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hannie-dul-set · 4 months ago

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fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this.

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is.

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 9k.

NOTE. my goal for this fic is to make as many male characters either detestable or unesttling, and make you like them against your will. in other words, meet mark and doyoung HAHAHAHAH. this is mostly still exposition!!! establishing facts and relationships and dynamics and whatnot. more jaemin next chapter. too much jaemin, even. anyway, enjoy! CHAPTER TWO.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OFF DAY TODAY. You’re on sick leave— that is, sick and tired of drafting legal papers, meeting clients, reading piles and piles of documents every single damn week, so you decided to use your once-a-month get out of jail free card to stay in bed playing Stardew Valley. It’s pre-planned. You’ve already faked sneezes and coughing fits at the office yesterday. You’ve already called your Division Chief this morning. Kim Doyoung can’t do shit when you’re allegedly bedridden and downtrodden with a fever. He can eat his own ass and suck it.

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.”

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

Motherfucking son of a bitch. Those two lines spring you out of bed immediately as though your bones have just been tased. God dammit. You’ve just managed to snag Sebastian into wedlock. How dare he throw another job at you right now? How dare he ruin your sweet, sweet honeymoon with the emotionally constipated 2D man of your dreams?

Still. It doesn’t matter if you just got married or have a collapsing lung right now. You haul your ass, get dressed, get out, and get into your car to drive to your district’s police station in a hissy fit, as per your boss, Kim Doyoung’s, instructions. This damned firm is working you like a dog, but you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. And neither can Kim Doyoung.

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

This case came from Nalkkeutta. NCT. Nal. Day. Kkeut. End. Ta. To burn. The day ends in flames. It’s a name that haunts the streets of Yeongdeungpo. It’s a name that’s synonymous with loan sharking, weapons dealing, and coughing up protection fees unless you want to get your shit rocked on an unfortunate walk home— under the guise of an honest to goodness security company to service your protective needs.

In the early 90’s, the government had a massive crackdown on gang activity and organized crime, subsequently snuffing out any emerging organized crime presence by officially criminalizing the mere act of joining a gang under the Revised Penal Code. But Nalkkeutta is relatively new. That scorching sunset symbol suddenly emerged in the district one day, around eight to nine years ago, and it’s marred the district of Yeongdeungpo with burn marks ever since.

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

The glass doors of the Yeongdeungpo Police Station shut behind you. You’re smacked hard in the face far too artificial lighting and sickly white walls and the words Patriotism, Justice, Honor mocking you in embossed silver. You grimace, cross your arms, divert your eyes with an impatient tap of the foot— and your arrival doesn’t exactly come unrecognized by the front desk and the others scattered around the lobby. One officer takes immediate initiative upon seeing your familiar sour expression, rustling out of a conversation to attend to you.

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

You eye the man. You’ve come to know him by name— Jung Jaehyun— even without needing to take a peek at his uniform’s name tag. You spare him and yourself the small talk and jump straight to business. “I’m here to see my client,” you inform, followed by under-the-breath swears as you fumble through your phone for the e-file Doyoung had just sent because Nalkkeutt had the gall to demand you to run and fetch the bone they left behind here without even giving you the chance to look at it. Seriously. If they want you to do a good job, they should be more punctual than this. “His name is—”

Huh. You read the top line of the document. A lump forms in your throat. You read it again. Once more. And the letters neither shift nor fold, confirming with absolute certainty that you read the name of your client correctly.

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground.

“Na Jaemin.” There’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you pronounce his name— like your very digestive system can’t stomach it, rejects it, and wants to vomit it right back out. “His name is Na Jaemin.”

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Empty footsteps echo against the slowly dimming hall leading to the private visiting rooms. The silence pricks at your memories— an uncomfortable sound you’ve grown accustomed to in the two years you’ve spent at Ganghak High School. It’s been eight damn years since you’ve graduated, yet one mention of a name reels you back into the past with a vividness that’s still as clear as the present.

In your memories, Na Jaemin was the guy who carried with him a pungent air of animosity and violence in his wake. On paper, he is your client, a member of the power-drunk gang that you’re tied by the noose with, and someone you have to defend. At present, he is sits right before you— tight-browed, tight-lipped underneath the singular light bulb hovering above the center of the table, looking as though he’s one clock tick away from flipping the table over (the only thing maintaining a safe distance between the both of you), and leaving on his own accord.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

You’re not sure how you feel when there isn’t even a click of recognition on his part when you introduce yourself and mention your name. You realize that what you’re feeling is a mixture of fear, relief, and absolute revulsion when he responds with, “So, when the fuck am I getting out?”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You inhale sharply. Fuck. You’re not sure if you have the willpower to push through this, and you can’t even ease your nerves or melt your frozen bloodstream with a sigh because he’s staring right at you— impatient, as though he’s counting down the seconds in his head after a one-sided declaration that you have a limited time to willingly answer before he forces it out of you by the throat.

That fucking looking in his eyes. That damned stare that instinctively triggers you to look down, look away, look anywhere else but directly at him. It’s a habit that everyone in Ganghak used to have. It’s a habit that’s still deeply instilled in your psyche, in your muscles, in your instincts to the point that despite being the person in authority at the moment, you have your head down, throat dry, and doing your damn best to read his case file despite the letters looking all wobbly from your anxiety.

Disturbing the peace. Three counts of physical injury. Less serious. Thank fuck. That makes things a little bit more hopeful, but that doesn’t mean you’re free from hell. Hell is sitting right in front of you, handcuffed because the cops have deemed his very existence a threat to public order and safety. You muster up a bit more confidence knowing he can’t reach over the table to sock you in the face.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

Na Jaemin sneers, a kick against the table leg with a grunt. “Fucking useless,” he spits. His chair is tipped back, head turned away. You firmly press your lips together. You wish he’d just completely tip over and crash his skull and die.

For someone currently detained for a possible criminal offense, Na Jaemin sure seems very much unbothered yet annoyed at the same time. He sits relaxed on the foldable chair, shoulders slumped as if he owns the place, and he stifles out a lazy yawn— drawing attention to his busted lips and handful of scratches littered all over his cheekbone, temple, and forehead— a stark contrast to the vibrant purple splotch painting over his right jaw. You make a mental note to schedule a physical examination on his ass to record his injuries.

“But…I can make sure you don’t get arrested” You proceed with caution. His evident annoyance is flecked with momentary interest. You suck in a deep breath. “Were there any other people involved besides you and the three witnesses? Was anyone else there?”

You’re not sure what you were expecting as a response. Whatever it’d be, you just hope you get some useful information. Any sort of information. However, it seems like you just asked the wrong question.

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

All that interest is eradicated by a sharp glare. Na Jaemin lets out a huff and a sneer. You’re stressed. You’re beyond stressed. This is impossible. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Back then, you’d always had a feeling that he was part of something sketchy, whether it be some ragtag juvenile group or whatever the fuck. You didn’t care enough to find out. But, christ jesus, he just had to be in fucking Nalkkeut.

That sun tattoo sprawled on the back of his impatient hand— the gang’s symbol, sun rays etched into the bumps of his veins and calloused skin— tap, tap, tapping on the table with the clunk of his handcuffs tells you that he isn’t just some disposable grunt either. The urgency in Kim Doyoung’s tone when he called earlier confirms that dreadful conjecture as well. He’s up there. Way up there, and you have no choice but to fight back the urge to swallow your own tongue.

“I—I understand. That’s fine. Then…can I ask what events led to the incident?” you tentatively try to prod, taking a peek at his expression to see if you’re greenlit to ask this. His face brightens up. One corner of his mouth twitches upward, revealing a sliver of teeth. You flinch. He looks deranged.

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.”

Na Jaemin is leaning back on the flimsy plastic chair as if he’s reminiscing a happy memory. Jesus christ. He’s always been like this, but it never fails to scare you shitless. You’ve always wondered why he was so insane, but the fact that he currently is and has been in Nalkeutta explains a lot of the things you’ve seen in high school. No high schooler had any business pulling up the gate with a BMW, nor was it reasonable for anyone at your age at the time to afford at least five Cartier watches considering the neighborhood you were in. Yet Na Jaemin and his lackey’s always showed up in the days that he thought was convenient in some sort of Chanel tracksuit and dozens of gold and silver accessories.

You were lucky enough to have never gotten punched in the nose with the absurd amount of rings on his fingers— a taste which he seems to carry until today, you notice while keeping your eyes down and trained on the table. They aren’t allowed to keep any personal belongings in the holding cells, jewelry included, fucking obviously. How this guy managed to keep his is beyond your imagination.

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

You jump in your seat when he suddenly lurches forward, chained palms slamming against the rocky table with a loud thump and a clink. “Hey, Little Miss Attorney. Listen very carefully,” he rasps. He’s leaned in closer now, making it a hundred times more difficult to keep your head down and not look him in the eye. “I beat all three of them half to death, and that’s all that matters. This question and answer bullshit is pissing me off. Are we done here? Can you fucking leave now?”

You’re scared shitless. You really are. It’s two years worth of trauma suddenly jumping you from behind a wall and throttling the air out of your lungs— of course you’re fucking terrified, and Na Jaemin can smell it like the rabid dog he is.

The problem is, he isn’t the worst of your fears. This mutt is leashed to an owner that would have your head as a dinner treat if you don’t manage to get him out of this stupid cage. So you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Damned to hell if you do, damned to an even deeper hell if you don’t.

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you start. Your jaw is tight. It takes everything in your power to force it open and speak. “I need you to cooperate with me so I can get you out of here. Help me help you, alright?”

You’ve really been trying your best to phrase your sentences in a way that doesn’t sound demanding, that you’re leaving it hp to him because you know this bastard doesn’t like being told what to do. But your careful attempts don’t matter against a volatile son of a bitch. “Why’d you even need my help? Ain’t that shit your job?“ he barbs, a slight scoff hanging off at the end. “Seems like Mark hired a useless fucking lawyer.”

Twice. He just called you useless twice. The sheer level of offense you feel momentarily overpowers your nerves— a biting tick near the side of your temple, and you dig your fingers into the clothed skin of your thigh.

The Mark he’s referencing did not hire you because you’re useless. In fact, that guy regularly asks for you specifically whenever his gang is caught in any civil or criminal trouble because you’re the only damned attorney willing to get her hands dirty to find an out— and competent enough to pull it off in exchange for an extra zero on your commission.

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

Apparently, you failed to hide the scowl polluting your expression. When you sneak a glance at Na Jaemin, he appears to be amused at his successful non-attempt to get under your skin, a lazy, lopsided grin on his face.

You get it together. Mark Lee, that fucking bastard. It had been fine for the past few months when all you’ve had to mediate were petty settlements and bails and lesser criminal offenses, but you’ve never had to deal with one of his executives directly before— who just so happened to be your high school bully, at that. You close your eyes shut, press your lips together, and release a deep breath from out of your nose as you stand up.

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

You leave the station with a jumbled up head and with all your five senses screaming themselves into oblivion. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck. Had Kim Doyoing emailed you the file a lot earlier, you wouldn’t have gone here and welcomed yourself directly into hell. You could try to settle with the victims, but in case they won’t agree to a compromise, you’d have to pull a defense out of your ass considering that your client is the most uncooperative asshole you’ve ever been cursed to deal with.

It doesn’t help that spending two years in high school with Na Jaemin is reopening pages and pages of trauma that you thought you’d successfully managed to file away— stored in a safety vault in a little corner of your head that need not be reopened. But just meeting him— talking to him directly when you’ve never even dared to before— brought a rusty crowbar to that vault, mercilessly ripping it apart.

Having cancelled your off day, the car ride to your office building is spent thinking about how to scrape up a case to defend the bastard you thought you’d finally been freed from eight years ago. The bastard who’d made the last two years of high school a literal level hell of dread and desperation.

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

*‎

The next morning, Nalkkeutta’s boss is gracious enough to answer your request for a meeting.

Mark Lee shows up to the conference room of JSS’s Criminal Division, accompanied by a polite knock on the already open door, a humming smile, and a Kim Doyoung— who you very clearly don’t remember inviting to this meeting. Mark enters the room with a good morning. You nod and your eyes skip over him, flitting over to meet your boss’s gaze by the door instead. “You must be very busy, sir. What are you doing here?”

The wrinkle that forms between Doyoung’s eyebrows signifies that he very much understood your polite version of a fuck off. “I just wanted to escort our client,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.

You smile at him. “The escorting usually ends when the client has arrived at their destination.”

Doyoung’s jaw stiffens. Mark seems to be sufficiently entertained by the exchange, attention hopping back and forth between you and your boss. The latter surrenders and ends the episode with a sigh and a nod, completely glossing over you to speak to Mark instead. “Mr. Lee, please let me know if you need anything.”

You hear Mark respond in a pleasant tone, “Don’t worry, I know I’m in good hands,” but you don’t look at him yet. You force the gravity of your gaze onto Doyoung— an unwavering smile that creeps him out just enough to finally give up and leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a click, and finally allowing you to relax your shoulders and sink into the glossy, wooden table.

“Ugh.”

Stuck-up prick. The bane of your fucking existence, had it not been for the reappearance of Na Jaemin, the other capricious asshole in your life. Your head cocks up, hearing the scratching noise of a chair being pulled out. Mark sits right in front of you, maintaining a smile. “Bad morning?” And you finally speak your first words to him, in the form of a raging rant about his hot mess of an executive.

“Hey, be honest, do you want me fired? Do you want me to make my first ever loss? Your employee, Na Jaemin, told me he got into this mess because Yoon Naksung and his friends were looking at him for too long. Does that make sense to you? Is that how a sane man operates? How the hell am I supposed to defend that in court? How the hell am I supposed to defend his ass when he gives me fucking nothing to work with, and all while having the balls to call me useless?”

You’re out of breath by the end of it. Whew. That felt so freaking good.

“Sorry.” You eject yourself out of your tantrum upon hearing Mark’s not-so-apologetic apology. You leer at him from across the table, watching the stillness of his apparent pleasant expression. “Jaemin can be kind of rude sometimes.”

This guy is Nalkkeutta’s boss, you remind yourself. He’s the source of your fattened up bank account and worsened sense of justice and morality for the past five months—

“Rude is an understatement. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

“I’ve never seen you this angry.” Mark laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Was he that bad?”

Nalkeutta and JSS Law firm’s partnership has existed prior to your employment here. However, you’ve know Nalkkeutta’s boss even before you’ve entered law school, much less started working here. Kim Doyoung doesn’t know this, obviously. Their background check on you did not go as far as finding out your regular patrons throughout the four years you spent working at a run-down cafe-bar downtown throughout the entirety of your undergrad.

The cafe’s name was The Hangman. Pirate-themed, which was used as a frequent justification by your boss to never fix the broken chair legs, unkempt storage boxes, and occasional leaky ceilings. They add to the aesthetic, he says.

Anyhow, it was then that you first met Mark Lee, around three weeks into your first shift. He’d usually come in at around 10 p.m., order an old fashioned at the counter, flash you a pretty and boyish smile, then quietly read on the same spot until one in the morning before thanking you and leaving. Each time, you clock the hardbound cover titles. The Laws of Human Nature. Man’s Search for Meaning. Leviathan. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man.

Frankly, the crap he regularly reads worked better to make him look more daunting than his overall appearance. Mark Lee wore the visage of a cute, college literature major— covered in knit beanies and warm cardigans and all— but carried books and ordered drinks that made him seem like he was fifty-seven years old. The only time you found an opening was the time he finally brought a long something other than self-help or pretentious nonfiction. Kafka on the Shore. “I didn’t peg you as a Murakami guy.”

Mark Lee was taken aback when you first talked to him. He asked what made you say that.

You referenced the previous books he’d been carrying along. He blinked, laughed, then said that he actually preferred reading fiction. He’d only been reading all that obnoxious bullshit (your words) because he was fascinated with the mental gymnastics (his words) some people were capable of, and he was just compelled to read more. You’re still not sure how much of that defense was true, but that doesn’t really matter because your conversations gradually strayed away from books to your daily life instead— your classes and readings and the annoying customers you’d regularly had to deal with at work. It’s mostly you doing the talking, and it’s mostly because you otherwise had no one else to talk to to kill time during your night shifts at The Hangman.

“Was he that bad?” you parrot, sarcastically. “He said that you did a shit job picking a lawyer. You tell me, Mark Lee. Do you think your executive is a stellar guy?”

Mark only laughs. You grunt and slump in your seat, arms crossed as you observe Mark’s expression from across the table. It seems like he doesn’t mind you talking shit about his people this much. His lips are pressed in a perpetual, easygoing smile as he eyes the set of folders and documents on your side. You bite the inside of your cheek. From his appearance alone, you wouldn’t have guessed him to be the head of the most notorious gang in the underbelly of Yeongdeungpo. In fact, you would never have guessed it if you didn’t take an extra shift one day at The Hangman.

You ended up staying later than your usual 2 a.m. to cover for a co-worker. It was a weekend, so you didn’t mind much. Mark Lee hadn’t shown up that night. That is until you saw him come in at the store thirty minutes after two— deviating from his usual routine in more ways than one when he didn’t stop to order a drink, when he was with someone else who you were frankly too intimidated to look at for too long. When he went in and up the staircase at the back of the bar that was otherwise off limits because it led to your boss’s office in the upper area— and none of your supervisors came to stop him nor even attempt to look at him when he came back out with his big, scary companion walking three steps behind him while carrying a large and heavy looking black bag.

This happened a few more times. And Mark Lee would always smile at you when he’d pass by the bar counter. That’s when you knew something was up. But you knew better than to dig your nose into that kind of business.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the ability to see the future back then.

You look at the guy sitting in front of you right now. Mark Lee’s eyes flit up from your documents to look at you again, hands clasped together and resting gingerly on the conference table. “I’d sincerely like to apologize on his behalf,” he starts. You feel a thump in your chest. “But I hope his uncooperativeness isn’t making it impossible for you to win the case, attorney.”

Yup. That was a threat. Get my errand dog out of jail— even if he bites you in the process, is what he’s trying to say. Mark Lee may have been your bar regular and friend at some point, but right now he is your client— the most important client your firm has ever had the pleasure of receiving. He is not your friend right now. He is your high school bully’s boss. He is the head of the biggest organized crime group in the district. And your law firm is just one of the many cogs running his criminal machinery. One slip up, and he could just wrench you out without a second thought.

“Of course it’s not impossible. What do you think of me?”

You slide the first file you have down the table. Even if Na Jaemin is fucking useless, you’re not letting him ruin your flawless performance record. You’re not letting him give Mark Lee a reason to throw you away.

“What’s this?”

“The witness list. Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong,” you start. “Your dog fucked them up really badly. I already met their lawyer. He was being dodgy about it, but I doubt they’d let him off with a simple settlement.”

A glint flickers in Mark Lee’s eyes are your introduction.

“I already have another meeting scheduled with him this week. I’d like to talk to the three victims personally, but you know I’m not allowed to do that.”

He hums, glossing over your file before setting it back down on the table, fingers pressed firmly on the page as he looks up with a pleasant smile. “When should I take care of them?”

A shiver crawls down your spine. “I’ll let you know depending on how the second meeting goes,” you answer. “Even if the three of them testify, there won’t be enough evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt based on what the prosecution has so far. I don’t know why the fuck their counsel is even bothering with this. Na Jaemin would effectively be acquitted from his criminal charges.”

Your client appears to be satisfied, but you’re not done yet.

“However, that won’t absolve him from civil liability.”

No way in hell.

“Yoon Naksung’s party can still sue for damages. And they have enough evidence to guarantee a win. Na Jaemin would be fined at most, and I’m sure it’d be very easy for you to cough up a couple thousand for him. But that’s still a loss for me. And I can’t have that stain on my record.”

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

“Talk to Yoon Naksung. Or Hong Hyunjae. or Ma Gildong, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. It might be hard to get through Yoon since he’s the one fighting the most for this, but the other two would be pretty easy. I hear Ma Gildong’s business isn’t in good shape lately. The address is on the file.” You rise up, leaning forward to reach an arm over. You drop an index finger on the exact spot on the document you were referencing, landing a firm thump on the table. “If the court hears that all of them were all equally beating the shit out of each other in a drunken episode, not remembering who started what, instead of it being a one-sided beating from your exec just because they looked at him wrong—”

Your eyes flit up. You meet Mark’s gaze— unblinking and dilated. You clear your throat and look away.

“Then—then, their case won’t be merited. The court would dismiss it in pari delicto.”

Mark Lee seems pretty fucking happy to hear that. He’s all smiles and applause and it stresses you the fuck out. “I knew I could count on you, attorney.”

You sigh, slumping back down in your seat. “I already have Na Jaemin’s medical report. If you could get at least two of the witnesses to cooperate, that would be great.” Mark responds with a nod and a hum. You sigh again. “We have so many competent lawyers here. Why do you keep specifically asking for me? Next time, go ask Doyoung, or something. I’m tired.” You’d give up this illegal but lucrative money machine just to see Kim Doyoung experience the life-or-death stress you’ve been experiencing these past five months. You really would.

“Because you’re good,” he responds lightly— genuinely. A little too genuine for your liking. Mark shoots you a smile as he tucks his abandoned seat back under the conference table. Uh oh. Here he goes again. “How about officially joining Nalkkeutta as the head of our legal department?”

“Hah,” you snort. “My hands may have gotten dirty, but I can still wash them, Mark Lee.” The look on his face tells you that he isn’t taking you seriously. You leer your eyes. You’re serious. You don’t intend on being Nalkkeut’s clean-up dog forever. Five months ago, you just happened to have shit luck with the desperation to match. Both bad luck and desperation are bound to run out at some point. You just hope they manage to burn out before this guy could burn you alive. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve met with their lawyer again. For the meantime, just keep an eye on the witnesses. Let me know if you find anything of importance.”

His eyes linger on you for a while, still smiling. You know where his head is at. Your grimace— even harder when he asks again to confirm, “So, is that a no?”

“Hell no.”

Mark clicks his tongue. “Worth a shot.” At this point, he’s already halfway out of the conference. “See you again, attorney,” he bids farewell

“God, please, no,” you respond with a grunt. He laughs. The door clicks shut. You groan and become one with the almond table.

How many times has he tried to recruit you already? You’ve lost count. You’re already being regularly run through the wringer at JSS, how much more under Nalkkeut? Jesus, you don’t even want to entertain the thought. So, you busy your head with your current main stressor: the Na Jaemin case. You force your face off the table with a grunt and pull out your ipad to double check the trial schedule. Two weeks from now. Thursday. Fuck all. How did you end up here?

In retrospect, maybe it was actually all your fault. Three months ago— two months into working at JSS Law Firm— you decided that you were sick and tired of being trapped in Kim Doyoung’s legal counsel team as an associate, without being granted any personal recognition or accolades. You wanted to prove your worth. You wanted to get your credit. This time, you’re going to get your first fucking big girl case. Even if it meant discourteously bulldozing into Kim Doyoung’s office like a chihuahua looking for a fight.

Which you did, only to be shell-shocked and surprised to see the face of your old bar counter friend— who might also be a gang leader— in the middle of a very…confidential conversation with your supervisor.

“Attorney, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Too late. You’ve already overheard their conversation. They were discussing a case much like your current one— one of Mark Lee’s executives got caught in the middle of an illegal firearms deal, and Doyoung was having trouble looking for a lawyer stupid enough to take the case.

He shooed you out, but you stayed. You simply had no choice. You had to bite the bullet. This was a spring-loaded opportunity, and you didn’t intend on feeling from it.

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

You did get your big girl case, alright. You won. But you also had to book a full body spa session after your first time shaking hands with a criminal— just to feel somewhat cleaner. Obviously, you’ve become a lot more jaded now. Your boss has decided to dump all of Nalkkeuta’s major cases onto your desk since then, and Mark Lee has been trying to poach you ever since.

JSS. Jinsilseong. Integrity. What a load of bullshit. Where’s the integrity in working as criminal clean up dogs? There’s neither integrity nor justice here. Yet you’re able to afford a decent apartment because of that tarnished integrity. Dirty money. You make yourself sick, but drive home and back to work again for the next few days with the car that money bought you, because there’s no way in hell integrity can give you a comfortable life.

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

Kim Jungwoo comes over to greet you at the division breakroom while you’re in the middle of making yourself a cup of instant coffee after three fucking hours of being hunched over your cubicle the whole day. You jolt upon hearing his voice, flitting your head over to the direction of his voice, and you’re greeted by a face that clearly has gotten his eight hours in.

Unlike you. Jungwoo and you joined the firm at about the same time, yet somehow you look as though you’ve been trapped here for a good ten decades. He bats his eyes at you with a pretty boy smile while waiting for your response. You grunt.

“Dreadful. Horrible. Do you want to take it from me and liberate me from this misery?”

The laugh he gives you in response probably means a no. You click your tongue, grunting as you set aside to give him space on the counter. “Is it that bad?” he asks, rustling through the cabinets for a coffee stick somewhere. Kim Doyoung should restock and feed his poor laborers better.

“Yoon’s party won’t settle. They’re dead set on pursuing a cIass action.” Jungwoo manages to fish one stick out. “Not to mention my own fucking client refused my visit. I miss the days where all I had to do was summarize court transcripts and deliver correspondences for Doyoung. You never really know what you’re missing until you lose it.”

That was a lie, but you’re miserable. You were able to meet all three of the witnesses last week, in the presence of their lawyer, obviously and unfortunately. Yoon Naksung seems to be their leader, because the moment you uttered the words ‘settlement’ and ‘compromise,’ he nearly jumped off his seat to full-on throttle you. You’d ask why the hell he’s so hostile, but you read their written testimony on the day of the incident. He recounted all the heinous crap Na Jaemin spewed out while he beat the shit out of them. Things you’d rather not repeat out loud. The other two witnesses didn’t seem as passionate as Naksung, like they just wanted it to be over with and forget how much Na Jaemin humiliated their asses by wiping their faces on the ground and proceeding to call them a bunch of bitch babies.

Anyhow, you have your last attempt of negotiation this afternoon with their lawyer. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter at this point. You just want to let the court know that you’ve done your due diligence of attempting to reach an amicable settlement. You’ve got other cards up your sleeve— you’ve always had.

Which is why Kim Doyoung doesn’t buy your whining and complaining when overhears it in the breakroom.

“Get a grip.”

You flinch. Doyoung makes an appearance by shoveling in between you and Jungwoo to the coffee storage. You two step aside. He releases a silent swear upon realizing there’s no more instant coffee left. So, he decides to release his pissy attitude onto the innocent cupboard door by slamming it shut with a loud bam!

You and Jungwoo look at each other. Bad executive meeting. Very bad, you two mentally agree, sharing a look and a nod. JSS has been dealing with negative press lately. Director must have dumped the burden of fixing it onto him. Poor guy. He deserves it.

Doyoung manages to compose himself in a matter of seconds. He inhales, chest rising, then adjusts his crooked glasses with a huff from lips, finishing it up by giving you a lowered stare. “I’m not really worried about your performance,” he carefully pronounces. “Nalkkeut always asks for you for a reason. Mark Lee gets along well with you, too. So, quit being dramatic.”

He gets along with you because you both like Haruki Murakami, never dug your nose into his business, and always cleaned up his messes. You doubt you’d get the same grace if you fucked this one up, especially considering it concerns one of his executives. Sure, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of your previous cases without much trouble besides your inherent workload. The problem this time is your client.

Ugh. Na Jaemin. That bastard. How dare he decline your visitation request when his freedom is on the line here? You need to brief him for the trial, make sure he doesn’t do anything fucking stupid that would jeopardize your case and fuck not only himself, but you over as well. His freedom isn’t the only thing on the line. Your record is. Your freaking license is. As much as you really don’t want to see his face again, you have to. And the only comfort you can find at the prospect of meeting him again is the very clear evidence that he does not remember you— whereas your bones are already shaking at the mere thought of having to face him again.

It sucks. This sucks. But even if it does, you force yourself out of the office later in the afternoon to meet the witnesses’ lawyer at a cafe downtown.

His name is Jung Sungchan from the District Prosecutor’s Office. He’s baby-faced. He still has the light in his eyes. You’ve never even heard of him before this case. Meaning, he’s far too irrelevant to have the gall to strut into the cafe, say his piece, then leave without even buying a freaking coffee.

“See you in court, attorney.”

Of course this meeting ends the same way as your other meetings have had: no settlement, no compromise, no nothing. You release a scoff once he sees himself out with a cocky ass grin and a pep in his step. Hah. Fucker thinks he’s winning. This bitch is a toddler in the field compared to you. You’re gonna show him just how ruthless the law could be in the hands of someone that could bend it. He has no idea what’s coming for him.

You pull out your phone. You text Mark a go signal. [Give me an update tonight]. You stare at your string of texts you’d just sent, squint, contemplate for a second, then bring up your phone to your face. [Also, please send a message to your locked up exec that I really have to meet him soon. Tell him to stop rejecting my visitation requests. Please. For the love of god]. You hit send again. You exhale. That does it. You fix up your things and prepare to start leaving.

While you make your way to the cafe’s exit, you unfortunately overhear a conversation. Not that you’d even tried to overhear. There are two girls sitting next to the counter— one with straight black hair and blunt bangs, the other one with a very bad bleach job— and they’re both just talking really, really loudly.

“That’s what you get for fucking my man, you tramp,” sneers the fake blonde.

“I’m telling you, I really didn’t know he was taken!” straight hair screeches back.

Oh, fuck. You didn’t want to hear this drama. You try your best to maneuver past them quickly, quietly, but you end up hearing more information as you walk by. “I already broke it off and apologized! Please just take down the post already—”

“There’s no way you didn’t know, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking your disgusting texts down. All your friends and family deserve to know how much of a dirty, manipulative skank you are. So that they’d know to keep their boyfriends away from you!”

“Look, I’d get down on my knees to apologize, but you posted not only my private texts, but my fucking nudes were in them, you bitch! I’m not fucking proud of hooking up with a man I didn’t know was taken, but you’re going too far! I—I could sue you for this!”

“Hah! As if! If anyone, I’m the victim in this situation! Not you! You’re the affair partner who seduced my man!”

Goddammit. You jerk back after a sudden stop six feet away from the exit. You shit your eyes, mutter a silent breath as you continue to listen to the high-strung argument behind you. Normally, you’re not one to butt into these things. It’s none of your business, and quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck. But maybe it’s because you’ve yet again been subject to do something that desecrates the very principles of your occupation— the very notions of what is just and lawful and good— that you find yourself spinning your heels and stomping back into the opposite direction before you could even reconsider.

“Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting without consent, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

You just want to balance out the scales of your negative karma— even by just a little bit. You’re doing this for no one’s good but your own. The two girls snap their heads at you, one visibly more annoyed than the other. You gloss over it.

“The right to privacy of communication is heavily protected by our laws and Constitution,” you begin. Blondie furrows her brows at you, a loading symbol practically spinning above her head. Straight hair looks at you, confused. You keep a straight face, digging into your bag. “Prying into the privacy of another’s conversation is a civil offense and a cause of action for damages. That’s one thing. Posting someone else’s sensitive and explicit conversations is another story.”

You pull out a card. “Who the hell are you? Why the hell are you butting in?” she snaps, the sound of her chair scratching the ground as she stands up in a huff to level you. You set your business card down onto the table, the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, all caps, facing right side up.

Blondie’s eyes look down. Her face pales. Then she looks up to meet yours. You almost snort.

“It is a criminal offense punishable by three to seven years imprisonment, or a fine not exceeding twelve million won. Or both.” You could very well be jumping the wrong ship here, but you got a fair sense that Blunt Bangs was telling the truth from how desperate she looks, and that Fake Blonde is simply high on a vengeful power trip over the wrong person. “And, considering the fact that you publicized it online through a post, if I heard correctly, it would also be considered a cybercrime. Meaning, you could be charged for both.”

You didn’t think she could get any paler. You’re proven wrong.

“Wow. That’s an impressive feat considering you had no idea you were committing those crimes. Amazing.”

It doesn’t take much longer for her to sputter out something incoherent and stomp out in a panicked frenzy while mashing something onto her phone, most likely trying to delete the post. Sometimes witnessing firsthand the dredges of humanity gives you a little bit of comfort that you’re not the shittiest person in the world. You release a breath, readying yourself to leave once more, only to be stopped by a quiet excuse me from the same table.

You look down. You’re met by the way too happy smile of Blunt Bangs. She looks cheerful. Oh, god. You’re not used to this kind of positivity. You feel a shudder down your spine and force down a lump in your throat.

“Hi,” she starts. “Thanks for helping me. Jeez. What a psycho.”

The girl asks if she can buy you a drink as a thank you. You have not known kindness ever since you started working at JSS, and, by proxy, Nalkkeutta, so you were possessed with the inclination to say yes even though you’ve just had an americano with three shots. You settle with a warm jasmine tea to spare your stomach lining. The girl introduces herself as Natty, and starts giving you an unsolicited rundown of how Fake Blonde just suddenly started sending her swears and death threats the other day alongside the revelation that she was apparently her fling’s girlfriend.

She came here all the way from Mapo just to apologize again and beg her to take down the post. And then you witnessed how that went down. “I really had no idea,” she huffs in complaint for the nth time. You take a sip from your half-empty cup, glancing at the time. It’s 4 p.m. Sweet. Doyoung still thinks you’re having the meeting right now. One more hour before you have to clock out. You decide to pay a bit more attention to Natty as a thank you for allowing you to slack off on the job. “Oh, by the way. Can I ask something?”

You set down the cup on the saucer. “Sure.”

��Did you maybe go to Ganghak High School? Around eight to nine years ago?”

And then you nearly choke on your own fucking spit. What the hell? You stare at her, wide-eyed in both surprise and innate fear. “Why...why do you ask?” Natty takes that a yes and immediately lets out a squeal, followed by the squeal of your name, followed by a very slow process of recollection on your part of a girl with similar blunt bangs in your repressed high school memories— then it clicks.

“I recognized your name on your business card, but wasn’t sure if you were the same person! Whoa! You’re a lawyer now! That’s amazing!”

Blunt bangs. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Pretty smile. You remember being classmates with a girl with that same description. You think they both have the same name. You don’t get the chance to second guess yourself because she starts talking about more people you vaguely remember in Ganghak— the class president who’s apparently on his third try at taking the Civil Service Exam, that one couple who apparently recently got married just two months ago in Jeju, that one kid who had once gotten his head dunked into the trash can on the first day of senior year because he came in without knowing the rules of the school.

He didn’t know who ran it. You did. Natty did. And that confirms the fact that you two had indeed been in the same hell once.

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Na Jaemin? I haven’t heard a single thing about him since we graduated and I moved towns.”

You look at her, a stiff smile on your face. She was your classmate. She was his classmate. If she can remember all those other people and what their roles were back in Ganghak, she’d very clearly remember yours as well. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about him either.”

Natty gets the realization and immediately flinches out an apology. “O—oh, haha. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“No, it’s alright,” you hum, smile softening. “I haven’t heard of him, either.”

Christ. This man really haunts you everywhere you go. Natty is great at conversation, and manages to smooth over that one bump as quickly as she can and proceeds to ask about any new hot places at Yeongdeungpo, ask about your job, you asking about what she’s up to in turn under it hits five in the afternoon and you have to return to the firm to clock out.

The both of you exchange numbers. You look at Natty’s saved contact on your phone with conflicted feelings.

Now that you’ve managed to slot the memories into place, you do in fact remember her. She was your classmate throughout the two short years you spent at Ganghak. On your first day, she was the first person who’d come up to talk to you— the only time she’d ever talked to you and vice versa. It took nine years for the both of you to have a conversation again. And there’s really only one person to blame.

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

It’s Monday. You race down the now emptied hallways, eyes quickly scanning each door label that you zoom past in the off chance that you got carried away running and missed your room. To think this is how your year starts. You were looking forward to using the opportunity before homeroom to introduce yourself and make some new friends, but no— you just had to doze off because you spent the entire yesterday unpacking.

It’s a new neighborhood, new school. You’ve heard that most of Ganghak High School’s students came from Ganghak Middle, meaning almost everyone already knows each other here. They’ve already formed their respective cliques and cohorts and groups. You’re currently an outsider, and you need to put in the effort to change that. You need to make a good impression to get some god damned friends and not spend the rest of your two years here as a loner.

Which is why you feel a splashing wave of relief drenching your bones the moment you make it to your assigned class for the rest of the year— slamming a palm against the door, just in time for the bell to ring.

“Whoo! Safe!”

At least fifteen sets of eyes immediately zero in on you. You stand there by the door. You smile and nod.

“Hi, good morning.”

No one responds. They all look at you— some stares lingering longer than the others— but they all eventually divert their eyes before five seconds, releasing what you could only assume were sighs of relief, and then proceed to drown the classroom in a silence that’s so, so unnatural for a large group of fifteen to sixteen year olds.

That should have been your first sign that this school was far from normal.

What a great start, you mentally huff, scanning the classroom the seat you’ll be stuck with for the next two years, and you eventually clock a pair of empty desks in the middle of the back row. You walk over to the available seat, waiting to see if anyone calls out saying it’s theirs, and after a few moments of no objections, you sit yourself down on the wooden chair.

The moment you hook your bag on the left side of your new desk, you swore that the heavy silence pervading the classroom just got heavier.

You look up. You see someone from the center row, peeking over her shoulder at who you assume is you with a somewhat nervous jitter— as if she’s having an argument with herself in her own head and for some reason, you’re involved. That should’ve been your second sign, but despite your confusion and frustration, you sit still. You sit still until one side eventually wins the girl’s mental argument and she rises up from her seat, tentatively stalks up to you as the class’s eyes follow her short walk with anticipation, including yours.

“Hi, uhm,” she practically squeaks out, hesitant, eyes quickly flickering over to the classroom door before looking back at you. She inhales and smiles. Her bangs are covering her eyebrows. “I’m Natty.”

You greet back and introduce yourself. This is a really fucking weird first interaction, but you take what you can get. “Hi.”

The expectation would be that she’d ask you if you’re new here, if you’re a transferee, if you’d like to join her and her friends for lunch, but no.

Natty completely diverts your expectations by saying, point blank, “This may sound weird, but…you should maybe pick another seat.”

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

The answer comes in the form of the sound of the classroom door violently swinging open, followed by a series of hushed exclamations, and Natty’s suddenly paled face snapping away from you within the same moment, scampering to return back to her seat at the center, without even giving you the grace of a response.

You didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it does, even with the sound of graveled footsteps marching their way over to you— the only thing you can see of the late student’s arrival because for some damn reason, everyone has their head down, and you felt compelled to follow and shut up and catch up to your confused and bated breaths as you listen to the chair next to you screech against the tiled floor, and feel the presence of someone plop themselves down with a rattle and grunt, and at that moment, you feel like you were given the subconscious permission to look up again.

So, you do.

And when you do, you immediately lock eyes with Natty. Sorry, she mouths with a hand up her cheek, then just as quickly turns back to the front, leaving you to think— what the hell just happened?

Hesitantly, you crane your head to the right, sneaking a glance at the person who just yanked the atmosphere down into hell with just his arrival, the person who you’d be stuck with for the rest of the year by virtue of your seating arrangement.

Much to your surprise, you’re not met by a face. You’re met with someone hunched over, a mop of messy hair with his face buried into crossed arms over the desk with an aura that immediately repels you from prodding even an inch closer. You nudge your seat away to the left, making sure not to cross the invisible mark marked by the gap between your two desks. The only sign of life you glean is the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders— invisible to anyone but you solely because of proximity— which leads you to the conclusion that he’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Something tells you that it’s better that he stays this way. That something is the sigh of relief from the person sitting right in front of you as your homeroom teacher finally walks in.

At this point, you still haven’t seen your seatmate’s face. The only time you know of his name is during attendance, when your teacher calls out a hesitant, “Na— Na Jaemin…?” after double-taking at her class list, answered by nothing but a heavy silence despite having all seats in the classroom filled. She quickly nods in acknowledgement and moves forward after that. Just who the hell is sitting right next to you?)

*‎

Beyond your control, memories from that time of your life continuously flash behind your eyes as you drive back to the firm. A buzz from your phone momentarily interrupts you. It’s from Mark Lee.

[Thanks, attorney. We’ll take care of Ma Gildong first tonight. You can see Jaemin on Monday, next week 🧑‍🎓].

Na Jaemin on a Monday. You grimace. What a load of crappy poetic irony. You reply with a thanks and a middle finger. Mark Lee beeps back with a bright grin in emoji form.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

#na jaemin x reader #jaemin x reader #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #jaemin x you #na jaemin x you #na jaemin fanfic #jaemin fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct fanfic #nct scenarios #nct imagines #na jaemin smut #jaemin smut #nct dream smut #nct smut

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mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

a body to break against [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: a night of chinese food, shots, and unexpected camaraderie with the new avengers forces you to confront your place on the team, and it's especially difficult with bucky’s stare lingering on you.

word count: 6200

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, alcohol consumption, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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You didn’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the absence of weight in the air. Or maybe it was the silence—thick and undisturbed, like something had finally shifted. For a moment, you lay still beneath the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the storm to return.

But it didn’t.

You stepped out of the room barefoot, expecting to find Bucky Barnes still haunting the apartment like some cold draft. Instead, the kitchen was empty. The chair he’d claimed last night was vacant, the beer bottle gone. His presence, which had been so sharp and intrusive, had vanished.

And you were relieved.

Until a voice startled you from the table. “Morning,” it said — warm, casual. You turned your head and saw him.

He was younger than you expected. Messy curls, soft features, and a grin that looked like it came easy. Joaquin Torres.

He waved a spatula at you. “Sam said you might be up soon. I made eggs. Hope you’re not vegan.”

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure how to exist in a space that felt suddenly… normal. And then, because your stomach growled before you could think of an excuse, you nodded and stepped in.

Joaquin talked about the grocery store being out of oat milk again, about some neighbour who kept confusing him with his own cousin, and about music. He didn't ask who you were or why you were here. That made it easier.

You ate quietly, letting the rhythm of his voice fill the silence.

When Sam walked in, the room changed. Not with tension—not like it had with Bucky—but with a kind of quiet awareness. He froze in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the table, a plate of half-eaten eggs in front of you, a rare flicker of something soft brushing across his face before he caught it and cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, nodding.

You nodded back, unsure if you were more startled by how natural this felt… or by the way Sam looked at you. Like he was trying not to look too long.

He joined you at the table, grabbed a coffee, and the three of you sat like a real group of roommates — almost.

But even as you smiled faintly at something Joaquin said, you felt it: Sam was watching you more closely than before. Like he wanted to say something, he hadn’t quite found the right words for.

The eggs were almost gone. Joaquin had started poking fun at your lack of hot sauce tolerance, making exaggerated wheezing noises every time you reached for your water. You rolled your eyes, but the amusement was genuine — fleeting, but real.

Sam watched the exchange with a half-smile, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair like he was cataloguing something in his mind.

“Hey, Joaquin?” he said suddenly, voice steady but layered.

Joaquin glanced over, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, Cap?”

“Can we get a minute?”

Joaquin blinked. Then his eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression comically exaggerated. “Ooooh. Private talk. Say no more.”

You raised a brow. “It’s not—”

He was already standing. “Hey, I support emotionally mature conversations. You want me to pretend I didn’t hear anything, I will. You want me to eavesdrop through the wall, also doable.”

“Joaquin,” Sam said, a warning threaded through the name.

“Going, going,” Joaquin grinned, walking backwards toward the hall. “If either of you cry, I want a full recap.”

You huffed a breath through your nose. Sam waited until the bedroom door clicked shut, and the apartment fell quiet again. Then he turned back to you.

He leaned his elbows on the table, hands laced together.

“I opened my home to you,” he said quietly. “I gave you a safe place. I know it’s only your second day here, but you know I’m on your side. I need two favours from you. I want you to know, they aren’t conditional. You don’t have to answer. You’ll still have a home here, for as long as you need, until you get back on your feet. But I also need you to consider doing the right thing.”

You looked at your plate, then slowly lifted your gaze to meet his.

“I need the truth,” he said. “About your powers.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with it. The truth. The weight of it. The danger in it. Sam was right. You knew what the right thing was. You knew he deserved to hear it.

You swallowed. “I’ve had them… for as long as I can remember.”

Sam didn’t blink.

“Most of the time, it’s just…” You hesitated, unsure how to put it into words that wouldn’t make you sound unhinged—crazy, even. “I can see people’s emotions. Auras. I can feel things — what’s coming, what’s hidden. It’s instinct, but stronger. Like… something crawling under my skin.”

“And the rest of the time?”

You met his eyes.

“Sometimes I spiral,” you said. “Sometimes it’s not just reading emotions. Sometimes I feel this… surge. A force. I can predict people. Their moves. Their lies. I can see through them. And if it gets loud. Too loud…I…”

Sam leaned back a little. Not away — just adjusting. Digesting.

“Have you ever hurt anyone with it?”

You didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Sam looked down, nodding once. Then he spoke, voice calm but weighted. “There’s a war in space.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“The New Avengers know. Joaquin knows. The government knows. It’s not public, and it’s not simple, but it’s coming. And if it’s already happening above the atmosphere, it could be a matter of days—weeks, even, before it comes to Earth. We don’t have enough people ready for what’s next. And I need all the help I can get.”

You stared at him. “So this is a recruitment speech?”

“This is me telling you the truth. Which leads to my second favour…” He leaned forward again, tone shifting into something firmer, something that settled into your bones. “I don’t want to sign Bucky’s peace treaty. I don’t trust it. But we both know I’m going to do it. For the greater good. Because we don’t have time for egos,” He paused. “And I’m asking you to do the same. Join us.”

You folded your arms across your chest, more for comfort than defiance.

“You want me to be an Avenger?” You bit your lip, looking down at the table. The proposition made your stomach twist with unspoken anxiety.

“Have you ever wanted to be more?” Sam asked softly. “Because now’s your chance. You’ve already survived so much. But if you step up, you won’t be alone anymore. You’ll have purpose.”

You looked at him. The man who’d picked you up off the street and offered you warmth and protection. A home.

“I’m not a hero,” you said quietly.

Being an Avenger was your brother's dream, not yours.

Sam smiled, just a little. “Neither was I. Until Steve gave me the chance to be. Now, I’m giving you that chance.”

You didn’t answer right away. But something shifted in your chest. The tiniest spark of belief.

And when Sam stood and grabbed the treaty folder from the counter, you didn’t stop him.

You watched him sign it.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered what it would feel like to stop running — and start becoming.

────✪────

The ride to Avengers Tower was quiet—not tense, but contemplative. Sam sat in the front, flipping through the treaty folder. You didn’t get a chance to read it for yourself, but you had gathered that they were filled with terms authored by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine herself, chairman of O.X.E. and figurehead of the New Avengers. You remembered yesterday, Sam’s passing comment about her being Bucky’s girlfriend.

That had to have been a joke.

Joaquin, in the backseat beside you, kept trying to lighten the mood with whispered jokes and dramatic gasps every time the tower came into view.

“Ever been in the Tower before?” he asked, nudging you.

You shook your head. “No, this is all very new to me.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “Brace yourself. It's like a reality show in there. But with superpowers and less shame. Maybe.”

“Torres, you haven’t even been to the tower before,” Sam snickered, shaking his head. Joaquin’s cheeks flushed a dusty pink, and you quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Forgive me for trying to impress the lady,” Joaquin grumbled. “Okay, I’ve never been, but I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“I imagine it’s very different now, compared to what it was like when I lived there with Tony, Steve and the rest of them.”

“I would have loved to be part of that.” Joaquin hummed, his eyes filled with dream and longing.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad.” Sam reflected with a small smile upon his lips.

The car pulled up to the glass entrance, sleek and towering, the A emblazoned above the doors like a warning more than a welcome. Security scanned your faces — or rather, Sam’s — and let you in.

Inside, it was exactly as Joaquin promised.

Before you could say a word, someone shouted.

“Yelena, stop putting gum in John’s helmet!”

“I’m conducting an experiment!”

“Your experiment almost took out my peripheral vision!”

“Maybe use your brain instead of your biceps for once, huh?”

From across the lobby, a burly man with a strong Russian accent called out, “Does anyone know where I put my beer? It is emotional support.”

You blinked.

Sam sighed beside you. “Welcome to the New Avengers.”

A woman with sharp, blonde hair and electric blue eyeliner passed by, muttering under her breath and typing furiously into a tablet. “I swear to God if Bob drops those milkshakes again—”

Right on cue, a clatter, broken glass and milkshake all over the pinewood floor. Bob, you assumed, stood with wide eyes, examining the mess he had made with an almost delayed response. Again? This wasn’t the first time he had done this?

“Why did you even make so many milkshakes?” Yelena sighed, already grabbing a mop to clean the mess.

“Bucky said we might have guests,” Bob replied, looking genuinely disappointed that his time making milkshakes had been wasted.

“Oh my god,” you murmured.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Joaquin whispered, clearly delighted.

And then, amidst the chaos, a familiar figure appeared — Bucky Barnes. Standing at the top of the stairs in full tactical gear, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes swept over the three of you, stopping on you for half a second longer than necessary.

He descended slowly, calculated and unreadable.

“Nice of you to show,” he said to Sam. “Been waiting.”

Sam held up the signed treaty. “Got what you wanted.”

Bucky didn’t smile. But he did take the folder, nodding once.

Then his eyes returned to you. Just for a breath.

You met his gaze and said nothing.

Because whatever this was — truce, alliance, manipulation — it wasn’t over. And Bucky Barnes wasn’t just an Avenger.

He was your enemy.

And now you were on his team.

Bucky led the three of you through a winding corridor of glass and steel, toward a meeting room tucked behind reinforced doors. He hadn’t said a word since taking the treaty, and you were fine with that. The less you had to hear his voice, the better.

Still, you could feel his presence — heavy, watchful, tense. And it made your skin crawl.

Joaquin gave you a sympathetic look as the doors closed behind the four of you. “This feels like being summoned to the principal’s office,” he whispered, earning a glare from Bucky that only made him grin wider. “Yup, confirmed.”

Sam ignored them both and took a seat at the table, gesturing for you to do the same. You hesitated — only a beat — before sitting across from Bucky. He opened the folder and flipped through the pages, then set it aside.

“The team’s unstable,” Bucky said bluntly, addressing Sam. “We’re barely functioning. Half the government wants to shut us down. The other half wants to use us as weapons. This treaty… it’s not just a co-leadership agreement. It’s our last shot at legitimacy.”

Sam nodded. “That’s why I signed it. But you know, I still don’t trust the system behind it. This whole thing is like the Accords all over again. Everything that we fought against.”

“I was on Steve’s side that day, regardless of his beliefs. I didn’t care for the politics. Kinda had my own shit going on.” Bucky sighed, running his metal hand through his wavy hair. The metallic black caught a sliver of light and sparkled under the afternoon sun.

“Which is how it’s always been,” Sam frowned. There was that look again. The betrayal. If you hadn’t known any better, you might have thought that Sam and Bucky were ex-lovers, going through the breakup of the century. The tension in the room was sharper than a knife. “You saying you’re okay with being under the control of Val, Congressman?”

“No. No. And I’m not a Congressman anymore,” Bucky corrected like it was an extremely important detail he had to defend himself from. “You know me. You know what I’m trying to do here.”

Sam nodded briefly, something in his face softening. You read his aura, and it glowed with faith. Belief. Hope. “I still don't trust this.”

“I don’t either,” Bucky admitted. “But I trust you.”

Silence settled between them. You watched closely — the decades of history between them pressing into every glance, every pause. There was something unspoken there. Something heavy.

“Then let’s get to work,” Sam said. “She’s in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again. “You sure?”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t come all this way to sit on the bench.”

“Good,” Bucky muttered, standing. “You start training tomorrow. Physical and tactical.”

“With you?” you asked, unable to keep the disdain out of your voice.

“Problem?”

You gave him a tight smile. “Guess I’ll just have to lower my expectations.”

He stared at you, unreadable, before turning to leave.

Sam caught your gaze as the door closed behind him. “He’s rough around the edges,” he said. “But he means well.”

You didn’t respond. Because it didn’t matter what he meant.

You had a personal mission. And this was only the beginning.

You were still sitting at the conference table when the door slammed open like a bad sitcom entrance.

“Lena said she’s ordering Chinese food,” Bob announced, stepping inside with the grace of a golden retriever on roller skates. “Anyone staying for dinner?”

Joaquin leaned forward immediately. “Does that include dumplings? Because if so—hell yes.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I could eat.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the door that Bucky left from. You were still recovering from sharing air with the man, let alone sweet and sour chicken.

But... maybe you needed to see what you were up against.

“Sure,” you murmured.

Bob smiled. “Great. Fun. Exciting. Oh! I can make you a milkshake too, if you’d like. I can do vanilla or chocolate, or strawberry. But not banana. They don’t blend properly because John freezes them. And come to think of it, someone keeps hiding the strawberries from me.”

“What do you mean, someone is hiding the strawberries from you?” Sam asked, puzzled with a hint of mild concern. Not concerned for the strawberries, but for Bob.

“I’ve said too much,” Bob stilled. “Gotta run!”

And with that, he was gone, practically leaving an air of smoke behind him.

“I can’t believe this is the team Bucky formed,” Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right?” Joaquin grinned, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone.”

────✪────

When the sun set, The Avengers Tower common room looked more like a college dorm—empty takeout containers already littered the table, and someone (Alexei) had managed to crack a fortune cookie clean in half before opening it.

You were seated on the oversized sectional with a plate of noodles in your lap, wedged between Yelena—who kept stealing your spring rolls with zero shame—and Joaquin, who had already named three different sauces after himself and started rating them out loud.

“I call this one ‘Torres Tang,’” he said, holding up a little cup of neon orange sauce. “Sweet with a kick. Just like me.”

Bob laughed so hard he choked on his dumpling. Ava handed him a bottle of water without looking up from her phone.

Sam had taken the big armchair like some kind of dad overseeing chaos. Bucky sat at the edge of the couch, mostly silent, mostly brooding, chopsticks barely touched.

And somehow, somehow, it didn’t feel as tense anymore. You were still wary. Still watching him. But the noise helped. The food helped.

Empty, grease-stained boxes were scattered about, chopsticks poked out of rice bowls at odd angles, and someone had already spilt duck sauce on the rug (Bob, according to Yelena, who’d ratted him out instantly).

You were half-listening as Alexei brought over a full bottle of vodka—his contribution to the evening.

“Let’s make it fun,” he said, plopping it down with a loud thud. “One shot for every ‘Never Have I Ever.’ If you have, you drink. If you lie, I will know.”

“Dad… this is so weird.” Yelena groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You're terrifying,” Joaquin said with an impressed whistle, already reaching for a shot glass.

Alexei didn’t use one. He took a clean swig from the bottle and grinned like it was water.

You blinked.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath. “Is that even safe?”

“No,” Ava answered without looking up from her phone. “But here we are.”

“Russia’s finest,” Alexei smirked, licking his lips. “Me, not the Vodka. I got this from Walmart,” He nudged you, and you looked at him with a hardened yet confused expression. “I was Russia’s answer to Captain America, you know? They call me the Red Guardian,” He flexed his bicep. “Touch it.”

“I uh—“ you glanced around the room. Yelena looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Bucky watched, his stare unreadable as usual. And Joaquin was beaming, amused, like this was the most entertaining thing he had ever seen. “No, thank you.”

“One day, you will touch it,” Alexei smiled, proud. “100 percent super soldier serum coursing through my veins. You see how I am much bigger than these two?” He gestured to John and Bucky. “That’s the vodka.”

“The serum actually went to his head and made him delusional,” John said pointedly. “I can bench press 600kg. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand for you to shake, but you just looked at it, speechless and slightly disturbed.

“Can you guys stop being so odd, you’re gonna make her run away,” Ava warned before mouthing an ‘I’m sorry’ in your direction. You smiled, grateful for her comfort.

You had no plans on running away, and in all honesty, you weren’t really that creeped out. You’d dealt with a lot worse, like Shane and some of the men who frequented McCready’s bar. Because of that, you were quick to realise that these guys were no more than just a simple group of harmless misfits. And for the first time, you felt like you could fit in with them. Besides, you were certainly confident that they weren’t going to harm you, and that counted for something.

Everyone settled into positions on the sectional. Sam had taken a seat in the armchair, casually draped like he wasn’t watching every interaction in the room. But you felt it. The way his gaze drifted to you more than once. Not heavy, not unwelcome — just steady. Soft. Like he was trying to read you.

And then there was Bucky Barnes, sitting across from you.

His drink was untouched at first. But when Alexei took his second swig, Bucky gave a quiet sigh and knocked his own shot back. No flinch. No change in expression. You had no idea what kind of alcohol tolerance came with a super soldier serum, but whatever it was, it was intimidating.

“Okay!” Yelena bounced beside you, already a little flushed, a little chaotic. “Never Have I Ever—uh—crashed a government vehicle!”

You stared as Bob, Bucky, Sam, Joaquin, and Alexei all drank.

“Seriously?” you asked.

Sam gave you a sheepish shrug. “It happens.”

“More often than it should,” Ava muttered.

“I’ve never even driven a government vehicle.” You revealed, almost feeling a little left out.

“Don’t worry,” Yelena grinned at you. “You’ll get there.”

Another round.

“Never have I ever... kissed a teammate,” Ava said, a coy little smile playing on her lips.

Joaquin drank immediately.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He didn’t explain. Joaquin just leaned into you and whispered, “Regret nothing.”

You didn’t drink. But you did feel two sets of eyes on you.

Sam’s—quiet, full of something like concern or curiosity.

And Bucky’s.

His was different. His stare settled against your skin like a spark. It crawled across your collarbone, dragged over your throat, and stayed. Hot and unmoving. You didn’t dare look back.

You felt your face warm — maybe from the shot, maybe from something else.

“I need another drink,” you muttered and reached for the bottle.

“Atta girl,” Joaquin said, clinking his glass against yours. “Let’s ruin our livers together.”

You laughed. Too loud. You were getting tipsy, and Yelena wasn’t helping — giggling as she told stories about “murder yoga” and missions gone wrong. Joaquin kept the mood light, telling stories about Sam and Red-Wing.

“Who’s Red-Wing?” You asked with a slight stumble over your words.

“Oh, you’re gonna love him, he’s adorable.” Sam beamed proudly.

“He’s like… your dog?”

Joaquin laughed at your suggestion.

“No! He’s my surveillance and reconnaissance drone!” Sam answered, taking a swig of beer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Even John Walker got into the discussion, though he was a loud, cocky drunk. Every time he spoke, you wanted to toss an egg roll at his head.

Alexei, on the other hand, drank like a man built to survive nuclear winters. You were genuinely impressed he was still upright. He did, however, disappear to pee every ten minutes.

And somehow, Bucky had knocked back three shots without blinking. But he had been so quiet all night. You wondered if this was normal for him.

When it was your turn, you found yourself blurting it out before thinking:

“Never have I ever… felt like I belonged on a team.”

The room went still for a beat too long.

Everyone drank, except you.

Yelena bumped your arm. “That’s because you haven’t had us yet. These guys aren’t just team mates, they’re family. And we hope that, now you join us, you'll feel the same.”

You smiled. A little. But your fingers tightened around your glass.

You wanted to believe her.

And as your eyes flicked across the room—to the quiet kindness in Sam’s, to the electric weight of Bucky’s—you wondered if, for once, you finally might.

The chaos had dulled. Yelena had passed out sideways on the couch, her braid tangled in a takeout box. Ava and Alexei disappeared an hour ago—something about a chessboard and bad Russian soap operas. Bob wandered off humming a lullaby in a different language.

Sam was at the door, pulling on his jacket while Joaquin tried to find both his shoes.

“I told you to keep them on,” Sam muttered, exasperated.

“They were cramping my style,” Joaquin replied, wobbling dramatically with one sock on. “Besides, Yelena dared me to do a split.”

Sam gave you a look like this is my life now.

You grinned, maybe a little dazed, leaning back against the counter in the kitchen. The vodka had crept up on you with slow fingers, leaving your limbs warm and your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You weren’t drunk, but you were hovering somewhere on the ledge between honesty and recklessness.

“You good?” Sam asked softly, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just need to cool off. And maybe drink a gallon of water.”

Sam gave your shoulder a squeeze, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Don’t disappear tonight.”

You blinked. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, but his eyes lingered, warm and heavy. Like he was seeing more than you wanted him to. “Call me if you need anything. You know that, right?”

You nodded again, trying to pretend you didn’t feel the heat of his hand even after he let go.

Joaquin blew you a kiss on his way out. “Don’t let the assassin bite.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re thinking of Yelena.”

“Same energy,” he called, already halfway out the door.

The apartment fell quiet.

And then you realized you weren’t alone.

You turned — and found him there.

Bucky Barnes.

Leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You stiffened.

Of course he’d be the last one standing.

The buzz of alcohol still coursed through you, making everything feel a little lighter, a little less sharp. You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the chaotic energy of the night, but your mind had begun to drift in and out of clarity.

You slid off the counter, intending to steady yourself, but the room suddenly tilted, and you stumbled forward, your feet tangled up in the wayward stretch of your own legs.

Before you could hit the ground, there was a hand on your arm, warm and steady. Then another, pulling you back up with an ease that made your stomach flip. His chest was hard beneath your palm, his muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip, the heat of his body surrounding you like a wall.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively pressed your hand a little firmer against him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth and strength underneath. He smelled like soap, leather, and something faintly metallic — unmistakable.

You slowly looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a split second, you forgot where you were. The intensity of his gaze—blues that seemed to see right through you—made your heart flutter uncomfortably. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t look away.

"Got you," he muttered, steadying you, his voice low.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to him. How alive you felt in the space between you.

There was a moment of stillness. A breath.

"Are you... reading my aura?" he asked, his voice quieter now, though it carried a hint of teasing.

You tilted your head, eyes locking onto him, your lips parting slightly. "No, I'm just looking at you."

The words came out before you could stop them, and immediately, the flush of heat spread across your face. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt when he adjusted his hold, how his eyes flickered for a second—soft, startled. Almost shy.

And then, just like that, you saw it. The faintest blush creeping up his neck. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and for the first time tonight, he seemed... off-balance. The man who had walked into every room like he owned it, now suddenly unsure of himself. It felt like power. Like control slipping through his fingers.

You couldn’t help but smirk at that, though your head spun slightly, making it harder to focus.

"Didn't mean to make you self-conscious," you said, your voice a little slurred.

Bucky laughed softly, shaking his head. "No... you didn’t. Just... wasn't expecting that."

You both stood there for a beat, caught in the weird energy hanging between you. He still hadn’t let go, though you didn’t know if it was because you were still too wobbly to stand or because he was hesitant to break the tension. Either way, you didn’t pull away. The air felt thick, charged, and you could sense it—there was something about him that made you feel like you were about to do something you weren’t quite ready for.

But then, in a sudden shift, Bucky cleared his throat, letting go of your arm but standing close enough that you could still feel the heat radiating from him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward, opened the fridge, and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He held it out to you without a word.

You eyed it like it might explode.

“I’m not gonna poison you,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Reluctantly, you took the bottle from his hand. Your fingers brushed his glove. Static popped between your skin. You pulled back too fast.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you twist the cap, take a long sip, and then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes on you. Focused. Cautious.

Like he was trying to piece you together.

“I guess tonight we learned that you shouldn’t mix vodka and Chinese food,” he murmured.

“Smartass. I’m fine. You sound like an Avenger,” you shot back. You weren’t even sure what you meant by that, or where the relevance was. Maybe you were also reminding yourself that you were an Avenger now, too.

“I am one.” He deadpanned.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sighed.

He flinched—just a flicker of something in his jaw, something regretful—but didn’t fight you on it.

“You still hate me,” he said.

You looked away. “I haven’t decided.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretched, soft and brittle.

You hated how nice the water felt. How steady he was, even when you didn’t want to trust him. He hadn’t tried anything. He hadn’t said anything clever or smug. Just… stood there. Let you exist in your tired, tipsy state without pushing.

“I can get you a cab,” he offered after a moment. “Or you can crash here. We’ve got spare rooms.”

“Why are you being so—” you stopped. Swallowed. “Why are you trying to take care of me?”

He held your gaze. “I just… I don’t know,” he looked away. “We’re family now. And family takes care of each other.”

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to say something cruel. Wanted to twist the knife, remind him of your brother, of what he did.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t feel like spiralling tonight.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Bucky hadn’t moved. You were still clutching the cold water bottle like it was a lifeline, and for once, he didn’t feel like a threat. Just a quiet presence, filling the silence without demanding anything from you.

You hated how easy it was to let your shoulders relax around him.

“I guess I’m just not used to this,” you muttered.

He tilted his head slightly. “Used to what?”

“Someone… noticing,” you said, voice low, almost embarrassed.

His blue eyes softened.

“I don’t need it, by the way,” you added quickly. “I’ve been fine on my own.”

Unlike Sam, Bucky didn’t contradict you. Didn’t say that doesn’t sound fine.

He just stayed quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke again. “You’re not what I expected.”

He raised a brow. “Cold-blooded killer with a vibranium arm and a brooding attitude?”

“That’s not… entirely wrong,” you smirked faintly, despite yourself. “But you’re less of an asshole than I imagined.”

He chuckled, just once. A real one, deep and unexpected. “High praise.”

You took another drink of your water. Bucky watched. “What kind of name is Bucky, anyway? It’s kind of dumb.”

“My name is James,” He revealed, and something in you shifted at the revelation. A sliver of his personal life. “My sister was called Rebecca, and we called her Becky. My middle name is Buchanan, so my folks called me Bucky. Becky and Bucky.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest. “You have a sister?”

“Had,” Bucky corrected. “Being 111 years old means I don’t really have much family left.”

“Oh," Ditto. "So you’re really old. Like, older than my grandpa…”

Bucky frowned.

“Do super soldiers die?” You pondered out loud.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“How does one kill a super soldier?” You giggled through the water bottle, enjoying the sudden confidence that the alcohol had instilled in you.

“You’ve had way too much vodka,” Bucky huffed under his breath, extending his hand and having it hover over your shoulder, like he was afraid to touch you.

“No, no no no, trust me, if I were sober I’d be asking the same questions.” You laughed harder this time. Bucky stood there, watching you, confused, but then he finally let his hand rest upon you, and you let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in.

"Come on," he said, a little more briskly, though his voice had the same softness as before. "Let's get you to bed. You need water."

You blinked, still a little dizzy, but nodded. "I’m fine," you protested, but the words felt like they slipped out half-heartedly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure you are."

The two of you walked quietly back into the living room, but you didn’t miss the way his hand floated just a little too close to your back, as though it might reach out again if you needed it.

But you didn’t need it. Or did you?

You weren’t sure.

You followed him down the corridor. The tower was dim, most of the lights on a motion sensor timer. You could still hear someone’s snores echoing faintly—probably Alexei, given the volume.

He stopped at a door and opened it for you. The room was surprisingly cozy. Not lavish, just… calm. A bed with fresh sheets, folded blankets, and a little chair by the window. It felt untouched, like it was waiting for you.

You stepped inside, but before you could say goodnight, Bucky’s voice followed you.

“Training starts at six.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “You want to stay on the team, you train with me. Early.”

You groaned, already regretting everything.

“Water’s on the nightstand,” he added, nodding toward it. “And Tylenol in the drawer. You’re gonna want it.”

You didn’t thank him. Not out loud.

But you lingered in the doorway.

“Why are you like this?” you asked, quieter than before.

He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Careful. Thoughtful. Like you’re trying to be better.”

He paused for a long time.

“Because I have to be,” he said. “If I’m not, then I’m just him again.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to ask who him was.

He turned to leave, but then hesitated.

“I see the way Sam looks at you,” he said, voice tight. “It’s not just a teammate thing.”

You blinked. That was the last thing you expected him to say.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Sam looks at everyone like that.”

“No,” Bucky said. “He doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped into the room and let the door click shut between you.

But even after you lay down, curled into the strange sheets and tried to close your eyes, you could still feel Bucky’s voice in the room with you.

And the strange, unwelcome comfort that came with it.

Bucky closed the door to his own room with a quiet click.

He leaned back against it, exhaled slowly, and raked a hand through his hair. The dim light from the hallway disappeared under the seam of the door, and for a moment, he stood there in silence. Listening. Thinking.

You.

God, you were loud in his head.

He moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting for something to pass—some thought, some feeling—but it didn’t. It just kept building.

The way your lips had curled, tired but amused, when he’d handed you that bottle of water. That small smile like it wasn’t supposed to be there.

The way you looked tonight—dressed in soft cotton and drunk warmth, all fire and fight and something almost tender.

You had a sharp tongue. You didn’t hide your disdain for him. In fact, you wore it like perfume—thick and impossible to ignore.

But he saw the way your expression faltered when you thought no one was looking. The heaviness behind your posture. The moments where you softened, briefly, like you didn’t know how to hold it together anymore.

And your eyes—those damn eyes. Always reading. Always pulling more out of him than he gave.

He hated that.

He hated how much he noticed you. Hated how it pulled something out of him he didn’t have a name for.

You hated him. You should hate him.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. That he knew he didn’t deserve anything else.

But still…

Still, when he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw.

The tilt of your head. The sliver of skin at your collarbone. The sound of your laugh—rare, unpredictable.

He sat back on the bed and dragged a hand down his face.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself.

Feelings were messy. Dangerous. They clouded judgment. He didn’t want to want anything—not peace, not forgiveness, and definitely not you.

But wanting had a way of sneaking in. Quiet and slow and relentless.

He lay back on the bed, arm draped over his eyes, heart beating too loud in the stillness.

Tomorrow, he’d train you. Tomorrow, he’d look at you and pretend none of this mattered.

But tonight… he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt when you stumbled into his chest.

So, so stupid.

You hated him, and he hated you.

Or, he hated being hated by you.

────✪────

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hgfictionwriter · 5 days ago

Text

Still Yours

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie spent years avoiding vulnerability, holding everything in and doing her best to meet everyone's expectations. When she finally cracks, it could cost her everything she holds dear.

Warnings: Cheating. Angst. References to sex (nothing explicit). Language.

A/N: This is the cheating fic. It exists in the G!P universe. It's going to be several chapters that show the aftermath of Jessie's indiscretion. She's aged up in this to fit the storyline I was picturing.

“That’s a wrap.”

The corner of Jessie's mouth turned up just slightly despite the heaviness in her chest at those words.

“In more ways than one,” she said wryly as she mustered up a more fulsome smile.

Put on a smile. It's what she always did. Even when she felt lost and hollow inside.

“You made it through.”

Jessie’s smile grew less burdensome at the comment. She turned her attention to the woman who was now dismantling the video equipment.

“I owe you thanks for that,” Jessie offered. "It's no secret I hate this kind of stuff. But," she shrugged, "this was about as painless as it could've been."

Mia, the videographer hired for this project, shot her a smirk.

“I'm hardly owed thanks,” she dismissed as she collapsed the tripod. She set her eyes on Jessie and gave a light shrug. “It's not every day you get to do the retirement video for one of the country's national treasures. You may say you hate the camera, but it loves you and the fans do, too."

"Hm," Jessie voiced as she offered a tight-lipped smile.

National treasure. The fans. The crowds. The energy. The adrenaline. The stakes. This sport had brought her to tears so many times over the years - tears of frustration, of happiness, of pain - she'd experienced every emotion, every high and low. And now, it was finally coming to a close.

Long ago, she'd said there was life for her after football. She'd been confident of it. But now it was upon her, she didn't feel nearly as sure.

Football had been something she sort of fell into in a way. She was a natural. She worked at it - damn hard, too - but before she knew it, she was getting call ups to the national team when she was in high school. Full-ride scholarships. Drafted to top-tier teams across the globe. Record-setting transfer fees. The captain's arm band. Inheriting a legacy and doing her best to carry it forward.

She didn't plan all of this, but it became her life nonetheless. It became who she was. Expectations upon expectations being layered on year after year. At this point, she could hardly remember a life - or an identity - outside of it.

The trajectory had been thrilling and a blur. She was on automatic in a lot of ways - her next steps laid out for her by her parents, by agents, by coaches. Success came on hard and fast. From a skinny, awkward little teen running onto the pitch for Canada, to quickly earning medals and lifting trophies. To now - to riding the bench, missed shots, missed passes. Her mind could visualize everything she needed to do, but the body was no longer willing.

She didn't want to retire like this. The hope was always to go out strong and on top, but instead, it felt more like a whimper.

After her missed penalty resulted in Canada having another early exit in a major tournament - one more thing in what felt like a too-long line of misplays and shortcomings - she made a decision.

It may have seemed a bit of a knee-jerk reaction, but deep down, this had been nagging at her. It felt a long time coming. The highs of her early, even mid-, twenties, felt like a lifetime ago sometimes.

She'd spent most of her early life being a prodigy. People had nothing but high hopes and expectations for her since she was a teen. Praise and accolades raining down even if she shied away from it all. Still, she did her damnedest to be perfect. It nearly killed her sometimes.

She had expectations to live up to. And they could be crushing. Not that she let on. Even when she could no longer meet those expectations. Working herself to the bone to be the best, to be all the things people said she'd be.

Sure, on paper she'd achieved a lot. But in many ways, she felt like she didn't quite meet the highs laid out for her. She'd spent all these years chasing those expectations. How could she explain that she'd achieved the things she did, but still felt like a bit of an imposter. A disappointment. Unsettled.

She couldn't explain it. And she didn't.

Not even to you. Especially not to you.

You'd sacrificed so much to support her and her career. The travel, the time away, uprooting your life as she moved from one team to another, concessions within your own career to give hers space. Giving her a family - two beautiful girls, and raising them and taking care of them while she travelled around chasing her dreams. And you did it all with a loving smile and tender words.

She hated disappointing you the most. The thought terrified her. She loved you so much and wanted you to see the best of her. For you to feel like all of your sacrifices were worth it.

So whatever anxieties clouded her mind - and no matter how much you inquired - she did what she'd always been good at, setting them aside and carrying on. She gave a winning smile, was steady, and kept moving forward.

“Hey-”

She nearly startled as Mia's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“-here’s that lens you asked about yesterday,” Mia announced as she handed it to Jessie.

“You should check out Wileton park before you go. There's incredible foliage and landscape there. Right up your alley, I think. You'd get some great shots," Mia went on. Jessie found herself giving her a smile of gratitude.

"That sounds great. I'll look it up," she said. "And, um, thanks. You know. Throughout this project. I appreciate, you know," she paused as she searched for the right words, instead just gesturing between the two of them, "this. It's been a relief to not have to dissect my career or next move every second."

"I got you," Mia offered with a quick wink as she swung her bag over her shoulder. "I'll see you in a few for the wrap party."

"Mm, can't wait," Jessie deadpanned with a facetious smile at the prospect of another big to-do.

The evening was about as casual as Jessie could've hoped for. Still, the crew made speeches about her and she had to speak as well. As kind and well-intentioned as it all was, it just felt suffocating. She may have grown more accustomed to attention over the years, but attention under this context stung worse than she anticipated.

She had a drink to calm her nerves. And another. And another.

She found herself gravitating towards Mia, yet again. And as expected, Mia just let her be. Didn't talk about retirement. About plans. About glory days. None of that. It was easy and the reprieve she needed.

"You know. This is your party. You don't have to sit through it if you don't want," Mia relayed with a smirk as she nudged Jessie with her knee.

"If I leave first I'll just disappoint the crew," she said with a brief chuckle, but dormant emotions and thoughts tugged at her in this state. Her smiled faded as her gaze grew unfixed.

"It's hard...having so many expectations." She gave a breathy laugh as sensations in her chest began to rise. "Yeah. It's hard. I don't...I don't like disappointing people," she finished with a smile that very much didn't reach her eyes.

Mia gave her a slight frown. "Who are you disappointing?"

"Mm. I don't know," Jessie with another small laugh. "Everyone, it feels like."

Jessie didn't know how it happened. All of a sudden, all of the worries that had been weighing on her that she'd kept so tightly contained started to spill out. The other woman just listened as Jessie began to vent. She didn't even get that far into it before she just stopped - emotions teetering on the edge. She felt fidgety. She needed to get away. To distract herself. Stop whatever these feelings were.

"Want to go?" Jessie asked, vaguely surprising herself with how much she wanted Mia to say 'yes' and to aid her escape.

"Oh, yeah, of course," she said as she quickly set down her drink.

Jessie hurriedly settled the tab, again, confused by her own unsteadiness - the way her hands shook as she paid. Must be the alcohol.

Before she knew it, they were heading upstairs from the hotel bar and were at Mia's door.

"Thanks for listening to me," Jessie said with a nervous laugh. Mia made a face.

"Don't mention it. I'm happy to," she said. "You're dealing with a lot."

"Yeah," Jessie replied distractedly, her eyes inexplicably drawn to Mia's lips.

Something was building inside of Jessie that was foreign to her, but tempting in a way. Some kind of pull that promised greater reprieve. Greater escape.

There was so much going on in her mind all the time. She just wanted it to stop.

Then, her lips were upon Mia's. A charge went through Jessie's body. It felt amazing. It was strange, it was dangerous, and it felt so enticing.

"I've been wondering what that would be like," Mia said with a smirk as Jessie pulled back. Another rush went through her at the encouragement and she dove back in for another kiss, now pushing Mia against the closed door and loving the way the girl subtly moaned into their kiss.

"I have to admit I wasn't expecting this from you though," Mia eventually said. This did nothing but egg Jessie on. It bolstered some kind of defiance within her.

"I don't always have to do what's expected of me," she countered.

"Are you sure about this?" Mia asked, eyes searching Jessie's. "You're married."

There was a cacophony of noise inside Jessie's head. It banged around inside of her until it nearly formed a dull ringing in her ears. Her heart was pounding. She couldn't think - didn't want to think. She just wanted to get away. Not be in this moment. In her own skin.

She kissed Mia again.

"I know."

--------------

Jessie woke with a sharp breath. Her eyes flew open to reveal a darkened room. Her heart began to pound and her breath grew deep and heavy, but it took her mind several moments to catch up.

Panic began to flood her system. Her breath quickened. She continued to stare up at the ceiling as memories and misguided decisions fell into place. Her stomach was in knots and her temperature spiked as she willed everything to just be a bad dream. But she knew it wasn't. She forced herself to turn and look.

There was Mia - some girl she'd worked on and off with over the past few weeks - a girl who was very much not her wife. There she was, fast asleep, naked and tangled in sheets.

Jessie's chest rose rapidly as she rubbed agitatedly at her face. What did she do?

She curled her fingers into her skin, nails digging in, but she couldn't even register the pain she was so entrenched in her thoughts.

Images of the past few hours filled her mind. Vivid. Graphic. She knew exactly what she'd been doing. She knew as she did it again and again. She remembered the feeling - some twisted kind of disassociative satisfaction - vaguely aware as Mia moaned in pleasure under her, how the girl writhed as she came.

It felt like an out of body experience at the time, but, there was no denying that she very much knew what she was doing.

Jessie climbed out of bed in a rush, but as carefully as she could to not wake Mia. She gathered up her clothes with jittery hands and slipped them on as silently as possible, fumbling several times over with how numb she felt.

Her legs hurriedly carried her down the hall to the elevator and to her floor. Her throat was tight and she sweat as her heart pounded violently inside her rib cage.

She fumbled with the key to her room, stumbling in and slamming it behind her. She unsteadily made her way to the bathroom and gripped the counter desperately as she began to gasp for air.

What little cognitive thought remained was begging and pleading for her to calm down, but her throat continued to constrict and her pulse grew stronger. She could hardly hear any thoughts above the rapid sound of her heartbeat and ragged breaths.

She clumsily turned on the tap, cold water rushing out and she pooled handfuls of it in her palms before splashing it onto her face. It felt good and she splashed more of it on her and rubbed her skin so roughly and vigorously that it hurt.

She finally looked - really looked - in the mirror. Her complexion had grown pale, but she had red splotches and welts from where she'd been rubbing. Her eyes looked bewildered and scared.

She hardly recognized herself. And she hated what she saw.

How did she get to this point? What had she done? And for what?

She pictured you.

Emotion crashed over her and she stifled a sob. She clutched her hand, desperately gripping and caressing the silicone wedding band she'd hardly ever taken off since she put it on 10 years ago.

She remembered worrying that you wouldn't like it, but instead you said it was sweet that she wanted to wear the band so much. She remembered clearly the way you smiled as you slipped it onto her finger that first day. She remembered the way her chest felt like it could burst she was so happy to be yours; how happy she was to put her ring on you, that you were hers.

Self-loathing began to course through her veins. How could she do this to you?

She loved you. She really, fucking loved you. If there were two truths in this entire world - one: she loved her kids, and two: she loved and adored you.

She'd seen so many relationships crumble. So many sputter and never really come to life. But you - your relationship, your love - it was special. And she was so grateful for it. You two built a beautiful life together.

And now...

She belatedly realized she was gripping the counter again, now with so much force that it left bright red imprints in her skin.

She stormed out of the bathroom and paced around the room. She grabbed her phone and clutched it in her hand. She couldn't think straight. It hurt to breathe.

All she knew right now is she wanted to hear your voice. She needed to talk to you. She needed you.

How fucked up.

Her hands still shook as she called you, lifting the phone to her ear and using every tactic she'd ever learned to coach herself to calm down.

The ringing of the phone stopped mid-tone as you picked up. Jessie's breath caught in her throat and her feet abruptly rooted themselves to the floor.

"Hey, baby." Your voice filtered through with a pleased laugh, sending goosebumps across Jessie's skin. "What are you doing up? Isn't it like 4 am over there?" You asked with another soft laugh.

A lump formed in her throat so large that when she opened her mouth nothing came out at first. She tried again.

"Oh, yeah, I-I couldn't sleep. So. I thought I'd call you," she said, attempting to laugh, but nothing more than a feeble huff came out.

"Aren't you sweet," you teased with a sweet laugh and it felt like a knife through her heart. Her jaw clenched painfully. "Any reason you can't sleep?"

Her eyes screwed shut as her mind snapped back to Mia beneath her, the girl's hands on her, her moans in her ear. She swallowed hard.

"I don't know," she responded quietly.

"Well, you have a quieter day today, don't you? Did you finish filming yesterday?" You asked.

"Yeah," she responded dully. Her hands shook again and she tried to will away the lump that persisted in her throat. She blew out a silent breath and forced herself to start walking around the room again.

"You finished and you didn't even tell me!" You said playfully. "You must've been celebrating too hard, you didn't even text me," you added with a laugh.

Jessie's gaze shifted up to the ceiling and she dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand in an ill-attempt to ground herself.

You legitimately were joking. There was no malice or resentment in your tone. And how did she repay you?

She racked her mind to come up with a response, but mercifully you went on.

"Hopefully you can rest a bit later today," you said.

"Yeah," she repeated quietly. She shook out her head. She needed to recover. Reset. "So, um, how was your day? How are the girls?" She asked, tone curious and anew.

"Well, I texted you earlier about Josie quitting. So. That sucked," you relayed matter of fact.

"Oh-right," Jessie said as she brought a hand to her face and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry. I remember now."

"It's fine," you said mildly. "I know you're busy," you offered graciously.

Another pang went through her chest.

"Ky presented her science project today. Ky! Come tell your momma how it went!" Despite the immense weight churning in the pit of her stomach, Jessie smiled as you called for their daughter. "Here, she's coming," you said more softly. The call muffled as it was handed over.

"Momma, I got an A! And Mr. Jensen said my project is one of the ones going to the finals!"

Jessie's eyes welled with tears immediately upon hearing her daughter's voice. "Oh baby, that's so great. I'm so proud of you."

"You helped me," Ky laughed.

"Not much. You told me what you wanted and I just helped put it together. You did the hard work," she insisted.

Kylen, her oldest - eight years old and wise beyond her years already. She had a knack for science and loved to learn. She was quiet around new people, but once she was comfortable she could talk a mile a minute.

She continued to regale Jessie with updates until another voice chimed in from the background.

"Is that Momma? Hey, I want to talk to her, too! Let me talk!"

Jessie smiled again. Harper. Her youngest at six years old. She inherited the creativity genes. She loved music and dance. And while Ky was a bit more internal with her emotions, Harper hardly ever was.

Jessie couldn't help but laugh as she heard the two begin to bicker over the phone until you interjected. Harper soon came on.

"Momma, will you be home for my recital this weekend?" Harper asked.

"Of course, sweetie. I wouldn't miss it," she said as she quickly wiped at a tear falling from the corner of her eye. She tilted her head back as she tried to stop herself from sniffling.

"Okay, good. I've been practicing every night like you told me to," she relayed very proudly.

"That's great, baby. I can't wait to see you on stage," she said.

"Mommy's going to do my make-up," she told you.

"Yeah?" Jessie said. "Sure you don't want me to?" She managed to tease.

"No!" Harper giggled.

As Harper talked, the weight of Jessie's actions continued to mount. Self-reproach was coming on strong and hard, polluting every second of what should've been a sweet call with her family. Instead, she felt sick to her stomach and the harsh voices in her head were growing louder and louder.

She had a beautiful life. And she knew it. She never doubted it. Yet she risked destroying it like it was nothing.

She was stuck in her head when she heard your voice in the background, drawing her attention back.

"-five more minutes and it's bedtime, okay?" She heard you say.

Both girls started to pout and complain, saying they wanted to talk more. You reminded them that Jessie would be home in a day.

Eventually, you came back on the line after she said goodnight to the girls.

"Well, that was certainly a nice way for the girls to end their night," you said. "They've missed you."

"I've missed them too," Jessie said, doing her very best to hold her voice steady.

"Kay, baby," you went on gently. "You should try to sleep again. You could probably still get an hour or so."

Her throat was dry and taut and she wiped at a fresh set of tears.

"Yeah," she said and failed at holding back a sniffle.

"You okay?" You asked, confusion and concern evident in your voice.

Jessie shook her head as her eyes fell shut. Her lip trembled and she pinched the bridge of her nose harshly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," she tried to reassure you, though she knew her voice betrayed her some. She sniffled again as her upset with herself grew greater. "I'm just missing you guys," she added.

It wasn't a lie.

"Aww. We miss you too, babe. But, we'll be getting a lot more time with you soon. Not too soon though," you said with a soft chuckle. Even if Jessie hadn't been forthcoming with you about her insecurities and stress, you at least knew it was somewhat bittersweet for her. As far as she ever let you know though, above all, she was ready and she was good.

"I love you," Jessie said, hating the way her voice quaked.

"I love you, too, Jess," you reciprocated. "Get some sleep, baby. You sound tired."

She didn't respond. Her body felt so heavy and she just stared blankly at the carpeted floor as her pulse pounded loudly in her head.

"Jess?" You inquired.

"Hm?" She voiced quietly, barely audible.

"Sounds like you're falling asleep already," you chuckled.

"No," she said simply, feeling inner resentment starting to boil again. She blinked back more tears, sitting up and steeling herself. "I just miss you and love you a lot."

You laughed softly into the phone and it was sweet and painful all at the same time.

"Someone's getting sentimental in their old age," you teased lightly.

Normally, she would've laughed. Cracked a quip of her own. Instead, it upset her.

"I've always loved you," she said resolutely, almost in defiance.

"Okay," you responded slowly, a bit of confusion creeping into your tone. "I was just teasing you, babe. I miss you and love you too," you said gently.

Jessie wiped irritably at her eyes. She was a mess. She didn't know what to do.

"Okay. I just want you to know that," she said simply, voice now timid and meek.

"Alright, love," you accepted. "Well, if you aren't going to try to get more sleep, I at least need to make sure the girls are getting ready for bed. I appreciate you calling though. It's nice to hear your voice. Keep me posted on everything, okay? And we can't wait until you're home."

Jessie had her head hung in her hand and her mouth quivered as she fought back more emotions. She nodded, working up the will and control to respond.

"'Course, baby. Kiss the girls goodnight for me. And have a good sleep tonight. Text me when you're up." She swallowed hard. "Can't wait to see you, too."

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #canwnt x reader

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linddzz · 6 months ago

Text

I am slamming that validation button like a rodent wanting more sugar water so here's more mostly rough draft Jayvik.

A continuation of the nicknames fic. More science dorks being dorks, this time greatly featuring some seriously questionable boundaries between totally normal lab colleagues, and much more briefly featuring Viktor being so horny it makes him stupid. Also appearing is Jayce Talis, ADHD King and allusions to Viktor's past slut era. Both fics are a sort of preview chapter in the bigger thing @amahhi and I are working on!

Thank you to @avelera for planting the idea of platonically dubious scritches in my head, and for being a constant sounding board!

Rating: PG

Pair: Jayvik pre-relationship

----

It continues to be surprising, how not surprising everything is when it comes to Jayce.

A week into the partnership, and that initial bright thrill of something new has not dulled in the slightest. Nor has the perfectly ordinary, easy comfort that he feels with Jayce. The un-remarkability of this calm is what makes it remarkable. With Jayce, there is none of the discomfort of dealing with another person. None of the abrasive tension that arises when Viktor must face other people as distinct personalities which he must contend with, instead of the larger concepts of People. People as an idea have problems that he can solve, whose suffering he can reduce without any needs for interaction causing issues.

But Jayce functions outside of these issues Viktor often finds himself in. Jayce slots into a space Viktor hardly knew existed, like there had always been this jagged edge to him that, to his great surprise, was actually part of a puzzle that Jayce had the other half to.

Past experience would have him expecting that, with time, the shine would wear off. The glow would dim. He would learn all the little faults and human contradictions of Jayce and would grow to feel that jagged tension return. Spending hours upon hours each and every day for a solid week with him have revealed Jayce’s little foibles, yet not one has grown into a frustration. In actuality, Viktor has had nothing but further data points to add weight to his newly forming thoughts of destiny and its relation to himself and Jayce. For each little fault and lacking Jayce has, Viktor can help. He can, perhaps, be the puzzle piece that returns the favor to fit neatly into Jayce's life.

For example, Jayce can grow blind to his surroundings, his mind too caught in their work. Viktor had assumed that the apartment was in the state he first found it in due to an explosive force of arcane power. He still thinks that, but he has learned that this great force was not the struck gem amplifying and reflecting the kinetic force aimed at it to exponential levels, but Jayce himself. He often forgets his keys, or his mugs, or his pencils behind an ear, his goggles on his head, his tools, everything but his journal really.

It was the third time that he left his keys in the lab (on top of twice that he came in groaning that he had locked himself out of his temporary housing), that Viktor realized what the pattern was, and that he could provide a solution.

Jayce had more important things to focus his mind on, so it was both useless and counterproductive to adjust Jayce’s behavior or habits so he could track the little necessities of life. Fortunately, Viktor is well practiced on keeping track of what he needs to. It’s a skill that was refined when he first used it to avoid detection in the Academy, and then even further developed as Professor Heimerdinger’s assistant. When Jayce left his keys behind again, the answer was simple and obvious. They were already missing from Jayce’s person, so Viktor simply took them to the sort of establishment in the lanes that would never ask any questions, but would always make a perfect copy of any keys brought to them.

Jayce’s keys were neatly returned to him, and Viktor took no small delight in waiting for the next time Jayce smacked his forehead as they left for the day, realizing that he had once again locked himself out of his rooms, to reveal his backups. There was a brief moment, where Jayce stared at the keys hanging from Viktor’s finger, when he worried in a flash that this was not something a friend or colleague should do, that he had overstepped in some way. Then Jayce snorted with his grin, called Viktor brilliant if a little terrifying, but mostly brilliant, and everything was perfect.

The key was only for Jayce’s temporary rooms in the Academy housing, but Viktor could make another set once the apartment repairs were complete, even if it seems wasteful to have Jayce eventually move out of the building that Viktor lives in.

Jayce is also wonderful at taking notes for his work, but less skilled at going back to reorganize or refine those notes. His notes are exemplary, even with the little flair of him signing every single page, but it leads to problems.

These problems are their current struggle in the cramped space of their semi-lab at some odd hour of the night. Viktor stands and contemplates the board crowded with copies of Jayce’s notes, additional observations both have about that first successful arcane spell, and Viktor’s little chalked notes next to clusters of paper denoting what sections of an article each goes to. Behind him, Jayce is not exactly pacing, which would require repeating of one path, but he is in a constant state of muttering movement with occasional bursts of frustration over paperwork.

Because they can make a fully stable arcane frame that affects the gravity within the dean’s office, but that means nothing to the academy if it is not properly written and submitted for review. They are on their fourth draft of the paper, and the initial excitement over being published has dwindled with every draft that has been returned with Heimerdinger’s cheerful blue ink slashed across the pages. One of Jayce’s faults, Viktor is finding, is that he does not take such things gracefully. It takes the second set of revisions for Viktor to realize that pride is not the primary hurt that Jayce feels, but the thread of anxiety Viktor had seen woven through Jayce’s journal. The need to prove himself, and the fear of impending failure at every turn.

“How else do they want me to explain it?” Jayce groans, and Viktor does not need to turn around to know that the perfectly clean cut hair is likely sticking out in every direction.

“I was hoping the Professor would not have edited “crank it” so quickly out of the methodology.” Viktor muses. That was his greatest disappointment. “I am deeply curious on how he expects us to find half of the citations he has requested for this entirely new scientific field.”

“And when the Academy insists there aren’t more tomes on mage lore!” Jayce snarls.

“We will have to expand outside of the Academy in the future.” Viktor agrees, turning a little to once again look over the taped up pages of their latest draft and what blue marks are where. “However, I think a more concrete description of the runic array you conducted into the stabilizer may be our ticket past many of the other issues he has found.”

Instead of grumblings or more huffed complaints, a heavy weight thumps onto Viktor’s shoulder. He pauses, realizing immediately that it is Jayce’s head that has slumped against him, and Jayce’s impressive body heat against his back indicating that there is, at most, a few inches of space between them.

“I don’t know how.” Jayce groans, but it’s less petulant and quieter, almost fearful. “I don’t know how to describe what I did.”

“Hm.” Is all Viktor can say in that exact moment. He is, briefly, distracted by Jayce’s hair brushing against his jaw with the strong scent of some sort of…of fancy wood. It is not an unpleasant scent.

“Sorry.” Jayce mutters. “Sorry, I know you’re not touchy I just- gimme a second I gotta think.”

“That’s perfectly alright.” Viktor assures him. It is alright. Jayce is correct that Viktor is not nearly as tactile as Jayce is, but he is at this point well acquainted with Jayce’s propensity towards touch. His own lack of aversion or any other strong reaction to it was one of the earliest surprises in their partnership. “Take your time gathering your thoughts. This is a far less dire circumstance than that first stabilization was.”

“You told me there was no pressure then.” Jayce mumbles, already sounding a little less miserable.

“That is because I was lying.” Viktor hums, delighted at the snort he gets, and the way he can feel Jayce’s movement from the small laugh.

“Seriously V, I just remembered that night, remembered what the mage looked like and what all the magic looked like and I…did the same thing. But it wasn’t the same thing, because no one got teleported. I don’t even know if what I did was a spell.” Viktor thinks he can feel the resonance of Jayce’s voice through his core, spreading in waves from the point where Jayce’s forehead presses down at the top edge of his shoulder.

The distraction is not a true distraction however, because Viktor catches something in what Jayce is muttering. “You can remember how he moved, what the runes he summoned looked like?”

“I remember everything about that night.”

“Yes but-” There is something here. He has already seen Jayce's remarkable skill at memorizing things that Jayce deems worth memorizing. If Jayce says he can remember it, Viktor does not doubt it. “The order of them, could you remember that?”

The head on Viktor’s shoulder shifts as Jayce rolls it slightly to one side, but he doesn’t move it in the other to shake his head. It’s a contemplative movement. “Maybe…I think so. Let me...ok this is going to sound so weird but can I just uh, hang out here for a second? It helps me think.”

“By all means.” There’s something particularly marvelous about becoming a stabilizing agent for Jayce’s mind, he would be a fool not to agree to the opportunity. As Jayce calibrates himself, Viktor once again considers their paper, the problems it has given them. Jayce had moved the dial of the stabilizing framework like a conductor, with precision. Heimerdinger wants written out theories and explanations and citations, but what if they could instead find a formula. What if the precision of Jayce’s input could be broken down into components and quantified…

His free hand moves with habitual lack of awareness to where it would usually begin fiddling with his own hair, and it takes a few moments for him to notice the slight change in both texture and location of the hair he is rolling between his fingertips. Even then, he only notices because Jayce’s head becomes an even heavier weight on his shoulder.

“Ah, apologies.” He says, stopping the movement, thinking this might be a thing to feel awkward about. “Force of habit, it helps me think.”

“No, s’fine.” Jayce says, voice thicker in a way that is dangerous for Viktor’s higher thought processes. “It’s nice, actually. I don’t mind.”

After a second, Viktor continues. This time he notes the finer texture of Jayce’s hair. It’s very soft, sleek almost, with traces of the gel he uses to style it making sections of stiffness that crunch away under Viktor’s fingers.

“You smell nice.” Jayce mumbles.

A response to that requires some consideration. Viktor…considers.

There was a time, not all that long ago, where he would have leapt on someone with Jayce’s build telling him he smelled good while standing a scant inch away from Viktor. He would have assumed that the intent was for him to leap. Viktor is more discriminating than he used to be about sexual escapades, mostly because he began finding the nights spent on dalliances not worth the distractions, but even he can admit that if Jayce had put a head on his shoulder and told him he smelled good a week ago, Viktor would know exactly how to respond. It would have involved leaning back against that broad heat, turning lightly twirling fingers into a fist in Jayce’s hair, then gleefully seeing where things went from that point.

But now…

Jayce fits in like a missing puzzle piece. Whatever Jayce is, it is not one of Viktor’s brief encounters. Viktor would want to tell Jayce he didn’t need to get his apartment repaired, when Viktor lives much closer to the lab and things would be much more efficient if they lived together. Viktor can be wildly in love with this man in every definition of love that exists, but romantic or sexual entanglements (and if there is one, Viktor very much wants the other as well) often end. In Viktor’s personal experience, they ended before morning, and that was only considering the sexual entanglement. Heightened intimacy was desperately tempting, but it risked a greater end to the entire partnership. Even if nothing ever started, a proposition alone could forever poison what there already is.

Jayce is tactile in a very casual way. He flirts with everything that smiles at him for more than three seconds, and there has been nowhere near enough data for Viktor to calculate the risk of losing that side of the puzzle, or how much of a reward he would gain from taking that risk.

“Thank you.” He says eventually, slow and still considering. Then, because that feels incomplete and awkward, he adds, “I use soap.

Jayce snorts again, the head on Viktor’s shoulder shaking as Jayce’s body shakes with quiet laughter. Viktor knows he is shaking with it, because every other hitch up of Jayce’s shoulders causes a tiny sway forward, which bumps Jayce’s chest against Viktor’s back. Each of these millisecond bits of contact makes Viktor once again run through the considerations of risk versus reward in relation to getting his hands on that chest. Under the shirt. He would need both hands. There is an awful lot of chest, after all. Maybe both hands and his mouth. Definitely all three. It really is so much chest.

He takes the fantastic effort to rein his mind away from Jayce’s prodigious chest, even more effort to pull it further from contemplating the amount of shoulder matching that chest and what the rest of the torso probably looks like. There should be a response in kind to Jayce’s. A friendly compliment to return a compliment.

“Your hair is very soft.” He decides, as that seems safe as well as relevant to Jayce's compliment. Jayce’s silent laughter turns into some small hitched sounds that near a squeak, which means that Viktor’s thoughts are successfully pulled away from the sexual distractions, but only into the romantic sort.

“Thank you.” Jayce says with a dreadful mimic of Viktor’s accent, which only strengthens Viktor’s resolve to not take any uninformed risks that could lead to him losing this, “I use a leave-in conditioner.”

Viktor’s hand drops from Jayce’s hair, and he turns his head as much as he can to shoot a baffled look at the top of Jayce’s head.

“Why the fuck would you leave in a hair conditioner?” He asks, affronted. “Conditioner already feels dreadful. It’s heavy and slimy, absolutely horrendous.”

Jayce shoots up (which is a shame) so that he can lean around and give Viktor a look of equal outrage. “What does- Viktor it’s a different thing from- do you not use conditioner!?”

“Of course not. It feels terrible, I already said that.” Jayce makes a pained sound, and Viktor waves him off. “Enough of that nonsense. It is a waste of time. I have an idea.”

Jayce moves up next to him, facing Viktor with an intent eagerness. “What is it?”

“You are going to describe to me exactly what you remember. Each rune, each movement, as much as you can.” Another thought occurs to him, and Viktor snatches his cane from where it’s leaning on the board so he can turn to the inert stabilizing frame sitting on a table. “And I want you to dial in the stabilizer as you did in Heimerdinge’s lab as you do so. I will record everything. I believe there may be something we can measure, some sort of constant in the timing and the runes used, a way to-”

“We can make it an equation.” Jayce interrupts, breathless and awed, knowing what Viktor is thinking without Viktor needing to explain any of it. He so deeply wishes Heimerdinger had let them keep “crank it” in the paper. “Something concrete.”

“Precisely. The runes are instructions, a code. Perhaps the clockwise and counter-clockwise cycles of them are additional instructions. We can use your stable field as a baseline to begin working on a formula.”

“We can give them a solid theorum.” Jayce is already rushing to the stabilizing frame, even recreating the hunched over pose he had that wondrous night. “Okay, tell me when you’re ready.”

Any thoughts on conditioner or smells are gone. In the future, it will be as common as breathing for them to be drawn together when they need help thinking. Jayce’s head will always find Viktor’s shoulder, and Viktor will learn that playing with Jayce’s hair further settles his restless mind and channels his thoughts towards solutions. Whatever else there is, the most important goal to further all other goals of Viktor’s life is to keep the partnership. In the partnership there is the work, the thrill. The endless infinitesimal ways they fit together, two pieces destined to find the other. In the moment, Viktor takes up his notes and marvels again on the nature of fate, of probability, and of magic.

#arcane #jayvik #my fic #totally normal behavior for colleagues #theyre so fucking normal #oh my god they were lab partners

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leejenowrld · 3 months ago

Text

back to you — six

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 47k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — after the breakup, you throw yourself into silence and strategy, unraveling beneath the weight of secrets you can’t tell and love you can’t forget. jeno spirals in the opposite direction, reckless and numb, chasing anything that doesn’t remind him of you—only to find that everything does. a fantasy boy draft, meant to unify the fractured cheer squad, becomes the excuse that pulls you back into jeno’s bed, and then his arms and then onto his cock, again and again, until you can’t remember what it felt like not to crave him. but love built on a game is still a game, and the rules keep changing.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, insane smut in this, y/n gets with three different guys lool, she’d i gone this chapter all that’s on her mind is cock, fem!receiving oral, throatfucking, missionary, riding, doggy style, wall sex, floor sex, balcony/outdoor sex, mirror sex, breeding kink, creampie, cum play, cockwarming, choking, slapping (face and ass), hair pulling, face fucking, brat/brat-tamer dynamic, lots of switch dynamics, degradation, praise kink, daddy kink, mommy kink, spit kink, possessive sex, jealousy kink, public sex/exhibitionism, voyeurism, semi threesome (mfm), drug use (cocaine), sex on drugs, ass eating, edging, overstimulation, rough sex, emotional sex, angst sex, lots of girl moments this chapter, cheerleader girls have a slumber party, karina and y/n are new besties, areum is being a bit annoying, insane party scenes like always, shotaro has a new girl, nahyun is a loser like always, y/n and yangyang get touchy, yeonjun is back and a weirdo! and y/n moves a bit mad in this one

authors note — part five was meant to be one post but i ended up writing so much it’s turning into three separate ones, so i’ve split them into their own parts. they’re all deeply connected though, especially this one and the next (part seven), which i’m working hard to get out as soon as i can. love you forever, enjoy. <3 pacing might feel sudden in this chapter but remember i do everything for a reason [evil laughs]

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

The world feels different now, split along a fault line that neither of you saw coming. It is not a clean break. It is jagged, uneven, cruel. The kind that leaves debris scattered in every direction, waiting to cut into whoever dares to walk through it. There is no before and after, no definitive moment where everything fell apart—just the slow unraveling of something that once felt inevitable. One day, there were shared spaces, overlapping schedules, voices that fit together like puzzle pieces. Now, there is only distance, a rift so wide it might as well be measured in light-years.

The separation isn’t just physical. It’s molecular. You exist on different planes now, moving in ways that contradict each other, orbiting the same spaces but never colliding. The absence should be quiet, a simple subtraction. But somehow, it is loud. Somehow, it is everywhere. Somewhere, in the endless sprawl of the universe, stars collapse and planets lose their way. In another life, in another timeline, maybe you were two celestial bodies bound by the same force, drawn together by something cosmic, magnetic, inevitable. But in this one? You are two objects spinning in opposite directions, torn apart by your own gravity, each moving toward a different kind of destruction.

You are the dying sun, collapsing inward, devouring yourself in the relentless pursuit of something—proof, victory, purpose. You are imploding, shedding layers, burning too bright, too fast, swallowing your own brilliance just to keep shining. Your destruction is slow, methodical, inevitable; the kind of death that takes eons but is written in the stars from the beginning. You do not let yourself rest, do not let yourself cool, because stopping means feeling, and feeling means breaking.

Jeno is a rogue planet, flung from its orbit, untethered and spiraling into the unknown. He was never meant to be without you, never meant to drift this far, but now he is ruinous, reckless, swallowing chaos whole because at least chaos is something he can control. He throws himself into the dark, chasing the cold, deliberately avoiding every path that might lead him back to where you are, because the idea of turning around—of feeling the gravity of what was—might be the very thing that shatters him. He keeps moving, keeps running, because stopping means facing the void, and he is not sure which will destroy him first—the emptiness or the unbearable pull of everything he lost.

And yet, even in destruction, you are both moving. You are not stagnant. You are waging wars of different kinds. The last embers of what you were still burn, but they do not burn the same.

You sit in the library long after the lights should have dimmed, surrounded by the weight of papers, graphs, calculations that blur at the edges of your vision. Your fingers ache from typing, from annotating, from making absolutely sure that the data is airtight, bulletproof. The project you started together now belongs to you alone, and if you have to carry it across the finish line by yourself, then so be it. It is not just about proving a point anymore—it is about proving him right, proving that all the work you did together wasn’t in vain, that his absence does not make you weaker, that you can stand even when he is no longer beside you.

But the project is only half of the battle. The rest is a war you have been meticulously crafting, an assault so precise it might as well be a military operation. The Ravens are set to face the Busan Titans in the state championship finals, and you are combing through their statistics with a ruthless, calculated eye—not to manipulate, not to twist the facts, but simply to expose what is already there. Their weaknesses, their inconsistencies, their over-reliance on predictable plays. You are not fabricating anything, merely holding up a mirror and forcing them to confront the cracks they have ignored.

But beneath the surface, this runs deeper than just one game. Eric and Sunwoo were once part of this program, once players who held influence, who had power—until they threw it away for something as reckless as gambling. Their removal left a stain on the team, a shift in leadership, an unspoken instability that lingers even now. And the Titans? They have been riding on that instability, preying on the gaps left behind, using the Ravens’ past turbulence as an opening. That is what you are tearing apart now. Not with deception, not with false claims, but with facts—cold, irrefutable numbers that will make it impossible for them to hide. When the Ravens take the court, they will do so armed with truth, and the Titans will have no choice but to face the reality they never saw coming.

The late nights have turned into something grotesque. You don’t sleep. You don’t stop. You drink too much coffee, then let it turn into something else—something stronger, something that keeps you awake for hours beyond what’s human. The walls of the library warp and bend at the edges of your vision, and there are moments, deep into the night, where the exhaustion laps at the corners of your mind, where you think you hear his voice in the back of your head. You swallow down the thought like a pill and keep working. There is no space for weakness. Not anymore.

Meanwhile Jeno is nowhere, and he is running.

The nights blur together, a revolving door of faces he does not care to remember, music that pulses too loud, drinks that burn in his throat but never quite reach the part of him that aches. He is always moving—from party to party, room to room, letting the neon and the noise drown out the thoughts that refuse to let him rest. If it is something you would hate, he gravitates toward it. Mindless fun, empty conversations, meaningless distractions. He does not want meaning. He wants oblivion.

And when alcohol is not enough, he looks for something stronger. Pills, powder, things passed between hands in dark rooms, the kind of things he never thought he’d touch, the kind of things that make the edges of the world blur just enough to pretend that nothing matters. He doesn’t even like the way it feels, not really. But he keeps chasing it, keeps swallowing it down, keeps trying to lose himself in the high before the comedown crushes him all over again.

He tries to fuck other people. He really tries. Hands on his shoulders, lips at his neck, fingers slipping under fabric, breathless invitations whispered into his ear. He gets as far as he can, as far as his body will allow, but then—nothing. It’s not them. It’s not you. And he hates himself for it, for the fact that even here, even now, his body refuses to forget you. He leaves them behind, leaves them confused, angry, embarrassed. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

So he keeps running. He picks fights just to feel something, throws himself into reckless decisions, loses himself in anger that has nowhere to go. He’s been showing up to practice less frequently, letting his game slip, watching as his teammates and coaches look at him with growing disappointment. But he doesn’t care. He cannot let himself care. Because if he stops to think—if he stops at all—he might just feel the full weight of what he has lost.

And maybe that is the worst part. That no matter how fast he moves, no matter how hard he tries to drown it all out, he still sees you. On campus, in passing, in fleeting moments where his gaze finds you before he can stop himself. He never speaks. Never approaches. But his stomach twists all the same.

He doesn’t know what he expects. For you to look at him? For you to ignore him? He hates both options.

You were once a perfect crime—two masterminds moving in tandem, your hands inked with each other’s fingerprints, your every move a counterbalance to the other. You were the precision, the strategy, the steady hand behind the operation. He was the instinct, the risk, the recklessness that made you unstoppable. Together, you were untouchable, a seamless execution of chaos and control.

But now? Now, it’s a botched getaway. You are still inside the burning building, rewriting blueprints, refusing to run. He is miles away, watching the explosion in the rearview mirror, knowing he left behind the only thing that ever made the crime worth committing. Your suffering is a mirror, but it is distorted. You are sharpening your mind into something unbreakable. He is dulling his into something unrecognizable. You are both running—one toward something, one away from everything. You are both haunted. And it is slowly, inevitably, leading to something breaking.

The walk home from campus feels different now. It's not quieter, not softer—if anything, it's louder in its hostility. The looks don’t linger long enough to confront, but they last just long enough to sting. The whispers are low but deliberate, carefully timed to slip into your path like landmines. You’ve stopped flinching. You keep your chin high, shoulders squared, moving through it all like you’re bulletproof, even if most nights you cry in the shower just to get it out of your system. You’re tired, so deeply tired, but you won’t let them see that. You won’t let this campus break you. You’ve given too much to let them take anything more.

You’ve been everywhere lately—everywhere but where it matters. Cheer practice, project meetings, tutoring jeno’s teammates while pretending you don’t flinch at his name. You’ve been organizing, emailing, reworking data, reviewing footage. You’ve sat in on three sessions with Coach to study offensive stats from games you already memorized. Coach Suh, who’s still recovering but slowly finding his rhythm again, has been helping you gather footage and lay quiet traps, subtly pushing Eric and Sunwoo back into their place.

But you haven’t stepped into a music room since that night. The night the bar was packed—standing room only, the entire campus crammed wall to wall—just to watch you play. Just to watch you fall apart instead. It was the day something inside you cracked open and never quite closed. The day the music died. Not all at once, but in slow, splintering ways. Every whisper since then, every glance in a hallway, every half-laughed comment about the girl who used to sing? It’s made your major feel like a joke. And maybe that’s why you haven’t gone back. Maybe you’re not ready to find out if your voice still works.

But today’s meeting isn’t on campus. It’s here, in your apartment. The one you share with Mark. It’s small, not finished, not polished. But it’s warm now. There’s a thick beige rug underfoot that Mark picked out, one you weren’t sure about until you spilled tea on it and realized how soft it was under your knees. There are string lights above the window you both strung up during a thunderstorm. And on the fridge, crooked and peeling at the edges, a polaroid of you and Mark mid-laugh, mouths open, limbs tangled, half-asleep on the couch after a late-night frozen pizza run. It’s home. Or it’s becoming one.

It’s not really a meeting—not officially, anyway. More like a team-building night disguised as something softer. And you don’t know when it happened, exactly, but somewhere along the way you stopped just being on the cheer team and started leading it. It’s not a title you ever asked for. But after late nights staying behind after practice, rewriting parts of the routine when others refused to focus, smoothing over arguments when Karina was too tired to deal with the mess herself—no one really questions your authority anymore. You don’t either.

You and Karina have been working in tandem lately, both driven by different versions of the same urgency. She’s desperate to hold the team together with the championship coming up fast—her leadership is on the line. And you? You’re trying to keep your project from falling apart. A few nights ago, you got a letter—one that’s stayed folded in your back pocket ever since. It confirmed that your research project, the one you started with Jeno, is under consideration for inclusion in the annual sports and science exhibition. The exhibition. The one he took you to on your first date. It’s prestigious. Competitive. The kind of recognition that launches careers and changes lives. And it might actually happen.

You told Karina about the letter a few nights ago—how it arrived folded and official, tucked between overdue assignments and empty takeout containers, how your hands had trembled just holding it. You told her what it meant. That if your project with Jeno met expectations, it wouldn’t just be marked and filed away, it would be exhibited. Publicly. Featured in the same exhibition Jeno took you to on your first date. The same one you lingered in too long after closing hours, fingers brushing over glass displays, sharing quiet, tentative smiles that felt like the beginning of something. So no, this wasn’t just another academic milestone. It was a reckoning, a loop closing in on itself. Karina had known that the moment you said it that she didn’t need the full explanation to understand that this meant everything.

So when you came to her with the idea—a bonding night to fix the rift in the team—she listened. And when she threw in the ‘fantasy boy draft’—some wild cheer tradition she’d sworn by since her first year—you both knew you’d found the perfect distraction. The perfect solution. You offered your apartment without hesitation. Cleaned every surface, fluffed every pillow, scrubbed down the kitchen with something citrus-scented and borderline chemical.

Karina handles the mood, candles flickering in each corner, warm vanilla mixing with eucalyptus, string lights twinkling soft and gold above the couch. You stack glittery hamper boxes by the fireplace—filled with sheet masks, essential oils, sweets, personalised mixtapes, written words of affirmations and polaroids—while Karina slips satin scrunchies and vibrators. You also brought matching pink satin pajamas with each girl's name embroidered across the chest and lined the table with rows of pastel-pink frosted cupcakes, little edible basketballs on top. You also baked thirteen brownie slabs the night before and packed tubs of buttercream frosting, piping tools, heart-shaped sprinkles, gummy letters, mini glitter stars—everything they’d need to decorate a personalised slab for another girl. It was effort disguised as aesthetic. A performance of unity you were determined to make real. Not because you cared about appearances but because you knew this, every inch of it, was part of the bigger picture and that picture was going to be on display.

You did it all because this project needs to work because you need it to work. And because if the team won’t act like one on the mat, then maybe, just maybe, they’ll start to feel like one here. You thought about cutting them out entirely—stripping the cheer squad from the final project and focusing on more cooperative data sets. It would’ve been cleaner, quieter, easier. They hadn’t given you anything but tension and side-eyes, and you were tired of chasing girls who didn’t want to be part of something bigger than themselves. But this—this whole thing you’re building—isn’t about ease or neat conclusions. It’s about truth and the truth is, a star player doesn’t shine alone. He needs a system that pushes him, holds him up, even when it’s fraying at the seams. That includes the messy parts, the jealous ones, the girls who roll their eyes in practice and whisper behind your back because whether they like it or not, they’re part of the structure that builds someone like Jeno. And if they’re broken, it reflects on everything he touches. On what he becomes. On what you’re still trying to prove.

The apartment is already warm and glowing by the time the girls begin arriving. The lights are dimmed low, casting soft halos against the walls, and there’s a sugar-sweet haze in the air from too many candles lit at once—rose, vanilla, something citrusy that makes the whole place smell like a sleepover dream. Cushions are scattered like flower petals across the floor, snacks spilling from heart-shaped bowls, and there’s a soft pink throw blanket draped over every empty seat. Someone laughs from the kitchen. Someone else calls dibs on a spot near the snacks. By the time the seventh voice enters the mix, the room is alive—ribbons and candles and cushions melting into bodies, and every inch of space soaked in vanilla-scented heat.

None of them had really planned to show up—not when it was first mentioned. There were eye-rolls, muttered jokes about forced fun, half-hearted excuses ready to go. But then the photos dropped. Trays of food, custom hampers with their names in cursive, matching satin pajamas folded on every cushion. And word about the fantasy boy draft spread faster than you could send a reminder. The group chat lit up like it never had before. Suddenly, everyone was interested. Suddenly, they all wanted in.

Nahyun’s already critiquing. Her voice cuts through the music, offhand and sharp as she mutters, “Feels like a five-year-old planned this,” nudging a cushion with her foot. “All that’s missing is a princess cake.” She drifts through the room like a guest, arms crossed, smile never quite reaching her eyes. She lingers near the brownie tray, says something to Mia—light, maybe even funny—but Mia doesn’t laugh. Yiren glances over, then looks back at her phone. Aisha shifts the conversation without pause, voice a little too quick. Whatever closeness they once had, it’s quiet now. Faded around the edges.

Mia’s on the rug, leaning back on her elbows, trying to tear open a face mask with her teeth. “Did you put a security tag on these?” she mutters. You hand her scissors without missing a beat. “Try now.” She murmurs a quiet thank you, softer than usual—quieter than usual—and keeps her eyes on the packet. Aisha’s next to her, already reorganizing her hamper like it’s a task list—serums here, snacks there, ribbons pulled taut and retied with sharper corners. “These don’t even match the palette,” she says under her breath, but she doesn’t change them. Yiren hovers around them, phone steady, catching slow pans of the candlelight across glossed lips, the shine of polished nails, the curve of someone’s laugh. “You’ll thank me when it’s all gone,” she says, barely louder than the music. They weren’t eager to come—you remember that. But now they’re sitting in the spaces you’ve carved for them, unwrapping what you planned, moving to a rhythm you designed. No one's said it out loud, but you can feel it. The room’s unfolding exactly the way you set it in motion.

Ningning’s camped by the speaker, phone already plugged in, flipping through hyperpop and house playlists like she’s curating a runway. “Don’t even think about asking for a skip,” she warns, tapping play on something glitchy, bassy, and violently pink. The walls vibrate on cue. Her brownie slab sits in front of her half-decorated, smeared with neon icing and topped with tiny candy letters spelling something definitely unhinged. “If mine doesn’t win, I’m flipping the table,” she says, dead serious, lining the edges with rhinestones like she’s building a shrine.

Giselle’s slouched against the arm of the couch, drink balanced on her knee, legs stretched out like she owns the floor. Her brownie slab’s already finished—thick swirls of dark frosting and, across the top in black icing gel, ‘dump his ass’ written in perfect cursive. She doesn’t look up when someone laughs. “Sorry, Chaewon,” she says, biting back a grin.

Chaewon shrugs from across the room, not even pretending to be offended. “You’re right,” she calls back, lifting her drink. “He’s been on thin ice since Tuesday.”

Areum’s stuck close to Karina all night, never far from her side, but quieter than usual. She hasn’t added much to the conversation, just sips from her drink, nods along, lets Karina speak for both of them. But whenever you talk—whether it’s to pass a plate, explain a game, or just laugh at something someone else says, her eyes find you, sharp and deliberate. She doesn’t bother hiding whatever’s behind them. Not anger, exactly. But something pointed. Something personal.

Yunjin has moved through the room with soft hands and steady warmth. She pauses behind Yeji to adjust a hair clip, then passes out hot towels like a spa hostess. “Relax your jaw,” she tells Mia, tapping her chin. “You’re holding stress.” Her voice cuts through the buzz without needing volume. When she finally sits, it’s beside Yeji, who leans into her with easy familiarity. Yeji’s been floating gently between every corner of the room—helping Yiren adjust her camera angle, handing Aisha another lip balm from the extras pile, whispering something into Giselle’s ear that makes her laugh and nearly spill her drink.

And you—you are everywhere. Not in the way that takes up space, but in the way that dictates how space is used. A refill here. A nudge there. You laugh at just the right volume, make eye contact when it counts, step in before any silence stretches too long. Every pivot in mood, every shift in dynamic—you don’t just notice it, you engineer it. When someone strays, you pull them back in without touching them. When the energy sways, you anchor it. This isn’t about snacks or skincare or curated aesthetics. That’s the cover. The real work is underneath—threading these girls into a shared rhythm, one that begins with sugar and satin and ends with loyalty that can’t be faked on the mat. They think this is bonding. A night off. A bit of fun. But it’s infrastructure. Memory laid down like groundwork. A team built on glitter and inside jokes and the feeling that they were seen. You’re not just giving it to them. You’re making sure they never forget who did.

Mia asks it casually, almost like a dare. “Ryujin—what’s going on with you and Shotaro?”

Ryujin’s already blushing before the question finishes. She hugs her knees, lets her head tilt slightly back like she’s weighing how honest to be. “It’s been good,” she says, quiet but sure. “We hang out after practice. Eat. Talk. Fuck. Then talk more. He listens. Pays attention. He’s always making sure I’m okay. Like... even with the choreo, if his hand’s too low or my back hurts, he stops and adjusts.” Her smile creeps in slow. “And he’s sweet. In a stupid, hot way. Always saying something dorky and then acting shy about it.”

Yeji doesn’t miss a beat. She lifts her head from where she’s curled on the floor and says, too casually, “I was in the practice room with them last lesson, by the way.” She pauses just long enough for the room to quiet. “It was less dancing, more grinding. There’s this move where Ryujin’s supposed to sit on his lap and he’s meant to stay still—keyword, meant.” She grins, eyes flicking to Ryujin. “But he kept grinding up. Every time. And I counted at least three moments where his hand stayed on her ass longer than the beat asked for.”

The room loses it—squeals, laughter, someone hits the floor with a pillow. Ningning yells “Oh my god!” and Yunjin fans herself with a napkin. “You’re corrupting our sweet boy!”

Ryujin just shrugs, unfazed, lips curled into something smug. “I told him to stop,” she says, soft and slow. “He said he couldn’t help it.”

There’s a low chorus of giggles and sighs around the room. Chaewon groans but it’s affectionate. Ningning hides her face behind a cushion. Even you smile, remembering the way Shotaro has been looking these last few weeks after Nahyun wrecked him—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes sharper. No more quiet apologies in his walk. No more shrinking back. He’s dressing bolder now, speaking louder. Like someone who finally realized he doesn’t owe softness to the person who broke him.

Then Nahyun speaks, syrup-slick and venomous, like she can’t let the moment breathe without twisting it. “He’s cute now,” she says, voice airy, almost bored. “Wait till he’s inside you and you realize he doesn’t know how to make a girl cum. Can’t fuck for shit—just lies there and hopes you moan enough to cover for it.” It cuts through the warmth like a blade, derailing the laughter, stiffening the air. Not loud, not messy but felt. She ruins it. She always does. She can’t stand when the room forgets to orbit her. The silence after isn’t shocking. It’s quiet, loaded, and disappointing. Everyone knows exactly what she’s doing.

Ryujin doesn’t flinch. “Sex with him’s been great.” Her voice is clean, steady. “He told me his last relationship nearly ruined it for him. Said she didn’t do anything—wouldn’t ride, wouldn’t go down on him, just laid there making sounds like that was enough. Didn’t touch him, didn’t move, didn’t care if he finished. He said half the time he had to fake it just to get it over with. Couldn’t even look him in the eye when she came—probably because she didn’t.”

Yunjin buries her face in a pillow, muffling the secondhand embarrassment vibrating through the room. Someone exhales too loud. Nahyun shifts like she’s ready to bite back, eyes narrowing, lips parting with something sharp already forming. And you step forward before she has the chance. “Alright,” you say, voice louder now—measured, final. “Fantasy boy draft starts now.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band. Heads lift. Spines straighten. The shift is instant—like they’ve all remembered why they came. Voices rise at once, buzzing with sudden energy. You move to the edge of the rug and begin handing out the empty wicker baskets, one by one. Each is lined with soft pink tissue paper, ribbons already curling at the corners. “These are yours,” you announce, voice calm beneath the chaos. “When you pull a name, you’ll fill your basket with whatever you want—snacks, notes, lingerie if you’re bold. Think of it as a seduction starter pack.” There’s laughter, gasps, someone already asking if edible lube counts. “Presentation counts,” you remind them, and the girls giggle louder, suddenly competing before the game’s even begun.

Karina’s already kneeling at the center, pulling the glass punch bowl closer—the one filled with glittery slips of paper, each folded name inked in your handwriting. She gives it a hard mix with her hand, swirling them fast. “No trades,” she says, smirking. “No swaps. No complaints.”

Then her tone dips, slow and heavy, dragging everyone in. “The rules are simple,” Karina says. “Tomorrow night, you spend at least one full hour with the boy you pull. That’s the minimum. If you want to spend the whole night with him—be my guest. Just the two of you. No friends, no interruptions, no backing out. It’s a tradition before big games, especially state championships like this one. Helps ease the nerves. Fuck the stress out of the boys—literally.”

She grins now, all teeth. “If you want to fuck him—fuck him. If you want to tease him the whole time—do that too. Just make sure something happens.” Her smile twists, eyes glittering. “You can suck him off in the car. Ride him in his room. Make him beg and leave. I don’t care how you play it. But whoever gets the furthest—sexually—wins.”

There’s a pause—then chaos. Laughter, shrieks, someone throws a pillow. Ningning screams something about winning before the names are even pulled. Giselle demands clarification on what counts as ‘furthest’ while already opening a lip gloss. The room swells again. And you—you let it happen. Let them shriek and flirt and laugh like it’s just a game. Like it’s not being directed. Like they aren’t moving exactly how you want them to. But your grip never loosens. You’re still setting the pace, still tracking every glance, every flicker of tension. This isn’t about flirting. It’s about leverage. About memory. About which bonds form, which cracks deepen, who follows impulse and who stays calculated. Who reaches first—and who gets chosen back. And the beauty of it is, they think it’s theirs. But you built this stage. You handed them the script.

Karina walks the bowl around slowly, letting each girl pick one by one. It turns giggly quickly—some of them are clasping hands like they’re praying for their favourite name, whispering to the ceiling as if the boy gods are listening. The slips are drawn one by one, each rustle of paper followed by gasps, groans, and shrieks. You watch from where you're sat, knees drawn to your chest, hands cradling your glass, as names are revealed like fate being bargained. It starts light. Silly. And then it shifts.

Areum unfolds hers slowly. Blinks once. Twice. She doesn’t speak, but her thumb presses down hard on the paper, white-knuckling the edge. Her face doesn’t shift. Not a smile, not a wince. But her eyes move. Across the room. Past the flickering candles and half-tied ribbons. Mark’s name might as well have caught fire in her hand. Her eyes land in a blank space like she’s looking through the room instead of at it like she can’t believe what she’s holding. Like she thought she had more time. “I have Mark,” she says finally, so low it barely counts as a whisper. No reaction. Just a fact she has to say aloud to believe. Then she folds the slip again and tucks it between her fingers like it means nothing at all.

Karina pulls her name next, it turns out to be Jaemin. She exhales as soon as she sees it, then mutters, “Of course.” Her voice isn’t bitter, just tight with familiarity. She grabs her basket and starts assembling it immediately, hands sure and practiced. Her fingers curl around a satin bow like muscle memory. "I won't get any action tonight," she says dryly. "Never been his type and he’s never been mine, he’s too quiet and mysterious." She doesn’t sound sad, just factual. But her grip on the scissors is tense. You say nothing. Watch her slice through cellophane with purpose.

When Ningning opens hers, she gasps loud enough to make half the room jump. "Chenle!" she squeals, hugging the paper to her chest. “God always provides.” She scrambles toward her hamper, giggling as she tosses things in without pause—heart-shaped lollipops, flavored lube, candy rings, a pink satin blindfold, and a bottle of edible massage oil labeled “lick here.” She hums while she packs, murmuring something about riding him until the hour’s up, and slips in a pair of crotchless lace panties, folded neatly on top like a final promise.

Yunjin sighs when she gets Jungwoo. She groans, but it’s not disappointment, more like bracing for chaos. “If he tries to teach me the Dougie again I’m gonna scream.”

Ryujin snorts from across the floor. “Last time I got him he brought one of his friends and turned it into a threesome. Didn’t even ask first. Just showed up with a 6’5 surprise.” There’s an eruption of laughter. Yunjin throws a sequin. She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “Okay but he is hot and I hope I see this ‘friend.’” She giggles whilst wiggling her eyebrows seductively.

When it's your turn, the room quiets. Not completely, not enough for anyone to notice unless they were watching closely. But you feel it. A soft hush beneath the laughter. Eyes flick toward you, quick and curious. Your name has weight, and everyone knows it. You walk toward the bowl like it's something sacred, like the paper inside might rearrange your entire night. Your fingers hover, dip in, shuffle too long like you’re searching for something specific. Maybe you are. Maybe you’re hoping it’s not him.

Not because you wouldn’t want him. You would. That’s the problem.

You wouldn’t be able to play it cool. You wouldn’t know how to pretend. If it’s Jeno—if it’s Jeno—you’ll lose whatever grip you’ve managed to keep on yourself. If he looks at you soft, you’ll fall. If he looks at you cruel, you’ll break. There’s no version of this where you win. No version where you fuck him and feel fine after. Wanting Jeno has always come with ruin. Always. It’s never been easy. Never been safe. Just blood under your nails and ache between your legs.

You’re not here for that. Not tonight. Not when everything depends on your control.

So when the paper unfolds in your hand and reads San, your breath leaves you quiet and low. Not relief, exactly—but something close enough. You can work with San. You’ve fucked before. Once. Maybe twice. It was good. Clean. No mess. No history. He made you come, made you laugh, didn’t make you think. If you suck him off in a car, it’ll count. It’ll be enough. It won’t be dangerous. That’s what you need. Something you can handle. Something you don’t have to feel.

Then Nahyun opens hers.

She screams. Breathless, high-pitched, vibrating with glee. “Oh my god. I got Jeno!” Her hands are already fumbling for her phone, typing out notes and planning how to spend the night with him, giggling to herself. "He’s going to love this. He even said I give the best head he's ever had. Always cums when I’m on top. He's probably thinking about me right now—"

You suck your teeth, a quiet flick of pressure that doesn’t beg attention. Your tongue settles in your cheek, eyes fixed anywhere but her—because you don’t need to look. She’s already filling the room with her noise, grasping for a spotlight that was never hers to hold. Your expression stays smooth, impassive, perfected over time like muscle memory. But underneath it, there’s the slow curl of amusement, low and easy. Not because you care. Not the way she wants you to. But because it’s funny—laughable, even—the way she keeps reaching, convinced she still matters.

She doesn’t stop. Flushed and breathless, voice high with performance. “He’s already been texting me tonight, actually,” she says, like she’s letting everyone in on a secret. “Said I’d be his first pick even if there wasn’t a draft. We’ve fucked so many times. He always comes back to me. Always wants me.”

You smile—small, measured, just the barest curl of your mouth. Because it’s a lie. Every word. And you know it.You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Because you know exactly who Jeno messages when he’s high—when the drugs make him bold and stupid. When he’s drunk and desperate and aching to feel something real. The messages he sends you aren’t sweet, aren’t shy, aren’t asking how you’ve been. They’re pure filth, breathless voice notes where he slurs your name like he’s trying to fuck it, like just the syllables taste like you. He sends videos with his hand wrapped tight around his cock, leaking and flushed, every stroke harder than the last, captioned only you get me like this.

You haven’t touched him in weeks, but he hasn’t touched anyone else either—not really. He’s tried. You know he’s tried. You know how he looks at other girls and hopes one of them might make him forget. Might make him come. But they don’t. They never do. The only time he gets off is with your photo on his screen—your pussy spread open for him, your moans playing on repeat, his fist choking his dick while he gasps your name into the dark. He doesn’t fuck anyone else. He fucks memories of you.

Ryujin’s eyes slice across the room and lock onto yours, her expression unreadable for a beat before it sharpens, like she’s catching onto something only you both are in on. Her brow lifts, slow, deliberate as she turns to Nahyun. “You’re saying Jeno’s been fucking you recently?” she asks, voice flat, almost bored.

Nahyun nods. Too quickly. “Yeah, he’s really needy—” she starts, dragging her eyes over to you again, and it’s obvious now she’s not really speaking to Ryujin at all. Her words are laced with sugar and something mean, like she wants to press them directly against your skin, see if they sting. “He said my pussy’s the only thing that makes him cum right now.” The room stills. Not because anyone believes her, but because of the way she says it—like she’s already imagining how it’ll hurt you.

It barely registers on your face—the twitch of your lips, the way they curve at the corners like something bitter-sweet just brushed past. You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek, jaw tightening for half a second before you smooth it away with a breath. No sharpness. No crack. Just control. When you glance toward Ryujin, she’s already looking at you. And when your eyes meet, she smirks, shaking her head a little like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. The two of you share a laugh—quiet, breathless, folded into the space between cushions and candlelight. It’s not loud enough to draw attention as you haven’t bitten back all night, haven’t risen to a single dig, but this—this is just too delicious to ignore.

Then Yeji pipes up. “That’s wild,” she says, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “I tried to fuck him at that party last week. He said no and told me to go home, he said he hasn’t been in the mood lately. I couldn’t even get him hard when we made out.” Her tone is casual, but the weight of her words lands heavy.

Nahyun stills, like the wind’s been knocked from her. “No, that’s—he—” she fumbles. The room watches her scramble, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. Then she dives for her hamper, hands moving too fast, shoving in a half-open pack of condoms, a bag of crisps, gummy bears, socks that don’t match, a random bottle of spray cologne she hasn’t sniffed, all things that Jeno would hate.

And maybe that’s why Karina rises—not with drama, not with a sound, just an unfazed grace that makes the moment ripple beneath the surface. Her gaze sweeps the room once, slow and calculating, before she steps forward with a kind of stillness that makes everyone pause. She stops in front of you, her eyes flicking to the name in your hand—San—and then to Nahyun’s clenched fingers. And without a word, she snatches the paper from Nahyun’s hands, then yours, and swaps them both. The exchange is swift but heavy.

Nahyun’s breath catches sharp, her voice dragging up fast behind her like she’s chasing the control slipping from her hands. “You—you can’t do that!” she yells, eyes wide. “That’s not fair. I already messaged him—he knows it’s me—”

Karina doesn’t even turn. She’s already back at her hamper, curling pink tissue around a bottle of whipped body oil, fingers precise as scissors slice through glitter ribbon. “I’m the captain,” she says, calm and smooth, voice dipped in glass. “I don’t follow the rules. I set them.” Then, quieter, deadlier—“And you’ve been lying to everyone since the second you pulled that name.”

Nahyun stumbles for words, mouth parting like she has something clever to bite with—but she doesn’t get the chance because your voice slices clean through the room, low and easy, thick with the kind of humor that makes people sit up straighter. “You can keep messaging him if it makes you feel better,” you say. “Just know it’s not going to deliver. He blocked your number.”

Nahyun’s face flames, cheeks red, jaw trembling. “No, he didn’t.”

You tilt your head, eyes soft, almost sympathetic. “Yeah,” you murmur, lips twitching. “He did.”

Her voice sharpens. “How would you even know?”

You don’t blink. You lean back slow, a little smirk curling at the corner of your mouth like you’re offering her the kindness of honesty—because you are. “He blocked you when we were together,” you say, tone silky, matter-of-fact. “Said you wouldn’t stop texting. Said it was getting annoying.”

That’s what makes it land. You don’t need to raise your voice or lean forward. You don’t even shift in your seat. You sit there, drink cradled easily in your hand, legs crossed like this is nothing to you—because it is nothing to you. The truth carries on its own. It doesn’t need your help. It slices clean without volume or venom. Tonight, it hits exactly where it’s supposed to.

The silence that follows doesn’t crack or shatter. It folds in on itself—thick, awkward, and painfully aware. Nahyun doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t scream or pout or argue again. Just huffs, once, loud through her nose like it might keep her dignity intact, then lowers herself slowly back onto the floor. Her face is turned away, but her hands are busy—ripping the ribbon she’d picked out into thinner and thinner strips, like if she keeps doing it long enough, it’ll distract everyone from the fact that no one’s paying her any more attention.

You don’t gloat. You don’t even watch her. You simply return to the task at hand. Quietly, calmly, without flourish, you tip the contents of the basket out onto the rug beside you. One by one, Nahyun’s choices roll out—glitter-stained lollipops, dick-shaped gummies, a cheap silk tie that smells like a department store perfume section. None of it fits. Not for him. It’s all loud and sugary and performative. Not real. Not the kind of thing that will make him pause when he opens it.

You hadn’t planned for this. You’d hoped for something simple—something shallow enough to slip through without feeling a thing. A boy who wouldn’t make your hands shake. Someone who wouldn’t look at you too long or too closely. But now that it’s Jeno, there’s a strange kind of calm that settles in your chest. Not relief. Not fear. Just inevitability. He was always the one who could tip the scale but you’ve learned how to carry that kind of tension, how to wear silence like armor. You’ll hand over the basket—maybe. Or you’ll make Karina do it. Maybe you won’t even stay long enough to see his expression. Maybe he won’t open it in front of you at all. Either way, it won’t matter. You’ll be fine. You always are.

Even as you tell yourself it means nothing, your hands betray you—already moving with purpose, already reaching for the things only you could know. There’s no checklist. No logic. Just instinct and memory guiding your fingers across the table. You start with the peppermint tin, the same one he used to pop open in your car, pressing a mint against your tongue like he owned your mouth. It nestles low in the corner, buried in soft blush tissue. Then you add a strip of worn polaroid film, edges bent, colors soft and fading. It's not even a full photo—just the bottom half of his hand resting on your thigh, the hem of your skirt hitched a little too high, both of you laughing out of frame. He took it by accident once, fumbling with the camera when he was tipsy and reaching for you. You never let him throw it out. You kept it. Now it’s tucked inside the basket like a secret—one only he’ll recognize.

Then you put in a small sachet of your perfume, dabbed onto silk, tied with string. A pair of black silk boxers folded neatly, pressed into the corner. A candle—warm musk and sandalwood, the kind that smells like his skin. You hesitate. Then your fingers move to put in a pack of heat patches for his shoulder. A tiny jar of that muscle rub he likes—eucalyptus and camphor, rubbed in slow under the collarbone when he’d wince and you’d whisper relax. Your lip balm, the same one he used to kiss off in pauses between moans. And the ribbon around it is black. Sleek, silent, final. A knot pulled tight—not pretty, not soft, just done. It doesn’t unravel when touched. It doesn’t ask to be untied. It stays. Like a full stop at the end of a sentence that never needed a reply.

You don’t stop to wonder what any of it means. You just keep moving, hands working faster than your head, each object pulled with unthinking care. Every detail is muscle memory. Like your body remembers something your mouth won’t say. A kind of fluency that only existed with him, still exists now, humming under your skin. The things you add to the basket aren’t grand, but they feel like confessions. Like truths hidden in texture and shape. Your fingers ghost over a pile of polaroids, and for a second you pause. There’s one of you both laughing in bed, sheets tangled, his head half out of frame but smiling anyway. You try not to smile—you really do—but it breaks through, soft and aching.

From beside you, Karina makes a sound under her breath. Her eyes flick to your basket, then to you, narrowed with sharp amusement. “Let’s place bets on who’s getting the furthest tomorrow,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Mine’s on Jeno and Y/N.” Her voice is light, teasing, but loaded, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. A few girls laugh. You huff, breath caught in your throat, about to deflect with something dry, but Ningning beats you to it.

“Wait, what even happened between you two?” she asks, head tilted. She’s curious, not nosy, but her words land with weight. Like the whole room still remembers that it was once you and him.

You sigh, glance down, voice quiet. “It’s a long story.” You hope that will be enough. You hope no one pushes. Because it is a long story. One lined with bruised trust and burned edges, stitched together with half-kept promises and the soft ache of everything you couldn’t say. It’s a story about how you tried, God, how you tried—and how in the end, love wasn’t the thing that broke you. His father was. A man with too much power and no conscience, who threatened to shatter your world if you didn’t walk away. You didn’t leave because you wanted to. You left because you had to. And now you carry that silence like it’s wedged between your ribs, bleeding every time someone mentions his name like it’s supposed to be simple. Like you weren’t forced to give up the only thing that ever felt like home.

“I hope you guys find your way back,” Ryujin says, smiling gently. “Taro always told me how happy you made each other. He used to talk about you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to Jeno. Said he’d never seen him act like that over anyone.” Her voice is sincere, kind. But it stings.

You give her a small, grateful smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m sure you’ll end up together,” Yunjin adds, voice low and hopeful. She offers you a soft glance, warm with quiet understanding. “I think the ‘boy draft’ might bring you closer again.”

You blink once, slowly, as if trying to register the weight of her words. It’s not shock exactly—more confusion. Your voice comes quieter than expected, a little off-guard. “I mean… he has,” you murmur, like you’re still piecing it together. “He’s been around. He hasn’t exactly avoided me. I’ve been the one avoiding him.”

Areum bristles. She adjusts her posture, jaw set. “Look,” she says, voice louder now, aimed at no one and everyone. “I’m really good friends with Jeno. And I just… I didn’t like how you ended things with him. It felt selfish. You broke his heart, simple as that. And now you want to give him this?” She gestures toward your filled basket, lips curled like it’s something rotten.

Your fingers tighten around the ribbon, jaw slack for half a second before it firms. Then your gaze lifts—slow, level—and lands on hers without flinching. “Mind your own business,” you say, voice low, unbothered. “Worry about you and Mark.” You don’t wait for her to speak again. You just go back to folding the edge of the tissue paper, calm and precise, like she hadn’t even opened her mouth in the first place.

Tonight is night of the boy draft. The action—the chaos, the aftermath, the games—was all meant to unfold today. But you wouldn’t be going. The last few days have left your head spinning, body anchored to your desk, mind buried beneath a mountain of strategy and sleepless hours. There have been more pressing concerns than blindfolds and lingerie. More urgent things than seduction.

The night air is thick, almost sluggish, dragging itself against the glass of your window. City traffic hums faintly in the background, a dull drone beneath the soft, lulling instrumental playing from your laptop. The only light in your apartment spills from the screen—white-blue glow flickering over stacks of paper, half-empty mugs, and an untouched bowl of something you meant to eat hours ago. It’s been days of this—pulling threads, cornering contradictions, tightening the noose with every pass. And now, finally, it’s folding. The cracks are wide open. Their story’s breaking apart under your hands, and all you have to do is keep pressing. Just a little more, and it’s done.

The first ring barely registers. You stay hunched over your desk, eyes skimming over a line you’ve already dissected a dozen times. Then it comes again—sharper this time, more insistent, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t planning to wait. You sit back slowly, irritation rising in your chest as you shove your chair away, feet dragging toward the door. You don’t bother fixing your shirt, don’t bother schooling your expression. You’re already ready to snap until the door swings open and Karina’s standing there.

She’s standing in the hallway like the building belongs to her. Like she’s the one who pays your rent. A sleek black dress clings to her body like it was sewn there, the silk catching every flicker of light. Her hair falls in perfect waves down her back, lips painted in a gloss so precise it’s criminal. She doesn’t look like she’s come to visit. She looks like she’s come to collect. And she doesn’t even greet you. Her eyes just sweep you from head to toe, pausing at the oversized shirt you’ve got half-tucked into a pair of shorts.

“What the hell are you wearing?” she scoffs, already brushing past you like she owns the place.

You step aside with a huff. “Pajamas since I'm at home?”

"Did you not get the thousands of messages I sent you? And the ones in the group chat? Not to mention the reminders at practice?" she asks, hands on her hips. Your jaw tightens. Of course you got them. You knew exactly what she was talking about.

Your jaw tightens. You did. You got every single one. You knew exactly what she was talking about. It wasn’t just the boy draft anymore. Jeno had a party planned for tonight—one he announced weeks ago, long before anyone realized how badly everything would start to crack. Karina didn’t care about the party itself. She cared about what it could be: a last-ditch attempt to pull the team into one place, at one time, under one roof. All of the boys would be there. All of the cheerleaders were expected to show up too. Baskets in hand. Smiles on. Unity in motion.

She wasn’t asking anymore, this was the new plan. The gift baskets would be delivered in person during Jeno’s party with each cheerleader showing support for their player, not just to fulfill a stupid tradition—but to remind the squad, the team, and themselves that they were still one unit. Even if it was fake and only lasted a night.

Karina’s voice softens, just barely. “This is the last night we’re going to get before everything starts moving too fast to fix. This is the last time we’ll all be together before the state championships and graduation. You need to come. It won’t be the same without you, and you need to make the night count, to make it worth something.”

Her eyes hold yours for a second longer than necessary. There’s no pressure in her tone, not exactly, but there’s weight in it—heavy, quiet, undeniable. “I know you’re worried about seeing Jeno,” she adds, gentler now. “But this isn’t about him. Not really. It’s about the team. About the work we’ve done. About everything you’ve held together when nobody else could.”

You look down at your desk, at the clipboard Karina handed you a few weeks ago—edges aligned, columns neat, not a single line out of place. You’ve rewritten endless plans and strategies, adjusting to every missed practice, every unexpected injury, every girl who threatened to drop out. You’ve done everything except let yourself think about what it’ll mean to be in the same room as him again. Really be in it. Not across a gym. Not beside a bench. But eye to eye.

Karina exhales, rubbing a hand over her temple like she’s already bracing for impact. “The slumber party helped temporarily but the girls are already falling apart again. You and Areum aren’t speaking. Mia and Ryujin snapped at each other in the locker room. Nahyun’s arguing with everyone.” Her voice dips, just enough for the words to sting. “We need to show up as a unit. No missing players. Especially not you. You’re the most essential piece of this entire thing. I’m not asking you to talk to him, I’m asking you to show up anyway, for the team, for me.”

You could fight her on this. You could argue your way out of it—build the defense line by line, logical and clean, polished enough to sound like conviction. You could say it’s a distraction, say it’s not the time, say you have better things to do than stand in a house full of people pretending not to see him. But beneath it all—beneath the practiced lies and rational excuses—is a truth that slips in quietly and stays like bruised fruit beneath your ribs, soft and sour and impossible to ignore. Wanting him has never been loud. It’s been a quiet ache, a familiar weight, something you carry the way a soldier carries a letter they said they wouldn’t read. You weren’t planning to go to war tonight. But your body’s already moving like you are.

The proof of how desperately you want to go is in the outfit already laid out on your bed, the accessories carefully arranged, the makeup waiting untouched on your desk. You were ready. And then, at the last minute, doubt crept in. Maybe you were waiting for someone to make the choice for you, to pull you from hesitation before it swallowed you whole. Maybe you just needed the push.

Karina follows your gaze, and when she spots the dress on the bed, she smirks. "So you were planning on going. You just needed me to show up and force you into it."

You don’t confirm or deny it. Instead, you cross the room, picking up the dress. The fabric is decadent beneath your fingertips—lace and silk in deep black, whisper-soft yet sinful, designed to sculpt the body into something untouchable and entirely irresistible. It clings where it should, drapes where it needs to, the neckline dipping low enough to draw attention to the swell of your breasts, teasing without giving too much away. The slit is high, a dangerous, calculated detail, designed to offer glimpses of skin with every step. It’s a dress made to be looked at. A dress that turns admiration into hunger. A dress Jeno fucking loves.

Karina watches as you run your fingers over the fabric, her expression unreadable for a moment before she tilts her head. "That’s the one," she murmurs. "That’s your ‘fuck me’ dress." And she’s right. You’re wearing this for a reason. For Jeno.”

It’s a selfish, messy choice—one that has nothing to do with strategy or team morale. It’s about the way you want him to want you, about the way his gaze always darkens when he sees you in this dress, the way his fingers used to trace the lace along your ribs before slipping beneath it. You remember the first time you wore it for him—his hands pressing you against his car outside a party, lips dragging over your throat as he muttered against your skin, “You’re doing this on purpose.” And he was right. You were. You always are.

The dress fits like a second skin, highlighting every curve, every line. You pair it with stilettos that force your posture into confidence, sharp accessories that catch the light, makeup that is both soft and intense—smoky eyes that deepen your stare, lips painted just enough to draw attention, cheeks subtly sculpted to sharpen every expression. Karina does your makeup with practiced ease, her fingers steady, her voice switching effortlessly between teasing and real advice. But none of it really matters. Not the dress, not the heels, not the makeup

The thoughts start slow, like static, like fog, slipping in through the cracks no matter how tightly you try to shut them out. They settle low—behind your navel, under your ribs—warmth that spreads like silk in heat, slow and clinging. Because when he sees you, you want it to happen before he realizes it. You want his eyes to catch on the line of your thigh, the curve of your mouth, the slow drag of your fingers against your glass—and feel it rise, thick and hot, no space left for logic. You want it to pull him without mercy, like gravity, like instinct. Not a decision but a reaction. The kind his body will have even as his mind screams don’t. You want to watch as he shifts in his seat, jaw tight, pulse rising beneath his collar, eyes darkening before he blinks. You won’t touch him. You won’t even look at him but he’ll feel it anyway—the heat, the pull, the undeniable weight of wanting what he can’t have anymore.

Karina lines your waterline with a practised hand, her body warm against yours as she leans in close. She doesn’t say anything at first—just tilts your chin, steadies your head, her fingers light beneath your jaw. When you blink too quickly and make her smudge the corner, she tuts under her breath, low and familiar, then murmurs that if you move again, she’s going to jab the eyeliner straight through your eye. You smile, just a little. It's not a real threat. It's Karina's way of grounding you.

But then her tone shifts, softens so subtly you almost miss it. "What are you gonna do when you see him?" she asks, quiet this time, her words sliding in like silk between heartbeats.

You don’t answer right away, not because you're avoiding it, but because there’s no clear answer. Eventually, your voice comes out low, like it’s been sitting heavy in your chest all night. “I don’t know.” You feel her watching you through the mirror, her touch still gentle as she finishes your eyeliner.

You’re surprised by how patient she sounds when she speaks again, like she’s thought about this more than once. "If it gets too much, just breathe. Don’t let him see you break. If he wants to stare, let him. If he wants to act like you’re not even there, fine. But don’t let him drag you down with him. Stand your ground."

Her thumb brushes beneath your eye, fixing a line you didn’t even realise was uneven. She leans back just enough to meet your gaze in the mirror. "Walk in there like you own the fucking place. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your eyes, nothing. But if you do give him something… make it count."

You nod, lips pressed together. There’s no tremble, no fear. Just quiet understanding. Karina’s still looking at you, though, her features pinched like there’s more sitting behind her teeth. She hesitates for a second, then speaks, barely above a whisper. "There’s something I need to tell you."

You glance up, meet her eyes in the mirror. "Go on."

Karina’s breath hitches so softly and her hands still against your face, her liner pen paused mid-air. Her eyes don’t meet yours in the mirror—not yet. “It’s happened a few times,” she says, voice low, like it costs her something to say it. “Three, maybe four.” Her thumb steadies your chin. The weight of it feels heavier than usual. “Jeno’s… tried,” she continues, quieter now. “He’s tried to kiss me. To fuck me. I let him kiss me once. Maybe twice. His hand was on my thigh, and I didn’t stop him, I let it happen until I didn’t. He always stops and I do too but it shouldn’t have happened at all.”

You say nothing, eyes fixed on the girl in the mirror, lips parted just slightly. There’s a familiar ache crawling up your chest, a pressure that doesn’t quite break the surface. Of course you don’t like it. Of course it hurts. But there’s nothing to say that would make it different now. Her words land heavy, but you stay still, let her finish.

“I’ve been weak around him before,” she says, her hand steady as she traces the liner along the edge of your top lip, knuckles brushing your skin with the kind of ease that only comes from years of practice. “I used to be his rebound. Every time he got hurt, every time he fought with Areum or walked out of her apartment pissed off and cold, he’d come to me. And I’d let him. I got used to it—being his second skin, his distraction. He’d fuck me like he needed to forget she existed. Like he wanted to feel something, anything, even if it wasn’t her.”

She breathes out slow, controlled, but her fingers pause briefly at the corner of your mouth. “But this time… it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t trying to get over someone. He was quiet. Like he was searching for something. He touched me like he was hoping I’d feel like you but I didn’t. I could tell. I could feel it wasn’t me he wanted.” Her voice drops lower, softer, almost intimate. “It was different. You changed something in him. He’s never felt this deep for anyone—not even her. That’s why it scared him. That’s why he stopped. I know Jeno well, I know he’s never been like this before.”

You don’t look at her when you ask, voice low, even. “So… did you tell him to stop? To stop trying to fuck his feelings away with you?”

“I did,” she says, her voice no longer sharp or teasing, but quiet—bare, almost. “I told him he doesn’t get to do that anymore, doesn’t get to crawl back every time it gets too heavy in his own head, like I’m some fix he can reach for whenever he doesn’t want to sit in his own mess. I told him he needs to deal with his own shit, feel it all the way through. Let it sting, let it cut. Not just show up when the silence gets too loud and he can’t handle the weight of it anymore.”

Karina leans back slowly, her eyes trailing over every inch of your face like she’s signing off on something sacred. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t say much—just a quiet, certain nod, her fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with practiced care. “You’re ready now,” she says, voice low but sure, like it’s already been decided. Her gaze lingers a beat longer before she adds, “We’ll meet the others outside his apartment. Once we’re all there, we walk in together. And then the boy draft starts.” Her words aren’t dramatic, not even heavy—but they settle over your skin like something inevitable, the beginning of a storm that’s already in motion.

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes remain fixed on your reflection. And for the first time in a long while, you feel beautiful. Not just pretty, not polished but beautiful in a way that feels deliberate. Dangerous. Your lips look pillowy, bitten red and lined with precision. Your eyes hold a heat, a sharpness you usually bury. And your body, wrapped in something that clings and cuts in all the right ways, radiates confidence. You lean in, add the final touches—a touch more highlight on your collarbones, a gloss to your lips that catches the light just right, a setting spray misted like ritual.

Your outfit hugs every inch the right way, dark fabric clinging like intention, the neckline a little lower than necessary, the hem rising every time you move. Your makeup is immaculate—eyes smoky, lips full, highlight catching the light just right. Karina watches from behind, arms folded, head tilted, a small smirk playing on her glossed mouth. She doesn’t say it but you feel it in her silence—this is what power looks like. You add the finishing touches—fingers sliding on your favorite rings, cool metal kissing your knuckles, a chain necklace that sits just above your collarbone, bracelets clinking softly, and then the charm bracelet, the one that’s never left your wrist. The one he gave you, back when things were soft and real and easier.

You look at yourself one last time—not to admire, but to cement. There’s no room for fragility tonight. This version of you is polished, sharp, and ready for whatever comes next. And as Karina nods, satisfied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your shoulder, you take one last breath, shoulders square, chin lifted. The city hums outside like it’s calling your name. And so you answer. Your heels click against the floor as you step through the front door of your apartment, into the heat of a night that refuses to wait.

When you cross the threshold into Jeno’s apartment, it feels like slipping into the mouth of something alive—breathing, buzzing, burning—a low-lit pit of tension stretched tight over lust and liquor. The air tastes expensive and sweet, thick with perfume and cologne and spilled secrets, and the bass-heavy pulse of the music bleeds into your bones. Every flickering shadow, every surface slick with memory—you know this place. You’ve been known in this place. Bent over its furniture. Fucked across its walls. Whispered to behind its doors.

It holds you in a way that burns too close and stretches too far. Like him. Like Jeno. Something you’ve tasted, memorised, ached over, but can’t quite grasp anymore. Not because you let go, but because you were made to. He feels like something that used to be yours in full, now rationed in moments. Fleeting glances, silent rooms, bruises that fade too quickly. The distance was never mutual. It was survival.

You step further in, your heels clicking softly over tile, and behind you the cheerleaders follow like a beautiful, dangerous current—each of them armed with their draft baskets, soft smiles and bright eyes already trying to locate their boys for the night. They scatter like petals, but your gravity keeps the formation intact. You’re the eye of it. The center. And the second you enter, everything halts. Conversations taper off and heads lift. Eyes snap toward you like they’ve been summoned.

You know why, everyone does. You were his for a long time, Jeno’s girl, the one he touched without restraint, kissed like possession, claimed in ways that never needed to be spoken aloud. That kind of history makes people curious, makes them crave, it stains your skin like perfume, impossible to forget. And then there was the bar, that performance, the one where your thighs were bare under dim lights, voice spilling low and sultry from parted lips, every note laced with something too intimate for strangers to hear. They came expecting shame, to watch you strip yourself of dignity, to see you crumble under the weight of it all, and you certainly did, maybe a little of you broke but you didn’t fall, you learned, you swallowed their stares and turned them into fuel. Now they look because they can’t look away, because you sing like a secret and walk like sin, and every inch of you refuses to be made small.

That kind of power? You drink it. You’ve always known how to move through a room like you own it, but now the room moves around you. You don’t just attract attention—you weaponize it. You make eye contact long enough to draw someone in, then turn away before they can get their fill. You don’t need to chase anyone, you’ve already been chased, you’ve already won.

Your walk is intentional, hips swaying with rhythm, the fabric of your dress clinging like it’s painted on. You feel the heat of every stare, the way their eyes drag down the curve of your spine, over the backs of your thighs, across your chest. You’re all soft curves and hard edges—fuckable and untouchable in the same breath. And they don’t know which they want more.

A smile tugs at your lips as you glance across the room. You greet people with half-lidded eyes, a nod here, a knowing glance there, but you’re not really present. You’re searching but he’s not here yet. His absence hangs thick in the air, not empty, but loaded—like smoke that clings to your lungs long after the fire. You feel it in your chest, that slow, aching pressure that only ever means one thing. Jeno. The boy who filled you so full of want he hollowed you out. The boy who ruined you with sweetness. The one who, even now, even gone, manages to tighten the air around you until it hurts to breathe. He had your heart once—maybe he still does—but you couldn’t give it to him freely, not when someone else held their grip around your throat. That’s the part that breaks you. Not the leaving. The not being allowed to stay.

The fantasy boy draft is already in motion. Karina has Jaemin backed against the kitchen counter, basket in one hand, lip gloss in the other, her smile syrupy and slow, dripping down the side of his neck. Jaemin isn’t looking at her—he’s watching the room, watching you. His mouth moves and he says something low but it doesn’t look like interest. Karina doesn't seem fazed, she twirls a strand of her hair around her finger and keeps talking, hips shifting like punctuation.

Ryujin and Shotaro are already dancing despite Shotaro not being a draft since he’s not even in the basketball team but Ryujin evidently does what she wants to do. They’re tucked in a darker corner where the lights pulse slower. She’s grinding against him shamelessly, skirt riding high, arms draped around his neck like they’ve done this a hundred times before. They clearly have. His hands settle low on her hips, eyes half-lidded, lost in the rhythm she’s feeding him. Nahyun stands nearby, glaring openly. Her draft—San—is nowhere in sight but she clearly doesn’t care. Her gaze is locked on Shotaro like she wants to peel Ryujin off him with her bare hands.

Your friends are scattered throughout the room. Donghyuck is mixing drinks and laughter in the kitchen, catching attention from Karina who moves closer to Donghyuck and further away from Jaemin with every passing moment, while Chenle sits on the couch with Ningning on his lap. She’s grinding slowly, languid and unbothered, his hands anchored around her waist as they pass a joint between them. He leans up occasionally to whisper something into her ear, and whatever it is makes her smile with all teeth. Yangyang’s perched beside them, blunt between his fingers, half-listening to some girl’s story but his eyes aren’t on her. They’re locked on you. Or more specifically, your ass. He doesn’t bother hiding it. Mark is beside him, silent, back against the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching nothing and everything all at once.

And you—you’re the only one who hasn’t gotten started with your boy draft. Not because you don’t want to, not because the game doesn’t thrill you in some small, vicious way, but because you can’t see him. The one you drew. It’s his party, his apartment, his name scrawled on the card you pulled. You can feel him—can feel the tension curling at the base of your spine, the way the air shifts like it’s bracing for him—but you can’t find him. It’s like chasing a shadow, like being haunted by a presence that refuses to take form. He’s everywhere and nowhere, a phenomenon stitched into the walls of this place. And you can’t begin until he does.

You approach your friends slowly, heat licking up your thighs with every step. Mark’s gaze lifts first, and he raises his drink toward you with a lazy nod. “You look pretty,” he says as sweetly as he can muster, and it should mean something—but it doesn’t. Not when his voice is flat, eyes already drifting toward the crowd, toward Areum. His want is obvious, it’s need, the kind that coils in the gut, slow and starving. You can see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around the glass. He doesn’t want to be here, wants to be inside of her.

Yangyang doesn’t even bother pretending. The girl next to him keeps talking, laughing too loud, leaning in with bold touches and eager glances, but his attention doesn’t flicker once. His eyes are locked on you—hungry, dark, possessive. They trail over every inch of you like a map he’s memorized, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and when he finally speaks, it’s a moan disguised as a compliment. “You look sexy,” he growls, tilting his head back, and you catch the shift in his lap immediately. He’s hard.

You’re about to shove his shoulder, roll your eyes, say something sharp—Yangyang, move over,—but you don’t get the chance. His arm snakes around your waist in one swift motion, anchoring you down onto his lap like you belong there, like you’ve always belonged there. The girl next to him stutters mid-sentence, confused, then falls silent, watching with wide eyes as Yangyang leans back, attention fully on you.

“Yangyang!” you gasp, surprised laughter slipping out before you can help it. His hands slide down your thighs, firm, grounding, and when you try to wriggle free, you feel the pressure of his cock beneath you—hard, deliberate, shameless. You squirm instinctively, cheeks burning, fingers clutching at his shoulder. “Let me go. Right now.”

He just grins, buzzed and easy, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with something unreadable. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice low and thick like a dare brushed against your skin. “No seat? You always end up here.” His hips shift beneath you, slow and casual, but the pressure is unmistakable—it draws a soft sound from your lips before you can stop it. The reaction is instinct, your thighs tightening without thought, the heat blooming quietly in response. There’s an ease to it, a natural rhythm your body remembers without asking, like this has always been muscle memory. Like it never really left.

Your dress rides up high—too high—so you tug it down with shaky fingers, heart racing, skin flushed. And even though you shift just to readjust, the slow drag of your ass over his lap is instinctual, something your body does without thinking, something that always happens when you sit like this. If it were Jeno, you wouldn’t still be facing forward. He wouldn’t let you. You’d already be turned around, straddling him, dress bunched at your waist, his hands gripping your hips while you bounce on his cock slow and messy, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp. Your thighs would burn, your back would arch, his name would fall from your mouth like a habit. But it’s not Jeno. It’s Yangyang. And Yangyang’s laugh is sharp when you feel the shift under you. “Yeah, Yangyang—but that was as friends!” you snap, voice higher now, eyes wide. “You’re hard, you absolute pervert!”

Mark still doesn’t look at you, just swirls the ice in his drink, that same disinterested tone dragging the words out slow. “So let me get this straight—you’ve been bouncing on his lap like that at all the parties? The river court? That shitty bowling alley we used to go to? All those nights I thought, oh, they’re just close friends, and you were out here acting out porn in real time?” His eyes flick up, unimpressed.

Yangyang doesn’t even deny it—he just shrugs with that smug little smirk like he’s already claimed the title.

You whip your head toward Yangyang, scandal flaring in your eyes. “No,” you bite out, like the syllable itself is some desperate spell meant to rewrite every memory. As if denying it now could scrub out all the times you’ve ended up here—perched on his lap, too close, too comfortable, like your body always knew the script before your brain did. But your voice falters, guilty without meaning to be, and your thighs are still draped across his like they belong there. Mark doesn’t say a word. Just hums low, gaze turning elsewhere, like he’s finally letting himself believe what he should’ve seen all along.

You turn toward Yangyang sharply, snatching the joint from his fingers with a glare and the intent to finally get off—but then you pause. His grin doesn’t fade exactly, but it falters. Just for a second. You see the shift before he even speaks. That soft, flickering edge to his gaze. His lashes lower, mouth twitching, shoulders sinking in the way they only do when he’s too high and the world’s starting to feel too real.

“Hey, you okay?” You murmur, voice lower now, softer, threading through the noise like smoke. You lean in so only he can hear, your arm curling around his shoulder, palm pressed lightly to his chest where you feel it stutter beneath your touch. You’d never let yourself get this close—not like this, not anymore—but you’re high and not thinking, or maybe thinking too much, and he looks like he’s seconds from unraveling.

You’ve known Yangyang for years. You know every tell. Every silence. And right now, he’s slipping beneath the noise, beneath the flirtation and bravado, somewhere quieter, sadder. He swallows hard. His eyes meet yours and they’re glassy, glinting with something raw. He shakes his head. “Can we talk later?” he whispers, the words cracked and honest. “It’s important.”

You nod instantly, eyes softening as your fingers curl tighter around his. “Of course we can,” you murmur, voice barely above a breath. You squeeze his hand gently, grounding him, pulling him back to you. “I’ve got you,” you say again, quieter this time, like a promise only meant for him.

It’s only then that you feel it, an unmistakable prickle at the back of your neck, sharp and deliberate, like a live wire strung tight beneath your skin. A gaze so heavy it anchors your spine before you even turn to find it. And when you do, your heart doesn’t leap, it drops. Jeno stands across the room like he’s been there the whole time, waiting for you to notice. He’s backlit by slow-flickering neon, jaw locked, shoulders squared, eyes set on you with a stare so cutting it could flay you open. It’s not curious nor confused, it’s fury carved into bone. His arms are crossed, his posture rigid, like it’s taking every ounce of control not to act. There’s a pulse behind his eyes that doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften—not even when Areum shifts beside him, glass in hand, her glare simmering with poorly veiled disgust. He doesn’t even seem to register her voice. His eyes never leave you—not when you shift on Yangyang’s lap, not when your fingers tighten around his shoulders, not when you throw your head back laughing like you’ve forgotten who’s watching.

Yangyang follows the line of your gaze, his smirk flickering for a split second when he catches the way your eyes lock onto Jeno. He leans in closer, voice low but obnoxious, smug curling at the edge of his mouth. There's something storming in his eyes—something that has less to do with jealousy and more to do with pride, heat, the thrill of being the one touching you while someone else can only look. "What, you think he’s gonna do something?" he mutters, cocking his head, eyes narrowing in Jeno’s direction. Then, more immature now, more crude, he adds, “If he wants to watch so bad, why don’t you just start bouncing on me? Bet that’d fuck him up.”

You snap your head toward him, eyes wide, breath catching with a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Yangyang,” you hiss under your breath, sharp, warning. But he just grins wider, like he’s proud of himself. Like he thinks he’s winning. It’s not funny anymore. Not when you can feel the burn of Jeno’s stare, not when your pulse is skipping and your dress feels too tight and your body’s caught in the middle of a war you never agreed to start.

You shift your weight, untangle yourself from Yangyang’s lap without another word. He doesn’t stop you—just leans back with a smug roll of his eyes, arms spread lazily across the couch like he’s made his point. You pull your dress down, every motion stiff, tense, and you turn, intending to put distance between yourself and the attention still licking up your skin, but stop dead in your tracks.

Areum stands in front of you, silent, still. She doesn’t announce herself, doesn’t need to, her eyes doing all the talking, narrowed and bitter, holding something she clearly thinks you’re scared of but you’re not. You don’t even flinch, already knowing exactly why she’s here, knowing nothing good is going to come out of her mouth, and still, you’re unfazed. She’s small, and whatever rage she’s trying to harness reads more like a tantrum than a threat. You’ve seen storms, Areum looks like drizzle. It’s you she should be worried about, you who doesn’t yell to make a point, you who doesn’t need to raise your voice to end a conversation before it starts. If she wants to light a fuse, fine, you’re already holding the match.

She speaks quietly, but her words hit like a slap. "You have some cheek, you know. Some nerve doing all of that with Yangyang when Jeno’s right there. What’s it been—a few weeks since you broke up with him and you’re already onto the next?”

You almost laugh, the sound bubbling up more from disbelief than amusement. “And what was I doing exactly?” you ask, voice sharp with clarity. “He pulled me onto his lap because there was no seat for me, do you think I should’ve just sat on the floor? And who told you I moved on? I literally haven’t. If you’re gonna run your mouth then at least know what you’re talking about.”

That should’ve ended it but it doesn’t. Areum’s breathing shifts. Quickens. Her brows furrow and her lips part—and then the dam breaks. She doesn’t just speak. She spirals. Words tumble from her mouth faster than she can control them. “You didn’t have to sit there,” she snaps, tone clipped, trembling slightly beneath the surface. “You stayed. You laughed. You let him touch you like that and maybe you haven’t moved on but it looked like you wanted to.” Her voice drops lower, bitter, careful. “And you knew Jeno was watching.”

You blink, once, twice, letting her words sit in the silence she leaves behind. Then you exhale, soft but sharp, like you’re choosing not to raise your voice only because she doesn’t deserve it. “Of course I wouldn’t want him to see,” you bite out, voice calm but edged. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if he did because it means nothing to me.”

Areum scoffs, tilting her head, arms still crossed. “Then why’d you stay on his lap so long? Wanted to feel wanted, is that it?” Her voice is sharp, smug, like she thinks she’s hit something real. “Or was it just the closest you could get to being touched by Jeno again?”

You blink once, twice, more stunned by her nerve than her words. You hadn’t expected her to be this mouthy, this bold but you suppose heartbreak does that to people—it strips the softness right out of them and leaves behind nothing but sharp edges and misplaced rage. You know she and Mark broke up, Mark told you himself, quiet and embarrassed, eyes downcast like he didn’t want to admit it. You hadn’t pushed, you didn’t need to because now, watching Areum unravel in front of you, you see everything he didn’t say. Her eyes keep darting to him—over your shoulder, behind your back, flickering to the corner where Mark still stands with your friends. He’s looking over too, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes locked on Areum with that familiar look that says he’s ready to step in if he needs to. You hold her gaze, but your awareness of him never falters.

She’s not fighting you. Not really. She’s fighting herself and you can tell. You’ve always been able to dissect people, to see the cracks even when they’re trying to be whole. Areum’s voice might be steady but everything else screams chaos—her shoulders tight, her breathing too quick, her fingers twitching like she doesn’t know what to do with them. It’s not anger, it’s guilt, it’s projection. She’s the one who left, she’s the one who gave up Mark and now she’s standing here, trying to act like you’re the problem because it’s easier than admitting she made a mistake. You could laugh. You almost do.

So you let it simmer for a beat. Let her stew in her own silence. Then you speak, slow and measured, every word deliberate. “You’re angry because I sat on someone’s lap, because I laughed. Meanwhile, you’ve been by Jeno’s side all night, pretending you’re not still in love with someone else. Don’t project your guilt onto me, Areum. If you feel bad about what you did to Mark, take it up with yourself. Don’t come for me because you can’t handle the consequences of your choices.”

You don’t blink when her eyes flare with something close to fury, don’t shift even as her stance tightens like she’s bracing for impact. You just stare, unbothered, the way someone does when they’ve already won, arms hanging loose at your sides, posture relaxed—not because you’re calm but because you choose to be, because nothing about her shakes you. Your stillness isn’t silence, it’s power, and it radiates, settling thick in the air between you like heat before lightning. She knows it, sees it in your eyes, in the tilt of your head, in the slight lift of your brow like you’re asking if that’s all, because this is what control looks like and you wear it like skin.

Areum swallows hard, throat bobbing once. “I’m not trying to argue,” she says, voice low and clipped, her gaze darting sideways before settling back on you, something like frustration flickering behind it. “It’s just—he was watching. That’s all.”

You shrug, slow, sharp, like you’re not pressed, like you’ve already run the numbers in your head and come out clean. “Yeah? Well, I’ve seen him with other girls too,” you say, tone cool, edged with something quieter, something that burns lower. “Too close, too friendly, hands where they don’t need to be. Doesn’t matter if he’s not fucking them, he still touches them like I’m not watching.” Your eyes flick back to hers, jaw tight. “So if you’re waiting on me to feel bad, don’t. I’ve already swallowed worse.”

Her expression twists, but it’s not anger this time, not exactly. Something shifts in the silence between you, weightier than anything said so far. She scoffs under her breath, a sound that tries for casual and misses, then mutters, “You’re putting on a show, you know. For someone who made such a fuss over the boy draft, you went all out with his basket. Kinda funny how you haven’t even tried to give it to him tonight. Guess flirting with Yangyang’s the new plan?”

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You tilt your head with that same deadpan control, the corners of your lips twitching like you’re seconds from laughter. “If you think that’s me flirting, you really need to get out more.”

Mark gets up quietly but with purpose and the motion itself is enough to shift the tension. You see him from the corner of your eye as he moves across the room, slipping through bodies that have begun to linger, to watch, to whisper. The weight of too many eyes presses down on the space between you and Areum, and it makes the air tight, claustrophobic. The argument, no matter how low your voices were kept, has drawn attention. The murmurs have started, heads are turned, and Mark feels every bit of it.

He stops beside Areum, doesn’t touch her, just stands close enough to make his presence known. Then he looks at you both. His expression is unreadable at first—tired, maybe—but then he shakes his head, once, slowly, and it’s full of something heavier than disappointment. His voice isn’t loud but it’s firm. "This isn’t it," he says, to no one and both of you. "Not like this. Not here."

Mark’s eyes flicker between you and Areum, jaw tight, and you can tell this hurts him. He’s not mad—he’s uncomfortable, unsettled. You’ve known him long enough to know what that look means. Mark Lee doesn’t do conflict like this well, especially not between people he cares about, and right now, that’s what’s killing him. You. Areum. The two people who’ve been constants in different ways, standing across from each other like enemies. It makes his stomach churn.

He exhales, rubs the back of his neck. His gaze lingers a little longer on Areum, softer, knowing. He gets why she’s like this. He knows it’s not really about the lap, or the laugh, or even the draft. It’s about the fact that she cares—still, deeply, maybe too much. He knows it’s coming from a place of protectiveness but it doesn’t make this right.

He looks at you next, and this time, the shake of his head is gentler. Like he’s asking you not to do this. Not now. Not in front of everyone. Not when the night is already hanging by a thread. "You two need to stop," he says, quieter now, just for the three of you. "This is getting out of hand. You both know it."

Areum doesn’t move, but you see her jaw clench. "She started it," she mutters under her breath.

You let out a low laugh, eyes narrowing. "Please, Areum. You came to me."

Mark cuts in before it can spiral again. "I don’t care who started it. I care that it ends here. Now." The heat between you and Areum still simmers like an open flame. Mark’s trying to put it out with water, but neither of you are sure you’re ready to let it die just yet. You and Areum both fall silent, the tension coiled tight between you, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room exhales with him. But before anything else can settle, the spell breaks with a flick of hair and the sound of heels clicking softly on the floor.

Karina appears like she always does—unbothered, glossed up, and halfway through a vodka cranberry. She slides into the tension with zero regard, glancing between you and Areum like you’re both interrupting her night. "I’m so sorry to cut this catfight short," she drawls, eyebrows raised, tone amused but sharp, "but you two—" she points lazily between you and Areum with her cup, "—are the only ones left on the team who haven’t finished your fantasy boy drafts. The night’s basically over. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes. Tops. So chop chop."

She takes a sip, then continues, voice louder now, like she’s announcing to a room that already knows. "Ningning’s still on Chenle’s lap, whispering God knows what into his ear. Yeji has practically claimed Wooyoung like a stray cat. Mia literally sat on Renjun’s shoulders and fed him grapes, Aisha’s in the lead, by the way. She made Hyunjin get down on his knees and bark for her twice." She pauses, tilts her head. "So what’s the hold up? The game doesn’t play itself. And we’re not about to let you ruin our win streak because you’re both too busy throwing daggers at each other with your eyes."

Before either of you can respond, you catch the movement beside you. Areum leans in close to Mark, lips brushing his ear as she whispers something you don’t catch. Whatever it is, it makes his expression change instantly—his shoulders relax, his mouth tilts up just slightly, eyes softening like he’s remembering something he missed. He nods once, and then she grabs his hand, and they disappear through the hallway together, slipping somewhere more private, fingers laced tight like they’ve already made their choice.

And that’s when it hits you. The night’s still going. You look across the room, and Jeno is still there—exactly where he’s been the entire time. His eyes are on you, not wandering, not searching. Fixed. And there’s something in them you haven’t seen in a while. Something softer. Something that makes your chest ache.

You don’t think it’s for you, you’re completely sure it’s for her—Areum. He saw what she did, how she defended him without pause, how she stood in front of you with her hands clenched and her voice shaking because something in her wanted to protect him. That must’ve meant something to him. Maybe they talked after that party, when he found out about her and Mark, after everything burned down. Maybe they made sense of it, quietly, off to the side where no one else could see. Maybe that look in his eyes now is the aftermath of forgiveness.

And you’re glad. Honestly. If there’s one thing you’ve never doubted, it’s that Jeno deserves to be cared for. Not questioned, not doubted, not held at a distance like you’ve had no choice but to do. He deserves someone who chooses him fully. And if that softness can’t come from you—not anymore—then at least it’s coming from somewhere.

Karina’s lips curve, amused, her voice low and laced with mischief. “Stop staring and do something about it. Take him to a room, lock the door, suck his cock, whoever gets the furthest with their boy wins a prize.” She lifts a brow, eyes glinting, fully aware of what she’s doing. She knows you too well. Knows exactly how to bait you, how to turn your competitiveness into movement, especially when Jeno’s involved. One sentence, and she’s already lit the match.

Your heartbeat stutters, quickens—not just from Karina’s words, but from the way his eyes haven’t moved since. Locked on you, steady, unreadable. There’s heat coiling low in your belly, your throat going dry, skin burning beneath the weight of his stare. He hasn’t blinked, hasn’t flinched, just stands there watching you like he already knows what you’re thinking. You’re seconds from crossing the room, ready to face whatever he gives you—his anger, his silence, his mouth telling you to fuck off while his eyes say the opposite—but then something shifts. The air, the room, the mood. And suddenly, you’re not moving toward him at all.

He doesn’t come from any direction. He doesn’t approach. He just appears suddenly, jarringly, like a hand closing around your throat mid-breath. His presence is unpleasant in the way a shadow grows too fast, swallowing space before you realize it’s even there. You don’t see him until he’s already beside you, until his breath hits the curve of your cheek and something inside you tenses without warning.

You’ve never spoken to Yeonjun before, never had a reason to. There was never any overlap, no need, no interest. Everything you know about him comes secondhand, filtered through the sharpness of Jeno’s voice or the tension in Mark’s jaw. You’ve heard his name often enough, always bitter on Jeno’s tongue, spat out like something rotten. You’ve seen his face on ‘Busan Titan’ posters across the city, eyes cocky, smirk carved into his mouth like a promise. That rivalry runs deep, Seoul Ravens versus Titans but what sticks isn’t the competition, it’s the history. It’s what he used to do every time Jeno and Areum were on a break, fucking her like she didn’t matter, like none of it did. Jeno could never stand it, hated the way she’d fall back into Yeonjun’s arms like it was routine, hated how disposable it made everything feel.

Mark hates him too, not just because Jeno does but because Yeonjun has no concept of boundaries. He’d flirt with Areum in front of everyone, even when she was with Mark, sliding in close, saying things loud enough to be heard, smirking like he knew no one would stop him, like rules didn’t apply to him, like respect was optional.

Now he's looking at you, his eyes raking over you slowly, deliberately, like he has every right to take you in like that. There's something predatory in his stare—not urgent, not hungry, but certain. As if the outcome has already been decided and he's just waiting for you to catch up. You feel it before you hear him, the shift, the pressure, the discomfort settling into your shoulders like weight, prickling beneath your skin.

“Hi, pretty—fuck, I’ve been staring at you all night. Little dress hugging every curve, that tight ass—driving me insane.” Every syllable lands like a touch you didn’t consent to—sharp, lingering, wrong. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, and it takes everything in you not to flinch. He smells like whiskey and cheap cologne, and he looks at you like he already owns the ending. Like this isn’t a threat, but a promise.

“I’ve been meaning to get my hands on you since that bar performance,” he murmurs, voice low like it’s meant to be intimate. “You up there, all lips and legs, singing like you didn’t know you were putting on a show just for me.” You step back on instinct but he steps forward like it’s a game, like he’s enjoying it. His voice is slurred but smug, breath sticky with alcohol, and the way he grins at you, lip caught between his teeth, is the most revolting thing you’ve seen all night. Like he thinks he’s being charming, like he expects you to giggle and blush but your skin crawls.

Your hands curl into fists. He doesn’t stop, his eyes dip again, slower this time, and he murmurs, “Bet you sound even prettier moaning than you do singing. Maybe I should take you backstage, see for myself. Bet that mouth would look so good stretched around my cock.” Yeonjun’s words land like a slap, vulgar and shameless as his fingers graze your wrist. “Wonder how tight that pussy is, bet it’s perfect,” he mutters, low and disgusting, his breath curling hot against your cheek. “Wanna feel it squeezing around me.” His hand lingers too long, then grips—tight, insistent. “Come with me,” he says, but it’s not a question. “Let’s find a room. You want to, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go near you if someone paid me,” you say, low and even, every syllable cutting clean. “You think talking like that makes you hot? It makes you pathetic. You’re not charming or attractive. You’re just the guy everyone warns their friends about, the one who doesn’t get told no enough.” Your eyes drag over him, sharp and unimpressed. “I’d rather fuck concrete.”

There’s a beat of silence and then he laughs, not embarrassed, not ashamed but excited. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, eyes gleaming like he’s just found a new game. “Bet it’d look even better stuffed full. Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start thinking you want me to ruin you.” His fingers dig in harder. The more you resist, the more he leans in, breathing you in like he’s savoring the fight. He thinks your anger is foreplay. He thinks your disgust is foreplay. He doesn’t care that you hate him—he likes it. But that’s exactly why he’s going to regret ever thinking he had a chance.

Your stomach twists, bile creeping up your throat. The air feels thick, suffocating, tainted by him. You rip your hand out of his grip with force, shoving him back with a sharp press to the chest. Your voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t rise—it cuts, low and lethal, slicing clean through the static of the room. “Don’t fucking touch me again.” You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Behind you movement surges, it’s not hesitant, it’s not casual, it’s fast, deliberate, and when you glance back, you see the boys you trust most closing in like a wall. Yangyang’s already in motion, face drawn tight with restrained fury, Donghyuck and Chenle shift forward in sync, no words spoken, just a sharp, mutual understanding passing between them, but it’s Shotaro who anchors the space, who steps out from behind the others, no longer soft-spoken or reserved but entirely transformed.

His eyes are locked on Yeonjun, sharp and unblinking, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck strain, his hands trembling where they’re fisted at his sides. There’s no smile, no playfulness, none of the gentle softness that usually cushions his presence. This is something else entirely—this is Shotaro seeing red. “That’s enough,” he snaps, and the sound is louder than anything you’ve ever heard from him. The room freezes. You feel it, like a static charge in the air. People glance over, heads turning, murmurs starting to rise. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink. He steps forward, slots himself between you and Yeonjun like a shield, his chest heaving.

The tone in his voice is ragged and unfamiliar, dragged up from someplace deep and rarely touched. “Enough with the bar shit,” he growls, each word deliberate, heavy. “You think just because she sings she’s yours to touch? Yours to talk to like that? Like she’s some kind of fucking show you can buy tickets to and grab after?” Gasps ripple around you, someone even lets out a stunned ‘oh my god.’ You hear a glass clink hard against the table and behind you Ryujin fans herself slowly, eyebrows raised, the grin pulling at her mouth smug and so proud. She mouths finally, and you almost laugh, even now.

Because it means something, this. It means everything. Shotaro, soft-spoken Shotaro, the one who rarely yells, rarely curses, rarely does more than watch with a kind heart and tired smile, he’s the one losing it and it’s for you, in front of everyone. The room is watching. Your heart is racing but all you can feel is safe.

Yeonjun just scoffs, casual, still smug, like none of this phases him, he tips his head back, raises his voice for the crowd that’s already watching. “Come on baby,” he purrs. “You love my attention, stop pretending, I know that you want it just as much as I do.”

But Shotaro doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t let the performance sway him, his shoulders square tighter, body braced like he might lunge. His voice cuts clean through the tension, and it’s not performative, it’s protective, deadly serious. “Say one more fucking word, go on, see what happens.” He doesn’t yell it, he doesn’t need to, the warning hits harder in its calmness.

Behind him, Yangyang shifts closer, eyes locked on Yeonjun like a second hit waiting to land, Chenle’s hands are clenched at his sides, Donghyuck mutters something under his breath that sounds like “fucking creep” but his stare doesn’t leave Yeonjun for a second. None of them are smiling, none of them are performing, this isn’t for show, this is for you.

But still, Yeonjun smirks, he looks past them, straight at you, and that’s when you hear it, snickers, soft at first, then louder. Your eyes flicker to the side. Aisha. Mia, a cluster of cheerleaders leaning by the drink table, laughing behind their hands, elbowing each other, Aisha catches your eye, grins wider, Mia mouths something you don’t bother trying to read. Your stomach sinks, you thought the slumber party worked, you thought your effort, your vulnerability, your hosting, the drinks, the gift baskets, the confessions and the team bonding meant something. You thought it made you safer, that it earned you space. Apparently not.

You don’t notice him at first. Or maybe you do, maybe some part of you always does, not consciously, not clearly but in the way the air changes— denser, heavier, charged like the hush before thunder. The kind of tension that settles into the bones, not the skin. That’s when your spine straightens. That’s when your breath stutters in your throat. That’s when you know he’s coming.

Jeno doesn’t storm in. He doesn’t shove or bark or announce himself like someone desperate to be seen. He doesn’t need to. He arrives, in the truest sense of the word. Each step calculated. Each breath steady. It’s not dramatic, it’s deliberate. He cuts through the crowd with the gravity of something planetary, like the world shifts slightly to make space for him. You don’t see him at first but you feel him like a stormfront, slow-building and inevitable. By the time he’s near, by the time he’s behind you, close enough to graze his knuckles along your spine, it’s like he’s always been there and maybe he has.

He doesn’t speak right away, he doesn’t have to. His hand is already at your waist, guiding, claiming, moving you behind him with a touch that feels both instinctive and intentional. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, the slow tension in his jaw betraying the composure he’s barely holding onto. Then he speaks and it’s not just a voice, it’s a verdict.

“You’ve gotten on my nerves for a long time,” he says, voice low and dangerous, dragging like smoke over flame. “Fucking around with my ex was one thing but now you’re trying to fuck around with what’s mine?” The words hang heavy between them, laced with something deeper, something unspoken but clear. There’s no hesitation, no show of force—he doesn’t need it. His presence is enough. His anger is controlled, precise, locked down tight like a blade unsheathed just enough to flash. “Touch her again,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dangerous, “and you’re leaving in an ambulance. Try me.”

Yeonjun laughs, a rough, dismissive sound, tossing his head back like this is entertainment. “You’re funny. You didn’t see the way she was sitting on Yangyang’s lap earlier? All sweet and soft like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing and you still think she’s yours? You think she belongs to anyone but herself? Get real.”

His mouth curls, but it’s not a smile. “Yeah, I saw it,” he says flatly. “So what? She’s still mine.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked. “You know why? Because she wouldn’t look at you twice if I was in the room.”

He pauses for only a second but in it, he looks at you. Fully, his eyes raking over you in that dress, tight, glossy and sinful and his mouth parts like it steals his breath. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he sighs, quiet but audible. Like he knows. Like he knows you wore it for him. Like he’s thinking about what’s under it. Like he’s remembering. You gulp because you are his, the way he’s looking at you makes you feel it in your chest, in your core, in your throat. Your thighs squeeze together and he notices that too. It flashes in his eyes, in the way he drags them up your legs, to your mouth, like he wants it on his you can’t deny how much you want him, can’t ignore the slow throb that builds under his stare.

It’s a reminder of everything he still is to you and that kills you because no matter how much you love him, you can’t be his. Not now. Not when so much of you is still in pieces but the feeling of being his—it obliterates the logic, it makes everything else irrelevant. There’s nothing in the world like that grip he has on you, the way he makes you feel claimed without even touching you. His presence alone, his voice curling through the air, his anger on your behalf all combine into something unbearable, something intimate and sharp, and it makes everything inside you want to give in.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch Yangyang’s gaze, his jaw tight, lips drawn into a grim line. He looks away almost instantly, like it burned to witness, like it hurt in a way he wasn’t prepared for, raw and sudden and sharp enough to leave a mark. But you saw it, clear as day a flicker of envy, the weight of something deeper, darker, the kind of quiet fury that belongs to someone who knows they never had a real shot, not when it’s always been him, not when Jeno was always going to be the center of your gravity, the force you orbit no matter how far you try to drift, even if staying in his pull tears you apart piece by piece.

Yeonjun sneers, head tilting, grin slicing across his face like he knows exactly what nerve to hit. “Oh, I get it now,” he says, voice loud, taunting, meant for the crowd. “What’s the plan, Jeno? You watching or joining? I don’t mind—long as I get to feel your girl’s tight pussy wrapped around me.” His eyes gleam, filthy. “Heard you two like to share, I’ve heard about all your threesomes, isn’t that how it goes?”

Gasps ripple sharp through the crowd, a single line of shock splitting the tension like lightning. The atmosphere shifts, fractures and turns volatile. Jeno doesn’t speak at first, he breathes in slowly and deeply through his nose and lets it go with a calm so eerie it stills the noise around him. He doesn’t yell or flinch, he just raises his hands, smooth and quiet, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows like it’s routine, as if he’s done this before. His jaw tightens, sharp, and the muscle ticks once, then again. He tilts his head just slightly to the side, eyes locked on Yeonjun, unreadable, and then comes the crack of his knuckles—loud in the silence, final, like the sound of something breaking.

The crowd reacts instantly, like animals sensing a predator. Bodies shift, people back up without thinking, clearing a path as instinct kicks in. Phones are already out, lifted into the air like weapons, screens glowing. Whispers ripple like static—fast, sharp, rising in pitch until someone finally says it out loud. Then another. Then a chorus. “Fight.” It rolls through the room like a chant, voices stacking over one another, urgent and hungry. You can feel it in the air, the change, the way everything tilts toward something explosive. This isn’t posturing, this is a threat and it’s real.

“You’ve got one more chance,” Jeno says, voice low and coiled, barely above a whisper but it cuts through everything. “You’ve always been this way. Always slinking around parties, talking like this to girls. You wait until they’re drunk, or alone, or too fucking scared to tell you to fuck off and it works for you, doesn’t it? They don’t know how to make you stop, you count on them being afraid.”

“But I’m not one of them,” he says, every word like iron. “I’m not scared of you, I’m not impressed by you, I’m not gonna let you walk away thinking you’ll do this to someone else.” He lowers his voice further, the kind of quiet that makes your pulse spike. “I’ve seen the way you fold the second someone your size steps in. You’ve always been cocky because no one’s ever shut you the fuck up, right?” He smiles, not kind or calm but slow and sharp, full of something that feels like inevitability as his voice drops lower and he says, “Guess that’s why it has to be me.”

Yeonjun lets out a scoff, loud and dismissive, then shifts his weight, turning his head deliberately toward you. His eyes land on you like a spotlight, dark and invasive, scanning every inch with a hunger that makes your stomach turn. “You must be special then,” he says, voice oily. “Got two men ready to throw punches for you. Makes me wonder what that pussy really feels like.”

His hand moves before you can brace, sliding down the curve of your waist with unwelcome confidence, fingers splaying wide as he grabs a rough handful of your ass, then pulls back just enough to slap it—loud, deliberate, the sound cracking through the air like a spark to dry kindling.

In response, Jeno moves too. Not just moves—unleashes. He growls low, teeth gritted, the sound more beast than man. His entire body coils beside you like a fuse lit too fast, muscles drawn tight across his frame, arms flexing with a fury so raw it hums through the air. His feet plant firm against the floor, every inch of him braced to strike, eyes locked on Yeonjun with a glare sharp enough to split bone. The crowd gasps. The air fractures and for a single breathless heartbeat, time stutters—caught between his rage and the impact you almost expect him to make.

It should be him. Every signal points to it—his locked jaw, the fury carved into his stance, the way his body coils like a wire pulled too tight. He looks ready to snap, to lunge, to land the kind of punch that would knock Yeonjun flat and never let him forget it. The crowd feels it too; phones lift, screens glow, anticipation tightening like a fist around the room. Jeno moves forward, the pressure rising with every step, every breath, every second that passes without a hit.

Except it doesn’t come from him.

The noise doesn’t follow his fist, and the contact isn’t his to claim. The shift is too fast to catch clean, the angle just out of frame, and for a second, everyone blinks, unsure of what just happened—until Yeonjun reels back, stunned and staggering, eyes wide, lips bleeding. All heads turn, not to Jeno but to you.

Your fist hits Yeonjun’s jaw with a force that shocks even you, the crack sharp and satisfying, slicing through the air like a gunshot. Pain explodes through your knuckles, hot and immediate, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of him stumbling backwards, wide-eyed and stunned, crashing down in a graceless sprawl that sends the room into chaos. Gasps ripple out first, followed by laughter, a chorus of cheers, and someone near the back yells loud enough for everyone to hear, “Holy shit—he just got dropped by a girl!” Another voice echoes, cackling, “That’s it, wrap it up! He’s finished!”

Yeonjun scrambles, tripping over his own shoes, one hand covering his bleeding nose, the other reaching blindly for the nearest support. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before, like he can’t comprehend the humiliation washing over him in waves. The cowardice shows in the way he doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare look at Jeno. He just slinks off, face burning, body trembling, too stunned to form words.

You shake out your hand slowly, fingers flexing with the sting, blood smearing red and raw across your knuckle. It burns, sharp and insistent, but you feel steady, taller, anchored by the electricity still rushing through your veins. The ache is hot, heady, almost addictive—the kind of pain that makes you feel alive, makes you feel like something has finally shifted.

Jeno moves without a word, he grabs a tissue from a nearby table and steps in close, closer than anyone else would dare. His fingers are warm as they brush yours, dabbing gently at the bleeding skin with slow, precise pressure. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s tending to something precious. His eyes never leave your face—not once—and when you finally look up, they’re burning. Dark. Starved. His lip is caught between his teeth, jaw tense, chest rising with shallow breaths. There’s a heat in the space between you now, thick and unbearable, not just from the adrenaline, not just from the violence but from the way he sees you. From the way you feel him seeing you. Strong. Untouchable. His.

You see Karina in the corner of your eye, leaning back against the drink table like she hasn’t got a care in the world. She throws you a dramatic thumbs up and mouths the words boy draft with an exaggerated grin, then follows it with something filthier— “get that cock!” lips shaping around every syllable like a punchline meant just for you. It makes you almost laugh, your chest still heaving from the adrenaline.

He’s waiting for you, not with words but with his body, his hand already curling around your waist, firm and familiar like it belongs there. He tugs you close, just enough for your hips to brush, for the air to shift, heavy and electric between you. There’s heat rolling off him in waves, and the way he looks at you, dark eyes fixed and unwavering, it makes your breath catch. Slowly, his other hand lifts, palm up between you like an unspoken dare. It’s not just a gesture, it’s a command wrapped in tenderness, a question he already knows the answer to. You know exactly what he wants, where he wants you. You can feel it in every line of his body, in the way his fingers twitch like they’re already picturing you in his bed, straddling his lap, buried under his touch. And maybe you don’t know what will happen when the door closes behind you, if he’ll kiss you or break you or just hold you through whatever you’ve been pretending not to feel but it doesn’t matter. You want it. You want him. You’re already leaning in, already giving in, and his grip only tightens.

A brush of pressure lands on your shoulder, not forceful but enough to stir the air around you, enough to pull you out of Jeno’s gravity for half a second. You turn slowly, heart still pounding from the aftermath and there he is. Yangyang. His expression is tight, drawn with urgency, eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t blinked in too long. He doesn’t say your name, just leans in slightly, breath shaky and low, voice cracking on the edge of something raw. “Can we have that talk now?” The words fall too fast, too soft, but the way he looks at you—like he’s hanging off the last thread of something he doesn’t know how to fix—makes your throat go tight.

You blink. Once. Twice. Open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Yangyang—” Jeno hasn’t moved but you feel him shift beside you, the slow pull of tension winding through his body. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers pressing firmer into your side like a silent warning, like a claim. His eyes narrow, sharp and simmering with restrained annoyance, the kind that doesn’t need words to be felt but Yangyang doesn’t step back, he lifts his hands instead, not touching, just outstretching them toward you, open, desperate, trembling at the edges with something unspoken, and the gesture makes your eyes widen, just slightly, because it’s not just what he’s asking. It’s how.

Your voice cracks before your composure does, barely above a whisper, but loaded with everything you can’t make sense of. “You had the entire night.” Your eyes go glassy as you stare at him, blinking too fast, like you’re trying to understand why now. Why this moment, why him and why now, when you were finally about to let yourself go where you actually wanted to be.

“Can’t it wait another time?” you ask, not unkindly, but firm.

Yangyang shakes his head fast, desperate. “No. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You know that.”

You hesitate, breath caught halfway between your ribs, pulse thudding loud in your ears. You want to go with Jeno. God, you want to. Your body is still humming from the aftershock of it all—his voice, his eyes, the way his fingers grip your waist. Your skin aches for him, your chest tight with the pull to be his again, even just for the night. You want the press of his mouth, the rough drag of his palms, the ache between your legs answered by the weight of him, the stillness, the dark, the undoing. He’s home. He’s gravity. He’s heat, and you’ve never needed it more.

But Yangyang’s gaze cuts through all of it. He looks like he’s unraveling, one breath away from breaking. His eyes are fractured glass—shiny, desperate, on the verge of shattering—and when they lock onto yours, something sharp twists in your gut. He’s not trying to pull you away, he’s trying to hold on before he loses the last thread and you feel it, a terrible, unbearable guilt, like whatever you choose, you’ll still be hurting someone, you’ll still be breaking something that was never supposed to fall apart.

You take a breath that doesn’t settle. One step forward would take you into Jeno, into everything you’ve been aching for since the moment his voice dropped, since the second he stepped in front of you, as if you belonged to him. His hand is still there, wrapped around your waist, his touch hovering in a way that makes you feel tethered and free all at once and it kills you because you don’t want to move. You just stand there, torn open, swallowing the guilt that rises like acid, burning its way up your throat. “I’ll come find you after,” you murmur, but it sounds thin, barely believable, barely anything at all. A promise made too late, too soft.

Jeno doesn’t look at you, his jaw set with a tension that splinters the edges of his expression, his mouth drawn so tightly it looks carved from stone and even though no sound escapes him, you can feel the violence in his silence, can taste it like metal on your tongue, thick and bitter. The room hums with it, a supernatural stillness, a haunting, like some ancient force has been awoken and tethered just barely in place by the thinnest thread of restraint. When he finally turns toward you, it isn’t abrupt, it isn’t soft, it’s deliberate, slow like a noose tightening, like the pause before a verdict is read, his stare not empty but too full, too quiet, holding more than it’s showing.

He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to, the silence around him howls and when you take that first step toward Yangyang, when your body leans into the space you carved with your yes, you feel it, the break, the irreversible shift, the ground doesn’t crack it cleaves, clean and devastating, a fault line between then and now, between who he was when he held you and who he’ll be after watching you walk away, you keep moving anyway because you said yes, because you always follow through, because regret is softer than betrayal until it isn’t.

Karina groans, loud and theatrical, tossing her hands in the air. “You are hands down the worst fantasy boy draft player of all time,” she says, voice sharp with mock exasperation. “This is exactly why half the team wants to change the rules next season—so we can steal from girls who can’t close.”

You follow Yangyang across the living room without a word, the air thick and weighted behind you, each step a pull against the heat still clinging to your skin. His hand brushes yours, guiding you toward one of the quieter bedrooms, and you let him, even as your heart stammers. You bite your lip and keep your eyes forward, not daring to glance back because you know if you do, if you meet Jeno’s stare even for a second, you won’t leave at all.

The door clicks shut behind you and Yangyang, quiet but too loud in the stillness, a sound that slices clean through the tension and seals the room around you like a vault, like a secret, like a mistake you haven’t made yet but already regret. Outside the window the party is still pulsing, muffled voices and laughter and music like a heartbeat you’re no longer synced with, but inside it’s deathly quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that demands something be broken just to prove you’re still alive. The room smells like Jeno, that clean heat of his cologne soaked into the cushions and it makes your stomach twist because it’s so intimate, so present, like he’s still here even though he’s not.

Yangyang is pacing, not frantically but aimlessly, his movements loose like a marionette cut from its strings, pausing in place only to start again like his thoughts are unspooling faster than he can catch them, his eyes flicking to you then away then back again, and it’s not just nerves, it’s unraveling. You don’t sit. You don’t move. You just watch him, your body still buzzing with the heat Jeno left behind, your skin aching from the way his hand had curled around your waist like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there.

Yangyang finally stills and you think he might speak but he doesn’t, he just looks at you, eyes wide and glassy and fixed, and when he reaches for your hand he doesn’t say anything, just laces his fingers with yours like that alone might keep him from falling apart. His thumb moves over your knuckles, soft and shaky, and his breathing isn’t steady, and the silence drags long between you, taut and full of everything neither of you are saying. You let it hang for a beat before you break it, voice low but not unkind, “You really couldn’t wait until another day” you ask, your words cutting through the quiet as your breath catches, the weight of the almost hanging off your ribs, “I was already leaving with him.”

He shakes his head fast, a hard jerk like denial alone will undo everything that’s unravelled, and you sigh, not because you’re angry but because this is too much, too fast, too late. “Tell me then,” you say, sharper now, because you’re starting to lose patience, “Tell me what’s happened.”

It doesn’t come all at once. He stammers. Starts and stops. His voice gets caught on words that won’t settle and you have to coax it out of him, your tone softer now, trying to untangle whatever’s knotted behind his eyes. You tell him it’s okay, that you’re here, that he can tell you anything and you see the way that gets to him, the way he starts to breathe easier under your voice, how the way you speak to him settles into his spine and drips down like something warm and welcome. He likes this. Likes you like this. It’s in the way his gaze drags across your mouth when you speak, the way he holds your hand tighter when you lean in to reassure him again, saying gently, “Whatever it is, Yang, I’ll help you figure it out. We’ll figure it out together.”

“So here’s what happened,” he says slowly, like he’s bracing himself, like the words are a bruise he’s pressing on just to prove it still hurts, “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad,” he adds quieter, almost like he’s confessing, like it costs something to say it aloud, “I’ve been slipping since the semester started but I kept thinking I could catch up, I was partying too much, missing classes, missing deadlines, skipping lectures but I figured I’d just pull it together like I always do”

His fingers flex at his sides and he looks anywhere but at you, eyes darting from your mouth to the floor to your hand like maybe the right place to rest will make this easier to say. “Then one of my professors, the only one who still gives a shit, offered me this chance, not extra credit exactly but something to prove I could be responsible, he gave me this external port, secured as hell, loaded with confidential shit—student files, departmental records, grading data, all that, I was supposed to bring it back first thing tomorrow”

He takes a shaky breath and you can see it hitch in his chest before he continues, “I didn’t even go home after class, I was in a rush, just shoved it in my bag and came straight here, I thought it’d be fine, I really did, I thought I was being careful, but somewhere between the drinks and the people and the fucking noise—I lost it, or someone took it, I don’t know, I don’t even remember when I stopped holding onto it”

His voice is tighter now, strained, like guilt is closing around his throat and won’t let go. “If I don’t return it, I’m fucked, it’s an academic breach, a serious one. I’m already on probation with the department and if this goes sideways I’m done, I’ll have to resit the whole year or worse.” Finally he lifts his eyes to yours, wide and desperate and glassy like he’s trying to make you feel all of it too, trying to make you understand how bad this is, how scared he is, “I know it’s not fair to ask you but you’re the only person I trust, you’ve always known how to fix things, you have access, you’re respected, you know how to move through stuff like this, you’re good—too good and I don’t have anyone else, just you”

You blink, eyes wide, throat tight with disbelief, "You’re serious," you breathe, more exhale than question.

He nods, voice splintering on the first word, "I know, I know I just—fuck, I didn’t know what else to do," his hands tremble where they cling to yours, "It’s gone, I fucked up and you’re the only person I know who can fix this," his voice cracks again, eyes glassy and desperate, "You have access, you know the systems, they trust you, you’re in every circle that matters, you’re the only one who could get into the right places without raising a single red flag, without getting caught."

Your stare hardens, brows pinch, you feel the shift inside you before your voice follows, low, razor-edged, "You want me to fix this?" You bite out, "you want me to break the rules? Breach the system? You do realize I could get expelled, Yangyang," you pull back slightly, but not far, "You really think I’d risk everything for you?"

He swallows like the words burn, "I think you will," he murmurs, "Because you’re good, because you care, even when you don’t want to, even when you know you shouldn’t, that’s why everyone comes to you, that’s why I came to you, because you always come through, for people you care about," his gaze doesn’t flinch, "You always come through for me."

You hesitate, barely, but it’s there, a glitch in your breath when his fingers twitch and yours don’t let go, like your body already betrayed you before your thoughts caught up. Your skin’s too hot, flushed with something synthetic and shameful, nerves buzzing just beneath the surface, pupils blown, heart jackhammering against your ribs—everything too loud, too close, too much. The drugs make it hard to think straight, harder to feel anything clean, but you feel this—his grip, unrelenting, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he eases up even a little and maybe that’s why you don’t pull away. Maybe you like it. Maybe that’s worse.

Your brain keeps saying walk away, get it together, breathe, stop, but your hands won’t listen. They stay locked around his like instinct, like punishment, like guilt in motion, echoing the same mistakes you promised yourself you wouldn’t make again. You tip your head forward before you can stop yourself, a breath slipping out that feels too loud, too exposed, and his thumb brushes the edge of your palm, unintentional but careful. The contact short-circuits something inside you. Something thick and sour crawls up your throat, bitter and wrong, and you swallow it back down with the words you’ve said too many times already. You wait a beat longer, like maybe the silence will say what you can’t. “I’ll sort it out,” you whisper, voice unsteady, raw at the edges. “I’ll fix everything. Don’t worry.”

The sound he makes isn’t just relief, it’s release, a broken, breathless sound like something inside him has finally been unchained. He pulls you in, arms sliding around your back with full, urgent force, holding you like his body decided before his mind did. Your chest presses to his, heart to heart, and you feel the stutter in his breathing when your fingers find the back of his neck. You circle your arms around him and stay there, not speaking, not thinking, just breathing, leaning, existing in the quiet that builds between your bodies. When you finally pull back, it’s only enough to see his face—your hands still anchored to his shoulders, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles into your lower back, like letting go is out of the question. You’re close enough your breath catches on his lips.

He looks down at you, eyes flooded with something deeper than gratitude, something older, heavier. “I always need you,” he says, soft and hoarse, like the words have worn grooves in his throat. “You always know what to do. You always save me. There’s no one else. Not even close. I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you.”

It should soothe you but it doesn’t. The words hang there between you like steam off pavement, warm and rising, but laced with something else—something that doesn't cool. There’s a pulse beneath his voice that you can’t ignore, something crawling under the surface, darker, hungrier, hotter. It coats the silence like oil. It makes your chest feel tight and your spine feel aware of every place his body presses into yours. There’s relief in what he said, yes—but it’s the kind that comes with fire, not calm. The kind that doesn't settle. The kind that asks for more.

You’re still high. Not gone, not spiraling, but everything’s slowed down and stretched too wide. The world feels submerged, warped at the edges, like you’re moving through water—your pulse uneven, your thoughts lagging behind, each breath caught on delay. Guilt buzzes in the back of your skull like faulty wiring, constant and biting, but beneath it, something darker pushes through. Want. Not soft, not careful—want with claws and heat and a blade-edge sharp enough to draw blood if you get too close. It doesn’t ask permission. It just starts taking. The kind of want that roots in your spine and spreads like venom. It coils hot beneath your skin when you realize what he just said—you’re the only one. You’re the one he ran to. The one he trusts with this. Not just the danger, not just the mess but him. And it’s sick, it’s so fucking twisted, but the sound of him saying that out loud does something to you. Opens you up.

He could’ve gone to anyone. He didn’t. He came to you. Because he knows—only you can fix this. Only you can calm the storm clawing at his ribs. Only you can touch the violence in him without flinching. You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the sharp wet heat that builds just from the idea of it. That he needs you. That he chose you. That he’d fall apart without you and has no shame admitting it. It makes your thighs press together. It makes you ache. The ache of being needed. The thrill of being wanted. It’s proof that you matter, that you’re the one he turns to when it all goes to hell. It makes your breath hitch. Makes your jaw tighten. Makes your hands want to stay exactly where they are, because for once, someone sees the wreck in you and still calls it the solution.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just looks at you—unflinching, unreadable—but you feel him. You feel the heat of him pressed low against your stomach, the shape of him already hard, already aching. It’s a question you’re not ready to answer, a hunger that wasn’t supposed to be fed like this. Your hands stay behind his neck, and his breathing brushes your collarbone. His eyes are darker than they were a moment ago. Hungrier. Still soft, but softened like candle wax, not like mercy.

And it’s you—of course it’s you—who breaks the stare first, who swallows, who makes the first wound. “If you’ve always needed me,” you whisper, your voice thinner than you want it to be, your thumb barely brushing the side of his throat, “then why did you disappear the second I started seeing Jeno?” The silence that follows doesn’t offer forgiveness. It waits for blood.

His expression hardens, "What? We still talked."

You shake your head, "You know it wasn’t the same, you disappeared every time I walked into the room, it didn’t feel good."

He laughs, fast, bitter, "And why do you think that is?"

You and Yangyang have always been too close, the kind of close that slipped too easily into bedrooms and backseats, into shared joints and shirts you never returned. It wasn’t romantic—it was routine, something carved into muscle memory. Late nights turned into mornings, your body half-draped over his like it belonged there, like his hands knew the shape of your thighs better than your name. He was comfort, distraction, heat—your safe place when everything else spun too fast. When Jeno entered the picture, he retreated, slowly, sharply, and you noticed every inch he pulled away.

“You just spent too much time with Jeno,” he says, quiet but blunt, like he’s not accusing you—just stating what’s already been obvious. “You didn’t have enough time for me.”

You don’t deny it. You just blink, exhale through your nose, and say, “I know.”

His smirk is slow, bitter at the edges. He leans back slightly, arms crossed, tongue resting against his cheek like he’s holding something mean behind his teeth. “What difference does it make anyway? You were exclusive with him. It’s not like you’d touch me the way you used to.”

You sigh, shake your head once, sharp, like you’re trying to dislodge the weight pressing in behind your eyes. Then your throat tightens, and words slip out before you can stop it. "You’re confusing, when I was with Jeno, you barely looked at me, and tonight? You’ve been everywhere, what am I supposed to think?"

His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice cuts through the air—sharp, raw, cracking at the edges. “What did you expect?” he spits. “You were with Jeno, always draped over him like he was the only thing you needed. You think I could just sit there and watch that? Watch you moan for him, touch him like you used to touch me, like none of it ever meant anything?” He shakes his head once, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “You really thought I could keep pretending we were fine after that?”

His voice drops lower, tighter, mouth barely moving. “You think I could sit there and watch you give him what you used to give me?”

You pull back a fraction, just enough to clear your head, "It’s been a long time, Yang, we can’t do this, not anymore, it’s not right"

He leans in, close enough for your skin to prickle, "Can’t do what?" his voice lowers to a growl, "All I’m doing is looking at you like you’re still the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen."

His words cracks something in you. A dam you didn’t even know was holding. The tension doesn’t snap—it floods. It spills out in heat, in hunger, in the sharp, sudden ache that spreads from your chest to your thighs like wildfire. It’s not about him. It never was. It’s about you—the way he looks at you like you’re a weapon, a solution, a fix for every hollow in his chest. It hits like a high of its own. Makes your skin tighten and your stomach twist and your breath catch, not because you want him, but because being wanted like this feels too good to walk away from. It’s just sex. It’s just the illusion of power, of control. It’s just someone whispering that you’re needed when everything else feels too far gone to matter.

You fist your hand in his shirt because you can. Because he lets you. Because he’s still here. His hands find your hips with practiced pressure, dragging your body into his, and the contact is instant—hard, hot, real. He grips your ass like he never forgot how, squeezing rough, dragging you back against the thick bulge between his legs, grinding slow until your breath hitches and your thoughts scatter. His lips ghost your neck, never kissing, just letting you feel what he won’t say, and it lights something reckless in you. You don’t even flinch when his fingers push beneath your dress. You just let him. Because it’s easier. Because it’s familiar. Because right now, being touched feels better than being left alone with the ache in your chest.

His voice is wrecked when he mutters into your ear. Filthy. Possessive. You don’t remember the words. Just the heat. Just the pressure. Just the way he touches you like you’re still his favorite sin—even if you were never his to begin with. This is how it used to be with Yangyang. That’s why he was one of the regulars you fucked—often, roughly, always on your terms. You’d pull his hair, whisper orders into his mouth, ride him until he begged without shame. You’d push him down and make him say please and he would, every single time. The memory of it slams into you now, full and hot—his hands gripping your thighs, your name breaking in his throat, the way he’d let you ruin him just to feel wanted. Just to keep you for a little longer.

His hands are rough and certain, fingers digging into your hips like he’s staking a claim, dragging your body flush to his with no space left to breathe. Your back arches under the pressure, ass pressing into the unmistakable bulge straining against his jeans. He breathes into your neck, slow and hot, lips ghosting over your skin but never quite kissing, and the heat of it coils low in your stomach. His palm flattens over your stomach, firm and possessive, holding you still while his other hand slides lower, gripping your ass like he’s starved for it. He squeezes hard, then harder, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress to feel how bare you are underneath. A low groan rumbles from his chest when his hand spreads wider, fingertips dragging deliberately over the soft skin where your thighs meet. His hips roll forward, slow and grinding, letting you feel every inch of his arousal as he mutters something filthy into your ear, voice wrecked and shaking. You’re not sure if he’s trying to tease you or ruin you—but either way, he’s getting close.

Your lashes flutter once, twice, eyes heavy as the breath catches in your throat. You look up at him, barely, and the way his gaze pins you there is lethal. Your hips shift against the pressure instinctively, your ass grinding back into the thick, slow drag of him. His grip tightens. Fingers spread wider across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch through touch alone.

You lift your hand, slow and deliberate, and trace a finger down his throat, letting it linger over his Adam’s apple just to feel it jump “Already breathing like that?” you whisper, lips brushing his. “And I haven’t even touched your cock.” You smirk. “Pathetic.”

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters, the words hot against your jaw. “This dress—this ass—walking around like that, knowing damn well what it does to me. You expect me to just stand there and watch?” He breathes out sharp, grinding harder, slow and deliberate, cock pressing right where you’re warmest. “I’ve been hard since the second I saw you tonight. Couldn’t stop staring. Been thinking about bending you over a table since you walked in—tearing this little thing off you, having you dripping all over me before anyone even realizes you’re gone.”

His teeth graze your ear. You stifle a moan, swallowing it down like it’ll help. It doesn’t. Not when his voice goes lower, darker, desperate. “And now you’re here,” he growls, both hands full of you, “pressing that pretty ass against me like you want me to lose it. You feel what you do to me? Feel how bad I need it?”

His hand slides down, palm flattening against your stomach, pressing firm like he’s reminding your body where he used to live. He groans into your neck, low and broken. “Miss this,” he breathes, dragging his hand lower, thumb brushing just under the waistband of your dress. “Miss feeling me here.”

You moan back, soft but shaky, breath catching as your hips press into his on instinct. The friction makes him hiss through his teeth, grinding once, deliberate. “I miss how tight you were around me,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Miss being buried so deep you couldn’t speak.” His lips ghost over your jaw, then lower, filth in every breath. “Miss how your ass used to taste. All of it.” He squeezes your ass again, slow and rough. “I’d drop to my knees right now if you let me.”

He smirks, cock already hard against you, hand gripping your ass like he owns it. “What do you say?” He breathes, voice filthy, “let me fuck you loud enough for Jeno to hear, let him know who’s in you now, let him hear how wet you get for someone who actually knows how to fuck you. Make him listen while I ruin this tight little pussy and fuck the memory of him out of you.

It hits you wrong. Jeno. The sound of his name in someone else’s mouth slices clean through the haze, not gently but violently, sharp as impact, cold as blood. It doesn’t matter how high you are, how close you are, how soaked or needy or reckless—that name drags you out of all of it. Your breath stumbles. Your body goes still. Something deep in your chest twists, sour and instant, like whiplash snapping your spine into place. Your throat tightens. Your heart lurches. Not because you’re ashamed, not because you don’t want this but because that name still owns you, still means something when it shouldn’t. Your mouth opens on instinct, shaky and soft. “I need to go to Jen—”

His mouth crashes into yours before you can finish. All tongue, all pressure, all teeth. It’s messy and wet, more heat than precision, all-consuming in the way it tries to tear your attention from what you almost said. Your lips stay frozen beneath his for one beat, two, stiff with hesitation, tension wound so tight you feel it in your thighs but the second your mouth parts, the second your breath catches and the whimper slips free, something in you gives way. Not to him but to the moment, to the heat that’s already spread between your legs, to the ache that’s been building from the second he touched you like he remembered every way you used to make him beg.

You kiss him back because it’s easier than thinking, because lust is louder than guilt because your body is starved for something and his mouth is right there giving it to you. You kiss him back hard, filthy, hips pressing closer, rolling like instinct, like reflex. His hands tighten. Your thighs shift, grinding into him without shame. Your breath comes out in moans against his lips, his tongue licking into your mouth like he owns it. It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s rough, obscene, a collision of want and impulse and ego and still, under it all, your mind is already screaming his name.

His grip tightens under your thighs as he lifts you with ease, like his body remembers yours, like his hands were made to pull you into this exact shape. You wrap your legs around his waist without hesitation, dress riding higher, panties soaked and sticking to your skin. He stumbles back to the bed with a grunt that sounds more like a moan, his back hitting the mattress, and you’re on him instantly, straddling his lap, thighs spread wide, the heat between your legs pressed right against the hard line of his cock. There’s no hesitation now. Your hips start moving without thought, grinding down into him, slow and nasty, dragging wet friction against the denim of his jeans. Your dress bunched around your waist, your fingers dig into his chest for balance as your body rolls—up, down, forward, back—desperate for pressure, desperate for the edge.

Your breath breaks in ragged moans, thighs clenching around him, your clit catching on the seam of his jeans in a rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. He’s cursing under his breath, hands on your ass, guiding your grind like he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck you or watch you fuck yourself on him. You’re not thinking. You’re not even pretending to. You’re chasing it. The heat. The high. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about momentum, about the illusion of control, about convincing yourself this doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just the drugs, just the body, just something to drown the guilt still scraping at the inside of your chest like it wants out.

The moment starts to splinter. Not all at once, not loud or dramatic, just a crack somewhere deep inside your chest, quiet and precise. It slips in between movements, in the soft drag of his jeans against your thighs, in the way his fingers dig harder like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. Your hips are still rolling, slow and searching, catching every ridge of his zipper, slick soaking through the denim between you, but your mind has already stopped. It’s not his breath you want. It’s not his voice. It’s not his hands. The thought lands like gravity—Jeno. The way he murmurs your name when you’re half asleep, how he touches you like you’re something sacred, The way he sees you, loves you.

Your hands begin to tremble, it’s subtle at first, a twitch against his skin but it spreads fast. Your breath hitches, shallow and sharp, and the ache in your chest unfurls like a scream. He leans up for your mouth again, chasing it without hesitation, but you turn your head just enough for him to miss. His lips drag across your cheek, warm but unwelcome, clinging to skin that doesn’t feel like his to kiss anymore.

You press both palms to his chest, firm and shaking. The pressure says what your voice hasn’t yet. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. One breath. Two. Then finally, barely a whisper, cracked and soft and final—“I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. You shake your head once, slow, eyes stinging. “I need to go to Jeno.” You lift off his lap like every inch of you regrets how well he still fits. Your thighs brush his jeans on the way down, a last cruel reminder. You tug your dress down with unsteady hands, knuckles brushing your thighs as the fabric slips back into place, the hem dragging slow like it knows it’s too late. Your fingers twitch, fumbling, missing the zipper once before giving up. Your chest lifts hard, like your lungs are trying to catch up with a breath you forgot to take. You keep your eyes on the floor. Not the bed. Not the body behind you. Not the heat you let wrap around you like a second skin.

Your feet move before the rest of you does. One step. Then another. The room feels thicker with every inch you put between you and him, like the air itself is trying to cling to your skin. You feel it everywhere—your lips still damp, your thighs too warm, the curve of his palm stamped across your ass like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet. His breath lingers on your neck, phantom-soft. Your skin burns where it shouldn’t and you don’t look back, not even when the door creaks behind you, not even when the silence swells. It’s already done and you can still feel it.

You don’t run but you don’t slow either. Your thighs are still trembling from grinding down on someone you didn’t want and your lips are swollen from a kiss you regret the second you pulled away. Yangyang’s voice is still echoing faintly in your skull, muffled and messy, but it’s nothing compared to the high still pulsing through your bloodstream. You’re already halfway down the hall before the door clicks behind you. You don’t think, you just move. Instinct drags you more than anything rational. Your body already knows where he’ll be.

Karina’s voice cuts into your haze, low and exasperated, trying to catch up beside you. "Wait—where are you going now? You still have to finish the damn fantasy draft. If you don’t go I’ll send Nahyun, she’s been waiting all night."

You don’t speak, don’t even spare her a glance. Your grip tightens around the gift hamper until your knuckles sting and your steps stay locked in rhythm, fast and unwavering, like your body’s already mapped this route in sleep. It’s not defiance. It’s certainty. Jeno’s not in his room—he never is when he’s unraveling like this and whatever Karina’s saying behind you fades into static, because none of it matters if you don’t get to him first.

When you reach the door, it’s already cracked open an inch like the room’s waiting for you, like it’s always been. Like it knows you. The scent hits first—thick, quiet, familiar. Leather soaked in memory, clean wood polish trying to mask something older, something raw. There’s sweat buried in the grain of the walls, adrenaline fossilized into the corners. It smells like skin, like bruises, like breath held too long and never released. There’s a hum beneath all of it, not from the lights but the bones of the room itself, like the walls are still echoing every word that’s ever been whispered or shouted or bitten off between its edges.

It doesn’t just feel haunted—it is. Not by spirits, but by versions of him that never left, that still pace these floors, there’s still ache through the dust and shadows. This isn’t a place that forgets. This is a place that keeps. The air is heavy with him, thick with ghosts of victories that bled, of silence that burned hotter than any noise and it lets you in like you belong to that past too, like you’re another memory waiting to happen.

The lighting glows low from the corners, uneven and deliberate, carving the space into shadows and shine. Each reflection stretches across the floor like the memory of motion, long and distorted. This isn’t a room built for use—it’s built for reverence. Every detail is preserved, a shrine disguised as stillness. The walls don’t decorate, they testify. There are framed jerseys with old numbers, some familiar, some retired. A helmet split along the side, half-hidden behind a signed photo that’s been handled too much. One case holds a mouthguard, still cracked, still red-stained. You spot the medal, ‘first championship,’ tilted inside its frame, the ribbon curled in on itself like a closed fist.

Your eyes catch on the centerpiece, the jersey, torn at the shoulder, hem frayed, stained deep in streaks that speak of dirt and blood and something worse. It’s warped with time and framed like a relic, like it holds weight no words could ever carry. The glass reflects your face in pieces as you look at it, like it knows what this means. You remember the first time he brought you here, how you tried to pretend you weren’t already falling. How his voice softened when he spoke about this one, low and proud, tracing the tear in the fabric like it meant more than pain—like it meant proof. He told you the story with his body close to yours, shoulder grazing yours, and for once, he didn’t make it a joke. “This one was everything,” he said, and you believed him. Because back then, everything was easier. The season was just beginning, and you were still trying to name the ache he left in your chest. It’s still here, still watching, still waiting and so are you.

He’s near the back, half in shadow, as if the room itself is trying to hide him and fail. The glass light catches the glint of his chain, the slope of his brow, the cruel sharpness of his cheekbone. He doesn’t move but the power in his frame hums beneath his skin, arms folded across his chest like he’s holding himself together by force. He’s dressed in black trousers that hang low on his hips, the fabric loose but expensive, and a black tank top that clings to every cut line of muscle across his torso. The cotton stretches tight over his shoulders, clinging like it’s learned the shape of him too well to let go.

His skin is flushed in places, glowing faint with heat, and there’s a shine at the base of his throat that catches the light—sweat, tension, rage, you can’t tell. His chain dips just above his sternum, resting in the dip of muscle like it was made to belong there. His mouth is parted, his jaw locked, his breath shallow, like he’s been holding it this whole time. His eyes have already found you. Maybe they never left. And the way he’s looking at you—sharp, unsparing, starved—makes something deep in your stomach twist hard enough to hurt. There’s no welcome in his silence. Just warning. Just heat. Just that unspeakable charge that rises between two people who know exactly what they could do to each other if they stopped pretending not to.

The last time you were in this room, it was softer. His voice had touched your neck like velvet. Now it’s a blade waiting to be drawn. The trophies around him look less like victory and more like pressure, like they’re watching him with you. You don’t break eye contact as you walk closer to him, your body unreadable—not defensive, not provocative, just ready. You’re ready for whichever version of him is waiting beneath the static. The one who won't speak first. The one who never asks questions he already knows the answers to. He doesn’t say your name, doesn’t even blink, but his silence wraps around the room like a fuse. This isn’t a greeting. It’s a lit match.

He doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move like he’s been standing there too long, like he’s already played this out in his head a hundred different ways. His jaw is locked so tight it ticks when you step closer, eyes dragging over you not with curiosity but calculation, like he’s trying to decide which version of you just walked in—the one who ran or the one who stayed. And when he finally speaks, it’s not loud, not cruel, just low and bitter and so rehearsed it sounds like it’s been chewing through the back of his throat for days, sharp enough to slice right through the quiet without needing to try. “Did he fuck you or did you stop just long enough to come running back to me?”

You don’t rise to it. You don’t flinch. Your voice is steady, sharp. “We didn’t fuck. If I wanted Yangyang, I would’ve fucked him already.” It stops him in his tracks. You follow it up without hesitation. “And you knew about me and Yangyang, I’ve told you about who I used to fuck and you knew it was regular with him. This isn’t news to you. You just hate that it almost happened again, that it could’ve.”

“You really came in here to say that?” he mutters finally, voice low and wrecked, like he’s dragging it out from somewhere deep. “You think I give a fuck that it didn’t happen? You kissed him.” His laugh is short and humorless, more like a bark. “You let him put his hands on you, and now what—you want a medal because you didn’t let him stick his dick in you?”

He steps forward once, slow and heavy. “You think it makes it better that I’ve gotta picture his hands on your waist? His mouth on yours?” His voice drops lower, filthy and furious. “You think I don’t know what the fuck he was trying to do? You let him get hard for you. You let him try. And I’ve gotta live with that?”

You roll your eyes, slow and deliberate, the weight of it cutting deeper than any comeback could. “Don’t act like you haven’t tried to fuck other girls too,” you murmur, voice low but pointed. “I’ve seen it. I've seen you flirt, I’ve seen you try. The point is, neither of us actually did it. And you know why?” You step into him, chin tilted just slightly, your voice sharper now, more grounded. “Because we can't, none of it fucking works.” He doesn't move. His breathing is louder now.

You let the silence stretch, then cut it clean. “If I wanted to fuck Yangyang, I would’ve done it already. I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t breathe. The fire behind his eyes flickers, but it doesn’t lash out because he knows. You’ve never been the type to hesitate when you want something. You take. If Yangyang was what you wanted, it would’ve happened a long time ago. The fact that it didn’t says more than either of you want to admit.

Your voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its bite. “It wasn’t about him. It was about me being drunk, high, horny. I wanted to feel something. And I went to the wrong person.”

His breath catches rougher now, his hand curling into a fist by his side. The jealousy is simmering up his throat like bile. Then after the silence that nearly sizzles with heat—he falters, just slightly. His voice shifts, not soft, but quieter, something uncertain bleeding through the cracks. “How did you even know I’d be here?” Not accusatory, not defensive—just asking. His brows furrow like he’s been holding everything in for too long and this is the only question that matters now. He looks around the room like even he didn’t expect to end up here, like he needed to disappear and didn’t think anyone would follow.

Your answer is immediate, instinctual. “I just knew.” It wasn’t logic, it was instinct—like your body had already made the decision before your mind caught up, like your feet carried you here on muscle memory alone, drawn to him without asking for permission. You add, “I know this is where you go when you need a breather.”

Jeno swallows, slow and rough, jaw flexing with the kind of restraint that doesn’t come from rage but recognition. It lands deeper than he expects, the quiet proof that you still know him—intimately, instinctively—down to the parts he’s tried to keep hidden, even from himself. You see through him and he feels it, like heat crawling beneath his skin. You both feel it, that unbearable closeness of someone who once lived inside your skin and still knows how to get under it.

Your fingers tug at the hem of your dress, slow and distracted, twisting the fabric around your knuckles like it’ll hold you steadier than your knees will. “I brought something.” It’s barely louder than a breath, not confident, not rehearsed. It leaves your mouth like you already regret it, like you’re handing him something fragile and expecting him to crush it.

Jeno scoffs, sharp and bitter. “What, a goodbye gift?”

You shake your head, the motion small, almost imperceptible. “No. For the draft.”

He laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. Just disbelief, jagged and unfiltered. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Still, you step forward, slow, deliberate, like one wrong move might splinter everything between you. The basket is clutched to your chest like a secret you shouldn't be carrying, but can’t bear to let go of, and it feels heavier now, heavier than when you packed it, heavier than when you practiced what you’d say. Your fingers are white around the handle, and your other hand keeps smoothing over the edge like you’re trying to make it presentable, like neatness might make up for all the wreckage between you. It’s not just a gift. It’s an apology without the word sorry, a confession without breath. Each item inside chosen like a verse, a memory, a thread back to who you were when things didn’t feel like a battlefield.

The basket itself is woven in navy and gold, the official team color. It’s faded in some corners, like the heat of your hands left a mark, like time itself burned through it. Right beneath the curve of the handle, is his number. 23. It’s not scribbled, pinned or easily torn away but sewn into the fabric like a vow—stitched tight with permanence, like even if everything else unravels, this won’t.

“This is a joke,” he mutters, low and scathing, but his voice doesn’t match the rest of him. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, biceps flexing beneath the stretch of his tank, chain glinting faintly at the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t look at the basket, doesn’t touch it. Just stands there, still and sharp, like a blade pointed down but ready to rise. “You think you can hand me some fucking trail mix and erase the last few weeks?”

You don’t move or flinch. His heat rolls off in waves, equal parts anger and ache, and you let it burn. You know better than to interrupt him when he’s building walls. You wait for the silence. Then you slide your words into it carefully, like they might slice both of you open if you don’t hold them right.

“I know you don’t want it. I know it’s stupid. I just…” Your voice falters, not breaking, but thinning, stretched taut like something about to snap. “I needed to do this. For me and for Karina, too. She’s been on my back about it — you know how she is.”

He doesn’t reply, but you can see it in the way his jaw ticks. The way he blinks like he wants to roll his eyes again but knows it won’t land this time. “I’ll leave after this. I swear,” you continue. “Just let me give it to you. You don’t even have to open it now. Please, Jeno. If you want me gone, I’ll go. Just… let me give you this.”

There’s a beat. Then another. The silence stretches, thick and charged, until he rolls his eyes again but this time, it’s too much, too forced, like he’s trying to scrape back control he’s already lost. “You’re serious about this?” he mutters, the words dull on his tongue, feigned disinterest curling around the edges but his hand betrays him. It moves anyway. Not toward you, not directly, but toward what you’re offering. His fingers graze yours—brief, electric, unmistakable—and it’s enough to make your breath catch. You feel him tense when it happens. He felt it too.

He takes the basket with a care that doesn’t match his tone. Like it’s weighted, not just in mass but in meaning. He sets it down slowly, deliberately, like one wrong move might splinter the moment entirely. Then he just stares at it, unmoving, unreadable. For a second. Maybe more. Maybe longer than he wants to admit.

You watch him move through the basket with a pace that feels almost punishing, like each ribbon and carefully folded edge presses against something raw beneath his skin. The tissue gives beneath his touch with a low, strained crackle, pushed aside too fast, like its softness needles at him in all the wrong places. There’s something restless in the way his hands work—too deliberate, like he’s trying to undo not just the gift but the thought that went into it. Still, he doesn’t stop. His fingers find the first item and pull—peach rings, sealed in a clear cellophane bag tied with a navy ribbon, the same kind you used to slide into the side compartment of his car during those brutal away-game weeks. It catches the light, casting soft colors across his knuckles, and for a second, the contrast is sharp—your softness, his tension, colliding in the sugar and plastic between them.

The sugar inside clings to the plastic like memory, like sweat-slick fingers on a steering wheel, like dust that refuses to be wiped away. He holds the bag up for a moment, it's too late to pretend he doesn’t care. The colors catch in the light—orange and pink, sweet and sharp, the same as sunset bleeding across the dashboard while his hand gripped the wheel and your thigh, knuckles sticky from sugar. You used to watch him eat them one by one, slow and smug, sucking the ring between his lips like a dare, dragging it through his teeth while his eyes locked on yours, waiting to see if you’d break first. He said the sour-sweet balance helped his focus. You think he just liked the attention. You think you did too.

Next come the peanut butter bars, foil glinting gold under his fingers. His thumb drags across the edge of one slowly, like he’s testing its seal, like he’s waiting for it to talk back. He always said they made him feel invincible, like the last thing he needed to taste before a win. They were more than routine—they were ritual. He’d unwrap them with his teeth when his fingers were taped, grin at you like he was about to devour the world. You’d roll your eyes and tell him he was ridiculous. He’d just chew slower, watching you.

You remember how he’d toss the wrapper too far from the bin on purpose, just so you’d bend down to pick it up. Your cheer skirt would ride high, the fabric catching on your thighs, and his palm would meet your ass with a smack before his hand slid lower, fingers sneaking under the hem like they had a right to be there. The laugh he’d let out when you gasped—low and lazy, like he wasn’t doing anything wrong—still echoes somewhere low in your stomach. He sets the bars aside now with a thud, careful but final, like he’s putting them down before he drowns in the taste of you—like he’s already tasted the sweetness of your skin, the memory of it lingering on his tongue, and he knows it won’t be long before he gets lost in it again.

The socks catch his attention, unexpected in their simplicity. Rolled neatly, a crisp white ribbon holding them together, they lie in the basket like a relic, soft and almost untouched. At the cuffs, tiny basketballs are stitched, subtle, but there—like someone believed in the old magic, the kind he once swore by. He runs his fingers over the stitching, slow, as if trying to coax something from the threads, as though the magic still clings to them, waiting to be felt again. The fabric is fresh, unworn—new—but the way the light catches the stitching, the way the material flexes beneath his fingertips, makes him feel like it’s a link to something familiar, something that once mattered. His gaze softens for a moment, and the smallest breath escapes his chest, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he just holds them in his grip a little longer, like he’s trying to remember the feeling of them

Next he picks up the tiny black glass bottle, matte and square, it rests cool and heavy in Jeno’s hand—the travel-sized echo of his favorite cologne, spicy and woodsy with that sharp, clean undertone that always lingered in your hoodie long after he’d stopped wearing it. You tucked it carefully into the corner of the basket, nestled between snacks and socks as though it were nothing significant but the truth pulses beneath your skin. You remember slipping the full-sized bottle from his gym bag once, fingers trembling, heart racing, as if you were stealing something more precious than scent alone. It lived in your drawer for weeks after everything fell apart, hidden beneath sweaters and scarves, the cap twisted off whenever the ache became unbearable, just to remind yourself of what it felt like to stand impossibly close to him. Now, as Jeno lifts it carefully, reverently, you’re handing it back in miniature—not because you think he truly needs it but because it’s him. Sweat, swagger, silence—everything you ever wanted to hold onto but couldn’t quite keep. It’s a memory sealed carefully in alcohol and amber, unmistakably yours, even if he never really belonged to you.

Next is the laminated stat card, exact and deliberate, its edges sharp like you measured them twice before making a single cut. Not rushed, not careless but intentional. The plastic sheen catches the light just enough to blur the ink underneath but it doesn’t hide the effort. Every number is written clean, steady, without error, points, rebounds, assists, all laid out with a kind of quiet pride only someone who’s been paying close attention could’ve managed. The sparkly gel pen doesn’t scream here, it glints, framing his scoring average in a soft halo, circling his best performances with thin rings of silver and blue. In the corners, your writing leans small, tidy, folded into the white space with restraint: “Stop fouling, Chenle says you peak at halftime.” Not messy. Not chaotic. Just precise. Personal. The kind of neat that only comes from knowing someone, his stats, his rhythm, his cracks.

Of all the glittered lines and half-joked stats, one number holds the page like gravity—his scoring average, set near the top in unassuming ink, untouched by circles or stars or playful quips. But it isn’t invisible. It hums beneath everything else, louder in silence, louder because you left it alone. You didn’t mark it because you didn’t need to. You both know it’s wrong. Not bad, but wrong—a quiet dip that speaks too loud now, one neither of you have dared to say aloud. You feel it in the way people talk around him instead of to him. In the way questions trail off before they land. In the way the name Eric flares and fades in corners and the weight of Sunwoo’s name leaves behind something that clings like sweat. None of that is written. There’s no “fix this” or “get better” scribbled in purple gel ink beside it. There’s just space. Laminated silence. You sealed the page like maybe that could preserve who he was before all this, like maybe if your handwriting still wrapped around the truth, he’d feel held by something solid again. Maybe it’s a reminder.

Maybe it’s not meant to fix anything. Maybe it’s just your way of saying he’s more than the numbers they tally and the pressure they place on his back. The lamination keeps the ink from smudging, but not the feeling that seeps through every word, every circle and underline. Your handwriting curves around each stat like touch, like the way your fingers used to drag slowly down his spine when he was half-asleep and sore from practice, like the way you used to run them across his ribs just to make him shiver. There’s nothing loud about it—just a quiet insistence, a whisper in glitter pen, that he’s not just a scoring average, a rebound count, a line on a spreadsheet.

It’s not a love letter. It doesn’t need to be. It’s something closer to skin, to memory, to all the parts of him you learned with your hands before you ever tried to write them down. You traced his wins and his wounds, catalogued the rise and fall of his breath against your mouth, learned the weight of his body the way most people learn stats: repetition, obsession, devotion. And this—this is your record of that. A reminder pressed between plastic and hope that no matter how far he strays, how many points he loses or gives away, he was never made to be measured. He was made to be felt—and God, you did. With your mouth, your hands, your thighs parted and trembling, you learned every inch of him like scripture, like sin.

He saves the note for last. He Doesn’t reach for it right away, he lets it sit there, like it’s watching him. The paper is soft, folded once down the center with a precision that feels like restraint. His fingers graze the flame-shaped sticker, the one you sealed it with—red-orange with curled gold edges, like something meant to smolder, not seal. His thumb lingers, the pad tracing its shape slow, reverent, like it might burn him if he presses too hard. The edges of the note are warm from the heat of his palm, and something flickers behind his eyes as he finally breaks the fold open. The sound is quiet, barely more than breath, but it slices through the silence like a secret spilling loose. The ink is dark, sharp, delicate in the way a whisper can be. Just one line: I'm always gonna be proud of you. It lands with the weight of every night you used to fall asleep with your face tucked beneath his jaw, with the memory of your hand resting over the beat of his chest before games, when words couldn’t hold what your silence already said.

His eyes track the handwriting like it’s something alive. Something breathing. The strokes curve in familiar ways, slanting just slightly at the end of each word like you wrote them in a hurry, or like your hand trembled. There’s a smudge near the end where your fingers must’ve pressed too hard, like you couldn’t stop yourself from touching the truth of it one last time. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. The paper crinkles faintly as he folds it again, slow, careful, almost tender. He doesn’t tuck it away. He keeps it in his hand, thumb brushing the edge like he needs the texture of it to keep grounded. Like the heat of your words is the only thing left keeping his skin warm.

He doesn’t say a word when he sets the note down, but it feels louder than anything else. The air between you snaps tight, vibrating with something sharp and dark, something neither of you can name out loud. His eyes are still locked on the basket like it’s laughing at him, mocking him, every careful piece inside it poking at the parts of him he’s tried to keep buried. You can feel it starting to unravel—the silence, the self-control, the version of Jeno that knows how to hold himself back.

When his eyes find yours again, they’re different. Icy, cut deep from something uglier than jealousy. His jaw flexes, one hand curling into a fist before he says it, bitter and precise. “You make one for Yangyang too?” he spits, “Maybe he wants lucky socks. Or a shiny little whistle. Maybe you should go back and sit on his lap.”

“Sure, I’ll throw in a skirt,” you murmur, letting the smile curl slowly at the corners of your mouth, “A cute little skirt that barely covers my ass, it would make it easier to slide right onto his cock without him having to lift a finger.”

He doesn’t give you time to finish the breath behind that smile. The second the last filthy syllable drops off your tongue, he snaps—hands on your hips, back slamming into the nearest wall so hard the trophies on the shelf beside you rattle. His mouth crashes into yours, teeth, heat, hunger all in one brutal collision, the kiss so hard it tastes like punishment. You gasp into him, only for his tongue to swallow the sound, his thigh already wedged between yours, grinding up like he’s trying to erase every inch of space your body ever gave to someone else. His hands grip your waist, drag you down until your cunt grinds against his thigh through your dress, heat building fast and hot and needy.

He pulls back just far enough to growl it against your lips, voice shaking with rage and want, “Is this what you want? Huh? You want to talk about his cock, his hands, while you’re soaking my fucking thigh?” Your only answer is a moan as you rut down harder, grinding shamelessly, hand fisting in the chain at his neck like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. And it is.

You don’t hesitate, don’t flinch, don’t even blink. Your gaze locks on his like a challenge, something darker simmering just beneath the surface—rage, want, something feral and utterly unshakable. Your fingers trail slow down the hem of your dress, nails scratching over skin with just enough pressure to make him watch. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting in a smile that isn’t soft, isn’t sweet—it’s a warning. Then you drag your hand between your thighs, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving his. You press your palm there, over your soaked panties, and grind down just once, the friction obscene, the sound nearly as filthy as the act itself.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” You murmur, moving forward slowly, letting your hips sway just enough to make his eyes drop before dragging them back up, “if I wanted Yangyang, I wouldn’t just sit on his lap. I’d ride him until he begged. I’d make him come so hard he’d forget his own fucking name.” You lean in, voice brushing his mouth, thick with heat. “But I didn’t. I don’t want Yangyang. I don’t want anyone else.” Your breath ghosts his jaw, deliberate, filthy. “I want you. I want your cock. I want to choke on it. I want to feel it tear me open until I can’t think straight.” You tilt your head, smirk tugging at your mouth. “So don’t fucking talk to me about Yangyang again.”

His jaw tightens like it’s wired shut, but his eyes betray him first—blown wide, black with heat, tracing the curve of your lips like they’re already wrapped around him. His breath leaves in a slow hiss through his teeth, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and do something. “You talk too fucking much,” he mutters, voice low, ragged, dangerously uneven, “but you don’t fucking lie, do you?”

His hand fists in your hair before you can answer, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you feel it. His mouth brushes your ear, not gentle, not sweet, just hot. “You wanna choke on my cock so bad, baby?” he growls, chest pressed tight to yours now, hips already lined up, already hard, “then fucking earn it. Show me you still know how to take it.”

He grips your hips, drags you forward until you feel him, thick and ready through his pants, grinding against your heat like he’s already inside you. “You don’t want anyone else? Prove it.” He’s breathing like he’s trying not to lose it, chest rising too fast, too deep, like restraint is a thread stretched tight enough to snap. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower—tracing the curve of your hips pressed flush against his. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His hands rise slowly, hesitantly at first, but when you don’t stop him, when you tilt your head like you dare him, he touches you.

Fingertips ghost over your waist, just the pads brushing the fabric of your dress, like he’s relearning the shape of you from scratch. His palms smooth over your sides, then down, gripping the backs of your thighs with a pressure that makes your breath catch. He drags you closer, grinding you into the hard line of his cock, and fuck, he’s already throbbing through his pants.

“You think I could even get wet for anyone else? The way you make me wet?” You whisper, breath hot against the edge of his jaw as your lips trail up toward his ear. He doesn’t answer, just fists the hem of your dress and pulls, rough and fast, bunching the fabric at your hips so his hands can slide under. You bite the shell of his ear, hard enough to make him groan, and he pushes his thigh between yours until you’re grinding down onto it, friction and heat sparking sharp and messy through your core.

“You think I’d let him fuck what’s yours?” you whisper again, filthier now, more breath than voice and Jeno growls, low and primal, like you’ve hit something raw. His fingers hook into your panties and tug them aside, knuckles grazing your soaked folds, and when he feels how wet you are, he groans again, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips buck forward. Your hand slides between you, palm pressing against the bulge in his jeans, stroking him slow through the fabric. He’s hot. Thick. So fucking hard it makes your mouth water. You feel him twitch under your touch, and when you look up at him, his eyes are hooded, hungry, ruined.

“I pulled back, Jeno,” you say, voice soft but wicked, “because even drunk, high, and fucking aching—I couldn’t stop thinking about your cock. Couldn’t stop thinking about how full it makes me,” you whisper, desperate now, clenching around his fingers like your body’s already chasing the memory of him. “How fucking good you stretch me out. How deep you get. N-no one else feels like that, no one else sounds like you when I squeeze them this tight—”

You whimper when he thrusts harder, faster, your thighs trembling as he fucks you rough with his hand, thumb circling your clit with perfect, punishing pressure. “Thought about riding you till I blacked out,” you breathe, hips grinding down frantically. “Till I couldn’t think anymore. Till I forgot my own name and only remembered yours.”

He groans like it hurts, like the words alone could make him cum. Then his fingers push between your folds, two slipping in at once like he can’t wait, like he needs to feel you stretch around him, and you moan—head falling back, body arching into him, thighs trembling as he fucks you with his fingers, fast and deep and filthy. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, lips grazing your throat like he’s tasting it, voice thick with something close to awe. His fingers thrust harder, deeper, curling up until your legs jerk and a cry bursts from your lips—raw, helpless, cracked open. “All this for me?”

Your answer’s a sound—high-pitched, breathless, halfway between a sob and a moan. Your hips won’t stop moving, fucking yourself on his hand like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing keeping your lungs working. Your thighs are trembling, slick dripping down onto his palm, soaking his fingers every time he pumps back in. You’re shaking. Mouth parted but slack, lips trembling, eyes glassy and unfocused. One hand claws at his chest, the other buried between his legs, fingers wrapped around the thick bulge in his jeans like it’s your lifeline. You stroke him slow, clumsy, your grip too soft and messy to be deliberate. You’re too gone for rhythm, too far gone to care—your whole body’s chasing the feeling like a drug, jaw slack, breath catching on every whimper you can’t hold back.

His mouth is on your neck, tongue hot, teeth dragging, biting down until your knees buckle. His thumb grinds down on your clit, not gentle, not teasing—demanding. And you jerk forward, hips stuttering, gasping like you’ve been punched. Drool slicks your bottom lip. Your chest heaves. You’re whining now—quiet, desperate sounds spilling from you with every wet thrust of his fingers. No words. Just noise. Your cunt pulses around him, fluttering tight, so sensitive it’s painful, and you’re nodding, nodding, like your body’s answering for you.

He groans when you grind harder, when you roll your hips with frantic, sloppy need. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. Your fingers squeeze his cock through his jeans like you’re trying to feel it through every layer. Your eyes barely stay open. You’re trembling, twitching, coming undone in real time—so far gone you don’t even realize you’re babbling under your breath, half words, nonsense, breathy broken gasps.

“Shit,” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Look at you. Can’t even think, huh?”

You nod again, fucked out, mouth parted, trying to speak but all that escapes is a pitiful little “mmnhh”—a sound so helpless and ruined it makes his breath catch, makes his cock twitch like it feels the desperation pouring off you. Your hips are grinding down on his hand with no rhythm now, just frantic instinct, chasing the friction of his fingers inside you, chasing the stretch, the ache, the promise of his cock—still hard, still waiting, still untouched. You’re soaked, slick dripping down his wrist, cunt fluttering so tightly around his fingers that every thrust feels like a struggle, like your body’s trying to trap him, pull him deeper, keep him there. And that’s when you see it—that flicker. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers curl with just a little more confidence, just a little more force, like he thinks the tide’s turning, like he thinks you’re too far gone now to stop him. Like he’s going to take control. Like he’s about to flip the dynamic, sink into you and fuck you his way.

Wrong.

You move before the thought can even settle in his brain. Your hand presses hard against his chest, shoving him back with you with a command that doesn’t need words. His body jolts beneath your palm, breath catching, muscles tense as you push him until he’s leaning into the chair behind him, completely off-balance. And the look in your eyes changes—sharp now, glinting, focused like a scalpel. That’s all it takes. One shift. One look. And he knows exactly what’s happening. What’s always happened between you.

He freezes. Bites down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep a sound inside, the kind of sound he’d hate himself for making but his body betrays him. His chest rises too fast, too deep, and you feel the twitch of his cock where it rests hot and heavy against your thigh. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t resist. Because he knows this. He knows you. And fuck, he’s missed it. Missed this so much he’s dizzy from it—this feeling of being undone by you, not gently, not lovingly, but completely. The way you don’t just take control—you own it. The way your voice drops low, syrupy and cruel, right when he’s close to breaking. The way your eyes never leave his face when you use him, when you ride him hard enough to make his vision blur, when you say his name like it’s a threat, like he’s yours.

He listens now. He obeys. Just like he always has. Like he wants to.

Because he’s craved this. He’s starved for the way your pussy clenches when you’re on top, using him for your own pleasure. For the way you look down at him when you sink onto his cock like it belongs to you. For the way you ruin him and make him say thank you for it. He’s dreamt about it, fucked his fist to the memory of it, the echo of your voice calling him a good boy, the sound of your cunt squelching every time you bounce on him, the ache of not being inside you for so long driving him out of his fucking mind. He’s missed being dominated by you. Missed being overwhelmed, overstimulated, bent to your will until he forgets how to speak, until he’s only capable of moaning your name.

So he sits. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t dare. He drops into the chair like his knees gave out, wide-eyed and breathless, legs falling open with the kind of obedient instinct that only ever belonged to you. His hands clutch the edge of the seat like he’s grounding himself, knuckles pale, chest still heaving like he’s just been chased down and caught. There’s this raw, needy flush blooming across his face—cheeks pink, lips parted, pupils blown—eyes flicking up to you like he’s waiting for a command. Like he needs one. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself unless you give it to him.

He looks so fucking pretty like that. Messy. Worked up. Trying to be good.

His body remembers you. Every part of him does. The way his legs spread wide, the slight twitch in his thighs, the way his cock is already straining against his stomach, twitching like it knows what’s coming. He’s not trying to hide it—can’t. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his lashes fluttering every time you move. And he doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. He watches you with that soft, ruined awe like you’re something holy, like you’re the only thing that matters right now.

You don’t give him time to adjust. Don’t give him a second to think. You’re already lifting your dress, fingers curling into the hem, dragging it up over your hips and bunching it around your waist like you’ve done this before, like you own this space between you. You don’t care how exposed you are. Don’t care how messy your cunt is—swollen, soaked, dripping onto your thighs with every move you take closer. That’s the point. You want him to see. You want to break him with it and from the way his eyes drop instantly to the slick mess between your legs, the way his mouth falls open wider, chest stuttering on the inhale—you already have.

Your hands are on his waistband next, yanking his trousers down with a sharp, punishing motion, like you’re stripping him of the illusion of control he thought he had. His cock springs free, flushed dark and already leaking, the head slick with your arousal and the cum from before, and he groans—sharp, breathless, eyes fluttering as the air hits him. You drag your thumb over the tip and he jerks beneath you, biting back a moan, his hips twitching like he’s about to thrust up into nothing.

And you’re watching him the whole time, eyes dark and hungry, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, feeling how hard he is, how desperate, how he’s throbbing already in your hand. He’s not going to last. You both know that. He’s soaked in your slick, your mess smeared over his skin, and when you drag his length through your folds—slow, deliberate, teasing—you feel his whole body shiver beneath you. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t move. He knows better. He just stares, mouth open, eyes locked on the place where your cunt is grinding against him, where his cock is slipping through your folds, getting slicker, messier, harder with every second. He’s trembling. Obedient. Perfect.

And he knows exactly what’s about to happen. Because he’s had it before. And now he’s getting it again.

"Look at that," you murmur, dragging his cock through your folds, teasing him with how wet you are, smearing his tip in everything he gave you. "Look how messy you made me. You want to see how deep I can take it?" You reach down, hold the base tight, and press it to your entrance. And then you drop. All the way down. No warning. No pause. Just an immediate, filthy, wet sink that punches a moan out of both of you so loud it vibrates through the floor. Your walls stretch wide to take him, swallowing his cock in one ruinous descent that leaves you both gasping. Your mouth falls open, head rolling back as the heat of him fills you, overwhelms you. His cock throbs deep inside, thick and twitching like it’s trying to mark its place, your cunt clamping down hard around him like it knows exactly what to do. He whimpers, breath catching, eyes rolling back for a second before they flutter open again just to watch the way your body moves on top of him. You grind once, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock against every soaked, aching inch inside you, and he shakes.

“Good boy,” you purr, voice rich with dark satisfaction, syrupy and sharp as it curls through the air between you. You lean down, hand in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to force him to meet your gaze. “So fucking hard for mommy already. So easy to ruin.” You roll your hips again, grinding down so hard he gasps like it knocks the wind out of him, your cunt flexing tight and greedy. His lips are parted, pupils blown, chest rising like he can’t catch a full breath—completely fucked from how deep you’re sitting on him. You shift your angle and bounce once, sharp and mean, and he yelps. The sound makes you grin. You do it again, harder, faster, your rhythm quickening, pace snapping into something brutal. His cock stretches you open perfectly, every bounce making your tits shake, your ass slap down against his thighs with obscene, wet impact that echoes loud and unapologetic.

You’re soaked. The mess between your legs is shameless—slick and cum smeared everywhere, coating his cock, his lap, running down the insides of your thighs in thick, sticky drips. And you don’t fucking care. You ride him harder, faster, your thighs burning as you slam down on him with brutal rhythm, fucking yourself open like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. “You hear that?” you growl through your moans, bouncing on his cock like it’s a punishment. “That’s your dick ruining me. That’s mommy’s pussy taking you how she wants. Look at what you fucking do to me.” You grind your clit down between bounces, letting the friction send lightning through your whole body, chasing that high, losing your mind on top of him while he just takes it.

He’s gone. Wrecked. Moaning beneath you like he can’t help it, hands shaking where they grip the chair, thighs trembling under your weight. His face is flushed, lips swollen, sweat dripping from his temple down his neck as he tries not to cum from the way you’re milking his cock like your life depends on it. “M-mommy—fuck—please—” he chokes out, voice cracking, head lolling against the chair.

You clench around him just to feel him jolt, his whole body stuttering as he whimpers something close to a sob. “You wanna cum?” you pant, your voice soaked in filth. “Wanna fill mommy up like a good little toy?” He nods so fast it’s pathetic. “Please—please, let me—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good—just wanna feel you cum on me.”

“Then do it,” you growl, slamming down with everything you have. “Cum. Fucking fill me.” He does. Hard. His whole body arches, mouth falling open as he moans loud and wrecked, cock twitching inside you with every pulse, every shot of cum spilling deep into your cunt. You keep riding him through it, your own orgasm crashing into you like a fucking wave, cunt squeezing so tight around him it forces out one last desperate moan. Your legs are shaking, your whole body jerking as you grind through the pleasure, your voice a breathless mess of ‘fuckfuckfuck’ as your head falls forward against his neck.

When it finally slows, when your hips still and all that’s left is heat and sweat and the overwhelming stretch of him softening inside you, the weight of everything sinks back in like poison behind your ribs. You’re still trembling, cunt fluttering around him in the aftershocks, breath shallow, messy, hot against his mouth as you stay right there—filled, ruined, pressed to his chest like you belong there. You press a kiss to his cheek. Then another, and another, slower this time, soft and almost sweet—his jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth. Your lips graze his skin like you're trying to memorize it all over again. “Good boy,” you whisper, voice ragged but dripping warmth, your fingers brushing through his hair. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve left as soon as you came but you stayed. Sat in his lap with your cum-dripping pussy still wrapped around his cock like you were trying to get stuck there, like you wanted to be trapped in this moment, to rot in it. It’s fucked. You’re fucked. There’s no pretending anymore. You knew this was wrong when you showed up, when you pushed him down, when you let him touch you like no one else ever could but you couldn’t help it, you didn’t want to. You wanted to get messy. You wanted to feel him stretch you open, fill you up, take everything from you again just so you could fall deeper into the wreckage you swore you’d crawl out of. You did this. Not because you were weak but because you were selfish because a part of you likes what this does to you. What it does to him.

You kiss his lips again—slow, soft, gentle—and you feel him melt just a little under it. He’s so quiet for a second it almost feels like peace. His arms are around you. His breath is still uneven, his chest still warm. And then you feel it. The smirk. That tiny twitch of his lips under yours.

He tilts his head lazily, eyes half-lidded, voice cracked and hoarse and smug as he mutters, “Mommy rides me like she’s obsessed…” His fingers flex against your hips, holding you there, like he’s testing the limits again, pushing just enough to see if you’ll break. Then he licks his lips, teeth catching the edge in a little grin. “But I think you missed me more than you wanna admit.” His cock twitches inside you, subtle, deliberate, and he raises a brow. “Still inside me,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to where you’re connected, still warm, still dripping, still full. “Guess that means you’re not ready to let me go yet, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to respond. He doesn’t wait. One second you’re breathless and full and dizzy from the filth in his voice, and the next you’re being spun, repositioned, rearranged like he’s already decided how he wants you. His grip tightens—one hand squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise, the other dragging up your spine, slow and firm. You shiver under his touch, and he sees it, feels it, uses it. That’s when everything shifts. The teasing disappears. The smirk fades. His jaw clenches and in a blur of movement, you’re slammed chest-first into the wall, his cock still buried inside you as your cheek scrapes cold plaster. Your knees almost buckle at the impact, and that’s when his voice hits—rough and wrecked. “You wanna test me?” he growls. “Then take it. Take everything.” His hand lands hard on your ass, a warning and a promise, and your body braces without question. This isn’t play anymore. This is him taking.

He fucks you from behind like he’s got something to prove—like every thrust is a punishment, like every moan you let out just fuels him more. Your palms slam against the wall above your head, fingers scrambling for leverage as the impact drives you up onto your toes. The room is hot, air thick and sticky, the wall rough against your skin while his cock stretches you open from behind. He presses against you, breath loud at your ear, hips slamming into you with force and precision. Every stroke is deep, hard, unrelenting, and your body reacts on instinct—arching back, legs spread wider, wetness dripping down your thighs. A mirror catches the scene across the room and you see it: your mouth open, body swaying with every thrust, mascara smudged and eyes half-lidded. You look wrecked. You are. The music plays somewhere beneath the noise, but it’s drowned out by skin slapping, your gasps, his grunts, the sheer rhythm of ruin.

It started with a command, but now he doesn’t even need to speak. His presence says it all—how his hand snakes around your throat and pulls you into an arch, your back bowing beautifully under his control. You can feel him everywhere—his grip, his cock, the heat of his mouth as he drags his teeth down your shoulder. When he finally speaks, it’s low and filthy. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your skin. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His hand drops between your thighs, fingers brushing your clit. “You’re fucking soaking. Soaking my cock. Making a mess like the little slut you are.” You whimper, try to nod, but he shoves you forward again, cheek against the wall. “Say it,” he demands, voice sharp. “Say you’re mine.”

Your back hits the wall with a thud, his cock already buried to the base, hand wrapped tight around your throat like a leash he’s never letting go of. No warning, no pause—just brutal, full-throttle fucking, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel full. Every thrust forces you up onto your toes, spine arching, breath caught high, your mouth open in a silent moan as your body bounces with every slam. His teeth drag down your shoulder, his grip never easing, his rhythm violent and desperate—like he’s trying to fuck something out of you, or into you, something that won’t leave when he’s done. It’s too much. The stretch, the pace, the need—and still, you can’t stop taking him. You don’t want to.

The grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes flutter, just enough to make your body arch, offering him more—shoulders pulled back, tits pushed out, cunt stretched wide around his cock. Every thrust lands punishing and precise, timed to your breath like he’s syncing your pulse to the rhythm of his hips. He presses his body closer, crowding you against the wall, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder like he’s claiming territory. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he mutters, voice nothing but gravel and heat. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His fingers dip between your legs and find you swollen, soaked, already shaking. “Fucking dripping. You were begging before I even touched you.”

You try to nod, try to moan something back, but he slams into you so hard your cheek bounces off the wall with a sharp gasp. His grip on your throat tightens, cutting the sound off halfway—not to silence you but to own it, to remind you that every gasp belongs to him. “Don’t nod,” he snarls, voice cracked and savage. “Fucking say it.” You can’t. Not with the way he’s destroying you—cock punching into your cunt so deep, so fast, it feels like your brain’s leaking out through the mess he’s making between your legs. Your mouth stays open, drooling, glassy-eyed and desperate as he fucks you into a state beyond language. You’re not even sure what you were going to say. Your body doesn’t know how to do anything but take it.

He fists your hair, yanks your head back with no gentleness at all, and drags your face toward the mirror. “Look,” he spits, chest heaving, hips still pounding into you. “You see what you’re doing to me?”

The mirror shows everything. Your body—wrecked, bent, stretched—tits bouncing violently with every slap of his hips, your pussy spread wide around his cock, sloppy and stuffed and leaking down your thighs. His grip on your throat. His cock plunging in and out of you like he’s trying to make it fit deeper, like he’s trying to own every inch of you from the inside out. You blink at the reflection, barely recognizing yourself—your mouth open and wet, your thighs trembling, your whole body glazed in sweat and slick and submission.

“I look…” you whisper, voice trembling, half-cocked and drunk on the stretch, the slap, the choke, the way he feels. “I look used.”

He fucks you harder. Hisses against your skin. “Say it right. Used by who?”

You choke, a moan ripping out of you as your head tips forward again, eyes locked on the mirror. “By you, I look like I was made to take Daddy’s cock.”

He snarls, his whole body jerking like your words snapped something loose inside him. “Fuck,” he groans, slamming into you so deep your legs nearly give out. “Say it again. Say it while I fuck you harder than he ever could.” He fucks you harder, meaner, rutting into you like your body’s his to break.

“You fuck me better than anyone ever could,” you pant, breathless, clenching so tight around him it drags a moan straight from his chest. “Yangyang couldn’t even make me wet. I was bored. I was dry. I felt nothing.” His hand lands hard against your ass, then again, and again, until your skin stings and your pussy flutters even tighter. “But I’m soaked right now,” you hiss, grinding back on him. “And it’s all for you.”

He spits straight down onto your cunt, watches it mix with your slick, then shoves back into you like he’s angry you let anyone else near it. “You feel that?” he growls, palm pressing to the bulge low in your belly. “That’s how deep I am. You take me like you were fucking made for this.” His fingers move to your mouth, pushing between your lips, smearing spit across your chin, then dragging it down to your clit. “You like being used like this?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “Like being pinned and stretched and filled until you can’t think?”

You moan, voice hoarse and breathless, “No one knows how to fuck me like this.” It doesn’t come out sweet or gentle—it leaks out, torn from your throat like a confession, slurred and high, because your body can’t take any more and your brain’s already gone dumb. You feel yourself pulsing around him, your cunt clenching so tight it’s practically drawing him in deeper, and the way his hands tighten on your hips is instinctive, reactive—because it hits him harder than anything else. Knowing that you mean it. That he’s where you come undone. That even now, with your cheek pressed to the wall and your body trembling, you want more. And he gives it.

But the illusion of control shatters when he growls, “But you nearly let Yangyang fuck you like this tonight?” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, thick with disbelief and something darker. Jealousy. His pace falters for only half a breath, like the weight of the image is too much—and then he slams in harder, rougher, angrier. Like he’s trying to fuck the thought out of both your heads. The sound of skin on skin is harsh, merciless, and the jealousy bleeds through his every motion. The thought of someone else seeing you like this—he can’t stand it. The idea of someone else getting close enough to even imagine it makes his jaw clench and his rhythm vicious.

You laugh through a moan, breath hitching, voice smug and sharp. “You’re so jealous,” you whisper, fluttering your lashes, hips rocking back with intention. “You’re never gonna let it go, huh?” The words drip with challenge, and he knows exactly what you’re doing. You tilt your hips in a slow, dangerous curve, fucking yourself onto him like it’s yourpace, your game. Your tone is all tease, bratty and smug, even when you’re gasping. It’s bait, and he takes it.

He grabs your jaw suddenly, fingers rough, dragging your face toward his mouth. His voice is low and lethal. “You still let him get this close.” He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. That quiet fury is worse. You feel his grip tighten, his hips slam forward with sharp precision, and the look in his eyes as he stares into the mirror in front of you is pure restraint fraying. His jaw flexes. His breathing sharpens. You’ve struck something deep.

“I thought I’d want him,” you breathe, voice catching on the next thrust. “I thought maybe it would feel good. Maybe it’d help me forget you.” Your fingers grip the edge of the wall, knuckles white. “He’s got a big cock, Jeno. He used to fuck me good.” You’re not trying to provoke this time. Not really. It’s the truth and that’s exactly why it cuts so sharp.

The slap lands so hard your moan turns into a gasp. His palm cracks across your ass, a sound that echoes through the room like a warning shot. “That’s exactly what I want to fucking hear,” he spits, but there’s no praise in it. Just venom. He yanks your hair back, makes you stare at your reflection in the mirror. “Say it again. Let me fucking watch you lie to me.” You tremble, cunt fluttering around his cock without meaning to. His spit hits your spine, hot and filthy, sliding between your cheeks, down to mix with your slick. And then—he stills. Doesn’t move. Cock buried so deep, hand tight around your throat, breathing ragged against your shoulder. The silence makes it unbearable. Every inch of you pulses with need, desperate for him to move again, to fuck you or finish you or break you.

You can barely form the words, but you do. You need to. “I don’t come for anyone like I come for you.” Your voice is soaked, broken, needy. “My pussy begs for your cock, Jeno.” You grind your hips back, slow and aching, chasing friction. “I can’t stop thinking about how it fills me—how deep you get. No one else can do that. No one ever has.” Your hand reaches for his wrist, the one still around your throat, and you pull it tighter. “I get wet just thinking about how your cock stretches me. How it ruins me.” You’re shaking now, but it doesn’t matter. “Your cock’s the only thing that makes me feel like this. Like I’m losing my fucking mind.” You gasp, wrecked, nails clawing at the wall. “I love it. I love how you don’t stop. I’m made for it. For you. For this cock.”

It happens fast. One second, he’s deep inside you, breath ragged, hips stuttering as your praise ruins him from the inside out—and the next, his moan shatters through the room like it’s been torn straight from his throat. His arms tremble, grip faltering, and you don’t notice it at first—too cockdrunk, too gone, too focused on the pressure in your gut and the slick slide of his cock holding you open but then his hold slips, your back arches too far, and your body twitches, instinctively grinding down like it needs to stay connected—and that’s what breaks it.

The fall is chaotic, graceless, loud. A sharp gasp, the crash of limbs, your moan tearing through the air as his cock jerks inside you mid-collapse. The thud when your bodies hit the floor is jarring, a mess of skin and heat and tangled limbs. His hands fumble, trying to grab at you, to stabilize, to breathe. “Fuck,” he snarls, winded and breathless, the word punched out of him as your weight settles over his chest, his cock still buried deep in your cunt, twitching. His voice comes hot and cracked against your ear. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

But you do. Not to defy him, not to take control. Your body just reacts, hips jerking once, pussy clenching so tight around him it knocks another sound out of him—raw, sharp, needy. His head falls back, mouth open, jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread, and you can feel it—how wrecked he is, how on edge, how close he is to snapping completely if you even breathe wrong again. You’re on top now, legs shaking, thighs twitching, cunt stretched and stuffed so full it aches—but you don’t dare lift off. You can’t. Not when he’s still inside you. Not when it feels this good. Not when he’s gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

He hisses through his teeth, his hand clamping down on your hip like a vice, and his eyes find yours—dark, desperate, drenched in hunger, the sharp gleam of sweat lining his throat making him look carved from something molten. His hair is sticking to his forehead, lips parted and red from being bitten raw, and the hard planes of his chest rise and fall beneath you like he’s burning up from the inside out. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight, straining under your weight, cock twitching inside you with helpless tension. He doesn’t need to speak. That look says everything. He’s about to break but you don’t stop. You lean into the threat like it turns you on, because it does.

You don’t listen.

Your lips curl into a slow, filthy smirk as your hands plant firmly on his stomach, and you start to move—not cautious, not soft. You roll your hips in one long drag, feeling the thick stretch of him all the way to your stomach, and then you lift up enough to feel the cool air kiss your slick skin before you slam back down with a squelch that echoes in the room. Again. And again. Your bounce turns frantic, thighs slapping loud and hot against his as you take him over and over, cunt swallowing his cock like it belongs there. You ride him hard, rhythm messy, greedy, riding like your body’s gone feral, like you need to feel every inch of him bruise your insides. Jeno groans beneath you, deep and wrecked, his hands flying up to grab your tits, your waist, trying to hold onto something as your pace wrecks him. “Fucking whore — fuck,” he chokes, eyes wild as he bucks up into you, cock slamming back into you mid-bounce, his abs flexing under your hands as you pin him down.

You feel everything—his sweat-slick skin, the drag of his cock along every sensitive spot inside you, the obscene sounds your bodies make every time you drop down, and you swear he’s throbbing so hard it’s making your whole body pulse with it. You’re not just fucking him—you’re devouring him, fucking him through the floor, milking every inch of his cock like you’ll die if you don’t. And he lets you, jaw slack, eyes glued to where you’re bouncing on his cock, moaning like you’ve never needed anything more.

Each bounce is a declaration, a punishment, a cry for power. His hands grip your ass tight, letting you fuck yourself on his cock until your moans rise in wild, ragged bursts, and his eyes glaze over like you’ve got him undone. But you should’ve known better. His body tenses. And before you can take another breath, he surges up beneath you, his arm locking tight around your waist as he throws you flat to his chest with a snarl. "You think this is your pace?" he grits out, voice splitting at the seams. Then he flips you. Your back hits the cold floor, air knocked from your lungs, wrists pinned, and he drives into you like he’s trying to fuck the arrogance out of your body. No rhythm. Just punishment. Flesh slapping hard against the floor, the sound of your moans colliding with every thrust.

You growl, bucking up under him, nails digging into his sides, and he grits his teeth as your legs wrap around his waist, trying to force him off-balance. You bite his shoulder, sharp and deep, and he hisses in your ear before slamming back in so hard your scream ricochets off the walls. “That all you got, baby?” he taunts, blood on his lip, eyes crazed. You don’t answer. You claw at him, trying to flip him, panting, snarling, slapping his cheek. And when he grabs your throat this time, he means it—squeezes just enough to still you, his thumb pressing your pulse like a trigger. “Try me again,” he growls, body locked, cock snapping into you with violent precision, sweat dripping down his neck as you arch and bare your teeth back.

You shove at his chest, spit clinging to your lips as he snarls and slams your wrists to the floor, one hand caging both above your head while the other grabs your jaw and forces your mouth open. His spit hits your tongue, filthy and slow, and he drags his tongue across your lips like it’s a fucking threat. “Don’t test me, bitch,” he growls, heat pouring off his body like fire. Your pussy clenches at the word, slick walls tightening around his cock like your body’s begging to be ruined, soaking and shameless as you moan against his mouth. Your tits bounce with every grind of his hips, nipples raw and flushed from the drag of his chest, your body sliding against the floor from the force of it.

You're slick, thighs slippery with it, your cunt clenching around him with each brutal thrust like it’s trying to keep him buried. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. His fingers shift to your throat, his grip firm, guiding you down as he fucks up into you so hard your tits jolt and sway between your bodies. The burn of the floor fades beneath the weight of his cock, the slap of skin, the choking heat. You're not just being ruined—you're being owned, every thrust punishing, deep, designed to tear you apart and put you back together the way he wants.

You gasp against his mouth, the words slipping out between kisses like you're spitting venom. “You think making me moan means you’re in charge?” You bite his lip, hard enough to draw a hiss. “I ride you better than you fuck me.”

That’s the switch. His eyes flash, dark and dangerous, his jaw locking as the smirk fades. “Yeah?” he mutters, low and sharp, “Then let me remind you what you sound like with my hand around your throat.” In a blur, his arm coils around your waist, the other fisting your hair. He flips you fast, slams you face-first into the floor, cheek pressed down hard. Then he fucks back in—so deep, so harsh, your whole body jolts. One hand clamps tight around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath stutter, your eyes roll. “This pussy,” he grits out, hips snapping, “knows exactly who it belongs to.” You sob into the floor, back arching, tears spilling as he drags more out of you with every punishing thrust. He’s not trying to make you come. He’s trying to break you—until the only sound left is your scream, and it’s all his.

You slam him down, not just to ride but to win. Your knees bruise against the floor, thighs straining as you sink down on his cock with a filthy squelch, your whole body jerking from the force. There’s no rhythm—just chaos. You grind, bounce, twist, chase every reaction like it’s blood in the water. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, slick, thick, soaked in spit and arousal, and every time you slam back down, your ass smacks his thighs with a sound that makes both of you moan. He grips your hips to stabilize the frenzy but you slap his hands away, riding harder, faster, like you want to break him first. Your tits bounce wildly, sweat flinging off your skin, hair sticking to your face. He tries to meet your rhythm, thrusting up mid-bounce, but you plant your hand on his chest and shove him flat again. “Stay down,” you pant, smirking through grit teeth. “Be a good boy.”

That’s what snaps him. He lunges up, throws his arm around your waist, and lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but not from fear—from thrill. His cock slips out only to be shoved right back in as he flips you over, your back smacking the floor. You claw at his arms, try to hook your leg around his hip, push and pull and bite his shoulder. He growls—deep, animalistic—and bites your tit in retaliation, lips locking around your nipple and sucking until your back arches, your scream cut off by the slap of his hips. It’s brutal. His hands grip your wrists, pin them above your head.

Your cunt clenches, leaking down your ass, the stretch unbearable, addictive. “You think you can fuck the fight out of me?” you gasp, breath stolen between thrusts. “Try it, daddy.”

He grabs your face, kisses you with teeth, and the fight keeps going—your hips bucking to throw him off, his thrusts pounding so deep you choke. You claw down his back, legs locking around his waist, and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and bending it up to fuck you even deeper. The slap of his balls echoes, slick and sharp. You try to flip him again, muscles burning but he grabs your throat, pushes you down, and spits on your tongue. “Stay,” he snarls, voice broken and wet. You moan, hips grinding up despite the choke, your body responding to every command like it was trained for this. You’re gasping, drooling, begging with your cunt.

When the end comes, it’s not quiet. It’s not clean. You cum first, body spasming, your scream cracking as your cunt pulses around him. He grunts, lets go just long enough to slam deep and stay there, hips twitching, cock buried inside you as he spills. The room’s silent but for the sound of your breath and the drip of slick onto the floor. You're a mess—thighs trembling, skin bruised, hair wild, cum leaking from you both. Still, you’re smiling. “Didn’t think you’d keep up,” you pant, licking his jaw.

He bites your shoulder gently, still inside you. “I wasn’t trying to keep up,” he whispers, dark eyes gleaming. “I was trying to win.”

You grin wider. “Then get ready to lose again.”

You only told him to cool him off—a whispered confession in the dark hallway about where Yangyang said he wanted to fuck you tonight. You thought honesty would settle the simmer in Jeno’s jaw, maybe remind him that you were here with him, not back there saying yes to someone else. But it backfires instantly. The moment he hears which bathroom, the main one near the living room with the short mirror and creaky stall lock, he doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your wrist and drags you there, shoulder shoving the door open.

The music’s shaking the foundations of the house, bass rattling so loud the mirror on the opposite wall trembles. But it’s nothing compared to the way your thighs tremble, the way your body shakes with every drag of Jeno’s tongue across your hole. You’re bent over the metal sink, dress shoved up to your waist, one heel still on, the other kicked off somewhere behind you. Your hands are braced against the stall door, palms sliding every time he licks up—long, filthy swipes that make your knees lock and your spine arch. He’s got your ass spread open wide, cheeks held apart in his bruising grip, nose buried so deep it’s hard to tell where his breath ends and your slick begins. There’s coke residue smeared across the curve of your lower back—his lines laid right on your skin, right where he wants them. He dips to snort off the small of your back, inhales hard, then goes straight back to eating you out like his next breath depends on it.

His tongue is relentless, rough and hot and eager, working in tight, desperate circles around your rim before diving in again, licking so deep you feel it in your stomach. Your body rocks against the metal, hips moving without rhythm, your ass grinding back into his face like it’s instinct. And it is—because the way he groans into you, nose pressed to the mess between your cheeks, the way his fingers sink harder into your thighs every time you moan—it’s addictive. You gasp, voice breaking, “Someone’s gonna hear,” but even that sounds like a moan. And it’s true.

Everyone’s banging on this door because it’s the easiest one to find—the main bathroom just off the first-floor hallway, straight past the entryway. Jeno’s place is huge, too big for anyone who’s not a regular to navigate drunk or high. Most people don’t even know there’s a second bathroom tucked behind the kitchen or a third near the guest rooms upstairs and many more scattered around but you do. You always have. Now the door’s rattling behind you, fists pounding and voices raised, half pissed and half desperate to get in. None of them know why it’s locked. None of them know he’s on his knees, nose pressed between your cheeks, tongue buried in your pussy, one hand gripping your thigh and the other doing lines off the curve of your ass while you try not to scream.

“Make me come before they break the door down,” you whisper, voice soaked in desperation, cocky with it—and he does. Without even pausing, he drags the flat of his tongue across your ass, then pushes it back inside, eating you out with even more determination, licking and groaning and fucking you with his mouth like he wants Yangyang to hear every single sound you make through the door.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nose still wet with you, jaw slick, eyes dark. The coke still burns in his sinuses, his breath ragged, jaw clenched tight. “You really thought I’d stop with just that?” he mutters, grabbing your wrist before you can catch your breath. You barely manage to stumble upright—thighs trembling, your dress rumpled around your hips—before he’s dragging you out of the stall, pace ruthless. The second the bathroom door swings open behind you, someone hisses, “Finally,” but Jeno doesn’t look back. Doesn’t flinch. His grip doesn’t loosen, doesn’t falter. He hauls you through the winding corridor like a man possessed, past bodies and heat and bass-thick air, up a side staircase even you forgot existed. And then it breaks—the sound, the weight, the heat—as a glass door slams open and you’re pulled into the night.

The balcony is narrow, sky-high, all glass and wind and city stretching endlessly below. The view is surreal—skyscrapers flickering in gold, traffic crawling like stars in motion, distant windows glowing like they’re watching. But you don’t see any of it. Not when your back hits the railing. Not when your dress is yanked up to your ribs. Not when he spits on his palm, fists his cock, and thrusts into you in one cruel, claiming stroke. You cry out, folding forward over the metal edge as he fills you, holds you there, starts to move. Each thrust slams you forward, tits bouncing, cheek pressed to the icy glass. His arm wraps tight around your waist to hold you up, the other hand planted on your hip like he’s anchoring himself inside your cunt. The cold air shocks your skin but the heat between your thighs devours it—every snap of his hips loud, obscene, echoing into the open night like a warning.

His rhythm is brutal. Relentless. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave his name stamped into your cervix, every inch of cock buried so deep you see stars. And still, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His groans are rough, close to your ear, teeth dragging down your neck like he wants to mark you all over again. The only thing you can do is stare out into the skyline, moaning, whimpering, eyes glossed and makeup ruined, your mouth falling open on every thrust. It slips out unbidden—a choked whisper soaked in wreckage. "Please... please don't stop." He hears it and snarls, pulling out just to fuck back in harder, sharp enough to make the railing rattle.

“He said he wanted to fuck me here,” you gasp, voice tight and raw, lashes wet. “Said he wanted to make me scream.” You don’t say who. You don’t need to. Jeno knows. The way his hips start to snap faster says it all. “You are screaming,” he growls, the words low, thick, dangerous. “But not for him.” He slaps your ass, once, twice, handprint stinging as your body jerks. The sound cuts through the city night like a gunshot, your cry right behind it. He leans in, hot breath at your neck, cock dragging against every nerve inside you. “Let the whole fucking city hear it,” he snarls. “Let him hear you break for me.” And you do—your mouth opens on a sob as he thrusts harder, rubbing your clit now, wrecking you from both ends until your knees give out completely, until all you can do is scream and shudder and shake. Your cries spill over the edge of the balcony like smoke, swallowed by the night, carried off into the dark until all that’s left is you, clinging to the railing, full of him, ruined in the skyline glow.

You don’t notice him at first, not until something shifts at the edge of your vision, a flicker of movement just past Jeno’s shoulder that doesn’t belong. You blink through the blur of sweat and rhythm and stretch, your body jolting with every punishing thrust, your tits bouncing with the force of it, your hands slipping slightly on the slick of your own skin against the glass. Then your gaze locks onto it—him—standing still, half in the shadows and fully watching. Your brows pull together, lips parting with a breathy laugh that doesn’t quite sound sane. “Juyeon?” It slips out before you can think, soft and stupid, like the moan that should have come out instead.

Jeno hears it, hears a name that’s not his fall from your mouth while he’s buried inside you and his hand flies down so fast it’s instinct, slapping your ass hard enough to sting and echo, to punish you for the blasphemy. You gasp at the impact, your body flinching from it but not pulling away, and Jeno snarls without slowing, “What?” his voice rough and clipped and pissed.

You glance at him from beneath your lashes, half-laughing still, half-daring, then tip your chin back toward the dark, voice low and twisted sweet, “It’s Juyeon. He’s watching us.”

Juyeon was one of the regular guys you and Jeno used to fuck. You remember the first time the three of you fucked—how easy it was, how natural, how Jeno had picked him out from across the room with that look he gets when he wants to ruin something just to prove he can. Juyeon had been cocky at first, all pretty smiles and fast hands but he folded so fast once Jeno took control. You’d ended up sandwiched between them, fucked from both ends, Jeno’s hand in your hair while Juyeon moaned into your cunt like it was holy. Jeno had laughed, low and mean, when Juyeon came too fast the first time, had whispered filthy things about it in your ear while you kept riding him anyway, cock twitching from overstimulation. You liked the way Juyeon listened, how eager he was to touch, to taste, how he waited for permission even when he was begging. But none of it ever stuck after—the kisses, the moans, the mess—except Jeno. He was always the anchor, the gravity. Even then, even while someone else was inside you, it was only ever for him. You’d stare over Juyeon’s shoulder and Jeno would hold your gaze like he owned you, and when he finally pulled you off Juyeon to fuck you himself, it always felt like coming home.

Jeno doesn’t speak for a moment, just turns enough to confirm what you already know—Juyeon’s there, standing in the doorway with his hands at his belt and a cocky glint in his eye, already half-hard. Jeno’s rhythm slows to a deep, deliberate grind that leaves your legs shaking and your pussy aching for more, and even as you whimper at the loss, he tightens his grip around your throat, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Not here,” he mutters, voice low and final, jaw tight with something territorial, something sharp. “We’re fucking in my room.” His palm lands hard on your ass, a warning to stay still as he pulls out, and the emptiness hits you fast and raw. Juyeon blinks, clearly expecting more right there, his trousers halfway down already, but Jeno shoots him a glare and jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Move.” His voice leaves no room to argue. You swallow, breath shallow, legs trembling, and let Jeno haul you up. His arm stays around your waist the entire way there, holding you like he’s staking a claim, while Juyeon trails behind silently, cock in hand, watching the sway of your hips like he’s already imagining his mouth between them again. But even then—walking naked through his house, bruised and leaking—you’re still thinking about Jeno.

As soon as your back hits Jeno’s sheets, there’s no reprieve, no pause, no moment to catch your breath—he pushes you forward until your chest hits the mattress and your knees catch on the edge, arching your back as your spine bows into place, ass high, legs spread, cunt already dripping down your thighs. He doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t ask. He shoves into you like he’s been waiting all night to fill you again, and your head falls forward into the pillows with a sharp cry as your fingers twist in the sheets. Then Juyeon’s there, in front of you, hand curled around his cock, smirking as he brings it to your lips. You open instinctively, tongue out, already spit-slick and desperate, letting him push past your lips until your mouth’s stretched wide. Your cheek is wet, jaw aching, throat working as you suck him, while Jeno pounds you from behind, hips slamming into your ass, one hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you still. You’re trapped between them—one cock stuffed down your throat, the other buried deep in your pussy, your body rocked in rhythm, spine locked in a helpless curve, every hole filled and used.

It builds slowly, almost unnoticeable at first. Your hips twitch every time Jeno drags his cock deep, hitting something inside that makes your legs shake and your moans catch wet around Juyeon’s cock. You’re still sucking him, still stroking him with your mouth like muscle memory but your focus is already warping—your hands slipping from his thighs, your jaw slackening just slightly, eyes fluttering shut each time Jeno grinds in harder. Juyeon leans in, strokes your cheek, murmurs something low you don’t even hear, not with the way Jeno’s fucking you like he owns you, like he’s trying to fuck the shape of him back into your body. Your tongue flattens, movements growing lazier, lips stretched but no longer devoted. When Jeno growls, voice rough in your ear—“You like him watching while I break you open?”—your whole body answers before your mouth can. You choke softly, eyes watering, hips rolling back to meet him harder, deeper.

Jeno’s already buried so deep inside you your legs are shaking, the stretch dizzying, your pussy fluttering around him with every slow drag of his cock but your mouth is still full—Juyeon’s cock thick between your lips, your chin slick with spit, your throat working around him even as your eyes start to glaze. Then, without warning, you lift your hand and shove him back, fingers digging into his hip as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet, ruined sound. “What the fuck—?” he gasps, breath catching, but you’re not looking at him. You don’t even blink in his direction. Your other hand reaches blindly behind you, clutching at Jeno’s hands, and the safe word you and Jeno had, one you rarely used, slips out like instinct. “Red.”

You say the word because you know he’ll stop. Red. It’s your safe word, one you rarely have to use with Jeno. It’s not panic, not overwhelm—it’s a decision, one that only Jeno understands. The moment it slips from your lips, everything about him changes. His hands catch your waist instantly, the edge vanishing from his eyes, the bite gone from his breath. He pulls out gently, careful, his touch reverent as he eases you back into his lap. “Shit, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face, voice so soft it barely carries. “Was it too much? Are you okay? Talk to me.” You shake your head, slow and calm, eyes still fixed on his. You don’t answer because you don’t need to. You got what you wanted—him. Just him. Your fingers wipe the mess from your mouth, and then you shift, crawling closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle into his lap like that’s where you belong. You press your face to his neck and whisper, “Hi, baby,” like it’s a secret only he gets to hear, like it’s the only thing that matters. Then you slide down onto his cock again, slow and warm, breath catching at the stretch you already know by heart, and he groans into your skin like he’s never felt anything better, hands tightening on your waist, grounding you, loving you.

He’s confused for a moment, brows knitting, head tipping back slightly, and you see it. The click behind his eyes as he realizes what just happened—what you really meant. You said the safe word not because it was too much but because it was wrong. Because you wanted him, only him and you needed a way to get there without guilt. You thought you were okay when you came into the room. You thought maybe you could do this again, just like before but your body had already made the decision. Jeno sees it now, you’re not interested in any more threesomes. His hands soften at your waist as you roll your hips slowly, intimately, no rush, no performance. Just him. Just you. He exhales into your hair like he’s been holding it in for years.

Juyeon’s still there. Still hard. Still staring. His face twists like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, like something about the quiet between you and Jeno makes him feel like he was never really in it. “You didn’t even make me cum,” he mutters, frustrated, a little too loud but you don’t flinch or blink. Your body moves against Jeno’s like nothing else exists, slow and lazy, savoring the feeling of him deep inside you. You nuzzle against his cheek, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and Jeno doesn’t even look at Juyeon. He just tilts his head toward your voice, completely gone for you. You smile, soft and ruined, and finally glance over your shoulder—not at Juyeon, but past him, like he’s already fading.

“Get the fuck out,” Jeno adds, eyes never leaving yours. You’re already moaning again, hips rolling slow, lost in the boy who’s never let go of you, the one who always pulls you back. Juyeon stills for a second, stunned, and then the sound of him grabbing his clothes breaks the silence.

Jeno’s hands are back on you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple. You ride him slow, deep, your pussy clenching with every grind, his cock heavy and thick inside you, warmth blooming through every nerve. The room feels like it holds just you and him now—no past, no mistakes, just now. Just his voice, low in your ear, murmuring, "You're home now, baby. Stay right here."

His cock stays buried inside you, softened now but still refusing to leave as if his body can’t quite bear the emptiness. Your limbs feel heavy and loose with exhaustion, your heartbeat easing into a slow, steady rhythm beneath his gentle touch. His hands wander your skin like he’s trying to soothe every bruise he’s left behind, fingertips tracing softly over your ribs, gliding along the curve of your stomach, brushing tenderly against the sensitive warmth between your thighs. He avoids the spots that ache most, the places where pleasure became pain, caressing you as though he’s afraid you might shatter beneath his touch. His mouth trails quiet kisses, featherlight and careful, over your eyelids, the corner of your lips, your temple, your forehead, each kiss gentle and deliberate, as though he’s silently begging forgiveness for every mark he’s left.

When he finally speaks, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, his breath warm against your cheek as he murmurs softly, “We’re going to be okay.” You exhale shakily, eyes closed, heart clenching at the fragile hope woven into his tone. He repeats himself, stronger now, as though conviction alone could will his promise into reality. “We’re going to be okay,” he says again, and his lips brush yours lightly, lingering, trembling slightly from the weight of those words. You don’t respond, not verbally; instead, you sink into his embrace, allowing him this moment of belief, letting yourself pretend—for just this heartbeat—that maybe he’s right.

His voice softens further when he speaks again, low and intimate, the sound seeping into your skin and settling into the hollow between your shoulder blades. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, lips brushing softly against your back, his breath warm, comforting, possessive in a way that makes your chest ache. “No one else gets to touch you like this again.” His fingers trail down slowly, tenderly, finding the slick heat where his cum drips lazily from your body. He spreads it back inside, his touch unhurried and gentle, reclaiming every drop as if he could keep you this way forever. “It’s all mine,” he murmurs, and his hips move slightly, a delicate rocking motion that speaks less of desire and more of an unwillingness to let go, his cock stirring gently inside you. His lips press another kiss into your neck, lingering softly, desperately. “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he admits quietly, his voice vulnerable, shaking with an honesty that cuts deeper than any wound he’s left tonight. “I don’t wanna fight, I don’t wanna wonder if you’ll leave—I just want you, baby. Wanting you is the only thing I’ve ever done right.” His hand reaches for yours, fingers threading carefully, gripping tight enough to anchor you both. “Promise me,” he pleads softly, almost broken, “promise me we’ll figure it out together, whatever it takes, that we’ll find a way through it all.”

Your heart clenches painfully, because you can’t promise—there’s no way to give him the words he so desperately needs without shattering the fragile moment you’ve built. The truth sticks painfully in your throat, bitter and sharp, so you silence it the only way you know how. You tilt your face upwards, capturing his lips in a kiss that speaks louder than any whispered lie. You kiss him deeply, fiercely, desperately, as if trying to memorize the shape and taste of his mouth, imprinting this moment to keep long after you’ve gone. Tears slip quietly down your cheeks, mingling with the heat of your shared breath, making everything messy, raw, heartbreakingly honest. Yet he smiles against your mouth, a gentle, relieved curve of his lips, as if you’ve finally given him the hope he’s been craving all along. “God, baby,” he whispers breathlessly between kisses, holding you even tighter, his palms sliding reverently along your spine like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I knew you’d come back to me.” And you realize, your chest aching profoundly, that maybe you’ve already left, that the part of you capable of staying behind is lost, no matter how desperately you cling to him now.

The room settles into silence, a fragile quiet punctuated only by the gentle, steady rhythm of your breathing. He cradles you closer, his cock still buried within you, softening slowly, reluctant to part—as if his body believes what his heart desperately wants to. His arms surround you, warm and sure, a sanctuary you’ve tricked yourself into believing you deserve, and just for a heartbeat, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that this isn’t selfish, that you’re not gripping the frayed edges of hope you’ve spun for him, only to unravel them when morning comes. The guilt settles in your chest, dense and suffocating, a stone sinking slowly through the hollow space inside your ribs, drowning out every bruising ache he’s left on your hips, overshadowing the tender sting between your thighs. You’re cruel tonight—not because you hurt him but because you made him believe again, made him think your broken pieces could still fit with his, knowing all along you’d vanish like a phantom at sunrise. Yet he holds you like you’re precious, smiling softly against your temple, murmuring quiet promises into your skin that you can’t bear to hear because they echo truths you can never fulfill. For tonight, you convince yourself you can stay, that the ache in your chest won’t break you both apart, even as you know you’re building him a future made of glass—a fragile illusion, beautiful, shimmering, bound to shatter the moment you slip from his arms.

You don’t leave in the morning, you stay buried in Jeno’s chest like your body’s forgotten how to exist without his, limbs tangled in quiet desperation, the air between you heavy with sleep and something softer. His skin is all heat, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck and for a few stolen moments you pretend this is your life—that this bed, this man, this hold are yours without condition. Guilt prickles beneath your skin, subtle at first then sharper, blooming like a bruise in the tenderness but you don’t flinch, you don’t let go. You let his arm wrap tighter around your waist when you shift in your sleep, let his lips brush your hair like he still knows how to love you in his dreams. You lie to yourself just long enough to stay still, just long enough to believe. Even if your heart aches with the knowing that it’s a borrowed peace you let yourself take it, all of it, even the seconds that were never meant to be yours.

The memory of what day it is breaks through slow, like sunlight bleeding through blinds, hazy and golden, soft but persistent. The river court. It sinks into your chest not just as a name but a whole world, a ritual stitched into the fabric of your youth. Today’s the meet-up—everyone’s bringing food, old playlists, beat-up speakers and weatherworn basketballs, laughter like muscle memory. The plan is to spend the whole day there, sharing memories and teasing each other over games, lounging in half-shade and slipping back into that easy rhythm only this group knows. It might be the last time you’re all together like this before graduation—the last time you’ll trace the same court lines with your feet, toss the same ball into the same rusting hoop, watch the sun dip below the trees from the same cracked bench. You couldn’t miss it. Not for anything.

Jeno stirs behind you, groaning softly, his arms winding around your middle and pulling you back to him like he’s felt your mind slipping away. His lips find your shoulder in lazy, open-mouthed kisses, tongue brushing your skin with sleepy want, and his hand drifts slow over your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He shifts over you, cock pressing firm and warm over your shorts, body draped over yours with the kind of weight that makes you want to stay forever. His mouth finds that spot beneath your jaw that makes you sigh and tilt your head, already pliant, and you giggle through it, breath catching when you push lightly at his chest. “Not now,” you whisper, lips curving, “I have plans.”

He pulls back slightly, face still buried in your neck, and hums against your skin. You tell him, voice low and soft, about the river court gathering, about how important it is. He pauses. You expect the sleepy approval, maybe even a gentle kiss to your cheek. What you don’t expect is him to say, “Mark invited me.” He says it like it’s casual. Like it won’t completely change the shape of the day. You nod, smiling, and try not to let it show. You want to be happy that the two people you care about most are finally in sync, getting along like wildfire and dry leaves, but all it does is twist in your chest.

You both get ready slowly, lazily, the kind of unhurried rhythm that comes when being apart feels impossible. You’re dressed first, in one of your short skirts that he loves, the one that rides up when you sit, exposing just enough to make his hands twitch. Jeno’s eyes follow your every move as he buttons up his shirt, and when you lean down to fix your boot, he pulls you between his legs and into his lap. You settle easily, thigh on either side of him, his hands gripping your legs with soft reverence. Neither of you speaks at first. It’s just you and him, breathing each other in, noses brushing, mouths almost touching. There’s no rush. Just that glowing, suspended feeling that always comes before you leave something behind.

"I have something for you," he murmurs and you hum in response, curious. He reaches over to his nightstand, opens the drawer and your breath catches when you see it—a delicate bracelet, fine crystal beading glinting in the light like it’s been waiting for you. He lifts it slowly like it’s fragile, like it means something, and he meets your eyes before saying, “You gave me so much yesterday, made me feel... fuck, like I was yours again. Like nothing else in the world existed but us. I’ve had this for a while, just been waiting for the right moment.” You bite your lip as he loops it gently around your wrist, the crystals catching sunlight, glittering against your skin like promises you never made out loud. “Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs, and you laugh softly, swatting at his chest before curling your fingers around his.

“You’ve given me so much,” you say under your breath and you mean it, even if your voice wavers a little. He’s tracing the edge of your tattoo now, fingertips light, reverent. You glance down at your wrist, the new bracelet nestled beside your charm one and it’s too much—it’s all too much. Your chest aches, your stomach twists and you don’t know how to carry it. You lean in before your thoughts betray you, your lips finding his again, soft and lingering. His arms wrap around you tight and you let yourself sink into it because this might be the last time. This might be the last day. He’s so good to you, always has been, even when he shouldn’t be and you have no right to stay. You taste the goodbye between your teeth and hold him closer anyway, guilt clawing behind your ribs as his hands spread wide across your back like he’s scared to let go and when he whispers against your mouth that he doesn’t want this moment to end, you lie and nod, because you do too but it has to.

The river court breathes like something alive. The cracked pavement yawns beneath your feet, lines of weeds pushing through the concrete like the ground’s trying to reclaim what was stolen. The paint is nearly gone, not just faded but scraped raw, like time itself has been clawing at the edges. The hoop still hangs, lopsided and rust-rusted, its net long since torn away by storms or fights or kids that never came back. The sun doesn’t shine gentle here—it sears, casting sharp shadows through the bare branches, turning the surface of the river into a shimmering, blinding mirror. The air carries heat and warning, thick with the scent of something about to shift. Something about to break.

There’s laughter, but it echoes wrong, swallowed too quick by the wind. The trees lean in like they’re listening, branches tense, waiting. You’ve always thought this place belonged to you all—but maybe that was a lie. Maybe it never belonged to anyone. Maybe it was always on the edge of collapse, and now, as you step back into it one last time, it’s holding its breath. The river court doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a graveyard of what was, and a battleground for what might still fall apart. You can almost hear it—cracks splintering deeper beneath your soles, roots tightening, old ghosts rustling awake.

You arrive hand in hand, the walk feeling far too short. The air is thick with familiarity. Shotaro, Karina, Donghyuck, Chenle, Ningning, Mark, and Areum are already there but no Yangyang. His absence is a silence louder than any words. He’s clearly avoiding you, and you don’t blame him. Not after everything, not after the mess that was last night. The looks come quickly, a mix of surprise and tension. Areum won’t meet your eyes. Chenle offers you a small smile. Donghyuck, ever the dramatist, throws his arm out theatrically. “And here they are,” he declares, “the forbidden lovers returned from exile.” It earns a few strained laughs, but the awkwardness still lingers.

Areum speaks first, surprisingly. “So,” she asks, voice cautious, “are you guys back together?”

Jeno’s the one who answers. “Just taking it slow,” he says, with that gentle smile that makes your chest ache.

Areum’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, voice even. Jeno doesn’t let you linger in the conversation. He leads you away before anyone else can speak, arm slipping around your waist, body shielding yours from too many stares. You curl up beside him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

The teasing starts immediately. Donghyuck can’t help himself. He grins at Jeno, then at you, tone loaded with mischief. “So the party was… productive?” he quips, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Laughter ripples through the group, but you can’t bring yourself to lift your head. You bury your face in Jeno’s shoulder, heat creeping up your neck. Your shyness is so unlike you, you’re usually quick with a sharp retort or sly grin but after last night, after the sounds you know carried through the walls and the mess you left behind, you can’t even look your friends in the eye.

Jeno wraps an arm tighter around you, chin resting on your head, voice low but playful. “Alright,” he says with a smirk, “everyone back off, she’s shy now.” That only makes the group laugh harder but there’s warmth in it, a kind of affectionate cruelty that means no harm. Jeno shifts slightly to block more of you from view, hand rubbing slow circles on your back, muttering, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll protect your honour.” You swat him weakly, finally peeking out just to see Karina holding up five fingers, mouthing ‘five positions?’ and Donghyuck dramatically pretending to faint beside her. You groan, burying yourself back in Jeno’s hoodie, while he just chuckles and kisses your temple, proud and unbothered.

Karina leans in, smirking. “Congrats on winning the draft. Five positions, six rooms, and a threesome? You fucked your way to the top, that’s the best result anyone has ever gotten from the cheer team.” The group breaks into loud laughter. You glance down, cheeks hot, while Jeno stays quiet beside you, but the look in his eyes says everything. He’s smug as hell, not bothering to hide it.

Mark’s reaction is instant. He jerks forward, nearly drops his drink, eyes bulging like the words physically hit him. “Threesome?” he echoes, voice cracking, like he’s trying to make sure he heard right and praying he didn’t.

Karina doesn’t let up—she twists the knife, sweet and cruel. “They used to have them weekly,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “I joined once, too.”

Mark visibly recoils, mouth falling open in horror. “Oh my god,” he mutters, blinking hard, like he’s trying to erase the image from his brain. “I need bleach. Actual bleach.” He turns away, shaking his head so fast it looks like he might pass out. Jeno doesn’t flinch, just leans back with one arm around you, smug and unbothered, like he’s proud of every second.

The laughter’s still hanging in the air when Chenle steps forward, brushing his hands against his jeans as he walks to the edge of the court. He stops near the dandelion patch just beyond the court, a smile playing on his lips, gaze soft. The breeze lifts his hair slightly as he looks around at everyone, eyes landing on the ones who’ve stood by him since they were kids. “This place,” he starts, voice a little scratchy from laughter and heat and emotion, “this court raised us.” His words settle into the space like ash. “We learned everything here. How to fight, how to lose, how to win, how to stay.” He looks at the dandelions, their delicate heads trembling under the breeze. “It was never just a basketball court. It was a home and it still is. Even when we leave, this place will remember us.”

Before he can go on, Donghyuck snorts. “God, you’re gonna cry again.”

“I might,” Chenle says, unbothered and tries to keep going but the teasing is nowhere near finished.

“You writing a memoir or what?” Mark calls out, cracking a drink open and dropping back onto his elbows, grinning. “Sounds like you’re about to narrate your own biopic.”

“Bet there’s a slow piano track playing in his head,” Shotaro adds, smirking.

Chenle narrows his eyes, pointing. “You’ve been real mouthy lately.”

“Character development,” Shotaro shrugs, smug. “Ryujin says I’m glowing.”

Chenle scoffs, “She also said you were submissive and breedable like two weeks ago.” The laughter that follows cuts through the air clean and easy. The kind of laughter that only happens when nothing really needs to be said. When being here means you’ve already said it all.

Chenle shakes his head and gets back into what he was saying. “We’re doing something different this time. “We’re writing,” he says simply, “dreams, secrets, whatever’s sitting too heavy. Something you want to let go of, or something you still want so bad it hurts. You write it down, fold it up, burn it over the flame, and let it rise. That’s it. Let the smoke carry it out of you.” His voice is calm, certain, almost reverent, like this is the closest thing he believes in. “We don’t keep them, we don’t read them, we just let them go.”

“You’re so sentimental lately,” You tease, giving him a soft smile.

“Must be the impending adulthood,” Chenle quips, holding up a lighter.

Shotaro goes first. He folds his slip with care, then spins on his heel like he’s about to take a shot. He tosses it with perfect aim into the shallow bowl Chenle placed in the center of the court. The flame catches. His eyes don’t leave it. You don’t need him to say what it was. The dance studio he’s always dreamed of building and leading classes in is already etched into the way he carries himself.

Chenle takes his paper last, twirling it once between his fingers like he’s flipping a coin, like the words scribbled inside might decide everything. He kneels by the candle, lights the edge, watches the flame catch and eat its way in. Then, without drawing attention, he lifts his phone and snaps a quick photo—not of the fire but of all of you, bent over your slips of paper, faces serious in the golden light. No one’s looking but the shot is perfect. Everyone’s there. Everyone’s quiet. He smiles to himself, small and private, the kind you tuck away in your chest and keep. “I’ll treasure this one,” he murmurs, mostly to the flame, but it’s real all the same.

Donghyuck presses a kiss to his fingers and flicks them toward the sky before tossing his slip into the flame. He doesn’t say what he wrote, not directly, but you know. It’s the dream job he’s mentioned a hundred times late at night—the one in New York, sports broadcasting, his voice behind the mic while the whole world listens. The paper crackles in the fire, curling fast, and he watches it disappear with a look that’s half pride, half defiance. “If I cry, it’s from the ashes,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard, his mouth twitching like he dares anyone to tease him for it. No one does.

Karina’s takes longer. She holds the slip of paper like it weighs something real, like it knows how badly she wants that spot in the New York fashion program she’s pinned all her hopes on. Her fingers tighten around it once, twice, and for a second it looks like she might fold but then she steps forward, quiet and composed, and drops it into the flame with a breath so deep you hear it from where you’re standing. The edges curl fast, catching quick, and she doesn’t look away until it’s gone.

Areum’s is smaller, more hesitant. She holds hers like it might burn her before it even meets the fire. Her mouth moves—barely audible—but you think you catch the shape of a city, maybe a whisper of a dream she hasn’t shared yet. Something about photographs, about chasing light across the world. She stares at the flame too long, then finally lets it go, and her lips twitch into something that could almost be a smile. Almost.

Mark lingers behind her, the slip trembling slightly between his fingers, crumpled at the corners from how long he’s been holding it. He leans into Areum before lighting his, presses a kiss to her temple like a silent plea, like she’s the thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His eyes don’t meet anyone else’s—too distant, too deep, fixed on a future he’s scared to speak aloud. You know what it is. You all do. It’s in the way his chest tightens every time the ball leaves his hands, in the way he flinches at every strange rhythm of his heart. His secret is simple, and brutal. That basketball won’t be taken from him. That he’ll live long enough to have a life beyond it. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to. You feel it like a pulse in the air. When the flame catches the edge of his paper, he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until it’s ash.

Jeno’s grip on the pen is firm, knuckles pale, and his posture sharper than usual, like the act of writing carves something out of him. His brow furrows in concentration, jaw tight, lips parted like he’s breathing through it, like the words on that slip of paper weigh more than ink should. When he finally folds it, his movements are methodical, almost reverent. He doesn’t hesitate when he drops it into the flame, doesn’t blink as it curls and burns. He doesn’t even glance at it. His eyes are on you.

You know what he wrote. You don’t need to see it. It’s only ever been two things with him—you, and the NBA. In that exact order. His dream isn’t fame, isn’t legacy, isn’t even redemption. It’s making it, and it’s making it with you by his side. Everything else can burn. Every path that doesn’t lead to those two things can be torched. He’ll carry that dream in blood if he has to. Protect it with teeth bared and fists ready. He’ll bend the world to his will or break trying.

When his mouth meets yours, the kiss is slow, deep, a silent vow shaped by the heat of his lips and the firm reverence of his hands cradling your jaw, as if you were the only sure thing left in his universe. You taste it—the fire and devotion, the hunger and holiness—each lingering caress a testament to something ancient and unbreakable. This devotion feels mythic; he would kneel to no one, would spit defiance at gods, would drag demons into sunlight just to keep you safe. To him, you are scripture and rebellion, his origin and endgame, the reason crowds will chant his name like an anthem through echoing arenas. You are the only prayer he’s ever uttered, fierce and unapologetic, never once begging for mercy.

Your own slip feels heavier than it should, weighted by dreams pressed into paper and ink. On the surface, you write your ambition, your future neatly inscribed. But beneath, in looping letters like whispered incantations or the prayers of priestesses begging ancient gods to free mortal heroes from cruel destinies, you write again and again: Let him be free. Let him be free. Let him be free. From chains forged in his father’s shadow, from the torment he’ll never escape on his own, from a story written by other hands. If he cannot ask for mercy, you’ll plead in his stead.

You taste the bitter edge of your own guilt, sharp and unavoidable because you know the prayers whispered between your lips will never be answered. He would kneel to no god, would challenge fate itself but his rebellion is doomed from the start. Neither of his dreams—freedom from his father’s shadow, or redemption from his silent torment—will ever be granted and you know this truth more clearly than he ever could.

When you finally retreat home, it's like sinking into a warm dream, reality softening at the edges. You and Jeno spend the entire evening wrapped up in one another, existing in a world built solely from gentle touches, whispered promises, and slow, lingering kisses that leave your heart aching sweetly. He holds you as though you're something delicate, his hoodie swallowing you whole, his scent clinging to your skin as fiercely as his embrace. The hours blur, indistinguishable from one tender moment to the next, until you're no longer sure where you end and he begins, his heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath your ear like an unspoken reassurance. But peace never lasts, and too soon, the comforting sanctuary of his arms gives way to harsh reality.

Donghyuck, relentless as ever, drags you both back to the river court, insisting the burnt paper wasn't enough to seal whatever desperate hope he’s chasing. Yangyang is there too, looking as though he's holding back something sharp, something violent, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes darkened with resentment directed unmistakably at Jeno. But Jeno is oblivious or perhaps purposefully indifferent, too consumed by you, the warmth of his hand securely anchored at your waist. Every kiss he steals from you ignites the intensity of Yangyang's glare, an unsettling sensation prickling the back of your neck, making you hyperaware of every breath, every heartbeat. The silence between them is heavy, oppressive, charged with tension that simmers but never breaks, hurting more deeply than outright conflict ever could.

Donghyuck ushers everyone into another round of the ritual, this time lanterns replacing paper, delicate vessels carrying hidden secrets into the vast expanse of the night sky. You write your wishes in careful strokes, afraid that too much weight might drag the fragile glow down to earth. You don't glance at Jeno’s lantern, nor do you ask him what he's written, but when his lips find yours again—slow and sure—just as his lantern ascends, you feel your answer: whatever he's wishing, it's about you. His kiss is an affirmation, an anchor, a fragile promise burned brightly into the darkness.

Yet, peace fractures once more when Mark's voice—angry and unusually harsh—splits through the night. Your heart seizes at the venom in his tone, your body stiffening as he snaps, “What the fuck are they doing here?” Eric and Sunwoo’s arrival shatters the fragile calm, the harsh screech of tires piercing your senses as their car halts aggressively at the edge of the court. Instantly, Jeno moves protectively in front of you, his back straightened, shoulders tense. But your observant eyes catch every crack in his facade. His jaw trembles slightly, his clenched fists betray his fear, and though his posture tries to radiate strength, his stance is brittle, poised to shatter under the slightest pressure.

Eric's mocking laughter fills the tense silence first, bitter and sharp as broken glass, and Sunwoo's eyes glint dangerously as he sneers, "Long time no see, Jeno. Thought you’d forgotten about us."

Jeno's voice, though firm, wavers with concealed dread. "Leave, Eric. This isn't your territory anymore."

Eric steps closer, invading personal space, forcing confrontation. "You don't decide that," he spits viciously, words laced with threats.

“We were just passing by. Funny seeing you here all cozy—did your daddy finally loosen your leash?" Sunwoo snickers cruelly beside him, and Jeno visibly flinches. The jab hits deeper than intended, unraveling Jeno's carefully woven defenses. He swallows heavily, his eyes darting briefly back toward you as if checking you’re still safe, before returning to meet Eric’s unrelenting gaze. The exchange continues in heated, hushed tones, an escalating dance of provocations and barely restrained fury, until finally, Eric smirks coldly, withdrawing as though he's made his point. When they finally drive away, leaving Jeno standing alone, he doesn’t look victorious. He looks small, shaken, vulnerable in a way you've rarely witnessed, and the sight leaves a sour ache deep in your chest.

Your friends cluster together instinctively, their voices dropping into tense, anxious whispers as wary eyes dart toward Eric and Sunwoo. Confusion passes visibly between them—Shotaro’s brow furrowing deeply, Donghyuck exchanging uncertain glances with Yangyang—but nobody speaks loudly enough for clarity. The questions hang in the air, heavy and unresolved, a tangible discomfort settling over everyone present. Yet no one dares to break the unspoken rule of silence, letting speculation remain just beneath the surface, acknowledged only through uneasy looks and half-muted murmurs, an unsettled mystery they collectively agree to leave untouched.

Your anxiety spikes sharply—there's less than a week until state championships and Jeno still isn't cleared. You've been working tirelessly to fix the situation, but progress has stalled, bogged down by circumstances beyond your control. You need to accelerate, to resolve everything immediately, to lift this crushing weight off both your shoulders. Today has become your new deadline, a silent vow made in the frantic recesses of your mind.

While Jeno faces Eric and Sunwoo, Mark’s words slash through you, sharp and brutally honest. "I don’t know what the fuck you're doing," he says, voice low and cutting. You meet his gaze defiantly, defensive already, bracing against the sting of his truth. He continues relentlessly, voice laden with frustration. "Why have you been all over Jeno since yesterday? Making him believe there's still a chance? As long as his father holds that threat over both of you, you will never be with Jeno—not fully, not freely. Don’t lead him on; you’ll only disappoint him again."

Your throat tightens defensively, your voice trembling slightly as you snap back, "Shut up, Mark." Yet, the truth gnaws mercilessly at your heart.

Before Mark can press further, Jeno’s footsteps approach, but you're already moving away, purpose clear and urgent. His voice, confused and tinged with worry, calls out to you, freezing your steps momentarily. "Where are you going?" he asks, confusion laced with quiet desperation.

"I have something I need to do," you reply hastily, already turning away.

His skepticism is clear, eyes narrowing softly. "At 11pm?"

Your breath hitches, panic flickering briefly before you turn sharply, pulling him close. You kiss him urgently, softly, repeatedly, each press of your lips calming the rapid beat of your heart. He sighs gently against your mouth, frustration warring with longing as you whisper your promise. "I’ll come right back to you, promise."

"Promise?" he echoes, vulnerability edging his voice.

Your heart twists painfully as you nod, offering softly, genuinely, "I don't wanna be anywhere else." Your fingers brush his chain, grounding yourself in his presence one final time, voice dropping to a whisper. "Only wanna be with you, baby."

His sigh is heavy, reluctant, tinged with hurt. "I don’t know how I feel about letting you go right now. You always disappear, and then I don’t hear from you for hours." Yet, despite his protests, you pull away, the words unspoken between you thickening the air as you vanish into the darkness, leaving promises behind like fading lanterns in the night sky—beautiful but impossible to grasp. Hours stretch into days, leaving him stranded in your silence.

You find yourself in Coach Suh’s office as quickly as your feet could carry you, the door closing softly behind you, sealing you in familiar shadows and the lingering scent of leather and faded cologne. Silence pulses heavily between you as your eyes lock with his, triggering memories you’d carefully buried deep, ghosts you’d long since refused to acknowledge. You haven’t been alone together in months, not since you forced every heated glance, every stolen breath, every desperate touch firmly into the depths of denial, pretending they’d ceased to haunt you. But now, with his gaze burning into yours, those suppressed moments surge back, fierce and unrelenting, flooding your chest until it aches—each vivid fragment sharper, more alive, more painfully real than before.

You recall nights spent here after classes, muscles sore, skirt bunched carelessly around your waist, bouncing on his cock while he gripped your hips with desperate urgency. You’d ride him rough, ignoring his whispered pleas to be quieter, grinding harder at the risk of discovery, whispering back, “Then let them hear.” The thrill of it always pushed him over the edge too quickly, your name tumbling from his lips like a forbidden prayer. He'd protest weakly when you left marks, but you knew he secretly savored each bruising reminder.

Other times you’d hide beneath his desk during office hours, lips wrapped tight around his cock while he nodded mechanically through mundane meetings. His knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the desk, voice strained, body rigid, his fingers buried in your hair like an affectionate caress rather than guiding your eager mouth. You relished making him falter, humming lightly until he twitched helplessly, whispering “daddy” softly enough only he could hear. His whispered command to behave never held weight; you always left him wanting more.

Standing in front of him now, the heavy silence crackles with charged, unresolved tension. He stares with narrowed eyes, voice cautious yet edged with curiosity. “It’s 11pm.”

“I need your help,” you breathe softly, your voice laden with unspoken promises, the words falling gently into the heavy air between you like embers sparking off neon-lit wires. He holds your gaze for a long, charged moment, eyes burning into yours, a silent collision of past sins and present desperation—desire, guilt, and determination woven together into something dangerously combustible. His jaw tightens imperceptibly, a subtle acknowledgment that pulls the tension taut until the air itself seems to hum.

Without another word, he rises from his chair, the motion fluid yet cautious, as though afraid too sudden a movement might shatter this fragile, perilous truce. You follow him silently, each step echoing with a thousand suppressed memories, fluorescent-bright flashes of nights spent tangled together in reckless abandon. The car ride to his apartment is thick with those very ghosts, desire simmering beneath your skin like a neon sign flickering erratically in a rain-soaked alley, its electric current raw and unstable. Neither of you dares to speak, lest you sever the fragile thread holding back the chaos.

When he opens his apartment door, the quiet creak echoes like a gunshot, your breath catching sharply in your throat. You step inside slowly, your gaze locked onto his, the silent invitation between you blazing fiercely, unapologetically bright—no longer hiding in shadows, but daring you both to face it head-on. And as your eyes meet, understanding settles heavily, achingly clear, raw as an exposed nerve. You know exactly what you’re offering, and he knows exactly what you’re willing to surrender.

Tonight, you’ll burn yourself down if it means securing Jeno’s future. You’ll sink willingly into neon-lit temptation, the aching familiarity of Coach Suh’s hard cock buried deep inside you—surrendering to old patterns and darker pleasures, losing yourself completely in the ruthless heat of his mouth, the bruising grip of fingers that have memorized every desperate inch of your skin. You’ll let him consume you until every boundary shatters, trading each carefully guarded piece of your soul for the raw, electric sensation of his body moving relentlessly against yours, thrusting hard enough to fracture the lingering shadows of your resistance and when it’s over, when you’ve ridden out every burning wave of your sacrifice, all that’ll remain is the scorched, luminous aftermath—glowing in vivid, neon-bright confession against the pitch-black of midnight, unmistakably marking you as his one last time.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note —

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 gives 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

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midnightquips · 17 days ago

Text

Something Like Salvation

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT. Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

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Chapter 3: The Flesh is Willing

You didn’t go back to the store for the next few days.

Not that it helped. The whole town felt smaller now, tighter, like it was closing in around the things you and Owen weren’t saying out loud. The walls of your childhood bedroom were too thin. The air is too heavy. And even the sky seemed like it was waiting for something to snap.

And then, the silence. Not dramatic. Not announced. Just a shift with texts tapering off until there was nothing. Not even a good morning. Not a goodnight. Just blank space where something electric used to live.

You checked your phone too often, left it on the bed beside you like it might buzz if you looked away. But he didn’t text, and neither did you.

You told yourself it was fine. Insisted that some distance would cool things down. Convinced that maybe it was better to let it fade.

But the quiet was deafening and it clawed at your ribs.

Across town, Owen stared at the same message thread in the last week. His thumb hovering over the message space, then pulling away. Repeatedly. Incessantly.

He had typed out at least five drafts and deleted every single one. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to say something, but because everything he wanted to say felt dangerous.

He wanted to ask if your lips still ached like his did. If you still felt his hands. If you were imagining the same things he was at night, just lying in bed remembering the sound you made when you rocked against him. But he said nothing.

And your reciprocal silence felt like permission to stop trying.

Some part of you always knew it couldn’t stay in the shadows forever. You were proven right soon enough.

The first rumor came from your aunt.

“She said she saw her behind the store,” she whispered to your mother in the kitchen. “With the pastor’s boy pressed close. Didn’t look very holy, if you know what I mean.”

You were halfway down the stairs when you heard it. You froze. Just for a second.

Your mom didn’t say anything. Not right away. Then: “She’s not seventeen anymore.”

It was quiet but nevertheless, cut deep. It made you back up the stairs.

You didn’t go out the next day, or the one after that.

You considered packing and just leaving. You wanted to get in your car and drive until the signal faded and the town was nothing but a story you didn’t tell anyone.

You didn’t want to face your mother, or the stares at the store, or the weight of this feeling. You were reminded why you wanted out of here in the first place.

You sat on your bed, a half-zipped suitcase at your feet, your fingers twisting in your bedsheet.

“Do you have to leave?” your sister asked from the doorway.

You looked up. “I need my peace back.”

She only nods, understanding. The guilt of leaving her behind again weighs on you.

The silence this time felt heavier. Like both of you were holding your breath. Like you were waiting to see if the weight of it would collapse whatever this thing was between you.

But the damage had already begun.

Owen sat in the church office, hands steepled in front of his mouth. The leather chair was too stiff beneath him and the cross on the wall was watching like a witness.

The elder, Pastor Gilmore, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. The other elders sitting beside him, deliberating how to bestow judgement on him.

“There’s concern,” Gilmore starts.

Another elder cleared his throat. “A few people have noticed you spending time with… someone. A former member.”

Owen didn’t move. “I don’t understand. And I haven’t—”

“She’s a non-believer,” Gilmore cut in. “It’s about perception. You’re a leader. You don’t get the same margin for personal mistakes.”

“There’s no mistake.”

That silence afterward was thunderous.

Gilmore’s mouth tightened. “We’re not here to shame you, Owen. But there are expectations. Boundaries.”

Another elder added, “We’d like you to take some time away from public roles. Focus inward. Pray.”

Owen nodded slowly, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Of course.”

No one said your name, but they didn’t have to.

They called it “perception.” They called it “confusion.”

Owen called it what it was: punishment for wanting something they deemed holy.

He kept his face neutral, gaze lowered. He said all the right things. Promised discretion. Boundaries. Reflection. But his hands shook under the table. His pulse didn’t slow until long after they left the room.

He stared at the cross on the wall for a long time, then he reached for his phone.

Still no message from you.

But he typed one anyway.

OWEN TAYLOR: Tell me to stay away. And I will.

It sat there. Sent. Read. No reply.

Owen stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

He typed again:

OWEN TAYLOR: Or tell me you want this too.

You didn’t reply. You wanted to.

You almost did. You typed it out three different ways.

“I do.”

“I can’t.”

“Come get me.”

But you sent nothing.

The next morning, your mom said nothing about the rumors and neither did your sister. But the silence at breakfast was thick, eggs scraping on ceramic, the clink of cutlery sharp.

You cleared your plate and left before you could say something stupid.

Suddenly, Owen was there again.

You were walking the long loop around the trail behind the church, the one you used to take just to get out of the house, just to think. The gravel crunched beneath your sneakers, birds loud in the trees. You were wearing headphones, trying to lose yourself in something else when a shadow broke your focus.

There he was. Like a mirage. Leaning against the split-rail fence near the bend in the path. Hat on, head bowed.

He looked up when you stopped.

Neither of you said anything at first.

Then: “Was hoping to see you here.”

You pulled your earbuds out. “Were you?”

He glanced away. “I didn’t come to ambush you.”

“I know.”

A beat.

“You got my message,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I did.”

“And?”

You took a slow breath. “I don’t want to lie to you. But I also don’t know what saying yes would mean.”

His brow creased. “It means I’m in this with you. If you want me.”

You took the time to look at him, noticing details you normally wouldn’t. His eyes were tired. His jaw tense. His hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t trust what they’d do if he let them out.

You sigh. “I don’t want to be your downfall, Owen.”

He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that’s made me feel honest in years.”

His words hit harder than they should have.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he added. “And not just the… the physical stuff.”

You raised a brow.

He almost smiled. “Okay. Also the physical stuff. A lot.”

That broke the tension.

You laughed, despite yourself. He finally takes a few steps closer.

“I’m not asking for forever,” he said. “I’m just asking for right now.”

You looked up at him. Your breath is caught somewhere between fear and want.

And then you closed the space.

This time, you kissed him first. It started soft. Careful. Familiar in a way that made your knees ache.

But it didn’t stay that way.

He slowly backed you up against the fence post, one hand cupping your face, the other sliding around your waist like he was grounding himself there. His lips parted against yours, tongue meeting yours.

And you melted. You made a sound — soft, needy — and that was all it took.

Owen groaned into your mouth and pressed in tighter, your hips aligned with his. His hands wandered lower, one gripping your thigh, the other sliding under your sweatshirt, fingers dragging along the bare skin at your back.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” you whispered breathlessly between kisses.

“I know,” he murmured, kissing down your jaw. “But I don’t care.”

His car was parked at the edge of the trail, windows tinted, hidden from the main road. You climbed into the back seat like you both had done it before, like your bodies were already used to folding around each other.

The door had barely shut before his hands were on you again, this time hungry and desperate..

Clothes didn’t come off all the way. Just enough. His flannel shirt shoved back. Your sweatshirt lifted. His fingers found your skin with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

You straddled him, knees digging into the upholstery, dress bunched high around your hips. His hand slipped beneath your underwear, fingers dipping through the heat of you.

“I want you.” he muttered, lips brushing your neck. “So bad.”

You gasped when he slid two fingers inside you, his thumb pressing up against your clit.

“Owen—” you breathed, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Fuck.”

The sound of your voice saying that word made him groan. You felt him twitch under you.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he rasped, kissing your collarbone. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

You rocked into his hand. “Then don’t stop.”

Your hand found his jeans, working the zipper down, your palm brushing the length of him. He sucked in a sharp breath when you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slow, firm.

He tugged your underwear to the side and lined himself up, waiting.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough and frayed.

“Please,” you whispered.

He pushed into you in one slow thrust, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on your face.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh my God.”

“You feel—God,” he choked. “You feel perfect.”

You rocked your hips, the friction unbearable in the best way. His hands grabbed your ass, guiding you, grounding you. Your name tumbled from his lips again and again.

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You leaned in, kissed him hard. “Show me.”

He did. The rhythm he built was fast, along with the urgency and the sweat. You came first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, hips jerking as you buried your face in his neck.

“Come inside. I’m on the pill.” You assured him

His mouth dropped open from the assurance. He followed moments later, groaning into your mouth, hand fisting in your sweatshirt as he spilled into you.

You collapsed against him, both of you trembling, breathless, wrecked.

The car was silent but for the uneven, matching breathing.

You didn’t say anything for a long time. But when you finally looked at him, he was already looking at you.

And that said enough.

You were on borrowed time.

That’s what it felt like. Not like a vacation, but rather a stretch of days pulled taut like thread between fingers, always ready to snap.

You fell into a rhythm. A dangerous, magnetic, honey-thick rhythm that made time bend. Mornings blurred into afternoons. Afternoons faded into dark, and somewhere between phone calls and hidden meetups, you paused the thought that there was an end to any of it.

The picnic was your idea.

A sun-dappled clearing behind an abandoned barn, just outside town. Private. Quiet. You spread a blanket on the grass, unpacked sandwiches and fruit, and kicked your shoes off. Owen leaned back on one elbow, watching you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“So,” he asked between bites, “Austin. What’s it like?”

“Loud. Messy. No one cares if you believe in anything. And there’s a taco truck on every corner.”

He smiled. “Sounds like freedom in the best way.”

You told him about work. The long days as an editorial assistant, spending hours shaping other people’s voices, how sometimes your wrists ached more from typing than from thinking.

“But I want to write,” you admitted. “My own book about what it’s like to leave a place like this. About the grief that comes with freedom. About how belief doesn’t just vanish, rather it mutates.”

He nodded like he understood it in his bones. “I’d buy every copy.”

“I want a cat,” you added. “Fat, dramatic, maybe orange. Name it Judas if it claws my furniture.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “You’re doing just fine out there.”

Later, when your head was in his lap and his fingers moved gently through your hair, you asked, “What would you do? If you weren’t here?”

“I think I’d teach,” he said eventually. “Somewhere far. Quiet. I liked Peru because I didn’t feel like I had to perform. I could just… show up. Sit with people. Learn.”

“Why haven’t you left?”

He hesitated. “Because when you’ve been told your whole life that you’re a shepherd, you forget you’re allowed to wander.”

You sat up, cupping his face.

He took your hands into his and tugged you into his lap. “Recently, you make it feel possible.”

There was a pause, something tight and vulnerable hanging in the air. Then, he adds softly, “I always had a thing for you, you know. Before you left. I would've asked your parents to marry you if you hadn’t run.”

You blinked, stunned. “You’re serious.”

He nodded, eyes flicking away. “You were already gone in your eyes. But I would've tried.”

You kissed him before you could say something that would make you both retreat.

It’s soft at first but it doesn’t take long before it’s hungrier.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thighs, coaxing your legs wider as he tugged you closer. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips brushing over warm skin. He hissed through his teeth. You felt him harden beneath you — sudden, unmistakable. He shifted and groaned.

“You always this distracting?” he muttered.

“I haven’t even started trying.”

Your thighs bracketed his lap, dress bunched around your hips, his palms sliding up your sides. You ground down against the hard line of him.

“You’re gonna kill me.” he rasped.

You reached between you, freeing him, and lined yourself up. He just held your hips steady while you sank down onto him. The moan that left his throat was guttural.

“You feel so good,” he said, voice wrecked.

You rolled your hips slowly, savoring every inch.

“Fuck.” He cursed low and helpless under his breath

It lit something inside you. He watched you gasp the moment he said it. Your hips moved faster, eyes pleading.

“You like that?” he asked, breath catching. “Me losing control like that?”

You nodded. “You sound free.”

That made him moan again, hips bucking up into yours.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “And I don’t even care if it’s wrong.”

You rode him harder while his hands gripped your thighs, fingers leaving bruises.

You came with his name on your lips. Soon he followed, trembling, buried deep inside you.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

The chapel came after. Late. Quiet. Dangerous.

You locked the door behind you and leaned against it. Heart was racing, a mischievous smile on your face.

He stood at the edge of the room, eyes burning.

“This is a bad idea,” he whispered

You walked toward him anyway. He licked his lips in anticipation.

“You think I care?”

You pulled him to you, slowly backing until the back of your legs hit the table, your hands already working at the buttons of his shirt.

He immediately helped you up on the table. Stepped in between your open legs, wrapped it around his waist. The desk is cold beneath you, but his heat made you forget the location entirely.

When he entered you, there was no holiness. Only hunger. He was already too far gone.

“Owen—” you moaned when he thrust into you, full and deep and filthy against the worn wood of his desk.

You hold onto his neck as he sped up.

His head fell back. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You keep coming back.”

His hands slid up your thighs, your hips meeting his again and again, the slap of skin echoing in a space meant for scripture.

He kissed your throat. Your jaw. His hand held you by the neck, thumb tracing your lips. You sucked on the tip of his thumb softly, making his breath hitch.

“I want to hear you come,” he said, voice low, commanding.

And you did. Loud, trembling, his name like a curse. He didn’t stop though.

“You’re so fucking hot when you say my name like that,” he groaned, pumping harder. “Say it again.”

“Owen—fuck—don’t stop—”

He came moments later, buried in you, his mouth open against your shoulder, breath ragged. You felt it all. The desperation. The hunger. The part of him that was absolutely unrepentant.

The cross on the wall watched.

You didn’t look away.

Next night, you called him.

“I’m alone,” you said, voice soft. “Mom and my sister are at my aunt’s.”

He groaned. “Don’t tell me that unless I can come over.”

“You can’t.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Because I’m thinking about you. About your mouth. About your hands.”

He could feel you smiling. The idea alone was seduction.

He cursed under his breath and asked softly. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Not yet.” You say breathlessly

He replies carefully, “Do you want to be good for me and get under the covers?”

You obeyed and hum

“Tell me what you’re wearing.” he continues

Soft sheets. Bare legs. A tank top with nothing underneath. You let him know just that.

His voice dropped. “Slide your hand down. Slowly.”

You did. Gasps and breathy descriptions spilled between you. Details of where your fingers were, how wet you were, what you’d do if he were there.

“I’d pin your hands down,” he said. “Kiss you until you forgot your name.”

You whimpered.

“Touch yourself the way I would. Use two fingers.”

You followed, hips rolling, heart pounding. “Owen—”

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

You came with a gasp, biting your lip to stay quiet.

And on the other end of the line, he was panting too.

“I’m so hard right now,” he murmured. “I wish it was your hand. I wish I could watch you fall apart.”

“What are you doing?” you whispered.

“I’ve got my cock in my hand,” he groaned. “I’m imagining your mouth. The way you moan when I fuck you slow. God, you sound so pretty—”

He stroked himself harder, breath sharp and frantic now.

“You wanna know something?” he added, voice ragged. “I used to touch myself to the image of you in high school. Just the way you looked in church. I never told anyone.”

The confession wrecked you. “Owen.”

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

You moaned, the sound breaking as you reached your second orgasm, body shaking under the sheets.

He followed seconds later, a choked sound slipping from his throat. “Yes, baby. That’s it. That’s it.”

You both stayed quiet after, breath slowing, the line buzzing gently between you.

You lay there in the dark, hearts thudding in different houses.

And still, together. For now.

You didn’t know what came next.

But you weren’t ready to let go.

You drove out of town just after five.

No destination. Just the slow unraveling of familiar roads behind you. Owen’s hand on your knee while your playlist spilled from the open windows. The scent of his cologne mixing with the warm wind.

You wore a dress that would’ve raised brows back home. It was sleeveless, a little too short, cinched at the waist. But you didn’t care. You weren’t from that town anymore, not truly.

“God, you look…” Owen trailed off, stealing another glance. “Unreal.”

“I live like this now,” you said. “Austin taught me how to breathe.”

You glanced at him. “You know what that town does best?”

He shook his head.

“Cuts your wings. Even when you’re not flying. Even when you’re just trying to land.”

The town you stopped in was much bigger than your conservative town. Open, modern. Fairy lights strung between trees, families laughed over blowing bubbles while couples wrapped in quiet affection.

You chose a patio restaurant with soft music, low candlelight, and a table nestled beside ivy-covered stone. Owen held your chair. You ordered a glass of wine. He watched you like he’d never seen you drink before.

“You go out like this often?” he asked, lips curled into a crooked smile.

“Live? Yeah. I try.”

He stared a moment too long. “It looks good on you.”

You sipped slowly, letting the pause stretch. “Feels good. Like I’m not apologizing for breathing. You should try it too.”

“Was it hard?” he asked. “Leaving?”

You nodded. “The leaving part, no. The staying gone? Yeah. There were nights I’d look around and wonder if I was still allowed to be happy.”

He looked down. “I do that now. Wonder if this,” he gestured between you, “can be real.”

You leaned in. “It’s real. It just doesn’t come with rules.”

For dessert, you shared a piece of cake and laughed when he stole the last bite.

When he reached for your hand, you let him.

When he pulled you close beneath a streetlamp and kissed you, you kissed him back like it was your full-time job.

You checked into a modest inn with creaky stairs and a view of nothing. But the bed was big and clean, and the walls were thick.

You dropped your purse on the floor. He shut the door with his back.

And for a second, you just stared at each other.

Then, you urge, “Come here.”

He crossed the room in two steps.

You turned around for him. Quietly gave permission to help you undress. When his fingers reach for your zipper, you let him tug it down and let the fabric slip to the floor. His gaze tracked every inch.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

You kissed him then — deep, unfiltered. He groaned when your hand palmed him through his jeans.

He broke the kiss for a second to pull off his shirt, then slowly laid you on the bed. He followed, hovering over you. He kissed your collarbone, down to your chest, and when his mouth closed over one nipple, your back arched.

“Jesus,” you gasped.

His hands worshipped you. Slow squeezes, teasing pinches. You whimpered beneath him when you felt his tongue circling the tip of your nipple then gently sucking.

“You like that?” he asked, voice gravel.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

You sat up, reached between you, and wrapped your hand around him.

Owen groaned. “Fuck, baby—”

You stroked him as he slipped his fingers beneath your panties. He found your clit first, rubbing gently, slow circles before sliding one finger inside. Then another.

Your moan cracked open the room.

“Watching you touch yourself would kill me,” he murmured. “Would you let me see?”

You nod before pulling away from him and scrambling onto your back. You spread for him as he knelt between your thighs, watching your hand slide through your slick folds.

“God,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

“Your fault.”

You met his eyes, continuing to rub yourself. Your hands didn't last before he leaned down and replaced your hand with his mouth. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, you cried out, hands tangling in his hair.

He licked softly, tentatively at first, making you shiver. It didn’t take long before his tongue moved fervently, coaxing your climax. You came shaking.

He immediately hovered over you after, flushed and hard.

“I need to be inside you.”

“Then don’t wait.” You assured

You guided him in slowly, gasping at the stretch, the fullness. Every inch a revelation.

“Holy shit,” he moaned. “You feel perfect.”

He slowly thrusted into you, both of you watching where your bodies met. His hands gripped your hips like he was trying not to come too fast. His movements controlled, savoring each movement.

You clenched around him, made him moan loudly against your mouth. Then he snapped.

He suddenly flipped you over, pulled you onto all fours, and slid back in with a grunt.

“Owen. Please.” You pleaded at the sensation

He only pulled you up, your back flush against his chest. His one hand splayed over your stomach, the other between your legs again.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

He obeyed earnestly. The hand over your stomach slid up to your breast, the other rubbed your clit.

“I want to feel you come on me again,” he growled into your ear.

Your eyes rolled back as he rubbed faster. Urging.

You came with a broken moan, head falling back, body trembling.

Owen followed with a groan, grinding deep as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed together.

A few hours later, you woke up to his mouth on you again.

The room was dark, but you could feel the heat of his breath, the way he kissed your inner thighs before laving his tongue up and over your clit.

“Owen…”

“I just want to taste you again.”

You were too sensitive, but it didn’t matter.

He took his time, building you up, whispering how good you tasted, how much he wanted to hear you fall apart. When you pulled him up and guided him inside, he slid in slow.

You were on your sides, facing the window. His arm curled under your neck, the other between your legs.

“I’ll never get tired of feeling you come around me,” he whispered.

You took his hand and pressed it right where you needed. “Rub me. Just like that.”

His fingers moved as he thrust into you slowly.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

He didn’t. Not until your body clenched tight and you cried out his name.

He came with a rough gasp, arms wrapped around you.

You stayed like that. Sweaty and spent until the sky began to lighten.

You drove home before sunrise. Owen’s hand stayed on your thigh the whole way.

You didn’t speak much, but the stillness wasn’t peaceful. He tried to remember how breath-taking you looked, the air blowing the hair away from your face.

Something had shifted.

The world outside was waiting.

And freedom was never free.

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#lewis pullman #lewis pullman fic #owen taylor #the starling girl #owen taylor smut #owen taylor x reader #bob floyd #owen taylor fanfiction #owen taylor x y/n #owen taylor fic #lewis pullman fanfiction

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sweetromanova · 23 days ago

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More To Lose🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: You thought your life with Steve Rogers was what love looked like. But love isn’t quiet disappointment or fading into the background. It’s soft hands when you’re breaking. It’s someone who sees you, even when you don’t see yourself. And just maybe, it’s Natasha Romanoff, waiting for you to see her too.

Warnings: implied/referenced IVF, emotional neglect, divorce, post-partum depression themes, hurt comfort, angst.

A/N: hiii, it’s been like five years since i’ve posted any kind of writing and i’ve never shared any of my marvel x natasha romanoff stuff (i have so many random fics in my drafts) so please be kind!🤍

Chapters: Two, Three, Four, Five, Epilogue

Chapter One

You had never been invisible.

You knew how to command a room when you needed to. You knew the power of silence, of letting people underestimate you until it was too late. Fluent in five languages, head of communications and diplomatic strategy for the Avengers’ and had personally shut down four international conflicts that would have declared wars before they even reached TMZ.

You made your living turning chaos into strategy.

You weren’t one of the Avengers, not technically anyway but you were the person they listened to when the stakes were too high to guess. While Captain America and Iron Man debated field ethics in the conference room, while Wanda’s eyes glowed red as Clint’s phone floated in the air just out of reach, while Natasha Romanoff sat in silence and watched the rest of the world spin, you was often the one feeding quiet intel into comms, smoothing over diplomatic flare-ups or feeding misinformation to the right parties with a well curated smile.

Tony once described your job like a joke. “S.H.I.E.L.D. without the stick up their ass.”

You’d replied. “Billionaire without the emotional growth.”

He’d snorted his coffee and called you in on nearly every operation after that. Everything that he sat at the table for, there was a seat waiting next to him for you.

You didn’t fly, punch through wars, bend reality or strangle people with your thighs but you were never invisible.

Not until you fell in love with Steve Rogers.

⋆⋆⋆

It started slow. Almost soft.

He met you after a failed mission in Berlin. You were there to run interference with the German Government. He was there to apologise for smashing through a military checkpoint.

You remember how he looked. Too tall, too perfect, his presence so strong but mind completely unaware of how much space he took up in the world. You remember him blinking at you and saying. “You’re the intel liaison?”

And without making eye contact, still scrolling through satellite data, you had replied. “Disappointed?”

His grin had been annoyingly boyish. “Just surprised. Thought you’d be taller.”

“And I thought you’d be punctual.”

Tony had laughed from the corner. Even Hill managed to crack a smile behind her paperwork.

Once you lifted his head and met his amused eyes, Steve smiled too.

⋆⋆⋆

You didn’t expect it to be more than a brief flirtation.

A conversation at an event, a few lingering glances, maybe a drink after. He asked you to dinner and you pretended it wasn’t a date. Told yourself it was just two people sharing a meal outside of the Tower walls.

But he picked a place with candles, cloth napkins and a view of the East River at dusk. He wore a suit that fit too well for someone who claimed to hate dressing up. Over the bread basket, he confessed that he hadn’t been this nervous for a meal since the ’40s.

You talked about history and politics. He let you challenge him. You told him his optimism was old-fashioned and dangerous. He just smiled and said. “It got me this far.”

He told you stories about Brooklyn that made you ache for a time you’d never lived through, for sidewalks that no longer existed and people long since gone. He spoke with a reverence that made you listen harder, as if hearing the names might summon them back.

He mentioned Peggy Carter in passing at first, a flicker in his voice like a skipped heartbeat. And Bucky. God, he talked about Bucky like the man still held his heart in one hand and never gave it back. You could hear the grief of missed years behind the fondness, the loyalty behind the loss. It should have scared you off but it didn’t.

It made you curious. It made you careful.

He kissed you in the rain a month later. It wasn’t a movie moment like you wanted. It was too cold, your shoes were soaked and his umbrella flipped inside out with the wind. But then his hand slid behind your neck, fingers warm and grounding and you leaned in like you’d been waiting years.

Maybe he had been.

It was easy, at first. Quiet. Stable in a way that felt like standing on solid ground after a lifetime of storms. He didn’t ask you to fix anything. He just made room for you. In the space he hadn’t realised was empty until you walked in.

You felt safe. Loved, maybe.

And slowly, you started to understand. Loving Steve Rogers meant walking alongside a man whose heart lived in three different centuries, but who somehow, was still learning how to hold yours in the present.

⋆⋆⋆

He asked you to move into the Tower six months in. Not in so many words but just a toothbrush at his sink, a drawer, a closet then suddenly all of your favourite mugs in the wrong cabinets.

Wanda became your confidante. Sam made you laugh when things got tense. Natasha didn’t say much, but she watched you like she understood more than she let on.

You weren’t part of the team but you weren’t outside it either.

Until the day you walked into the lab and found Steve already talking to Tony, Bruce, and Helen Cho. They were discussing DNA sequencing. You had almost carried on walking, wanting to mind your business about a conversation that had nothing to do with you. Until it did.

Your egg. Steve’s DNA.

You stood frozen in the doorway while they explained how IVF could work for him, for you. How it could be made safe, stable, viable, even with his serum-altered biology.

Steve looked so excited. “I wanted it to be a surprise!” He exclaimed, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

It was a surprise, of course. “You already spoke to them?”

All four pairs of eyes suddenly seemed a lot more interested in anything but you. “Well I- I just wanted to know if it was possible before we got excited.”

“He thought you’d be happy.” Tony added, helping Steve out of the hole he’s dug.

“I did.” Steve said. “I thought I was doing this for us.” Tony winced, Bruce continued to fiddle with his tablet and Dr Cho was re-reading the notes scribbled on her tablet. Everybody was waiting so you finally smiled even though your stomach was sinking.

Because he wasn’t trying to be cruel, not really. He was trying to build a life with you. He just forgot to ask you first.

“I was just surprised.” You croaked. “I’m happy.”

⋆⋆⋆

IVF was brutal.

You never told him how bad it got. You downplayed the nausea, skipped over the dizziness, laughed off the mood swings. You didn’t mention the way you threw up from the hormone shifts or how you passed out in the medbay once because your blood sugar bottomed out and no one found you for twenty minutes.

He was with you for the first few appointments. He sat beside you, stiff with worry, his thumb brushing across your knuckles like he could will the bruises away before they formed. He asked questions. He read every pamphlet. He made you tea.

But then missions started calling. Bucky needed him. The world needed him.

So you gave yourself the last three weeks of injections alone. Most nights, it was in the shared bathroom next to the Avenger’s Common Room. You waited until everybody was in the middle of dinner when it was quiet, when the halls stopped humming with movement and they all socialised with the people they felt most comfortable with. You’d set the tiny syringe on the edge of the sink and steel yourself in the mirror. sleeves pushed up, jaw tight, stomach already blooming with pinprick bruises in yellow and purple.

You did it quickly. No hesitation. You couldn’t afford to hesitate anymore.

However the sting was sharp tonight, sharper than usual and something about it cracked your composure. Maybe it was the silence or the way your body felt like it belonged to science now, not to you.

You let out a breath that was almost a sob. And then another.

You pressed a fist to your mouth, trying to silence it. Eyes squeezed shut. Just a moment. Just a crack in the armour.

You wiped your face before standing. You looked in the mirror and whispered to yourself. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But when you turned, she was there, watching as usual. Natasha.

She stepped into the bathroom, soft as breath, her gaze landing on yours. Then drifting just briefly to the redness around your eyes. The streaks down your cheeks that you hadn’t quite managed to erase.

She didn’t comment. Just offered a quiet “Hey.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t walked in on you falling apart.

You nodded quickly and stepped aside to let her in. You didn’t look back.

You moved to the sink, hands shaking slightly as you ran them under warm water. You focused on the sound, the water heating up to burn the tender skin of your fingers, the smell of the institutional soap. Anything but the knot in your throat.

Behind you, Natasha made no further mention of what she’d seen. She offered you silence like a kindness.

You wanted to thank her for it. But your voice would’ve cracked.

⋆⋆⋆

When the test came back positive, you told him at breakfast.

You slid the test across the kitchen table next to his coffee like it was nothing. Like your heart wasn’t pounding out of your chest.

He stared at it for a beat too long, eyes scanning then widening. Suddenly, he dropped his fork with a clatter, scooped you into his arms, and spun you around the kitchen while you laughed through tears.

It was the happiest you’d seen him in weeks. Maybe months.

He buried his face in your shoulder for a moment, just a second of stillness before he pulled back, breathless and eyes bright.

“You know…” He said, his voice thick with something he didn’t name. “Peggy used to talk about wanting kids. Back then. It was always a someday thing. I never got that far.”

He paused, smiling at you like you were the future he never thought he’d live to see.

“I think she’d be happy for me. For us.”

You nodded, throat tight.

He kissed you, your forehead first, then your lips, brief but tender. He set you down, a smile playing at his mouth, and reached for his phone to call Bucky. To share the news. To congratulate him on becoming an uncle.

You don’t remember being congratulated.

⋆⋆⋆

Margot was born early, by C-section. Steve almost missed it. He came running into the operating room just as they laid you down. He kissed your forehead, whispered how proud he was, how brave you were.

You were so tired that you couldn’t speak.

When the nurse asked for her name, Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Margaret.” He said, softly.

Your body stiffened. Still open on the table. Still bleeding.

“Huh?”

“I want to name her Margaret.” You wanted to fight it, you’d offered names up to him for months now and he hadn’t liked any. Maybe you should have guessed all along, of course it was going to be about her.

“Margot.” You said, not offered. “With an ‘o’.”

He looked at you, surprised but nodded. “It’s perfect. Different but still her.”

You closed your eyes suddenly wishing the anaesthesia would wear off, you’d prefer to feel the pain of your stomach being laid open on the table than to hear this.

You just needed something that was yours but even your own baby lived in the shadow of what once was.

⋆⋆⋆

Everyone came to see her. Sam. Bruce. Wanda. Bucky. Pepper. Even Tony, with a ridiculous stuffed tiger bigger than the baby. Steve carried Margot like she was made of glass, parading her through the Tower like a medal.

You followed behind him, one arm braced against the wall, stitches pulling with every step.

Your hair was unwashed. Your body shivering in pain. Your vision blurred at the edges.

No one noticed… except Natasha.

She slipped away from the group without a word. She came to your side, delicately took your elbow and eased you down on to the couch before you collapsed.

“You look like hell.” She murmured, quietly. “Like a truck hit you.”

You tried to laugh. “Try a super soldier and his super child.”

“Congratulations Mama.” She didn’t smile but her gaze softened. “Water?”

You nodded, letting your eyes slip closed briefly. “Please.”

She brought it and sat beside you, her hand coming to fall over yours. Her presence reassuring and comforting. She let everyone else fawn over the baby while she focused only on you.

“You’re the first person to say congratulations to me.” You whispered, your fingers twitching under hers.

Nat’s head tilted. “You’re the one who did the hard part.”

That was the first time you wanted to cry in front of someone.

⋆⋆⋆

Steve was a good father. That wasn’t the problem.

He changed diapers, he held her for hours, sang her lullabies from the 1930’s you’d never heard before. However when she slept, he slipped away.

To the gym. To conference rooms. To Bucky.

They trained together late into the night. Planned missions even when they weren’t needed. You heard them laughing through closed doors, soft and low sounds that made you feel like an outsider in your own life.

He talked about Peggy when he thought you were asleep. Or just when he thought you weren’t listening.

“Peggy would’ve known what to do.” He murmured once, holding Margot against his chest. You lay still beside him, breath caught in your throat. “She always knew what to do…”

And slowly, a truth settled over you like fog. You were living with a man whose heart still lived in two places, both unreachable.

⋆⋆⋆

You started disappearing.

You stopped wearing makeup. Stopped combing your hair. You forgot how to flirt, how to tease. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed without faking it.

Yelena dropped Fanny off before a mission and said. “She’s your dog now.”

You didn’t argue. It had become a tradition. Yelena’s fake lack of care for the pet she loved so much. Your fake lack of awareness that Fanny was the only companion you really had to confide in.

Walking her became the only thing that got you out of the Tower. It was never easy. The stroller was heavy and the path was uneven. You stumbled more than once and cursed under your breath more time than you could count.

One morning when Margot wouldn’t nap, Fanny was pulling on the leash, barking and you just felt your knees give out.

Natasha appeared without a word. She took the leash and took the stroller. Fanny immediately came to a halt, watching the redhead like she was the alpha in the pack. Still not acknowledging her presence, she simply walked beside you like it was routine.

“You don’t have to do this.” You murmured, eyes wet.

“No I don’t.” She glanced over. “But I want too.”

⋆⋆⋆

She started showing up more after that.

Not always with words. Sometimes it was just a meal left outside your door when you hadn’t made it to dinner. Sometimes folded laundry that she’d picked up for you or some of Margot’s clothes that seemingly made it’s way round the compound. A silent nod before a meeting, your favourite coffee order waiting in your usual spot.

One night, you broke down at 2am. Margot wouldn’t stop crying. Dr Cho claimed she was colic, nothing to do but wait it out. You’d been pacing the compound floors for hours, feeding her, rocking her. Your shirt was soaked, your body ached but then she appeared.

Natasha took Margot from your arms, held her like she’d done it a hundred times and whispered something in Russian that calmed her instantly.

You slid down the wall and cried into your hands.

Natasha didn’t say a word. She just sat beside you. Solid and still.

⋆⋆⋆

Steve never once noticed.

Not when you started sleeping on the edge of the bed. Not when you flinched beneath his touch. Not when you said “I’m fine” like it was muscle memory.

He was always chasing something. Bucky? Peace? The past?

But no one ever chased you.

Except her.

Natasha noticed, without making it known. She saw the distance growing between you before you ever admitted it to yourself. She saw it the day the silver locket appeared around Steve’s neck, small, worn and familiar. She didn’t ask about it but she noticed the way your eyes locked onto it like gravity. One side held Peggy, timeless, beautiful, unchanging. The other held Bucky, holding your daughter just hours after she was born, cradling her like she was the most delicate thing in the world.

Not you. Not the woman who carried her. Just the memory and the man he never stopped chasing.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She never did. But she looked at you like she knew, like she saw the fracture lines forming before the break.

And for a moment, you felt real again.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t invisible.

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chrysanthemumgames · 2 years ago

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Chapter Ten and the Epilogue are out!

Hey everyone!

This announcement is basically just what it says on the tin. You can now play the last part of the game. Here's the link if you don't have it handy.

I don't think there are any particular content warnings for this one other than Zeus existing, but my brain is kind of scrambled eggs right now, so if I've forgotten something, please let me know.

I feel like I should have some thoughts here about actually being finished with the game, but either because of the brain-eggs thing or because I still have a lot of editing to do, it's hard to think of myself as done.

Just a few things I've been getting questions about clarified in one place:

FoA's first draft will remain where it is, as it is, complete and free, until I submit the edited version for publication. I estimate this will be about three months, (so until March 1, 2024), but can't say that for sure.

The second draft will bring about substantive changes both from a game design standpoint (various systems) and a character standpoint (some pacing things are going to change, particularly with the romances that probably should be a little bit faster paced than they are. A smidge.)

I may or may not be doing a closed beta test for the second draft. That's not me being coy, that's me genuinely not knowing if I will.

There will be one sequel. I will begin working on it immediately after FoA is submitted for publication.

If you want to follow the editing process, I will probably be summarizing my progress monthly here, but I will be going into much more detail and previewing the edits on my Patreon. No pressure ever; that's just an option if you'd like to see more or support me as I go.

Thank you, everyone, for your support, critiques, and suggestions. They've already made FoA a much better game than it would have been without you, and I'm looking forward to getting the chance to take more of them on board as I move through this next part of things.

I hope you enjoy.

#update

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sapphicantics · 1 year ago

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Two Sides of the Same Coin | Prologue

Pairing: Regina George x fem!reader

Summary: After a nobody destroys the Jocks and insults the Queen Bee without a care or an apology, you get catapulted to the top of the social food chain next to aforementioned Queen Bee, Regina George, who now has to learn to share the spotlight with North Shore’s new bad girl. | Or alternatively, your ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude sucks you and Regina into each other’s worlds sending you down a path you never expected.

Contents: mentions of violence

Note: This fic has been sitting in my drafts since like the end of February and it’s undergone several changes since then and I’ve got several ideas for this fic. This is just an intro chapter so it’s pretty light right now but please keep an eye on the contents because there are plans for this story to include potentially triggering topics as we go on.

Chapter One

— — — —

A reputation is the beliefs that are generally held about a person.

In high school, reputations are the most important thing about a person. The better your reputation, the better your high school years will be; the better your reputation, the more popularity you’ll have.

The best reputations means the most popularity, and the most popularity means the best reputations.

The best reputations, however, do not always belong to the best people.

Take Regina George, for example.

She’s the Queen of North Shore High — everyone knows who she is, everyone loves her, everyone wants to be associated with her in some way, everyone wants her to like them — but she is far from a good person.

She’s a mean girl, and she’s proud of it too.

She’s at the very top of the social food chain. She’s the peak of the social hierarchy and everyone else, even her fellow Plastics, fall below her lest they want their secrets revealed and their social life ruined.

It’s about power for her and there’s nothing Regina likes more than having power over people.

Unfortunately for Regina, you exist.

The girl with no secrets.

You don’t hide anything about yourself. You’re loud and proud about who you are and it pisses Regina off because that means she has no power over you; nothing to hold over your head and make you bow to her with. Sure she could make something up about you, but she prefers there to be a hint of truth in the rumors she spreads to ensure her dominance, and she can’t do that with you if you’re an open book.

But what pisses Regina off most is that you have no friends, no acquaintances, you don’t talk to anyone unless you have to; you’re basically a loner and yet, despite Regina not wanting to acknowledge it, you’re at the top of the food chain with her.

And she hates it.

You should be at the bottom, you should be below the art freaks, you should be an easy target of bullying by the jocks or her or anyone really, because that’s just how high school works - the lesser get bullied by the higher, but you don’t take shit from anybody; not from the jocks, evident by the way you leave several star players battered and bruised after they put their hands on you, and definitely not from her — evident by the way she insults you one day ( the same day you beat up the jocks ) and you insult her right back without looking at her, without any hesitation, and all while still walking to your class which leaves the whole school stunned.

Regina is pissed about it and lashes out at people for the rest of the day, but there’s also a piece of her that’s intrigued by you which pisses her off even more, and when Regina is pissed it becomes everyone else’s problem.

Except yours because you don’t care and anyone who tries to make it your problem, anyone who tries to make you apologize and “fall in line”, ends up like the jocks.

This is what cements everything in place.

This is the day The North Shore Menace is born.

#regina george x reader #regina george #mean girls 2024 #regina george x fem!reader #regina x fem!reader #regina george 2024 #regina george x female reader

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wonwoosmagnetic · 3 months ago

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The Things He Left Behind | jww

ONESHOT!

Pairing: wonwoo x hopeless oc! Warnings: heartbreak, angst Word count: 1.1k words. Synopsis: Somewhere, in another life, maybe just maybe, wonwoo doesn't let you go. Authore Note: A little drabble I wrote in between drafting my next no saints here chapter! hehe hope you like it! oc's name is chaeyoung!

You had spent years pretending he didn’t exist.

"Tell me your name." He had asked it so casually, so effortlessly, like it wasn’t the beginning of something that would ruin you. "Why?" you had asked, teasing. He had smiled, lopsided and warm. "Because I think I was meant to know you." And just like that, you had been lost.

You had erased him in every way a person could be erased—deleted his number, blocked his calls, ripped every reminder of him from your life.

But before you erased him, he had been everywhere. His laughter in your ears. His touch on your skin. His promises—so soft, so real—that you had been foolish enough to believe in. "You’ll stay?" you had whispered once, buried in his arms, afraid of the answer. And he had kissed your forehead. "Always."

You had spent every second since trying to forget.

And for a while, it worked.

Until tonight.

Until now.

Until the moment you heard your name.

"Love isn’t real." He had said it so casually, as if the words weren’t a knife. They were lying in his bed, tangled in sheets and moonlight, your fingers tracing patterns against his bare shoulder. You had looked at him then, waiting for the teasing smile, the flicker of hesitation. But there was none. Just quiet certainty. "You don’t believe in it?" you had whispered, voice small. "No." You could have left right then. You should have. But instead, you pressed closer. "That’s okay," you had said. "I’ll believe enough for the both of us."

You had been moving through the city like a ghost, head down, heart carefully buried somewhere it couldn’t be reached. The streets were alive, chaotic, full—voices and neon lights colliding in a blur of sound. The kind of noise that made it easier to breathe, easier to pretend that nothing was missing.

But then—

"Chaeyoung."

Soft. Familiar.

A voice you had sworn you would never hear again.

Your heart stopped.

No. No, it can’t be.

But you turned anyway.

And he was there.

"Promise me." His voice had been raw that night, his fingers tight around yours, desperate. "Promise me we’ll always find our way back." And you had smiled, because you had been naïve, because you had believed that love was enough. "I promise."

You felt sick.

You had spent so long trying to forget him, to convince herself that he was just a ghost, a figment of your past that couldn’t hurt you anymore.

But he wasn’t a ghost.

He was here.

And he was looking at you.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t alone.

"You’ll leave one day," he had told you once, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. You had shaken your head, smiling as if it was the easiest truth in the world. "No, I won’t." His jaw had clenched then, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "You say that now." "I mean it." But it didn’t matter. He never believed you. Never trusted that someone could want him without conditions, without expectations. So he kept his walls high, locked every door, kept you at a safe distance even when you were right beside him. And you let him. You had been so desperate just to be near him that you accepted every cold shoulder, every dismissive word, every quiet rejection masked as indifference. Because you thought one day he would see. That one day he would believe in love, too. But he had.

You breath hitched.

The world kept moving, kept spinning, but you—you were stuck.

Because he was standing right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you could almost imagine it had all been a nightmare, that none of it was real, that you could still reach for him and—

But then you saw her.

The girl beside him.

The one with her hand in his.

The diamond on the woman’s hand catches the light, and your stomach twists violently.

Because now, you know.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t love. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how.

He just didn’t want to love you.

And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

"You’ll forget me," you had whispered. He had laughed, shaking his head. "How could I?" But now— Now you were nothing but a forgotten name on his lips.

He blinked. For a second—just a second—he looked almost surprised to see you. Like he hadn’t been expecting this, like he hadn’t considered what it would mean to run into you again.

And then—

His fingers curled tighter around the other girl’s hand.

And just like that—

You knew.

"Wonwoo, I love you." You voice cracked, but you didn’t care. You were past the point of pride, past the point of pretending this didn’t hurt. Your heart was breaking in real time, splintering into pieces right in front of him, and he just stood there. You took a shaky breath, stepping closer, searching his face for something—anything. A reaction, a flicker of emotion, even pity. "Why can’t you love me too?" Your voice was louder this time, desperation bleeding into every syllable. "Why can’t you just—" you stopped, pressing a trembling hand to your chest. "Just say something, Wonwoo. Just—please." He looked at you. For a minute too long. And you thought, maybe this is it. Maybe he would finally let himself feel, let himself see you the way you had always seen him. Maybe he would reach for you, pull you close, whisper something that could make all this worth it. But then— He blinked. Turned around. And walked away. No hesitation. No final words. No second glance. The air left your lungs. You stood there, frozen, watching as he disappeared, waiting for him to stop, to turn back, to realize. He didn’t.

The crowd surged.

A wave of people moved between them, breaking them apart, tearing her away from him before you could even think, before you could even move.

You stumbled back, your chest caving in, your hands shaking.

No. No, no, no—

You pushed forward, desperate, needing to see him, needing to find him—

And then—

There.

He was still there.

Still standing in the same spot.

Still looking at you.

But this time—

He wasn’t reaching for you.

He wasn’t fighting the crowd, wasn’t calling your name, wasn’t trying.

He was just watching.

And then—

He turned.

And walked away.

With her.

"We’ll always find our way back." But they hadn’t. He had found someone else instead.

Your vision blurred. Your fingers curled into fists.

You could run after him.

You could call his name.

You could fight against the tide, push through the crowd, make him remember.

But you didn’t.

You just stood there.

Because this—this was how it ended.

Not with screaming. Not with a fight. Not with desperate pleas or broken promises.

But with him walking away—and not looking back.

And that— That was what hurt the most.

----

#kpop ff #kpop fanfic #seventeen ff #seventeen angst #wonwoo ff #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo angst #seventeen smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic

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unnatural-happenings · 3 months ago

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A Change of Fate

I've had an idea for a Persona fic and it's been sitting in my drafts forever. I have a ton written, but somehow not a single chapter is completed. I don’t know if I'm ever going to finish it, If I don't talk about it soon I swear I'm going to explode.

It's about a Player/Reader/OC(?) that gets transported to the world of Persona after meeting their end (normal isekai things yk). They wake up with no memories outside of some vague life they feel they didn't actually live. They end up at the arcade, run into Ryuji, have all memories but their finally moments come back to them and panic. Now they have to figure out how they want to go about existing in this world. Do they want to intervene in the plot or not? Do they even have the strength to?

Still not sold on making it an OC or a Reader Insert (drafts are a mix of both rn it's hell), but it's vague either way. I don't want to name or design the Player, I only do that when I'm drawing the more emotional scenes. For the most part they're merely a catalyst for my unhinged ideas and amusement.

If you want to hold out for the teensiest bit of hope that I finish the fic and post full length chapters, then stop here. There will be spoilers ahead in the form of a vague unhinged plot summary of its entirety (oops it's around 22k words).

If I do finish any scenes I find pretty good I may or may not post them separately. If I do I'll link it to my pinned.

(The rest of this is written in second person (you/your/yourself))

(ALSO a warning that comes with mild spoilers. By this ideas very nature this is—in way—a fix-it-fic, but the ending is still very bittersweet) (ALSO ALSO it has very minimal proofreading done. I tried but it is long. Though the AO3 version has more proofreading and is more up-to-date)

You wake up with no memories in a house by yourself, until you find papers saying you were accepted into Shujin Academy and start in a few days. Then you get vague memories of a normal life leading up to you deciding to study abroad at Shujin. Something about the whole thing seems off, but you shake it off and start to get ready to get the last supplies they need and to familiarize yourself with the area.

As you're walking around you keep getting hit with waves of nausea until you reach the arcade. Staring at the Jack Frost claw machine you nearly collapse, but someone catches you before you hit the floor. You thank him and end up talking and enjoying the arcade together for a while. At some point you mention you're going to Shujin and the guy seems pretty happy about it, but also warns them almost everyone there kinda sucks, teachers included. That's when you both realize you never introduced yourselves to each other so the guy goes first and—

He introduces himself as Sakamoto Ryuji.

Everything clicks after that and you remember that you are in fact, a player of Persona and you should not be here. You don't remember the events leading up to you waking up, but you remember the rest of your life and start having a panic attack. Ryuji—Sakamoto (they're real people now you can't just use their first name anymore) tries to help you through it, but when he does you look around and recognize all the buildings around you and panic even more.

You try to play off your panic as just being tired. You didn't realize how long they were out for and have to get back home! You make sure to tell Sakamoto you're happy you'll know someone when you start Shujin so he doesn't think you're running away from him then quickly, but cautiously, make your way back home.

You wake up the next day, realize not only are you in Persona, you're months before the arrival of Joker. You proceed to have a breakdown.

When you start Shujin you've sort of committed to not changing anything drastic in the plot, then Sakamoto steals you away at the first chance he gets. You can't bring yourself to deny him.

Of course hanging out with Sakamoto you eventually run into Takamaki Ann and Suzui Shiho, the track team (if you could kick them in the crotch you would), and unfortunately Kamoshida.

He warns you about hanging out with the likes of Sakamoto and tries to get you to join the volleyball team. You refuse as politely as possible and speed away from him.

You've been around for a couple months now learning to live on your own and start to wonder what your in-universe parents are like. You don't imagine it's anything good. Sure they're paying for the apartment and giving you a hefty allowance, but not once have they reached out to you. You don't know if they're expecting you to be the one to reach out either. As long as they don't bother you, you don't plan to bother them to find out.

All too soon the years change and you meet Yoshizawa for the first time. You never stopped to think about which version of the world you were in, and seeing Yoshizawa Sumire—currently Kasumi—makes you realize that Maruki is going to be an issue. It would be terrible for him to learn anything about you so you have to do your best not to stand out to the school when Joker arrives. Oh and he's arriving in a few days. Great.

You spend those few days trying to think of ways to subtly help and how what you might do could affect the future, but don't come up with anything in time.

When you walk to school and see Joker standing waiting for the rain to stop you don't know what to do. You're about to talk to him when a thought crops up in your head.

"Would you even be able to get a persona?"

You don't want to be a liability so you walk past him with your head down.

Or at least you tried to walk past him, but he ends up grabbing you. You're surprised and it looks like he's surprised himself that he did that and apologies. He struggles to put his thoughts together while you stand there awkwardly wanting to get away as soon as possible. He's giving you a look you don't know how to feel about. Then Takamaki shows up and basically saves you from that encounter.

Then Kamoshida drives up in his car.

You didn't want to get into an enclosed space with him, but you knew if you didn't join you'd end up walking with the boys and getting stuck in the palace (which is honestly worse). You also remember how Takamaki looked during the cut scene and couldn't stand to leave her alone with him, so you got in the car.

Waiting for the boys to get back from their kidnapping is agonizing. When Sakamoto finally arrives after lunch and you ask hum if he's okay he kinda avoids the question. Which is about what you were expecting.

After the final bell rings Sakamoto tells you to he has something to do and runs off without you. That's fine since you know what he's gone off to do and make your way out, accidentally bumping into someone in the hall. You hear the murmurs of the student body around you and glasses hitting the floor before you lay your eyes on who it is. Of course it's Joker.

He introduces himself to you. Amamiya Ren. At least now you know which name he goes by, but this is still not ideal! He's also still got that strange curiosity in his eyes when he's looking at you. It's intense. You don't like it, so you quickly make an excuse and leave. He has to talk to Sakamoto anyway.

You're watching the events of the game take place from the sidelines, wanting to help but to scared you'd change things for the worse. It's when Suzui falls from the roof the guilt sets in and starts to eat you alive. You make your way up to the roof to stew in it and cry when you hear the door slam open and Sakamoto shouting.

You forgot they resolved to take Kamoshida down with the Metaverse today. You're also surprised you can already understand Morgana.

Yet again you're put into the position to make a choice and let yourself be known to them. You're actually about to when you look over the edge of the roof. That's when the last bit of fog on your previous life's memories clear up.

You were pushed off of the roof. It was an accident, a sore loser who couldn't get over his own ego pushed your friend, accusing her of cheating in a tournament. She lost her balance and ended up crashing into you, making you tumble off the side. Everyone that was there tried to reach for you, including the egoist, but none of them were fast enough. You distinctly remember the feeling of your head caving in before everything went dark. It was dark for a while, before you woke up in that apartment.

Your vision blurs as you start hyperventilating. You scramble away from the edge of the roof and run all the way to the station, wanting nothing but to go home.

The next couple days you try to avoid every canon character, which isn't that hard since they're focusing on Kamoshida's palace. Unfortunately the man himself notices you're on your own and tries to harass you. It's both fantastic and horrifying when the thieves start showing up again and hanging around you until you get on the train. Something must've happened in his palace regarding you. If none of them can keep an eye on you before they enter then they always ask you to go to the store for them. If you didn't know what was going on you'd have a lot more questions, but you're content to do their shopping for them.

After they change his heart they strong arm you into hanging out with them as a group. It's not at the buffet so you guess they already ate there and solidified themselves as the Phantom Thieves.

You feel you're going to go insane waiting for them to find Madarame. Important people keep bumping into you and it's stressing you out. Amamiya keeps trying to get you to talk or hangout or something so you keep having to make excuses, Kitagawa asked to sketch you 'cause apparently your solemn look down at your coffee sitting alone at a cafe was the perfect scene for him, you keep getting asked if you want to study for midterms, and you literally bump into Akechi. It's the most shame and terrified you've felt in this world. You want the plot to start happening so you can get a minute to breathe.

Finally after exams are over they start Madarame and you expect your interactions with the main cast to go down. How wrong you were.

The thieves still ask you to buy items for them occasionally, though now Amamiya seems to use it as a way to talk to you. Sometimes someone will message you asking to buy something ASAP and bring it to the passage before bolting. You think they're using you to get items during a palace run so they can stay in longer, but you're not asking. Then Takamaki practically begs you to join her for a modelling gig.

You assumed she was talking about her actual job. Maybe she picked up a more free gig and she was allowed to pick someone to join her? Suzui still wasn't able so her next choice was you. You have trouble saying no to these people so of course you agreed to join her.

You're petrified when you end up standing in front of a shack and not a studio.

One thing happens after the next and you're on the verge of a breakdown inside the palace. You can't pay attention to anything. The only thing you notice is Kitagawa getting his persona so you move out of the way on autopilot. Before you all exit the thieves try to ask if you're okay, but you wave them off and ask to leave. As soon as you do you head home.

When you get inside and after a bit of hesitation, you call your supposed mother and learn she's really weird. She does what she asks of you though and now you're home bound for some terrible "illness." She somehow got the school to agree to send your work over while you're "recovering."

It's Niijima Makoto the school sends to hand over your work. They also give her your number. You message her to tell her she doesn't have to physically give you the work, that it's excessive and sending it through an email would've been fine for the school, but she doesn't relent. You have her drop your work off in front of your door and watch you pick it up from a distance, cursing the principal out in your mind all the while.

You receive an endless amount of messages from the thieves, but you ignore them all. They never stop as the week passes, but the contents change.

One day Niijima shows up at your door with Sakamoto in tow and he basically bullies his way into your apartment. They help you air out the place and try to cheer you up. Niijima takes the work you finished and organizes what you didn't while Sakamoto gives you a ton of games to borrow and asks you to play at least one of them to completion. None of this makes you feel any better.

A few days later you're sent a calling card.

??What the fuck??

You don't know why you were sent one or how it would even feel to get your heart changed. To be frank you don't WANT to know! You're fine! They're ignoring your messages now so you guess they've already jumped in. But to where? Mementos? A palace?? Was whatever they think is wrong with you strong enough to make a palace???

If you think about it any longer you feel you'll go insane, so you try to get some sleep, hoping you can skip whatever process happens during a change of heart. You barely get any when your phone lights up. Hoping it's a message from a thief you open your eyes only to be greeted to a black and red swirling eye.

You throw your phone across the room, turn to face the other wall and go to sleep.

Much later, you wake up to someone banging on your door. Just to get them to shut up you open the door and end up nearly knocking Sakamoto out. They came over immediately after they left and they're almost frantic as they explain the situation.

Yes, you had a palace—still have a palace. They didn’t change your heart. Not because they couldn't, but because it apparently wasn't a good idea. After the fight they got to talk to your shadow and they seemed to be much better than before.

You're able to piece together that they basically handled your palace like a jail in Strikers/Scramble. Now that the scare is over you realize you feel more… put together. This is the most at peace you've felt with your place here since meeting Sakamoto.

But beyond that you have no idea what they exactly talked about that made taking your treasure a bad idea. They don't explain, and you don't ask. You're too afraid of what they might've seen inside of it and you're sure stress radiates off you in waves, but they never push it. What they end up doing is reiterating multiple times that they're your friends and can and will help you through whatever you need.

You go back to school. Madarame apologizes and the student body clowns on him. The Social Studies trip happens but you don't go. You still somehow run into Akechi again and now he wants to use you as his rumour mill. Like always you have a hard time saying no to these people when you probably should.

A few days past with Amamiya insisting that he hangout with you. Sometimes the others join, but it's mostly just you and him. The last time you were together he left just a little agitated. When you asked he only said it wasn't anything you did, which obviously didn't answer the question. There's no time to ponder though when Niijima blackmails the group the next day.

They're scrambling to find any information, but refuse to go to you for any help. They don't even let you walk around Shibuya, blaming it on you needing more time to recover from your illness. They know you weren't actually ill they just suck at excuses. It makes sense since it's the mafia, but you’re itching to do something to keep them from getting blackmailed again.

Of course between your inability to come up with a plan to save your life and constant hesitation, Niijima ends up running into the lion's den and getting them all in trouble. They basically come to you after they've already gone into the palace with their tails between their legs. For a variety of reasons, including their stupidity (and cause of the location),the hideout changes to your apartment.

The first couple days is the same routine as before. They jump in and have you get items for them, but since you know you're able to bring them more things they could use. They don't make much progress in the palace despite this though to your confusion and their ire.

One day they don't show up at your apartment anywhere near the time they should be back. They haven't asked you for items either, so unless Amamiya brought a crapton with him it starts to feel like something's gone wrong. Your nerves get shot and after almost an hour of nothing when you remember you have the Metaverse app on your phone. Fearing more for them over yourself you input Kaneshiro's palace keys and go in.

After hyping yourself up, you force one of the ATM people to carry you to the floating bank. When it gets there you bolt out of its arms and through the secret passage into the building and immediately hear the sounds of a fight going on.

It doesn't take you long to find the source of it, and as you peak around the corner to see you find the Phantom Thieves fighting a bird. A really, really fast bird. They can barely land a hit on the thing, and when they finally do it barely does anything. The bird keeps moving around like it wasn't just stabbed, electrocuted, and burned all at once.

Morgana is also knocked out cold on the floor, his bandanna and fur singed at the edges. The rest of the thieves are extremely tired and must be running low on SP.

This bird shouldn't be here, hell it doesn't even look like a normal shadow! Despite knowing this is not a regular encounter in this palace it feels familiar somehow. Once you remember why it takes everything in your power not to groan.

Unfortunately not only were you a Persona player, you were a Persona player that modded the game.

Specifically, you modded it to make it harder. Much harder.

You are now seeing the consequences of your actions, but it's not like you thought you'd be forced to fight this dogshit in real life! How were you supposed to know your methods of self torture would follow you to merge with this worlds Metaverse and create nothing but problems. If you'd known you would've saved yourself the trouble. Unfortunately you can't go back in time to slap yourself in the face for thinking of downloading all of that garbage. You just have to deal with it, but you have no clue how.

It's obvious they were not prepared for a fight like this and you can't blame them, but you can't jump into the fight to give them advice. You don't have a persona, effectively making you a sitting target. A liability. You didn't bring any items to help you for this either. You can't help them, but they also can't afford to fall here.

You back away to root through any antiques or statues laying around, hoping to find anything, but instead get ambushed by a group of shadows. They knock you into a corner and radio in Kaneshiro. You think you're done for.

It's when you hear the thieves cry out at another member falling that your resolve strengths.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

"It appears this flickering lamp wants to shine as bright as the stars in the sky, but still allows darkness to cover their truest desires.

Is this still a game to you? Do their deaths not matter? Should they fall, are you expecting time to reset for many second chances?"

"Of course not. They aren't characters on a screen anymore. They're living people trying to change the world for the better, and I want— I need to help them! They can't die here!"

"Then stand and free yourself of your demons!

I am thou… thou art I…

I lend you my light to fight for what is right!"

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

It blasts all the nearby shadows away, leaving you standing. Not taking any time to marvel at your new power, you leap past them to save the thieves from the bird.

After reviving Morgana and Ryuji, you help guide the Thieves on how to take down the enemy. As soon as you do you're all rushing out of the palace in the Monacar and getting to your apartment as fast as possible.

When everyone recovers, They're all grilling you for answers, wondering when you got the app on your phone, how you knew what Kaneshiro’s keywords were, how you knew what to do in that fight etc. You reply with lies and excuses, which they catch you on every time. Eventually you run out and you gotta spill.

You tell them about the game (not about your original reality though), and you're surprised when they almost instantly believe you. They say it's because the way your palace worked and the talk they had with your shadow at the end.

Now that you've finally confirmed that for them they start to speculate where it could’ve come from. Yet again you're shocked they're worried more about the game then about you. They're honestly appalled and saddened you would even think that, so they reinforce you're their friend first and the knowledge you have of future events is now a really cool helpful bonus. None of them leave until you promise to use their first names from now on and confirming you're joining the team.

Amamiya—Ren stays behind for a bit longer to learn about his protagonist status. In turn he tells you he's been trying to get your confidant leveled since he learned about it (but really since he first laid eyes on you). You blame his fixation on being a protagonist to a player. He tells you he doesn't give a shit.

By the end he's relieved and explains your confidant kept locking itself, but now it's free of chains. He threatens you with the promise of him taking up multiple of your free days before leaving.

When everyone meets up again you get your code name Bug. Like a bug in a video game, you're a bug in their fate. You would’ve denied it if Ann hadn't called it cute. Ryuji called you weak for that, then was promptly hit.

On your first actual outing as a Phantom Thief you can see how bad your modding habits have affected the Metaverse. None of the bosses have become harder then they originally should be, but more shadows then you're expecting are from your mods. You highly doubt it'll stay this way moving forward.

Now that you're helping Kaneshiro’s palace is a little easier, but it's still confusing as to why modded shadows are even here. Morgana blames it on your preconceived perception being stronger than most because of the game. Basically the palace gets warped by both you and the ruler. You really wish you could call bull, but spot another bird in the distance and cry.

During down time you head into mementos by yourself to talk to Jose. You needed to know if he could tell you were from another world, and if he did to be quite about it before the rest came down for requests. You're having a nice conversation with him when fighting is heard in the distance. Peaking around the corner you find the Black Mask fighting off more of your modded shadows. He's not doing to good, and the shadows aren't making it easy to escape.

You're conflicted one whether you should help him or not. You know you should, but he's still very much Shido's lap dog rn.

Then a voice pops in your head asking if your efforts start and end with the Phantom Thieves. Of course not, so you promise yourself to save everyone you possibly can and you get your second persona.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

"It appears your meddling has cause problems for more than your own.

Then end you seek goes against the will of the world, continuing down this path shall will bring great struggle and hardship.

Do you still plan to defy the gods of this world, knowing all will be against you?"

"I don't care. In this world, I'll make sure—"

Your chest burns as you gaze upon the fight happening before you. It feels like daggers are stabbing into every inch of your skin, twisting, but you stand tall. Not once taking your eyes off of what you now perceive as your ultimate goal.

"—I'll make sure no one has to die!"

"Then it would seem you have finally clipped all threads tying you to fate. I shall lend you my strength to brave this future head on!

I am thou… Thou art I…

Carve out a path of your own and show fate its place!"

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

You don't allow yourself a moment to ponder the implications of getting a second persona before you're jumping into the fray to help Akechi.

After a long fight and subsequently long interrogation with a sword at your neck, you manage to convince him that you want to help. Also to wait to doubt the validity of your future knowledge by telling him about Shido's plans with Medjed. He nearly slit your throat for that alone though…

Going back to the thieves you don't say shit and you all take down Kaneshiro. Afterwards it's a barrage of studying and being dragged to hangout left and right before Akechi runs into all of you in the subway. He points out your group is sus as fuck and you can tell he expects to meet up with you later.

Meeting up in Mementos again he says he believes you and is willing to work with you to change the future cause fuck fate. Especially if it means he lives to see the fall of Shido. He also has a few choice words he wants to say to the gods you described… with his sword.

You both agree to plan in the background before revealing him or your full hand to the rest of the thieves. You try to at least get Ren in on it too, but Akechi can barely handle your sudden team up. He's not immediately jumping for joy at the thought of anyone else.

Alibaba shenanigans happen. The thieves try to pry who they are out of you, but you feel it's easier if they figure it out themselves. You don't know what would change if you told them and just went in. It's not worth the risk of Futaba not overcoming her perception herself or gaining her persona.

One break-in later you're in her palace and… It sucks.

Most of the palace has changed to reflect the many mods you injected into the game. Makoto thinks it's because her palace is so disconnected from everything else, your presence effects it more. All to say most of the shadows in here are beyond irritating. When you were playing the game, it was annoying and bullshit sure, but now actually having to fight these things has put the fear of God into you.

Every fight is life or death more than before. If a shadow can hit a weakness they will, if it has an insta-kill you better bet it's going to land it at least once, if it can inflict an ailment it just so happens it will use the more BS modded version. Burn will bring someone to the brink of death, despair saps every ounce of energy someone has left, rage is now a worse brainwash, and a ton of new ailments you wish you could remember from the mod. Of course they can access moves that shouldn't exist too.

The bosses are a whole different nightmare themselves.

Slow as you all were, you were able to make through a majority of the palace. Only to get stopped by a boss only weak to bless. You're able to get around it for now, but you need to go that way eventually. Ren doesn't have anything of value and you're no help in this case. To not risk all of your lives in this shithole he chooses to grind in Mementos to fuse a decent bless persona.

You know it won't be enough though, so you rush to inform Akechi that he might be needed earlier than planned. He asks why so you tell him how everything's gone and he blames you. After staging a meetup in Mementos Akechi joins the team as Crow to everyone's disappointment, besides you and Ren.

When you fight the boss again it's still a struggle, but Akechi makes it so much more bearable.

The palace crawling goes a little smoother than before with the extra member, but it still takes a few days to get to the end. During this time you and Akechi are desperately trying to rework your plans. You also ask him how he's holding up going through Futaba’s palace, but he brushes you off redirecting you to how she would feel with him here. You feel awful and resolve to tell her when she wakes up.

The Wakaba fight happens as normal, but this time with you and Akechi included. He hates seeing her again and Ren takes notice.

When summer break officially starts for everyone Ren basically kidnaps you and Akechi. He gets you to explain yourselves and becomes the next to be in on the planning. He asks when you and Akechi planned to tell everyone else and you don't have an answer, which disappoints him. He agrees to help with initial planning to avoid all the drama that happens during and after the Hawaii trip, but only if you tell everyone afterwards.

After that you're playing the waiting game.

You hangout with the thieves, explore Mementos with Akechi and Ren, more planning + stress over the Hawaii trip after remembering the principal dies, Ren informing you over the unique state of your soul— wait what?

Apparently soon after your Mementos trip, Igor informed Ren that your soul is beyond what he’s seen before. You're not a wild card, so you can't get personas on your own, but you can still wield multiple. Then when Ren asked how you could get more, he called you a leech. Someone capable of stealing personas, no matter how strong, and keep them forever. No matter how hard he tried to get it back, he wouldn't be able to without killing you. Fusing a new one would also be impossible if you were to ever obtain one, so he told Ren to be weary around you. Maybe break the team up altogether. Hell, that Akechi guy is also suuuper sketchy and untrustworthy so he totally shouldn’t be working with either of you at all.

Akechi had nothing to say about the obvious try at manipulation, while you went of on a rant about "Igor" calling you a leech.

One more Mementos trip and figuring out what the faker meant by "leech" you gain your third persona!

Around this time you also remember your palace still might exist. Out of pure curiosity you enter and find it's nothing like the thieves described. At least not anymore. Some time between now and your sudo change of heart it's shifted from a normal palace to something more akin to the thieves den. There's rooms where your personas reside in (you count six with no room for more) and what looks like a war table in the middle.

During one of your Mementos runs a door also appears for you, leading you straight into your palace. This instantly gives you an idea you can't wait to tell the planning committee.

It has to wait though because Futaba wakes up and puts a stop to the fake Medjed. The thieves then switch gears and put their efforts into making her more comfortable with all of you. Things proceed as normal, besides her outing you being a seer immediately. You correct her ("I wish. I just played a game where all of you were the characters" "Oh… What??") and move onto the beach episode.

Later on Futaba comes up to you and asks if you know what happened to her mother.

It's a very intense, emotionally driven conversation. You're trying desperately to explain why you had to bring Akechi in did you really though? and vaguely explain his side while Futaba is rightfully pissed off. She feels gross knowing her mothers killer was in her head.

She tells you to leave her alone and you do, now wondering if you're going about this the wrong way.

You spend the next day trying to finalize your plan with Ren and Akechi, while also trying not to let the guilt eat you from the inside out. It's also agonizingly difficult to focus when a major part of the problem is sitting next to you.

Akechi ends up pulling you to the side after one to many caught glances had his irritation bubble over. He doesn't take you brushing off the problem lightly with it impeding on the planning, so you spill and tell him what happened with Futaba.

He doesn't have much to say about this situation, not much positive anyway. Though he does say you’re the only one that can tell them what's happening, so you have to get your shit together. You fucked up, but you need to focus now so people will stop dying through the Metaverse.

The meeting concludes with no solutions made again.

There's still time before you have to call it a day, so you make cookies to act as a peace offering gift for Futaba. You knock on her door hoping she responds so you can apologize for the gross negligence of her feelings. When she doesn't respond you leave a note and homemade cookies before going home.

The next meeting you're able to stay on track and able to come up with a plan. You can't deal with Okumura, at least not yet. If you were to change his heart, Akechi will be forced to either kill him or go into hiding. Letting him die isn't an option, but going into hiding is too risky. Though you can't leave him alone either. Shido wanted him dead to begin with, if it doesn't look like the Phantom Thieves are interested in looking into him at all there's a chance he might send Akechi to kill him anyway. It's easy to forge a calling card, that's what they do with the principal after all.

So during the Hawaii school trip, Akechi will take Morgana (for the support. He says he doesn't need it but you insist) and try to recruit Haru to your cause. While he's doing that you're also waiting for the poll to pop up and fester for a little. Once it has, the idea is to make a big show of it being fraudulent and how all this evidence popping up against him is too sudden. At the end making sure to note that you will be looking into this yourselves later. Hopefully by the time everyone else comes back you'll have a new member and be ready to move onto phase two.

To change Sugimura's heart.

Haru still needs to be saved before October 11th, and the Phantom Thieves still need a public target. This kills two birds with one stone. Then on the same day you plan to send the calling card to change his heart, you'll also kidnap Okumura.

You're not actually going to do that, but the plan does involve making the public think he's gone missing. Both Ren and Akechi (and you tbh) can't believe this is what your plan devolves into, but the best way to make sure he stays alive is to keep him in somewhere safe where no one can find him. Somewhere you can easily bring him where not even he will know you're involved.

The Metaverse is the easiest solution. While Mementos isn't an option, your palace will keep him out of danger. It'd be easy to have Akechi go up, trick Okumura into the Metaverse (possibly with the help of Haru if she agrees to join), and convince him to agree to hide away for a while. Then Akechi brings him to your palace. Your personas will also make sure he won't even remember his time there.

His sudden disappearance should also cause the public's uproar a little more and Shido to question what's going on. Hopefully he's more focused on finding you guys than killing Okumura.

Safe to say you're not particularly proud of this plan, but none of you have come up with anything else and Hawaii is around the corner so this will have to do.

You're plan wavers into jot notes and vague ideas after this. Plans usually never stay on course so you have to revisit what to do when everyone's on the same boat. You have 45 days after the 11th before Shido's palace is initially supposed to start. Removing days you'll be focused on something else, that only leaves about 34 days for you to figure out something attention grabbing and follow through.

Before you can get there you still have to do the first part of your plan, and unfortunately the first part of the plan requires Futaba. She's the only one that can hack the Phansite to leave the initial message. Your positive Futaba's still mad at you and there's no way in hell she even wants to be in the same room as Akechi. That leaves Ren to try and get her on board so he leaves to go talk to her.

When he comes back he arrives with Futaba in tow. You tense when she comes over to you, but are surprised when she clings to your clothing.

"I'm still mad at you, but if you promise not to hide anything like that from me or anyone again I'll forgive you."

You give her your word and tell her you'll inform everyone once you get back from the trip to Hawaii.

She ignores the massive elephant in the room for a while longer before turning to Akechi. She starts by saying she'll never forgive him, but wants to hear why he did it though his own mouth.

He evades answering the question in any satisfying way until you heavily gesture that he should be a little honest. Once he provides the bare minimum he walks out and Ren goes after him, leaving you with Futaba. You accidental sigh out wondering if you're doing anything right. Futaba tells you you're trying to save a murderer with a tragic backstory, a rich guy that exploits the working class until they die, and are sad over not being able to help your pushover, sad excuse of a principal that happily endorses the man behind the slaughter. There's not many ways you can do any of that "correctly."

You thank her and she just reminds you that you have to tell her all about the game. When you try to say that wasn't what you promised she just turns around, pretends to not listen and threatens to rescind her forgiveness.

Ren comes back without Akechi. He informs the both of you he had to head back home, but he plans to follow through on his end of the plan. So you tell Futaba what she's going to be doing and head home yourself.

Now you're nervous about how you're plan's going to go. You hope well, but you highly doubt that after you let the rest of the thieves know Akechi is the Black Mask. Then you think about how you'd be telling them after he just killed someone and realize you should tell them a lot sooner.

School starts, you meet with everyone individually to explain what's going on. With Morgana, Ann and Yusuke it goes surprisingly better than you were expecting (though you suspect Morgana is only saving it to pester Ren about it later). Though it goes as expected with Ryuji and Makoto. They both already hated the guy so this was only adding fuel to the fire. You're hoping a talk with Ren will help Ryuji get his thoughts in order before he ends up lashing out at Akechi.

The Hawaii trip starts and the first part of the plan begins.

Futaba’s able to take down the poll on the Phansite and as suspected the public lashes out. Ren makes sure to inform Mishima not to put it back up. Morgana's and Akechi's side goes through a few hiccups, but in the end Haru agrees to join and Morgana helps her get her persona. Akechi had to leave at that point to get the principal on Shido's orders then lay low.

No one was able to enjoy the trip to Hawaii.

You all get back to Japan and things still do not go smoothly in the slightest. The meeting to explain who their next target is and why is… rough to say the least. Makoto is being more antagonistic than you hoped for, Futaba is giving him a wide berth and still doesn't really talk to you (though both were to be expected), Ryuji is calmer than you thought he would be but still aggressive, and Morgana clearly makes his disappointment known. Ann, Yusuke, and Haru are the only ones able to get through it without unworkable levels of aggression.

Ann is one of the kindest people you've ever met and willing to give him a chance (even if it's just 'cause you and Ren like him), Haru knew from the start this time around, and Yusuke can see where Akechi came from even if he doesn't understand how it got that extreme.

Everyone is emotionally exhausted by the end of the meeting, but you're able to explain what's going on to everyone else. The others are a bit upset to learn of this. They're disappointed you went off and planned on your own (and with Akechi which is super dangerous btw what were you thinking—) and force you to promise again to tell your teammates when something is happening. One by one. It's embarrassing but you do it.

Once that's done the hideout changes to your thieves den and you start Sugimura’s palace. It's… better and worse than you were expecting.

In terms of difficulty it's surprisingly not complete bullshit. You were expecting everything to be harder after the hell Futaba’s palace put you through, but it's a fair mix of "harder by Persona 5 standards" and "harder by your dogshit modded standards."

In terms of palace contents… it's more subtle than Kamoshida's, but still painfully obvious what's happening. You all want out of this palace as soon as possible. You're happy the war table in your thieves den is seeing some use though!

The treasure is located at the very top of this skyscraper of a palace. Futaba blames the height on his ego. When you all notice the treasure room shift occasionally to a bedroom, you secure your route and leave immediately.

The next day your plan is sent into motion. Morgana leaves to deliver the calling card to Sugimura, Akechi and Haru are sent to get Okumura, and Makoto and Futaba have to make sure there's no evidence left from either. The rest of you wait until Morgana comes back with word to enter Sugimura’s palace.

While you're waiting Ren gives you another persona that cost him nearly all the yen on his person. You would've scolded him right then and there, but you were much too focused on your new addition.

Once everyone shows up, they check on you to make sure there's no side effects of him being in your palace and your personas give you the okay. Everyone is still iffy on this plan, but Haru assures everyone that she'd rather they do this then have him found dead somewhere.

After one last once over everyone heads over to steal the treasure and encounter Sugimura's shadow. He's almost as gimmicky as Okumura’s and it annoys the fuck out of everyone, but you all get through it relatively fine.

While waiting for Sugimura's heart to change you all enter a period of limbo. You and Akechi want to plan ahead, but everyone else tells you to relax for a second. You've been stressed and need to take a minute before you explode. They also bring up that Sugimura hasn't even apologized yet so the waiting game begins again. During this time Haru tries to keep the business afloat as best she can before you can help with her father, Ren accidentally enters Maruki's palace with Yoshizawa, Akechi's keeping tabs on Shido, and you all enter Mementos a couple times when everyone's free to train and let off steam.

The celebration is still held at Destinyland. The trip is a little stained with stress, but you try to enjoy yourself anyway before you have to think about the future. You have more fun then you thought you would running around an amusement park just for yourselves. Akechi can't join since he has to play to Shido's whims and act like he's still looking, so you and Ren take a bunch of pictures and buy him souvenirs. At the end of the day you're all sitting around eating when Haru gets notified about a live stream and your blood runs cold.

For a brief moment you think you've failed at saving someone again, but your personas chime in and say Okumura’s still in your palace, and there was no way for Shido to know about Sugimura. It still does little to calm your nerves.

When Haru tunes in it appears to be a news live stream talking about Sugimura’s apology statement. He made what you could only assume was this worlds equivalent to a twitlonger. Explaining what he did and why he was so sorry and that he'd be stepping down to better himself. While there was no death on live TV this time around (thank god), this is still a little disappointing with no promise of jail time.

Ann and Yusuke note that this whole thing felt hollow. You all took down someone obviously deserving, but it feels like you didn't do anything. Makoto marks that on top of Sugimura not showing himself for his apology, it's probably because of the public's reaction.

They seemed.. split at best of this turn of events. A majority are unsatisfied to a certain extent. A lot of people where happy when they heard of everything Sugimura was doing, but a lot of people were still upset. No one knew who Sugimura even was (he's in politics so really that's their own fault but whatever), so the apology feels hollow. Yes you changed the heart of a scumbag, but how did you even find this guy? How'd you end up investigating him when the entirety of the internet was rallying behind Okumura?

Technically, this is still good for you. The Phantom Thieves just need to get their name out there—it doesn't necessarily have to be all positive, but it still leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Some of the others are more infuriated with the public perception as well.

Despite all your efforts, the night at Destinyland still ends on a sour note.

The next day during a meeting between you all (still minus Akechi), Okumura’s disappearance finally breaks out on the news.

This makes the public unrest even more palpable. A more than insignificant amount of people blaming the Phantom Thieves for not going after him first and letting him get away. Some people note that if the Phantom Thieves could find Kaneshiro, then surely you guys could find Okumura too! Some are also going so far as to suggest you kidnapped him, which isn't that far, but he agreed to be protected in the first place and it's wild they came up with that at all.

It makes every thief antsy and hard to keep their stress at bay. A new target—or at least something else eye-catching obviously has to be found soon. No one has any ideas though, not even you. Ann suspects the public won't be happy with whatever you do anyway. If it's not finding and changing Okumura’s heart they won't care.

Then Makoto reminds everyone that you all have to lay low for a while and act like normal students. Tensions are too high to do anything rash, and you have midterms to study for anyway. Disappointed and anxious, everyone splits off.

The next few days is a barrage of studying with your friends exams. You try your best to keep your mind off of everything and all of them are really good at acting like clowns or actually helping you study.

Coming into Shujin the day after you overhear some kids talking about the police. You… completely forgot about the investigation, so you quickly inform everyone over the group chat. Ryuji bashes you slightly for forgetting. Then Akechi is brought up and why he didn't say anything and hasn't said anything for a while now. He finally comes on, types out "I'm busy" and promptly leaves again. After Makoto remarks that everyone should be careful with what they say everyone shuts their phones off.

You're stressed during your interrogation, but they don't ask you much questions so you think you got through it fine. All they really did was ask easy yes or no questions you already knew not to lie about.

After school everyone meets at your place to discuss the interrogation, then move onto the investigation. They ask you if you remember what's going on, but before you can say anything Akechi appears out of thin air. When everyone shouts in surprise he's taking out the battery in his phone and tells everyone else to do the same.

He arrived at your apartment through the Metaverse 'cause he needed to be absolutely sure no one was tailing him. After they do that he finally divulges as to why he's been absent for so long.

He was busy dealing with everything at the precinct and trying to understand the sudden cold shoulder he's receiving from Shido.

Shido's still holding meetings with him, but all of them haven't been for anything important. No exchange of information, no targets—he's not even venting anymore, Shido's giving him nothing. It's all just to waste time, so Akechi can only assume Shido's become suspicious of him and trying to fish for evidence. A change in behaviour, connections he might have made, anything. All the extra work that's been piled on top of him is also probably to increase his stress and chances of tripping up.

To add onto the horrendous news he just dropped on you, he also informs everyone that Sae Niijima is on the brink of falsifying a case on the Phantom Thieves.

They ask how they managed to deal with all this in the game, and you tell them Ren just told her everything that happened and she joined their efforts. Before they get too happy about it though, you do note that Ren was locked in an interrogation room deep underground, beaten, and drugged. This was also after she received a calling card, so who knows if she'll listen as willingly as she did then.

"The police did WHAT!?"

"Long story worth over 100 hours of game play— look it's probably not going to happen so can we move on?"

"You can't just say that and expect us to get over it!"

Pushing aside the horrifying reality how far the police brutality and corruption goes, you can't talk to Sae Niijima without something more concrete to get her on your side. Since their ticket to taking it even a little easier is off the table, you all still have to lay low for a while. Makoto enlists all the second years to help in the festival executive committee to meet without suspicion.

Planning for the festival is as boring as you thought it was, and unfortunately the student body still want to see Akechi as their celebrity guest. He outright refuses to step anywhere near Shujin unless it's for an investigation, so you have to lie to the student body and get someone else "oh, we apologize, but we couldn't get Akechi. He's currently very busy working on the Phantom Thieves case and can't spare any time to stop by. So sad… anyway—"

The Cultural Festival is still a moderately fun time despite the impending doom it feels like your group is currently facing. Spending time with everyone takes your mind off of it at least for a little while.

The next day you wake up and remember the thieves are supposed to get slapped with a large bounty and hurry to watch the news. You played it the entire morning and even on the way to school, but no announcement of a bounty ever came. The Phantom Thieves still become wanted, but the police only ask for any information

It puts you on edge enough to inform everyone about the change. While they're glad there's no bounty on their heads, it's still concerning, and gives more credence into Shido putting his efforts into investigating Akechi. He is Shido's best asset, so having even an inkling that Akechi might have turned means a tighter leash on him and less opportunities for him to help you guys.

Not wanting to sit around and wait for Akechi to plan your next steps (he'd call you all morons if you ever did that anyway), Ren decides to at least scope out Maruki's palace to see if they could possibly deal with that earlier.

When you get in everything seems normal, but when you try and go beyond the entrance you all end up back outside. Going back in and trying another door yields the same results. Hearing laughing in the distance only makes the Thieves want to figure out what's going on more, so after Futaba checks the surrounding she says to try the front door twice. You walk in, turn around, and walk right through the door you just came in and somehow it leads you to… an empty hallway. Granted it is a different room, but it's still not really progress.

Everyone is already fed up with this palace when going back through the door again doesn't lead you back to the entrance, but into another hallway with more doors.

You are so lost at this point since none of this should even be happening at all. Yusuke wonders if this is some form of punishment for trying to do this "earlier" than intended, and Morgana thinks it might be some sort of defense mechanism.

Low and behold Morgana ends up being correct! Azathoth comes around claiming the cat is right and that he is protecting the palace in his rulers place. He laughs everyone for thinking he'd let them get anywhere, ignores any attempts made to fish for answers, and leaves.

Ryuji opens one of the doors in frustration and nearly gets punched in the face by a shadow.

You all spend… more time than you'd like to admit running around opening doors. Each new pathway always taking you back to the start at the end of it. Once everyone's to exhausted to continue and agrees that nothing's going to get done at this rate you finally leave.

You and Ren tell Akechi about everything that happened and he focuses on the fact Maruki's persona was personally talking to you guys. He thinks this would be a good opportunity to get information on Maruki without actually having to talk to him. He also notes that making progress in his palace might be impossible without learning more about his powers anyway. Ren agrees with him, so Akechi does his best to get time off for tomorrow.

Akechi manages to pull through, so the next day you're back in Maruki's palace with him in tow this time, hoping to gain something out of this visit. Be it information or by some miracle, progress.

Azathoth is there to greet you as soon as you step inside and calling your group "bold" for daring to come back. Akechi steps forward to try and manipulate it into telling him how Maruki's powers work. Azathoth see's through it though being able to read Akechi's mind, and instead offers to show everyone. Then it teleports everyone to different sides of the palace and places them under the effects of actualisation. It doesn't end up working on you since Azathoth isn't actually able to read into your deepest memories. There's not enough for him to draw upon to actualise into a fantasy for you, so instead to keep you out of the way he places you onto a pedestal. It's high enough that if you were to jump off you'd without a doubt break something.

When you're put up there all you can think about is the event that got you sent to this world in the first place, and break down. You're there for a while, hyperventilating and begging for someone—anyone—to get you down from there. You freak out when something starts to circle around your waist and pull you upwards until you're pulled into somebody. It takes a bit longer for you to calm down and open your eyes, and when you do your vision is filled with floating holograms filled with code and random hieroglyphs fluttering across the walls.

Futaba continues holding onto you tightly, trying to ground you and asks if you're doing any better. When you tell yes she says she's going to make her persona spit the both of you back onto the ground now. It's a short distance so you should be fine! You give her the okay and wait for your feet to finally touch the floor before you're thanking her profusely. She's a little embarrassed, but otherwise brushes it off. You're her friend and her teammate, she would never leave you in that kind of position. Especially when she knows how awful it is to feel that panicked.

Taking another moment to fully calm yourself, you remember everyone was supposed to be put under the effects of actualisation, and ask Futaba how she was able to save you.

She tells you she was, but her persona alerted her to you being in trouble. When she arrived and saw you in that state she realized she was in a fantasy and had to snap out of it to help you. You thank her again and set off to find the rest of your teammates.

You both end up coming across Ryuji and Makoto and freeing them from their fantasies, and afterwards you hear something collapse in the distance. Futaba brings you to where it supposedly happened, and when you enter you find the place has been utterly demolished.

Following the path of destruction leads you to Akechi. He's a mess. Breathing heavily on the floor and completely disheveled. He nearly cuts your head off when you try to walk towards him, but quickly puts his sword away when he realizes it's the real you.

The others stay off to the side while you're helping him up. Makoto asks him what happened here and Akechi's only response is to call this his hell.

They would've asked why, had the room not started to shift. Akechi's hold on you tightens as everything that was broken gets put back where it was in peak condition, and a couple people start to form out of the dust that was scattered across the floor.

Oh.

It's his parents.

You don't know much about his mother, other than the fact she killed herself, but watching Shido attempt to be fatherly towards Akechi is enough to make you gag. You can't begin to fathom how Akechi is taking this himself.

It quickly sinks in for the others what the gravity of the situation is. With the way his grip on you tightens even further, and the way his other hand twitches as if ready to throw his blade through their skull.

You're positive you're moments away from entering a fight, when lightning strikes them both, shocking them in place. It's Ryuji who announces it's time to leave, grabbing your other arm and bolting off with Futaba in Makoto's grasp running beside you.

"He's your dad??? No wonder you turned out the way you did."

"If the peanut gallery could shut the fuck up and focus on escaping I'm sure that'd be beneficial to everyone!"

You're all panicking running through hallway after hallway and coming to the realization that the house has suddenly turned into maze. You're weaving through the cognitions attacks and doing whatever you can to try and slow it down so you can backtrack if you ever come across a dead end.

Eventually you find the door you used to get in here, but it won't budge which effectively makes it a dead end. You quickly turn around to try and find a different exit, but the cognitions have caught up to you and trapped you there. They fuse together with a bunch of objects in the surrounding area and become an amalgamation of things you assume Akechi's supposed to love. There's no way around it now, so you're forced to fight it.

The only thing this… thing seems to be weak to is gun, but very quickly you all run out of bullets. It seemed like all anyone could do was scratch it when trying anything else, and soon the fight turned from "is this weak to any other element?" to "is there anything in this area I can throw at it to simulate gun damage?"

In the midst of everyone outside of Akechi rooting through household objects, Futaba is able to come up with a plan. A plan that requires Akechi to enter her persona with her for a bit while the rest of you keep the cognition occupied. Akechi's the only one with gun skills so it'd be a pain to let him off the front lines, but you all trust Futaba and tell him to get in the UFO. After a moment of hesitation he eventually does.

They're separated from the fight for some time, long enough for the pressure to start being felt by the rest of you, but Akechi soon descends from Necronomicon. He walks past everyone, only to aim his gun right at the cognition. Futaba tells the rest of you to stand back before starting to charge his gun. That's when you notice the green pixels flying off of his gun in sparks.

Once it's fully charged and Futaba shouts at him to fire, you're surprised when he calls out to Hereward and is actually able to summon him.

Hereward shoots its arrow at the same time Akechi pulls the trigger and creates a massive explosion on impact with the cognition. When the smoke dissipates and you see no part of that monstrosity remained, the doors behind you opened. Everyone is swift to make their exit, and while you are too, you can't help but ask about what you just witnessed.

"When'd you get Hereward!? You've been using Loki this whole time??"

"Just now."

"???"

You're utterly confused and Akechi refuses to elaborate. When you look towards the others to see if they have any answer, Makoto shakes her head, Ryuji shrugs, and Futaba looks away.

While wandering around looking for any of the other Thieves, Makoto and Ryuji waste no time asking what the hell all of that just was. Akechi for the first time willingly answers questions asked of him (no you're not upset he answered them and not you. Of course not). The questions he chose to answer end up with him talking shit about Shido and ignoring everything else, but it does help the three not in the know understand him more.

Finally you run into the Thieves not already with you and make a b-line to the exit. It's safe to say this try at Maruki's palace was also a bust, so you leave pretty dejected having made no progress at all.

Everyone's mood—though already sour—immediately gets shot when you bump into Sae Niijima as soon as you leave the palace.

Filled with confusion, suspicion, and righteous fury, she demands you come with her to her apartment.

She was looking for Akechi. It was urgent, and he wasn't responding to her messages. When she asked around, the last place people saw him at was the stadium. She went thinking he was following a clue, only to see all of you appearing out of thin air.

Once you get there, the conversation with her quickly devolves. It turns from Sae sternly talking to you all and everyone trying to provide her with answers, to her yelling about all the trouble your group has caused and everyone frantically trying to rebut her claims. She doesn't believe a word any of you say and finds it baffling that you're somehow the cause behind Japan's recent incidents. You're at your wits end when she starts to harp on Makoto for getting involved with the Phantom Thieves, comparing her to their father, then trying to walk away.

None of you can allow her though, not when she's still so wound up and will clearly sell you out immediately. Makoto and Ryuji block her way to the door and everyone is trying to get her to listen, but it only makes her more agitated. When all seems to be reaching a boiling point, you hear someone behind you starting up the navigation app and without delay you're all sent into the Metaverse.

The house for the most part looks the same, except now there are two Makotos. It's Akechi that passes from behind you, dressed in his red and white rebel outfit, and explains why he sent everyone here. The only way to make sure she couldn't leave and force her to listen to us was to show her. What better way to show her than with her own palace?

Sae's still angry, even when looking at two Makotos she just thinks it's some form of joke, until Morgana starts to speak. Almost instantly all anger turns into confusion, and gets worse when you tell her that's your cat.

Now she's finally willing to listen to you, Ren's able to explain what's going on from when he arrived to now with everyone else chiming in here and there. To help explain the concept of Palaces to her, since you were already in one you went towards where her casino is. It's a reality check for her, when you explain what's in there and she has a brief encounter with her shadow.

Afterwards you exit her palace. She tells you she understands what you guys are doing now and that she needs a moment to clear her head. You still can't fully trust that she won't tell anybody, so Makoto elects to go with her for support.

Now that you all can finally breath everyone nearly collapses where they are.

You melt into your chair while everyone else talks about the events leading up to now. You chime in a couple times when they're talking about Sae, then they start to talk about what happened in Maruki's palace.

They each go over their own experiences when you all were separated by Azathoth. You learn Ren wasn't one of the people completely effected by the actualisation. He was put into a fantasy, but couldn't be fooled into thinking it was real so he was able to escape and help the others you and Futaba didn't find.

Despite the others mostly opening up (Everyone involved in Akechi's skirts around the topic. Akechi just calls it shit and asks to move on) you're very brief about yours and completely downplay the event, only saying that Azathoth couldn't use actualisation on you for reasons unknown and just put you somewhere high up so you couldn't interfere. You don't get to move on from it though, because Futaba ends up mentioning how awful you actually felt. While explaining the fantasy that Azathoth gave to her brought her mother back, the only way she realized it was fake was because she ended up in the room you where kept in. You were near inconsolable and could barely hear a word she was saying. The only way to help was to snap out of the fantasy herself and use her persona to get you down from there.

You get sympathy looks from some that you wave off as just your fear of heights getting the better of you, but the others look at you with some form of guilt. That's when Ann asks if it's really just a fear of heights. You're confused as to why she'd even ask, then she brings up your palace and you freeze. Then you realize everyone looking at you with some form of guilt are the ones that explored your palace ages ago.

They explain the only way to defeat your shadow without killing it was to use your fear of heights against it. It screamed a lot and they felt terrible for doing it, and one of the many things it ended up shout at them was "Please, I'll do whatever you want, just don't push me."

You're horrified that they've known this the whole time and they feel bad for forgetting to ask. Now everyone is staring at you waiting for you to say literally anything in response, but you have no idea how to tell them. You still don't even want to think about it.

Before you can say anything and therefore can keep delaying processing all of that, the TV cuts to a broadcast. Unfortunately, it'd the SIU Director.

Everyone in the room glances to Akechi for answers, but he's unfortunately just as confused as everyone else. That in itself is terrible news.

He proceeds to go on and on about how the Phantom Thieves are an egregious danger to this society, how outside of hacking their ways of "changing hearts" are completely unknown. Are they getting blackmail? Are they threatening them in person? Could they possibly be staging every ordeal? Or is it something even more sinister? Then he blames the death of principal Kobayakawa on them, how there was a calling card found in his office yet statements on it were kept quiet, and suggests that something similar might've happened to Okumura. He states these "Phantom Thieves of Hearts" to be public enemy number one and offers a fifty million yen reward for any information useful to the investigation.

Everyone is shocked and outraged, but falls silent when Akechi's phone rings. He answers the call in another room while the rest of you sit in tense silence.

When he comes back he reveals he's been given a deadline. Find and kill the Phantom Thieves before the end of November. Shido didn't say what would happen if he didn't, but it's not hard to piece together what the consequences are.

Everyone takes a moment to calm down while waiting for Sae and Makoto to come back and tell them what just happened. Sae promises that she won't sell you out and suggests that you all should go home so you can think things through with a clear head tomorrow.

The next day when you all come together you get to planning. It's clear Shido and the Director are trying to goad you into delving into the palace of someone on the investigation team. That would severely lower the number of people Akechi has to look into. You can't go after the Director since that would still be falling into his trap yet again. It seems the only way to stop this is and save yourselves + Akechi at the same time is to go after the man himself to expose the conspiracy.

So now you have to switch gears and deal with Shido before Akechi’s deadline. The only problem is you still have Okumura tucked away in your palace. You don't know how much time you'll have after you beat Shido before the Metaverse takeover, so you're going to have to complete two palaces at the same time. Knowing how each palace has gone up to this point, both are going to be extremely hard as well.

Everyone is stressed and already exhausted, so you all decide to go home and rest for tomorrow. Before you get too far away though Ren pulls you aside and asks you to follow him. He brings you into Mementos telling you he has a persona for you. You're excited for about two seconds until he tells you it's Hell Biker.

"Are you being serious right now?"

"He has fifty in magic and sixty in agility."

"I'm listening."

Ren tells you he's been working on Hell Biker alongside Arsène since he learned he could give you personas. Now seemed like a good time to give him to you since you'll need all the coverage and firepower your team can get. Also because he's worried. He's worked on this forever (3 months) he needs you to have him.

You're overjoyed you get to have one of the skeletons on your team and at how much work Ren put into him.

When you accept him into your heart you're expecting the serene experience with slight hints to their element thrown in that the other personas given to you had. What you were not expecting was for a burn so intense to bring you to your knees and adrenaline to start pumping through your veins. It's even more surprising to watch his form morph into something else. Not by much, but noticeable enough to question why anything about it was changing in the first place. Then he speaks,

"So you are the one that changes fate? Very well. I am Ghost Rider, and together we will be the saviours of the innocent! Let us show those sinners the true meaning of Hell!"

Half of his moves also mutate into better versions of themselves, before the burn fades away and your body releases its tension.

Ren helps you up as you both watch the newly formed Ghost Rider hitch up his monster of a motorcycle in one of the side areas and everything around it change to match. Switching from looking at him to his stats you find they've all increased.

"… This is the best thing you could have ever given to me."

Ren, after getting over his shock, of course acts cocky about it before you check him in the arm. He laughs it off, then sincerely tells you he's happy it got stronger for you. He still needs to figure out what the best persona would be for your last slot, so the sudden mutation was beneficial in the meantime.

The next day you all meetup again to decide what to do. You only have around a month, given the deadline Shido's set for Akechi, but who knows if he'd pull the trigger earlier then that. That makes Shido top priority, but you can’t ignore the possibility of that being the catalyst of the Metaverse takeover. If that happens then you can't do anything to Okumura. Seeing as it'd be too inefficient to do one before the other, it comes to the terrible conclusion to do them at the same time. If you split into to teams, one to work on Okumura’s palace and one to do Shido’s, then the problems they could potentially face down the line don't apply.

No one really wants to, either because they know the next palaces are going to be extremely hard or because the thought of going in with a small group in itself is difficult, but you all know you can pull it off. You have to.

After some deliberation, you all manage to decide who's going to be on what team.

On operation Shido there's Joker, Crow, Mona, Panther, and Fox, while on operation Okumura has You, Skull, Queen, Oracle, and Noir.

It felt wrong to move either Ren or Akechi to do Okumura’s Palace since they both have a personal stake in Shido's. You, obviously, were sent to Okumura’s as the only other person with multiple personas and knowledge of his palace. As much as you'd love to help them deal with that piece of shit, the firepower is needed on Okumura’s side.

That does leave both wildcard's in the other palace, so you can't help but ask who's supposed to be the leader on your team. Everyone gives you various looks, from surprised, to disbelief, and amusement. It takes you a moment to understand why.

"… Wait it's me!? I don't know the first thing about leading a team!"

"Haven't you technically already lead our team to victory multiple times?"

"Yeah, in the game! This is completely different I don't know the first thing about—"

Ren places a hand on your shoulder to stop you before you ramble yourself into a panic. He only had one thing to say,

"You'll be fine."

You don't know if you should be embarrassed that was all it took for you to calm down.

Once you discuss a little more on how each team is going to operate you split off. Each group going towards their respective targets location to start their palaces. Ren does make sure to give you half of the coffee and curry supply to hopefully make up for the half of the team your missing. He also tries to shove a majority of his healing items and smoke bombs onto you since your team doesn't have a backup member. It takes a while before you get on the train to head towards Okumura foods.

You arrive with your members and find an alleyway nearby to go over his palace in more detail. When you're about to head inside so you can use the war table in your palace to help with descriptors, you get a message from Ren. He's telling you to hold on for a moment and saying he's leaving the final decision to you. You would've asked him what he meant if the answer didn't come barreling into you at top speed.

It's Yoshizawa. She wants to help.

You want to deny her help since this has nothing to do with her at all and the stakes have gotten extremely dire, but she's still insistent. Especially since she figured out you're going in with such a small group. You can't deny that you know she's good and having an extra person would only be beneficial, so after talking it over with the others, you acquiesce and let her on the team as Violet. Though, you make her promise that this is going to be the only palace she helps you with.

Now that your team has a party of 5 attackers, 3 of which can also heal (that's including you), and a navigator, it makes you feel a little better about diving into Okumura’s palace.

You head into your palace first to get Yoshizawa up to speed and describe the layout of Okumura’s palace (at least the games layout. You don't know if it's changed or not). Once everyone's got everything down you head into his palace proper.

You find Okumura’s palace has altered in ways that makes it all the more irritating to get through. He is simultaneously, more confident in his position, yet more terrified of getting taken down one way or another. The shaky agreement you currently have with him saves him from Shido, but now he also knows Shido wants him dead. Sure you've lent out your hand to help him, but the Phantom Thieves are still a rouge vigilante group that change the hearts of the corrupt, and the Black Mask is an assassin working for Shido. Even if siding with you guys is a safer bet, to him every side is a loss.

His shadow is… without a better way to put it, completely delusional because of this. He never physically shows himself, but he's constantly heard over the speakers and occasional TV broadcast. It drives all of you insane, though it does lead you to learning how to navigate the area faster.

On one of your runs through and quickly getting tired of hearing Okumura’s shadow mouthing off, you remark how nice it would be if Prometheus could carry you all. Futaba tells you she could fit one extra person in there at most. Ryuji then says it would be nice if they could all just ride their personas, before summoning Seiten Taisei and attempting to jump onto his cloud.

It works.

That in turn makes you summon Ghost Rider to try and get on his bike. After he scoots back a bit you perfectly fit on the seat infront of him.

Makoto gets on Anat in motorcycle form, Haru is able to join behind her, and Futaba lets Yoshizawa into Prometheus.

With this revelation the palace exploration goes by much quicker. You're even able to skip a couple of the puzzles thanks to both yours and Ryuji's lack of self preservation (you both mostly just want to reach the end to make Okumura shut up).

"I bet I could make that jump."

"I could just fly over."

"How about that's a long fall with spinning gears at the bottom so neither of you should do anything!"

In about a week, your team reaches the end of Okumura’s palace and secures the route to his treasure. When you reach the rendezvous point excited to tell the others about the news, it's dampened when you notice the other team hasn't arrived yet. Makoto then notes you've arrived a little early and to give them a bit more time to show up.

Over ten minutes past the meetup time and they still haven't shown up. Futaba checks to see if their phones are even getting service. They aren't, so they must still be in the Metaverse.

Worried for their safety, you all agree to go to Shido's palace. Though you make sure Yoshizawa gets on the train home first and promise to text her when you're out. None of you want her anywhere near the politician.

As soon as you enter, Futaba tracks their location and you all set off. It's when she notices there's a powerful signature in the area with them you get her to patch you all into coms.

"Joker! What's going on over there? Are you guys okay??"

"What the— What are you guys doing here!?"

"You were late!"

You're all speeding towards the location Futaba gave you when an explosion suddenly shakes the yacht. The others are frantic on the other side of coms and when you reach the side of the boat they're on you can see why.

They're fighting way off the side of the boat on pillars of ice. The side of the ship where you vaguely remember the IT President's room is lit ablaze. Almost like a meteor struck that exact spot. You assume that was the cause of the explosion earlier.

The others are trying to ask what the hell happened here. Key word trying, since they're frantic themselves and trying to figure out a way up that won't have everyone slip and fall into the water below. Eventually Ren breaks away for a moment to give you answers.

This is the IT Director. He was just some nerd in a suit, but then they accidentally pissed him off. He proceeded to turn into Oberon, shock everyone in the room, take the letter and fly off the side of the ship. They've been trying to get him back on the ship, but he's as fast as a bullet, and anytime they get close he summons a Titania to protect him. Titania also keeps breaking the pillars and it's taking a toll on Yusuke. Akechi then interrupts to ask if you're going to stand around and watch, or get up there and help.

Ryuji and Futaba fly up to get to the fight faster while you, Makoto, and Haru have to climb up the side of the yacht to jump over. It takes all of you to enact a plan to get the IT Director back on the ship, and when he is, you and Ren waste no time trapping him there. Surrounded by a wall of fire, he has no where to go as you both pummel him into the ground and take the letter from him. At that Ren calls it a day and you all head back.

(Of course you inform Yoshizawa about what happened and it takes a long time to calm her of her guilt and to stop worrying about you all)

The next day you're debating whether you should steal Okumura's treasure now or closer to Shido's. There's good points for both, waiting mostly in favour of his safety, but Akechi brings up how useful Okumura could be if done now. He could be an immense boon once they plan to write and send out Shido's calling card since he was deep into the conspiracy. While true, Futaba does clap back that they'd still have to wait for the change of heart to fully come into affect. Who knows how long that'd take or if it'd even get done in time. Then there's the obvious problem if Shido finds out he's back he'd just try to kill him.

It's Haru that steps up next, saying she could keep his return a secret from everyone. That way there'd be little risk in taking his treasure now. Even if the change isn't finished in time, they'll at least won't have to worry about it later. When everyone asks if she's okay with the possibilities of it going wrong, she solidifies her stance. She wants her father to get better, but she also wants to make sure Shido gets convicted for as much of his crimes as possible. So she'll make sure both succeed.

The only problem with the plan is the public's opinion since they wouldn't be able to make a grand gesture of Okumura's calling card, but at this point no one cares that much. If anything they're irritated that public opinion matters that much at all. There isn't anyone with a better plan that appeases the public while also dealing with both of their targets in a better manner so it has to do anyway.

Later on, you have Sae deliver the calling card to Okumura, feigning that it was left at the door and interrogating him over it. When she tells you he read it and looked manic your previous team absolutely dreads the fight. The others that have yet to experience his palace worry for the state of it at your reactions.

Okumura's fight, for better or for worse, has barely seen any changes. The only difference is him being more frantic in his decisions and overall being more unpredictable. Which sucks since all the shadows and cognitions have more nullifications and repels that always comes back to bite you. He's also yapping the whole fight, and while your team was used to his nonsense (unfortunately), the other team was not. You're pretty sure Akechi would've shot him if he wasn't trying to be as careful as possible.

When you finally win the fight and take his treasure, you're now waiting for it to take effect and acting as normal as possible.

During the waiting game, Akechi is almost never around since he still has to act like he's searching for the Phantom Thieves, but there is one day where he asks to meet you in your palace. When you arrive he's already there, and he doesn't wait long before he's

He tells you he's giving you Loki.

You think he's insane.

Then he starts to go off on how he doesn't really need Loki, Hereward and him are basically the same. Hereward is just stronger in every way and knows Rebellion Blade. He also doesn't even need Loki's ability anymore and Hereward has a more useful ability anyway. And he's not annoying like Loki is so—

Akechi's basically giving you the worst sales pitch in the world, but you start to figure out where this decision is really coming from. Without another moment of hesitation you stop him from further making a fool of himself to give your answer.

"Sounds like a pain. I'd be more than happy to take him off your hands."

After he collects himself, Akechi begins the transfer and Loki slowly comes into your view. The feeling is just as intense as it was with Ghost Rider, but instead of the feeling of fire coursing through your veins, it's a bone chilling freeze creeping up your spine. Though this time you're prepared and continue to stand tall. You don't want to collapse encase Loki would see that as a weakness and somehow reject you, but he breaks that train of thought quickly.

"YOU ALREADY KNOW OF ME, AND I OF YOU. YOU HAVE PROVED YOUR WORTH LONG AGO. WE SHALL CLAIM VICTORY OVER ALL AND LET NOTHING STAND IN OUR WAY. MAY THE GODS FALL BENEATH OUR FEET."

When Loki's fully accepted into your heart and the pain subsides, you watch as the last room in your Thieves Den morph into one perfectly fitting for him. Then you go to check his stats and can't believe what you're looking at. His move pool is so much larger than any of your other personas. You have to do a double take and count everything just to make sure you're not making things up.

You have access to everything.

Every move or ability Loki has ever used is available to you.

Including Call of Chaos.

You're staring at the list in shock while Loki is laughing somewhere in the room. If he's laughing at you, at the mayhem he thinks/hopes you'll get up to, or just at the situation you don't know. Akechi walks next to you looking more smug than he was before.

"I hope he does you well."

You're overwhelmed. So overwhelmed that you don't think twice before you're pulling him into a hug. He's stiff for a moment, then relaxes and just lets it happen.

"Thank you Akechi."

"… It's Goro."

While you're stunned at the next emotional bomb he just dropped on you, Akechi successfully pushes you away and promptly speed walks over to the exit. He informs you he's stayed around for too long and has to get back to looking like he's doing work, then makes his leave.

A couple days later with no sign of Okumura getting out of his slump or Shido making any sort of moves, you all head back into Shido's palace. Everyone's relieved to finally have the full party back together again. Especially knowing that this last letter will probably have them run into cognitive Akechi. A fight that sounds like it's going to be extremely taxing since they're expecting The Cleaner to be hard enough.

Once you take out his goons and follow him into the Engine Room, you're unfortunately proven right. He has no weaknesses, something you were expecting since the original is the same, but he's also immune to your strongest fighters. It's completely irritating, but more doable than the last guy was and you beat him without too much issue. The real problem comes after.

Everyone heals up and replenishes their energy before leaving the Engine Room, to unfortunately be greeted by cognitive Akechi waiting on the other side.

He spouts a lot of nonsense similar to what he originally said in the game, everyone disputes him, Goro tells him to fuck off and die, and the fight commences.

This world's Shido must've thought he was some unkillable god of some kind in the Metaverse 'cause the fight is utterly ridiculous. It doesn't help that he keeps summoning shadows to his side, making the fight more cluttered than it needed to be. You all know Shido's faith in Goro has waned though, so everyone tries to figure out where to poke to get the cognition to slip.

When everyone is on that, Goro slips over to you to ask if you know how to use Loki. When you reply that of course you do, he's your persona now, Goro just says that's great and to get ready. As soon as the others find cognitive Akechi’s breaking point, you and Goro strike. The look on the cognitions face when he realizes the real Goro’s no longer the one in control of Loki is absolutely priceless.

It's a thrill moving in tandem with Goro. There's a level of sheer violence that no one else has that's so invigorating all you can do is laugh alongside him. You don't bat an eye when he shoots his doppelganger in the face. If anything you feel lighter than you did before.

That's one fate you've finally managed to change for good. Even though you still have a ways to go before you're out of the absolute worst of it, it still feels like your efforts are finally bearing fruit. The cognition you just watched Goro wipe being the proof.

Now with all the letters in your possession, you're able to open the door and secure the route to Shido's treasure. Now all that's left is to see if Okumura will change in time, or if you have to continue without his additions.

A few days after, Haru informs everyone Okumura's change of heart has finally gone through. She had to do a lot of convincing to get her father to stay put and not make any sudden announcements, but he did eventually concede. With a little bit of negotiating with Sae and a few scant sightings of Black Mask, Okumura agrees to help the Phantom Thieves take down Shido (not that he needed much convincing, but some definitely needed to be made when it came to what information needs to shared to the public and what can wait for trial).

It takes a couple more days to get the footage, but when you do

It goes over about the same as it did in the game. The Phantom Thieves hacking multiple news stations to send out their video calling card to Shido. With the addition of you of course, but Goro refused to make an appearance. Despite everything he still doesn't want to openly associate with the Phantom Thieves, and says it's beneficial for it to stay that way.

One major change does happen at the end, which makes the public go wild (and you can only hope it drives Shido mad). Okumura makes his appearance at the end, openly apologizing for everything he's done and lifting the veil on the conspiracy. Shido is a maniac, and has an assassin he only knows as the Black Mask under his belt. He is responsible for all of the mental shutdowns and psychotic breakdowns happening around Japan. All he can do now is apologize profusely for his appalling behaviour in taking apart of this and turn himself into the police.

When his section cuts off and the declaration to steal Shido's heart has been made you all jump in.

The talk with Shido's shadow at the start is… rough to say the least, but it's not like you weren't expecting that. It was already charged when it was just the Phantom Thieves with Ren. Now that Goro's here too it makes listening to him so much more infuriating.

The fight is also more or less what you expected. The horrendous fusion of Shido's ego and the bonus difficulty increase was comically easy to guess and plan around. Granted it doesn't make the battle any easier to actually fight against, but you're as prepared as you possibly could. Especially Ren, who's somehow managed to become over prepared, but at this point you can't even blame him.

When you get separated from the battle with the other Phantom Thieves, it leaves the only ones left facing Shido to be Ren Amamiya and Goro Akechi.

In any other instance you'd be worried, every fight up to this point has been made so much harder, but you already know they'd never let him get the upper hand again. No matter how much harder he may be, he's going down now, and you get front row seats for such a spectacle.

There is a moment where you're worried Goro may actually go through with his original convictions and kill Shido, but Ren manages to talk him down from that. Goro also doesn't want to squander their chances of getting the other criminal convicted and killing a god, so instead he says he hopes Shido rots in prison and dies at somebody else's hand.

That's when the palace starts to collapse.

Without another moment to spare, Morgana transforms into his bus form for everyone to hop on, while those that can ride their own personas take the lead.

It's anxiety inducing dodging all the falling rubble and trying to pick paths that whoever is driving Morgana is able to follow through. A few times you've had to go a different way or just blast your way through the falling ship, but you quickly make your way to the start of the yacht.

Not wanting to even attempt getting the lifeboat (even though your memory of the game has slowly faded with time, you will never forget the Ryuji scare) you have everyone drive immediately into your palace. You get stuck there for a bit while it's deciding where it should spit you out now that the original exit is gone, but no one cares. You've all finally accomplished one of the biggest hurdles in your way.

With both Okumura and Shido having a change of heart, the public and the police force are frantic. Sae outright tells you your group is highly suspected to be the Phantom Thieves at this point, but they don't have any evidence to make an arrest. You're forced to lay low and not draw more suspicion towards yourselves unless you want to tempt the police to take action against you anyway.

This still isn't ideal. Even though nothing happened immediately after Shido's change, Yaldabaoth could still make his move at any moment. You can't do anything if you get arrested though, so you all pick one day to celebrate your victory over Okumura and Shido to get your minds off of everything.

After waiting a few days, the police only seem to get busier and busier. Dealing with two high level people, to them, basically confessing to a heinous conspiracy at the same time, public pressure forcing them to comb through every other candidate, needing to take in the SIU Director into custody, and having the Phantom Thieves still be at large on top of all that. They are stretched thin and barely holding on, but it does let them move a little more freely than earlier.

At some point when trying to studying for final exams with Yoshizawa, you accidentally let it slip that Maruki may be your next target. This obviously concerns her, and after a bit of convincing on her end and not wanting to sit around waiting for the world to end on yours, you agree to search through the palace with her.

You don't think you'd get into any fights since you're only scouting, but just in case you inform Ren where you're going and who you're with. Ren tells you it's a bad idea and informs you Morgana will be very disappointed if you go in. You reassure them that you plan on staying outside and at the entrance, only enough for Yoshizawa to get the picture. He relents, but if you're not back in less than an hour he's going in for you.

When you and Yoshizawa get in, you walk around the perimeter with her, trying to explain why his ideals—even though are done with good intentions—aren't exactly great. You wouldn't even be here discussing this if his desires weren't distorted in some way.

You think she's starting to understand why his mentality isn't necessarily a good one, but when you open the front door to show her some of the things inside things start to go horribly wrong. Beyond the door lies bright flashing lights, accompanied by the sound of slot machines and people chattering.

This is clearly not Maruki's palace.

You ask Yoshizawa to stay by the door and go further in to see if what you think is happening really is happening. Walking around you only find more and more slot machines, until you come across a shadow at a desk. She's selling membership cards for fifty-thousand coins. You think you're going to scream.

On the way back towards Yoshizawa you notice a shadow behind her charging up some sort of attack.

Without thinking you pull her out of harms way, which unfortunately meant you pulled her away from the door. The explosion caused by that shadow was enough to close it behind you. It doesn't open again.

You both try everything you can think of to get it to open again, even just a crack, but it doesn't budge a bit. You actually do scream this time.

Knowing Ren will show up at some point to save you and to say "I told you so" has you stay put for as long as possible. You don't want to run off and make it harder for the rest of the Thieves to find you guys, but you eventually do have to move when what looks like security starts scoping out the floor. You don't know how strong they could be, so starting a fight with only two of you is asking to die.

The more doors you open the more you realize something's not right. Sometimes when you open a door you'll find yourself in a castle or a bank, but most of the time it's still the casino. Though not one of the doors has lead you back to the Science Centre. You thought the one time you were messing with a randomizer mod had somehow injected itself into Maruki's palace, but this is clearly more selective then that.

After speed walking past the fifth ass you and Yoshizawa had the displeasure of looking at, you end up in a different section of the Sae-but-not-Sae's palace. That's when you get patched through to coms and--

"Hey Glitch, we're here! Care to tell us what the heck is going on??"

"Why hello Oracle it's so nice to hear from you! I was just thinking about you. I managed to find a copy of Zephyrman earlier that we could watch—"

"Answer the question!"

While you're telling them what happened, you eventually get cut off by shouting in the distance. Looking around you realize it's coming from their side, and after they calm down they inform you they were separated. Now you all have to take part in this randomized maze of a palace.

Along the way you and Yoshizawa manage to group up with Ren and Goro, before finding yourselves in Maruki's palace again. You don't know whether to consider it good or bad that you end up in the room with the projection of Kasumi. Then her headaches start. You would tell her what's going on, but she wants to figure it out for herself, so instead you help her navigate through the areas.

After some time you finally come across a room filled with Maruki's research. It's in there Yoshizawa figures out what happened to her.

It takes a lot of reassurance, but she eventually calms down enough to continue moving. Ren and Goro lead while you stay behind with her to make sure she doesn't fall behind or get ambushed. When you make it back to the entrance of Maruki's palace, you find Futaba and Makoto are already there. Everyone else is still somewhere inside.

You lead Yoshizawa to sit on the side of the building and let her cry. Soon everyone's come over to offer their condolences, while Futaba and Makoto are able to offer more in the form of experience. When the others arrive they also go over their own false realities Maruki had them stuck in for a time, and how they pushed through it.

Yoshizawa thanks everyone and says she just needs a moment before they can move on, which everyone readily gives her. It shouldn't have been a surprise that when you were all distracted talking about what was wrong with this palace, Yoshizawa gets taken away by Azathoth.

You're all chasing after him, threatening the persona to give her back while he berates you for undoing Maruki's work.

"She was doing well under our guidance until you dismantled our hard work."

"Are you—look at where that's gotten her!" "Like she needs his shitty fucking therapy!"

With him holding Yoshizawa so close none of you can really get any good hits in that won't harm her in the process. So you're exhilarated when she starts to fight back herself. She's still distraught, but she wants to try and face herself and asks you all to call her Sumire.

Now that she's freed herself from Azathoth's grasp, you all get ready to fight him head on. Azathoth clearly didn't want to though, so in order to make sure more of Maruki's efforts to go to waste, he makes haste to eject you all from his palace. Trying to go back in leads to you getting an error message.

When you finally leave you offer to walk Sumire home before heading home yourself. You feel terrible for what you put her through, but she doesn't regret asking you to take her into Maruki's palace. She feels awful right now, but she wants to push forward like all of you can.

The next day you learn through Goro that Maruki's palace has been completely locked off. After much deliberating and learning most of the Thieves apps aren't even working properly anymore, the only thing that comes to mind is Yaldabaoth getting tired of things not going his way. This literally leaves you to sit around and wait for the apocalypse to happen.

You do as much as you can before exams start. Help Sumire get more comfortable with herself, finishing of the last of the requests that you had no time to do before, and of course studying for the actual exams.

When exam days finally roll around you're on autopilot. You're physically doing the tests, but in your mind you can only think about the upcoming fight. The others aren't doing much better than you, but you all always come together to try and do something other than worry. It's one of those times when the sky turns red and the pillars of bone start to protrude from the ground. Knowing what comes next, you all descend to the depths of Mementos to confront the false god.

The journey through Qliphoth World is surprisingly mostly normal. Sure the shadows in the area are still stronger than normal, but it's nowhere near as agonizing as the last couple palaces have been. Morgana thinks since this area is the depths of Japan's psyche, you would have much less of an effect on it. Probably the reason why the shadows are even stronger is because they all were expecting it at this point.

You reach the bottom and are greeted to the cup of giant proportions. His monologue is about the same as it was, with the addition of him openly hating on Ren and Goro for veering off the guided course of the world, and you for daring to interfere in the first place.

This fight is much harder than any of you were expecting. You let the rest of the area lower your guard and paid the price for that. Though whether fortunate or unfortunate, the rhythm of the fight is still the same. After making enough progress, the masses simply heal him to full again and eject all of you back to the real world where you begin to disappear.

Another wrench is thrown to your expectations again when you find yourself floating somewhere in the void, instead of the Velvet Room. You're wandering around completely confused, hoping to find something—anything to help you figure out where you are when you see a sliver of blue. You rush to it hoping to find a possible entrance to the Velvet Room, but when you reach it you're only left more confused. You found the Velvet Room, it's just below you.

You stand there and watch as Ren frees everyone from the cages they were locked in while Goro and Morgana wait with Igor and Lavenza. Even after everyone enters the main area, Ren continues to run around. It takes you a moment to realize he's probably looking for you. The goal to find the exit becomes more urgent since you don't want to leave them to freak out, but you still don't know where to even start. When you turn around to continue looking, you're surprised when you bump into someone.

You jump back and begin to profusely apologize, afraid whoever you ran into could be a different Velvet Room attendant (god you hope it's not Elizabeth that would be a terrible first impression), but the laugh that you hear makes you pause. It's not one of the female attendants, but it doesn't sound like Theodore either. You look up to see who could possibly be talking to you and nearly blank.

It's Philemon.

Philemon is standing in front of you and he's laughing.

You think you're about to short circuit. Never in your life—even once you got transported here—did you ever think you'd be meeting one of the Gods of this world (by your heart of hearts Yaldaboath doesn't count), it wasn't even a thought that crossed your mind, yet here you are.

He starts to talk in what you think is a teasing way, but you're still struggling to process that he's standing right there. When you're brain's finally caught up, you accidentally cut him off to ask why he's here and why he's talking to you.

He wanted to converse with you since he finds you "interesting". Of course that tells you nothing so you ask him to clarify. Then he brings up your status as an outworlder. You're just about to roll your eyes when he continues speaking. It's much more than just you being from another world. He's the one that brought you here.

He's the one who gave you a second chance at life. He grew interested in your universe when he noticed a copy of his had been made in the form of a game. He wanted to know how pulling someone who already knows of this worlds future events would affect how things change. Since he was still recovering from his last major hurdle, he couldn't simply pluck someone from your world and bring them to his. Especially with all the barriers already surrounding it. Though when he saw you fall off that roof he couldn't help but to try and at least pull your soul over. Now here you are.

You honestly can't believe anything that just came out of his mouth. He summoned you over because you happened to be at the wrong place at the right time? Truly you can't believe it. You don't want to.

God was actually just fucking with you.

You can't entirely hate him for pulling you from your original universe. If he didn't you would've died and never had gotten to meet any of the Phantom Thieves you now hold even closer to your heart. You got to improve the lives for people you care about and for that you'll forever be grateful. But none of that changes the fact he did all of this on a whim.

He continues to go on about the changes you've made to fit your perception of a happier ending. He applauds you for your commitment and ability to preserver through strife despite this being completely unthinkable territory for you barely a year ago.

You stop him for a moment to collect yourself. You have a ton of questions you could be asking, but only one rests at the forefront of your mind. Why is he telling you this now?

His gaze almost turns somber in the way he looks at you. It makes you dread his response.

"You're being has become intrinsically tied to the Metaverse. There was no other way for me to tether you to this reality whilst lacking my full capabilities. What do you think will happen once it's gone?"

It barely takes you a moment to think of the answer, and it makes your blood freeze. Philemon can only look sorry for you (as much as he's willing to allow himself). He says that's all he had to impart onto you, and that he prays you find some way around it. With that being the last thing he had to say, he teleports you into one of the many back areas of the Velvet Room.

You sit there for a moment, needing to process this alone before you run into the main room where all your friends are waiting. The thought of Thieves nearly makes you cry.

A glowing butterfly makes itself known in the corner of your vision. It reminds you of what you're currently fighting for, so you pull yourself together. There's currently a god whose ass you have to help kick, you can feel sorry for yourself and your friends later.

As soon as you walk into the room your friends are immediately on you. They're completely panicked when they ask what happened to you, and you have no idea how to tell them the news. They still don't know you're from a different universe entirely, so you'd have a lot to explain. Time you don't really have. You guess you faltered for long enough for Igor to step in your place. He doesn't explain your predicament though and only brings the conversation back to Yaldobaoth. You feel guilty and you're sure some of the others notice, but you delude yourself into thinking it's fine and that you'll have time to tell them later.

Everything from then plays out like in the game. The climb up the tower of bones, fighting the archangels, and then Yaldabaoth himself. He still hates you all for steering everything off course and making this more complicated then it needed to be. He thanks you though for the new status ailments to use and you can only flip him off. He knocks you all down, Morgana makes his big speech and you earn the belief of all Japan. Ren summons Satanael and shoots the false god in the face.

It's when the Metaverse starts crumbling away and everyone is saying their 'goodbye's and 'see you later's to Morgana that you start to disappear.

You're freaking out. Some of them are freaking out, but a few are also mad at you. You don't get to explain yourself before you're dragged away by what's left of the Metaverse.

It's dark for a while. You don't know what you were expecting when you died, but it wasn't sitting in the void for an eternity. Soon you see a butterfly flying towards you from somewhere beyond the darkness, it's glow being the only thing eye-catching in this place. It comes close enough to land on you, but when it does a shock is sent throughout your entire system. Then something you aren't able to decipher starts to pull you out of what feels like the bottom of an ocean of oil. As soon as you breach the surface—

You wake up.

You take in your surroundings, groggily, but still with rapt attention. You don't even know why you're looking around in such a fervor, your room is exactly how you left it. Though the Persona merch does make you pause. It makes you uneasy, but you can't understand why for the life of you.

Then someone barges into your room and it's… Ren? Foggy memories start to come back to you and you're starting to freak out. Then the Ren look-alike re-introduces himself as Akira Kurusu and says you must've had some lucid dream to confuse his name with Ren again.

Apparently everyone's been waiting for you to come to Leblanc to study. When you never showed up he was sent to come looking for you at your house.

You're getting a headache listening to him. Memories start to clash against each other trying to take up the dominate space in your mind. Though when Ren—Akira leaves to allow you to change, you can't find any scars on your body. At least none that would look like battle wounds, so you'll take his word for it.

When you finish getting dressed, he Akira leads you to where everyone else supposedly is. You don't know why, but you're actually surprised to find everyone actually is waiting for you.

Ryuji, Ann, Yusuke, Makoto, Futaba, Haru, Goro, Akira's (lovingly) annoying ass cat, and your old friends. You don't know why, but you cry upon seeing them again.

The next few days are fairly normal to you. You go to school, hangout and play games with all your friends, and study. Despite everything proceeding as normal, you can't stop this nagging feeling that something is horribly wrong here. It all comes to a head when Akira visits you out of the blue.

He's acting a little off. He's much more silly and charming than he usually is, but there's also a sadness—a yearning in his eyes when he looks at you. Every one of his actions and every word he says also seems to be meticulously chosen in a way. Almost like one wrong move and he'd mess everything up. You can't figure out what he's so scared of getting wrong, he's only visiting you. You don't know what's gotten into him, but you're still finding it a nice change of pace from the laid back dude he usually is.

Once he's finished looking over your room with an attention to detail you didn't know he had, he confuses you with what he says next.

"This is a nice dream, but when are you going to wake up?"

You don't even know what to say to that. You're already awake. It's not like you could talk to him without being awake?

Akira leaves shortly after, but when he does you find a figure of Joker sitting on your shelf.

This repeats with all of your friends over the next few days. All of them telling you to "wake up" in various ways, either kindly, desperately, or… aggressively, and leaving behind a Persona figure eerily similar to them. Now you're having a hard time remembering what the Phantom Thieves actually looked like, but you can't find the game anywhere to check.

This whole thing is so confusing to you, you already woke up! Multiple times now in fact! You're starting to suspect they're talking about something else, but no matter what you can't put your finger on it.

Then everything sort of collapses in on you when you run into a new girl.

She introduces herself as Sumire, and she has the same yearning in her eyes that everyone else has had, along with their determination to confuse the fuck out of you.

"Have you even seen what's beyond this neighbourhood?"

When you tell her you've lived here all your life, she's adamant that you come with her to experience something new. You should be more weary of random people telling you to follow them, but something deep within you tells you she's trustworthy.

When you both reach the edge of your neighbourhood, you notice a line drawn in the ground to signify this is the end. You're a bit apprehensive, but Sumire is very patient and encouraging with you. Though before you can even take a step towards the line, you hear someone calling out to you.

It's some doctor. Apparently your therapist. Your instincts tell you not to trust a word he says, and the feeling is only furthered when Sumire talks back to him.

Soon the rest of your friends arrive on the scene and block your "therapist" from getting any closer to you. While he's distracted, Sumire tries to bring you across the line, but a barrier stops you from making anymore progress.

Not able to just drag you out anymore, Sumire starts talking about events that you swear never happened, but sound way too familiar. You shouldn't know this person, so your head is splitting when memories of you together crop up. She must see that what she's saying isn't helping at all, so she switches to hold your hands instead.

"You never gave up on me, so I'm not giving up on you."

Then she takes a figure of Violet out of her pocket and gives it to you, completing the set you didn't even know wasn't finished. You're trying to remember where this Thief comes from, and while staring at it your memories finally click into place.

The Thieves are extremely happy to finally have you back, while Maruki is disappointed he couldn't figure out a more surefire way to keep you affected by actualisation for longer. Your unique constitution made it incredibly difficult to figure out how to get it to work on you at all. Eventually he found if he kept you separated in your own little pocket, it'd be harder for you to tell what was real.

You're honestly appalled he put you in a bubble at all, but he promises it was only until he found a different solution, like that somehow makes it any better. Sumire starts to argue against his logic, so you go to stand next to her and give your own

"This is not the future I fought for! It's not the one we went through all that pain and suffering for! This fantasy you put me in might be happy, but it's meaningless without any of our past achievements!"

Maruki tries to argue that no hard work could get you your old friends and family back like he could, but you tell him they're just sock puppets performing on a stage. Even with all his new powers, you know those aren't and never could be your actual friends. Sumire also arguing that she wants to live her life in honour of her late sister and to make her proud through her own efforts, instead of trying to be exactly like her.

At the end of your speeches, you feel the power of your original personas combine to create something stronger, while Sumire's persona awakens into Ella. With them, together you destroy the bubble keeping you all contained.

You all head back to the real Leblanc, and the entire time their both celebrating finally getting you back, and teasing you for what they found in there. Though you can feel the underlying tension in the way they hold onto you and make sure you never leave their sight.

When you reach the cafe and the conversation goes silent, you all can no longer avoid the elephant in the room.

Goro's the one to bring up your disappearing act first, suspecting you knew that was going to happen and angrily asks why you didn't tell anybody.

Emotions are high on all sides of this conversation, but you're eventually able to get it through that yes, you had died, though technically you were already dead, your soul is tied to the Metaverse, so once it's destroyed by extension that includes you, one of the gods of this world told you so and unfortunately he's a trustworthy source.

They're not pleased in the slightest you kept this from them, but are still extremely confused as to why your life is connected to the Metaverse in the first place. There's no reason to hide anything from them, especially now, so you just come out and tell them everything.

They're wondering why you thought you had to keep this from them, and thinking about the answer it forces you to face the facts. This whole time you've been running away from your problems. You didn't want to think about dying, and you didn't ant to think about leaving your friends they way it happened, or about how guilty they must feel, or how you'll never be able to talk to them again. That life is over, but you avoided thinking about it after you got your own persona and threw yourself into this one.

You tell everyone as much and apologize. They're all completely distraught, but no one holds it against you.

Now that everyone knows this is most likely your last month to live, when you're not exploring Maruki's palace you always have at least one person with you.

The palace is also more or less the same. There are some rooms that take the aesthetic of a different palace, but it's still the same layout as it originally is. The real kicker is the shadows, that are basically all their modded variants.

The section in Mementos is also harder than usual. Unlike the other floors, this also added more difficult shadows in. You assume its because this is Maruki's personal addition. Fighting in both areas is extremely annoying, but much more doable than before with everyone's third tier personas, Ren finally getting access to some of the broken moves, and an overall increase in skill.

After handing Maruki the calling card, the walk to the top is slow. Everyone knows what will happen to you after, and prolong the confrontation to say goodbye before getting swept up in the fight.

In many ways, Maruki and Azathoth are harder to fight than Yaldabaoth. The false god had used the aliments you ended up bringing to the world, but Maruki is trying everything at his disposal. They basically use your memory against you, going in to find what annoyed you the most and using it in the battle. It ironically gets easier when they ultimately switch to that gigantic gold monstrosity. Especially once he resorts to just trying to punch all of you. You help the others block his next punch for Ren to shoot him in the face.

The palace starts to crumble and Ren falls further down with Maruki, while the rest of you end up in the Morgana-copter. Watching Ren beat the shit out of an older man in real time is funnier than you thought it would be, but all amusement is cut off when you start to fade away again.

It's another tearful goodbye, even more so on your end since Ren's not even there, but they all promise to never forget you.

You're just glad you got to say goodbye.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

AAaaaannd that's the gist of it. This ended up taking a lot longer then I thought it would, but that's my fault for constantly switching from describing the plot to "hey this scene is important I should make it sound important". Then it started getting too long so I had to cut things down lol.

Again, I am such a slow writer and I'm still rehashing plot points that don't really work + filling in gaps. This probably won't even be one to one once I finish it. My memory is dogshit and I think it's a little obvious where I'm forgetting what happened in the game and what I might need to change after I finish my *checks notes* seventh playthrough? Idk I feel like I've played this game both 0 and 100 times lol. This did help me flesh out certain plot points that were giving me a hard time though :)

Obviously there'd be more interactions in-between with the Phantom Thieves + Akechi & Yoshizawa. This is just going over the main plot, but there's a ton of bonding. I nearly have the whole timeline of events planned out (I put it all on a fckn calendar—) and Bug's constantly juggling who to spend their time with after getting past their "these people are characters that I can’t possibly befriend or be useful to in anyway" phase.

I've put the entirety of this group and their interactions in a microwave and they've been spinning for almost a year in my head. I don't actually think I'd ever finish this—and if by some miracle I do, I don't even know if I'd post it. I just gush over this so much I needed to share something about it, so here we are!

Here's a few more bits of this fic/au/interactions in my brain that happen in my planning document:

Bug is Joker's Aeon and Akechi's Fortune confidants

Bug has a special cognition in Kamoshida’s palace his shadow labels as "Temporarily Unattainable" or "Surprisingly Entertaining." Depends on if Bug is fem or masc I'm not sure yet.

Morgana sometimes calls Bug precious. No one will explain why and they don't think they want to know anyway.

In fact everyone has a nickname for Bug:

Joker’s is "my Aeon" and every cheesy soulmate term under the sun

Ryuji's is "Frosty"

Ann's is "Peaches"

Yusuke’s is "Muse"

Makoto's is "Angel"

Futaba’s is "Player 1" (Joker’s changes to either "Player 2/3" or "Protag" (also switches to "Glitch" when she's mad at Bug))

Haru's is "Bell"

Akechi’s is "Charm[y]" or "Luck[y]" (depending on Prince or Crow, though Crow will also use "Charmy" just to piss them off)

Bug is a pretty good crafter, and after they finally join the team they start making things for Mementos trips instead of buying. If this was a game mechanic it would be like asking Bug to make the gadgets you don't have time to, or getting them to make something only they can.

After a combination of Bug talking about their experience playing the game, the insane difficulty curve Bug's modding habits added to each palace, and Akechi being way stronger than the rest of the party when he joins, has turned Joker into a min-maxer. Whatever he has must be OP, and if something he really wants isn't, then he has to force it to be. If it's unattainable then he'll cry, get over it, and move on to the next strongest persona (He is devastated that Izanagi-no-Okami isn't actually an accessible persona for him. Bug regrets telling him.)

Joker never completes Maruki’s confidant. Unfortunately, Azathoth is a snitch, so it didn't matter anyway.

Bug is petrified of heights and that never goes away. Assume they're cowering like a baby whenever they're any substantial height above the ground. Unless they're facing Yaldabaoth. Then it gets pushed aside because they hate this guy more then their fear of heights.

Bug has a different rebel outfit for each persona (may or may not keep this. It was related to a plot point I might not write about anymore. It was waay earlier in the drafts lol)

When Bug gets Loki, Joker is a little sad that they couldn't brainstorm what their last persona could be together. Akechi may or may not have been a little smug over it.

Everyone's personas talk to them occasionally. Bug's head instantly gets more lively once Loki is added and they wonder how Akechi dealt with that for so long.

Bug does end up telling Futaba about the other Persona games and she becomes as well versed in the lore of the world as Bug is.

At some point Futaba also asked Bug who their favourite character was, which was the catalyst event to everyone constantly asking. Bug avoids the question each time.

I'm not sure if I'll write full length chapters for the spin-off games (or yk… at all), but they do happen and Bug takes every opportunity to gush over the other protagonists. They like abusing the fact no one will remember (even if they are sad they technically won't either)

#A Change of Fate #Persona x Reader #Ren Amamiya x Reader #Goro Akechi x Reader #P5 x Reader #Persona 5 x Reader #Anyone's welcome to send in an ask if they want to know more or have any ideas yourself!#Reader Insert #X Reader #Uchu.Writes #Uchu.Posts

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