#ushering in chapter three

[seoul-bros]

Hope on the Stage - Final Show in Seoul

Still a bit choked that I won’t be there but given the dates we know who will be right? Are you ready for I Wonder live with Jungkook or Chicken Noodle Soup with Jimin (we know he has Becky’s part down pat). What do you want Namjoon and Taehyung to sing? I imagine they will split these Easter eggs over two nights and wait for Yoongi to get back for a full reunion.

Post Date: 07/05/2025

[ichorai]

xerox ; robert reynolds ; part three.

part one. | part two. | part four.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 4.3k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, fluffy near the end, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; violence, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), the void is hot unfortunately, foul language, everyone's mental health sucks but they're actually getting better now!

a/n ; this chapter is a bit shorter than the other two just because it only covers the very end of the movie PLUS a little bonus scene to get you guys excited for future avengers tower moments :) thank you again for all the support! also did you guys catch the mutant mention wink wonk

main masterlist. read on ao3!

Bob’s first room had an angry, middle-aged man standing in the very center, veins protruding out of his neck as he yelled gibberish. Flecks of spittle fell from his slurring lips. Bob, whose warm hand was intertwined with yours, flinched at the sudden volume. 

Walker didn’t hesitate to strike him down with his taco-shaped shield. 

“He seems nice,” Ava said.

The room gave a massive rumble, as if upset that things weren’t going its way, and the walls began to close in. 

“This way!” Alexei bellowed, ushering everyone forward into a wooden wardrobe full of clothes. 

“Narnia?” you asked as you shouldered through moth-eaten coats, giving Bob a quick glance over your shoulder. 

Bob gave you a nervous smile. “It was one of my favorites as a kid.”

The floors gave out beneath you, and you found yourself free-falling for a few seconds before landing on the rough ground with a resounding thud. The new room smelled of gasoline and burnt rubber tires.

You helped Yelena up to her feet, only to be whacked over the back of the head with a sharp plastic sign that read ALFREDO’S BAIL BONDS! in a hideous shade of red, by a chicken mascot that had equally hard-on-the-eyes yellow feathers. With a low moan, you started crawling away from the crazed chicken, who had turned to attack Ava and Alexei. 

“Oh, God!” Bob exclaimed, scrambling over to give you a hand. “Are you okay?”

“IF YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME WITH THAT SIGN—!” Alexei gruffed from across the room, now bleeding from the nose.

“I was on meth!” Bob shrieked apologetically right before grabbing your head and shoving you down just in time to duck away from another sign-swing from the high chicken. 

Whilst lowered, you spotted a stack of wooden vegetable crates across the street. There seemed to be no other exits from the room. Ava kept the chicken occupied and distracted by repeatedly phasing through him, so you took the opportunity to break open the bottom of the crates, which smelled faintly of rotting tomatoes.

“Through here!” you called. “Crawl through the crates!”

Past-Bob made a bee-line for current Bob, the sharp end of the sign aimed straight at him like a crude stake. With a stinging cheek and a clenched jaw, Bucky stepped in between them and punched the chicken square in the face (beak?) with his metal arm. 

As you made your way through to the new room, you distantly heard Walker gagging behind you. “I hate tomatoes.”

Through the crates was a cleaner, more sterile space. The new room looked… clinical. You immediately tensed, eyes darting back and forth. There were beakers, needles, and measuring devices everywhere—all the marks of a science lab. You had to suck in a deep, painful breath to remind yourself that this wasn’t your room—it was Bob’s. A few meters away from you, there was an operating table. Big surgical lights looming over it like curved, robotic flowers. And on the bed sat past-Bob, shoulders hunched into himself. He looked the very same as the Bob right beside you, holding your hand. But his eyes were sunken and empty. Tired.

“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered. “Malaysia.”

Bob bit down on the inside of his cheek. “It’s where it all started. I was roaming Southeast Asia. Thought I’d figure something out. A way to find more drugs. And there’s this guy… he started talking to me about a medical study. A trial drug that can make me stronger and not feel like… me anymore. It was like a miracle.”

You felt your face fall with sympathy. You squeezed his hand, and Bob met your gaze with pursed lips. Slowly, the group began to advance towards Past-Bob. At least he wasn’t swinging a sign at all of your heads in a chicken suit this time.

“I thought I would get to show everyone that I was more… that I was something,” Bob told everyone, shame tinting each of his words a melancholic blue.

Past-Bob, now shrouded in shadow, finally straightened. 

“And look what you unleashed,” the voice purred, echoing in your head as if he had managed to worm inside and tapping at the very base of your ear drums.

That wasn’t Bob, you realized with a heavy pit in your stomach. It was the Void. He hopped off the surgical table, turning to face the team, face dark, but eyes glowing.

“How could you possibly think you could be worth anything?” he said, calm as untouched waters. You could feel your skin prickle.

Yelena stepped forward. “We’re leaving.”

The Void stayed silent for a moment, scrutinizing the ragged team of misfits and criminals with an empty expression. Then, he shook his head in miniscule movements. “No,” he simply said.

Behind him the surgical table rose into the air and flew across the room at a startlingly rapid speed, crashing against Yelena and Alexei, pinning them against the wall behind. The long strips of buzzing, artificial lights above were torn from the ceiling and wound around Bucky, keeping him to one of the lab’s counters. Several metal frames from a window came whizzing across the room to bury into the edges of Walker’s suit, keeping him stuck on the ground. Ava was sent flying into the other side of the lab when a crumbled garbage can wound about her midriff. She would have phased right through it, but there was a force weighing her down. 

You managed to dodge the door that was coming at you, having to relinquish Bob’s hand to do so, but missed the heavy metal shelf used to store plastic pill pots heading toward you from the opposite direction. It slammed into your stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and you were left struggling fruitlessly against the wall it lodged you up against. 

“Stop,” Bob pleaded to the Void with wide, watery eyes. “Let them go.”

“You think they care about you?” The Void stepped closer until he was right in front of you, close enough that you could feel it—the cold darkness. The dread. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The weight of all you’ve done wrong, all the people you’ve murdered and maimed, all your deaths, all your lies—resting right on top of your sternum. You gasped for breath. You felt something cold touch your face, so cold it felt blistering hot. You simultaneously wanted to pull away and lean in closer. The Void’s fingers were caressing your cheek ever so gently, and Bob did nothing but watch. He felt frozen to the floor, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty. 

“Xerox… lovely, sad Xerox…” crooned the Void, almost sing-songy. “Bob’s got a fixation with you, you know. It’s pathetic. He’s like a sad mutt begging for scraps from the table.” There was an amused hum from him before he continued, this time speaking to Bob. “Xerox doesn’t want to help you. None of them do. They’re all using you. Deep down, you know they despise you. You’re a burden.”

“That’s not true!” Yelena screamed from the opposite side of the room. IV drip wires wrapped around her throat so tight her eyelids fluttered and her words were caught on her tongue. 

“Isn’t that right, Xerox?” said the Void, his cool thumb slipped beneath your chin to tilt your head up as he regarded you with those cold, blank eyes. “You chose the darkness. You chose me.”

“I came…” The weight was growing stronger. The words felt like thorns in your mouth, painful to speak. What was he doing to you? “I came to help him.”

The Void tilted his head. Then, you felt the coldness close around your throat. The edges of your vision darkened. If your hands weren’t pinned back, you would’ve been clawing at your neck for breath.

“I told you… he doesn’t want your help. He’s pathetic. Why would he deserve it? Deserve you? Now tell him. Tell him the truth. It’s what he needs to hear… some tough love.”

When you opened your mouth this time, words spilled out that weren’t yours. “I don’t want to help you,” you found yourself saying. Not to the Void, but to Bob. Your Pal. You gasped, a cold tear slipping down your cheek. The words came out grated, as if someone had forced you to swallow razors. “I never liked you, Robert. You’re nothing. In fact, worse than that. You’re an active hindrance. A thorn in everyone’s side. I wish… schkk—I wish you had stayed dead when they shot you down.”

“That’s right,” murmured the Void. “Good.”

“Please stop,” Bob ground out. You weren’t sure if he was saying that to you or to the Void. 

His dark counterpart laughed a deep, rumbling noise. “Robert the Hero. Doesn’t sound right, does it? Fake. Like a comic book story. What a joke.”

Walker was close to prying himself out of his confines. 

The Void flicked his wrist. All the glass from the beakers and volumetric cylinders in the lab exploded. Crystal shards scratched at the team’s face, leaving everyone with stinging, bloodied cuts. The Void’s hand slipped away from your throat to pull out the piece of glass that had embedded into your skin. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, almost a whisper. It would’ve sounded sincere if it hadn’t sounded like an automated message. “You do enough of that to yourself. Did you enjoy what I showed you? The darkness has been kind to you, hasn’t it? The only one you can trust is yourself.”

“Yes,” you choked out, and your head bowed into a nod even though you hadn’t wanted to. “I deserve to relive it all. All the worst parts of me. I’m just as bad as I thought I was.”

Bob was breathing heavily, expression twisted into one of pain. The Void was hurting you. He was hurting you. 

“I’m stronger than you,” Bob told his alter-ego, trying to sound more confident than he was. “I can beat you.”

The Void grinned. It was a terrifying sight. Wolfish. Predatory. “Let’s see.”

The shadowed figure finally stepped away from you, and you seemed to lean forward, as if chasing his touch. Once the Void was far enough, Bob watched you recoil with a trace of disgust to your expression. At yourself or at him?

“It wasn’t me,” you croaked, misty eyes now glued to Bob. Not the Void. Just Bob. “Palindrome. It wasn’t me.”

And Bob believed you. He trusted you. With a determined nod, he ran forward and swung a punch to the Void. The dark mass hit back with equal ferocity, sending Bob sprawling to the ground. Glass dug into his skin.

“Get up, Bobby,” Walker gruffed. “Get up!”

“You thought you would be some great man? Some savior?” taunted the Void as he kicked at Bob. “You can’t even save yourself.”

You watched in horror as the Void picked Bob up by the scruff of his sweatshirt, and struck him three more times. 

“We will always be alone.”

The room began to shift, elongating. The entire group was pulled further and further away from Bob and the Void. Bob watched the team go—his friends grow smaller with the distance—and blew out a choked breath. Alexei was bleeding profusely from his head. Yelena’s face was turning blue from the cords cutting her airway. Ava, Bucky, and John were still working against their bonds. Bob glanced at you hanging limply behind the shelf, staring at nothing in particular with glazed eyes. No doubt that was the Void’s doing. 

Bob turned. His lips curled angrily. Then he launched himself at the Void with a mangled cry. He began punching the figure with all his might. To his fury, the Void only smiled, unhurt.

“There we go,” the Void whispered in a mocking manner. “Show them how strong you are.”

The room began to crack and crumble. Darkness began to eat away at Bob the more he struck his darker self. His shoes were swallowed first, now beginning to crawl up his shins. 

“This isn’t right,” Bucky gruffed. 

“Bob, stop!” Yelena coughed out. Having had enough, Alexei strained as much as he could to push the weight off of them. Just enough to let Yelena wriggle loose. She slipped out with a pained groan, tore the IV off her, and began running towards Bob. The room shifted to try to stop her—throwing cabinets and beakers and tables at her, but she lithely dodged each one. 

By the time she got to Bob, the darkness had seeped up to his neck. 

“I’m here,” she said, wrapping her arms around Bob from behind, trying to hold him back. Bob kept hitting the darkness, relentless.

“It will always be just us,” the Void told him, almost comforting. “I’m the only one you can rely on.”

Yelena held onto him tighter. “I’m here, Bob,” repeated Yelena. “You’re not alone.”

Finally, Bucky managed to tear himself free. He helped Walker get free, and Walker then stalked over to push the shelf off of you with a grunt. You collapsed with a dizzy intake of breath. Ava and Alexei were quick to free themselves afterwards, bonds slightly loosened—it seemed that Yelena’s words of comfort were actually helping. 

The rest of the team ran towards Bob, Yelena, and the Void. 

“We’re all here,” Yelena told her friend. “We’re here for you, Bob.”

You kneeled down beside him, hand wrapping around the wrist that led to a now-bloodied fist. The team piled together, all holding Bob—and each other. In the tangled mess of limbs and arms, Bob began to weep. His head knocked against yours as he sobbed, and you held him all the tighter. 

“Let it out, Pal,” you said. “We’ve got you.”

Then the entire group fell backwards. Your spine hit the rough surface of a broken road. After blinking several times and adjusting to the sudden onslaught of light, the city of New York came back into view. The shadows were slowly but surely melting away. 

The team slowly struggled to their feet. People were gradually but surely returning from the Void’s realm.

You sniffled, wiping an errant tear with your sleeve. The Void’s hold on your mind was still fresh, and you certainly felt a little worse for wear. You felt Bob’s concerned hand on your shoulder, and you turned and enveloped him into a sudden, tight hug, yanking him close. He emitted a noise of surprise, but his arms wound around you out of instinct. 

“I’m so sorry,” you said, breathing shallow and rapid. “I don’t wish you died. I don’t think you’re a burden. I think you’re really sweet and cool and—” Your words were spoken so quickly and pretty muffled into the fabric of his sweatshirt that Bob didn’t really catch them.

Bob held you until your breaths mellowed out a bit. Even patted your back a few times for good measure. There were no complaints on his end for the hug, but he wasn’t very sure why you were giving him one. 

“This is nice,” he started, uncertain.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask if I could hug you,” you whispered once you pulled away, cheeks flushed.

“You don’t need to ask,” he said, almost too quickly. There was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “You don’t ever need to ask to hug me. It’s nice. I like it.”

Walker came to stand beside you, having done a quick survey of the premise. “You were great in there, Bob.”

Bob blinked at the bearded man and smiled. That was probably the nicest thing Walker has ever said to him. Too bad he had no clue what he was talking about. “Thanks, Walker,” he said, still smiling goofily. “In—wait, in where?” Finally, Bob took a glance around. There was wreckage everywhere. Had the Avengers totaled New York yet again? “Woah. What happened here?”

“You don’t… remember?” you asked, eyeing him with kinked brows.. “Did you hit your head a bit too hard?”

Bob patted down his skull. “Feels normal.” He laughed a bit—a nervous, knee-jerk reaction. “Sorry, I’m a bit confused.”

“Are you okay?” Yelena asked, looking at him with nothing but concern. 

Bob’s brows twitched, still completely lost. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why’s everyone looking at me like that?”

“Are you serious?” Alexei deadpanned. “We were in crazy rooms of despair and misery and—”

“Thanks, Alexei,” you cut in, giving the giant of a man a pointed look. “You did good, Bob. I can explain the details later. For now—”

Your reassurance was cut off by Valentina shrilly speaking into a phone, only a few yards away. You could feel anger twist your insides just from seeing her. 

“I’m going to kill that woman,” Alexei gruffed.

“We can’t kill her. We have to take her in,” Bucky said with an exasperated sigh. It was clear that he had plenty of experience being the voice of reason. 

“What happens when he regains his memory?” Walker asked. “Will we have to go through that all over again?”

Yelena shook her head. She took Bob by the elbow and began leading him towards Valentina. “Okay. Come on, Bob.”

“I’m going with you guys?”

“Of course you are,” you said as you walked alongside them towards Valentina, nudging Bob with a soft smile. “We’re a team now.”

Bob returned your smile easily. “That sounds nice.”

Yelena nodded. “We stick together from now on.”

When Valentina spotted the Thunderbolts coming towards her, she began to hurry backwards. “Hello, team! I know we’re all dealing with very big feelings right now, just give me—give me half a second—!”

She disappeared behind some wreckage. 

As you rounded the broken pieces of construction, you were met with the blinding flashes of about fifty cameras. There were news trucks, reporters, microphones, the entire shebang. Even a podium for Valentina to stand behind as she hushed the audience. A small part of you thought about all the dried blood on your face and body—it was a relief your suit was dark, or it would’ve looked like you were mauled by a bear. Or, more likely that you were the one that mauled the bear. 

“What’s going on?” Bob leaned closer to whisper to you.

“No idea,” you whispered back.

“Cool.” The smile that appeared on his face was boyish and lopsided. “It’s nice not being the only one who’s confused.”

“Are we live?” Valentina asked one of the cameramen. Once he nodded, she began speaking with a shiny, rehearsed smile. “For years, I have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection. Today, the citizens of the United States need that protection. Thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen… meet the new Avengers.”

Avenger? You? That didn’t sound quite right. The Avengers were heroes. They were a beacon of light and hope and occasional destruction of city-folk. You were… 

Just a person trying to do better.

The Thunderbolts stared at each other in a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Bob began to clap loudly, but you put a hand on his, forcing him to lower them down. 

“What?” he asked, still completely miffed, and you shook your head with an I’ll tell you later look. Bob nodded solemnly and put his hands behind his back, which made you hold back an amused grin. The snaps coming from the cameras seemed to flare with every tiny movement you made, so you weren’t too keen on giving them anything to pick apart. 

Yelena strode up to Valentina. She covered the microphone, leaned down, and said, just loud enough so she and the rest of the team could hear. “We own you now.”

This time, you didn’t bother trying to smother your smile. The cameras went crazy.

“Have you seen the news?” Bob asked you, settling down next to you on the couch. He handed you the steaming mug of tea, made just the way you liked. His knees knocked against yours. 

You glanced away from your crossword puzzle and took the mug with a warm smile. “Thanks. Seen what? I haven’t checked ever since news of mutants broke out.” You were still waiting for your own test results to come back. The memory of the clinic drawing your blood made you shudder. It did, however, make you feel slightly better knowing that the entire team was squashed in the tiny waiting room right outside the door for you. Even Bucky, who swore up and down that he was busy that afternoon still showed up. You made a mental note to get him a smoothie from that juice shop he liked so much. 

Bob gave you an awkward grimace. “They’re writing about us again.”

This made you roll your eyes. “They’re always writing about us.”

Just yesterday, Ava had shown you an article that said: THE HEROES NOBODY ASKED FOR! IS NEW ALWAYS BETTER? 

Which, to be fair, was a completely valid article. However, counterpoint, none of you asked to be on the Avengers. Except Alexei and Walker at some point, you suspected.

“No,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Not us like the group, but us us.”

“Oh?” You quirked a brow. “What are they saying this time?” Last week, they were convinced Bob was a special secret agent of sorts. 

Bob handed you the rolled up newspaper he was holding. 

SPOTTED: BOB WHO? MYSTERY MAN SEEN WITH NEW AVENGER ‘XEROX’ — ROMANCE BLOSSOMING IN THE TOWER?

Though you were wearing a baseball cap, that clearly wasn’t enough to hide your identity. Beneath the article title was a grainy image of you and Bob in the park, feeding the ducks. The two of you were wearing identical, fond grins; but you were looking at the ducks, and his eyes were trained on you. There was another photo beneath where the two of you were sharing a milkshake in one of your favorite diners. You let out a sigh—you supposed you couldn’t be going to that diner as often anymore.

“Oh,” you muttered, reading through the first few lines, which turned out to be a whole bunch of speculative nonsense. “They’re always doing this, aren’t they? Making something out of nothing.” 

“Right,” said Bob, nodding. “It’s nothing. You’re right.”

When you caught his eye, noting the slightly crestfallen look on his face, you shook your head, assuming he was just upset about the whole ordeal. You could understand—losing your privacy overnight wasn’t something you were very keen about, either. “Try not to pay too much mind to the news people. I guess we just have to lay low for a while. It’ll die down. They’ll move on to the next big trendy thing in a minute or two.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bob said. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Does this mean we have to stop going to the park together?”

“No,” you reassured. “We just have to put on some better disguises. I’m sure Valentina could scrounge up the money. After all, she kinda has to do whatever we want now.”

Bob smiled, all awkward and endearing. “Good. Yeah. I… I like the time we spend together.”

“I like it, too,” you said, lips upturned. Bob had to force his eyes away. It was nothing. Right.

You patted his leg and returned to your crossword puzzle. You were about halfway through the crossword book that Bob had bought for you from the musty cornerstore two blocks away. It was the first gift you’d ever gotten from someone. 

Yelena walked into one of the Tower’s many common areas an hour later to find you and Bob leaning against each other, dozing away. Your puzzle book was discarded to the side, pencil sticking out one of the pages to mark your place. Bob’s mouth was slightly agape and he looked about two seconds away from slipping and face-planting painfully into the boniest part of your shoulder. Your legs were intertwined with his in a position that certainly couldn’t have been comfortable. Yelena regarded the two of you with a downturned smile. 

“Okay, you sleepy lovebirds,” she muttered, grabbing a neatly folded blanket from the corner of the long couch and draping it over the both of you. You stirred ever so slightly, mumbling something under your breath, then settled back closer to Bob. “Sweet dreams.”

The two of you were startled awake just as Yelena was leaving and Alexei stormed in, loudly complaining about how this lady in the grocery store wouldn’t buy the Avengers Wheaties cereal box even though he’d explicitly recommended it to her.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, standing up to stretch upwards like a feline after a long nap. Bob watched you with a sleepy grin. “Ooh, that just reminded me. I need to go pick up some ingredients for soup night tomorrow. Walker hates tomatoes, so tomato soup is off the menu.” 

With no hesitation whatsoever, Bob asked, “Can I come with you?” 

You thought distantly to the news reports. Let them think what they want. Whatever you had with Bob, you liked it just as it was.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d love that. We can stop by the library afterwards, too. I’ve heard they’ve got a new copy of…”

Alexei and Yelena watched the two of you head out, animatedly discussing some sort of new mystery book, shoulders practically pressed up to each other. 

“Are they—” Alexei sent his daughter a pointed look. “You know?”

“I’m not speaking about this with you,” Yelena curtly said, turning on her heel. “But no, not yet. Ava and I have a bet going on.”

This made a devilish grin spread over Alexei’s face. “He makes it obvious, the way he looks at Xerox. I give them a week.”

Yelena scoffed. He was such an optimist. She gave them three months at the very least. “You’re on.”

[riddlesrose]

the small things he does

w/ idia, riddle, leona, floyd, cater & azul

cw; none :p

part two | part three

idia has a habit of grabbing onto your hand when he gets nervous. he'll instinctually reach for it when there's a large group of people he really doesn't want to get caught up in, or when you finally convince him that he should be attending more classes in person; he'll sit next to you and trace shapes and words into the back of your hand, hidden by the desks.

riddle leaves small notes in your textbooks, small pick-me-ups to 'help' you keep studying, though he knows you're okay without him. he leaves the small notes between pages, you notice there's usually two per chapter. since he knows you don't need the help, he turns to leaving small sentences of affirmation or endearment. his face turns bright red if you bring it up to him, he denies it all but he's the only one you usually study with. (therefore, the only one with access to your unattended textbooks..)

leona unintentionally wraps his tail around one of your limbs, whether it's around your arms or tickling the skin of your leg, it's there. even if he's not sleeping it'll snake it's way around you, he claims his tail has a mind of its own- that he doesn't do it on purpose, but you know he does and that it lets him relax, knowing you're there.

floyd's bottom lip juts out when you go to leave the lounge or his room, he pouts like a child that's been denied a toy at the store. he really enjoys your company, how you listen to him with no complaints, he could simply steal you away forever. his shrimpy, no one else's.

cater has a whole lot of candid photos of you, he loooves the ones where you're gazing gently at the roses, or helping someone out. he can't get over the softness in your eyes, or the way your smile is so genuine, though it's never forced when you're with him, it's just a different kind of genuine. no matter, he loves it (and you) regardless.

azul will take time when there's a surplus amount of change in the lounge and sort through it- claiming he's just counting it- looking for coins with interesting designs on them. he'll show you, hoping you share the same interest in the coins that he does. if you do, and possibly think it's cooler than he does, he'll slip it off to the side, eventually placing it into your palm, and ushering you out, back to your dorm for the night.

masterlist

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 15: Overwhelming Need

The weight of the revelation—that your heat was approaching while Mingi was already in rut upstairs—settled over the room like a suffocating blanket. You could feel the need building inside you, not just the physical omega instincts preparing for heat, but an overwhelming emotional pull toward your mate who was locked away, suffering alone.

"I need to see him," you said suddenly, trying to stand from Yunho's protective embrace. "Mingi needs to know I'm okay, that I'm here."

"Absolutely not," Hongjoong said immediately, his pack leader voice brooking no argument. "A pre-heat omega near a rutting alpha? That's a recipe for disaster."

"But he's my mate," you protested, your omega crying out at the thought of your alpha in distress. "What if he think I've rejected him?”

Another anguished howl from upstairs seemed to confirm your words, the sound making every alpha in the room tense with sympathy and concern.

"Which is exactly why you need distance right now," Seonghwa said gently but firmly. "Your scent is already calling to him. If you get any closer while you're both in this state..."

"We need to get her to the guesthouse," Hongjoong decided, his leader instincts taking over. "Seonghwa, Wooyoung, take her there and stay with her. The rest of us will figure out how to handle Mingi safely."

"But—" you started to protest.

"No arguments," Hongjoong said, though his voice softened with affection. "I know you want to help him, but right now the best thing you can do is stay safe while we find a solution."

Wooyoung was already moving to your side, gently helping you stand while Seonghwa gathered some supplies. "Come on, Tulip," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

As the three of you made your way across the garden to the guesthouse, another desperate roar from Mingi's window made you stumble. The sound of your mate's anguish was like a physical blow, your omega instincts screaming at you to comfort him.

"I know," Seonghwa murmured, his hand steady on your back. "I know it hurts. But Hongjoong's right—this is the safest option for everyone right now."

When you reached the guesthouse, Seonghwa unlocked the door and ushered you inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, Wooyoung stopped dead in his tracks, his nostrils flaring as he took in the atmosphere.

"Holy shit," he breathed, his eyes going slightly glazed. "It smells like you and sex and..." He gripped the doorframe for support. "I may actually never leave this place. You could evict me with a crowbar and I'd find a way back."

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa said with exasperated fondness, "you're being dramatic."

"Am I?" Wooyoung countered, following you both inside and immediately moving to hover near you. "Because this place smells like our mate claimed and satisfied and I think my alpha might actually combust from how perfect that is."

Seonghwa shot him a warning look, but you could see the way his own hands were trembling slightly, the careful control he was exerting to maintain his composure. "We're here to help her feel safe and calm, not to make things more complicated."

"Right, right," Wooyoung agreed, though he made no move to create more distance. "Totally calm and helpful. That's me."

You settled onto the couch, feeling emotionally and physically drained from the mate bond revelations and the growing awareness of your approaching heat. Almost immediately, Wooyoung was beside you, his presence warm and comforting despite his obvious struggle with control.

"How are you feeling?" Seonghwa asked, taking the chair across from you with careful precision. "Physically, I mean. Any heat symptoms yet?"

You considered the question, taking inventory of your body's responses. "Restless. Emotional. Everything feels... more intense than usual."

"That's normal for pre-heat," Seonghwa assured you. "Especially with mate bonds involved. Your omega is preparing."

Wooyoung, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly shifted closer to you on the couch. "Can I..." he hesitated, then looked at you with earnest eyes. "Can I scent you? Please? My alpha is going crazy knowing you're upset, and I need... I need to make sure you know you're safe."

The request was so genuine, so full of care despite his obvious desire, that you found yourself nodding. "Okay."

The relief that crossed Wooyoung's face was immediate and profound. He moved carefully, as if you might bolt at any moment, before gently pulling you closer to his side. His nose buried in your neck, right where your scent was strongest, and he inhaled deeply.

"Better," he murmured against your skin, his voice already sounding more settled. "So much better."

But instead of pulling away, he began pressing soft kisses along your neck, his lips finding the sensitive spots that made your omega purr with satisfaction. Each kiss sent warmth spreading through your body, making your head feel pleasantly dizzy.

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa said with a warning tone, "what did we just say about keeping things calm?"

"This is calm," Wooyoung protested, though he didn't stop his gentle assault on your neck. "I'm being very calm. Very controlled. See how controlled I'm being?"

His teeth grazed your pulse point, making you gasp softly, and Seonghwa made a sound that might have been a growl.

"That's not controlled," Seonghwa said roughly, his own composure clearly slipping as he watched Wooyoung mark you with gentle kisses. "That's... that's the opposite of controlled."

"But she likes it," Wooyoung said with satisfaction, noting the way you'd melted into his touch. "Look how relaxed she is. This is therapeutic. Medicinal, even."

"Medicinal," Seonghwa repeated flatly, though his eyes were fixed on the way Wooyoung's lips moved against your skin. "Right."

"Mmhmm," you hummed in agreement, too dizzy from the attention to form proper words. Your omega was purring steadily now, the sound of contentment filling the small space.

Seonghwa's control cracked slightly at the sound. "You're both going to be the death of me," he muttered, but his voice held more affection than genuine complaint.

From the main house, you could still hear the occasional sounds of Mingi's distress, but Wooyoung's attention was making it easier to bear. The gentle kisses and soft touches were grounding you, reminding your omega that you were safe and cared for even if one of your mates was suffering.

"We'll figure it out," Wooyoung murmured against your neck, as if reading your thoughts. "Hongjoong-hyung will find a way to help Mingi, and we'll all get through this together."

"Promise?" you asked softly, your voice small with vulnerability.

"Promise," both alphas said simultaneously, their voices carrying the weight of absolute certainty.

---

Wooyoung’s soft, reverent kisses along your neck finally coax the knot in your chest to loosen, your restless anxiety melting into something softer and heavier. His arms drape securely around your waist, holding you close as if he could shield you from everything outside these four walls.

"There we go," he murmurs gently, brushing his nose just beneath your ear, letting his presence—warm, unhurried, undeniably alpha—anchor you to the here and now. "Let us take care of you, Tulip. Let us help you breathe."

Your fists unclench from where they’d been knotted together in your lap, the noise from the packhouse fading into the background. You lean into him instinctively and feel his body relax further, his need bleeding into comfort with every beat of your heart.

Seonghwa, unsettled but steady, stands, tension thrumming through his frame, then moves to the edge of the couch. He kneels down in front of you, the floorboard creaking under his weight. His eyes are dark with tenderness and honest desire, but his hands are gentle as they gather yours, thumbs stroking soothing circles across your knuckles.

“You’re safe here,” Seonghwa says softly. “You can let go—just a little. You’re not alone.”

Wooyoung grins, nuzzling your neck again, emboldened by Seonghwa’s nearness. “She’s melting,” he teases softly, the words meant only for the three of you. “Let’s really help her forget for a bit, hyung.”

Seonghwa’s gaze drifts to your face, guarded concern softening into promise. “May I? May I comfort you too?” His invitation feels heavier than Wooyoung’s playful affection—deeper, somehow, as if he’s offering more than just a hand to hold.

You nod, words stuck behind the lump in your throat. With that, Seonghwa leans forward, pressing your joined hands to his lips. His kiss is chaste but lingering, his breath warm against your skin.

Wooyoung’s hands stroke your waist as Seonghwa leans in closer, and the two alphas flank you—one behind, one at your feet—creating a nest of warmth and safety. Seonghwa looks up at you through his lashes, waiting for you to guide him, and when you nod again, he moves up and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Your omega’s scent is…beautiful,” he whispers near your jaw, his confession trembling with restraint. “It’s making it very difficult to think about anything else.” His hand slides gently up your thigh, not demanding, but grounding—present.

Wooyoung grins wickedly against your neck. “Hyung’s right. It’s intoxicating.” His hand joins Seonghwa’s, their fingers brushing, and they both smile at the point of contact—a brief, silent pact.

You giggle softly, overwhelmed by the affection, by the careful enthusiasm in their touches.

Seonghwa leans in, lips ghosting along your temple as his hand cups your cheek. “Lean back.” His voice is low, cool water over hot stones. “Let us take care of you, Tulip.”

You sink back into Wooyoung, letting your head rest against his shoulder. Their hands map you in tandem, slow and reverent: Wooyoung’s making lazy patterns over your hip and ribs, Seonghwa’s smoothing circles above your knee.

Wooyoung presses a line of soft kisses below your ear, one hand finding your hair while the other cradles your waist. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, praise half reverent, half hungry. “Let’s see you smile again, pretty girl.”

Seonghwa’s lips press softly to your brow, then your jaw—a trail of gentle reassurance. "Breathe, omega," he soothes, voice shimmering with restraint. "Let the world fall away. There’s nothing beyond this room but us and you."

You exhale shakily, tension finally beginning to unspool as both alphas work in wordless sync: Wooyoung's lips finding the delicate shell of your ear, Seonghwa’s steady arms bracketing your thighs. Their combined affection becomes an anchor, pulling you from the noise and chaos of heat, rut, and fear—reminding you that, here, you are safe, loved, and cherished.

Seonghwa’s lips brush the edge of your jaw, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail slowly upward, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His touch is featherlight but intent, fingertips exploring the sensitive skin at your waist, your ribs, charting a path of tingling anticipation. You arch instinctively, pressing closer to Wooyoung behind you, caught between the heat of both alphas.

Wooyoung's hands frame your hips, squeezing lightly as he fits his body along your back. The press of his chest—solid, reassuring—grounds you even as his mouth finds that place below your ear and sucks a mark, making your head tip back against his shoulder. Seonghwa watches the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, and a flicker of hunger darkens his eyes.

Without a word, Seonghwa leans in again, kissing you as his hands wander higher, grazing the sides of your chest. His thumbs brush under your bra, careful but not hesitant. You shiver at the boldness, the new spike of want sending warmth curling low in your belly. His mouth opens against yours, coaxing a sigh that Wooyoung answers with a groan of his own.

Wooyoung’s hand slips beneath your shirt and splay across your stomach, tugging you closer as his hips roll forward just a fraction, letting you feel how your closeness is affecting him. He presses a line of kisses down your neck, nipping at your pulse. “You’re gorgeous like this,” he murmurs, voice roughened by need. “I want to touch you everywhere.”

“Let him,” comes Seonghwa’s quiet command, his own voice threaded with restrained hunger. “Let us.”

You nod, caught up in the heat burning between them. Seonghwa’s lips find yours again—deeper, more insistent—as his hands finally push your shirt higher. He drags his mouth lower, across your cheek, along your throat, down over your collarbone, and when his tongue flicks over your skin, your omega keens beneath the attention.

Wooyoung’s hands glide up to join Seonghwa’s, the two of them working in silent tandem to strip you of your shirt. Their eyes rake over your bare skin with matching awe and greed, and then Seonghwa's mouth finds your breast, lips closing around a peaked nipple while his hand kneads the other in sync. Wooyoung, meanwhile, trails kisses along your spine, his hands steadying your thighs. He slips beneath the waistband of your shorts, palms hot and hungry.

Your breath comes fast now, every nerve ending alive beneath their hands and mouths. Seonghwa lavishes attention on your chest, tongue circling, while Wooyoung strokes between your legs through your panties, fingers finding you wet and needy. “You want more?” he breathes, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Yes,” you gasp, the answer pulled from your core.

Wooyoung tugs at the waistband of your shorts. "Lift your hips for me, pretty." You obey, letting him peel the fabric away, leaving you bare to both their gazes. Seonghwa traces his hand along your tummy, then slips lower, fingers joining Wooyoung’s, both of them working you in tandem—one circling your clit, the other gently dipping inside, never rushing you, coaxing you higher.

You writhe between them, head dropping onto Wooyoung’s shoulder as pleasure builds to a fever pitch. Their hands move together, perfectly in sync—one mouth on your breast, another biting soft marks into your neck, hands everywhere, gentle and relentless.

Seonghwa looks up at you, voice hoarse. "Let go for us, love." Wooyoung’s lips press to your ear, his whisper a promise and command all at once. "Come for us."

You shatter, trembling in their hold, every muscle contracting as you ride out the wave of pleasure, caught completely between your two alphas. They don’t let up—gentle hands and mouths carrying you down, soothing and adoring, kisses trailing over every inch of exposed skin.

You collapse against them: Wooyoung clutching you to his chest, Seonghwa gathering you into his arms from the other side, their hands tangled together at your waist, anchoring you in the afterglow as their touches turn fond and lingering.

No words—just the shared panting of breath, the thrum of want softened into deep, complete satisfaction, and the sense that they might never let you out of their arms again.

---

You’re still trembling when Seonghwa lifts you a little in Wooyoung’s embrace, catching your gaze with quiet, searching eyes. “Is this what you want?” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek, the intimacy of the question grounding you in the midst of all your longing.

You nod, breathless—more than ready. “Yes, Seonghwa.”

Wooyoung’s arms steady you, his hands smoothing down your arms as he cradles you to his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek; the heat of his own arousal pressed firm and patient against your back. “Let him take care of you, Tulip,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple.

You spread your thighs for Seonghwa as he settles between them, his hands reverent and sure as he positions himself. He strokes himself once—slow, deliberate—then lines up and presses in, achingly gentle at first, taking his time as he fills you, inch by careful inch. The stretch is exquisite, your body arching into the sensation, and his hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight.

He holds your gaze as he sinks all the way in—a soft exhale shuddering from his lips, a low moan wrung from yours. The world narrows to the feeling of him inside you, Wooyoung’s arms wrapped around you, a cocoon of touch and heat and safety.

Seonghwa rocks into you slowly, each stroke deep and measured, worshipful. His thumb smooths along your hip, his other hand brushing stray hair from your brow. Wooyoung nuzzles your hair from behind, peppering soft kisses along the side of your neck, murmuring praise and encouragement into your ear.

“You feel so good,” Seonghwa breathes, voice splintering with each thrust. “So perfect around me—I want to make you fall apart again, as many times as you’ll let me.”

Wooyoung’s hands travel over your body—fond and possessive—cupping your breast, stroking your thigh, kneading your waist wherever he can reach. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, his teeth skimming your skin, “the way you take him, the way you look at us. Let him have you, all of you.”

Driven by the encouragement, Seonghwa’s control falters; his pace picks up, slow and smooth becoming something rougher, hungrier. His hips snap into you with growing urgency, low groans slipping between clenched teeth as he loses himself in you. You cling to Wooyoung, grateful for the way he holds you steady against each thrust, your pleasure cresting once more as Seonghwa buries himself deep.

Your walls flutter around Seonghwa, making him gasp your name. When he feels you tighten, he fucks you harder, desperate now—chasing his own peak, coaxing yours with every deep stroke. Wooyoung holds you through it, kissing your jaw, whispering, “That’s it, Tulip, let go—don’t hold back.” His hand slips between your legs, fingertips finding your clit, stoking your pleasure until it burns bright and wild.

You come again with a shocked cry, body clenching down on Seonghwa. He drives into you once, twice more, losing his own rhythm as he groans your name, spilling into you, hips jerking as he finally lets go. He collapses over you as his knot swells, catching himself on shaking arms, one hand still tangled with yours.

Your bodies stay fused, warm and sated, Wooyoung’s arms closing around the both of you as he kisses your cheek, your shoulder, whatever he can reach. Seonghwa presses a string of soft, shaky kisses along your jaw, your lips, gentle again now that the fierce need has passed.

Between his body pressed to yours and Wooyoung’s presence at your back, you feel completely surrounded, cherished, and utterly undone.

You close your eyes and just breathe, letting the sensation of their hands and lips—soft, reverent, lingering—anchor you in a new kind of peace.

---

Back in the main house, the remaining five alphas were gathered in the living room, ostensibly trying to come up with a plan to safely help Mingi through his rut. However, their focus was being severely tested by the sounds drifting across the garden from the guesthouse.

What had started as soft murmurs and gentle conversation had gradually evolved into something far more distracting. Despite the distance and the closed windows, their enhanced alpha hearing was picking up sounds that made concentration nearly impossible.

Yunho was pacing the length of the living room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair in frustration. "This is torture," he muttered, his voice strained. "Actual torture."

San had given up any pretense of sitting calmly and was now gripping the back of a chair with white knuckles, his eyes squeezed shut as if that would block out the sounds. "I can't... this is impossible."

"We need to focus," Hongjoong said firmly, though his own voice carried a note of strain. "Mingi needs our help, and we can't—"

He was interrupted by a particularly clear sound from the guesthouse that made both Yunho and San visibly flinch.

"Easy for you to say," San said with a slightly hysterical laugh, his control clearly hanging by a thread. "You've already been with her. You've already had your turn to bond. The rest of us are sitting here listening to our mate with two other alphas while we're supposed to just... what? Discuss logistics?"

Yunho made a sound that was somewhere between a whine and a growl. "I'm going to lose my mind. Literally lose my mind."

Yeosang, who had been maintaining his usual composed exterior, finally cracked slightly. "Perhaps we should move this discussion to a different room," he suggested, his voice more strained than usual. "Somewhere with... better sound insulation."

"There is no room in this house with good enough sound insulation," Jongho said grimly, his young face tight with the effort of maintaining control. "Alpha hearing is a curse right now."

Another wave of sounds from the guesthouse made San actually whimper. "That's it. I'm going over there."

"No, you're not," Hongjoong said immediately, his pack leader authority cutting through San's desperation. "You know exactly what would happen if you showed up at that door right now."

"I don't care," San said, though he didn't actually move toward the door. "This is inhuman. How are we supposed to just sit here and listen to—"

"Because that's what being in a pack means," Hongjoong interrupted, his voice carrying both sympathy and firmness. "Sometimes you have to put the needs of the whole pack above your individual desires."

"But she's our mate too," Yunho said, his voice breaking slightly. "Our omega. And she's right there, and we can hear her, and—"

"And she's safe," Hongjoong finished firmly. "She's with two alphas who care about her, who will protect her, who will make sure she's taken care of. That has to be enough right now."

The sounds from the guesthouse seemed to crescendo at that moment, making all five alphas freeze as their enhanced senses picked up every detail they desperately wished they couldn't hear.

"I hate my life," San muttered, burying his face in his hands.

"We need a new plan," Yeosang said with forced calm, though his hands were clenched into fists. "This situation with Mingi cannot continue, especially if these... activities... are going to become a regular occurrence."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, a renewed howl of anguish echoed from upstairs. Mingi had clearly heard the same sounds they had, and his reaction was even more desperate than theirs.

"Fuck," Jongho breathed. "He's going to hurt himself trying to get out of that room."

The sound of something heavy hitting the door repeatedly confirmed Jongho's worry. Mingi's desperation had reached a new level, driven by the knowledge that his omega was being claimed by other alphas while he remained locked away.

"We need to sedate him," Hongjoong said grimly. "It's the only way to keep him from injuring himself."

"Dr. Kim could give us something," Yunho suggested, though he looked reluctant to drug their packmate.

"It might be our only option," Hongjoong agreed. "At least until we can figure out a safer way to—"

He was cut off by another sound from the guesthouse, this one clearly identifiable as your voice, which sent a collective shudder through all five remaining alphas.

"That's it," San declared, standing abruptly. "I'm going for a run. A very long run. Maybe to another city."

"I'll come with you," Yunho said immediately, already moving toward the door. "Anywhere but here."

"Actually," Yeosang said, rising as well, "that's not a terrible idea. Some distance might help us all think more clearly."

Hongjoong watched as three of his packmates prepared to flee the house rather than endure any more of the torture of listening to their omega with other alphas.

"Fine," he said with a sigh. "Go. But we're calling Dr. Kim about Mingi when you get back."

"And maybe getting some industrial-strength soundproofing," Jongho added as he followed the others toward the door.

Hongjoong was left alone in the living room, the sounds from the guesthouse seeming even louder now that he didn't have to maintain his composure for the others. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the practical problems at hand—Mingi's rut, your approaching heat, the logistics of managing eight-way mate bonds.

But the sounds of your pleasure, even muffled by distance, made it nearly impossible to think about anything else.

Being the pack leader, he reflected grimly, was definitely not what he'd signed up for.

---

The guesthouse was quiet except for the soft sounds of sleeping alphas. Seonghwa and Wooyoung lay on either side of where you should have been, their arms unconsciously reaching toward the space you'd carefully vacated. The post-intimacy exhaustion had claimed them both, giving you the window you'd been waiting for.

Your omega had been growing increasingly restless as the night wore on. Despite the comfort and satisfaction your mates had provided, something deep inside you was calling out for the one alpha who remained separated from you. Mingi's pain echoed through the mate bond like a constant ache, and your approaching heat was making the need to comfort him impossible to ignore.

Moving with careful silence, you slipped from the bed and padded to the window. The main house across the garden was mostly dark, with only a few lights indicating that some of the others might still be awake. You'd have to be quick and quiet.

Your omega instincts were driving you forward with a single-minded purpose that overrode rational thought. Your mate was suffering, calling for you, and every fiber of your being demanded that you go to him.

The walk across the garden felt both endless and too quick. Each step brought you closer to your distressed alpha, but also deeper into a situation that the rational part of your mind knew was dangerous. A pre-heat omega approaching a rutting alpha was exactly the scenario everyone had been trying to avoid.

But your omega didn't care about danger. She only cared about her mate.

You slipped inside the main house, grateful for your familiarity with the layout as you navigated through the darkened hallways. The others were either asleep or still out on their run, giving you a clear path upstairs.

Mingi's door loomed before you, and you could hear him on the other side—restless movement, soft sounds of distress, the occasional thud of something hitting the wall. Your heart broke at the evidence of his suffering.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the door handle. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered that this was reckless, that you should turn around and go back to the safety of the guesthouse. But your omega was in control now, driven by instincts older and more powerful than rational thought.

The lock clicked open—they'd used a simple turn-lock rather than something more secure, probably never imagining you would be the one trying to get in.

The door swung open, and you stepped into Mingi's room.

The scent hit you immediately—pure, concentrated alpha rut mixed with distress and longing. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, calling to every omega instinct you possessed. Your eyes immediately began to glow that telltale purple as your omega responded to being in the presence of her rutting mate.

Mingi was across the room in an instant, moving with inhuman speed as his golden eyes locked onto yours. He'd been pacing by the window when you entered, his tall frame tense with barely controlled energy, but your appearance had frozen him mid-step.

"Omega," he breathed, the word carrying a reverence that made your heart skip. "My omega. You came."

His voice was deeper than you'd ever heard it, roughened by hours of calling for you, by the rut that had consumed him since the mate bond recognition. His eyes blazed golden in the dim light, predatory and possessive and filled with desperate need.

"I had to," you whispered, taking a step closer despite every self-preservation instinct screaming warnings. "I could feel your pain. I couldn't leave you like this."

Something animalistic flickered across his features as your scent reached him properly for the first time. His nostrils flared, and a low growl rumbled from his chest—not threatening, but claiming. Recognizing.

"You smell like them," he said, his voice carrying both jealousy and understanding. "Like Seonghwa-hyung and Wooyoung-ah."

"Yes," you admitted, watching as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, clearly fighting for control. "But I'm here now. I'm here for you."

The simple statement broke something in him. The careful distance he'd been maintaining across the room disappeared as he moved toward you with purposeful strides, his alpha nature fully in control.

"Mine," he said softly, reaching out to cup your face with trembling hands. "You're mine too."

"Yours," you agreed, leaning into his touch as your omega sang with joy at finally being reunited with her distressed mate. "Always yours."

His thumb traced your cheek with reverent gentleness that contrasted sharply with the wild energy radiating from him. "I thought... when I heard you with them... I thought maybe you didn't want me."

"Never," you said fiercely, covering his hands with yours. "I wanted to come to you from the beginning. They wouldn't let me because they were afraid—"

"They were right to be afraid," Mingi interrupted, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made your omega shiver with anticipation. "I'm not in control right now. I haven't been since I caught your scent."

"I don't need you to be in control," you said softly, stepping closer until you were pressed against his chest. "I need you to be mine."

The last thread of his restraint snapped at your words. His arms came around you with desperate strength, pulling you against him as if he could somehow merge your bodies through sheer will. His face buried in your neck, breathing in your scent with deep, shuddering breaths.

"I've been going crazy without you," he confessed against your skin. "Knowing you were my mate but not being able to touch you, hold you, claim you properly."

"I'm here now," you repeated, running your hands through his hair in soothing motions. "I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled back to look at you, his golden eyes meeting your purple ones in a moment of perfect understanding. Two souls driven by biology and instinct and love, finally reunited despite all the obstacles that had tried to keep them apart.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice vulnerable despite the rut-driven need radiating from every pore. "Because once I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop. The rut... it's stronger because of the mate bond."

In response, you reached up and slowly, deliberately removed the sleep shirt you'd worn from the guesthouse, letting it fall to the floor between you. His eyes tracked the movement with laser focus, a low rumble of approval vibrating through his chest.

"I'm sure," you said simply.

Next>>

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[4mrplumi]

01. spiderwocky ── 'spidey' bot

platonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

“there are more advisable ways to source materials, (name),” a robotic voice ushers in your ear, “i could run a route for the nearest hardware store, safe enough for you to reach”.

you wave her out of your head, murmuring around your breath as you examine the multimeter in your hand. “‘s alright, spidey… they won’t mind me borrowing.”

you’re cooped up behind a large cargo box in the batcave, looking for throwaway tools to use, hoping to be able to fix the sp//dr suit before returning to queens. you’ve known bruce’s tech since you first came around, piecing out the fact he was batman soon after. batman and his batplane, his batmobile, his batgrapple… hell, maybe even a batGPT? he won’t notice if you snatch a little something.

“they’re out, can’t be too bothered to roam out in gotham when there’s perfectly available gizmos here, can i?” you chew on a fruit candy you nicked from the kitchen earlier, it might be damian’s, you’re not sure, “won’t be back till… eleven, tops?”

sp//dr crawls down your arm, her metallic legs causing a pin-prickly sensation, and making you shiver. “rather still, (name), i do not like advocating for such behaviour. what would your father think of you stealing?”

you stiffen for a second, pressing your lips into a thin line. “yeah, what would he?” you manage to scoff, shutting the lid of the box you were scouring through. “run a scan on the tech in here, would you? maybe there’s a micro-comm i can slip out-”

a shooting sensation of anxiety fills you, and you’re suddenly skittering to the nearest wall, sp//dr following close in suit. the water-curtain in the batcave parts to make way for a jet, the engines whirring so, so quietly, you think you’re hallucinating it. 

the hatch starts to open, and sp//dr whispers at you to climb up the wall, hide in the dark before you can run off. batman and the littlest robin hop out, their conversation to far away to eavesdrop on… for a regular person.

you narrow your eyes at them. super-hearing isn’t something you’ve experimented with, but you know it’s there, recalling the way your ears nearly exploded the first time your spidey-sense kicked in. maybe if you really concentrate? you squint at them, and the quiet becomes clear.

“perhaps it’s an installment… such work has become very popular as of late.” the little robin says, crossing his arms as batman types away on the long, long keyboard at his computer. “i doubt it,” he replies, his voice always sounds like gravel being rubbed against cement when he puts that cowl on, you think, “witnesses say it ‘showed up out of nowhere’, and the footage glitches out before the structure came in.” the screen in front of them switches to a recording, in black and white, crunchy even with the computer’s high data compatibility. 

you don’t stick around, scampering up the wall to the shaft you came in through, quiet as a bug as you stalk out from behind the grandfather clock that decorates the opening. the batman can figure out weird happenings in his city, you just need to be capable enough to help yours.

spider crawls onto your wrist, her metal parts rearranging themselves to turn into a bracelet. her voice hums out from a little blue dot on it, forever monotone. “please now, (name), return to your room without detection, fixing the suit can wait for tomorrow.”

you can’t help but smile a little at her instruction, slipping your new tools into the pockets of your jacket. “maybe it can,” you mutter back, under your breath, swiftly making distance from bruce’s office after you leave it, “but it’s not going to, is it?”

(name), duke notes glancing at the kid, who seems thoroughly submerged in schoolwork at the dining table, is more quiet that he’s accustomed to.

now- that’s not to say he’s used to (name) at all, having barely spoken to them last year, and missing them the year before that when they went off on some trip over the summer.

but it had been impossible to ignore the atmosphere of supreme awkwardness that followed the kid like a ghost, when they shifted on their heels, wanting to ask dick if they could hang out, or tim if he could look at some “cool question” they got as homework. now, that awkwardness had just been replaced with something… quiet. something still, and simpler. it was a drastic change, making him purse his lips into a thin line each time he saw them run back to their room the second everyone got back home from patrol. 

he wants to ask if anything's wrong, but… how? what would he even say? duke isn’t close to (name) at all, and it’s not like anyone else is either. heck, he’s barely even seen the kid. the house is decorated with pictures, relics from everyone (but... you) that bruce keeps up. in comparison, you drop in to the manor for a few months, haunting the place, before leaving just as quickly as you came. he didn’t even time to acknowledge you existed the first time he met you, too tired from patrol to be able to entertain any of your questions. wouldn’t it be weird to just… bluntly ask what in the world’s wrong with them, when he doesn’t know what’s supposed to be right?

duke looks away sheepishly when (name) glances back, seemingly aware of his staring. he’ll ask, he will. he just needs to figure out how… and when. when tim creeps into the living room, still in his suit, (name) crawls away up the stairs without acknowledging him, quiet as a bug. before… everyone just chose to excuse the noise (name) made. 

tim turns his head to where duke’s looking, the space now empty, and shrugs in dismissal. (name)’s not sitting there anymore.

you haven’t blinked in ten minutes, the thought drifting idly at the back of your head. you’re camped out in the dingy stairwell of some building, sp//dr’s little inbuilt projector painting a slideshow on the wall in front of you. her voice buzzes out from microscopic speakers.

“everything i could compile in the given time,” she speaks, “the information was protected quite fiercely… barely existed at all.” 

“so- what? like this doesn’t have a lot of notes or something?” you ask, scribbling down the words you see onto sticky notes, pasting them on the pages in your journal. sp//dr pings in acknowledgement on your wrist, switching to the next slide.

the batwing suit, one of the most high tech wearables you’ve ever had the opportunity to look at. call it inspiration, you’d murmured to sp//dr when she inquired about why you wanted the files on it, it’d be both a development in your knowledge and good for the sp//dr suit.

really, it was. the interior skin had similar properties to the hypothesized “nanotechnology” a guy at school had talked about, and the extra features would have genuinely enamored any mecha-geek.

your notes were simple. the “system” acted similar to sp//dr, and she already had a compartment in your suit, so it wouldn’t be too important. gyroscopic assist… that’d be interesting. most of your time’s spent swinging around, and the motion control on your suit is pretty good already, consider it an upgrade?

what’s most interesting about the suit is the toxikinesis, and energy negation. now, so to speak, you’re aware of the batman’s cautions against metas. apart from the signal, you’re not too well aware of anyone with any kind of powers in gotham (apart from yourself right now).

but hell, releasing poison mist? nullifying energy? that’s got to be cheating! even with all the other things the illustrious spiderman can do, it’s too cool of a thing to let up. before having to move into the manor with bruce wayne and his entourage of coloured birds, you’d lived with your father’s files taking up all the room on his desk, leaving only the stuffed drawers for the pictures you made for him. 

he’d been illustrious in his own right, taking out the little time he had to spend time with you. but not really be with you. still, in his interest, you took to technology too, tinkering with little robot kits your father’s friends gifted you. and it stuck. even after you were pulled out of school one day, the teacher’s expression looking unfathomably sad. the remorseful hunch of the officer’s back who’d eased you into telling you about your father’s accident was the only thing you looked at, your little kiddish throat feeling dry. 

it had stuck with you after you were put into bruce wayne’s house, as per your late mother’s wishes. it stuck with you after you were sent away from the manor to boarding school for most of the year. it stuck with you even after the sharp pinch of the spider that bit you a few months ago, changing the trajectory of your life in a way you couldn’t complain about.

in the midst of your “studies”, you hear a doom slam, and shouting ensue. in regular gotham fashion, it’s vulgar, filthy and loud. spiderman responds to conflict with fight. (name) prefers flight. you shove everything into your bag, scuttling down the steps as the shouting gets louder, something about hogging the elevator before it starts making your head feel hot and dizzy from anxiety.

the suit’s going to need work. the batwing suit’s fairly slimmer than your bulky mecha, making the components proportionate would take time.

maybe you could ask… no, he’d be too busy anyway. your tongue feels like lead when you lie to sp//dr. she asks; “what are you thinking about?”, you say, “a lot of things.”. you're not thinking of anything at all.

in your silence, sp//dr’s monotonous company is like a soothing balm. so soothing in fact, you don't see a stray sticky-note glitch in red and blue, and then; disappear entirely.

₊˚⊹ a/n : was this bit kind of a nothingburger... maybe. next entry sometime soon,, we'll get to see the society there. thanks for reading!!

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[azzibueckers5]

i want you to need me (need to want something more)

part 2: in which paige is so up. like so fucking up.

(ao3 link) (part 1) (wc: ~ 8k) (read iwkpa before this series)

cw: sexual content

AN: i hope this fixes the heartache adequately? if not don't let me know I'll cry <3 ummm I wrote the majority of the smut having been up for like 36 hours straight and then edited it after three glasses of wine? so uh good luck— ill go through and edit again in a couple days lmfao but im warningggg you i got really lazy towards the end like. i’m sorry <3333333 also pls suspend your disbelief about the wings theoretically making the playoffs in 2026 cause... whewwwww not looking likely. also this is literally twice as plotless as the last chapter of iwkpa... and three times as nonesensical and ridiculous so just like. keep that in mind. also it wasn't supposed to be this smutty man idk it got away from me. happy day!

+1 october 2026, dallas, texas

paige’s phone finally rings with the familiar ringtone she’s been waiting on for what feels like hours, just as she’s ushering her straggling teammates out of her apartment. she’d hosted a watch party after practice for the final game of the liberty–mystics semifinals, and though she loves her teammates, she’s been subtly (and then entirely unsubtly) trying to kick them out since the final buzzer in dc’s overtime loss. 

nai and lyss had tried valiantly to cheer her up, but not being able to be there for azzi and having to watch her expression crumple through the television screen had been entirely awful and she’d just wanted to sit on the alone couch in silence until her girlfriend called. 

the silver lining of their loss meant that azzi might be able to make it to her semi game tomorrow night, but she puts that thought on the backburner when she answers the facetime, jumping straight into sympathetic girlfriend mode. 

azzi’s already talking on the other side of the line, hammering on angrily about “the fucking shit ass refs” and how it was a “rigged ass fucking game,” and paige fights to keep her smile at just seeing azzi’s face on her screen a secret. post-loss azzi is a force to be reckoned with and she won’t jeopardize putting herself as the target by showing positive emotion.

it seems azzi has skipped being sad about it entirely and jumped straight into being pissed, which is precisely paige’s post game specialty, and she lets her ramble, chiming in here and there with indignant comments on how bad the refs were and agreements with how poor their screens had been. 

azzi had, surprise surprise, played spectacularly, and had unofficially locked in rookie of the year with a 27 point effort, but paige knows the competitive nature of her girlfriend is cut from the same cloth as her own, and her main goal is to try and keep azzi’s anger directed away from her very few mistakes and make sure she doesn’t veer into self-deprecation. 

she’s mostly successful, and by the time azzi leaves the facilities, she’s calmed down enough to let the loss sink in a bit more. when she finally climbs onto the bus that will take them back to the hotel, she seems to relax even further, and lets out a quiet “i miss you.” 

paige’s face softens immediately. “miss you too, az. so bad.”

“booked a flight already for tomorrow morning, but i might not get in early enough to see you before the game.” she says it apologetically, like she’s sorry she can’t charter a flight there herself, and paige smiles a little bit at how in sync they are, how much she can tell they both just want a hug. 

seeing each other four times over a four month span wasn’t exactly conducive to a honeymoon phase, and though they were putting up a valiant effort anyways, she craved azzi’s physical presence more than anything. paige doesn’t think she’d ever been on facetime this much, and that’s including the month before she’d quarantined with the fudds and had been stuck inside all day, on the phone with azzi every millisecond. 

it still isn’t enough, though, and her heart rate speeds up at just the thought of having azzi within arms reach in only a day’s time. 

“s’okay, i’ll play better even just knowing you’re in the stands,” she says, and means it. azzi has always been the best motivator.

“you better. one of us has got to wi-”

“shhhh,” she cuts azzi off, “don’t jinx me.”

“yeah, yeah.” she pauses for a second, just looking at paige through the screen, and then there’s commotion on the other end and she gets distracted for a bit, clearly trying to negotiate seating arrangements. when she turns back, she sighs, “listen, baby, i’m gonna hang up so no one kills me for being on the phone on the bus, but i’ll text you when i get to the hotel.”

paige pouts. “how about you call me when you get to the hotel.”

azzi’s face is soft and knowing when she says “you’re gonna be asleep by the time i get there.”

“nuh-uh,” she claims, fighting a yawn. “gonna wait right here, awake, on the couch till you call.”

azzi just laughs. “if you say so. i’ll see you tomorrow, baby. love you.”

paige hangs up with an i love you too and a smile, and is only a little guilty when she thinks about how excited she is that azzi is coming to dallas tomorrow, instead of having to wait longer for their teams to arrange it.

she wedges herself further into her couch cushions, and puts on a random show, determined to stay true to her word and wait up for azzi’s call. 

she must fall asleep like that, though, nestled into the couch, because she wakes what feels like hours later to the gentle sensation of hands in her hair and the murmur of her name. 

she blinks, disoriented and disbelieving, to the sight of azzi standing above her, looking soft and delightful and angelic. 

paige stares. 

“hi,” the vision before her says, bashful, and paige’s brain suddenly registers that she’s not dreaming and that azzi is in fact, standing in front of her. 

in her living room. in dallas.

she shoots up from her position on the couch to sit up and pull azzi down into a hug, and the brunette sinks into her, pressing her face into paige’s neck like she’s needed the contact just as badly. 

“az, wh- what’re you doing here?” 

her words are slurred into azzi’s shoulder, voice thick with sleep and confusion, and she can feel azzi’s laugh at her bewilderment against her chest, because azzi here. in paige’s arms. 

what.  

“changed my flight, couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she says, and paige’s heart swells. she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to hearing azzi say things like that and knowing that she means for them to come across exactly as paige’s heart interprets them. “needed a consolatory cuddle.”

paige just hums and burrows closer, relishing in her presence. “what time s’it.”

“little past three. told you you’d fall asleep.”

paige slides her hands up underneath azzi’s sweatshirt just to feel more of her skin and ignores the opportunity to argue with her about how she’d only fallen asleep because azzi took too long to call, and instead leans back to press a gentle kiss to her mouth. “missed you.”

“mmhm.” azzi knocks their foreheads together in agreement, kisses her again, short and sweet, and then climbs off paige’s lap, ignoring her grumbling protests.

she holds her hand out, waiting, and says “c’mon. more of that after but in your bed.”

and well. paige would be crazy to refuse. 

she latches sleepily onto azzi’s back as they stumble down the hallway, and paige knows azzi has missed her because she doesn’t complain when she stays tucked up against her side throughout their entire nighttime routine– even while they brush their teeth at the same time, knocking elbows– and making the process of getting ready for bed highly inefficient. 

they shed their day clothes simultaneously, and paige bats a t-shirt out of azzi’s hands when she goes to put one on, pressing her now naked front up against azzi’s bare back and running her hands down from her ribs to her hips, grunting in protest at the idea of azzi covering any skin. azzi glares, entirely non-threateningly, over her shoulder.

“s’too late for that. sleep only. save it for tomorrow.”

“yes, ma’am.” she presses a kiss to her shoulder, “just like to feel you.”

azzi melts immediately– score– and when they climb into bed, paige instantly pulls azzi into her arms, relishing in the skin on skin contact and burrowing them under the covers.

she curls closer, trying to crawl inside azzi’s skin, and presses a contented sigh into her shoulder as their legs tangle. “goodnight, rookie of the year azzi fudd.”

her responding giggle is soft and just for paige, and she wants to bottle up the sound and keep it for a day when she’s desperately missing this. “night, p. love you.”

they drift off in seconds, and paige sleeps better than she has in weeks. 

…

when she wakes, a second time, it’s to little rays of sunlight slipping through the cracks in her blinds and the vision of azzi sleeping peacefully next to her, head pillowed on paige’s bicep and face relaxed. 

her heart clenches in her chest at the view and she takes a second to imprint the sight to memory, eyes tracing the slope of azzi’s nose and the birthmark on her jawline and the dark smudge of her lashes. it feels peaceful in a way that waking up first in their dorms in storrs and watching azzi sleep had never been.

aside from the fact that she’s only gotten to wake up next to her a measly four times since july, she also relishes in the security of an azzi that was entirely hers in her arms. 

she’d spent years stirring to the same sight, but never for the reasons paige had so desperately dreamed of, and it was surreal, in a way, to know that she could gently shake azzi awake and kiss her as much as she pleased. 

she’d done just that their first night together, in this very bed. paige had jerked awake before dawn with wet eyes and the crippling fear that she’d dreamed up the entirety of the prior day's events, and even the sight of azzi sleeping steadily beside her hadn’t been enough to stop the racing of her heart. she’d coaxed azzi awake, gently, just to kiss her, to cement it as real, and azzi had caught on immediately to her insecurity, whispering reassurances and apologies into paige’s skin until they’d both drifted off again, appeased. 

paige loves her so much. 

she’d almost forgotten, in the year they’d started referring to as the between, how well they could read each other's thoughts, and she’d missed the intimacy and comfort of just being so wholly understood by someone else. 

they’d slotted right back together as if they’d never been separated, except this time with awesome things like blatant flirting and sex and transparent feelings, and after spending so many years pining after azzi and thinking hopelessly that she’d never have her in the way that she truly wanted, whenever she’s reminded that she does have her, she gets a little bit breathless.

her attention is pulled from her nauseatingly sappy thoughts when azzi begins to stir, blinking awake slowly, and paige watches, enraptured, trying to catalogue every flutter of her eyelashes, every shift of her brow. she opens her eyes briefly, and glances at the way paige is unashamedly observing her, before closing them again and nestling closer, smile growing on her face. 

paige curls the arm azzi’s been using as a pillow tighter around her side, wanting her even closer, and is delightfully reminded by the bare skin of azzi’s lower back that they opted out of clothes the night before. beautiful. past paige was so thoughtful. 

“s’rude to stare, y’know,” azzi mumbles into the skin of her shoulder, eyes still shut. 

paige debates if she wants to be sentimental or annoying in response. being strictly sentimental might have quicker morning sex odds, but why choose one path when you can have both? 

“can’t help it, you’re too beautiful.” her voice comes out raspy in the way she knows azzi loves, and she fights to keep her smirk internal when the brunette’s cheeks flush. incredible. she’s so in there.

azzi pokes her gently in the stomach, yawns (extremely cutely), and says “corny this morning.” 

“s’not corny if it’s true.”

“that just made it doubly as corny.”

“whatever. missed you while we were sleeping.” paige’s grin is wide and pleased, and azzi fights a smile, nose scrunching. paige wants to bite her nose. mornings apparently give her cuteness aggression. 

“how’s that possible when you told me on facetime last week that you dream about me every night.” 

paige brushes a thumb over the smooth skin of azzi’s cheekbone, soft and fond. “s’not the same as the real-life thing.”

azzi rolls her eyes, disbelieving. “alright prince charming.” 

paige flicks her forehead affectionately, and they lapse into a comfortable silence for a minute.

and then azzi makes a point to be a pest and drags her frigid toes up paige’s calf, nudging at the back of her knees, and it’s extremely annoying, and entirely unsexy. 

in an completely unrelated turn of events, heat pools like lava in paige’s core, and her abs clench on instinct. 

azzi laughs, disbelieving and gleeful, and pushes up on her arm a little bit to look down at paige. “there is no way that turned you on.” 

paige has been more or less half turned on since the second azzi got here last night. 

“bruh,” paige turns her face away from azzi in defiance and grunts, “it didn’t.”

“really,” the brunette’s fingers tease down paige’s stomach, and she grins, taunting, when goosebumps erupt across paige’s abdomen. “so you’re saying if i move my hand down-” she drags knuckles lower and ghosts a touch over the apex of her thighs “-here, i won't find you wet?” 

her voice comes out low and intentional, and paige doesn’t know how the mood switched so fast but she’s absolutely not complaining one bit. 

it’s too early to come up with a quick response, so instead paige just surges up to kiss her, tongue slipping in almost immediately, and she shifts azzi fully on top of her when she returns the kiss with the same fervor. 

it’s languid and heated all in one, and paige lets herself bask in the feeling of having azzi on top of her for the first time in weeks, dragging her hands across her back and down to grip her ass, swallowing her moan at the contact. 

“g’morning,” azzi says when they break apart to breathe, smile radiant and achingly beautiful, and paige can feel her own answering grin splitting across her face. 

“excellent, fantastic morning.”

azzi giggles– paige wants to wake up to that sound for the rest of her life– before dragging her mouth down to paige’s neck and trailing kisses down her throat to her collarbone, careful not to leave any marks. this cautiousness must fly out the window when she gets to paige’s tit, however, because she immediately sucks a bruise into the soft skin of her flesh, before continuing on a warpath down across paige’s abdomen. 

she starts at her navel, biting a mark into the muscle of her stomach and pausing to admire, before repeating the process twice more, moving down. by the time she gets to paige’s pelvis, she’s downright dripping, hips twitching against azzi’s arms and begging for contact. 

“azzi, baby, you’re killin’ me,” she slurs, when the younger girl sucks a particularly deep bruise into the meat of her inner thigh, so close to where paige needs her. 

“i’ll get there, be patient,” she says, voice unfairly clear in comparison to paige, eyes dark and teasing. paige has never been particularly patient to begin with, and if she expects her to start now, she’s sorely mistaken.

“need it now, please,” she keens. it seems she’s not above begging this morning, and she’d be embarrassed if it weren’t for how hot the brunettes gaze is, how affected she looks from between paige’s legs.

“need what?” she simpers, the bitch, breath blowing across paige’s cunt in a way that must be intentional. 

paige nearly cries at the ghost of sensation, arching her back in search of more, and whines out “your mouth, please azzi, need it,” hands coming down to tangle in her hair.

it seems azzi is feeling accommodating this morning, because she smiles, bites at the mark she’s just left high on paige’s quad, and then dives in, flattening her tongue immediately and lapping at paige’s dripping center like she’s starving for it. 

and jesus christ, paige is so super not gonna last if she keeps this up. because paige is worked up from the teasing, and from azzi’s general presence, and from the fact that she just slept naked next to her after almost a month of not seeing her. and also the fact that azzi has decided to fucking devour her, hands pressing into paige’s thighs to keep her steady, tongue dragging down to her hole and circling before tracing back up to suck at her clit. 

she repeats that motion several times, before moving down to focus at paige’s cunt, thrusting her tongue inside and letting her nose brush the bundle of nerves above, and. 

and usually, under normal circumstances, paige takes a minimum of ten minutes to come. usually, also, however, paige is not being given the most attentive head of her life, and isn’t coming off a month of being touch starved.

thus, it only takes a few minutes before she’s slurring out  “fuck, azzi m’gonna come fuck,” hips trying to grind up into the younger girls tongue. 

azzi nods, the movement nudging paige’s clit, and breathes out “want you to, please.”

she sounds almost as desperate for it as paige is, like she needs her to come this instant, and this thought combined with another purposeful lick at paige's entrance has her coming with a cry, the world falling away beneath her. 

her vision goes white, hips twitching as her orgasm crashes down onto her, and her legs tighten around azzi’s head. 

but azzi keeps going, flicking her tongue around to trace at paige’s entrance as she spasms, and she whines when paige tugs her off, like she’s actually upset. 

jesus fuck.

if paige hadn’t come literally seconds prior, the sound alone would’ve pushed her off the ledge. 

her whole body is buzzing, limbs lax against the sheets, and she grins lazily down at azzi when her body begins to resume normal functioning. 

“be honest, are you cheating on me?”

“baby, what,” azzi laughs, full and surprised, as she crawls up paige’s stomach and returns to prime kissing range. 

this means that paige has to kiss her for a second, slow and intimate, and she gets distracted by the taste of herself on azzi’s lips and how hot it is to have her in her lap again, nerves still buzzing with her release. 

and then they part for a second, and paige remembers her question. she elaborates,“how did you get better at that. gonna make a girl suspicious.” she pairs this thought with an exaggerated pout for good measure. 

“you’re ridiculous,” azzi says, smiling, trying to lean back down and slot their lips back together, but paige holds her still, stubborn.

“you didn’t deny it.” 

“oh my god. there’s only you, p.” 

“swear?”

“swear,” she says firmly, indulgently, and pairs it with another lingering kiss. 

and then azzi shifts on top of her, but she’s too distracted by her mouth to notice the new placement of azzi’s legs until she grinds down, and paige’s brain shuts off when she realizes that azzi has maneuvered their hips so that their cores are aligned, clits grinding together whenever she rocks down. 

it should be too much sensation– and it is, she’s just come– but she chases the feeling anyways with a strangled cry, feeling her entire body shudder when she realizes what azzi’s goal is.

she wrenches their mouths apart when azzi grinds down again and her head drops back against the pillows. “azzi, fuck,” she moans, and her hips move away from the feeling on instinct, still reeling from her first orgasm. 

“s’it too much?” azzi breathes, and. isn’t that a great question. 

because it is– she’s so sensitive that the pressure of azzi’s hips on her own hurts a little bit– but she doesn’t really want azzi to stop, despite that, so she just chokes out a groan and holds the brunette’s hips above hers for a second, giving herself time to breathe.  

azzi’s kneeling, a little awkwardly, above, and it would be an uncomfortable position to hold steady if it weren’t for the strong muscle of her thighs, flexing a little bit as she hovers, looking like a fucking godess-sex-demon-angel-creature. or something. 

she’s looking down with half-lidded, knowing eyes, and she keeps eye contact as she drags two fingers through the slick at her own core and then grazes paige’s, hips twitching, before mixing their wetness together on her fingers. 

paige watches, in a trance, and her blood gets so hot at the vision that she has to look away for a second to contain herself. 

“fuck, azzi.” 

she doesn’t think she’s said anything but those two words for the past ten minutes. 

“you wanna taste?” she asks, and before paige answers, she’s moving her fingers up to paige’s mouth and asking for entrance and jesus fucking christ. 

paige’s body might ascend to a higher plane

she opens, immediately, and the taste of them mixing together on the pads of azzi’s fingers has her moaning, desperately and without restraint, hips moving up to find azzi’s again despite the sensitivity. she licks at azzi’s two fingers, sucking them further into her mouth and watching the azzi’s expression, her eyes stay transfixed on paige’s mouth. distantly, she appreciates how turned on and wild the other girl looks too, her composure slipping with every movement of paige’s tongue, every meeting of their hips.

“we taste good together?” she asks, voice low, before removing her finger from paige’s mouth to allow her to answer. 

paige can only nod vigorously, though, not sure that she’s capable of words right now considering azzi is trying to kill her. 

the brunette grins wickedly. “wanna taste it.”

she repeats the process from before, dragging her fingers– still damp from paige’s tongue– through her own slick, before sliding them briefly into paige’s entrance. the intentional stroke leaves paige gasping, but she doesn’t get a chance to catch her breath because instead of bringing her fingers to her own mouth, azzi returns to paige’s, pressing them down on her tongue and ensuring their mixed wetness coats her mouth before she’s dipping down to kiss her, hungry and desperate. 

holy fucking shit. 

the action has paige already close to the edge of another orgasm like it’s nothing, hips grinding together and mouths moving messily. she doesn’t know where azzi learned this, doesn’t even want to know, but she just counts her lucky fucking stars that she gets to experience the hottest thing in the universe. 

in an ideal world, paige would wait for azzi to work herself up in tandem with her, would be able to stave off her own orgasm until they could come together. this simply is not possible, however, with how keyed up she already is from getting eaten out, and how hot it is to have azzi moving above her, just as desperate, and the vision of her, fucked out expression and curls bouncing as she grinds their cores together with reckless abandon. 

she grips azzi’s hips to assist her, adding more force to her thrusts, and azzi must be able to tell that she’s close from the noises she’s making– paige has long since stopped paying attention to the string of needy whines coming out of her mouth, too pleasure drunk to care– because she asks, voice desperate, “you gonna come for me again, paige?”

paige keens an affirmative “yeah, gonna come, fuck,” and azzi makes an approving noise in the back of her throat, reaching down to tug at one of paige’s nipples. 

the new sensation, combined with a particularly delicious grind of their hips and the view of azzi’s concentrated, pleasure-ridden expression has paige arching off the bed and coming with a scream, azzi’s name tearing from her throat. 

blood rushes to her ears, muscles spasming, and she tugs azzi off immediately, pulling her up to straddle her abs as paige’s body tries to catch up to the earthquake that just tore through her. 

she’s sure she takes a minute to come down, and when she blinks her eyes open, she’s met with the sight of azzi hovering over her, looking like she’s desperately trying not to grind too hard into paige’s stomach, biting her lip, and the view almost makes her come again on the spot. 

she looks angelic— in a demonic, sinner sort of way? if that’s possible?— curls framing her face, lips bitten raw, a flush spreading down from her cheekbones to her chest. 

“you back with us?” she asks, self satisfied and teasing. which is like. fair, because she’s just absolutely ruined paige, twice, but also. paige needs to even the playing field a little bit. can’t have her getting too big a head. 

there’s a reason paige usually gets her off first– more than just for her own enjoyment of seeing azzi fall apart. because if she doesn’t fuck an orgasm out of the younger, coax out the needy side, she gets an ego like this. paige is determined to fix that. 

she raises an eyebrow and tightens her hold on azzi’s hips in response, before pulling her down so her cunt grinds hard, on the taught skin of paige’s abdomen. 

immediately, she keens, head thrown back, and her hands fly up to her chest to play with her own nipples, fingers tracing the skin of her areola and squeezing. she’s dripping, slick pooling on paige’s stomach, and the feeling of it makes paige dizzy with the desire to get her off.

she keeps her hands rocking azzi down into her stomach and back up, watching the arousal echo across her face and down the rest of her body, and when azzi moans particularly loudly at the feeling of her clit pressing down, paige smirks. “you wanna come, baby?”

azzi keens. “yeah. please.”

paige just hums, and stops the movement entirely, holding her still and relishing in the broken whine that she releases when paige prevents her from grinding down again to get friction. 

she curls her hands behind azzi’s thighs and tugs, almost moaning at the feeling of the strength of her quads and the drag of azzi’s wetness up her navel and in between the valley of her breasts. she looks confused for all of two seconds before realization crashes over her face, and she keens, even before paige tugs her over her mouth. 

she pulls azzi fully over her, gazing at her fluttering cunt, the soft pink just begging for her mouth, and when azzi whines again, waiting, paige listens, settling her over her mouth and immediately getting to work. 

she drags her tongue through her soaked folds, and she feels like a dying man in a desert who’s just found an oasis, moaning at the taste of azzi on her tongue and relishing in the answering moans she can hear above her. 

she sucks at her clit for a few seconds, and smirks into her when azzi’s thighs twitch, before switching to her entrance, tracing slowly and then thrusting in, slick dripping down her chin. 

“please, paige– i need it please– love your mouth so much–” azzi sounds absolutely wrecked above her, and paige thinks that if she could pick the way she dies this would be her choice in a heartbeat: azzi, needy and pliant above her, blissed out expression on her face and moans of paige’s name tumbling from her lips, the muscle of her thighs caging paige in and the taste of her, sharp and sweet, flooding her senses. 

she knows she’s close, can feel it in the tremor of her legs and the grind of her hips and the clench of her walls around her tongue, and when azzi breathes out “so close, please,” and throws her head back, paige drags one of the hands that’s been holding azzi’s thigh to her entrance, curling two fingers immediately into her cunt to press down on her g-spot and sucking at her clit, hard. 

and azzi positively sobs above her, clamping her legs down firmly and cutting off paige’s ability to breathe as she comes, wetness flooding out of her. paige keeps at it, licking her through it, watching as she keeps her head tipped back, fingers still clutching her breast. she looks positively sinful. 

azzi slumps backwards when the last of her orgasm washes away, and paige reaches up to maneuver them into her desired post-sex cuddle position– fronts pressed together and legs tangled. 

it’s a little sweaty, and there’s slick all over paige stomach and thighs, and more on azzi, but they curl into each other anyways, contentment settling deep in their bones. 

“missed that,” she says, pressing a messy kiss to azzi’s forehead, “solid elven out of ten.”

she mumbles “fourteen,” in response and bats at paige’s shoulder lazily, somehow pressing even closer, and paige laughs softly at how needy azzi always gets after sex, wanting to be practically inside paige’s skin. she’s never once minded, knows with certainty she never will. 

she wonders if there will ever be a time when she gets used to the sex– both how good it is, always, and just how unreal it feels to have azzi like that, under her or above her but always wholly paige’s. 

she doubts it. 

she thinks that if she had to pick a moment to hold on to forever it would be this one, them tangled together, skin on skin, just basking in the warmth of each other, and the intimacy of it makes her feel light headed in the best way possible.

they doze for a bit, sun casting shadows through the blinds over azzi’s back and making her look holy in the morning light. 

azzi starts drawing lines, softly, over her stomach at one point, and paige glances down at where her fingers are tracing the marks she’d left on paige’s abdomen and then back to azzi’s self satisfied face. “possessive, hmm?’

“yeah,” she breathes, and then presses down on the biggest one. “mine.” 

and. well. paige is wet again. 

she rolls her eyes a little bit at azzi’s conviction, like she has the need to scare everyone else off, which is absurd. “been yours since we were, like, sixteen.”

“yeah.” azzi smiles and nips paige’s shoulder. “been yours too, y’know. even if i didn’t know the depth of it.” she laughs a little before continuing, “used to get so fucking jealous when you would flirt with girls in front of me, but i convinced myself it was cause they didn’t deserve you.” 

“yeah?” paige grins, wide and happy, something settling in her stomach at the idea that azzi had been just as possessive as her in college even if she didn’t know why. 

azzi nods in paige’s shoulder. “mmhm. i was so stupid. teenage paige was much smarter, should’ve just listened to her.”

“maybe, maybe not. she was a little overeager,” paige says, wistfully. her sixteen year old self had thought they’d be locked in by the time they were twenty, probably would’ve, like, proposed by twenty-two. she’d definitely be a little disbelieving at how long it took them to get here, but she’d think it was all worth it if paige gave her the details. especially if she emphasized how pretty azzi sounds sitting on paige’s face. 

azzi breathes out a laugh, seemingly agreeing. “true. it’s probably a little soon to be married with like, seven kids which is i’m guessing what we’d be according to her life plans.” 

she says it so casually, like the thought of marrying paige, having kids with her, isn’t some ridiculous idea but instead a given. as if it was obviously part of their future one way or another. paige’s heart flutters sickeningly in her chest. 

her grin is a little soft on her face when she asks “yeah? gonna let me put a ring on you?”  and it’s supposed to be teasing but she just sounds entirely soft and hopeful. whatever. 

“yeah,” azzi smiles radiantly right back. “if the ring’s big enough, probably,” she adds airly. 

paige laughs, bright and disbelieving. “liar. you wanna marry me so bad.” she basks in the thoughts of their future, giddy. “an’ imma put at least seven kids in you, mama. prolly more.”

azzi hums happily in agreement. “i’m maxing you out at ten.” 

“so we can run five on fives?”

“exactly.” 

they sit in contented silence for a minute, and paige lets herself revel in the future that azzi is laying in front of them as the other girl curls closer, hiding her face from the blonde. 

“speaking of like- putting a baby in me,” azzi starts, and paige’s ears perk up. this promises to be a delightful sentence. 

she fiddles with paige’s fingers and stays buried in her shoulder, shy. “could we maybe- if you like- if you like wanted- maybewecouldgetastrap.”

the last part comes out jumbled together, and it takes a second for paige to process. and then.

her brain whites out. 

wow her life was awesome. like so, so awesome. 

despite the fact she just came, twice mind you, heat pools immediately in her core, and she feels a little lightheaded from the idea. her imagination is having one of its best days in a while. oscar worthy film productions are being written. 

they are so having sex again before they get up. 

a slow, obscene grin drifts across her face. “azzi fudd, you’re filthy.”

“whatever. your hips just twitched.” she burrows further into paige’s neck.

“i’m ordering one as soon as we get out of bed,” paige agrees, and then, just to be annoying, “gonna get a neon green one for the wings.” 

“absolutely not,” comes azzi’s indignant response, though paige can feel the smile against her skin.

she gasps in mock offense and rolls them over so she can look down at azzi’s wonderful, flushed face beneath her. she pouts.  “you sayin’ you won’t love our children if they turn out a little green? i can’t help what i am.”

it says something about how sickeningly in love she is, probably, that they’re discussing sex toys and she’s focussed on the thought of how endearing it would be to have imaginary little green alien kids of theirs running around. whatever.

azzi rolls her eyes, affection seeping out of her pores. “i’m saying that if you come anywhere near me with a chartreuse dick i’m calling the police.”

paige is sure her grin is enormous. “yeah, baby? what’re you gonna tell ‘em– that your incredibly hot girlfriend wants to fu-”

azzi cuts her off with a kiss. “shut the fuck up.”

they absolutely have sex again before they get up. 

…

paige has to be at the practice facilities at one, so they eventually drag themselves out of bed around eleven, the blonde grumbling the entire time about leaving the warmth of her comforter. 

they bicker in the shower over where they should go on vacation during the offseason (they settle on azzi’s idea, hawaii, because paige relents immediately when she mentions the word bikini), argue about how many vegetables azzi puts in paige’s omelet while they’re cooking (“you need nutrients, paige, they’ll make your muscles stronger.” “you seemed to think my muscles were plenty impressive earlier, given the bite marks on my abs.” “just shut the fuck up and eat your eggs.”), and fight over who has to sit on the rickety bar stool while they eat (they compromise with azzi on paige’s lap on the good stool, and only feel half as ridiculous as they should.)

it's the best morning paige has had in quite some time. 

and then azzi drops her at the facilities, driving paige's car, with a lingering kiss over the console and a “love you, baby, gonna kill it,” before promising to go grocery shopping and stock up on even more vegetables to torment paige with, and she could cry at the domesticity. 

she doesn’t, but. it's a near thing. 

she walks into their shoot around with the most lovesick smile on her face, feeling like she’s floating on air.

the aces won’t know what hit ‘em. 

…

the game is physical in the way only the knockout game of a playoff series can be– elbows jabbing with a little more force than usual and boxing out more aggressively than strictly necessary. paige is expecting this, is prepared for this, and even knocks in her own unusually rough shoulder bump when an aces player throws too much weight behind a screen. 

it’s a close but winnable game by the time the fourth quarter rolls around, and paige can taste the championship finals. she’s proud of her efforts, 21 points overall and 12 from the three. (she always shoots threes a little better when azzi is near, like her impeccable form rubs off on paige).

the wings start really trailing away after a three from maddy puts them up by 9 with four minutes remaining, and las vegas goes from physical to downright reckless, trying to do anything to get a block, a steal, some points. 

young gets the ball to start the aces next play, and paige narrows in to guard her, aware that there’s a screen incoming. it still catches her off guard, however, when a player– she can’t even tell who it happens so fast– collides with her back and gets tangled with paige’s already moving body, somehow catching on her jersey and sending them both tumbling, hard, to the ground. 

paige lands smack on her back, head thumping against the floor, and she takes a second to evaluate the damage. her head is throbbing, dull ache already spreading through her skull, but her limbs seem to be relatively fine, and her jersey is rucked up high on her chest somehow from how the aces player– whose identity is still a mystery to paige and who is lying in a heap a foot away. she covers her face with her hands in an attempt to block out the noise of the crowd and decipher if this feels like a minor annoyance type of injury or a big fuck up. 

nothing seems broken, which is good. 

a little deliriously, she wonders if maybe this clip will go viral, what with her abs being out and her head tipped back in pain. is that weird to be thinking about? she doesn’t really care. 

when she establishes that she’s pretty sure she doesn’t have a concussion, she widens the fingers over her eyes and peeks up at the circle of teammates around her. 

she’s expecting to see some concerned looks, considering she just fell pretty hard and might have hit her head, which is why she’s bewildered by their smirks of amusement, and only a few concerned comments.

“you okay there, lil’ paigey?” says nai, who’s squatting to her left, positively gleeful, and instead of gesturing at her head, like a good, concerned teammate, pokes paige in the stomach, laughing. 

“bruh, what the fuck,” she grits out, and covers her eyes fully with her hands again. maybe if she acts more injured, dijonai will stop being so annoying. 

but even maddy, usually a little more motherly in that regard, looks at paige a little funny when she asks sympathetically, “how bad does your head hurt?”

before she can respond, jj piles on immediately with shit eating grin on her face, saying “her head or her stomach,” and paige finally sits up enough to glance down in confusion. 

distantly, she hears nai say “we should ask azzi,” but she’s too busy looking at the unmistakable trail of marks starting from her navel and sensually trailing down past her waistband from where azzi had been focussed this morning. 

and ohmygod. 

paige now understands why everyone is trying not to laugh at her. 

she jerks her head back up in panic, frantically shoving her jersey back down across her stomach, and generally contemplates how bad it would be to try and hang herself from the basketball hoop. 

jesus fuck she is going to kill herself. 

the hickies were, like, so extremely visible. to everyone. for at least fifteen seconds.

to like. the entire arena probably. and the millions of people watching on tv–

“i don’t- um. it’s not,” she stutters, hands trying to shove her jersey back into the waistband of her shorts while still sitting, eyes wide and cheeks burning. 

this might be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to her. probably. 

azzi is going to murder her. 

the medical staff crowd in just as arike whistles out a low “she claimed yo ass reallll nice huh, paigey. gotchu all marked up.” fucking bitch. 

and paige has no response, couldn’t even give one if she wanted to anyways because their trainer is helping her onto her feet, and grilling her about her fall. 

she actually thinks she might collapse from the humiliation. 

her ears and cheeks are probably redder than a tomato. 

as the medical staff usher her over the bench to get her evaluated, she glances involuntarily over to where her family and friends are sitting courtside. nika and kk are on either side of azzi absolutely cracking up, and surely saying something exceedingly inappropriate, while azzi stands in the middle, hands over her face. 

awesome awesome awesome. 

it's not like they’d been trying to hide their relationship– it’d be kind of hard to come up with excuses as to why they’d been spotted flying to random cities just to get less than 24 hours together and posting random funny anecdotes from their time together on social media– but this is a level of out there that was sort of undeniable if you were paying attention. it was quite clear that someone had given paige those marks– she supposed a cupping excuse wasn’t going to cut it– and it wouldn’t be hard to put the pieces together on who that had been, especially given the fact that azzi had been spotted in the dallas airport the night before. the plausible deniability of the nature of their relationship had sort of just crumbled into nothing.

cool cool cool cool cool. 

like azzi can feel her eyes from across the court, she lifts her hands for a second and makes eye contact with paige. her cheeks are crimson, concern and embarrassment warring across her face and eyes wide like she can’t believe that's just happened, and yet. 

she looks like the prettiest girl in the arena, prettiest girl in the world. 

and paige can’t help the lopsided, guilty grin that spreads across her face. she’s sure this will be clipped a million times, but she doesn’t even care because the embarrassment is sort of fading away. 

because everyone with half a brain cell now knows that paige definitely belongs to azzi fudd. and that’s the best thing she’s ever accomplished– certainly not something to be ashamed of– and. whatever. let people talk. 

paige can see azzi roll her eyes from all the way in her spot on the sidelines, and her smile only grows, pleased and unabashed, and then turns to give the poor trainer her full attention. 

the short rest of the game involves paige enduring a litany of comments from the bench while trying to convince the training staff and coach to let her back in, insisting that she’s not concussed. she’s unsuccessful, but the wings pull off the win anyways, and then she gets to bask in the glory of a trip to the league championship, which is fucking awesome.

she breezes through the post game handshakes and celebration with her head held high, humoring the comments about making sure she ices her head and her stomach, and simply sits with the euphoria of winning the series. 

when her friends and family are finally allowed onto the court, she’s still sweating, confetti sticking to her jersey and grin wide across her face as she catches drew when he leaps into her arms. 

“you and azzi are nasty,” he says, instead of congratulating her. of course. brotherly love in all its wonderful glory.

“bruh shut up,” she says, shoving him off with a hand to his forehead. “fuck outta here.” 

he just cackles maniacally, and runs off, surely going to find dijonai, his favorite. 

and then azzi herself is in front of paige, smiling small and proud, a little sheepish. 

paige’s grin turns impossibly fond, a little cocky. “hey there, baby.”

“hi,” she says, eyes furtively looking around to see who’s paying attention to them. she must either not realize that the answer to that is everyone or decide she doesn’t care, because she brings a hand up to paige’s cheek and asks earnestly, “you okay? it's not a concussion, right?”

paige smiles at the concern- it's ridiculous how a simple gesture like that can make her cheeks flush– and shakes her head. “nah, we chillin’. you can still kiss it better though.”

azzi just groans, and pulls the older girl in for a hug. “bro. imma kill myself. or you. haven’t decided which yet.”

“nooooo,” she drags out, wrapping her arms tighter around azzi’s back and pulling her closer. “don’t do that, i like you possessive. gotta make sure everyone knows i won jus’ for you.”

azzi huffs, sending goosebumps skittering across the skin of paige’s shoulder, and pokes paige’s side. “makin’ it real hard to want to congratulate you.”

paige grins into her shoulder. “you gonna let me kiss you as a prize since everybody knows i’m yours now?”

“no,” azzi whines, emphatically, and then hums like she’s reconsidering, smile pressed into her skin, and paige knows she doesn’t really care that everyone will be in their business now either, can feel the humiliation in azzi falling away. “beat the liberty for me and i’ll think about it.”

as motivators go, it’s a fairly good one. 

(the wings do not win the championship, and it’s a heartbreaking, well fought loss, but azzi kisses her anyways– wet cheeks and cameras around them be damned– and as consolation prizes go, it’s pretty up there. paige promises sweetly that they’ll win it the following year against the mystics and gets an elbow in the stomach as retaliation.)

(a clip of that interaction goes almost as viral as the tv clip of paige’s fall in the semis: her, getting dragged to the floor by her jersey and immediately covering her face in pain, the hickies ridiculously visible to the camera, and carrying an undeniable insinuation. the broadcast must desperately want to change the stream to a less graphic display because they immediately switch it to the camera view of paige’s family and friends, who begin to realize what’s on paige’s abdomen and who immediately turn to azzi in amused disbelief. the announcers stumble through a comical explanation of the people in frame, and one laughs when the other says and that is azzi fudd, probable rookie of the year for the mystics and paige bueckers’ uh. close friend.)(it's not the worst thing that’s ever been part of paige’s digital footprint, even if her mother disagrees.)

AN: badda bing badda boom. such concludes this journey fr fr fr this time. this was ridiculous I'm. deeply sorry if you wanted plot. if you give me a comment/ask/anything I will personally kiss you on the mouth I'm so serious they make me so happy and motivate me so much. ily for reading <333333 ok bye

[backtothefanfiction]

ONE | The Drone

Summary: Joaquin gets his very own version of Red Wing. Little does he know, there’s an actual person on the other end of the drone.

Warnings: none for this part, Joaquin just being his usual cute boyish self, reader insert

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: so after having this thought this morning I’m running with it. I don’t know how often I’ll update these but this is more an introduction to the premise. I have a couple ideas planned for this mini series but the idea is they are just quick things I can write. If I end up writing any spicy chapters I will mark them, but seeing as they are both at a distance from each other, this will be more slow burn fluffy pining. Anyway, enjoy!

“What is this? My birthday?” Joaquin asked eagerly as Sam approached him with a very fancy top secret looking briefcase.

“You wish.” Sam retorted stepping forward and swinging the briefcase up onto the deck.

Joaquin was practically bouncing from one leg to the other with excitement, his hands rubbing together in desperate need to touch whatever was inside. “What is it?”

There was a snap as Sam popped the locks on the case, but instead of opening it himself, he stepped back, his hand ushering his young protege forward to take a look.

Joaquin couldn’t believe his eyes. His fingers ghosted over the bird like drone inside the case, almost too scared to touch it as he took in the expensive and highly delicate piece of tech. His head whipped to the side, his eyes alight and giddy as the sought out Sam’s. “I get my own red wing!” He exclaimed.

Sam smiled at the younger man’s infectious and eager energy and almost let out a laugh. “Not quite. Red wing is mine. This is F.E.A.R.N,” he quickly explained. “Stands for Field, Environment, Artillery, Reconnaissance and Navigation. Your extra pair of eyes and back up in the field.” Sam said as Joaquin tried to keep his cool and seem at least a little professional. “You can talk to it and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Why don’t you give it a go.” Sam encouraged,

“What is it? That button there?” Joaquin asked only slightly hesitantly as he let his finger hover just above the button directly on top of the drone.

“That’s the one.”

“This one?” Joaquin said again, as if seeking his Father’s approval in case he did something wrong.

“Yup, that’s the one.”

“And I just press it and it starts?” Joaquin asked, checking yet again with a nervous yet giddy smile on his face.

“Yeah man, just press it!”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You swivelled back and forth on your chair bored. First day of your new job and most of it had just been spent sitting around. Luckily this new job meant you could work from home- seeing as you were on call pretty much 24/7 for whenever the new Falcon was sent on a mission- meaning you could just sit around eating super noodles, read your book and drink endless cups of tea, but you were eager to do something. You knew that Captain America was handing over the new bit of tech you were hired to help man today, you just didn’t know when.

So far you had been waiting three hours, which had equated to 7 book chapters read, four games of solitaire won, 3 cups of tea and a freshly painted set of toe nails. You were just fanning them dry with your fingers when your computer started beeping to let you know the new drone had been activated. You quickly pushed your feet off the floor to wheel yourself back to your desk, your fingers quickly hitting a couple of buttons that allowed the sound and video feed to pop up on the screen and you immediately began to hear voices crackle through the speakers as you reached to put on the headset draped over the top of the monitor.

“Well why don’t you say hello,” Sam’s voice came out loudly through the speaker before switching to the headset as the Bluetooth connected.

“Umm, hello?” A nervous voice said, unsure what would happen.

“Hello, Joaquin,” you said cheerfully into the mic at your lips and you had to stop yourself from laughing and remain professional as his whole body practically jumped at hearing your response.

“It knows my name,” Joaquin said, turning to Sam in disbelief. “It knows my name!!!” He said more giddily, his fingers latching onto Sam’s shoulders in excitement. You couldn’t help but smile at the Lieutenant’s boyish reactions.

“I know a lot more than just that.” You responded playfully, your eyes glancing back over the file on your desk again.

“Really? Nothing bad I hope.” He beamed and it really took all your effort to be professional. You knew he was attractive and his track record spoke for itself as far as what had been written down on paper, but no one had prepared you for his personality and you could already feel yourself growing weak at the knees.

“Now, now.” Sam said, breaking up the conversation to get things back on track. “Now you know how Red Wing works?” Sam prompted the younger recruit, his tone changing.

“Yeah,” Joaquin responded.

“Okay, well think of FEARN as being like Red Wing but on steroids. She can not only check the area for you and provide back up, but she’s your quick access to information. Anything you need, just ask.”

“So say I was on a mission in Budapest and I needed to find the closest toilet?”

“Uhh yeah, she can do that?” Sam said, slightly confused by the example Joaquin had used.

“Or if I needed a background check run on someone?” He said, his eyebrows raising as if to silently ask if that was a better question and Sam nodded. “Oh this is so cool!” Joaquin gushed again and another smile spread across your face as you watched them from the safety of your living room.

“Okay, so how do I control it. Is there a remote control type thingy or…”

“Just tell her where you want her to go, she’ll do it.” Sam said.

“Oookay, uh, FEARN?” Joaquin asked politely.

“Yes, Joaquin,” you responded with equal politeness.

“Take a lap of the room.” He said.

You nodded, although he couldn’t see you, before you began to use your controls to navigate the small bird like drone around the room, sweeping over and under the beams in the rafters of the warehouse before dipping back down to where Sam and Joaquin stood.

“Sweet!” Joaquin exclaimed and you beamed. “Do a flip.” He said and you once again used your controls to roll the small bird over. “Nice.”

“Come on now, let not break it before we get a chance to get it out in the field.” Sam said stepping forward, encouraging Joaquin to pack FEARN away until his next mission.

“Uhh, how do I-?” Joaquin fished, trying to work out the right command to get the drone to dock itself again,

“Just ask her to go home.”

“Okay. FEARN time to go home.”

At Joaquin’s instruction you began to manoeuvre the drone carefully back into its dock before you shut it off, your connection to the two men cutting out with it until the next time you were called upon.

In the sudden silence you couldn’t help but curl your freshly painted toes in happiness as you beamed from ear to ear over your new job and partner. After doing a couple of spins in your chair to alleviate some of the giddiness, you reached back over to the file on your desk and flipped to the picture that had been included of Joaquin Torres and sighed at your good fortune. He was the perfect work partner; cute, polite and a great personality and you couldn’t wait to work with him.

[robinsgrl]

FEARLESS

chapter three. boobs and beers

pairing ⇢ rafe cameron x plus size!reader

word count ⇢ 4.7k

warnings ⇢ fatphobia, insecurities, mention of a panic attack, boobies lol, uhmmmmm shopping as a fat girl, Scarlett should be her own warning, daddy issues, mentions of alcoholism.

authors note ⇢ heyyyyy….. im sick and i am soooo fatigued but i wanted to release this, i’ve been spoiling the kildare nights readers and i needed to give fearless some attention. sorry for any mistakes queens, love you guys! gimme ur thoughts!!

“Why are we here?” You ask as he plops down onto the seat across from you at the mall food court. He slides over a cup of fro-yo at you. A frown falls to your lip when you take a peek in it. “You get plain fro-yo?”

His eyebrows furrow, shrugging. “Yeah?”

You scoff in pure disbelief as you glance into his own cup. Plain chocolate. “That’s… like… a crime.”

Getting up off your cold metal seat, you pick his cup as well and walk back into the frozen yogurt shop. The cute worker behind the register has a bored expression on her face until she spots you. A bright smile falls onto your face, as does hers, as you meet each other. “Heather.”

“Gorgeous!” She squeals happily as you walk over to the register with the tall guy trailing after you, watching the two of you curiously.

“My friend here, he doesn’t know the art of fro-yo. Is there any way we can add some toppings? Promise I’ll pay for every cent.” You ask her sweetly. The red head nods happily, ushering you to go on in.

You can feel Rafe’s eyes on you as you walk over to the toppings station. A wave of embarrassment flushes through you as you realize something. This makes you look fat. You are. You are a big girl but you try and hide it. With big sweaters, baggy jeans, eating small portions when out— not showing others that you come to the fro-yo place so often that the cashier knows you by name.

“My dad and I come here all the time.” You don’t mean for your words to sound so defensive but it’s what you’ve had to do most of your life. Defend yourself. “It’s the one thing he can afford.”

His eyebrows furrow, head tilting gently. You realize he’s not one for many words but his looks say a lot. He’s curious about you. And confused. “Isn’t your dad rich?”

You take a quick peek at him and feel a weight lift off your shoulders when you see his eyes have moved to scour the toppings. “Anthony isn’t my dad.”

He nods, ahh-ing. “Right, he’s your step-dad. What about your real father?”

You shrug lamely, not really wanting to talk about him. “Nothing. We just like fro-yo. Are you seriously putting Graham crackers in your fro-yo?” You ask, eyes wide and with a glint of disgust at his choice.

His eyes squint with annoyance as he looks up at you. “What’s wrong with Graham crackers?”

“Everything.” You reach over the toppings and scoop up a spoonful of gummy bears. “Graham crackers are like… green peppers on your pizza.”

This gets a reaction out of him. “You don’t like green peppers on your pizza?”

You scoff out a laugh, “I don’t know how we’re gonna get along with all these differences between us.” Your tone is playful as you speak this. You reach over and grab a few maraschino cherries and plop them on your fro-yo.

“Now that, I can get behind.” He scoops up the cherries and loads them into his cup. He’s scooping up Oreo crumbles beside you as you take him in. There’s a slight stubble growing on his jaw, a green baseball cap on top of his head. He's a lot more laidback than you’ve ever seen. He's usually in khakis and polo shirts. Today, he’s wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a baggy hoodie, with thick sneakers that you’re sure cost a fortune.

“You know,” you speak up after a moment, his eyes turning to you. You can’t make eye contact, eyes looking everywhere but his eyes. “We’re twins.”

“What?”

You point to his clothing and yours. You’re wearing baggy jeans and a baggy hoodie. “We’re dressed alike.” The two of you are done and back at the register, weighing your cups for the price. Heather begins ringing you two up and you’re about to swipe your credit card when he beats you to it. “I had that.”

But he ignores you as the payment goes through and Heather wishes you two a good day. “First things first,” you’re walking down the mall side by side, eating your fro-yo. “You need to stop dressing like me.”

“Hey, this is comfortable.” You defend yourself.

“Comfortable won’t get you anywhere. You have to show some cleavage every now and then.”

This offends you, a scoff leaving your mouth. You’re glaring up at him but he doesn’t seem to care, eyes moving to and fro, checking the mall out. “Why do I need to do that?”

“Real talk?” He asks you, eyeing you as if trying to see if you’ll get offended or not.

You take a deep breath in and nod. “You look like a little boy.”

You should be offended. But you can’t. Instead, a laugh bubbles out of you and you have to cover your mouth to hide it. “N-no, no I don’t.” But you don’t believe your own words. You sigh, eating another spoonful of fro-yo. “Okay thine.” If your mother were here you’d be getting a scold for talking with your mouth full.

Rafe simply rolls his eyes at the sight and hands you a napkin which you happily take. You chew on your cold gummy bears for a moment before speaking again. “Fine. I’m guessing that’s why we’re here?” You look around the mall with a soft and annoyed huff. “Where to first, sensei?”

You can see he’s visibly holding back a smile when he says— “Victoria Secret.”

The store is unbelievably pink. But your eyes flicker about the store and the mannequins with a sparkle to your eyes. You’d never stepped foot in this place unless Scarlett was at your side. Nothing about you ever felt sexy and she came here to feel sexy. So you never found your footing in the store. And now, with Rafe at your side, you feel even worse. Surface level, you only see undergarments for skinny people. Smaller people. And the idea of not finding anything and Rafe watching you get shut down makes you dread the rest of your day.

“Never seen someone look at mannequin boobs and frown.” You’re brought out of your painstakingly insecure thoughts at the sound of Rafe’s voice. You peek up at him and are surprised to see a softer look to him. Well, as soft as Rafe Cameron can get. “Seriously, it’s just bra shopping. And pantie shopping. I thought girls went crazy for this shit.”

“Okay, misogyny.” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. To anyone else, it would look like a natural pose but you’re hiding your chest, as if that would stop this from happening. “I’m just… shouldn’t I do something else before shopping?” You hope he understands what you mean.

But he doesn’t. He shakes his head, “nah.” His nonchalant response sends a twinge of annoyance through you, biting down on the inside of your cheek. He starts making his way into the store, too much interest in his face when you call out to him.

“Seriously, Rafe, I’m too big for this.” This stops him in his steps turning to you with a look on his face that you can’t decipher. Not that you ever can, Rafe Cameron is an incredibly hard person to read.

“There’s a plus-size section.” Are his words and you feel a wave of heat come over you. Your mouth twitches as you try to hide the shame you’re feeling. But it seems you and Rafe don’t have that in common— you wear your feelings on your face.

“Look before we… I should probably, I don’t know… lose some weight.” Is your response to him, eyes refusing to meet him at all.

He sighs loudly, and you sneak a glance at him to see him rubbing the inner corner of his eyes with what you think is annoyance. And this only worsens your intense feelings of insecurity. And he speaks, “you don’t need to lose weight to be hot, ___. You’ve got a stunning body, you just have to know how to work it.”

Your eyes widen as they meet him for the first time in a while. And oddly enough, you can see he’s telling the truth. You wanted to see a lie on his face. You wanted to be proved right and know that he’s just as disgusted by you as all the boys in your school. But you can’t find it. “Now, are you gonna keep fishing for compliments or are we gonna find a bra that makes your boobs pop?”

You bust out laughing at this, covering your face with your hands in a shy manner. “Fine, but you have to promise to never repeat the word Boobs to me. Like, ever again.”

“How about breasts?”

“Gross.”

—

One of the kind ladies in the shop finds a few pieces for you that fit well. Surprisingly, you have a good time. The lady is unbelievably kind and finds you matching sets. And you come to realize you’ve never had a positive female shopping experience.

Most of your shopping was done with Scarlett and your mother at your side. And they seemed to be the unstoppable duo that knew just how to put you down. Your mother would grab at your stomach when you tried on a shirt that didn’t fit quite right. “This is where you need to focus,” she’d point at the spots that she felt needed to be fixed. “Next time you’re at the gym, focus on this. Talk to my personal trainer, he’s there all the time.” You went to the gym the next day. Apparently, she had spoken to her trainer and he grabbed you in the same way your mother did. You never went back again.

Scarlett. She’d make it a competition. If you found a top that made your eyes crinkle with the thought of wearing it proudly, she’d find the smallest size there was and try it on. Once you’d see her walk out with a top you were carrying on your arm, you’d set it down. She puts you to shame every single time.

So, now that you’re in a new shop, wearing a new push-up bra that fits like a perfect corset for your chest, you feel anxious. Beyond anxious. There are people everywhere. Chats coming from every single direction. But the last thing you need is to have a panic attack in front of Rafe. You barely know the guy.

“Okay… so what now?” You ask, clearing your throat to push away the bad memories of the store.

“Now, we shop.”

It takes an hour. A long hour to walk throughout the store and have him pick out outfits for you. Having him know your size was absolutely terrifying. But he didn’t bat an eye as you told him and he jumped right into it. Every now and then, he’d find an ugly shirt and hold it up to you and he’d mutter a joke. Jonah would love this one, is his go to. And before you know it, you’re no longer on the verge of a breakdown.

You’re in the dressing room and for the first time in your life, you don’t worry about how you look. Or how the jeans fit you a little too snug around your hips. You don’t feel panic at the thought of trying clothes on in the stuffy dressing room.

You come out in the first outfit and Rafe immediately busts out laughing. The green jeans are ridiculously long and the top is a corset top with blue hand-drawn flowers on them and ridiculously large bows at the shoulder straps. You knew it was a joke outfit but it was nice to mess around.

You jokingly strut, pretending the room is a runway. “Keep it in your pants.” You laugh as you give him a spin and this only makes him laugh some more. You feel a sense of pride for making Rafe Cameron laugh. Sarah’s text flashes through your mind. A man who hasn’t smiled in years. And yet, he’s holding onto his side as you strike another odd pose.

“Alright, alright,” his smile is pretty, you notice. And contagious, unable to hide your own as you listen to him. “We need to get serious.” But he’s still chuckling. “Try on a real outfit this time.” So you do. He likes them all. A few shirts ride up over your belly a bit too much and some jeans don’t fit over your thighs but you leave the store with eight new outfits.

Usually, you leave with hurt feelings and nothing but.

You two are on the ferry back home when your day together is over. It’s a forty minute wade back but neither of you seem to care. He’s sipping his Big Gulp drink and watching as you try and balance the water bottle lid on your nose.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to do.” There’s a tinge of amusement to his tone.

Your head is thrown slightly back as you keep trying but it’s to no avail, it keeps toppling over. With a huff, you pick the cap up and shove it into your pocket. “It’s a trick my dad usually pulls. It’s better with a quarter though.”

Avoiding the topic of your father is a skill you take pride in. Your mother always turns into a sobbing mess when you bring him up. Your step-dad isn’t ever really home and when he is, it’s awkward. The only person you could share him with was Scarlett. That was the one topic she never snarked at you over. Not to your face, at least.

“Can I ask?” You turn to him, criss cross on the bench that you two are sitting on, wind blowing your hair. You tuck a strand, nodding. “Where is your dad?”

“The cut.” You answer honestly. Your mother hides him from her new rich friends. She hides her past from all of her new rich friends. Her story isn’t as compelling as Ward Cameron’s. He built his way up. Your mother caught the attention of an older man and married him. She’s ashamed about it.

This seems to shock him but he’s not Rafe Cameron if he doesn’t try and hide it. “And you’re close?”

You shrug, turning to the cloudy sky. It’s easier to talk about hard things when you don’t have to look at anyone, you find. “We’re… we definitely have a relationship. But… it’s hard to build on it when my mother doesn’t know I’m talking to him.”

You can feel his eyes on you, mouth slightly parted as he takes your words in but you can’t turn to him. “She forbids you from seeing him?”

You hum a small ‘mhm’. “He’s a stain in her perfect life.”

“Not in yours?”

“He’s a…” you pause, searching for the proper words. “An escape. Like… in Coraline. The door. He’s my door to a… less suffocating world. Without the buttons, of course. And alcoholism.” You try to joke. He doesn’t find it funny, the look on his features softened and taking you and your words in. Letting them settle. “He’s not perfect. I get why my mom left him. Why she wanted better. He’s a drunk who can’t keep a steady job. When we go out, I buy us dinner. He couldn’t take care of my mom or me so…”

“So she found the next best thing.” He finishes off for you. You turn to him at this, nodding as your hair keeps blowing in the wind. You don’t feel exposed in the way you do when speaking of your father to anyone. Rafe’s not judging you or figuring out how to use it against you. His eyes are sincere. Face stoic, but his eyes are sincere. You hate eye contact but if it means getting a better grasp of Rafe, you’d never look away. And you don’t.

“What about you?” You ask with sincerity. “I heard the rumors. The Cameron men butting heads.” You admit sheepishly.

He sighs, turning away. It’s his turn to look away while speaking of the hard stuff in his life. He lays back on the bench seat, long legs stretched out and kicked back up on the rail. “Well… you know… fathers…” it doesn’t take much to see he doesn’t want to speak of it.

Instead, you nod, a small and sad laugh leaving you. “Yeah… fathers.”

The ferry stops at the port a while later after thirty minutes of talking about your classes to him. He’s dropping you off at home, bags of clothes at hand. “By the way, we’re going to a party tonight.” And he drives off, leaving you stumped.

—

—

Debut one of your new outfits. What the fuck does that mean? You can’t picture yourself going to a party in clothes that aren’t your comfortable ones. Your comfort hoodie and sweats are what you spend most of your time in when out of school.

Getting ready without a friend is depressing. Usually, you’d have Scarlett at your side fluffing up your hair and helping with your makeup. Not that you wore it often but on the rare occasions that you needed to go to an event with your family, she was by your side. And it was during those moments that her honest side shined the brightest. She was careful with you. Honest but not brutal.

You shake your head to get yourself to stop thinking about her. You don’t want to be affected. You don’t want her to have this much of a hold over you. You need to stop loving her.

“Woah, what happened to you?” Anthony’s voice is heard as you make your way to the door. You freeze in your step, not wanting to see him. Your mother had gone on a so-called spiritual retreat in Puerto Rico without telling you so now, you were under Anthony’s care. But he didn’t have kids of his own and you came to him when you were twelve years old, he never had to take care of you.

You turn in your spot, a stiff smile on your face. “Uhm… nothing. Just… going out… to watch a movie…”

He gives you a bore expression, hand in a bag of chips. “You don’t put on a mini-skirt to watch a movie. You’re going to a party, aren’t you? God, you’re a baby, you shouldn’t be wearing that.”

You scoff, “bye, Anthony.” You open up the door and slam it as he’s telling you to be careful.

Rafe’s truck is in your driveway and he’s standing out of it, leaning up against the hood. His eyes are closed and he’s bopping his head gently, singing a quiet song. The sound of your shoes hitting the gravel of the driveway catches his attention, eyes immediately opening and on you.

Your smile is shy as you hold your arms out, showcasing your outfit. It’s a black mini skirt matched with a simple black and low cut top, a leather jacket over it. Simple. But extravagant for you. “So… how do I look?” You really, really want to know.

His eyes are taking you in. Starting from the shoes you picked out, to your thick thighs, your hips, your waist, your chest (which you’re proudly wearing your push-up he bought you), your neck. And he settles on your face. Done up in makeup, hair let loose in its natural form. He gets up off the hood of his car and walks up to you. “You look…” he pauses, eyes flickering across your face again. He's lost in thought, eyebrows furrowed slightly, tongue lightly ghosting his dry lips. You nervously put your weight on your other foot, and this awakens him. “Fine. You look fine.”

“Oh.” You didn’t expect much. But you also didn’t expect very little. “I mean… like, if Jonah were to see me do you think he’d be… starstruck and completely in love.”

This gets something out of him, a small snort of a laugh. “Give a girl a push up bra and she thinks she’s a goddess.”

“Hey!” You laugh with disbelief as you walk after him, the two of you making your way to his truck. “You told me I need to be more confident!” He opens the passenger door with no qualms and helps you in. He closes your side of the door and hops into the driver's seat. “Okay, so what’s the game plan?” You ask as he starts driving out of your driveway, hand stretched behind your seat and looking back for any other cars.

“The game plan is,” he turns the wheel, the veins in his arms popping slightly but you have to force yourself to look away and straight at the road as he starts driving off. “Act nonchalant. People are going to notice the style change but you’re going to ignore it. If they ask, you simply wanted to try something new. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“So… if they compliment me, I… ignore it?”

“You’re hopeless. No, I mean, accept the compliments but brush off other comments.”

“Okay, I’m confused.”

He huffs and before you know it, the two of you are bickering. Back and forth. What he means. What you mean. It’s almost hard to remember that just last week you two weren’t even in the same world. Now, you’re in his truck, wearing the new clothes he bought you and bickering.

The walk into the party is nerve-wracking and all you can think of is how your thick thighs are in the wind. Which means you’re much colder than usual you’re not used to being cold outside, always so wrapped up in your warm clothes. You stop at the patio of the raging house, looking up at Rafe. “So… this is where we part ways?”

This visibly confuses him. “What? Why would we part ways?”

You shrug, “I don’t know… I didn’t come to parties often but the few events I went with Heather… we would part ways.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s stupid. I’m here with you.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“That’s you being a dick. I’m not stupid for—“

“I’m not calling you stupid, god.”

“You’re here!” A loud squeal pulls you out of your mini argument with Rafe. Your eyes meet a pair of familiar brown ones. Sarah rushes to you immediately and practically jumps into your arms. You laugh happily as you hug her right back.

“I’m here!”

She pulls away from you with a small pour. She’s drunk. Kiara comes out from behind her, pulling you into a quick side hug. “Guess who else is here?” Sarah’s voice is loud as the four of you walk into the home which is blasting with music.

“Who?”

“Scarlett.” This makes your blood run cold. That little piece of confidence that you carried vanished. You weren’t feeling yourself anymore. She’d see you in your new outfit and would make fun of you.

“We’ve got your back.” Kiara’s arm wraps around your shoulders as you walk side by side. “You won’t have to deal with her alone.”

“By the way, you look so damn good!” Sarah squeals as you all make your way into the kitchen where Kie grabs a few beers and tosses one each to the group. Rafe catches his beer easily and when he notices the slight panic in your face, he catches yours next, opening it quickly for you. You take the beer mindlessly, listening to Sarah drunkenly babble. Kiara’s entertaining her, laughing when she says something she shouldn’t say far too loudly. And you find yourself enjoying it.

You always dreaded parties. When a kid went around inviting everyone, they’d stop with you and Scarlett but only invite her. They would barely spare a glance at you. And at the time, you told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d rather be at home and cuddled up in bed with your cat, binge watching a show. But this… you like this. You like that Kiara and Sarah are bringing you into the conversation even when you’ve been quiet for minutes. You like that Rafe’s by your side like a scary guard dog. Well, you don’t really like that part so much. People are staring. They aren’t used to the Rafe Cameron not having a baddie on his arm.

Kiara and Sarah are in the middle of dancing a silly dance in the kitchen when you turn to Rafe. “No ones even noticing me.”

He snorts out a scoff of a laugh. “I’ve caught like eight guys since we came in, looking at your boobs.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s not anyone noticing me. That’s them noticing my girls. And second, I told you not to say boobs to me.”

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.”

“God, shut up. You’re gross. There’s no need to— stop!” Back to your bickering, a laugh leaving you when he just won’t quit it.

You’re both in a comfortable space when a shrill of a voice cuts you two off.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Time stands still for a second at the sound of Scarlett’s voice. You and your new friends immediately turn to look at her. And your eyes widen. You’re wearing the same skirt. A laugh bubbles out of Sarah and Rafe’s big hand covers her mouth to shut her up

“You know what I’m wearing.” You retort with a roll of your eyes. Heather angrily puts her red solo cup down, stomping closer to you.

“Do you know how embarrassing this is? You need to change!”

Kiara laughs at this. “Girl, get over yourself. It’s a skirt.”

Scarlett is very clearly exasperated. And upset. It’s weird seeing her so put off. Your eyes don’t leave her as she keeps throwing her tantrum. “It doesn’t even look good on you! You’re… you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rafe is watching with an amused look to his face. He hadn’t seen the fight, only a few clips that were taken last minute. But he’d never seen them go head to head. And you know he’s been dying to. Rafe is many things but dramatically inclined was not one you had added to your list until recently.

You're about to answer. You’re about to fight back. You wouldn’t let her embarrass you in front of your new friends. Loud gasps and yells erupt when a drunk splashes onto Heather. “Dumb bitch!” It’s Sarah. She threw beer right at Heather’s face which is now dripping down to her clothes.

Scarlett, quick on her feet, grabs her own cup and tosses it. On you. You gasp for air as it falls in your nose. “What the fuck, Scar?! I didn’t do shit?!”

“For not fighting your own fucking battles!” She yells, so angry that her face is red. Which you’re sure is from embarrassment as well. “You’re weak! Always have been and always will be!”

Kiara gets in between the two of you, “back the fuck up.” She hisses. “She’s with us now.”

Scarlett laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. She looks behind Kiara and glares harshly at you. “Hanging with the pogues? Seriously? This is a new level of trashy. Even for you.”

“Alright, alright,” it’s rafe now that grabs your arm and starts dragging you away. “You guys are very dramatic.” He tells you as he takes to the other side of the house in the living room.

But you’re frowning. It’s hard not to be upset. And you’re dripping with beer. “My outfit…” you pull your arm from his, stopping. In turn, this stops him and he turns to look down at your sad figure. “It’s ruined…”

He’s quiet. And you’re about to tell him it’s time to call it a night. His hand grabs your chin, making you look up at him. There’s a look of determination on his face, which shocks you greatly. “You’re not giving up. I’m gonna make sure Jonah sees you for the hot piece of ass you are, alright?”

His words send a hot flush through your body. You hate how shy you get when he’s nice. Or when he’s trying to be nice. Even during his kind moments, he’s abrasive. But you’re learning to take him as he is.

“Now, push those boobs up and be confident.”

“Stop saying boobs!”

—

taglist. @pinkyqily @chalahyung01 @lunalvrsblog @teenwolfbitches28 @jayjsbaby @yawnzshit @mytimeiswaiting @tsshifting @always-reading @chimchimjiminie16 @ayy1234567 @acidfeens @congratsloserr @murdockcastleslut @cl4uus @clairesblouse @ange111 @daddydraco0

[millersfinest]

untethered² | e.w

00s!ellie williams & 00s!miller!reader

wc: 8.2 k

series: chapter one, chapter two (you’re here!), chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

blurb: it’s been awhile since you’ve been back home; in upstate new york where you’ve spent most of your life waking up early and tending to the animals that moo’d and meh’d. after graduation high school, and then college, the city life has stolen most of your attention. enabling you to visit only a handful of times through the years. when your lovely adoptive parents (tommy and maria miller) invite you back for a thanksgiving dinner—a troubled old flame from your childhood manages to get your attention, despite its explosive ending.

cw: lmao flip phones, r and ellie flirting/teasing each other, some vulgar language, ellie cheating on her gf, the millers, r is a writer, horndog ellie, elements of longing, ellie is #1 lesbian yearner in the world, some early 2000s references, thanksgiving, r is very jealous of cat, hella angst, rich!abby (one of r’s evil exes), emotional cheating (from ellie), repressed emotions, a little bit of mature content, eventual smut, some corny time period song drops.

note: okay, i tried to fit a lot of stuff into this but it was getting too long wink wink. i’ve introduced rich!abby, she’s literally a generational surgeon purr. when i was writing this i was listening to some early 00s music and burn from usher came on… that’s ellie’s anthem ya’ll (for cat) lmaooo. i may not post another chapter before the new year, soo happy early new years to my moots, readers and followers (pookies) <3

After spending an extra hour, or so, with Ellie in the kitchen—laughing under your hands, stuffing bread into your mouths; you set an alarm for 6am. The same time clock that sat on your bedside table from your youth. Surprisingly, it still worked—waking you up with that same traumatic sound it used to for school.

You efficiently got ready; as in, you put on hearty jeans, cowboy boots, and a throw-away sweater because you had an obligation to fill on the farm. Every time you came back home, it was habitual for you to resume the responsibilities you used to have when the farm was your primary residence.

Around 6:45, you met your parents downstairs to begin prepping and planning who was going to go where. There was usually only three of you, but as you hovered over the black coffee on the counter—in your favorite antique mug—the screen door pulled open to reveal a sleepy-looking Ellie Williams-Miller.

She had a thick, black headband pushing her hair back from her forehead, and a low bun. The whites of her eyes were a little irritated and low-hanging, like she was exhausted. “Mornin’, Ellie.” Tommy spoke, rasping slightly. You and Maria parroted him—you standing up straight, instead of leaning over the counter.

Ellie settled across from you, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as a comfort. She rarely ever knew where to put her hands. “Didn’t think you’d jump in so quick.” You commented, wrapping your hands around the warm coffee in your hands.

“The sooner the better.” She shrugged, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Is there any coffee left?”

Before your mother could leap to helping her out, you set down your mug. “‘Course there is. Hazelnut or Vanilla creamer?” You walk over to the pot, not forgetting to pull down a mug from the cabinet. It was offhanded, unintentional—but the ceramic mug you grabbed happened to be hers from the past. An off-white color with her initial on the front in maroon. Ellie used to come over so much, she had her own mug.

She was the first to notice, a blush blossoming on her freckled cheeks. “Hazelnut…”

Pouring the hot coffee a quarter of the way, you added the creamer and dropped a spoon inside to mix it. Ellie wasn’t the biggest fan of coffee, so it was more creamer than coffee. Behind you, your parents began explaining and refreshing the jobs they usually do in the morning. They plan to handle the cows, goats and shipments; while you and Ellie can handle the chickens, horses and garden. “Now, Bug, she’s gonna be taking over your job— so, instruct her well, please.”

“You got it, dude.” You curtly nodded, after making a cheesy Full House joke, sporting a thumbs up. The only person to chortle was Ellie, while her lips were still parted over the side of her mug.

Tommy and Maria put their hands in the middle, slapping on top of each other. “Lets break out—“

“Come on, dad, do we have to?” It was so natural for you to complain at his antics, calling him dad, that you didn’t realize who you were doing it in front of company until much later.

When you were a teenager, every morning your broke out like a team—because, basically, that’s what you were. Splitting to conquer more ground; it took teamwork. “Honey, we always break out.”

Ellie set her cup down, amused. “Don’t be such a negative Nancy, y/n.” She put her hand on top of theirs, raising her thick eyebrows. “Come on, break out.”

Rolling your eyes, you place your hand over her’s. “We’re the Miller’s on three.” You dragged, shaking your head. They all grinned around you like hyenas, and it amusingly pissed you off. One. Two. Three.

“We’re the Miller’s!” They exclaimed, along with yourself. Unable to remove the mirroring grin from your lips.

“All right, team. Let’s get to work.” Tommy asserted with a smile, drinking the rest of his coffee.

The four of you dispersed on the back porch. You scribbling on notebook paper to keep track of your duties. Ellie leaned her back against the railing, crossing her arms, with her eyes trained on your focused expression. “Okay… We’re starting off with the chicken’s— do you remember how?” You glance up, raising an eyebrow.

“Ehm,” She clears her throat, pushing off the railing. “Uhm, yeah, totally. We get the food, right? The pellets?”

“Yeah, and…” You put a hand on your hip, a teasing smirk on your lips.

She chews on her lip, averting her eyes. “Scoop it into troughs?” Ellie questioned, slowly, knowing she was incorrect. The young woman just wanted you to correct her.

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself a bit mixed up, Els.” The nickname slipped from your lips sweetly, but unpredicted. You were both shocked and did a bad job of hiding it. Your lips opening and closing like a gaping fish; Ellie licking her lips, still rocking on her feet. But to be fair, you were friends before everything—it shouldn’t have been weird. “Sorry…”

“Why are you sorry? It’s my name…” Ellie shrugged.

“Let’s just get to the chicken coop.” You chuckle, hiding the nervousness by trotting off the porch. Her name was Ellie, not Els—people who were close to her called her that, and they weren’t close anymore. It was just an example of muscle memory, really.

Ellie tapped her hand against the wooden post, following in your footsteps. “Feels good to be back…” She mutters, walking with her hands behind her back.

“You’re always welcome here.” You respond, approaching the shed that held the chickens food and such. Your fingers worked at the metal latch, pushing open the door. It creaking loudly from the rusted hinges. “Help me fill the buckets?”

She nodded with tight lips, crouching down where you were in front of a large bag filled with their food. You dug for the scoop, frowning at the smell. Ellie had grabbed a bright orange bucket, placing it beside you. Her eyes watching you, intently. Taking in all of your movements while scooping the pellets into the bucket.

Feeling her eyes on you, it was easy to start conversation—transition from that pier of tension. “You looked pretty tired… I hope that wasn’t my fault.”

Ellie hummed, switching an empty bucket with the one you just filled, putting it to the side. “Oh, no, of course not. I had an idea for a sketch… So, stayed up and worked on that.”

You grinned, peering at her. “Hey, the farm’s already workin’, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She chortled, averting her eyes.

Now, that was a clean cut lie. Ellie was a very smart girl—quick on her feet; she always has been. As she stood in that woody kitchen, munching on microwaved biscuits and giggling with her childhood ex-girlfriend… She had realized a fundamental truth. Or, more so, she was considering it. Perhaps, it wasn’t the farm she needed to sponsor her creativity.

It was you. In all of your self-made, manufactured glory. All it took was a glance for her to blossom with ideas—you were her muse.

That’s why she was up all night. She had propped herself on a stool, while her girlfriend slept, and began sketching where the both of you stood—by the shed. Ellie had drawn, scribbled, and shaded until the charcoal pencil fell from her fingers. Forcing her to rest, and by that time it was four in the morning.

Not without covering her work with a sheet, though. Your features were etched onto the canvas, that was too precious and vulnerable. Intimate. Telling.

Pulling her from her obsessive thoughts, you spoke. “Ellie, the bucket.” You bunched your eyebrows, with a tone insinuating that you’ve asked her more than once.

“Shit, my bad.” She stood up, picking one of them up by the metal handle. When she lifted it, she realized that she should consider weight lifting as a hobby—it was heavy. But, you held it in your hands as if it weighed no more than ten pounds. Ellie wasn’t right; the traits of a country girl never left you.

You began to walk out of the shed, toward the chicken coop, which was only a few steps away. “You know, I can let you off the hook if you wanna go take a nap, or something. We have, like, five more days for me to show you the ropes.”

“Really, it’s fine. You know I get a little spacey sometimes.”

“Yeah, when there’s a lot on your mind.” You pointed out, arriving at the coop. Opening the gate, you walk to another, slightly shorter gate to release the chickens. “Your breakfast has arrived!”

You set the bucket on the ground, Ellie doing the same, and you began to scoop out the pellets onto the dirt. They clucked and hopped around, pecking at the small pieces of food littered around. “Is there a lot on your mind?”

She hesitated to answer, dumping the rest of the pellets onto the ground. “Little bit…”

“Well, let this be a release from whatever you’re thinkin’ about. Not a distraction, but a release— it’ll keep you focused.”

Instead of pressing for what was on her mind, you responded with more thoughtful words. The fact that the both of you allowed your closeness to disintegrate or untether; you didn’t have much of a place to inquire. Asking too many questions could lead to fighting—if she were anything how she used to be. And you didn’t want to pry, even though a part of you assumed her exhaustion had something to do with Cat.

Ellie hummed once more, with her hands on her hips, watching you scratch their little heads. “Horses are next, right?” She questioned, blinking at you as if she were in a daze.

You chortle. “Yep. Excited to see Shimmer and Tokyo, huh?” A grin spread across your lips as you approached the gate. You paused, gasping, before you turned back to the auburn-haired woman. “Fuck, I have a surprise for you— almost forgot!” Rushing to grab her hand, you pull her out of the chicken coop. Keeping a firm grip on her palm; Ellie’s lightly holding yours as you pulled her toward the horse barn, glancing at her hand being embraced. It was a little ways so, despite the cool, morning air, sweat beaded between your palms.

But, since she was so enamored by your excited spirit, she held on.

When you arrived, that’s when you released her hand, unlocking the latch. Before your opened the door, you turned toward her faux lax expression. “Shimmer is, now, a mother…” You began, pushing open the door. Ellie gasped, grinning wide like a child before an arcade. “To a beautiful foal Tommy named Sarah.” You introduced coming up on their division.

“Holy shit,” She cursed, still grinning ear to ear. Her white teeth sparkling against the rays of the morning sun that peaked through the wooden panels in the barn. Shimmer peaked her head over the gate once she saw Ellie—like she never forgot about her. Nobody had. “Congrats, Shimmer.” She ran her hand along her strong jaw; the horse nuzzling into her touch.

Her olive eyes peered down, noticing the much smaller foal. Her coat was the same color as her mothers, but her hair had a blonder touch. “Can I?” She looked over at you.

“You don’t have to ask— she’s your horse, too.” You waved your hand. “I’ll go ahead and grab their food.” Leaving them alone, you hear Ellie marveling at Sarah. Causing a chuckle to leave your lips. You pet the other horses—Tokyo, Hamlet, and Ophelia—on the way to the other end of the barn.

Packing the buckets with differing pellets and chaffs, you filled their troughs and opened up their gates. Saving Shimmer and Sarah for last.

You walked over, leaning against the open gate. Sarah had nestled between Ellie’s crossed legs as she sat in the hay. Leaning into her gentle caresses. “I’m assuming she’s named after Joel’s daughter?” She asked, looking up at you from the ground.

“You assumed right.” You nodded, pressing your lips into a line.

“Does Joel know?”

“Not yet. It was a surprise for both of you.” You told, taking the liberty to join her on the ground. “I’m sure Tommy’ll say somethin’ by the end of the day.” Your fingers nestle through her course blonde hair. She was only about a week old, and the softness of her hair was already leaving. A sigh falls from your lips, glancing up at your old friend. Her eyes were already trained on your features, intently. Like she was trying to remember the intricacies of your face. “You think he’ll like it? Naming Shimmer’s baby after her?”

Ellie blinked, running her tongue over hr lips. “Uh, yeah— I think he’ll love it.” She chuckled, boyishly. The side of her lips curling up, as her eyes cast back toward the happy foal. “He’d probably want pictures of her everyday…”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind taking the pictures…”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t.” She affirmed. “If I didn’t, he’d blow up my cell.”

You laughed, backing up against the wall, leaning your head back as you peered at her. “He would wouldn’t he?”

A pair of footsteps caught your attention, and for a moment you thought it was your parents. You prepared to get up, but a new face came around the corner. Her brown eyes were sleepy, and she still was dressed in her pajamas. Hay clinging to the hem of her plaid pajama pants. “I was told that I’d find you here…” She spoke, mostly to the auburn-haired woman beside you.

“Mornin’,” You smiled, awkwardly. Standing up from where you sat. Cat smiled at you, but her eyes quickly moved back to Ellie.

“Ellie, can we talk?” She softly asked, fiddling with her fingers.

From the ground, she sighed, unmoving. “I’m kind of busy… Can it wait?” Ellie lifted her eyebrows, squinting at her girlfriend because of the sun’s rays. Her olive eyes practically glowing as the sun reflected through them.

“No. It can’t wait.”

“I can step out…” You offered, placing a hand on Shimmer. “She’s missing out on some grazing time, anyway.”

“No, it’s fine.” “Thanks,” Both Ellie and Cat spoke, causing you to pause in your steps. You bunched your eyebrows at Ellie, making an expression that read: talk to her! Ignoring the pleas of her beautiful features, you pulled Shimmer from her space. Leaving the two to talk.

It was always about saving face for you—you didn’t want to give the wrong impression to Cat. It was obvious that she knew about your past; you hoped that she did. Maybe, in a possessive way—in a way of I know her more than you. Or, in a way of context. That was something you were still trying to figure out.

Either way, your feelings for Ellie was private; something you were battling, as if it were a disease. Because it was wrong to hold onto a fragment of a memory—loving someone who was taken. It was childish. Letting them talk was putting a leash on yourself. There was nothing like some good ol’ fashioned self control.

While you contemplated, watching the horses meander around, getting their fresh air—conversation happened in the barn. Around the innocent, nuzzling foal, Sarah. “I just wanted to let you know… That I’m not mad at you.” Cat spoke, genuinely, leaning against the wooden gate. Her voice was firm and far from soft. “You know how I can get easily overwhelmed—“

“Cat, overwhelmed? You got pissed with me because I was asking her questions. That’s it.” Ellie retorted, narrowing her eyes. “I haven’t seen or spoken to her in fucking years. Do you expect me not to be interested in what she’s doing?”

“Okay, Ellie. My fucking bad!” She slapped her hands against her legs. “My bad for considering your history with each other— I’m being a jealous bitch. There. I said it for you.” Her arms crossed over her chest. “Can we just stop acting weird? I don’t wanna fight. Not here.”

Ellie allowed Sarah to stand, walking from her space to where her mother was. Around the corner, entertaining you, although your peeving ear was open to their conversation. Even though, you couldn’t hear much.

She stood up, dusting herself off. “I’d never call you a jealous bitch…” Ellie muttered, approaching her, settling her hands on her jaw. “You have nothing to worry about, kitty Cat.” She spoke like a wish, leaning into the place a chaste kiss on her lips. Cat had shut her eyes, not noticing the glance Ellie made out the open barn doors at you—the back of you. Just before her lips met hers. She tried to keep Ellie, moving her lips against hers, but she pulled away, swiftly. “I have to get back to work, all right. No hard feelings?”

She sighed, pouting. “None at all… See you later?” Cat wondered, letting her hands drift down to her belted hips.

“See you later.” She smiled, pulling away from her.

Cat left the barn, waving at you on her way out. “See you, y/n!” She waved, wiggling her fingers. Her voice was sweet, but for some reason you didn’t like how smooth your name came from her mouth. But, regardless, you smiled back.

Ellie emerged from the barn with her hands in her pockets. She stopped where you were, watching the horses—mainly Sarah. “How’d it go?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You remember Dina and Jesse, right?” She changed the subject.

You scrunched your eyebrows at the random question, peering over at her. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“They’re going to a bar later… The Tipsy Bison, If you wanna—“

“Oh, I don’t know.” You interrupt, shaking your head. Chewing on your bottom lip, keeping your eyes trained on the trotting horses. The moment the relationship between you and Ellie was severed; that severed whatever bond you had with them. Jesse tried to stay in contact passively—when MySpace came out, he friended you. However, Dina was nowhere to be found. She must’ve hated your guts, right?

“What? You don’t drink either?” She chuckled, covering her nervousness.

Pressing your lips together, you narrowed your eyes at her. “It’s been too long…” You shook your head. “I don’t know…”

“Come on,” She drawled, like a youthful plea.

“This is peer pressuring. Did we not learn about this is school?” Your feet carried you away from the horses, toward the garden. She followed after you with a sickening grin.

You pulled out your checklist, checking off the box by chickens and horses—clicking your pen with a smirk on your face. “Peer pressure… Shmeer Shressher.” Ellie rolled her eyes.

“Ellie, I don’t know. I might have something to write for my editor— let me think about it.” You made up an excuse on the spot, but it wouldn’t be a surprise if you opened up your email to see several messages from Isa Raymond.

“Don’t tell me you’re a workaholic, too?”

“I’m not.”

“Kind of seems like it.” Ellie shrugged.

You hit her arm with the back of your hand. “Whatever, Ellie. Think what you want.” The both of you arrive at the greenhouse. It smells of fresh soil and misty air—fairly comforting. When you were younger, it was the second best part of the farm for you. The horse barn being the first, of course. “This part is the simplest; just make sure all the veggies and plants are watered accordingly.”

You pick up a gallon half-full tin watering can, handing it to her. She took it from you with both hands, fingers grazing, lightly. “Oh, shit— I wasn’t paying attention with the horses. What do you feed ‘em?” Ellis began to stroll down the aisles, watering the soil.

“No worries, it seemed important.” You shrugged, mentioning the conversation between her and Cat. “I’ll just show you on the way back. It’s pretty simple— woah, not too much!” You place a hand on her wrist. She was pouring too much water into one of the potted plants. Her eyes locked onto yours, opened wide. “Sorry, I should’ve said this before… The potted plants need less water than the veggies.” She kept looking at you, the ends of her lips curling. “Carry on,” You urged, walking past her—in front of her, holding your own hands in front of you.

She couldn’t help but watch you go—hell, that’s all she’s been doing since she saw you. Watching. There was nothing wrong with that. Even if her eyes drifted to the way your hips were hugged in the jeans your wore. The sliver of skin that exposed when you bent down, or crouched, or even swayed your hips.

“So…” Ellie began, heading to your word and carefully watering. “Are you seeing anyone in Manhattan?” She asked, shamelessly with a perked eyebrow.

You pivoted, leaning your back against one of the aisles of vegetation. “Off and on…” Shrugging, you surprised yourself with how quickly you responded. “Dating in New York is like setting yourself on fire… And I don’t like getting burned.” You pursed your lips, flickering your eyes from her and the tomato’s. “Why? Is there someone you’d wanna set me up with—? I could use the help.” You joke, beginning to fiddle with the waxy leaves.

She snickered, approaching you with the tin watering can. Pouring nutrient liquid onto the carrot sprouts. “Dina, maybe?”

“Awe, you’re so funny.” You clap your hands together, sarcastically, leaning your chin on your hand.

“If you come out tonight, you can see just how funny I am.” She set the can down.

“I don’t have to go to a bar to see how funny you are. I’m laughing right now, aren’t I?” You mock a fake laugh, pointing at your mouth. Ha Ha. Ha Ha.

Wrapping your hands around the handle of the watering can, you pulled it from her to take over her job. “Just come, y/n! Wouldn’t it be nice to get the gang back together?”

A scoff fell from your lips. “It’s been a while since the gang was together, Ellie.” Occupying your attention with plants you watering. You fought to fight the frown attempting to grow on your lips, pressing them together and turning your body enough for her not to notice.

Ellie dragged her feet, following you. “It’s been eight years…”

Sighing, you slightly slam the can down, not enough to make a fuss but enough to signal your irritation. “Have you forgotten about what happened eight years ago?” You questioned, sternly.

She paused, inhaling, sharply. Ellie scratched her jaw, nodding her head. “Nope.” While she was taken aback by your sudden sternness; there was something that excited her about that pinched look on your face. The auburn-haired young woman has grown a lot since her youth.

“Okay, then.” You pouted. “Let’s just wrap this up, so we can reconvene with my parents— make sure all this stuff is done.”

And that’s exactly what the both of you did. The jokes and silly conversation ceased, and you basically finished in awkward silence. On the way back to the house, you showed her which foods to give to which horse, clinically. That playful look on your face was replaced with the one that exposed your unnerved feeling—from the horrifying mention of what happened eight years ago.

At the front porch, the pair of you separated. She waved a fiddly hand, peering over her shoulder as she walked back to the guesthouse. With a pair of shoulders that were slumped lower than they were from the morning.

Ellie didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—she should’ve never pushed you to hang out with her later. Perhaps, she got too comfortable too fast; but that’s just the type of person you were. Easily acclimatizing. It didn’t matter how much space could be between you and another person—you always found a way with making them feel at home. However, when you pull back, it’s a cold feeling. She just wanted to look at you some more, talk to you some more; be around you some more. Ellie couldn’t deny how refreshing it was.

You met with your parents assuring them that everything was done. They asked about Ellie, but you said she took all the information fine. She’ll probably just need a few days to really lock it in—but, you couldn’t stay long to chat. It was about nine in the morning, and you had to check your email and cell for messages.

First, you showered to get the smell of animal off of you. As much as you loved them, the stench was awful and you’d rather die than let it get stuck to the comforter of your bed. Then, you hopped onto your reading nook, and began going through your emails.

Scroll, scroll, Isa Raymond. Scroll, scroll, Frank St. James… Frank St. James—that was your editor! “Fuck,” You swore under your breath, clicking the bolded words, your heart grew nervous. What if he didn’t like it? You always took criticism much harder when writing the essay’s for your book because everything comes from your experience—your spirit.

Your eyes panned over the words, seeing nothing but: phenomenal, and powerful, and effective, and most importantly, this will be the perfect addition to your bigger work. “Fuck, yeah!” You shouted, pumping your fist in the air.

A head peaked through your door, dark brown hair crowded with grays, and aged brown eyes. “Are we celebrating somethin’?”

Looking up, you smile at Joel, pushing your laptop to the side. “Yeah, actually. One of my chapters got approved by my editor.” You sighed, happily.

“Looks like that book really is comin’ along…” Joel hummed, sporting a proud look on his face. “Good thing Ellie and I made some breakfast— hot and ready! Do your parents have any champagne, so we can celebrate with some mimosa’s?”

Standing to your feet, you waved a hand. “It’s not that serious, Joel.” You chuckle, letting your hands rest on your hips.

“You think mimosa’s are serious? Whew, you need to come back home more often.” He joked, leaning on the threshold of your door.

Rolling your eyes, playfully, a chuckle leaves your throat. He was always so supportive. For a moment you though you lost the opportunity to see that side of him a long time ago. “There might be some in the fridge… And some cranberry juice.” He nodded, pumping his fist—him and Ellie were so much alike. “Give me, like, five minutes and I’ll be down. I have to respond to some messages.”

“Of course, workin’ girl. But don’t let your mimosa get warm… Or your food get cold— we worked hard on it.”

“I won’t.” You smiled, watching him leave your door. Quickly, you pulled out your cell, checking your messages. Some complaining messages from Sierra, Isa Raymond complimenting you—which she didn’t do often—and, a message from a past love interest, Abby Anderson.

Abs: I’m gonna be in your hometown for a few days, seeing some friends. We’re going to a bar later, you should come!

You hesitate to respond, but you do.

You: Oh, nice! Which bar?

There weren’t many bars where you came from, it was fairly small. But, you were getting an inkling that it was the same bar Ellie had invited you to—the Tipsy Bison.

Abs: Tipsy Bison, I believe.

You: I’m totally in. Could definitely use a drink right now.

Abs: Want me to come by and pick you up? I drove the Jaguar ;)

You: As tempting as that sounds, I already have a ride. See you then, Abby.

You slapped your phone shut to meander downstairs to the breakfast that awaited you. On a hot plate, made by Joel and Ellie themselves—which, typically, was delicious. They were both wonderful cooks.

Stepping down the stairs, you heard a sound come from your silver cell. You flipped it open with a sigh, seeing Abs highlighted by a green line.

Abs: Oh, damn… Abby. We’re not on nickname basis anymore?

You pursed your lips, shaking your head as you reached the bottom step.

You: Be normal about this, because I could’ve said no.

Shutting your phone, you slid them into the pocket of your pajama shorts. To purposefully ignore the rest of her texts until later. Everyone was still building their plates, walking to the dining table—including Cat, dressed in jeans and band t-shirt. Muse. “Joel, where’s the mimosa’s?” You arrived in the kitchen; Tommy hand you a ceramic plate was already plated with food.

“Sorry, kiddo.”

“Bug, the champagne in there has lost its bubbles— there’s no point.” He then grinned. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not gonna congratulate you for the chapter approval!” Your father clapped his hands, causing the others to join in—Maria, Joel, Cat, and Ellie.

You kiss his cheek. “Thanks, dad.” A blush frosts over your cheeks—face heating up like a furnace. “I hope we can get some by tomorrow. Thanksgiving is in two days.”

“I’m actually running downtown for a work thing…” Cat began, setting her plate at the dining table, preparing to sit. “I could grab some on the way back.”

“That’ll be perfect, Cat!” Maria exclaimed, smiling, brightly.

Why the fuck was she so nice? You almost wanted to mock your mother—even though they all just celebrated you a moment ago. Of course she’d offer to get the champagne. “Thanks, Cat.” You gave a toothless smile. A smile that plastered and could easily be noticed as fake by those around you. When you heard a snicker come from Ellie’s mouth, you knew that she noticed.

You shot her a glare, but that only made her lips spread into a wider smile. Toothy. Trying. As she settled into her chair, fork in hand.

Conversation over breakfast was light, and lovely. Slight jokes were made about Ellie’s farming skills, but nothing too much. You interacted with each other by mainly through looks and offhanded comments—enough for your mom to take notice. Nudging you under the table with her leg, but you gave her no mind.

After breakfast, you offered to clean up. And, of course, so did Ellie. You argued for a bit on who was going to wash the dishes, and who was going to dry them—settling on you washing and her drying. Cat took a taxi to wherever she needed to go, kissing the auburn-haired woman on the way out. Maria, Tommy and Joel settling in the living room, which was separated from the kitchen by a wall, catching up on sports. Your mother was oddly into that kind of stuff. Leaving you and Ellie all to yourselves, once more.

“Thanks, Cat. You’re so full of it.”

You handed her a wet, clean dish, rolling your eyes. “You have no idea what I’m full of.” A scoff falls from your lips, slightly curling at the ends. It’s not like you were upset, you were amused—you found her amusing. There was time between the scuffle from earlier and now; plus, you had a bit of a distraction for later.

You lathered the plate, running it under the hot water to rinse it off. “Your poker face is the absolute worst. Some things just never change— be okay with that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Some things never change. You’re still so fucking annoying.”

“And, I remember you also saying… Corny?”

You drop your hands in the sink, running your tongue over your bottom lip. Frankly, you missed this so bad. Meeting her eyes was like the tide rising on a beach—it always happened in way that was intertwining and overcoming. This was how Ellie Williams flirted; she was incredibly insufferable! Her voice dropped an octave, becoming a bit raspier than it already was. You were familiar because, well, she used to be yours. And, like she said, some things never change.

The only way you could respond was by peering at her. Inspecting her. Handing over the wet dish without sparing a glance at the ceramic plate. You watched as she primed her lips to speak. “All jokes aside…” She began, wiping down the plate with a turquoise towel. “I wanna apologize for the pressure earlier— coming out with me.” Finishing up, she set the dishes on the rack, leaning her lower back against the counter. Her arms crossed over her chest, the tattoo on her forearm coming into view—something you didn’t fully notice before. “I totally get the hesitation. Dina can be a… Handful at times.”

“About that…” You dried your hands, wiping the water off the counter. “I’ve actually decided to go. I could use some hometown socializing— and Jesse’s still pretty sweet.”

Her earthy eyes sized you up, squinting her eyes. “Oh, is that who you want me to set you up with?”

“Seriously, Ellie, keep your day job.” You rolled your eyes, fixing everything around the kitchen so it could look clean. “We kind of keep in touch on MySpace.”

She gasped, deepening her eyebrows. “MySpace! I don’t even have you on MySpace—! I’m friends with Jesse, I would’ve seen this.”

“Well, my username isn’t quite my name… It’s BugsWritersRoom, and my icon is a picture of a latte— I can understand the confusion.” You shrug, nonchalantly.

Ellie subtly clenched her jaw at the idea of Jesse keeping something like this from her. It was fucked up to keep her from BugsWritersRoom—Ellie needed to be in on that. Whether she was going to friend you or not. “I’m about to start writing a bit… What’s you username, so I can stalk ‘ya?” The tone of your voice insinuated that it was a joke, but you weren’t joking at all. However, it wasn’t that you couldn’t find her before; you just didn’t want to. Twenty-four hours ago you were keen on keeping your distance—that also meant watching her online.

But, since the rekindling of this stomped out fire, you might as well catch up. And she was planning to do the same.

“StarlighterWilliams…” She muttered, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. You couldn’t help but wonder how she could shape shift from a semi-confident joker, to a bashful blusher within a few minutes—Ellie was one of a kind, certainly.

You hummed, lips curling at the sides. “Still a Savage Starlight fan, huh?”

“Yup.”

“At least all those comics and merch I bought for you didn’t go to waste.” You glance at the tall grandfather clock against the wall, huffing. Before you went out tonight, you wanted to get some words out of your head—there was plenty of time, as it was only nearing one in the afternoon. But you wanted some alone time, too.

She wanted to respond with how she’d never toss the items you bought for her—something cheesy like that—but, you spoke before her. “I guess the next time I’ll see you, I won’t be in old-as-shit pajamas. What are you thinkin’—? 9:30?”

“Yeah, 9:30s fine…” Her eyes ran over your frame. The tight strappy top that clung to your adult figure, and the loose satin shorts that hung low on your hips. A water stain had grown on the middle of your stomach from washing the dishes, and because the shirt was white your skin peeked through. If only it was a little higher—

“Cool. See you later.” You walked around the island, toward your parents and Joel. “If you guys need anything, I’ll be upstairs working. Just call me.” Ellie watched as you bent down to kiss their temples, including Joel from an old habit. She watched you laugh if off, but your pace quickened toward the stairs. Your eyes flickered to hers, a causal finger pointing in her direction. “That goes for you, too.” You winked.

It was like everything was in slow motion as she watched you. Especially, that fucking wink! Yeah, Ellie understood that wink was probably for weed—it couldn’t have been anything else. “I’m getting myself into some deep trouble.” She spoke under her breath, hanging her head low.

“Hey, guys!” She spoke to the three Miller’s on the couch, stalking toward the front. “I’ll be at the guesthouse.” She waved a few fingers, with her mind occupied completely elsewhere. In the gutter, as many called it.

Joel turned around, leaning his arm against the back of the couch. “You don’t wanna see the bets for the thanksgiving game?”

Ellie didn’t even pause at the door, she responded while walking through. “Absolutely the fuck not. You kids have fun, though!”

She basically ran to the guesthouse, leaning her back against the door once she was inside. In short, she was horny. Oh, so horny—Ellie was without a muse in many different parts of her life currently. And, don’t get her wrong; her girlfriend was smoking hot, but she wasn’t you! She couldn’t be happier that Cat was out of the house. So, she could lay her back against the bed they shared, with her pants off and her hand between her legs. Mind trailing with images of you.

Meanwhile, you sat crisscrossed on your made-up bed, searching for Ellie. StarlightWilliams, she said. You clicked and scrolled until you saw her user icon. It was a picture of her playing guitar. Her short side-bangs covered her face, arms draped over the guitar she’s had for years. At least, it looked like that one that you were familiar with. The one you carved your initials into the back when you were sixteen. Somebody had taken the picture, and you hoped to God it wasn’t Cat. That was your first thought.

You were beginning to make peace with the fact that you were an asshole. Your parents raised an asshole who’s jealousy raged in a passive manner.

With hesitation, you clicked the her name. Her account popped up and was coded to absolute hell. Did she do all of this herself? The side panels had a bunch of Savage Starlight png’s floating around. And, there was a silly picture in her bio of Kenny from South Park—of course, she liked South Park.

Her mood was recently updated: Conflicted.

Her bio was very concise: i’m ellie :3. Which is then preceded by a couple music videos: Hella Good by No Doubt and Somewhere Only We Know by Keane.

You found yourself smiling as you scrolled down her profile, causing you to click the friend button without a second thought. Skipping over the photos of her and Cat, which wasn’t that hard to do—considering there wasn’t many. There were photos of Ellie cuddled between Jesse and Dina, looking happier than ever. Some mirror photos taken with a camera in her bathroom. Her hair mussed and choppily cut, but nonetheless, she looked good. Small nerdy shirts and low-hanging jeans, accessorized with studded belts and carabiners.

Hot.

Breaking you from what felt like a spell, your roommate began ringing your cell. She caused you to shut your laptop, and roll all over your bed talking to her. You paced around your room, playing with little knickknacks, glancing out your window to see the view of the guesthouse.

Sierra demanded to know the details about being around your teenagehood ex-girlfriend, and you told her enough. Not the intrusive thoughts about being a homewrecker, but how easily they got along. How the past had only come up once, but not in the way you thought it would. You bickered and joked and teased like nothing happened.

Now, your roommate back in Manhattan, laughed at that. She claimed that she had psychic tendencies, saying: you guys are gonna fuck nasty! You refused, feigning sounds of disgust. That wasn’t the case—that could never be the case. To change the subject, you mentioned Abby being in town, and she grimaced on the other line.

It was girl talk like no other.

After the call, you decided to quit daydreaming over Ellie’s MySpace account and actually start writing.

The next chapter you were working on was following moments after the breakup—the sorry attempts at moving on, college, moving from home.

You spent hours outlining and rough drafting, cursing at yourself because nothing was coming out right. Sooner or later, eight o’clock came around—meaning it was time for you to get ready.

Sifting through your luggage, you threw clothes over your shoulder trying to piece together an outfit. You wanted to look good, but you didn’t want to appear like you were trying too hard. Abby was gonna be there, so you couldn’t slack. And, Ellie hasn’t seen you in anything other than comfortable clothes since you reconnected.

Jeans were your safety, and a black jean vest you were going to put over a white v-neck—not forgetting the leather jacket to cover your arms and a pair of boot heels to give you some height.

You were ready by 9:15, adding perfume to the pressure points on your body. Dressing your lips in a sparkling lipgloss that complimented your skin. With a baggy purse on your shoulder, you clicked your finger on the buttons in your phone, descending the staircase.

Abs: Always so feisty, babe. See you later.

Seeing her message from earlier, you puff a frustrated breath from your lips. Babe. God, that woman needed to pipe it down—it’s like she knew you were gonna give it up, or something. That was actually something you were still unsure about.

When you appeared in the living room, your heels alerted your family to your presence. Ellie leaned against the couch, coolly, swinging her keys around her finger. She wore low-hanging jeans, a plain top with a striped long-sleeve under it with a thick jacket layered on top—probably Joel’s. “You ready to go?” You raised your eyebrows, chewing on your bottom lip—nerves wracking through you.

Either because of Ellie’s soft eyes on you, or the anticipation of seeing Abby. It was hard to tell.

“Uh, y-yeah… Yeah, let’s go.” She stammered, standing to her feet.

Maria sipped on a glass of wine, eyeing your clothes. “You look cute, Bug— for any reason in particular?” She raised a blonde eyebrow.

“Mom, I’m going to a bar… Why wouldn’t I look cute?”

“She’s a single woman in her twenties, Maria—“

“Let’s not.” You wave your hand, cutting Tommy off. “Ellie,” You spoke, subtly pleading.

She nodded, catching the keys in her hand. “All right, we’re going.” Ellie opened the door for you, allowing you to push toward the screen door—the one you held for her.

“Be safe!”

“Of course!” The both of you responded, glancing at each other with semi-stern eyes.

Heels clicking on the porch, you walk down the steps into the gravel. “Where’s Cat? Is she not going out with us?”

Ellie unlocked her truck, clicking the button on the remote in her hand. “Wouldn’t you like to know…”She snickered, peering at you, unable to hide the glimmer in eyes from taking in your appearance. “Her work thing took longer than she thought. She didn’t feel like comin’ out.”

Yes!

“Ah,” You responded instead of jumping up and down, cheering. Getting into the car was a lift, hopping into the passenger seat.

Her copper truck had aged, but had that same old feel to it. Feeling the stitched seats, shamelessly, brought you back to when you were younger—sitting in her truck those first few times. It was kind of claustrophobic and intimidating being this tightly bound to Ellie.

She was less tense, shutting the door behind her. Ellie put the keys in the ignition, starting the car and turning on the radio. Blink-182, I Miss You, played low—the silence between the two of you speaking up. She scoffed under her breath, switching the radio to another station. “Too slow,” The auburn-haired woman muttered.

“I liked that song, though…” You look at her from the corner of your eye.

Hesitantly, she glanced at you, reached her hand back to the number to switch the station back to the alternative one playing Blink-182. Ellie pressed her lips into a line, putting the truck into drive.

The trip was no longer than ten minutes to the Tipsy Bison. A trip filled with radio music and glances back and forth. To occupy yourself, you played Tetris on your cell until you felt the truck slowing down in the parking lot. When she shut the car off, that’s when your nerves really picked up.

“They should already be inside.” Ellie pointed out. She inspected you the passenger seat, rigid shoulders and a clenching jaw. “You look good— great, even. It might be a little awkward, but—“

“How about this…” You run your tongue over your bottom lip, tasting the strawberry flavored gloss on your lips. “You go on ahead inside— I’ll meet you.” Pulling the handle, you hop out the truck. Your fingers rustle through your purse for the yellow pack of American Spirits and your lighter.

Ellie bunched her thick eyebrows, following you out the car. Locking the doors behind her. “What?”

“I can’t smoke inside… So, go ahead.” You popped out a cigarette, placing it between your lips.

“You sure? I feel like it’ll be easier if we walk in together.” She furrowed her eyebrows, seeing the uncomfortableness written all over your face.

“I’m sure, Ellie. Just go.” You avert your eyes, lighting the tip of the nicotine stick. Waiting for that first inhale to calm your nerves.

She stuffed her hand into her pockets, nodding her head. “I will see you inside, right?” Ellie questioned, fearing that you’d run off. Your only response was a released of smoke from your lips, and a pair of narrowed eyes. “Fuck,” She cursed. “Fine. See you inside.”

Ellie disappeared into the bar. You kicked a leg up against the wall, tapping the ash from your cigarette. Who knew what the feelings of one person could do. In your head, you played through every possible outcome of the situation—seeing Dina again. She could either be really sweet, like she used to be, or still be that grudging person that you familiarized yourself after that day.

The high beams of a shiny, black Jaguar came into your sights—blinding you. You hold up your hand, covering your eyes with arched lips. They were so bright, you didn’t realize who they belonged to until she got out. The blonde wore all black in the sleekest way possible—letting everyone know in this town that she was better than them. That was just the aura she had.

Her long blonde hair was pushed behind her ears and shifted against her black leather jacket. The high beams blinked off, as she approached you, pushing up a a pair of black sunglasses over her head.

“It’s dark out. How do you even drive with those things on?” You raise a skeptical eye, taking a drag from the cigarette between your index and middle finger.

“A hi or hello would be a preferred greeting.” Abby teased, lips spreading into a movie-star smile.

Pressing your lips into a line, ashing the rest of the cigarette out on the wall. “Hi, Abby.” You couldn’t have rolled your eyes harder, really. Her strong arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into her chest. It was firm, but most importantly, warm and comforting. Your arms stretched around her back, nuzzling more into her embrace.

“I hope the cigarette’s the only reason why you’re standing out in the cold.” She pulled back just enough, to keep your bodies pressed together and to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, pretty much.” You purse your lips.

Abby’s hand massaged your tensed shoulders. “Then, let’s get inside. Let me get you a drink to warm you up.”

Ellie already had a drink in hand, and a water for you, unsure of what you wanted. Jesse and Dina had visited her many times in New York—this wasn’t a rekindling. It was just a couple of friends meeting for some beers and a few laughs. Her olive eyes kept glancing at the door waiting for you to come through in all of your glory. And, you were being timed. If you didn’t push through those doors within the next ten minutes, she was going to come out and drag you inside.

As she were about to tell them that she was going to get you, threatening Dina to be nice, you walked in. But you weren’t alone. A tall, muscular blonde had her arm around your shoulders, pulling your tight to her side. And, fucking hell, she looked so much cooler than Ellie did.

She watched as her blue eyes danced around the bar, looking for someone. They widened, and a smile spread on her lips. Hand raising to the ceiling to wave at her friends occupying a booth behind Ellie, Jessie, Dina. “Who the fuck is that?” She spoke, arching her lip in disgust—which wasn’t entirely purposely.

You noticed Ellie, standing from the table she sat at. Waving your fingers, you gave a small smile. Until your eyes landed on an obsidian-haired young woman, with a resting bitch face worse than your own. Dina was leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed. You allowed Abby to guide you to the bar, ordering your usual—a double vodka cranberry.

Something about this night was going to be very, very long. Good thing Cat didn’t come out.

taglist: @autisticintr0vert , @liasxeatt

[deliciousangelfestival]

Let's Play Pretend - 1 | Bucky

Character: Bucky Barnes x singer! Female reader

Summary: You just wanted to hide here and find peace from the mess that wasn’t caused by you. But then, your hot neighbor bothered you. As if that wasn’t enough, the enemies you hated found you too.

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , END.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband on Kindle. 👉 Now available on e-Kindle Amazon! << here's the link.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Shocking Split! Y/N L/N Dumps Fiancé After Drug Party Scandal

Betrayal Drama! Y/N L/N’s Manager Caught Stealing Millions for Gambling

Where’s Y/N? The Singer Vanishes Amid Scandals!

“I’ve always wanted to be a singer, but I never had the confidence to stand on a stage—until my music teacher, Mrs. Walls. She believed in me.”

Mrs. Walls sighed as she watched your Grammy interview on TV. You looked radiant, glowing with excitement after winning such a prestigious award. As a music teacher with years of experience, she had worked with many talented students, but you stood out uniquely.

At first, you were the shyest student in her class, hardly speaking above a whisper. But what surprised her the most was your natural gift: a perfect pitch. You could write down the notes to a song after hearing it just once, and you picked up musical instruments with ease. She vividly remembered showing you basic piano chords; within minutes, you were playing along effortlessly. The same thing happened when she introduced the guitar.

Her fondest memories were of you standing shyly at the front of the class, yet lighting up when it came to music. She smiled as she recalled your speeches at award shows: “I wouldn’t be here without my music teacher, Mrs. Walls. She was the first person who put faith in me.”

“That’s the last interview she gave us,” the gossip channel host said dramatically, feigning concern. “It’s been three months since anyone’s seen her. Where is Y/N L/N?”

Mrs. Walls frowned and turned off the TV with an annoyed grunt. “Urgh. Gossip vultures,” she muttered under her breath. She grabbed a glass of lemonade from the fridge and walked out to her garden. She noticed her guest seemed lost in thought, staring off into the distance. It had become a habit whenever she was in the garden.

“You’re not thirsty, huh?” she teased lightly, holding the glass toward someone sitting under the garden umbrella.

The person she handed the drink to was none other than the missing singer, Y/N L/N. For three months, the paparazzi had been on your trail, but they had no idea you were hiding here—in the sanctuary of your former music teacher’s home.

Mrs. Walls still remembered the night you appeared on her doorstep, mascara streaked down your face, eyes red and swollen from crying. You looked nothing like the glamorous star she’d seen on television, but instead like a lost child searching for safety.

“I don’t know where else to go,” you had whispered, your voice trembling.

In that moment, she didn’t see the world-renowned singer. She saw the shy, seven-year-old girl who used to sit in her classroom, clutching her music notebook like a lifeline. She hugged you tightly, her heart breaking for you. “Stay as long as you need, my dear,” she had said softly, ushering you inside.

Since that night, you’d been living quietly in her guest room. The once-vibrant star barely spoke, and the silence worried Mrs. Walls more than she let on. She watched as you avoided stepping outside, terrified of being recognized. The only place you seemed at peace was her garden.

She wondered, How long will you keep hiding like this?

You took the lemonade from her hand with a quiet “Thank you” but set it on the small table beside you without taking a sip. Sitting on the bench, you leaned back, tilting your face up toward the sky. The sun was warm, filtering through the leaves of the garden trees. Through your Ray-Ban sunglasses, you watched the golden rays dance, letting them calm your stormy thoughts.

Here, in this little haven, you could pretend the outside world didn’t exist. The judging eyes, the betrayals, the relentless cameras—everything melted away in the sunlight.

You thought back to three months ago, just after wrapping up your world tour. It had been the most significant milestone in your career, a dream come true. Exhausted but proud, you returned home, excited to move on to the next chapter of your life—starting a family with your fiancé.

But the moment you landed, things began to unravel. You’d called your fiancé multiple times, but he didn’t answer. At first, you thought he was busy, but a nagging feeling in your chest wouldn’t go away.

When the truth finally came out, it shattered you. Your assistant broke the news: your fiancé had been busted at a drug-fueled party. Worse, it was also a sex party.

You felt your chest tighten at the memory. That betrayal had cut deep. But it wasn’t the only one.

Later that week, you discovered that your longtime manager, someone you trusted implicitly, had embezzled your money to feed a gambling addiction. Two people you thought you could rely on had betrayed you in the worst ways possible.

One night, overwhelmed and broken, you drove aimlessly, tears blurring your vision. Without any plan or destination, you just kept going until you found yourself parked outside Mrs. Walls’ familiar home.

Even after all these years, she had always been honest with you. When you needed guidance, she gave it without hesitation. If she thought something was right, she’d say, “Go for it, my dear.” If it wasn’t, she’d warn, “No. You deserve better.”

Now, sitting in her garden, you sighed and closed your eyes, letting the sunlight warm your face. For a moment, you could almost believe you were that shy student again before fame and heartbreak had found you.

Mrs. Walls watched you silently, her heart heavy. She wanted to help, but she knew you needed to find your way back on your own.

“How long are you planning to hide here?” she finally asked, her voice gentle but firm.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you opened your eyes and looked at her. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Just like this, Mrs. Walls worried about you. You knew you were taking advantage of her kindness, aware she wanted you to step out of your shell, but you weren’t ready. The thought of facing the questions, the prying eyes, and the silent judgment was too much.

Just a little more time, you thought. That’s all I need. And some peace.

But peace wasn’t always easy to come by.

"VROOM!"

A sudden loud roar shattered the tranquility of the garden. The grating sound of a lawn mower filled the air, making you wince. You covered your ears, irritation flashing across your face.

Your gaze turns toward the source of the noise. “It’s already noon. The sun’s scorching hot—what kind of madman decides this is the best time to mow their lawn?”

“Well…” Mrs. Walls trailed off, watching the man seated atop the lawn mower. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

It's her neighbor, a man who had recently moved in. He wasn’t just any neighbor—he was one of her former students. Not from her music classes, though. He’d been one of the troublemakers, a kid who lived on detention slips and second chances.

“Bucky!” she called out, her voice carrying across the garden.

The man paused, cutting the engine. The deafening noise stopped, leaving an almost eerie silence in its wake. He climbed off the lawn mower, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

You squinted, ready to roll your eyes, but then your gaze lingered for a moment longer than you wanted. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his broad chest glistened with sweat. The sun highlighted the sculpted lines of his six-pack, and every step he took radiated an infuriating confidence.

Great, you thought bitterly. Annoying and ridiculously good-looking. Just my luck.

Mrs. Walls met him halfway, handing him a glass of lemonade. “Thank you,” Bucky said, his voice low and smooth.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled your eyes. “You’re welcome for the noise pollution,” you muttered loud enough for him to hear.

He turned, raising an eyebrow at you. “You’re welcome for cutting the grass, princess.”

“Princess?” you repeated, your tone sharp. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re out here ruining everyone’s peace, and I’m the problem?”

He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest, the gesture only drawing more attention to his muscles. “Stop acting like a diva.”

Your jaw dropped. “I am a diva!”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, taking a long sip of lemonade.

“What rock have you been living under?” you snapped, glaring at him.

He rolled his eyes dramatically, his expression shifting to one of mild exasperation. What you didn’t know was that Bucky wasn’t as clueless as he seemed. For the past three years, he’d been living under the radar, cutting ties with his old life. His job had demanded secrecy, isolation, and sacrifice. He didn’t have the luxury of keeping up with the world, let alone pop culture or celebrity news.

The truth was, he hadn’t recognized you—not as the world-famous singer everyone else seemed to adore. To him, you were just the frustrating woman who had suddenly appeared in Mrs. Walls’ house and made everything more complicated.

But even as irritation bubbled under his skin, he couldn’t help but feel intrigued. There was a fire in you that clashed with his rough edges, and it both annoyed and fascinated him.

For Bucky, Mrs. Walls had always been a comforting presence—a grandmother figure who offered him advice and a safe space to talk. Her home had become a haven. And then you showed up.

Now, that peace was gone, replaced with constant banter and an energy that made it hard for him to stay indifferent.

Mrs. Walls watched the two of you, her lips twitching as if suppressing a smile. Despite your usual quiet demeanor, you seemed to come alive whenever Bucky was around.

“You two are like a pair of bickering children,” she muttered under her breath.

“Excuse me?” you said, shooting her a look.

“Nothing, dear,” she replied with a knowing smile, sipping her lemonade.

Bucky glanced at you, shaking his head. “You know, for someone who wants peace and quiet, you sure have a lot to say.”

“And for someone who wants to mow the lawn, you sure talk a lot for no reason,” you shot back, folding your arms.

Bucky laughed, low and mocking. “This is going to be fun.”

“Fun for you, maybe,” you muttered, turning your attention back to the garden, though your face was still flushed from the exchange.

As he walked away, you couldn’t help but glance at his retreating figure, hating how effortlessly confident he looked. Bucky, meanwhile, shook his head, pretending not to notice you watching him.

Both of you were equally exasperated—and similarly intrigued.

Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, holding it up between two fingers with a smug grin. “Alright, princess, let’s make a deal. If it lands heads, I’ll keep mowing. If it’s tails, I’ll stop, and you can go back to your precious nap.”

You crossed your arms tightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “I hate this game,” you muttered, watching as the coin gleamed in the sunlight. He always did this—turning everything into some sort of challenge just to get under your skin.

Bucky smirked, clearly enjoying your irritation. “I know. That’s why it’s so much fun.”

Rolling your eyes, you huffed, “Tails.”

He nodded mock-seriously, flicking the coin into the air with practiced ease. It spun rapidly, catching the light with every turn before landing in his palm. He slapped it onto the back of his hand, then slowly revealed the result with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Heads,” he declared, his voice full of triumph.

“Ugh!” You threw your hands in the air, frustrated, pushing off the bench. As you stomped toward the house, the wooden slats creaked behind you, muttering, “I’m getting noise-canceling headphones.”

Mrs. Walls watched you retreat inside, shaking her head with a fond smile. She turned to Bucky, who was spinning the coin between his fingers like a magician showing off his trick.

“You really should stop teasing her,” Mrs. Walls said gently, her tone a mix of reproach and amusement.

Bucky shrugged, slipping the coin back into his pocket. His lips curled into a devilish grin. “Nah… it’s fun.”

🌷🌷🌷🌷

You peeked through the blinds, trying not to let the soft rustle of the fabric give you away. Outside, Bucky was still chatting casually with Mrs. Walls. He leaned against the handle of the lawn mower, his broad shoulders relaxed, and his expression unusually serene.

How could he be so normal and polite with her, yet every time he spoke to you, it felt like he lived to make you grit your teeth?

You narrowed your eyes, watching him laugh at something Mrs. Walls said. That face… you thought bitterly. What a waste of a perfectly good jawline and those stupid dimples.

Letting the blinds fall back into place with a soft snap, you turned away and headed to your room.

Inside, the space was dim, the curtains drawn tightly against the glaring afternoon sun. The cool, muted light was a welcome contrast to the irritation buzzing in your head. You kicked off your slippers with a little more force than necessary and flopped onto the bed, burying your face in the pillows.

The mattress was soft, and the faint scent of lavender from the room’s diffuser helped ease the tension in your shoulders. But even as you lay there, trying to block out the world, your mind kept drifting back to the smug grin on Bucky’s face and the way he seemed to revel in riling you up.

“Urgh,” you groaned, rolling onto your side and hugging the pillow close. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to forget about him.

Eventually, the steady hum of the ceiling fan and the distant chirping of birds outside began to lull you into a state of calm. Your breathing slowed, and your grip on the pillow loosened. For now, rest was the only thing you wanted—a reprieve from the relentless antics of your maddeningly handsome neighbor.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

The dream came fast and vivid, like a storm. You were running—barefoot, your breath ragged and your heart pounding in your chest. Behind you, shadowy figures loomed, their voices sharp and cruel. The flash of cameras blinded you, their light like fire against your skin. You kept running, your legs aching, but the ground felt like quicksand, pulling you down.

You jolted awake, gasping for air. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as your heart raced, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to your mind. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, you saw the dim, glowing numbers: 2:00 a.m.

Sleep felt impossible now. The stillness of the house, once comforting, now felt suffocating. You swung your legs off the bed and walked to the window, pushing it open. Cool air rushed in, brushing against your flushed skin and carrying the faint scent of dew and earth.

“Should I go out?” you murmured to yourself. It was late—no, it was early—and the world outside was likely asleep. It might be safe.

Pulling on a hoodie and sweatpants, you crept quietly through the house. Every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet made your pulse spike, but you pressed on, determined. When you reached the door, you hesitated, your hand resting on the doorknob.

Flashes of the past flooded your mind—the crowd of paparazzi outside your apartment, shouting your name, their cameras clicking incessantly, their relentless pursuit. You clenched your eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“It’s different here,” you whispered, willing yourself to believe it. Slowly, you pushed the door open and stepped outside.

The cool grass greeted your bare feet as you stepped off the porch, the gentle night breeze brushing against your face. There was no one. No voices. No flashing lights. Just silence and the soft rustling of leaves in the dark.

You exhaled deeply, relief washing over you like a wave. One tentative step after another, you left the house, the distance growing between you and your sanctuary.

You wandered toward the park, the faint glow of streetlights guiding your way. The world felt peaceful, and for the first time in months, so did you—until the faint hum of an engine broke the stillness.

You glanced over your shoulder, your pulse quickening. A car was following you, its headlights low but its presence unmistakable. Then you saw it—a glint of metal, the unmistakable outline of a camera lens.

Shit. They’d found you.

Your heart pounded as the car crept closer. Picking up your pace, you started walking faster, then broke into a run.

“Y/N! Where have you been?” a voice called out from the car, loud and intrusive.

You didn’t answer, your breath quickening as you pushed yourself to move faster.

“Have you heard your ex-fiancé has rekindled things with his ex?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. What? Your mind reeled. You hadn’t even ended things officially, and he’d already moved on? That bastard. While you were here, broken and dealing with trauma, he was playing house?

“Is it true you gave money to your manager, knowing about his gambling addiction?”

You stopped dead in your tracks, glaring at the man hanging out of the car window. “No! I didn’t know! Leave me alone, you jerk!”

You started running again, your breath burning in your lungs, your legs aching. Desperation clawed at you as the car followed relentlessly. Then you saw him—a familiar figure jogging under the streetlights.

“It can’t be,” you whispered.

Without thinking, you sprinted toward him, your voice frantic. “Bucky! Help me!”

Bucky stopped mid-stride, his brows furrowed as he saw you running toward him. His routine early-morning jog had just turned unusual. His sharp eyes quickly took in the distress written all over your face. Before he could react, you leaped behind him, clutching the back of his hoodie and crouching slightly to shield yourself.

He stiffened, caught off guard. Then he saw it—a car slowing down, its passenger wielding a camera that kept flashing incessantly. The bright lights blinded him momentarily, and irritation sparked in his chest.

“Hey!” Bucky growled, marching toward the car. The camera flashes continued, and without hesitation, he snatched the camera from the paparazzo’s hands and smashed it against the pavement.

The paparazzo’s jaw dropped in shock. “My camera!” he yelled, scrambling to pick up the broken pieces.

But he wasn’t done. Pulling out his phone, the man began recording. “You’re a dead man! Who the fuck are you? Her boyfriend? Bodyguard?”

Bucky, his irritation mounting, opened his mouth to correct him, but before he could, you blurted out, “He’s my boyfriend.”

Bucky froze, glancing over his shoulder at you. Your grip on his hoodie tightened as you peeked around him, glaring at the paparazzo.

The man in the car stared at the two of you, his phone still recording. “This is going to be front-page news.”

Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell did you just drag me into?” he muttered under his breath.

Exciting News!

I’m thrilled to announce the release of my new book, Dad, I Can’t Let You Go—a heartfelt collection of short poems about loss, love, and the journey of missing someone deeply. This book is dedicated to my father and to anyone who has experienced the pain of losing a loved one.

Available now on E-Kindle Amazon!

Dad, I Can't Let You Go! <<< Here's the link.

Thank you for your support, and I hope these poems resonate with you.

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[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — five

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 49.5k words… sorry 

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — a late-night visit from mark exposes the cracks in your fragile relationship, pushing you further apart with every unspoken word and lingering wound. distance grows, heartbreak deepens, yet amidst the chaos, your bond becomes raw and consuming. but just as it feels like you might find each other again, one devastating misunderstanding threatens to destroy everything, leaving you questioning if love can survive when the world around you refuses to let it thrive.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit themes, really angsty chapter (get tissues), rough sex, manhandling, fucking against the lockers, degradation, dom (male) and sub (female), oral sex (male receiving), throat fucking, deep throating, hair pulling, choking, spanking, impact play, overstimulation, possessive behavior, degradation, praise mixed with humiliation, rough handling, marking/bruising, choking, spitting, tense conversations and confrontations, so many emotions, so much guilt, fear, and longing, overthinking and overanalyzing girlies unite, moments of rawness and vulnerability, lots of internal conflicts, mark gets heated this chapter, frustrated mark, he eats her up i fear, karina and y/n bestie moments, wholesome girl moments 🫶, jeno and reader bestie moments too, jeno is such a flirt lmao, oh also his dad is a little bitch but we know! boy toy auction (oth viewers you’re welcome!), beautiful gala scene, ending … :((

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

Karina’s voice cuts through the quiet, distant and curt. “It’s for you,” she says without sparing you a glance. 

Your brows pull together as you glance at the clock—just past midnight. Confusion lingers until you open the door, and the sight before you instantly shifts your mood. Mark stands there with a familiar, easy smile tugging at his lips, a warmth that never fails to pull you in. His backpack rests over one shoulder, a clear sign he plans to stay the night, and in his hand, he’s holding his guitar case, always an extension of him, always something that feels so uniquely his.

The apartment felt heavy with unspoken tension, the kind that lingered in the air and wrapped itself around every glance. Karina had barely said a word since letting Mark in, her movements sharp and deliberate as she shut the door behind him. She didn’t look at you, didn’t offer her usual teasing remarks or warm goodnights. Instead, her body language did all the talking—the stiff set of her shoulders, the tight grip on her phone, the way she turned away almost immediately after ushering him inside.

You tried not to notice, but it was impossible not to. The silence between you wasn’t loud, but it was deafening. A growing chasm that neither of you had dared to bridge, and tonight was no exception. Karina muttered a curt, “It’s for you,” before retreating to her room without another glance. The faint sound of her door closing echoed down the hallway, leaving you and Mark standing in the dim light of the living room.

The second you see him standing there, your chest tightens with an anxiety you’ve been carrying all week. It’s not just the guilt from avoiding him or the exhaustion from endless deadlines—it’s the weight of what you overheard. Mark’s voice in your mind, the conversation with Jeno replaying like a broken record. You’ve tried to shake it, rationalize it, but the words cling to you, making your stomach twist. Now, standing in front of him, you feel it all at once: the unease curling in your stomach, the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands fidget almost unconsciously. Your breaths feel shallow, your heart racing like it’s trying to escape the uncertainty building inside you.

But then he looks at you—soft and unassuming—and shoots you a boyish smile, the one you love so much, the one that never fails to undo you. It’s a simple curve of his lips, but it’s everything. It’s the smile that pulls you into him when you’re hesitant, that tells you you’re safe even when your thoughts are screaming otherwise. His teeth catch on his bottom lip briefly, a fleeting nervous habit you’ve always found endearing, and the warmth in his eyes crinkles the corners just slightly. It’s not a practised grin—it’s him, open and vulnerable in a way only he can be. And just like that, the tension in your chest loosens. It doesn’t disappear entirely, but it dulls enough for you to step closer, to let him in.

Your eyes lingered on him, a mix of warmth and unease unfurling in your chest. It had been a long week, both of you buried under deadlines and responsibilities, and seeing him now—at midnight, no less—sent your heart into an uneven rhythm, caught between relief and guilt. “You’re here,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as you took a step closer. “Hi.”

Mark set his guitar down by the couch, his backpack sliding off his shoulder before his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. “Hi, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice low and familiar as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Missed you.”

You melted into him, your arms looping around his neck as his warmth seeped into you. For a moment, the world outside this embrace didn’t exist—the deadlines, the doubts, the noise in your head. It was just Mark.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, burying your face in his hoodie. But even as the words left your lips, the shadows of last week crept back in, whispering doubts and questions you weren’t ready to voice. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, grounding you in the present, and you sighed softly against him.

When he pulled back, his eyes met yours, warm and steady. “I know you love me, but why are you here at midnight?” you teased, tilting your head slightly.

He blinked at you, deadpan. “We agreed to hang out, dummy. You really forgot?”

A guilty laugh bubbled out of you. “Oh… I don’t remember that.” You glanced down, feeling a pang of guilt as his words sank in.

“I told you on the phone earlier.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, reassuring kiss. “It’s fine. You’ve been swamped. But I’m here now.”

You nodded, your smile returning faintly. “Let’s go to my room,” you murmured, tugging gently at his hand.

As soon as the door closes behind you, the quiet intimacy of your room wraps around you both. The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts a warm, amber light over the space, and the faint scent of cinnamon lingers in the air from the candle you forgot to blow out earlier. It feels cozy, almost too intimate for the distance you’ve been feeling lately, but Mark doesn’t hesitate. He sets his backpack down by the desk and carefully leans his guitar against the wall before turning his attention back to you.

You sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed, watching him with a mix of guilt and affection. He shrugs off his hoodie, revealing his bare torso beneath, the lean muscle and smooth skin catching the low light of the room. The way his chest rises and falls with each breath makes your stomach flip, the sight both comforting and electrifying. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he looks at you with that same unreadable softness he always seems to carry.

You see how his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something, but then it closes just as quickly. He watches you closely, his gaze flickering over your face, your body language, your unusual silence. The weight of his attention is almost too much, his eyes catching every detail you wish you could hide. His hands tighten slightly at his sides, and you can see the gears turning in his head as he pieces together the things you’re too afraid to say. He’s about to ask something—you can feel it—but you speak first, your voice soft and edged with distraction.

“Take this off too,” you whisper, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweats, your attempt to shift the focus. The words are meant to sound teasing, playful, but there’s a hollowness in your tone that even you can hear. You tug lightly at the fabric, your lips tilting into a faint, forced smile as you look up at him. He hesitates, his brows furrowing just slightly before he lets out a quiet sigh, his hands reaching down to brush yours away gently.

“Y/N…” His voice trails off, unsure, the usual warmth in it replaced by something heavier—concern, confusion. His fingers linger over yours, trying to read you without pushing too hard. But when you don’t meet his eyes, when your hand slips away from him too quickly, he knows something’s wrong. He kneels slightly, coming to your eye level, his voice low and soft. “Baby, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Come here,” you murmur, extending a hand toward him, trying to redirect the moment, to distract him. But even as he steps closer, even as he leans into your touch, his focus doesn’t waver. He notices how you avoid his gaze, how the softness he’s used to isn’t there.

He steps closer, letting you pull him to stand between your knees. His hands instinctively settle on your waist, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric of your shorts. You look up at him, your fingers slipping under his shirt to rest against the warm, firm skin of his stomach. It’s such a simple touch, yet it feels grounding, as if you’re trying to tether yourself to him. But your mind drifts, clouded by the remnants of overheard words and the storm of doubts you haven’t been able to shake all week.

“You okay?” he asks softly, his voice low and careful, the tenderness in it making your chest ache. You don’t register it at first, your thoughts wandering to the weight of everything unsaid between you. He gives your waist a small squeeze, his thumbs pausing their soothing movements. “Baby,” he tries again, leaning down slightly to catch your gaze. “Are you okay?”

You blink, his words finally piercing through your haze. “Hmm?” you mumble, your voice distant, the weak “yes” that follows sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.

Mark tilts his head, his brows knitting together as he studies you, his hands still steady on your waist. “You sure?” he presses gently, the warmth in his tone steady, but his eyes flicker with concern. You don’t meet his gaze fully, your fingers idly brushing against his skin, your body present but your mind far away.

His silence stretches as he watches you, trying to piece together the shift in your demeanor. “What’s going on?” he finally asks, his voice softer now, but laced with worry. The question lingers, the weight of it pressing against the air between you, and you feel his unwavering gaze as he waits for an answer.

You shake your head to assure him it’s nothing, wanting to lie and tell him everything’s okay, but the words catch in your throat, heavy and unconvincing. Instead of speaking, you tug him closer, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and tentative at first. He responds immediately, his grip on your waist tightening as he leans into you. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that leaves you breathless. You can feel the tension in his body, the restraint as he tries to let you set the pace.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your hands trailing up his chest and over his shoulders. “I’m sorry I’ve been… distant,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve just been swamped with assignments, and—”

“Baby, it’s okay,” he cuts you off gently, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I get it. We’ve both been busy.” His lips curl into a small smile, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—concern, maybe even doubt.

He knows it’s not just that. There’s something else lingering, something you’re not saying, but he doesn’t want to push you—not yet. He hopes you’ll tell him when you’re ready, that you’ll let him in on whatever’s weighing so heavily on your mind. Still, the way your eyes flicker away from his, the faint tension in your shoulders, doesn’t go unnoticed.

“But it’s not just that,” you admit, your hands gripping his shoulders a little tighter. “I’ve been in my head a lot. I didn’t mean to shut you out.” Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to keep going, the weight of the week catching up to you. “I missed you, Mark. I really missed you.”

His expression softens instantly, and he cups your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I missed you too,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to explain everything right now, okay? Just let me be here for you.”

His patience disarms you, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself feel like they’re crumbling. You nod softly, your fingers trailing over his wrist before pulling him down onto the bed with you. He moves easily, settling over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Your hands instinctively go to the waistband of his sweatpants, your legs beginning to wrap around his waist—but you stop. The look in his eyes freezes you. It’s not lust, not entirely. It’s something deeper, something raw. His gaze is steady, filled with an emotion you can’t quite name but feel all the way to your core.

He leans closer, his face hovering just inches from yours. You expect him to kiss you, to close the gap, but instead, he just smiles—a soft, almost awe-struck curve of his lips that catches you off guard. You lean up slightly, chasing his mouth, but he pulls back just enough to keep you from reaching him.

Your brows scrunch in confusion. “What?” you whisper, the question more annoyed than breathy.

He shakes his head lightly, the corners of his lips quirking upward even more. “Just can’t believe how fucking beautiful my girl is,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with sincerity. His words make your stomach flip, warmth flooding through you, and you feel yourself falter under the intensity of his gaze.

You hum softly, the sound low and teasing, and he moves with a deliberate ease, shifting to sit back against the headboard. Without hesitation, you follow, you straddle his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly, earning a quiet groan from him that sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of heat, but there’s a softness in them too—a contradiction you’ve come to crave.

His hands settle on your thighs, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, not being able to help himself as he repeats it. His eyes trace every inch of your face. The sincerity in his voice makes your breath hitch, and you lean in to kiss him again, your lips moving against his with a quiet urgency.

Your hands trail down his neck, over his shoulders to his chest. Your fingers trace the lean muscles, feeling them flex subtly under your touch, his breathing deepening with every movement. His skin is smooth and inviting, a contrast to the sharp ridges of his collarbone and the firmness of his torso. You let your hands roam, memorizing every dip and peak of his chest, 

Your hips start moving with deliberate intensity, every roll of your hips pressing your body tighter against his. You can feel the hard length of him beneath you, and the sensation sparks a shameless hunger in you. His hands grip your waist with a possessive force, his fingers digging into your skin as though he’s trying to steady himself. 

His head falls back, exposing the taut line of his neck, and then he lets out a low, guttural moan that sends heat pooling between your thighs. The sound is raw, primal, and utterly addictive, pushing you to move faster, grinding down with more purpose. Each shift of your hips makes his breath hitch, his muscles tightening under your touch, and the sight of him unravelling beneath you only drives you further, making your own arousal almost unbearable.

“Y/N,” he groans softly, his grip on your thighs tightening. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he looks at you again, his gaze dark and full of heat. “What are you doing to me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you lean in, your lips brushing along the line of his jaw before trailing down his neck. You feel the faint scrape of stubble against your lips as you suck lightly at his pulse point, and the low, guttural sound he makes sends a shiver down your spine.

His hands slide down your back with a gentle firmness, pulling you even closer to him. His eyes soften as he looks up at you. There’s a warmth in his gaze, one that makes your stomach flip and your breath catch—a quiet intensity, as though you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. The way he’s holding you, the pads of his thumbs brushing against your skin, is grounding yet tender, a contrast to the heat coursing through you just moments before.

You tilt your head up so your eyes meet his. “I love you,” he says softly, the words wrapping around you like a warm embrace. His voice is tinged with emotion, steady but with an edge of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. You remember the first time he said it—how it completely took your breath away, leaving you stunned, unsure of how to respond. That night, he’d promised to keep saying it, to keep reminding you, until you were ready to say it back. And true to his word, he’s never let a moment pass without making sure you know how he feels.

But every time he says it, it stirs something inside you, a mix of longing and fear. The way he looks at you—so full of conviction and certainty—makes you feel both cherished and cornered. You want to say it back, you want to be ready, but a part of you feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, afraid of the fall. The words lodge in your throat, heavy and unyielding, and you can’t quite understand why. Instead, you lean into the physical sensations: the heat of his hands on your skin, the way his thumb brushes against your cheek. 

Your rapid movements slow, the deliberate rhythm you’d set now faltering as the weight of his words settles over you. His hands remain on your hips, steady and warm, but your body seems to pause on instinct, absorbing the quiet vulnerability in his tone. Your heart races, your stomach flips, but there’s an ache deep inside you that won’t go away. It’s as though your body reacts in ways your mind refuses to let you.

Mark takes in your silence, his eyes scanning your face for a hint of a reaction. He doesn’t seem hurt—he knows you’re not ready, knows your hesitation isn’t because of him. But tonight, something about you feels different. Your lack of response isn’t just about being unready. There’s a tension in your shoulders, a fleeting look in your eyes, and he knows you’re not entirely here with him. His thumb lingers on your back, his gaze soft but steady. “Baby,” he says quietly, “come closer.”

You shift on his lap again, trying to distract yourself and him. You lean in, to press your hips down, grinding against him slowly. A soft groan escapes his lips, and for a moment, you think he’s going to give in. You move to take off your top, wanting more, needing the physicality to distract you from your swirling thoughts, but his hand catches yours mid-motion.

His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles against your hand. His gaze is steady, almost too steady that it makes you freeze. He studies you, his eyes flickering over your expression with an unreadable softness. “Y/N,” he murmurs, a calm firmness in his tone. “Get up for a second.”

You blink at him, startled. “What?” you pout, your voice laced with confusion and mild frustration. You weren’t expecting him to stop you—normally, he’s the one who initiates, who pulls you closer and makes your body forget everything else. “Why?” you ask, the sulk in your tone more pronounced now.

His lips twitch into a small smile, but his eyes remain steady, searching yours. “Just for a second,” he repeats. “Trust me.”

You hesitate, your body stiff and unmoving as you sit on top of him, still unhappy about this. Mark’s patience begins to wear thin, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he watches your reluctance. Without another word or argument, his hands settle firmly on your waist, guiding you with a quiet authority that leaves no room for resistance. He maneuvers you effortlessly, shifting your body until you’re sitting between his legs, your back pressed snugly against his chest.

After a few seconds of feigned compliance, you shift abruptly, pulling away from his touch and moving to sit beside him on the bed. Crossing your arms and legs with a pout, you glare half-heartedly at the strings, refusing to meet his amused gaze. His smirk grows as he watches your little rebellion, his eyes flicking over you with a mix of amusement and challenge.

You scoff, turning your head sharply to avoid his gaze, your arms tightening across your chest. His smirk only deepens at your defiance. Without a word, Mark reaches over, his hands finding your waist again, firm but playful as he attempts to pull you back toward him.

“Come here, stubborn,” he says, his voice dipping into something softer, more coaxing. You resist at first, leaning further away as if to emphasize your stance, but his grip doesn’t falter. He’s stronger than you give him credit for, and the slight tug sends you stumbling closer, your shoulder bumping against his chest.

“Mark!” you protest, a reluctant laugh bubbling up despite yourself. His arms circle you fully this time, holding you against him in a loose, teasing embrace.

“See?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “This is where you belong—right here. Stop fighting it.” His tone is warm, almost smug, and the proximity of his body to yours is enough to make your pulse quicken.

Your lips curve into a smirk as your fingers trail lightly over his forearm. “Maybe I like fighting it,” you add, your voice lower now, deliberately taunting. You can feel his grip tighten just slightly, and you know you’re getting to him, but you don’t stop. “Maybe I just like seeing if you can handle me.”

Mark’s hands linger on your waist, his grip firm but playful as he tries to pull you back against him. “Stop being difficult, baby,” he mutters, his voice low and tinged with amusement, but there’s a flicker of something darker—something charged—beneath it.

You twist out of his hold again, your body brushing against his in deliberate defiance. His jaw clenches, his patience fraying, and you know exactly what you’re doing. “Make me,” you say, your tone dripping with challenge as you step just out of reach, a coy smile teasing at your lips.

You take a step off the bed, moving slowly, a teasing sway in your hips as you glance back at him over your shoulder. The intention is clear—you’re planning to take control, to slide onto his lap and finally drive him to the point where he can’t resist you. You know exactly what you’re doing and exactly how he reacts when you’re on top of him.

But before you can make your move, his sharp gaze locks onto you, narrowing with purpose. In an instant, Mark lunges forward, grabbing you with swift precision. His hands find your waist again, but this time, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you down onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress as he hovers over you, his weight pressing you into the softness. The heat between your bodies is palpable, and the air around you feels electric.

“You’re such a brat,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, a teasing whisper that makes your breath hitch. You arch up into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and pull him closer. The kiss is hungry, his mouth moving against yours with a need that makes your head spin. His hips press against yours, and you can feel him, hard and unrelenting, through his sweats. You grind up, earning a deep groan from him that vibrates against your lips.

Breaking the kiss, you let your hand wander down his chest, trailing lower until your fingers press over the thick outline of his cock. He stiffens above you, his breath catching, and you smirk up at him, your thumb rubbing deliberately slow circles over him. “I could so beat you in a fight,” you tease, your voice breathy but laced with mischief.

Mark shakes his head, his eyes dark and hooded as he looks down at you. “Yeah?” he rasps, his lips curving into a crooked grin. “I’d let you get a few punches in.”

Your laugh is cut off by a sharp inhale as his hips roll into your hand, the friction sending a jolt of heat through your body. “Mmm, need you,” you moan, your lips parting as your back arches into him. The sound of your voice, needy and raw, makes him falter for a moment, his control slipping.

You take advantage of his hesitation, shifting to push him onto his back, your hands already sliding down his torso. But just as you start to lower yourself, your intentions clear, Mark’s hands shoot out to grab your arms, stopping you in your tracks. “Stop distracting me… fuck,” he groans, his voice rough and strained, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he struggles to compose himself. “I need to teach you how to play my guitar.”

You pout up at him, your lips swollen and your cheeks flushed, but his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s determined, but the heat in his gaze tells you it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to give in. The tension between you crackles, a tantalizing promise of what’s to come, but for now, he’s not letting you win.

“Mark…” you start, but the words die in your throat when he reaches for his guitar, his movements unhurried. His lips twitch into a small, knowing smile as he adjusts the strap over his shoulder, plucking a few strings to test the tune.

You groan dramatically, flopping back onto the bed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the room. “You’re not in the right headspace, baby,” he says simply, his eyes flicking to yours with a gentle challenge. “And I don’t just mean for sex.”

You narrow your eyes at him, propping yourself up on your elbows. “So you’re punishing me by playing guitar instead?”

“Not a punishment,” he corrects, plucking out a soft, familiar melody that makes your heart skip a beat. “A distraction. For both of us.”

Your lips part to protest, but the sound of his fingers against the strings stops you. The notes are soft, almost tender, and the way he glances at you while playing—it’s impossible not to feel your walls start to falter, even if just a little.

Mark nods toward you. “Come on,” he says, his voice laced with that quiet confidence that always disarms you. “I’ll teach you something new.”

You huff but comply, sliding even closer until your back brushes against his. He leans forward, carefully placing the guitar in your lap, his arms brushing against yours as he adjusts your fingers on the strings. The closeness makes your breath hitch, and despite your frustration, you can’t deny the way his touch grounds you.

“Relax your body,” he murmurs, his voice low and patient as his fingers guide yours over the fretboard. “Let me lead, let me take care of you.”

The double meaning in his words isn’t lost on you, and you feel a pang of guilt twist in your chest. You glance to him, finding his gaze already on you, and the tenderness in his eyes nearly undoes you. He doesn’t press for answers, doesn’t push you to explain the storm in your head. He just stays there, steady and unyielding, giving you the space to find your footing.

As he walks you through the chords, his hands linger over yours, his warmth seeping into your skin. But you can’t shake the heaviness in your chest, the quiet battle waging in your mind. You force a smile, laugh at his jokes, but it all feels hollow—forced. And you can tell he notices.

“You’re distracted,” he says after a while, his voice soft but pointed. He sets the guitar aside, turning his full attention to you. 

Your gaze drops to your lap, your throat tightening under the weight of his question. “Nothing,” you mumble, but the crack in your voice betrays you.

Mark leans closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “Baby,” he says, his tone a careful blend of concern and patience. “Talk to me. Please.”

The sincerity in his voice breaks something in you, and for a moment, you consider telling him everything—about the conversation you overheard, the insecurities eating away at you. But the words don’t come. Instead, you shake your head, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Just tired,” you lie, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips, hoping to distract him. “I’m okay.”

But the way his eyes linger on you, the unspoken understanding in his expression, makes it clear he knows better. He doesn’t push, though. He just nods, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand as he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

Mark’s embrace is warm, grounding, but it does nothing to silence the storm raging in your head. The memory of his conversation with Jeno echoes like a cruel loop, the words twisting and turning until they’re almost unrecognizable. He didn’t deny anything—he just let Jeno’s accusations hang in the air like they were true. You try to tell yourself you misheard, that you’re overthinking, but the doubt won’t leave. And now, in his arms, you feel the weight of it all pressing down, threatening to crush you.

The comfort you once found in his presence is replaced by a hollow ache, your mind torn between the man who has been your constant and the voice in your head telling you he might not be who you thought. Mark notices your silence almost immediately. His fingers brush against your cheek, his voice soft but tinged with concern. “You okay, baby?”

You nod without looking at him, a forced smile on your lips. But the cracks in your facade are showing, and Mark isn’t someone you can fool. His thumb lingers on your jaw, tilting your face toward him. “You don’t need to hide anything from me, you know.” He says again gently.

Something snaps inside you. Maybe it’s his patience, his persistence, or the way he looks at you like he knows you’re falling apart. “Stop asking me if I’m okay,” you snap, harsher than you intend. His hand drops from your face, the warmth replaced by a sudden chill.

Mark’s brows furrow. “You don’t need to be so pushy and suffocating,” you blurt out, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. The second they’re out, you want to take them back, but the damage is done. His expression hardens, his confusion bleeding into frustration.

“What the hell is going on with you?” he demands, his voice edged with something you’ve never heard from him before. “One minute you’re fine and wanna fuck me, and the next you’re shutting me out, like you don’t want to be here with me.”

You cross your arms, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, like you’ve found any time for me this week.” 

Mark blinks, visibly taken aback. The hurt flashes across his face before he can mask it. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly, the tension in his shoulders betraying his calm tone. “I’ve been here, Y/N. I’ve been here for you through everything, even when you’ve been pushing me away.” He pauses, his voice softening but carrying an edge of frustration. “You’ve been on and off since I came over and you’ve been blunt with your calls and texts, shutting me out, but I’ve still tried. I’ve still been here, trying to make this work because I love you, even when you make it so hard to get through to you.”

His words hit you harder than you expect, cutting through the wall you’ve been trying so desperately to keep up. You feel the tears welling up, hot and insistent, threatening to spill over despite your effort to hold them back. Your chest tightens painfully, and your voice cracks as you mutter, “I don’t know what you want from me.” The words barely make it out, trembling under the weight of your guilt and confusion, and you hate how exposed they make you feel. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your body tense as you try to suppress the emotions threatening to drown you, but it’s futile. The look on Mark’s face—disappointed, hurt, yet still achingly gentle—only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing thicker with every second of silence that stretches between you.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “And you’ve been distant and cold these last few days. I can’t just leave you alone—not until you tell me what’s going on.”

His words hang heavy between you, but your mind races, fixating on something else entirely. “But it isn’t like you to rush into a relationship so fast,” you say, barely above a whisper, the memory of his best friend’s words hitting you like a dart. Your throat tightens as you speak, and you gulp, regretting it the second the words leave your mouth.

Mark’s laugh cuts through the silence, dry and sharp, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “Oh, so now you know the choices I make?” he says, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time, they don’t feel like a warm embrace—they feel like a mirror, reflecting every insecurity you’ve been burying.

You bite down on your bottom lip, desperate to hold back the tears threatening to spill, but it’s useless. Hot streaks trail down your cheeks, making you feel more exposed, more vulnerable. Mark exhales slowly, the weight of his frustration and sadness cutting deeper than his words ever could. His expression softens, but it doesn’t soothe you. If anything, it makes you feel worse, like you’ve disappointed him in a way you can’t take back.

Then his eyes flash with realization, and you see it—the way his brows knit together, the subtle clench of his jaw. He’s piecing something together, trying to make sense of your unraveling. “Did something happen?” he asks, his tone gentler now, but the concern laced within it only adds to the lump in your throat. When you don’t respond, his voice drops even lower, more insistent. “What did my best friend say to you after I left both of you in the music room?”

“Mark, I’m too tired for this,” you groan, falling back onto the bed, your movements sluggish and deliberate as you reach for the other pillow and toss it onto the floor, a habit ingrained in your time together. The two of you have never needed more than one pillow—always sharing it, always curling into the same space like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

It’s an invitation—a silent one. You shift the bed sheets to make room for him but he doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at you, his body tense and his gaze unwavering. You swallow hard, already bracing yourself for his next move, for his words, for the inevitable. His body language—rigid shoulders, the clench of his fists at his sides—speaks volumes.

“I’m gonna go,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, though it carries the weight of a decision he doesn’t want to make. He steps back, and the space between you feels cavernous, even though the room is so small. “I think we’re both in over our heads,” he continues, his tone careful, almost measured. “We need to talk about this later, when you’re ready. Because right now, this isn’t going anywhere.”

He leans down, his face hovering close to yours where your head rests against the pillow. He presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than they need to, and then he pulls the covers up over you—a gesture so soft it makes your heart ache. And then he’s gone. The sound of the door closing behind him echoes in your ears, louder than it has any right to be. 

You’ll replay this moment over and over, dissecting the tilt of his head, the way his lips pressed into a thin line as he turned away. The soft click of the door closing behind him will echo louder each time you think about it, drowning out every whispered promise he made, every lingering touch you thought you understood. You’ll remember the way the warmth of him seemed to vanish the second he stepped out, leaving the room colder, emptier. In this moment, though, you don’t know any of that. All you feel is the heaviness in your chest, the pull of exhaustion, and the quiet denial that this could mean anything more. But deep down, in the part of you you’ve been trying to ignore, you already know—this isn’t just a goodbye. This is a fracture, the kind that only widens with time, until all that’s left are the jagged edges of something you once held close.

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying here, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The minutes bleed into each other, your thoughts swirling so violently that time itself seems to dissolve. It could have been only a few minutes—or maybe hours. You’ve lost track. Your chest tightens as your eyes widen in the darkness, tears streaming silently down your face, hot and relentless. They burn with the weight of everything—the argument, Mark’s retreat, and the finality in his tone when he said, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

You try to even out your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, but your lungs feel like they’re working against you. The storm inside your chest refuses to settle, and the hollow ache of regret begins to gnaw at you. Your mind replays every detail of Mark’s conversation with Jeno, every word exchanged cutting deeper with each repetition. The sharpness in Mark’s laugh—so foreign, so sharp—rings in your ears, each echo twisting the knife further. “Why would I deny it?” The words loop endlessly, merging with Jeno’s accusations, each cycle adding to the unbearable weight pressing against your chest. It feels like you’re trapped, drowning in a sea of doubts and insecurities, unable to break free.

Then, there’s a knock at the door.

You gasp softly, the sound barely audible in the quiet. For a fleeting moment, hope flares in your chest. Could it be him? you wonder, the thought almost enough to propel you out of bed. But you don’t move. Deep down, you know it’s not him. Mark wouldn’t come back after that. He wouldn’t.

The knock comes again, followed by the creak of the door opening. Light spills into the room, harsh and unforgiving, making your eyes burn, but you barely react. You feel numb. A silhouette stands in the doorway, and then a soft, hesitant voice follows.

“Y/N?” Karina’s voice carries a tinge of worry, the kind that she rarely shows, and it cuts through the haze of your thoughts.

You hum faintly in response, not having the energy to form words.

She steps inside, the light framing her figure as she hesitates, scanning the room before approaching your bed. You feel the mattress dip as she sits beside you, her presence cautious but steady. Her hand reaches out to smooth the hair from your face, a gesture so familiar it almost breaks you. Without a word, she hands you a box of tissues, her movements gentle, measured.

Karina doesn’t say anything at first, and you don’t push her to. You don’t have it in you. Instead, you let her fuss over you—wiping your face, smoothing out your blanket. The tension between you from the past week lingers, but neither of you acknowledge it. For the first time in days, you don’t want her to leave. A part of you knows you need her, even if it stings to admit.

“What happened?” she finally asks, her voice soft and careful, like she knows you’ll shatter if she presses too hard.

“I—” Your voice cracks, and you shake your head, unable to finish. You feel her hand rest on your shoulder, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs before leaving the room. You don’t move, don’t bother to ask where she’s going. When she returns moments later, it’s with a small bag of your favourite cookies and more tissues, you’d need it. She places them on the bed beside you and sits down again, looking at you with a quiet patience that feels unfamiliar but comforting.

You sit up slowly, the covers falling from your shoulders as you reach for the cookies. A small, thankful smile breaks through your otherwise sullen expression, and Karina responds with the faintest of nods. For now, it seems, the distance between you is forgotten.

After a few hesitant bites, the words begin to tumble out—slow and fragmented at first, as if testing their weight, and then all at once, spilling over like a dam breaking. You tell her everything, laying bare the tangled mess of insecurities and doubts that have been suffocating you for days. You talk about Mark, about how perfect everything felt the night you made it official, how it seemed like nothing in the world could touch the happiness you shared. The way he held you, the way he made you feel safe, cherished. The best sex, the deepest connection, the overwhelming sense that this was it—the thing you’d been waiting for. But then, you say, it all started to unravel.

The bubble you’d been living in popped, and the world came rushing in. The whispers at cheer practice, the glances that felt too pointed, the comments that cut deeper than you’d like to admit. It was as if your happiness had become a target, something to be scrutinized and torn apart. And then Mark’s best friend—her words sink like stones in your memory, heavy and unrelenting: “It’s not like him to rush into something like this.” You can still hear her voice, the way it lingered like an unspoken warning, shaking the foundation of everything you’d started to believe in.

You tell Karina how those words stuck to you, embedding themselves in your mind like a thorn you couldn’t pull out. They made you question everything—Mark’s intentions, your own worth, the foundation of what you had together. You explain how you overheard Mark’s conversation with Jeno, every word feeling like a dagger and how Mark’s response wasn’t what you expected—it wasn’t defensive or angry, and it wasn’t the outright denial you’d been hoping for. “Why would I deny it?” Those words, you tell her, have been playing on a loop in your head ever since. You’ve tried to rationalise them, to tell yourself you misunderstood, but the doubt lingers, twisting every soft moment between you and Mark into something uncertain.

The weight of it all has been suffocating—pressing against your chest like a vice that refuses to let go. You’ve been trying so hard to put distance between yourself and Mark, using deadlines and exhaustion as your shield. You’d promised yourself not to reach for him, not to give in to the pull that made your chest ache and your head spin. Every time you told yourself, Don’t be so touchy, don’t let him in so easily, it felt like a small victory in protecting yourself from something you couldn’t name. But the second he touches you, the second that boyish smile crosses his lips, it all unravels. Every promise you’ve made to yourself falls apart, and you hate how easily it happens—how little control you seem to have over the way your body and heart react to him.

The pull to him is magnetic, overwhelming in a way that hurts. You feel it in the way your resolve crumbles when his fingers graze your skin, in the way your chest tightens when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You don’t know how to resist it—don’t even know if you want to. It’s a need so visceral, so consuming, that it terrifies you. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it, from seeking him out when your mind tells you not to.

You tell her everything, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. You try to explain how it feels every time Mark gets too close, how the feeling in your chest becomes so intense it almost scares you—the way your heart swells and aches at the same time, like it’s too small to hold the depth of what he makes you feel. It’s foreign, this overwhelming warmth that’s equal parts terrifying and beautiful, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Instead of leaning into it, your instinct is to pull away, to create distance as if that will somehow protect both of you. You don’t say it outright, but you know it’s more about protecting him from you—your flaws, your insecurities, the parts of you you’re convinced he’ll eventually tire of.

“It’s like I’m trying to stop something that hasn’t even happened yet,” you whisper, your voice trembling, tears spilling over despite your best efforts to hold them back. “Like if I push him far enough away now, it’ll hurt less when he finally lets go.” But even as you say it, you feel the contradiction tightening around you. Because how could someone like Mark let go? The way he looks at you, so full of trust and love, makes your chest ache even more. It should be enough to quiet the doubts, but it only intensifies the guilt. The looming thought that maybe you don’t deserve this happiness, that maybe it was never meant to last, lingers in your mind like a shadow you can’t escape. And the harder he tries to love you, the heavier that shadow becomes.

Karina listens intently, her face uncharacteristically solemn. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush to respond, just lets you speak until the words finally run out. Her hand squeezes yours, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady but laced with a quiet anger—not at you, but at the situation. “Y/N, this isn’t on you,” she says firmly. “This whole mess… it’s bigger than you. Jeno, Mark’s best friend, everyone else—they’ve all brought their own shit into this. You’re just stuck in the middle of it, and that’s not fair.”

Her words catch you off guard, but they don’t stop there. “I get it,” she continues, her tone softening slightly. “I get why you’re questioning everything, why you’re scared. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Mark loves you. And whatever anyone else says or thinks doesn’t change that.” She pauses, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “You need to stop carrying the weight of everyone else’s opinions, Y/N. It’s killing you, and it’s not yours to bear.”

Her words catch you like a gust of wind, unexpected yet grounding. They settle heavily in your chest, stirring up emotions you’ve been trying to suppress. You don’t respond right away, the weight of her sincerity holding you still. “I hear you,” you finally murmur, your voice shaky. “But it’s not that easy.”

Karina doesn’t let up, her hand still resting gently on your knee. “I know it’s not,” she says, her tone patient but firm. “But you’re making yourself miserable trying to live up to what everyone else thinks or expects. The only person who needs to believe in this relationship is you—and Mark. He’s chosen you, Y/N. Every single day, he chooses you. Doesn’t that mean something?”

Her words dig deep, unravelling the knot of doubt and fear tangled inside you. “What if I’m not enough?” you whisper, the confession slipping out before you can stop it. “What if I’m the one who ruins it?”

Karina listens quietly, her brows furrowed as she takes in every word, her hand resting lightly on your knee as if to ground you. When you finish, her voice is soft but steady. “You know,” she starts, “the way you’re reacting… it’s not unnatural. When something feels this real, this overwhelming, it’s instinct to want to push it away. You’re scared because it matters so much.” Her words hit you like a gentle nudge, a reminder that your feelings aren’t abnormal, but they still don’t make you feel any less guilty.

“But, Y/N,” she continues, leaning forward, “Mark makes you happy. I can see it. Everyone can see it. He’s good for you in a way no one else has been. He brings out something better in you—makes you lighter, freer, even when you don’t realise it. And I think you do the same for him. That’s rare, and you deserve that. You deserve someone who makes you feel this way, even if it’s scary.”

Her words make your chest tighten, a strange mix of comfort and discomfort. “But why does it feel like I’m ruining it?” you whisper, barely able to meet her gaze.

“Because it’s real,” she says simply. “And when things feel this real, it’s easier to sabotage it than to face it. But pushing him away isn’t going to protect either of you, Y/N. It’s just going to hurt more in the end.”

She hesitates for a moment before asking, “Have you talked to Mark about what you overheard with Jeno?” Her question catches you off guard, and your immediate reaction is to shake your head. Karina sighs, her disappointment subtle but clear. “Y/N,” she says firmly, “you should talk to him.”

The thought makes your stomach twist, and she seems to notice your hesitation. “Listen to me,” she says, her tone more insistent now. “It could all be a misunderstanding, something you’ve interpreted wrong. Mark’s not the kind of guy to leave you in the dark. But if you don’t talk to him, you’ll never know. You can’t keep carrying this weight by yourself. Communication fixes everything.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy and undeniable. “Promise me,” she presses gently, her eyes searching yours. “Promise me you’ll talk to him.”

You gulp, your throat dry as you force yourself to nod. “I’ll try to,” you say, the words shaky and uncertain. But the truth is, even as you say them, the thought of facing him terrifies you. The silence lingers for a moment, heavy with unspoken worries, before you force yourself to break it with a light-hearted laugh.

“Since when did you start sounding so mature?” you tease, the corner of your lips lifting into a faint smile, trying to shift the mood.

Karina shrugs, leaning back slightly. “I’ve always thought like this,” she replies simply, her voice calm but self-assured.

You nod, the smile on your face softening. “I know. You shouldn’t ever hide that, you know.” You pause, your tone a little more serious now. “Sometimes I think you get too caught up in this whole mean girl, cheerleader persona, and people don’t get to see how big your heart is—or how smart you are. Like, really smart. You have such a unique perspective.”

Karina looks at you for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before she sighs and changes the subject, you’re unsure if she’s even registered what you just said. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” she says quietly. “About what I told Jeno at the party.”

You glance at her, surprised by her sudden vulnerability, and shake your head. “It’s okay. I’ve already forgiven you. And… I’m sorry too. For making you feel like I didn’t treasure you or our friendship. Everything you’ve done for us—it means a lot. I know it wasn’t easy keeping us a secret.”

She winces slightly but gives you a small smile. “Still, I was stupid. I shouldn’t have told Jeno. It’s all my fault this is happening,” she says, her voice tinged with regret.

“It was all gonna come out eventually,” you reply, your voice tinged with a bittersweet humor. “The universe never wants me to be happy anyway.” Your words draw a laugh from both of you, the tension in the room easing as you share a moment of levity.

You both fall into an easy rhythm after that, giggling and catching up on everything you’d missed during your weeks of distance. It feels natural, effortless, like slipping into a comfortable routine you didn’t realize you’d missed so much. Hours pass without you even noticing, and before long, the conversation grows softer, your voices laced with exhaustion. Eventually, you both drift off to sleep on your bed, the unspoken forgiveness settling between you like a quiet truce.

───────────────────────────────

The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks as you walk across campus with Karina by your side. The two of you are laughing softly, your breath visible in the cold as it mingles with the faint hum of chatter and the rustling of leaves swirling across the pavement. You do your best to ignore the familiar scenery, focusing instead on Karina’s quip about your professor’s lecture. It’s easier to do with her next to you, her steady presence distracting you from the weight that’s been pressing on your chest for days.

Your laughter falters mid-sentence, the sound dying in your throat as your eyes land on him—Mark. He’s standing just ahead near the library steps, his broad shoulders and familiar stance instantly recognizable, even in the crowded campus. It’s the first time you’ve seen him since that night, since he walked out, a moment that’s been replaying in your mind ever since.

He’s facing your direction, his head tilted slightly, listening as Donghyuck speaks. The light breeze tousles his hair, and for a second, it feels like the entire world slows down. Your chest tightens, and an ache you’ve been trying to suppress rushes to the surface, sharp and unforgiving.

And then, as though some invisible string pulls his attention, his gaze shifts—and locks onto yours.

You freeze. The air feels heavier, your feet rooted to the ground. His eyes, warm and familiar, widen slightly as they meet yours, the surprise on his face quickly melting into something more unreadable. There’s no anger there, no bitterness. Just… Mark. Steady and calm, even in this moment. It’s almost enough to undo you.

Karina’s voice breaks through the haze, calling your name, but it feels distant, muffled. You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on Mark, your chest tightening with every passing second.

He doesn’t move—at first. His expression shifts subtly, his brows knitting together as though he’s debating whether to come over. You can feel it, the pull, the silent gravity that’s always existed between you two. It’s magnetic, undeniable, and so overwhelming that you snap.

Without thinking, you grab Karina’s hand and tug her sharply to the left, pulling her down a different pathway and out of sight. Your pace quickens as your heart pounds in your chest, and you don’t dare look back.

“Y/N,” Karina tuts, her voice low but scolding as she follows your hurried steps. “Do you know how embarrassed I am right now?” she hisses, her voice low but heated. “For you and for both of us?” She glares at you, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “He just saw you run away from him. Like, physically run away. Do you have any idea how bad that looked?”

You don’t respond immediately, the blood rushing in your ears making it hard to think. Only when you’re certain you’re out of Mark’s line of sight do you finally slow down, releasing Karina’s hand and letting out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to see him,” you mumble, brushing a hand through your hair in an attempt to steady yourself.

Karina crosses her arms, her sharp gaze pinning you in place. “You can’t keep doing this,” she says firmly, the disapproval clear in her tone. “Avoiding him doesn’t make this any better.”

You avert your eyes, the sting of her words cutting deeper than you’d like to admit. “I’m not avoiding him,” you mutter, you can even hear the weakness in your voice.

Karina arches a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Right, because dragging me the other way the second you saw him is totally normal behaviour.”

You sigh heavily, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat. “It’s just easier this way,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what to say to him, okay? I don’t know how to… face him.”

Karina shakes her head, her expression softening slightly. “Easier for who, Y/N? Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem easier for you.” She pauses, her voice taking on a gentler edge. “He’s not the type to just give up on you, you know that, right? You owe it to him to talk, to stop running.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to respond. “I just… I need more time,” you manage, though even as you say it, you’re not sure if it’s true.

Karina doesn’t push further, but the look in her eyes tells you she’s not letting this go entirely. “You’re going to have to face him eventually,” she says simply, her voice softer now. “And the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.”

What you don’t know is that Mark noticed you the moment you stepped onto campus. It wasimpossible not to. Your familiar frame is unmistakable even amidst the bustling crowd of students. He knows your walk, the way your shoulders hunch slightly when you’re distracted, the way you pull your coat tighter around yourself when the wind picks up. It’s second nature to notice you, to let his gaze linger, even if he’s told himself to stop.

You’re walking with Karina, laughing softly, though he can’t make out what you’re saying. From the outside, it would seem normal—like nothing’s wrong. But Mark knows better. He can see it in the way your movements are just a little too brisk, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. He’s been watching you for the past week, piecing together the growing distance you’ve carefully carved between the two of you.

It’s been a week since he last had the chance to really talk to you. Seven days of missed calls, curt texts, and excuses that don’t sit right with him. But today, seeing you here, something shifts in his chest—a mix of relief and frustration that’s hard to untangle. He debates walking up to you, cutting through the crowd, saying something—anything—to bridge the growing distance. But then, he notices what you do next.

You stop mid-step, your eyes locking onto him for the briefest second, wide with something that looks an awful lot like panic. He doesn’t move, waiting, hoping you’ll walk toward him. But instead, you grab Karina’s hand and pull her in the opposite direction, your pace quickening until you disappear down a side path. Mark’s jaw tightens, his chest deflating as the realization sinks in. You’re avoiding him—again.

He huffs, the sound low and sharp as he clenches his fists at his sides. Frustration rises in him, bubbling hot and fast, but it’s not just anger. It’s confusion, hurt, and something heavier that he doesn’t have the words for yet. Mark’s patience has always been one of his greatest strengths, but even he has limits. And you’re pushing them.

It started small, a subtle shift he could almost ignore. The first missed call he figured was just bad timing. The second he chalked up to your busy schedule—assignments, cheer practice, life. But then the replies came later and later, turning from thoughtful paragraphs to vague one-liners that made his chest tighten with unease.

At first, he tried to give you space. Everyone gets overwhelmed sometimes, and he didn’t want to make you feel suffocated. But as the days went on, the excuses piled up, and the sinking feeling in his chest grew harder to ignore. The moments you did answer felt distant, like you were speaking to him from behind a wall he couldn’t see over. And when he asked you about it—gently, trying not to push—you brushed him off with the same tired excuse. He knows he shouldn’t, but his hand moves on instinct, reaching for his phone.

He finds himself scrolling through your old messages, rereading the ones that made him smile, that reminded him of how easy things used to be between you. The sweet messages you’d send him late at night, how you’d open up, the jokes that would make him laugh even when he was exhausted. Every word felt like a relic of something slipping further away, and the contrast to the coldness of your recent replies made his chest ache.

mark — hey, haven’t heard from you lately. everything okay?

you — sorry, been busy. talk soon

That ‘sorry’ stung more than he expected. It felt hollow, like an afterthought, and the absence of anything more left a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared at your response, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He typed out a reply, deleted it, then typed something else. Finally, he settled on something simple.

mark — miss you. just wanted you to know that

The ‘seen’ notification popped up almost immediately, but no response followed. Instead, Mark turned to Donghyuck, who had been standing beside him the entire time, watching silently.

“She’s ignoring me,” Mark said finally, his voice low and strained. His thumb lingered over his phone screen, like he was willing a reply to appear.

Donghyuck didn’t look up from his phone immediately, his fingers casually scrolling. “Then maybe give her some space. Let her come to you,” he said, his tone even, but it carried a subtle weight.

Mark frowned, his hand running through his hair in frustration. “What if she doesn’t?”

Donghyuck paused, finally looking at him, his usual teasing demeanor absent. “Then you go to her. You’re Mark Lee, dude. She’s not gonna ignore you forever.” His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, like he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own words.

Mark let out a quiet scoff, his gaze fixed on the ground as his foot tapped restlessly against the floor. “That’s exactly what she’s doing,” he muttered, more to himself than Donghyuck. “She’s scared, and now she’s shutting me out.”

There was no question in his tone, just a quiet certainty that settled heavy in his chest. It didn’t take him long to piece it together—that’s how well he knew you. Every missed call, every vague text, every carefully orchestrated avoidance—it all made sense now. Mark could see it clearly, as if he were watching a story unfold that he’d already read the ending to. This wasn’t just distance. It was you retreating into yourself, building walls he didn’t know how to break down. And the realization didn’t comfort him. If anything, it made his chest tighten further, because knowing why didn’t make it hurt any less.

Donghyuck tilted his head, his expression a mix of curiosity and exasperation. “But why is she scared?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as he studied Mark. “I mean, wasn’t it just, what, a week ago? You guys were all over each other after the river court, right? When she asked you to be her boyfriend?” He paused, letting the implication sink in before adding with a smirk, “Trust me, Mark, the walls are thin. I heard everything. Like, everything, all night long.”

Normally, a comment like that would draw at least a half-hearted laugh or a moan from Mark at the memory, but this time, he didn’t even flinch. His shoulders sagged, and he rubbed the back of his neck with a frustrated sigh. “That’s the thing,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with exhaustion. “I don’t know why she’s scared. She’s not telling me. I don’t know if it’s something I did, or if someone’s said something to her.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “If she’d just talk to me, I could fix it. I could try. But I can’t do anything if she won’t let me in.” His thumb hovered over his phone again, as if it might somehow give him the answers he was searching for. “She’s slipping away, Hyuck. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Donghyuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen, man, I know it feels like shit right now. But people don’t just forget about someone who’s been good to them. You’ve been good to her, Mark. She’ll come around.”

Mark shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know, Hyuck. She’s been so… distant. It’s like she’s already checked out, and I’m the only one holding on.”

Donghyuck hesitated, his usual quick wit replaced by something quieter. “Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she’s dealing with something she doesn’t know how to talk about yet. But if it’s meant to work, it will. You’ve just gotta… hold on a little longer.”

Mark’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Donghyuck’s words pressing against the unease in his chest. “And if it doesn’t work?” he asked quietly, the question hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread.

Donghyuck offered a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then you’ll know you tried. And that’s all you can do, man.”

Mark nodded slowly, though the knot in his chest didn’t ease. Donghyuck’s hope was palpable, but it felt misplaced—like trying to hold water in his hands. He wanted to believe it, wanted to cling to the idea that this space, this distance, was just temporary. But deep down, a small voice whispered that it wasn’t.

As Donghyuck turned back to his phone, Mark’s gaze lingered on the screen of his own, your name still at the top of his messages. He locked it with a sigh, shoving it into his pocket as he stared off into the distance. He had hope too, but it felt fragile, like it might shatter the next time you left him on read.

───────────────────────────────

The gym feels suffocating today, even with the high ceilings and the crisp autumn air wafting in through the cracked windows. The sound of sneakers screeching against the polished court echoes harshly, blending with the relentless thud of basketballs hitting the ground. Mark wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, forcing himself to focus on the drill in front of him, but it’s no use. His mind is miles away, stuck on you.

Patience has always been Mark’s virtue. It’s what makes him a leader on the court, the friend everyone can rely on, and the boyfriend who knows how to wait for you to come around during your phases. But this time, patience feels like punishment. The silence between you has been deafening. He keeps waiting for the moment when you’ll come around, when you’ll slip your hand into his, flash him that smile that makes his chest feel lighter, and come right back to him, where he knows you belong. But that moment never comes. And the longer he waits, the heavier the weight on his chest becomes.

Mark throws himself into basketball, his one constant. It’s where he’s always found solace, where his mind goes quiet, the only sound being the steady rhythm of basketballs bouncing and the occasional sharp whistles from the assistant coach. But even that feels hollow now. His movements are sharper, more aggressive—every pass, every shot laced with a frustration he can’t seem to shake. His teammates notice. Jeno, especially, throws him cautious glances every now and then, as if debating whether to say something. But Mark doesn’t stop. If he keeps moving, keeps playing, maybe he can outrun the ache in his chest.

Basketball has always been his escape but today, it feels different. Mark throws himself into every drill with relentless intensity, pushing harder and faster than anyone else on the court. The fluidity that usually defines his game is gone, replaced by sharp, almost aggressive movements. Every pass is thrown with more force than necessary, every drive to the hoop charged with an edge of frustration that lingers in his chest like a dull ache. His breathing quickens, his chest tightens, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. The weight pressing down on him—the unrelenting ache that seems to grow heavier with every passing day—leaves him with no choice but to keep moving, keep running, keep playing. Anything to dull the storm inside.

Mark catches the ball off a pass, his grip tightening around the leather until his knuckles turn white. His breath comes quicker than it should, his heart pounding against his ribs with a force that feels disproportionate to the effort he’s putting in. He shakes it off, driving to the basket with sharp precision, but the ball bounces off the rim.

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Mark, slow down!” Jaemin shouts, his voice cutting through the squeak of sneakers and the relentless pounding of the ball against the floor. Another failed pass ricochets off the wall, the sound sharp and jarring. “You’re gonna wear yourself out—or worse, kill us all trying to keep up!” His words are laced with frustration, but there’s something else there too, something cautious. His gaze lingers on Mark a moment too long, a flicker of concern flashing in his eyes, like he knows there’s more to Mark’s relentless pace than just a bad day.

Mark barely glances in Jaemin’s direction, his jaw tightening as he moves back into position. The others exchange wary glances, but no one pushes him further. They know better. They’ve seen Mark like this before—focused to the point of obsession, determined to outrun whatever’s gnawing at him. But this time, it’s different.

His chest tightens again, a subtle pull that he dismisses as fatigue. He grabs his knees, bending forward as he tries to catch his breath. It’s just practice, he tells himself. He’s pushed through worse. The weight in his chest feels heavier than usual, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

The piercing sound of Kun’s whistle sliced through the air, cutting through the rhythmic pounding of basketballs and the shuffling of feet on polished wood. Mark exhaled deeply, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as he dragged a forearm across his damp brow. The other boys, equally drained, slowed their movements and began to shuffle reluctantly toward the center of the court, their groans and muttered complaints barely audible over the lingering echo of the whistle.

Kun stood there, clipboard in hand, his usual calm demeanor slightly strained. He waited for the team to gather, his sharp eyes scanning the circle as if measuring their endurance. “Alright, listen up,” Kun started, his voice firm but not unkind. “First of all, good work this morning. You’ve been pushing hard, and I can see the effort.”

The boys exchanged exhausted glances, but no one spoke. They were used to Kun’s praise, usually tempered with a challenge to do better.

“But,” Kun continued, adjusting his clipboard, “I know some of you are wondering where Coach Suh is.”

At that, murmurs rippled through the group. Chenle whispered something to Jaemin, who nodded, both of their faces etched with confusion.

“As you guys know,” Kun said, raising his voice slightly to regain their attention, “Coach Suh will be absent for the time being due to him recovering from surgery.”

A few gasps and surprised exclamations broke out. Jeno’s brows furrowed, and Jaemin’s mouth dropped open. Mark frowned, his jaw tightening at the unexpected news. None of them had heard anything about this.

“Rest assured, he’s okay,” Kun added quickly, his tone reassuring. “It’s nothing life-threatening, but he’ll need some time to recover.” Mark felt the tension ease slightly at Kun’s words, though the uncertainty of what came next still loomed over the group.

Kun glanced at his clipboard, hesitating for just a moment before speaking again. “That said, we’ve got the state championships coming up, and I’m not qualified to lead you guys solely through that.”

The boys exchanged worried looks. Jeno muttered, “This can’t be good,” under his breath.

Kun took a deep breath, bracing himself. “So, we’ve had to make the difficult decision of finding a temporary placement.”

Jeno tilted his head, his expression wary. “Temporary placement?”

Kun’s lips twitched into a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Guys… please don’t kill me.”

Before anyone could respond, the double doors at the far end of the gym creaked open. The sound echoed, and the boys instinctively turned to look. Taeyong strides in with the kind of energy that makes the entire room shift. He’s dressed sharply, his black track pants and a fitted zip-up jacket seeming more intimidating than practical. His clipboard is tucked firmly under one arm, and his eyes scan the court with a piercing sharpness, like he’s already sizing everyone up. His expression is cold, brows drawn into a subtle frown that gives nothing away except impatience. His strides are purposeful, almost militant, and the click of his shoes against the polished floor reverberates through the gym. The team immediately stiffens.

Taeyong doesn’t waste a second. “Alright, listen up,” he barks, his tone clipped and stern, cutting through the murmurs like a knife. His voice carries an authority that dares anyone to challenge him. “Coach Suh is out for the next few weeks. Surgery recovery. I’ll be stepping in as your coach until he’s back.”

The silence that follows is thick and palpable. No one expected this—not Taeyong, of all people. The boys exchange wide-eyed glances, their shock barely concealed. Even assistant coach Kun looks uneasy, shifting on his feet as he observes the team’s reactions, his whistle still dangling from his hand.

“Wait, what?” Chenle blurts out, his voice laced with disbelief. “Since when?”

Taeyong’s head snaps in Chenle’s direction, and his eyes narrow into a glare so sharp it could cut through steel. “Since now,” he replies curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Any other questions?”

Jaemin hesitantly raises a hand, his usual carefree demeanor visibly muted under Taeyong’s gaze. “Yeah, uh, why you?”

The slight lift of Taeyong’s eyebrow is more intimidating than any verbal response. He takes a deliberate step forward, his eyes locking on Jaemin like a hawk. “Because I was asked. Problem?”

Jaemin swallows hard and shakes his head quickly. “Nope. No problem.”

The team collectively exhales, but the tension remains suffocating. Kun clears his throat, clearly attempting to break the awkward silence. “Right, uh, let’s stay focused,” he says, but even his tone wavers slightly under Taeyong’s presence. He blows his whistle, the shrill sound bouncing off the walls, signaling for the team to gather around.

Taeyong flips open his clipboard, his movements methodical and precise. “State championships are around the corner, and as much as I’d love to sit here and hold your hands, we don’t have time for that.” His eyes scan the group, landing on each player as if daring them to even blink out of turn. “You’re not here to have fun. You’re here to win. If anyone has a problem with that, there’s the door.”

Jeno shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Mark, who stands stoically, his jaw tight. Jaemin fidgets, his hand running nervously through his hair, while Chenle mutters something under his breath that earns him a glare from Taeyong.

Kun’s lips press into a thin line, his arms crossed over his chest. “Taeyong,” he starts, his tone measured but cautious, “let’s not forget that this team is used to a different coaching style. Maybe ease into—”

“Easing into it is exactly why we haven’t taken the championship in years,” Taeyong interrupts, his voice slicing through Kun’s words without hesitation. He turns back to the team, his posture rigid, his expression unyielding. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get results.”

Kun’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he steps back slightly, his disapproval evident in the way his brows knit together.

Taeyong doesn’t miss a beat. “Now, get into your positions. We’re running drills. And don’t even think about slacking—I’ll notice, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The boys shuffle reluctantly into their places, the weight of Taeyong’s authority heavy on their shoulders. As the first drill starts, Taeyong’s voice booms across the court, barking orders with the precision of a drill sergeant. “Jaemin, move your feet! Jeno, is that your idea of defense? Pathetic! Mark, faster—you’re dragging the pace down.”

Mark grits his teeth, his chest heaving with exertion as he pushes himself harder. His frustration simmers just beneath the surface, but he channels it into his movements, every pass sharper, every shot more aggressive. Jaemin mutters something under his breath, earning him another sharp reprimand from Taeyong.

“Did you say something, Jaemin?” Taeyong snaps, his tone icy.

Jaemin shakes his head quickly. “No, sir.”

“Good. Then run it again. All of you.”

The team exchanges weary glances, and even Kun’s whistle sounds less enthusiastic when he calls them back to the court. The practice continues under Taeyong’s unrelenting scrutiny, the weight of his expectations pressing down on everyone like a vice.

Later, after what felt like hours of relentless drills, Taeyong called the team to center court. His expression was as stern as ever, his posture straight and commanding as he looked over the exhausted group.

“You’re here because you want to win,” he started, his tone firm but deliberate. “And winning doesn’t come from half-assed effort or lazy attitudes. You don’t walk onto that court expecting a trophy—you earn it.”

His eyes swept over the team, his gaze lingering on each of them for a moment. “I expect focus. Discipline. Every single one of you needs to give 110% every time you step on this court. If you don’t, you’re not just letting yourselves down—you’re letting the entire team down.”

The boys stood in silence, their exhaustion evident, but Taeyong wasn’t finished.

“Mark,” he said, locking eyes with him. “You’re fast, but speed means nothing if you’re not thinking three steps ahead. Start using your brain.”

“Jeno,” he continued, his tone sharp. “You’re the captain. That means leading by example, not coasting through just because you’ve got skills. I need you to push harder.”

“Jaemin,” Taeyong’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Stop waiting for someone else to make a play. Step up, or step aside.”

Kun’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interject, even as the tension in the room grew thicker. Taeyong’s words weren’t just critiques—they were challenges, demands for more than the boys had ever given before.

“If you want to walk into that championship as winners,” Taeyong said, his voice rising, “then you’d better start acting like it now. No excuses, no shortcuts, no mercy—for yourselves or your opponents. Understood?”

The boys nodded, some reluctantly, others with quiet determination. Taeyong’s words hung heavy in the air, a weight they couldn’t ignore.

“Good,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. “Now, hit the showers. Practice starts at 6 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

As the team dispersed, murmurs of exhaustion and disbelief filled the air. Kun watched them go, his expression unreadable, before turning to Taeyong.

“You know they’re not soldiers, right?” Kun said, his voice low.

Taeyong raised an eyebrow, his clipboard tucked under his arm. “They’ll thank me when they’re holding that trophy.”

Kun sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s hope they don’t collapse before then.”

As the players started practice again, it turned into absolute chaos—players running suicides at a punishing pace, the sound of dribbling basketballs echoing against the gym walls, and the strained grunts of exhaustion cutting through it all. Taeyong, barking orders like a drill sergeant, paced the sidelines with clipboard in hand, seemingly unfazed by the sweat-drenched and visibly struggling team. 

Kun’s eyes flicked over the players, his concern growing with each faltering step. Finally, he let out a sharp whistle, the sound cutting through the noise. “Alright, let’s take a breather,” he ordered, his tone firm but laced with compassion. “Five minutes. Get some water.” The players slumped in relief, dragging themselves toward the benches, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Taeyong looks at Kun like he’s just committed a cardinal sin. “Five minutes? They’ve barely broken a sweat.”

Kun meets Taeyong’s gaze evenly, his voice calm but resolute. “They need to recover if you want results. Let them breathe.”

Taeyong doesn’t respond immediately, but the tension between the two is palpable. Finally, he gives a curt nod, his jaw tight. “Five minutes,” he concedes, his tone making it clear he thinks it’s unnecessary.

The boys slump onto the benches or stretch out on the court, their exhaustion palpable. The gym is filled with the sound of labored breathing and the sharp sting of sweat-soaked air. Jeno leans toward Mark, sitting beside him, his elbow resting on his knee as he stares ahead, his jaw working like he’s searching for the right words.

Mark blinks, caught off guard by the proximity. Jeno hadn’t been this close to him, let alone spoken to him with any warmth, in what felt like ages. Ever since the night of the party, he’d been distant—cold, clipped, and virtually nonexistent. The divide between them had loomed large, an unspoken chasm filled with bitterness and resentment. For weeks, Mark had resigned himself to the silence, letting the gap grow wider with each passing day.

Jeno shifts closer, his presence lingering in Mark’s peripheral vision as he finally breaks the silence. “So, how’s it going with Y/N?” he asks nonchalantly, his tone too casual to be genuine, like he’s testing the waters.

Mark’s eyes narrow slightly as he turns to look at Jeno, his expression deadpan. Without a word, he scowls, his annoyance clear as he screws him off with a shake of his head. The silence between them stretches for a moment before Jeno finally leans back, undeterred, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

And then, as if sensing the shift in the air, Jeno glances toward Taeyong, who stands near the edge of the court, clipboard in hand, his posture rigid. “This guy’s gonna kill us,” Jeno says, his voice low but tinged with a rare, conspiratorial edge. His laugh is dry as he gestures subtly toward their father, who looks every bit the control freak he is, hunched over his notes with an intensity that borders on manic.

Mark’s eyebrows furrow slightly, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He plays along, responding like nothing had ever gone wrong. “Yeah,” he mutters, wiping the sweat from his forehead and glancing toward Taeyong, who is hunched over his clipboard, scribbling with an intensity that feels borderline obsessive. “But we’re not gonna let him.”

Jeno turns to him, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Mark mirrors the expression, his own smirk creeping up. “I may be thinking worse,” he replies, a quiet defiance in his voice. “You know how much I hate that man.”

The shared admission hangs in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken solidarity.

Jeno’s smirk widens. “Alright, let’s do this.”

And with that, they begin planning—a silent rebellion disguised as teamwork. Their father’s stern commands and rigid rules? Ignored. Every play Taeyong demands? Subverted. Instead, they rely on what Coach Suh had always taught them, his strategies embedded in their muscle memory. The more they work together, the more their movements align—fluid, synchronised, and completely at odds with everything Taeyong has demanded of them.

It feels good. Not just the act of defiance, but the ease of working alongside Jeno again. Mark glances at his brother and finds him already looking back, a rare glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You ready?” Jeno asks, his voice barely audible over the chaos of the court.

Mark nods, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Always.”

The plan unfolds with precision—perfectly timed passes, unexpected plays, and a seamless understanding of each other’s movements. It’s everything Taeyong doesn’t want, and it’s everything Coach Suh would’ve praised. By the time the whistle blows, Mark and Jeno are laughing, nudging each other like nothing had ever been wrong between them. It’s as if all the tension and resentment from before have dissolved into the sweat-soaked air.

Under the sharp glare of the gym lights, Taeyong’s expression darkened like a brewing storm. His clipboard was gripped tightly in one hand, the edge of the plastic digging into his palm, while the other rested firmly on his hip in a posture that radiated control and growing irritation. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly as his piercing eyes shifted between Mark and Jeno. The two of them, oblivious or simply uncaring, leaned into each other with quiet laughter, nudging shoulders like troublemakers who’d just pulled off a perfect prank.

For a brief moment, Taeyong said nothing, his silence more cutting than any outburst. It hung heavily in the air, dragging everyone’s attention toward him. Even those who hadn’t witnessed the duo’s subtle rebellion could feel the intensity rolling off him in waves. When his voice finally broke the stillness, it was sharp and cold, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

“You think this is funny?” he said, his tone low but deadly, each word deliberate and measured. His eyes narrowed, locking onto Mark and Jeno with the weight of unspoken authority, daring them to keep smiling. The warmth usually carried by Coach Suh’s presence was absent, replaced by something unyielding and unrelenting.

The rest of the team exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to stay silent or step in, but the tension was too thick to cut through. Even Kun, who stood off to the side with a restrained sigh, seemed reluctant to intervene, his own disapproval clear in the subtle furrow of his brow.

When neither Mark nor Jeno offered a response, Taeyong clicked the pen on his clipboard with exaggerated finality and exhaled slowly through his nose. His displeasure wasn’t just palpable—it was suffocating. Seeing Jeno laugh alongside Mark, his estranged brother—after everything Taeyong had drilled into him, every lesson about keeping distance, about loyalty to the family line—was a direct challenge to his authority.

Jeno had always been the obedient one, the son who followed orders, who understood the boundaries Taeyong had set. But now? Now, he was openly defying the very foundation Taeyong had laid, and it stung his ego like a raw wound. It wasn’t just irritating—it was a blow to his pride. He had spent years ensuring that Jeno understood his place, ensuring that the divide between him and Mark remained intact. Yet here they were, laughing and nudging each other like brothers who had never been torn apart by family politics and carefully planted resentment.

It was infuriating.

“Jeno,” Taeyong’s voice cut through the gym like a whip, sharp and controlled. The laughter between Mark and Jeno faltered, the air shifting as they turned toward him, their expressions neutral but their postures guarded. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Jeno’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t falter. “Playing basketball,” he said sarcastically, his tone cool and unaffected.

The answer was like gasoline to a fire. Taeyong’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw ticking again as his gaze bore into Jeno. “Playing basketball,” he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what you call deliberately ignoring every instruction I’ve given you?”

Jeno shrugged, the motion slow and deliberate, as if he were daring Taeyong to push further. “It worked, didn’t it? We scored.”

The audacity in Jeno’s response made Taeyong’s chest tighten, his breath catching as his ego took another hit. He shifted his attention to Mark, his expression colder now. “And you,” he snapped. “You think this is some kind of joke? You’re not here to improvise or show off. You’re here to follow my system.”

Mark’s defiance didn’t waver. Instead, his lips curled into a sharp, humorless laugh that echoed through the gym. “What system?” he asked, his tone dripping with disdain. “You think barking orders and running us into the ground is a system? That’s not a system. That’s just your ego talking.”

Taeyong’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening around the clipboard as if it was the only thing stopping him from snapping entirely. The room felt colder, the weight of his authority clashing against Mark’s outright rebellion. “You want to keep laughing?” Taeyong said, his voice dangerously low. “You think you’re above this team? Above me?”

Mark didn’t flinch. If anything, he squared his shoulders, refusing to let Taeyong’s presence intimidate him. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck tensing as he held his ground. When he spoke, his voice was low but deliberate, every word a dagger. “It’s not difficult to be above you.”

The room seemed to still, as if even the air itself had recoiled from Mark’s words. A few teammates exchanged wide-eyed glances, some shifting uncomfortably on their feet. Even Jeno, who had been watching quietly, looked taken aback by the venom in Mark’s tone.

Taeyong stepped in close, shoving a hand against Mark’s chest, his palm colliding with a sharp, deliberate force. It wasn’t just a gesture—it was a challenge. Mark’s body tensed instantly, his instincts flaring as he shoved him back with both hands, his palms hitting Taeyong’s chest hard enough to send him stumbling a step. The sound of the contact echoed sharply through the gym, cutting through the silence like a slap. It was pure adrenaline—Mark wasn’t thinking, just reacting, his jaw clenched as he squared up. 

Taeyong steadied himself, his grip tightening on his clipboard, but Mark stood firm, his shoulders rigid, his chest heaving. It was a move meant to assert, to say without words that he wouldn’t be pushed around. 

“You don’t scare me,” Mark said, his voice dangerously steady. His hand dropped back to his side as he took a deliberate step forward, forcing Taeyong to retreat slightly. “Mark’s voice was low but sharp, each word laced with years of pent-up frustration. “You’ve been throwing your weight around since I was a kid, acting like everything you say is gospel, like you can control every part of my life without being in it. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on Taeyong’s with unflinching defiance. “This team isn’t about you and your bullshit need to prove something. It’s bigger than your ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you.” His chest heaved, his anger palpable, but his voice remained steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. “I’ve put up with this for long enough, and I’m done standing for it.”

Taeyong’s face flushed with anger, his clipboard now gripped so tightly it looked like it might snap in half. He looked ready to respond, his lips parting, but before he could speak, the gym doors creaked open, the loud sound slicing through the tension like a blade.

Everyone’s heads turned toward the door, the spell of confrontation broken. The interruption seemed to drain some of the heat from the moment, but Taeyong’s glare didn’t waver as he stared Mark down one last time. Mark finally took a step back, his expression unreadable as he glanced toward the entrance. But the way his shoulders remained squared, his chin lifted, made one thing clear: he wasn’t backing down, not now, not ever.

The gym doors swing open, and the cheerleaders spill in, their bright chatter slicing through the thick tension like a breath of fresh air. Mark barely notices them at first—until he sees you. His breath falters, his heart stumbling in his chest. You’re walking beside Karina, your heads close as you whisper and laugh about something he’ll never be privy to. It’s the sound of your laughter that pulls him in first, soft and melodic, but it’s the sight of you that leaves him rooted in place.

The gym’s fluorescent lights seem to bend to you, catching the subtle sheen of your legs, bare and endless beneath the short pleats of your cheer skirt. Each step you take is unhurried, confident, your hips swaying just enough to draw his gaze and hold it there. The fitted fabric of your top clings to your body, framing every curve in a way that makes it impossible for him to look away.

Your hair falls perfectly, brushing against your shoulders, catching the light as if it’s been kissed by it. The faint shimmer of your skin—whether from the coolness of the autumn air or the rush of the walk—has his chest tightening painfully. There’s something magnetic in the way you carry yourself, something so effortlessly sensual yet completely unintentional, and it drives him crazy.

And then there’s your face—soft and radiant, your lips curved in an easy smile, your eyes sparkling with something private and untouchable as Karina leans in to say something that makes you laugh again. The sound twists something deep in his gut, equal parts longing and frustration.

You look carefree, so light and untethered, like nothing in the world could weigh you down. And yet, for Mark, the sight of you feels heavy, like every inch of space between you is a cruel reminder of just how far away you are—how far you’ve pulled yourself.

Mark bites his bottom lip, his gaze glued to you as he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. He groans softly under his breath, the sound low enough that only Jeno catches it. Jeno smirks, following Mark’s gaze until it lands on you.

But you don’t look back at Mark—not even once. Despite how obvious it is that he’s checking you out, his gaze is steady and unrelenting, tracking you with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier. Every other cheerleader’s eyes flick toward him—some bold, others coy—but it’s only you he sees. His focus never wavers, not for a single moment, and yet, you don’t give him so much as a glance. Your indifference is sharp, deliberate, and it cuts deeper than he’d like to admit.

You walk past where he and Jeno sit on the bleachers, your chin held high, your stride deliberate. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your expression serene, your focus clearly somewhere else. It’s as if he’s not even there. Like he’s invisible to you.

The indifference cuts deeper than Mark wants to admit. He swallows hard, his chest tightening as you pass, your scent—a soft, familiar blend of vanilla laced with a faint hint of jasmine—lingering in the air. His fingers curl against his thighs, a faint frustration simmering beneath his skin. He wants to call out to you, to break through the wall you’ve built, but the way you carry yourself, so composed, so distant, makes him hesitate.

And when you’re gone, slipping into the crowd of cheerleaders like a dream he can’t quite reach, the weight of your dismissal lingers, heavy and undeniable.

Jeno shifts uncomfortably, his voice quieter and more hesitant than usual. “What was that about? I thought you two were…” He trails off, his tone not quite neutral—there’s an awkward edge to it, like he’s unsure if he should even be asking.

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we are,” he says, though the words feel more like an attempt to convince himself than Jeno. “She’s just… confusing. It’s fine, though. We’ll figure it out.” His voice falters slightly, the forced casualness betraying the tension he’s trying to hide.

Jeno doesn’t push further, and neither does Mark. Instead, they turn their focus back to the game, the tension between them dissipating like it was never there. The conversation shifts seamlessly, their banter flowing like it used to. They joke, they laugh, and for a moment, it feels like the rift between them never existed.

Mark mutters something under his breath, a sly grin on his lips, and Jeno shakes his head, laughing softly. “You’re so full of shit,” Jeno says, but there’s no bite in his tone—only familiarity. Mark grins wider, passing the ball back to him with an ease that feels effortless, natural.

And with that, Mark turns to Jeno and the two of them start talking as if everything was okay. Because maybe it was. Maybe a reconciliation didn’t have to be a massive thing, full of apologies and explanations. Maybe it was enough that they could stand shoulder to shoulder, passing a ball back and forth, falling into their usual rhythm without a second thought. They were brothers, after all. Arguing and falling apart came just as naturally as making up like nothing had happened.

Their jokes and laughter carried across the gym, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the air between them wasn’t heavy. It was light. Easy. And it was all the more meaningful because of who was watching.

Still, Mark couldn’t fully shake the other layer to all of this—the revelation that had simmered beneath his anger since the party. It wasn’t just about how Jeno had spoken to you, though that had been enough to make Mark snap. It was the unspoken truth that Jeno had been fucking his best friend behind his back. The secrecy of it all had gnawed at Mark, not just because of Jeno’s actions but because it was something deeply personal between Mark and her—a situation he hadn’t even begun to address yet.

He found the whole thing strange, almost surreal, but there was a part of him that knew he needed to let it go. For now, at least. The wounds between him and his best friend were still raw, her texts unanswered and her attempts to reach out met with silence. That was a bridge he wasn’t ready to cross yet. But Jeno? Mark could find it in himself to put that aside, even if the situation still felt unresolved. Because their bond, flawed and complicated as it was, mattered too much to hold onto grudges.

Taeyong stood off to the side, his knuckles whitening as he watched the two of them reconnect right in front of him. The disdain and anger in his eyes burned with an intensity he didn’t bother to mask. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Jeno, his prodigal son, had no business finding common ground with Mark.

But Mark and Jeno didn’t notice. Or maybe they just didn’t care. They were too absorbed in their own brotherly bond, the way they nudged each other and smirked like nothing else in the world mattered. For once, the weight of Taeyong’s presence wasn’t enough to fracture them. And as their laughter filled the gym, Taeyong’s bitterness only deepened, the cracks in his control spreading wider with every easy grin they exchanged.

What Mark doesn’t notice is the way your eyes find him, no matter how hard you try to keep them elsewhere. You tell yourself not to look, to focus on anything else—the cheer routine, Karina’s chatter, the gym’s polished floor—but the pull is magnetic, impossible to resist. It’s unfair, really, how effortlessly he draws your attention, even when you know you shouldn’t give it. Even now, as he laughs with Jeno, his shoulders shaking lightly, there’s a weight in his expression that you recognize all too well, one that feels like a reflection of your own.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the curve of his smile, the way his hand casually shoves Jeno’s shoulder. They’re nudging each other like brothers again, their bond seemingly as strong as ever. Your chest tightens painfully at the sight, your throat constricting around the thought that won’t leave you alone: Of course they made up after you pulled away. The bitterness of it is sharp, cutting into the ache already rooted in your chest. Was you the thorn all along?

The confusion twists through you as much as the ache. What? The last time you saw them together, they weren’t like this. You remember the tension so vividly—the clenched fists, the sharp glares, the words spat between them. They’d barely been able to look at each other, let alone work together on the court. The memory of their fight—the way they came to blows—sits heavily in your chest. How had they gone from that to this? It’s not jealousy, you tell yourself, not exactly. But the suddenness of their reconciliation only adds to the feeling that you were the problem, the piece that didn’t fit in their puzzle. They don’t need you. They never did.

There’s a bittersweet comfort in seeing them like this. You’ve always known they deserved this closeness, this bond, free of the tension your presence seemed to create. But even as that relief blooms faintly, it’s crushed by the suffocating thought that you were the reason they drifted apart in the first place, that their happiness was stifled by your existence in the space between them.

And yet, somewhere in the depth of that ache, there’s a flicker of something else—hope, faint and fragile, like the embers of a fire you know you shouldn’t stoke. It’s selfish, you know that. To cling to the possibility of repair when you were the one who broke it in the first place. The hope feels undeserved, almost cruel, because you’re the reason the distance exists. You pulled away, you created the gap, and now here you are, daring to wish it wasn’t there.

You tell yourself it’s ridiculous, but it’s impossible to ignore the small moments that feed it. The way Mark’s eyes scan the room, like he’s searching for someone he doesn’t realize is already watching him. The fleeting pause in his laughter, the way his smile falters for just a second when his gaze brushes past you. It’s selfish to think it means anything. Selfish to believe that after all the pushing, all the walls you’ve built, he’s still holding on.

You stay frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to move toward him, but also unable to look away. The hope is a contradiction, a double-edged sword—it soothes and stings in equal measure. Because deep down, you know the truth: you brought this on yourself. You created the distance, and now, watching him laugh with Jeno, seeing the bond you convinced yourself you’d fractured somehow repair itself, you realise just how heavy that truth is. But even as guilt presses down on you, the flicker of hope remains, fragile but stubborn. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe you haven’t ruined everything. But the thought only twists the knife further, because you’re not sure if you deserve the chance to find out.

Karina nudges you lightly, her voice pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. “You okay?” she asks softly, her tone unusually gentle.

You nod quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah,” you mutter, your voice barely audible over the noise of the gym.

But Karina doesn’t buy it. Her gaze follows yours, narrowing slightly when she sees where—or rather, who—you’re looking at. “You’re staring at him like he’s a ghost.”

Your chest tightens at her words, and you shake your head, trying to dismiss it. “I’m not,” you insist, though the crack in your voice betrays you. “It’s just… it makes me happy knowing he and Jeno have somehow made up. It just hurts that it had to happen when I removed myself from the equation.” You sigh, glancing down at your shoes as the words settle in. “I wish Jeno would let me talk to him.”

Karina doesn’t hesitate. “I’m sure Mark would’ve made up with Jeno if you hadn’t kept the distance too,” she says, her tone sharp but not unkind.

You glance back at Mark, unable to stop yourself. He’s leaning against the bleachers now, his head tilted back slightly as he laughs at something Jeno said. He looks so at ease, so untouched by the chaos that’s been consuming you. And for a moment, you wonder if you made the right choice. Maybe he really is better off without you, without the mess you bring into his life.

But then, as if sensing your gaze, Mark glances in your direction. The moment your eyes meet, your heart skips a beat. His laughter falters, his expression shifting into something softer, something unreadable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to say something, to do something—anything. But you can’t. You break eye contact almost immediately, turning away as if the connection never happened.

Mark’s stomach sinks as he watches you turn back to Karina, your body language closed off, your attention focused elsewhere. The pain in his chest is sharp, but he masks it with a sigh, running a hand through his damp hair.

“She looked at you,” Jeno says quietly, his tone more neutral than accusatory but still laced with curiosity. “Why didn’t you go talk to her?”

Mark shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “She doesn’t want to talk to me,” he mutters, frustration edging into his voice. “Every time I try, she pulls away.”

Jeno studies him for a moment, his brows furrowing in thought. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like she’s hurting just as much as you are.”

Mark doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicker back to you, his chest tightening as he watches you laugh at something Karina said. The sound of your laughter should bring him relief, but all it does is remind him of how far away you feel. “Doesn’t matter,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s not letting me in.”

Jeno leans back against the bleachers, sighing. “She can be an idiot sometimes,” he says, his tone softening. “She’s just trying to push you away because it’s too real and she’s scared, you know that, right?”

Mark huffs a quiet laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Yeah,” he mutters, his gaze still fixed on you. “I know.” Mark furrowed his eyebrows, his lips curling into a sarcastic smirk. “I guess you know best,” he said dryly, his tone laced with playful scepticism. “You were the guy who was with her during our teenage years up to now, after all.”

Jeno cringed visibly, scrunching his nose at the reminder. The relationship he once shared with you was a distant memory, one both of you had mutually chosen to forget. “Eugh, don’t remind me,” he muttered, shaking his head like he was trying to physically erase the thought.

“We were together for so long, but I still feel like I barely know her,” he admitted, his voice tinged with something between amusement and resignation. “I don’t know her as well as you do, that’s for sure. I don’t even know her favourite colour or her favourite food.”

“Black and sushi,” Mark answered without hesitation, his tone calm and confident, as if he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t know.

Jeno raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a smirk. “All I ever knew was how she liked to be fucked and her favorite position.”

Mark winced visibly, his jaw tightening, but before he could respond, Jeno continued, unable to resist pushing further. “Doggy,” he said confidently.

“Missionary,” Mark shot back at the exact same time, his voice firm.

The room went still for a beat, the words hanging awkwardly in the air before Jeno blinked in surprise. “Wait, seriously? Missionary?”

Mark crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Yeah,” he said, his tone clipped. “But she likes every way I fuck her.” His voice carried a hint of defiance, but the statement sent an unbidden wave of heat through him. Images flashed in his mind—your hands gripping his shoulders, the way you’d gasp his name, the softness of your skin under his touch. His throat tightened, and he had to shift in place to shake off the restless ache building in his chest.

He really fucking missed you. The thought was a punch to his gut, raw and unrelenting, making it harder to mask the tension that had settled into his entire frame. Mark clenched his jaw, refusing to let Jeno—or anyone—see just how much he was unravelling without you.

Jeno’s smirk faltered for a moment before he let out a low laugh, his tone light but deliberately provoking. “Touché,” he said, leaning back like he was letting Mark win that round. But the glint in his eyes gave him away—he wasn’t done.

Seeing the way Mark shifted uncomfortably, Jeno leaned forward with a teasing grin, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. “Bit weird though, isn’t it? Being so obsessed with my ex-girlfriend?” It was a jab meant to wind Mark up, not something Jeno actually believed anymore. His smirk widened as he watched Mark’s jaw tighten, clearly reveling in how much he could push his buttons. It wasn’t serious—Jeno didn’t care anymore, not really—but he couldn’t resist stirring the pot. Old habits died hard.

Mark didn’t flinch, his expression steady as his eyes met Jeno’s. “She’s my girlfriend now,” he said firmly, his voice unwavering, a quiet but unmistakable declaration of where he stood.

Jeno raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as his smirk widened. “Does she know that?” he asked, his tone laced with mock curiosity, clearly trying to provoke a reaction.

Mark’s lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile as he replied, “Touché.” But there was no humour in his voice, just a simmering frustration beneath the surface.

Jeno scoffed, leaning back against the bleachers with a faint chuckle, his words testing the waters more than anything. “I bet I already know the answer, but if I were to tell you I didn’t want you to get with her, what would you do?”

Mark’s response was immediate, his tone casual but firm. “I wouldn’t listen to you.”

Jeno tilted his head, his smirk faint but deliberate. “Yeah, figured as much. You’ve never cared what I think when it comes to her, have you?”

Mark didn’t rise to the bait, his lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze dropped for a moment. “No,” he admitted honestly. “I haven’t.”

Jeno laughed dryly, crossing his arms as he let out a small sigh. “That’s what I thought. Not that it matters or changes anything, but you have my full blessing to make her yours. Don’t feel guilty anymore. And I’ll talk to her too,” he added, his tone softening slightly. “I think she feels guilty. I don’t know why though. She’s very confusing and difficult to understand.”

Mark’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he nodded. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.” But they both knew, deep down, that Mark would have tried with or without Jeno’s so-called blessing. His voice dropped a little lower, his tone calm but confident. “She’s already mine though.”  

“But yeah,” Mark continued after a pause, his voice quieter but sure, “I think you have to talk to her. She’s the one who needs your blessing, not me.”

Jeno’s voice was quieter now, more introspective as he said, “Also, I’m sorry about all the stuff I’ve said before—about you wanting my life. I know that was never your intention. It just… stung. When it came out that you’d been sneaking around with her, it hurt my ego. I guess I kept accusing you of wanting my life because it made me feel like the victim. It made it easier to stay angry. Made it simpler to push the blame somewhere else.”

Mark’s nod was measured, his gaze steady on Jeno as he let the words settle between them. “It’s okay, man,” he said quietly, his voice calm but resolute. “I don’t want your life. I never have.” He paused, the weight of the moment pressing down on him as he chose his next words carefully. “And for what it’s worth, the only reason she wanted to keep things quiet was to give herself time to figure it all out. It wasn’t ever malicious or about wanting to hurt you.”

Jeno exhaled sharply, the sound falling somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he shook his head. “Yeah, I get that now,” he admitted, his voice quieter, almost contemplative. He glanced at Mark, his expression softening. “But you know I still care about Y/N, right? I thought we were on good terms now—better than we’ve ever been, actually.”

Mark tilted his head slightly, listening as Jeno continued, his voice more vulnerable than before. “I see her as someone who’s seen me at my worst, someone I’ve made it a point to be honest with. That’s why it hurts. Not because she chose you or whatever, but because she wasn’t honest with me about it. That’s what stung the most. It felt… disrespectful.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady, deliberate. “It wasn’t about disrespecting you. She feels like everything is on her—keeping the peace, making sure no one gets hurt. She carries that weight constantly. She was scared of how you’d react, and honestly, I didn’t want to push her into anything she wasn’t ready for.”

Jeno tilted his head slightly, frowning as he processed Mark’s words. “I get that,” he said finally, his tone thoughtful. “But for the record, my anger was never about jealousy. It wasn’t about thinking Y/N was ‘mine,’ because I know she’s not—and she never was. Not when we were together, and definitely not now. I just… I guess I felt blindsided, and I hated how it made me look.”

Mark’s expression didn’t falter. His response was calm, steady, but there was an unmistakable edge of possessiveness in his tone. “Yeah, well, she’s mine.” His words were simple, but they carried a weight that left no room for argument.

Jeno’s smirk faltered slightly, his expression shifting to something softer—more thoughtful. After a moment, he shook his head again, this time with a hint of resignation. “You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?”

Mark’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Yeah. And I love her. That’s not changing.”

Jeno didn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the court. “Well,” he said finally, his tone quieter but still tinged with teasing, “good luck fixing things, lover boy. You’ll need it.”

Mark nodded, his gaze drifting toward the gym doors where you had disappeared moments ago. “I know,” he said softly, more to himself than to Jeno.

“Why don’t you talk to her now?” Jeno asks, his gaze shifting across the gym to where you and Karina stand on the other side, your heads close as you talk.

Mark exhales heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. “I can’t,” he mutters, his tone laced with frustration. “Look, she’s already leaving. She notices I’m in the same place or room as her, and then she’ll just… go the other way, avoid me completely.”

Jeno doesn’t respond immediately, watching as Karina turns her head, trying to be subtle as she glances toward him and Mark. Her brows knit together in confusion before she leans toward you, whispering something. Whatever she says, it makes your expression tighten, your movements slightly more rushed as you gather your things to leave.

Karina’s voice is low but full of intrigue as she murmurs to you, “They’re actually getting along. Laughing and smiling. What the fuck happened?” Her tone makes it clear she can’t quite believe the sight of Mark and Jeno talking like old friends.

You hum softly, your lips pulling into a small, strained smile. “I’m glad they are,” you reply, though the tightness in your voice betrays your words.

Karina’s sharp eyes flick back to you, and a mischievous glint sparks to life. She leans closer, her voice dropping into a teasing, sultry mimic. “They’re talking about you,” she whispers dramatically, fluttering her lashes for effect. Her voice dips lower, full of exaggerated lust as she mimics what she believes Mark was saying. “Oh, I want to put my hands under Y/N’s skirt, I want her to bounce on my cock, God, I want to be inside her.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, your cheeks burning as you bite down on your bottom lip, trying and failing to suppress the laugh bubbling up. You give her a playful shove, your eyes darting to see if anyone heard. The way she grins at your flustered reaction only makes the heat crawl higher up your neck.

“You’re going to have to face him eventually, you know,” Karina says as she glances at you out of the corner of her eye, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind.

“I know,” you murmur, the words barely audible over the thrum of your own heartbeat.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier. The gym doors swing shut behind you, and the crisp autumn air hits your face, biting at your skin and pulling you back into reality. The chill settles into your bones, but it’s nothing compared to the cold that’s rooted itself in your chest. As much as you try to ignore it, you can’t stop wondering if you’ve already lost him. If the space you’ve created between you and Mark isn’t something that can ever be bridged again.

The thought twists in your stomach, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Part of you wants to turn around, to go back into the gym and tell him everything. Every fear, every insecurity, every truth you’ve been too afraid to say aloud. But your feet keep moving forward, carrying you further and further away.

Away from him.

Away from the only person who’s ever made you feel truly whole.

──────────────────────────────

The energy in the gymnasium was electric, a sea of cheers and jubilant screams filling the space as the final whistle blew. The Seoul Ravens had won, securing their place in the state championship finals. The players were elated, their smiles wide and their bodies slack with relief as they exchanged high-fives and celebratory embraces. The cheerleaders mirrored the excitement, jumping and clapping in unison. Even the crowd buzzed with energy, their voices loud enough to rattle the rafters.

Despite the atmosphere of celebration, Taeyong stood on the sidelines, his expression hard and unsmiling. His clipboard was tucked tightly under his arm as he surveyed the scene with thinly veiled irritation. It was no surprise when his sharp whistle cut through the revelry, silencing the cheers like a guillotine. The players hesitated, their smiles faltering as he barked, “Everyone, circle up. Now.”

The team reluctantly shuffled into a huddle, their happiness evaporating under Taeyong’s stern glare. Even Assistant Coach Kun looked uneasy, his hand instinctively clutching the whistle around his neck as if debating whether to intervene. Taeyong wasted no time launching into a tirade, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

“That was not the game I wanted from you,” he snapped, pacing around the group like a predator circling its prey. “Sure, you won. But how many of you actually followed the plays I called? Huh? Jeno, what was that sloppy rebound in the second quarter? And Mark”—his eyes darted toward his son—“how many times do I have to tell you to stop improvising out there? You think you’re some kind of hero?”

Mark’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the floor, while Jeno’s lips pressed into a thin line. The rest of the team exchanged uncomfortable glances, their earlier joy now replaced with tension. Even the cheerleaders, still lingering near the court, watched with unease, their whispers hushed as Taeyong continued.

Before the mood could sour further, a voice from the crowd cut through the tension like a blade. “Alright, Taeyong, that’s enough.”

All eyes turned to see Doyoung making his way down from the bleachers, his expression calm but firm. His presence alone seemed to shift the energy in the room. “Let them celebrate. They earned this win.”

Taeyong’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Stay out of this, Doyoung,” he hissed. “You’re not the one coaching this team.”

“No, but I am the one who knows how to recognize a victory when I see one,” Doyoung shot back, his tone steady but unyielding. “You’re killing their morale, and for what? Because you didn’t get your way? Let them enjoy this.”

The tension between the brothers was palpable, a heavy weight that seemed to fill the space between them. From your place near the sidelines, you narrowed your eyes, watching the way they squared off like two sides of the same coin—one cold and rigid, the other warm but firm. Your gaze shifted, almost instinctively, to Mark and Jeno. The sight of them laughing quietly to themselves, seemingly unfazed by the drama, made your chest tighten.

Two generations of brothers, you thought, so different and yet so eerily similar. But unlike Taeyong and Doyoung, Mark and Jeno were trying. Whatever rift had existed between them seemed to be healing, their laughter a stark contrast to the animosity their father and uncle displayed.

Kun stepped out from the shadows, his face etched with exhaustion as he unclipped the lanyard from his neck. The whistle swung lightly at the end as he approached Doyoung, holding it out along with the clipboard. His movements were deliberate, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the decision he was making.

“You take my place and temporarily become the assistant coach,” Kun said, his voice a mix of pleading and quiet authority. He paused, glancing toward Taeyong, who stood rigid in the background, his presence casting a long shadow over the team. “I can’t be here without Coach Suh… Taeyong is too much.”

Doyoung chuckled softly, the sound light but tinged with understanding as he accepted the clipboard. “I don’t have any experience,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked down at the notes scrawled across the board.

Kun shook his head firmly, his expression softening but his tone resolute. “You’ll be great,” he said, his eyes filled with a quiet hope that Doyoung would agree.

Doyoung hesitated only a moment before nodding. His fingers tightened around the board, his gaze flickering briefly to Taeyong, whose stern eyes bore into him from across the court. But he didn’t flinch. You could tell he’d already made his decision—not because he wanted the role, but because he knew it was necessary.

He wasn’t here for glory or recognition. He was here because he was the only one who could stand up to his younger brother’s cruelty and unchecked authority. He could safeguard the team, make sure they weren’t trampled under Taeyong’s oppressive rule. Doyoung would be their protector, their buffer, ensuring they could win the state championships without sacrificing their spirits—or their well-being—in the process.

It didn’t take long for Doyoung to step into the role. “Alright, guys,” he called out, addressing the team with a tone that was both authoritative and encouraging. “Go celebrate. Party tonight. Have fun—but be safe. You deserve it after how hard you worked out there.”

The gym erupted in cheers, clapping, and laughter as everyone celebrated the hard-fought win. You stood on the sidelines, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, wondering when you’d finally get to go home. The energy in the room was contagious, but you felt like a spectator in your own life, caught between the celebration and your own swirling thoughts.

Chenle moved through the crowd of cheerleaders, hugging them one by one. When he reached you, his arms wrapped around you in a brief, polite gesture. But his eyes… they didn’t quite meet yours. They were disconnected, distant, as though he were going through the motions rather than acknowledging you. It earned a sad gulp from you, your throat tightening as the reality of it sank in. Of course. It made sense—Chenle was one of Mark’s closest friends. His loyalty wasn’t with you. Not anymore.

And then you saw Jeno.

Your body froze instinctively, your heart pounding in your chest as he strode toward you, his grin wide and his energy infectious. For a moment, you thought he’d walk past you entirely, but instead, he stopped in front of you, his expression still bright from the win. Before you could react, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into a tight, warm hug.

It was quick—too quick for you to even process it. Almost thoughtless, like he hadn’t even realized who he was hugging. Just a gesture born out of the adrenaline and joy of the moment. And just as suddenly as it started, it ended. Jeno moved on, his focus shifting as he hugged the rest of his teammates and cheerleaders with the same enthusiasm.

But you couldn’t move.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you tried to remind yourself it meant nothing. He was happy, caught up in the win, and you were just another person in the room. But the ghost of his touch lingered, curling around you like a bittersweet reminder of what used to be. It gave you a false sense of hope you couldn’t quite shake, no matter how much you told yourself otherwise.

As the celebration continued, your gaze drifted back to Mark. He was standing near the centre of the court, his grin wide as he laughed at something one of his teammates said. He looked so at ease, so alive in a way that made your heart ache. Basketball had always been his sanctuary, the place where he found belonging and joy. Seeing him like this, so genuinely happy, reminded you why you’d fallen for him in the first place.

But as your eyes lingered, you noticed the exhaustion etched into his features. You’d seen it during the game—the way he pushed himself harder than anyone else, the way his breaths came too fast, too shallow. He was panting, struggling to keep up even as he gave everything he had. A pang of worry settled in your chest, the weight of it almost unbearable.

As if on cue, Taeyong appeared at your side, his hand gripping your wrist before you could step away. His smile was sharp, his eyes glinting with a mix of malice and triumph. “I’m sure you’re as worried about your boyfriend as I am about my son,” he said smoothly, his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

Your brow furrowed, unease prickling at the back of your neck. “What are you talking about?” you asked warily.

Taeyong’s smirk widened. “You noticed it, didn’t you? How out of breath he was, how he’s been struggling to keep up. That’s not just exhaustion. That’s something else entirely.”

“What?” The word slipped out before you could stop it, a mix of disbelief and fear lacing your tone. You didn’t trust him—he was manipulative, always twisting the truth to suit his narrative. But there was something in his voice, something almost too genuine, that made your stomach drop.

“My poor son,” Taeyong drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Didn’t inherit my good looks, my brains, or my fortune. No, he had to inherit my heart condition. What a shame that’s the only thing he got from me.”

Your mouth went dry, your pulse quickening as you stared at him. “You’re lying,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

Taeyong chuckled darkly, his grip on your wrist tightening. “Oh, honey, trust me. I know the signs. I’ve lived with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy since I was a teenager. I know what it looks like, and I know how it feels. Mark’s reckless, overly ambitious, pushing himself too far. Sound familiar?”

HCM. Your mind raced, fragments of memories piecing together—his panting breaths during the game, the way he seemed to push himself to the brink without hesitation. A cold wave of fear washed over you as Taeyong leaned in closer.

“He’s not taking his medication,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He wouldn’t be allowed to play the full game if he was. But he doesn’t care, does he? He’s willing to risk his life just to stay on that court. What a waste.”

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, your knees threatening to give out as the weight of his revelation settled over you. You didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the doubt had already taken root, and Taeyong’s smirk told you he knew it.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the panic was overwhelming. The thought of Mark—your Mark—pushing himself to the edge without a care for his own safety was too much to bear. Taeyong’s victory was evident in the way his eyes gleamed, his goal achieved: planting seeds of doubt and division where there was already a fragile foundation.

And as you stood there, shaking and guilt-ridden, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d already failed him.

You stood frozen, your eyes locked onto Mark’s across the gym. Your breath hitched, your nails digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescents in your skin. The overwhelming weight of anger and fear tangled together inside you, rendering you immobile. Was it justified? How angry yet terrified you felt? You weren’t so sure. 

Karina’s worried voice snapped you back into reality. “Hey! Hey!” She clapped her hands sharply in front of your face, her tone teasing, though her eyes searched yours with genuine concern. “What’s up with you? You look like you’re about to explode or something.”

You gritted your teeth, a shaky breath escaping as you muttered, “Give me one good reason not to go over to Mark right now, Karina. It has to be good, or I’m going to drag him out of here and—fuck.” You cut yourself off, realizing how ridiculous you sounded. You couldn’t explain the real reason, not to Karina. Mark clearly didn’t want anyone to know about his HCM.

Karina raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Um… I mean, look at all those girls surrounding him, batting their eyelashes and practically throwing themselves at him. Aisha, Mia, Yeji—honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if—”

“Shut up.” You grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the gym as fast as you could, your heart pounding. You didn’t dare look back. Her words rang true; the girls were all over him, their touches lingering, their voices sickly sweet. Mark didn’t seem fazed by the attention, but that almost made it worse.

The image of Aisha running her fingers through her hair while leaning into his space made your blood boil. Yeji’s loud laugh at something he’d said echoed in your mind, and Mia’s hand brushing his arm lingered in your periphery like a thorn. You hated how possessive you felt, hated how your emotions clawed at you. You couldn’t tell Karina the other reason for your spiralling thoughts—the worry about Mark’s health—but the jealousy alone was enough to leave you shaking.

“You’re being really weird,” Karina muttered as you dragged her to the car, her tone carrying a mix of amusement and exasperation. It felt like the tenth time she’d told you that this week, and her steps quickened to match your frantic pace.

You exhaled sharply, gripping your keys. “Distract me,” you muttered, trying to push the images of Mark surrounded by all those girls out of your head. “You need to distract me, Rina.”

Karina’s eyes lit up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “You remember what’s tomorrow, right?” She wiggled her eyebrows as though her enthusiasm might be infectious.

You groaned. “No,” you muttered, dreading the answer. Knowing Karina, it was bound to be some exhausting social event. You were exhausted. 

“The Boy Toy Auction!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. Her excitement was palpable, and before you could even protest, she was already pulling up the location on her phone. “Come on, we need to hit the mall. The gala is soon too, we can’t show up looking basic—we need dresses. Expensive ones.” Her grin was practically ear-to-ear, clearly relishing the idea of dragging you along for the ride.

“What’s that again? The Boy Toy auction?” you asked, the name ringing a faint bell, though it sounded ridiculous.

Karina gasped, feigning offense. “You don’t remember? We’ve been to, like, ten of them! It’s the event where the boys on the basketball team get auctioned off to raise money. This year, it’s for Coach Suh’s surgery. Plus, there’s a bonus this time—whoever wins the bid gets to be their date for the gala.”

The car was barely parked when Karina unbuckled her seatbelt with the energy of someone on a mission. “Come on,” she urged, practically dragging you out. Her enthusiasm was relentless, and before you knew it, the two of you were stepping into the grand expanse of the mall.

Your groan deepened as the sleek glass doors slid open, revealing the bright, bustling interior. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers stretched above rows of luxurious boutiques, the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café mingling with the faint hint of expensive perfume. The sheer extravagance of it all only made you more aware of how much Karina was about to make you spend.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, but Karina’s infectious excitement was already pulling you in as she looped her arm through yours, her eyes scanning the stores like a hawk ready to strike.

The shopping mall was a cathedral of excess. Glass-fronted boutiques stretched along gleaming marble floors, their displays adorned with mannequins draped in sequins, satin, and velvet. The hum of soft jazz music played overhead, mingling with the low chatter of shoppers and the faint click of heels on tile. Chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a golden glow over everything.

Karina wasted no time dragging you into the first boutique. “We need to find the perfect gown,” she declared, her eyes scanning racks of shimmering fabrics.

“Perfect for what?” you muttered, though you couldn’t deny the small thrill of anticipation that stirred in your chest.

“For making every guy at the gala regret not bidding on us,” Karina teased, shooting you a wink.

You rolled your eyes but followed her deeper into the store, your fingers brushing over silks and tulles. You tried on dress after dress, each one more extravagant than the last. A mermaid gown in deep red hugged your curves but felt too bold. A black off-the-shoulder number made you feel like a movie star but was too heavy for dancing.

“Try this one,” Karina said, holding up a floor-length gown in emerald green with a daring thigh-high slit. The fabric sparkled subtly under the lights, catching the gold of the chandelier above.

You stepped into the changing room, the soft carpet underfoot muffling your movements as you slipped into the gown. The cool fabric slid over your skin like water, and when you looked in the mirror, you barely recognized yourself.

Karina gasped when you stepped out. “That’s it,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You’re buying it.”

After what felt like hours, you both emerged from the final boutique, each of you clutching garment bags that contained your chosen gowns. Karina had settled on a deep midnight blue dress with a plunging neckline, while yours was the emerald green masterpiece.

“And these,” Karina said, holding up a pair of lacy lingerie sets she’d bought for both of you.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quivering into a small smile. “I have no one to show this to.”

Karina shrugged, unfazed, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “Neither do I. But if we don’t end up moaning like bitches in heat at the end of gala night, I’ll invite you over, and we can show each other our lingerie. We deserve the attention anyway—look at us, we’re hot.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “What makes you think I can wait until gala night to see you in it?”

Karina gasped, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. “Y/N, are you trying to seduce me?”

You laughed, shoving her lightly. “Maybe I am. Can you blame me?”

──────────────────────────────

The hall was alive with anticipation, the dim, golden lights wrapping the space in a warm, luxurious glow. Grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals shimmering like stars above the polished floors that gleamed with every step. Crimson curtains framed the stage at the front, their velvety folds brushing against the polished wood, and the faint outline of figures moving behind them only added to the buzz of excitement. Long tables draped in white cloth were scattered with bidding paddles and flutes of champagne, the delicate clinking sound adding an elegant backdrop to the chaos.

Bursts of laughter and animated voices filled the air, a symphony of energy that seemed to amplify the thrill in the room. Groups of students crowded together, some perched on chairs for a better view, others leaning casually against the walls. The cheerleaders occupied a prominent corner near the stage, their polished appearances catching the light as they whispered and giggled. The crowd’s collective focus shifted with every sound of the microphone, each small noise a prelude to the next act. The tension was palpable, a blend of excitement and competition that charged the air.

The faint hum of music played softly in the background, an almost teasing addition to the grandeur of the event. The room itself seemed alive, every detail—from the ornate golden trim along the walls to the opulent floral arrangements at the entrance—speaking to the prestige of the evening. It wasn’t just an auction; it was a celebration of excess and spectacle, and everyone there felt like they were part of something bigger than just the bidding wars ahead.

You stood near the back, you were supposed to be mingling with the other cheerleaders, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tolerate those fake bitches right now. Your arms were crossed tightly, a defensive posture as Karina chattered excitedly beside you, her energy a sharp contrast to your own reluctance. You didn’t want to be here—not for the auction, not for the glitzy events that would follow, and definitely not for the incessant hum of curiosity surrounding you. But Karina had insisted. As a cheerleader, attendance at these events was non-negotiable. Appearances were everything, after all, even when you felt like fading into the background entirely.

“This is gonna be a couple of draining weeks,” you muttered under your breath.

Karina laughed, nudging you playfully as if trying to lighten your mood. You were part of a college that thrived on being over the top, you thought bitterly. Boy Toy Auction, gala, state championships… What’s next? A surprise masquerade ball? A fireworks display in someone’s honour? The endless string of events felt particularly draining, each one tugging at your already dwindling energy and making you question why you bothered keeping up appearances at all.

You sighed, your gaze sweeping across the crowd. The Boy Toy Auction was infamous—a ridiculous tradition where the basketball team’s players were “auctioned” off to the highest bidders. Winning meant you could take the guy home for the night and that he had to be your date for the gala. It was ridiculous, borderline cringeworthy, but it raised a lot of money for the school and its causes. This year, the proceeds were going toward Coach Suh’s recovery fund after his surgery.

As if on cue, Coach Suh’s familiar voice boomed through the microphone. “Good evening, everyone!” he greeted, his energy cutting through the noise. The crowd erupted into cheers, some standing and clapping as he waved from the stage. “No, I’m not fully back yet,” he continued, grinning at the applause. “Still on the mend, but I couldn’t miss this night. You all know how much I love the Boy Toy Auction!”

The hall laughed, the mood lightening even further. Karina clapped beside you, her smile wide as Coach Suh went on.

“Now,” he said, glancing down at his clipboard, “you all know the drill. Each of these fine gentlemen will come up here, and you’ll have the chance to bid on them. Remember, the winner not only gets to take them home but also gets to take them to the gala. Let’s make this a night to remember, and let’s raise some serious money!”

The crowd erupted into cheers again as the first boy was called up.

Chenle was first, bounding onto the stage with his signature boyish charm. Dressed in a jersey and basketball shorts, he incorporated his love for basketball into his routine, dribbling expertly before tossing a perfect shot into the small hoop set up at the back of the stage. The crowd went wild, cheers and screams echoing as the bids began flying.

“Aisha! fifty!” Coach Suh announced, his eyes wide as he scanned the crowd. “Mia raises it to seventy-five! Heejin, ninety!”

The numbers climbed quickly, but it was Ningning who won with an impressive bid of one hundred and fifty. Chenle stepped off the stage, walking straight to Ningning and planting a kiss on her cheek. The room erupted into whistles and applause, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Cute,” Karina whispered, grinning. “They’re definitely dating.”

Next was Donghyuck, and he brought the house down. Instead of the typical basketball-centric routine, he danced, his moves sharp and fluid, perfectly in sync with the music. The crowd roared their approval, the energy in the room shifting as girls screamed and shouted bids.

Even Coach Suh couldn’t help but comment. “Clearly, this auction isn’t limited to basketball players anymore. Everyone loves Donghyuck!”

Karina stayed by your side, the two of you giggling together as the auction progressed. Her sharp commentary only added to your amusement. “Look at them,” she whispered, pointing discreetly to a group of girls at the front. “Screaming like banshees and throwing their money around like it’s Monopoly cash. Desperate doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You bit back a laugh, trying to focus on the stage as Donghyuck made his entrance. His performance was undeniably captivating—a smooth, well-choreographed dance routine that left the crowd roaring. Coach Suh couldn’t help but chime in, his voice cutting through the cheers. “Clearly, this isn’t just limited to the Seoul Ravens,” he announced, gesturing to Donghyuck with a wry smile. “The whole school loves him.”

The applause swelled, and Karina, who had just been mocking the other girls, suddenly shifted. Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward, clutching her paddle like a lifeline. “That’s my man,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with something that almost sounded serious. You gasped, turning to look at her in shock. Her tone hinted at something deeper, but you reminded yourself how she liked to be unserious. Surely, if something was actually going on, she’d tell you… right?

You watched, half-amused and half-horrified, as Karina repeatedly raised her paddle, her voice cutting through the noise with a desperation that mirrored the girls she had mocked earlier. “One hundred! One-fifty!” she screamed, practically jumping with excitement.

When she finally won, Donghyuck flashed her a dazzling grin as he stepped off the stage. Karina turned to you, her cheeks flushed and her grin triumphant. “Told you I’d get him,” she said smugly, her earlier mockery of the other girls conveniently forgotten.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at her antics. “By screaming like a banshee, huh?” you teased, and her only response was a shameless shrug.

The auction continued in full swing. San was next to take the stage, and he wasted no time raising the stakes. With a sly grin, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it into the crowd, revealing his sculpted torso. The hall erupted into cheers, screams echoing off the walls as girls raised their paddles in a frenzy. Even some of the guys in the back were laughing and whistling. San soaked it all in, flexing playfully and winking at the audience. It wasn’t just confidence—it was chaos, and the bids reflected it.

Wooyoung followed, his entrance dramatic as ever. He strutted onto the stage with exaggerated flair, striking poses and pointing to random sections of the audience like he was some kind of rockstar. When the bids started rolling in, he played along, hyping up the crowd with over-the-top gestures. “Come on! I know I’m worth more than that!” he shouted, earning a wave of laughter and higher bids. Earlier, he even raised his own paddle to bid on San and he ended up winning, which sent the room into hysterics. Coach Suh shook his head, muttering something about how he’d “lost control of the team,” but his amused smirk said otherwise.

Then came Soobin, who shuffled onto the stage with a sheepish expression. “I don’t want to be bid on,” he muttered into the microphone, his voice low but clear enough to be heard. The crowd immediately pounced on his reluctance, turning it into a game. Paddles shot up faster than ever, girls screaming out numbers as Soobin stood there, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Somehow, his awkward charm only fueled the chaos, and by the end, he had the highest bid of the night—an astronomical number that left everyone stunned. Even Soobin’s eyes widened in disbelief as he was led off the stage by his victorious bidder, who looked like she’d just won the lottery.

The atmosphere was wild, the noise level almost unbearable, but the energy was infectious. It didn’t matter if you were cheering, bidding, or just watching from the sidelines—there was something magnetic about the entire event. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, though a part of you couldn’t shake the growing tension as the night crept closer to Mark and Jeno’s turns on the stage.

Coach Suh stepped up to the microphone, his voice cutting through the chaotic hum of the crowd like a sharp blade. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment many of you have been waiting for,” he announced, his tone laced with playful anticipation. The noise in the room dimmed slightly, replaced by murmurs and excited whispers. “Seoul Ravens’ very own, Mark Lee!”

The shift in the room was almost palpable. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Mark emerged from behind the curtains, the soft glow of the stage lights illuminating him like he belonged in the spotlight. He moved with an effortless confidence, his basketball jersey perfectly fitted, the bold number 23 across his chest catching every eye. The jersey hung just low enough to hint at his lean, toned physique, and his casual stance—hands stuffed into his pockets, head tilted slightly as he scanned the crowd—only added to his allure.

The whispers turned to hushed squeals, and then to outright cheers, as his trademark smirk spread across his face. He didn’t need to dance or strip like the others; his presence alone was enough to command the room. The weight of his gaze as it swept across the hall was electrifying, each girl seemingly holding her breath, hoping he’d stop and look at her.

But you? You couldn’t move. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat heavy and insistent, as if it were trying to escape. Your breath hitched, your lips parting unconsciously as Mark’s eyes lingered in your direction for the briefest second, and yet it felt like forever. There was something maddeningly intimate about his gaze, like he was daring you, calling you out, challenging you to do something—anything. The way the soft lights caught on the lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders stretched the fabric of his jersey just right, made your stomach clench with a desperate ache you couldn’t quite name.

Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, a subtle shift you prayed no one would notice. Mark hadn’t even done anything—just stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, his shamelessly flirtatious smile drawing the room into the palm of his hand. The jersey clung to him in a way that was both infuriatingly casual and deeply sensual, exposing just enough of his collarbone to make you wonder how soft his skin would feel under your fingertips. He exuded confidence, and it wasn’t fair how easily he had every person in the room hanging onto his every move—yourself included.

The chaos in the room swelled as the bidding started immediately, Coach Suh scrambling to keep up with the torrent of voices. “Okay! 50—no, 100! 150!” he shouted, trying to cut through the screams. “Mia! 175! Oh, Yeji with 200! Wait, who just said 250?”

Your stomach churned at the sound of Aisha’s high-pitched voice cutting through the air. “300!” she yelled, her paddle raised high as she stood on her tiptoes, practically bouncing with excitement.

“350!” Mia countered, her eyes sharp as she stared Aisha down, the tension between them palpable.

You stayed frozen, clutching your arms tightly to your chest as the numbers climbed higher and higher, the voices around you becoming desperate. Every girl in the room seemed determined to have him, their paddles flying up as if their lives depended on it.

“400!” Heejin shouted, her cheeks flushed, and the crowd roared even louder.

Coach Suh wiped his brow dramatically. “Ladies, please, one at a time! I’m going to need a calculator at this rate!” The laughter in his voice did little to hide the exhaustion in his eyes as he tried to keep up with the chaos.

A sharp pang of jealousy clawed at your chest, relentless and overwhelming. You could feel it in every breath, every beat of your heart. Each scream, each outrageous bid, was like another twist of the knife. The thought of any one of them winning him, taking him home, being the one on his arm at the gala—it was too much to bear. Your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breathing, but every glance at him, at his easy smile and the way he stood unbothered by the madness, only made it worse.

Shrieks and cheers reverberated through the hall, a deafening wave of excitement that grew with each passing second. “Oh my God, Mark!” Xiaoting’s voice cut through the chaos, high-pitched and desperate as she clutched her paddle with trembling hands. Around her, a group of girls erupted into a chorus of shouts, their voices blending into a cacophony of unrestrained glee.

“500!”

“750!”

“1000!”

“Look at them,” Karina whispered beside you, her tone a mix of amusement and disbelief. “They’re losing their minds. You okay over there?” She nudged your side lightly, but you didn’t flinch.

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him long enough to even form a coherent thought. Around you, paddles shot up in rapid succession—Aisha, then Mia, then Yeji—all of them screaming his name like it was their only hope for salvation. Your grip tightened against the fabric of your skirt, nails digging in deep enough to leave crescents on your palms.

Karina leaned closer, her voice soft and teasing. “You look like you’re about to lose it. Should I raise my paddle for you?”

You almost did it. You almost gave in. The paddle in your hand felt heavier, your arm twitching with the effort of holding it down. A possessive urge bubbled dangerously close to the surface, threatening to break the fragile restraint you’d clung to all evening. You wanted to raise it, to scream louder than anyone else, to claim him as yours in front of everyone.

You were so close to bidding every last bit of your money, the paddle trembling in your grip, when a soft laugh broke through the haze clouding your thoughts.

“You’re not seriously going to let them take him, are you?” The familiar voice startled you, and you turned to see Mark’s best friend sliding up beside you. Her tone was light and teasing, but there was an unmistakable warmth in her expression. She looked completely at ease, like the past few weeks of tension between you had never happened. “Don’t worry,” she added with a small smirk. “If you won’t bid on Mark, I will. I need to talk to him anyway.”

You blinked, your focus shifting entirely to her. She didn’t look angry, didn’t have a trace of the resentment you feared might linger. Instead, she seemed relaxed, her smile genuine, as though everything had already been forgiven. Your mind flashed to yesterday, to seeing her with Mark after the match. They’d been laughing, talking like old times. It was clear now—they’d made up.

Before you could say a word, she raised her paddle confidently, her bid loud and firm above the noise. The room stilled for a moment, a collective gasp rippling through the crowd. Girls glared daggers at her, their competitive energy now tinged with frustration, but none of them dared to go higher. The competition was over, and she’d won.

“Sold!” Coach Suh boomed through the microphone, his voice full of finality. “To Mark’s best friend.”

Relief washed over you, so potent it nearly made your knees weak. He was going home with her. Someone safe. Someone who wouldn’t expect anything more from him than conversation and companionship. The ache in your chest loosened its grip, the possessive tension you’d been carrying finally beginning to ease. For the first time all evening, you felt like you could breathe again.

Karina smirked beside you, leaning in to whisper, “Look at Mia and Aisha sulking. They thought they had a chance.”

You couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at your lips. “Serves them right.”

The energy in the room shifted dramatically as the final name was called.

Jeno.

The girls who had been sulking after losing Mark’s bid perked up instantly, their disappointment morphing into fervent excitement. Jeno came onto the stage with all the confidence of someone who knew exactly what kind of chaos he could create. His shirt was already unbuttoned, exposing his toned chest, and the sharp smirk on his lips promised more than anyone could handle.

“Let’s give them a show,” Coach Suh muttered into the microphone with an amused chuckle, stepping back as Jeno took center stage.

Jeno made a slow turn, his gaze sweeping across the room, locking briefly on the girls already screaming his name. He let out a low laugh, the sound carrying through the microphone and sending the crowd into a frenzy. Then, with a teasing glance toward the audience, he peeled off his shirt and flung it into the air.

A cluster of girls shrieked as the fabric landed, clawing at each other in a desperate attempt to claim it. Jeno didn’t seem to care who caught it. He was already kicking off his sneakers with a casual, almost lazy flair, dragging out every movement like he had all the time in the world.

When he reached for the waistband of his pants, the room collectively held its breath. His fingers lingered there, teasingly slow, before he popped the button and slid the zipper down inch by torturous inch. The fabric pooled at his ankles, and he stepped out of them with an easy grace, standing tall and unapologetic in nothing but his snug black boxers.

The eruption of screams was deafening. Girls jumped to their feet, paddles shooting into the air as they shouted over each other, their bids flying fast and loud.

“500!”

“750!”

“1,200!”

“Jeno, take it all off!” one bold voice screamed, earning a wave of laughter and a raised eyebrow from Jeno, who tilted his head slightly as if considering the request.

“Keep dreaming,” he drawled into the mic, his tone dripping with amusement as he reached for his discarded pants and slung them over his shoulder. The devilish smirk returned, and he gave a playful wink toward the source of the shout. “But I’ll let you imagine.”

Another girl’s voice rang out. “Jeno, fuck me!”

Jeno let out a low, throaty laugh, adjusting his stance on stage. “Patience, sweetheart. Gotta win me first.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, stifling a laugh as your cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment. Beside you, Karina wasn’t nearly as subtle. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as a snort escaped her.

The bids soared higher, the girls growing more frantic with each passing second. He leaned into the chaos, running a hand through his hair, the sharp line of his jaw catching the dim lights. He didn’t say much after that, but he didn’t have to. Every glance, every shift of his body spoke volumes, and the crowd hung on every second of his unapologetic display.

Karina nudged you, fanning herself dramatically. “Oh my God. That man is too much.”

You hummed in agreement, your eyes flicking to Jeno as he posed on stage, clearly revelling in the attention. “Mmm,” you teased, fanning yourself as well. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

But before you could even process what was happening, Mark’s best friend suddenly looped her arm through yours, her expression shifting to something more serious. “You have to bid on him,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

You blinked, startled. “What? Why me?”

She sighed, her gaze darting toward the stage where Jeno was basking in the chaos he’d created. “Because if you don’t, one of these desperate whores is going to win, and I can’t let that happen. It’s… complicated between us,” she admitted, her tone softening. “But I don’t want anyone else to be his date.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, you hesitated, unsure if you should get involved. But the raw honesty in her voice struck a chord. The thought of Jeno leaving with someone who only wanted him for his body and status—or worse, someone who would treat it like a joke—made your chest tighten painfully.

With a deep breath, you raised your paddle, your voice cutting through the noise as you called out a bid so high it left the room in stunned silence. The other girls shot you venomous glares, their frustration palpable, but no one dared to challenge you.

“Sold!” Coach Suh announced, his booming voice breaking the tension. “To Y/N!”

Jeno stepped off the stage, his eyes locking onto yours. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of amusement, annoyance, and something else you couldn’t quite place. As the crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and murmurs, the weight of the night pressed heavier on your shoulders.

The gala was going to be… complicated.

You’d tried to slip away quietly, eager to retreat home and bury yourself under a pile of blankets, but Karina had intercepted you, twirling your car keys with a sly grin. “Nope. You’re staying,” she said firmly, pressing the keys into her pocket. “It’ll be good for you to socialise.”

Now, you regretted not fighting harder for your escape. You stood near one of the ornate pillars in the lavishly decorated hall, trying to melt into the shadows. The weight of the evening pressed heavily on your chest, amplified by the sight of Mark and his best friend talking quietly in the distance. You hadn’t planned on eavesdropping, but where you stood, their voices carried too clearly to ignore.

They laughed softly, their tones warm and easy, as if they’d patched up all the tension that once lingered between them. Mark’s voice rang out, a soft but happy lilt to his words. “I missed this. It feels good to have you back.”

The laughter echoed, and something inside you twisted painfully. Tears pricked your eyes, but you stayed rooted in place. Leaving would mean admitting how much it hurt, while staying felt like punishment—a way to drown yourself in the ache you couldn’t shake. You were conflicted, trapped between wanting to run and wanting to absorb every bit of Mark you could, even if it tore you apart. The image of his flushed face on the court, breathless and pushing himself too hard, flashed in your mind, making the weight of the moment even harder to bear. His health lingered at the forefront of your thoughts, feeding the guilt that gnawed at you for pulling away.

You missed him. God, you missed him so much it physically hurt. Every laugh he shared with his best friend felt like another crack in your already fragile heart. The bond they had seemed effortless, and it reminded you of everything you’d lost.

The worst part was noticing how easily he seemed to mend things with everyone else when you weren’t in the picture. His best friend, Jeno—they’d all found their way back to him, their connections seemingly stronger than ever. It was like your absence had been the missing piece, the thing that allowed everything to fall perfectly into place. And maybe it was true. Maybe you really had been the wedge all along, the one thing keeping him from the harmony he deserved. The thought lodged itself deep in your chest, sharp and unrelenting. As much as you wanted to be happy for him, to see him surrounded by people who cared, it only reminded you of how removed you were from that equation. You weren’t part of his happiness anymore.

Mark turned his head, his gaze finding you through the crowd like it always did. For a moment, time froze. His expression softened, but it was unreadable—caught somewhere between longing and restraint. You wanted to hold his gaze, but the weight of your emotions made you falter, your eyes dropping to the ground.

Beside you, Jeno stood close, his posture slightly tense as he glanced around the room, trying to appear at ease. The only reason he was here, standing beside you, was because in true Boy Toy Auction fashion, you were obligated to spend the night together. He was also your date to the upcoming gala, though it hardly felt like anything significant. Obviously, nothing would happen between you and Jeno—nothing could come out of this anymore. Whatever history you’d shared was firmly in the past, buried under the weight of everything that had changed. This was nothing more than a favor done for Mark’s best friend, a gesture born out of necessity rather than desire.

Jeno's eyes flicked to you every so often, clearly noticing the way your gaze lingered on Mark. Your expression must have given away more than you intended—sadness etched into your features, your shoulders slightly hunched.

He sighed softly, the tension between you strange but not hostile. He shifted closer, his tone light and teasing as he finally spoke, breaking the heavy silence. “Hey, Y/N, remember the last Boy Toy Auction? You bid on me, and I spent the entire night balls deep inside of you—”

Before you could even react, Mark’s head turned sharply, his eyes narrowing into a deadpan glare. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck taut as his gaze bore into Jeno, warning him—no, daring him— to say another word.

Jeno just chuckled, shaking his head with a mischievous grin. “What?” he drawled, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “It’s true. I think it was twice, actually—maybe three times. We lost count after the—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, cutting him off, your cheeks heating as you shoved him lightly. “Seriously, Jeno. Enough.”

His laughter bubbled out as he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood.” But the glint in his eye said he was enjoying the way both you and Mark bristled far too much.

You shook your head, sighing heavily. “Guess I’m stuck with you tonight,” you muttered, avoiding Mark’s gaze as you turned back to Jeno. The thought of spending the evening with him wasn’t unbearable, but it wasn’t exactly your first choice either.

Mark’s best friend looped her arm around his as they turned to leave together, her laugh ringing out like a chime. Watching them walk away, you felt a small, bitter pang of relief. At least it wasn’t one of the other girls. At least it was her, someone you could trust not to cross any lines.

Still, as you glanced at Jeno and then back at the disappearing figure of Mark, the weight in your chest didn’t lift. If anything, it settled deeper.

──────────────────────────────

The sun dipped lower into the horizon, painting the campus in warm hues of amber and crimson. Shadows stretched across the empty quad, long and languid, as the soft rustle of leaves filled the cool evening air. The building you were in was quiet, almost hauntingly so, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of old wood floors. It was the kind of stillness that usually gave you comfort, a reprieve from the chaos of your thoughts. But tonight, it felt heavier, as though the silence itself was listening.

Jeno lingered near the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with his car keys in hand. He had been ready to leave—ready to take you home—but when you mentioned you’d be staying behind to work, he pocketed the keys without a word. Now he sat on a metal stool a few feet away, his arms folded loosely across his chest, watching you.

You turned your focus to the dim red glow of the darkroom, where you’d set up trays of chemicals and hung lines for drying prints. The faint smell of developer and fixer hung in the air as you carefully placed a piece of photographic paper into the first tray, watching the image begin to bloom like magic on the surface. You worked quietly, your hands steady, the process grounding you. Photography has always been your sanctuary—a way to escape and dissolve into your own world. It was the one place where you could control the narrative, capture the beauty of fleeting moments, and make sense of chaos.

If Jeno weren’t here, you’d have your headphones on by now, fully absorbed in the ritual. Music and the rhythmic motions of developing film would have drowned out everything else. But tonight, you were hyper-aware of his presence. There was something about the way he sat silently, his posture relaxed but his gaze unyielding, that filled the small darkroom with an almost palpable weight. It wasn’t intrusive, but it was inescapable. 

He was present in a way that demanded acknowledgment, his stillness commanding as if he were daring you to forget he was there. Every time you moved, you felt his eyes tracking your motions, not judging, but consuming the details of what you were doing. It was as though he occupied more space than his body physically took up, and that kind of focus—steady, deliberate—was both grounding and unnerving. It made you hyper-aware of yourself in a way that felt slightly unnerving, his intensity lingering in the air like a storm just before it breaks.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching him staring. “Jeno, you can go if you want to,” you said, laughing softly to ease the tension. “You don’t need to stick around.”

“Ouch,” he replied, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, it’s not like that. It’s just… no one’s gonna keep tabs on us to make sure we spend the night together after the Boy Toy Auction. It’s not that deep.”

“But what if I wanna spend the night with you?” Jeno’s voice dipped lower, his tone carrying that unmistakable flirtatious edge. You rolled your eyes, stifling a smile. He could never resist moments like this—always finding a way to slip in a sly comment. It was, after all, quintessentially Jeno.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” you asked, your tone sharp enough to cut through the tension. “Because the last time we spoke, you called me a ‘slut.’” You addressed the elephant in the room with finality, your gaze locking onto his.

“Not the first time that’s happened,” Jeno replied smoothly, his voice dipping lower as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. His words immediately brought a rush of memories from your shared past, ones you didn’t want to linger on right now.

“Okay, you really need to stop flirting,” you laughed, shaking your head at his shamelessness.

Jeno sobered slightly, his gaze softening. “Look, I’m sorry for what I called you. I know it wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean it, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

You studied him for a moment, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. The weight you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying lifted slightly. “So, you’re not angry anymore?”

He shook his head, his tone soft but firm. “No, I’m not angry anymore. I already told Mark this. My frustration wasn’t about thinking I had some kind of claim over you—I know I don’t, and I never have. It was more… I don’t know… the way it happened. It caught me off guard.” He paused, his brows knitting together as if piecing his thoughts together. “It hurt because I thought we were in a good place. You’re someone I’ve always been real with, and when you kept it from me, it felt like you didn’t trust me. Like I didn’t matter enough to know.”

You swallowed hard, his words settling over you like a heavy weight. Slowly, you reached out, placing your hand on top of his. His palm was warm, steady, and it grounded you in the moment. You laced your fingers over his gently, an earnest gesture of connection, before meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly but full of sincerity. “I never wanted to hurt you, Jeno. And it wasn’t about not trusting you—I swear. It was… everything felt so complicated, so overwhelming. I thought keeping it quiet would make things easier, not just for me but for everyone.” You sighed, glancing down at where your hands met. “But looking back, I see how that might have felt to you. Like I was shutting you out.”

You met his eyes again, your grip tightening on his hand. “You’ve always been important to me, Jeno. I never wanted you to feel like you didn’t matter or that I didn’t care. I was just trying to figure everything out without making it worse, but I see now that I didn’t handle it right. I’m really, truly sorry.”

Jeno nodded, his expression softening. “I get that now. And I’m sorry for how I reacted. But I want you to know—you have my blessing to be with Mark. Not that you need it,” he added with a small smile. “But if you’ve been distant because of me, don’t. I want you both to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. “It’s more complicated than that,” you murmured, your gaze dropping to your hands.

“Then help me understand,” Jeno said gently. “What’s going on?”

For a moment, the words wouldn’t come. But then, slowly, you began to unravel the knot inside you, letting everything spill out in a quiet, trembling stream. You told him about the guilt that gnawed at you, how you felt like your presence in Mark’s life only complicated things—how you feared you were hurting him more than you were helping. You admitted how hard it was to see him push himself to the brink, ignoring the signs that something was wrong, and how that fear clung to you, heavy and unrelenting, in every quiet moment. The ache of watching him, knowing you couldn’t fix what was broken, kept you awake at night, the weight of it almost unbearable.

Jeno listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but his presence steady, grounding. The way his gaze softened as you spoke, how his hand lingered close to yours on the table, made it easier to keep going. You admitted that you’d been pulling away from Mark—not because you didn’t care, but because of the nagging feeling that you weren’t enough for him. The way he looked at you—with all that patience, all that steadiness—only made it harder. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn’t deserve it, that you couldn’t match the unwavering way he held space for you in his life.

Mark deserved someone who could meet him halfway, someone who wouldn’t let fear or insecurity cloud every interaction. But you? You felt like all you ever did was run—run from the emotions that overwhelmed you, run from the problems you didn’t know how to solve, and, worst of all, run from him when things got too real. You weren’t pushing him away because you didn’t want him. You were pulling away because you wanted him more than anything. Because you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, his life would be simpler without you in it. That maybe, in trying to hold onto him, you were holding him back.

And when you finally stopped, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it was heavy, charged, but somehow comforting. It was as though, for the first time, someone truly saw the tangled mess you were trying to navigate, and you could breathe just a little easier because of it. Jeno reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You’re overthinking everything,” he said softly. “Mark’s a big boy. He knows what he wants, and trust me—what he wants is you. Let him prove that to you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Jeno raised a hand, stopping you before you could get the words out. “I mean it. You’re sitting here tying yourself in knots about whether you’re enough for him, but did you ever stop to think that maybe he doesn’t need you to be anything more than you already are?” His gaze held yours, steady and unrelenting, daring you to argue. “Mark doesn’t look at you like someone who complicates his life. He looks at you like someone who is his life. And yeah, I get it. Loving someone that much can be scary as hell. But running from it? That’s not protecting him. That’s just shutting him out.”

Jeno leaned back slightly, his hand dropping from your shoulder, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’re not holding him back. You’re the one he’s choosing, over and over again, even when it’s hard. Let him make that choice. Stop deciding for him.” He softened his tone, a hint of teasing slipping through as he added, “And honestly? If anyone deserves to be scared here, it’s Mark. You’re way out of his league.”

The teasing brought the faintest smile to your lips, but his words sank deeper than he realized. For the first time, you considered what it might mean to stop running—to let Mark see you, flaws and all, and trust that he wouldn’t walk away. It was a terrifying thought, but maybe Jeno was right. Maybe it was time to stop deciding for him

“Since when did you speak with so much wisdom?” you asked, your faint smile doing little to hide the weight of your emotions.

Jeno’s lips quirked into a playful smirk, his tone casual. “I’m a man of many surprises.”

Your chest tightened, but for the first time in weeks, there was a glimmer of clarity. “Thanks, Jeno,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Anytime,” he replied, his smirk widening. “But if you really want to thank me, let’s wrap this up. I’m starving.”

You laughed, the sound light and unrestrained, and for a brief moment, the heaviness didn’t feel so unbearable.

You return back to your work shortly after. You were putting the final touches on your pinboard, pinning a collection of photographs with meticulous care, lost in the rhythm of your own movements. The familiar process was soothing, the smell of chemicals and the tactile sensation of the glossy prints grounding you. You didn’t even notice Jeno had wandered over until he was suddenly standing beside you, his presence undeniable as he loomed just close enough to see everything.

Jeno shifted on his feet, crossing his arms as he leaned against the frame. “Are you almost done?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. “I’m starving.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you replied absently, not looking up as you adjusted the placement of a photo. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Jeno let out a dramatic sigh, stepping further into the room. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening. I’m not leaving you here to drown in whatever artsy rabbit hole you’re about to fall into. Plus, if I wait any longer, I’m gonna start eating the film chemicals.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Five more minutes, Jeno. I promise.”

He muttered something under his breath about starving to death and moved closer, his curiosity getting the better of him as his eyes scanned the board. But then he froze, his gaze narrowing on a set of photos in the corner—ones that made his lips quirk into a knowing smirk. “Oh,” he said, drawing out the word. “These are… interesting.”

Without another word, he plucked the prints from the board.

“Jeno, give those back!” you snapped, turning to snatch them from his hands. But he was already holding them high above his head, his teasing grin firmly in place.

“I’m just curious,” he said innocently, though the glint in his eye betrayed him. “What’s with all these Mark photos, huh?”

The shots of Mark at the river court—the ones you’d spent hours perfecting—stood out against the collage of other images. Mark mid-laugh, the sunlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw. Mark looking contemplative as he dribbled a ball, sweat glistening on his skin. Mark, raw and unfiltered, through the lens of someone who saw him for everything he was.

Jeno’s brows furrowed slightly, his lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Oh, these are interesting,” he teased, plucking the photos from the board before you could stop him.

“Jeno, stop that!” you snapped, scrambling after him as he held the prints out of your reach.

“No way,” he replied, holding them high above his head like a sibling tormenting their younger counterpart. “Not until I confirm something.”

You huffed, frustrated, and tried to grab them, but his teasing grin softened into something more serious as he glanced back at the pictures in his hand. “You love him, don’t you?”

The question hit you like a freight train. You froze, the air around you growing heavier as his words settled in your chest. Love. It was a simple word, yet it carried so much weight. Loving Mark wasn’t just an emotion—it was a possibility, a dream, and a fear all rolled into one. The thought of it warmed you from the inside, a quiet, steady heat that promised something safe, something real. But it also terrified you. Love wasn’t simple. It was messy and vulnerable, and it felt like opening yourself up to something that could shatter you completely.

“Just give me the photos, Jen,” you said quietly, your voice trembling just slightly.

“Not until you admit it,” he pressed, his eyes searching yours. But when he saw the raw emotion in your expression, his smirk faded. “You do love him.”

You didn’t respond, but the silence between you said everything.

“He loves you so much, you know,” Jeno added, his voice softer now, more sincere. “So you need to stop being an idiot.”

The bluntness of his words made you laugh faintly, but it was hollow. “I’m glad you both made up,” you said instead, deflecting.

Jeno rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your subject change, but he let it slide. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Before you could say anything else, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. It wasn’t planned, but the weight of everything you’d been holding in—the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming love you felt—finally spilled over. Your chest heaved as the first sob broke free, and before you knew it, you were crying into Jeno’s shoulder.

He didn’t say anything at first, just held you firmly, one hand gently stroking your back while the other rested protectively on your head. “Hey, hey,” he murmured softly. “I got you. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, but when your sobs finally subsided, Jeno pressed a light kiss to your forehead, the gesture so tender it made your chest ache. “I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt, okay?” he said quietly. “You’re not alone in this.”

You sniffled, pulling back slightly to look at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile. “You never used to comfort me this well when we were together.”

He laughed, his usual teasing tone slipping back into place. “Yeah, well, I had a lot to learn back then. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jeno slung his arm around your shoulders as the two of you finally left the darkroom, his warmth grounding you against the chill of the hallway. His presence, steady and reassuring, felt like an anchor after the emotional storm you’d just weathered. Still, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder—was his sudden change, his emotional depth and patience, because of someone he’d been seeing?

You rolled your eyes at yourself, but the thought lingered, tugging at your curiosity. Finally, you broke the silence, glancing up at him with a faint smirk. “So,” you began, your tone light but laced with genuine interest, “what’s going on with you and Mark’s best friend?”

Jeno chuckled softly, his grip on your shoulder tightening just slightly. “What, are you jealous?” he teased, though the faint flicker of something unreadable in his expression made you wonder if he’d answer seriously.

──────────────────────────────

The bedroom was a mix of soft lighting and laughter, the faint hum of music playing from Karina’s phone as she sat across from you, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her hands worked with precision, blending and dabbing with a level of effort that made you feel like you were her only priority. It was almost amusing how much effort she seemed to be putting into your look—more than she’d probably spent on her own.

Karina’s hands moved like an artist painting her masterpiece, each brushstroke precise, deliberate, and filled with care. Her brows furrowed in intense focus, the tip of her tongue peeking out slightly as she tilted your chin this way and that, ensuring every angle caught the light just right. It wasn’t just makeup—it was a quiet ritual, a transformation unfolding under her deft touch.

The soft glam she created was understated yet mesmerizing, like the way sunlight filters through a lace curtain—delicate, natural, but impossible to ignore. A soft shimmer adorned your eyelids, catching the light like the faintest sparkle of dew at dawn. The blush on your cheeks was barely there, just enough to mimic the warmth of laughter, while your lips gleamed with a subtle gloss, like a whisper of silk against your skin. Karina’s artistry didn’t mask you; it elevated you, amplifying what was already there. You looked at your reflection and felt something bloom—beauty, confidence, and the quiet awe of seeing yourself through her eyes.

When she stepped back to admire her work, her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “You know, I think today is the perfect opportunity to make up with Mark. Tell him how sorry you are, how hot he looks, and how badly you want to suck his cock.”

“Karina!” you tut, swatting her arm as your cheeks heat. “Stop that.” You sighed, glancing at your reflection and biting your lip. “I won’t even see him today. Remember? I’m going with Jeno, and he’s going with his best friend.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, giving you a knowing look. You hesitated, trying to shove down the thought tugging at your mind: a tiny part of you did wish you were going with Mark. But it felt selfish, so you didn’t say it out loud. Instead, you let yourself wonder for just a moment how the night might have gone if you were by his side, before sighing again. It’s not meant to be.

“Now, change into your dress, sexy,” Karina said, snapping you out of your thoughts with a playful slap on your bum. You giggled, standing up as she ushered you toward the wardrobe.

“And don’t forget the lingerie,” she called after you.

You groaned but knew better than to argue. The black two-piece set was impossibly revealing, the lace pattern delicate but bold against your skin. The thong sat high on your hips, elongating your legs, while the matching bra was all thin straps and intricate lace, teasing just enough without being overbearing. You adjusted it in front of the mirror, taking a deep breath before pulling on the gown.

The dress was elegance with an edge, an emerald green design that skimmed your curves with perfect precision. The silk fabric shimmered faintly under the light, subtle and luxurious, catching the movement of your body as though it was alive. Its plunging neckline framed your collarbones and offered a delicate hint of skin, daring yet refined, never crossing the line into excess.

The backless design swept low, exposing the curve of your spine, with slender crisscross straps resting lightly on your shoulders. The thigh-high slit added just enough intrigue, revealing glimpses of your leg as you moved, while the gentle train behind you added a touch of timeless sophistication. It was a dress that balanced boldness and class effortlessly, designed to draw attention without demanding it.

As you stood before the mirror, adjusting the soft, flowing fabric over your hips, you couldn’t help but admire the way the gown seemed to transform you. The deep green brought out the warmth of your skin, while your choice of gold jewelry—delicate earrings, a thin chain that kissed your collarbones, and a simple bracelet—added a touch of understated elegance.

Underneath, the black lace lingerie you wore felt like a quiet secret, something just for you, a small reminder of confidence tucked away beneath the fabric. You smoothed the dress one last time, feeling beautiful, poised, and ready. It wasn’t just the dress—it was the way it made you feel, comfortable in your own skin, confident enough to face whatever the night had in store.

Karina stood beside you, crossing her arms as she gave you an approving once-over. “God, I’d do you,” she said, her tone half-joking but her gaze serious.

You wiggled your eyebrows, smirking as you turned toward her. “We could just ditch the ball and stay home, we could just make out instead. What do you think?”

She burst into laughter, shaking her head. “Tempting, but we can’t waste these looks. Let’s go turn some heads.”

You grabbed your matching clutches, sharing one last amused look with her before heading downstairs.

The messages from Jeno sat unanswered on your phone, a trail of confusion and mild irritation tugging at your mood.

You’d asked him when he’d pick you up—no response. Then if he was ready—again, no response. Your final attempt, a half-joking “Are you alive?” was also met with silence. You stared at the empty notifications, wondering what was up with him. 

A knock at the door jolted you from your thoughts, and you sighed in relief. Finally, he was probably here. Ready to open the door and scold him, you were halfway to turning the knob when your phone buzzed with a new message. Narrowing your eyes, you glanced down.

jeno — sorry

jeno — you’re gonna thank me one day!

Confusion prickled at your mind. If he was outside, why was he messaging you? Still frowning, you swung the door open, ready to ask what he meant.

And froze.

Standing in front of you wasn’t Jeno. It was Mark.

His soft brown eyes held yours with a quiet intensity, grounding you in place as your pulse quickened. He looked effortlessly captivating—his tailored black suit accentuating the strong lines of his broad shoulders and lean frame, the sharp cut softened by the warmth in his gaze. Loose strands of hair fell just perfectly, framing his face in a way that made him look both polished and impossibly familiar, as though he belonged right here, at your doorstep, waiting for you.

The bouquet in his hands was a vibrant array of peonies, their soft, layered petals in shades of blush pink and ivory catching the dim light. They were nestled among delicate sprigs of baby’s breath, their tiny white blooms adding a gentle contrast, and a few stems of eucalyptus, their pale green leaves curling elegantly around the arrangement. The scent was subtle yet intoxicating—a mix of fresh florals and earthy undertones that filled the air between you. The flowers were perfect, chosen with care, as though he had known exactly what would make your heart skip a beat.

Your breath hitched. “Mark.” His name slipped from your lips in a quiet whisper, soft and instinctive, as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken.

The corners of his mouth curved into a gentle smile, warm and knowing. “Hi, beautiful.”

His greeting made your heart stutter, but you pushed the feeling aside. “You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, your voice colder than you intended.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Donghyuck standing awkwardly by the side, clearly uncomfortable but too amused to leave just yet. Karina’s wide eyes and poorly hidden smirk added to the chaos. For once, she stayed silent, taking in the unexpected scene with an air of approval.

Mark’s voice wrapped around you, soft yet commanding, every word feeling like it was meant only for you. “I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, holding yours as if nothing else in the world mattered. “Jeno and I agreed to swap—so I could be here, with you.”

“I need—” you stammered, your voice shaking as panic clawed at your chest. “I need some air. I need to get my phone from my room.” The words tumbled out, frantic and disjointed, as you tried to pull away, your pulse pounding in your ears.

But before you could take a step, his hand wrapped around your wrist, firm yet careful, his warmth searing into your skin. The contact sent a jolt through your entire body, leaving you frozen in place. Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but glance at where his fingers pressed against you, firm and unwavering. 

“You’re holding your phone,” he said, his voice calm but edged with a knowing smirk that made your stomach flip. His thumb brushed against your wrist absentmindedly, and the sensation sent your thoughts spiraling further into chaos.

Your voice cracked as you tried again. “I need my headphones.”

Mark didn’t budge. His grip stayed firm but never forceful, grounding you in a way that sent your heart racing. He didn’t break eye contact for a second, his gaze steady and unwavering, pinning you in place as though he could see every chaotic thought racing through your mind. “Karina,” he called over his shoulder, his tone calm yet laced with authority, making Karina’s eyes widen in surprise. “Get Y/N’s headphones.”

You narrowed your eyes as Karina veered the opposite way, heading toward the front door instead of your roomX She exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Donghyuck, then gave you a playful shrug, mouthing “Good luck!” as she stepped outside with him. The door clicked shut behind them, and the weight of the silence that followed was suffocating. You stood there, your pulse racing, Mark’s gaze never leaving you, the space between you shrinking with every shaky breath.

“Mark,” you murmured, your voice trembling despite the sulk you tried to force into it. His name fell from your lips as if it belonged there, as natural and instinctive as breathing. You felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his gaze, the intensity in his eyes leaving you vulnerable in ways you weren’t prepared for.

He stepped closer, his presence filling every inch of space between you, and before you could stop yourself, your arms looped around his shoulders. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, grounding you in his warmth. “I’m here because I want to be with you,” he said, his voice low, steady, but carrying an unmistakable depth. “I only wanted you to be my date at the gala. I wished you’d bid on me that night.”

“Why?” you whispered, your throat tight, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free.

His hesitation was brief, his eyes searching yours as if to make sure you understood every word. “Because I love you,” he said, his tone soft yet firm, wrapping around you like a promise. “You’re mine, and you know that. No matter how much you try to push me away, it doesn’t change the truth. I’d fight for you, harder than anyone. You know that, don’t you?”

His words shattered something fragile inside you, unravelling emotions you’d worked so hard to contain. Your chest tightened, your throat ached, and you could barely keep the tears at bay. “Don’t make me cry with this makeup on,” you mumbled, biting your lip in a futile attempt to hold everything back.

Mark cupped your face gently, tilting your chin so you couldn’t look away. “Don’t cry,” he murmured, his tone firm but impossibly tender. His thumbs brushed against your cheekbones, careful not to smudge the makeup you’d so painstakingly applied.

You wanted to be angry at how he was holding you, at how he was effortlessly pulling you into his world when you were supposed to be distancing yourself. But the way he looked at you—steady, warm, like you were the only thing that mattered—made it impossible. The conflict raged inside you. How could you act like everything was fine? How could you let yourself fall into his arms after all the ways you’d hurt him, after all the ways you knew you didn’t deserve this?

But Mark had always been the only thing that could ground you, and tonight was no exception. Against every logical thought, against every ounce of guilt that clawed at you, your body betrayed you. You stepped closer, your arms tightening around him, burying your face in his shoulder. Mark sighed, the sound deep and almost relieved, as if this moment meant as much to him as it did to you. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you closer, anchoring you.

The tension between you crackled like static, heavy and charged. Mark leaned in slowly, the movement deliberate, his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath was warm, shallow, mingling with your own as the space between you grew smaller, impossibly close. Your eyes flickered to his lips—soft, slightly parted, achingly tempting. Everything about this moment felt like a gravitational pull, and it took all the strength you had to resist closing the distance.

His hand brushed lightly along your arm, sending shivers racing down your spine. You wanted to give in, to feel his lips against yours, to let the moment consume you entirely. But as the seconds stretched, you pulled back just enough to break the spell, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

Mark didn’t miss a beat. A soft smile curved his lips, as if he understood your hesitation but refused to let the moment fall away. “I missed you, baby,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as his hands found yours. In one smooth motion, he raised your hands above your head and spun you in a playful circle, his laughter low and intimate. When he stopped you to face him again, his eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail with a slow, deliberate sweep that made your cheeks flush. He let out a low whistle, his lips curving into a soft, boyish smile. “Look at my girl,” he whispered, his voice rich with affection and awe. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His words were a quiet litany of praise, murmured softly into your ear as his fingers brushed along your arm, your waist, your back. Each compliment sank into you, warming your cheeks and making your pulse race. For the first time in what felt like forever, the smile that spread across your face wasn’t forced or fleeting. It was real. It was yours. And it was because of him.

You gulped, feeling the weight of everything between you—the unspoken words, the fragile tension, the undeniable pull that had always existed. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely steady. “We can be like… this. But just for tonight.”

Mark tilted his head, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees feel weak. His eyes darkened, not with frustration but with something deeper—tenderness, longing, and a quiet determination that seemed to anchor the air between you. “Just tonight?” he repeated softly, his voice low and deliberate, as if testing the words on his tongue. His tone made it clear he didn’t believe you, not for a second.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek, the touch featherlight yet grounding. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his expression unreadable but warm. “You don’t mean that,” he murmured, his breath brushing your skin. “Because you know I don’t do halfway. Not with you.”

The way he said it, the certainty in his voice, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t a question or a plea—it was a promise, one you weren’t sure you deserved but couldn’t bring yourself to deny. His eyes searched yours as if he could see every fear, every hesitation, and was ready to hold them all for you.

“I’m scared,” you mumbled, your voice breaking as the vulnerability spilled out. Your gaze dropped to where his hand rested at his side, but before you could pull away, he closed the distance between you. 

Mark’s hand slid up your arm, tracing a slow path to your shoulder, then to your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your cheek, a tender, grounding touch that made you feel like you might fall apart and hold steady all at once. “I know,” he whispered, his breath warm as it ghosted over your lips.

He brought your hand to his mouth, his lips pressing gently to your knuckles, the kiss lingering as if to reassure you in ways words couldn’t. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, the closeness making you feel drawn into him, in his steady, unwavering presence.

He leaned in, the warmth radiating from him enveloping you like a quiet promise, his tone softer this time—a reassurance wrapped in tenderness. “But I got you,” he murmured, his voice a soft promise that wrapped around you. His other hand found its way to the small of your back, pulling you closer, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your gown.

“You got me,” you hummed, the words spilling out instinctively as if they’d been waiting to be said. Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him closer. For the first time in a long while, the fear in your chest began to ebb, replaced by the steady, unshakable rhythm of his presence.

Mark pulls you closer, his hands steadying you as they hold your waist, thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of your back. He pulled back just enough to rest his lips against your temple, murmuring softly, “You’re safe with me. Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms holding you firmly yet gently, the world seemed to still. Every touch, every whispered word, anchored you, replacing your fear with the quiet comfort of his love.

──────────────────────────────

The grand double doors creaked open, revealing you at the top of the staircase, and in an instant, the entire room shifted. Conversations hushed, glasses paused mid-air, and all eyes turned toward you, drawn as if by an invisible force. The entrance was nothing short of cinematic, a moment that felt suspended in time.

The stairs stretched wide beneath your feet, their polished marble gleaming under the soft golden glow of the chandeliers. Each step was bordered by intricate railings adorned with garlands of greenery and delicate blossoms, a testament to the care and precision poured into every detail of the evening. The music swelled at just the right moment—a stringed harmony that seemed to follow your every move, adding an almost otherworldly quality to your entrance.

As you reached the first step of the grand staircase, you instinctively turned to look for him. But instead of being by your side, as you’d expected, Mark was a few steps behind, standing near the entrance to the hall. The realization hit you immediately. He was giving you your moment, stepping back so you could have the spotlight entirely to yourself. His expression held no trace of impatience, only quiet pride, as if he wanted the world to see you exactly as he did—radiant, breathtaking, and completely deserving of all the attention. His smile was devastatingly handsome, the kind that felt like it could melt away every ounce of your anxiety. 

His gaze never wavered, fixed on you with an intensity that made the rest of the room blur into nothing. He didn’t need to say a word; the look in his eyes told you everything. He was proud of you, enamored by you, and willing to fade into the background so you could have your moment in the spotlight. And in that instant, it didn’t matter that the hall was filled with whispers, envious stares, and admiring gasps—because all you could see was him.

As you reached the bottom of the staircase, Mark’s eyes softened the moment they met yours, and a warm smile spread across his face as he stepped closer. Without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed your forehead—a gentle, grounding touch that sent a wave of warmth through you.

“I have to do some crap with the basketball team since this is a sports gala,” he murmured, his voice low and meant only for you. His lips brushed against your temple as he pulled back slightly, his gaze lingering. “But I’ll find you later, yeah? I won’t be too long.”

You nodded, your lips curving into a small smile. “Yeah, I’ll be here,” you replied softly, your voice steady even though your heart felt a twinge of disappointment at his brief departure.

Mark gave you one last look, his hand squeezing yours before he stepped away, his broad frame moving effortlessly through the crowd. You watched him for a moment, the way his presence commanded attention even when he wasn’t trying, before turning to make your way toward the far side of the hall where your friends were waiting.

As you approached, all eyes were on you—not just the envious stares from around the room, but the wide-eyed gazes of your cheer squad. Karina was the first to react, her expression breaking into one of delight as she practically rushed toward you, her heels clicking against the polished floor.

“Look at you!” Karina exclaimed, her hands clasping yours tightly as her eyes swept over your gown, her expression a mix of pride and awe. “Y/N, you look absolutely stunning—like, I knew you would, but this? You’re completely stealing the show!” Her voice was brimming with excitement, so enthusiastic and full of admiration that it was easy to forget she had been the one helping you get ready just hours ago. You couldn’t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest as you took in how genuine she was, acting as though she were seeing you for the first time. That was what you loved most about her—how her energy made even the simplest moments feel special, as if this wasn’t just your night but hers to celebrate, too.

Winter wasn’t far behind, circling you with an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god, is this custom?” she teased, her eyes narrowing as she inspected every detail of your gown. For a moment, you thought she was joking, but then her expression softened, her tone surprisingly genuine. “I mean it, Y/N. This dress? It’s stunning—you’re stunning. Honestly, if anyone doesn’t say it, they’re just jealous.” Her words caught you off guard, and you blinked at her, momentarily speechless. Winter rarely compliments anyone—least of all you—and the unexpected sincerity in her voice made the moment even more surreal. It was so unlike her that you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of gratitude and disbelief, her admiration settling over you like an unfamiliar but welcome warmth.

Even Aisha and Mia, who usually kept their compliments begrudging at best, exchanged a quick glance, their expressions shifting from mild disinterest to reluctant acknowledgment. They both nodded, a quiet, mutual agreement passing between them. For once, they couldn’t deny it—you had outshone everyone tonight, and even they weren’t stubborn enough to ignore it.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension you’d been carrying earlier melting away under their praise. “Thanks, guys,” you said, your voice light but full of gratitude.

The girls huddled closer, each of them gushing over the intricate details of your gown—the subtle shimmer, the perfect fit, the way the slit revealed just enough to make a statement without being overdone. It felt like a moment straight out of a movie, their chatter blending with the soft hum of the music and the occasional clink of glasses in the background.

The grandeur of the hall became more apparent the longer you stood there, its opulence creating the perfect backdrop for the evening. Soft, golden lighting spilled from grand chandeliers overhead, their crystals sparkling like tiny fireflies against the high ceilings. Rich drapes lined the walls, the fabric so luxurious it seemed to glow in the warm light. The polished floors reflected the grandeur above, their surface so pristine it looked almost like glass.

A live orchestra played in the corner, their music smooth and timeless, weaving a melody that felt like it belonged to another era. The sound wrapped around the room, adding a sense of intimacy to the elegance. Students moved gracefully across the space, their gowns and sharp suits adding splashes of color to the muted golds and whites of the venue. Laughter floated through the air, mingling with the soft clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of applause from a corner of the room.

This wasn’t just another event—it was the event. The end-of-year gala was a cornerstone of the campus social calendar, a tradition rooted in celebration and anticipation. It wasn’t just about dressing up and mingling; it was about honoring the basketball team’s journey and rallying the entire school behind them as they prepared for the upcoming state championships. The gala served as both a fundraiser and a morale booster, bringing together students, faculty, and sponsors to show their support. For the players, it was a night of recognition, a moment to celebrate their hard work before stepping into the high-stakes games ahead.

For Mark, tonight wasn’t about being in the spotlight but about supporting Jeno, the team’s captain. While the responsibilities of leading the team weren’t Mark’s to shoulder, he stood by Jeno, helping him navigate the attention and endless conversations with faculty, donors, and supporters. Mark had always been quietly dependable, offering his steady presence and easy charm to smooth over the tensions that came with such a high-profile night. But even with his focus on helping Jeno, it was clear where his attention truly lay. Because for all the glamour and importance of the gala, none of it really mattered to him.

What mattered was you.

When Mark finally found you again, it was as if the entire room faded away. His gaze locked onto yours instantly, and the magnetic pull of his eyes was undeniable. They burned with a quiet intensity, soft yet unwavering, as though they could see straight through to your soul. The connection between you was immediate, unshakable, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the world simply didn’t exist.

As he made his way across the hall, his focus never wavered. His steps were confident, deliberate, and the closer he got, the more the butterflies in your stomach stirred. Around you, the chatter of your friends faded, their gazes darting between the two of you as they exchanged knowing glances.

Aisha and Mia’s eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and begrudging acknowledgment flashing across their faces. Karina, on the other hand, beamed like a proud mother, her smile practically glowing as she nudged Winter with her elbow. “Look at that,” she whispered, loud enough for you to hear but without drawing too much attention. “He only has eyes for her.”

And he did.

When he finally reached you, Mark’s smile widened, soft but undeniably real. He stopped just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, his presence commanding and grounding all at once.

After a brief exchange of teasing from the girls, he leaned in slightly, his voice low and meant only for you. “Dance with me?”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat, and he took your hand. His touch was warm, grounding, as he led you to the center of the room. The grandeur of the hall, the shimmer of lights and muted conversations, all faded into the background the moment his hand slid into yours. The other rested lightly on your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to guide you.

The music swelled, soft and sweeping, as you moved together effortlessly, each step in perfect harmony. His touch was firm but delicate, and the gentle pressure of his thumb brushing against the bare skin of your back through the slit of your dress sent warmth blooming across your cheeks. You tilted your head slightly to look at him, the closeness between you making it impossible to focus on anything else.

The jealous stares from cheerleaders, the murmured whispers—none of it registered. You could notice it if you wanted to, the way their gazes lingered, the quiet judgment hidden behind their half-smiles. But for the first time, you realized you didn’t care. It didn’t affect you anymore, because this moment—being with him—was more important than any of their opinions. They didn’t know the history between you, the nights spent laughing until sunrise, the quiet moments when he held you together without needing to say a word. And here, now, in his arms, you felt the steady beat of his heart against yours. His gaze never left your face, as if memorizing every detail, and you felt your resolve to keep him at arm’s length unraveling, piece by piece. Nothing outside this moment mattered, not when his presence was enough to drown out the rest of the world.

He shifted his hand slightly, his fingers brushing a little higher along your back, drawing you closer as he guided you through another step. The rhythm of the music matched the quiet intensity between you, and the feel of his breath, warm against your temple, sent a shiver down your spine.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, his voice breaking through the haze of the moment.

“I missed you more,” you murmured back, the words trembling with honesty.

His grip on you tightened slightly, his hand brushing along your back, grounding you even further. “I love you,” he said, his voice earnest and steady, like a vow. “And I just want you to know—whatever happened, whoever hurt you, I’ll always be on your side. Okay? When you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be here. Always.”

You nodded, the lump in your throat threatening to spill over. His words held a warmth that wrapped around you, but they also chipped away at the walls you’d spent weeks building. “Okay,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible.

Mark’s lips twitched into a small smile, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to commit every inch of it to memory. “And if you want to push me away for good,” he added, his voice dipping lower, “you’re going to have to try harder.”

Something about the way he said it—his voice, his unwavering gaze, the way his touch lingered—undid you. His eyes burned into yours, brimming with love, longing, and something so steadfast it made you ache. It was as though he was silently pulling you closer, daring you to cross the invisible line you’d been holding yourself back from. He wasn’t just standing there; he was holding you in every possible way—grounding you with his presence, consuming you with his touch, and filling the air between you with the kind of tension that begged to be resolved. Tonight, he looked so effortlessly captivating, so familiar and yet more devastatingly handsome than ever. He wasn’t just the man you’d fallen for; he was everything.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to pull him closer and claim him as yours again. The need was undeniable, rushing through you like a flood you couldn’t stop. Instinctively, your eyes darted around the room, taking in the happiness blooming in every corner. Chenle was twirling Ningning around in an exaggerated dance, her laughter spilling out like music. Jeno was leaned over, cracking some joke with Mark’s best friend, their grins wide and unrestrained. Jaemin and Winter stood by the refreshment table, sharing whispered jokes and sly glances that made her cheeks flush. Even Karina and Donghyuck, who usually bickered over everything, were smiling and giggling together, their heads close as if sharing a secret. It felt like the entire room was alive with warmth and joy, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you wanted to let yourself have some of it.

You wanted to give yourself this—to let the happiness you saw around you settle in your chest, even if just for a moment. For so long, you had let other people’s opinions and expectations dictate your choices, weighing their judgment heavier than your own feelings. But as you stood there, surrounded by the unfiltered joy radiating from every corner of the room, you realized something monumental: it wasn’t your priority to make them happy.

Their whispers, their raised brows, their assumptions—they didn’t matter. They weren’t the ones living with your choices, carrying your heartbreak, or holding your love. You were tired of sacrificing your happiness for the approval of people who would never truly understand the depths of what you felt. This moment wasn’t about them; it was about you. And for once, you decided to let go of the need to please anyone but yourself.

You gulped, your heart racing as you felt your body betray every ounce of hesitation still clinging to you. Before you could stop the pull, before your second thoughts could win, you broke. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his suit as you leaned in. Your forehead brushed against his, the soft touch making your breath hitch before you tilted your face upward.

And then, you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was hard, desperate, and full of everything you’d been holding back. Your lips crashed into his like they’d been starving, and Mark didn’t hesitate. His arms moved instantly, encircling you tightly, holding you close as if he feared you might slip away. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that somehow contradicted the sheer intensity of the moment. Every kiss felt like a confession, every brush of his lips a vow, as he poured all the words he hadn’t said into the kiss.

His fingers found the bare skin of your back through the slit of your dress, the warmth of his touch searing through the thin fabric and sending a shiver down your spine. You could feel him smile against your lips, that quiet, confident grin that had always undone you. You couldn’t help but smile back, the connection between you so real, so electric, that it almost hurt. But the ache in your chest wasn’t enough to stop you—it only drove you closer, needing to feel him, to know that this wasn’t a dream. His hands trailed up to your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if you were something fragile, something precious. Every touch was soft yet deliberate, and the way he held you made you feel seen, safe, and whole.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and overwhelmed, Mark’s gaze was waiting for you, warm and steady. He looked at you like you were his whole world, and it was almost too much to bear.

But then it hit you—all at once, like a tidal wave crashing over the calm you’d just found. The weight of everything between you came rushing back with brutal force. The guilt—sharp and unrelenting—overwhelmed the brief happiness that had blossomed in his arms. The fear—the kind that clung to your chest and made it hard to breathe—reminded you of everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t faced. And then there was the truth, raw and unforgiving: Mark’s heart condition, the secret he’d been carrying alone, something he had hidden from you not out of malice but to shield you from worry. It made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t put into words, the thought of his quiet suffering twisting the knife of guilt even deeper.

You felt the sting of realization claw at you, tearing through the moment you had just shared. How could you let yourself have this—this happiness, this closeness—when there were so many unresolved pieces between you? The thought of how much he had endured alone, of the strength he always seemed to carry for you and everyone else, only made the weight heavier. And beneath it all, the whisper of self-doubt grew louder: You’re not enough for him. Not yet. Not when you were still struggling to piece yourself back together. Not when you couldn’t protect him the way he always seemed to protect you.

The whiplash of emotions was dizzying—joy to guilt, hope to fear—all spinning so fast that you felt like you couldn’t catch your breath. The kiss had been everything you wanted, but reality came crashing in, reminding you why you’d held back in the first place. The walls you thought you’d let crumble began rebuilding themselves, your mind scrambling to retreat into safety. You couldn’t do this, not now. Not like this.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Instead, your body betrayed you. With a trembling gasp, you wrenched yourself out of his hold, stepping back as though the distance could somehow quiet the storm raging inside you. His hands fell to his sides, the loss of his touch like a jolt of cold air against your skin.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking with something between shock and desperation.

“I need to go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. You didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare face the hurt you knew would be etched into his features. Instead, you turned, your legs shaky as you bolted toward the exit, each step tearing at the fragile bond that tethered you to him.

You bolted through the grand hall, past the murmurs of onlookers and the faint strains of music, your chest heaving as the weight of everything crashed down on you. The guilt, the fear, and the raw vulnerability of Mark’s presence—it was too much. The cool night air hit your face like a slap when you pushed through the doors, your breath hitching as tears spilled over your lashes. You didn’t stop running, didn’t look back.

Behind you, you heard him call your name, the anguish in his voice almost making you stop. Almost. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because staying meant facing everything you weren’t ready to confront, and right now, running felt like the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Your heels clicked against the pavement as you darted across campus, weaving through familiar paths without a destination in mind. You just needed to get away, to put distance between you and the emotions that felt too big to handle.

“Y/N!” His voice rang out, closer this time, rough and full of urgency. You didn’t slow down, forcing your legs to carry you further even as they burned. You could hear his footsteps pounding behind you, relentless, closing in like he wouldn’t let you go.

Finally, your path led you to the back of the sports complex, where the basketball locker rooms loomed, dimly lit and eerily quiet in the late hour. You shoved the door open, stepping into the stark fluorescent light, the scent of sweat and disinfectant overwhelming you. It was a place you’d been before, but tonight it felt foreign, almost suffocating.

Mark caught up with you just as the door swung shut behind him. “What the hell, Y/N?” he demanded, his voice harsh and breathless. He was angry—angrier than you’d ever seen him. His broad shoulders were tense, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

“Just tell me what’s going on.” Mark’s tone was low, firm, but it carried an edge you weren’t used to. When you didn’t stop, his footsteps quickened, closing the gap between you. “Y/N, stop,” he demanded, his hand grabbing your arm gently but insistently, turning you to face him. “I’m done waiting.”

You turned away from him, your hands gripping one of the metal lockers for support as you fought to calm the storm raging inside you. “Leave me alone!” you snapped, pulling your arm away. “Just… forget it, okay?” you said, your voice trembling, but it didn’t have the conviction you wanted.

Mark froze, his jaw tightening. The flicker of hurt in his eyes was replaced by something you hadn’t seen before—anger. Not frustration, not disappointment, but a raw, simmering fury that made your chest tighten. “You know what? I’m so fucking done with you,” he said, his voice louder, harsher.

You gasped, your heart skipping a beat at the sheer force of his tone. Mark had always been patient, gentle even when things got difficult. But this? This was a side of him you hadn’t seen before, a side that made you realize how much he’d been holding back. His anger was more intense than Jeno’s, which said everything about how deeply you’d pushed him.

“I’ve been so patient,” he continued, stepping closer, his eyes blazing. “So understanding. And what have you given back? Absolutely fucking nothing.”

“Mark,” you started, but he cut you off, his voice sharp and unwavering.

“You pushed me away. You shut me out. And then you made decisions for both of us without even giving me a choice. Do you even realise how unfair that is? You don’t get to decide what’s best for me and then run.”

“Why do you love me so much?” you screamed, the words bursting out of you before you could stop them. “Why can’t you just let me go?”

“Because I do!” he shouted back, his voice raw with emotion. “You don’t get to tell me who I can love or not. That’s for me to decide. That’s mine. No one can tell me—not my friends, not my family, not even you. I love you because I do. I don’t need to fucking justify it.”

The tension between you was suffocating, his words breaking through every barrier you’d tried to put up. “You’re scared, I get it,” he continued, his tone softening but still intense. “But you bury it so deep that it ends up hurting us both.”

“Scared?” you shot back, your voice sharper now, almost defensive. “You keep throwing that word at me like it explains everything. But maybe you’re the one who’s scared. Scared to see that I’m not who you think I am. Scared to admit that this—us—might not be as perfect as you want it to be.”

“Stop deflecting,” he snapped, his voice cutting through your defenses like a blade. “You’re scared of being vulnerable. You’re scared of me seeing the worst of you. And instead of letting me in, you use me as an excuse to keep running. This isn’t about me—it’s about you.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t stop. “It’s like you’re waiting for me to give up on you, just so you can say you were right. Well, I won’t. I’m not giving up on us, but you have to stop running. You have to stop hiding.”

“I don’t know how!” you admitted, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You think I need perfect?” he asked, his voice quieter now but still filled with intensity. “I don’t. I need you. All of you. The messy, broken, scared parts, too. But you won’t even let me fight for you. You think I wouldn’t give everything for us? That I wouldn’t fight through all the shit just to be with you?”

You couldn’t respond, the lump in your throat choking you as his words sank in.

“Do you know how fucking hard it is to feel like you’re the only one trying?” he continued, his voice trembling now, betraying the pain he’d been holding back. “To feel like I’m standing here, giving you everything, and you’re just… gone?”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you covered your face with your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I just… I didn’t know how to deal with any of this.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

But the sympathy you expected didn’t come. His jaw clenched, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Sorry?” he snapped, his voice rising. “You’ve been shutting me out, pushing me away for weeks, and I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I don’t deserve this. This is absolute crap. What happened to us promising each other that we’d be open, that we’d communicate?”

The dam inside you finally broke. “You think I’m the only one who’s not fucking communicating and being open?” you yelled, your voice trembling with anger. “You have a heart condition, Mark! And you’ve been playing like nothing’s wrong! You’re a fucking idiot.”

His expression froze, his eyes widening in shock. “How do you know?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

You swallowed hard, your voice quieter but no less biting. “Your dad told me,” you admitted, the weight of the secret you’d been holding finally slipping out.

Mark took a step back, his jaw tightening. “My dad told you?” he repeated, his voice rising again, anger lacing every word. “So you’ve been holding this over me, knowing, and you didn’t say anything? You just let it fester instead of coming to me?”

“You’re mad at me?” you shot back, your voice shaking with frustration. “You’ve been hiding this, playing with your life like it doesn’t matter, and I’m the one you’re angry with?”

“Yes, I’m mad!” he snapped. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. And instead of trusting me, you go and act like it’s some weapon to use when you’re ready to blow up.”

Your fists clenched, your nails digging into your palms. “I didn’t use it as a weapon! I didn’t even know how to process it. Do you know how it feels to see you out there, pushing yourself, knowing you could—” Your voice broke, the words catching in your throat. “Knowing you could collapse and it would be your fault for not telling anyone? For not doing anything about it?” 

He raked a hand through his hair, his own frustration spilling over. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I don’t know my limits?”

“Clearly, you don’t!” you fired back, your voice cracking. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be out there risking everything. You wouldn’t be hiding it.”

“And what would telling you have done?” he countered, his voice quieter but no less heated. “You’d have worried yourself sick, and then what? You’d have tried to fix something you can’t fix, like you always do.”

The words hit you hard, the truth in them stinging more than you wanted to admit. “That’s not fair,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. ���You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Mark. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His gaze softened for a fleeting second before his frustration returned. “And you don’t get to decide that hiding things, shutting me out, is somehow okay. We promised each other, didn’t we? Or does that only matter when it’s convenient for you?”

Your mind raced, the weight of everything between you pressing down like an unbearable force. You didn’t know what was going to happen next—whether the silence would shatter with another heated argument or if you’d both just turn away, leaving everything unresolved.

Your eyes betrayed you, roaming over him despite the chaos in your head. The way his broad shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his skin under the dim light. The way his chest heaved with every ragged breath. His shirt stuck to his body in places, damp with sweat from both the argument and his barely-contained anger.

Mark’s jaw clenches so tightly you could see the muscles flex beneath his skin. His hair was messy, strands falling across his forehead, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. You could feel the frustration radiating off him in waves, filling the room with an electric tension that sent shivers down your spine.

His frustration only made him look hotter, his expression stormy, his eyes sharp and burning into yours. It was infuriating—how someone could look so good when you were this furious. And yet, beneath your anger, something primal stirred.

You hated how much he affected you.

You shifted uncomfortably, your thighs pressing together as heat pooled low in your stomach, the ache demanding attention. You hated how much you wanted him, how the argument and his frustration only made you ache for him more. It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t fair, but it was undeniable. This wasn’t how you wanted to feel—not now, not after everything but the ache was undeniable. Memories flood your mind, how he fits, how he feels—how perfectly he fills you, how he takes control and leaves you gasping. 

And before you could second-guess yourself, you gasped and grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric and yanking him toward you roughly. Your lips collided with his in a kiss that wasn’t soft or forgiving—it was feral, raw, and dripping with need. You pushed at his chest, your nails digging into the hard planes of his body through the fabric as if desperate to tear it off. He didn’t hesitate for even a second. His hands found their way into your hair, tangling roughly as he yanked your head back, the sharp sting making you whimper against his lips. His kiss was brutal, his mouth claiming yours with a force that made your knees buckle.

Mark didn’t care about being gentle. He kissed you like he was trying to mark his territory, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip before he pulled it between his, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. His grip was firm, almost punishing, as if he didn’t care how much it might hurt, as if all he cares about is keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His other hand slides down to your waist, gripping you so hard you’d swear there’d be bruises. Each press of his lips was punishing, every movement unrelenting, leaving you breathless and trembling in his hold.

“You’re so fucking childish,” he growled against your lips, his voice rough and unforgiving. “You don’t know how to talk, so you do this instead?”

His words stung, but they only made you want him more. “I—” you gasped, trying to speak between frantic kisses, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his pants. “I—miss—this. I miss you. Please, Mark.”

He laughed darkly, low and mocking, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before pulling away just enough to look at you. “Missed me?” His hands gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You think I didn’t notice? You’re fucking pathetic. You can’t even admit you’re wrong, and now you’re begging for my cock?”

You whimpered, the heat in his voice sending shockwaves through your body. “Please, Mark,” you repeated, your voice trembling. “I need you. I need—”

Mark’s grip on your hair tightened as he tilted your head back, forcing your eyes to meet his. His jaw was clenched, his expression a mix of anger and barely restrained desire. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “You want me inside you?” he asked, his tone sharp and commanding. “Then get on your knees and suck my cock. Show me just how badly you need me.”

Your legs buckled beneath you, and you sank to the floor, your hands trembling as you reached for his belt. He didn’t need to tell you what to do; the fire in his eyes said it all. The leather slid free from the loops with a sharp snap, and you glanced up at him, your breath hitching at the intensity in his gaze. His fingers tapped against your cheek, demanding your attention. “Open,” he commanded.

You obeyed without hesitation, your gaze fixed on him as heat pulsed through your body. The sound of his zipper being dragged down felt deafening in the charged silence, every movement deliberate and commanding. When he freed himself, your breath hitched, and a moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. He was big, impossibly thick, his cock standing proudly against the taut muscles of his stomach, the tip flushed a deep, needy red and glistening with arousal.

The veins running along his length added to the raw, masculine appeal, and the weight of him as he stroked himself briefly made your mouth water. He was perfect, every inch of him overwhelming and enticing, the kind of sight that made your thighs clench involuntarily. You licked your lips instinctively, unable to tear your eyes away, leaning forward like you were drawn to him, your hands trembling as they reached out to touch him.

Mark smirked down at you, the sheer dominance in his stance making your stomach knot—broad shoulders squared, jaw rigid, and those dark, unforgiving eyes searing into you. He tapped the thick, swollen head of his cock against your lips, smearing the bead of precum across them with deliberate, mocking slowness. “Look at you,” he spat, his tone rough and dripping with contempt. “Fucking desperate, aren’t you? Can’t even think straight without this in your mouth. Go on,” he growled, gripping your chin harshly, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Show me how much you’ve missed choking on it.”

Mark didn’t give you a second to think, let alone hesitate. His hand fisted harshly in your hair, tugging your head back as he shoved himself past your lips without mercy. The stretch was immediate and brutal, your throat tightening as you gagged around him, tears pricking at your eyes. Your hands scrambled for purchase on his thighs, nails digging into his skin as you tried to steady yourself against the overwhelming intrusion.

“Take it,” he growled, his voice rough and unforgiving, the sound vibrating through the air like a command. His hips snapped forward with deliberate, punishing force, pushing deeper until you choked. “That’s it. Gag on it. You can handle it, can’t you?” His groan was low and guttural, a primal noise that only spurred his movements as he fucked into your mouth with no hint of restraint.

You nodded frantically, the motion clumsy and desperate as tears streamed down your flushed cheeks. Drool spilled freely from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin in messy streaks. Mark’s rough thumb wiped at it, but instead of cleaning you up, he smeared it across your swollen lips, his smirk cruel. Without a word, he pushed back in, the thick length of him stretching your throat until you gagged again, your hands trembling against his thighs.

His grip on your hair tightened painfully, yanking your head into place as he buried himself to the hilt. “Pathetic,” he growled, holding you there, his cock pulsing against the back of your throat as you fought for breath. “You’re going to sit there and cry about it? I thought you said you missed me.” He pulled back just enough for you to gasp for air, only to thrust back in, harder this time, forcing another choked whimper from you.

“You can do better than that,” he snarled, his voice a dark, taunting drawl. “Come on, baby. Prove it. Show me how fucking desperate you are to please me.”

You moaned around him, the sound raw and desperate, sending vibrations along his cock that had him groaning deep in his chest. Your trembling hands gripped his hips tightly, nails biting into his skin as you fought to steady yourself against the relentless pace. The guttural noise he let out was pure need, his head tipping back as a string of curses fell from his lips. “Fuck, you’re filthy for this,” he muttered, his voice rough and laced with satisfaction. His grip on your hair loosened just enough to let you move, but his hips still rolled forward with a brutal rhythm. “So eager to be used, aren’t you? So desperate for my cock.”

His words sent a thrill shooting through your entire body, making you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, your tongue swirling around him with deliberate precision. He cursed again, his hand sliding from your hair to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek as he looked down at you. “Look at this fucking mess,” he said, his tone sharp but tinged with something darker, more possessive. “You’re perfect for me—just like this. On your knees, drooling, choking, fucking begging for it.”

Your teary eyes lifted to meet his, and the sheer adoration mixed with desperation in your gaze made him falter for a split second. His thumb brushed against the tear-streaked skin of your cheek, smearing the wetness as his expression softened just slightly, though the hunger in his eyes burned just as fiercely. “You love this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and taunting, his lips curling into a smirk. “You love being my pretty little toy. Just here to make me feel good, aren’t you?”

You nodded frantically, the movement shaky but certain, and he chuckled darkly, his hand tightening on your jaw. Your lips slid over him with renewed effort, taking him deeper, the stretch burning in the best way. When he hit the back of your throat, you gagged again, a muffled moan spilling from your lips. He groaned at the sound, his free hand tangling back in your hair as he forced you to take him even deeper.

“That’s it,” he growled, his tone rough and unforgiving. “Take every fucking inch. Show me how much you need this—how much you fucking missed this.”

“Fuck,” Mark hissed, his hand yanking your hair so hard it made your scalp sting, forcing your head to stay exactly where he wanted. His hips snapped forward, unrelenting as he drove into your throat with brutal, punishing thrusts. You gagged around him, tears streaming down your face, but he didn’t slow—not for a second. Each movement was rough, raw, and filled with his pent-up frustration.

“Gonna make me come like this,” he growled, his voice thick and ragged as his cock plunged deeper with every thrust. “You feel that? How fucking good you’re taking it?” His tone was mocking, but the desperation in his words betrayed how close he was, his breaths uneven and sharp.

The heat coursing through you only grew, spurred on by his harsh words and the way he fucked your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. You hollowed your cheeks as best as you could, the stretch overwhelming, your hands reaching up to cup his balls, adding to the intensity. His groan was guttural, his head tipping forward, sweat dripping from his hairline as he stared down at you with a feral hunger.

“You’re so fucking perfect for this,” he muttered, the words spilling from his lips in a cracked, breathless tone. His hips jerked harder, deeper, as he used your mouth without restraint. “Take it all, baby. Every inch. Don’t you dare stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

His breathing turned erratic, his grip on your hair tightening painfully, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge. “So good,” he growled, his voice raw, nearly breaking. “So fucking good to me. You’re gonna swallow every fucking drop, aren’t you? Show me what a good little slut you are.”

His hips slammed into your face without rhythm, each thrust rough and desperate, his breaths turning into sharp, ragged gasps. “Fuck—fuck, just like that,” he growled, his voice low and feral, vibrating with raw need. His head tipped back, a moan tearing from his throat that echoed through the room, louder than anything you’d ever heard from him before. His entire body tensed, muscles flexing as he buried himself in your mouth one last time before pulling out abruptly, his cock throbbing and slick with your spit.

“Look at you,” he groaned, fisting himself roughly as he angled his cock towards your face, the tip swollen and dripping. “Open wide, baby. You’re taking all of it.”

You barely had a second to react before he threw his head back, his hips jerking forward as thick ropes of his release painted your face in hot, sticky streaks. His cock pulsed in his hand as he pumped himself through it, each spurt landing on your lips, your cheeks, and down to your chin. His moans were unrestrained, loud and filthy, mingling with the sound of his hand working over himself.

Your tongue darted out instinctively, catching the remnants of his release on your lips as you leaned forward, desperate to take him back in. His cock twitched in your hand as you wrapped your swollen lips around the sensitive tip, sucking gently but firmly. The taste of him coated your tongue, salty and thick, and you moaned softly as you sucked in your cheeks, determined to take every last drop. Your hands gripped his thighs for balance as you worked your mouth over him, slurping up the mess that lingered along his shaft. Even as his body shuddered from the overstimulation, you didn’t stop, your tongue swirling and teasing every vein until you felt him twitch again against your tongue.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he rasped, his voice shaking from the force of his climax. His hand moved to smear the mess across your skin, his thumb pressing his cum into your lips. “Covered in me. This is where you belong—fucking dripping for me.”

You blinked up at him, your chest heaving, tears and cum mixing on your cheeks. He stared down at you, his eyes dark and still burning with satisfaction, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. “Such a good little slut,” he muttered, his voice husky as he let his cock fall against his thigh, still half-hard. “Look at the fucking mess you made.”

His hand tugged at your hair again, tilting your head back so he could admire his work. “You’re not cleaning this up,” he said, his tone sharp, commanding. “You’re wearing it. I want you to remember who you fucking belong to.”

When he finally pulled back, you inhaled sharply, your chest rising and falling as you fought to catch your breath. Your lips were swollen and slick, and his thumb pressed against them, smearing the mess further as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes burned with a mix of satisfaction and unrelenting hunger, his smirk wicked and deliberate. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, dripping with possessive heat. “You think I’m done? Not even close.”

He stepped back, his hand tugging you up by your arm with just enough force to make your legs stumble. “Get up,” he commanded, his tone sharp and leaving no room for hesitation. His eyes roamed over you slowly, possessively, as his smirk deepened. “I want to see every inch of you,” he growled, his voice heavy with the promise of everything he wasn’t finished with yet.

Mark’s grip on your hips was bruising, his fingers digging into your flesh as he slammed you against the lockers, the loud metallic clang echoing through the room. His mouth claimed yours immediately, the kiss harsh and all-consuming, teeth scraping against your lip as his tongue plunged inside with a dominance that left you breathless. The zipper of your dress gave way under his rough, impatient hands, the fabric slipping down your body as he tore it open.

With a grunt, he spun you around abruptly, pressing your front against the cold, unforgiving metal. His body crowded yours, his chest pressed flush against your back as his hands roamed over your exposed skin, rough and claiming. His lips didn’t leave yours for long, breaking only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck before returning to your mouth. 

“Is this what you’ve been running from?” he growled, his voice rough and dripping with raw lust as he thrust his hips into you, grinding against you through the thin fabric of your dress. His tone was mocking, cruel, his words punctuated by another sharp roll of his hips. “This? Me?”

You couldn’t answer, your breath catching in your throat as a loud, desperate moan escaped instead. Your fingers clawed at the lockers, your body arching back into him, seeking more, needing more. His dark chuckle against your ear sent a shiver down your spine as one of his hands slipped lower, his palm spreading over your stomach before sliding between your thighs.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” he muttered, his voice low and guttural. His teeth grazed your ear as his fingers pressed harder, his movements deliberate and teasing. “You can’t even deny it, can you? You’ve been craving this—craving me.”

Mark’s fingers fumbled with the zippers on your gown, his frustration mounting with every failed attempt. His brows knitted together, a low growl rumbling from his chest as he yanked at the fabric, his movements rough and impatient. “You look so fucking beautiful,” he spat through gritted teeth, his voice rough and strained with desire, “but why the hell are you wearing a dress with a million zips? What are you trying to do, fucking torture me?” He tugged harder, the force jerking your body slightly as he finally managed to loosen the stubborn fabric, piece by piece.

When the dress finally hit the floor, Mark froze. His breath caught, and a loud, groan ripped from his throat, his eyes darkening as they roamed over your body. You stood there in a black lace set that barely covered you, every inch of the delicate material designed to tease him. The thong clung to your hips, the lace framing your ass and leaving your cheeks fully exposed, while the sheer bra did nothing to hide the hard peaks of your nipples pressing against the fabric.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice thick with raw hunger as his hands gripped your waist, his touch rough and claiming. His thumbs dug into your skin, his fingers spreading over your hips as if he couldn’t get enough of feeling you beneath him. “You’re driving me fucking insane,” he growled, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck before sinking into your skin. He bit down hard, his lips sucking and pulling until he left angry red marks behind, his growls vibrating against your throat.

Mark’s hands slid down to your ass, grabbing it roughly, his fingers kneading the soft flesh before delivering a sharp slap that made you yelp. “You’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven as his lips moved to your collarbone, trailing heated, open-mouthed kisses. “This body—fuck, it’s mine. These tits, this ass, this pussy—it’s all fucking mine. Made for me. You hear me?” His cock pressed hard against your stomach through his trousers, the friction making you gasp.

You whimpered, your hips instinctively grinding against him, your hands gripping his as your desperation mounted. “Mark, please,” you breathed, your voice shaky, your need for him unbearable.

He groaned at your words, his head dropping forward as his hands roamed your body feverishly. His movements were rough, erratic, his need for you written in the way he gripped, grabbed, and claimed every inch of your skin. “I’m fucking obsessed with you,” he growled, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the lace. His thumbs teased over your nipples before he leaned down, his tongue flicking over the hardened peaks through the sheer fabric. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and then he bit down just enough to make you gasp, his chuckle dark and satisfied.

“Look at you,” he muttered, pulling back to take in the sight of your flushed face, your swollen lips parted as you panted for him. “So fucking needy. Do you even realize how desperate you are for me right now?” His voice was filled with awe and disbelief, as though your desire for him was something he couldn’t fully comprehend.

“Of course I’m desperate,” you shot back, your voice trembling but bold. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “I need you. Stop teasing, Mark.”

His laugh was low and wicked, vibrating against your ear like a growl as he slammed you harder against the lockers. His hips pinned you in place, the pressure bruising and unrelenting. “You think I’m teasing?” he snarled, his voice sharp and dripping with dominance, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Before you could respond, his hand shot up to your neck, his grip rough and possessive, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. He yanked your head to the side, forcing your face toward his, his eyes dark and burning with lust as his lips crashed onto yours. The kiss was raw, consuming, and impossibly rough. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip before biting down hard enough to sting, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth with a dominance that made your knees weak.

The kiss was a battle for control you knew you couldn’t win, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that bordered on savage. His free hand gripped your hip tightly, pulling you impossibly closer, while his lips moved over yours with bruising force. The heat of him overwhelmed you, his breath mingling with yours as the two of you kissed with feverish desperation, your touches frantic, your breaths ragged, as though trying to erase any distance that had ever existed between you.

You whimpered against his mouth, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for something—anything—to ground yourself. But there was nothing, no surface to brace against, no escape, only him. His body was the only thing keeping you upright, the solid wall of his chest pressing into yours, pinning you against the lockers. His hips locked you in place, trapping you with a bruising force that left no room for movement, no room to even catch your breath.

Mark’s hand slid down your body with an unforgiving roughness, his fingers trailing heat as they gripped and claimed every inch of your skin. When he reached the delicate lace of your thong, he didn’t hesitate, yanking them to the side with a sharp tug that left the elastic biting into your hip. The cool air against your soaked heat made you gasp, a sharp inhale that turned into a shaky whimper when his fingers brushed against you. His touch was teasing at first, deliberate and maddening as he dragged his fingertips slowly through your slick folds, spreading your arousal. He hovered just where you needed him most, his thumb brushing lightly against your clit before pulling back, his dark chuckle vibrating against your ear.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered, his tone a mix of pride and raw desperation. His fingers dipped lower, gathering your wetness before sliding one finger inside you, slow at first but with enough pressure to make you moan. He didn’t stop there, adding a second finger almost immediately, thrusting them deep and curling them against your walls with deliberate precision. Your breath hitched, your knees trembling as the stretch made your core clench around him. He pumped his fingers in and out at a punishing rhythm, his thumb pressing against your clit in tight, teasing circles that left you gasping. “Look at how you take me,” he growled, his voice dripping with possession. “So fucking tight, so ready for me. This is all for me, isn’t it? You’re fucking dripping, baby. God, I’ve missed this.”

Mark didn’t let up, his pace growing rougher as he thrust his fingers into you with relentless force. His free hand grabbed your hip, holding you in place as your legs began to shake under his touch. “Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he muttered, his tone dropping into a dark, almost feral growl. His fingers curled inside you again, hitting that spot that made your whole body jerk forward, your forehead pressing against the cold metal of the lockers as you let out a broken moan. “That’s it,” he rasped, his thumb flicking your clit in quick, brutal strokes. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back, baby. I want to hear every fucking sound you make.”

You whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand as the pressure in your core built rapidly, your walls fluttering around his fingers. He groaned low in his throat, the sound raw and guttural as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “You feel that?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust. “You’re fucking dripping all over my hand. This pussy was made for me. No one else gets to have you like this. No one else gets to hear you fall apart.”

His fingers drove into you faster now, the wet, obscene sound of your arousal filling the hallway as his thumb applied just the right amount of pressure to your clit. Your knees buckled, your hands clawing at the lockers for support as the intensity became too much, but Mark wasn’t done. He slowed for just a second, dragging his fingers out almost completely before slamming them back in, his knuckles brushing your folds as he fucked you with a brutal rhythm. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and commanding. “Say it. Say you’re mine, or I swear I’ll stop right now.”

You bit your lip hard, struggling to suppress the moan that threatened to spill out, the sound barely muffled as it echoed faintly in the empty hallway. “Mark… someone might hear—”

“Let them,” he cut you off, his voice dripping with authority, a low, feral growl that made your knees weak. Before you could respond, his fingers disappeared, leaving you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness drawing a desperate whimper from your lips. He didn’t give you a moment to protest. With one hand gripping your hip and the other guiding himself to your entrance, he lined himself up, and then, with a single brutal thrust, buried himself inside you to the hilt.

The force of it sent you crashing forward, your chest slamming into the lockers with a metallic clang, the cold metal biting into your skin as your mouth opened in a silent scream. His cock stretched you completely, the overwhelming fullness stealing the air from your lungs. Mark groaned loudly, his head tipping back as his fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as your walls fluttered and clenched around him.

“You feel that?” Mark growled, his voice dark and feral, barely audible over the sharp, relentless rhythm of his thrusts. “You were fucking made for me. No one else could ever handle this—handle me. This tight little pussy is mine.” His words were brutal, his tone dripping with dominance, each syllable punctuated by the punishing snap of his hips.

His hand slid up your back with purpose, rough fingers tangling in your hair before yanking it back hard enough to make your scalp sting. The movement forced you to arch for him, your body bending to his will as he fucked into you even deeper, the angle pulling a loud, broken cry from your lips. “Tell me it’s mine,” he demanded, his voice sharp and unforgiving, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“It’s yours, Mark!” you sobbed, your voice trembling and breaking as your walls clenched around him, the force of his thrusts driving you to the edge. Your hands clawed at the lockers, desperate for something to ground you, your body trembling uncontrollably as he pushed you closer and closer to oblivion.

You turned your head to the side, gasping for air, your cheek brushing against the cold metal as you locked eyes with him. His dark gaze was scorching, his lips curling into a wicked smirk as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. His lips crushed against yours for a moment, the kiss rough and messy, his teeth catching your lower lip before he pulled back.

“Open,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, dripping with raw authority that sent a shiver down your spine.

You obeyed instantly, parting your lips without hesitation, your chest heaving as you panted for breath. His dark, piercing gaze locked onto yours, radiating dominance as he leaned closer. The deliberate, filthy motion of him spitting into your open mouth sent your core tightening with heat. “Swallow,” he ordered, his tone razor-sharp and leaving no room for refusal.

You gulped immediately, the heat in his eyes burning into you as you felt the liquid slide down your throat. The act was degrading, raw, and yet it ignited something primal within you. His groan was primal, the sound reverberating through the air as he watched you with unrestrained satisfaction. “Good fucking girl,” he rasped, his voice rough and dripping with lust. His hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips for a fleeting moment before his palm cracked sharply against your face.

You gasped, the sting of his slap sending a jolt of white-hot arousal straight through you. Your cheeks burned, both from the impact and the way it made your entire body thrum with need. Before you could fully process it, his other hand came down hard on your ass, the force making you yelp as your chest slammed against the lockers. He didn’t let up, his palm colliding with your skin again and again, alternating between spanking your cheek and ass with relentless intensity.

“You love this, don’t you?” he sneered, his voice dark and full of mockery, his hands gripping you tightly between each punishing slap. “You love being my little toy. Taking every fucking thing I give you, letting me use you however I want.”

“Yes,” you whimpered, your voice shaky as your hands scrambled against the lockers, your body trembling under his control.

“Yes, what?” he growled, his hand gripping your jaw roughly, tilting your head back to force your gaze to meet his. “Say it. Say you fucking love it.”

“I love it,” you gasped, the confession tumbling from your lips without hesitation, your entire body thrumming with the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure. “I love being yours.” 

“Good girl,” he spat, his hand releasing your hair only to slide down to your throat, gripping it tightly. “You take me so well, baby. So fucking good for me.” His words were rough, his tone dripping with possession as his hips snapped forward with brutal precision, each thrust pulling broken moans from your lips.

The relentless pace he set was unforgiving, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision, each thrust rougher than the last. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the hallway, obscene and loud, as he drove into you mercilessly. “You take me so well,” he grunted, his voice low and guttural in your ear. “Every inch of me. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your hands clawed helplessly at the lockers, desperate for anything to hold on to, but all you had was him. His cock filled you relentlessly, stretching you so perfectly it bordered on overwhelming, every brutal thrust slamming into that devastatingly deep spot that made your vision blur. Each thrust sent shockwaves through your body, your moans spilling freely into the air, mingling with the raw, guttural sounds he made with every movement. The sharp, filthy slap of skin on skin only heightened the unbearable tension building low in your stomach, threatening to snap at any second.

“Mark, I—fuck—I can’t—” you stammered, the words tumbling out in a broken cry, barely coherent under the force of him pounding into you.

“Yes, you can,” he snarled, his voice thick with command and feral hunger, his lips grazing your ear before his teeth sank into the sensitive skin of your neck, making you cry out. “You can take it. You’re going to take every fucking inch of me,” he growled, his tone dripping with possession. His pace quickened, hips snapping into yours with brutal force, each thrust driving you harder against the lockers, your body trembling uncontrollably under his control.

Then, without warning, his hands shifted, gripping your hips with bruising strength as he pulled you back. You gasped sharply, a scream ripping from your throat at the intensity as his body pinned yours away from the lockers, his cock never faltering inside you. His hands were everywhere—holding, gripping, controlling—and it was only him keeping you upright, his strength overwhelming as he drove into you with punishing precision.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough and dripping with satisfaction. “Do you feel that? It’s just me—my hands, my body, my cock. You’re fucking helpless, baby. You’re mine. Completely fucking mine.”

Then one of his hands slid upward, wrapping firmly around your throat. The pressure was immediate, his fingers circling your neck and squeezing just enough to make you choke out a broken moan. The contrast of his cock slamming into you from behind and his hand controlling your breath sent a rush of arousal crashing through you, your nails clawing at his hand instinctively. You gripped his wrist tightly, not to pull him away, but to press him harder, needing more of the dizzying pressure as you panted and gasped for air.

“This pussy was made for me,” he snarled, his voice sharp and cutting, his words a brutal growl against your ear as he buried himself even deeper. The thick stretch made your breath hitch, your body trembling with each relentless thrust. “So tight, so fucking wet for me. Look at you, baby—falling apart on my cock.”

Your nails bit into the flesh of his wrist, your fingers gripping him desperately, both to balance yourself and to encourage him to tighten his hold. The feeling of his hand squeezing your neck, combined with the bruising rhythm of his hips, sent you spiraling. Your vision blurred, pleasure and pain blending together in a way that left you trembling.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice dripping with dominance as his hips snapped harder, each punishing thrust pulling cries from your lips. The combination of his cock stretching you perfectly, his hand controlling your breath, and the force of his body against yours left you utterly undone. “Say it,” he demanded, his tone harsh. “Say how much you love being mine, taking everything I give you.”

“Yes, Mark—fuck—I love it,” you cried, your voice trembling as the tension inside you coiled impossibly tight. Your body shook with every punishing thrust, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot as your pleasure built to a breaking point.

“That’s right,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a brutal, consuming kiss. His tongue claimed your mouth, his teeth biting at your swollen lips before pulling back just enough to watch your expression. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? I can feel it. You’re close—so fucking close. Come for me, baby. Show me who you belong to.”

Before you could even respond, he moved with a sudden, punishing force, slamming you back against the lockers with a metallic clang. His body pressed into yours tightly, his grip on your neck tightening briefly before both his hands seized your hips, holding you so firmly it felt like you might break under the pressure. His cock drove into you relentlessly, the sharp, filthy slap of skin against skin filling the hallway as he fucked you harder, his strength keeping you pinned. His chest crushed against your back, every thrust so deep and brutal that it pushed you higher, closer to the edge, his ragged grunts and growls in your ear spurring you on. “Come now,” he snarled, his voice vibrating through you. “Come while I’m fucking you, and don’t you dare hold back.”

His words pushed you over the edge, your orgasm slamming into you with a force that made your entire body tremble. You screamed his name, your walls clenching around him so tightly it dragged a guttural groan from his chest. His thrusts turned erratic, his grip tightening as he chased his own release, his hips snapping forward with bruising force.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his voice ragged and guttural as he slammed into you one last time, his cock pulsing as he spilled into you. His groan was primal, vibrating against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could, his body tensing before finally relaxing. His hands lingered on your hips, rough fingers brushing over your skin, possessive even in the aftermath, as the sound of both your heavy breaths filled the space around you.

The contrast of the cold lockers against your chest and the heat of his body against your back only heightened the overwhelming sensation. “You’re fucking dripping for me,” he rasped, his hand sliding between your thighs to find your clit. His fingers circled it roughly, in time with the punishing thrusts of his hips, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. “You love this, don’t you? Being fucked like this, being mine.”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop it. “Mark—fuck, yes. I’m yours.”

“Damn right, you are,” he growled, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his release. “Say it again. Louder.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, your voice breaking as the intensity reached its peak, your body trembling under his relentless assault.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered, his voice dark and full of satisfaction, his pace never faltering as he drove you closer to the edge. “Come for me. Come all over my cock.”

Your body shattered at his command, the coil of heat in your stomach snapping violently as your orgasm ripped through you. You cried out, your walls clenching around him, gripping him so tightly it dragged a guttural groan from deep in his chest. The sound was raw and primal, his hips snapping harder as he chased his own release, his thrusts erratic and bruising.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Mark growled, his voice thick with desperation as his fingers dug into your hips so hard it bordered on pain. His pace grew frantic, his cock driving into you with unrelenting force. “You’re fucking perfect. So tight, so good—mine. All fucking mine.” His voice cracked on the last word, and with one final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could, his entire body tensing as he came hard, his cock pulsing inside you. His moan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your skin as his release spilled into you, hot and overwhelming.

He stayed there for a moment, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, both of you panting heavily. The sound of your mingled breaths filled the air, your bodies still trembling from the intensity. His hands remained firm on your hips, holding you in place as he rode out the aftershocks, his cock still twitching inside you.

Slowly, Mark pulled out, the sensation making you gasp softly as the emptiness left a dull ache. His hands slid up your sides, rough and possessive, brushing over your sweat-damp skin as he leaned in close. His lips ghosted over the back of your neck before he spoke, his voice low and dripping with satisfaction. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, the dominance still thick in his tone, even as his breath fanned across your skin.

He straightened, his fingers trailing down to your ass, giving it a sharp slap that made you jolt forward against the lockers. His chuckle was dark and teasing, his hands gripping you again as if he wasn’t done. “And don’t think for a second that we’re done yet,” he added, his tone carrying a dangerous promise. “I’m nowhere near finished with you.”

──────────────────────────────

Mark didn’t waste a second taking you to his apartment. You barely registered the ride there, too blissfully fucked out and hazy to argue or care. His arms stayed wrapped around you the entire time, carrying you through the door and into his bathroom as though you weighed nothing. The soreness in your limbs made you wince, but Mark noticed every little flinch, whispering soft apologies under his breath as he held you close.

“Thank you,” you murmured, leaning into him as his strong hands massaged the ache from your thighs and hips, the tenderness of his touch a stark contrast to the way he’d just handled you. He kissed the top of your head as he muttered another quiet “sorry,” lowering you gently into the warm bath he’d prepared, bubbles and the familiar scent of your favorite soap wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

You sank into the water with a soft sigh, your body easing into his as he slid in behind you, his chest firm and warm against your back. He didn’t say much, his fingers working gently to massage your shoulders and arms as his stormy eyes stayed fixed on you, a mix of guilt, tenderness, and love swirling in his gaze.

When the bathwater cooled, he wrapped you in a towel, lifting you effortlessly and sitting you on the bathroom countertop. You sat there, completely bare, the steam from the bath still clinging to your skin as you waited for him to return. He came back moments later with one of his shirts, freshly laundered and soft, helping you slip it over your head. He brushed a hand through your damp hair as he leaned in to kiss your forehead.

The tension between you softened further as he carried you effortlessly to his bed, his strong arms cradling you like you were something fragile, something he couldn’t risk breaking. He laid you down gently, sliding under the covers with you, his warmth enveloping you before you could even think to protest. Instinctively, you moved closer to him, your body betraying every wall your mind tried to rebuild. He mirrored you, pulling you against him with a quiet desperation, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it felt as though he feared you might disappear.

Your legs tangled naturally with his, his strong thigh slotting between yours as you pressed yourself into the solid heat of his chest. You rested your head over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath your cheek grounding you, each beat a silent reminder that he was here, alive, and holding you. His hand moved slowly, soothingly, smoothing up and down your back in soft, deliberate strokes, his touch warm and tender. The simple act melted away the last of your resistance, leaving nothing but the raw, unspoken connection between you, a bond that neither of you could deny, no matter how hard you tried.

“I’m still fucking mad at you,” he whispered into the quiet, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“And I’m fucking mad at you too,” you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion as you jabbed his chest. “I can’t believe how careless you are. You have a fucking heart condition, Mark, and you’re out here playing like everything is fine?”

“Y/N—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. “What if something happens? What if you collapse during a game, and—and—Mark, I can’t live without you. I can’t. You’re my entire life, I swear to fucking God, if you don’t—”

“Hey, hey,” he whispered gently, his voice low and filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled freely down your cheeks. His touch was so soft, so deliberate, as if he was trying to erase your pain with each tender stroke. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, okay?” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, his gaze steady and full of reassurance.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” he added, his tone quiet but firm, laced with a calmness meant to ground you. “It’s only dangerous because of the sports, and I know what I’m doing. I promise, it’s not as serious as it feels right now.” His words were meant to comfort, but it was the way his voice wavered ever so slightly, betraying the concern he tried to mask, that made you feel like he truly meant it. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as though to seal his promise there, anchoring you to him in that moment.

You rolled your eyes through your tears. “That makes me feel so much better,” you snapped, but your voice wavered with the depth of your fear.

“You don’t need to be worried for me,” he said, his gaze soft but serious. “I know my limits. I’m not dumb enough to risk my life—”

“But I am worried!” you cried, jabbing his chest again for emphasis. “And you are dumb enough. You���ve been playing with it like it’s nothing, Mark. I don’t want you to die. Actually, it doesn’t matter if you do, because I’m literally just going to kill you first before your heart condition does.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. “You’re cute when you’re such a worried girlfriend… borderline crazy though.”

“This isn’t funny,” you snapped, your tears spilling over again.

His expression softened, the weight of your fear reflected in his eyes as his hand moved to gently tilt your face upward, his fingers cradling your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart twist. “Look at me,” he said, his voice firm but not harsh, the kind of tone that demanded your attention without pushing you away. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unwavering, as if he needed you to believe every word he was about to say.

“Nothing is going to happen to me, okay?” he continued, his thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone, grounding you in his touch. “When have I ever broken a promise to you?” His voice softened, a flicker of vulnerability seeping through. “I’m not ever going to leave you. I love you too much for that to happen.” The sincerity in his words, the raw emotion in his tone, made your chest ache, and you couldn’t stop the tears that spilled again, overwhelmed by the depth of his reassurance and love.

His words hit you like a wave, the emotion crashing over you and tightening your chest until it was almost hard to breathe. Unable to hold back, you pulled him closer, your arms wrapping around him as your fingers tangled gently in his hair, grounding yourself in the familiar softness. Your voice trembled as you whispered, barely audible, “How long have you known?” You whispered, your voice soft and trembling.

“A few months,” he admitted, his tone quiet.

“So… before we got together?” you asked, and he nodded.

“Mark,” you huffed, your voice sharp with a mix of frustration and exasperation, “I seriously don’t understand how you can keep fucking me so hard when you know you have a heart problem! Do you have any idea how scared I am? I don’t want you keeling over mid-thrust and having a damn heart attack!”

Mark paused for a moment, his lips twitching into that infuriatingly boyish smirk, clearly amused despite the seriousness in your voice. “Baby,” he said, his tone low and teasing, “if I go out like that, at least I’ll die knowing I had the best pussy wrapped around me.”

You stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, your jaw dropping at his audacity. “Mark Lee, that is not funny!”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, and reached out to pull you closer, his hands settling on your hips. “I’m just saying,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper against your ear, “if it’s gonna happen, there’s no better way to go, is there?”

Without a word, you smacked his chest, narrowing your eyes as you shifted to straddle him, your movements slow and deliberate. His grin faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of something softer, more serious, as your hands cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “You need to promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts fear and determination. “Promise me you’ll tell your coach, go to the doctors, and get your medication. I don’t care if you hate it. I don’t care if you’re scared. I don’t care if you hate that your dad has the same condition.” You paused, your voice breaking slightly as your fingers tightened against his skin. “None of that matters, Mark. The only thing that matters is you. I need you alive. I need you happy and healthy. You’re everything to me.”

His breath hitched at your words, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The cocky bravado melted away, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its place. He stared at you for a long moment, his dark eyes glassy as a single tear slipped down his cheek. “Okay,” he murmured finally, his voice cracking under the weight of your words.

“Okay?” you repeated, blinking at him, surprised by the lack of resistance.

A faint smile returned to his face as he extended his pinky to you, sealing the promise in the simplest, most intimate way. You hooked your pinky with his, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, your touch filled with the weight of the moment. His hands slid to your waist, holding you close as though you were his anchor, and for a while, the two of you just stayed like that, holding each other, letting the silence speak for everything you couldn’t put into words.

“I think now would be a good time to tell you everything that’s been going on,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness.

He shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I’m listening,” he murmured, his tone steady and patient, his hands rubbing slow circles on your back. He waited, his gaze fixed on you with a quiet understanding that made your chest ache.

You inhaled shakily, your fingers trembling as they curled into his shirt, clutching it like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I’m scared, Mark,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, cracking under the weight of your confession. “I’m scared all the time. It’s like this storm in my head that never stops.” Your chest tightened painfully, your breathing shallow as tears filled your eyes. “I’m terrified of losing you, of something going wrong between us and not being able to stop it, not being able to fix it.”

The words tumbled out of you in a rush, raw and uneven, as though they’d been clawing at your throat for too long. “It’s always there,” you continued, your voice trembling. “This weight crushing me, like no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. I can’t make it go away.” Your hands tightened their grip on his shirt as your tears began to fall, your fear spilling over, leaving you vulnerable and exposed in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

Your voice broke as the tears finally fell, your throat tight as you forced yourself to continue. “And it’s not just the big things, Mark. It’s everything. Every argument, every time we feel even a little off, it’s like my brain jumps straight to the worst-case scenario. Like maybe… maybe it’s the beginning of the end, and I can’t stop it.” A sob slipped out, and you buried your face in his chest, unable to meet his eyes, too afraid of what you’d see there.

Mark’s arms wrapped around you tightly, his grip tight, pulling you closer until you were pressed against him completely. He kissed your temple softly, the warmth of his lips lingering as though he could will the fear out of you with his touch. “I didn’t know it was this bad,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt and pain. His tone was so tender, so full of quiet understanding, that it only made you cry harder. “I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t know.” His hold on you tightened, his chest rising and falling unevenly as if your pain was his own.

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s just my mind jumping to the worst-case scenarios, twisting everything until I can’t tell what’s real and what’s just in my head.”

He hummed again, nodding for you to continue, his patience unwavering as his thumb traced soothing circles on your skin.

“The last few weeks have been… a lot,” you said after a moment. “There were two things that finally broke me. The first was when you left me with your best friend to talk. She told me it’s unlike you to rush into a relationship so fast. That she doesn’t buy our connection and doesn’t believe you love me.”

Mark’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening instantly. “She said what?” he asked, his voice low and laced with anger.

“She said it out of anger,” you said quickly, placing a calming hand on his chest. “She was upset about everything going on with you and Jeno, and I was there, so she took it out on me. We made up, and she hasn’t apologised, but she’s been acting like my friend again. At the boy toy auction, she was supportive and kind. I just need you to promise me something.”

Mark’s brow furrowed deeply, his confusion mingling with frustration as he nodded. “What?” he asked, his voice sharp but low, laced with the beginnings of anger.

“Don’t let her know you know,” you said firmly, holding his gaze, willing him to understand. “She’s your best friend, Mark. I know how much she means to you, and I know how much you mean to her too. She said what she said out of anger, not because she really believes it. And as much as it hurt me in the moment, I know it wasn’t about me—it was about everything else that’s been happening, everything with you and Jeno, all the pressure she’s been feeling. She just… took it out on me because I was there.” You paused, your voice softening as your fingers brushed against his. “And I forgave her, because I get it. I’ve done the same thing before. I just… I’m tired, Mark. I don’t want to keep adding fuel to the fire. I just want things to be okay between all of us. I don’t want to come between you two.”

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly as he exhaled slowly, his shoulders tense with barely-contained frustration. “Fine,” he muttered after a long pause, his voice heavy with reluctance. His eyes flickered with anger he couldn’t quite hide, but there was something softer there too—a resignation born of love. He didn’t like it but he’d bite his tongue for you, even when it was the hardest fucking thing to do. For you, he’d set aside his pride and anger, because keeping the peace mattered more to him than holding onto his frustration.

Your chest ached at the weight of his words, knowing how much he was holding back for your sake. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His arms came around you, holding you close, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. For a moment, the world felt a little quieter, a little softer, as he silently promised to carry the weight of this for you, no matter how much it hurt.

You hesitated before continuing, your breath hitching as you fought to find the right words. Your voice was quieter now, almost shaky. “The second thing… was when you and Jeno were still mad at each other. I overheard your conversation.” You paused, your throat tightening as anxiety clawed its way up your chest. “He said you only wanted me to get back at him, that it was part of some stupid bet from your first river court showdown. And… and you didn’t deny it, Mark. You just let him say it. It felt like you just… took it.”

Mark’s arms stiffened around you immediately, his body going rigid against yours as his confusion broke through his usual calm. He pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he studied your face. “Y/N?” he said, his tone equal parts disbelief and concern.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you forced yourself to meet his gaze. His brows were furrowed, his jaw tight, but there was no anger in his expression—just a quiet intensity that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what you heard,” he began carefully, his voice steady but edged with frustration. “But I remember that conversation. I told Jeno to shut the fuck up and nearly punched him.”

Your eyes widened at his words, your heart stumbling in your chest. “What?”

“At first, I ignored him,” Mark explained, his voice sharper now, more defensive. “I’d had enough of Jeno’s shit, so I just shook it off. Told him he could think whatever he wanted because I didn’t have the energy to argue. But when he kept pushing, saying that shit about you and us, I lost it. I wasn’t going to entertain his bullshit, but I wasn’t going to let him drag you into it either. I defended you. I defended us, Y/N. I wasn’t quiet about it.”

“Oh,” you said softly, the single word carrying the weight of your realization. Guilt hit you hard, crashing over you in waves as you replayed the moment in your mind.

Mark raised a brow, his lips twitching despite his frustration. “Oh?” he echoed, his voice laced with a faint chuckle, though the irritation still lingered beneath it.

You gulped, the shame settling in as your cheeks flushed. The truth of it was clear now—your anxiety had twisted the situation into something it wasn’t, feeding into your fears and doubts until they felt like reality. Maybe you hadn’t heard him defend you, or maybe you’d disassociated during the argument, too overwhelmed to register what was happening. Either way, you’d let your own fears convince you of something that wasn’t true.

“I believe you,” you said finally, your voice small and wavering but sincere. “I’m sorry, Mark. I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

Mark’s expression softened instantly, his tension easing as he pulled you closer. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured, his voice low and comforting. “I get it. I know how your mind works sometimes, and it’s okay. But for the record,” he added, his tone firm but tender, “I’ll defend you and us every single time. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat as you buried your face in his chest. His warmth surrounded you, his embrace grounding you in a way that made it easier to breathe. The fears that had been gnawing at you began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the quiet reassurance of his presence. For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that everything was going to be okay.

Mark sat close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, but there was a gap between you—a physical manifestation of the emotional distance neither of you knew how to bridge. Your hands fidgeted in your lap, fingers twisting together nervously as your eyes darted between him and the floor. He didn’t look away, his gaze fixed on you, unwavering but heavy.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice was steady, but there was a vulnerability in it that made your chest tighten. “Do you wanna give ‘us’ another try?” he asked, the words quiet but loaded with hope, as though he’d been holding them in for too long. His eyes softened as he searched yours, silently pleading for the answer he so desperately wanted.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze. The question hung in the air, echoing in your mind as a whirlwind of emotions tore through you. A flicker of something stirred in your chest—hope, longing, affection—but it was quickly overshadowed by the weight of your fears. Anxiety clawed at you, the what-ifs and worst-case scenarios screaming in your head. Your fingers tightened in your lap, your throat dry as you struggled to find the words.

You wanted to say yes. Every part of you yearned to take his hand, to close the distance between you and fall back into him completely. But deep down, you knew you weren’t ready. Not yet. The fear of letting him down, of rushing into something you weren’t emotionally prepared for, was too strong.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “I don’t think I’m ready yet,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You forced yourself to continue, though each word felt like it was being ripped out of you. “To be your girlfriend, I mean. I think… I think I rushed into everything, thinking it would all be fine.”

You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed on your lap, too afraid to see the hurt you knew would be in his expression. “It’s not that I don’t want this,” you added, your voice barely audible now. “I do. But I’m scared. Scared of ruining it again. Scared I’m not enough. I just… I need time, Mark. I need to figure myself out before I can give you what you deserve.”

The silence that followed was deafening, stretching out like an unspoken void between you. It pressed down heavily, wrapping around your chest and making it hard to breathe. You could feel the weight of your words settling into the space, solid and immovable, creating a chasm where moments ago there had been fragile, tentative hope. Every second that passed seemed to magnify the distance, the air thick with tension and unspoken emotions.

Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the faint noises of the world around you. It wasn’t just the quiet that unnerved you—it was the way Mark’s expression shifted, his features hardening ever so slightly as he processed what you’d said. His gaze dropped briefly, his shoulders stiffening, and the heaviness in the air grew almost unbearable. It felt like you had broken something fragile, something that couldn’t be put back together, and the realization sent a wave of guilt and anxiety crashing over you. You braced yourself, heart pounding, afraid he might lash out, might walk away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, his head tilting back as he let out a deep, controlled breath. When he looked at you again, he gave you a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I get it,” he said softly, though his voice carried a weight that betrayed him. “If this is what you need, I’ll try to understand.”

The forced calmness in his tone broke something inside you. You hated the sadness and disappointment he was trying so hard to hide. Desperate to ease the tension, to fill the unbearable void between you, the words slipped out before you could stop them. “Just friends?” you blurted, your voice hesitant, almost shaky. It felt wrong, hollow, even as you said it, but you hoped it might soften the heaviness in the air. You weren’t offering it because it’s what you wanted—you were offering it because you thought it might make things less painful for him, might somehow bridge the gap that felt wider with each passing second.

Mark froze for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. You saw the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the struggle to compose himself evident in the tension in his jaw. “Friends,” he repeated quietly, the word cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

The silence stretched again, and your heart raced, terrified he might say no, that you’d lose him entirely. But then, he nodded. Slowly, reluctantly, but he nodded.

“Friends,” he said again, the word thick in his throat.

You could see it in his eyes—how much it hurt him to agree, how much more he wanted. But you could also see the love behind his restraint, the way he forced himself to accept it because he knew it’s what you needed.

“Slow steps though?” you whispered, lifting your pinky toward him. Your heart hammered in your chest as you waited, hoping, praying he wouldn’t turn away.

Mark’s eyes softened, even through the hurt. He hesitated for a moment before reaching out, his hand trembling slightly as he hooked his pinky with yours. The gesture was small, but it felt monumental, like an unspoken promise hanging between you.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Slow steps.”

His words were forced, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes—a glimmer of hope he couldn’t completely hide. His hand lingered, his pinky curled tightly around yours as though letting go would mean losing everything.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. The guilt clawed at you, heavy and suffocating as you watched him struggle to keep himself together. You knew he wanted more—so much more—and it broke your heart to hold back, but you also knew this was the only way. “I just… I need to heal, Mark. I don’t want to mess this up again.”

He nodded, but his silence spoke louder than anything he could have said. His jaw tensed, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he worked to contain the wave of emotions threatening to break free.

You shifted closer, unable to ignore the ache in your chest. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out and brushed your fingers against his, letting them linger. “You mean so much to me,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to think this changes that.”

Mark’s gaze finally met yours, and the sadness in his eyes was almost unbearable. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice strained but steady. “I get it. You need time. I just…” He paused, inhaling deeply as he tried to steady himself. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

His words hit you hard, the sheer depth of his love and patience shining through even in the midst of his heartbreak. Tears welled in your eyes, and you blinked them away quickly, not wanting to break down now.

“Friends, then,” you said again, trying to sound lighter, trying to ease the tension.

Mark gave you a small, pained smile, his fingers brushing yours in a gesture that felt both comforting and bittersweet. “Friends,” he repeated, though the word still sounded foreign coming from him.

But even as the word lingered between you, his actions betrayed him. His hand didn’t leave yours, and when you shifted just a little closer, his knee pressed against yours, grounding you both in the connection that still remained.

As the silence stretched, it didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. Instead, there was a quiet intimacy in the way you sat together, in the way his gaze softened when it met yours, in the way your pinky promise lingered a moment longer than necessary.

And though the heartbreak was palpable, so was the hope. Hope that this wasn’t the end, that this was just a pause, a moment to regroup and rebuild.

When you leaned your head against his shoulder, Mark’s breath hitched softly, but he didn’t pull away. His arm came up to rest lightly across your back, a subtle but reassuring touch. Neither of you said anything, but the unspoken promise hung in the air: slow steps, time to heal, and a chance to find your way back to each other.

Mark’s voice broke the quiet, barely above a whisper. “I’ll wait,” he said again, and this time, the words carried a quiet strength that steadied you.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that everything would be okay.

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

taglist — @bigjugz03 @hyuckkklee @hegdus @sungchannel @kidult0325 @hcluvie @second-floors @xjxnox @keelbeel @hyuckkklee @ahgasezennie @lovetaroandtaemin @steadyparkjisungbookishspy @carelessshootanonymous @remgeolli @toroufriteh @sinsgaybutthatsokay @fancypeacepersona @cathamada @gomdoleemyson @ppeachyttae @strcwberi @yunjinsart @millyswife

[aurynsia]

Unrequited, Terrifying Chapter 7

James Potter x Reader

Summary: Your secret admirer finally gets the girl…

Warnings: HARD LAUNCH! Use of flashbacks, extremely fluffy, nervous!james x shy!reader, idiots in love, lovesick!james, no use of Y/N, OC!friends, reader is referred to with she/her pronouns, quiet!reader, NOT EDITED!

Word Count: 1.2K

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

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Platform 9¾ was bursting with energy as the new group of first years clambered onto the Hogwarts Express. James had tucked himself in between Remus, Sirius, and Peter, practically jumping in his seat as he introduced himself to his new friends.

The four boys had excitedly rambled back and forth about their prospects at the exciting school of witchcraft and wizardry, only settling down when the train finally began to move as they waved goodbye to their families through the window.

The door slid open with an awkward creak, alerting the young Marauders to a small girl standing in the doorway. “Hi, um- can I sit here? The other cabins are full…” you spoke softly, twisting your feet in an anxious habit and biting your bottom lip.

James’ breath hitched, innocent eyes growing wide as he took you in. He nervously pushed up his glasses as his friends ushered you inside, moving food wrappers off of a seat to make room for your form.

You introduced yourself with a shy smile, promising not to bother them as you shoved your nose in a book for the rest of the journey.

James couldn’t help but ogle at your soft expressions, reacting to the exciting fantasy unfolding in between the pages of your novel. He gulped as his face grew visibly warmer, pushing up his glasses once more before turning back to his new entourage of mischief makers, already planning what would be their first of many pranks.

The Great Hall swarmed with chaos as students filtered in through gaping doors. The Sorting Hat had played in James’ favour, allowing all of his new friends into the house of brave hearted heroes.

He laughed with his friends as they stumbled to the Gryffindor Table, only distracted once again by the girl with the hat on her head. “Gryffindor!” The hat exclaimed, your eyes thrown wide with surprise as you tediously moved towards the four boys.

James grinned at you as you nodded in his direction, choosing to sit on the far end of the table with two girls who shared that stunned expression. When his attention returned to his three friends, he was met with a round of teasing coos and knowing smirks, causing him to sink down in his chair with a blush painted across his cheeks. The Sorting Hat really had answered all of his prayers.

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You stood tentatively in the crowd of red and gold, etched between Charlie and Hope in the stands as your eyes curiously followed Gryffindor’s seeker.

The Quidditch pitch was filled with adrenaline as Slytherin rocked and tumbled against the force of the lion. James Potter was speeding through the mass of players, a joyful laugh permanently plastered on his face as he wove through the commotion.

Your red sweater was proudly on display in the stands, disguised as your warmest clothing when asked why you were in house colours. You didn’t dare tell your roommates about your newfound support for the team after the introduction of their newest fourth year seeker, but they slowly caught on as your blush began to match your clothing every time the boy flew purposefully close.

His laugh faltered with a gasp when he caught your eye in the stands, glancing at your attire that you failed to cover with your hands. Your eyes met for another brief moment before Gryffindor’s golden boy was soaring once again with newfound vigour.

Your gaze followed his figure in the air, a soft smile evident on your lips. Charlie and Hope leaned forward slightly to pass a knowing smile across your stiff form, only returning their gaze to the field as their house won the match.

The walk back to the common room was quiet, a soft hum of nature surrounding the three of you as you marched along the path. That was until Charlie’s curiosity got the better of her.

“So…Potter looked quite dashing up there, don’t you think, Hope?” She pretended to ponder, gaze to the night sky. “Why, he was really something! That speed made his hair quite an endearing mess, right, love?” Hope turned to you with a teasing smirk, patiently awaiting your flustered answer.

“Uh- yeah! Yeah, he was good, you know, for an egomaniac…” you kept your eyes fixed on the path ahead of you, praying to Merlin that your blush wasn’t visible in the darkness.

“Mhmm…he seemed quite taken by this little number of yours,” Hope gestured up and down your body, “maybe you want to fuel that pretty little ego of his, hmm?” You were surrounded by a chorus of amused chuckles from your friends as your face burned under the interrogation.

“No! Well, maybe…he looked cute in the uniform, that’s all! Nothing to write home about…” You pouted with furrowed brows, kicking a pebble in your path as your friends broke out in teasing cheers.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

The Gryffindor table was filtered with soft morning light as your group eagerly grasped at any food they could get their hands on. James tucked himself securely into your side, a smug grin plastered on his face as you grumbled words of frustration, brows dipped and lips pouting at the lack of opportunity to serve yourself.

Sirius cheerfully loaded food onto his plate before passing the bowl to James, dodging your outstretched hands. Your look of frustration was about to shift to anger before the sweet boy beside you began scraping the leftovers in his grasp onto your empty plate. You turned to him with a grateful smile that he could stare at for hours, squeezing him around his middle in thanks before diving into your meal.

James continued to pile food in front of you, planting kisses across your cheeks between servings and spoonfuls before draping an arm across your shoulders. “Not so grumpy anymore, are you love?” James chuckled, “Maybe a certain boyfriend has lifted your spirits?”

You swallowed your mouthful as you nodded eagerly, looking up at him with wide eyes that melted his heart. “I think I’m finally getting this Gryffindor pride thing,” you mumbled as you reached for another spoonful of food, “Dating the captain of the Quidditch team is certainly an ego boost.”

James grinned at you, brushing his nose against your cheek with a mischievous expression. He was finally beginning to fall into a comforting routine with you, brushing aside any nerves your soft smile might ignite in him.

The others looked at the sweet pair with satisfaction, sharing looks of relief after you announced yourselves as an official couple.

“Merlin, it’s about time!” Sirius exclaimed, hitting the table hard enough to lift plates in the air at contact. The group laughed with amusement as James leant into your warmth, arms enclosed around your torso as he sighed into your skin.

The overbearing dread of unrequited, terrifying love that clouded his logic had melted away with your simple touch. This will be his year. The year he shares with you.

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A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed this little series! While this is the official end to the story, feel free to request some blurbs based on these two characters in my asks! Thank you to everyone who patiently stuck with me while I worked on this, I’m eternally grateful for all your support <3

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Taglist: @1-queenofpotatoes-1 @caspiankingofnarnia @thesuitelifeofafangirl @moonydoodlez @fionnalopez @kawaiiarbitervoid @kc2sstuff @rafeyswrd @mads12043 @spicybearnaise @ch3rry-vine @probabydeadbynow @ilovejamespottersomuch @mqg125 @sofiacblair @valenftcrush @revesephemeres @louweenier @the-lavender-girl @empath-bunny @bmyva1entine

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 3

Later on, the rest of that day went about as smoothly as it could go. During the recording, the boys did become a bit more touchy but Natasha simply chalked it up to nerves. She fought the urge to smirk everytime one of them tried to allude to something sexual. She was perfect at playing dumb. As if she couldn't smell their wanton arousal. She knew she triggered something and had perfect and total control. So much for their loyalty to Gwi-Ma.

She bet that if she asked them to, they would give up all alliance with the so-called king. Watching as the boys got through their last lines, Natasha had food brought in so they could eat something after singing for so long. Abby and Baby were the first to attack the food but after minor scolding, made sure to leave some for the other three. “You boys sounded great in there.” Natasha complimented as she fixed a plate for Mystery who practically became attached to her hip. “Thank you Ms. Natasha. We're one step closer to our goal in taking down the hunters.” Jinu replied after taking a few bites of his food.

“Jinu lean forward.” Natasha responded. As he did so, his eyes widened as Natasha took a napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth clean. “There we go. Oh? What's up Mystery?” Natasha asked, turning her attention back to the other idol. “Hey um miss manager? When do we get what Romance got this morning huh?” Abby asked, huffing a bit. “I think we all behaved ourselves today. Don't we deserve a little reward too? How come you touched him?” Baby added. “I don't have to explain myself to you and if you keep asking about it, you won't get it. Eat. You have a photoshoot later.” Natasha replied unbothered.

That evening as the boys wrapped up the last of their photos, Mystery watched as Natasha typed away on her phone with a serious expression. She was talking to someone about something important for them. He loved that about her. She was always working. She always looked so busy. Like she completely had her shit together. He adored that about her. However, he also wished she would take a break every now and then.

“Alright boys. Time to go! Max, I expect those photos by Friday!” Natasha spoke while ushering the band out the doors and into their van. “I call shotgun!” Abby shouted as he practically launched himself into the passenger seat. “You had it on the way over here Abs, let someone else get the seat.” “Ugh fine!” He huffed as he moved to the back and Jinu climbed in the front. The drive home was silent save for the silent music playing in the background.

After arriving home, while everyone scrambled to get in Natasha's bed, still, she asked to speak to Abby alone in the living room. “I know you didn't want to give up your seat but you still did because I asked. I like when you boys listen to me.” She smiled as she led him to the couch and sat him down. “It makes me happy knowing that you respect me that much.” She whispered before leaning down to kiss him sweetly.

Almost instantly, his arms were around her and bringing her down to his lap. “Do I get some lovin this time?” Natasha giggled slightly before nodding. “Yes you get one thing of your choice tonight.” The man wasted no time in choosing his reward. “I want your mouth on my cock. I need it Mistress… please~” He whined as he began to free his cock from the confines of his jeans. Looking down, Natasha smirked before pressing a quick kiss to his neck.

“You’re a big boy aren't you?” She then moved off his lap and settled on the floor in between his legs. “Nervous?” Abby chuckled. “Oh please. I've had bigger sweetheart.” Natasha sighed before leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of the large cock waiting to take sanctuary in her mouth. That was a lie. Natasha had her fair share of fun sure, but none of her past exploits were ever this well endowed. Taking the tip into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it, her ears perked up at the heavy breaths Abby was starting to take.

Slowly but surely, she started to bob her head on the erection. Taking more and more of the cock until it almost filled her mouth completely. Save for a few inches at the base. “Oh f-fuck… you look so hot…” Now, at this point she would have smirked and made a comment about how desperate he sounded, but doing anything but trying to fit the rest of the cock down her throat was impossible. “Mm… oh yea… keep going…” Abby moaned as he watched Natasha suck his cock.

Although he was definitely enjoying himself, he was also physically fighting the urge to take the older demoness by her hair and fuck her throat. Not because he was worried about her, oh no. He knew she could handle it. It was his own safety he was worried for. Getting on her bad side was something that was not on his list for that evening. Suddenly, he began to moan louder and his grip on the couch tightened as his eyes watched Natasha quicken her movements.

Humming around his cock, creating vibrations that added to the pleasure. “Shit! Y-yes! Please! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” Unable to resist anymore, Abby grabbed a fistful of Natasha's hair and began to fuck her throat. Pushing her head all the way down to his crotch causing her to deep throat him. “Fuck!! Mistress! Your throat feels so good! Your mouth! Mm! Mm! Fuck! So good!” The sounds of her wet mouth fueling his desire and urge to paint her throat white.

“Cumming! Oh shit! I'm cumming!! Yes! Yes! Mistress!! I'm cumming!” Looking up at the man, the moment Natasha's eyes met those of Abby's he immediately came down her throat. Pushing her head all the way down to his crotch once more. “Mistress!!! Mm! Fuck!!!” It didn't take long for the man to come down from his high after Natasha pulled away from his cock. “You alright? I-i didn't mean to get that crazy.”

Natasha only laughed and smiled before standing from her position and kissed his forehead. “I'm fine hun. Are you ok? I didn't think you could sound so…whiny.” She laughed as she watched the man groan before standing as well. “Put that away and get ready for bed. I'll join you shortly.” Natasha smiled before grabbing her phone and walking into the elevator. She then dialed a number, while the elevator descended.

“Natasha. I am pleased to hear from you. How are the boys settling in?” Gwi-Ma asked. “Fine. That's the only update you're getting from me, asshole. Don't contact me anymore.”

@prettygirlkiki

@rivainimermaid

Chapter 4

[grandline-fics]

Immune To Your Charms

DESCRIPTION: Soulmates are incapable of harming the other in any way. Normally that would be a good thing but not when you're meant to be enemies.

WARNINGS: It's Doflamingo so he's his own warning. Brief mentions of violence and killing. Enemies to Lovers, Soulmate!AU, some slight suggestiveness(?)

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 4,540

A/N: The next chapter is here and I'm a lot happier with how this one turned out. Thank you to everyone who voted in the recent poll to determine one of the reader's talents and I think it linked into the story better than I'd anticipated. I hope you all like what I came up with and thank you for all your support, it means a lot 💕

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen(here) | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen(coming soon)

——————

After having a taste for escaping your room, you grew more determined to get out of bed at least a couple times a day. In your eyes if the doctors were happy to reduce the strength of your medicine then you were getting well enough to be more physical even if it was a light walk into the corridors. Some attempts were more successful than others. Some occasions you’d managed to avoid anyone spotting you until you were already headed back to your room and allowed them to usher you back to bed without much resistance. Other times you were caught almost immediately. Depending on who it was, their tactics for getting you back to your room varied. 

The servants pleaded, fearing Doflamingo’s anger would be directed their way, some even going so far as to fall onto their knees in front of you. The doctors tried to convince you to be a little more patient and with a few more days of complete bedrest you could maybe start attempting light exercise but not yet, throwing medical jargon at you to exhaust and frustrate you. For them you dug your heels in but eventually went back. Then the middle and lower ranked pirates seemed the most unsure about how to approach you because you always held your ground with them, refusing to go to your room. They couldn’t order you to go back and touching you was not an option so all they could do was block your way forward while one of the group ran off to get Doflamingo. 

It didn’t matter what the Warlord was doing, all it took was the report you were out of bed to get him to his feet. He followed the subordinate to your location. Upon seeing him appear you would let out a huff, watching him approach and let your body go limp when he lifted you; sometimes under his arm or over his shoulder. Normally he went straight for your room, this time however he turned and started to head back in the direction of his office. “Oh, we going the scenic route today?”

“You’re sounding better.” Doflamingo noted, choosing to ignore your question. “Your breathing seems clearer.”

“That’s what I keep telling you and your doctors, I’m practically completely healed.”

“Apart from your unrecovered energy levels, remaining infection reading in your latest test, limited-”

“I said practically, not entirely. No need to get smart.” You cut in with an unimpressed roll of your eyes as you heard the office doors open while Doflamingo laughed. “So, why the change today?”

“I have a lot of work to catch up on and so long as you’re here you won’t get into trouble.”

“I could get into plenty of trouble here if I wanted to.” You answered with a disgruntled mutter as you were dropped unceremoniously onto the plush sofa near his desk. 

“Well then by all means, cause trouble.” Doflamingo taunted down at you, the challenging grin fixed firmly on his lips as he watched you recline against the cushions and glared at him while a pout shaped your lips. 

“Don’t want to. Maybe later.” You explained. Truthfully the walk through the halls before you were caught had started to drain you and now that you were sitting down again, you weren’t going to get back up anytime soon. Doflamingo didn’t need to know that though. Even if he correctly assumed the reason for your choice to relax against the sofa, you weren’t going to admit it out loud. Draping your arm over the back of the sofa and laying your head against it you glanced towards the desk to see the stacks of papers on the usually tidied and more managed surface. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about work. Guess there’s more to being a King and ruler of a criminal empire than attending fancy galas and terrorising civilians.”

“I much prefer the paperwork to fancy galas.” Doflamingo told while while he slid into his desk chair and lifted the top sheet of paper on one of his piles. 

“Oh yeah, good food, good booze. Simply torture.” You drawled sarcastically.

“Go to one you’ve been to them all. Besides there’s no actual entertainment.” Doflamingo explained without taking his eyes from the report of materials expected to be brought to Dressrosa’s SMILE factory in the coming days. “Everyone tries to be sneaky and subtle about their clumsy assassination attempts and seductions and fail spectacularly. Plus the fancier they are, the less blood gets spilled. Boring.”

“Awww poor King Doffy doesn’t get to massacre rich people.” You pouted in false sympathy. “However will you survive such hardships?”

“With admirable dignity and humility.” Doflamingo grinned when you let out a small amused huff at his reply and moved onto the next set of reports. “Why so curious anyway? Would have thought you’d have harsher feelings than I do on fancy nobles and their parties.”

“Being a bodyguard on the sidelines or stationed outside their rooms until they returned isn’t exactly the same as attending.” You shrugged lazily. You weren’t often stationed on those kinds of missions. Normally your assignments were more action and surveillance based. Protecting people of importance and wealth was usually left to those with higher ranks and for the most part those were the easiest jobs about since it was more a precaution than a necessity to have a Marine presence at such events. You hardly needed to worry or think about that now though, given your new place in life. No longer dwelling on it, you focused your attention onto Doflamingo once more.

Silently you were impressed to see how much he’d manage to work through in such a short amount of time. It made you wonder why he’d let it all just gather in the first place. You knew enough by now to know the correspondences, missives, updates and completed reports from subordinates never came through at a rate to make it unmanageable. Because you’d been so ill you hadn’t heard much chatter from the servants that you’d normally pick up on when they were unaware you were in earshot so you had no idea what else was happening with Doflamingo or the rest of Dressrosa. Then you paused, had he neglected everything because you’d been ill? You recalled how nervous everyone was around him while you’d been so close to death. Perhaps it was for the best he’d ignored those reports until now. You noticed his jaw clench slightly as he read over the sheets of paper in his hands before setting it aside to a new pile while making note of something on a different sheet of paper. Had he read that a week ago, there was no telling how he’d have dealt with it and the person who sent the report had no idea how lucky they were.

————

Over the course of the next few days your plans to leave your room were already met and anticipated by Doflamingo before any servant, doctor, or subordinate could find you first. As expected you were brought to his office and dropped on his sofa while he continued to work. Some cases you grabbed a random book from the shelves to flick through to pass the time in between idly talking to Doflamingo or taking a small nap. 

For you it was just nice to be somewhere other than your room and you weren’t pestered as much here as you would have been in your room by the still hovering and assessing doctors. Even with your visible improvement they weren’t ready to give you a complete all-clear just yet, their protectiveness and cautiousness stemming from their own need of self-preservation more than anything. For Doflamingo, having the reassurance that you were staying still and technically resting while also being in his line of sight brought him the ability to focus on things again. At least for the most part because today it seemed like you were determined to be restless. You were constantly shifting on the sofa, adjusting the cushions, lifting the current book that had your attention only to close it and set it aside repeatedly. 

While he was re-reading the same line of the report for what felt like the tenth time he finally looked up when you rose from the sofa and started walking around the spacious office. Surely you had everything memorised by now but still you casually let your eyes scan everything, searching for something you might have missed or something to capture your unsettled attention. Finally you stopped longer than you had at anything else and Doflamingo sighed when he realised what it was. “Have you been cleared yet for alcohol?”

“Have you given them permission to clear me yet for alcohol?” You asked lazily, turning your head to give him an accusatory stare. Your fingers curled around the handle of the drinks cabinet and slowly opened it, your knowing smile growing when Doflamingo clicked his tongue. Your pressed a little more. “I’m down to medication just once a day now. Just a little one? I’ll even be nice and let you pour.” 

Even as you asked you didn’t fully wait for an answer, your fingers were already skimming along the neck of the first bottle you came into contact with, but not firmly taking it yet. Keeping your eyes only on Doflamingo allowed you to at least pretend to be innocent. After a few seconds Doflamingo sat back in his seat and arched his fingers, pulling two glasses from the inside of the cabinet and letting them settle silently onto his desk. Immediately you grabbed the bottle under your touch and brought it to him, perching yourself on the edge of the desk while handing the bottle over. You looked momentarily surprised to see him pour a plentiful amount into the first glass but then you glowered when he poured a pathetic dribble by comparison into the second and pushed it towards you. “Cheers.”

“Gee thanks.” You hummed unenthusiastically. Really you knew to be grateful to even get that much when he could have easily been a bigger asshole and given you a single drop instead. Lifting your glass you took a small sip, deciding to savour the drink you had. The rich taste flooded your mouth and you wanted to drain the glass completely now but knew you had to resist that urge. Forcing yourself to take sips you distracted yourself with the paperwork on the desk. 

Your eyes scanned the different locations each report was coming from, places deep into the Grand Line and as far back as the North, South, East, and West Blues. You caught sight of ‘Wano’ on a letter underneath a few other pages and your eyes flickered to Doflamingo. So his criminal empire even had a connection to Kaidou? Deciding you were better off not delving any deeper into things you turned on the desk so you were instead facing the window behind Doflamingo and let your gaze drift upwards. The usually bright blue skies seemed to be gathering more clouds today. While you were silently predicting that rain was going to hit at some point in the day you were pulled from your thoughts when you heard Doflamingo’s pen snap and his voice growling out a curse of anger. “Problem?” 

“Weapon shipment got intercepted by the group they were meant to be used on.” Doflamingo growled, casting the missive aside to take a longer drink from his own glass, now in greater need for the sharp alcohol. These things did happen occasionally but it was infuriating all the same. You lifted the paper and scanned over the report. You didn’t see any mention of who the groups were. The name of the island the report came from didn’t ring a bell as being a place under protection or rule of the World Government. Your expression became thoughtful, not escaping Doflamingo’s notice. “What?”

“Civilians aren’t involved in this?” You asked, deciding to address that point before speaking your mind. 

“No, it’s a lawless island. Two major criminal groups are fighting over territory.” He explained, sitting back in his seat, propping his foot onto his knee. “What are you thinking?”

“Let the opposing group keep the weapons they intercepted.” You explained, rolling your eyes when Doflamingo interrupted you with a bored, uninterested noise. “Extort a bigger payment for replacement weapons to be sent out to the group it was intended for since they’re clearly compromised and there’s a risk of getting intercepted again.”

“Who said they’re compromised?” 

“They probably aren’t but it’ll spread distrust amongst them.” You shrugged, taking the final sip in your glass. “Tensions will be high anyway, no doubt some will already be thinking how their enemies knew about the weapons coming. It’ll lead to infighting, some will most likely defect and start a third group. That third group will need weapons too and they’ll reach out to you.”

Doflamingo’s grin had been spreading the more you talked. Truly you had a diabolical mind when it came to dealing with criminals. So long as it didn’t involve innocents or civilians, you held no remorse for letting criminals hurt or kill each other. It was an added sign you were recovering because the last time he caught a glimpse of this side of you was just before you’d fallen ill and you’d both kissed after he watched you kill. Quickly needing to wipe the memory of the tempting taste of your lips Doflamingo drained his glass and grabbed the bottle of alcohol, pouring another small amount into your glass and then poured into his own. 

“I think a plan like that deserves another drink.” He explained, grinning at your confusion over his actions. Slowly you looked up at him and smirked, not going to say no to another glass of the delicious drink. You lifted your glass and this time, you clinked your glass against his in gratitude.

————

As you’d expected rain did fall that night and into the following morning. When you stepped out of your room you were slightly caught off guard to see that Doflamingo was nowhere to be seen. Partly you suspected he was still in the dining room with the family for breakfast and if that was the case you knew it wouldn’t be long before he made his way to his office. As you walked you thought you would have run into him along the way but still he didn’t show. You were confused until you opened the doors and stopped to see Doflamingo already at his desk, reclined back on his seat and from the deep, even breaths you could see he was asleep. His face was obscured by an open book and as you stepped closer you saw it was the one you had been idly reading while he worked. 

Standing by the desk you saw that save for a couple of new reports and letters, everything else had been cleared away. Silently you became suspicious that he had decided to work through the night to clear the backlog. Perhaps after coming across the days old report of the intercepted weapon shipment, he didn’t want to risk missing any other important reports. With a small sigh you reached out, beginning to lift the book from his face only to stop when you saw under the cover of the book his glasses were no longer covering his closed eyes. You froze and stared as your attention was firmly grabbed by his face. You knew he was handsome, but without there was just something that heightened his looks now that the glasses no longer obscured his features. 

You could finally see the full peacefulness in his expression as he slept. Tilting your head you spotted the pale lashes brushing against his cheeks. You curiously now tried to picture him with different eye colours, trying to work out what suited him best and what the truth was. Looking around you couldn’t see his signature glasses anywhere and you weren’t about to start rifling through Doflamingo’s pockets for them. As carefully as you could you set the book back over his face and took your place on the edge of the desk, deciding to stay close just incase the book fell. In all your time here you knew it was an unspoken rule to never see Doflamingo’s eyes without his permission. 

You recalled passing by in the gardens one day to overhear one of the maids shaking in fear as she recounted for her friends that in the middle of one of his attempts to kill you, the glasses had slipped slightly. She explained that she turned her back in time and didn’t see a thing, relieved that Doflamingo was too busy with you to have even questioned what she saw. You remembered how the other servants sympathised with how frightening that must have been while also joining in her relief that no harm befell her for what would have been an accident. Part of you had considered waking him now while it was just the two of you but after seeing how peaceful he was, you decided he needed the rest even if it was for just a little while longer. 

That extra time didn’t last long at all. You heard the sound of footsteps approaching and moved on the desk to block more of Doflamingo from their view when they would open the door. However in your adjustment, it caused Doflamingo to stir in his sleep, the book falling to the floor before you could stop it. As you heard the soft knock and handle turning you moved without thinking. Your hand fell over Doflamingo’s eyes while you landed on his chair. With your knees on either side of his legs you made sure to keep all of your weight off of him and turned your head sharply to see who had entered. 

“Ah! U-um.” You stared hard at the servant who froze in place at the scene in front of him. For yet another instance in your time on Dressrosa there was an innocent explanation for what was happening but those that intruded saw things differently. From this servant’s perspective you were straddling his King, unable to see you were only doing this for his benefit.

“What is it?” You asked sharply, not knowing how much longer Doflamingo would be asleep for but your tone only served to fluster the servant, mistaking it for frustrated impatience. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to force his mind to work. His floundering however only annoyed you. 

“N-no-nothing important!” The servant finally managed to declare once he wasn’t so tongue-tied. “Sorry for intruding!”

You watched the servant bow lowly and scramble to leave the room, pulling the door shut behind him. You let out a sigh at the same time Doflamingo’s chuckle began to build in his chest. Still you remained unmoving, staring down at his laughing face as you kept your hand over his eyes. Only now you could feel that his eyes were open, his lashes brushing against your skin with each relaxed blink. 

“Where are your glasses?” You asked, not needing to explain yourself, knowing Doflamingo was awake long enough and smart enough to connect things. Still he laughed at the situation and could already imagine the gossip-hungry servants having this spread through the palace before lunchtime. To lazily answer your question, Doflamingo sat up from his previously reclined position and used his strings to pull his glasses from the top drawer of his desk and let them dangle in the air. With Doflamingo’s change in his seat you were closer against him but still you refused to draw any further attention to how close and intimate this was and how easily it could have been deepened should either of you wishes it to. Instead you kept on the topic at hand. “Aren’t you going to put them on?” 

“Don’t you want to see first?” Doflamingo asked in amusement but you could clearly hear the curiosity underneath. 

“What horrors await me if I look?” You asked, a small smile curving your lips while Doflamingo’s grin grew. “Everyone’s so scared about what happens if they see, it needs to live up to the hype. Will I turn to stone? Or will I have my eyes gouged out maybe?”

“Does it matter? You’re unaffected regardless of what would await you.” Even though his eyes were covered, Doflamingo could practically hear the bored pout shaping your lips at his answer. “Choice is yours though.”

You weighed the options but ultimately decided that seeing that part of Doflamingo, to see a part of him no one else was allowed to was a step in trust and further closeness you weren’t ready to invite or indulge. Keeping your hand in place you leant over to reach for the glasses suspended in the air. You stilled when you felt Doflamingo’s hand settle on your lower back; not to pull you closer but just to simply keep you steady. You managed to get a firm hold on the glasses and pulled them towards Doflamingo’s face. “Close your eyes.”

Doflamingo smirked and did as you instructed, only feeling the gentle warmth of your touch leave his face when you felt his eyes close firmly and were certain he was going to keep them closed. He felt the cold frames brush against his skin and even after he felt the familiar dark tinted lenses hover over his eyes he still kept them closed. You stared down at him for a moment, amazed at how different he seemed now all because of his glasses. To those who were scared of him, never knowing what lay beneath the very recognisable accessories only added to the menacing and mysterious enigma that was Donquixote Doflamingo. To you though, this was the version of him that you knew and were used to. “Okay, you can open them now.”

“You took your time.” Doflamingo chuckled. “Were you going to change your mind?”

“Nope, was just relishing in you doing as you were told for just a little while longer.”

“Well with a view like this can you blame me? Now I can fully appreciate what got my servant so flustered.”

“Oh shut up.” You lightly rolled your eyes at his teasing, shoving his shoulder as he grinned widely. You finally rose from his lap and crouched down to collect the fallen book from the floor. As you straightened and stronger and clearer knock sounded compared to the soft and meek one the servant had made. 

“Doffy, is it okay to come in now?” You frowned at the deep voice, you didn’t recognise the speaker on the other side of the door. Doflamingo knew him though and with a twitch of his finger he pulled the doors open with his ability. You watched the figure enter and you stiffened to see Vice-Admiral Vergo walk into the room, completely at ease. You knew Doflamingo had people working on his behalf from inside the Marines given how well-connected he was but you had no idea it went so high. You remained standing in place by the desk while Vergo came to a stop in front of his, his attention firmly on Doflamingo. 

“This is a surprise.” He grinned at his subordinate. “This a social call or is it something more pressing?”

“Social but I’ll be setting off again very soon.” Vergo replied simply. “Decided to stop by on my way to Punk Hazard. Partly I wanted to see your soulmate for myself Doffy, I truly didn’t see that coming when you first told me they rendered your abilities powerless.” Finally Vergo turned his head toward you. “Your personal affects from your Marine lodgings were sent into storage. I brought what I could with me and instructed one of the servants to leave them in your room when I arrived.”

Your personal affects? You frowned slightly at that. Any uniforms you had there would have been reclaimed for officers. The same would have been the case for any of your standard issue weapons. At first you couldn’t think of what would have been snuck out of storage to bring to Dressrosa then your eyes widened. You wasted no time and left the room, moving straight for your room. Seeing you leave so abruptly made Doflamingo’s grin slip slightly, and he looked to his elite officer as he rose from his seat. After having sat for so long through the night finishing his work and sleeping, he now needed to stretch his legs. “What was that about?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. First I need to ask, when I arrive on Punk Hazard am I to check on his progress regarding the research you asked him to look into?” 

Doflamingo left the office with Vergo matching his strides, walking in silence as Doflamingo considered the question. In the beginning when the first few attempts to kill you hadn’t worked he’d tasked the scientist to look into the matter of soulmates to find a way to kill you by his own hand. Since there’d been no updates or theories on how to undo fate from him, and with the recent events Doflamingo hadn’t bothered to contact him. “Since he’s yielded no results in the time I’ve given him, tell him to stop and return all of his focus to SAD. The last thing he needs is to fall behind schedule.” Vergo nodded and for a moment Doflamingo thought he’d take his leave immediately. It was never in him to linger, out of a need to ensure the wrong person didn’t spot him in Dressrosa and blow his cover that he was truly on the side of the Donquixote Family. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, Vergo?”

“Hm? No. I just wanted to hear first.”

“Hear what?” To answer Doflamingo’s question a sound began to break through the silent corridors. What began as the low testing of a bow against the strings, playing individual chords soon turned into the starting of a song. Immediately it caught his attention, the striking melody building and capturing notice of the rest of the inhabitants within earshot. Vergo let out a low appreciative whistle at the obvious mastery of your playing. Satisfied he bid farewell to Doflamingo and moved towards the palace’s exit while Doflamingo headed closer to the sound of the violin being played finally stopping at the open door. You stood in the middle of the room, eyes closed and lost entirely in the song you were playing. As the song quickened Doflamingo couldn’t help but stare at your fingers moving against the strings under your precise command, noting how they arced and pressed beautifully in a way almost reminiscent of how his own hands moved when he used his strings. Of all the things you had a talent at, of all the instruments you  could have known to play, it had to be this. It just had to something that created another similarity and connection between you both and with each one he discovered it made it just an extra bit harder to want to sever it.

——————————————-

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[cacoetheswriting]

some protector | chapter three from right where you left me.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 6.5k

summary: tensions are rising. eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. anger. yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. has he been acting distant since yesterday? yes. does that have anything to do with your arrival? everything. does he wish you weren’t here? not even one bit.

content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, emotional hurt / little-comfort, eddie is a bit of an asshole, some mutual pining, also touches on topics of: death, grief, reckless driving, toxic relationships, gaslighting, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls read the cw's for each chapter and let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

Eddie skips breakfast. 

Nobody points it out, although it is clear they are all thinking about it.

Steve in particular is acting extra weird, shooting you pointed looks all throughout the meal as if to wordlessly ask what the hell happened last night? He is the one to have left you alone with the metal-head. Perhaps he’s feeling guilty for doing so?

You try to reply with your own glances in his direction — there’s nothing to worry about. Logically, Eddie skipping breakfast is just him wanting to sleep in.

Right?

While grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you quietly tell Steve to let it go. He’s hovering like a shadow, eager for answers and truthfully, there’s nothing you can say. You have no idea why Eddie wouldn’t come down. He didn’t get burned. He wasn’t an ass. There’s no juicy gossip to share. It’s all very demure.

Steve pretends to buy what he perceives as excuses to some wider scheme and momentarily leaves you alone, but only to get ready.

Robin is the next person on your case. She sticks her head in through the door, babbling rather excitedly how Harrington told her all about last night, leaving you alone with the metal-head. She thinks she’s putting two-and-two together — something happened — but you only burst her bubble with the exact same thing you told Steve.

“He just apologised for the way he acted when he saw me,” you say. “There’s no bigger story.”

“So, you’re all good now? Friends?” She asks, sitting on the edge of your bed.

You scoff. “No. We’re still not talking.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Well, your canoe ride is going to be hell.”

Then she proceeds to explain how after you went upstairs, Argyle suddenly felt really sick and he’s no longer going to partake in today’s planned activities. The dark-haired pothead was supposed to be your partner on the boat. Jonathan and Nancy, Robin and Steve, you with Argyle, and Eddie on his own. That was the planned pairings.

Not anymore.

“At least you’ll get to ask him if you’re the reason he skipped breakfast,” Robin teases with a sly smile and you suppress a groan. One of you is for sure going to push the other off that boat; unintentionally or otherwise.

The rental place is located one lake over from the house you are staying at. It’s about a twenty minute drive and the metal-head doesn’t speak the entire ride there. From where you’re sitting in the backseat, you see how tight he’s gripping the steering wheel. Knuckles on the verge of turning white. He found out about the last-minute switch just as he made an appearance, moments before Nancy ushered the group out the door. If he wanted to complain or protest, she didn’t give him a chance. 

You half-wish you had taken your own car for this outing. In case anything occurs and you need a quick getaway, which is probably precisely why Nancy insisted Jonathan and Eddie drive. No more running. That’s the whole point of this weekend, as you have to keep reminding yourself. Unfortunately, nothing changes the fact that the thought of being alone with Eddie in a rather confined space is making you uneasy and judging by his blank stare, he’s feeling something similar.

Or pure rage.

Down at the dock, once the cars are parked and Nancy dramatises a roll call, you can feel Eddie’s indifference to the whole thing. He’s not paying attention to the owner, who explains how the life jackets work along with instructions on Canoeing 101. How to get into the boat, where to position yourself, is it better to kneel or sit, how to launch, how to paddle and steer, how to not tip. The list goes on. You nod along but truthfully, your mind is also elsewhere. Subtle foreshadowing: you both should have been listening more actively.

“Any questions?” The owner asks, glancing between the group.

And while under the impression that everyone now knows what they’re doing — considering there are no questions — he divides the paddles, helps with adjusting the lifejackets, then leads you all to the edge of the water.

Surprisingly, you both manage to get inside the canoe unscathed.

Considering Eddie still hasn’t so much as bothered to look in your general direction, you acknowledge this as a success. The good luck doesn’t last long. Since neither of you is willing to break the silence, you don’t agree on an order of motion and when Eddie tries to paddle backwards, you go forwards. For a solid three minutes, the canoe circles in place. Frustrated, you look out to the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of Robin and signal her a desperate plea. It seems however, you two are the only people left in this section of the lake. Everyone else has already disappeared behind the bend, hidden from view by the droopy trees.

You’re just about to shit on this whole day and jump out in your lifejacket, simultaneously saving yourself from any further embarrassment while also deepening the humiliation, when the boat starts to surge ahead. Eddie, taking advantage of the fact you’ve lost yourself in your thoughts and momentarily given up on paddling, uses his full force to row the aluminium oars, finally making headway in a direction that’s not circular.

For a moment, you think he’s going to gloat. Or worse. Tell you he doesn’t need you here: in this boat, this weekend, in his life — a fact you’ve seemingly grown accustomed too. However, the metal-head remains quiet. His expression is devoid of any emotion. It makes you want to scream, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. After all, you’re nearly one-hundred percent sure he’s doing this to get a reaction out of you. Rub your buttons the wrong way. Twisted payback for ruining, well, everything.

Another ten minutes later and the boat halts to a stop. You haven’t caught up with the rest of your friends yet, but you’re making headway (no thanks to your efforts). Eddie lets go of the oars and reaches down, at his feet is a bottle of water from which he takes a sip and then for the first time this entire morning, he looks at you. Seemingly unbothered. Nevertheless, the mahogany of his eyes glistening in the sun, the constant intensity of his stare, it makes you tremble ever so slightly.

“Would you like some?” Eddie offers his water.

You shake your head. “No, thank you.”

He scoffs. “First the cigarette and now the water,” he points out after taking another sip. “I’m not trying to poison you, you know?”

“I-I know.”

The two of you stare at each other for a minute.

There’s things you want to get off your chest, but you’re the one who said talking isn’t necessary. Plus, his behaviour makes it clear how, despite his apology for crappy behaviour, he’s not willing to listen and the twinge of hurt you feel, knowing Eddie has no interest in forgiving you for what happened at Chrissy’s party and everything after, it makes you nauseous.

Beginning to feel rather overwhelmed under his pointed glare, you glance back onto the water.

The beauty of the moment isn’t lost on you. This scenery is unlike anything you’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing and a breath gets caught in your throat now that you’ve allowed yourself to fully take it all in. Eddie’s still watching you, that much you’re aware of. Unfortunately, you can’t read his mind. If you could, perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling this way because all Eddie can think is how utterly alluring you look right now.

He can’t help himself. You’re… you. And it’s all against his better judgement. He hates you. He wants to hate you because that’s easier than admitting his true feelings towards you. That deep down, they haven’t changed. Seeing you after all these years only solidified that notion. He won’t admit it outloud, but he can allow himself to stare. To wish. To dream. What if things had been different? That’s the biggest dream of all.

“Should we get moving?” You ask eventually, unable to take the weight of his eyes on your body any longer.

Eddie shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

And the metal-head probably doesn’t mean anything by it. The phrase. You’re in your own head a little too much. Being at the receiving end of his resentment has done that to you.

“Stop that.”

Eddie’s expression is puzzled. Deepens when words continue to flow through your mouth, unfiltered.

“Stop with the ‘whatever you want’, and the ‘everyone is back to kissing your ass’, and she’s a princess, everyone is quick to forgive her, she’s always put on a pedestal.”

“I never even said half of what you’re implying,” Eddie defends. “And I said I was sorry for being a dick. You’re the one who suggested we don’t talk.”

“It doesn’t matter when I know you’re thinking it. When I can see on your face how much you wish I wasn’t here and how you resent the fact that my friends took me back.”

Tensions are rising. Eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. Anger. Yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. Has he been acting distant since yesterday? Yes. Does that have anything to do with your arrival? Everything. Does he wish you weren’t here? Not even one bit. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He wishes he could get over it, put it to bed, like the rest of the friend group. He’s just not sure where to begin since everything to do with you still feels very fragile. Eddie’s hurting. He’s hating. He’s conflicted. The one thing he won’t stand for however, is someone making shit up about him. Even — and especially — if that person is you.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking. You don’t know anything about me anymore!”

“Because you won’t let me in!” You shout, hastily sitting slightly forward and in turn, rocking the canoe. “You won’t let me apologise. You won’t let me make peace. Eddie, you won’t let me move forward and that’s all I want. I just want to move forward!”

“And you think I don’t?!” He also shuffles forward. Arm at his chest, to emphasise how deep this whole thing runs. “You think I relish in feeling this… all of this… nastiness towards you? You think I enjoy not being able to so much as look in your direction? You think I don’t want to forgive you and let you move forward? I also want to move forward! Desperately! Angel, it’s just not that simple.”

Angel. The moniker lingers in the air. It startles you. Him too. If only for a split-second.

“Why won’t you let me apologise then? You’re allowed to say sorry, but I’m not?” You question, “Why can’t we start there?”

Eddie doesn’t immediately answer. His lack of response speaks more than words, however. You decide to drop it then. You decide it’s not worth it. There’s nothing else you can do to fix this at this moment in time. 

And so you reach for an oar and tell Eddie that the two you should get moving before you fall even further behind. He tries to get a hold of the aluminium pad, in an attempt to keep this conversation going because in his eyes, you two are finally getting somewhere.

You try with all of your might to hold onto it while also reaching for the other one, which Eddie accidentally knocks with his knee and the paddle plunges into the water. He lunges for it. This sudden motion shakes the boat and you lose your balance, falling.

What happens next is a blur.

Splash. You’re submerged under water. Considering today is quite warm, the lake is anything but. Freezing; would be a better word to describe it. Although, it’s like you have a moment to think about it. You need to swim up. Get back on the boat.

Splash. Water ripples around you. Suddenly, there’s an arm holding your waist, pulling you close then pulling you up.

Within seconds, you surface together, under the cover of the canoe. Eddie’s now holding it with one hand, the other still firmly clinging onto you.

“Are you alright?”

“Did you just jump in after me?”

You ask simultaneously. A heartbeat pause.

Then you smile.

You can’t help it. The corners of your mouth twitch upwards on their own accord. Eddie’s grip on your tightens as you do and ensuingly, he smiles too. An expression so earnest, your heart skips a beat. With how the metal-head is holding you, you’re sure he can feel it.

Unfortunately, the good mood doesn’t last long. Kicking your feet underwater, a horrible thought crosses your mind.

“My chip.”

“What?” Eddie asks, confused.

“My sobriety chip. I-I don’t feel it in my sock.” Panic stricken, you push away from him and without further explanation, you swim under.

Instantly, your eyes hurt. In the darkness of the water, you can’t see anything other than Eddie’s frame and once again, you feel pathetic. Why can’t you catch a fucking break? So coming back up for air, the only thing you’re grateful for is being absolutely soaked because at least Eddie can’t tell where the droplets end and the tears begin.

“I-I always carry it with me,” you explain, “Everywhere I go. It’s usually in my wallet, but with my bag in the car… I-I needed the chip closer, so I thought what’s the worst that can happen if I put it in my sock.”

“I hate to say it, but it’s most likely already at the bottom of the lake.”

He’s right. You know he’s right.

Wordlessly, the two of you get out from under the boat and try to flip it. Unfortunately, considering neither of you really listened to the owner when he explained what to do in this situation, the whole thing takes a couple of tries and by the time you succeed, you’re even more stressed than before.

While you desperately try to gather your thoughts, Eddie swims around, gathering the oars.

Next, getting back into the canoe is even trickier than turning the thing.

“I-I think I’ll just swim to shore,” you say, deflated.

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel, that’s miles.” Eddie counters. “Just grab the opposite side, in the middle, and push yourself up.”

“Eddie—”

“Come on,” he interrupts, “I’ll do the same and our movements will counteract each other.”

Listening to his instructions, the two of you manage to get back into the boat. The first thing you do is take off your water-filled shoe and carefully remove your sock to confirm your suspicions. The chip is gone. Your heart sinks.

“It’s gone,” you mutter. After, you stifle a sniffle and wipe the lake-mixed tears with the bottom of your palm.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers.

You try to say it’s fine, but no words come out. Eddie understands. Despite the distance of the last three years, he still knows you better than anyone. And he knows that what you need now more than ever, is to be alone.

He lets you sit there, holding onto your soaked sock, and paddles back to shore. You don’t wait for him when the canoe hits the wooden dock, instead, you jump out and slide the other shoe off. Barefoot, you scurry towards the parking lot while the metal-head sorts things out with the owner. He proceeds after you, but only to unlock the car, from which you retrieve your backpack. With a shaky hand, you call your sponsor.

-

Back at the house, you’re first to run upstairs. The door closes with a thud and when you’re out of earshot, Nancy smacks Eddie’s chest to chastise him.

“What the fuck happened on that canoe?”

“Nothing,” he answers plainly.

“Then why does she look like she’s been crying?” Robin chimes.

Eddie ignores the questions and pushes past the girls, following you. He’s not listening to their protests. He’s not really thinking. Truthfully, the only thing on his mind is making sure you’re alright — even if it means swallowing his pride (and that’s a tough pill).

You let him in on the second knock. Rather you open the door and hover, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. Not with words. Instead, he slides in through the gap and kicks it close because he knows the remainder of the group will be eavesdropping. They can’t help themselves.

Eddie then reaches for your wrist. His own hand is steady as his fingers envelop around your bone and tug you closer. You don’t protest.

His other arm slides across your back, palm stretching. He begins to rub gentle circles into the material of your now fully dried t-shirt and you feel yourself relaxing with every passing second. The hand holding yours is now placed firmly against his chest. If he didn’t feel your heart beating under the canoe, you think he can definitely feel it now. Just like you can feel his. Focusing on the steady rhythm, you muster up the courage to look up and meet his brown eyes.

They speak volumes. Memories flash and disappear. The good, the bad, the ugly. Then a thousand apologies and notes of forgiveness. Everything falls into place. It’s just you and Eddie. Just like before that nightmare party.

“I’m listening,” he whispers. “Let’s move forward. I’m listening.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, you nod.

“Eddie, I-I am extremely sorry for everything I put you through,” you begin. “I’m sorry for being oblivious. I’m sorry for acting self-centred. I’m sorry for the night of Chrissy’s party. For hurting you like I did and for jumping into Steve’s arms instead of focusing on what was really important. You. Eddie, you—” Pause. “— you don’t know how incredible you are and I think I will forever hate myself for not being the girl you thought I was.”

The metal-head accepts your apology in the form of a hug. Right hand on your back slides lower and pushes you closer while the other finds itself at the back of your head. His mouth is at your earlobe, which he kisses gently. In turn, you allow yourself to let go and hold him tight, inhaling his natural scent of cigarettes and cheap breath mints. Today, right now, he also smells like the lake. It fuels your senses and ignites that fire in your core, the one you’ve been quietly trying to put out for three years — seemingly to no avail.

There’s still a lot of fixing that needs to happen. Rebuilding this friendship will not be easy by any means, you know that. This feels like a good start though and for the first time since you arrived, you’re feeling a little bit lighter on your feet. Like part of the burden has been lifted off your shoulders. Like you’re no longer alone.

Eddie places another kiss to the side of your head before eventually pulling away. When he does, you’re instantly missing his touch and all you can do is hope that he can’t read your mind because only baby steps can get you to where you really want to be with him. So you try to minimise your reaction when the metal-head fishes something out from the pocket of his shorts and takes your hand once again. His fingers work to open up your palm and without breaking eye contact, he places a single guitar pick in your grasp.

“I know it’s not the same,” the boy says, “But I thought this could replace that chip you lost. At least for this weekend.”

You’re rendered speechless. Lips parting, your gaze travels to where his hand is holding yours and where the red guitar pick rests — same colour as your Jeep — tangled in a silver chain. 

Recognition feigns. Of course it does. You’re the one who gifted said guitar pick to the metal-head, for Christmas of senior year. Back then however, there was no chain attached to it. Either way, as you trace along the plastic, you can’t believe he kept such a small piece of you for all these years. 

Hold on. Didn’t you throw it out the window of Chrissy’s childhood bedroom? The memories are a little hazy, but no, you definitely remember holding it one second and then, poof.

Eddie sees your bewilderment.

“After I dropped you home, I-I went back for it,” he admits, “Took me fucking forever to find. Almost had the cops called on me too ‘cause the flashlight on my phone, someone thought I was breaking in.”

He went back for it. He searched for it. He found it. He kept it.

Yet, you focus on: “You dropped me home?”

You string your brows together as you speak, hesitant to meet his gaze again when the question settles in the air because that part of the night, you definitely don’t remember.

“Shit, of course.” Eddie answers because to him it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were in no condition to get yourself home and I wasn’t about to let someone else take you.”

This new development, another piece of the puzzle, causes a bubble to form in the back of your throat. Heavy. Waiting to burst. Somehow, knowing Eddie drove you to Nancy’s in the middle of the night and most likely helped you into bed, after you broke his trust and more importantly, his heart, well, it only makes you feel worse about yourself.

“Do you realise you just shit on everything we’ve ever shared?!” Eddie’s pointing a finger, it’s close to your face and your anger spikes.

You wince at the evocation and push his hand away.

“I can’t accept this.”

“Please. Take it.” He practically forces the item into your grasp. “I’ve been wearing it around my neck. Carrying it to remind me of you - as if I could ever forget - but now that you’re here, I think you should have it instead.”

Tears swell in the corner of your eyes.

“Eddie, I’m not worth this.” You try to reason, but the metal-head just shakes his head.

“Angel, you’re worth everything and more. I’m sorry if I made you doubt that.”

That’s where the conversation ends. Not because either one of you wants it to. Instead, you get interrupted by an eager knock on the door. Then Robin is telling you both through the wood how lunch is almost ready and how she hopes no one’s been murdered because she’s got no interest in cleaning up a scene. You reply that it’s all fine, not looking away from the curly set of hair in front of you.

Eddie smiles timidly. He orders you to shower and change, says he’ll do the same.

“I’ll see you downstairs, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Under the shower, you replay the entire thing in your mind. Analyse from every angle. Pulling apart the words, the looks, the touch. His touch. You get lost in that hug again. Reliving how it felt to be in his arms once more, after all this time. Home, you think. That’s what it felt like. Instinctively, your hand travels to your earlobe, where he placed his soft kiss. The other lands between your collarbone, to the red guitar pick now hanging around your neck.

The longer you stand under the hot water, the harder it is to remind yourself to keep grounded. One conversation will not fix years of pent up frustration and resentment, no matter how well it went. There’s a lot more to say. The weekend is just beginning.

Although, after you make your way downstairs, it’s hard not to feel as if you’d already won.

Your high school friends together, laughing.

Yesterday, there was a vibe of awkwardness around the table. Even this morning was rough with the metal-head skipping the meal and no one really knowing why. Right now however, there’s jokes being shared and playful anecdotes exchanged. When you enter the kitchen, no one stops mid-conversation. They don’t exchange weird glances. Mood is high and realise how much of a ripple effect your relationship with Eddie has on the rest of the group.

That thought equally excites and terrifies you. After all, it’s only Saturday afternoon. A lot can happen between now and when it’s time to say goodbye.

(And a lot appears later, in the form of an uninvited guest.)

Now, you focus on lunch. On Eddie choosing to sit next to you, arm brushing yours as he slides into the chair, wild locks of hair still wet from his shower. He smiles and your heart flutters — this seemingly insignificant exchange earns you a kick from Robin under the table. She winks when you shoot her a quick glance, then, for the remainder of the meal, you do your best to keep attention on the food on your plate.

Conversation flows swiftly. Memories are recounted with flair. The high school years, albeit quite hellish for you at a certain point, don’t look so bad through the eyes of your friends. You almost forgot how much fun you had before the Billy-of-it-all.

Steve retells the story of his Junior Prom. You went as his date, which was unheard of for a freshman. He’s talking about winning Prom King and tossing you the crown, a seemingly innocent act that made most of the girls from his year jealous and therefore solidified your place in social hierarchy: ‘cause no one was to fuck with Harrington’s clique, that was the law.

“You’re misremembering a few important details, Steve.” You point out, taking a sip of your water. He looks at you from across the table, patiently waiting for an elaboration. You oblige. “You spent half of the night quizzing me about Nancy.”

Robin snorts. 

Argyle drawls, “Play on playa.”

Jonathan and Nancy snicker.

Steve rolls his eyes at the lot of them, before replying to you. “Well, I made it up to you, didn’t I, sweetheart? I gave you Widlak’s number.”

“Lee Widlak?” Eddie asks, but his question is ignored. Sort of.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “We went on one wildly unsuccessful date,” you say, “I hardly count that as you making it up to me. You and Nancy dated for quite a bit which, dare I say, is hugely thanks to my cooperation at your prom.”

“But then Widlak introduced you to Billy while me and Nancy infamously broke up, also hugely thanks to you, so shouldn’t all be forgiven?” Steve muses, a sly smirk circling his lips.

“Dustin introduced me to Billy,” you correct without giving it a second thought.

When the table falls silent, you realise that wasn’t common knowledge.

You were always quite secretive when it came to your relationship with the Hargrove boy. Aside from his lavish looks and intense charm, he wasn’t entirely good news. Your parents didn’t like him. Your friends didn’t like him.

While you and Billy were together, it really felt as though it was you against the world. Later on, thanks to a lot of therapy, you realised he purposefully made it that way. He wanted to isolate you. You were easier to control when feeling lonely and Billy was all about control.

People were confused about the whole thing. You, a cheerleader at that point and easily the most popular girl in school. Him, a womanising bully. There were a lot of assumptions and rumours floating around back then about the two of you. Innocent enough about how you met, and some rather nasty, about Billy’s tendency to flirt with everything that had a pulse. Effectively, you didn’t clarify or respond to anyone’s assumptions. Why feed the mill?, as Billy would say.

Lee Widlak spread crazy stories during his high school run. One of said stories happened at a house party you attended and of course, Billy was there. From the outside, Lee had every right to think he introduced you to the dirty-blonde. On paper, that was days prior when an outspoken Dustin accosted you outside the Wheeler house and told you all about his new friend Max, her older brother Billy — who, right on queue, pulled up in his rundown BMW and charmed the shit out of you.

“Not intentionally, so I didn’t think anything of it.” You clarify. “But then at the funeral, Dustin came up to me, his eyes were puffy red, and he said how sorry he was. That it was all his fault. That I wouldn’t be this heartbroken if he hadn’t introduced us.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve’s sympathetic. 

They all seem to be.

What you focus on however, is Eddie’s fingers gently brushing the side of your leg. Letting you know he’s here and he’s got you, always.

You swallow. “I obviously told him it wasn’t his fault. Probably didn’t believe me, but there’s no way I’d let this kid think he’s the reason for my misery,” you continue, then pause. “And anyway, Billy died because of me.”

“Dark,” Argyle whispers under his breath.

Jonathan and Steve simultaneously say your name. Nancy reaches for your hand on the table and squeezes it, saying how that’s definitely not true. Robin also says that you shouldn’t be blaming yourself. Eddie is the only one who doesn’t react. His movements also come to a halt and from the corner of your eyes, you can see how his fingers intertwine in his lap, as if he’s no longer sure what to do with them.

“Guys, it’s fine,” you reassure, “I made peace with it a long time ago.”

“Babe, Billy died ‘cause he was driving over the speed limit. He was being reckless, like always. That’s got nothing to do with you,” Robin tries to reason.

“He was coming to see me.”

“You don’t know that.” Nancy is next to step in. “He could have been going home. He could have been going—”

“He called me,” you state, hoping to put this whole thing to bed because the longer you talk about it, the more uneasy you feel. “He called me when he got in that stupid car and he asked if I was home, if anyone else was there. He said he needed to talk about something. He sounded really agitated, so I asked what was wrong. Billy threw some insults around, babbled about some freak - as he put it - who practically jumped him outside Benny’s. I think that was all bullshit. He just got in these moods and he was coming over to yell at someone who listened, aka me, and then I also got this feeling that he was going to break up with me. Earlier that day, I bumped into Max who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Despite their troubled relationship, she was always her brother’s keeper. Billy was done with me and that’s one of the reasons he was in the car that night.”

“Shit, dude.” Argyle breathes. He’s the only one at this table who never met Billy and perhaps that’s why he’s got the only genuine reaction. The remainder of your friends are silent. Glancing between one another, all nervous again, as if they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It does. Mere seconds later, when Eddie says, “I’m the freak.”

Your head snaps to the side. The metal-head is staring at his lap while you examine the side of his face, trying to figure out if you heard him correctly. 

“Eddie…” Nancy the peacekeeper.

He looks up then. Not at you, but at her. His eyes wander down the table until they land on Wheeler and his shoulders rise ever so slightly. They have a stare down. It’s only a couple of seconds long. You desperately want to know what they’re thinking. What he’s thinking. How many secrets can one friend group share before they’re no longer considered friends? And then you find yourself praying that it’s not as bad as it seems.

“Well, you might as well tell her now.” It’s Robin who breaks the weird stillness. “She was bound to find out sooner or later.”

“Tell me what?” You ask, glancing between the group, until your gaze travels back to Eddie who’s now waiting to catch it. 

The seriousness in the mahogany has an uneasy undertone. You fear you already know what your ex-best friend is about to share. His eyes say it all. They always have. Your body sags into the chair, expression fading into one of sadness — things were barely good again, things were barely good again, things were barely good again.

“Now, I didn’t jump him. I wasn’t waiting for him. I didn’t plan any of what happened,” Eddie starts, “I caught him in Benny’s with some girl. They were awfully close to being just friends.”

For a split-second, you close your eyes. The metal-head places a hand on your thigh. You want to move away, but there’s nowhere else to go.

“Afterwards, he walked the girl to her car and I was going to let it go, I really was, but then they kissed and I instantly saw red ‘cause how dare he fuck around on you.” Eddie’s words are full of venom. Years of pent up aggression towards the boy that completely demoralised you. 

“I swear, I just wanted to talk. I told him how he better come clean to you, but Billy just laughed in my face. He said he’s got you wrapped around his finger and no matter what he does, you’d never leave. Then he got in my face. You’re nothing but a jealous freak, he spat. You can’t have her so you ruin the fun for everyone else. Well, I’ll tell you what, freak, it’s my name she screams at the end of the night—”

The rest of that sentence gets caught in Eddie’s throat as your eyes swell with tears.

For the hundredth time since you arrived, you feel pathetic. You’re questioning everything. Yourself, your friends. Their motives. Eddie.

In your story, Eddie was always the good guy. Even at that stupid party, he didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, his timing may not have been perfect, but in your eyes, he was faultless.

Seems though, you were missing a vital piece of information. They all knew, you think, they knew and chose not to tell you.

“I punched him. Square in the jaw.”

“I don’t want to know,” you whisper, but your wishes aren’t heard.

“Billy was all talk, so he didn’t fight back. He threatened that he’ll call the cops and that’s when I got out of there.” Eddie concludes, “He must’ve called you instead.”

There is a lot to be said about grief. Even more about heartbreak. You experienced both of those things simultaneously and the person you leaned on the most, is the person who kept this huge secret from you. 

“Excuse me.”

Shuffling free from the grasp of the curly-haired man, you’re on your feet in a flash and saunter away, towards the door and out of the kitchen area. Your friends call your name. Jonathan is the only one to say, “Let her go.”.

In true Eddie Munson fashion, the metal-head doesn’t listen. He’s rushing after you. Repeating that stupid moniker. Chanting it like a prayer because maybe then you’d stop and finish this conversation. Only, you don’t want to hear anything else that he’s got to say.

No, you didn’t suddenly think Eddie was now to blame for Billy dying. That’s ludicrous. 

But, for three miserable years, you were haunted by what you did to Eddie Munson — rightfully so. Riddled with anxiety, regret. Endlessly apologetic. Thinking he’d never forgive you. When you arrived yesterday, he made you feel like crap — also, rightfully so. To learn he’s been sitting on this high horse while harbouring a truth about a night that changed the entire trajectory of your life… That feels like a betrayal.

“Angel, please.”

At the bottom of the stairs, he finally catches up. You’re a couple of steps ahead but he’s got a hold on your forearm.

“I just want to be left alone.”

You don’t dare look at him when you speak because that’s when the real emotions would show. Instead, you tilt your head backwards and count the paint speckles on the ceiling. Three, four, five…

A sigh escapes Eddie’s lips. Carefully, so you don’t trip, he pulls you back down, towards him. He leads you into a corner of the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. His grip on you tightens slightly while the fingers of his free hand touch the tip of your chin.

“Look at me.” It’s more of a plea than a command. “Angel, look at me.”

He guides your face. The pace is slow, almost as if the metal-head’s afraid you’ll breakaway if he moves any faster. Eventually, his brown eyes catch yours and he offers a smile. Earnest, true. Kind.

“I did try to tell you. I called and texted, but you didn’t answer. Then, news broke of Billy’s accident and the group collectively decided not to mention it for a while.” Eddie says, hoping to explain. “You never asked me about the missed calls, so I went with what the guys wanted.”

Placing one hand flat on his chest, you reply, “Only you’re not the group, Eddie. To me, back then, you were—” 

You pause, unsure how much to reveal. Then you remove your hand, letting it fall down to your side because suddenly this feels too intimate.

“Truthfully, I don’t remember much about that time. I don’t know if you called, but I believe you if you say you did,” you say. “I-I guess I just wish you told me anyway because maybe then things would have gone differently between us.”

Eddie blinks. Words settle in the air.

“Different how?” 

You shrug. What you really want to tell him is that maybe you wouldn’t have gotten so horribly out of control over Billy’s death. Maybe you’d heal in a more healthy way. You want to list the endless questions you now have, starting with: ‘what if, knowing what I know now, I was okay enough to open myself up to feeling loved and cared for, by whoever, starting with you?’

The argument at Chrissy’s party doesn’t ensue. The friendship doesn’t shatter. You don’t run away, you don’t leave. Vegas doesn’t become your new home. Eddie remains in your life. The last three years simply don’t exist.

You want to tell him all of that and more, but just as you’re about to open your mouth to start spilling your thoughts, there’s a knock on the front door.

The two of you glance towards it, although neither makes a move to address whoever is on the other side. Until there’s another knock, then another. Reluctantly, and with a sigh, Eddie lets you go. He strides towards it, shooting you a rather longing look over his shoulder, before he reaches the handle. 

When the metal-head opens the large wooden frame, your stomach sinks and you wish you hadn’t hesitated. You wish you told him everything. Spilled your guts into his lap. You wish you hugged him and told him that in the grand scheme of things, you two were alright. 

There, standing on the patio with a small smile on her perfectly oval face, is Chrissy Cunningham.

And your day goes from bad to worse.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

& tagging some cool people that expressed interest in this story: @ali-r3n @thelazyarchangel @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @peculiarwren @fxoxo @losingmygrasponreality @kellsck @sp1dyb0y1008 @mmmunson @somethingvicked @darknesseddiem @scream4mami @pineapplechuncks @sophiejayne-illustrations713 @emxxblog @bl0ssomanddie @theladyhellfire @gracelouiseoneill @emquinn94 @transparent-enemy @rach5ive @knew-better-forever-girl-two @lemonmarquee @mossgh0st @probablyin-bed @dustbowleddie @residentoftomlinsonsass @heart-eyed-love @munsonburn3r @helsa3942 @althaiareads @theladyhellfire @v1per1ne @sugarplumsweetiepie @rizzraa @micheledawn1975 @gracelouiseoneill @moremaple @bigpoppascherry @jeangeniex @daisy-munson @ceeezy @kissmyacdc

[lostbookmark]

MNDI 🔞

Main Masterlist here

Game Masterlist here

Summary: After the death of your brother and his wife. You find yourself adjusting to a new role in your life. A single parent to your teenage nephew. How do you help him heal? How do you help yourself heal? You're not sure. You don't think you can, until an annoying basketball coach enters your life and turns everything around.

Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x Single Aunt F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Strangers to Lovers,

Warnings: Death Of Parents / Brother/ Family, Car Accident (Cause), Swearing, Explicit Sex, Arguments, Physical Fighting, Past Abusive Relationship, Talks Of Domestic Violence, mentions of sex work

A/N: So, this is just a random filler chapter that came out of nowhere during my time of writers blockage. I know what my next 'big ticket' is going to be, but these damn in between chapters are killing me! Enjoy!

SMUT!

Bangtan Ravens

Undefeated

7-0

“You didn't have to bring anything,” you say, pulling into your parents' driveway.

It felt like a successful week for you. Ara was quiet when she came back from her suspension, effectively leaving you alone. In fact, you don't think that she even made eye contact with you. Nicky asked if he could talk to the school counselor. You were so proud of him taking that step all on his own. You even felt a little lighter. Not much, but you found yourself breathing easier. Yoongi still looked at you with something that you couldn't put your finger on. He knew you still had secrets that you weren't ready to let him in on yet and you weren't ready yet. Those ones were still locked away. Your ugly scars that you didn't want to expose him to. No, you weren't ready for that yet.

“It's my first time going to your parents,” he says from your passenger seat. “It would be rude to show up empty-handed.”

“Fuck, you're perfect,” you grumble, turning your car off. “Ready to get this over with?”

“Don't sound so excited,” he jokes.

“I'm …. not responding,” you say, climbing out of your car with him following close behind. Wiggling your fingers nervously, you walk up the steps leading Yoongi up to the door. Placing your hand on the door knob you turn to him with a serious expression. “We can turn back and run right now?”

“I have already met your family,” he says. “It's going to be fine.”

“But we will be outnumbered,” you tell him, and he nods at the door handle. Sighing, you turn the knob and open the door. “We're here.”

“You actually made it on time,” your mom says, looking at her watch. “Early, even.”

“His fault,” you comment. “He's trying to impress you.”

Yoongi looks at you quickly before lightly elbowing you.

“Or he just has manners,” she argues back and walks over to greet the two of you. “You didn't have to bring anything.”

“It's no problem,” he replied politely while handing her a tupperware container full of smoked brisket. “My friends and I barbecued a bunch of meat before we had to put the grill and smoker away for the year.”

“Oh, you cook,” you mom comments, ushering in toward the dining room while looking back at you and winking. “You'll have to teach my husband a thing or two. I don't think he can even work a can opener.”

“So, sunshine gets it from grandpa?” Nicky jokes as the three of you make it to the table.

“Very funny,” you and your dad say at the same time.

“Good win today for the both of you,” your dad congratulates.

“We are untouchable,” Nicky says, taking a plate from your mom, who was passing them out to everyone.

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi disagrees. “The moment you start to think like that is the moment you will start making little mistakes, and those little mistakes will add up.”

“Listen to him, Nicks,” your dad says as he places dishes of food on the table. “Winning is a great high, but you need to keep that focus. Always focus on that next win because it's not guaranteed.”

“I know, but it’s fun,” he whines.

“Everyone dig in,” your mom cuts in. “Tell us about this camp you mentioned.”

“NBA players have gone to this camp,” Nicky explains. “And sunshine has to sell feet pictures for me to go. I don't know why someone would want to buy a picture of her feet.”

Both you and Yoongi practically choke on your food while Chris and Elly, who were across from you, were trying not to laugh. Your mom reaches over the table to slap you gently on the arm.

“It was a joke,” you defend yourself.

“How much is it?” Your dad asks, and you shake your head no.

“No,” you shut him down. “I want to do this on my own. I might have to get a second job, but I can do it. I need to start to be more independent.”

“Get a second job where?” Elly asks, and you smirk at her.

“I think that massage parlor off the highway gives happy endings…,” you joke.

“Y/N!” Your mom snaps.

Everyone besides your mom and Nicky laugh.

“What's a happy ending?” Nicky asks.

“Nothing…. Don't worry about…What?...Eat your food,” came several replies to the teenager's question.

“I'll just google it,” he threatens, making your mom slap his arm lightly.

“Look at what you did,” she says, pointing her fork at you.

“Oh, come on,” you roll your eyes. “He has parental controls on his devices.”

“So, it has something to do with THAT,” he comments while looking at his plate while nodding to himself.

“Everybody just eat your food,” your mom grumbles, making you and your brother laugh silently.

“Welcome to the family,” you whisper to Yoongi, and he shakes his head at you doing as your mom asks.

“What made him change his mind about the pictures?” Chris asks as he looks at Nicky going through your parents' photo albums.

“I don't know,” you play dumb. “Maybe he decided that it was just time.”

Yoongi's thumb gently drags across your shoulder with his arm slung around the back of your chair.

“I think it's great,” Elly comments. “I want to put their pictures out on a table at the reception, but I didn't want to upset anyone.”

“Dessert?” Your mom asks, coming into the room with some pie.

“No thank you,” Yoongi says.

“Are you full?” She asks, slicing the pie for everyone else.

“I'm…uh….” he fumbles a bit.

“He's not a fan of sweets,” you say, speaking up for him. “You're not going to offend her. It's fine.”

“That explains why you're with my sister,” Chris jokes. “You like bitter and sour.”

“Oh, ha ha,” you laugh an obnoxiously fake laugh. “Fuck off.”

“You both need to knock it off,” your mother chides, placing the dessert in front of everyone except Yoongi and your dad, who was with Nicky.

“Anyway, I went into the office today to check my voicemails,” Elly tells everyone before side-eyeing your brother and giving you a look of pure disgust. “Guess who I had an inquiry from?”

“Let me guess,” you smile. “Dated someone we all know and has crazy eyes.”

“Did Chris's ex-girlfriend call?” Your dad asks, coming back to the table.

“She wasn't crazy?” Your mom argues. “She was just a little … off.”

“She was worse than Ara,” you whisper to Yoongi, making him laugh.

“Please tell me you didn't call her back?” You father questions, sitting down and cutting himself a slice of pie. “I won't work for her. She was weird. Remember when we caught her watching him when he was sleeping.”

“Whatever happened to her?” You mom asks, and you look away trying to look innocent.

“I don't know,” your brother answers. “It's almost like someone hit her with a hockey stick and chased her down the street.”

“Y/N!” Your mom exclaims. “Did you hit her with a hockey stick?”

“I believe it,” Yoongi says, nodding.

“Y/N, did you hit Yoongi with a hockey stick?” She asks next.

“NO!” You proclaim and then point your finger at your brother. “You little snitch. She literally broke into the house when you were gone and tried to attack Elly. She had her by the hair and everything.”

“That's true,” Elly speaks up, agreeing with you.

“I love Elly. I wasn't going to let her get hurt,” you explain. “So, I … you know…” You swung your hands in a swinging motion. “I didn't hit her on the head or anything.”

“Sunshine is a badass,” Nicky calls from where he was settled on the couch.

“Language,” you all call back.

“And what about Yoongi?” She asks.

“Oh, she didn't hit me, and I scared her,” he explained quickly. “It was super late. It was my fault.”

“Is there anything else I should know since we're spilling secrets?” Your mom asks, looking between you and your brother.

You glare at Chris, making a subtle stabbing motion with your fork until he finds his pie rather interesting.

“Nope,” he answers, and you shake your head no, agreeing with his lie.

Your mother jabs your pie with her fork, not believing the two of you. Smiling innocently, you feed Yoongi a small piece of the sweet apple pie, and the look he gives you tells you everything you need to know. He doesn't believe you either, and all it does make you shrug.

“How much is the camp?” Your mom asks as the two of you do the dishes.

“Twelve thousand dollars,” you answer. “Possibly more. It was twelve thousand years ago, so it's probably more now.”

“Nicky seems to think he can get in,” she says.

“Yoongi has a lot of faith in him,” you answer, drying your hands off on a towel and looking out the window above the sink. Yoongi and Nicky were playing basketball against your dad and brother. You could hear Elly cheering Nicky on and Chris bitching at her about not cheering him on. “They have come up with a whole training schedule.”

“You know he told me, right?” She questions softly, and you look at her confused. “He told me that he was rude to Yoongi and that he felt bad.”

“He apologized,” you tell her and she nodded.

“I'm glad that the both of you have someone to open up to,” she sniffles. “Does he know… everything?”

“No,” you answer, turning away to wipe down the counter.

“You should tell him,” she suggests. “You don't have to be scared. He won't run.”

“He'll look at me differently,” you say, shaking your head.

“No,” she argues.

“Yes,” you argue back. “He'll pity me. I don't want him to see me as some idiot weak person who stayed….”

“Stop,” your mom says, grabbing your shoulders. “He would never see you like that. None of us see you like that.”

“I'm scared,” you whisper as she hugs you.

“That's understandable,” she says, smoothing your hair much like she did when you were young. “But he's still going to love you.”

“He doesn't love me,” you laugh and sniffle.

“I would beg to differ,” she says, pulling away and hitting you lightly with the towel you had a minute ago.

Turning, you look back out the window and watch him talk with your dad. Your dad, who was always so quiet and stoic around your exes, was patting Yoongi on the back and laughing with him. You shake your head. You think your mom is nuts.

There is no way Yoongi is in love with you.

….. is he?

“Well other than finding out, you're a pro at wielding a hockey stick. I think it went well,” Yoongi jokes, as you pull into his driveway.

“Did you really hit her?” Nicky asks from the backseat.

“Yes,” you answer. “She was crazy.”

A knock on your window has you turning to look out your window to see Coach Jeon…errr maybe you should say Jungkook standing outside your car waving happily. Hitting your button, you roll your window down, and he immediately reaches in and over you to give Nicky a high five.

“Have you asked her?” He asks Yoongi.

“Ask me what?” You ask back, and the tattooed man shakes his head.

“Of course he didn't. We think he's embarrassed of us,” he says.

“Of course I'm embarrassed of you,” Yoongi agrees. “You're going to scare her off.”

“Can someone fill me in?” You question looking between the two friends and roommates.

“My friend and his wife are having a bonfire tomorrow night,” Yoongi informs you. “Everyone wants to meet you and Nicky.”

“Tomorrow?” You ask, suddenly scared.

“Cool. Can we go?” Nicky asks, looking at you.

“I wasn't planning on going,” he glares at Jungkook, who just smiles.

“They're okay with Nicky tagging along?” You question looking at your nephew and the two men.

”Yeah,” Jungkook confirms. “Yoongi doesn't shut up about the two of you.”

“Shut up!” Yoongi hisses, making you slightly red and Nicky laugh. “Nicky will fit right in. In fact, I think he is probably more mature than some of them.”

“I think I should be offended, but it's true,” Jungkook says and taps your car door lightly. “Hope to see you there.”

“It will be less stressful than tonight's dinner,” he promises. “We don't have to stay long. I know it's last minute, but I figured you wouldn't want to go. So, I wasn't going to bring it up.”

“Are you nervous, sunshine?” Nicky asks.

“Yes, I'm nervous,” you say. “I'm not going to fit in with your friends. I barely fit with you.”

“That's not true,” he says.

“I'm used to bikers, not frat boys,” you joke, making him roll his eyes at you.

“He came to dinner with us because it's important to our family,” Nicky comments. “This is obviously important to them.”

Why the fuck is he so wise?

“Okay,” you say. “Just a bonfire, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “There will be ten of us, including the two of you.”

“Sorely outnumbered,” you mumble to yourself. “Nothing fancy?”

“Nothing fancy,” he promises.

“Will there be s'mores there?” Nicky asks.

“I'll make sure of it,” Yoongi answers and looks back at you.

“Okay,” you agree, with a pounding heart. “Let's meet your friends.”

With a devastating smile, he squeezes your hand, and for once, you think you made the right choice.

It was fancy.

The large house sat back far off the road in the middle of nowhere. Almost too far back for your comfort in your opinion. You think the closest neighbor was at least ten minutes down the road, and that was kind of scary since you don't know these people.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi asks, as the three of you walk up the long gravel driveway, making your way around to the back of the house.

“Yeah, why?” You ask back, eyes scanning the darkness of the area.

“Because, you're squeezing my hand so hard that I can barely feel it,” he says.

“Sorry,” you apologize, trying to let go, but he holds on, not letting you let go. Trying to loosen up, you suddenly freeze mid step, making both males look at you. “I didn't bring anything. You brought something to my parents. I didn't bring anything.”

“You didn't need to,” he assures you. “You being here is enough.”

“If you want to leave early, I can fake sick,” Nicky offers.

“You shouldn't offer that in front of him,” you tell him as you nod discreetly at Yoongi, who knocks your shoulder with his own.

“Oh, good point,” your nephew says.

“You both are being ridiculous,” Yoongi comments. “Once you get to know them, I promise they are not intimidating.”

“What's taking so long?” Jungkook asks, running up to your little group as the gravel crunches underneath his feet. “We heard your car pull up a bit ago. Some of them are taking bets that you chickened out.”

“That's rude,” Yoongi replies.

“Come on,” he urges, throwing an arm Nicky's shoulders and directing the three of you around to the back of the house. Yoongi's hand molds around your hip, as the two of you follow silently toward the dancing shadows in the backyard. “Look who I found. I told you they would show.”

“I knew they would show,” a new voice pops up as a beautiful blonde with a stunning smile comes to a running halt in front of you. “No wonder Yoongi kept you to himself. You're too beautiful for the old grandpa. I'm Jimin.”

“Back off,” Yoongi sniffs in annoyance.

“Yeah, back off, Jimin,” another man with dark floppy hair says. “We both know she would pick me. I'm dark and mysterious. Hello, I'm Taehyung.”

“Both of you back off. I told you to behave tonight,” a deep voice cuts in. “Yeri, worked hard on everything, so Y/N and Nicky will feel comfortable. Don't ruin it.”

“Sorry, Joon,” they both say.

“Do you like fireworks, Nicky?” Taehyung asks.

“Ummm,” You say, suddenly nervous again.

“It's okay,” Jungkook assures you. “We all still have all our limbs intact.”

Before you can object, the three men drag your nephew off into the darkness.

“Don't worry. We will watch the children,”another new voice calls out as two new men walk after the group who were with Nicky.

“I don't know if I like that,” you say, pointing to the retreating group.

“It's okay,” Yoongi tells you. “Jin and Hobi won't let anything happen. They will keep Nicky away from anything dangerous. Sorry, Y/N, this is Namjoon. He and his wife Yeri invited us tonight.”

“I didn't bring anything,” you blurt out, causing the much taller man to give you an inquisitive stare before laughing.

“It's just a bonfire,” he says. “Don't worry about it.”

“Told you,” Yoongi whispers against your hair.

“Joon help,” a very pretty and very pregnant woman says as she steps out of the house with a tray of food in her hands. “Oh Yoongi’s here. Never mind, Yoongi, help, please.”

“I wouldn’t drop it,” Namjoon argues, looking put out.

“Of course you wouldn't,” she laughs nervously and looks at you. “Hello, I'm so happy you came. I've been telling Yoongi to bring you over for weeks now.”

“Thanks for inviting us,” you say, giving her an awkward smile.

Several booms and crackles fill the night air, causing the four of you to jump in surprise as the fireworks explode in the sky above. Yeri grabs her stomach in surprise and laughs while shaking her head.

“I told them not to bring those damn things, but do they listen? No,” she grumbles. “No, they never listen to me.”

“Everyone is fine,” someone yells out.

“Why don't you two go off and play with the rest of the boys and leave us alone,” Namjoon's wife suggests, and Yoongi gives you a look. Yeri sighs and pushes him gently. “She's fine.”

“Are you okay?” He asks, ignoring his friend's wife, and you nod.

“See, she's good,” Yeri answers, taking your hand in hers, guiding you to a wicker couch where Yoongi had placed a tray of food in front of on a table with several other covered dishes. “Give us a head start on the food before you come back. You know how they eat everything.” She waves them off with much of a second glance before focusing on you. “You don't have to be nervous.”

“I'm not,” you lie.

“As much as he talks about you, I feel like I should know you already,” she laughs.

“And what exactly does he say about me?” You ask, suddenly on alert, and you think that she can sense it.

“Everything and nothing at the same time,” she says cryptically.

“That isn't confusing at all,” you tell her.

“He said he pretty much knew you were the one when he almost had to kick you out of practice for swearing at him that first week of basketball,” she laughs recounting his tale of one of his first encounters with you. “He never really talked about any of the parents, but boy, did he talk about you.”

“Yeah, I don't make the best choices,” you admit.

“It's amazing,” she said, filling two plates for the two of you. “Yoongi hasn't really dated since his bitch of an ex broke up with him. When he has gone on dates he wasn't … excited about any of them. You've brought back a light to his eyes.”

“He hasn't talked about an ex,” you say, accepting the plate of food. “He mentioned a breakup once, but that's all.”

“I'm not surprised,” she says. “None of us liked her. She was demanding and rude. Yoongi is really great. We watched him give his all to her, and she took and took, but she never gave anything in return. All she did was bitch about him coaching basketball and she wanted him to quit to spend more time with her. She bitched about how he wasted her weekends during the season. He would beg her to come to the games but she always said she had better things to do.”

Your heart stops, and you take a bite of the cheese and crackers that you assembled from your plate as her words echo in your head. His ex hated basketball. His ex hated basketball. His ex hated basketball. You didn't hate basketball. Not like that. You hated the competitiveness of it all. You hated the parents. You didn't hate that he coached it. Were you just as bad as her?

“Is that why they broke up?” You question.

“Surprisingly, no,” she scoffs. “He was running himself ragged, trying to please her. He stressed himself out so much he wasn't eating or sleeping. The guys finally held an intervention of some sort and actually got through to him. He told her things had to change, and she dumped right on the spot.”

“Oh,” you mumble quietly, wondering if he was wandering down the same path that he did before.

Fuck, man! He was just willing to give up coaching for you.

“What's wrong?” She asks, munching away at her food.

“Nothing,” you lie. “I'm happy he never quit. I think he's done wonders for Nicky.”

“And you have done wonders for my little grumpy friend,” she laughs, making you smile.

Loud booms echo through the night, causing you both to jump once more. You have to quickly steady the plate in your lap so it doesn't fall to the ground. Looking over your shoulder, you see a burst of bright colors as they whirl into the dark sky until they fizzle out into nothingness.

“I really, really don't like that,” you say, looking into the darkness to see if you can see any sign of your nephew. “I don't know when I turned into my mother. I did worse stuff than play with fireworks at his age.”

“Yoongi will keep him safe,” she says with a laugh. “Can I let you in on another little secret?”

“Sure,” you say warily.

“Yoongi and the guys are like brothers. They tell each other everything, and Joon is a little gossip, who tells me everything,” she explains with a smile. “He told the guys about you right away, like I said. He also told them that he clocked right away that you didn't have a ring on your finger.”

“What?” You laugh.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “When he found out that you were his aunt and not mom, the guys were literally trying to give him ideas on how to approach you, but his damn pride in his stupid handbook wouldn't let him.”

“His handbook,” you shake your head. “I hate that thing.”

“He's always trying to do the right thing. That's why he's so great,” she says, and then she suddenly sits a bit straighter. “Here they come. Joon was there that night at the bar when Yoongi left with you, and let's just say. He said when you walked in, Yoongi's eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning.”

“He played it so cool when he approached me,” you tell her.

“Yeah, but I bet he was a nervous wreck on the inside,” she smiles and looks past your shoulder and points at them with a serious expression. “Let Nicky eat first. Have whatever you want, Nicky.”

“Thanks!” He says as his eyes light up with delight, looking at the food spread out before him.

Your eyes wander from your nephew to Yoongi, who was talking to either Jin or Hobi. You're not sure who it was, but it was one of the men who volunteered to look after the “children”. Yoongi was laughing with him and looking completely relaxed. As he should be. These are his friends, his family. You've been so caught up in your life, in your own issues. You didn't really even stop to think about his life that didn't include you or…. Ara.

You didn't even ask.

You really were selfish.

“Hey, Nicky,” the other Jin or Hobi says, coming up to your nephew. “What do you call a bear with no teeth?”

Everyone, but you groans at the question.

“A gummy bear,” he answers, never breaking his concentration on his food.

“No, no, a gumm….wait,” the man said, looking shocked.

“Nice try, Jin,” Jungkook laughs.

“Don't eat too much,” Yeri tells Nicky as he stocks his plate full. “I got us stuff for s'mores.”

“You don't have to get them just for him,” you say, shaking your head.

“Baby and I wanted them too,” she said. “Now I have the perfect excuse to have a couple or four.”

Nicky laughs and holds his hand out for a high five, which Yeri gladly accepts. You throw a look at him. He must only give high fives to everyone but you.

Fuck!

You really have turned into your mom.

The fire was toasty, and the heat emitting from Yoongi was slowly making you tired. With you perched in his lap and his thumb rubbing circles on your hip, you felt an overwhelming peacefulness. Even around his friends, who you didn't know, or you didn't have anything in common with, made you feel completely welcome and at ease. It was just friends sitting around talking and eating, enjoying each other's company.

It wasn't a booze filled party where you were doing body shots off your friend’s cleavage where guys were hooting and hollering. It wasn't a drug den where your ex's dragged you to be a look out just in case the cops showed up because you looked ‘innocent enough’ to help them get out of trouble.

No.

This was… wholesome.

“If he's having trouble with his stamina. Jimin and I have a dance studio and can really work with him on breathing and cardio,” Hoseok aka Hobi as he tells you to call him, tells you.

“Dance?” Nicky asks, making a face from where he sits with Jungkook by the fire.

“I do it,” Jungkook tells him. “It's great exercise.”

“Oh,” your nephew says, contemplating his coach's words. “Can I do it, sunshine?”

“Sure,” you answer, still soaking up Yoongi's warmth.

“Great!” Hobi exclaims. “We can work around your schedule. I can get your number later or Yoongi can give it to me.”

“You know what else Hobi can give you?” Jimin asks, squatting next to the chair where you were curled up in Yoongi's lap.

“What's that?” You ask back, raising an eyebrow.

“A picture of a certain someone in a french maid…” Jimin was cut off as Yoongi reaches over and pushes his friend over, causing him to land on his ass.

“I'm sorry, what?” You ask, more alert.

“Don't worry about it,” Yoongi answers, making most everyone laugh. “It was college… it was stupid.”

“And Hobi isn't the only one with the pictures,” Taehyung teases, shaking his phone.

“And unless you want to see if your phone will melt in the fire, I would put it away,” Yoongi threatens.

You watch Taehyung visibly gulp and pocket his phone. You don't know what to think right now. Yoongi… a …. french maid costume ??? You're intrigued, but at the same time, you're not sure if you want to know if you want to know.

“Ummm…” you start, but he shakes his head, and you laugh silently.

Laying your head back against him, you watch Nicky make another s'more for Yeri. You could feel your heart clench at how they all accepted him. How they all accepted you, and it was all because of Yoongi. With his thumb resuming the circles on your hip, you make a promise to yourself to try harder. You are not going to be his ex. You are going to dig in and find that better version of you. The version he deserves.

“Did you have fun?” Yoongi asks, coming out of your bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist as he towel dries his hair.

“Yeah, your friends are interesting, and Yeri was really nice,” you reply, staring up at the ceiling from where you lie on the bed.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “She's a gem.”

“You should find someone like her,” you comment, poking his hip with your foot. “She seems really … stable.”

Yoongi grabs your ankles, pulling you down the mattress just a bit. Climbing over you, he settles on his elbows to hover over your body. Pressing his lips against yours. your hands sink into the still dewy skin of his back.

“I already found the one I want,” he mumbles against your lips. “And I will keep reminding you as many times as I need to.”

Slithering down your body, Yoongi sinks down onto the floor until his knees hit the carpet. Curling his fingers into your shorts, he pulls them down your legs, exposing you to his gaze. With a kiss to your inner knee, he works his way up your inner thighs as you lie there watching his every move. Soon, his warm breath hits your center as his tongue licks right up the middle of your core with his eyes never leaving yours.

Your hand shoots down into his hair, holding him to you. Moaning, he swirls tongue around your sensitive bud, causing your hips to jerk and your back to arch. Yoongi takes the opportunity to run his hands up your body and under your old concert tee to grab your breasts. Fingers magically plucking at your nipples before soothingly running his palms over them, calming the pleasurable ache.

“Yoongi,” you whisper as quietly as you can, not knowing if Nicky was sleeping or not. “We don't have to…”

“Shhh,” he shushes you as he pulls away a little bit. “You promise to be quiet for me, doll?” You nod your head and bite your bottom lip. “Get on your bean bag.”

“What?” You ask, unsure if you heard him correctly.

“You heard me,” he tells you and nods his head to the corner of your room where your pink corduroy chair sits. “Go.”

You scramble up the bed to the nightstand for the condom before making it to your bean bag chair in record time. You swear you can hear him laugh at you as he locks the bedroom door. As Yoongi walks over to you, he's not shy at all about what the towel around his waist isn't hiding.

“Yoongi…” you try again.

“Shhh,” he says once more, kneeling down before you and running his thumb across your bottom lip. “Quiet doll. You promised me last time I could take my time tasting you.”

“Don't cash in on that now,” you plead, pulling him face to face and pressing your lips to his as your hands make your way into his towel.

“I should,” he groans as your hand grips him. “I should make you squirm under my tongue for an hour.”

“No,” you shake your head and place his hand between your legs, making him feel your wetness. “I'm too desperate.” His eyes darken as they lock with yours. “I. NEED. YOU.”

You watch as his mouth twitches in a small smirk. So small, that if you would have blinked in that exact moment, you would have missed it.

“Why can't I deny you?” He questions, cupping the back of your head to capture your lips as he simultaneously lays you back, covering your body with his. Your hands grab the towel at his waist and pull it off his body, tossing it off to the side. “You know that, don't you? I'll do anything you ask.”

Yoongi's hands slowly bring the hem of your old shirt up and over your head, leaving you both bare. Burying his face into your neck, his teeth nip at the column of smooth skin, making your breath hitch before he moves to the other side and sucking right below your ear.

“Fuck,” you breath out, squirming beneath his warmth.

“I will,” he chuckles, deeply in your ear. “I will.”

Reaching up blindly, he grabs the condom you tossed by your head. As he pulls away, you shiver from the lack of warmth as you watch him open the packet and roll the latex down his hardness. Your head feels a little foggy, and you try to shake it clear to gain control of the situation. To throw him down and show him how much you needed him, but before you could move, his body pinned you back against your chair.

“Shhh,” he reminds you as you open your mouth to protest.

Covering your mouth with his own, Yoongi slips his tongue into your mouth, tongue dancing insync with your own as his cock slips into you. Whimpering, he swallows your sounds as he seems to need to take a moment himself once he is completely buried in you.

“Yoongi, move, please,” you beg, softly pressing your head back into the pick fabric.

Leaning on his elbow by your head and a hand by your ribs, he slowly rolls his hips up into you. Taking his time withdrawing from you before thrusting back into you at a languid pace. He wasn't in a hurry, and the scrunched look of pure concentration tells you that he wasn't going to rush it tonight.

“Fuck, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You're everything I could ever want.”

Whimpering, his long strokes barely pick up in pace as his lips kiss a random trail on the skin of your neck. Bringing your hands up to his shoulder blades, you pull him down, flush against your naked front, and tighten your thighs around his sides. Using what strength you had, you move underneath him the best you could. Meeting his leisurely thrusts with your own as the two of you move together almost as one.

Dropping your head onto his shoulder, you bite your lip and sink your fingertips into the skin of his back. The ever so familiar tingle starts to take over deep within you. As your breathing picks up, your head drops back, and Yoongi's lips are everywhere. Under your jaw, your chest, anywhere they could reach.

“Oh fuck,” you say, blinking rapidly at him trying to hold off on letting the tight winding coil of pleasure snap. “I can't, I can't…”

“Let it go,” he grunts. “I'm right with you.”

Taking your lips, he shoves himself deep inside of you. His long strokes turn shallow, grinding himself against your clit. Your hands come down to slap the material beneath you before grabbing the back of his head and kissing him deeper. Moaning into his mouth, the fireworks, much like earlier tonight burst all over your body as his arms wrap around you to hold you close to him.

Lost in your haze, you feel your body jostle with a couple of sloppy thrusts before Yoongi completely slumps over you with a stuttered moan. Dropping your arms from around the back of his head, you lay tired, splayed under him, trying to catch your breath. As your fog clears, you can feel his heartbeat against your naked body as you stare up at the ceiling. Your eyes trace along the pattern in the tiles.

It was odd.

Truly odd.

It was something you have never done before.

You think… but you're not sure.

But, you think.

He just made love to you.

Shit!

《Chapter 15》

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