock, ‘cause I’d be done in minutes with the state you got me in."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes warm as your hands smoothed down his sides, fingers dipping into the waistband of his jeans, helping him push them lower.

"That bad, huh?" you teased.

Joel exhaled a shaky chuckle, dropping his forehead to yours, barely holding himself together as he pulled himself free.

"Worse," he admitted.

His cock was thick, flushed, leaking, the head dragging through your slick, teasing you. Joel groaned low at the feeling of your slick arousal coating the tip of himself, his lips brushing against yours as he lined himself up, his voice just a whisper.

“Gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

You arched your back into him, the flimsy straps of your dress slipping down your shoulders as you reached for him, arms winding around his neck, legs hooking around his waist like you couldn’t stand the thought of space between you.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath as you pulled him in, his body pressing flush against yours. His one handed planted by your head, the other guiding the wide tip of his cock at your weeping entrance, then slowly sank into you like he’d been starving for it all damn day.

He had, in fact.

“Jesus,” he rasped, voice strained as he bottomed out completely, a moan tearing through his throat as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. He held still for a second, letting you adjust, letting himself breathe before his lips brushed against your ear. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Always take my cock so good,” 

You were breathless, feeling split in two around him, your lips parted, jaw slack, head falling back against the bedspread. Joel took his time kissing along your jaw, lips trailing soft and slow as he felt the way your body tightened around him. His cock twitched despite how patient he was trying to be.

“Daddy,” you breathed, voice barely there, and as he pulled out inch by inch, he watched your eyes flutter shut, your body clenching down on him like you never wanted to let him go. Joel groaned, pushing back in, slow but deep, not stopping until his hips were pressed flush to yours.

And when he pulled out again, the obscene, wet sound of your slick walls taking him made you both moan in tandem, his agonizingly slow pace making every sensation sharper, every sound deeper, more electric.

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, voice thick. “Doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. S’like she was made to take me, huh?”

You whined softly, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, legs tightening around him, desperate for more.

“Need—need you to—” you tried, but your mind was foggy, wrecked, gone. You needed more. Needed him to let go, to take it. Needed to feel the weight of all that pent-up frustration from the day, from the way you’d teased him with every flash of your thigh, every fleeting touch, every slow, knowing smile.

Joel kissed your temple, his hands roaming, soothing, adoring, wanting. “Tell me, baby,” he murmured, “tell me what you need.” His lips brushed against your ear, his voice low and full of something tender. “I’ll give you anything—give you the whole damn world if you asked.”

Your heart swelled, warmth pooling in your chest before another wave of want took over. You smiled up at him, fingers smoothing up his back, knowing exactly what you wanted to hear from him.

"Want it harder, Joel." Your voice was thick as you swallowed, mind finally clearing enough to put your need into words. "You were so good all day, even when you knew I was teasing."

You heaved a breath as his eyes opened fully, locking onto you, dark and unreadable as he listened.

"So polite," you murmured, pressing a slow kiss to his lips before your fingers slid into his hair, tightening just enough to make him exhale, "Such a gentleman. Show me, Joel—show me what you wanted to take all day."

His eyes twinkled with amusement for a brief second—right before you clenched down around him, your walls fluttering, pulling him deeper. His cock twitched, stiffened, his breath stalling as his fingers dug into your skin.

"You want me to fuck you stupid, baby? That what you need?" His voice was low, wrecked, something dark laced in it now. "Cause all I wanted to do all damn day was bend you over and shove my cock in you so goddamn bad. Show you exactly how crazy you make me."

"Show me," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chin, his beard tickling your lips as it trailed along his jaw. "Please, Daddy. Let me feel it."

Joel didn’t hesitate.

His hands tightened at your waist, steady and commanding, before sitting up and rolling you onto your stomach in one fluid motion. His cock stayed inside you, the shift in position knocking the air from your lungs, the new angle making you feel every inch of him in a way that had your fingers digging into the sheets.

Before you could even process it, his palms pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you down until your chest met the mattress, ass lifted, legs spread, completely open for him.

That’s when you felt the delicate lace of your dress catching beneath his knee, the soft fabric now bunched awkwardly between you.

Your breath wavered. Fingers twitching against the sheets, you hesitated before murmuring, "Should I take this off?"

He smoothed a hand over your ass, his other gripping the bunched-up fabric of your dress so it was pulled into his fist.

"You're keepin' it on," he murmured, his voice edged with something rough, something final. The way his fingers tightened in the fabric told you just how much he'd already thought about this moment—how long he'd wanted it, pictured it, waited for it, "want you just like this."

You barely had time to whimper before he pulled you back into him, sinking deep, stretching you open all over again.

Joel groaned, a long, deep, guttural noise from his throat, his one hand at your waist, the other pulling you back via his fist in your dress as he set the pace. He was slow at first, making sure you felt every thick inch, every ridge and vein of his throbbing cock before pulling out and snapping his hips forward again.

"Christ," he rasped, his free hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you steady as he leaned over you a bit, "You feel that, baby? Feel how fuckin' deep I am?"

All you could do was nod, moaning brokenly as he buried himself to the hilt, again and again, dragging you back onto him each time.

Joel groaned, dropping his head forward for a second before his grip tightened on your dress again, using it to pull you back into him.

"Greedy little thing," he murmured, his fingers gripping tighter at your waist as he rolled his hips deeper. "That what you wanted, baby? Want me to fuck you just like this?"

"Yes," you gasped, voice breaking on the word. "Just like that, Joel."

Your breath came rough and uneven, and then his grip on your dress tightened, fingers bunching up the fabric at your waist. He used it to pull you back onto him, meeting each thrust with an unrelenting force, his other hand splaying across your back to keep you steady.

"Look at you," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice thick with something wrecked and reverent all at once. "Takin’ it so good. My perfect girl."

The praise sent heat licking up your spine, your body tightening around him in response. He felt it, too—felt the way you clenched down on him, the way your legs trembled as he drove into you harder.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, leaning over you as his hand slipped under you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your breath hitch. "You gonna come for me again? Hmm?"

You nodded frantically, pushing back into him, desperate for more. "Please, Joel," you whimpered. "Need it."

"Yeah, I know," he murmured, his voice softer now, lips brushing the back of your shoulder, his thrusts still deep but growing rougher, more urgent. "Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. Gonna feel you come all over me."

His fingers pressed firmer against your clit, circling in a perfect rhythm as his cock dragged against that sweet spot inside you, his name slipping from your lips in a broken moan as the tension in your belly tightened, ready to snap.

"That's it, baby," Joel groaned, voice ragged. "Come for me, let me feel her on my cock."

And with the way he was moving, the way he was touching you, the way he was whispering those wrecked, adoring words against your skin—you had no choice but to let go.

Pleasure sparked white over you in waves, your walls fluttering around him as your body shook, your voice lost in a strangled cry. Joel cursed under his breath, his thrusts faltering for a moment as he felt you unravel around him, his hands gripping you tight, holding you through it.

"That's my girl," he muttered, voice thick, pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck as he kept moving, chasing his own release, determined to follow you over the edge, "Good fucking girl,"

Joel’s thrusts turned sloppy, desperate, deep, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. His grip on your waist tightened, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick and wrecked, his body locking up as he buried himself to the hilt, pressing deep, holding you there.

And then he was gone.

A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat as he spilled inside you, heat flooding you as his cock pulsed, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he rode it out. He pressed his forehead against your back, breath warm against your skin, hands smoothing over your hips as if grounding himself, holding you tight, keeping you close.

He stayed there for a moment, still inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, lips trailing soft, absentminded kisses along your shoulder as he caught his breath. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your skin with quiet adoration.

"You okay, baby?" he murmured into your hair as he placed a kiss on your head, voice low and tender, so different from the way he’d just wrecked you.

You nodded, still catching your breath, body still trembling from the intensity of it all.

Joel pressed a final kiss to your cheek before slowly, carefully pulling out, groaning low at the sight of where he’d filled you up, his release already starting to slip out of you.

"Made a mess of you, darlin’," he muttered, his voice warm, affectionate. "Stay right there."

You barely had the strength to move, muscles still loose and spent, but you felt the bed shift as Joel slipped away. You blinked sleepily as he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return a moment later with a damp cloth.

His hands were gentle, reverent as he cleaned you up, taking his time, murmuring soft words of praise under his breath.

"There we go, baby," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your lower back as he worked. "Always take care of my girl."

Once he was satisfied, he reached for the bunched-up fabric of your dress, his fingers sliding beneath the hem.

"Let’s get this off you, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion but still warm, still full of something tender.

His touch was unhurried, guiding the fabric up your body, letting the fabric peel away from your skin, soft and slow. as you held your arms up for him. He didn’t rush, didn’t let the moment pass without appreciating you all over again.

Once it was gone, he tossed it aside and crawled up beside you in the bed to pull you into his arms, rolling you onto your side, tucking you against his chest.

His arms were strong, solid and warm, one hand smoothing up and down your back, the other tangling in your hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

"You still with me?" he murmured, lips ghosting over your temple.

You hummed softly, pressing closer, letting yourself melt into his embrace.

"Good," he sighed, voice low, spent, but content. His fingers traced slow, aimless circles along your spine, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your cheek, anchoring you to him, "Love you, sweetheart,"

"I love you, Joel." you murmured, your voice barely there, the warmth of him pulling you under into a deep sleep.

[impeakcharacterdesign]

Just the Tip

— Thomas Hewitt x Fem!Reader —

MDNI!!!

Summary: It’s the 1960s and Luda Mae frowns upon premarital sex like any good Christian woman. You and Tommy are young, hot, and in love but the only problem is that Tommy was raised to wait until marriage and never lets you two go any further than kissing and some groping.

But the devil lives in the hot Texan sun and even God takes a break from the summer heat.

Notes: this is super short, just pure smut, self indulgent I’m obsessed with big boy Tommy 😭😭😭 i swear I’m working on part 2 of my sister Sinclair fic but Tommy has me in a choke hold and I needed an outlet.

No TW that I can think of other than bad smut and maybe ??? Coercion??? Cause Tommy wants to be a good boy and stop before y’all go too far but you flash him and then he’s absolutely 100% in. A bit of religious stuff, period typical sexism but vaguely. Let me know if I should add anything else and I’ll get right on it. Reader isn’t ever referred to using “she/her” pronouns but is described as having breasts and does have female genitalia so I tagged it fem reader to be safe

Enjoy!!!

The early morning sun burned, chasing away what little cool air remained of the night before. While the barn shaded you from the unforgiving sun and hid you from disapproving eyes — or lecherous in the case of the older men of the family — it also trapped in the heat your two bodies gave off.

Thomas pressed his open mouth to your own, tongue swiping over your teeth eager to taste you. Your hands gripped his dark hair, ruining any half-effort attempt he had made earlier in the day to smooth down his unruly hair. He held you in his arms, body pressed tightly against him in an attempt to get as close as possible, his large frame hiding you even further from prying eyes than the shadowed corners of the old barn. The kiss was deep and hungry and served as a brief respite from Luda Maes ever watching eyes. While she had been fine with you living with the family before you and Tommy were married, she forbade you from sharing a room or being intimate, a rule she absolutely refused to budge on and one that Uncle Charlie took a strange glee in ribbing you about. But much like the Texan heat, the heated looks you gave each other were unavoidable and only grew hotter as the summer days went on. Luda Mae wanted to wait until the following spring to make your union official but at the rate the town was drying up, there wouldn't even be a priest to officiate the ceremony, much less any guest to attend. You highly doubted anyone outside of the family would want to witness your union anyway but still, Luda Mae didn't want the few who would to get wise and start counting months.

These stolen moments in the barn were as good as you could get — and by god were they good.

Tommy’s large hands groped at your breasts, pawing roughy at your nipples through the worn fabric of your old dress. It wasn’t long before you found yourself in the familiar position of being sprawled out on the barn floor, coarse hay a discomfort you had long learned to endure for the sake of pleasure.

You desperately thrust your sex up onto his growing bulge, whining when he groaned and pinned your hips with his own, preventing you from getting your desired stimulation. “Please Tommy,” you beg, lips separating, “We don’t have to do too much, I just wanna touch you.” You press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, pulling softly at the flesh with your teeth and tongue dragging across the bites to taste the salt on his skin. Your hands eagerly worked to untuck his faded green shirt and wrap around him, roaming the vast expanse of his back. His whole body shuddered in your arms, an attempt to hold back from eating you whole.

You know Thomas will put an end to your romp soon, the tense lines of his shoulders and the way he shuts his eyes a sign that he's reaching his limit, that if you two don't stop now you won't be able to stop — but that’s exactly what you want.

You're tired of holding back, of this constant edging you have to endure when you’re in his presence and it gets harder every day. Just yesterday afternoon, Uncle Charlie sprayed Tommy with the hose, telling him that he was filthy and needed to get out of those clothes before he went inside. Watching as he undressed by the back door so that you could put his clothes on the line to dry had nearly given you a heatstroke — and if Charlie’s leering grin was any clue, you swear he did it on purpose in an attempt to rile you up. You ran off before you sinned right there in the yard, the memory of Thomas's shirt clinging to his arms, his chest glistening with water had kept you company well into the night.

So before Tommy puts a stop to your roll in the hay you make your move. You lift your dress up past your breast and expose yourself to him, you can see his breath stutter in his chest, this was quickly becoming the farthest you two had ever gone.

“Just watch me, Tommy, watch me,” you say breathlessly.

And he does, he sits on his haunches like a predator, his engorged cock straining against his pants and imagining just a taste has your tongue darting out to wet your lips, his gaze fixated on the movement.

Sliding your panties off your legs, your fingers dip briefly into your wet hole, gathering slick to rub onto your clit. At the very first touch, you let out a shuddering breath and you watch as his shoulders heave.

You begin rubbing your clit at an intense pace already turned on from the earlier heavy petting, not once breaking eye contact with Thomas as you do. With each moan you muffle you see his eyes grow darker with desire breathing with his mouth open as though he could taste your scent in the air. When he finally lets his cock spring free you let out your loudest moan yet. It’s better than you ever thought. His cock is thick and heavy, drooping slightly under its own weight but still undeniably firm. It curves slightly and you imagine that if it was inside you it would scrape against your walls in a way you've never been able to do with just your fingers.

Thomas grips his cock firmly and gives it a few tugs, eyes alternating between hungrily drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression and your dripping pussy. You buck your hips, desperate to press your clit against your fingers and Thomas jerks his length even faster, rubbing his tip and spreading his precum on his hand.

God, you wished it was you that was touching him.

Thomas settles onto his knees and after a brief hesitation begins to shuffle closer to you. The sight of him crawling to you on his knees with his dripping length in hand made your pussy clench around nothing and you let out a whimper. You remove your fingers from your clit, feeling the heat radiating from his cock as he settles on top of you, legs spreading around his waist, your hips slightly raised and resting on his thighs.

The tip hesitantly pressed against your clit and your moan fills the small space before you can suppress it. This was better than you were hoping and it felt as though you were pressing against the boundaries the lord had set for you. Tommy’s eyes find yours looking for reassurance, asking without words, “Do you think this is okay?”

You find enough comprehension in your lust-addled brain to come up with a coherent answer, “It should be fine, I think,” you stammer out, “I mean, it’s not like — not like you’re putting it in so, it should be fine.”

You’re not overly familiar with the word of God outside of Sunday services and Luda Mae’s lectures, both of which you were forced to attend and spent tuning out in favor of watching the sweat build on Tommy’s brow while he worked through the window.

You think that if God could feel the weight of Thomas like you did, feel the heat like you could, you think he’d forgive the sin of your act.

It seems like that was all the reassurance that Thomas needed because no sooner than the words fumbled their way out of your mouth that he begins to drag the length of his cock against your slit.

God, if this is what hell was supposed to be like, burning and full of decadence, then perhaps you didn’t mind being a sinner.

The way he ruts against you is euphoric. Heavy breaths escape you both and you can’t help the words that spill from your lips.

“God, Tommy, I wish you would put it inside me,” you whine out “‘wanna feel your fat cock in my pussy, wanna get filled,” you might as well be begging at this point, and Tommy's increases his pace to the point that you think he wants the same thing, that he’s desperate to thrust into you rather than against you and —

And then the tip of his cock catches on your entrance and you both stop breathing.

“Maybe — Maybe it doesn’t count.” You stammer out, “It didn’t go in and it’s just the tip, and I don’t think that the tip counts” With the slightest twitch of his hips the tip of his cock has slipped inside.

"It's - it's just the tip it's fine” Your words sound empty even to you but the reassurance is all Tommy needs to push forward and let the head of his cock slide into your welcoming heat

His soul nearly leaves his body when he feels your raw pussy on the head of his cock. He jerks his length furiously and your fingers begin to move against your clit again, eager to meet your high with Thomas.

But it’s not enough. He was right there, right there just one push of his hips he’d be right where you needed him

“Please Tommy” Canting your hips slightly so the tip begins to dig deeper into you, you begin to plead once more, “wanna feel you fill me up, wanna remember the shape of your cock please”

Thomas feels years of control break at your words and with one swing of his hips, he bottoms out instantly. You feel like you've been punched in the gut as the air rushes out of you and you let out a sound like a wounded animal. Tommy stays still deep inside you, shaking and heaving, absolutely drunk on the feeling of your soaked walls clenching vigorously around his length.

You feel full in a way you've never thought possible. His length throbs, its girth stretching you in a way that burns.

When he finally starts thrusting, you’re not ready. He’s like a man possessed, solely focused on the feel of you around him, your skin pressed against his, his blood pounding in his ears.

“Wait— Tommy, ah, slow — slow down, oh god!” You can’t hold back your moans and he can’t stop, both fully engrossed in the feel of each other with no control over your own lust. Thomas crashes his lips onto yours in a halfhearted attempt to keep down your moans, it’s sloppy, clashing teeth and drooling tongues, spit escaping your lips, unlike any you’ve shared before.

This is completely different from what you’ve imagined your first time together would be like. It’s not your wedding night, you're laying on the dirty barn floor and there’s absolutely nothing gentle about the way Tommy is ravaging you. Your pussy is sopping wet and with every thrust, it lets out an embarrassing squelch, your juices and Tommy’s pre-cum leak down your ass and make a sticky mess in his dark pubes.

He doesn’t stop even as your walls spasm around him, cumming on his cock and digging your nails into his strong back. He works you through your orgasm even as your mouth clumsily forms the words to beg for him to slow down or to give you a moment. It’s too much, the sensations completely overloading your brain and all you can do is hold on tightly to him, lost in the ecstasy of your release.

Thomas lets out a deep, guttural groan as he cums, hips stuttering as he bullies his fat cock into the deepest part of your sex, filling you to the brim and your vision goes white.

Boneless, neither one of you makes a move to separate from the other, so thoroughly satisfied and content to lie where you are holding each other, Thomas’s softening cocking slipping out of you and spilling his release onto the ground.

His weight on you is comforting, you gently press kisses to his face and bask in the way his heavy breaths caress your sweaty skin.

“I love you.” You whisper into the shell of his ear and he squeezes you against him, repeating the words in his garbled voice the best he could. Your love is just for the two of you, no one else had a place in your world, no one else had the right to peak in on your affection or gawk at your differences.

This moment in time was just for the two of you.

“Thomas! Where the hell are ya, boy!”

Well, until Uncle Charlie’s voice brought you back down to reality.

[sugarverse]

Hiii! I was wondering if I could request either long or short fic about Tenya Iida. Likes it can be set in a modern setting where's he's a senior college student who's majoring in business and he has to take one more class to get his degree. It just so happened that the class is in the art building, and it is figure drawing (aka nude drawing) . Since he's just now hearing of the extra class he has to take, he's suddenly shocked when the model is an old friend of his from back home, whom he had a childhood crush on. Not only does his feelings for her come back, but he also has to have 1 on 1 section with the model for educational purposes. I kinda want it to be smut and fluff or however you see it fit. Anyway, I hope it's enough+

hi babe! omg I love this idea I kinda went a lil crazy and made it way too long. I hope u enjoy :)!!

𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧

word count: 3.5k

mentions of: This is really just the fluff portion of it, kinda suggestive bc he pops a boner and leads to sex in part two. I think I’m going to make a third part simply so the two of you can go on a genuine date andsotheresmoreiidaxblackreaderouthere.

a/n: hells yeah that’s enough, hopefully I did what ya asked and so sorry I went overboard I have serious problems. here’s the smut part bc a 6.7k fic is doing too damn much but i can’t stfu my fault gang

moodboard here!

Tenya Iida.

4th year, Senior in college majoring in International Business and minoring in Spanish at Angelwood College of Arts and Sciences.

The visual arts building had only been a few minutes away from the business side of campus, which he gladly enjoyed the walk. This spring all he needed to finish was two gen ed classes, the rest revolved around his major and minor. His counselor helped set up his ‘missing’ classes before winter break considering he had to fly back to Japan to see his family for the holidays. He was ecstatic to learn all he needed was an art class with lab and a communications class. 

When he asked what the class entailed, all he was met with was “beginner artists learning anatomy.” It didn’t sound difficult, just draw what you see. It would be nice to try something new anyway. He was not much of an artist but like all things Tenya does, he planned to give this class his all. The first week had been pretty easy, learning how to draw what you see with the use of models, shapes, and lines. Nothing too hard to follow. He would practice drawing his friends on the sketchpad he bought specifically for the class as a form of studying in the free time he had.

He neverminded it for the most part, excelling his knowledge in different countries in his free time to get better at his major. Sure they could teach you the technical way to do things, but in the end, everyone is still human. It would be inconsiderate to do business with a country and know little to nothing about their culture! It took almost two weeks for him to finally be able to even start the art project anyway.

As time went on and the January snow grew less and less, it was time to start their first real project of the semester. One on One figure drawing. The class needed to fill out a form explaining their free hours due to the limited art space and everyone's different schedules. Tenya happily filled it out when it was posted, continuing to work on class work from the library so that the lecture room could also be used for said project.

Their professor had explained that in-person class would remain on Mondays and Thursdays. It just worked out better for the models and students to have so much space.

He made the small walk over to the arts building for his last class of the day, a small shine in his glasses as he entered the white light of the room. The walls were anything but bare, artwork and unfinished projects sat in every corner of the room. Paint racks, canvases big and small, even stacks of unused clay. There was a stool sitting on a small platform in the middle of the room, assuming where the model will sit. 

He stood next to the stool for a moment, looking up at the grey February sky through the skylight. The natural lighting was great, almost like a spotlight. He adjusted the lights in the room a moment, dimming them slightly so the white light hadn’t been so harsh on his eyes. He headed over to a more organized table, setting out the art supplies how he liked. He knew he was early, but he wanted to make a good first impression. What’s better than being on time?

He pulled out his laptop, checking that the few assignments for today were done and submitted. A small frown tugged at his lips as he realized he hadn’t finished something completely, typing in the last few answers. He always double checked, technology was reliable.. When it wanted to be. He couldn’t hear the shuffle of slippers against the floor over his typing and frankly, loud thinking. 

He could see someone walk past in a teal robe representing the university's colors. Glancing up from the computer to give the model a proper hello, Tenya opens his mouth to speak but pauses. 

“Y/n?” He asked, almost in a whisper in case he was wrong. A small look of confusion caused him to tilt his head to the side slightly. He hadn’t been able to see you for awhile with such busy schedules, but he knew your silhouette by heart. 

You turn at the sound of your name, mid sliding off the slippers and fumbling with the gold silk of the belt. “Tenya?” You smile, asking as you turn to slide your shoes back on and quickly shuffle your way over to him. He felt his face burn red, frozen in place for a moment with his jaw slack. He stood as if needing to detach from the seat, smiling at your happy demeanor and your quickness to wrap your arms around him. 

“It is you! I know those shoulders from anywhere!” You beamed, feeling his hovering hands slowly place themselves on your back to return the hug. He was very hesitant, simply because you were only in a robe. You pull away, hands resting on your hips and giving him a big smile. “Now what are you doin’ taking a figure drawing class, Mister businessman?”

He let out a sheepish chuckle, “I needed an art credit, W-What are u doing here?” He never had any classes with you at Angelwood, A few honors classes and gym in highschool but other than that, nada. Throughout the course of growing up, your interests drove you to different classes. 

However, classes don't matter when your families are as close as yours and the Iida family. Shared Holidays, playdates, game nights.. It wasn’t like you were some stranger. You both always made time to hang out a few times during the year to catch up without the family just to give a real check on each other. It was his favorite, almost like a mini holiday to talk to you.

He loved spending time with you. You were smart, articulated and incredibly creative. You never took slack from anyone.. Even in middle school he can remember you being the one to stand up and say something when things weren’t right. You were headstrong and determined in anything that you did.. Art majors always get a lot of grief but you never let that deter you. And that was admirable in itself! ..And he had always thought you were so pretty. 

He felt like a kid again, heart feeling as if it’d beat out of his chest at the mere sight of you. It had been around Halloween the last time he saw you, and here it was. Almost Valentine's day.. Still as pretty and bright as he remembered. Your next hangout wasn't for another month or so, so it was nice to see you sooner than that.

“I'm your model, silly!” You head over to the stool, continuing to speak. “The art department asked if I’d help in modeling and I said yes! People were too scared to sign up for the most part. I’m surprised this is the class you picked. Did you want to learn how to draw people?” You slide your slippers off once more, untying the cute bow on your hip that held your robe shut. 

Suddenly the room was very hot and he couldn't breathe. Now his heart really WAS beating out of his chest. He quickly did a 180, shielding his eyes and removing his glasses for extra measure. “WHY– do yoU have.. nothing on underrrrneath?” He croaked, voice cracking as his tone raised slightly.

You tilt your head at such a question, the gears clicking a little later than they should have. “Figure drawing is um.. Nude drawing, Tenya. You didn't know that?” You slide the robe back on, giggling at the flustered man across from you. You could see his shoulders tense, shaking his head slowly.

Now how the fuck could he have missed that.

“I um.. No, I didn't. I thought that it was.. I don't know what I thought. My counselor picked it for me and I.. Most models we've used so far have.. had skin colored undergarments… On.” He let out a nervous laugh, keeping his glasses off. He turns around, cleaning them with the end of his shirt but refusing to look up at you. He needed to mentally prepare his brain to be professional in a situation like this. Not that he minded the glance, he just never thought this would be how..

You prop your feet onto the edge of the stool, interrupting his thought. You held your knees up to your chest so he couldn’t see anything but your bare legs. “Oh Ten, I’m sorry! I can ask someone else to-”

“No! I am perfectly.. capable. It's professional and I can be.. professional..” He put his glasses back on, hand refusing to be steady as he did so. He let out a shaky sigh, smiling at you and finally looking at you once more.

You let out a small laugh at the blush on his cheeks. He was so handsome, but to see him so flustered over little ol’ you? It made your week. “We can start slow, that might help.” you slide the robe down your shoulders, slowly putting your legs back down so he could see your robed torso once more. You stopped at the top of your breasts, letting your collarbone show. “Do you have any specific poses..?” You ask quietly, trying to hold back your amusement.

He sits down, red faced and completely flushed. A nude model.. jeez. From sleepovers to recess, studying together to graduating, and now almost graduating for the final time together. That's something you don’t get to have in every lifetime. But why do these thoughts keep coming back to him now? 

There was no way he could still have romantic feelings for you. He’d never put your friendship at risk like that!

..right?

“I um.. yeah, small.” He cleared his throat, “Could you um.. Could you stand slightly off of the um.. Almost like getting up?” He fumbled over his words, staring at the empty paper as if he could burn the quick image in his brain onto the page to get the embarrassment over with. He sighed once more, trying to focus as he began sketching circles and lines as a starter sketch of the pose he wanted.

“When you need to draw a certain part I'll move it, Sound fair?” You ask, resting one foot onto the stool and one onto the ground. Your hand gripped the seat as your butt sat on the edge, similar to when people do that supposedly hot thing where they throw their head back and pull some weird rope to have water get poured on them. 

It was second nature at this point for people to see you. Of course some of them were flustered and it was pretty awkward at first, but normally not to the point of stuttering and stammering. It wasn’t often that you saw Tenya fall apart, but this was way different. Especially considering you flashed him without warning. He was one of the most endearing people you had ever met, there was no way you would have done that without proper context.

He could only nod in response, not wanting to further make a fool of himself. Lightly tapping the pencil against the table, He looks up at you. “You can um.. re.. remove the top part, y/n..” It was hard to simply draw your arms and collarbone without including the robe, so you might as well rip the band-aid off and start with the top. 

You nod, dropping it happily and letting the robe pull around your hips and between your legs. You close your eyes, facing up toward the skylight in an attempt to make him less nervous. “Sorry for flashing you at first, I would have explained but I assumed you had already known..?” You laugh quietly to yourself at your own mistake. Why would someone like him even take this class if he knew what it actually entailed?

And God, did he feel like a pervert staring at your chest like this. The boner poking his thigh almost immediately didn't help, making it even harder to concentrate. Way to keep composure. He pressed his lips together for a moment before speaking. “I had no idea, I’m sorry for my r..reaction.” He answered, stopping the pencil tapping to actually begin sketching more than just circles and lines. He hadn’t meant to yell, but he felt like he was close to passing out. 

“I think it was a pretty valid one.” You send a reassuring smile his way, seeing him send you one right back. Trying to ease the mood, you look back up at the ceiling and close your eyes to avoid staring at the ugly overcast sky above you. “How was winter break? You get to go home and see your family? How are they?” 

His smile grew wider at your question, scooting under the desk a bit more so that you hopefully wouldn’t notice his body reacting. “They’re great, Tensei is getting married soon,” He sounded excited at the thought alone, incredibly proud of his brother. 

“And my mother has started a hobby making soap, if you can believe it. She sent me some to bring back one that smells like lavender and another that smells like oranges mixed with I believe she said papaya.? She made a coconut smelling one for you– I was going to give it to you the next time we saw each other,” 

The sound of his sketching stopped and started as he spoke, giving your body small glances as he tried to study each part of your upper torso. The way your stomach creased, The way your shoulder was slightly lifted causing your collarbone to be more prominent, the curve of your breasts.. “How was your Holiday, y/n?”

“No way, Tensei is getting married?!” You accidentally stop posing, fully facing him in genuine shock. The robe was still covering your lower half, you had tied the belt to avoid accidentally flashing him again but here we are. You watch his face become even more red, eyes very obviously not meeting yours but still like a deer in headlights. 

You quickly get back to posing how you were, “Sorry Ten, That's amazing!! I hope everything goes smoothly for him and his soon to be wife.. And tell your mommy I said thank you for thinking of me. I can't wait to try it!”

A smile stayed on your lips as you thought about the times you’ve spent in the Iida household. His mother always had the best candles and incense burning, you were positive the soap would be the same. “My family is up to the same old shit, you know them..” You let out a small groan, the holidays weren’t an absolute disaster, but after not being home so long makes you remember why you aren’t going to school anywhere near home. 

“I did get some cool stuff for Christmas though! I got some new clothes and they got me a few art kits. You know, where it teaches you how to crochet? I also have a new diamond painting kit, I haven't opened either yet because it's just been so busy.” You replied, tapping your fingers on the side of the stool where your hand sat. 

You look up once more, this time because the skylight was beginning to be covered in snow. You watched as it fell, thinking back to old times when you and Tenya would spend the last three major holidays with each other. You’d always make sure to trick or treat together, your families have been sharing Thanksgiving for as long as you can remember, and spending the night in your basement on Christmas eve to wait for Santa until you were both too old. Then instead of waiting for Santa, you’d all eat at least one meal together on Christmas day. Sometimes homemade breakfast, other times a small trip to IHOP or Waffle House.

“God damn it.. It’s snowing again..” You let out a small laugh, looking over at him over your shoulder, fingers still tapping away at the base of the stool. “Hey Ten, Do you remember when we used to have those big snowball fights? The one near Red Fern?” 

“Of course I do! You refused to wear any kind of gloves and my mother would make you at least put socks on your hands so you didn’t get frostbite!” The two of you shared a small laugh at the memories of being young and dumb.

“Gloves always made my hands too itchy! They still do– But I kicked your ass in snowball fights with gloves or not.” You retort, a smirk appearing on your face. “Ice queen y/n of everything.” You could remember the insane snowball fights the neighborhood kids would have every. time. It snowed. If there was enough to make a few snowballs, there was enough to start a war. Tenya was always on your team, but it never stopped you from throwing a few his way. The ‘winner’ was King or Queen of the hill and first to sled down, which often enough was you.

“Remember when you almost broke my glasses throwing one right at my face?” He snickered, watching your smirk turn into a small pouty frown. He knew you didn’t mean to, that same day you helped your mom make cookies for him and his family as an apology, even though he wasn’t upset to begin with. But you knew it could have broken his glasses and you would be devastated if you were the reason for it. You were a real sweetheart, even if you had a weird way of showing sometimes.

“Hey! You know that wasn’t on purpose, I felt really bad after! I even let you get me back!” Which was true, but he never aimed for your face. Always a spot on your fluffy coat, never your legs because you hated your pants being wet… and a face shot just felt wrong to him. 

“Yeah, Yeah. I remember that part too,” He smiled to himself. “Those were really good times.. I remember Tensei always bringing us hot chocolate and we’d sit on your porch and draw things in the snow..”

“Oh! And when we’d come back all wet and mom already had spare clothes in her hands because she didn’t want it on the carpet. We’d put on too big clothes just to sit and watch Christmas movies..” You missed those times. But they never really had to stop, you two could have a huge snowball fight after this if you wanted to and the snow stuck. Was he too grown for that? Would it even sound fun to him?

“Do you still watch A Year Without Santa Clause every year?” He asks, breaking your train of thought. You nodded quickly at his question, grinning like a maniac. “Of course I do! And I watch Charlie Brown’s Christmas, Rudolph The Rednosed Reindeer.. And sometimes Spongebob's Christmas Special. Do you still watch old Christmas cartoons?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Don’t wanna ruin tradition.” He answered, pressing his lips together slightly as he stared down at the paper. You can tell he freezes a bit, the sound of his scribbling coming to a stop. He set the pencil down, rubbing the sweat of his hands onto his thighs.

 “You can um.. remOove-..” He quickly cleared his throat, “The rest.” He let out a disappointed sigh at his inability to keep composure. This wouldn't be half the problem it was if it was someone else modeling. But this is you we're talking about. 

“You sure? If you need a minute we can take a break, honey.” You gave him a sympathetic look, still smiling but this time more.. warm. The kind of smile someone gives to another when they genuinely care for them. Or love them for that matter. He adored it, it was the same smile you'd give him when saying he needs to take a break, the same smile you give him when the two of you out to get coffee and catch up. The same smile he's fallen for many, many times. 

But to tell you the truth? It’s driving him crazy. All of this. Was driving him crazy. No matter how hard he tried to be professional, he could stop his wandering mind. You were a goddess. What else was there to do besides take a break and hopefully release some steam in the bathroom or something. Completely inappropriate, but the pain from being hard for so long was starting to cloud the best judgment. 

He looks down at the sketch so far, then back to you as he rubbed his hand upward against his face. It pushed his glasses up, causing them to be crooked when going back down. “I um.. I think I do.. need a minute.” His voice died out as he watched you slide the robe back on, words failing him because couldn’t think completely straight.

© if you like what you see please reblog! It means a lot and helps me out. Want more? Heres my m.list! I write for x black reader so throw me some requests :P my other account are icons and x black reader moodboards if you’re interested!

thank you @thecutestgrotto for the banners and thank you @fizzintine for coloring the top pic!

have a good day/night/whatever!

[stealingyourbones]

Danny, being a halfa, falls under the strange category of people who can converse with the dead and act in their names. Most mediums simply convey messages. It was rare for someone to be able to fulfill a ghost’s dying request and have that act tied to the ghost’s core.

Honestly it’s annoying.

He doesn’t get any alone time anymore for homework or hobbies. The dead are constantly pestering Danny to help with their desires - which, sure, it helps them move on which means they’re out of Danny’s hair, but come on!! Give a guy a break! Just because he doesn’t need as much sleep as a fully living person doesn’t mean he can go without entirely!

“No Scott,” Danny repeated for the fifth time, “I am not flying to California tonight. Do you know how far that is? Literally the other coast of this massive continent. Meet me there in August like everyone else on the list.”

Spending the first spring break of college creating a map and calendar for Last Rites was not something Danny expected when he moved to Gotham.

Why did this city have so many ghosts?! It was ridiculous. And he thought Amity Park was bad? At least the ghosts here were mostly Shades. Not visible to anyone unless they were also dead-adjacent or had The Sight or a bloodline curse or a magical amulet… you know what? There were enough of those in this curse ridden city, why couldn’t these ghosts go find one of those people instead? Danny was exhausted.

So exhausted he didn’t notice the vigilante dropping down from the rooftop.

“Hey there kid, you alri-”

“Yeah yeah,” Danny waved a hand dismissively at the voice without looking up. “Wait in line like everyone else. But honestly you’d be better off coming back tomorrow when I’ve had some sleep.”

“Think maybe you outta get started on that sleep now, bud?” the voice behind him spoke in a calm careful tone.

One Danny had heard all too often since dying.

His head jerked sideways to stare wide-eyed at Nightwing, who tensed just a little as if expecting Danny to run or fight. Instead he let out a groan and slumped onto the park bench, rubbing his eyes to ease the burn of fatigue. He’d been coming out to this park at the corner of campus each night to keep the Shades from mobbing him all day long in classes, but they’d spread the word around Gotham that he was here and his precious spring break had become a non-stop line of requests and arguments. Made sense he’d caught the attention of one of the Bats. Should have expected it sooner.

Danny ignored all the voices around him and looked at Nightwing directly as he prattled off his usual list when someone caught him talking to thin air.

“No, I’m not hallucinating. I got all my Rogue Gallery immunizations the day I checked onto campus. I’m not schizophrenic. The only meds I take are for adhd and the occasional Tylenol. I’m not a danger to myself or others. Unless they attack me first.”

Nightwing nodded along, but tilted his head at the end.

“I’m talking to the dead,” Danny answered the unspoken question in a tired monotone, waiting for the usual skepticism or plea for help with lost loved ones.

“Oh. Okay then.”

“What?” That wasn’t expected.

“No yeah, that makes sense.”

Danny was sure his jaw was on the ground. “You… you believe me?”

“Well sure,” the hero shrugged and chuckled. “I can’t see ghosts myself but I know a couple magicians who work with one, and my little brother Robin has a ghost on his team - she’s actually visible most of the time so I don’t know if that’s a special skill or something else going on. But I’m glad you’re okay and don’t need any emergency medication. I know a couple 24 hour pharmacies that would help but it’s nice when they’re not needed. We don’t get a lot of mediums around Gotham holding court at night so you really can’t fault me for checking in.”

Danny was still floating in the relief of not being questioned or doubted. That hadn’t happened since Jazz found out his secret. She’d had plenty of questions about his halfa status, of course, but never called him crazy for talking to things others couldn’t see. Even Sam and Tucker would forget sometimes and give him strange looks before realizing he was dealing with a Shade, Wisp, or Memory.

He didn’t realize he was wobbling until Nightwing’s arms shot out to stabilize him.

Danny blinked up at the pretty face that was trying not to chuckle, held by strong arms, and so far past tired he might be getting delirious after all because his brain seemed to have lost its filter and he said out loud,

“You actually believe me. I think I love you.”

Then the horrifying embarrassment hit at the same time as Nightwing’s laughter. Which… sounded delighted rather than mean spirited?

“Well now it’s your turn to wait in line, cuz that’s the fourth confession I’ve had this week!” They both devolved into snorts and giggles, Danny still relying on those arms for balance, but when they’d caught their breath the vigilante said, “Come on, you’ve really got to get some sleep. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

Ignoring the whispers and grumbles of the Shades was easier with someone walking beside him.

This is so incredibly cute oml. It’s so rare to see the bats actually go with the flow and god it isn’t done enough. 12/10 immaculate, glorious.

The entire plot I can see so clearly in my mind dude:

Danny chatting to Nightwing as they walk to his dorm

Nightwing asking some casual questions about ghosts and Danny asking about vigilante work.

Nightwing informs the Bats of Danny as he might be a valuable asset in the future.

Nightwing helps free shades with Danny and he realizes why Danny is so incredibly tired all the time.

Nightwing managing to stumble into Danny every day of his break, slowly getting to know each other more and more and becoming really good friends (perhaps lovers 👀).

Wonderful stuff man ty for the ask!

[studiogrimm810]

Yes, Ma’am

// Est. Dean Winchester x afab!you

summary: after a night out with dean, someone gets a bit touchy with him and you need to reassert yourself in his eyes so he knows exactly who you are to him // 2.7k //quick content: MDNI!!! smut, submissive dean, car sex, kinky sex, dominate woman, eventual praise, make up sex, pwp

A/N: this was a request!! based off of the songs miss possessive and sports car, pleeeease i LOVE submissive dean and i love getting a man to his knees, that is ALL

p.s. im back bitches :]

You knew better than to bring him here. Really, you did. But all you wanted was to dance with your man in a sea of drunk people having the time of their lives. You loved clubbing in your college days- the beat in your chest, dancing until you’re breathless, meeting new people, drinking your paychecks and when you were out of cash, you’d get some poor fucker to buy you a drink under the guise of getting you naked. You knew the moves and it’s easily recognized as the tiny thing with pretty blue eyes, and an outfit you wouldn’t necessarily sport yourself, slithers up to Dean’s side with a pearly grin.

A building bubble of annoyance pressed against your sternum as you wait for the bartender to get done with your drinks. The girl is definitely here on spring break and is using a classic girl-move on your man.

Dean seems unimpressed but he isn’t shooing her away, damn his charm and people-skills. You know he isn’t intentionally flirting, but with a face like that, any attention will be taken as a praise of itself.

With drinks in your hand and a confident posture, you walk back to your shared table and set down his drink in front of him.

“Oh hey, are you lost?” You ask with a head tilt while fingering the straw of your martini to your vibrantly painted lips. The girl seems to deflate some but you can tell she’s persistent.

“Gabby here was just telling me about some friend of hers who saw a ‘monster’,” Dean emphasizes and you squint slightly at his insinuation of a case.

“Yes! Okay,” the girl, Gabby, takes a spare stool and slides in, her chest on full display as she leans in. Honestly you can’t blame her, the dress you chose hugs your ass just at the crease and the breast support in the damn thing could stun a room of men. Under different circumstances, you could see having a fun night out with Gabby, but for the introduction she had in your night, you’re already done with her presence. “My friend swears she saw some crazy shit. Now I haven’t taken shrooms myself, but I was there and when I tell you she was totally freaked!” Gabby laughs, moving her hands as she talks- hands that end up on Dean's arm casually, as if they’re close like that or something.

Dean rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his old fashioned, realizing the girl was just full of it.

“Right,” he nods, giving you a look that says ‘girl is a waste of time’ but you barely acknowledge it as you stare daggers at Gabby- her hand not moving.

“You two ever take any crazy stuff? Most I’ve done is a line that barely made it up my nose, shit burned,” she groans as she pouts, looking up at Dean. “You look like you could take it though.” She bumps him softly, pressing into his side.

“I don’t need substances to act irrationally,” you say before you mean to, alcohol making you overly confident. Gabby just gives you a ‘wtf, girl?’ look but your stone doesn’t shift. Dean just chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s advances, which pisses you off you may add.

“That’s my girl,” Dean hooks his arm around your waist, bringing you in and kissing your jaw. The height difference of your heels and him sitting on a barstool is just enough to give you a guard-dog mentality. Your lips lift into a claiming smile as Dean kisses your skin, your eyes still locked on the girl.

She sighs, starting to get the hint that maybe she can’t win this one, but damn is she confident.

“You guys could join me and my friends? We know some cool spots, we always come to the city when we’re out of school,” she suggests with a small shrug that hugs her cleavage tighter. Her eye contact remains on its priority of Dean’s emerald gems.

“We’re fine,” you decide, looking down on her, your heel advantage letting you loom over her as well. She looks frustrated at this point and you can tell Dean is enjoying the dominance you have over the situation. It makes you wonder if he entertained her attention just so you could intervene.

“He can speak, yaknow,” Gabby cringes as she folds her arms over her chest.

“Oh, she speaks for me,” Dean plays into it, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink. Gabby works her jaw, squinting up at you.

“Whatever,” she stands, “you both seem toxic anyways,” she scoffs, slithering back into the crowd of nameless dancers and forgotten faces.

Dean chuckles into the rim of his glass, his breath fogging the crystal. You take another sip of your drink, a ring of your lipstick stained to the straw.

“The hell was that?” You ask, setting your drink down and looking over at him, your frustration finding its second victim. He looks over at you, sweet mossy eyes shimmering as he takes in your form, a lazy smile showing sharp canines.

“She was harmless,” he shrugged simply, warm eyes relaxing in your shine.

“She was a pest,” you bite, eyes carrying back to where she vanished to make sure she wouldn’t reappear.

“She’s gone,” he sets his glass down, grabbing your waist and pulling you between his knees. “Relax, baby, she’s just drunk and I thought she would bring us a case,” he says, looking up at you, club’s lights reflecting off his eyes like fireworks.

It’s hard to just forgive and forget, to move on like the jealous rage in your chest didn’t scream at you to assert your claim over your man. I mean, the audacity she had to just come out of nowhere and touch him. She pouted up at him. She was trying to get him to fawn over her and take her home or offer her a drink. You don’t realize the grip on Dean's thigh is just about bruising until he speaks up and brings you out of your graying cloud veined with lightning.

“I’m all yours, baby,” his fingers dig into your hips and he wets his lips. Your eyes draw to his lips, heart racing and throat full. You’re pissed.

You grab the stem of your martini and discard the straw, downing the drink and grabbing Dean's hand. He gets the memo pretty quickly so he finishes his drink swiftly, letting you drag him out of the club.

The bumping music blares from the now abandoned building as you make your way back to Dean's Impala that’s parked along the street. Dean maneuvers in front of you to open your door and help you in. He rounds the car and settles in the driver's side. He looks over at you to gauge your mood and your folded arms as you look out the window doesn’t prove his innocence in your mind, but he can’t help but drool a bit at the skin puffing over the neckline of your dress.

He opens his mouth to speak but you instruct “just drive”. He listens.

Music plays and the engine purrs as Baby runs the paved roads to take you far away from her. God, you just couldn’t get the situation out of your head. The overstepping, the butting in, the pouty face, the touchy hands.

“There,” you point to an empty parking lot behind a closed breakfast spot. Dean raises a brow but follows your instructions. You don’t even know what your plan is- yell at him? Yell about her? Have him explain himself? He didn’t really do anything wrong though, but fuck you just felt misplaced by the whole thing. Like you need to reinsert yourself back in his eyes.

Like you just needed to…

“Is she still bothering you? Sweetheart, I promise you, I don’t have eyes for anyone else,” he leans over after putting Baby in park. You look over at him, arms still folded and a scowl still contorting your features.

Before he can try and speak again, you pounce, grabbing his collar and claiming his lips back. It was unexpected by both of you, that much is obvious, but Dean still melts into your kiss, his hands roaming your body. You slide closer, kicking off your heels and straddling his lap. Your ass hits the horn and Dean chuckles into the kiss but it only pisses you off more. He leans down, hissing along your neck and down your jaw as he reaches for the lever to move the bench back.

Once the seat is shifted back, your manicured nails grip the roots of his dirty blonde hair and he gasps in surprise, his sharp teeth glinting as you take in his gaped mouth.

You bring him back to you, scooting closer and taking his lip between your teeth and he… whimpers?

Did Dean Winchester just whimper under you?

Your fury mends with something darker and it only fuels your need.

His hands hold your ass, running up the curve of your back and right back down, squeezing hard and keeping you close. You can feel him try and settle you on your back but you’re locked on top of him and refuse to move. You can feel his dick pressing into your barely clothed core and the hem of your dress rides up as you grind into him to show the hooks of your thong resting up to your waist. His fingers mess with the strings.

Your grip in his hair reforces and tugs him back so you can kiss along his jaw. The kisses are wet and sloppy, leaving a glistening trail of your mark. You make your way back up to his ear, whispering warm breath over his sensitive flesh.

“That was ridiculous,” you deem softly, taking his earlobe between your teeth and pulling another whimper out of him. God, that sound really melts that anger deep in your chest, but it isn’t enough just yet.

“Sweetheart-.”

“Don’t,” you warn, dropping your hold on his skin and pressing your lips to the other side of his neck as you force his jaw to open for you. He holds back another whine. “Don’t hold back, show me who you fucking belong to,” you demand before biting the skin just under his ear, sucking in his scent and pulling a low moan from him.

You can’t stop your lips from claiming him over and over again, especially as his trapped cock can only barely feel the brush of your distant lips, he can only rely on memory to ease his need.

“Look at me,” you push up, letting your ass rest on his dick with your full weight and his head is thrown back in a loud, whiny moan. You grab his jaw, pulling him back to you and the pressure parts his lips and his eyes are wide and observant, ready to listen.

“Apologize,” you instruct, your face a stone of foreshadowed repercussions.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he rushes out shaking his head and digging his nails into your hips to press you into him more. His eyes dip down to your tits as they threaten to spill past the low-v of your dress at any moment.

“I didn’t say look there, I said look at me,” you tighten your grip, a drunken haze puppeteering your limbs like an Irene Adler wannabe. You lean in like you’re about to kiss him but you stop, watching as he tries to arc forward to meet you, “I don’t believe you.”

A small, pathetic whine tugs out of his throat and he swallows, looking up at you again. You maneuver your body off of him enough to push him so that he’s laying down in the front seat. He stares up at you, his hands finding any opportunity to hold your hips.

“Baby, I promise, I only want you,” he pleads, looking up at you, panting and flushed. You straddle his waist, running a teasing hand up his chest and latching it between the buttons of his shirt. You manage to rip it open completely and trace your fingers down his chest.

“Those are just words,” you point, your eyes following your fingers but you can still feel his eyes on you. “I need something else,” you meet his gaze again and he practically melts with anticipation as you finally look at him again.

Your eyes on him makes him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

“Anything, gorgeous, anything you want,” he quickly abides, making you smile down at him. It’s a smile that makes him warm inside like he’s done something right.

“Scoot,” you flick a finger for him to move down as you lift off him to do so.

He listens without hesitation, even if his legs don’t have enough room on the driver's side.

“You’re gonna do me a favor and prove to me that I’m the only woman you see,” you reach a warm hand to cup his cheek, speaking softer than you have all night.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, his eyes still wide and lustful, panting and so fucking ready for whatever you have in store.

You pierce an acrylic stiletto through your thong to snip off the fabric that you can easily replace later. He watches your movements, trying to guess what you’ll do next. You reach behind you to unfasten his belt. It’s a little tricky to do without seeing it, but you manage. Dean eyes stay glued to your tits as they ripple with your movement.

He groans as his dick springs free, throbbing in the steamy air of sex in the Impala. He wants so badly to reach down and touch himself but he’s guessing, based on your current control over the night, that it wouldn’t end well for him.

You stuff your shredded thong in his hand and scoot up closer and closer.

“You’re gonna take care of yourself while you take care of me, you got it? Show me how you live to make me happy,” the words leave your lips like a sweet commandment, like a vow he’d happily plead to to keep you smiling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, repeating the only words he can think of besides your name.

He lets out a low groan as you hook yourself over his shoulders and plant your pussy right at his lips, trapping him between your heat and the squeaky leather seat.

When you decide enough has been enough, you settle fully, allowing him to bury himself in your lips. He’s needy and hungry but he knows your body and knows what you need to feel pure ecstasy. He’s holding back and you can tell.

“Good boy,” you ride, digging your nails into the leather and bracing your left arm on the dash. The praise sends a shiver to his dick as he strokes himself with your thong still in hand.

He moans into you, the hum prickling your sensitive skin and warming you up just right. His nose presses against your clit but he holds still, letting his tongue build you up until you’re right there.

Right on the edge, he waits until he can feel the tremble in your thighs and the squeak in your moans. Right until you grip onto his roots and show him you're ready. His tongue keeps steady and consistent as he now moves his face to circle his nose around your clit, ripping a melodic moan out of your throat.

The feeling is unlike any other and you don’t think you could ever even think straight enough to attempt to put it in words that would never give it justice.

Your body wracks with quaking pulses, and your senses are overstimulated as he moans into you with his own release and you can’t help but grind into him to spasm just right.

You settle back onto his chest, legs still hooked around him and thighs flooding along his face like a lonely island.

His lips shimmer with you and his smile basks under your eyes. His face is hugged by your plush skin and his cock is emptied onto your panties.

This man is yours.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>> check out my other works here

[leejenowrld]

back to you — one

pairing — lee jeno x reader

word count — 58k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — lee jeno forces his way into your life, first by pushing into one of your college projects and then refusing to leave. as mark’s best friend, you’ve always hated jeno—arrogant, reckless, and everything mark isn’t. but what starts as reluctant tolerance spirals into a secret affair fueled by lust, obsession, and the thrill of keeping it hidden. as lies and jealousy pile up, your connection becomes a dangerous game that pushes you to confront how far you’re willing to go—and how much you’re willing to lose—for the one person you swore you’d never fall for.

chapter warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, dominant!reader/submissive!jeno (yeah hehe), power struggles and control shifts, forced eye contact, choking, spanking, face slapping, name-calling and degradation, oral sex (male receiving), explicit descriptions of penetration, vaginal sex with deep and rough thrusts, reader rides yeehaw, overstimulation, mutual orgasms, squirting, possessive behavior, cum play, explicit body worship and focus on physical sensations, graphic descriptions, strong language, emotional manipulation and mind games, depictions of toxic relationships and power struggles, angst and emotional tension, forbidden relationships and moral ambiguity, mentions of alcohol consumption, intense arguments and interpersonal conflict, jeno and reader can both be seen as very toxic and always wanting to one up another, very sexually tense scenes, reader can appear very cold, detached but she’s super cool and observant (trust me), haunting descriptions, heated college party scenes as expected, just read it, trust me you’ll love it <3 there’s not much i can reveal, mentions of nct '00 line and other '99 and '00 liners and jihyo!

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

authors note — the word count… i’m sorry 😭 your girl got carried away. but no, i’ve been obsessed with writing this, and it’s been my secret little obsession for so long. i totally tricked you guys by saying it’d come out in spring, but hehe surprise!! i’ve been working on it nonstop for the past two months. every part of this fic is going to be long, and that’s just the way it’s gonna be. this story is a lot—intense, mind-fucking, emotional, and filled with twists you won’t see coming. you’re in for a ride, and yes, it’s going to be detailed and deeply layered. the world-building? the emotions? the tension? yeah, i went all in. it even got so long i had to cut a whole scene from this part 🥲 so please, buckle up and prepare yourselves. it’s going to be a journey. positive feedback, comments, asks, likes + reblog are always welcome :)

this fic is the second and final instalment of the love + games universe, read mark’s here (you don’t need to read mark’s to read this but it’s recommended)

Jaemin doesn’t struggle because he’s stupid—he struggles because he’s impatient. The first thing you noticed about him was how his notes sat in disarray, pages flipped with unnecessary force as if they were to blame for his confusion. His brain outruns his pen every time, leaving words half-formed, thoughts leaping ahead without ever landing. It’s not a lack of intelligence; it’s an inability to tether himself, to pause long enough for clarity. You’ve been tutoring him for weeks now, and it’s always the same: his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet storm waiting to break, while you remain calm and steady, pulling him back to the fundamentals with unshakable composure.

The early morning light streams through wide windows, painting soft, golden patterns across polished wooden tables. The room hums with quiet focus—the scratch of pens on paper, muted whispers of explanations exchanged. You sit across from him, composed and poised, a notebook spread open before you. The pages are lined with impossibly neat handwriting, each equation so precise it feels premeditated, like it existed in your mind perfectly formed before it ever met the paper. Your voice cuts through the stillness—calm, steady, deliberate—as you guide Jaemin through the problem once more, unraveling it into smaller, manageable pieces, your methodical approach leaving no room for confusion.

“Don’t rush,” you say, your tone balanced—calm but unyielding. “You’re skipping this part because you think you already know the answer. That’s exactly why you’re missing it.” Your pen glides smoothly over the paper, circling the overlooked section of the equation with precision. Jaemin leans closer, his brows knit tightly, frustration radiating from him in waves. You don’t flinch; you’ve seen this reaction countless times before.

As you speak, your mind operates on parallel tracks, a seamless machine of analysis and order. You’re gauging his comprehension, dissecting his furrowed expressions, and calculating the next step in your explanation. But even now, your thoughts stray beyond the table—to meetings waiting to be had, deadlines looming, and projects requiring your attention. You’re already arranging them all into the meticulous schedule that keeps your world running. Structure is your sanctuary, the one constant that assures you everything is exactly where it should be.

“This part,” you say, circling the error lightly with your pen, “you forgot to account for the variable here. Try shifting it before you simplify.”

Jaemin’s brow furrows, but he nods and adjusts his work. You wait patiently as he works through it again, the pause in his movements finally breaking with a quiet sigh of satisfaction when he reaches the solution. He glances at you with a small smile, proud but almost reluctant to show it.

That look—the fleeting satisfaction in his expression, the way his tension unravels—sends a quiet jolt through you. It’s not just about teaching him the material; it’s about control, precision, the satisfaction of knowing you’ve guided someone to the right answer, that your effort has been acknowledged. His success reflects on you, a silent confirmation that your meticulousness has value, that you’re needed. It’s not kindness that fuels you—it’s the clarity of seeing your work pay off, of proving, even in this small way, that you know what you’re doing.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence as Jaemin pauses mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the paper. Something had been on your mind since the start of the session, and you figured now was the time to bring it up. “So there’s this project I’m working on,” you begin, keeping your tone casual but deliberate. “An extracurricular for credits. It’s focused on performance under high-pressure environments—analyzing behavioral patterns, stress responses, that kind of thing.”

Jaemin glances up at you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Sounds cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly to the basketball jersey he’s wearing. It’s crisp, his number bold against the fabric, and it clicks—you’d almost forgotten there’s a match later today. Yet here he is, squeezing in a tutoring session, driven and diligent even with the game looming over him. “Basketball,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what this has to do with you. I chose it because it’s high-pressure, fast-paced, and everyone involved—players, coaches, even the crowd—responds to stress in different ways. It’s the perfect setting to measure those responses in real-time.”

You pause, watching his reaction. “I’d be observing things like body language, facial expressions, and decision-making under pressure. Maybe even gathering data about physical signs of stress—like heart rate, if I can get it—but nothing invasive. Just detailed observation, maybe a few interviews. It’s not difficult or complicated, educationally speaking. Actually, it’s a lot simpler than it sounds.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds super interesting, and I know how you’re always doing all these extra projects—like you need the extra credits.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues, “I digress. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m failing. Bad. That’s why you’re tutoring me, remember?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I could use someone on the actual team,” you admit, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. “I could interview and make observations about you, starting with the match later today.”

“What about Mark?” Jaemin’s question lingers, and your lips soften into a quiet smile at the mention of him. Mark. Your best friend. His name alone carries a comfort few things in your life do.

Mark has always been a steady presence—not loud or demanding, but consistent in ways that matter most. He’s the kind of person who notices when your energy dips, quietly handing you water or slipping a snack onto your desk without saying a word. You think of all the moments Mark has been there for you: staying up with you through late nights, even when his own schedule was clear, walking beside you on empty streets just to make sure you felt safe. 

His care never feels forced; it’s a quiet, steady presence that’s simply part of who he is. Mark doesn’t ask for recognition or gratitude—it’s in the way he listens when you vent, remembers the smallest details about your day, and always shows up when you need him. There’s a warmth to him that you’ve never questioned, a constant reassurance that, no matter what, Mark will always have your back.

You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering on your lips. “Of course Mark isn’t insufferable like the rest, he’s my best friend. But he hasn’t been playing in the professional environment of basketball for long at all, so it wouldn’t make sense to work with him for my project.”

He recently joined the Seoul Ravens, approaching the basketball court with the quiet determination you’ve always admired. Mark doesn’t boast about his abilities, but you’ve seen the hours he’s put in, the focus and care he pours into everything he does. Today is his first official match, and you feel proud because he’s doing something that reflects all his hard work and dedication.

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low and easy, pulling you back to the moment. “Makes sense. Also, you know…” His gaze flicks toward you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “The other boys on the team aren’t bad once you get to know them.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t respond, letting your silence speak for itself. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You really want my help for this project?”

“Yes.” Your words are deliberate, purposeful, as you glance at the clock, ensuring your timing is precise. Then your gaze meets his again, steady and unwavering. “It’s a trade-off, really. You help me streamline my work; I give you an edge where you need it. Teamwork, Jaemin. It’s efficient.”

Jaemin doesn’t respond immediately, his lips twitching into a half-smile as his eyes shift toward the door. There’s something unspoken in the way he tilts his head, a flicker of recognition or intrigue flashing across his face. “Looks like your next project just walked in,” he murmurs, his tone light and teasing, but the weight of his words lingers. He doesn’t answer your pointed question about the project; instead, his focus drifts entirely, and you know something—or rather, someone—has disrupted the calm of the room.

You don’t respond, keeping your pen poised over Jaemin’s notebook, but your focus falters. The air shifts, heavier now, more charged. You feel it before you hear him, a presence that has a way of bending the room around it. When the door creaks shut behind him, the quiet hum of pens scratching on paper feels too faint, too distant.

Lee Jeno strides in, his duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, but there’s nothing casual about the way he moves. His duffel bag hangs lazily over one shoulder, the strap digging into his hoodie where it lies half-zipped, just enough to reveal the deep maroon of his basketball jersey beneath. The fabric clings to his frame, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his build. His hair is damp, stray strands sticking to his forehead as though he’s come straight from practice. There’s a casualness to the way he carries himself, but it’s deceptive. He’s too controlled, too aware of the eyes that follow him, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t even glance at Jaemin—not directly, at least. His gaze sweeps the room once, brisk and indifferent, before locking onto you with sharp precision. His attention is singular, cutting through the space like a blade, leaving no doubt about who he’s here for. Jaemin, seated only inches away and his best friend since childhood, might as well not exist.

“Got a minute?” Jeno’s voice slices through the quiet, smooth but carrying an edge that ripples through the air. It isn’t a question—it’s a demand dressed in courtesy, the kind you recognize instantly. His tone doesn’t ask for permission; it takes.

Your pen pauses mid-stroke, but you don’t immediately look up. Instead, you force your attention to linger on Jaemin’s notebook, the deliberate delay giving you a fleeting sense of control. When your gaze finally lifts, it’s sharp and unwavering. “Not really,” you reply, your tone calm but cutting, steady enough to deflect the weight pressing down on the room. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Your eyes meet his, and the tension snaps taut, hanging heavy in the air between you. Jeno doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His confidence is a steady hum, but there’s something deeper, something restless in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze. It’s a quiet storm, restrained but threatening, and it crawls over your skin like a warning.

The stillness stretches, charged and unbearable. His focus is razor-sharp, the kind that demands without words, and it lingers on you like a touch. You hate the way it unsettles you, hate the way it feels like a challenge you don’t want to rise to. But you don’t break—you hold his gaze, even as something hot and volatile simmers just beneath the surface, too close to dangerous for a quiet morning like this.

Unfazed, Jeno drops into the seat across from you, leaning forward with an ease that feels calculated. “I need your help,” he says, his voice low but insistent, laced with just enough charm to almost mask the edge in his tone. “Tutor me. You’re the best in the class, and I could use the boost.”

You arch a brow, finally meeting his gaze fully. “You have the second best grades after me,” you counter flatly, your tone sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need tutoring.”

For a moment, his smile falters, but he recovers almost instantly, slipping into something smoother, more convincing. “Basketball’s eating up all my time,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I’m stretched too thin.”

He keeps his expression neutral, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churn with barely restrained tension. He didn’t come here for tutoring. This isn’t about college, and it never was. It’s about Mark—stepping onto his court, into his world, with a confidence that makes Jeno’s teeth grind. Mark isn’t just a new player; he’s something else entirely. A reminder of things Jeno doesn’t want to confront. A half-brother in name only, an unwelcome shadow creeping into spaces that were never meant to be shared.

The thought makes Jeno’s jaw tighten. Mark doesn’t know what it means to earn a place, to claw for respect under the weight of someone else’s expectations. He hasn’t lived the life Jeno has, yet somehow he’s here, taking up space that Jeno fought for. Worse, Mark isn’t just a part of the team—he’s in Jeno’s way, shifting the balance Jeno worked so hard to control.

Mark’s presence feels like a shadow creeping into every corner of Jeno’s life, and if he can’t push him back directly, he’ll find another way to assert control. You’re part of that plan—a tool, a move on the board, a way to get under Mark’s skin and remind him where the balance of power lies. It’s not about fairness; it’s about regaining control. Winning. And Jeno has no intention of losing.

Jeno sits down without asking, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a muted thud. His movements are precise, intentional, the kind that demand attention without asking for it. He leans forward, his broad shoulders angling toward you as if closing the already minimal distance. The heat from his body is subtle but palpable, a reminder of his proximity, and the sharp set of his jaw tightens as his eyes fix on yours. He radiates confidence, but there’s something beneath it—something simmering, restrained. Frustration, annoyance… and maybe something more.

“I need your help,” he says again, his voice measured and steady but unmistakably pointed. The repetition isn’t accidental—it’s deliberate, calculated. He’s testing you, trying to wear you down in that way he’s so used to doing with everyone else. His tone carries an edge, a challenge just daring you to push back.

“No.”

The simplicity of your response hits him harder than expected. His brow furrows slightly, and there’s a brief flash of disbelief in his expression before he composes himself. “No?”

“You heard me.” Your tone doesn’t waver, each word delivered with cool precision. You level with his gaze, your eyes sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need help, and I’m not going to give you help.”

For a moment, his composure slips. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken frustration. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in closer, the air between you growing thicker.

It’s not just the rejection that unsettles him—it’s the way you deliver it, so unbothered, so certain. He’s used to being in control, used to commanding attention, and your calm defiance throws him off balance. And that, more than your words, is what he can’t seem to shake.

His excuse is quick, almost too quick, like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m juggling a lot,” he says, his tone clipped, brushing past specifics as though the weight of his responsibilities should be self-evident. “Figured you could help me stay ahead.”

His excuse is flimsy, and he knows it. But the way your brow arches, how your lips part to challenge him, it stokes something deep in his chest. You’re too composed, too steady, and it only sharpens his frustration. You can see the cracks in his logic, the way he’s deliberately vague, sidestepping any real explanation. It stirs something in you—part annoyance, part intrigue.

“You know,” you counter, your voice sharp but steady, “you could’ve signed up like everyone else. Instead, you’re here, expecting me to drop everything just because you asked. That’s not how it works.”

Jeno doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in further, his forearms brushing the table, his jaw tight as his eyes meet yours. “I thought you’d appreciate a little initiative,” he bites back, his voice lower now, a challenge lacing every word.

Your gazes lock, the space between you heavy with unspoken tension. His face is so close now, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his hairline, close enough to feel the restrained energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s waiting for you to flinch, to react, but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your expression calm, your voice steady.

“If you’re serious, then go sign up,” you say, enunciating each word with deliberate control. “I don’t have any time for this or you.”

His lips twitch, his composure fracturing ever so slightly. “Right.”

The tension simmers hotter now, your stubbornness colliding with his in a battle neither of you wants to back down from. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The frustration etched in his face is almost palpable, but so is the undercurrent of curiosity he can’t seem to suppress.

Finally, he stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice clipped but laced with something darker, something unresolved. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. “See you around.”

You watch him leave, his shoulders rigid beneath the maroon of his basketball jersey, each step deliberate, charged. The room feels quieter without him, but the air isn’t lighter—it hums faintly, an unwelcome echo of his presence prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

Jaemin leans back in his chair, letting out a low, amused whistle. His lips curl into a smirk as his gaze flicks from you to the door Jeno just walked through. “Didn’t know tutoring included… hands-on benefits,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the curiosity simmering beneath. “Or is that a special service just for him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snap, sharper than intended, though you don’t look up. Your hand grips the pen tightly as you force your attention back to Jaemin’s notes, the strokes of ink digging deeper into the paper than they should. The tension doesn’t settle; it lingers, weaving itself into the quiet of the room, refusing to be ignored. You hate how his presence lingers, how his gaze feels imprinted on your skin, sharp and unrelenting, even now.

For Jeno, walking away feels like defeat, and that’s not something he’s used to. His jaw clenches, his fists tightening against the strap of his duffel bag as he stalks down the hallway. You’ve unsettled him, thrown him off balance in a way that makes his frustration curdle into something sharper, something hotter. Control has always been his, always within reach—on the court, in his relationships, even in the way he fucks. It’s in the sharp precision of his movements, the calculated pressure of his touch, the dominance he wields like second nature. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it, leaving no room for uncertainty. But at the end of the day, control is nothing more than an illusion. 

But with you, he feels it falter. Even after one brief interaction, it slips through his fingers, leaving him raw, exposed in ways he doesn’t understand. You’re a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve, a challenge he can’t resist. There’s something about the way you hold your ground, the way you don’t crumble under his gaze or yield to the power he’s so used to wielding. It unnerves him. Excites him.

And Jeno doesn’t back down from challenges. Not ever. But for the first time, he’s starting to realize that control might not be something he holds—it might be something you’ve taken from him without even trying.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its pale light fractured through the skeletal branches lining the path, pooling on the pavement in jagged patches. The air is sharp, biting, and carries the faint, bitter tang of autumn’s decay—leaves curling at the edges, their scent clinging to the quiet corners of campus. With each step you and Jaemin take, the dry crunch underfoot mingles with the faint echoes of distant conversations and bursts of laughter, sound rising and fading like restless waves.

The campus feels different tonight—its usual rhythm muted, as if the impending game has drawn all attention inward, leaving everything else hollow. Groups of students pass, their faces half-hidden in the dimming light, voices subdued but edged with anticipation. The arena looms ahead, stark against the bruised blue of the sky, its lights glowing faintly like a promise of the chaos waiting inside. The air tightens the closer you get, tension curling into your lungs, weighing heavier with each breath. Even Jaemin, usually irreverent and quick with a joke, is quieter, his focus gradually shifting toward the arena ahead.

“You know,” Jaemin says, his voice finally breaking the stillness, conversational but laced with something knowing, “Jeno’s not as bad as you think.” He glances at you sideways, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he gauges your reaction.

Your gaze stays fixed ahead, mapping the narrowing path with precision, each step carrying you closer to the glowing entrance of the arena. “Didn’t ask,” you reply, your tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an edge that leaves no room for argument. You don’t look at him or waver. 

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low, unbothered. “Just saying,” he continues, unfazed. “Off the court—away from the noise—he’s not what you think he is.” His words linger, insinuations woven through them, but you don’t take the bait, keeping your focus ahead, your steps deliberate and steady.

The arena looms in front of you, massive and overbearing, its sharp angles cutting into the darkening sky. The glow of its entrance beckons, casting shifting shadows on the pavement, but the pull it exerts isn’t welcoming. It’s invasive, pressing against your thoughts with a strange weight. The crackling energy in the air clings to you, sharp and electric, as if the building itself is watching, waiting for you to step inside.

By the time you step through the heavy double doors, the hum has become a roar. The scent of sweat, rubber, and buttery popcorn saturates the air, thick and inescapable. The harsh overhead lights reflect off the polished court, amplifying every sound—the screech of sneakers, the chatter of players, the low pulse of the crowd. Jaemin doesn’t stay long. The moment he spots the team near the court, he’s already gone, drawn like a moth to flame. “Catch you later,” he says over his shoulder, his grin quick but distant, already halfway absorbed into the knot of players and cheerleaders huddled near the baseline. His absence leaves a hollow sting, a sharp reminder of how quickly the crowd swallows its own, leaving you standing alone, untethered, at the edge of their world.

You’ve been in rooms like this before—not arenas, but spaces where chaos and hierarchy hum beneath the surface, where everyone seems to know their place except you. It reminds you of growing up in a house that wasn’t yours, at dinners where polite conversation veiled deeper fractures. Here, as then, you scan the scene for something to hold onto, a point of familiarity to ground you, but there’s nothing. The tension coils tighter in your chest as your eyes sweep the room and land on nothing but movement, noise, and faces that barely register your existence.

The low murmur of conversation, the undercurrent of motion—it all ebbs and flows with a rhythm that excludes you entirely. Your gaze lingers, not searching but absorbing the way the world moves seamlessly without you. No one pauses, no one looks your way, and the absence doesn’t sting. It never does. It’s an emptiness that’s carved itself into you, a weight so ingrained it feels like part of your foundation, like it was always meant to be there. It doesn’t just settle—it grips, sharp and unyielding, pressing deeper with every passing moment, steady and inescapable.

Your gaze moves quickly, catching on the Seoul Ravens huddled near the baseline—a whirlwind of animated shouts, easy laughter, and camaraderie that feels almost theatrical in its intensity. The cheerleaders hover nearby, their bright smiles and poised beauty seamlessly stitched into the scene, like they’re as much a part of the game as the players themselves. And then there’s Mark. He stands slightly apart, his posture straight but detached, his energy quieter than the others. He doesn’t demand attention, but it lingers on him anyway, magnetic in the way stillness can be when surrounded by motion.

Karina stands at the center of it all, her long black hair falling in sleek waves, perfectly framing her sharp features. The cheer uniform clings to her figure, the short skirt swaying lightly as she moves with a deliberate, polished ease. Her beauty is striking, the kind that lingers in your mind even after you look away. She doesn’t need to try to stand out; her presence commands attention without effort. People glance at her cautiously, as if hesitant to stare too long, yet unable to resist the pull. She carries herself with quiet confidence, every step and gesture exuding a natural control over the space around her.

Then there’s Areum, Jeno’s girlfriend. She stands close to him but with a quiet restraint, her posture straight and her movements careful, never drawing attention. Her gaze shifts across the room, focused yet fleeting, taking in everything without lingering too long on anything. She doesn’t speak or engage much, but nothing about her seems uncertain. There’s a composure to her, steady and deliberate, but it’s paired with a distance that feels intentional. She stays on the edge of the energy around her, observing but never fully part of it. It’s not hesitation, and it’s not discomfort—it’s precision. She reminds you of Mark, both of them existing apart from the noise, though her distance feels purposeful, where his feels unguarded.

Your eyes flit briefly to Jeno, standing at the heart of it all, the nucleus of the team’s energy. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and magnetic, the confidence in his movements so ingrained it borders on arrogance. He’s impossible to ignore, not just for the way the team orbits around him, but for the sharp contrast he makes to Mark. Jeno belongs here; he’s thrived in this environment for years, molded by it, commanding it. And yet, even from this distance, his gaze feels like it cuts through the crowd, deliberate and pointed, before shifting back into the fray.

Your fingers curl around the clipboard you’re holding, its weight anchoring you in the moment. Your project isn’t just a distraction—it’s the reason you’re here, the justification for standing on the edges of a world that isn’t yours. A study on the psychological effects of competition on team dynamics, assigned by one of your professors, the kind of work that demands you observe everything: the players, the crowd, the interactions, the cracks beneath the surface. The tension simmering in this arena, the chaotic bursts of noise and movement, all of it is fodder for your research. It sharpens your focus, dulls the edge of your nerves, even as the uneasy energy lingers at the back of your mind.

But most importantly, you’re also here for Mark.

That’s what keeps your feet moving, carrying you closer to the court, even as the weight of the arena bears down on you. Mark has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, the one constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. You’re here because he would be here for you if the roles were reversed, and that thought alone keeps your focus steady. The lingering stares, the unspoken judgment in the room—they don’t matter. Let them assess, let them dismiss. You’ve never cared about fitting in here, and you’re not about to start. You’re here to support him, to remind him he’s not alone in this, the same way he’s done for you a hundred times over. Whatever they think, whatever this space feels like, none of it changes the fact that you’re here for Mark, and for yourself.

As you move closer to the court, Karina and Areum’s attention shifts toward you. Their glances are pointed, sharp, cutting through the noise like a silent commentary aimed directly at you. Karina leans in toward Areum, her voice low but deliberate, and whatever she says earns a quiet laugh. You don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about you. You feel it in the way their eyes linger, assessing, dismissing, as if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t belong in this picture. But you don’t stop, and you don’t give them the satisfaction of even a glance. Their opinions are as irrelevant to you as the hum of the crowd. Your focus stays fixed on Mark, standing near the edge of the team. His posture is straight, his expression unreadable, but there’s a familiarity in the way he carries himself—steady, grounded, it’s what makes him distinctively him. It’s enough to cut through everything else, to remind you why you’re here.

When you reach him, you tap his shoulder lightly. He turns quickly, his brows furrowed for a split second before his expression softens. The tension in his posture eases as soon as he sees you, and his lips twitch into the kind of small, relieved smile that makes you wonder if he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You made it,” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge of disbelief there, like he hadn’t expected you to show.

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm. “What kind of best friend skips this? First game with the Ravens? That’d be friendship treason.”

Mark lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanted a front-row seat to watch me trip and ruin my career before it even starts.”

“Mark, you’re not going to trip,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Don’t even start with that. I’ve seen you work harder for this than anyone else. Freezing nights at the river court, mornings when you could barely keep your eyes open—this is what it’s all been for. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready.”

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze drops to the clipboard in your hand, and he raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Another project? What is this, your tenth one this term?”

You smirk, lifting the clipboard just enough to make your point. “What can I say? Some of us have standards to maintain.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with teasing disbelief. “You know, normal college students go out, party, get drunk, and hook up. You should try it sometime. Might even loosen you up.”

Your smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint pause, barely perceptible, before you answer. “I’ll think about it,” you say casually, shifting the clipboard in your hands, the movement smooth, practiced. “Anyway, I actually like doing these projects. No one forces me to take them on—it’s my choice every time.”

Mark furrows his brows slightly, his teasing demeanor softening just a little. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right?” he says, his voice quieter now, not accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

The words hang in the air for a beat, and you shrug lightly, your smile still intact. “I know,” you reply, quick and even, like that’s the end of it. The tightness in your grip on the clipboard goes unnoticed as he glances toward the court.

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, okay? You’ve always made me proud,” you say softly, your tone steady, before stepping back and turning toward the stands.

For a second, Mark just looks at you, his teasing expression fading into something softer. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and even though it’s just one word, you can hear everything else he’s not saying.

“You’re welcome,” you say lightly, stepping back. “Now, go. Win. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of a real congratulations afterward.”

Mark huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No pressure, right?”

“None at all,” you say with a grin, turning to head to the stands.

As you walk away to get to the stands, you make your way through the cheerleaders, weaving past their perfectly straight lines and perfectly straight teeth. Their gazes sweep over you, eyes narrowing just slightly, quick glances that linger a beat too long, assessing. You can feel the silent commentary behind their stares, the unspoken judgment in the way their bodies shift to make space for you— not welcoming, but begrudging, as though your presence is a disruption to their order. It’s the kind of dismissal you’ve felt before, the silent reminder that you don’t belong in spaces like these.

Your grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, but your steps remain steady, your head high. It’s a practiced reaction, one you’ve honed over time: keep moving, show nothing. Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t matter. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then you cross paths with Karina and Areum, standing off to the side, their conversation halting the moment you enter their space. Karina turns to look at you, her sharp eyes raking over you from head to toe. Areum, in contrast, doesn’t even look at you. She leans away from Karina, her focus on her nails, inspecting them with a casual indifference. 

Karina doesn’t wait for you to pass before speaking. “Seriously? A clipboard?” she says, her voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “What are you doing, running a study on how not to fit in?”

Areum’s laugh comes quick and light, almost like a reflex, but her attention isn’t fully on you. She doesn’t say a word, her gaze briefly flickering your way, her smirk widening for a second before she looks back down at her nails, uninterested. It’s not malice—it’s detachment, like she’s barely invested in the exchange but finds Karina’s remarks amusing enough to entertain. Her presence doesn’t add weight to the moment, but the laugh lingers, brushing against your already-fraying composure.

The weight of their judgment presses against you, but you don’t stop. You bite your tongue, your jaw tightening slightly. Without pausing, you keep your head held high and walk away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. By the time you sit down, your focus is already on the notes in your lap. You start jotting down notes, forcing their words out of your mind. It’s just noise. You’re here for your work, for Mark.

It’s not that you’re unaware of the stares, the laughter, the low hum of judgment behind you—you feel it as clearly as the pen in your hand. But you’ve long since learned to focus through it, to let it blur into the background. You scribble away, pen scratching against paper, your jaw tightening for a fleeting second before you press it down and keep writing. You don’t stop to wonder if anyone might step in. Why would you? People don’t defend you. They never have.

It’s easier this way—to stop convincing yourself that anyone was ever meant to stand with you, to let the fire rise and take what it will without reaching for hands that were never there. The laughter doesn’t cut anymore; it drifts by, hollow and distant, as inconsequential as the faces behind it. You’ve unlearned the need to want, stripped away the instinct to hope, and in its place, something sharper remains—a clarity that feels almost intoxicating. The weight of solitude no longer presses; it stays steady, familiar, like a second skin. This isn’t defeat, nor is it grief. It’s an undeniable truth, calm and unwavering: some paths are meant to be walked alone, and maybe that’s where the strength lies.

But what you don’t notice is that someone does care. Someone does look out for you when you’re not paying attention. Mark had been watching you this whole time—since you walked away from him, weaving your way back toward the crowd. He’s seen this before—the steady but distant way you carry yourself, like you’re holding onto space that always feels just out of reach. He knows the weight it takes to be here, the quiet effort it costs to keep your head high when everything around you seems designed to press you down.

Karina and Areum command attention, as always. Karina’s confidence is calculated, every word designed to wound while her sharp-edged smile masks the intent. Her presence demands space, loud and unapologetic. Areum moves differently, her quiet magnetism effortless and untouched by the noise around her. Mark knows why he’s always noticed her, why his feelings for her linger ever since they were younger, quiet but persistent. It’s not about the way she shines, but the ease with which she moves through spaces that still feel foreign to him. Yet tonight, something in him shifts.

He watches her stand beside Karina, laughing lightly as Karina’s words turn cutting. Areum’s silence isn’t malicious, but it stings all the same, mingling with the precision of Karina’s cruelty. And then there’s you, walking away with your head high, shoulders stiff, the clipboard in your hands gripped too tightly.

It twists something in him, sharp and immediate. He knows that walk, knows how hard you’re working to hold yourself together, and for the first time, it hits him differently. It’s not just about Karina’s words or Areum’s laughter—it’s the sight of you being treated like this, dismissed like you don’t belong, when he knows how much it took for you to be here.

The sting burns hotter, pulling Mark forward before he can think better of it. His footsteps are firm, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the gym as he moves toward Karina and Areum. Their laughter falters as they catch sight of him, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

Karina’s eyes widen first, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with that sharp-edged smile, her confidence curling back into place like armor. Areum’s reaction is quieter—her lips part slightly, her brows knitting together in subtle confusion, but it’s the way her gaze locks with Mark’s that lingers. There’s something unspoken in the look they share, a tension that neither seems willing to name. It feels heavier than the moment, deeper than the words left unsaid between them, but Mark doesn’t let himself sink into it. Not now.

He stops in front of them, his presence carrying a weight they weren’t expecting. The air shifts, the silence stretching just long enough to make Karina shift uncomfortably, her confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “She’s got more of a place here than you do,” Mark says, his tone sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The shift is immediate. Karina falters, her eyes flick to Mark, and her expression softens, her tone changing in an instant. “Relax, Mark,” she says, her voice smoother now, practiced. “It was just a joke.” She steps a little closer to him, her body language shifting—her shoulders turning slightly toward him, her gaze lingering in a way that’s anything but casual. Mark doesn’t miss the way she brushes her hair back, her smile edging into something almost flirtatious.

Areum shifts uncomfortably beside her. She doesn’t speak, her earlier amusement replaced by a kind of unease, her gaze flickering between Mark and Karina before settling on the floor.

Mark doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of hers,” he says, quieter now but no less cutting. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he’s willing to let it go.

Karina’s laugh comes, thin and strained. “Whatever you say, Mark,” she mutters, her smile still in place but lacking its usual bite. Her eyes linger on him a beat too long before she steps back, finally breaking the tension.

Mark doesn’t wait for her to add anything else. He turns sharply, heading back toward his team, his steps firm, his shoulders tense as the weight of the moment clings to him. The gym’s noise begins to swell again, the confrontation fading into the backdrop as if it never happened. But it did, and everyone who saw it knows it did.

Mark doesn’t feel it immediately, but the attention follows him as he walks away, the weight of lingering glances pressing heavier than before. For years, he’s been the quiet one, his presence steady but overlooked, his name spoken in passing while louder, flashier figures like Jeno commanded the spotlight. At the river court, he was a constant, but not the kind of presence anyone lingered on. Yet something has changed, subtle but undeniable. People are starting to notice—not just his game, which has sharpened with every hoop, every deliberate play, but the way he moves now, deliberate and steady, as though he’s no longer willing to stay in anyone’s shadow. There’s a gravity to him that wasn’t there before, something that draws attention and holds it. Even Karina had felt it, her words softening, her gaze dragging over him like she wasn’t used to seeing him this way. She noticed, and so did everyone else. Mark wasn’t invisible anymore, but the weight of being seen is one he doesn’t dwell on—not when something else matters more.

You’ve fully zoned out, lost in your own world. You don’t notice Mark’s eyes following you, the way they try to catch your attention, to anchor you to something outside of yourself. You don’t see him watching, the tension in his jaw or the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something back, something heavier than words. For you, this moment is no different from the ones you’ve endured countless times before—another invisible cut to add to the rest, another reminder of how easily you slip to the edges, always slightly out of step with the rhythm everyone else seems to follow so naturally.

The stares are always first, dragging over you like they’re waiting for the moment you crack. Then come the whispers, deliberate and sharp, just loud enough to reach you but not enough to let you defend yourself. The laughter follows, inevitable and bitter, wrapping around you like an echo of something you’ve long stopped trying to drown out. It presses against you—not crushing, but constant—a dull weight you’ve carried for so long it feels easier to let it settle than to push it away.

And yet, even as you sit there, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, something shifts. Mark watches you from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering as though to make sure you’re okay. He cares—more than you’ll ever realize—and even though you’ve never expected anyone to step in, he already has. You’ll never know that he defended you, and that he would again, without hesitation. For Mark, this wasn’t just another moment to let pass. It wasn’t just about what was said or who said it. It was about a line crossed, one he refused to let go unnoticed. He stepped out of the shadows for you—not for attention, not for recognition, but because you deserved better. Even if you never know it, even if you never see it, it mattered. To him, it always will.

You’re still sitting in silence, the weight in your chest dull but persistent, when a voice cuts through the gym’s noise. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Donghyuck’s familiar tone cuts through the noise, amplified by the mic in his hand. He’s got his portable speaker slung over his shoulder, his grin sharp and full of mischief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of overachieving herself has graced us with her presence. A round of applause, please!”

Your head snaps up, irritation flickering, but it dissolves as quickly as it comes. Donghyuck strides toward you with exaggerated confidence, dragging everyone else in his orbit. Chenle’s already laughing, Yangyang has a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, and Shotaro waves both hands high like he’s signaling a plane to land. Nahyun, trailing behind, nudges Shotaro lightly in the ribs, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Donghyuck, stop,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, she speaks,” Donghyuck drawls into the mic, his gaze flicking toward you. “What’s the matter? Too preoccupied to notice pure brilliance right in front of you?”

Before you can respond to Donghyuck’s jab, Chenle grabs the mic from his hand, cutting him off effortlessly. “Ignore him,” he says with a smirk, his gaze flicking over to you. “But seriously, I can’t believe you almost didn’t show up. What kind of friend does that?” It’s true—you had been close to staying in, the weight of your project and looming deadlines pressing down on you, convincing you there were more important things to focus on. But then there was Mark—his debut wasn’t just important, it was something you couldn’t miss. You’d seen him work for this moment, and staying home would’ve felt like a betrayal. And then, of course, there was Chenle, who had called earlier, his teasing charm cutting through your hesitation and leaving you with no real excuse to stay away.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” you reply, shifting in your  as Yangyang plops down beside you, the popcorn now balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yangyang says, ruffling your hair with exaggerated affection before leaning back into his seat. “I brought popcorn. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, before standing to hug them all. Donghyuck is first, pulling you into an exaggerated, theatrical hug. “Finally, you’ve come to a match!” he exclaims dramatically, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few nearby. “I’ve been saving all my best material for you, and you’ve been missing it. Do you know how much harder it is to narrate these games without my number one audience?”

Donghyuck’s “material” isn’t just his usual sarcasm—it’s his self-proclaimed role as the game’s unofficial commentator. Armed with a mic connected to a portable speaker slung over his shoulder, he spends every match narrating the plays with the flair of a professional broadcaster. He embellishes every move with ridiculous metaphors, overly enthusiastic descriptions, and enough wit to make the crowd laugh—even if half of them roll their eyes at his antics.

Chenle pulls you into a quick, firm hug next, clapping your back in that no-nonsense way that feels more grounding than anything else. Yangyang doesn’t bother standing, just pats your head twice before reclaiming the popcorn like it’s his lifeline. Then there’s Shotaro, who pulls you into a full-body squeeze so intense it knocks the air out of you. You wheeze a laugh as he steps back, grinning wide.

When it’s Nahyun’s turn, her smile is smaller, softer. She reaches out, her hands warm against your shoulders as she hugs you, her embrace unhurried. “It’s good to see you,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You too,” you reply, matching her tone, and for a fleeting moment, the weight that’s been sitting on your chest feels just a little lighter.

When the whistle blows, the gym seems to hold its breath for a fraction of a second before erupting into movement. The ball is tipped into the air, and the game begins with a sudden, sharp energy. Players streak across the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the ball bouncing rhythmically as it moves from hand to hand.

Shotaro leans closer to you, his voice low and steady, explaining the setup. “Mark’s starting as shooting guard,” he says, nodding toward the court. “He’s got to control the pace, look for openings, and capitalize when they find them.” His explanations are precise, but his eyes never leave the court, his focus unwavering.

“Jeno’s in as a small forward tonight,” Shotaro says, his voice low but deliberate. “He’s been the shooting guard since, like, forever. For Coach to move him? That’s unheard of, Jeno’s spot on the team has been untouched… until now.”

You glance toward Jeno, your attention catching on the way he stands just outside the action, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Mark, doesn’t look at anyone, really, his focus locked on the ball as though willing it to find him. There’s an edge to his movements, sharp and restrained, like he’s holding something back.

He fits here effortlessly—physically, at least. The jersey clings to his frame, his stance rooted in the kind of confidence that’s been built over years of owning his place on the court. But something feels off. It’s subtle, the way his posture stiffens when the ball shifts away from him, the way his eyes flick to Mark for just a fraction too long before looking away again.

Mark, on the other hand, is easy to spot. He’s quick but measured, his movements are purposeful as he shifts around the perimeter, scanning the play with sharp focus. When the ball finds him, his hands are steady, fingers splayed as he calls for it, his voice cutting through the noise of the gym. The reaction is immediate as Donghyuck’s voice booms through the speaker, brimming with exaggerated flair. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Number twenty-three, Mark Lee, officially making his debut with a clean pass that’s smoother than butter!”

Your friends erupt into cheers, their voices blending into the crowd’s growing roar. Chenle pumps his fist into the air, Shotaro nods approvingly, and Yangyang leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on Mark as if willing him to succeed.

The ball comes back to Mark seconds later, this time just outside the three-point line. His movements are fluid, his form perfect as he fakes a defender with a quick pivot and drives toward the basket. Donghyuck narrates every second. “Did you see that? A fake that could break ankles—Mark Lee with the drive! Look at him go!”

The shot is clean, the ball arcing through the air before swishing through the net. The crowd surges with noise, and so do your friends.

“Yes!” Chenle shouts, clapping so loudly you think his hands might sting. “That’s how you do it!”

Yangyang exhales sharply, his grin widening. “He’s standing out already,” he says, his tone filled with awe. “First few minutes, and everyone’s already watching him.”

And it’s true. The curious eyes of the crowd seem to stick to Mark every time he touches the ball. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves—calculated but confident, the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it.

Donghyuck doesn’t let up, his commentary a mix of genuine pride and playful exaggeration. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Mark Lee is owning this court. Someone call the league because we’ve got a star in the making!”

Yangyang leans closer, his gaze still fixed on the court. “This is wild,” he says, his voice quieter now, threaded with something heavier. “We used to play until we couldn’t feel our fingers, and now he’s here. Real jersey, real court. He actually made it.”

Chenle nods, his tone softer. “Worked harder than anyone. No one else could’ve done this. He earned all of it.”

Mark glances toward the stands after another clean pass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before pausing, just briefly, in your direction. His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture eases, the tension in his shoulders loosening as if he can feel your presence there.

Your chest tightens slightly, not with worry anymore, but with something closer to awe. You’ve seen Mark play a hundred times before—on cracked concrete, under dim streetlights, with nothing but scraped knees and determination to show for it. But this is different. This is Mark stepping into a spotlight he’s never had before, and already, it’s like he owns it.

The ball comes back to him, and the crowd leans forward as one. Mark moves with ease, weaving through defenders like it’s second nature before going for a layup that’s so clean it feels almost effortless. The scoreboard buzzes, the points adding up, and the gym erupts again.

Shotaro claps, his expression calm but his pride evident. “That’s Mark,” he says simply, like nothing more needs to be said.

Yangyang shakes his head, a small laugh escaping. “We used to joke about this, you know? Like, ‘what if he actually makes it?’ And now…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the court. “Now, it’s real.”

“Meanwhile,” Donghyuck’s voice cuts in through the speaker, “we’ve got Jeno Lee, usually the pride of the court, looking a little out of rhythm tonight. Guess even stars stumble when the spotlight shifts, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, enough to draw a few murmurs from the crowd. Your attention flickers back to Jeno, his movements tense, controlled to the point of rigidity. He’s not playing poorly, but there’s a hesitation in him, a subtle weight that wasn’t there before.

Your gaze catches on Jeno near the baseline, his movements precise yet brimming with a tension that feels almost dangerous. He carries himself with an intensity that pulls focus without trying, each motion deliberate, calculated, but edged with something raw. His shoulders are set, his jaw tight, every shift of his body radiating control that feels like it might snap at any moment. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he commands his space with an unspoken arrogance, like he knows exactly how to draw attention—and keep it.

But it’s the cracks in that control that hold your focus. The slight flare of his nostrils when the ball slips out of his reach, the way his hands flex like he’s suppressing the urge to lash out. His eyes flick to Mark, dark and unreadable, before darting away again as Mark sinks another clean shot. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of frustration, or something sharper, lurking just beneath the surface. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else entirely, but it simmers in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate sharpness of his next move, and it doesn’t let go.

You notice the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s caught between holding back and wanting to dominate. His aggression is layered, restrained enough to stay controlled, but just barely. Jeno doesn’t just play the game; he pushes it, toeing the line between brilliance and frustration. He’s not easy to read, but that’s what makes him impossible to ignore.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement at the edge of the gym. Taeyong Lee—Mark’s and Jeno’s father—stands by the sideline, a stark figure against the chaos of the game. His posture is impossibly still, his sharp features betraying no emotion as he watches the players. He’s not just observing; he’s calculating, the weight of his presence dark and deliberate. There’s something unsettling about him, a quiet menace that doesn’t need words to be felt. The resemblance to Jeno is striking—the sharp jaw, the controlled stance—but where Jeno’s tension simmers, Taeyong’s feels unshakable, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You don’t know if his attention is fixed on Jeno, Mark, or something else entirely, but the unease his presence brings is undeniable.

Jeno doesn’t look at Coach Suh on the sidelines, but you can feel the weight of his coach—and his father—in every movement he makes. Coach Suh, known for his precision and demanding leadership, stands with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the court. A former player turned renowned coach, he’s as much a strategist as he is a disciplinarian, a figure who commands respect without ever needing to raise his voice. He’s shaped players for years, turning raw talent into polished skill, and his expectations are nothing short of perfection—especially for his own players.

You force yourself to keep taking notes, eyes skimming over the scribbled lines, but your focus falters when it drifts to Coach Suh. He stands at the edge of the court, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players with a calm intensity that feels too precise. There’s something about the way he carries himself—steady, deliberate—that makes your stomach knot, a tension blooming in your chest that you can’t quite suppress. Your lips press into a thin line, the motion subtle but instinctive, before you force your eyes back to your notes. The pen in your hand hovers, unmoving, as the quiet weight of his presence lingers.

For a moment, the noise of the gym recedes into a distant hum, replaced by a sharper, more personal tension. It’s not the first time his presence has unsettled you—not the first time your composure has felt fragile under the gravity he seems to carry—but tonight, it feels heavier, cutting through your practiced detachment like a blade grazing too close to old wounds. You don’t look up again, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease, no matter how hard you try to will it away.

Nahyun leans in, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your thoughts. “I know Coach Suh is really hot, but you were really staring just now,” she says, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You blink, caught off guard, before a quiet laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

“Sure you weren’t,” Nahyun replies, her giggle light and teasing, but her tone isn’t sharp. It’s the kind of comment only she would make—honest but harmless, pulling you out of the moment without pushing too far.

For a brief second, the weight in your chest eases, but your gaze drifts back to the court, where Jeno’s intensity hasn’t faltered for even a moment. Mark, on the other hand, is thriving. Every pass he makes is precise, every shot purposeful, and the crowd is feeding off his energy. The gym hums with excitement, spectators leaning forward in their seats as they watch the new addition to the team move like he’s been playing here his entire life.

You catch a glimpse of Coach Suh and his assistant, their wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and approval. They exchange quiet words, their expressions unreadable but focused on Mark. It’s clear he’s exceeding expectations, a standout in his very first game. The spectators clap and cheer louder with every shot he makes, and the gym’s energy feels electric, vibrating with the kind of unity that only a win can bring.

Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, loud and playful as always. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we just take a moment to appreciate number twenty-three, Mark Lee? He’s not just a rookie—he’s a revelation! Someone get this man a cape, because he’s carrying the Ravens to glory tonight!”

Your friends erupt in cheers as the final countdown begins, the seconds ticking down like thunder. “That’s our boy!” Yangyang shouts, pumping his fist in the air. Chenle and Shotaro join in, their voices blending with the roar of the crowd. Even Nahyun claps, her usual quiet demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. It’s not just pride—it’s joy, infectious and overwhelming, the kind that pulls you in completely.

The buzzer sounds, and the Ravens secure their win. The stands explode into celebration, students jumping to their feet, shouting and clapping in unison. And at the center of it all is Mark, the clear standout of the night. His teammates pat his back, their smiles wide as they pull him into a huddle. For a moment, everything feels lighter, the weight you carried into the gym replaced with something brighter as you watch Mark soak in his victory.

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

Your gaze catches Jeno breaking away from his teammates, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful as he moves toward Mark. The celebration continues around them, but there’s a sudden tension that coils in the air, snapping your focus back to the court.

Jeno’s voice is low, his words too quiet to reach you, but whatever he says makes Mark turn sharply, his smile fading into something harder. Mark squares his shoulders, his hands rising slightly as if to diffuse the moment, but Jeno doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his stance confrontational, his frustration from earlier spilling over like a dam breaking.

The punch comes before you can fully register what’s happening. Jeno’s fist connects with Mark’s jaw in one sharp, brutal motion, and the sound of it cuts through the gym like a crack of lightning. Gasps ripple through the crowd, the celebration grinding to a halt as Mark stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face.

“Whoa, whoa!” Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, shock laced into his usual dramatic tone. “Someone call security, because that is not regulation play!”

Mark doesn’t retaliate, at least not immediately. His eyes blaze as he steadies himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his knuckles, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, his voice sharp as he fires back at Jeno. You can’t make out the words, but the intensity between them is palpable, a storm brewing in the center of the court.

Teammates rush to intervene, pulling them apart before it escalates further. Jeno struggles against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Mark with a fury that feels unrelenting. Mark, on the other hand, seems calmer now, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease as he’s pulled toward the sidelines.

The gym is no longer celebrating. The buzz of excitement has drained out of the room, leaving only a suffocating silence as the aftermath of Jeno’s outburst settles like smoke in the air. Spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone tries to piece together what just happened. You can’t look away. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Jeno being pulled toward the bench, his jaw clenched tight, fury still radiating off him in waves. Across the court, Mark stands tall, though his jaw is red from the impact, and there’s a tension in his posture that betrays the calm he’s trying to project. The victory—the joy of the Ravens’ first win with Mark on the team—feels like it was hours ago, eclipsed by the chaos that unraveled in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s go,” Yangyang mutters, already moving down toward the court. You follow instinctively, weaving through the thinning crowd with your friends close behind. Mark is surrounded by his teammates, their congratulations now muted and uneasy, but he’s still smiling when he spots you all approaching. The moment his eyes land on you, the earlier tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, and he steps forward to greet you.

You reach him first, pulling him into a tight hug without thinking. “I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

Mark’s arms tighten around you briefly, grounding you even amidst the chaos. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the weight he’s carrying—the strain behind the composed exterior. “Really. It means a lot.”

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking, your tone softer now. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” you say, the words edged with quiet anger. “Jeno’s an ass, Mark. He’s always been like this, and you don’t deserve it.”

Mark shakes his head, a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. “I’m fine,” he says, the words steady but leaving little room for argument. “It’s part of it, right? Just something I’ve gotta handle.”

You don’t agree, but you don’t push either. Instead, your voice lowers, firm but full of care. “He’s lucky that’s all you gave him.”

That pulls a faint laugh from Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, the tension in his expression easing, even if just for a moment.

The others swarm in after you, the tension easing as Donghyuck throws an arm around Mark’s shoulders, ignoring the red mark on his jaw. “Dude, that was insane,” Donghyuck says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as if the fight hadn’t even happened. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole commentary reel planned for you. Starting with: Mark Lee, the pride of the Ravens—taking hits on and off the court!”

“Cut it out,” Shotaro says, but there’s a small smile on his face as he passes Mark a towel. “You did great out there. Really.”

“Seriously,” Yangyang adds, his usual playfulness absent. “We know what it took to get here, and… well, just don’t let idiots like him ruin it for you.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good, I promise.” he says, but there’s a tension in his tone that none of you miss.

“You sure?” Nahyun asks, her voice softer, steadier. She’s watching Mark carefully, her concern clear in the way her gaze lingers on him.

“I am,” Mark insists, but when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something unspoken. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you all let them sit, knowing he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. The pep talk that follows isn’t just for him—it’s for all of you, a way to push back the nervousness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

“Chenle’s right,” Donghyuck says, his tone lighter now but no less genuine. “Screw Jeno. He’s just pissed because you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

“And because Taeyong knows it,” Yangyang adds, glancing toward the sidelines where Jeno’s father watches with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

“Taeyong’s not playing,” Shotaro says firmly. “This is your game, Mark. Don’t forget that.”

Mark nods, his smile small but real this time. “I won’t,” he says. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

The Ravens’ bench is a stark contrast to your group, the tension between the players palpable. They’re scattered, avoiding each other’s gazes, their confusion and unease as visible as the sweat on their brows. Even Jaemin, who rarely lets his composure slip, exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake off the discomfort of being stuck between Mark and Jeno.

The chaos doesn’t just sit with the Ravens, though. It’s there in your group too, beneath the laughter and teasing, in the way your friends stick close to Mark like they’re guarding him from the fallout. You all know what this team means, what joining the Ravens will cost him. It’s not just about the game. It’s about Jeno, about Taeyong, about the pressure that’s already weighing on Mark’s shoulders.

Chenle breaks the tension with a grin, leaning in to nudge Mark. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re a big star, alright? You might be getting a lot of fans and attention now, but we paid attention to you first.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it, a quiet plea wrapped in humor. Chenle rarely says what he means outright, but the way his gaze lingers on Mark, steady and uncharacteristically serious, gives him away. It’s not just a joke—it’s a reminder of where they started, a subtle way of grounding Mark when everything else around him feels uncertain.

Mark doesn’t even pause to consider his response. “Never,” he says firmly, his voice cutting through the noise around you with a conviction that feels unshakable. His gaze sweeps across your group, and you can see it in his eyes—the promise isn’t just for Chenle. It’s for all of you. “It’s home. Always will be.”

The words are simple, but the weight they carry is anything but. There’s something unspoken that passes between all of you in that moment, a reassurance you didn’t realize you needed until it settles in your chest. Mark might be here, on this bigger stage, surrounded by new teammates and a louder crowd, but he’s still yours. No matter how far he goes, no matter what heights he reaches, Mark’s roots are with you, and he’s not leaving that behind. He’s not leaving you behind. 

He’s still the same Mark who sat with you on the cracked pavement of the river court when life felt too heavy, the basketball forgotten at his feet as he listened without interrupting. The same Mark who stayed until the sky turned dark, the faint hum of the river filling the spaces where words couldn’t. He’s still the same Mark who played with you until the streetlights flickered on, who laughed until his sides hurt when Donghyuck tried to narrate the games like a professional announcer. 

Yangyang claps Mark on the shoulder, breaking the quiet thread of nostalgia with his crooked grin. “You better not,” he says, his voice low but firm, his usual humor taking on an edge of seriousness. “Because if you do, we’ll drag you back ourselves. No way you’re leaving us in the dust.”

Mark’s laugh is quiet, but it’s real, a soft sound that feels lighter than anything that’s passed between you all tonight. For a brief moment, the weight of the fight, the tension in the gym, and the unease that’s lingered since the final buzzer all seem to fade. It’s just you and your group, the people who’ve been there for Mark through everything, and who always will be.

When he turns back to you, his expression softens, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes that pulls at something deep in your chest. “Did Mum come?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

You look at him for a moment, as if searching for an answer, even though you already know it. Finally, you shake your head, matching his tone as you reply, “No. She didn’t.”

Mark nods slowly, his smile faltering for just a second before he recovers, smoothing it out into something steady and practiced. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone even but distant. “It’s not her thing anyway.”

You don’t press, and neither does anyone else. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, before Donghyuck, ever the deflector, slings an arm around Mark again. “Alright, alright, enough with the moody stuff,” he says, launching into an exaggerated monologue about Mark’s “heroic performance” on the court, complete with mock commentary and over-the-top gestures. The absurdity finally earns a real laugh from Mark, one that ripples through the group like a wave, lightening the air around you.

The tension lingers in the background, but it doesn’t define the moment. What stands out is the way your group comes together, the way each of you leans into your roles without even thinking—Donghyuck’s humor, Yangyang’s blunt honesty, Nahyun’s quiet warmth, Shotaro’s steady presence, Chenle’s sharp wit—all of it meshing into something that feels solid, unshakable. It’s effortless, a kind of belonging that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, and for a second, it feels like nothing outside of this small circle could touch you.

The Ravens linger on the court, their movements stilted, their expressions uncertain as they glance toward Mark. Their unity feels like an illusion—strained and held together by necessity rather than genuine connection. The difference is glaring. It’s not hard to see where Mark truly belongs, where his foundation lies. It isn’t with the polished façade of his new team, where harmony feels more like an obligation than a bond. It’s here, among the people who’ve been with him before the spotlight, before the stakes were this high. The ones who don’t need a crowd or a jersey to know who he is, who will stay long after the lights fade and the noise disappears.

But then your gaze shifts, pulled by something darker, something unspoken that cuts through the lightness of the moment like a blade. You feel him before you see him, an unseen ripple in the air that brushes against your senses, cold and invasive, like the first breath of winter creeping through a cracked window. It isn’t sound or movement that gives him away—it’s the weight, a suffocating presence that clings to your skin, seeps into your chest, and settles heavy, like an omen you can’t ignore. He’s a shadow stretching long before dusk, a storm carving silence into the sky, waiting to break. By the time your gaze finds him, it’s almost too late—he’s already there, fixed and unrelenting, a wound you didn’t realize you’d opened. 

Jeno.

He sits on the bench, his body honed and sharp as a predator in stillness, elbows braced on his knees, the loose fabric of his jersey stretching over shoulders that seem carved to intimidate. His posture is coiled, almost too controlled, as if the slightest shift would unleash something you aren’t ready to see. His jaw is tight, the sharp line of it catching the light, and a faint pulse throbs at his temple, rhythmic and precise, like the ticking of a countdown. His eyes—dark, endless, and cutting—are locked onto your group with a focus that feels inescapable.

It isn’t anger flashing in those depths; it’s something quieter, more insidious, a steady burn just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of gaze that knows its own power, that pins you in place, a hunter with no need to chase. He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t soften the sharp edges; it amplifies them. The shadows clinging to him aren’t imperfections—they’re the thing that makes him impossible to look away from.

The gym hums with life around him, the sound of laughter swelling as Mark smiles, as your friends lean into each other’s easy rhythm like nothing else matters. But Jeno’s gaze cuts through it all, invasive and heavy, pressing against your chest like it knows where you’re weakest. It’s not just loneliness—not the hollow ache of solitude—it’s sharper, crueler, the kind of emptiness that demands to be filled.

Even his stillness is deliberate, a quiet defiance against the chaos of the gym. He doesn’t belong here, not among the fleeting ease of laughter or the bright warmth of companionship. He’s the shadow cast by the light, the storm biding its time. The muscles in his forearms flex subtly as his hands curl into fists against his knees, and you realize the tension isn’t just in his body—it’s in the room, in the way everything seems to shift under the weight of his presence.

His stare is slow, deliberate, and every time his eyes lock onto yours, it feels as though the world grinds to a halt. That gaze—it’s sharp enough to slice, dragging over you like a scalpel cutting too deep. There’s no fury, no malice, but it doesn’t need either. It’s the precision of it—the way it peels you open, lays you bare, and leaves you exposed to something raw and unrelenting.

He holds it, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, the air between you charged with something you can’t name but feel in every nerve. The gym falls away; there’s only him, watching you like a man standing on the edge of something he can’t turn back from. His beauty is almost unnerving up close—the symmetry of his features made sharper by the darkness in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a whisper of something dangerous.

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

He leans back, the movement unhurried, fluid, the kind of grace that seems effortless but deliberate, like every shift of his body is crafted to draw your attention. The loose fabric of his jersey pulls against his chest and shoulders as he stretches slightly, his physique etched in sharp lines and hard edges, a perfect blend of power and control. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, the muscle flexing beneath his skin before his expression smooths out, closing off like a door slammed shut. His fists tighten briefly on his thighs, the veins running along his forearms stark and pronounced, a quiet reminder of the restrained strength lying just beneath the surface. When he exhales, it’s measured, calculated, a coldness settling over him that feels more like armor than indifference. But the weight of him doesn’t leave. It lingers, creeping into your skin, slow and invasive, a chill that roots itself deep. Even when his eyes are no longer on you, their imprint remains, like a scar carved by a blade you never saw coming.

A sudden warmth pulls you out of your thoughts. Yangyang’s arm slides around your waist, his voice low and steady. “What’s up? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You blink, shaking off the heaviness that clings to you like a second skin. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yangyang doesn’t push, though the slight tilt of his head tells you he doesn’t believe you. Before he can press further, Donghyuck’s voice cuts through the moment, brimming with energy. “Alright, listen up! Post-victory meal, my treat—unless Mark’s paying, which he should be, considering he’s the star tonight.”

Mark groans, rolling his eyes as the rest of the group chimes in with cheers and playful demands. Chenle nudges your shoulder, smirking. “You coming, or do you have another meeting to attend? You’re always running off somewhere. Deadlines to crush, right?”

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ll meet you guys there. I have something to take care of first.”

“Of course you do,” Donghyuck teases, tossing a glance your way as the group starts to head out. “You practically live on campus anyway. Do they even let you leave, or are you just chained to your deadlines?”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, the weight of your next destination already pulling at you. The group moves ahead, their laughter a distant hum, fading into the background as you take a different path. The echo of Jeno’s gaze lingers, an unwelcome shadow pressed against your thoughts, sharp and piercing. You push it aside, but it clings to you, a reminder you don’t have time for.

The court feels unnaturally quiet now. The noise and energy that had filled the space are gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that settles in the corners. You stay near the sideline, notepad balanced on your palm, the pen in your hand tapping absently as your focus shifts. The remnants of the game—the tension, the collisions, the unspoken hierarchies—replay in your mind as you sift through your hurriedly written notes.

You flip to a blank page, drawing a line to separate the chaos of the match from the clarity you needed now. The fragmented thoughts scrawled earlier in the heat of observation begin to take shape, sharp edges forming where before there had only been loose ends.

Notes from Match Observation:

Team Dynamics — Disjointed. Evidence of strain between players, particularly between Mark and Jeno. Tension palpable during high-pressure plays. Needs further analysis—determine if conflict is personal or role-based.

Mark — Quick on his feet. Adjusts easily to dynamic shifts. Shows natural leadership qualities, but lacks rapport with senior players. Body language relaxed, even during high-pressure moments. Maintains focus despite external distractions.

Jeno — Aggressive playstyle. Repeated possession turnovers suggest emotional interference. Observable frustration when Mark assumes control. Physical responses to perceived loss of dominance (e.g., tightened jaw, clenched fists, heightened aggression). Behavior warrants deeper psychological analysis—potential patterns of territorialism or insecurity.

You paused, rereading the notes about Jeno. The way he moved on the court stuck with you, more than anyone else’s performance. His aggression hadn’t just been frustration; it was personal. His focus had lingered too long on Mark, his movements sharper, almost reckless, when the ball left his hands. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about control.

Potential hypothesis for the project, you wrote, underlining the phrase. Jeno’s performance linked to perceived loss of position and authority. Explore psychological response to shifting team roles.

The project was still forming in your mind, but the path was becoming clearer. The study wasn’t just about the game itself; it was about what happened beneath the surface—the interplay of ego, competition, and vulnerability in a team dynamic. Jeno, whether he realized it or not, had become central to your observations. His reactions on the court offered more insight into the psychological strain of competition than anything you’d seen in prior matches.

But the plan went beyond just observing. You would have to dig deeper—find the cracks in the polished surface and figure out what made players like Jeno tick. It wasn’t enough to watch. You’d have to challenge them, push them, get under their skin in ways they wouldn’t expect.

You scribbled another note on the page, bolder this time: Focus: Jeno. Fractured team hierarchy—monitor response under controlled pressure.

The quiet of the court was beginning to feel heavy, oppressive. You exhaled, pressing your pen to the page one last time. The plan was taking shape, but the weight of it was settling in your chest. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with players like Jeno in the mix.

Closing your notebook, you glanced toward the gym’s exit. The next step was clear, and your meeting was waiting. You square your shoulders, tucking the notepad under your arm as you make your way toward Coach Suh’s office, the project already shifting in your mind, gaining sharper edges with every step.

The walk to Coach Suh’s office was short, but the weight of anticipation stretched it, each step landing heavier than the last. The muted thud of your shoes against the polished floor echoed faintly in the empty hallway, a sound that seemed to grow louder in the silence. Your grip tightened on the neatly stacked notes in your hand, the edges digging lightly into your skin—a grounding sensation against the hum of thoughts swirling in your mind. By the time you reached the door, your mask of composure had settled firmly into place, every movement deliberate as you raised your hand to knock twice, the sound sharp and decisive before you stepped inside.

Coach Suh was both a seasoned coach and an adjunct professor in sports psychology, overseeing several interdisciplinary studies, including yours—a project on the psychological effects of competition. His dual roles made him an intimidating figure, but his insight and fairness were undeniable, and you valued the rigor he brought to your work. It was his belief in the importance of understanding team dynamics and mental resilience that had made this project possible.

His office reflected the complexity of his role, blending academic precision with a personal history rooted in basketball. The polished wooden desk at the center of the room gleamed under the warm glow of a desk lamp, its surface organized with neatly stacked papers, a clipboard, and a single coffee mug faintly stained at the rim. Behind him, shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with psychology textbooks, binders filled with meticulous notes, and scattered awards gleaming faintly in the light.

Framed photos of championship wins lined the walls, capturing moments frozen in time—his younger self alongside triumphant teams, the exhilaration of victory etched in every face. Notably absent, however, was a photo of the current Seoul Ravens holding the state championship trophy. That picture didn’t exist yet; they hadn’t won. The space where it could hang seemed to glare as a reminder of the pressure that loomed over the team, the weight of expectations yet unmet.

Beside them hung detailed diagrams of plays and strategies, their edges worn from years of reference. A basketball, worn smooth from countless games, sat proudly on a stand in the corner, its surface scuffed with the marks of a career steeped in competition.

The room smelled faintly of leather and coffee, grounding yet charged, and the hum of the air conditioning added a low, constant backdrop. It was a space that felt deeply personal yet exuded structured professionalism, every detail chosen to reflect both his authority and his humanity.

But you weren’t prepared for Jeno.

He was slouched in one of the chairs, his long frame sprawled in a way that seemed deliberately enticing—like he was daring the room to notice him. His posture feigned ease, but the tautness in his jaw betrayed him, and the restless rhythm of his fingers against the chair’s arm hinted at a frustration that wasn’t meant to stay contained. There was something magnetic about him, a pull you couldn’t deny, even as his irritation crackled in the air like static. The loose fabric of his jersey stretched over his chest and shoulders, the exposed skin at his neck glistening faintly under the office’s fluorescent lights, and his legs, spread wide, radiated a careless confidence that felt far from accidental.

“…completely unacceptable, Jeno. I don’t care how frustrated you were out there. You’re the captain—you set the tone for the team. This isn’t just about you.”

Jeno’s nostrils flared slightly, his lips thinning as though he was physically swallowing the retort clawing its way up his throat. He didn’t move, but the air around him shifted, charged with something volatile. His gaze burned like a smoldering coal, the weight of it heavy and deliberate as it dragged over you the moment you entered the room. He didn’t look at you like you were interrupting—he looked at you like you were trespassing. And yet, his eyes lingered, dragging over you with a heat that felt out of place in the sterile office, searing and unsettling.

You don’t feel conflicted about interrupting them—not even for a second. Whatever tension you’d walked into, it didn’t belong to you, and you weren’t going to let it settle on your shoulders. Jeno’s sharp gaze might have been meant to unnerve you, but it slid off like water against stone. This was your meeting, your project, and your purpose in this room wasn’t secondary to his reprimand. You stepped forward with steady composure, the cool detachment you’d mastered over the years serving you well now. Whatever storm you’d walked into, you didn’t plan on getting caught in it.

However you apologise out of common courtesy “Sorry to interrupt,” you said evenly, your voice steady as you moved further inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound felt louder than it should have in the tension-filled room. You turned toward Coach Suh, keeping your focus sharp. “I’m here for our meeting.”

Coach Suh’s stern expression softened slightly as his attention shifted to you. His demeanor was still authoritative but carried a familiarity that felt both reassuring and dangerous. He gestured to the empty chair beside Jeno. “Right on time, as always. Have a seat, Y/N.”

You moved toward the chair, acutely aware of Jeno’s eyes tracking your every step. Jeno didn’t adjust his posture as you passed him, but you felt the weight of his gaze tracking you, his annoyance now mixed with something harder to place. You settled into the seat, placing your notes on the table and smoothing them out as if to physically organize the tension crackling in the air.

Coach Suh resumed speaking, his tone sharp but composed as he turned back to Jeno. “Your role as captain isn’t just about skill, Jeno. It’s about leadership. You can’t afford to lose your head during a game. What you did tonight put the entire team at risk.”

Jeno’s jaw ticked, and his hands curled into loose fists on the armrests, the veins along his forearms standing out against his skin. He exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound that felt more like a warning than a concession. His eyes flicked to you again, narrowing slightly, as if your presence added another layer to whatever war was raging beneath his skin. The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept your expression neutral, your gaze trained on Coach Suh.

You didn’t need to look at Jeno to know his body language screamed defiance. You could feel it in the taut silence between his words and his barely restrained movements, in the way his fingers curled and straightened against the armrest like he was trying to grip the air itself. It wasn’t just the reprimand that had him on edge—it was the fact that you were here to witness it.

And yet, he said nothing. For all his irritation, his silence was its own kind of rebellion, simmering and sharp, just waiting for the right moment to explode.

You set your pen down beside your notes and finally broke the silence. “Should we get started?” you asked, your tone professional but with an edge of confidence. You weren’t about to let Jeno’s simmering irritation throw you off. This was your space now, not his.

Coach Suh gave a sharp nod, his focus shifting to you. “Yes, let’s.”

Coach Suh leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his sharp gaze fixed on you as you explained the framework of your project. “The psychological impact of team dynamics and competition,” you began, your voice measured and steady. “I want to examine how roles, rivalries, and external pressures affect both individual and collective performance under high-stakes conditions.”

“And your methodology?” Coach Suh asked, his tone challenging but not dismissive.

“I’ve started with observational data from games and practices—analyzing body language, verbal communication, and physical responses during pressure moments,” you replied, meeting his gaze directly. “That’s supplemented with self-assessments from players and, eventually, post-game interviews to compare their internal perceptions to observed behavior.”

Coach Suh nodded slowly, the gesture deliberate, his approval subtle but palpable. “Interesting approach. And you believe these observations will lead to actionable insights for the team?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “The goal isn’t just analysis. It’s identifying patterns and providing strategies to improve cohesion, reduce conflict, and maximize performance.”

Jeno’s presence, however, was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t moved much—his arm still draped over the backrest of his chair, the other resting lazily on his thigh—but there was an electric undercurrent to his stillness, like a predator waiting to pounce. His fingers tapped against the chair’s edge, an uneven rhythm that grated against your nerves. His gaze burned into you, heavy and unreadable, and every now and then, a quiet scoff slipped past his lips, deliberate enough to make sure you noticed.

You ignored him, for the most part, focusing instead on presenting your findings. But as you reached for your notes to hand them over to Coach Suh, Jeno moved faster than you anticipated. His hand shot out, snatching the pages from yours, the brush of his fingers against your skin fleeting but searing. He leaned back in his chair, unfolding the notes with an air of casual arrogance, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

Jeno’s scoff deepened as his eyes flicked down each page, scanning it with a deliberate slowness that felt almost mocking. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook, his brow furrowing at certain lines. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Finally, he glanced back at you, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“This is what you’re so proud of?” he said, his tone cutting. “Psychological impacts? Team dynamics? What’s next, diagnosing us all with daddy issues?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, your hand darted forward, fingers curling around the other edge of the page to snatch it back. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brushed against his. His skin was warm yet rough against yours, and for that brief, electrified moment, it was impossible to ignore the tension pulling taut between you.

His eyes snapped to yours at the touch, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to say something.

You muttered under your breath, barely audible, “Wouldn’t be hard considering who your father is. He’d give me enough material for a dissertation.” 

Jeno’s head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing, tension coiling around him like a wire pulled too tight. “What did you just say?”

You straightened slightly, meeting his sharp gaze with a coolness that only seemed to stoke the fire in his expression. “I said, if you’re feeling particularly exposed, maybe that’s a reflection of your own behavior,” you shot back, your tone cutting and deliberate, the weight of your earlier mutter still hanging unspoken between you.

“So, basically, you’re just going to watch us, scribble a few notes, and decide who’s the problem?” His voice was low, biting, but his words landed with the precision of a thrown dagger.

You turned toward him, your expression calm but sharp. “Not at all,” you said evenly. “Besides, if there’s a problem, it usually makes itself obvious.”

Jeno’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Sounds like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

“Only for people who give me something to write about,” you shot back, your tone cool and unyielding.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, the air between you shifting, tightening, until it felt like the whole room was holding its breath. He let the words hang for a moment, the tension palpable, before his lips curled into something dangerously close to a sneer. “Right,” he drawled, tossing the notes onto the desk in front of Coach Suh with deliberate carelessness, “because watching us like we’re lab rats is definitely going to help the team.”

“You’re not that interesting, Jeno,” you said coolly, your voice steady despite the fire licking at the edges of your composure. “But if you think my observations might shed some light on your temper tantrums, feel free to keep reacting this way. You’re making my job easier.”

Jeno leaned forward now, the arm he’d draped lazily over the chair falling to rest on his knee. His eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them almost suffocating. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and edged with something darker.

You didn’t back down, your gaze unwavering as you met his. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you replied, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re doing all the work for me.”

The corners of Jeno’s mouth twitched, his lips curving into a faint, taunting smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He leaned back, his body settling into a posture that screamed ease, though the charged air around him told another story. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he murmured, his voice a low drawl, laced with a dark amusement that made your stomach twist. His gaze flicked over you, deliberate and heavy. “Let me guess—you think you’re the smartest person here. That whatever this little project of yours is, it’s actually going to matter.”

You let his words hang in the air for a beat, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of your notebook. Slowly, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm that didn’t waver, though your pulse thrummed in your ears. “I am the smartest person in here and it matters enough to get under your skin,” you replied, your voice smooth but cutting, each word measured. You leaned forward just slightly, the movement deliberate, like you were closing the distance without actually touching him. “For someone who acts like they don’t care, you’re trying awfully hard to prove it.”

Jeno’s expression hardened, the mocking curve of his lips flattening as his eyes darkened. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the weight of your words hang in the air between you. The room felt too small, the tension pressing against your skin like a vice, but you refused to break eye contact, your fingers tightening around your notebook as if it could ground you.

Then, he shifted, rising slowly from his chair. The scrape of the legs against the floor echoed in the tense quiet, sharp enough to set your pulse racing, but you stayed seated, your back stiff and your chin lifting just slightly in defiance. He didn’t say a word as he moved closer, his steps deliberate, calculated, the weight of his presence pressing down on you with every inch he closed.

Stopping just in front of you, he leaned down, one hand gripping the back of your chair, the other settling on the edge of the desk beside you. His scent—an intoxicating mix of cedarwood and something darker, like smoke and the faintest trace of cologne—washed over you, unsettling in its familiarity. The proximity was dizzying, his broad shoulders framing your view, his presence magnetic in a way you couldn’t ignore. The way he loomed over you wasn’t just intimidating; it was suffocating, every inch of closeness a silent dare.

“For someone who claims to have me all figured out,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that slid down your spine, “you’re spending an awful lot of time looking at me. Writing about me.” His eyes flicked down briefly, catching on your notebook still clutched in your lap before dragging back up to yours.

Your grip on the notebook tightened, but you didn’t flinch. “I’m doing my job,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor threatening to creep into it. “If that bothers you so much, maybe stop giving me so much material.”

Jeno let out a low, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in the charged air between you. His gaze dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said softly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your skin. Without touching you, he leaned in, the space between you evaporating as his hand slid along the desk, bracing firmly against its surface. The movement was deliberate, calculated, and as his arm inched closer to your shoulder, the proximity boxed you in completely. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and faintly uneven, and the sheer weight of his presence felt like a challenge you weren’t sure how to answer.

“And you think you’re intimidating,” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as the air between you crackled with tension. Your heart was racing, a rapid, pounding rhythm that betrayed the calm exterior you wore, but you didn’t shrink away. Instead, you tilted your chin higher, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. You leaned forward ever so slightly, your movement instinctive, a flicker of something unspoken drawing you closer. 

Jeno’s reaction was immediate, though fleeting—a slight hitch in his breath, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the tension in his expression. His gaze dropped, sweeping over you as if recalibrating, before locking onto your eyes again, sharper now, darker. His jaw tightened, his grip on the desk shifting subtly, his knuckles brushing the edge as if grounding himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the words almost a growl. Yet, for all the bite in his tone, there was something else lingering in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his gaze swept over the angle of your jaw, your mouth. It wasn’t intimidation he was trying to hold onto now—it was control.

You leaned in slightly, your breath brushing against his jaw as you spoke, your voice calm but edged with challenge. “You know, all you’re doing is proving my point,” you murmured, your words deliberate, carrying a weight that matched the tension between you. Your hand shifted subtly, resting against the arm of your chair, grazing the space where his fingers gripped the desk. The movement wasn’t calculated, but the way his breath hitched, the flicker in his eyes as they dropped to the closeness, told you he’d felt it too. You tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze fully, daring him to say more.

Jeno’s eyes dropped to your lips, the movement subtle but unmissable. He didn’t hide it, didn’t even try, and the deliberate slowness of it sent a jolt through you. The air between you felt impossibly heavy, the heat of his body so close it brushed against your skin. Your hand shifted on the chair’s arm, the movement unthinking, but it brought your fingers close to his on the desk, grazing just barely. His breath hitched, the sound almost imperceptible, but it was there.

His gaze snapped back to yours, darker now, his pupils blown wide. “You really think you have the upper hand here?” he asked, his voice low and biting, the edge of it sharp enough to draw blood.

You didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Your lips curved just slightly, and you answered with a simple, defiant, “Yes. Of course I do.”

There it was—the faintest stifle of a sound in his throat, one he couldn’t quite swallow back. His tongue darted out, dragging across his lips in a way that seemed more reflex than intention, but his eyes were glued to yours—or, no, to your lips. The intensity of his stare burned through the space between you, and it felt as though the air itself had thickened, holding the two of you in place.

The moment stretched unbearably long, charged with an energy that had nowhere to go. His hand pressed harder against the desk, veins tightening against his skin, while his shoulders shifted, leaning just enough closer to make you feel like he was about to say—or do—something neither of you could take back.

“Am I interrupting?” Coach Suh’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and clear.

You didn’t move. Neither did Jeno. Your eyes stayed locked, breaths shallow, the weight of Coach Suh’s question lingering somewhere outside the charged bubble neither of you dared to acknowledge. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, and despite every shred of composure you clung to, your gaze flicked there—just for a moment, just long enough to make the heat between you unbearable.

But you didn’t stop. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flex of tension in his throat as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue ghosted over his lower lip like he couldn’t help himself. Something unspoken crackled between you, thick and suffocating, and when your eyes snapped back to his, they were darker, hungrier, as if he’d caught you staring and wasn’t letting it go.

Still, neither of you flinched, neither of you gave in, your breaths coming too shallow and too close, mingling in the small space between you. His hand, still braced on the desk beside you, tightened briefly, his knuckles brushing against the edge of your armrest. You leaned in just slightly, so slightly it wasn’t deliberate—but the effect was devastating.

His pupils dilated further, the sharp inhale he took barely audible, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. His gaze dragged down again, tracing the curve of your mouth, then slowly back up to your eyes, holding them with a force that sent a shiver skimming down your spine. The room might as well have disappeared.

Coach Suh cleared his throat again, louder, pointed, and still neither of you turned. The tension hung heavy for one more breath before Jeno shifted, leaning back slightly, though the heat of his presence didn’t fully retreat. His fingers stayed braced against the desk, his eyes lingering on yours, daring you to break the moment first. You didn’t.

“That’s enough,” Coach Suh said sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He leaned forward, placing a hand on the notes Jeno had carelessly tossed onto his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Y/N’s work isn’t just about pointing out flaws, Jeno. It’s about understanding how we can work as a team. You’d do well to listen. Right now, your attitude is one of the biggest problems this team has. If you’re so determined to be involved, start by proving you’re part of the solution instead of the reason we need one.”

Jeno didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered briefly to Coach Suh. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease; if anything, it seemed to coil tighter. Slowly, his eyes slid back to you, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though every breath in the room had been sucked away. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk that wasn’t amusement—it was provocation, sharp and deliberate.

Coach Suh’s eyes moved between the two of you, his tone now laced with warning. “If you’re both finished,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we still have a meeting to conduct. I suggest we get back to it before this spirals into something that becomes out of control.”

You straightened in your seat, shifting your focus back to Coach Suh with as much composure as you could muster. But the energy in the room didn’t dissipate. Jeno didn’t leave, didn’t even shift far from where he sat, his presence as heavy as a storm cloud on the horizon. His hand remained braced against the desk, his posture deceptively casual, though his gaze stayed locked on you for just a second too long before he finally leaned back further into his chair.

Even as you resumed explaining the next phase of your project, detailing your observations and plans with measured clarity, you could feel his eyes lingering on you, dark and calculating. It wasn’t over—not by a long shot. Whatever reason he had for staying, it wasn’t just to listen, and the weight of his unspoken motive hung between you like a challenge you couldn’t yet name.

Coach Suh leaned back slightly, his arms folding across his chest as his gaze flicked between you and Jeno. “Alright, Y/N. For this project, I assume you’ll need direct input from the team. Have you decided who you’d like to work with?”

You straightened in your chair, calm and collected, though the weight of Jeno’s stare was impossible to ignore. Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook as you replied, your tone measured. “Jaemin. He’s reliable, and I think his dynamics will give me a well-rounded perspective.”

The creak of Jeno’s chair pulled your attention despite yourself. He leaned forward, his elbow braced against the desk, and his voice broke through with a forced casualness that was anything but. “That’s it? No room for the captain?”

Your gaze didn’t waver from Coach Suh, your expression neutral. “I’ve already made my choice,” you said smoothly. “But thank you for your interest.”

Jeno’s response was instant, his voice dipping lower as he said, “I wasn’t asking.” The sharpness in his words made your shoulders tense. You turned to him, meeting his unyielding gaze head-on. His eyes locked on yours, dark and intent. “If you’re going to be watching us, writing about us, you’ll need the full picture. And last I checked, I’m the one leading this team.”

“Last I checked,” you countered, your voice cooling with every syllable, “I choose who contributes to my project.”

Coach Suh cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. His expression was neutral, but there was a finality to his tone. “Jeno has a point. As team captain, his perspective could be valuable.”

You pressed your lips together, the frustration curling tight in your chest. “That’s not necessary,” you replied, turning your attention back to the coach. “I’m more than capable of getting what I need without his… input.”

Jeno leaned back then, his smirk infuriatingly smug, like he’d already won something you didn’t know was a competition. “Guess you’ll have to deal with it anyway,” he said, his tone smooth, almost lazy, but with an undercurrent sharp enough to cut. “Because I’m joining.”

You didn’t look at him right away, your fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the desk. When you did turn, the weight of his gaze slammed into you, dark and unyielding, daring you to challenge him. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your tone measured but edged, like the calm before a storm. “I don’t need you. I’ve already decided.” 

His smirk deepened, the curve of his lips sharp, deliberate, as his eyes darkened with something unreadable. “And you think I care?” he said, his voice low, edging closer as he leaned forward. The weight of him pressed into the space between you, suffocating and electric. “You’re picking apart my team, pulling us apart like we’re an experiment, and you thought you could leave me out of it?”

“This isn’t your project,” you shot back, turning to meet his gaze head-on, the heat between you immediate and suffocating. “It’s mine. And frankly, I don’t need your temper or your control issues derailing it.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. “Control issues?” he repeated, his voice almost a growl. “You’re writing a whole damn thesis on me, and I’m the one with control issues?”

You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms as you let out a sharp laugh. “You have nothing to give me,” you said flatly. “I need something useful, not someone wasting my time.”

The shift was subtle but immediate. Jeno straightened slightly, his hand pressing against the desk, his fingers brushing dangerously close to yours. “You don’t think you’ll get what you need from me?” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “Or are you just afraid you’ll get more than you bargained for?”

Your stomach twisted, a flicker of heat rushing through you that you shoved aside. “I’m not afraid of you, Jeno,” you said coolly, meeting his gaze head-on. “But I’m not interested in indulging whatever game you think this is.”

“Enough,” Coach Suh’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding, slicing through the tension like a blade. Both of you turned to him, the weight of his authority undeniable. His gaze shifted from you to Jeno, lingering on the latter with a look that was more judgment than approval. “Jeno, you’re joining this project.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Coach Suh held up a hand, cutting you off with a firm gesture. “This isn’t negotiable,” he said, his tone steady but sharp. His gaze shifted to Jeno, his words deliberate and cutting. “Your behavior on the court has been affecting the team. I want to see you take accountability, and this project is an opportunity for you to reflect and improve.”

He cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the tension lingering between the three of you. “And let me make one thing clear, Jeno—if you’re not on board with this, I have no problem benching you for the next game. That includes the second half of the season if necessary.” The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, quieting the unease that had begun to stir in the small office.

“Sure,” Jeno said, leaning back slightly, his tone casual and annoyingly smug. “Whatever you say, Coach. I’m in.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked to you, his smirk widening as if he knew exactly how much his compliance had thrown you off. “Guess you’ve got your player,” he added smoothly, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Should be fun.”

You blinked, struggling to process his reaction, the calm exterior you tried so hard to maintain now wavering. “This is ridiculous,” you said finally, turning to Coach Suh, your voice tight with frustration. “He’s just going to disrupt everything.”

“That’s on you to manage,” Coach Suh replied, his tone measured but firm. “And Jeno—don’t think for a second this means you get to coast through this. You’ll contribute, or there will be consequences.”

“Gladly,” Jeno said, his voice smooth and dripping with taunt. His eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, the satisfaction in his tone curling through the air like smoke. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the retort that burned on the edge of your tongue. Your fingers brushed over the edges of your notes, the motion brisk and deliberate as you redirected your focus to the desk in front of you. “Guess we’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Jeno murmured, his words quiet, but laced with amusement that grated against your composure. His tone was low, meant only for you, and it crawled under your skin.

You didn’t look at him again, forcing your eyes to remain locked on Coach Suh as he resumed speaking. But Jeno’s presence wasn’t something you could simply ignore—it lingered, pressing down on you with an unspoken challenge. It was a storm you could feel building, relentless and impossible to escape.

Jeno’s lips curled into a slow, smug smile, a rare, genuine satisfaction lighting up his features as Coach Suh confirmed he’d be your partner. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it lingered—a quiet triumph glinting in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm over the backrest like he’d already won something, and his gaze flickered to you. But you didn’t notice, too busy jotting notes to catch the shift in his demeanor.

Internally, he was calculating, already deciding how he’d spin this situation to his advantage. You were observant, sure—annoyingly so—but if he could steer your attention away from assessing him, focus it elsewhere, maybe even use your diligence to his benefit, he could get through this project unscathed. After all, it was just another game, and Jeno had always been good at playing the game.

Yet beneath that smugness, Jeno was fuming. He’d never intended to actually participate in your project; his goal had simply been to annoy you and shift your focus. Now, he was stuck, and the idea of spending more time with you—dealing with your sharp tongue and infuriating composure—was already grating on him. And still, there was something there, a flicker of something he refused to name, let alone acknowledge. A part of him—small but persistent—was intrigued by you. You weren’t like anyone else he knew. You didn’t crumble under his presence or fawn over his charm like others did. Instead, you stood your ground, matching his fire with your own sharp edges, and somehow always managing to get the last word.

It was maddening, frustrating in a way he couldn’t quite place, but it was also addictive. The way you carried yourself, the way you didn’t fold under the weight of his reputation or his attempts to push your buttons, only made you more fascinating. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly—but it was something close enough to unsettle him.

Jeno’s smile lingered, masking the whirlwind of conflicting thoughts beneath. He thought he’d won this round, that he’d managed to take control of the situation. But there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, one he stubbornly ignored. He didn’t realize yet how wrong he was. This wasn’t a game he was prepared to lose. And with you, losing might not even be the worst outcome. You were already a step ahead, even if he couldn’t see it yet.

The hallway outside Coach Suh’s office was eerily quiet as you stepped out, the door clicking shut behind you. The air felt heavier somehow, the tension from the meeting lingering like a shadow pressing against your chest. Your pulse still raced, the leftover adrenaline making it hard to focus as you tried to replay the exchange in your head. Relief flickered at the edges, but it was overpowered by frustration—the way Coach Suh’s finality had left no room for argument, and the way the entire conversation had left you feeling unsteady. You rubbed at your temples, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm as you moved down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint hum of the overhead lights gave way to the distant sounds of the campus at night as you made your way toward the parking lot. Your steps felt heavier than usual, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions clawing at your chest—irritation at the unresolved tension, a reluctant satisfaction that the meeting was over, and a quiet unease at what lay ahead.

Near the line of cars, you spotted them—Mark and Yangyang—waiting just outside, leaning against a lamppost. Yangyang scrolled idly on his phone, his face illuminated by the blue light, while Mark stood with his arms crossed, his head lifting as he caught sight of you. The sight of them caught you off guard, and you hesitated, blinking in surprise.

“Finally,” Yangyang said, grinning as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Mark gave you a small nod, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your tone came out softer than you intended, touched by the unexpected warmth of their gesture.

“It’s late, and you don’t drive,” Yangyang replied with a shrug, as if the decision was obvious.

“Ouch,” you muttered, your lips twitching into a faint smile. Yangyang chuckled, the sound light and teasing, and even Mark’s lips curved slightly at your reaction.

Mark pushed off the lamppost, his arms uncrossing as he approached you. “You okay? How’d it go in there?” he asked, his voice low but warm.

His words hit you harder than expected, the genuine concern behind them making it difficult to mask the lingering tension in your chest. You paused, gripping the strap of your bag tightly before finally meeting his gaze. “It went…” you started, but the words felt insufficient. You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine. Just tense. You know how these things are.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly, his concern shifting into something more thoughtful. “You sure? You seem… off.”

You hesitated, the weight of the meeting still pressing against your ribs. “I’m fine,” you said again, but your voice lacked conviction. The truth was, you weren’t sure how you felt—relieved, frustrated, and somewhere in between. And from the way Mark’s gaze lingered, you knew he wasn’t convinced either.

“I know something that can cheer you up,” Mark said after a moment, his voice steady but quieter than Yangyang’s teasing tone. “The group’s at that food place near the river court. Figured we’d wait and head over together.”

Your stomach growled loudly, cutting through the moment and making Yangyang snicker. “Sounds like someone’s ready to eat.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the tension in your chest loosening slightly. “Guess I am,” you admitted, your lips curving into a genuine smile. Mark smiled back, and Yangyang gave a mock bow, gesturing for you to lead the way.

And then you felt it—that shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air had thickened around you. Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second, the sound of Yangyang’s teasing fading into the background as your senses honed in on something—or someone.

And there he was.

Jeno stood beside his car, its sleek, dark frame glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlight, half shrouded in shadow. The contrast between his vehicle and Mark’s couldn’t have been starker—Mark’s car, parked just a few feet away, was practical, unassuming, and a little rough around the edges, while Jeno’s looked every bit the luxury statement it was meant to be. His stance matched his car’s energy: effortless, confident, yet inherently confrontational. One arm rested on the car’s roof, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface, while his other hand hung loosely by his side. The shadows played tricks across his face, obscuring parts of him but never dulling the sharp intensity in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to hide his focus; his eyes followed you as you stepped closer, flicking to Mark just briefly before settling on you again, deliberate and unrelenting.

The space felt charged, and as the three of you approached, the unspoken weight of Jeno’s presence drew a tension so palpable it made Yangyang glance your way, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s his deal?” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you and Mark to hear.

Mark’s posture stiffened beside you, his gaze narrowing as it locked on Jeno. The tension between them was immediate, the air thickening as Jeno shifted just slightly, his movements slow, calculated. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, the kind that barely reached his eyes but still managed to drip with something darker than amusement.

“Something on your mind?” Mark finally asked, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a challenge. He took a subtle step forward, his body angling slightly in front of yours as if anticipating what was coming.

Jeno let out a quiet laugh, pushing off the side of his car and taking a single step closer, his movements deliberate. “Just appreciating the view,” he said smoothly, his gaze sliding from Mark to you, lingering just long enough to make the statement feel personal. His tone was light, but the tension behind it was anything but.

The contrast between them was striking—Mark’s controlled resolve against Jeno’s unsettling ease, his presence like a shadow that refused to be ignored. The difference in their cars felt like an extension of their unspoken rivalry, a visual reminder of the tension simmering between them now.

Jeno’s lips curved slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. The satisfaction in his expression was undeniable. Smug. That was the word. Smug, because he’d forced his way into your project. Smug, because you’d have to deal with him now, day after day, night after night. Smug, because he knew what you didn’t want to admit—that proximity could be dangerous. And yet, there was something darker behind his satisfaction, something aimed squarely at Mark. For Jeno, this wasn’t just about the project. It wasn’t even about you, not entirely. It was about Mark.

Mark had taken something from him. Stolen it. His place on the team, the spotlight, and the validation that should have been Jeno’s. As far as Jeno was concerned, Mark hadn’t paid the price for stepping into a life he had no business claiming. Their rivalry was born in moments like this, where the weight of their shared history loomed like a storm cloud. Two brothers who were never really brothers, whose lives had only become more entangled as time dragged them into each other’s orbit. Jeno resented every inch of it, every loss that he blamed on Mark’s presence. This project? It was leverage, another weapon in his arsenal, another way to prove that Mark didn’t belong.

Mark had a hard time holding back—always had, but especially when it came to Jeno. The tension between them was palpable the moment you stepped outside. You caught it in the subtle way Mark’s body stiffened, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for a hit. Yangyang, who had been leaning casually against Mark’s car, noticed the change immediately. “Here we go…” he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation as he straightened, his easy demeanor fading in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” Mark’s voice was calm but edged with steel as he stepped closer, subtly angling himself between you and Jeno. Protective, as always.

Jeno pushed off his car, his smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Just making sure Y/N got out of her meeting alright,” he said, his tone drenched in mock concern. “Didn’t realize she had an entourage.”

“She doesn’t need you to make sure of anything,” Mark shot back, his jaw tightening as his patience thinned.

Jeno’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, his smirk deepening before he turned back to Mark. “Doesn’t seem like she needs you either,” he said, the words delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit where it hurt. His voice carried something darker—possessive, taunting, a deliberate dig.

Mark stepped forward, his voice dropping. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Jeno didn’t hesitate. His smirk sharpened into something cruel as he met Mark’s glare head-on. “Alright,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and cutting. “You’ve been pretending like you belong here, acting like you’re on my level, but we both know the truth. You don’t belong on this team. You’ve never belonged and I’m not about to let you get in my way.”

Yangyang shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing Mark’s arm in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. “Guys, seriously, this is—”

“Stay out of it,” Mark snapped, shrugging Yangyang off without breaking eye contact with Jeno. His voice was taut, sharp-edged, and his body moved instinctively closer to Jeno’s, drawn in by the confrontation. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Jeno’s head tilted, his smirk darkening as he met Mark’s glare. “Don’t I?” he said, his tone low, deliberate. “Let’s not pretend, Mark. You’re just holding a spot—taking up space that’s not yours.”

Mark’s jaw tightened as Jeno took another deliberate step closer, the air between them heavy with tension. “What’s your problem, Jeno? You can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?” His words were sharp, anger cutting through the controlled tone he tried to maintain.

Jeno tilted his head, his smirk turning colder, crueler. “Center of attention?” he repeated mockingly, his voice smooth but layered with disdain. Then, without warning, his focus shifted, his gaze boring into Mark’s with a sharper intent. “You know, you’ve never mattered to him.” His voice dropped lower, heavier, carrying a weight designed to hit its mark. “He’s never spoken about you. Not once. Not even your name.” Jeno leaned in just enough to make Mark stiffen, the movement deliberate, calculated. “You don’t exist to him, Mark. And you never will.”

Mark’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he absorbed Jeno’s words. The tension in his jaw was visible now, his teeth gritting against the weight of what had just been said. His breath hitched, just for a second, before his eyes snapped back to Jeno’s, blazing with something that burned hotter than anger.

“You don’t get to talk about that,” Mark said, his voice low, strained, but steady. Each word came out like it was pulled through glass, sharp and deliberate. “You think you know everything? You think this is some kind of game?” His body shifted forward, stepping into Jeno’s space, the distance between them evaporating. “You can keep running your mouth, Jeno. Keep throwing shit around like it’s going to break me. But we both know the only reason you’re standing here is because you can’t stand what’s already broken in you.”

The tension crackled, heavy and suffocating, as Yangyang hovered nearby, his eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, holding up his hands as if to defuse the situation. “Can we just—”

“Meet me at the river court,” Mark cut in, his voice slicing through Yangyang’s attempt at peace. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, as was the fire in his eyes. “Let’s settle this.”

Jeno blinked, his expression blank for a split second before a slow, calculating smile spread across his face. He took another step forward, his presence looming as his gaze bore into Mark’s. “You sure about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now but loaded with implication.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Mark shot back, not flinching under the weight of Jeno’s stare.

Yangyang groaned audibly, running a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, but neither of them paid him any attention.

You didn’t step in. You should have—your better judgment whispered it, but something deeper, something darker, kept you rooted. They were two forces destined to collide, and for reasons you couldn’t fully articulate, you let it happen. Let them tear into each other. Let the tension explode. It wasn’t indecision; it was deliberate. Their words were knives, flung with precision, cutting through the air as you stayed silent. Perhaps it was frustration, a morbid curiosity, or the flicker of something more unsettling—an unspoken desire to watch the chaos unravel, to see who would break first. Whatever it was, you didn’t stop them. You simply watched, a quiet conductor letting the storm play its symphony.

Jeno’s smile lingered as he finally stepped back, his hands slipping into his pockets with an air of smug satisfaction. “Don’t be late,” he said, his voice deceptively light, before turning on his heel and walking to his car. Even as he walked away, the weight of his presence clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake.

The rumble of his engine broke the silence, low and menacing as his car pulled out of the lot. His taillights disappeared into the dark, but the tension he left behind didn’t fade.

Mark was still. His shoulders, rigid moments ago, slackened slightly, but his silence spoke louder than any words could. You watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to move, to speak, but he didn’t—not at first.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression steady but his eyes searching, holding a weight you hadn’t seen before. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asked quietly, his voice low and deliberate. “Should I even go through with this?”

You met his gaze, the answer forming before you even had to think about it. “Destroy him,” you said simply, your voice unwavering.

Mark didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his jaw tightening as if the words solidified something in him.

Yangyang groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he stepped back, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, shaking his head as though resigning himself to the inevitable. Without another word, he fell in line behind you and Mark, his footsteps slower but steady, trailing as the three of you made your way to the car.

The river court buzzed with energy as you arrived, the kind of energy that prickled against your skin and made the air heavier, like it was bracing for what was to come. The sky hung low in a muted purple, dusk casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. The court was worn but alive, its faded lines and chipped concrete bearing witness to years of games that were more than games—rivalries fought and friendships forged under the open sky. Just beyond the court, the river flowed steadily, its rushing sound threading through the air like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that time moved forward, even when everything here felt suspended. The streetlights flickered reluctantly to life, their uneven glow spilling across the edges of the court and stretching the shadows of the gathering crowd into long, distorted shapes.

The court wasn’t just a place. For you, it held a kind of familiarity that was hard to explain but impossible to ignore. You’d been here before—countless times. Not as a player, but as a spectator, a supporter, someone who had seen it in every light and weather. Late summer evenings, where the sun dipped low, casting orange streaks across the river’s surface, and the games ran long into the night. Damp mornings, when the court was slick from rain but still drew in the faithful who didn’t care about getting their shoes wet. You remembered the laughter that echoed here, the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, and the rare moments of silence, when the outcome of a game hung in the balance, everyone holding their breath.

It wasn’t just a court; it was its own world, separate from the polished gyms and structured arenas. It was raw, gritty, and completely unforgiving—a place where there were no refs, no rules, only pride and skill. For you, it was also a place of memories, fleeting but vivid. The times you stood on the sidelines with your friends, sharing snacks and commentary, your voices carrying over the court. The way the river glimmered in the background, a backdrop to so many moments that felt small then but monumental now. 

It was where you learned to read people—the way their body language shifted, how tension seeped into a game before the first shot was even made. Watching those games, you’d started piecing together what made people tick: the subtle shifts of insecurity masked as arrogance, the way rivalries simmered beneath seemingly friendly smiles. You didn’t know it then, but those countless hours spent as a quiet observer shaped how you moved through the world now—calculating, precise, always looking for the things unsaid. The river court wasn’t just familiar ground; it was where your instincts sharpened, where you learned that every move, every glance, carried weight. And tonight, as you stood on that same cracked pavement, it felt like the court was daring you to see it all again.

Tonight, it didn’t feel like the same court, though. The tension in the air was almost physical, clinging to your skin like the humidity of an oncoming storm. It wasn’t just a game tonight. The stakes, the crowd, the undercurrent of emotion—it felt like the river court itself had absorbed all of it, as if the cracked pavement carried the weight of what was about to unfold. This wasn’t just about basketball; it was about something deeper, darker, more personal. You could feel it in the way the crowd shifted, their voices louder but more uncertain, and in the way the court seemed to hum, as if it, too, was waiting for the storm to break.

Mark pulled up first, his car’s headlights cutting through the fading twilight. He stepped out with a quiet sort of confidence, his movements deliberate, his face composed but taut. He didn’t need theatrics to announce himself; his presence alone spoke volumes. Your friends had left their food and the warmth of their plans to be here, standing with Mark. They didn’t agree with this conflict—most of them thought he should’ve walked away—but their loyalty was steadfast. That was the thing about Mark’s side: smaller, quieter, but unwaveringly close-knit. Their warmth was palpable, a sharp contrast to the restless crowd gathering for Jeno.

And then came Jeno.

He pulled up late, as expected, his sleek, polished car skidding to a halt and kicking up gravel. The gleaming vehicle, pristine and out of place, clashed against the gritty, weathered backdrop of the river court. He moved with an aggression that mirrored the tension building for days, slamming the car door shut as his group of friends—Jaemin, San, Wooyoung—spilled out behind him. They carried themselves with the same air of superiority, the confidence of boys who thought the world was their playground. But it wasn’t them who caught your eye. It was Jeno’s girlfriend, Areum.

Areum followed behind, her expression tight, her posture stiff, moving with the kind of tension that couldn’t be disguised under the polished image she and Jeno projected. This is what they are. Jeno and Areum aren’t just well-known—they’re desired. They’re the kind of couple people talk about, whispering behind their backs, dissecting their every move. People want to be them or be with them. You’ve seen it—the way eyes linger on them too long, filled with envy and something darker. It’s intoxicating, the kind of attention that uplifts, seduces, makes them untouchable in the eyes of everyone watching. But it doesn’t fool you. They can’t fool you.

Areum didn’t cling to Jeno, didn’t move with the ease of someone who felt at home in his orbit. Their relationship was strange—polished on the outside, like a perfect photograph, but hollow where it mattered. They didn’t touch, didn’t exchange glances, and the space between them spoke volumes. You’d noticed it before, the way Areum often felt more like an accessory to Jeno than an equal. Tonight, though, the cracks in their facade felt deeper, the distance between them more glaring, like even the weight of this night couldn’t pull them closer.

You glanced around. Karina was here too, along with a mix of people who didn’t belong—girls batting their lashes at Jeno, boys who barely knew the river court but wanted to bask in the chaos. And then there were the eyes. You felt them, sharp and lingering, their gazes flitting between you, Mark, Jeno, and Areum. They wanted to see you all fall apart, to dissect the tension.

The stark differences between the two sides were impossible to miss. Jeno’s supporters were bigger in number, louder, their voices already filling the space with jeers and taunts. Most of them weren’t even familiar faces, people who had never stepped foot on the river court before. They were just here for the spectacle, drawn in by the promise of drama. Even some of the Seoul Ravens were here—guys who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on this cracked pavement. The river court wasn’t theirs. It wasn’t shaped by them, and they weren’t shaped by it. 

Mark’s side was smaller, quieter, but there was a warmth to it, a solidarity that made you feel grounded despite the tension swirling around. Jeno thrived in moments like these, you knew. He lived for the attention, the validation of the crowd. Mark, on the other hand, didn’t need it. He wasn’t here for the spectacle; he was here for himself, for something more meaningful.

The air at the river court was electric, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like static. You stood by the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Donghyuck stepped forward with a mix of confidence and unease. His eyes flicked to the unfamiliar faces lining the court, a far cry from the usual crowd. The tension in his posture betrayed him, but when he spoke, his voice was smooth, lighthearted, masking the unease.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Donghyuck’s voice carried a steady confidence, though the way his gaze darted between Mark and Jeno betrayed his unease. “Tonight, we’ve got a clash of brothers—Mark Lee, the underdog with everything to gain, and Lee Jeno, the Seoul Ravens’ star point guard, the player who’s built his reputation on moments like this. The stakes? As high as they’ve ever been.”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Mark grabbed the ball, his movements smooth and composed. He turned it between his fingers, his gaze calm and focused, a quiet intensity radiating from him. Without breaking his focus, he passed the ball to Jeno, the exchange seamless but loaded with tension. Jeno caught it and slammed it into the pavement, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a challenge. His stance was coiled, every movement sharp, deliberate, and charged with aggression. Where Mark’s focus was inward, controlled, Jeno’s energy spilled over, his eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk, feeding off their attention like fuel. They were night and day—one steady and resolute, the other bristling with raw, unrelenting force.

Donghyuck continued, his voice steadying as he found his rhythm. “On one side, we’ve got Jeno—fast, sharp, a force to be reckoned with. On the other, Mark—focused, precise, with everything to lose.”

You glanced at your friends. Their support for Mark was unshakable, but the nervous energy was palpable. Yangyang shifted on his feet, biting his lip, while Hyeju whispered something to Shotaro, her expression tense. Chenle, standing just behind them, crossed his arms and let out a low whistle, a habit he had when trying to steady himself. You, however, felt none of it. Doubt had no place here—not when it came to Mark. The quiet determination in his eyes didn’t need to be loud or flashy to make its point. You’d seen it before, how he moved in this space like it was built for him, how his focus cut through everything else. This wasn’t just a game—it was Mark in his purest form, and there was no scenario in your mind where he didn’t own it.

Mark dribbled the ball to center court, his movements fluid, every step deliberate, the rhythm of the ball hitting the pavement steady and composed. Jeno shadowed him, his stance wide, his body coiled with tension and energy that seemed ready to snap. The whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding, and Donghyuck’s voice followed, light but laced with gravity. “And here we go—Mark Lee, steady as ever, playing like the court’s an extension of him. Lee Jeno, the Ravens’ star, all fire and precision, ready to remind everyone why he’s the name they chant. This one’s going to get heated, folks.”

The match was unrelenting, a clash of tension that seemed to ripple through the court itself. Jeno was all motion, fast and volatile, his movements a blur of power and precision. Every dribble was sharp, every step purposeful, and his trash talk was a weapon, thrown out with the confidence of someone who’d never needed to doubt his place. “You don’t belong here, Mark. This isn’t your world.” His voice cut through the crowd, loud enough to leave no question of its target.

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His silence wasn’t passive; it was deliberate, like he was saving his energy for something that actually mattered. But when Jeno closed in, his taunts like sparks looking for fuel, Mark finally answered. “If it’s not my world,” he said, his voice low but clear, “what are you doing here?” The words weren’t meant for the crowd; they were for Jeno, deliberate and heavy, slicing through the air with quiet authority. It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.

You didn’t just watch the game—you studied it. Mark moved with a precision that wasn’t flashy, but it made you proud, a quiet reminder of why you’d always believed in him. His shots didn’t just land; they cut through the tension, crisp and clean, like a scalpel finding its mark. Jeno, on the other hand, burned too hot, his aggression almost feral, every step brimming with intensity that verged on desperation. But Mark’s game wasn’t reactionary. He wasn’t here to prove Jeno wrong; he was here to prove something to himself. And watching it unfold, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what this moment meant—not just for them, but for the quiet battle of identities this court had come to represent.

Donghyuck’s voice carried over the court. “Mark with the shot—nothing but net!” His tone was lively, carrying the energy of the crowd but none of the surprise. Unlike the murmurs rippling through Jeno’s side, Donghyuck didn’t sound shocked—why would he be? This was Mark, and anyone who truly knew him understood this wasn’t luck. It was skill, honed and steady, the kind of precision Donghyuck had seen countless times before.

Jeno’s frustration was impossible to miss. His movements grew sharper, more frantic, his dribbles louder, as though he could force the game back into his control. His shots, once fluid and automatic, began to falter, each miss tightening the tension in the air. But Mark didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t look at Jeno, didn’t acknowledge the taunts or the growing desperation. This wasn’t about outplaying Jeno—it was about playing his own game, proving to himself that he could stand tall here, on his court.

You saw it all happen in what felt like slow motion—the perfect arc of Jeno’s shot, the way the ball seemed destined to slice through the net and shift the momentum in his favor. But then there was Mark, moving with a speed and precision that made it seem as though he’d read Jeno’s mind. He leapt, arm outstretched, and the slap of his hand against the ball reverberated through the court like a firecracker, louder and sharper than any cheer. The ball flew out of bounds, scattering the tension like shrapnel, and the crowd erupted.

Donghyuck’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone brimming with excitement. “Jeno shoots… and misses!” He paused, his disbelief almost theatrical as he added, “Holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block, and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

This wasn’t like any game you’d ever watched before. It wasn’t just basketball—it was something raw and alive, every second steeped in stakes that went beyond points on a scoreboard. And yet, as the cheers echoed and your chest tightened with pride, you couldn’t help but feel like this moment belonged to Mark. His focus, his determination, his refusal to bend to the pressure—it wasn’t just impressive, it was something more. You didn’t just feel proud—you felt certain. Certain that this court, this game, this moment, was his.

“Mark with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Donghyuck’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and clear, as Mark’s movements were steady, deliberate, and unrelenting as he drove toward the hoop. Jeno was on him, aggressive and desperate, but Mark didn’t falter. Each dribble was purposeful, each step a quiet display of control that left no room for doubt. The court seemed to shrink around them, every sound fading except for the rhythmic echo of the ball hitting the pavement. When Mark reached the edge of the key, he paused just long enough to find his opening. Then, with a quick shift, the ball left his hands in a clean arc that felt inevitable, as though the basket had already accepted it.

The sound of the ball snapping through the net was sharp, definitive, and the crowd erupted a moment later, the realization crashing over them. “And that’s it! Mark Lee wins!” Donghyuck’s voice rang out, full of triumph, his words slicing through the noise like a declaration.

The celebration that followed was instant and chaotic. Mark’s friends surged onto the court, their shouts of excitement filling the air. Yangyang nearly tackled him, laughter spilling out as Nahyun and Shotaro cheered wildly from the sidelines. Chenle was the loudest of them all, his voice carrying over the chaos as he jumped up and down, grinning like he’d won the game himself. You stayed back, the chaos of the celebration folding into the background as your focus sharpened on Mark—not the noise, not the others, but him. 

His posture shifted, shoulders easing with relief rather than triumph, the subtle curve of his mouth acknowledging the moment without boasting. Every movement was deliberate, as though the victory wasn’t for anyone but himself. When his gaze swept over the crowd, it lingered briefly, grounding him, marking the moment as his own—not for dominance, but as someone reclaiming what had been taken. This wasn���t just a win over Jeno; it was a quiet, resolute statement that he belonged here. You saw it in the way he carried himself—a transformation so understated most wouldn’t notice, but you did.

You lingered at the edge of the chaos, an observer rather than a participant, fingers brushing the pen in your pocket as you replayed the details in your mind. The celebration faded into irrelevance—noise and emotion held no value compared to the mechanics of what unfolded before you. From a distance, you watched Mark, dissecting the subtle shifts in his posture, the small, deliberate adjustments that spoke volumes. His shoulders eased—not in triumph, but in something quieter, more personal, like relief settling into his frame. The faint curve of his mouth wasn’t a smile; it was a fleeting acknowledgment meant for no one but himself. His gaze swept the crowd, steady and deliberate, cataloging rather than basking, grounding him in something inward. You made mental notes, knowing they would translate later into the project you’d dedicated yourself to—the study of body language under pressure, the unspoken truths told through movement. Each step he took, controlled and methodical, fit into your need to understand, to deconstruct moments like this. You weren’t pulled by the celebration but by the precision of it all, the quiet reclamation in his stance, every shift etched in your mind with the meticulousness you pride yourself on.

But there was something else—something you hadn’t expected. Mark was the center now. The shift was sudden, almost jarring, as if the court itself had realigned its axis around him. Those on Jeno’s side—the people who moments ago were silent in defeat—found themselves glancing at Mark, as though he had somehow claimed not just the game but the space itself. He was the orbit, drawing everyone into his pull with a quiet, understated power that felt impossible to resist. You caught Areum’s gaze lingering on him, her expression unreadable, like she was seeing him in a new light. Karina and the other cheerleaders stood off to the side, biting their lips and batting their lashes, their attention clearly fixated on Mark in a way that was hard to ignore. It was subtle but palpable, a whiplash moment where you realized the court wasn’t just his stage anymore; it was his world.

Your friends’ voices called out your name, cutting through the still noise in your head, but you didn’t turn. You stayed where you were, still and unmoving, rooted at the edge of the celebration. The chaos behind you rolled on—cheers, laughter, movement—but it didn’t pull you in. You weren’t drawn to the noise or the excitement. Instead, your focus lingered on the quieter details, the things others wouldn’t notice. The court felt different now, smaller somehow, as if the space itself carried the weight of what had just happened. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was that you cared differently, drawn to the stillness and the meaning left behind after the noise had passed.

But then, something shifted. At first, you barely noticed it, just a flicker on the edge of your awareness—a break in the background noise you’d trained yourself to filter out. You stayed rooted, clinging to the stillness you’d worked so hard to maintain, your focus steady on the court and the aftermath it carried. Yet, an unfamiliar tension crept in, threading its way into your calm. It wasn’t immediate, wasn’t sudden, but like a weight pressing slowly against the edges of your mind, demanding attention you didn’t want to give.

Your senses betrayed you first. A pulse of awareness tugged at your periphery, pulling your focus away from the grounded silence you depended on. You resisted, tried to bury it under the usual steady rhythm of observation, but it was there—persistent, undeniable. Your gaze wavered, almost imperceptibly, before landing on him. Jeno. He was still, rigid, his frame holding a tension that rippled outward like an unseen force. He stood apart, fists tight at his sides, his jaw locked so firmly you could feel the strain even from here.

You told yourself to file it away, to make it part of the project. The mechanics of his stance, the stillness of his form—details to catalog, nothing more. But even as you tried to frame it that way, your thoughts began to fracture. Your gaze lingered too long, no longer following patterns or posture but drawn by something deeper, something that wasn’t supposed to matter. For all his confidence, all the ease with which he usually commanded attention, it was gone—replaced by something raw, something exposed.

You tried to force your thoughts back into order, to rebuild the detachment that had always come so naturally to you. But with every passing moment, the calm you clung to unraveled further. Your eyes betrayed you completely now, tracking the way he stood as though tethered to the court, refusing to move. It wasn’t anger, not entirely. It was something heavier, something that held you in place just as much as it held him.

No one—not your friends, not anyone—had ever drawn your attention away from the steady rhythm of your thoughts, the meticulous focus that always kept you grounded and apart. But Jeno did. His presence reached into that protected space and shattered it, scattering your carefully constructed thoughts until they spiraled in ways you couldn’t control. He hadn’t even looked at you directly, but he didn’t need to. The weight of him was enough—suffocating, consuming, like an unspoken command pressing into the air between you.

You should have stayed rooted in Mark’s win, let Jeno’s loss be a quiet, satisfying afterthought. But the way he stood, so still yet so loud in his silence, wouldn’t let you. His figure was unyielding, locked in place as though the loss itself hadn’t finished with him. He didn’t turn to his friends, didn’t shrug it off, didn’t hide the cracks the way he always had before. He just stood there, unshaken by the noise around him, yet radiating something that made it impossible for you to look away. He wasn’t just in the moment—he was the moment, consuming it, distorting it, and pulling you further from yourself with every second that passed.

You didn’t understand why you couldn’t look away, why the weight of Jeno’s stillness seemed to press against you like gravity. Was it empathy? The thought felt foreign, almost laughable—you weren’t the kind to feel for someone like him, someone who wore his arrogance like armor. Maybe it was curiosity, a morbid fascination with the cracks in his composure, the way someone so sure of himself could falter so completely. But even that didn’t sit right, because it wasn’t just curiosity—it was something heavier, something that twisted uncomfortably in your chest. 

Around him, the court began to empty, the crowd thinning as people drifted toward their cars, their voices hushed, their energy subdued. A few lingered at the edges, stealing glances at Jeno but saying nothing, and even his teammates hung back, hesitant, like they didn’t know whether to approach or leave him alone. And he was alone, his presence towering and isolating all at once, his fists tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as if bracing against the silence. It unsettled you, the way the moment seemed to cling to him, and no matter how hard you tried to dissect your reaction, to rationalize why you cared, you came up empty.

The diner hummed with life, its retro charm illuminated by the glow of neon signs that flickered in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic haze over the checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner cycled through crackling tunes from decades past, its rhythm barely audible beneath the chatter and clatter of plates. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes topped with whipped cream, sweet and heavy like the moment itself.

You slid into a vinyl booth near the back, its cushions worn but inviting, sticking faintly to your skin as you settled in, Yangyang pressed against your side with a closeness that felt familiar. Across from you, Mark claimed his seat, his phone buzzing incessantly on the table, its screen lighting up with every notification. Donghyuck elbowed Chenle for room, while Shotaro balanced precariously on the edge, and Nahyun draped an arm along the backrest as if she owned it. Laughter bubbled up around you, filling the air with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the adrenaline still humming in your veins. The energy was contagious, amplified by the clink of milkshake glasses and the shuffle of servers weaving between tables, balancing trays piled high with burgers and fries.

Mark’s phone buzzed again, the sound cutting briefly through the conversation, but no one seemed to mind. The win had done its job—lifting everyone’s spirits, filling the booth with a kind of camaraderie that felt earned. The river court might’ve been left behind, but its electricity lingered, settling into the diner like it belonged.

“Alright, who’s ordering the milkshakes?” Donghyuck asked, flipping through the laminated menu with exaggerated focus, even though he clearly had it memorized. He tapped the plastic cover dramatically. “I’m thinking vanilla, but if anyone dips their fries in it, we’re fighting.”

“Bold of you to assume your milkshake won’t get stolen first,” Chenle shot back, his grin wide as he leaned over and snatched the menu from Donghyuck’s hands.

“You’re all wrong,” Yangyang chimed in, throwing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’d been crowned the authority on diner orders. “Strawberry milkshakes are undefeated. Right?” He glanced at you, his brows raised expectantly.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Depends on who’s paying. I feel like getting chocolate tonight.”

Nahyun leaned back, her nails clicking against her phone case as she slid it into her pocket. “Order whatever you want,” she said lightly, her tone breezy but definitive. “It’s on me. Consider it my treat for Mark’s win.”

Mark glanced up briefly, his lips twitching into a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Nahyun,” he said, his voice soft. Her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable before she turned away.

“You’re so sweet,” Shotaro teased, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Nahyun with adoration. “Our girl’s out here spoiling us.”

Nahyun grinned, rolling her eyes as though she wasn’t the least bit flustered. “You’re all broke, and someone has to keep us fed.”

Yangyang shot you a quick, knowing glance, his lips quirking up in silent acknowledgement. Nahyun was loaded, after all—her father was a well-established businessman with a name that carried weight in every room it entered. She didn’t like to boast about it, though, always downplaying the resources that made moments like this seem effortless for her.

“Mark deserves it,” Nahyun added, her voice gentler now as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze briefly flicking to him. “The win, the attention—you’ve worked hard for this.”

Mark’s smile softened, though his focus seemed to drift as his phone buzzed again on the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

“Mark’s big now,” Donghyuck teased, leaning over to nudge his shoulder, his tone exaggeratedly playful. “The river court king. Bet half the campus is sliding into your DMs.”

Mark laughed, locking his phone with a shrug. “It’s not that serious,” he said, though the flicker of pride in his expression betrayed him.

“Not serious? You’ve been glued to that thing all night,” Yangyang quipped, tossing a fry in his direction. “Who’s got you so distracted? Don’t tell me it’s Areum.”

At the mention of her name, something shifted—not in Mark, but in you. His response was easy, casual, the kind of thing anyone else would accept without a second thought. “It’s nothing. Just some texts,” he said, and his voice carried the same calm steadiness it always had. But you knew him too well, knew the weight of his pauses, the way his focus drifted even when he tried to stay present. It wasn’t anything obvious, not a conscious change, but you felt it anyway, a quiet pull that instinctively made you hesitate.

The laughter and teasing at the table felt distant, like you were watching it play out from a step behind. You’d known Mark for so long, understood his rhythms in a way no one else did, and this was different. Subtle, but there. The slight shift in how he carried himself, how he let the group orbit around him, how his attention flickered in and out. It wasn’t that he was pulling away deliberately—it was more like a current you couldn’t see but could feel, pulling him toward something else, leaving you tethered in a place that no longer felt the same. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was there, a quiet pull you couldn’t ignore.

Still, the energy around the booth buzzed on, as chaotic and lighthearted as ever, pulling you back into the present. Chenle, predictably, had stolen Yangyang’s burger, holding it just out of reach while Yangyang swatted at him. “You’re insufferable,” Yangyang grumbled, leaning across the table with exaggerated annoyance, his arms flailing dramatically as the group erupted into laughter.

Donghyuck, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, shook his head. “It’s like watching two toddlers fight over a toy. Pathetic.”

Shotaro laughed, breaking a fry in half before tossing one piece at Chenle. “Just share the burger, man. Yangyang’s probably starving.”

“Starving for attention,” Chenle shot back, grinning as he finally handed the burger back.

Nahyun, ever the composed one, glanced up from her milkshake. “You boys are exhausting. Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because you love us,” Donghyuck quipped, winking at her. “And you pay for our food.”

Mark chuckled quietly, the sound soft but warm as he leaned back in his seat. Finally, he had set his phone down and cleared his throat. “I keep getting messages about Jeno’s party,” he said casually, his tone light but purposeful. “I think we should go.” 

The table fell quiet, all eyes turning to him. Donghyuck raised an eyebrow. “Really? You want to party with Jeno after what just happened?”

Mark shrugged again, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that didn’t quite match the flicker of something unsure in his eyes. “Why not? We deserve to celebrate, and he throws good parties. Plus, what’s he gonna do to me? To us?”

Donghyuck snorted. “I can think of a few things. None of them are great.”

Shotaro frowned slightly, clearly uneasy. “It feels weird, though. After the game and everything… would he even want us there?”

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does it matter? He’s not going to do anything. It’s just a party. And honestly? I’m not gonna let him think he can intimidate us. We deserve to have a good time.”

Yangyang hesitated but finally nodded, tossing a fry into his mouth. “If Mark says it’s fine, it’s fine. Who’s going to argue with him after that win?”

The group began to come around, one by one, as Mark’s quiet confidence settled over the table. Even Nahyun, who had initially looked skeptical, sighed and leaned back. “Fine. But if it turns into a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Mark laughed softly, his gaze finally landing on you. “What about you?”

You frowned slightly, your reluctance clear in the way your fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Do I have to?”

“For me,” Mark said simply, his tone softer now, almost persuasive in its simplicity.

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You didn’t want to go. The idea of stepping into Jeno’s world felt wrong, like crossing a line you weren’t ready for. But Mark’s gaze held steady, and you knew the answer before you spoke. “Fine,” you muttered finally. “For you.”

The group’s mood lifted again, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter and teasing as plans were tossed around for what to wear and who would show up. But the unease lingered at the edges of your mind, quiet but insistent. Mark’s growing confidence, his ease with stepping into Jeno’s orbit, felt like the start of something you couldn’t quite name yet—and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

The upscale apartment towered over the skyline, a shimmering pillar of glass and metal that exuded wealth and exclusivity. Even from the sidewalk, it drew stares from passersby, the kind of building that made you stop and wonder who could possibly afford to live there. As you and your friends approached the entrance, the conversation faltered, each of you glancing upward, wide-eyed and momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of it.

Inside, the lobby was sleek and cavernous, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Marble floors stretched out in gleaming, uninterrupted perfection, reflecting the soft golden light of chandeliers that hung like modern sculptures. Every detail was curated—the smooth black leather chairs arranged in precise symmetry, the abstract artwork that lined the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and floral lingering in the air. You hadn’t been here before, but the weight of it pressed against your chest. This wasn’t just an apartment; it was a symbol, a statement of status that felt like it had nothing to do with the lives most people lived.

Yangyang let out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where he lives? Seriously?”

Donghyuck snorted, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Of course it is. It’s Jeno. Did you think he was going to live in a regular dorm like the rest of us?”

Chenle raised a brow, his voice light but tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t even a home—it’s a fortress.”

You stole a glance at Mark, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression as he took it all in. His posture was steady, but his jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the lobby. Indifference. That’s what it looked like on the surface, but you knew him too well to miss the weight behind it. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the dissonance in him. This world, Jeno’s world, was so far removed from his own—a world where appearances and wealth dictated everything.

The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back the tension none of you dared to name. Each passing floor only heightened the unease, and though Mark kept his head high, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. You wondered if he was thinking about the river court, the place he’d claimed as his own, the place he fought to hold onto. The implications were stark—Jeno’s life was one of privilege, his apartment a stark testament to a kind of luxury Mark had never known.

And yet, Mark didn’t falter. When the elevator doors slid open, revealing a hallway bathed in soft lighting and lined with minimalist decor, he stepped out first, his movements steady. You saw it then, the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way he squared them just slightly, like he was ready to walk into another game. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and calm, though his gaze lingered for a fraction too long on the massive double doors ahead of you, the sound of distant bass thumping behind them.

The party hit you before you even stepped through the door, the bass vibrating through the walls in relentless, bone-deep pulses. As the door swung open, the scent hit you—a dizzying mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and something rawer beneath it: smoke, sweat, and the faint bite of something illicit. It was overwhelming, like walking into a storm of excess, where every sensation was heightened, every edge sharpened.

The apartment itself was striking, luxurious in a way that felt almost clinical. From the outside, it had been a fortress of wealth, gleaming and untouchable, but inside, the chaos unraveled its perfection. The once-pristine marble floors were sticky with spilled drinks; velvet cushions were tossed haphazardly onto the ground, stained and trampled underfoot. Sleek black leather couches, carefully arranged for mingling, had been overtaken—strangers lounging, laughing, or passing joints back and forth like they owned the space. A glass-top coffee table bore the brunt of the mess: red solo cups, half-eaten snacks, and the unmistakable burn marks from ash that hadn’t quite made it into the tray. The air reeked faintly of weed, the scent clashing with the sharper tang of alcohol soaked into the upholstery.

Everywhere you looked, the apartment bore Jeno’s mark—modern, sleek, and deliberately impressive. The walls were lined with trophies, sports medals, and action shots of him mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph. Framed magazine covers featuring Jeno in his prime hung near the mounted TV that dominated the living room, but their significance was buried under the noise of the party. A tall bookshelf near the corner displayed a mix of Jaemin’s art books and a few carefully placed plants—small signs of someone quieter, someone who didn’t thrive in this chaos. Jaemin’s reading chair, tucked beneath a tasteful lamp, was the only corner of the room untouched by the storm, its presence almost laughably out of place amidst the mess.

The open space was designed for gatherings—couches arranged for conversation, edgy bar stools in brushed steel pulled up to a sleek black granite counter—but the party had warped it. Furniture had been shoved aside to accommodate the crowd, and the careful curation of Jeno’s life was slowly being erased by the sheer weight of it all. A framed photo of one of Jeno’s biggest wins lay shattered on the floor, symbolic of how his true self—the ambitious athlete, the rising star—was being buried beneath the excess he hosted.

“Jeno’s parties are insane, he has a reputation.” Donghyuck muttered, leaning in close enough for you to catch the hint of tequila on his breath. His gaze swept the room with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Remember that one time someone ended up naked in the pool? Fully dressed when they got here. Ended up naked. In December.”

Chenle, already nursing his second drink, let out a sharp laugh. “That was Jeno’s fault. Pretty sure he dared them.”

“Not Jeno,” Shotaro said, swaying slightly as he leaned against the counter, eyes glassy from the buzz. “It had to be Jaemin. He’s the quiet troublemaker. You know, the ones you don’t see coming.”

Yangyang leaned casually against you, his elbow brushing yours as he scoffed. “Jaemin? That guy doesn’t dare anyone to do anything. He’s probably off somewhere reading. If it was anyone, it had to be Jeno. You’ve seen him—he eats this kind of chaos up.”

Donghyuck snorted, grabbing a shot and passing it to Chenle. “Eats it up? He runs it. Guy stirs the pot, sits back, and watches it all go down.”

“Remember that time someone got caught hooking up in Jeno’s bathroom?” Chenle said, barely containing his laughter. “I swear the guy ran out without his pants.”

Yangyang leaned back, biting back a grin. “Not before Jeno walked in and decided to stay. Didn’t he just… join in?”

Donghyuck barked out a laugh, slamming his drink on the counter. “He didn’t just join in—he locked the door and told everyone to wait their turn.”

Chenle doubled over, tears in his eyes. “The way people were banging on that door for ages, like their lives depended on it. Only Jeno could turn his own bathroom into some kind of sex den.”

“You think that’s bad? Look over there,” Donghyuck added, nodding toward the dark hallway where a couple disappeared seconds ago. “Guarantee he’s set up the guest room for round two.”

You stared at them, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, Jeno is such a jerk. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Hasn’t he been with Areum for several years?”

Mark, who had been quiet up until now, looked up from his drink with a shrug. “Not exactly. They’re on and off a lot. Honestly, they’ve spent just as much time apart as they have together.”

Your brow furrowed, and you glanced back toward the chaos. “That’s… complicated.”

“Welcome to Jeno,” Donghyuck said again, raising his glass like he was toasting the chaos itself.

“Don’t forget the guy who lit a joint with Jeno’s scented candle,” Chenle added, grinning as he tipped his drink back. “High as hell and smelling like lavender.”

You shake your head in disbelief as the group exchange stories back and forth. You didn’t belong here. Not really. But your friends were with you, grounding you in their chaotic way. Donghyuck had already taken a shot and was loudly challenging Chenle to do the same, while Shotaro swayed to the music with a looseness that made him look like he’d been born to dance. Yangyang was at your side, his hand brushing your elbow whenever you seemed to falter, his presence a quiet anchor in the madness. “You good?” he asked, his voice barely cutting through the din, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a tight smile. The truth was, the air felt too thick, the music too loud, the sheer volume of people overwhelming. But you stayed. For Mark. For the group.

Mark was at the center of it all. People you didn’t know—some you recognized from the river court, others from campus—seemed to orbit him, clapping him on the back, offering him drinks, pulling him into conversations. His phone buzzed constantly in his hand, but he barely acknowledged it, his gaze drifting now and then to Areum. She stood with Jeno on the other side of the room, flanked by Karina and Winter, their presence impossibly polished, their beauty almost weaponized in the way they commanded attention.

Jaemin stood near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable as his eyes flickered over the mess that sprawled across the apartment. He sighed, shaking his head, the movement subtle but telling. You only knew Jaemin from tutoring him, but it had become clear early on that he was someone who valued his peace and personal space. He had a calmness about him, a quiet, introverted nature that seemed at odds with the chaos of the wild parties Jeno was known for throwing. He wasn’t the type to seek attention or thrive in the noise—he preferred stillness, his presence subdued but steady. It was almost jarring to see him here, surrounded by the mess and the loud, unruly energy, yet somehow still managing to keep a part of himself separate from it all.

It surprised you that he was on the basketball team at all, let alone so closely tied to Jeno. The bond between them was evident in the way Jaemin moved through the space with a familiarity that spoke of years spent by Jeno’s side. They weren’t just teammates; they were something deeper. Best friends since childhood, practically brothers. There was a loyalty between them that ran deep, even when their personalities seemed to diverge so sharply. Jeno was loud, commanding, thriving on the chaos he created, while Jaemin was his quieter counterpart, the steady presence who stayed even when it didn’t seem like he fit.

In contrast, the other Seoul Ravens dominated a corner of the room, their energy loud and brash, their voices and laughter cutting through the space like a blade. Soobin, San, and Wooyoung didn’t need to dance to draw attention; their charisma was magnetic, pulling eyes and energy toward them like a gravitational force. They were effortless, their confidence bordering on arrogance, but even they couldn’t outshine Jeno. No one ever did.

Jeno was everywhere and nowhere, his movements fluid as he worked the room, drink in hand, a sharp smile cutting through the tension that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—but the anger from earlier hadn’t entirely left him, simmering beneath the surface. You hated how easily he drew your gaze, the way his shirt clung to his frame, the veins in his arms catching the dim light when he tipped his drink to his lips. He was beautiful in the most infuriating way, his presence commanding without effort. But Areum at his side was an afterthought. They barely spoke, her hand resting on the stem of her glass while his attention wandered. It felt… off. Detached.

Yangyang nudged you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need some air.”

You didn’t argue. The party was too much—too loud, too hot, too suffocating. You hated parties for this exact reason: the way they seemed to demand something of you, the expectation to blend in, to enjoy the noise and chaos when all you wanted was a quiet corner and a little distance. Yangyang led you through the throng, his hand on your back guiding you until you slipped through a side door and into the cool night.

This place was a maze, the kind of sprawling luxury that felt both overwhelming and impersonal, but Yangyang moved through it with surprising ease, his confidence unshaken as he led you through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. His sharp jawline caught the dim light as he glanced back at you, his hand brushing against your elbow in a subtle, protective gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. After a few wrong turns, you both stumbled onto a quiet pocket of the apartment: a balcony with a stunning skyline view. It stretched wide, the sleek glass railing giving way to an unobstructed view of the glittering city below. Tall stools were arranged near a brushed-steel bar cart, the surface polished to perfection, though it seemed untouched tonight. The space was eerily empty, a quiet reprieve from the chaos inside.

You leaned against the bar, Yangyang passing you a drink as you glanced around. Small plants lined one side of the balcony—succulents in pastel planters, a tiny herb garden pot nestled among them. They were a gentle contrast to the sharp, high-tech edges of the rest of the space. Inside, the apartment carried the same contradictions: a shelf stacked with sleek, framed sports memorabilia next to an understated stack of art books, and a cold, modern sectional softened by an oversized, well-worn knit throw.

You turned to Yangyang, the question bubbling up before you could stop yourself. “Yangyang,” you said softly, your voice low against the hum of the city, “does Jeno live with anyone?”

Yangyang nodded, taking a sip from his cup before answering. “Jaemin’s his roommate. They’ve been close forever—like brothers, practically.”

You exhaled, leaning back slightly. “That explains it.” The contrast made sense now—the scattered pieces of personality you’d noticed throughout the apartment. The herb garden on the balcony. A reading corner tucked away in the living room. The occasional soft touch amid Jeno’s sleek, modern display of wealth. You could see both of them in the space: Jeno’s need to impress and Jaemin’s quiet search for peace.

Yangyang walked toward the glass railing, gesturing for you to join him. As you approached, the view below caught your breath in your throat. The city lights stretched endlessly in one direction, glittering like a sea of stars. But just beneath the balcony, a hidden garden sprawled—a pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos. String lights draped between the trees, casting a warm golden glow over stone pathways and soft greenery. The scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers reached you even from here, clean and grounding, and for the first time that night, you felt like you could truly breathe.

Yangyang handed you a plastic cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The rim was cool against your lips as he encouraged you to drink. “Better?” he asked, his voice quiet, his gaze steady and warm as it lingered on you.

“Much,” you admitted, exhaling a long breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. These quiet moments were everything—the antidote to the overwhelming night you’d been navigating.

He smiled, soft but with a flicker of playfulness that you knew all too well. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, the tension in your chest loosening just a little more. “You’re a good friend.”

The peace didn’t last. A shout cut through the stillness, sharp and angry, slicing through the muted hum of the city below. Both your heads snapped toward the noise, your breath catching as Yangyang instinctively straightened beside you, his drink set down with deliberate care. His expression shifted, tightening, and you missed the way his jaw ticked when you said the word friend with a conviction you wholeheartedly believed.

You and Yangyang stood above the garden, leaning slightly over the railing as you gazed below. The soft glow of the string lights cast flickering patterns over the greenery, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the voices rising from the apartment. Inside, near the far wall, Jeno and Areum stood locked in a tense standoff. Their words, low and cutting, drifted out, slicing through the muted hum of the party as if the air itself had been stilled by the weight of their argument. Around them, the usual chaos of the party seemed to pause, as though everyone was quietly attuned to the tension radiating from that corner.

“Are you serious?” Areum’s voice rose, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief that carried across the room. “You bet on me?” Her words cut through the air like a slap, and even from where you stood, the rawness in her tone made your chest tighten.

Jeno’s response came in a low growl, the words edged with venom and frustration, though you couldn’t make out every detail. His stance was unyielding, his shoulders squared, but there was no triumph in his posture—only a kind of cold, simmering fury.

“Let’s go to my room,” he bit out suddenly, the sharpness of his voice leaving no room for negotiation. He didn’t look at her, didn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as he turned on his heel. His movements were rigid, his usual confidence replaced with something harsher, more volatile.

Areum hesitated, her expression shifting between fury and humiliation as her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. For a moment, it seemed like she might stay rooted there, but then she followed him, her steps brisk, the tension in her frame palpable. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberated through the space, silencing the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the room.

Yangyang nudged your arm gently, his voice low. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the main room. “Let’s go find the others.”

You followed him reluctantly, your thoughts still tangled in the confrontation you’d just witnessed. Inside, the chaos surged again, but it wasn’t the same. The buzz was different now—hushed whispers, curious glances, and stolen conversations feeding the room like static electricity.

“Did you see Areum storm off?” Donghyuck exclaimed as soon as you rejoined the group. He was already holding a drink, his cheeks slightly flushed. “That was brutal.”

Chenle leaned in conspiratorially, his grin as sharp as ever. “Brutal? Jeno had a full meltdown. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Shotaro, oblivious as always, swayed his way over to you mid-dance move, his hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened? I was on the dance floor!” he exclaimed, his movements loose and carefree, as though he hadn’t just walked into the aftermath of a storm. The contrast was almost comedic, his carefree rhythm completely out of sync with the tension simmering around him.

“Jeno’s a mess, that’s what,” Donghyuck said with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Shit like this is always happening at his parties. This is just another Friday for him.”

Your gaze swept the room, catching sight of Mark lingering near the bar. His expression was hard to read, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his drink as if he were deep in thought. Something about his stillness struck you, and before you could second-guess yourself, you walked over to him.

You made your way toward Mark, your steps cutting cleanly through the noise around you, the weight of what you’d overheard pressing heavily on your chest. Areum’s words replayed in your mind, sharp and cutting: that Jeno had a deal with Mark, one that involved her as some twisted prize. The very idea of it unsettled you, twisting your stomach into knots. “What’s this about you and Jeno betting on Areum?” you asked, your voice low but firm, each word deliberate and sharp, demanding an answer.

Mark blinked, his head snapping toward you. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your arms crossing. “Is it true?”

Mark sighed, his shoulders dropping as he glanced away briefly. “Yeah… before the showdown, Jeno and I made a bet. If I won, I’d get to stay on the team—and I bet I could have Areum. If he won, I’d have to leave.”

The words hit you like a slap, and before you could stop yourself, you jabbed him hard in the arm, your expression tightening with disbelief. “What the fuck, Mark? Betting on a girl? That’s not like you at all.” He winced, rubbing his arm as his gaze met yours, his posture shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your accusation.

“I wasn’t serious,” he defended, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how he is—arrogant, always trying to one-up everyone. I wasn’t going to follow through.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think something like that, whether you’d follow it though or not. You’re one of the good guys, Mark.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, his expression softening slightly. “I would never actually do it. I just… I wanted to put him in his place. That’s all.”

Before you could respond, the sound of murmurs pulled your attention to the surrounding partygoers. Their whispers had grown louder, feeding off the tension in the room like vultures circling prey. You glanced around and realized people nearby were eavesdropping, their gazes darting between you, Mark, and the aftermath of Jeno and Areum’s confrontation, hungry for the next piece of gossip.

Yiren, Aisha, and Mia stood near the drinks table, their voices low but sharp, ensuring their words carried just far enough to be heard.

“Wow,” Yiren muttered, swirling her drink lazily. “That’s… rough.”

“Sucks to be her,” Aisha added, her tone flat, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Mia let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Guess she’s learning the hard way.”

Their remarks hung in the air, dripping with feigned detachment, their lack of sympathy slicing through the atmosphere. They didn’t bother to hide their interest, their words quiet enough to pass as casual but biting enough to linger.

Across the room, Karina and Winter—Areum’s closest friends—stood by the bar. Neither of them looked concerned, their expressions carefully indifferent. It was almost jarring, their lack of reaction, but you could tell there was more to it. Maybe they were used to this kind of drama. Or maybe they blamed Areum for getting involved with Jeno in the first place.

Amidst the heavy drama, you caught glimpses of Donghyuck and Chenle at a makeshift drinking game with a few of the Seoul Ravens guys. They were clearly hammered, Chenle’s laugh carrying over the din of the party while Donghyuck shouted something unintelligible, waving his glass in the air. Every so often, they yelled for you or Mark to join in, but the weight of the night kept you rooted, too consumed by the fallout to respond.

Shotaro, oblivious as ever, was happily dancing among random partygoers, a carefree contrast to the tension that gripped the room. Yangyang, ever the anchor, hovered nearby, his eyes darting between you and Mark. He tried to check on you more than once, his hand brushing against your arm in quiet concern, but each time, something else demanded your attention, leaving him trailing behind, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Nahyun stood further away, sipping from her glass as her gaze flickered between Mark and the chaos. Her expression was unreadable, but she kept glancing at him, her focus lingering longer than it should have. Shotaro, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware, too lost in the rhythm of the music to notice anything beyond the dance floor.

Then Donghyuck appeared, stumbling slightly as he reached you, his words slurred but sharp enough to land. “Word is Jeno just dumped Areum. And for good.” He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “Apparently, she’s sobbing upstairs. He made it clear—this isn’t one of their breaks. It’s done. Over. She’s heartbroken.”

The words hit you, and you gasped, the shock twisting your stomach. You turned to Mark instinctively, searching his face for a reaction, but he was already moving away, his shoulders rigid as he slipped into the crowd without a word.

Your eyes followed his path through the throng of people, bracing yourself when you saw Mark and Jeno crossing paths near the edge of the room. Their interaction was brief—a few words exchanged that you couldn’t hear—but the energy between them was unmistakable. It wasn’t tense, not outright, but it wasn’t friendly either. Somewhere in the middle, simmering with unspoken frustration and emotions that seemed ready to boil over at any moment.

But then, without a glance back, Mark disappeared, his steps purposeful as he ascended the staircase leading upstairs. The room felt smaller, heavier, as if everything hinged on what would happen next. This moment, you realized, was a pivot point. 

It would be the one to change his life forever. 

The party felt like it had been swallowed by a dark undercurrent, the energy pulsing with something heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls. Amidst the clinking glasses, careless laughter, and swaying bodies, one thread of tension stood out: Jeno. His presence loomed, even when he wasn’t in sight, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

The fallout from the river court was still fresh, his loss to Mark an unspoken shadow over the night. Add to that the bet, the breakup, and Jeno was more than just a name on people’s lips—he was the source of the drama everyone had come to revel in. You caught snippets of murmured conversations, hints of his movements through the apartment. Someone mentioned seeing him nearly knock over a table in frustration, another laughed about how he’d brushed off a girl trying to flirt with him.

Jeno wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—he didn’t need to. Even without trying, his energy was volatile enough to crackle through the walls, drawing eyes and igniting speculation. A few bold partygoers seemed almost eager to provoke him, circling closer, testing boundaries. It felt as though everyone was waiting for something—an eruption, a confrontation, a moment where the tension snapped and spilled over.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The party, the tension, the endless whispers—it was all too much. “I’m heading out,” you announced, your voice cutting through the noise. You avoided their surprised looks from your friends, already standing up and brushing imaginary lint off your clothes.

Yangyang immediately straightened, his brow furrowing. “I’ll take you home.”

“Me too,” Donghyuck added, already reaching for his jacket.

You shook your head, offering them a small smile to ease their concern. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ll book an Uber.”

Yangyang hesitated, his eyes scanning your face, but you stood firm. “I’ll be fine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Have fun. I’ll text you when I get home.”

Donghyuck exchanged a glance with Yangyang, then shrugged. “Fine. But if you don’t text, we’re coming to find you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips, more reflex than amusement, as you forced a nod. “Deal.” Without looking back, you turned toward the hallway, the distant pulse of the party fading behind you like an afterthought. But as the sound grew quieter, the weight in your chest grew heavier. Leaving wasn’t just about escaping the noise or the heat of too many bodies pressed together; it felt like trying to outrun something larger, something sharp and inescapable that had settled deep in your chest.

The hallway stretched before you, lined with identical doors and sharp, minimalist edges. Everything gleamed under muted lighting, the kind of cold perfection that left no room for warmth. You moved through it with purpose, but as each turn led to another unfamiliar corridor, your determination began to unravel. The apartment was a labyrinth, designed more for show than function, and you were caught in its web, spinning deeper into its maze-like silence.

You told yourself you were simply searching for the exit, but your steps slowed, hesitation creeping in with each door you passed. Something about this place made you linger—curiosity, fascination, or perhaps the knowledge that leaving wasn’t as urgent as it had first felt.

A door caught your eye. Slightly ajar, it stood apart from the others, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway like an invitation. The handle was cool under your palm as you pushed it open slowly, the breath catching in your throat as the room beyond revealed itself.

It was a monument to his achievements, a gallery of accomplishments that demanded attention.

Trophies glinted under warm light, their metallic surfaces catching and reflecting the glow like captured fire. Medals hung in perfect symmetry, their ribbons vivid against the dark shelves. Framed jerseys lined the walls, their bold numbers standing out like markers of past victories. Photographs were scattered throughout—Jeno mid-jump, his face a mask of fierce determination; Jeno drenched in sweat, his hands gripping a trophy; Jeno smiling with his teammates, the picture of triumph.

But it wasn’t just basketball. Academic certificates were framed alongside the sports memorabilia, their polished plaques and embossed seals a testament to a relentless pursuit of excellence. Engineering awards and science fair ribbons filled the spaces in between, balanced with letters of recognition from world-class institutions you knew well—MIT for engineering, FIBA for basketball. You always knew Jeno was intelligent, but seeing him acknowledged by names of this caliber felt almost surreal. Every piece was deliberate, curated, a seamless display of achievement.

As your gaze swept across the room, it caught on something that disrupted the flawless symmetry—a torn jersey, encased in glass. Small and clearly from his youth, its fabric was frayed and stitched together with uneven, amateur hands. The imperfections stood in stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it, yet it commanded attention. It was the only piece that revealed struggle, rawness—a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of perfection.

Your feet carried you closer without thought, drawn to the display. The jersey’s stitches told a story—of effort, of failure, of resilience. It didn’t fit the flawless narrative surrounding it, but that only made it feel more real, more intimate.

You leaned into the wall’s cool surface, fingers curling instinctively around the spiral of your notebook. The pen moved without hesitation, tracing the polished lines of the room onto the page—the trophies catching the light, the torn jersey stitched with uneven hands, a single imperfection amidst calculated perfection. The motions were practiced, precise, capturing each observation as though the details alone could unlock something vital. 

Your notes shifted, bleeding seamlessly into fragments from earlier: the river court, sharp words cutting through the air, the weight of tension in every movement. The faint bass from the party hummed beneath it all, a distant thread pulling at your focus, but you pressed on, turning the moment into something structured, something useful. This was for your project—at least, that’s what you told yourself, even as the stillness of the room wrapped tighter around you, every detail anchoring you deeper into its grip.

A faint smile touched your lips as you jotted down a final note, your heartbeat finally evening out. Just a few quick observations, you told yourself. Then you’d leave. But you didn’t stop. The pull was stronger than you expected. Quietly, almost guiltily, you reached for your phone, snapping a few photos of the room. The soft click of the shutter seemed too loud, echoing in the silence. This was for your project, you reminded yourself, though the tightness in your chest whispered otherwise.

But the calm shattered when the door behind you snapped open.

Your entire body went rigid, the notebook clutched so tightly to your chest that your fingers ached. Jeno stood in the doorway, his broad frame shadowing the room, shoulders tense and chest rising with slow, controlled breaths that betrayed the storm beneath. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly under the dim light. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, locked onto yours with a heat that made your stomach twist, flicking briefly to the notebook in your hands like it was a weapon aimed directly at him. 

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, dangerous, carrying a jagged edge that scraped against your composure. The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing you in, the sound loud in the silence.

Your throat went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, gripping the notebook as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Nothing. I’m just leaving.”

He didn’t move, but his presence expanded, his gaze cutting through the air and landing squarely on the notebook in your hands. His eyes lingered, heavy and sharp, as if dissecting every inch of it—of you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a brief yet telling betrayal of the tension coiled in his frame. His anger wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. It pressed into the room, hot and suffocating, like a force you couldn’t ignore. You shifted instinctively, no hesitation in your steps, aiming to brush past him without a word, your shoulders back, your head high, but his hand shot out, lightning-fast and unforgiving. It wrapped around your wrist, firm but not crushing, halting you mid-step.

The impact was immediate. In one fluid motion, he pulled you and turned, your back colliding with the wall with a soft thud. A startled gasp left your lips, your notebook slipping from your fingers to dangle uselessly by your side. His body followed, a solid, immovable force pressing into yours, caging you between him and the cold wall. His chest barely grazed yours, enough to steal the air from your lungs, his proximity overwhelming. Heat radiated from him, a searing contrast to the chilled surface at your back.

You tried to inhale, to regain control, but his scent wrapped around you first—Something heady and sharp, a woodsy scent tangled with the faint bite of smoke, cutting through the air like a temptation you couldn’t escape. The weight of his hand remained on your wrist, pinning it just enough to keep you still but not enough to bruise. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

“What the hell is this?” His voice was a low snarl, and he nodded toward the notebook still clenched in your hands.

The words were barely out before you planted your hand firmly against his chest, shoving him back just enough to create space, reclaiming a fragment of control in the process. His sharp eyes followed the movement, narrowing with unrelenting focus, but he didn’t resist. Not yet. The heat of his body lingered, palpable even with the small distance you’d forced between you. Your breath hitched as you steadied yourself, flipping open the notebook with deliberate precision, the pages whispering against your fingers. Then, without hesitation, you let the words pour out, each one landing like the sharp crack of a whip.

“Lee Jeno,” you began, your voice sharp, deliberate, each word calculated to land like a blow. “Arrogant. Reckless. Self-absorbed.” The pen in your hand moved with purpose, its scratch against the paper slicing through the heavy silence. You didn’t just write the words; you said them, letting them hang in the air between you. “Short-tempered. Led by ego, not logic.” Your gaze lifted briefly, meeting him with a challenge, before returning to the page. It wasn’t an accident. It was a provocation.

The weight of his presence pressed against you like a storm building at your back, his silence louder than anything he could have said. You didn’t falter. “Irresponsible,” you continued, your tone colder now, sharper. “Thinks he’s untouchable.” The tension was suffocating, his breath audible behind you, but you refused to stop, the pointed edge of your words cutting deeper with every stroke of your pen.

The tension shattered in an instant. With a speed that left you breathless, Jeno moved, tearing the notebook from your grip before you could even think to hold on tighter. The sheer force of it left you gasping, the sound sharp and startled as your back hit the cold wall behind you. The heat of his body closed in, erasing the space between you, suffocating in its intensity. 

“Your project,” he hissed, the venom in his tone sinking into your skin as his fingers tightened briefly around your wrist before releasing it. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in, while his other hand lifted the notebook, the motion swift and deliberate, like he was ripping away your control. “You mean this?” he continued, his voice low and cutting, the notebook dangling from his grip like a taunt, daring you to respond.

He held it above you, using his height advantage effortlessly, his smirk sharp, deliberate, like the blade of a knife pressing into soft flesh. His body was so close, the heat of him licking at your skin, his chest brushing faintly against yours with every slow, measured breath. His arm stayed raised, muscles taut and flexing just enough to draw your attention, a silent reminder of his strength, his control. The weight of his dominance was physical, palpable—his free hand resting on the wall beside your head, caging you in as his scent, heady and sharp, filled every shallow inhale you managed. His eyes dragged over you like a slow burn, flicking from your parted lips to the slight rise and fall of your chest, as though cataloging every reaction you couldn’t suppress. 

He flipped the notebook open, pressing it against the wall with one hand, his eyes moving swiftly over the pages, the crease in his brow deepening with every note he absorbed. The corners of his mouth twisted into something between amusement and irritation, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he caught glimpses of your observations. He didn’t care that he was invading your space, your secrecy—it wasn’t even about the notebook anymore. It was about peeling back every layer, uncovering every thought you’d dared to put on paper about him, dissecting the way you saw him as if it held the answers to his frustration. His grip on the notebook tightened as he lingered on a particular line, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a way that betrayed his otherwise cool exterior. The need to read everything, to know exactly how you thought of him, burned in his eyes, unrelenting, as though your notes could explain the unrelenting pull between you.

Above you, the notebook became both a shield and a weapon, his towering frame closing the space further, radiating power and dominance as if he knew exactly how to wield it. He snapped it shut with a deliberate flick, the sound sharp and final, before letting it dangle carelessly from his grip, mocking in its weightlessness, his presence pressing into you like a command you weren’t sure you wanted to disobey.

“Every move I make, every mistake—you write it all down, don’t you? You love dissecting me. His voice dropped lower, smooth but cutting, each word dragging across your nerves like a deliberate provocation. “Tell me,” he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your temple, “what did you think you’d find? Something worth understanding?”

“Give it back, Jeno,” you snapped, your voice sharp with rising fury. You reached for it, but he held it higher, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I’m done with this party. I just want to leave.”

“Running away again?” His tone was mocking, the sarcasm cutting. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You always watch from the sidelines, scribbling in your little book. And then you vanish. But not this time.”

He stepped closer, his body pressing more firmly into yours, the heat between you becoming unbearable. You could feel every shift of his muscles, the unrelenting tension rolling off him like static electricity.

“Jeno, stop,” you tried again, your voice faltering but firm.

“Stop what?” he bit out, his voice sharp, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Stop calling out your bullshit? Or stop letting you treat me like some experiment?”

You exhaled sharply, your anger surging past your unease. “Your meltdown isn’t my responsibility,” you spat, your words cutting through the charged air like a blade. “You humiliated yourself.”

His expression flickered—pain, pride, fury—all flashing across his face in a heartbeat before his smirk returned, colder this time. “Maybe I’ll humiliate you next.”

Your chest heaved against his, the sensation maddening as you struggled to gather the strength to push him away. But the storm in your chest betrayed you—frustration, defiance, and something darker tangled together until you could barely tell them apart. “Let me go,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone falling flat beneath the tension, a crack in the armor you were desperately trying to maintain.

Jeno didn’t flinch. If anything, your demand only deepened the smirk on his lips, sharp and dangerous. “You keep saying let me go,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that scraped against the edges of your composure, hot breath grazing your ear. “But you keep pulling me closer.”

You gasped, the sharp sound catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. It was only then that your brain caught up to your body—realizing, with a jolt of clarity, what you had been doing all along. Your hands, which had meant to push him away, fisted into the fabric of his shirt instead. The soft sound that spilled from your lips, unbidden and undeniable, felt like a confession, one he noticed immediately. His eyes flickered with something darker, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding through the thin layers of clothing between you.

The hard line of his cock ground into you, the contact deliberate and unrelenting, sparking a tension so electric it made your thighs clench involuntarily. Your gasp turned into something closer to a moan, half-caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the wall, the cold surface a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. His hips rolled, slow and measured, dragging against you with a precision that felt calculated to drive you insane.

Your hips moved instinctively, grinding into him with a deliberate defiance that matched the fire in your voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, your words trembling with anger, but the heat behind them betrayed something darker—desire, raw and undeniable, pulsing through every deliberate motion.

“What you’ve been asking for,” he bit out, his voice rough. His hand, once braced against the wall, moved with purpose, sliding down to your waist. His fingers curled into your hips with bruising intent, pulling you into him, eliminating any space that might have offered you reprieve. His breath ghosted over your neck, warm and ragged, his lips grazing close enough to tease but never landing. Instead, he focused his weight, pressing you back into the wall, the firm lines of his chest and abdomen crushing into you as though daring you to deny this.

“Don’t play innocent now,” he hissed, his voice low, dripping with arrogance. “You’ve been watching me, writing about me, tearing me apart piece by piece in that notebook of yours.” His eyes burned into yours, daring you to deny it, but you couldn’t find your voice. “So tell me—” he ground his hips against you again, the motion deliberate, devastating, dragging a guttural sound from the back of your throat, “—is this the part you wanted to see? The part you couldn’t write down?”

The grind of his hips was deliberate and devastating, his erection a blunt, heated pressure against your core. He didn’t move cautiously, didn’t hold back. The roll of his body into yours was unrestrained, the friction igniting something raw and animalistic between you. Your gasp broke the heavy silence, high and desperate, and your hands moved without thought, clinging to his shirt like an anchor against the overwhelming tide of him.

Jeno’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you even closer. His hips surged forward, the hardness of him dragging along the seam of your jeans, the layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the shocking intensity of the contact. A low sound escaped his throat—half a groan, half a growl—as if he, too, was unraveling under the weight of the moment. His other hand slid from the wall, trailing down to join the first at your waist, pulling your body flush against his with a force that made you arch into him.

You could feel his muscles tense and shift beneath his clothes, his strength tangible and all-encompassing as he moved. Each thrust was hard and precise, leaving you breathless as your thighs clenched against the wall, your body caught between unrelenting heat and the cold, unforgiving surface behind you. Your breaths came faster, shallow and broken, each exhale brushing against his neck as the space between you ceased to exist.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice rough, laced with a dark edge as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” His words sliced through the air, sharp and cutting, their effect only amplified by the next grind of his hips, harder this time, as though punishing you for every unspoken thought he’d somehow dragged to the surface.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. The push and pull of his body against yours had robbed you of coherent thought, leaving only the heat and tension and the maddening friction that made your head tilt back against the wall, exposing your throat to the warm rush of his breath. Your nails scraped against his chest, desperate for purchase, for anything to ground you, but the smirk tugging at his lips told you he had no intention of letting you find it.

Jeno’s hands slid lower, gripping your hips so tightly you could feel every ridge of his fingertips through the fabric. He pushed you down into him, his next thrust leaving no room for subtlety as his cock ground into the most sensitive spot between your thighs, sending a bolt of electricity up your spine. The sound that tore from your throat was involuntary, a mixture of frustration and something far more dangerous, and his answering groan was a low, guttural sound that made your stomach tighten.

“You don’t get to walk in, fuck with my life, and think you can just walk out,” he growled, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice fraying at the edges with the rawness of it all. “This is what you wanted—so take it.”

His hips surged forward again, harder, faster, his hands pulling you into every punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air, for control, for anything that wasn’t him. But Jeno wasn’t offering you an escape—he was pulling you deeper, dragging you into the chaos he’d been holding back until now.

The tension snapped taut, and Jeno’s voice cut through the charged air like a blade. “You will not analyze me like I’m some kind of lab rat,” he growled, his tone low, firm, laced with a sharp edge of warning. His hand braced against the wall near your head, the other still gripping your hip, a physical manifestation of his need to assert control. “You’re going to listen to me. For once. No scribbling notes. No sideline stares. Just me.”

The heat of him pressed into you, each word dragging against your composure, unraveling it thread by thread. “Say something,” he demanded, his voice dark, dangerous, the kind of command that made defiance feel futile. “Don’t just stand there. You came into my space, took me apart in that little book of yours—own it.”

For a moment, you let him believe it—the commanding stance, the clipped words. His proximity, his intensity, all felt like a calculated act of dominance. And yet, something in the air shifted. Your breath hitched involuntarily, your voice trembling just enough when you tried to counter, “This isn’t—”

“Don’t.” His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to draw a sharp inhale from your lips. “You act like you’re untouchable—like you’re better than all of this—but you’re not. Stop pretending.” His other hand slipped from the wall, curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. “You want to tear me apart? Do it here. Look at me. Say it to my face. No hiding behind your notes. No running away.”

Your hands moved on instinct, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips rolled against his in deliberate defiance. “You want me to say it to your face?” you challenged, your voice darkening with every word. “Fine. You’re messy, arrogant, impossible. You push too hard, take too much, and it drives me insane. And still, here I am.”

The weight of your words didn’t settle; they ignited. The moment hung heavy between you, the heat, the pressure, his commands wrapping around you like a vice. For a fleeting second, your silence gave him the victory he wanted, the illusion that he was in control. But even he couldn’t fully ignore the way your breath wavered, the unspoken tension that pulsed between every defiant inhale.

Jeno leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a low snarl that sent heat curling through your stomach. “See what you do to me?” His hips shifted slightly, the movement deliberate and devastating, the friction between you enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips that you couldn’t suppress.

“This is messed up,” you bit out, your tone sharp but breathless, trying to keep some semblance of control. “You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever I want,” he interrupted, his voice a dark rasp as his grip on your waist tightened, his hand slipping lower with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. “This is my place. My rules.”

When someone called his name from beyond the door, the sound was jarring, slicing through the haze between you. Your heart kicked into overdrive, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your instincts flared with the threat of being caught. But Jeno didn’t flinch; his gaze remained locked on yours, unwavering, burning. The name came again, louder, more insistent, but he didn’t so much as glance toward the door. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, his hips rolling into yours with a grinding motion that stole your breath.

“I’m busy!” he shouted, his voice rough, guttural, carrying a raw edge of impatience that matched the fire in his gaze. The footsteps hesitated outside, the muffled voices trailing off, and the moment stretched between you, charged and unbearable.

The sound of your notebook hitting the floor snapped you back to reality, the weight of his dominance crackling through the room. “Get out,” he commanded, his voice low, vibrating with finality. His hand slid from your waist, leaving a burning imprint behind as he stepped back, the sudden loss of contact a jarring contrast to the heat that had engulfed you moments ago. “Take your stupid notes and go.”

With a sharp breath, you bent to retrieve the notebook, your fingers brushing against the cold floor as his shadow loomed over you, heavy and deliberate. Just as your hand closed around the spiral binding, his presence surged closer. You stiffened when his hand moved, fingers grazing along the curve of your hip and trailing down, settling at the waistband of your jeans. The pressure was firm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt where it met denim. It was a touch that made your breath hitch—not gentle, not hesitant, but entirely purposeful.

Straightening abruptly, your glare locked onto his, fury searing through every muscle, but it only seemed to amuse him, his smirk dark and deliberate. “Fuck you, Jeno,” you spat, your voice shaking with equal parts venom and the heat coursing between you, every word cutting through the suffocating tension that bound you both. Yet, even as you stood your ground, the phantom of his touch lingered, burning hotter than it should have.

You hated how he acted like he held all the cards, as though every move you made was under his control. The way he pressed his dominance into every look, every word, every graze of his hand—it made your blood boil. But what you hated most was the way your body responded, as if betraying the firestorm in your head, craving the very control you wanted to snatch from him.

So you didn’t leave. Not yet. The moment was cut too short, the fire roaring in your veins demanding more—demanding control. You stepped closer, your hands fisting into his shirt as you spun the two of you around with a force that startled him. His back hit the wall with a sharp thud, the sound reverberating through the room. Your body pressed into his, not gently but with purpose, your hips driving forward to meet his with a ferocity that made him inhale sharply.

You wanted him to feel it—the power, the control shifting from his hands to yours. The heat radiating from him only fueled you further, your body moving instinctively as your hips ground against his in a rhythm that felt raw, undeniable. The hard press of him beneath his jeans brushed against you in a way that made your breath catch, but you refused to give it a name, refused to admit what it ignited in you. All you focused on was the way his chest rose sharply against yours, the way his hands twitched as if they didn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your fingers gripped his shirt harder, nails digging into the fabric as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His smirk had faltered, replaced by something darker, something uncertain, and for the first time, you felt it—the satisfaction of making him unsteady, of seizing the upper hand. You wanted him undone, caught in the very chaos he tried to pin on you. And if he thought he could still hold control, the press of your body against his made it clear—he was wrong.

Jeno’s eyes widened briefly, shock flickering across his face before it was overtaken by something darker, hungrier. His hands found your hips, his grip unrelenting as he pulled you closer, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire that burned hotter with every deliberate motion. His breath hitched, a low groan escaping his throat as your movements grew bolder, your hands sliding down his chest with an authority that left no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re not in control,” you murmured, your voice low, firm, each word dragging across his nerves like a challenge. His fingers flexed against your hips, digging into the flesh as though he could tether you to him, his body grinding against yours in desperate, unrestrained retaliation. Your hands moved with purpose, sliding up the expanse of his chest until your fingers found the first button of his shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, you began to undo it, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin with every flick. Each undone button revealed more of his taut, heated flesh, and you caught the sharp inhale he failed to suppress as your touch ignited a tension that went beyond control.

His voice, low and ragged, finally broke through the heavy silence. “You think you can—” he started, but the words faltered, lost in the sharp exhale he released as your hands flattened against his chest, sliding down to his abdomen. The warmth of your palms seared through the fabric of his shirt, your touch deliberate, unhurried. His tone shifted, quieter now, reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe the situation he’d found himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

Your lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, your movements slow, calculated, as you leaned in, your breath skimming over the hollow of his throat. His pulse pounded beneath your proximity, and you could feel it quicken. “And you don’t seem to mind,” you murmured, your voice velvet and sharp, a perfect taunt. The words slithered through the air, unapologetic in their bite, their confidence making his breath hitch.

Jeno knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be—how the cleanest, most composed surfaces often hid the darkest edges. But even then, he hadn’t expected this. You were the kind of girl he’d automatically slotted into a category: a goody two shoes, the rule-follower, the one who kept her head down and did what needed to be done without stepping out of line. You weren’t supposed to be the kind of person who would back him into a wall, your hips grinding against his like you owned him. The disconnect was maddening, and the sheer audacity of it made his jaw tighten, his chest heaving with labored breaths as he fought to regain some semblance of control. But control was slipping fast, burned away by the way you looked at him—eyes sharp, unyielding, daring him to do something about it. You were confident in a way that wasn’t just hot—it was intoxicating. And with every deliberate movement of your body against his, he realized how thoroughly he’d underestimated you. You weren’t just rewriting the image he’d had of you—you were setting it on fire.

His hands moved instinctively, trailing up your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch trembling slightly, caught between hesitation and need. His fingers flexed, brushing the fabric of your shirt, stopping just shy of your waist as though unsure if finally gripping you would set him alight. But the heat between you demanded more, and the tension in his hands betrayed his restraint, every flex screaming a hunger to claim, to ground himself in the chaos you commanded. His lips parted, his breath hitching, but no words came—just a sharp, shaky exhale that betrayed the unraveling control he clung to. The weight of your dominance bore down on him, your presence a palpable force stripping him bare, leaving him trembling beneath your gaze. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the rhythm breaking under the pressure of you. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to you—but the way you moved, the way you dismantled him with every sharp, calculated motion, left him powerless to stop it.

“Why are you so quiet now, hm? You wanted me to listen, didn’t you?” you murmured, your tone so low and enticing that it sent a shiver down his spine. You tilted your head, forcing his gaze to lock with yours, the weight of your command clear in your eyes. “This is me listening. Now what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw twitched, his silence betraying him, the usual edge to his demeanor dulled by the firestorm building in the space between you. The rhythm of his breaths staggered, your nearness, your audacity pulling him under. Finally, he swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragged out like an admission he hadn’t meant to give. “I don’t know,” he rasped, his tone raw, laden with something between awe and frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

And still, he didn’t move. His control, his power—everything he’d used to define himself—crumbled in your hands, and for the first time, he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate that you were the one taking the lead, that you were the one pressing into him with an intensity that made him dizzy. He didn’t know what to do with you—but it was clear you knew exactly what to do with him.

The air between you didn’t shatter—it stretched, thin and taut, vibrating with the weight of something unsaid as Jeno leaned closer. His breath skimmed your lips, warm and deliberate, a quiet threat disguised as temptation. The moment was agonizingly slow, a pull so visceral it felt like gravity itself had shifted to align with the space between you. His gaze burned into yours, daring, dark, and for a fleeting second, you felt the heavy inevitability of his mouth on yours, like it had already happened in another life.

But just before his lips could meet yours, you moved—decisive, sharp, unstoppable. Your palm flattened against his chest, firm and commanding, halting his advance mid-breath. The soft laugh that spilled from you wasn’t gentle; it was a weapon, slicing through the air and carving your dominance into the space he thought he controlled. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch, but you didn’t close the gap.

Instead, you tilted your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you murmured, “You really thought I’d let you kiss me?” The words were slow, each syllable dripping with taunt and precision, as though you were savoring the power of holding him suspended like this. You shifted closer—not enough to close the distance, but just enough for your body to graze his, letting him feel the weight of your control. “Not a chance,” you finished, pulling back just enough to see the flicker of something desperate and undone flash across his face, feeding the fire you had no intention of extinguishing.

His frustration was a tangible thing, a heat that radiated off him, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as his parted lips trembled with words that never came. You leaned in, the brush of your lips barely skimming the shell of his ear as your hand slid lower, gliding over the taut planes of his torso. Your touch was slow, deliberate, and excruciating, your fingers tracing the waistband of his pants with a teasing pressure that made his breath stutter.

When your palm pressed firmly against the rigid heat straining beneath the fabric, his body jerked, the faintest sound—a mix between a groan and a gasp—escaping his throat. “So hard for me,” you whispered, your voice dripping with taunt and power, every word deliberate and cutting. Your fingers flexed slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from him, your lips curving into a smirk as you tilted your head to meet his wide-eyed, breathless gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Jeno?” you murmured, your tone silk and fire, dragging the tension higher as you let your palm press harder, savoring the way his composure crumbled beneath you.

A broken moan escaped his throat, raw and guttural, as his hips pressed into your touch instinctively. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to grip the wall for support or touch you, but he didn’t move. You relished his submission, the way his control shattered under your dominance, the power shifting entirely into your hands.

You crouched slowly, each movement deliberate, your lips hovering mere inches from the bulge in his pants. The tension between you was unbearable, your breath ghosting over the straining fabric, teasing, testing the limits of his control. You lingered there, savoring the way his body reacted—his chest heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides as if restraining himself took every ounce of his will.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against him through the fabric, the heat of him searing against your lips. Your tongue followed, a languid flick over the barrier of his pants, tasting the faint salt of his anticipation. The sound he made—a guttural, raw groan—sent a shiver through you, his hips jerking involuntarily toward your mouth as though chasing the relief only you could provide.

“Please,” he rasped, his voice raw, wrecked, laced with a desperate edge that made the air between you crackle. Your name fell from his lips, not like a prayer, but like a demand barely restrained, broken and yet brimming with need. His hand moved to your shoulder, tentative at first, then tightening with an urgency that betrayed the control he was struggling to hold onto, his grip firm but trembling. “Don’t stop,” he growled, the words dragging rough and low from his throat, teetering between pleading and commanding, as if he couldn’t decide whether to beg you or take what he wanted.

You’d heard the stories about Jeno—late-night whispers curling through dorm rooms like smoke, tales of a man who didn’t just fuck but ruined people, leaving them trembling, insatiable, chasing after something only he could deliver. He was calculated, relentless, a master of control in every movement, every breath. He took his time, they said, dragging you to the edge and keeping you there until your entire body begged for release. His prowess clung to him like a second skin, an invisible crown he wore without effort, without arrogance. You’d seen it, felt it even now—the way his presence wrapped around you, heavy and suffocating, like the air itself couldn’t ignore him. He made you want to step closer, to see if the promises in his gaze were true, or to push him away just to prove you didn’t need him.

But tonight, those promises didn’t matter. You knew why he wanted this, and it had nothing to do with you. His bruised pride wasn’t subtle; it burned off him like smoke from a fire, stoked higher by the sting of losing Areum. This wasn’t about desire—it was about power. About proving to himself that he could still have anything, anyone, if he just reached for it. And if he thought you’d give him that satisfaction? That you’d unravel for him because he leaned in close, whispered your name like a secret, and let his lips hover just out of reach?

Not a chance.

You lingered, lips brushing against the fabric one last time, deliberately slow, leaving the faintest trace of your warmth. The act was intimate and deliberate, each second dragged out until the tension in the air felt unbearable. Straightening, you let your gaze lock with his, the smirk tugging at your lips daring and victorious, a reminder that you controlled this moment. “Maybe next time,” you murmured, your voice soft yet dripping with authority, a silken dismissal that cut deeper than words should.

With a casual motion, you wiped your hands on your jeans, an effortless contrast to the chaos you’d ignited in him, and turned to leave. Each step was unhurried, your exit deliberate, knowing he wouldn’t—couldn’t—look away. Just as your hand touched the doorframe, an instinct made you pause. You glanced back over your shoulder, and the sight that greeted you was nothing short of devastating.

Jeno was undone. His head was tipped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. His lips parted, releasing quiet, wrecked groans, each sound more raw than the last. One hand braced against the wall as if anchoring himself, his knuckles white, while the other was buried beneath the waistband of his pants, his movements slow and desperate, chasing the edge you’d left him teetering on.

The sight was primal, magnetic, every inch of him radiating a vulnerability you’d never expected, and for a brief moment, you hesitated, letting it sear into your memory. But you didn’t stay. You didn’t need to. The image of him—wrecked, ruined, and completely at your mercy—would linger with you long after you left, his soft groans trailing behind you like a confession as you disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

The screen glared back at you, her message cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You didn’t respond, didn’t even let yourself process it, just locked the screen and slipped your phone back into your pocket. She must’ve messaged you by mistake, you told yourself. Tonight wasn’t your night to deal with anyone’s chaos but your own.

You didn’t need to turn back to know exactly where he was—still against the wall, hand working desperately beneath his waistband, chasing what you’d denied him. By the time the night was over, you had no doubt he’d bury himself in someone else, finding release in another body, someone who’d give in without hesitation. That was Jeno’s way—fast, raw, and detached, his pleasure stripped of meaning. But tonight, you weren’t going to be his easy satisfaction, his fleeting indulgence. You could feel it in the charged air you’d left behind, in the weight of his need you refused to satisfy. Let someone else fall into his orbit; you weren’t going to be another mark on his tally.

Slipping past the crowded living room, you kept your head low, avoiding the glances of anyone who might stop you. Your chest tightened as you moved, the apartment’s maze-like corridors taunting you with their sharp turns and identical doors. It felt like you’d never find the exit, like the building itself was conspiring to keep you there. But then, finally, a side door appeared, half-hidden by shadows, and you slipped through it like a fugitive.

The cool night air hit you like a blessing, the weight in your chest easing as you stepped into the quiet. The contrast was stark—inside was a war zone, outside was stillness. The distant hum of city life felt surreal, as if it belonged to a different world entirely.

You glanced around, scanning for any sign of Jeno. His car was still parked where it had been earlier, a sleek black beacon in the dim light. Relief flooded through you; he hadn’t followed. He was still inside, probably oblivious to the fact that you were already gone.

But then your eyes caught something—someone—further down the street. A gasp escaped you before you could stop it, your body freezing as you recognized the figure leaning against a car. Mark. His familiar frame was impossible to miss, even from this distance. Your breath hitched, and instinctively, you stepped back into the shadows, your heart racing. He didn’t see you—his entire focus was on Areum, who stood close beside him. Too close.

They looked… intimate. His hand brushed hers briefly, his posture tilted toward her like he was trying to comfort her. She looked upset, her expression barely visible from where you stood, but the way Mark leaned in, the way their bodies angled toward each other—it told a story you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

Mark and Areum? The thought twisted in your chest as you watched them climb into his car together. You didn’t even realize it had gotten to this point. Whispers from the party earlier floated back to you, snippets of gossip you’d brushed off at the time.

“Did you see Mark leave with Areum?”

“Jeno’s ex hooking up with his rival? Wild.”

You’d dismissed them as rumors, exaggerated drunken chatter—but now the evidence was staring you in the face.

The night felt heavier than before as you called for an Uber, your fingers trembling slightly as you typed in the address. You were drained, every part of you screaming to go home, to crawl into bed and pretend none of this had happened. But as you climbed into the car, your phone buzzed again.

jihyo — hey, can you come over? i really need you right now.

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen, the message from Jihyo burning into your mind like an unspoken demand. You weren’t scheduled tonight. You didn’t have to go. College loomed in the morning, the weight of deadlines and responsibilities already pressing down on you, a sharp reminder of how tightly you’d orchestrated every detail of your life. Structure was your safety net—plans meticulously crafted to keep chaos at bay. But tonight had already upended all of that. Jeno’s touch still lingered like a bruise on your resolve, the firestorm of his presence leaving cracks in the walls you’d built so carefully. To go now would be a departure from everything you tried to hold steady. And yet, staying meant sitting in the wreckage of a night you couldn’t undo, letting it fester.

jihyo — i’ll pay extra. trust me. it’s important.

You exhaled sharply, Jihyo’s words cutting through the exhaustion draped over you, but igniting something buried deeper, something restless. The money mattered, sure, but that wasn’t what made your pulse quicken. Those nights had their own gravity, pulling you into a space where everything sharpened—where the lines blurred between control and chaos, between exhibition and escape. It wasn’t just the thrill of stepping into that world; it was the power it gave you, the way it stripped everything raw. Eyes watching you, wanting you, yet never able to touch what you didn’t allow—it wasn’t just a distraction. It was a reckoning, a way to take back what the day, the world, or even Jeno had tried to steal. It left you electric, a storm gathering force, untouchable yet so dangerously alive.

you — fine. on my way.

The driver glanced back as you changed the destination, his expression unreadable, but you ignored it. No rest for you—not tonight. You were already in the storm; you might as well keep going. The car merged onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window as you braced yourself for what came next.

The door clicked shut behind you, swallowing the last remnants of the outside world and plunging you into the bar’s embrace—a space carved out of darkness, hedonism, and heat. Smoke coiled through the air, not lazy but purposeful, weaving tendrils that clung to your skin like an invisible hand, teasing your senses. The low hum of neon lights pulsed overhead, bathing everything in shades of crimson and cobalt, the colors spilling across the room like spilled wine—dark, intoxicating, and staining everything it touched. Shadows played along the walls, stretching and shifting, hinting at secrets shared in low whispers and heavy gazes.

The leather booths gleamed like ink under the sultry glow, their deep cushions practically inviting bodies to sink into them, to forget everything but the pleasure of proximity. Tables stood scattered like forgotten lovers, their polished surfaces catching flashes of light, betraying the careless fingerprints of those who came here to taste sin and leave nothing behind. The floor, slick and reflective, mirrored the sharp heels of women striding past, the flex of muscle beneath fitted suits, and the languid movements of hands resting too low on thighs.

Behind the bar, rows of bottles glinted like trophies in a predator’s lair, their contents catching the light in amber and emerald hues. The faint clink of glasses, the steady rhythm of liquid pouring into crystal, blended into the room’s soundtrack—an undercurrent of murmured conversations and occasional bursts of low laughter. A mirror stretched across the back wall, catching glimpses of sweat-slick necks, the curve of lips wrapping around the rim of a glass, and the hollow of throats exposed as heads tipped back to swallow.

The air was heavy, oppressive, but not stifling—a perfect, suffocating warmth designed to coax bodies closer. It reeked of whiskey, sweat, and the faintest trace of musk, an unrelenting mixture that clung to your nostrils, seeping into your lungs with every breath. The scent mingled with something sharper, darker, primal—a promise of bodies pressing together in shadowed corners, of hands gripping too tight, of mouths tasting what they shouldn’t.

Everywhere you looked, the bar seemed alive—alive in the way a predator watches its prey. Velvet curtains hung in uneven folds along the far wall, their deep red fabric glowing under the faint light, hinting at spaces hidden behind them where the rules of this room didn’t apply. Low-slung chandeliers dripped with chains instead of crystal, their edges sharp, casting fractured shadows that danced like foreplay across bare skin and rumpled clothes. A faint graffiti scrawled along the wood near the booths read like confessions of sins past, promises unfulfilled, and moments stolen.

This was nothing like the chaos of a college party; there was no raucous laughter or frenzied energy here. This was curated, intentional—a realm of indulgence and raw tension, crafted for those who came searching for something darker. This wasn’t just a bar; it was a temple to indulgence, to raw, carnal desire. Everything about it whispered permission—permission to touch, to taste, to lose yourself. The air itself felt alive, pressing into you, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had. The faint vibration from the bassline crawled up your legs, a visceral reminder of where you were and what this place demanded. It wasn’t just a space—it was a promise, a provocation, daring you to step further into its embrace.

Jihyo caught your gaze the moment you approached. She was a force of nature, her grungy, tattooed frame exuding authority. Dark hair fell in lazy waves around her sharp features, her lips curled into a smirk that carried no softness. She leaned against the bar, one hand braced on the counter as she handed off a glass to a waiting customer without breaking eye contact. Her fitted black tank revealed toned arms, and the silver rings on her fingers reflected the neon haze. “Don’t keep them waiting,” she muttered, her voice low but loaded with intent.

You didn’t respond. There was no need. You knew your role here, the unspoken contract that hung between the two of you like smoke in the air. You moved with precision, slipping through the crowd. Men in tailored suits and loosened ties leaned into their drinks, their gazes heavy with expectation but never once settling on you. They didn’t see you now. You were invisible until you chose not to be. You recognized some of them, regulars whose eyes would burn with recognition the moment the lights hit you. But for now, they were just part of the background.

The hallway to the back room was narrow, quieter, the sound of faint music pulsing in your ears as you stepped inside. The dressing room was small, unassuming. A rack of costumes hung to the side, their vibrant, provocative fabrics glinting faintly under the overhead light. You moved quickly, shedding your everyday clothes with the kind of efficiency that came from practice.

Your outfit was more skin than fabric—a two-piece ensemble of black and crimson lace. The top clung to you like a second skin, the delicate material dipping low enough to frame the swell of your breasts, daring anyone to look closer. The thin straps looped over your shoulders, leaving your back bare, the lace barely covering anything more than necessary. The matching bottoms were scandalous—a high-cut thong that left the curve of your ass exposed, with sheer panels running down your hips. Over-the-knee stockings in the same black lace hugged your thighs, the faint shimmer catching the light. Heels completed the look, sleek and deadly, adding inches to your already commanding presence.

You slipped a sheer cover over the outfit as you stepped out, the translucent material doing nothing to hide the boldness of what lay beneath. The contrast between this version of you and the one who existed outside these walls was stark, but here, you owned it. The weight of the outfit, the makeup, the stage—it wasn’t a mask. It was power, weaponized and perfected.

The air thickened as you moved back toward the main floor, clinging to your skin with an almost tangible heat that promised indulgence. Every detail of the bar seemed alive—the low murmur of conversations, the rhythmic click of glasses meeting wood, and the bassline vibrating through the floor, steady as a pulse. You stepped into it seamlessly, the chaos bending around you, feeding into your calm. This was your world, a place where you thrived, where the night was yours to command.

Jihyo lounged against the bar like she owned not just the room but the energy pulsing through it. Her ripped jeans sat low on her hips, the cropped leather jacket hinting at smooth, taut skin beneath. Her dark waves fell just past her shoulders, intentionally messy, as if the chaos of the bar itself had shaped her. She didn’t need to posture; her presence was enough—a sharp contrast to the haze of smoke and dim light around her. Her eyes locked on you, assessing with the precision of someone who knew the stakes. “About time,” she said, her voice low and cutting, designed to carry. “They’ve been waiting. Don’t make me regret it.”

You offered her a faint smirk, slipping through the crowd with ease. Hands reached out, voices murmuring things you didn’t bother deciphering. They were just noise. You were above it. You were untouchable—at least until the lights hit you, and then you’d become something else entirely.

The room shifted as you stepped onto the stage, a low thrum of noise rippling through the crowd like an electric charge. The smoky haze wrapped around you, thick and deliberate, distorting the neon reds and blues into streaks of fire and ice against the darkened corners of the bar. Men filled the space—leaned against the bar, lounged in leather booths, or stood near the stage, their gazes following you with blatant hunger. Some whistled, some cheered, their voices cutting through the murmur of clinking glasses and low conversations. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t need to. This was your territory, a place where their attention didn’t intimidate but fueled you.

Your outfit wasn’t just something you wore—it was a part of the performance, inseparable from the electric guitar slung across your body. The black lace and bold straps didn’t merely adorn you; they claimed their place under the lights, commanding attention as much as you did. Over it, the sheer slip clung to your frame, translucent in a way that revealed just enough to tempt, every line of your body hinted at with a calculated elegance meant to provoke. It wasn’t meant to conceal—just the opposite. It was a challenge, an invitation for their imaginations to linger, to want it gone, to fantasize about tearing it from you. But you kept it on, a barrier as much as a weapon, daring them to think they could earn the right to see what lay beneath. 

The plunging neckline framed you like a spotlight, drawing attention to every deliberate curve, while your thighs, bare except for the sheen of thigh-high stockings, seemed to catch the glow of the lights as if the stage itself bent to your command. The guitar rested against your hips like it belonged there, its sleek design a mirror to your presence—bold, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore. Each strike of your boots against the floor resonated through the room, not just a sound but a signal, an assertion of control. The stage lights burned hotter here, casting shadows that danced across your bare skin, accentuating the sharp edge of your makeup—smoldering eyes framed by dark liner, crimson lips curving with intent, and cheekbones kissed with gold, gleaming like a challenge to the crowd below.

This wasn’t the controlled environment of a college performance. This was raw, unfiltered life. Jihyo’s bar wasn’t for the faint of heart—this was a world that thrived on indulgence, a crucible of lust and longing. For a music major accustomed to structured critiques and the polite applause of recitals, this was the ultimate test—no safety nets, no scripted feedback, just raw energy and the unspoken challenge to dominate the room. You’d spent nights here, studying its rhythm, commanding its energy, bending its wild currents to your will. Tonight would be no different.

The stage was intimate but powerful, elevated just enough to force their gazes upward, demanding their attention. You draped the guitar strap over your shoulder, the motion deliberate, a slow sweep of control that carried through the room. Fingers lingered over the microphone as you adjusted it, the faint scrape of metal against your palm drawing their focus like a spark in the dark. The subtle glint of your rings caught the light, a quiet accent to your movements that added an edge of elegance, of authority. The crowd stirred, their energy thickening as you struck a single note, the low, resonant hum rolling through the air and settling deep in their chests. Conversation stilled, eyes locked on you, the weight of their anticipation pressing against your skin. You felt it—the shift, the slipping of the everyday you into something sharper, bolder, untouchable. The stage demanded it, and you gave in, letting the persona settle over you like armor, every movement calculated to feed the tension until it was yours to command.

The first chords came slow, deliberate, matching the rhythm of your pulse. Your voice slipped into the room like smoke, low and melodic, pulling their attention closer, deeper. The lyrics dripped from your lips, edgy and provocative, laced with innuendo that lingered just long enough to make them wonder. This wasn’t just a performance—it was control. You let your hips sway in time with the beat, the thin straps of your outfit shifting with each movement, teasing the audience, daring them to want more.

For the first few minutes, you kept to the plan—a carefully orchestrated set that teetered on the edge of seduction without ever tipping over. The bar hummed with its usual energy, smoky and intimate, the kind of place where regulars stayed long enough to blur the line between night and morning. It wasn’t the sort of place anyone stumbled into; it was hidden, unmarked, known only to those who needed its refuge. That was why you came—because the world outside couldn’t find you here. No familiar faces. No unexpected encounters. Just you, the stage, and the pull of the crowd.

Your eyes flitted across the room as you moved, your guitar humming low against your body. The regulars were in their usual places—men leaning back in leather booths, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger you knew how to wield. They didn’t intimidate you; they gave you power, their expectations feeding your confidence as you leaned into the mic, your voice curling around the lyrics like smoke.

But then, the door creaked open.

Your brow furrowed, your fingers faltering over the strings for a split second before you recovered. No one ever walked in this late. The bar wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed wanderers or drew in curious strangers. This was a den for the initiated, a haven for those who knew its rhythms. You cast a glance toward the entrance, the faint glow from the streetlights outside cutting through the haze for a moment. And there he was.

The moment your eyes caught his, it was like the room contracted, pulling all its weight into that single point. Jeno. His name wasn’t a thought—it was a sensation, crawling down your spine and sinking low into your stomach. You didn’t look away, though every nerve in your body begged you to. His gaze was steady, unrelenting, a tether you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t break.

Your stomach coiled, your pulse stuttering with a certainty that was both sharp and undeniable: he wasn’t supposed to be here. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t some calculated move on his part, no deliberate hunt to corner you after the chaos of the party. He hadn’t followed you—you’d left him where he stood, undone and occupied, and this bar wasn’t the kind of place anyone stumbled into without intention. It wasn’t just hidden; it was deliberately unmarked, an enclave you’d chosen for its anonymity. Here, you existed beyond recognition, beyond anyone’s reach. Yet now, his presence fractured that carefully built illusion, the one you’d relied on to ensure this life stayed separate from the other.

He took a seat at the far end of the bar, the kind of spot that seemed designed to swallow a man whole. The broken neon light above flickered unevenly, throwing his sharp features into alternating patches of crimson and stark white. It was a seat of contradictions—a beacon and a shadow, a throne and a confession booth—its placement isolated but deliberate, as if it had been waiting for him. Smoke coiled lazily through the air, softening the sharp angles of his leather jacket, but nothing could dull the weight of his presence. He fit too well here, as though the atmosphere itself bent around him, drawn to the tension coiled in his frame.

The leather creaked faintly under him as he leaned back, his hand curling loosely around a glass of whiskey, its amber surface catching the flicker of light. He didn’t slouch; his posture was a restrained defiance, his shoulders pulled back with just enough tension to suggest a man holding himself together by a thread. The muscles in his jaw shifted, a faint tic betraying the storm behind his calm exterior. He moved like he belonged here, like the low hum of the bar’s indulgent haze was something he had mastered—but you knew better. This wasn’t his world; he hadn’t been here before. And yet, the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass, the calculated ease of his movements, made it feel like he had already claimed it as his own. It was unnerving how natural he looked in a place that thrived on artifice.

His hair was the first thing you noticed, even in the dim lighting—black with streaks of dark blonde, each strand catching the faint neon glow as though it had been deliberately placed to draw the eye. The contrast was intoxicating, rebellion and refinement fused together. The black served as the perfect base, rich and glossy, grounding him in something darker, while the golden highlights shimmered like fleeting promises, perfectly framing the cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The layers of his hair were deliberate, falling in a way that suggested he’d just run his fingers through it moments before stepping inside, each strand a statement of effortless chaos.

His outfit demanded attention. The brown leather jacket clung to his shoulders, every crease and fold amplifying the lean muscle beneath. It was open, revealing a ribbed white tank that hugged his torso, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his chest. A silver chain rested in the hollow of his throat, glinting faintly as he shifted, the simple accessory exuding a quiet power. His pants, black and tailored, sat low on his hips, sharp lines accentuating the languid grace of his movements. Everything about him felt polished but raw, as if he carried chaos beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He exuded a magnetism that didn’t beg for attention—it commanded it. The sharp line of his jaw flexed subtly, tension coiled beneath the surface, hinting at a storm he kept firmly restrained. His gaze, dark and deliberate, moved through the room like a current, assessing and discarding with a precision that felt unnervingly purposeful. The faint clink of the glass in his hand punctuated the stillness around him, his fingers gripping the rim with a controlled force that betrayed the energy thrumming beneath his composed exterior. Every motion, from the subtle shift of his shoulders to the way he leaned just slightly forward, felt charged, deliberate, as though the space bent to accommodate him. It wasn’t restlessness—it was calculated patience, a quiet certainty that wherever he looked, the room would eventually meet him on his terms.

Your gaze caught him from the corner of your eye, but you knew he didn’t see you. Not really. The dim lighting played tricks, the haze of smoke blurring edges and muting details. You were cloaked in stage lights, your face and body transformed by the bold makeup, the provocative outfit, and the sheer persona you wore like armor. This wasn’t the girl he’d argued with at the party or Coach Suh’s office or the girl who left him gasping against the wall. You were someone else here—a performer, a presence, a force he couldn’t yet name.

His gaze skimmed past you at first, hungry but detached, as if you were just another face in the haze of smoke and dim light. He wasn’t really seeing you—not yet. His focus drifted the way it did with the other women in the bar, drawn to the stage out of instinct rather than intent. Lost in the pull of his drink and the muted hum of the room, he seemed adrift, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his attention. For a fleeting moment, you felt an unfamiliar sense of relief. He didn’t know it was you—not under the glare of the stage lights, not with the veil of makeup and the electric energy you wore like armor. It granted you a power you hadn’t anticipated—the freedom to hold his gaze on your terms, unburdened by history or expectations.

But then, something shifted. It was subtle at first—a flicker in his expression, the faint crease of his brow as his eyes lingered just a second too long. There was a rhythm in the way you moved, a note in your voice, the precise way your fingers danced over the guitar strings—it pulled at something buried in his subconscious. The realization unfolded in pieces, each one hitting him harder than the last. His body froze, the glass in his hand stilled mid-motion, and his chest heaved with a single, sharp breath. And then it hit him fully, recognition breaking over him like a storm, his eyes locking onto yours with a weight that made your pulse skip.

Your lips curved into a private smirk, the tilt of your head deliberate, daring him to come to terms with what he was seeing. His eyes burned now, no longer detached but heavy with something deeper—lust sharpened by disbelief, an attraction laced with a hunger that felt almost territorial. He leaned forward, his glass forgotten, every line of his body drawn taut as though the air itself had become charged with electricity. His chest rose in deliberate, uneven breaths, as if he were trying to steady himself but failing under the weight of his own realization.

The noise of the bar faded into the background, the cheers and whistles from the crowd mere static. For you, there was only his gaze, and the way it pierced through you with an intensity that left you breathless. For the first time, you felt seen—not just looked at but truly seen. And it wasn’t just the desire in his eyes; it was something raw and deeply personal, something none of the other men in the room could offer you.

His hand flexed once against the bar, as if grounding himself, but the motion was futile. There was something magnetic in the way his gaze locked onto yours, something unrelenting. It wasn’t just his attention—it was possession, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. His lips parted slightly, as though words might follow, but they never came. Instead, his silence spoke louder, the tightening of his jaw and the dark flicker in his eyes unraveling you piece by piece.

But nothing would ever make you lose focus. Focus. Be the performer now. Forget the party. Forget him. The voice in your head tried to command your body, but it was a losing battle with the way his attention clung to you like a second skin. The crowd roared as one of the regulars broke the tension, his voice cutting through the smoky air with a drunken “Woo! Take it off!”

You tilted your head toward the mic, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “Maybe…” you murmured, your voice dripping with a sensual lilt, “if you tip enough.” The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, the noise folding into itself like waves crashing against the shore, but it only served to highlight the stark silence from him. Jeno didn’t laugh, didn’t cheer—his eyes were fixed, his gaze heavy, his jaw tightening as though trying to hold something back.

The stage had always been a metaphor for your liberation—a place where control didn’t mean confinement but something far more powerful. You weren’t the neat, restrained observer the rest of the world thought you were. Up here, you owned the chaos, commanded the energy, and embraced the wildness that simmered beneath the surface. This wasn’t about pleasing them; it was about owning yourself.

And tonight, as you teased the slip off your shoulders, it wasn’t just about the crowd. It was about him—about the way he looked at you, like he was unraveling piece by piece, like you had shattered everything he thought he knew. You’d never stripped on stage before; you didn’t need to. But this was your stage, your rules, your power. And for the first time, you wanted to see what it would feel like to take it further, to step into that raw, unapologetic space you’d always hovered just outside of.

Plus, you liked the way Jeno was looking at you. 

That was all the reason you needed, the spark igniting something bold, something unrestrained inside you. Your breath caught for a fleeting second, but you didn’t falter. Instead, you leaned into the tension, letting it coil and settle around you like a second skin. His recognition fed your confidence, the weight of his gaze fanning a fire you hadn’t realized you were ready to set loose.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers hooked under the edge of the sheer slip, the movement deliberate enough to pull every eye toward you. The fabric slid from your shoulders, cascading down in a soft, sinful whisper until it pooled at your feet. The crowd erupted, their cheers slicing through the haze like a knife, but it all dissolved into nothingness. None of it mattered—not the noise, not the lights, not the sea of faces below.

The moment was yours, and you owned it completely.

Jeno didn’t move, didn’t blink. His gaze locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as though the air between you had grown too thick to inhale. Unlike the others—whistling, shouting, drunk on the spectacle—he was silent, his reaction starkly different from the intoxicating frenzy around him. It wasn’t the kind of hunger that screamed for attention or demanded more; it was quiet, devastating, consuming. 

His eyes trailed the line of your body like a slow burn, lingering on every curve with a heat that made your skin feel bare in ways the crowd couldn’t match. And when you had stripped into nothing but the lingerie you had on, his gaze didn’t shift, didn’t darken into a baser territory like the others. It remained steady, unwavering, as though he wasn’t seeing less of you but more, something deeper, something only he could touch. It was intimate, maddening, as if he’d reached straight through the noise and lights and found the parts of you no one else could.

You tilted your head again, the strands of your hair sliding under the stage lights, catching glimmers of red and gold as though even the air around you conspired to accentuate your movements. Each shift of your body became calculated, a weapon wielded against the unrelenting intensity of his gaze. The slow roll of your hips was no longer just part of the rhythm—it was deliberate, provocative, designed to make him feel the weight of your control. His eyes followed every curve, every tilt, as though mapping out the exact places where his restraint would falter. And falter it did. His posture betrayed him—leaning forward slightly, his chest expanding with a breath that seemed too sharp for the smoke-filled room. His gaze dragged over your bare shoulders, lingering at the delicate way your fingers toyed with the edge of your slip.

Your hand slid down the mic stand in a languid motion, the small gesture enough to draw his attention downward before you reclaimed it with the arch of your back, the subtle twist of your waist. The lace of your outfit glinted in the light, a fleeting tease that dared him to imagine what it concealed—and what it didn’t. Your fingers danced along the strings of the guitar, the low, sultry hum of sound coaxing the room to quiet, but it wasn’t the music that had him transfixed. It was you, owning the stage and pulling him into a space where he was no longer just a man nursing a drink—he was your audience, your captive. Every breath he took felt heavier, charged, the grip of his hand on the bar white-knuckled and desperate for stability. But his hunger for you was anything but stable.

And then, you parted your lips—a soft, teasing exhale that hovered in the air like an unspoken promise. It wasn’t a lyric, not yet, but the anticipation it stirred was palpable. His chest rose and fell with a rhythm too uneven to be casual, the lines of his jaw tightening as though bracing himself against something inevitable. The heat between you burned brighter, sharper, the distance between stage and bar dissolving in the heavy weight of his stare. Whatever barrier you’d maintained before now felt irrelevant, shattered under the pressure of the moment. His expression shifted, the raw hunger in his eyes replaced by something even more consuming—a blend of want and need that left you unsteady for just a second. But only for a second. Because the power was yours, and you weren’t done with him yet.

For a second, the world stilled, and it was just the two of you—no stage, no crowd, just the raw, unfiltered connection that burned between you like a live wire. His silence spoke louder than the shouts around him, his eyes a promise, a challenge, a plea wrapped in desire. He was unraveling. For the first time, it felt like the entire performance was for one man, and you leaned into that, letting your body speak what words couldn’t, knowing he was the only one who truly understood.

It was in the way he looked at you—like he’d been the one peeling the slip from your shoulders, his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin with an unbearable intensity. It wasn’t just watching—it was devouring, a slow, deliberate claiming of space between you, charged with a hunger that felt almost dangerous. Every shift of your body made his focus darker, heavier, sharper, as though the world around him had dissolved and all that remained was you—bare, commanding, untouchable, and somehow still completely his.

With the last hum of your guitar, the applause crescendos, swelling to fill every crevice of the dimly lit bar, but it barely registers in your mind. Your gaze remains fixed on him, as though tethered by something neither of you can name. Jeno stands near the edge of the room, the smoky haze and flickering neon light carving out sharp lines in his features. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, don’t waver from you, and in the space between your final note and the eruption of cheers, the world tilts, just slightly, aligning you both on the same magnetic plane.

As the sound begins to fade, you slip the thin, translucent layer of fabric back over your shoulders, a deliberate act that feels like a dare. Jeno doesn’t blink, his gaze dragging over the slip as though he’d stripped it away himself and was now punishing himself by watching it return. The weight of it settles over your skin like silk, but the fire in his eyes burns through every layer, searing into you. Your pulse quickens—not because of the applause or the tips that litter the stage—but because of him.

Jihyo gestures wildly from the side, mouthing, “What the fuck are you doing?” You see her, hear her command, but your body moves before your mind can catch up. There’s no logic to it, no plan—only the magnetic pull that drags you forward, deeper into something you know you shouldn’t want. You’re supposed to stay put, bask in the aftermath, rake in tips, flash smiles, but none of it matters. Not when he’s there. Not when the fire in his gaze makes your skin burn in ways applause never could. He isn’t just a prize; he’s a temptation, glittering and dangerous, something you should leave untouched but can’t help craving. Every step closer feels like surrender, like giving in to the bad habit you’ve tried to quit but never truly wanted to. You know better. You can’t stand him, he’s insufferable. He’s made Mark’s life a living hell, torn through everything steady and safe, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake but the ache inside you wants more—wants him.

You step off the stage, moving through the crowded floor, your steps drawn toward him as if the pull between you is something tangible. He moves, too, cutting through the maze of bodies in your direction, but the path isn’t easy. The press of people closes in around you, and suddenly, you’re intercepted.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweet thing,” a slurred voice murmurs, too close, as a hand slides to your waist.

Your smile is polite but forced as you step out of reach. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He doesn’t take the hint, his fingers grazing lower. The tension in the room shifts, heightened, buzzing in your veins. You glance at Jeno, who has stopped, his jaw set, his hands flexing at his sides. There’s a storm in his eyes, a crackling intensity that makes the room feel smaller, hotter, and infinitely more dangerous.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper now, but the drunk man is insistent, leaning closer, his breath heavy with whiskey.

Your gaze snaps back to Jeno, drawn as if by instinct, a fleeting glance that feels more like a confession than a look. His eyes meet yours, dark and commanding, a silent pull that roots you in place and sends your pulse spiraling. The air between you crackles, and before you can think, before reason has any hope of catching up, the words spill from your lips, soft and breathless, like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

The air shifts again as Jeno moves with an ease that feels almost too deliberate, each step closing the space between you with unbearable tension. His focus is razor-sharp, cutting through the chaos around him, but it’s not the crowd he sees—it’s you. The heat in his eyes doesn’t waver, doesn’t drift; it pins you where you stand, as if daring you to look away. The curve of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, the way his body shifts with purpose—it all draws you in, tightening something low in your stomach. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t falter, as though every motion was designed to pull you closer. By the time he reaches you, you’re caught entirely in his orbit, and the man beside you barely exists in the wake of his presence.

“Hi, baby,” Jeno says, his voice smooth, unhurried, as if the word was made for him. He slips into the role so naturally it startles you, an ease you didn’t expect. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, his fingers curling just enough to anchor you to him. The motion isn’t rushed or hesitant—it’s grounding, a quiet declaration. His eyes hold yours with a warmth that burns slow, the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, softer, like he’s letting you in on something meant only for you. “The whole room couldn’t take their eyes off you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, but it’s the subtle ways he moves—angling his body to shield you from the drunk man, the slight press of his fingers against your waist—that catch you off guard. There’s a thoughtfulness in the way he takes off his black jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, the gesture unspoken but so deliberate it feels like second nature. The fabric settles around you like an unspoken promise, heavier than the air around you and infinitely more secure.

He leans closer, his breath brushing your ear, his lips grazing the shell just enough to make your stomach flip. His voice drops, a quiet rumble only for you. “Boyfriend, huh?” There’s a faint, teasing curve to his words, but beneath it lies something deeper, sharper. “I like the sound of that.”

Before you can respond, the drunk man speaks again, his tone laced with disbelief. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. I’d know if you did.”

You arch a brow, your voice steady but razor-sharp. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

He scoffs, stepping forward as if to challenge you, but Jeno moves faster. He turns, his hand sliding up to cradle your face, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss crashes over you, fierce and unrelenting, pulling you under its weight and leaving you breathless. His mouth crashes onto yours with a heat that burns through every barrier. His hand fists in your hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from you, your lips parting instinctively as his tongue sweeps in. The taste of him is intoxicating—warm, electric, and maddeningly assertive as he deepens the kiss without hesitation, claiming every inch of you with each deliberate stroke. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his top, yanking him closer, your body pressed so tight against his you can feel the flex of his chest against yours.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting down just enough to send a shudder ripping through you, before he soothes the sting with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. A low, guttural moan escapes from deep in his throat, vibrating against your lips, and the sound makes your knees weaken. His free hand slides down your spine, the heat of his palm branding your bare skin. His fingers skim lower, gripping at the curve of your ass where nothing but the thin band of your thong separates you from him. He squeezes hard, possessive and unapologetic, pulling you even tighter against him until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The kiss grows filthier, wetter, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s as desperate as it is deliberate. Each drag of his lips against yours feels like fire, each press of his hands against your body a silent command. You meet him with equal hunger, your nails scratching lightly at the nape of his neck as you tug him down, urging him to keep going, to take more. His groans deepen, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he angles his head, capturing your mouth harder, deeper, like he’s devouring you.

His hands roam without restraint—one slipping to continue to knead the bare flesh of your ass, fingers pressing into your skin, the other sliding back up to cradle your face as though to keep you exactly where he wants you. You moan into his mouth, the sound shameless, and his lips curve against yours in response, his control faltering for just a moment as he bites down on your lip again, harder this time. The sting only heightens the need coursing through you, your body arching into him, chasing his heat.

The world falls away entirely, the noise of the bar drowned out by the wet, erotic sounds of your lips and the desperate gasps that escape between kisses. Time stretches, warps, until the only thing that exists is him—the scrape of his teeth, the slide of his tongue, the way his hands hold you like he never wants to let go. When you finally break apart, it’s not because either of you wants to stop, but because breathing feels like a necessity. His forehead presses against yours, his breath heavy and uneven as his thumb grazes your cheek. His eyes meet yours, dark and blown wide, and for a moment, it’s as if the whole world is burning just for the two of you.

The drunk man mutters something under his breath before slinking away, but neither of you spare him a glance. The moment is yours, and for the first time, it’s not about riling each other up or gaining control. It’s about surrendering to the pull, to the unspoken connection that’s been building, crackling, waiting to ignite.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The tension crackles louder, sharper, until the only thing you hear is the thrum of your pulse in your ears. You lean in just enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing tonight?”

His lips curl into the faintest smirk, his hand sliding down to rest on the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. “That depends,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with suggestion. His thumb brushes against your bare skin, teasing. “What are you doing tonight?”

You feel yourself leaning into him, your body responding before your mind can catch up. Your hand slides to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. “You,” you whisper, letting the single word hang in the air, thick and undeniable.

Jeno’s eyes darken further, his grip tightening as he pulls you flush against him, his voice a quiet growl against your lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd outside dissolves into static as Jeno’s hand wraps firmly around yours, his grip confident, his strides purposeful. He tugs you along without hesitation, his broad shoulders cutting a path toward the front door. There’s no pause, no glance back, like he’s certain you’ll follow, falling effortlessly into step behind him. His fingers tighten, the weight of his presence commanding without effort.

But then your heels dig in. The abrupt resistance jolts through his arm, halting him mid-step. His head snaps around, the motion sharp, confusion clouding the dark intensity of his eyes. “My place,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, the words brushing against the static hum of the night. His free hand finds your waist instinctively, sliding there like a reflex, his grip almost possessive. It lingers, coaxing, as though he’s guiding you forward even now, oblivious to the shift in control already beginning to slip from his grasp.

“Too far,” you murmur, the weight of your words pressing like a palm against his chest. His lips part, as if to argue but you’ve already moved. Your hand slides from his grasp, cool and deliberate, only to knot tightly with his own. Your grip is firm, not a suggestion but a command, and before he can react, you’re steering him down the narrow hallway. The air shifts around you, dim light casting shadows that ripple as your steps quicken. His pace stumbles, caught between following and being pulled, and yet he doesn’t resist. The faint scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes the heat in his gaze—smoldering, restless, entirely at your mercy. Every step you take leaves no room for doubt: you’re leading, and he’s already given in.

By the time you reach your dressing room, the tension between you feels suffocating, a palpable charge in the air that crackles like static. You shove the door open, pulling him in behind you, and with one smooth motion, you kick it shut and turn the lock. The metallic click reverberates through the cramped space, the sound echoing in the silence as your eyes meet his.

The room is small, stifling almost, the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the lingering heat from the performance. Clothes hang haphazardly on a rack against the wall, makeup scattered across the vanity, a worn chair tucked into the corner. But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that—his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, and that damn smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Your grip on his arms is defiant, a silent refusal to yield, but it doesn’t matter—his strength eclipses yours, sharp and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he spins you, your back meeting the wall with a jarring thud that reverberates down your spine. The cold surface seeps through the thin barrier of fabric, a biting contrast to the heat coursing through you. His body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting, a force you can’t escape, no space spared between the hard planes of his chest and the soft curves of your frame. His presence consumes, each breath he takes pushing against you, every inch of him demanding to be felt, leaving no room to question who’s in control.

His lips pull away from yours, leaving your skin tingling, as if the heat of him has seeped beneath the surface. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts as his head tilts back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and his gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall holding you there. The chipped paint and uneven surface press into your back, a subtle but insistent reminder of how tightly he has you pinned. His eyes shift again, landing on the worn chair by the dressing table, his brow furrowing as though calculating where he’ll take you—against the wall, where you’re trapped under his weight, or on the chair.

The indecision lingers for a heartbeat, thickening the air, but then his gaze snaps back to yours. The hesitation evaporates in a flash, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and cutting, its teasing edge sending a jolt through your core. The smirk tugging at his lips deepens, sharp as a knife, and he leans in, reclaiming your mouth with a kiss that’s rough and all-consuming, matching the unrelenting pressure of his body pinning you in place.

This time, he descends on you with a force that borders on reckless, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all hunger and demand. There’s nothing careful in the way his lips move—hard and insistent, a clash of teeth and heat, as if he’s determined to strip you down to nothing but raw instinct. His breath mingles with yours, feverish, intoxicating, his confidence threading through every movement like an unspoken dare.

His hands slide over your body, dragging down your sides with a roughness that sets every nerve alight. His fingers curl into your waist, blunt nails digging into the fabric of your dress with just enough force to make you squirm. It’s not just touch—it’s possession, each grip and squeeze leaving your skin hypersensitive, the imprint of him burned into you in ways you’ll still feel tomorrow.

Then, without a word, he shifts. His hands are on your thighs before you realize what he’s doing, spreading wide to anchor your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. The movement is sharp, dizzying, and your breath catches as your body twists mid-air, a startled sound breaking from your throat. Before you can recover, the solid, unyielding surface of the wall meets you again, your chest pressing flat against the cold plaster. The shock bites into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pouring off him as he pins you there.

Your spine arches instinctively, the chill forcing you to react, but his hands are already back on you. They move lower, greedy and deliberate, gripping the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask—he acts, his body crowding yours, his presence so consuming it feels like he’s claiming more than just space.

Jeno’s lips find your neck, his breath scalding as he works his way down with kisses that aren’t soft—they’re bruising, his teeth scraping your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite only to do it again. His hands are everywhere now, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, before settling on your ass. His grip tightens, fingers kneading and squeezing with a bruising intensity, pulling soft, involuntary moans from your lips.

His breath fans against the back of your neck, his voice low and hoarse as he growls, “Don’t move.” His fingers hook into the thin straps of your thong, tugging them down with maddening slowness, the fabric dragging against your skin until it pools at your feet.

The air shifts, thick with anticipation, before the sharp crack of his palm meeting your bare skin breaks through it. The sting is immediate, fire spreading across your ass as you jolt against the wall. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before striking again, harder this time.

You don’t answer, your breath catching as silence stretches between you. The tension snaps with the sharp crack of his palm against your skin, the sting blooming instantly as his hand lingers. “Did you think you could ignore me?” he growls, the sound dark and dangerous, reverberating through the cramped space. He kneads the reddened flesh, his touch rough and possessive, each squeeze leaving your body trembling.

His hand slides lower, slower than before, his fingers grazing the slick heat between your thighs. He moves deliberately, each teasing stroke designed to pull a reaction from you, to remind you who’s in control. A soft gasp escapes your lips despite yourself, and he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing deeper, claiming more, as his grip on you tightens.

He chuckles darkly, leaning in until his lips brush against your ear. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can pretend you’re not loving this, but your body’s giving you away.” His fingers dip further, gathering your wetness before sliding back up to press against your clit.

The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, each strike landing harder and faster, a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning under his touch. The sting spreads like wildfire, the heat intensifying with every slap, every deliberate swing of his hand, until the ache becomes something molten, something you can’t help but arch into. His hand lingers between strikes, fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly, possessively, before pulling back to deliver another.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, each exhale jagged as the relentless pace of his punishment leaves your legs trembling. The warmth radiates from where his palm lands, blooming outward and seeping into your core, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a grounding force that keeps you pressed firmly against the wall, pinned exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into the nape of your neck, holding you still as his other hand continues its torment, the cadence unyielding, every movement a silent assertion of control.

“You take it so fucking well,” he mutters, his voice dark, hoarse with arousal. His lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath spilling across your skin as he lands another sharp slap on your ass. The sound echoes through the room, louder this time, the sting spreading fire through you. “So fucking beautiful—marked up, trembling for me. You take it so well, I can’t get enough of you.”

But he doesn’t see it slipping. With every strike, every grinding roll of his hips, the control he’s convinced he has starts to unravel. His rhythm falters, the confidence in his grip turning just a little hesitant, his actions betraying how lost he is in you, how tightly he’s gripping onto the dynamic he doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

You twist sharply, moving faster than he anticipates, his balance tipping just enough for you to break free. Before he can react, your hands shove him hard, slamming his back against the wall with a thud that leaves him momentarily stunned. His shoulders hit the surface, his breath catching as his lips part, his gaze meeting yours with wide eyes, half-lidded from lust but entirely caught off guard.

Your body presses flush against his, pinning him there, and you don’t give him a second to recover. One hand slides up his chest, slow and deliberate, the pads of your fingers grazing the heat of his skin through the fabric before curling around his throat. Your grip is firm, your thumb pressing against the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his head tilts back instinctively, lips parting in a soft, breathy gasp.

The sharp click of your tongue fills the silence as you tighten your grip on his throat, tilting his chin higher until his eyes meet yours. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggles to process the sudden shift. “What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper, your voice low and deliberate, a calm veneer masking the storm beneath.

His jaw tenses at the sound, the movement sharp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His lips part like he’s about to answer, but all that comes out is a strained, “…Fucking you?” His voice wavers, caught somewhere between confusion and the lingering need that tightens his body against yours.

A slow, mocking laugh spills from your lips, warm and soft against the side of his face as you lean in, your breath brushing his ear. “‘Fucking you?’” you repeat, each syllable dripping with amusement and a condescension that makes his breath stutter. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He blinks at you, dumbfounded, his lips still parted as though searching for a retort that refuses to come. Your hands shift, sliding down his chest, your nails grazing over the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric. The touch is slow, almost languid, a deliberate reminder of the control slipping from his hands.

Before he can react, your grip tightens, and with a sharp push, you shove him backward. His body stumbles into the chair behind him—the one tucked neatly in front of your vanity, its chipped wood and faded upholstery an unassuming witness to what’s about to unfold. The wood creaks loudly under his weight as he lands, his legs spreading instinctively, his body folding into a position that leaves him utterly exposed.

Jeno stares up at you, chest heaving, his expression caught between shock and arousal, the sharp edge of his usual confidence dulled by the realization that he’s no longer in control. “Who said you get to control things here?” you ask, stepping between his legs, the heat of your body brushing against his thighs as you lean forward. Your hands grip the arms of the chair, trapping him in place, your face close enough to feel the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.

The flicker of defiance in his eyes doesn’t last; it crumbles under the weight of your stare, unrelenting and burning with a fire that leaves no room for argument. You drag your fingers down his chest, each pass slower, heavier, before pressing him firmly back against the chair. The reflection in the vanity mirror catches your attention, the image of him looking up at you—wide-eyed, lips parted, completely at your mercy—only fueling the satisfaction curling low in your stomach.

“Do you think you’re in control tonight?” you whisper, tilting your head just enough for your lips to ghost over the corner of his mouth without fully touching. “Because you’re not. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”

Jeno’s groan is immediate, raw and guttural, spilling out like something torn from deep within him. His head tips back against the chair, the tension in his body unraveling in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitating, unsure whether to grip the arms of the chair or reach for you, the uncertainty foreign to someone who has spent his entire life mastering control.

And control is all Jeno has ever known—his constant, unwavering companion. On the court, every move is deliberate, precise; in life, every decision calculated, a performance for everyone watching. Even in bed, he’s always the one steering, leading, dictating. But now, with you standing over him, your eyes sharp, your touch deliberate, and his body pinned beneath the weight of your dominance, that control feels distant, useless, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying—and intoxicating.

His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the tension he’s carried for years fraying at the edges as his body betrays him. He’s never allowed himself to feel this exposed, this vulnerable, but the sight of you towering over him, your fingers sliding lower, commanding his every reaction, sets him alight in ways he didn’t think possible. He’s so used to being the one in charge that the sudden, absolute loss of it is dizzying—and yet, it feeds something buried deep within him, something he didn’t know he craved.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half-growled, half-broken as his body shivers beneath your touch. His hips jerk involuntarily, his restraint cracking with every deliberate stroke of your fingers teasing the waistband of his pants. “You don’t even fucking know… what you’re doing to me right now.” His voice is strained, frayed with tension and desire, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight—can’t think about anything but you.”

Your smirk deepens, the sight of him unraveling beneath you igniting something sharp and primal inside you. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmur, your tone soft but laced with unshakable control. Your hands slide lower, grazing the hard, unrelenting line of him through the fabric, and his breath hitches, sharp and loud, filling the small space between you.

You glance down at him, your vantage point offering a view you could never tire of: Lee Jeno, always so composed, always so in control, now trembling beneath your hands. His head tips back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as though he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. His lips are parted, swollen and wet, the slightest quiver betraying the effect you have on him. It’s a sight you want to etch into memory—Jeno, stripped of his carefully constructed control, utterly undone by the simplest brush of your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning closer until your lips brush the curve of his jaw, your breath warm against his skin, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” Your voice is low, teasing, every word deliberate, and you feel the sharp hitch in his breathing as your lips ghost over him. His body tenses beneath your hands, every muscle coiled and trembling as you drag your palms higher along his thighs, grazing the firm muscle beneath, each touch slow and deliberate.

“You haven’t even had my mouth around you,” you continue, your tone soft but dripping with intent, your teeth grazing his jawline before your lips press against it. The first kiss is deliberate, calculated, and when you hear the faintest sound slip from his throat, you press harder. “Haven’t felt me ride you,” you murmur against his skin, trailing lower, your lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear, “until you can’t think, until you can’t breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides, his head falling back further, baring his neck to you without thinking, and you take full advantage. Your mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath stutters, the sound rough and broken as you work your way back up, your teeth scraping the edge of his throat.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your lips brushing over the rapid flutter of his pulse. “You’re already falling apart—and I haven’t even started yet.”

His breath catches, a sharp intake of air that barely makes it past his lips. His voice is rough, breaking as he murmurs, “I know… fuck, I know.” His head tilts further, exposing more of his throat to you, his body trembling under your touch. “You’ve got me so worked up, I can’t—” His words falter, his jaw tightening as a low, guttural groan escapes. “I’ll do whatever you want… just don’t stop.”

“You’re not used to this, are you?” you murmur, your lips brushing against his skin again. “Letting someone else take the lead.” Your tone is soft but cutting, each word a reminder of just how deeply he’s falling into unfamiliar territory.

“No,” he admits, his voice barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I don’t want you to stop.” 

And that’s when you realize—it’s not just desire coursing through him; it’s need. He needs this. Needs the weight lifted from his shoulders, the persona he so carefully wears stripped away, and the relentless pressure to always lead momentarily silenced. You see it in the way his body trembles beneath your touch, his breaths uneven, his hands clenching as though he’s barely holding himself together. And you? You’re more than happy to take it all from him.

With deliberate ease, you lean forward, sliding onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as your weight settles against him. His breath stutters, and his hands instinctively find your hips, gripping them like he needs something to ground himself. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, even though you’ve already made yourself comfortable in his lap.

You adjust slightly, your hips pressing closer to his, and the contact makes his body tense under yours. Your movements are slow and calculated, your chest brushing against his as you shift, letting him feel the deliberate roll of your body against his. His eyes drop immediately to your chest, his gaze fixated on the swell of your breasts, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“Jeno,” you call softly, your tone sharp enough to pull his attention back to you. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, wide and glassy with arousal. “Eyes up here,” you tease, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You lean in closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his jaw as you tilt his head back slightly. Your lips press softly against his, the touch so gentle it feels almost out of place in the charged atmosphere between you. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still—frozen beneath you like he can’t believe it’s real, like the tenderness is too foreign in a moment so thick with desire.

When he finally responds, it’s hesitant, his lips moving against yours as though he’s afraid the fragile connection might break. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, his body instinctively seeking more of you. The kiss deepens, soft and slow, and you feel the tension bleeding out of him, the weight he carries melting away as he lets himself sink into the moment.

But as you kiss him, something shifts inside you, the heat between you tempered for just a moment by the vulnerability you feel in his touch. His hesitation, the way he trembles beneath you, makes you pause. Your smirk falters, and you pull back just slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as your hands slide down to rest on his chest.

Your palms press against him—not demanding, but grounding—and you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingers. He’s so used to control, to leading, to bearing the weight of expectation. But here, now, he’s unraveling, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble under your hands. And suddenly, you need to know—need to hear him say it.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, your voice quieter now, stripped of the teasing edge you’ve carried so far. It’s raw and unmasked, a question that feels as much about him as it does about you. “Do you want me to lead, Jeno?”

The question hangs between you, the vulnerability in your tone catching him off guard, and for a moment, his breath stills. His eyes meet yours, wide and dark, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile compared to the tension between you. Then, stronger, with a desperate edge: “Yes. Fuck, yes. I need this. I need you.”

The honesty in his voice hits you like a jolt, but you don’t let it show—not fully. Your lips brush his again, firmer this time, as your hands slide lower, teasing over the hard, unrelenting line of him through his pants. His head falls back again, a quiet, desperate groan slipping past his lips.

“You’ve been so good to me tonight, helping me out with those guys earlier” you continue, taking a step closer to him, the heat in your tone softening into something that feels almost like praise. “You deserve something for being such a good boy, don’t you?”

He nods and you take a moment to admire him—flushed, breathless, utterly undone. The sight of him, usually so cocky, now reduced to this trembling, obedient version of himself, sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through you. He’s listening. Actually listening. Not arguing, not resisting, just sitting there, wide-eyed and waiting for your next command.

Your smirk sharpens, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. You press your palm flat against him, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath your hand as you lean in, your dominance radiating in every deliberate movement.

“Then take your pants off,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding, every word laced with heat. You step back, your eyes boring into his, daring him to disobey. “Now.”

His hands move quickly, trembling as he struggles with the waistband of his pants, finally pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs forward, thick and heavy, flushed with need, the sight alone making your breath catch. He’s bigger than you anticipated—bigger than what you’re used to—but you bite down on the flicker of hesitation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing. You won’t let him see the challenge he presents or give him any room to feel smug.

You step forward, pressing one hand flat against his chest and pushing him back until his shoulders meet the chair. He’s perched at the edge, his legs spread wide, his breath shallow and erratic as he stares at you, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. “You’re going to sit there and take it,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the words laced with heat that makes his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs, you drag your hands up his thighs, your nails grazing his skin lightly. He shudders beneath your touch, his muscles tensing as you lean in closer. “You’ve been good so far,” you whisper, glancing up at him, your voice teasing but firm. “Let’s see if you can stay that way.”

His breath hitches as your lips ghost over the tip of his cock, soft and feather-light. His hips jerk involuntarily, a strained groan slipping past his lips. “I didn’t say you could move,” you chastise, your tone sharp, dripping with condescension as your nails dig into his thighs, holding him in place.

“Fuck—sorry,” he chokes out, his head tipping back against the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the edges of the seat. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still, every inch of him taut with restraint.

Satisfied, you let your lips brush over him again, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive head. The taste of him spreads across your tongue, rich and musky, and you hum softly, your hands tightening on his thighs. You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, your tongue swirling around the tip before sliding lower, inch by inch, until the weight of him fills you.

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck—God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck—anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention—a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it—stay just like that.”

“Fuck—fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need—I’m so close—please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Jeno.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock—hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach—sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I—I need you. Please, just—fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t—fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything—fuck, anything—just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything—whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him—not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you—begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I—fuck, I’m sorry—fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck—oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like—shit—I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t—” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t—” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still—his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him—wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No—no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect—so soft, so—fuck—I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Jeno. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this—wrecked and trembling—only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking. 

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention—the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone—blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly—utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Lee Jeno was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes—half-lidded and glazed over—lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this—it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Jeno. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying—I swear—”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Jeno, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck—do whatever you want—just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Jeno? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please—I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck—please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Jeno. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so—fuck—you’re perfect. I need more—I need—”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue—hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it—you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs—the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal—makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so—shit—how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Jeno.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you—shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control. 

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m—Jeno, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Jeno follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw—shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips—he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact—a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him—Mark’s brother—the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate—the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you moves, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @alltimernctzen @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[awordsmith]

tongue-tied 𝜗𝜚 s.r

Spencer breaks up with you because he’s been arrested for murder. he refuses to see or talk about you and you–dumbfounded–force your way back into his life by becoming his lawyer.

who? spencer reid x known!reader when? s12 genre: novella content warning: a bit angsty in the beginning, open ending?, little mention of work stress/not feeling like enough/feeling too much... ..reid with warm care !! word count: 3.5k a/n: i had a really vivd dream about this scenario; i don't know if any of you know what tiktok shifting is, but it felt like that–where it was first person pov and i didn't know i was dreaming until i woke up...enjoy!!

The ceiling fan buzzed; you wiped your eyes and stood, heading for the switch when your phone rang on the table. Your heart leaped and you rushed back to the table, forgetting the annoyance that moments ago haunted you.

It was him–you grinned and clicked answer, “Spencer, hey are you b–

“—...”

“Hey,” frowning, you took a seat at your desk, pulling a leg up on the chair to lean on, “what’s going on? Are you alright?”

You heard his breath on the other side of the line. Shaky–it passe over you like a cloud. You felt tears spring into your own eyes. You were never equipped to handle things like this–Spencer knew that–he was the yapper and you were the listener–but he wasn’t yapping right now.

“Spencer, say something…” you bit your thumb, “where are you?” You stood, moving your hands around in search of your keys, “I’m coming to get you–

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to see each other anymore…”

Your keys fell from your hand and you dumbly slid back into your chair, glancing at the documents spread out in front of you–you had just finished a case that day–you were writing out your report and sorting the files in order. “What did you say?...”

There was no response, only heavy breathing. A tear broke free and you were quick to swipe it away.

“Where is this coming from?” Your voice, though quivering, full–you knew he could hear it–he could hear how pathetic you sounded, “did something happen in Mexico?”

You closed your eyes for a minute, before setting the phone down and putting him on speaker. This wasn’t happening–this was–what even happened?

“Spencer,” your voice grew louder, “dammit–Spencer answer me! I deserve a damn explanation!” You slammed your hands on your desk near your phone, knocking a few papers to the floor.

“...I know,” he dared to whisper–and then like that, the line went dead.

You slid to the floor, wailing.

No calls, no messages–you’d sent around 20 throughout the night as you fell in and out of sleep. You’d left 5 voicemails and still–nothing. You tried him again this morning when you woke up, once when you got out of the shower, once before you left the house, and once before you headed into the office.

At this point, you were starting to accept the fact that maybe it really was over–but that didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t blocked you–that was something? Maybe? Or maybe you were being delusional.

There had to be something bigger behind this–something you were missing–there was no way–not the Spencer that you knew–would do something like this–

“I love you, you know that?” He kissed your exposed shoulder, it was cold and you wondered if he had accidentally left a window open.

A giggle escaped you and pushed him off your back, “Spence–I need to–” Another laugh cut off your sentence as he kissed your neck, “Come on seriously,” you gave him a once over, “I need to work.”

He had an old, tall lamp that stood in the corner of his den–you remember helping him pick it out from the thrift store–Spencer was a thrifting-obsessed maniac. But you loved that about him. “Work can wait for tomorrow,” he whined.

You raised an incredulous brow, “Do I ever say that when Penelope calls?” His apartment had that same fresh parchment smell it always seemed to have.

“Fine,” Spencer sighed, “do you want takeout?”

You gripped the back of his desk chair, grinning, “I thought you’d never ask.”

There had to be some sort of misunderstanding–Spencer wouldn’t just up and do something like this to you, not after the year you’d been together. You were expecting to take the next step with him–not a breakup–

“This is great, I’ll email you some of the newer cases and you can take your pick.”

“Actually,” you grimaced, “I was wondering if I could take a few days off, one or two would be great.”

Your boss assessed you, his eyes roamed over your tired eyes and a messy ponytail. “Everything alright?”

Your lips pressed together and you forced the corners to turn upward, “yep, just…tired…”

He sighed and leaned backward, crossing his hands on his belly, “I see, well yes, of course–take as many days as you need.”

Your smile brightened slightly, “thank you, Sir, really.” 

He called your name when you were at the door, and you turned back, waiting, “just something to keep in mind…he’s not worth it. Don’t let it stress you out too much, you’re a great lawyer. Okay?”

You took a breath and closed your eyes. When they reopened, you fixed them on your boss, “Thank you, I know you’re just being kind. But with all due respect, Sir, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Beauru wasn’t too far away from your office, perhaps a few blocks. You made it there in 15 minutes with traffic and were stepping through the doors in 20.

You tried Emily’s cell, but she didn’t pick up, and none of the other team members were responding either–you called Luke, but he didn’t pick up. You thanked the receptionist for your visitor pass, she’d grown accustomed to your presence.

You typically had lunch with Spencer when his team didn’t have a case, sometimes he’d surprise you at the office super early or incredibly late when he wasn’t supposed to get back until the next day. 

Which is why none of this made any freaking sense.

“Penelope Garcia,” you pushed open her door, but she wasn’t there. Recognition crossed your face when you saw her little fidgets and gadgets spread across her desk. Her computer was open, but locked. You frowned and stepped away from it. Should you just wait here?

Spencer normally accompanied you whenever you were at the Beaureu, you felt out of place without him. You huffed a sigh and sat in her chair, Spencer wouldn’t be able to resist spinning himself, the thought made you chuckle, but just as quickly, the memory of him dumping you via phone call crossed your mind.

Over a fucking phone call? You set your purse off to the side and swiped up on your phone again. There was something seriously wrong. You would get to the bottom of this if it meant forcing it out of everyone here.

“Ah, perfect timing,” you spun around, meeting Penelope face to…well waist.

“Uh…hi,” she said.

“You hesitated–” you jabbed a finger at her and stood.

“I–” she looked behind her as if you were on a reality TV show and cameras were hiding in plain sight, “huh?–wha–no, no no no.” She stepped forward, “whywhatar–e you doing here?”

You averted your eyes to the floor, “It's Spencer…”

“Oh,” she nodded, “he’s…not here at the moment…but I will–I can call you or text! You…if that’s what you…want.”

“Garcia,” you didn’t want to be mean. You didn’t want to be rude–but being around profilers all the time, she should’ve known how to hide her lies better.

“Okay–fine,” she waved her hands in her face, chest deflating, “but you can’t tell anyone I told you–least of all Reid–he’d…” she grimaced, “...hate me for life.”

“Garcia–”

“–Okay, right, yeah, you wanna–” she motioned with her hands and walked forward.

You followed her with your gaze, widening your eyes expectantly, “…well?”

“Oh boy– you’re gonna wanna sit down for this.”

“If there’s another woman Garcia, just tell me, I can take it–

Her eyes narrowed, “Oh no–God no–Ried would never–he’s crah–zy about you…trust me he never shuts up–anyway,” she shook her head and flailed her arms, “What I’m trying to say is that Reid would never cheat–he isn’t that kind of person. He–

“So then why!?”

“Reids in prison!” Her hands covered her mouth and her eyes grew, “oh my gosh I just said that–he’s gonna–he’ll never forgive me–

Your heart plummeted, “Spencer’s in…prison…?”

Penelope coughed up his file pretty easily. After getting her to spill the big beans on what happened in Mexico–or at least what Spencer had been able to remember, it wasn’t too hard to convince her that if Spencer hated her already, what would it matter that she do anything else?

You sped home, pulled into your complex, and ran toward your apartment. Upon locking the door, you set your things on your couch and took his files to your room. At a time like like this you really wished you had a pet, someone to comfort you–were it not for the surrounding circumstances, you could rely on Spencer. He was always there.

Which is why–despite his shitty breakup call–you had to be here for him, when he was at his lowest.

But first, you needed to cry.

A load of salty fries and two water bottles later, you were tying your hair back into a bun and grabbing a red marker. The copies Penelope had made for you proved to have nothing other than a few written statements from first responders–most of which did not favor Spencer–the crime scene photos, that were hard to look at, though nothing of which you hadn’t seen before.

And finally, his statement–his recollection pulled together in a jumble of phrases and half-sentences. Your heart lapsed again. You pushed everything in front of you and rubbed your face. It was getting late. Almost eight, you most likely weren’t on his visitation list–and if he’d kept all of this from you–he most definitely wouldn’t be expecting you.

Which is exactly why you had just one last favor to ask of Penelope.

You defended minor criminals whom you believed innocent on most, if not all accounts–the majority of the cases you took on favored your clients. You had slowly been working your way up to higher crimes–your last case had been a series of robberies, resulting in a shootout, though no one had died, the second it crossed your screen, you knew you had to take it.

This was your first murder case–though it wasn’t officially yours…yet. You needed more information, but first and foremost, you needed Spencer to agree.

Millburn Correctional Facility wasn’t the place you dreamt about when you wanted to escape reality–but Spencer was here, and he didn’t look happy to see you. The buzzer sounded and the doors were opened, the prisoners failed into the room in a straight line.

When he turned to face you, his expression became unreadable, you knew something was off then, because Spencer was always readable to you. His skin looked ghostly pale and his eyes looked a bit sunken–but that was still your Spencer behind the glass. 

“What are you doing here?”  Was the first thing he asked upon picking up the phone.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

A breath passed between his lips where words should have been. 

“Spencer, why didn’t you want me to know? Why did you–this is why you broke up with me, right?” He remained silent, eyes scanning something on your shirt, “am I right?”

He shook his head, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“How could I not come?” Exasperated, you slammed a hand onto the table in front of you, lowering your voice when you met the gazes of the other visitors.

“Who told you, Garcia?” He scoffed, “Did she also get you on my visitation list–is that–is that how you’re here?–”

“–The better question is why you didn’t tell me yourself.”

Spencer shook his head, “I can’t believe she would do that–

“You asked them?” You grit your teeth and take a calming breath, “you asked them to not tell me? That’s why no one’s been picking up my calls or messages?”

“That’s–

“–It’s what, Spencer?”

He went silent again.

You leaned forward, pressing the phone to your ear, “What happened in Mexico?”

“I can’t–I’m not allowed to discuss that with you–

“No,” you sat back and crossed your leg, the pencil skirt you wore riding up your thigh, “but you can with your lawyer.”

“What? No.” He shook his head, “No. I’m telling you right now, I will never agree to that.” He looked so set in his decision. Your bottom lip quivered a bit, you clamped down to keep it from giving you away.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The buzzer sounded again, “I already have a lawyer.” He shoved the phone back on its hinges and stood, you followed.

“I don’t care,” you shouted through the glass. Spencer’s eyes looked glazed over, you wanted to hug him–you wanted to breathe him in and tell him everything would be alright. But somewhere in you felt him drifting away, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t reach him.

“Don’t come back.” These were his final words before he was taken away.

The chair provided you with some stability–though tears pricked the corner of your eyes as you watched the back of him disappear. “Ma’am, it’s time.” An officer led you and the other visitors back through the doors, toward the front.

You wouldn’t give up. This was your case. You would make it yours.

“We can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…nothing personal–” 

“–Except it,” Emily sighed, “I’m sorry,” she murmured your name, looking at the picture of sorrow, “I really am, but…” she pursed her lips and glanced away, “you’re not gonna let this go?”

“How could I?” You scoffed and stood, “This case is mine, Emily–whether you decide to help me is up to you.” You headed for the door, but Fiona, Spencer’s current lawyer called you back.

You glanced at her over your shoulder, waiting. She glanced away and blew out air, “I appreciate you thinking about me, and I’m glad to know you have this much confidence in me…”

“But…?” Emily slumped her shoulders and nodded, “All alright,” you spun around to face her, meeting her resolve with a heavy heart.

“If you can get Reid to agree, the case is yours.”

You let out a breath and dropped your firm stance, tears springing into the corners of your eyes. You looked up and blinked them away, “thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I think I have a rather good idea.” Emily’s smile was faint but evident.

“And thank you, Fiona,” you tried for a smile, surprised to find it somewhat genuine.

“Don’t be. This case is going to be rough–”

“Oh, and paired with the fact that Reid will never agree to it.”

“Wow, thanks for the confidence, Emily.” You snorted out.

She held up her hands, “I’m sorry, good luck.”

Emily watched you slip behind her office door and down the steps of the Beaureu. “Do you think he really won’t accept?” Fiona mumbled.

Emily turned toward her old friend and pressed a thing to smile to her lips, shrugging, “I have no idea.”

Fiona sat back down and ran her hands through her hair, “Yeah, but, I can tell why she’s so persistent.”

“Okay, why?” Though Emily had an inkling of suspicion herself, she never wanted to assume anything.

“Because she loves him–with her whole heart.”

“People in love do stupid things,” Emily clicked her tongue.

“Sometimes I wish someone would love me enough to do stupid things for me.”

“It’s a both blessing and a curse.”

“I’ll raise to that.”

The two friends laughed as their morning coffee cups met.

The prison was icky–perhaps you should have worn sweats this time. You crossed our legs, trying to ignore the stares.

“I told you not to come back here.” Spencer hissed.

“You don’t own me, Spencer. You cannot tell me what to do–

“–No, but I can take you off my visitor list.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me–”

“–Spencer!” Gosh, what was wrong with him!?

Fragments of his voice seeped through the speaker on the old landline. A hairsbreadth of a word, a name–your name.

You watched the phone in horror. Why–Why? Wasn’t he letting you help him? Did he not think you were capable? “Spencer.” You said in response. “Spencer. Spencer. Spencer.”

“Dammit.” He cursed and a guard asked if you were alright, of course, you were alright. He would never hurt you. That wasn’t him. Prison wouldn’t change Spencer–there was no way–

“Tell me something.” You urged, “Tell me something outlandish–something no one would know about unless they were…you.”

He flinched. His pupils dilated and you could tell he was thinking of what to say next. “Why are you doing this?”

The tone in his voice unnerved you. It reached the cracks in your body that led to your soul. He sounded tired–so tired from the last you’d been to see him. You would not be pushed down. You wouldn’t give in–this wasn’t scrabble or chess–this was his life. How could he not see that?

“You know why.” You watched him–every tick, every muscle; every movement, you analyzed, and perhaps overanalyzed, but you didn’t know another person who wouldn’t in your situation.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”

Two weeks later you were taken off Spencer’s visitor list, which was madness because you had thought you’d had this conversation already.

“Penelope Garcia,” you spun around in her chair.

“AH–Gya, you’ve got to stop doing that. I half-expect you to be petting an evil cat in your lap.”

“Why did he take me off, what’s going on? Has there been a break in the case? Nothing had come across my desk since Tara’s cognitive with him.”

Penelope averted her eyes and fidgeted with the chunky rings on her fingers.

“Penelope I’m serious. Why does he keep doing this? What is going on? Something happened? Right? That’s why he doesn’t want me to see him? I drove down there yesterday and waited two hours just to be told I couldn’t see him.” You weren’t seething, but you were close to it.

“I–I don’t know, honestly.”

“But you know someone who does,” you stepped forward, “Penelope come on,” you fell against the wall, holding in all your emotional turmoil that has caused you to have freak accidents. “I’m losing him, Penelope.” You swallowed and slid to the floor of her office, “I’m losing myself.”

“Oh, oh sweetie,” she crouched down, pushing hair out of your eyes. Her fingers slid across your tear-stricken face, “...Emily. Emily knows.”

You took a moment and sat up, gulping down your breakdown, then breathing out, “Thank you.”

Up until the new documents crossed your desk, you neglected to see Spencer. You couldn’t–you didn’t want to. Not after you knew the reason behind why he’d taken you off the list.

It was too much–this entire situation was too much. Sometimes you had felt like you were bearing everything on your shoulders alone and no one was asking you to–no one cared because no one had wanted you on this case in the damned first place.

“Cat Adams, that name ring a bell?”

“The psycho hitwoman you guys captured months ago?”

Rossi and Emily exchanged glances, “yeah…” she motioned for you to sit down, “you’re going to want to sit for this.”

The lights in her office seemed to grow brighter with each sentence that flew from her mouth. Your soul stitching itself back together, that was how you felt when you left her office. You were on your way to Spencer once more, he was free. He didn’t do it.

Hi false testimony wasn’t Scratch playing games–he really was just too deluded. He wanted to remember so badly, his mind gave him false memories.

It disturbed you more than you would have liked to admit. Spencer was a prodigy–a genius in simple terms–and if even he couldn’t trust his own brain in times like these, could you ever trust yours?

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Spencer paced back and forth in front of you; JJ stood in the corner watching.

“She’s right, Spence, we can find another way–”

“–No. No, I can do this.” He ran a hand over his face.

“Hey–hey–” you grabbed his shirt and cupped his jaw in one of your hands, “it’s okay. I’ll be right outside.”

Spencer breathed you in, were it not for the stress he would have melted in your hands. He dind’t know how to express to you how deeply he had come to love you. You were the sun on his rainy days, you were leaves when Fall took them from the trees. The ocean when he was stranded on a desert island. 

He wanted to walk into his house and find you curled up with a book in your hands, using his favorite blanket to keep the cold from reaching your warmth. He wanted to see you wearing the only t-shirt he owned, the one he’d been given when he had graduated from MIT; he wanted to curl up beside you on his couch like a cat and nuzzle his head in your lap.

There were so many things he wanted, but he wasn’t sure if he deserved any of them. “I–” he wanted to say I love you, but it didn’t seem like enough.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

a/n: a little quick write, i hope you enjoyed cari!!

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke

[wyvernest]

back massages

pairing: miguel o'hara x college roommate f!reader

warnings: smut, miguel is a bit cocky, unprotected piv, suggestive massages, dry jumping

summary: you give miguel the proverbial back massage, and he returns the favour

"Ugh, my back-" he groans loudly, entering the cramped dorm room and slamming the creaking door shut in frustration.

"Still?" you reply, absent-mindedly, not looking away from your laptop screen and the from project you're working on for tonight's delivery. "Didn't the trellises at the gym help?"

You hear the cot springs coil under his weight as he drops to the bed on his stomach. "Couldn't even use them."

"Hm?" You're still half focused on your research, briefly catching the last words of his replies.

"The gym was full." He groans, shuffling on the mattress.

He is increasingly frustrated with the lack of attention he's receiving from you. You two have been teasing eachother for a while; enough of a while to get him riled up late at night, and to considerably speed up your heart rate whenever he was around.

But even now, you were afraid of being more obvious than necessary. He seemed so confident and easy to talk to, but sometimes you could only wonder if that's just what he was like with everyone else.

He wasn't. He was only this open to you. This relaxed. At least he wasn't aware of how attractive and intimidating his confidence could be to you.

Your delicate fingers kept tapping on the keyboard, unrelenting. Nearly indifferent.

"Didn't you say you'd finish it this morning?" he groans, slightly muffled by the pillow he rested his head against.

"Yeah." You aren't paying attention. Truthfully, beneath the façade, you can barely understand what you're reading, your eyes mechanically darting across the text in front of you. All you can think about is how much you'd want to straddle him and make out right now. Especially with the way he's groaning from the back pain-

"- I overslept." You explain, scarce and somewhat cold. He sighs deeply, and you feel your heart sink into your stomach. Fuck. You don't even know if being roommates is either a blessing or a curse. How are you even supposed to study with-

"Can't you take a break? Por favor." He speaks, his voice down an octave. You can't take it anymore. You peek at him over your shoulder, pondering.

He's shirtless. Of course. He has to be doing it on purpose at this point.

Your attention drifts over the line of his back that bends just slightly for him to hold his beefy arms under his pillow. His muscles ripple as he shifts to get more comfortable into the greyish bedsheets.

"Give me a back rub." He challenges, squinting his eyes and watching your face drop the second his request is processed in your brain.

"Come on." He chuckles lowly. A few ruffled strands of hair on his face make it look like he had just woken up. You can't resist. "Help me feel better."

Raising from the desk chair and moving to sit on the edge of the bed, you place your hands on his shoulder blades, pushing gently, kneading the tensed muscles there. He sighs deeply once again as he feels your small, warm palms on his broad back.

"Ugh." he groans, relaxing under your touch. "Push harder."

You comply, applying more pressure, digging the heels of your hands into his toned muscles.

Your vision washes over his body, comforted by the fact that he can't see you. His back is so much bigger than your whole body. You feel an unfathomably strong need to lay on him, to feel the heat of his skin invade yours. Or better yet, have him lay on you, feel the whole weight of him, cozy and constant.

"Oh-" He moans, raspy and low when you find another tensed up knot, "-feels so good." You're starting to soak your panties from the sounds he's making.

"You're so good at this." He halfly speaks into his pillow, evidently pleased with the special treatment. "Ah, yeah, right there- oh-"

Insisting on the spot, you start putting your upper body weight into the strokes, not having any more force in your arms. He groans again at the sudden change, only this time it comes out very much like a prolonged moan.

Soon enough your own back starts to hurt from the twisted position you're in, legs dangling on one side of the mattress and your torso turned to him. Ceasing your movements, you bring your hands to your lower back, pushing so you could straighten your spine as a faint ache begins to form.

"Get on the bed." He moves his head to gaze up at you over his shoulder. "Straddle my waist. Better for the both of us.", He advices, as if it's nothing.

Your heart rate picks up as uneasiness shoots through your veins as in a lighting strike. You've never been this close to him before. This physical, this intimate. Heart fluttering at the faint hope of reciprocated feelings and the possibility of something more, you silently accept the suggestion.

Climbing on the bed, you hop on his lower back, gradually and slowly laying your bodyweight on him.

"Is this okay?" You're finally settled, and he groans in an infinitely relieved exhale.

"More than okay." One of his hands slips away from under his pillow to tap on your thigh, nearly making you jump. "Continue, it was so good."

Trying to ignore his hand still resting two millimetres away from your leg, you resume the massage, searching for more knots over his broad back.

"That's it, that's it, oh fuck- ugh" His voice sultry and raspier, he flexes his back muscles involuntarily the second you finally reach the spot.

You have to use all that's left of your self control not to accidentally clench your cunt on his lower back. But you can't help it. Wearing a skirt wasn't the best idea today.

The way he's slightly squirming underneath you as you massage his huge shoulders, the way your clothed clit rubs against his skin with the motions have you shivering lightly.

"Yeah- oh, fuck" Your hands are behind his neck, undoing all the aches and rigidity from hours of hunching over his desk, of not taking long coveted breaks.

"I'm done, my arms are starting to hurt." You announce, partially true. You also couldn't stand his noises anymore, all the obscene groans and rough moans, fearing he might start feeling now wet you've actually gotten in the meantime.

In a surge of confidence, you lean forward, more or less intentionally letting your breasts squeeze flush against his back, and you kiss his cheek, soft and tender.

He's surprised and flustered for a flashing second, before letting a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Let me give you one too, cariño."

You shiver at the pet name, hearing him talk this way to you for the first time.

How could you possibly say no?

You lay on the bed where he had been, feeling the clean sheets warm and infused with his musk.

The mattress dips, springs creaking slightly as he adjusts his weight, finally straddling your upper thighs. Your breathing quickens in shock, not having expected him to take the same position as you did. You feel his weight on you, grounding you.

His broad hands start at your shoulders, questionably innocent at first. But just as you start to think that there isn't more to the way he's sat behind your ass, to the way he's touching you, his palms drift away from the usual motions of the massage he is supposed to give you.

Expert, cursory fingers pretend to knead down, to your waist, gripping hard.

You start feeling your pulse in your neck.

One of his thighs flexes on your side as he slightly adjusts, lifting himself a mere inch above you and settling back down. Only this time, you can feel his erection through his sweats, snugly sat between the globes of your ass.

Leaning forward, his grip on your waist remains strong as he slightly grinds his cock on you from behind, his hands mimicking his rhythm as if things aren't already obvious. It's still a massage, it's just not his main goal.

"Mm- Miguel-" you attempt to protest, only it comes out as a moan laced with anticipating pleasure.

A broad, warm hand slowly and unabashedly moves from your waist up to your shoulder, only for a mere second kneading the tensed muscles before drifting down. His fingers ever so slightly slip underneath you as he palms your right breast, not stopping his hips from rubbing his dick against you.

He's slow and careful, as if still hoping you hadn't noticed or aren't bothered to ask him to get off, even through your mewls and his moaned name.

“You're so..” He speaks quietly, for himself, “soft, and fragile-” He leans forward, much like you did, but instead he kisses your neck, down your spine. “I wanna-”

He leaves the voiced desire unfinished as he picks your torso up to his chest, his arms encompassing you, flipping you around.

Now with your body trapped in his embrace, thighs between his and hands squished together, he kisses your flushed cheeks with fervour.

“Tell me to stop.” A low whisper below your ear. Watching your face for any trace of doubt, you shake your head, ‘no’.

‘Don’t stop.’

Placing you back down on the mattress, he bunches your skirt up to your middle, moving your panties to the side as his other hand takes his rock hard cock out of his sweats.

You feel the precum coated head flush against your pussy lips, pushing in with a gravel groan.

As soon as he gathers the courage to advance, his length grazes your clit, your hips automatically jerking away, akin to having touched hot coal.

A shiver runs down your spine that makes your cunt flutter, his awaiting cock twitching in enthusiasm. He feels you spasm and grow wetter.

“Ugh, that- you feel so good-”

He’s only taking his time before he can bottom out inside you. With a look over your shoulder, you don’t trust your voice to respond. You nod and clench your pussy around him, aiming to viciously drive him mad.

He suddenly pushes forward, hands forcing you onto him, the contact with his own blazing flesh making your brain melt and eyes roll back into your head. You can almost feel his bulbous tip in your guts, messing with your nerves and sinews.

Quickly adapting to the new conditions your body has given him, he corrects his grip on your waist, hoisting you until your feet lose contact with the bed. Back now arched, ass well-adjusted to meet his height, upper body rested on the plush pillows. He drags out halfway before sinking back in.

His hips slowly rotate against yours, his tense abdomen waving into you

You can’t take it anymore. Your limbs feel like radio-static, heart sending its pulse into your pussy, breathing laboured and synced with his. The broad head flicks a spot deep inside you that curves your spine this time, feet no longer able to find balance away from the stimulation.

A strong forearm curls around your middle with snake-like speed. You settle obediently back into his hold.

Your hips wiggle closer into his, apologetically stuffing yourself full of him. He smirks at the gesture, satisfied.

“Fuck, Miguel-”, you moan for him, giving him exactly what he wanted before he started pounding into you.

A combination of his pelvis slamming into yours and his hands violently dragging you back onto his dick has high-pitched whimpers crawling out of your throat. Your head rings with the sound of the bed squeaking back and forth along with the harsh returns of his cock in between your come-soaked folds.

His firm hands hold you from flinching, fingers digging into your waist while his thumbs press down into your lower back.

It's when he changes his angle that you scream out, all consciousness dissolving into raw, carnal bliss. Ruptured cries and fractions of his name bloom out of your nearly-dry throat.

He feels his heavy cock pulsate as your ass jolts with each slap, your pussy choking his dick in the process.

With a suffocating groan, he releases inside you, his ecstasy drawn-out into fractured grunts blended with heavy breaths.

You sense his warm come spilling inside you. Your own climax sends your head spinning, your loud pulse dropping in your ears.

The thunder subsides through your veins like a candle being put out by the cold.

a/n: sorry for the delay i have a ton of stuff to do for college 💀

[ahsokaismyqueen]

Steve Harrington x HendersonSister!Reader Masterlist

Welcome to the Steve x HendersonSister! Universe! I have so many ideas for these two, and will probably never go through them all, but I wanted to keep them in one place! They will not be posted in chronological order, but I will list them here that way. Hope you enjoy!

Idiotic Decisions - Working on a project with douchebag Steve Harrington was not something you were looking forward to doing. However, you’re surprised to find that maybe he’s just a little less of a jerk than you thought. (Season 1)

Disappointed Revelations - After working on a school project together, you had actually started to believe that there was more to Steve Harrington than meets the eye. All of that changes after an interaction with Jonathan Byers. (Season 1)

The Evolution of Friendship - After Steve is attacked by Billy Hargrove, you’re shocked to find the guy still attempting to protect you as you two go into the hub to try and buy Eleven some more time. It makes you wonder. Are you and Steve Harrington actually … friends? (Season 2)

Hold Me Tight - Ever since Prom, Steve and you had been growing closer to crossing that line from friendship to something more. During a hot summer day, a little more of that line gets crossed. (Before Season 3)

Conversations On Top of an Elevator - Well, your brother has gotten you and Steve into another mess, this time on top of a Russian elevator. While Steve stresses out, you reassure him that you’ve gotten out of this shit before, you can do it again. (Season 3)

Saving Steve - Steve Harrington has already saved your life, so it’s time to return the favor. Little did you know that would feel a little less like an action movie and more like taking care of rowdy toddlers. (Season 3)

You Feel the Same? - The tension that’s been rising between you and Steve all summer has finally been set to boiling after spending time trapped in Russian elevators together and overhearing his confession to Robin about the new girl he likes who sounds suspiciously like you. After everything, you don’t care if it ends up burning you anymore. You just know you can’t waste another second not being with him. (Season 3)

Those Three Little Words - 18+ ONLY. Steve gets upset when he finds a letter on your table from Indiana University, and it forces the two of you to confess something you’ve been trying to say for a while now. (Before Season 4)

Reunions and Future Plans - For the first time in a long time, you and Steve haven’t seen each other in three weeks since you started college. So he decides to surprise you. (Before Season 4)

Holding You to That - Steve Request. You go to get your boyfriend Steve from Family Video when Robin tells you you’re a distraction, and of course you’re not! Okay, maybe a little. (Before Season 4)

A Not So Good Day - It’s Spring Break in Hawkins, and you can already tell that it’s going to be a great, relaxing time. Well, until you find out that your best friend might be dead and the gate to the Upside Down might not be as closed as you thought. (Season 4)

Finding Eddie - After a long day of trying to find Eddie, you, Steve, your brother, Robin and Max all find your way to Reefer Rick’s house where the time finally comes to tell the truth to your ex-best friend. (Season 4)

Watergate - Dustin has a theory that there’s a new gate, and Nancy has a suspicion of where it might be. The best swimmer needs to go to the bottom of Lover’s Lake and check it out. Unfortunately, much to Steve’s displeasure, that happens to be you. (Season 4)

Travelin' Man - Well, you didn’t love Eddie’s plan, but you also didn’t see many other options. (Season 4)

Saving the World or Not - Steve’s gone off to fight Vecna while you’ve stayed behind to distract the bats. What could possibly go wrong? (Season 4)

[i-dared-myself]

Surprise

Stray Kids x reader

In which your period starts unexpectedly and SKZ begins their mission to comfort you

One thing that was difficult about the job was always going. You love your job, but it was too much sometimes.

Especially on days like these. Days where you’re up on stage, focusing hard on rhythms and moments when that dull tug on your stomach flares up.

You brush it off as muscle strain and continue. The choreography is hard and took you weeks to perfect, but your fans love it. You won’t show weakness or flaws.

And then the dull tug shifts to a constant ache. 

You stumble over a move that you usually ace, and Felix shoots you a look. You smile at him until he returns it before returning your attention back to the dance.

The song comes to an end and Jisung tells a joke, leaning on Minho. Seungmin pulls a face at the cringy play on words before raising the microphone to his lips to poke fun at it.

You lower yourself to the ground casually, knowing this intermission between songs would last at least ten minutes. The sketches were planned out as a bit of a break and something to keep Stay entertained.

“You good?” Jeongin asks as he crouches next to you. You hum in response.

“Yeah, all good.” You give him a thumbs-up to really drive the point home. 

You don’t know what this pain could be.

Your period ended four days ago, so probably not that. Internal bleeding was also not that much of a concern because-

That’s where your train of thought cut off. Just like that. Then all you knew was the excruciating pain in your abdomen. It took up every bit of your focus.

“-did Changbin say after he crossed the road?” Distantly you register it as Jisung’s voice, although it’s hard to concentrate. You’re just trying not to writhe in pain on the floor, as your idol image would be ruined.

Then it clicks that you’re supposed to say the next part of the joke. It’s your line. This is what you had rehearsed.

You raise your microphone to your mouth. “What did Changbin say?”

Jisung delivers the punchline with a giggle. Hyunjin tampers down a smile that fights to make its grand entrance, hiding behind Chan slightly.

Then the others are gathering in a like for the final bow, and you rush to join them. Your knees wobble beneath you and you force a smile as the camera flicks to you. Your head is light and your limbs feel like Jello.

“Are you okay?” Minho whispers to you. He’s not one to show his concern often, but it’s there.

“I-“ You blink forcefully before your legs collapse beneath you. Your head hits the floor and you let out a quiet cry as spots dance in front of your eyes.

Chan hurries the goodbyes into the microphone before shooing the others off the stage. Changbin scoops you up and brings you backstage while the crowd roars in a mix of confusion and distress.

“What happened?” Joengin murmurs to Seungmin as Felix runs ahead, clearing people out of the way.

“She just… fell,” Seungmin struggles to say, unsure of what occurred. Changbin puts you down on your feet, but you still lean heavily against him.

“I’m sorry.” Tears bubble out of the corners of your eyes. Your vision blurs as you look to Chan. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-“

“Hey,” he soothes gently. “It’s okay. We’ll just-“

“What?” Your stomach sinks as he freezes, eyes widening. “Chan?”

“Oh.” Chan swallows and slips his jacket off, tying it around your waist. “It’s uh, y’know.”

“What?” Jisung frowns and scratches his head. “Is her butt cold?”

“It’s her period, you idiot,” Hyunjin scolds as smacks Jisung’s shoulder. Jisung springs away with a shriek. “He’s hiding the blood.”

You cover your face with your hands. “I’m so sorry, guys. This is- I-“

“Come with me, please,” the first aid worker interrupts. They offer a kind smile and gesture to a changing room. “I’ll see you in there.”

Changbin transfers you to them, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Scream if you need us.”

You frown. “Um. Okay. I probably won’t, but thanks.”

“What’s the plan?” Jeongin asks once you’re gone. 

“What?” Felix crosses his arms with a small scowl. “Like PR control or…”

“How we’re helping her,” Jeongin clarifies. “Our hotel isn’t that far away from a convenience store. We could buy chips and stuff.”

“Good idea.” Chan stretches his arms out and rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Seungmin, Jisung, and Hyunjin go to the store and get supplies. Don’t forget pads and tampons.”

Jisung laughs nervously. “Both? Do we get every size of both?”

“Just go with your gut,” Chan dismissively says. “Felix, Changbin, Minho, and Jeongin make a blanket fort in one of the hotel rooms. I’ll take her back to the hotel.”

“Got it.” Changbin grabs his extra set of clothes and the others follow his lead. “Meet in the room in an hour.”

So they split up to complete their missions.

Chan is the one to stay behind with you. When you come out of the private room, you look deflated and upset. Chan clears his throat to draw your attention to him.

“Everything okay?” Chan holds out his extra hoodie. You take it and pull it over your head.

“Yeah.” You force a smile. “Too much stress can make it irregular, apparently.”

Chan’s stomach sinks and he feels guilty. Was it his fault you were stressed? Has he been pushing you past your limits?”

“Ah.” Chan returns the strained expression. “Ready to go back?”

“Yeah.” You close your eyes and blow out a heavy breath. “I just want to shower and sleep. I’m really not in the mood for anything else tonight.”

Oh no.

“Nothing else tonight?” Chan casually asks, whipping out his phone to tell the others to cancel. He nearly panics when he sees it’s dead.

“Absolutely nothing.” You wrap your hands around your stomach and wince. “Chan, can we go please?”

“Of course.” He pulls the hood up to cover more of you. “There’s a van waiting.”

The two of you climb into the vehicle, as Chan hopes the others somehow get his telepathic messages to abort the mission.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Tampons, pads, period underwear, cups…” Hyunjin lists, reading off his phone. “There’s a lot of options. Will we be able to find them all here?”

“You think a convenience store sells period underwear?” Seungmin lifts an eyebrow. “I think we’ll be lucky if we find more than one size of pads.”

“We should get at least three types of ice cream,” Jisung decidedly says. He wiggles three fingers out for the other two to see. “Because there’s eight of us and we can eat a bunch of ice cream.”

“I’m in the mood for ice cream,” Hyunjin agrees. He elbows Seungmin lightly. “What about you?”

“Yeah, but don’t forget candy and chocolates.” Seungmin adjusts his mask before stepping into the shop. Hyunjin and Jisung follow closely behind. “Now where are those pads…”

“They’re down the aisle and to the right,” the worker says, not bothering to hide her boredom. She pops bubblegum with her mouth and flips through a magazine. “Don’t buy tampons for a stranger. Not everyone uses them.”

Jisung murmurs his thanks before trailing down the aisle. He finds the desired section and stands in front of it with a determined set of his jaw. “Does she have heavy flow?”

Seungmin wrinkles his nose from beneath his mask. “How are we supposed to know that?”

“It’s heavy if she bled through her pants, right? Or is it just because her pants were white?” Hyunjin takes a box of the shelf and examines it carefully. “Go with medium flow. Is that an option? What’s the default?”

“What do the wings do?” Seungmin questions as he peers over Hyunjin’s shoulder. 

“No idea.” Jisung stares wide-eyed at all of the colourful boxes. He picks one out and holds it up. “I saw this one in her suitcase when she moved into the dorm.”

“That’s a lot of happy women,” Hyunjin observes, running his finger over the design of the packaging. “Maybe the pads make them feel better, because there’s no way I’d be exercising if I was bleeding out.”

“Yeah, why are they all running?” Jisung giggles to himself. He tucks the box under his arm. “Snacks next.”

Hyunjin takes about three ice cream containers out of the freezer in the back. “Got them. Now hurry up before it melts.”

Seungmin chooses about five chocolate bars, six candy packets, and one pack of gum for good measure. They all walk up to the counter together and dump their supplies for the worker to scan.

“Is this everything?” She seems amused as Hyunjin pays. “You don’t need ramen or a lighter?”

“Why would we need a lighter?” Seungmin glances back at Jisung. “Are the pads heat-activated?”

“No,” she immediately says. “Don’t try setting them on fire.”

They all shrug before filing out of the store.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Grab the blankets and pillows from your rooms,” Minho orders as he pushes the two beds in his room together. He shares the room with Hyunjin, Chan, and Seungmin. “Hurry!”

The other three dash out of the room and return in about two minutes. Blankets and pillows are overflowing from their grasp.

“What are we doing?” Felix wonders as he dunps everything onto the two beds. “What are we making?”

“I dunno.” Changbin shrugs as Jeongin begins to sort everything. “It just looks like a mess to me.”

Minho rolls his eyes at them. “Shut up and help before I kill you both.”

Felix and Changbin instantly start working. Felix arranges the pillows while Changbin deals with the blankets.

“Wait.” Jeongin spreads his arms, halting the others. “The sheets are white.”

“You’re right.” Felix gasps dramatically. “What if she accidentally stains it and then gets embarrassed?”

“What if we cover it with blood first?” Minho suggests. “Where’s my knife?”

Changbin flinches back. “Yeah, no. If it happens we’ll just cover it before she sees it.”

“Good idea,” Felix praises. He side-eyes Minho. “And why did you bring a knife?”

“I had to borrow one from housekeeping to open a snack from the vending machine,” Minho explains. He faces Jeongin. “Figure out the TV remote before they get back. I’m sure we can all put our heads together.”

Changbin frowns uneasily. “Hotel remotes are unbeatable. There’s no way we can figure it out.”

“What if we all put on a video on our phones and then like zoom in on different parts,” Felix suggests. “Then we glue all our phones together to make one big screen.”

Minho squints at him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

There’s a gentle knock at the door. They all straighten before Jeongin announces that the door is unlocked. Hyunjin, Jisung, and Seungmin all enter, supplies in hand.

“Is that everything?” Changbin asks. “Did you get good pads?”

“We think so,” Hyunjin remarks. “Do we… test it?”

Felix wrinkles his nose. “Obviously not. We need to just treat her normally, but also really nice at the same time. Don’t be too obvious that it’s her period, but also treat her like she’s a goddess.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Jisung hisses under his breath.

The door is pushed open again. Chan walks inside, you following dully behind him.

“Surprise!” Jeongin shouts. When the others shoot him filthy looks he tugs at his hair. “I panicked, okay?”

“What’s this?” You perk up a little bit. The corner of your lips quirk up slightly.

“We got you some stuff.” Seungmin points at the convenience store things before climbing on the beds and sprawling out. “What do the wings do?”

“Pretty much nothing.” You snort in amusement. “Thanks guys. I got a pad from the first aid attendant, but I appreciate it. I will, however, enjoy that ice cream.”

“There were some spoons in the drawer.” Minho displays the silverware for you.

You take on. “I only need one, but thanks.”

They watch in both horror and interest as you consume all three ice cream containers in about ten minutes. Then you throw yourself back on the beds and they take it as their signal for snuggles.

“Cuddle time?” Jisung hopefully asks from the edge of the beds. When you nod and scoot over to make room, the entire group all clambers on into a giant cuddle pile.

Chan ends up near you, with Changbin squishing him. He murmurs to you, “I’m sorry. I stressed you out and this whole thing was all my fault and-“

You shush him softly from below Jeongin, who is acting like your personal heating pad. “It’s okay, Chan. Life is just like this sometimes. It’s nice that you guys are all great with this, though. It’s… Thanks.”

Chan swallows. “Anytime.”

“I was really looking forward to some ice cream,” Hyunjin whispers to Jisung in disappointment.

Your eyes well up in tears. “That was for everyone? I’m so sorry!” 

They all groan and smack Hyunjin as you start wailing. Then they turn to comforting you, assuring you that it was all for you.

[starlightxsvt]

Guilty | sibilance. 3

synopsis ➳ ❝ after months you see Wonwoo at the annual party. lines are crossed, accusations are made and just after, your colleague voices out a crazy proposition.❞

pairing ➳ lawyer fem!reader x rich badboy!wonwoo (ft. Jeonghan)

genre ➳ angst, smut, drama

word count ➳ 4.5k + 900(patreon bonus)

warnings ➳ cursing, toxic ex vibes, slight love triangle, rough sex, unprotected intercourse, dom!wonwoo, big dic!wonwoo, messy makeouts, dirty talk, degradation, cream pie, no aftercare, so much drama.

previous chapter

The weather is misty today. Winter has passed quickly over the past three months, and now spring is starting to ease the chill from the air. Yet, you still feel just as tired, if not more so than before.

A break is an imminent necessity, but you will not be getting any until you wrap up your current case. It is a huge one, viral on social media due to its scandalized nature, but most importantly, your client and his opponent are extremely exhausting. It is like managing toddlers, and you are ever so grateful that Jeonghan is also handling this case with you.

It is a particularly sensitive case because your client is the owner of the biggest textile company in the country and also, Chairman Jeon’s good friend, Mr Kim. Last month, he married his daughter off to another huge chaebol family in the country and the issue began with the catering service for the wedding, owned by Mr Kim’s ex business partner and current rival. The guests all got food poisoning right in the middle of the ceremony and the bride had an allergic reaction, throwing Mr Kim into a fit as he claimed it to be an attempted murder to get revenge on him.

Things have been chaotic since then, keeping you on your toes.

Despite being snowed under your work, a particular rumour floating around the Jeon Corporation caught your attention and has been a constant form of distraction ever since you heard it.

Word on the street says that Chairman Jeon is set to announce a new CEO at the annual party of the company taking place this weekend and apparently, one candidate is his own son and the other is a completely new hire. Six months ago you would have laughed at the rumour of the Chairman’s son, Wonwoo— who you know personally, taking over the company but now, you can say nothing for sure.

It has been nearly three months since you last saw him, partly due to your hectic schedule and also due to the lack of work at Jeon Corporation. Since you have not visited the headquarters recently, you have not been tortured by the sight of that infuriating man but you have to admit that thoughts of Wonwoo have been plaguing your mind. They pop up randomly in your head and you hate your mind for betraying you like that.

You are supposed to move on. And it was not even an actual relationship so why are you still thinking about that stupid, spoiled brat?

“Your drink.” Jeonghan places your coffee on your desk, snapping you out of your reverie. You turn from the window in front of which you were standing and walk back to your desk, taking a sip of your latte with a grateful smile. “I still cannot believe you got my order exactly right on the first try. Thank you.”

It is truly insane. A month ago one day, as your work started piling up, you stopped taking your usual coffee breaks and instead asked Jeonghan to grab you something, forgetting to mention how you like your coffee. Unbelievably, when you tried what he brought for you, you were astounded to the point of silence.

Turns out you and his sister have very similar tastes so he got lucky with that.

“You are most welcome.” Jeonghan smiles, throwing a cheeky wink at you. “Just knock on my door if you need anything.”

“Will do.” You pause for a moment. Just as he is about to close the door behind him, you call, “Jeonghan, you’re attending the party this weekend, right?”

The man steps back into your office. “Yes. Actually, I am glad that you brought it up.”

You wait, looking at him expectantly.

“Would you be my date for the evening?” 

You smile. “Gladly.” Everyone you know already has a plus one so you were dreading showing up alone. As always, Jeonghan has come to the rescue.

“I am honoured.” Jeonghan smiles, his eyes crinkling beautifully. “I was worried Mr. Pi would ask me to be his plus one. I mean it was either going to be you or me.”

You snort a burst of laughter. “I know, right? But he will not get off our backs when he figures out we’re coming together. You know he has that weird obsession of pairing us together like a couple.”

Suddenly, Jeonghan’s face grows serious.“That isn’t a bad idea, you know.”

A soft sigh falls from your lips.

“You should move on from him. It has been long enough, don’t you think?”

“I am over him,” you reply, almost defensively. “Listen, if there is one thing I have learned, it is, not to date where you work.”

Jeonghan chuckles softly. “Office romance is quite fun you know.”

You arch a teasing brow. “Someone seems experienced.’’ The man smiles secretively before stepping closer to the door, pulling it open with one hand. “Just giving you a heads up, you haven’t seen me in a suit yet.”

“I see you in a suit every day, Jeonghan.” You sass.

The man rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. A proper three piece suit. A tuxedo. Prepare to have your mind blown.” He shakes his palms for dramatic effect.

You sip your coffee. “Mhm, stop pestering me now. I have so much work to do.”

The man flashes a smile before pulling the door closed.

You still have a grin lingering on your lips as you open your files and start skimming through them.

—

On Saturday night, Jeonghan is in front of your house sharply at 7.

You rush to the door as you receive his text, putting on your heels and scrambling to get your purse and phone. 

You are going to be late but hey, at least you will be fashionably late. 

Buying this emerald green dress impulsively six months ago was not a bad idea, you now realize, because you love how the dress fits you. With your hair and makeup done, it is almost a completely new you and you may have taken too long admiring yourself in the mirror.

Jeonghan’s jaw goes slack as he watches you step out of your apartment building. His expression makes you laugh and you cannot help but shake your head at his overexaggeration. 

“Wow,” his eyes move up and down as he steps closer to you. “Fucking hell. You look absolutely stunning.”

Shyly you avoid his gaze. “Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself.” You gesture towards him, waving your hand up and down his height. The coffee-coloured three piece suit is truly a fabulous compliment to his brushed back blond hair.

The man shakes his head. “You were the one who should have given me a heads up. I have the prettiest woman in the party as my date.”

This man sure has a way with his words.

“I can see why you are such a successful lawyer, Mr. Yoon.” You saunter past him. “Let’s get going now. We’re already late.”

“Yes madam,” he rushes past you to hold open the car door, making you smile.

—

The venue is crowded when you arrive.

It takes no more than five minutes for your colleagues to spot the two of you and five more minutes later, you are graced by Mr. Pi’s holy presence. He gushes over the two of you and when Jeonghan escapes the conversation by saying he’ll get drinks for you, Mr. Pi corners you.

“Are you sure you are not dating our dear Mr. Yoon?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “No, Mr. Pi. Come on now, let it be.”

He hums and then nods thoughtfully, pushing his sunglasses up his nose bridge.

Who knows why he is wearing that indoors and at night.

“I understand,” the man rubs his chin slowly and seriously as if he is pondering the most critical issue of life. “Our chairman’s handsome son left a lasting impression on you.”

Even before you realise it, a soft, almost wistful sigh escapes your lips. “Can we not talk about him? At least not here?”

Mr. Pi looks at you from above his sunglasses, “This is the place to talk about him. Tonight people will talk about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

Wait, what?

“Mr. Pi—” You reach out for him but he spots an old colleague and walks over to him, ignoring you with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Right then, Jeonghan is back with two flutes of champagne in his hands. You snatch one from him and immediately gulp it down. Then, you narrow your eyes at him. “Nice job, jerk. Leaving me alone with him.”

The man cheekily shrugs his shoulder, unable to fight off the knowing smile blooming on his lips. Grinning at you, he sips his champagne. 

With a shake of your head, you go around the room accompanied by Jeonghan, mingling with old and new faces. The stage is being set up for the upcoming speeches by the top executives of the company. The closing speech will, of course, be Chairman Jeon’s. The grand hall room increasingly grows crowded as you finish two more glasses of champagne while socialising, everyone eager to hear the big announcement.

“I think you have drunk enough for now.” Jeonghan blocks your hand when you reach for the fourth glass as a waiter passes by. You pout, “Oh come on. Socialising takes a lot of energy. I cannot talk to these boring people about boring things on a Saturday night while being sober.”

A scoff of amusement comes from him and he opens his mouth to say something but his vision shifts, focusing on something behind you. His expression changes and you turn your head back to see what he is looking at.

Not what. Who.

Wonwoo stands a few feet behind you, looking unfairly stunning. The contrast of his black blazer against his crisp white shirt is stunning and with sharp features and his hair brushed back, he is a scene stealer.

He, however, seems not to attract attention as he remains on the edge of the hall room, near where the lights are dimmer. As your eyes meet his and the raging beat of your heart loudens, he holds your gaze before taking quick steps towards you.

Within a couple of seconds, he is right in front of you. 

“We need to talk. Privately.” He says, his posture slightly rigid, and he looks around the room as if making sure no one sees him.

You don’t have much time to process his words as he ushers you away by tugging your wrist. You look back at Jeonghan almost helplessly and the man gives you an understanding nod. “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

You are quickly rushed out of the grand room and pulled down a hallway at the end of which there are a few private rooms. Wonwoo pulls you inside and shuts the door behind you.

The room is messy and if you are not wrong, it seems to be his dressing room.

In your mind, an equation starts to form as you take everything in.

Finally, your eyes land on Wonwoo after scouring the room and you find him looking at you attentively.

There is a hard lump in your throat that you have to swallow.

“Hi.” The man says quietly, almost shyly.

“It has been a while,” you murmur as a greeting, trying to keep your voice as flat as possible. 

“Way too long,” he replies, his voice much quieter as he enunciates each word slowly and carefully. You wonder if it is your mind playing tricks on you or if the depth of his eyes just increased tenfold.

Whatever, you cannot let yourself get caught up in this again. The tension in the air is thickening by the second.

“Why did you bring me here?” You avoid his eyes, your gaze settling on the skin peeking from underneath his shirt as the two buttons are undone.

“Right.” Wonwoo blinks as if breaking out of a trance. “I wanted to tell you something. I mean…it will be announced later but I thought you out of all people should hear it from me first.”

The way he speaks, his eyes skirting around, his hands fidgety tells you what the news is. You voice it out for him. “You are taking over the company?”

You see his pupils widen. After a moment's pause, he says. “Yes.”

Hm. He is dressed too fancy to attend as a mere employee anyway.

You are proud of him for sure. He has grown as a person since you last saw him. But at the same time, there is dread in the pit of your stomach. With him now taking over the company, there is no escaping him. You will be seeing him, whether you like it or not. 

“Congratulations.” You hum. “I appreciate you informing me separately but it wasn’t necessary. We don’t have any personal contact. I am just another employee, Jeon…Chairman Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo looks at you with surprise and you wonder if it is your icy demeanour that makes him frown.

“Still…I have to thank you. You had a huge part to play in getting me here.”

Oh really?

For a brief moment, your mind flashes back to earlier this year when you were seeing each other. The late night talks about his future with the company. You find yourself wondering how he managed to earn his father’s trust so quickly because you remember him telling you his father would never let him take over. Due to his unrefined behaviors, of course. But it seems that he has grown out of them which is good for him.

“I better get going. Jeonghan is probably waiting for me.” You step towards the door but Wonwoo grabs your upper arm, pulling you back with a gentle tug.

“Do you not miss me? Not one bit?” His voice is so thick with emotion that it feels foreign to you. Like his, your throat closes up, and you hate how a few words from him make tears burn in the back of your eyes.

“It doesn’t matter. Just let—”

“It does! There is something else I have to tell you.”

“I don’t care!” You yell, jerking yourself free from his hold. “You can not act all familiar after so long. We are not like that anymore! Why can’t you understand?”

In the semi darkness of the room, you see his eyes glimmer. 

The very next moment he is kissing you.

And you are kissing him back. 

Just for tonight, you tell yourself as your resolve slips. You are going to give in just tonight. Just one last time. You truly don’t have it in you to turn away from him now, from his warmth, touch, and embrace when this is what you have been longing for the past few months.

Maneuvering your body with his, he pins you against the wall, trapping you with ease. And tonight, there is nowhere you want to escape to.

"I missed you." He whispers like a mantra, devouring your mouth like a starved man. He trails kisses down your jaw as his hands remove your straps from your shoulders, revealing the entire expanse of your shoulder and neck for him to play with. In between heated kisses, his hands explore your breasts, playing with your soft mounds over the fabric of your dress. 

No words are exchanged between the two of you. 

Your hands move over his chest, feeling the firm muscles under your fingertips before pushing his blazer off his shoulders. The lines are hazy just like your mind as you cannot decipher who pulls whom closer. In the dense cloud of lust, you can only fathom the opening of the buttons of his shirt and his warm body pressing next to yours. 

“I need you,” Wonwoo murmurs against your lips. One of his hands moves expertly down your thigh before he grips the back of your knee and places it around his waist. You pull him even closer, smashing your lips against his, hot and heavy as your tongue meets his.

Briefly, you hear the groan of his zipper being undone. You lift your dress, standing at an angle that helps him comfortably slide between your legs, his unrelenting grip on the back of your thigh.

"Put your hands over my shoulders and hold tight. " His whisper is a command as he positions himself at your entrance, pushing your panties to a side.

And before you can blink, he's inside you. The stretch of the intrusion makes you jolt and let out a loud, breathy groan of pleasure that makes you squeeze his shoulders and bite your lip. 

This. This is exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you needed.

You feel every delicious inch of him, moving in and out of you, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. making your body shake from the onslaught of pleasure. Your hold on his shoulders tightens as little squeaks escape from your lips and your legs wrap themselves around his body tighter when you start to taste your release.

"Gosh, you're so tight. I missed you.” He grunts with each thrust. “Letting me fuck you against a wall, in my dressing room. Tell me, did you miss this? Did you miss me like I missed you?" Wonwoo demands, a hand reaching up to squeeze your cheeks, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Look at me and tell me you did not miss me,” he pants, a snarl etched in his tone as he removes his hand from your face and grips the back of your throat, pulling your face closer to his.

"W-Wonwoo," you try to moan. Wonwoo keeps watching you with a darkened gaze, his pace matching the fierceness in his gaze as he continues to drill into you. He shakes after giving you a particular hard thrust, that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back. “You are still that dirty girl. You're still my filthy slut."

You hate how much you missed his filthy mouth. 

"P-please," you pant, breathless trying to grind your clit against his pelvis. One touch on your clit and you're gonna come. "Please, let me come, Wonwoo."

The man smiles, and it almost appears cruel and cocky as he grabs your wrists in one hand and pins them hard on the wall. He increases his pace, thrusting in and out of you so hard that your back starts aching. However, you are way beyond complaining because the next moment his release is filling you up, triggering yours. Your cry is loud and unceremonious as you cling to him and ride out your high, feeling your release in the deepest fibres of your being

A short moment later, Wonwoo’s grip on you loosens. With a slightly hazy mind, you watch you grab some tissues, cleaning up you and him. With the haze of lust disappearing gradually, you find your head clearing up. The silence in the air now feels suffocating and you find yourself playing a guessing game.

Why is he so quiet? What is he thinking?

As Wonwoo buttons up his shirt and fixes his jacket, his gaze meets yours and you see his eyes fall on your lips. Pressing your fingertips around your lips, you realise your lipstick is smudged. Quietly, he hands you a tissue paper and you walk to the mirror, using it to dab the lipstick stain around your lips.

In the mirror, you watch Wonwoo watching you. All throughout, another strange, suffocating silence persists. As you toss the tissue in the bin, the silence is finally broken by his quiet, somber voice, “My father arranged a marriage for me.”

Your body grows ice cold.

For one long, horrible moment, you stop breathing, thinking, praying that you heard wrong.

“What are you…what— what do you mean?”

“He wants me to marry a chaebol heiress— Yuna Lee, sometime next year.”

Suddenly, you are scrambling to get your thoughts in order. It is always like this with him. One moment it is quiet and the next you are hit by a full speed freight train. 

“You should not have done that. We should not have done that. Why didn’t you tell me that before?” 

“Well, I tried—”

Suddenly, your blood is boiling and you are seeing red.

“What was this, a goodbye fuck?” You hiss, fixing the straps of your dress.

“What?” Wonwoo scoffs. “No! I have been thinking about you for months! Trying to figure out how to approach you—

“With all that thinking you sure did one good job!” You find yourself turning towards the door. 

“Oh come on! I…I missed you. You drive me crazy. You know damn well my brain stops working when you are near me.”

“No, Wonwoo. I don’t.” You grit. 

The passion, the emotion that you have been holding back all these months comes out in tidal waves. “In case you don’t remember, during our relationship, you were always so nonchalant, so detached. You did not give a shit about me. Not really because I was a fuck buddy to you. A girl getting paid to get your ass out of trouble every time and also someone available for a quick bang!”

Wonwoo’s demeanour shifts. You visibly see him get defensive. “Well, it's not like you professed your love to me! You did not ever hint that you were in love with me.”

Your mouth falls open at the absurdity of his words.

“You… you did not treat me with the minimum respect. You would disappear for weeks, Wonwoo, completely out of the radar only to show up when you needed my help.” You pause. “Never mind, it is pointless to argue with you.” You turn, reaching for the handle of the door.

Wonwoo stops you by roughly tugging on your arm. His grip is iron solid. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to leave without hearing my piece!”

You place a hand on his and use it to remove his fingers from your skin. “The time for speaking was months ago. Not now in a dressing room, minutes before you are about to be announced the new CEO.”

“I finally have my life together!”

“Do you?” You take a step closer to him with a challenge. “Do you really?”

Wonwoo remains silent, his eyes sparkling with thundering storms and clouds of emotions.

You continue. “I was your comfort zone. You used me when you needed me and then forgot about me when you were not in the mood. It would not have mattered if I professed undying love for you. You did not love me, not in the right way. You did not and you don’t right now. This is you trying to find comfort in something familiar…me.”

A twisted, unironical smile appears on his lips. “Oh, so you are what now, a therapist?”

You remain silent, watching him without blinking.

The man shakes his head, scoffing. “If you only knew how I truly felt…” His fingers card through his hair as he takes a step back. “You have no idea how I feel. In fact, right now, I don’t think you even know how you feel!”

Your lips part, ready to interject, but he goes on. “You are right. This was a mistake. I should not have told you about my dad’s plans of getting me married. No, because you would have liked to just straight up receive my wedding invite, huh? I should have just married her and showed up with her one day and introduced you as a special friend, no? Would you have liked that? Would that be the right thing to do?”

Each syllable coming out of his mouth burns like acid. Tears blur your vision but you force yourself not to cry in front of him.

“I fucking hate you.” You breathe, uttering each world slowly. “I hope you have a miserable life with her, you asshole. Never show me your face again.” Gathering your dress with one hand, you march towards the door, not stopping when he calls out your name or tries to hold onto you.

He can go to hell.

Your steps are quick as you pick up pace, running down the long hallway of the private rooms and then down a common corridor before you come to the large foyer in front of the elevator. With your skirt fisted in your hands, you dash for it but a voice makes you pause.

You turn back to find Jeonghan calling your name and jogging after you. As he comes to a stop in front of you, his eyes go up and down the length of your body, taking notice of your dishevelled appearance. 

“Are you okay?” His fingers gently touch your arm but you don’t let him pull you closer.

You need to leave.

“I need to go home.” You whisper, voice wobbly.

“Why are you running?” He steps closer to you, a desperation in his voice that matches the look in your eyes. “That bastard keeps hurting you and you keep running from him. Go and fucking… I don’t know— cause a scene! Drag him on stage and smack him once or twice.”

You are not in the mood for this.

“Stop it, Jeonghan,” you grunt turning away but the man steps in front of you.

“No! I won’t stop when I see you repeatedly suffering because of him.”

If you were not so overcome with emotions, you would roll your eyes.

“Just let me go.” You hiss, stepping past the man blocking your way. As you cross him, however, a harsh grip on your wrist forces you to stop. 

“Go out with me,” Jeonghan says in the calmest manner, the hold of his fingers on your wrist steadfast like his voice.

You almost make a move to yank yourself free but the diction of those words stops you in your tracks as if a thunderbolt has just struck you. You slowly turn your head back to meet Jeonghan’s eyes, wondering if he really said that. The strength you had moments ago to break your hand free suddenly dissipates as you meet his piercing gaze.

Along with your heartbeat, time stops.

You forget to blink, feeling the subtle tightening of his grip on you. As the silence hangs longer in the air and the depth of his words settles into the empty grand hall and every crevice of your tattered heart, you find yourself motionless, thoughtless, speechless.

“Date me. You know I’ll treat you better.” He states, again.

You feel like you are hyperventilating. A shaky breath comes from your lips and after that, each breath is a struggle. 

Suddenly, everything is too much.

Too much light in this hall. Too much noise in the background.

Too much sincerity in his words.

For a moment, you genuinely find yourself considering.

And as your gaze strays from your colleague for the smallest moment, you notice Wonwoo standing a few meters behind him. 

The look in his eyes is inexplicable but you feel every emotion radiating off him and you immediately know he heard everything. He doesn’t move, however. As the silence persists, his gaze darkens, watching you like a hawk, almost as if he is waiting to hear your verdict.

At the same time, the longer you look, his gaze appears vulnerable, betrayed.

And you feel…guilty.

Want to know how Jeonghan actually got the reader's order right? Read the special scene here!

series masterliest

[elihermit]

Eddie Diaz x Reader

Can you do a fic based off of 911 5x13 Fear-O-Phobia where Eddie destroys his room with a baseball bat but instead of Eddie destroying it Y/n does.

my tears ricochet

pairing: Eddie Diaz x fem!reader

summary: you work in a call center, answering emergency calls and you thought that no call would break you anymore, but today you have reached your breaking point

this fic is based on season 5 episode 13 “Fear-o-Phobia”

word count: 2,2k

author’s note: this fic contains references to child abuse and self-harm, please read with caution!

You're on shift again today and you're pretty tired at the end of it. You had an hour left before the end of the day and you really couldn't wait to get home to Chris and Eddie, even though you knew Eddie would be back a little later than you.

“Long day, huh?” — you break out of your thoughts and see Josh in front of you. You had a fifteen-minute break and decided to have coffee.

“Don’t even start, it’s like this full moon curse decided to show up earlier.”

“I feel you, but guess what? You will be free soon and my night will be long.” — Josh sighed and went to pour himself a cup of coffee too.

“Lucky me, I guess.” — you got up to go to your desk and continue taking calls. “Back to service.”

You sat down at the table and gave yourself a couple more minutes to get ready for the last hour of work. This job was difficult, sometimes your emotions could take over, but you thought you had already learned to control them. And even if you thought about quitting, those thoughts went away after a minute, because you knew that you were the first person people counted on when they were in danger and you wouldn't trade it for anything.

You put on your ear piece and come back to help people.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Please, my dad is going to kill me.”

You hear a child's trembling voice and your heart turns over.

“Sweetie, tell me what’s going on? Are you in danger?”

“My dad gets aggressive when he drinks, he took his gun.”

“Is he threatening you with a gun? Are you in any pain?”

“He pointed it on me, but I ran to my room. Daddy hit me in the head, I feel dizzy.”

“Open the fucking door!” — you hear a drunken male voice and banging on the door. You need to be fast.

“Okay, honey, help is coming. Tell me your name and address.”

“I’m Audrey, 354 N Spring Street.”

“All units, 354 N Spring Street, the man is intoxicated, he is armed and threatens his daughter. Possible child abuse and injuries.”

You quickly notify units about this and it takes your breath away. You need to save the girl, no one will get hurt today.

“Okay, Audrey, help is on the way, I will stay on the line, until they arrive. Is there anyone else at home?”

“No, it’s just the two of us. Please hurry, he’s going to break the door!”

You feel a tear rolling down your cheek, but you quickly brush it away.

“Help will be with you in 5 minutes. In the meantime, I want you to listen to me, okay? Hide under the bed or in the closet and try to be quiet, sweetie.”

You can hear the movement on the other end of the phone. Your palms are sweating and you're breathing fast. Your whole focus is on this girl.

“Okay, I'm under the bed.”

“Good job. Help is almost there, Audrey.”

The next thing you hear is a broken door and a little girl screaming. You hear a man swearing and a loud bang. You can't control the tears.

“Audrey, are you there?”

But there is silence in response. All you can hear is Audrey's screams and pleading for dad not to hit her anymore. Your hands start shaking and you feel like you're suffocating, everything is in a blur and slow motion.

“LAPD! Raise your hands and move away from the girl by 3 meters.”

You hear the voices of the police, but it's too soon to exhale, you don't know if it was too late. You feel Josh's hand on your shoulder and only now realize how much you're crying.

“Dispatcher, this is 134, the girl is unconscious, but stable, got here on time. We’re heading to the hospital.”

It should be a moment where you exhale, because the girl is alive and she will be fine, but you can't shake the feeling that you could have done more. This is not the first call from a child in your career, but it was the first call where you heard everything in "action" and it broke you.

You open the front door to the house and walk inside on weak legs. God only knows how you got home, because everything seemed to stop and you were alone in this trap. The girl's scream is still in your ears, and burning cheeks remind you of tears that you couldn't control. All you wanted right now was to be alone.

“Hey mommy.”

You hear Chris's voice from the living room and go there. He started calling you mom not so long ago and you loved it. You accepted him as your own child and Eddie always made sure to thank you for that.

“Hey, baby. Is dad home yet?”

You wanted Eddie to be at home, he was your safe place, who always dispersed the clouds when they appeared over your head. But another part of you wanted him to still be at work because you didn't want to explain what happened.

“No, but he should be in an hour.”

“Okay. How about I make you dinner and turn on cartoons while you eat? Mommy is not feeling well and I would like to lay down for a bit. Are you going to be fine on your own?”

“Sure, I wanted to watch cartoons all day!”

Chris smiled broadly and it melted your heart. He's so cheerful and positive that sometimes you thought you needed to learn from him. You loved him with all your heart and if something had happened to him, you would have died. But one question haunted you - how can you protect him if you couldn't protect the child at work?

You put a sandwich in front of Chris and turned on his favorite cartoons. He thanked you, you kissed him on the forehead and went into the bedroom. After closing the door, you sat down on the bed and finally let out all your emotions. You were angry, sad and crushed. You were angry at yourself for not being able to do more, you were angry at this worthless father who allowed himself to treat his own daughter like that, and you were angry that now you weren't sure you could save Chris if it was necessary.

Tears were pouring from your eyes, this cutting pain in your chest, which was growing with every second and this feeling of utter helplessness drove you crazy.

You didn't know what was driving you, but the next thing you knew it was the bat in your hands and the first blow to the wall. You never thought you had that kind of strength because that punch left a hole in the wall. You scream, this scream is more like a plea and each blow gets stronger. You don't hear anything that's going on around you, you just hit the bat against the wall and scream, thinking that it will make your pain less real.

Tears are still pouring out of your eyes, you can feel the salty taste in your mouth. You throw the bat on the floor and it falls with a loud bang. Now your hands are hitting the wall and you feel your knuckles getting scratched, but you didn't care. Now the most horrifying screams are coming out of your throat.

“Hey, buddy. I’m on my way, do you want anything?”

“Dad, please hurry up! Mommy is not well.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

Eddie's body immediately tensed up and he accelerated the car to get home faster.

“I don’t know, I keep calling her, but she won’t answer.” — Eddie heard heavy thuds and screams in the background.

“Okay, Chris, don’t worry, I’m almost here.”

Eddie ran to the house and opened the door. During those minutes while he was driving in the car, he wanted only one thing - for both of you to be okay.

He saw Chris near your shared bedroom and immediately ran up to him.

“Chris, are you okay? Where’s mom?”

“She locked herself in the bedroom. I tried to call her, but she was screaming really hard.”

“Okay, buddy. Sit in the living room, please, I’m gonna go get her, okay?”

“Okay.” — Eddie watched Chris go.

“Hey baby, it’s me. Can I come in?”

He didn't hear anything. Just the silence that didn't give him any peace of mind.

“Okay, I’m going to come in, (Y/N). Stay away from the door.”

Eddie kicked down the door and was finally able to enter the bedroom. The first thing he saw were holes in the wall. He took two steps and saw you sitting on the floor with your back leaning on the bed frame. Your legs were pressed against your chest and your head was in your lap. Eddie saw your shoulders shaking and heard you sobbing.

He immediately knelt down and cupped your face in his hands so that you could look at him.

“Hey. Hey, hey, I’m here, baby. What’s wrong? Please talk to me.” — he saw your red eyes and wet face from crying.

When you finally looked at him, you saw his frightened eyes. He was looking for an answer in your eyes and patiently waited for you to explain everything to him.

“He almost killed her, Eddie. I should have done more. I heard everything.” — the tears started to flow with renewed vigor and a sound more like a whine came out of your mouth.

“Shh, mi amor. I’m here.” — Eddie wrapped you in his arms and you cried into his shoulder. He stroked your hair soothingly and said sweet nothings in your ear. “Let it out, baby. I’m right here.”

He hated seeing you like this. He knew that his job was difficult and that he was risking his life, but he knew that your job is 100 times more difficult emotionally because you hear every pain, fear and suffering of other people when you get a call.

“We’re right out here, Chris, don’t worry.”

You are now in the kitchen and Eddie has left Chris's room. You were sitting at the table and looking at your hands. Your knuckles are red and swollen from the blows and your head has so many regrets. You scared Chris.

“Is he okay?” — you asked in a whisper and didn't want to think about hurting Chris. That's your biggest fear.

“He’s still scared. Makes two of us.”

Eddie sat down across from you and you looked up. You were so upset for what you had done and it was eating you up.

“I’m so sorry. The last thing I wanted was for Chris to be scared of me.”

“Hey.” — Eddie took your hand. “He’s not scared of you, he was scared for you.”

“Did he call you?”

“He did. I got here as fast as I could.”

You chuckled. This scenario is ironically similar. A call from a child who asks to be saved from a parent. Only his call was to save you. And it hit you with an epiphany. You wanted so badly to never put Chris in danger that you unwittingly reproduced it into reality.

“I got a call today.” — you finally started explaining. “It was a little girl and she asked for help, because her dad was abusing her. A-and…” — your voice faltered, but you continued. “Then he beat her up and I heard her screaming.”

“Oh, mi amor. I’m so sorry.” — Eddie squeezed your hand, but you got up and walked over to him. He immediately realized that you wanted to sit on his lap and gave you this opportunity.

“I still can’t shake the feeling that I should have done more. And now I doubt that I can protect Chris. I can’t even do it at work.”

“Look at me, (Y/N).” — he put his hand on your face and looked into your eyes. “Do you know why Chris started calling you Mom? Because he feels safe with you. You make him feel loved and protected. And that's all we can both ask for. You are enough.”

He kissed your cheek and continued.

“I’m sorry you had that call and you had to hear all of that. But you did everything and even more, I’m sure of it. You saved that little girl. Who knows what would have happened if help had arrived 2 minutes later. But YOU did everything in time.”

And you realized that your job does not consist of personally being at the scene of accidents. Your job is to make sure that help arrives at the right time and you did a damn good job.

You smiled and felt relieved. You didn't look at this situation from Eddie's point of view and that's what got you. You wrapped your arms around Eddie's neck and buried your fingers in his hair.

He pressed you closer and kissed you on the shoulder. Every bad thought disappeared when he was around. And his arms always caught you when you started to fall to the bottom.

You heard the notification sound on your phone and pulled it out of your pocket. It was a message from Josh:

“Audrey is alive and stable. They say it was perfect timing.”

“Always on time, huh?” — Eddie saw the message and smiled at you.

“I like to be punctual.”

He pressed his lips to yours and kissed you gently. He's always here to rescue you, and you're always here to answer quickly.

[jjscrybaby]

𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑲 𝑶𝑵𝑬 💿 — 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚

rafe cameron x fem!reader | angst | (drug use, drug addiction, 1 mention of vomit & overdosing, happy ending cause i’m the worst with angst.)

masterlist.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You couldn’t look away, no matter how badly you wanted to. His pupils were blown out, his nostrils were red and dripping, there was a slight swing to his jaw. You knew it was bad, but you’d never let yourself focus on it this much; you knew once you did there would be no going back.

Rafe was pacing back and forth, he’d started of with telling you a story about Topper but now he was on a self-pitying rant — the cocaine talk is on another level. He must’ve done at least a gram, you were certain there was a little bit of dry blood on his hands.

“You know I don’t want to be like this, right? Like, not that it’s that big of a deal, everyone does it, I mean even Top’s doin’ it at the moment. It’s not like I’m forty, I’m nineteen, I’m allowed to fuck up—” he rambled, hands waving about erratically as he spoke.

One thing he’s promised you when he first started the drug was that you’d never have to witness it, yet here he was in your bedroom off his head. This was your safe place, away from his angry outbursts during the withdrawals and constant need of reassurance during the come-downs.

“Rafe,” you interrupted, your voice exhausted yet snippy. He looked over at you, eyes wide. “What are you even talking about?”

“…what?” He murmured. It was clear he had no idea, and that just made you more pissed off.

“We were meant to be getting pizza and watching a movie,” you stated, tears springing to your eyes. He’d promised that you’d finally get a chill night to yourselves, but then again he always does.

“Yeah, order the food then,” he shrugged, grabbing his phone from the vanity to throw to you.

It landed on its screen, and the first thing you noticed was the white powder residue that had stuck onto his phone case. Your lip quivered, hands shaking as you shook your head and held the phone back to him.

“You won’t even be hungry. You’re off your fucking head,” you stated.

Rafe scoffed, rolling his eyes at your attitude. “No I’m not. I’ve been home all day.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rafe!” You snapped, sitting up fully now as you stared daggers at him; trying to ignore the sting of your tears. “You’ve been with Barry, haven’t you?”

“I— I don’t get why it’s any of your business. You’re not my fuckin’ mom. I’m a grown man, I can do what I want,” he argued, voice raising.

“I can’t do this anymore.” You weren’t even sure the words were going to come out, but the second they did you felt a horrifying feeling; relief. Relief that you’d finally spoken your mind, relief that you weren’t allowing yourself to live in constant fear anymore.

Every moment you couldn’t get ahold of Rafe, night or day, you had a vivid image of him on the floor, choking on his own vomit after doing one too many lines. You’d told him once, in the safety of your covers, and he’d told you to stop being so damn dramatic. The problem was that you weren’t being dramatic, and him overdosing was a perfectly reasonable worry for you to have.

“What?” He asked, after a moment of silence where he’d just stared at you as if you’d lost your mind.

“I can’t do it,” you repeated, voice breaking. “I love you, but I refuse to be in a relationship where all I do is worry about you.”

“That’s- that’s not fuckin’ fair, baby. Don’t do that. You know I love you.” He was on the bed now, panic in his eyes as he crawled towards you and tried to grab at your hands. “I have a problem, okay? I know that. I’ll work on it, I promise. Just don’t do this, okay? You don’t want that, you don’t want to leave me.”

“It’s not about leaving you, Rafe,” you sob, now allowing your tears to freely fall. “It’s about putting myself first. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. We can’t even have one night without you being on it!”

“That’s not true! I’m not on it right now!” The fact he continued to lie just made things worse, and just made you stick with the decision you’d made.

“I want you to leave,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, reaching forward to wipe your tears with his thumbs. “No. I’m not leavin’. We’re not doing this. I need help, okay? I need help.”

“You may know you need help, but are you ready to get it?” The silence that followed was answer enough. “I want you to leave.”

Tears streamed down both your cheeks, he shook his head as he gripped onto your face. “Please— don’t do this, baby, please. I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to lose you—”

“Then sort yourself out,” you stated bluntly, pulling away from his hold. “And once you do, we’ll talk.”

It looked like he was going to argue again, beg you to change your mind, but the look in your eyes told him it was no use. You’d decided, and deep down he completely understood why.

He got up from your bed, lip quivering and tears down his pale cheeks. He grabbed his phone and keys from your vanity and looked back at you, you refused to look at him. He stepped out of your room and closed the door behind him, collapsing against your bedroom door with a sob.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You hadn’t expected to hear from him right away, and you definitely weren’t going to be the first to reach out, but you didn’t think that five months would go by without a word. You hung in different circles, the last time you saw him was three months ago at the country club where you’d swiftly locked yourself in the bathroom to sob.

“Hey.” Your whole body stiffened at the familiar voice that you hadn’t heard in so long, your head swivelled round.

He looked different, he looked healthy. He’d gained the weight back in his face and his hair was buzzed short. You hadn’t seen him whatsoever, so you almost let out a gasp at the new look.

“Hi,” you replied softly, fingers tightening around the red-solo cup in your hand.

“Can we talk?” He asked. If he’d ever asked that before, you’d know that it wasn’t a question. It was a demand. But now it really felt like he was asking, it really felt like you had the option.

“Um… yeah. I just need to bring these drinks to the girls,” you explained, nodding to the table where you’d filled up multiple cups with vodka and orange-juice.

“Sure. Meet me in the hallway in five?” He questioned, giving you a smile. You felt yourself nodding your head, mirroring his expression.

You took the drinks over to your friends, you told a little white-lie and said you were going to the bathroom. They didn’t know the ins and outs of yours and Rafe’s relationship, but they knew how broken you were at the end of it; they wouldn’t understand.

He was leant against the wall, nibbling on his bottom lip as if he was nervous. When his eyes landed on you, he smiled softly and took a step forward to meet you halfway.

“Hey,” he greeted, again.

“Hi,” you murmured, looking up at him. “You shaved your hair.”

“Wanted a change,” he shrugged, running his hand over his buzzed head with a sheepish smile. “You like it?”

Surprisingly, you found yourself nodding. You’d always loved his hair, loved running your fingers through it or sleepily watching him sort it in the mornings. But the buzz cut made him look more mature, and that was something you never thought you’d see.

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” you stated quietly. You’d refused to ask his friends where he was when you saw them at parties and the club, if you did it would only be proving you missed him.

“Yeah, uh, I spent a few months off the island,” he explained slowly, keeping his eyes on yours. “Went to rehab.”

“What?” You weren’t sure you’d heard him right, eyes widening slightly and heart racing. “You went to rehab?”

He smiled at you, nodding. “It was unhealthy and I needed to stop before I lost anything else.”

“So you’re sober?” You asked hopefully, praying this wasn’t some kind of cruel trick; a way to get his revenge for you leaving him behind.

“Yeah, I’m sober. Off the booze, too. Drinking water,” he laughed, waving his cup around.

“What are you doing at a party then?”

He scratched the back of his neck, letting out a soft chuckle. “Uh, well, I only got back last night and I was going to try and go to your place but Top texted saying you were here.”

“Why are you here to see me?” You asked, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Because I fucked up, and you’re owed the biggest apology out of anyone. But mostly I wanted to show you who I am now, and who I want to be… with you,” he explained, voice soft and quiet.

Your eyes shone with tears as he stepped closer to you, one hand wrapping around your waist and the other cupping your cheek. You gave him a wobbly smile.

“I love you, so fucking much. These last few months have been hell, for a multitude of reasons, but all I could think about was you. I treated you badly, and I understand if you never want to see me again, but I’m begging you to give me another chance. To let me treat you how I should have from the start,” he said, wiping away a tear that dripped down your cheek.

“Okay,” you agreed, voice wavering with emotion. “I want that.”

A grin broke out on his face, his lips latching onto yours. The kiss was gentle, full of love and a thousand apologises. He pulled away first, his forehead leaning against yours. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you murmured back. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Already? Someone’s eager,” he teased, making you swat at his chest with an amused smile. “I’m kiddin’. How ‘bout we go get some pizza and watch a movie?”

You nodded your head, arms looping around his neck. “Sounds perfect.”

[with-my-murder-flute]

the hunt for enneameter: new and completely unprecedented levels of alectopause brainrot

Elseweb I was trying to explain to someone why I felt that Ortus had a strong formative influence on Gideon and Harrow. And the reason is: They don't speak like normal humans. They speak like people very accustomed to recitation, especially reciting metered poetry. (My brothers and I grew up in a youth group that did a lot of memorizing and reciting old-ass fancy talk, and oh boy is there a difference between the two)

And the person said they guessed they could see it with Harrow but they didn't get it with Gideon. So to demonstrate, I pulled out Gideon's "the only job" speech from early in GtN. Which is where my troubles started.

As Harrow promptly tells her, it's structured in a set of three unnecessarily long and punchy descriptions. That's a remarkable level of rhetorical flourish and suspicious all on its own.

And then I started trying to explain how I thought it scanned in iambic pentameter, and some of it is long strings of iambs, but not all. Then I remembered that I hate doing this crap because what feel like very natural stress patterns to me are not how people from other accents or countries would say it. And anyway, I gave up on explaining the scansion, and just tried to break it into what seemed like natural lines to demonstrate the similarity to something like Shakespeare. I included syllable counts as I saw them in parentheses at the end of the line. Not all the lines were iambic pentameter, but 10 absolutely was the mean and mode number of syllables per line.

And then I noticed that with my pronunciation ('kicked' and 'flipped' as one syllable), Gideon's little speech was 96 syllables long. Not quite the 99 you'd think is appropriate for the Ninth.

...And that recognition of the structure wound up most of the way to spring, needing just one tiny bit more to fully click, led me to remember that sometimes Shakespeare breaks up his speeches between characters, and they make the larger structure together. Like, Romeo shows up in the balcony scene declaring the first part of a sonnet about Juliet, and then she shows up and Uno reverses it on him with the last octave.

So I looked at Harrow's next line.

It was 3 syllables long and completely punctures Gideon's rising bubble of hot air.

I'M GOING TO COMPLETELY LOSE MY SHIT HERE TAMSYN--

G: Nonagesimus, the only job (9) I’d do for you would be if you wanted (10) someone to hold the sword as you fell on it. (11)

the only job I’d do for you would be (10) If you wanted your ass kicked so hard, (9) the Locked Tomb opened, and a parade came out (11) to sing, ‘Lo! A destructed ass.’ (8)

The only job I’d do would be if you (10) wanted me to spot you while you backflipped (10) off the top tier into Drearburh.(8)

H: That's three jobs. (3)

People who are good at cryptography and poetry scansion please help. Before I go off to tear all my pillows apart with my bare hands while weeping, I'll leave you with one last thing:

those who are fit but to hold their blade in the scabbard never to draw it forth for the battle

28 syllables. Harrow says it doesn't scan; Ortus refutes this and says it's "enneameter" (after the Greek word for "eight") and therefore does. Casual reminder that the Ninth is positively shitty with people keeping secrets from each other using complicated codes and ciphers. How does enneameter work?

(Final tidbit if you need extra incentive: He also says enneameter is "the traditional form". This may be a quotation from his own work, or it could be from some other mouldering old book in the Ninth's library. Just how old?)

[dewdropdinosaur]

Kinktober Day 18: Massaging

Summary: Silco is beyond stressed, so you find a way to make him relax. Little do you know, he has way more on his mind than your hands on his shoulders. Warnings: Oral sex, blowjobs, massaging, slight sub/dom dynamics, etc. MDNI, 18+. You're responsible for your own media consumption. Kinktober Mention of the Day: @silcoitus Their kinktober writing has me foaming at the mouth for Silco! Go check them out!

The tension in the air was palpable. The weight of leadership pressed down on him, with the constant threat of enemies lurking in the shadows. Papers lay strewn across the desk, remnants of plans and schematics, while the glow of the single lamp highlighted the lines etched deeply into his face. The dimly lit office of the Last Drop provided no respite for the Eye of Zaun.

You entered the room quietly, footsteps barely audible against the worn floorboards. You had noticed the signs of stress in him—the way his jaw clenched, the furrow in his brow, and the way he stared at the papers without truly seeing them. Sure, you were his assistant and noticing these signs was apart of the job but recently the both of you had toeing the line of a relationship after a few dates and stolen kisses. So, was walking up to him and placing your firm hands on his shoulders apart of your job or was it your love for the scarred man that sat before you?

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Silco looked up, his piercing gaze softening slightly at you presence. “You’ve been working too hard. How about a break?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, revealing the tension in his posture. “I can’t afford to rest right now, Y/N. There’s too much at stake.”

You stepped closer, eyes searching his. “I know, but you need to take care of yourself too. Let me help.”

Silco hesitated but eventually nodded, the flicker of gratitude hidden behind his usual stoicism. You moved behind him, hands warm and gentle as you placed them on his shoulders. “Just relax,” you instructed quietly.

As your fingers began to knead the tense muscles, Silco felt a wave of relief wash over him. You had a uncanny way of grounding him, of reminding him that even in the chaos, some respite may be found. It was part of the reason he was so drawn to you, how you seemed to quiet the incessant noise in his mind. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the moment as you worked the knots from his shoulders, touch firm yet soothing.

“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, don’t you?” You murmured, voice a calming presence in the storm of his thoughts.

“Something like that,” he replied, his voice low. It was hard to let go, to admit that he needed this small reprieve, but the way your hands coaxed the tension away, one knot at a time, was perfect. He wouldn’t admit it aloud but he would often imagine how else your hands would feel raking down his chest. How it would sting, leave marks for him to wear secretly with pride. Would your hands feel just as good wrapped around his hardened length, Jana, he could see it now. 

You slolwy dragging the zipper of his suit pants down to let his cock spring free, marvelling at the sight, knowing that it was all for you. Wave of arousal pooling in your pants, leaving a wet spot he would surely tease you about later. His body tenses again, his breath getting caught in his throat, as you work out another knot in his back; unaware of his thoughts. His eyes would drift open to watch your actions, his gaze burning intoyour body with a mixture of desire and need. A low, guttural moan would part from his lips as you would start to pump his throbbing member, his hips instinctively bucking towards your touch. He's almost lost for words, the sensation overwhelming his senses, his mind clouded by a primal desire. He can barely think straight anymore, all his focus centered on you and what you're doing…should be to him right now. 

The strain in his pants is unbearable as he imagines all the filthy little things your hands could do to him. It was wrong, truly, to think such henious things of his assistant. But here you were, so perfect and obiedent, taking care of him like you loved him. 

You chuckled softly, you fingers digging into a particularly tight spot. “You know, you could always delegate a bit more work to others. Trust others to handle things.”

“I trust you,” he said, surprising himself with the quickness of his reply. Had you noticed the way his eyes dialated, how his trousers had a large indent? “You should charge for this,” he quipped, maybe bringing the topic back to its origin would save him from embarrasment. 

“Only if you promise to take me out for dinner afterward,” you replied, playful tone lightening the atmosphere. But then, he could feel your hot breath on the shell of his ear. You leaned down, lips ghosted over his face as one of your hands stopped its ministrations to slowly wander its way down his chest, his belt buckle; settling at the zipper of his pants. “And if you promise to let me make you feel as relaxed as possible, boss.”

Oh, how could he deny you?