#But No One Else is Referring to Him as That

[getthembees]

List of Batfamily preferences/hobbies

I've been accumulating a list of the batfamily's stated or observed food, music, or hobby preferences (with some other misc info thrown in) with the help of various people across tumblr and twitter. Here is that list. Feel free to use it as a reference for fanfic/fanart/for fun/whatever else you want.

*I have not read everything ever, this is certainly missing information, and is biased towards what I have read and what my followers have read. This means I will be editing this as I get new information, and I'll add the dates of when I edit it at the top so people can stay up to date with the info.

*I tried to get sources for as much as I could, but some people didn't remember the specific issues/just gave me a panel with no source, and I'm not hunting all of that down. Most of the time if there's no source it's because I was only given a panel.

Edited 8/1, added to JPV, corrected 2 mistakes

Edited 8/2, added to Bruce, Dick, Barbara, Damian, and Tim

Bruce Wayne

Favorite soup is mulligatawny (Batman #701)

Likes medium/medium well-done steaks & likes grilling and uses it to relax (Batman #621)

Listens to sad jazz music

Loves dinosaurs (batman universe #3)

Likes the band The Clash (Robin 1993 #152)

Likes Chinese take out (Batman: Prodigal)

Likes nutritional smoothies that Alfred thinks are gross (Batman: Dark Patterns #7)

Hates cottage cheese (The Brave and the Bold #141)

Damian remarks that “Batman doesn’t eat pie” while Bruce refuses to eat pie at the Kent’s (Superman 2016 #20)

Likes burgers (Batman: The Brave and the Bold #10)

Favorite tea is Earl Gray

Likes orange juice

Dick Grayson

Alfred says crab stuffed mushrooms are Dick’s favorite food (Robin: Year One #3)

Doesn’t like cucumber sandwiches (Trinity 2008 #47 and then Bruce tells him to keep eating them and he starts liking them (Batman 2016 #54))

Doesn’t like cranberry muffins (Nightwing 1996)

Likes orange juice (Batman Prodigal)

Likes buckwheat pancakes (Nightwing 1995 #1)

Likes mint chocolate chip ice cream (Nightwing 1996 #70-something)

Dislikes coconut (Nightwing 1996)

Likes Dr. Pepper

Likes pineapple and andouille pizza (No Man’s Land)

Listens to OPM (Titans hunt #2)

Likes skydiving (Nightwing 1996 #140)

Has a high score in the arcade game “Apokalips Nah” (Nightwing Rebirth)

Is a bookworm (Batman 1940 #250)

Barbara Gordon

Likes chamomile tea (Azrael 1995 #35)

Likes D&D (Batgirl 2016 #50)

Owns various plushies of vigilantes (Batman, Azrael, Nightwing) (Unsure if she sews them herself)

Likes Italian food (Birds of Prey 1999)

Likes horror movies (Batgirl 2016)

Dislikes alcohol (Batgirl 2016)

Likes Alfred's omelettes (Robin 1993 #99)

Jason Todd

Chili dogs are his favorite (Gotham Knights #43)

Bruce says his favorite color was green, his favorite ice cream was neapolitan, and that he liked cars (Detective comics #790)

Says pot roast is his favorite (Detective comics #569)

Likes scrambled eggs with mozzarella cheese and a side of chips (Robin Lives #1)

Likes punk/rock/alt metal, including Slipknot, and a band called Poison Idea (Batman #408, 412, Nightwing annual 2021)

Is interested in historical fashion (Batman #413, Countdown Presents: The Search for Ray Palmer: Gotham by Gaslight #1)

Likes to read/often quotes classics & occasionally YA romance novels (RHATO)

Hates Alfred’s waffles (RHATO #8)

Enjoys hot chocolate (Blue Devil #19)

Hates the art of mime (Batman #412)

Enjoys a comic called Whisper (Batman Annual #11)

Tim Drake

Likes cucumber sandwiches (Trinity 2008 #47)

Favorite pizza toppings are canadian bacon with onion and artichoke hearts (Robin 1993 #116)

Tim says he hates shepherds pie (Robin 1993 #29) despite Jack Drake believing it to be his favorite (Robin 1993 #47)

Doesn’t like tuna sandwiches when Bruce makes them (unknown if he likes them otherwise)

Likes orange juice (Batman: prodigal)

Likes burgers, specifically orders a mushroom-swiss burger with fries (Detective Comics, #968, Robin #111)

Likes grape flavored Zesti (multiple, Psyba-rats #3)

Hates Alfred’s waffles (RHATO #8)

Likes the Foo Fighters (Impulse #56)

Listens to Enya, depeche mode, green day, oasis, and the jerky boys (Teen Titans v4 #14)

Likes D&D (Robin: Jokers Wild #3)

Plays tennis and skateboards 

Loves the kids cartoon Crocky (Robin 1993 42)

Goes fishing/sailing with his father

Hates sci-fi movies but loves old science fiction books

LIkes Buffy the Vampire Slayer and owns the box set

Likes cars (Robin 93 #1)

Dick says he hates cooking (Batman: prodigal)

Afraid of heights and hates needles (Robin 1993 #130)

Stephanie Brown

Favorite food is mashed potatoes (Robin 1993 #111)

She likes waffles and has a tradition of eating them with her mom (Batgirl 2009)

Used to do gymnastics (Showcase '95 #5) and play piano (Robin 1993 #111)

Played Varsity softball (Huntress/spoiler: blunt trauma)

Likes sewing (Robin 1993/ secret files/origins)

Steph owns a Nirvana shirt (Batgirl 2016 #50) also listens to Metallica and the Back-street Boys (Batgirl 2009)

Loves Sci-fi (Robin 1993 #57)

Is a Trekkie and goes to conventions (Robin 1993 #101)

Likes the peanuts/snoopy (Robin 1993 #104)

Has played D&D with Cass (Batgirl 2016 #50)

Dislikes gluten-free pizza (Robin #15)

Does yoga (Batman Incorporated: Leviathan Strikes)

Enjoys drawing/doodling (Batgirl 2009)

Cassandra Cain

Favorite ice cream flavor is chocolate (Batgirl 2000 #13)

loves herself “a big glass of milk” (Batgirl 2000 #62 & #66)

Likes cheeseburgers and fries (Batgirl 2000 #66)

Likes banana boba (DC Festival of Heroes: The Asian Superhero Celebration) and her favorite milk tea flavor is almond (Batman: Urban Legends #8)

Likes steamed buns (DC Festival of Heroes: The Asian Superhero Celebration) 

Likes Assam tea (Batgirl 2000 #61)

Likes rice krispies (Robin 1993 #138)

Likes various forms of dancing (Azrael Agent of the Bat #61) including moshing (Batgirl 2000 #63) and ballet (Batman and Robin Eternal #7, Detective Comics #950)

Also likes watching ballet and theater (Detective Comics 2016 #975)

Likes Shakespeare (Detective Comics 2016 #958/#981)

Likes soup (Batgirl 2024 #2)

When give the choice between chicken and pasta she takes both (Batgirl 2024 #8)

Likes pancakes (Nightwing 2016)

Seems to have a preference for apples over other fruit (throughout Batgirl 2000)

In general loves eating a lot! 

Tate Brombal, her current solo author, said one of her hobbies would be going on food tours all over Gotham and whatever city she happens to be in

Her and Steph have played DND together (Batgirl 2016 #50)

Very good at/enjoys fighting video games (BOP 2023)

Loves reality TV, specifically watches a show called “My Big Fat Obnoxious Top Model” she makes multiple references to shows as a way to help her speak (Batgirl 200 #65)

Damian Wayne

Is vegetarian

Likes hot chocolate and prefers it over tea (DC vs. Vampires)

Reads manga, specifically shojo (Robin #1)

Has read Naruto and Insomniacs (Batman and Robin 2023 #1)

Likes gluten-free pizza (Robin #15)

Likes Talia’s Ox Blood soup/has a preference for meals Talia cooks him (Teen Titans Special #1)

Plays violin (Batman & Robin #0)

Likes to draw

Likes pop-tarts and ovaltine (Adventures of Super Sons #4 & Superman: Jon Kent #4)

Doesn’t like his hair being long (Superman: Jon Kent #4)

Favorite arcade game is called “Cheese Viking” (Nightwing Rebirth)

Likes Shakespeare (Robin 2011)

Interested in Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar (Robin 2023)

Duke Thomas

Likes collectible card games, puzzles, and film (We are Robin)

Owns D&D books (Batman 2011 #30)

Enjoys writing, specifically poetry (We are Robin & Robin War)

Used to like watching MMA (detective comics) and paleontology as a child (Batman 2011 #30 & We are Robin)

likes heavy metal, his favorite band is called “Batman’s *****” (All-star Batman #3)

Likes and quotes Tarantino movies (We are Robin)

Luke Fox

Enjoys MMA/was an MMA fighter (Batwing #25)

Likes tinkering/engineering (Batwing #24)

Goes to basketball games with Kate and JPV (Detective Comics #958)

Kate Kane

Doesn’t like pomegranates (Batman: Urban Legends #8)

Likes Blondie, The 69-Eyes, and The Sisters of Mercy (Detective Comics #858, #859)

Goes to basketball games with Luke and JPV (Detective Comics #958)

Liked gymnastics as a kid and played soccer (Detective Comics #858)

Liked waffles and chocolate as a kid (Detective Comics #858)

Jean-Paul Valley

Likes westerns (Azrael: Agent of the Bat #56 and #75)

Goes to basketball games with Kate and Luke (Detective Comics #958)

Likes pulp novels (azrael annual #3)

Likes the Beatles

Alfred Pennyworth

Dislikes the band The Clash (Robin 1993 #152)

He likes penguins (Nightwing: Alfred returns)

Likes building model ships (Knightfall)

[siri-ike]

It was actually kind of nice once he got over the initial shock(and disappointment) of switching. He couldn't hear nearly as well as usual. He was pretty sure he even dosed off for a bit in his little hidey-hole. Plus, this soul mate has some serious muscles. He'd probably be checking himself out in the mirror if all hell wasn't braking loose in front of him. His vision was perfect. He wasn't aching everywhere. But there was one thing keeping him from enjoying any of it. He knew his soul mate was suffering in his body back home.

Also, the spoiled ecto was total wack.

All the Bats seemed to be running around aimlessly (never meet your heroes🙄) except one, Batgirl. She stood close and watched him as her family... threw things at each other? What's that supposed to do? Anyway, Danny watched her get closer and closer until she finally stopped when he hissed at her. She slowly removed her patchwork mask and revealed her face. Cassandra Caine, 17. Sam's a big fan. Apparently, she's creepy, which is hot. She once kicked a tabloid reporter in the nose, which is hot. And she dresses like every day is a day for a funeral, Sam would be ready to propose if they weren't woefully 15 years old.

"Cass." She pointed at herself.

"Cassandra Cain, I know. Only daughter of Bruce Wayne, quiet and, according to tabloids, creepy. Not that those can be trusted or anything, 'specially when the actual news can't even be trusted. I would know."

Did he maybe reveal a bit more than he meant to? Yes, but he'd be more damned if he didn't take every opportunity to lash at the media.

"Training done. Eat." Well, Sam did way she was a woman of few words. He just didn't think she meant that so literally.

● ● ●

Danny sat at a huge dining table staring at a feast. On his right sat Batgirl, now dressed in normal attire, a giant unkown man with red hair and Duke Thomas. On his left, at the head of the table, was Bruce Wayne. Across was Dick Grayson, and next to him were Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown. At the other head of the table was a, starfish? In a onesie and a highchair? All of them, except the starfish, stared at him like he was an alien. A refreshing change from being looked at like a ghost.

"Danny," Bruce addressed. "Are you hungry?"

Danny snapped back to looking at him. "I, uh," he was eating before he switched, now he had to eat again? "Sorry, I'll eat." He quickly grabbed whatever was closest, a big helping of rosted sweet potatoes (Don't mind if he does) and stuffed a forkful into his mouth. Or at least he tried. He missed entirely. Missed the platter, missed the plate, and missed his mouth. It was pretty embarrassing.

"Something the matter?"

"No~ just, mm, not used to having full depth perception... or this much muscle." Definitely going to check himself out in the mirror later.

An older man appeared behind him and placed a fuller portion on Danny's plate. "For future reference, master Danny, we don't wear the suits at the table."

"Sorry," Yeah, no way was Danny about to change clothes in someone else's body. "I'll make sure to dress normal when I visit."

That earned a few snickers from Dick, Steph, and the bulky guy.

"Are you planning to visit?" Bat Bruce asked sternly.

"I mean, isn't that how it's supposed to go?" Danny tried a few times to stab the same cube on his plate. "You switch, find things out about your soul mate so you can find each other, and then happily ever after. More or less." Danny finally put his fork down and picked the food up with his hand. "Wow, you can really taste the lack of firearms used on this." He said, shoving a handful into his mouth.

"You shoot vegetables back home?" Dick questioned.

"I don't. Vegetables usually aren't an option back home, but my parents have a way of making things violent."

"Danny, do your parents hit you?" The big one sounded personally offended.

"No, but their aim is getting better." Danny was the only one who laughed.

________

"We should leave now." Sam said, tearing her hand of their frozen table.

Tucker shoved what he could pry out of the ice into his backpack and dragged Damian out of the restaurant. On the way out, Damian spotted Sam bribing an employee.

"What was that?" His voice usually didn't shake like that, but he was also usually in control of his own facilities.

"We'll explain more in depth once we're clear."

Damian heard sirens and clutched his headphones tighter.

"Dan- Damian, can you tell if it's police or military?"

Military? Why would the military be here? "Cop, th- three cop cars." He writhed.

They pulled him into an alley. He kept following their lead. Soon, he noticed things were getting quieter. The sirens were all but gone. He could only hear 6 or so voices talking over each other. The sound of birds chirping and leaves drifting in the wind was so much gentler than the noise of the city. "Where-?"

"The exact middle of the park. Quietest place in Amity Park... without being, you know, underground or something." Tucker explained.

Damian straightened up. It was quiet here. Compared to everywhere else. There was still plenty of distracting noise. A water pipe below the ground, the sizzling water at a hotdog kart, squirrels. But he could think. "Explain." Damian removed his hands from his headphones and looked at Sam and Tucker

"Right, so, Danny, or you at the moment, has super hearing."

Please don't be Kryptonian. Please don't be Kryptonian.

"As well as a lot of other abilities." Sam continued.

Crap.

"Freezing things, flying, lasers -" Tucker listed.

Crap, crap, crap, his soulmate is an alien. Damian scowled.

"We actually thought the switch wouldn't even happen to him."

"Yeah, people always say "at some point in your lifetime," and since Danny is a ghost, we thought it wouldn't apply."

"Wait, ghost?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Danny has powers because he's a ghost."

________

"No."

"We just want to help."

"No."

"If you're scared of getting hurt, we can protect you."

"No."

"Is someone else in danger, too? If you tell us, we can find and protect them too."

"You know what?" Danny slips off the table he was sat on. "I think it's time for bed, or school, or whatever. Gotham's in a weird time zone or something, right?" Danny tried to walk away, but someone grabbed onto his cape. He let his head fall back to address them. "Urgh. How long does this last? You're old as dust. You must have been switched already, or at least know someone who has. What's the time range?"

Bruce didn't acknowledge the comment and answered. "I switched when I was 17. I was in arkham at the time, so she went out of her way to change her identity when we switched back. It lasted about 4 hours."

Tim let go of Danny's cape. "I was 16. I spent 2 hours in a vat being looked at by scientists."

Danny nodded, still leaning over backwards as though it were a perfectly normal position. "You look like you have something to say."

The big guy looked a little sad? Was that the facial expression for sadness? It was much harder to tell without ghost empathy or whatever it was. "If someone is hurting you back home you should tell us."

Danny straightened back up and turned around. "Look, Damian is, ugh, Robin, apparently, right? And for the moment, he's me. So, if something were seriously wrong, he would handle it, right? Or call you if needed?" Heh, good luck calling for help when you electrocute any technology you touch. "Have you received any strange calls yet?"

The Waynes looked at each other. It kind of looked like they were having a psychic conversation. Tim broke from the group and out of the room. Were they having a psychic conversation? Were the Bats psychic? Was Danny psychic while he was in this body? Wait, how could they all have the same power if they weren't actually related?

Danny watched as Tim scurried away like a malnourished raccoon. "You guys are freaks, you know that? And I know freaks."

Through your eyes

One moment Danny was sitting with Sam and Tucker at the Nasty Burger, and the next he found himself being knocked to the ground. Landing hard on his back, which only added to the disorientated feeling.

Despite his head being shaken he knew what this was. A soulmate body switch. It was something that happened randomly in a person's life—some never even get it at all—with no warning, and lasted for a couple hours. The only visible change that anything is even happening is the fact that the eyes will turn a vibrant white while the two are in each other's bodies.

With his eyes closed Danny tried to take a moment to get his bearings. It was hard to do though when a worried voice suddenly yelled out, "Damian!"

It seems his soulmate's name is Damian, Danny thinks as a thud sounds out next to him, and hands appear on his face and shoulder. Finally opening his eyes he sees a, surprisingly, familiar face. The face of no one other than Dick Grayson. Which is the last person he expected to see.

Wait. Damian? As in Damian Wayne?

Dick, who looked as shocked as Danny feels right now, makes a move that looks like he's going to cover Danny's eyes. Before he can though Danny is breaking free from his grip rolling away from Dick to finally take in the area around him.

Which is a cave. Why is he in a cave? A cave with a frankly massive looking computer? A cave with at least one Batman symbol in every direction he looks? The Batcave? The Batcave.

Oh no.

Looking at Dick, Nightwing his thoughts whisper, looking at him with a strange mix of panic and acceptance. Knowing that there is nothing he can do right now to stop Danny from putting the pieces together.

"So…What's your name?" Dick asks him. Despite the tone being friendly Danny can tell that an interrogation of a lifetime is about to start.

[jkwrites-m]

Ghosts Can’t Be Dads

Drabble - Daddy Kookie

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes, parents au, idol au, angst,

Word Count: 2k

Summary: One year gone. One love untouched. One heart waiting.

Setting: This drabble takes place 1–1.5 years post-ghosting. Y/N and baby Eun Ae live in America. Jungkook’s in Seoul prepping for BTS’s first mini-tour, unaware he has a daughter.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, childhood lovers, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, single parent, post-break up (ghosting) emotions, anger, depression, heartbreak, yearning, mutual pining, journals, unspoken feelings, grief, self-blame, mention of idol life pressure, some postpartum, references to the emotional cheating, no happy ending (yet obvi)

A/N: here’s a drabble (it was already written, it was originally in a later chapter but i wanted to give this to y’all) bc of all the love i’ve received these last couple days 🫶 srry for it being so sad 😭

Note: regular text is y/n’s pov, bold is jungkook’s (minus titles)

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

prev ♡ next

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1 year after ghosting -

I don’t know when the numbness turned to pain.

Maybe it was the morning I found her sock in my hoodie pocket. Pink, small. Barely there. I don’t even know how it got there- maybe she’d tucked her feet into my lap one night, like she always used to, and it slipped off without either of us noticing. I held it for a long time that day. Didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Just stared at it like it might explain something.

It didn’t.

Nothing does.

It’s been over a year since I blocked her. A year since I let fear, shame, and cowardice dictate every decision I made. A year since I let someone else get too close because I thought we could work it out.

It didn’t.

That girl- God, I can’t even remember her name now. She was loud. Pretty. Flirty in a way that made me feel wanted and sick at the same time. I let it happen. Let her talk to me every night after rehearsal. Let her laugh at my jokes, brush my hand with hers. Let her believe I was someone she could keep.

But I was never hers.

Not even for a second.

The messages stopped after a month. I couldn’t do it. Every time I typed something back, I saw Y/N’s face. Her eyes when she was tired. The way she’d curl into me at night, mumbled dreams pressed against my throat.

I never physically cheated.

But emotionally? I was gone long before I disappeared.

And I never apologized.

Not once. Not to her. Not to myself.

There are nights I can’t sleep because I swear I hear her voice in my head. Soft. Hurt. Asking why. I never had an answer. Still don’t. Just excuses and shame.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

So I do what I always do.

I pull out my journal. The one Namjoon gave me. Said it might help me start being honest.

And I write. 

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Jungkook

I still miss her.

I don’t care how much time passes. I don’t care how much I try to fake healing.

I miss her.

I miss her mouth when she argued with me. Her hands when she made tea. The way she said my name like it meant something more.

I wonder if she ever cries over me. I wonder if she tells her friends I died just so she doesn’t have to explain the truth.

I wonder if she moved on.

God, I hope she’s okay.

Even if she hates me.

Even if she never forgives me.

I just hope she’s safe. Loved. Whole.

Because I’m not.

Not even close.

═══════

5 months postpartum -

I promised myself I wouldn’t write to him again.

That I wouldn’t keep a record of a man who abandoned me, who tore something sacred out of me and never once looked back. But some days… some days I still look for his name in my inbox like a fool.

He’s not there.

He hasn’t been there for over a year.

So I write instead.

To no one. To him. To the version of him I loved. To the version that loved me back.

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

It’s been five months since I gave birth.

Eun Ae is… everything.

She giggles now. Real giggles. Sometimes when I feed her, she stares up at me and makes this face- this exact Jungkook face- and it makes me want to scream and cry all at once. How is it possible that someone so small can carry all of his mannerisms?

She babbles like she’s telling secrets. She sleeps with her hands balled under her chin like he used to. And her hair’s getting long. Thick. Dark.

She’s him.

She’s me.

She’s ours.

And he’ll never know.

Part of me used to hope he’d reach out. That he’d apologize. That I’d open my email one day and see some long, gut-spilling message with the subject line: I’m sorry.

But he didn’t.

So I stopped hoping.

I don’t hate him the way I used to. That’s the worst part. I want to hate him. I deserve to.

But I just… I just feel empty where he used to be.

I wonder what he’s doing. If he thinks of me. If he thinks of the way I used to tuck his hair behind his ears when he was too tired to hold his own head up.

I hate that I still love him.

I love that he gave me her.

I hate that he never gave her him.

═══════

I almost texted her today.

Just to say something.

Anything.

But what do you even say to the woman you abandoned and emotionally cheated on?

“Hey. Sorry I ghosted you. How’s life?”

I close my eyes and think of what she’d look like now.

I think of all the milestones I missed. Her birthday. Holidays. The way she probably learned how to be strong without me.

I wonder what kind of music she plays in the car now.

I wonder if she sings to someone else.

I wonder if she ever lets herself miss me.

═══════

I didn’t mean to get mad.

It wasn’t like he did anything wrong.

He was nice. Polite. He held the door for me during my lunch break and said something like, “You’ve got the kind of smile that makes a man forget what day it is.” I laughed- just out of shock and told him I wasn’t interested.

He backed off right away. Even apologized. And I told him it was fine. That it wasn’t him.

It was me.

I walked back to the break room in a daze, my chest twisting the whole time.

Because for one second- I forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

And the first person who popped into my head?

Him.

Of course it was him.

Jeon fucking Jungkook.

The man who smiled like summer storms. Who used to call me baby with that low, teasing voice like he had a secret. The man who ghosted me, blocked me, replaced me with silence and nothing else. The man who told me I was his everything… and then walked away like I was nothing.

I threw away my lunch. Didn’t eat the rest of the day. Just paced the back room and tried to scrub his name from my brain like it was something you could unlearn.

Later that night, after Eun Ae went to bed, I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, and I wrote.

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

A stranger called me beautiful today.

And all I could think was, “You haven’t seen him.”

You haven’t seen the boy who kissed my collarbone like it was a prayer. Who cried into my hair the night he received his trainee contract. Who slept on the floor next to me when I was sick because he didn’t want me to feel alone.

You haven’t seen him.

So don’t tell me I’m beautiful.

Don’t tell me I could have anyone I want.

Because I had him.

And he left.

And I’m still trying to find all the pieces of myself he took with him.

═══════

Later that week, I got a text from a number I hadn’t seen in a year or so.

Hanni: “YO- look who I saw downtown!”

Attached was a blurry photo of a glowing billboard.

“BTS TOUR – SOLD OUT”

His face was massive. Centered. Laughing.

I stared at it for a long time. The way his hair was styled now. How much broader he looked. How bright his smile still was.

He didn’t look like someone who missed me.

Didn’t look like someone who wrote secret journal entries or whispered apologies into empty rooms.

He looked happy.

And for some reason… that hurt more than anything.

I deleted the message.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t cry.

Just stood there, in my kitchen with cold tea and an aching heart, and felt everything settle into something sharp and final.

I didn’t get the happy ending.

I got a baby and a memory.

So that night, I opened my journal again and I wrote the last thing I’d ever write to him.

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

You’ll never read this.

You’ll never know the weight I carried or the fire I walked through.

But I need to let this go. For real this time.

You don’t get to be her dad. You don’t get to be my past or my future.

You’re just a lesson now.

And I’m done bleeding for it.

So goodbye, Jungkook.

In every way.

I hope you’re okay.

But I hope I never see you again. 

Because I can’t care anymore.

Not for you. Not for us.

Never again.

═══════

I closed the notebook.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream or tear anything up.

I just… sat there.

The silence wrapped around me like static, humming against my skin. The lamp buzzed quietly in the corner. The baby monitor crackled once and went still again.

Eun Ae was asleep.

I should’ve been too. But I couldn’t stop looking at the notebook. Even closed, it felt like it was staring back at me.

Like it knew what I’d done.

That I’d buried him. That I’d stopped waiting. That I’d chosen to live.

And maybe that was supposed to feel empowering.

But all it felt like was grief.

A different kind of grief.

The kind where no one sends flowers. No one holds your hand. No one says, “I’m sorry you lost the love of your life while he was still alive.” No one says that.

But it’s true.

I brushed my fingers across the cover. Just once. Just enough.

And then I got up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured myself a glass of water. Sat on the floor with my back against the cabinet and stared at nothing.

My heart didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t ache and break and twist.

It just felt… hollow.

Like a house someone moved out of. Like something echoing.

And somewhere, in the dark part of me that still dared to believe in things- I hoped he was listening.

That he could feel it. That he’d missed me too.

But wishing only ever left bruises.

So I stopped.

And I sat.

And I let it be quiet.

Because there’s nothing left to say when someone doesn’t come back.

Not even goodbye.

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I stare at my phone long after the screen goes black.

Not because I’m waiting for it to light up.

Not because I think she’ll reach out first.

Just because it’s the closest thing I have to her now.

This screen.

This silence.

This stupid rectangle that held everything once—her name, her voice, her heart.

Now it’s just… blank.

And so am I.

I’ve drafted messages. So many.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I miss you.”

Dozens. Hundreds.

Some that rambled.

Some that said nothing at all.

But I never hit send.

Because how do you apologize for disappearing?

For ghosting someone who would’ve walked through fire for you?

How do you explain that you let go, not because you stopped loving them, but because you didn’t know how to hold on while your world was spinning too fast?

You don’t.

You just… don’t.

I’m never going to reach out.Not because I don’t want to.

God, I want to.

But I don’t deserve her anymore.

I let fear decide.

And I waited too long.

And whatever we had? Whatever I shattered between the silence and the selfishness?

It’s gone now.

I closed my own door and now I have to live on the other side of it.

But every time I scroll too far and see a photo from then- 

Us.

Young.

Laughing.

Undone by nothing and everything- it kills me all over again.

Because no matter how much I try to convince myself that time heals, or that we both moved on, or that she’s better off- 

The truth is simple.

I still love her.

I think I always will.

But I hope she’s happy.

Wherever she is.

And I hope she doesn’t look back because I’d never forgive myself for pulling her under again.

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 07/31/2025

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[rin-may-1103]

Cabin 18 and the Missing Kids. pt 2.

Previous | Master Post | Next(to be written)

Muffled arguing grew louder as Danny approached his cabin, making him groan in annoyance. It seemed his roommates did NOT get along.

"-It back! Damian, I swear to god, if you don't put it down!"

"You'll what? Tell Father? Go ahead, it's not like it'll do anything. We're both being forced into this."

"Oh, would you stop complaining? I didn't ask-"

Danny glanced back at the path, wondering if he should just risk it now or not. An older lady with long black hair pulled back into a braid met his eyes, not blinking even once. That was a nope. Slowly turning back, Danny grimaced and reached out to unlock the door. The moment the lock clicked, both voices cut off, followed by a flurry of rapid movement.

Opening the door, Danny was greeted with two boys standing in the middle of the room, seemingly nothing out of place. (If he were anyone else, he would have completely missed that they had just rushed to hide something. What was it? Does- Nope, not his problem. Focus on getting back to Amity, Danny. Not some camper's drama.)

"Who are you?" the second voice, the one who had been referred to as Damian, asked. He was a little shorter than Danny, his black hair styled and his clothes perfectly ironed, no wrinkles in place. His bright green eyes were narrowed in anger; if looks could kill, Danny would be half dead twice over.

"Your new roommate," Danny huffed, shuffling his bags awkwardly. The other boy's brows furrowed, both of them sharing a glance before focusing back on him.

"That's incorrect," Damian (hopefully that's his name) crossed his arms, his back straight as a pole. "Father was reassured that we would get a cabin all to ourselves."

"Yeah, well, Vlad Karened his way onto the list last night, not my fault they agreed."

"Karened?" Damian blinked, turning slightly to look at the other boy.

"Great," he grumbled, pinching his nose in annoyance. "It means the guy yelled at the camp coordinators until they caved and let him add his name late."

"That shouldn't be allowed," Damian argued, turning back to Danny with even more annoyance than before. "there was a clear cut off date for sign ups. Father had been given multiple guarantees that this cabin-"

"Don't look at me," Danny cut in, rolling his eyes, "I don't want to be here."

"Then you should have no problem rooming somewhere else," he argued, moving to block Danny's way from entering any further.

"Can't," Danny replied, finally closing the door behind him. Turning slightly, he locked the handle and bolt. Even if he didn't want to be here, he has no reason to not follow safety rules. He still had no idea what last year's incident was, and he wasn't going to go out of his way to find out.

"Why not?" Damian demanded, not moving out of Danny's way.

"because if your Father," Danny rolled his eyes, "had been told multiple times that you guys got the cabin to yourselves, and then they still chose to shove me in here, then there's no room anywhere else."

"let him through, Damian," boy one huffed, turning to shift through a bag on one of the beds. The bed opposite of him also held a bag, leaving four other beds to chose from. The top bucks over the the two boys was obviously a horrible choice, so either top or bottom bunk of the last one. yay.

Damian glared at him, before stepping back and sitting on his chosen bed, watching as Danny quickly darted to the back of the cabin and tossed his bag onto the top bunk. There was no way he was going to leave himself open to attacks from all angles. (He didn't doubt Damian would attack him; the kid practically radiated feral energy. Also, he's pretty sure that's a knife in the bag's side pocket.)

Well, one good thing about the top bunk: Danny got his very own little window to look out of. Stargazing was definitely going to be his go-to activity.

"I'd say nice to meet you, but we all know I'd be lying. Name's Danny," Danny huffed, turning and sitting on the lower bunk to study the other two. Boy one was trying to look like he was busy by rearranging things in his bag and trying to hide whatever he was typing on. (Danny's seen Tucker do that way too many times to NOT know that's exactly what the other was doing.)

Damian was still sitting on his own bed and glaring at Danny like he had just killed his dog.

"That's Damian, I'm Tim," Tim responded, scowling down at his device before quickly schooling his face. (Danny gave himself a mental pat on the back for being correct.)

"K," Danny shrugged, turning and reaching up to snag his phone from his bag. No service, which sucked, but it looked like he could still communicate with his friends. Opening the private server, Danny took a selfie and sent it without explaining further.

"That's it?" Damian huffed, looking even more annoyed somehow.

"That's what?" Danny asked, leaning sideways against the bedpost and scrolling through his games. glancing up when the other boy took too long to elaborate.

"Excuse him, he's not used to people being polite instead of asking for autographs or phone numbers," Tim explained, turning to give Danny one of the fakest smiles he's ever seen.

"Why in the world would I want your autograph?" Danny scoffed, rolling his eyes and turning back to his phone to keep scrolling. He really should have learned to get good games by now; it's not like he was being dropped off in no service areas every other day or anything.

Tim stopped and turned to look at him, continuing to stare when Danny didn't even pause to glance up.

"Wait, seriously?" Tim asked, clearly confused by something.

Clicking on his message notification, Danny glanced up. Both Tim and Damian were staring at him, their eyes wide in surprise. (though Damian still looked like he was glaring... maybe he just had really bad resting bitch face. That's unfortunate.)

"What? Do you guys seriously expect every single person you come across to want your autograph?" Danny rolled his eyes, turning so his back was resting against the wood instead of his shoulder. "I literally have no idea who you guys are, why would I want some strangers' autographs?"

Tim coughed awkwardly, sharing a glance with Damian out of the corner of danny's eye. Were they brothers? Damian had told Tim to tell their 'father', so danny's leaning toward yes. But not quite sure.

"Not everyone," Tim conceded, scratching his cheek as he turned to continue 'digging' through his bag. "It's just most people lose their minds when they realize we're waynes."

"Who?" Danny asked, sending a dead face and headstone in reply to Tucker's questions. It's not like they could do much at this point; his parents won't even be back until the afternoon. He does ask them to keep an eye on Vlad for him, though. Sam sends him a middle finger for being vague.

"Wayne. Damian Wayne. The blood son of Bruce Wayne," Damian finally speaks up, drawing Danny's attention away from his phone.

Danny tossed the name around his brain for a second before shrugging, and glancing out the window, "Yeah, no clue who that is. Sorry."

A few boys were leaving their cabins, heading back to where Danny had been dropped off. Glancing at his phone, Danny rolled his eyes. 10:55. 5 minutes until camp orientation. yay.

"It's almost eleven, I'm going to head out before they send a whole camp SWAT team for being late," Danny grumbled, shoving his phone into his pocket as he stood up.

The two (possibly) brothers shared a glance before grabbing their things and following Danny as he unlocked the door and stepped outside. Waiting for both of them to step away, Danny locked the door and pocketed his key.

"Do you seriously not know who Bruce Wayne is?" Damian huffed, staring at Danny like he was an idiot.

"No clue," Danny replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking down the walkway. Tim and Damian stayed back for a second, whispering to each other. Danny purposely forced his attention away to the surrounding woods. He was not about to dig into these people's secrets just because he could. His job was to sit back and figure out how to get home, not whatever camp drama was going on behind him.

The wind sounded nice blowing through the trees, and if he listened close enough, he could hear water gurgling downstream, birds chirping, tree branches snapping, and leaves crunching under heavy feet. Turning to watch, Danny studied the woods.

It was full of life and just screamed to the soul to come and explore. After a few seconds, the crunched leaves grew closer, and just past normal human vision range, a tiny bear cub popped into a clearing. Its dark, furred head twisted around, smelling the air for something, before it continued across the clearing on back out of view.

"What are you looking at?" Damian asked, pulling Danny out of his pondering.

"Nothing," Danny huffed, turning to continue walking.

He didn't notice as Damian turned to study the woods with calculating eyes, and Tim's confirming head nod.

He also missed the grim look on the older lady's face as he passed by.

Next(to be written)

[leejenowrld]

back to friends — (m)

“𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐝?”

word count — 21k words 

genre — smut, fluff, angst

pairing — best friend!mark lee x oc! reader 

synopsis — after years of crossing lines and pretending you’re just friends, one reckless night destroys every boundary between you and mark. you fuck like you’re starving—filthy, desperate, angry—never able to stop wanting him, no matter how much it ruins you. now, tangled in a mess of jealousy, heartbreak, and possessive sex, you both spiral through hookups, fights, and raw confessions, knowing the truth is the one thing that could end you. this is a story about the addictive, ruinous pull between best friends who can’t stop breaking each other open, and the fear that you’ll never be able to go back to the way things were.

chapter warnings — explicit language, college au, mark and readers relationship dynamic may be confusing, explicit sexual content graphic descriptions of oral, vaginal, and a lot of smut in this, rough sex, spanking, slapping, spit play, choking, ass play, begging, face sitting, and overstimulation, car sex, party bathroom sex, possessiveness/jealousy kink, rough claiming, jealousy-fueled sex, use of degrading language, humiliation play, dirty talk/degradation, mutual masturbation & exhibitionism, fingering, oral in front of mirrors, riding in laps, emotional vulnerability & comfort sex, sex after distress, crying during/after sex, aftercare, unprotected sex alcohol use, smoking, references to partying

surprise drop, happy birthday markie 🫶<3!!

[fic playlist]

It’s four in the morning when you wake to find Mark asleep at the foot of your bed, arm slung over the comforter, cheek pressed against your shin. The light leaking from the cracked bathroom door pools along the floorboards, blurring the boundary between your space and his, as if even the shadows have given up trying to separate the two of you. There’s a mug half-spilled on your nightstand, the faded print smudged from the last time he stole it for his endless late-night coffees. You can smell his cologne even now, sharp and familiar, woven into the sheets you both pretend are only yours.

You’re so used to finding pieces of him everywhere, a shoe kicked under your desk, rings abandoned in the kitchen sink, half-folded t-shirts on your chair, that sometimes it feels like you’re borrowing your own life. There’s a comfort in it, the kind that breeds laziness, or maybe just a low-level hunger you’re never supposed to feed. He never bothers with an excuse. Mark slips into your bed the way he claims a seat beside you at the movies, or stretches out on your carpet with his head in your lap, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s always been his. None of you ever question it when he stays over after movie nights and you both drift off tangled together, limbs knotted and breaths slow. It’s just instinct, the way you end up side by side, sharing pillows and warmth, the quiet thrum of his heart pressed into your spine. There’s never a conversation, never a line drawn, never a need for reason, just the ease of knowing where he fits, how your bodies slot together, how you both sleep best when it’s like this, close and careless and unconcerned with how it looks to anyone else.

The lines between you and Mark have always been blurred, dragged out and rubbed raw by every touch that lingers too long, every look that burns a little too openly. There’s nothing innocent about the way his hands find your hips at parties, yanking you in to shut you up with his mouth against yours, tongue deep and desperate while the room spins and your friends just laugh, pretending they haven’t noticed you pressed up against a wall, his fingers tangled in your hair. You shower together when you’re hungover and lazy, but it’s never just about saving time, he stands behind you, soap slick on your skin, rinsing shampoo from your hair with a mouthful of filthy jokes, his hands sliding down your body until you’re shivering, thighs slick and parted under the spray, knowing he’ll only stop if you say so. 

There are nights sprawled out half-naked on your bedroom floor, sharing half a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, his head in your lap as you dare each other into confessions that always spiral into touch: his fingers stroking your stomach, your hand curled around the waistband of his boxers, your breaths thick and uneven, hearts racing so hard you can hear them in your ears. Everyone assumes you’re fucking and you do fuck, in every way that counts except the last. You’ve never corrected anyone, never had the nerve to call it what it is. What would you even say? That he’s your best friend? That you want him in ways that ruin you, that you’d let him do anything if he only asked? That sometimes, when he leans in close and your lips brush, the whole world shrinks to the heat and hunger trembling in that half-inch between you, and you want to tear him open and swallow whatever’s left?

You fuck him more often than you’d ever admit, even to yourself. It happens on nights when you’re both pissed off from shitty dates or ghosted by people you barely cared about, nights you storm in with ruined mascara, rip off your clothes, and climb straight onto his cock while he’s half-asleep on the couch, riding him until you both forget your own names. It’s casual, matter-of-fact, so unashamed you could laugh; there’s no pretending at innocence, not after the hundredth time he’s bent you over the kitchen counter at two in the morning, tongue in your cunt, fingers in your mouth, holding you open so you can watch yourself fall apart in the black window glass. He’ll fuck you with his rings on, thick fingers pressing bruises into your thighs, palm around your throat while you whimper his name. Sometimes you tie him up with your own scarves and make him beg, make him writhe, make him lose all that easy confidence until he’s swearing and panting for you, so hard he can’t think. 

Other nights he’ll pull your hair, spit in your mouth, fuck you so slow you go mad, pin your wrists over your head and keep you there until you’re crying, cock-drunk and shuddering, dripping all over his sheets. You both see other people, sometimes they call while he’s still inside you, and you answer on speaker just to hear him curse under his breath, teeth gritted as you squeeze him tighter. Sex is the language you both speak best, the only place you let yourselves be honest: no shame, no shyness, just bodies wrecked together, craving and needed and real. You never talk about what it means. You never call it love. But there’s a logic to it, a ritual, whenever you’re both frayed and desperate and lonely, it’s Mark you crawl to, Mark who splits you open, Mark who leaves you marked up and grinning, both of you spent and half-laughing in the aftermath, pretending it’s just how friends take care of each other. Sometimes you think your life together is one long, unsent message. Half-truths and borrowed comforts, spun out in the shape of routine, his name on your takeout order, your number as his emergency contact, a toothbrush in every drawer. You wonder if this is how it’ll always be: two bodies in orbit, never colliding, always trembling on the verge of disaster. Still, every morning he’s there, curled into the shape of something almost tender, and you let yourself believe you’re not alone. It’s easier that way. You both have your ways of pretending.

You haven’t spoken in days, just shouting, slamming doors, fucking each other stupid whenever the fight gets too hot to handle, the kind of angry sex that leaves you shaking after, mascara smeared down your cheeks, hickeys blooming across your collarbone where your dress won’t cover. Right now you’re in Mark’s car, the hem of your dress hitched up over your hips, slick already painting the inside of your thighs as he buries his face between your legs, tongue working circles around your clit, jaw flexing with every desperate whimper you give him. The car is bouncing with every sharp thrust of his fingers, back seat fogging up, streetlights flickering across the sheer straps of your dress, a strappy, skin-tight slip in cherry red, cut so high it barely covers your ass when you climb out, tits pushed up and mouth still painted, heels kicked off in the footwell. He drags you forward by the waist, hands rough and unrepentant, as if he’s trying to fuck the thought of Jay right out of you, eating you like he’s starving. You’re gasping, shoving at his hair, telling him, “Don’t—Mark, be soft, I can’t go in there covered in your cum—” but he just groans, tongue flicking, fingers curling, the taste of your skin making him growl. 

The argument lingers between you, thick as sweat, Mark’s voice from earlier echoing in your head, snarling about Jay, about how he treats girls like shit, how he’s seen Jay ghost girls after fucking them at some shitty afterparty, how he’s rude, uses girls for ego, brags about every fuck. You spat it back, called Mark jealous, accused him of never letting you make your own choices, and he’d just stared at you, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes dark and wild. “Maybe I am jealous,” he’d bitten out, “but I’m not gonna let you get wrecked by some dickhead who doesn’t know how to treat you.” Every time you argue like this, it ends with you on your back, it doesn't matter if it’s your bed, his car, or the hallway floor, Mark always needing to stake his claim, to leave his spit and cum where no one else can touch. Right now, as his mouth pushes you higher, you can’t think straight, whining for him to slow down, begging him to be gentle so you don’t walk into that restaurant with Jay’s name on your lips and Mark’s fingerprints all over your thighs. You look wrecked, hair tumbling wild around your face, lips swollen and parted, dress riding up so high you’re one deep breath from flashing half the parking lot, eyes glazed, skin flushed with want. Mark glances up at you, mouth glistening, smirks, and murmurs, “You want me to be soft? That’s not how you argued for it, princess.”

He’s brutal tonight, knuckles pressing into the slick heat of your thighs, tongue splitting you open with single-minded hunger, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away. You’re sprawled in the backseat, legs thrown over his shoulders, that tiny red dress bunched at your waist and the straps falling off your arms. He palms your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you down the leather seat until your ass squeaks against it and you’re arching into his face, heels digging into his back. His breath is hot, tongue working relentless circles over your clit, sometimes slow, just the tip flicking, then deep and savage, mouthing at you like he wants to swallow every sound you make. Every time you whine, he growls low, the vibration making your thighs tremble. His hair is a mess where you’ve grabbed at it, yanking him closer, grinding against his mouth in frustration when he doesn’t give you what you want fast enough. The windows are fogged and dripping with condensation, every movement rocking the car, headlights sliding across your skin like a silent audience.

You’re panting, trying to claw your composure back, but the argument’s still clawing through your veins, thick and mean. Mark’s tongue is relentless, lips slick and jaw aching, but when you grind down harder and drag that taunt into the charged, cramped air, “Wonder if Jay would do it like this,”—he doesn’t let you finish. Your hips rock against his face, every muscle in his shoulders flexing under your thighs, but his eyes snap up to yours, black and burning, and he actually growls. The sound is feral, furious, vibrating straight through your cunt, teeth gritted as he pulls his mouth away just enough to rasp.

“Shut the fuck up about Jay.” His breath is hot against your skin, eyes still locked on yours, possessive and wild. “He wouldn’t even know where to start.” Then he dives back in, tongue punishing, sucking your clit so hard your vision blurs, fingers pressing bruises into your hips as if he’s daring you to even think about anyone else. Every flick and drag of his mouth now is a threat, a promise, all of it—watch me, remember this, you’re fucking mine.

Mark’s grip on your thighs tightens, nails biting in, and he sucks your clit hard, just to shut you up. You gasp, almost sob, your back arching off the seat. “Fuck—Mark, he’d probably cum in his pants just seeing me like this, wouldn’t he?” You say it just to see his jaw tense, just to watch the darkness bloom in his eyes as he licks up your slit, slow and punishing, then buries his face deeper, groaning into you as if he can drown out every other man’s name with the sound of you falling apart on his tongue. 

You feel him grin, lips curled around your cunt, breath hot and furious. “Keep talking,” he rasps between licks, “see where it gets you.”

Your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders, nails scraping red lines down his back as his tongue fucks into you harder, relentless, filthy, he’s eating you out like it’s a fight he has to win, mouth slick and greedy, lips swollen and wet as he laps you up. You whimper, trying to twist away, but he just pins you down, forearm heavy across your stomach, fingers digging into your thigh so you can’t escape, forcing you to feel every brutal, beautiful drag of his mouth. You curse him, moan for him, tell him he’s being rough, that he’s going to ruin your dress, but you can’t stop rocking against his tongue, riding his face, cunt throbbing with every flick and press. “Yeah, ruin it,” he mutters, mouth hot and sticky against you, “let him see exactly who fucked you up.” The car smells like sweat and sex and leather, your mascara running, eyes glazed and lips bitten raw, legs trembling every time he sucks your clit between his teeth, tongue flicking so fast your vision whites out.

You start to break, hips shaking, chest heaving, voice cracking as you try to warn him you’re close, but he only doubles down, tongue and fingers working you open until you’re crying, sobbing his name, begging for him to slow down, to let you breathe. He doesn’t stop. His hands slip up your waist, pinning you in place, and he keeps licking, keeps sucking, chasing your orgasm like he needs to own it, to brand you from the inside out. You choke out his name, thighs squeezing his head, the whole car rocking with the force of your release, body wrung out and spent, pussy clenching around nothing as he laps up every drop, groaning like he’s drunk on you. Your hands fist in his hair, tears streaking down your cheeks, breath stuttering as you finally go limp, Mark’s mouth still hot and wet on your cunt, his voice nothing but a gravel whisper, “let him fucking wait, you’re mine first, always mine.”

Your body’s still shuddering, cunt still pulsing around nothing, when your phone buzzes with a message, telling you that he’s inside and waiting for you. You’re yanked back into the glare of the real world, heat flashing across your face as you gasp and push at Mark’s head. “Stop, Mark—fuck, he’s here,” you hiss, voice raw and breathless, hips jerking when he gives your clit one last, stubborn, filthy lick before finally letting you go. You’re left a mess: thighs sticky, dress rumpled up around your waist, hair wild from where he gripped it. You reach for the visor, yanking it down and frantically trying to tame your hair, fingers trembling as you swipe at your mascara, rub your mouth raw with your thumb until the smeared lipstick is half fixed. Mark just sits back in the seat, lips swollen and chin shining with you, watching with that unreadable look, chest still heaving, hands clenched tight on his knees as you smooth your dress back down over your thighs, cover up the marks he left in every place you’ll never forget.

You shoot him a look, equal parts exasperation and wrecked, cheeks burning as you stuff your heels back on, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. “Jay’s inside,” you mumble, barely trusting your voice not to shake. He just sighs, low and frustrated, the anger and want still burning underneath, too much left unsaid between you. For a second you think he might start another argument, might grab your wrist and pull you back in for more, but instead he just leans across the console, catches your chin, and presses the softest, most fucked-up kiss to your forehead. It’s the kind of touch that undoes you, gentle, dizzying, painfully close to love. “I’m only a call away,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together. You nod, swallowing hard, lips parted but no words coming, and the moment hangs there, long, slow, brutal, like you’re both waiting for something to give.

You force a laugh, breathless, still trembling as you open the car door and step out, your knees unsteady, dress clinging to your skin where he left you marked. “Bye, Mark,” you whisper, voice tiny, and you don’t look back as you walk toward the restaurant, clutching your phone like a lifeline, pulse still fluttering from his mouth. You can feel his eyes on you the whole way, your body still humming with him, every step echoing the ache of leaving him in that car, unfinished. Only when you’re finally inside, safe past the glass doors and lost in the low golden lights, do you dare to glance back, Mark’s car still parked there, headlights low, engine running. He’s watching, always watching, jaw tight, and only when you disappear from sight does he finally shake his head and pull away, leaving you there with every nerve raw and every line between you just that much more impossible to untangle.

The restaurant is loud and bright, all glass and chatter and laughter pressing in from every side, but none of it distracts you from the phantom ache still humming between your thighs, Mark’s touch lingering on your skin like a bruise that won’t fade. You try to focus on Jay, on the way he leans across the table with that easy, practiced confidence, but it’s all surface: compliments that sound like lines, eyes that never quite meet yours unless he’s checking out your cleavage, every conversation turning back to sex no matter how you try to steer it elsewhere. You laugh when you’re supposed to, sip your drink, play the game, but Mark’s words circle in your head—he doesn’t care about you, he just wants to get off, he’ll use you up and leave you feeling cheap—and for the first time, you start to wonder if he’s right.

Jay’s hand finds your knee under the table, fingers inching up your thigh with a confidence that feels wrong, too familiar, nothing like the heat and safety you’re used to. He whispers something in your ear about how good you look, how he couldn’t stop thinking about you all day, but there’s no warmth behind it, no care, just that greedy undertone that makes your stomach twist. You force yourself to flirt back, to play along, letting his hand go higher, laughing at jokes that don’t land, but you’re thinking about Mark, the taste of him, the burn in his eyes when you teased him, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. You wonder if Jay could ever make you feel like that. The answer settles low in your chest, heavy and cold.

Jay’s conversation grows sloppier as the night drags on, eyes glazing with every drink, stories getting more explicit, leaning into crude innuendos and little comments about what he wants to do to you. There’s no curiosity about your life, your dreams, your day, just hungry glances at your mouth, at your thighs, hands always wandering, lips always parted. You nod, smile, let him take your hand, but every touch feels wrong, like you’re playing at someone else’s fantasy, and Mark’s warning rings louder in your ears: guys like that don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. For a second, you think about texting Mark, about running back to his car and letting him take you home, but you swallow it down and keep smiling, keep pretending. It’s not until Jay licks his thumb and tries to wipe a streak of mascara from your cheek—clumsy and a little too rough, breath hot and sour from his last drink—that the ick crawls up your spine. You laugh it off, brushing his hand away, blaming it on too many cocktails. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear, and says, “Do you wanna go back to mine?” The question is blunt, expectation hanging heavy in the air. You force another bright smile, nodding, feeling the lie burn your tongue, and stand to follow him out, heart pounding, Mark’s shadow still clinging to your skin as you step into the night.

You know you’ve made a mistake as soon as Jay’s door clicks shut behind you. The apartment is colder than you expected, lights low, the air thick with last night’s booze and the stale, burnt edge of cheap weed. There’s a mess of trainers in the hallway, empty shot glasses on every windowsill, and the soundtrack of some club remix leaking from a speaker you can’t see. Jay doesn’t ask if you want a drink, doesn’t even bother making small talk, just hooks his fingers into the crook of your elbow and leads you straight down the hall, eyes already scanning your body like he’s checking off a list. His room’s the same: sheets tangled, two condoms already torn open on the nightstand, the air sharp with sweat and something sweet and sour, a girl’s bra slung over his desk chair like a souvenir.

Jay’s notorious, everyone knows it. His crew, Sunghoon and Heeseung and Jake, haunt campus bars and afterparties, all swagger and loud voices, a constant echo of hands on waists and crude bets. Mark and his lot, Jeno, Jaemin, Donghyuck, have never tried to blend, never tried to fake nice. Mark calls Jay’s friends walking red flags, says they don’t know the meaning of respect, and it’s easy to see why. Where Mark is careless with his heart but careful with your body, Jay’s got nothing but appetite—he doesn’t ask, doesn’t check, just takes. You can feel the difference in every touch, every glance, the way Mark would always pause to search your eyes, to brush your hair off your cheek, but Jay just grins, eyes heavy-lidded, hands already traveling up the slit of your dress as you fall back onto his bed. Jay and his group of friends afd the kind of boys who wear their conquests like a joke, whose group chats are full of body counts and grainy photos. Mark and his friends can’t stand them, never could. Mark talks shit about them in every room, calls them out for being trash, and even though he’s got a reputation of his own, you know how different he really is. Mark might fuck around, but he always asks, always cares, always checks if you’re okay before he goes any further. Jay’s just the opposite, entitlement, assumption, no patience for the word no.

It starts hot, at least in theory, his mouth hungry on yours, teeth and tongue, your dress shoved down your arms, tits spilling out while he grinds against your bare thigh, rutting like he’s been hard for hours. His fingers are rough, pinching your nipple, one hand sliding straight down to your cunt, pushing your panties aside without a word. You kiss him back, roll your hips into his palm, try to conjure up some version of wanting, but the smell of him and the pushy scrape of his knuckles just leaves you colder. Still, you let him maneuver you, let him hitch your leg up higher, cock slapping heavy against your cunt as he grinds in, but when he tries to shove inside you, barely any warning, no condom, no preamble, something in you freezes. You press a palm to his chest, breath ragged. “Just—wait,” you manage, and for a moment he just stares, blank and annoyed, as if you’re a glitch in his program.

His lip curls. “Wait? For what, princess? What do you think we’re here for?” His hand stays tight on your thigh, fingers digging in, but there’s no warmth, no coaxing, just expectation. “You think I dragged you out here for a chat? You know who you are, right? I’ve seen the way you look at Mark, shit, I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. You ride him in the kitchen, suck him off in the locker room. Sunghoon said he walked in on you with his cock down your throat after a game, Jake said you let Mark fuck you in the shower after finals. Don’t pretend you’re shy now. My boys said not to bother with you, said you’re just his slut, but if he keeps coming back for more when he’s got every girl on campus lined up, must be a tight little pussy. You’re fit, I’ll give you that. Great tits, that mouth, that body—wouldn’t mind a turn. Now stop wasting my time and get on all fours.” His voice turns cruel, mouth close to your ear. “Let’s see if you’re as good as they say. Get on your knees. Or do you only do that for him?”

His words gut you, filthy, degrading, each syllable scraping something raw. For a second, you just stare, dress halfway down your hips, chest bare, breath stuck in your throat. Then the shame curdles to rage. You shove him hard, voice sharp and shaking. “Go fuck yourself,” you spit, scrambling off the bed, yanking your dress up over your chest, fumbling for your bag with shaking hands. 

Jay laughs, cold and bored, already rolling over and grabbing his phone, muttering, “Fucking tease, you’re all the same,” as you stumble barefoot down his hallway. The door slams behind you, breath burning, heart racing, humiliation prickling over your skin. You don’t even think, just punch Mark’s name into your phone with trembling fingers, fighting tears as you hurry out into the cold, the need to hear his voice outweighing every other instinct.

Mark picks up on the first ring. His voice is gentle, low, softer than you’ve heard it in days, all the anger and tension stripped away in an instant. “Hey, I’ve got you, where are you?” he murmurs, like it’s a secret, like it’s just for you. You can’t even get the words out, just shaking and gasping, tears spilling down your cheeks, every breath ragged and broken. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes, so much warmth in his tone you can feel it curl around you through the line. “Don’t talk, just stay there. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I already know where you are.” You hear the jingle of his keys, the sound of his door slamming, the familiar rush of him moving, every detail so achingly familiar, every detail safety itself. He never makes you say it, never asks for an explanation, never tells you what you should’ve done differently. He just moves.

Within minutes, headlights cut through the dark, his car pulling up wild, tires spinning. The passenger door’s thrown open before you can even wipe your cheeks, Mark’s already out, moving fast, finding you half-crumpled on the curb, he pulls off his jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves before you can think to refuse. “Come here,” he says, voice thick, hands gentle, steady as he pulls you against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, sobbing, still trembling so hard your knees knock together, his warmth the only anchor in the spinning night. He holds you there, big hands running slowly, grounding circles up and down your back, pressing kisses into your hair, your forehead, the shell of your ear. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling at your ear, breath hot where it fans your cheek, “I’ve got you, baby. Nobody touches you but me, yeah? You’re safe—only with me. Always.” The words are a secret, a promise, spoken with a hunger that shakes you, his arms winding tighter around your waist like he could fuse you to his chest. There’s a catch in his throat, something raw and desperate, as if he’d tear the world apart just to keep you right here, shivering in his jacket, head buried under his chin. You hear the way he clings to every syllable, turning your safety into a vow he’ll never break, no matter what.

He helps you into the car, steady hands guiding you by the waist, fingers slow, gentle, trembling just a little when they brush the bare skin above your hip. He buckles your seatbelt, the metal clicks loud in the silence, and when he leans in, his thumb strokes your jaw with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting all over again. His lips brush your forehead, warm, lingering, pressed a little too long, like he can’t bring himself to let go. He doesn’t move to his side. For a moment, he’s still, the cabin thick with the scent of him, the windows steaming up, engine humming low beneath you both. You watch as his jaw tightens, eyes burning, fists clenched so hard his knuckles pale. He glances back at Jay’s apartment door, a muscle jumping in his cheek, the promise of violence simmering just beneath his calm.

You groan, soft and hoarse, head falling back against the seat, every part of you already knowing—knowing—what he’s thinking. “Mark, not now,” you whisper, half pleading, too exhausted and raw to argue but too fragile to watch him break himself over this. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off the door, doesn’t look at you, just squeezes your knee in his palm, thumb rubbing slow circles, grounding you. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice low, sweet but with a thread of steel you feel all the way in your bones. “I’ll take care of it.” It’s soft, but it’s a promise, and you can taste the fury in every word, like the act of hurting you has become something personal to him, a trespass that needs retribution.

Before you can protest, he’s gone, the door swinging open, closing behind him with a weight that says don’t follow. You watch him cross the pavement, each step heavier, more certain, his shoulders squared and head high. There’s a brutality to his focus, the set of his mouth, the way he raises his fist to the door and knocks, once, twice, hard enough to echo through the whole shitty house. The wait is barely a breath. Jay opens, half-dressed, eyes already rolling as he catches sight of Mark standing there, every inch of him radiating danger. “The fuck do you want?” Jay slurs, gaze flicking from Mark to where you’re curled in the car, nothing in his expression but contempt. “Come to pick up your little bitch? She was crying before she even got her panties off. Guess she only gets loud for you, huh? Sloppy seconds, Lee.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Jay by the collar, yanking him forward, slamming him into the doorframe. His fist meets Jay’s jaw, a brutal, ugly sound, and you see the shock in Jay’s face as Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t back down, rage boiling over in every blow. “Don’t ever talk about her. Don’t even fucking think about her,” Mark snarls, voice ragged, every word punctuated by another hit. 

Jay spits blood, muttering curses, still trying to wound. “You’re both pathetic, does she let anyone fuck her if you’re not around. Do you want her? Go ahead, man, she’s a fucking mess.” 

Mark’s grip only tightens, knuckles bone-white, eyes burning holes through Jay’s skull. “I know exactly what you tried. I don’t need her to tell me—you’re done. Don’t look at her, don’t even breathe her name, or I’ll fucking end you.” The words land low, venomous, and he slams Jay back into the doorframe with a final shove that leaves Jay slumped, head lolling, split lip and swelling jaw already blossoming purple. Mark doesn’t give him another glance, just wipes his bloody knuckles on his jeans and stalks away, steps echoing off cracked pavement. Through the blur of your tears you catch a crooked smile tugging at your lips, sick with adrenaline and relief, crying and shaking but impossibly grateful that it’s always him. This isn’t the first time Mark’s thrown a punch for you, and it won’t be the last; you’ve lost count of the times he’s come back to you with bloody knuckles and bruised pride, just to make sure you’re safe, just to remind you that nobody gets to hurt you.

When he slides back into the driver’s seat, the anger still crackling through him, your chest hiccups with a sob, breath catching when he glances over at you—wild, messy, but his entire expression melting into that rare, unguarded tenderness that belongs only to you. He reaches for your hand and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing so tight you nearly gasp, but it’s the safest feeling in the world. “You good?” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft, thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles, and when you nod, tears streaking your cheeks, he just smiles—a real, aching smile that makes something inside you unclench. He starts the engine, one hand never leaving yours, and for the whole ride home, the anger drains out of him, replaced by this slow-burning intimacy, like the world’s shrunk to just the warmth of his palm and your breaths getting steadier by the second.

You’re still sniffling, cheeks wet, but every mile feels easier when he turns up your favorite song and quietly hums along, the notes vibrating through the space between you. He cracks dumb jokes under his breath, says your hair looks like a crime scene, and when you let out a watery laugh, he grins like it’s his life’s mission to make you smile. At a red light, he pulls your hand into his lap, turns his head, and kisses the inside of your wrist so softly it makes you whimper, heat pooling low in your stomach. “You were right about him, Mark,” you whisper, voice small, gratitude and exhaustion tangled together. He just hums, squeezing your hand again, his eyes all gentle pride and need. “You can say ‘I told you so,’ if you want,” you sigh, already melting into the sweetness of him.

Mark just leans closer, his voice a velvet drag in your ear, “Why would I waste time saying ‘I told you so’ when I’d rather show you how good you’ve got it right here?” His breath is warm, his words electric, and the way you gasp, shivering, makes him smile even wider because there’s nothing casual in the way he loves you, nothing in the world that could ever make you feel safer than his hands and that hungry, gentle devotion shining in his eyes.

The apartment feels softer in the dark, the hush only broken by the distant hum of the fridge and the weight of Mark’s footsteps beside you. He keeps your heels in his hand, swinging them absently, the other arm wrapped steady around your waist as you stumble inside. Your face is sticky with tears, mascara smudged to your jaw, every part of you heavy and tender, but Mark never lets you walk alone, not even for a step. He toes the door shut behind you and hangs your bag on the hook, then gently tugs the ruined shoes from your hand, leaving them by the entry like it’s a ritual he’s done a thousand times. You’re shivering, arms crossed, but he just moves closer, fingers brushing your cheek, knuckles soft as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Let’s get you out of this, yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and slow, every syllable dragging comfort through your bones.

He helps you undress, careful and patient, unzips your dress, eases it down your arms, unhooks your bra with deft hands, never rushing, never taking more than you offer. He keeps his eyes on your face, checking for every flinch, every wince, and when you’re left in nothing but his old hoodie, he pulls you into the bathroom and starts the shower, testing the water temperature with his wrist like he always does for you. The steam blooms around you both, warm and safe, and you let him guide you under the spray. Mark washes you slow, lathering your hair, massaging your scalp, fingers tracing the lines of your shoulders and back. His touch is reverent, never sexual, just the steady comfort of someone who’s seen you at your ugliest and loves you anyway. He lets you lean on his chest as he rinses the soap away, lips pressed to your temple, his hands soothing every place Jay’s gaze made you feel small. “You’re here, with me. That’s all that matters,” he whispers, over and over, and for a few long minutes, it’s almost enough to believe him.

When you’re clean, he wraps you in a towel and dries your hair with the old t-shirt he knows is your favorite. He kneels to pull warm socks onto your feet, his thumb lingering at your ankle, eyes never leaving yours. You both slip into bed, tangled together under the covers, the world shrinking to the soft cotton and the thump of his heartbeat pressed into your spine. Mark’s arms fold around you, one hand smoothing over your ribs, the other playing lazy patterns on your thigh. You talk about everything and nothing, favorite movies, the time he made you pancakes and burned every single one, how much you hated Jay’s cologne, how you wish things could be simple. His voice is always soft, never pushing, just inviting you to spill whatever needs to be let out. “You’re allowed to be mad. You’re allowed to be sad,” he says, “but you don’t have to do it alone.”

It’s only when the apartment is dark, Mark’s breathing steady at your back, that it all catches up to you, the way Jay looked at you, the way his words scraped through your skin, every sick stare and cruel sneer. The ache bursts out in great, shuddering sobs, your body curling tight, knees to your chest, shoulders shaking. Mark doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer, sliding his arms around your waist, pressing his lips to the wet salt of your hair, holding you so close you almost believe nothing bad could ever touch you again. You let it all out, safe in the dark, safe in his arms, the ugliness of the world pressed back by the quiet, dogged strength of his love.

Mark shifts beside you, rolling his body over yours with the same slow, careful weight he’s used a hundred times before, but tonight every movement is reverent, almost aching. He nudges your knees apart, sliding between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his warmth, and you blink up at him through wet lashes. His palm cups your cheek, thumb gentle as it wipes away each fresh tear, tracing the curve of your jaw, lips brushing over the lines his own fingers made. His eyes are so open, so impossibly soft, brown glass catching every glimmer of you, searching your face for pain, for permission. “Look at me, baby,” he whispers, voice thick with devotion, “just let me take care of you, yeah? Nothing else matters right now. Just you and me.”

You reach for him, need cracking open and spilling between your bodies. Your hands clutch at the back of his neck, sliding into his hair, tugging him down until your mouths crash together, messy, gasping, hungry, all teeth and tongue and bruised want. Your lips part wide, tongue stroking deep into his mouth, swallowing the groan he lets out as you grind your hips up, the heat of him already heavy against your thigh. His hands bracket your face, fingertips tracing your temples, then trailing down to your throat, mapping every inch of you like he needs to relearn your body just to be sure you’re real and safe and his. You moan into him, arching up so your tits press flush to his chest, your cunt already slick and desperate, rubbing against the bulge in his boxers.

He groans, rough and low, hips rocking into yours, breath hot and broken against your mouth as his hands slide down, thumbs tracing the wet salt off your cheeks, curling under your jaw to tip your face up, his kiss deepening, claiming. You bite at his lip, grinning through the mess, and he growls, biting you back, his tongue tangling with yours, the kiss all hunger and healing and every secret you’ve never had the courage to say. You’re grinding up into him now, cunt slicking his thigh, moaning his name, dragging his hand down to cup your ass, desperate for him to fill you, fuck you, remind you that you’re his. “Let me make it better, baby,” he pants, voice shredded with want, hips pushing down until you can feel every hard inch of him pressed between your legs. “Let me make you forget all of it—just us, just this, just you.” You whimper, lips swollen, thighs falling open wider, and he groans again, mouth slanting over yours as he kisses you deeper, fucking you with his tongue, grinding his cock against your soaked pussy until neither of you can tell where comfort ends and hunger begins.

Your lips break from his, breath ragged, head pressed back into the pillow as you look up at him through blurred lashes, the ache spilling from your mouth before you can even think to stop it. “I feel fucking disgusting, Mark,” you whisper, voice raw and shaking, tears hot again as your hands fist in the sheets beneath you. “He looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was just, just a hole to use, something to brag about. I knew he was a dick, I knew it, but I just—I wanted to feel good for once, to feel wanted, and now I just—” Your voice cracks, sob catching on the edge of his name. “I feel stupid. I feel like I let him do it. Like I should’ve known better. Like everyone probably thinks I’m easy, or dirty, or pathetic, and I can’t get the way he talked about me out of my head.”

Your chest heaves, the pain relentless, every word dragging old wounds to the surface. “I’m so tired, Mark. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t get to me, tired of letting people touch me like I don’t matter. I know I act tough but it hurts, it really fucking hurts, and I keep thinking maybe I deserve it, maybe if I was different, if I was stronger, if I wasn’t such a mess—” Your hands tremble as you clutch his wrist, needing the warmth of his skin, the certainty of his grip. “I hate how much it gets to me. I hate that he made me feel small. I hate that I let him get close at all. I just—I don’t want to be anyone’s dirty secret. I want someone to look at me like I’m worth something. I want someone to want me, all of me, even when I’m like this, even when I’m crying and ugly and ruined inside.” You choke on a sob, eyes searching for him, voice breaking on every syllable. “He kept saying things about us, about you—like I was just your slut, like I let you do anything. Like I’m just easy for you. And it’s not true, it’s never been true, I only ever wanted you to want me. I wanted to feel safe with you, wanted to matter to you. I just—I feel so empty. I’m so tired of letting people use me. I just want to feel something good that doesn’t turn ugly in the morning.”

Mark lowers his head, forehead pressing to yours, his breath shaky against your cheek as his hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears you can’t stop shedding. For a long moment he’s silent, jaw working, the air thick with all the things he’s never let himself say, everything raw and trembling behind his eyes. “I hate the way you talk about yourself,” he murmurs, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you, every word quivering with something desperate and unsaid. “You’re not dirty. You’re not easy. You’re the best thing I’ve ever touched. The only thing that ever felt fucking right.” His hands tighten, grounding you, his lips ghosting over your eyelids, your cheeks, every place that hurts. “You’re worth everything. You always have been. I wish you could see yourself the way I do—fucking hell, I wish I could make you believe it.”

He exhales, heavy, and you feel him fighting himself, holding so much back, voice low and ragged. “I know I act like I don’t care. I know I fuck around, and I say shit I don’t mean, and I let people think you’re just another girl in my bed. But you’re not. You never have been.” He pulls back just enough to look you dead in the eyes, every inch of him open, hurting. “You’re the only thing that scares me. You’re the only one who could ever fuck me up like this. I’d do anything to make you feel safe, to make you feel good. I’d burn the whole fucking world down for you, I swear. I just—” His voice cracks, softer than you’ve ever heard. “I’m fucked up too, you know? I want you so bad it hurts, and I’m so scared I’ll ruin you. But I never, ever want to see you hurt like this again. Not from him. Not from anyone. Not even me.”

You climb onto him, your knees bracketing his hips, every inch of your skin burning, your cheeks still streaked with tears. Mark is sprawled beneath you, hair wild against the pillow, chest rising and falling in harsh waves as you crawl over him, one trembling hand wrapping around the back of his neck. Your lips crash into his, tongues tangling, hungry, animal, slick—nothing soft about it. You grind your hips down, rolling your soaked pussy over his cock through thin cotton, the friction brutal and perfect, your clit catching on the ridge of his head until you’re whimpering, eyes fluttering, slick smearing all over him. The room fills with the wet slide of your cunt dragging over his cock, your sobs turning to gasps, every movement messy and raw.

You moan against his mouth, so desperate it’s embarrassing, “Need you to fuck me, Mark—need it, need you inside me, please—” The way your voice cracks on please has him growling, hands flying to your ass, squeezing hard, dragging you down over him until you can feel every twitch and throb through his boxers. 

He’s still trying to slow you down, hands gentle even when you don’t want gentle, whispering, “Hey, baby, you’re still crying—fuck, slow down, let me—” 

But you shake your head, breathless, hips rutting down, grinding your clit on the head of his cock, smearing slick through the fabric. “No, Mark, just—just let me, I want it, want you, want you to make me feel good, want to feel you stretch me, wanna come for you, wanna show you you’re the only one, always you—”

He lets out a broken laugh, one hand smoothing up your spine to fist in your hair, dragging you down for another kiss, tongue fucking into your mouth as his hips buck up into you, cock straining, leaking for you. “God, look at you, can’t get enough, can you? My fucking girl, riding me like you’re starved.” You whimper, biting at his lip, pressing your tits to his chest, nails raking down his sides as you finally tug his boxers down, your fist wrapping around the length of him, guiding him to your entrance. The head of his cock nudges your slit, and you’re both shaking, you from need, him from holding back. “You know I love you, right?” he pants, voice hoarse, eyes wild but clear. “I tell you every day, but right now, fuck, I need you to hear it—I love you, I love you, I love you—always have, always will. You’re mine.”

It isn’t a shock, not really, a thousand ‘I love you’s’ have already hung between you and Mark, braided through every part of your lives like a shared secret language. You say it when you’re laughing over burnt toast in the kitchen, when you steal each other’s fries, when you collapse together after an exam, when you find his socks in your laundry or your hairbands on his wrist. You say it every night, almost on autopilot, a soft “love you, idiot” as you roll over, or a muttered “love you too” when one of you leaves for class, or a quick “I love you more” lobbed across the hall like a dare. It’s part of the fabric of you, familiar and safe, a truth you both wear without thinking.

But this, this is different. There’s nothing casual or careless in the way he says it now, voice breaking, fingers digging into your hips as you ride him, sweat and salt and tears glimmering on your skin. There’s no armor, no routine, just the raw ache of it, the way your bodies slot together and all those words finally mean what they’re supposed to. It’s not a crazy thing to say “I love you” here because you both already know; it’s always been true. But when you’re desperate for him, bouncing in his lap, sobbing into his mouth, begging him to claim you with every thrust, it lands differently, stripped of every offhand joke and every safety net. You hear it in the way he gasps your name, in how his hands shake, in how you both cling tighter, desperate to make the words real in a way they’ve never been before. It’s the first time you’ve said it and needed it to hurt, to heal, to fill every crack left by the world outside this bed. Here, I love you isn’t a throwaway or a punchline; it’s a demand, a prayer, a promise you both bleed for and believe. Here, it sounds like home.

You sink down on him, body opening up inch by inch, the stretch perfect, obscene, your cunt swallowing him until you’re stuffed full, skin to skin, dizzy from the heat and fullness. You start to move, grinding down slow and deep, clenching around him, making filthy sounds in your throat as you ride him, hips snapping, fucking yourself stupid on his cock. Every thrust is a confession, every moan a worship, your mouth hungry on his throat, jaw, lips, biting and sucking, leaving him marked and breathless. “Say it again,” you beg, voice cracking as you bounce in his lap, thighs burning, tits bouncing with every movement, “say you love me, say it’s just me, please, Mark, need it—”

He grabs your hips, rocking up into you, his own voice cracking, “I love you, fuck, I love you, look at you—so perfect, all mine, nobody else gets you like this—” He can’t stop saying it, can’t stop touching you, every word poured into your mouth, your skin, your cunt, until you’re sobbing his name, coming hard on his cock, breaking open for him, every inch of you desperate and raw and safe, wrapped up in the kind of love that leaves you ruined, trembling, and whole all at once.

You sink deeper onto his cock, the thick, perfect stretch making you moan so loud it’s almost a scream, thighs trembling as you take him to the root. Mark groans, the sound raw, filthy, hands flying to grip your hips so hard his fingers leave imprints. “Fuck—so fucking tight,” he grits, voice already shaking, eyes glued to the place where your cunt swallows him, wet and glistening, obscene in the dim light. You can feel him twitch inside you, your walls clenching around him, greedy for every inch, every throb, as you settle your hands on his chest for leverage. His head falls back, lips parted, jaw sharp with want, his chest already slick with sweat. “You love riding me, don’t you? Love showing me how this pussy was made for me.” The words are ragged, half challenge, half worship.

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, grinding down in a circle, feeling every ridge and vein drag against your soaked walls. The friction is delicious, cruel, and you can’t help but tease, lifting yourself almost all the way off, just the tip buried inside, before slamming back down, making the head of his cock press against that sweet spot inside you. Mark hisses, hands flying up to cup your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you arch your back, riding him harder, breath catching as he leans up and latches onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing, tongue swirling. You grind down, rutting your clit against his pelvis, making both of you gasp. “You want it rough, baby?” he pants, voice gravel, one hand sliding down to slap your ass, the sound sharp, skin stinging as you bounce faster. “Fucking take it. Show me who you belong to.”

“Yours,” you whimper, picking up the pace, ass slapping down onto his thighs, the wet smack filling the room, your tits bouncing in his face, hair wild around your shoulders. “All yours, Mark—fuck, only yours, nobody else gets me like this.” You lean forward, licking a stripe up his throat, biting at his jaw, your cunt milking him, fluttering around him with every thrust. 

He growls, fingers digging into the meat of your ass, guiding you up and down, his voice low and sharp: “That’s right. Let them talk. Let the whole fucking building hear you scream for me.” He brings his thumb down to your clit, circles tight, ruthless, until you’re whining, legs starting to shake, tears welling again from the sheer intensity. “Look at you, bouncing like a fucking whore, taking everything I give you. You love being watched, don’t you? Love being my filthy girl.”

You nod, dizzy, drunk on him, on the slap of skin and the stretch of him splitting you open, on how you can feel every inch inside. “Want you to fill me up, want you to fuck me until I can’t walk,” you babble, riding him hard, hands braced on his chest, nails scraping red lines down his skin. “Want to make a mess all over you, want you to come inside me, want everyone to know you ruined me—” 

Mark snarls, bucks up into you, fucking you from beneath, the bed frame rocking, his hips slamming up to meet yours. “Say it again,” he commands, thumb circling your clit faster, his cock hitting so deep you see stars. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“Yours, fuck, it’s yours—only yours, always yours, Mark, please, please, harder—” You’re sobbing, writhing, sweat slicking your thighs, bouncing faster, grinding down until your clit throbs, every muscle in your body burning with the need to come. 

He slips two fingers into your mouth, groaning as you suck, tongue swirling, spit dripping down your chin as you stare into his eyes. “Good girl,” he growls, pulling his fingers free, sliding them down to press into your ass, stretching you, filling you, making you moan even louder. “So greedy, so fucking perfect, taking everything I give you.”

You feel yourself unraveling, body shaking as your orgasm builds, the filth of it making you dizzy. “Gonna come, Mark—need it, need you, fuck, please—” He’s ruthless now, hips pounding up into you, his cock hitting that spot over and over, thumb punishing your clit until you shatter, orgasm ripping through you, cunt squeezing him so tight he curses, gripping your hips, rutting up as he follows you over the edge. You come undone together, a mess of sweat, spit, and tears, his name a broken sob on your lips as he fills you, cock pulsing, warmth spilling inside you, leaking down your thighs as you keep grinding, milking every last drop.

When you finally collapse on top of him, shuddering, boneless, Mark wraps his arms around your back, pressing kisses into your hair, your cheek, your jaw. He’s whispering, desperate, needy, filthy: “You’re mine, fuck, you’re mine, look at this mess you made for me. I’ll eat you out right now, clean you up with my mouth—want you dripping with me, want everyone to see. Let me, baby, let me taste you, wanna eat my cum out of your pussy.” You whimper, exhausted but high, moaning as he pulls you up, drags you back down onto his face, tongue greedy and relentless, licking you clean, humming filth into your skin as you twitch and shake, overstimulated and glowing, marked up for him and only him.

Mark doesn’t let you go, even when you start to squirm, legs trembling, breath shuddering in your chest. He’s ravenous, tongue working through your folds, lapping up the mess he left inside you, groaning low like he’s starved for the taste of you. “Fuck, you’re leaking everywhere,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and sweet against your skin. “So fucking pretty when you’re full. All of it is mine.” His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider, holding you open so he can lick every drop that spills out, the filth of it making your head spin. Your thighs quake on either side of his head, body arching up, overstimulation prickling every nerve, but you can’t stop grinding down, needing more, needing him, needing to be ruined all over again.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking, swirling, fingers sliding back into your pussy, spreading you open, pressing deep, curling just right. “God, baby, you taste so fucking good—could eat you all night, fuck, never get enough of you,” he groans, the words vibrating right into your core. You’re sobbing, voice gone, hands fisted in his hair, hips jerking helplessly as he keeps you locked in place, tongue relentless, unrepentant, pushing you higher even as you whimper for a break. He kisses up your stomach, wet and hungry, lips dragging across every mark he’s left, then latches onto your nipple, sucking until you cry out, the sensation bright and sharp and aching.

“Can’t believe you let me wreck you like this,” he rasps, lips swollen, chin slick with you and him, eyes blown wide with hunger and something deeper, darker. “No one else gets this, no one else gets to see you fall apart. Just me, yeah? Just Mark.” You nod frantically, tears mixing with sweat, thighs squeezed tight around his face, cunt fluttering around his fingers as you chase another high. He fucks you slow, then fast, teasing, twisting, making you beg, making you sob for more. “Say it again, baby,” he commands, mouth hot at your ear as he pulls you down, grinding you onto his tongue, “tell me who’s pussy this is. Tell me what you want.”

“Yours, yours, yours, Mark—please, please, want you to fuck me, want your cock again, want you everywhere, fill me up, ruin me, make it hurt, please—” The words spill out in a litany, half-cry, half-moan, every one of them making him groan, making him fuck you deeper, his hands bruising your hips as you bounce, clit throbbing, every inch of you vibrating with the need to come again. 

He grins up at you, filthy and proud, eyes shining. “Good girl. Want me to finger you while I eat you out? Want to come on my tongue while you look me in the eye?”

You barely manage a nod before he pushes two fingers in deep, curling them just right, tongue flicking your clit merciless, eyes locked to yours as you writhe above him, moaning, gasping, begging for release. The tension snaps, your body convulsing, cunt spasming around his fingers, soaking his face as you come hard, the orgasm ripping through you, leaving you trembling and weak. Mark moans, licking you clean, fucking you through every aftershock, refusing to let go, refusing to let the high end. “That’s it, that’s my girl—look how pretty you are, how wrecked you get for me. Let me taste all of it, let me drink it down.”

He finally lets you collapse against his chest, holding you close, one hand soothing up and down your spine, the other tangled in your hair. You’re both shaking, sweat and tears and cum slicking your thighs, breath mingling as you press kisses to his throat, jaw, lips—each one messier than the last. “You’re mine,” he whispers, voice choked, desperate, reverent. “Always mine. No one touches you like this, no one ever will.” You answer with your mouth, tongue plunging into his, your hips rolling against his thigh again, not able to stop yourself, not wanting to, addicted to the way he makes you feel.

Mark shifts beneath you, hard again, cock twitching, leaking pre-cum between your thighs. He grins, crooked, wild, pupils blown, all the softness twisted into hunger. “Greedy little thing, huh? Didn’t get enough the first time? Need more?” He grabs your hips, grinding you against him, making you feel every inch, every pulse. “You want to bounce for me again? Want to come on my cock until you’re begging me to stop?” You nod, breathless, ruined, ready for anything he gives. He pulls you up, positions you over him, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance, eyes holding yours, burning with love and lust and everything you’ll never need to ask for—because he’s already giving it, over and over, as many times as you want, as many times as you need.

When Mark guides you down, there’s no rush—just a quiet, shared breath as your hips sink into the cradle of his, his cock slipping inside you slow and steady, letting your bodies meet with all the patience neither of you ever get from the world. The stretch is familiar, not urgent; it’s a filling you’ve known a thousand times, but it never stops being new. His hands rest on your hips, not gripping, just warming your skin, thumbs painting lazy circles over bone and softness. He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the universe worth seeing, eyes gentle, a little glassy, his mouth parted and waiting for you to come to him.

You settle over him, rolling your hips in a slow, searching rhythm, chasing sensation but never hurrying it. Every slide is accompanied by a sigh, a whispered “good, so good, you’re perfect” from Mark, and you shiver with tenderness, hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingers curling in the faded cotton of his t-shirt. You move together with the easy grace of muscle memory—like dancing, like breathing, like the oldest story you’ve ever written together. He strokes your back, your arms, your thighs, caressing you as if memorizing every inch, grounding you in touch, in safety. When you start to tremble, he hushes you, murmurs sweet, secret things into the hollow of your throat: “I’ve got you, always. You can let go here.”

You lean down to kiss him, lips soft and plush, noses bumping, both of you smiling into it even as you start to moan. His mouth opens for you, tongue sliding gentle against yours, no teeth, no rush—just warmth, just home. You taste tears, both yours and his, and neither of you flinch from the salt. When you break the kiss, you press your forehead to his, your bodies moving in slow, rolling waves. The room is quiet, just the wet sound of your bodies, the creak of the bed, the stutter of your breaths tangled together. He cups your cheek, brushes his thumb under your eye, wipes away the last remnants of tonight’s pain, replacing it with the weight of his love.

He whispers every truth you need to hear, voice ragged with feeling, velvet and breaking: “You’re my favorite. My best thing. I’ll never get tired of you, not ever. You’re the reason I believe in good things.” His hands wander—tucking your hair behind your ear, smoothing the arch of your back, resting over your heart to feel it thump. You’re moving slow, hips grinding down so his cock drags along every sweet spot inside you, your clit rubbing perfectly against his pelvis. There’s nothing rough here, just the shared ache to be close, to give and be given, to be seen, to be known. Every time you gasp his name, it sounds like a prayer.

Mark presses kisses to your collarbone, to your shoulder, up the long line of your neck, breathing you in like he needs it to survive. His hands never stop moving—down your sides, up your waist, tracing every old scar and new bruise with a reverence that almost makes you cry. “So beautiful,” he sighs, voice slurred with love, and you can feel him shaking beneath you, holding back, lost in the wonder of you. When you slow, grinding down with your walls fluttering, his arms wrap around your back, pulling you to his chest so you can bury your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him, rocking together in small, slow motions that make the whole world disappear.

You start to unravel, pleasure building slow and deep, every little friction a spark, every whispered word a balm. “Come for me, sweetheart,” Mark urges softly, thumb stroking your cheek, kissing your closed eyelids as your hips start to stutter. “Let go, I’ve got you. I’ll hold you together.” The orgasm creeps up, gentle but overwhelming, warmth spreading through your belly, stealing your breath, making you gasp and cling tighter, crying out his name as your body pulses around him, every muscle melting. He follows, shuddering, breath stuttering against your shoulder, cock pulsing deep inside, holding you so close you could almost swear you hear his heartbeat inside your own chest. After, you don’t move. You stay wrapped around each other, skin pressed tight, limbs tangled, chests rising and falling in sync. Mark strokes your hair, kisses your jaw, rubs your back slow and patient, humming the song you love under his breath. The room is dark, safe, your bodies glowing with afterglow and the simple, fragile wonder of being wanted—of being chosen, every part of you, again and again, in the soft, golden hush where you both finally belong.

Mark doesn’t let you go, not even when your bodies start to settle and your breaths fall quiet, content to just exist in each other’s arms. His hand slides up your thigh, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft skin, his eyes still fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize you in the half-dark. He shifts you gently, turning your bodies with a practiced, loving patience, rolling you onto your back so he can drape himself over you, cocooning you beneath his weight. There’s nothing hurried—just the slow press of his chest against yours, the heat of his cock nestled between your thighs, the soft sound of his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. He kisses you everywhere but your mouth, as if saving the best for last.

He enters you again, slow and careful, never breaking eye contact, his cock pushing deep inch by inch until you’re full, breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. Mark hooks his arms under your knees, angling your hips just right, spreading you wide, but every movement is reverent, tender—his thumbs drawing slow circles on the backs of your thighs, his lips never far from your skin. He starts to move in long, lazy strokes, hips rolling against yours, cock dragging against every sensitive place inside you, making you gasp and arch and shiver beneath him. He whispers your name with every thrust, a mantra, a worship, something holy spun into the dark.

Between each movement he pauses, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, brushing your hair back, kissing your eyelids, breathing you in. His hands cradle your face, fingertips stroking your jaw, and he murmurs little confessions—how good you feel, how beautiful you look, how he wants to spend the rest of his life learning every secret your body holds. The room is filled with your soft noises: the hitch in your breath when he pushes deeper, the shaky “I love you” you whisper back, the shuddering moans you can’t hold in as his rhythm starts to stutter, each slow thrust drawing you closer and closer to unraveling. Mark’s hips never slam, never lose that soft rolling tempo—he’s making love to you like there’s all the time in the world, like you’re the only two people left alive.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, heels digging into his lower back, grounding him to you. Your bodies rock together in the oldest rhythm, slow and deep, every inch of skin slick and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your trembling lips. He tells you you’re perfect, that you’re safe, that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here, inside you, loving you soft and open and real. You whisper back, tell him he’s home, that he’s your favorite, your best thing, your only thing. Every time you moan his name, he answers with a kiss, with a squeeze, with another lazy, delicious thrust.

As the night bleeds on, he makes you come slow, again and again, never rushing, never letting the moment slip away. He draws it out—his cock dragging in and out, fingers finding your clit, his words spilling like honey in your ear, keeping you on the edge until you’re crying with the sweetness of it, the intimacy, the love that fills every space between your bones. When you fall apart for him, it’s soft and loud all at once, your whole body trembling as he holds you, murmurs “that’s it, let go, I’ve got you,” kissing away every tear, rocking you through every aftershock.

He doesn’t leave you empty. Mark stays inside, hips pressed tight to yours, chest heavy over your heart, mouth pressed to your hairline, humming your favorite song. You fall asleep that way—tangled up, him buried deep, his hands stroking your sides, your bodies sticky and spent and glowing in the hush. When you wake, it’s to the slow drag of his hips and the sweet, aching stretch of him moving inside you again, his voice low and thick with love, promising you a hundred more mornings just like this, a thousand more nights where it’s only you, only him, and the world outside fading into nothing at all.

Mark doesn’t let you go, not even when your bodies start to settle and your breaths fall quiet, content to just exist in each other’s arms. His hand slides up your thigh, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft skin, his eyes still fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize you in the half-dark. He shifts you gently, turning your bodies with a practiced, loving patience, rolling you onto your back so he can drape himself over you, cocooning you beneath his weight. There’s nothing hurried—just the slow press of his chest against yours, the heat of his cock nestled between your thighs, the soft sound of his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. He kisses you everywhere but your mouth, as if saving the best for last.

He enters you again, slow and careful, never breaking eye contact, his cock pushing deep inch by inch until you’re full, breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. Mark hooks his arms under your knees, angling your hips just right, spreading you wide, but every movement is reverent, tender—his thumbs drawing slow circles on the backs of your thighs, his lips never far from your skin. He starts to move in long, lazy strokes, hips rolling against yours, cock dragging against every sensitive place inside you, making you gasp and arch and shiver beneath him. He whispers your name with every thrust, a mantra, a worship, something holy spun into the dark.

Between each movement he pauses, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, brushing your hair back, kissing your eyelids, breathing you in. His hands cradle your face, fingertips stroking your jaw, and he murmurs little confessions—how good you feel, how beautiful you look, how he wants to spend the rest of his life learning every secret your body holds. The room is filled with your soft noises: the hitch in your breath when he pushes deeper, the shaky “I love you” you whisper back, the shuddering moans you can’t hold in as his rhythm starts to stutter, each slow thrust drawing you closer and closer to unraveling. Mark’s hips never slam, never lose that soft rolling tempo—he’s making love to you like there’s all the time in the world, like you’re the only two people left alive.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, heels digging into his lower back, grounding him to you. Your bodies rock together in the oldest rhythm, slow and deep, every inch of skin slick and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your trembling lips. He tells you you’re perfect, that you’re safe, that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here, inside you, loving you soft and open and real. You whisper back, tell him he’s home, that he’s your favorite, your best thing, your only thing. Every time you moan his name, he answers with a kiss, with a squeeze, with another lazy, delicious thrust.

As the night bleeds on, he makes you come slow, again and again, never rushing, never letting the moment slip away. He draws it out—his cock dragging in and out, fingers finding your clit, his words spilling like honey in your ear, keeping you on the edge until you’re crying with the sweetness of it, the intimacy, the love that fills every space between your bones. When you fall apart for him, it’s soft and loud all at once, your whole body trembling as he holds you, murmurs “that’s it, let go, I’ve got you,” kissing away every tear, rocking you through every aftershock.

Mark folds his body over yours, the shift slow and hushed, the mattress sighing beneath the new weight, and you feel every inch of him settle like warm silk against your skin, a curtain of safety drawn around the night, his lips meeting your brow in a kiss that tastes of rainwater and promises that never rust, and for a moment you swear the room has no walls at all, only the breath of his devotion circling you, holding back every sorrow the world once pressed into your shoulders. His palm glides from the hollow of your throat to the soft underside of your thigh, lifting until your bodies open to each other with the reverence of a blossom at dawn, and he sinks inside with a patience wide as the ocean, inch by inch, filling every empty space as if sculpting new constellations under your ribs. He stays buried deep, forehead resting to yours, hearts hammering together in a shared drum, and you feel the evening inhale through the open window, the curtain billowing like a tide, carrying away the last shadow of hurt that clung to you when the door closed behind Jay earlier. Two hearts beat, two lungs breathe, two mouths search, and the silence between pulses feels holy.

Each slow thrust turns into a tide rolling over sand, smoothing every sharp edge the day carved into you, and you rise to meet him with matching softness, hips canting in a rhythm stitched from memory and wonder, your fingers weaving through his hair where curls spring loose like vines reaching for light, and he murmurs your name with each glide deeper, voice velvet and raw, a psalm for two. The lamp on the dresser casts a warm ellipse across his shoulders, revealing the shadows of freckles and half-healed bruises left by earlier hunger, and you map them with your lips, sealing every dark mark with a kiss that promises gentleness, while his thumb sweeps the curve of your cheekbone as though outlining a secret script only his pulse can read. He whispers you are safe, you are wanted, you are cherished, repeating the words until they seep into marrow, and with every breath you offer him your trust the way petals offer dawn, aching wide for warmth and color. Your bodies sway together, slow arcs, until the hush inside the room grows louder than any storm you have known.

When he moves faster it feels like a sunrise cresting the horizon rather than a blaze, gold pouring through unseen cracks and pooling beneath your ribs, filling you with gentle light, and your tears return, only these carry sweetness instead of salt, glimmering against your temples before slipping to his lips where he kisses each one away, drinking them like sacred wine. You whisper you love him in a voice small yet steady, the phrase that once floated casually through shared breakfast air now rooted deep as an ancient oak, and his reply sounds like soil and seed and future in full bloom, I love you, more than any morning, more than any sky, and the words thread through your pulse while his hips keep that slow tender rhythm, coaxing wave after wave of warmth through your belly until pleasure swells gentle and immense, an unfurling banner of soft fire behind your eyelids. You cling to him, nails grazing shoulders in silent applause, thighs trembling around his waist, and when climax washes over both of you it arrives like a slow-rolling thunder, low and resonant, leaving the air vibrating with quiet awe, bodies fused in a glow that feels unbreakable.

Afterward he never pulls away, his weight a quiet shield over your heart, breaths mingling as his fingertips sketch lazy spirals along your spine, and the outside world retreats to a distant hush while inside these four joined limbs the universe remakes itself calmer and brighter. You trade soft kisses that taste of sleep and spun sugar, the covers tucked around your sides like gentle tides, and you let your eyes drift closed to the sound of his hum, a lullaby older than memory, until dreams drift onto the shore carrying lanterns lit with his name, and the last thing you feel before slipping under is his thumb tracing the arc of your hip, sealing the night with a promise made of silken light and quiet infinity.

He doesn’t leave you empty. Mark stays inside, hips pressed tight to yours, chest heavy over your heart, mouth pressed to your hairline, humming your favorite song. You fall asleep that way—tangled up, him buried deep, his hands stroking your sides, your bodies sticky and spent and glowing in the hush. When you wake, it’s to the slow drag of his hips and the sweet, aching stretch of him moving inside you again, his voice low and thick with love, promising you a hundred more mornings just like this, a thousand more nights where it’s only you, only him, and the world outside fading into nothing at all. You drift in the hush that follows, your head cradled against Mark’s chest, his heartbeat slow and steady under your cheek. His arms never loosen, even as your breathing evens out and your lashes grow heavy, the sweat drying on your skin where his body warms every shivering inch of you. He tucks the blankets up around your shoulders, fingers sliding through your hair, thumb smoothing across your brow with a tenderness that feels older than language. He kisses your temple, barely a whisper of contact, but it glows through you like a fuse catching light. You melt into the bed, boneless and warm, body marked inside and out with the memory of him.

The room is thick with quiet and heartbeats and the spent hush of night after a storm. Mark’s hand rests over your sternum, palm rising and falling with your breaths, as if anchoring you to the present, or to him. You find yourself tracing small circles on his ribs, the two of you still tangled, legs and arms and the faint press of his chest hair beneath your fingertips, and it feels too intimate to be anything less than forever—but neither of you speak, both hovering at the edge of a truth that feels too new and too old at once. Your eyes close, a soft sigh slipping from your lips, and the world contracts to the space between your heart and his. You don’t say anything about how different it feels, about the way every slow thrust, every whispered promise, every sobbed I love you has rewired something permanent between you. You don’t dare name it, not tonight, not yet. But as you fall asleep with his hand still holding your heart steady and his body molded to yours in the dark, you know with a certainty that burrows deep and quiet: nothing about you and Mark will ever be the same again. Tomorrow, the world will shift on its axis. But for now, in this quiet cocoon of tenderness and heat, you let yourself rest, not knowing what’s changed, only that everything has.

You wake alone, sunlight slicing across the tangled sheets, the faint warmth of where Mark’s body should be already fading from the mattress beside you. The apartment is too still, the air holding its breath, no gentle snore or lazy arm thrown over your waist, no sleep-drunk smile pressed into your shoulder. Your heart gives a slow, uncertain twist, this isn’t how it goes, not ever. Mark always stays until the last possible second, always needs to be woken with your fingers tracing his ribs or your lips against his jaw, always rolls over with a muttered “five more minutes, baby” and holds you tighter, refusing to let you go. Today, you only have cold sheets and a pillow that still smells like his cologne, a ghost of last night clinging to the fabric.

You shuffle out to the kitchen, still wearing his old shirt, bare legs chilly against the floor, hoping to find some sign that the intimacy of last night wasn’t just a fever dream. But Mark’s already dressed, standing at the counter in his hoodie, head bent over a mug he rinses with mechanical precision. His movements are sharp, practiced, every edge drawn tighter than usual, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact. He doesn’t look at you when you enter, doesn’t call you “trouble,” doesn’t offer that lazy smile you love, just keeps his eyes on the swirl of black coffee in the press. “Morning,” he mutters, and that’s all. You hover, aching for him to turn, to pull you in by the waist and kiss your temple, to ask if you slept okay, but he just pours a cup for himself, leaves yours untouched on the shelf. There’s no note on the napkin, no inside joke, no warmth in the simple routines that have always been yours.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, watching him as he stirs sugar into his coffee. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask about your plans, doesn’t tease you for your messy hair or the way his shirt hangs off your shoulder. The silence grows heavy, the kind that drowns conversation before it’s born, and when you finally risk a gentle, “Did you sleep okay?” 

His response is little more than a shrug, eyes still glued to the mug. “Yeah. Fine. Hope you got some rest.” He glances at you once, fleeting and unreadable, before his gaze drops to his phone, thumb moving across the screen like you’re not even there. You want to reach for him, to close the distance, to say last night changed everything, but the words won’t come. It feels like talking to a stranger who wears your lover’s skin.

He sits at the table, scrolling through notifications, answering texts, never looking up, never reaching for your hand beneath the battered wood the way he always does. Every movement is careful, contained, like he’s built a wall in the night and you’re still outside, shivering. Even the sun seems sharper, more indifferent. When his alarm buzzes, he stands abruptly, drains the last of his coffee, and slings his bag over his shoulder. There’s a beat where you think he might stop—might cross the kitchen, gather you close, whisper something only for you—but he just slips on his shoes, fingers fumbling with the laces, his mouth a flat line. “Got class,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” No kiss, no “love you,” not even the habitual tug of your hair before he leaves.

The door clicks shut, the sound too soft, almost apologetic, and you’re left standing in the kitchen, clutching his shirt to your chest, every part of you ringing with the ache of what’s gone missing. Last night’s tenderness is still on your skin, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his whispered I love yous—now so distant you wonder if you dreamed it. The kitchen feels colder, the world newly unfamiliar. You sink into the nearest chair, press your fingertips to your lips as if you can hold in the shape of his kisses, and try to remember what it was like before everything changed. You stare at the closed door and realize you have no idea when—if—he’ll walk back through it the same as he was.

It’s been weeks. The seasons have changed, trees shedding gold at the curbs, but you and Mark have become strangers inside the apartment you once treated like your shared skin. He’s barely home—leaves early, comes back late, never brings you coffee, never collapses beside you with laughter still clinging to his collar. He’s always somewhere: the library, the courts, the party circuits, always with a different girl in tow. You’ve seen the stories on friends’ feeds, Mark pressed close to someone else, lips half-hidden by her hair, hands on hips, faces blurred in the strobe and sweat. You pretend it doesn’t cut, but it does. You both orbit the same social spaces, but where you used to gravitate together—tangled on some couch, legs thrown over his lap, the inside joke always ready—now there’s only the brittle clatter of small talk if you pass in the kitchen, the cold hush when he comes home and leaves again without looking up.

The silence is worst at night, when your room feels cavernous, sheets too smooth, the air carrying nothing but the faint echo of his laughter from down the hall. When you see him, he’s different—sharper, harder around the eyes, smirking too wide, flirting with anyone who’ll bite. You’ve tried to fill the space with other people: dates who feel more like distractions, long walks with boys who say the right things but touch you wrong, dinners that end in awkward hugs at your door. None of them fit. You lie to yourself, say it’s freedom, say you’re over it, but every time you open your phone and see his name, your chest knots up and the ache returns, raw and endless.

It all comes out over takeout one night, the carton half-empty in your lap, your face buried in Chaewon’s shoulder. She’s always been gossip central, the first to know who’s fucking who, who cheated, who got dumped, who’s lying about being over someone. Tonight she just lets you cry, stroking your hair, murmuring little comforts—“He’s an idiot, you’re better off, you deserve so much more, babe”—until the sobs fade to sniffles and you can finally talk. You tell her you miss him more than anything, that you feel like you’ve lost your best friend and your world at once, that you’d trade every kiss with every stranger just to get back the sound of his voice in the middle of the night.

After a while, Chaewon sighs, pulling you upright, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Listen,” she says, her tone shifting from gentle to sharp, “word on the street is that Mark admitted to Jeno he’s, like, actually in love with you. Not just in-love, like wrecked over you. Like, all his friends know it. Even Jeno told Haechan and now everyone’s side-eyeing him when he walks into a room. The thing is—” She twirls a chopstick between her fingers, lips twisting. “—that’s exactly why he’s keeping away. He told Jeno he doesn’t know how to act around you now, like he’s scared if he’s close he’ll fuck it up or make things worse. You know how he is—doesn’t trust himself, hates losing control, especially with you. So he’s…what do guys do? He’s running. He’s fucking around, acting like it’s nothing, because if he lets himself feel it, he thinks it’ll ruin everything you have left. That’s how his brain works. He thinks loving you means letting you go. Classic Mark Lee logic. Absolute idiot.”

Her words slice through the haze, and you realize this mess—this constant blur, this never-defining, never-settling—is the only way you’ve ever known each other. You think about every night you watched him slip out to hook up with someone else, every morning you curled up in his bed and pretended not to care, every time you both went on dates just to avoid the way you looked at each other in the dark. Maybe you thought this loose, confusing dance was freedom. Maybe it was just fear, the slow decay of not daring to say what you wanted, the thousand half-truths you told yourself because you couldn’t bear to break what little you had.

Chaewon watches you, waiting for it to sink in, then nudges your knee. “So. Here’s what I think: you need to stop waiting for him to figure it out. He’s an idiot but he loves you, and he’s scared shitless. But you’re both just as miserable now, so what’s the point in pretending? Just go to him. Tell him the truth. Make him listen. Don’t let fear decide what happens to you. If you want him, fight for it. Someone has to go first. Why not you?” She smiles, a little sad, a little wise. “Besides, babe, you’ve spent too long missing each other. It’s time you let yourselves have something real.”

It’s been weeks. The seasons have changed, trees shedding gold at the curbs, but you and Mark have become strangers inside the apartment you once treated like your shared skin. He’s barely home, leaves early, comes back late, never brings you coffee, never collapses beside you with laughter still clinging to his collar. He’s always somewhere: the library, the courts, the party circuits, always with a different girl in tow. You’ve seen the stories on friends’ feeds, Mark pressed close to someone else, lips half-hidden by her hair, hands on hips, faces blurred in the strobe and sweat. You pretend it doesn’t cut, but it does. You both orbit the same social spaces, but where you used to gravitate together, tangled on some couch, legs thrown over his lap, the inside joke always ready, now there’s only the brittle clatter of small talk if you pass in the kitchen, the cold hush when he comes home and leaves again without looking up.

The silence is worst at night, when your room feels cavernous, sheets too smooth, the air carrying nothing but the faint echo of his laughter from down the hall. When you see him, he’s different—sharper, harder around the eyes, smirking too wide, flirting with anyone who’ll bite. You’ve tried to fill the space with other people: dates who feel more like distractions, long walks with boys who say the right things but touch you wrong, dinners that end in awkward hugs at your door. None of them fit. You lie to yourself, say it’s freedom, say you’re over it, but every time you open your phone and see his name, your chest knots up and the ache returns, raw and endless.

It all comes out over takeout one night, the carton half-empty in your lap, your face buried in Chaewon’s shoulder. She’s always been gossip central, the first to know who’s fucking who, who cheated, who got dumped, who’s lying about being over someone. Tonight she just lets you cry, stroking your hair, murmuring little comforts—“He’s an idiot, you’re better off, you deserve so much more, babe”—until the sobs fade to sniffles and you can finally talk. You tell her you miss him more than anything, that you feel like you’ve lost your best friend and your world at once, that you’d trade every kiss with every stranger just to get back the sound of his voice in the middle of the night.

After a while, Chaewon sighs, pulling you upright, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Listen,” she says, her tone shifting from gentle to sharp, “word on the street is that Mark admitted to Jeno he’s, like, actually in love with you. Not just in-love, like wrecked over you. Like, all his friends know it. Even Jeno told Donnghyuck and now everyone’s side-eyeing him when he walks into a room. The thing is—” She twirls a chopstick between her fingers, lips twisting. “—that’s exactly why he’s keeping away. He told Jeno he doesn’t know how to act around you now, like he’s scared if he’s close he’ll fuck it up or make things worse. You know how he is, doesn’t trust himself, hates losing control, especially with you. So he’s…what do guys do? He’s running. He’s fucking around, acting like it’s nothing, because if he lets himself feel it, he thinks it’ll ruin everything you have left. That’s how his brain works. He thinks loving you means letting you go. Classic Mark Lee logic. Absolute idiot.”

Her words slice through the haze, and you realize this mess,this constant blur, this never-defining, never-settling, is the only way you’ve ever known each other. You think about every night you watched him slip out to hook up with someone else, every morning you curled up in his bed and pretended not to care, every time you both went on dates just to avoid the way you looked at each other in the dark. Maybe you thought this loose, confusing dance was freedom. Maybe it was just fear, the slow decay of not daring to say what you wanted, the thousand half-truths you told yourself because you couldn’t bear to break what little you had.

Chaewon watches you, waiting for it to sink in, then nudges your knee. “So. Here’s what I think: you need to stop waiting for him to figure it out. He’s an idiot but he loves you, and he’s scared shitless. But you’re both just as miserable now, so what’s the point in pretending? Just go to him. Tell him the truth. Make him listen. Don’t let fear decide what happens to you. If you want him, fight for it. Someone has to go first. Why not you?” She smiles, a little sad, a little wise. “Besides, babe, you’ve spent too long missing each other. It’s time you let yourselves have something real.”

You nod, still blinking away the sting of Chaewon’s advice, half terrified she’s right, half wishing it were that simple. But before the ache can settle too deep, she straightens, a wicked spark flickering in her eyes. “Okay, then. Time to put your money where your heartbreak is, babe. There’s a party at Jeno’s this weekend, he’s calling it, get this, ‘the Fall of the House of Lee’ because he thinks it’ll be so wild someone’s gonna end up crying on the roof or falling in love in the kitchen.” She cackles, nudging you again. “He said he’s even bought fairy lights, disposable cameras, and a fog machine. Full main character moment.”

You laugh, in spite of yourself, but she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Listen, Winter’s already been telling everyone that Mark’s taking her, that it’s basically a done deal and they’re the new campus power couple. You really want her running her mouth all over group chat tomorrow? Babe, you’re gonna walk in with someone else, make him squirm. Make him remember exactly who he’s losing.” She taps her phone against her chin, eyebrows wiggling. “So. Prospects. Let’s see… Jaemin? No, too pretty—he’d steal your thunder and probably try to make out with Jeno by midnight. Renjun? Absolutely not, you’ll both end up psychoanalyzing each other in the bathroom by 10 p.m. Donghyuck? Hah! You’d end up co-hosting karaoke and spilling all your secrets, plus he’s still banned from Jeno’s after the glitter bomb incident. Chenle? Please. You’d have to sign a waiver and split the tequila bill.”

You start to laugh harder, and Chaewon grins, triumphant. “That leaves us with the obvious. Jeno. He’s hot, he’s safe, he’s never minded playing boyfriend for a night, and you know he’ll hype you up so good Winter will pop a blood vessel. Plus, Mark has always, always had a weird thing about you and Jeno. You know he’ll notice.” She squeezes your hand, the plan already taking shape. “So that’s it. You’re going to walk in on Jeno’s arm, all legs and lipstick, looking like you’re the one having the night of your life—and you’re going to let Mark see every second of it.” She leans in, eyes glinting with mischief and something close to hope. “Trust me, babe. Sometimes you have to start the fire yourself and watch who runs through it for you.”

When the weekend finally hits, the air’s electric—Chaewon’s already on your bed before sunset, a tornado of silk scarves and lip gloss and scattered jewelry. She raids your closet with merciless glee, tossing out anything even remotely demure, crowing with triumph when she unearths the slinky black dress you only ever wear when you want to feel like chaos bottled in velvet. “This one,” she declares, pressing it against your frame, the hem barely grazing your thighs, neckline plunging, every curve on unapologetic display. She drapes it over a chair and sets her sights on you—“Tonight’s for revenge, baby, not for comfort.”

She props you up on the stool, dusts shimmer along your cheekbones, blends gold into your eyelids until you look like you’re glowing from inside out. Her fingers work deftly, threading your hair into loose, glossy waves, letting a few strands tumble artfully around your shoulders. You watch her in the mirror, her reflection grinning back, eyes gleaming. “No bra. Trust me. If he’s gonna stare, give him a reason.” The fabric skims your skin, clings to your hips, the side slit flashing smooth thigh with every step. She drapes a delicate gold chain around your neck, slides thin bangles onto your wrist, fastens hoops through your ears, every detail curated to make you look expensive, dangerous, absolutely untouchable.

You tilt your head, studying the final result: lips lacquered in wine-dark red, hair soft and wild, bare skin gleaming under the low light. Your perfume is the last touch, spicy and heady, dabbed at your throat and wrists until you can feel the pulse of your own want. Chaewon stands back, hands on her hips, admiring her work. “He won’t know what hit him,” she says, voice wicked. “Nobody will.” You laugh, nerves twisted up with something giddy and mean. For the first time in weeks, you feel powerful—predatory, a little cruel, the kind of girl who walks into a room and rewrites the story. By the time you slip into your heels and zip your dress, you’re grinning at your reflection, ready to burn the night down and let everyone—especially Mark—watch you glow.

You arrive with her at your side, arm in arm, laughter bubbling nervously and wild. Jeno greets you at the door with his usual bear hug, swinging you off your feet. “If it isn’t heartbreak herself,” he teases, ruffling your hair, “and Chaewon, my second favorite bad influence. You two plan on breaking anyone’s heart tonight, or just each other’s records for shots?” 

Jaemin’s there too, leaning against the kitchen counter, eyebrows waggling as he catches sight of you. “Who let you get this hot? Jeno, I told you to set a dress code, this is indecent—what if Mark’s delicate sensibilities can’t take it?” 

Donghyuck snickers, tossing you a lemon wedge. “You could wear a trash bag and he’d still combust. Not that I’m complaining.

Everyone’s in rare form tonight, the kind of party where the air’s thick with heat and risk and everything feels spun just a little too tight. Jeno’s living room is a glowing maze of bodies, Jaemin has commandeered the kitchen counter, charming his way into someone’s phone, Donghyuck and Renjun have staged a mock rap battle on top of the coffee table, making the crowd shriek and howl with every savage rhyme. The karaoke mic keeps cutting in and out, but nobody cares, someone’s always belting into it, half the party on their feet, the rest pressed close in little clusters, limbs entwined, voices lost in the music and the press of skin.

Chaewon is a vision in silver, already holding court by the hallway mirror, arms tangled with friends new and old, but she never lets you stray too far. You catch her gaze across the room—she winks, raises her glass, and mouths, don’t you dare stop now. Jeno materialises at your side, all effortless charm and mischief, leaning in until his lips brush your ear. “Chaewon’s told me what the plan is gonna be. Tonight, we’re raising hell. Let’s make him beg.” His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and you squeeze back, grinning as he spins you straight onto the dance floor.

The music thunders, heavy and sensual, lights flickering gold and scarlet, and you let Jeno pull you close, one hand at your hip, the other guiding your wrist, both of you moving slow at first, bodies pressed chest to chest. He dips you low, makes you laugh, spins you wild until you’re dizzy and sparkling, the world a blur except for his smile and your own reflection in his dark, dancing eyes. When the beat shifts, he pulls you in tight, your back to his chest, his hands splayed wide over your hips as you roll together, letting every curve and sway broadcast exactly how good it feels to be wanted, to be watched.

Drinks appear, cold and fizzing, and you clink glasses, laughing against his shoulder. You toss your head back, arch into him, letting his hands trace your sides, the dress riding high, your skin hot where his palms press possessive. Jeno’s voice is warm in your ear: “He’s watching, babe. He hasn’t looked away once.” Chaewon howls from the sofa, egging you on, and you drop into his lap, straddling him right there on the couch, hands sliding into his hair, lips finding his in a show-stopping kiss—hot, deep, slow, tongue tangled, your body moving against him in time with the bass, both of you unbothered by the roar of the party around you.

You break away, panting, one hand cupping his jaw, the other gripping his thigh. Jeno’s eyes are bright, laughter and adrenaline mixing as he squeezes your waist, grinding you down just enough to make your skirt ride even higher. You feel the eyes on you, the energy shifting, the music drowning out everything but the heat between you and the promise of chaos in every touch. For the first time all night, you let yourself feel wild, and alive, and absolutely untouchable, knowing full well that across the room, Mark’s hands have gone slack on Winter’s hips, and there’s fire in his eyes that’s only for you.

Mark and Winter are sprawled across the couch directly opposite, the two of them a tableau of manufactured ease, her dress hiked high over tanned thighs, one heel digging into the cushion, her body twisted half into his lap. She laughs too loud at something he hasn’t said, lipstick smeared messily across his jaw as she clings to him, running painted nails through his hair with the sort of entitlement that makes your skin crawl. But Mark’s only going through the motions, barely even touching her, his arm flung along the back of the couch, bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. His face is angled toward Winter, but his gaze never stops roaming, drifting past her shoulder, sweeping the crowd until his eyes lock on you, over and over, never subtle, burning holes through the haze and noise.

You catch the heat of his stare as you lean in closer to Jeno, the two of you performing for the whole room, your laughter ringing out, nails tracing lazy circles on Jeno’s chest. Jeno plays along with relish, hand splayed wide on your thigh, voice dropping to a murmur meant for Mark’s ears as much as yours. “He’s dying over there, you know. Can’t take his fucking eyes off you.” You glance back, meeting Mark’s glare dead-on, lips parting just enough for him to see your tongue dart out, glossy and wet, before you press your mouth to Jeno’s jaw, letting him tug you fully onto his lap.

Winter, sensing the shift, winds herself tighter around Mark, grinding into him with an exaggerated roll of her hips, breathless and brazen, but it only makes him stiffer, his fingers digging so hard into the leather you wonder if he’ll snap it in half. Every time you giggle for Jeno, Mark’s grip tightens; when you grind down, his jaw clenches, something ugly and wild flickering behind his eyes. Even Winter starts to falter, her laughter brittle, eyes darting between the two of you, her voice growing shrill. She leans in, mouthing something hot and dirty in Mark’s ear, but he just nods, gaze trained over her shoulder, watching the way you arch for Jeno, how your thighs bracket his, your hand tugging Jeno’s shirt open at the collar, the whole thing a dance you both know is for him.

You stretch your legs across Jeno’s lap, arching your back, laughter rising as Jeno whispers something wicked, fingers skimming the bare skin above your knee. You don’t miss the way Mark’s nostrils flare, the way he shifts under Winter, his own hips jerking almost involuntarily. Jeno grins, voice hot in your ear: “If looks could kill, he’d be dragging me out by the throat right now. You want to really break him?” His hands slip to your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. “Just say the word.” The tension in the room builds—thick, stifling, sexual in a way that leaves every inch of you buzzing, the crowd around you oblivious to the storm brewing between your couch and his. Winter grabs Mark’s face, pulls him in for a messy, desperate kiss, smearing her lipstick in a line across his cheek, but he barely responds, his eyes wide open, locked on you, like he’s daring you to stop, to come claim him, to end the game before it spirals past the point of no return.

Chaewon catches your eye from across the room, nods once, all teeth and knowing wickedness. “Ready?” she mouths, and you hold Mark’s gaze, something like a challenge written in every line of your body, heart hammering in your chest as you nod back. The room spins, time hanging suspended on the cusp of something dangerous, and you know—whatever happens next, there’s no turning back. Not tonight. Not for either of you.

The music dips, bassline giving way to a slow, dirty beat—something older, heavier, the kind of song that seeps into your bones and makes everyone move closer. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress hitching higher as Jeno keeps you tight against him, hands gripping your thighs as you grind in his lap, the old sofa creaking beneath you. The lights have softened, gold and violet spilling across tangled limbs, the crowd thinning as people drift to the kitchen or the balcony for air, but you stay, refusing to break the spell, refusing to look away from Mark, who sits opposite with Winter splayed across him like a threat he never asked for.

Chaewon starts a truth-or-dare in the corner, cackling as Jaemin kisses someone upside-down, but you and Jeno spin in your own orbit, laughter and showy flirtation pulling a small audience. Mark’s knuckles have gone white, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle ticking as he watches, not even bothering to hide it anymore. Every time you throw your head back and laugh at something Jeno says, Mark’s stare burns through you, fingers digging into the couch, his chest rising and falling too fast. Jeno leans up, warm breath against your ear, voice low and playful: “He’s dying, you know. If he doesn’t do something soon, I really am going to take you home.”

You grin, emboldened, and let your hand slide up Jeno’s thigh, close enough that Mark sees everything. You nuzzle into Jeno’s neck, mouth open against his skin, moaning just loud enough for the people nearby to catch, and Mark—across the room—looks seconds from snapping. Winter’s all over him, lips smearing fresh red over his jaw, but his body’s rigid, his hands just resting on her waist, the light in his eyes growing feral every time your laughter cracks the air. Finally, Mark grabs Winter’s wrist, gentle but firm, says something low and final, and she yanks away, glowering, stalking off through the crowd with her pride in tatters.

Now Mark is alone on the couch, eyes locked to yours, and the whole party seems to press in around the two of you. Jeno smirks, nudges you off his lap, and with a quick stretch, he disappears into the crowd, catching Chaewon’s eye and giving her a little wink. She lifts her drink in a silent toast, her grin wide and satisfied. You sit there, heart pounding, adrenaline washing through you, not sure if you’re the hunter or the hunted anymore. Mark stands slowly, draining his glass, the buzz of the room warping and dulling as he closes the space between you. Every step is careful, his expression unreadable, until he’s there—right in front of you, so close you can smell the whiskey and something sharp and familiar. He kneels down, hands landing on your knees, fingers tracing circles over your skin.

Mark leans in, crowd blurring into a wall of noise, every nerve in your body sharp and exposed under his stare. His hands rest on your knees, and for a second you think he’s going to pull you in, but there’s too much distance in his eyes—something shuttered and dark, lips pressed into a hard line. You wait for him to say something soft, to apologize, to laugh the way he always does when things get tense, but all you get is silence and the furious pulse of your own heart. “You done playing?” he says, voice low but brittle, barely holding steady. “You get what you wanted out of Jeno, or do you want another round?” His thumb skims your bare skin, but there’s nothing gentle in the touch; it’s an accusation, every word sharp enough to cut.

You blink, disbelief rolling through you, the whole party vanishing from your mind. “Are you serious right now?” you shoot back, trying to keep your voice steady, refusing to let him see you flinch. “You’ve barely looked at me for weeks. You’ve been an asshole, Mark. Don’t act like this is on me. You ghosted me. You made me feel like shit, like none of it meant anything. Don’t fucking turn this around.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting the hem of your dress, pulse thumping everywhere you wish you could be numb. You lean back, meeting his eyes, voice trembling but relentless. “You don’t get to act like this is nothing, Mark. You hurt me. You really fucking hurt me. You just—left. You shut me out, you pretended you didn’t care, you let everyone think we were just friends again, like nothing happened between us. You went and hooked up with other people, you let Winter and a million of other bozo’s hang all over you, you stopped talking to me and just expected me to pretend it was fine. Do you know what that felt like? I was your best friend, Mark. You made me feel like I didn’t matter at all. Like none of it mattered.”

Your voice cracks, heat behind your eyes, but you don’t stop. “You didn’t even say anything. You just disappeared. You let me sit there, wondering what I did wrong, wondering why I wasn’t enough, why you couldn’t just talk to me. I missed you so much it made me sick. I still miss you, even now, and it’s fucking killing me to sit here and pretend that I’m okay. I needed you and you weren’t there, not even a little. I tried to move on because I had to—because I couldn’t stand the idea that you didn’t want me anymore, or that maybe you never did. So don’t you dare look at me like I’m the one who broke us. And you left after we made love, Mark—just slipped out like it didn’t mean anything, like I was just another girl you fucked at some party, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier in my life. I lay there in your bed, still smelling you on my skin, trying to convince myself it didn’t hurt, but it did. I felt empty and stupid, ashamed for wanting more, for thinking maybe you wanted me back. I just kept thinking, if you really cared, you’d have stayed—you’d have looked at me in the morning and made me feel safe. Instead, I woke up alone.”

He swallows, eyes shining, mouth open but no words at first—just the frantic rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand hovers over your thigh, needing permission to touch. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, voice raw and unsteady. “I’m so fucking sorry, I know I was awful. I didn’t want to hurt you, I just—I was scared. I was losing it, feeling everything get so fucking big, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Every time I looked at you, I wanted more. I wanted everything. And that scared the shit out of me. I thought if I kept my distance, if I acted like I didn’t care, maybe it would go away, maybe I could handle it. But I can’t. I couldn’t. You’re everywhere. You’re in everything I do. I didn’t talk to you because I didn’t know how to say any of this. I kept thinking I’d ruin us, that you’d leave if you really knew how much you mean to me. That you’d see how fucked up I am about you and run.”

Mark’s hand tightens around yours, thumb tracing desperate circles, his voice rough and ragged. “What I felt after that night scared me more than anything,” he admits, searching your face, shame flickering behind every word. “Making love to you—it wasn’t just sex, it was everything, it was all the shit I’ve been trying not to feel for years. I woke up and realized I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to ruin us—I thought if I stayed, if I let myself be close, I’d mess it up and lose you for good. I was terrified that I’d break what we had, that I’d be too much, that you’d wake up and see I was never enough for you. So I panicked. I thought maybe if I acted like it was nothing, if I kept my distance, we could keep our friendship, keep something, even if it meant losing the part of you I wanted most. I’m sorry I hurt you. I just—I didn’t know how to handle what I felt.”

Mark exhales, thumb brushing the tear tracks on your cheeks like he can erase them molecule by molecule, and when he speaks his voice trembles with the weight of every unsent text, every middle-of-the-night thought he tries to bury. “I woke up that morning, sunlight spilling over your back, and it hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe, how right it felt, how badly I wanted to wake up beside you a thousand more times. And I panicked, because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the only thing I’ve never wanted to risk. I lay there counting all the ridiculous little ways you already owned me: the extra blanket you leave folded on the couch because you know I run cold, the way you steal my hoodies but always wash them with that lavender detergent so they still smell like home, the playlist you made for my 3-a.m. study nights and updated every semester without telling me. I thought about freshman year when you dragged me to the ER at 2 a.m. because I’d sliced my hand cooking ramen, and you sat on the hospital floor making stupid puns to keep me from passing out. I thought about sophomore winter when you lost your voice for a week and still showed up to my recital with a sign that said you’re doing amazing, Mark,’ shaking it like a lunatic. Every single memory said the same thing: I love you.”

“And that terrified me. All my life, people leave when I get too intense, when the fun slips and the real stuff shows. I kept thinking if I stayed in that bed, if I let the morning happen, coffee with you in my shirt, your laugh in my kitchen, my heart on my sleeve, you’d see how deep it goes and decide it’s too much. So I did the only cowardly thing I know: I ran. I tried to file the night away under ‘good memories,’ like it was a photo I could tuck in a drawer and visit when it hurt less. But then I saw you in the kitchen that first morning after, trying to pretend you were fine while I pretended I didn’t notice the way your hands shook around your mug, and it wrecked me. Ghosting you was never about not caring; it was about caring so violently I didn’t know how to hold it without crushing it—or you. I thought space would protect us. Instead it hollowed me out. Every song on the radio was you, every stupid campus rumor about who you were dating felt like a blade. I’d walk past the laundry room and see my hoodie missing, and I’d have to bite my tongue to keep from begging you to come home.

“I love you,” he repeats, the words fragile and fierce all at once, “because you’re the pulse under every quiet moment of my day. Because even when I tried to forget you, everything I did was a map back to you. I love you for the way you correct people’s pronouns without making it a spectacle, for the way you hum off-key in the grocery store, for the way you mouth ‘you’ve got this’ before every exam even when you’re the one who studied all night. I love you when you’re brave and when you’re scared, when you’re gentle and when you’re spitting mad. I love you because you make me want to write better songs, be a better friend, take better care of myself, just so I can be worthy of standing next to you.” He cups the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and trembling. “So yeah, I left that morning, but every step away from you felt wrong. I’m done running. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every morning for the rest of my life proving I’m not going anywhere again.”

There’s a riot swelling behind you—Chaewon’s shriek, Jeno’s wolf-whistle, Jaemin’s howl, Donghyuck’s palms beating a slow, mocking clap that rolls through the room and ripples into a hundred shouts and laughter—but none of it touches you. You’re gone, lost in the heat and hunger of Mark’s mouth on yours, the taste of relief and apology and every unsaid word. His hands cradle your face, then drop to your hips, dragging you closer, crushing you into his chest until you feel your heart slamming against his, the world tilting on its axis. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he can’t believe you’re real, his lips bruising and soft, teeth biting, tongue sliding into your mouth and swallowing every protest. Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him down, grinding into his lap, letting yourself drown in the pressure of his hands, the way he groans when you roll your hips and press your body hard to his.

You’re half on his lap, breathless and dizzy, the room blurring into nothing but the urgent, frantic slide of mouths and hands. He breaks the kiss only long enough to rasp, “Come here,” and then he’s standing, hands gripping under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the crowd. The cheers fade, replaced by the thud of your pulse, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers twisted tight in the collar of his shirt. Mark shoulders through the hallway, head bent to yours, lips never far from your skin. He finds the nearest empty bathroom, fumbles the lock behind you, and sets you down on the counter—his hands greedy, his eyes wild, the taste of you still on his lips. For the first time in weeks, you’re both exactly where you belong, nothing between you but heat and want and every promise you couldn’t say until now.

Mark’s hands don’t waste a second, skimming up your thighs, rough and sure, hiking your dress over your hips with a greed that makes your breath catch, his knuckles scraping your skin. He nudges your knees wider, dropping to his knees in front of you right there on the counter, the door barely locked, your body trembling from the rush. He palms your thighs, spreads you so wide the cool tile bites at your skin, and dips his head between your legs like he’s been starved for years, tongue flat and hot and immediate, licking a stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste. “Fuck, you’re already soaked for me,” he mutters, lips sliding against you, voice guttural and low, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, refusing to let you squirm away.

You arch into him, moaning loud, the sound ricocheting off the tiled walls, your hands flying to his hair, tugging hard, but he only groans, tongue pushing deeper, lapping at your clit, circles slow then fast, relentless and hungry. “Open up for me,” he growls, “Let me see how much you missed me.” Your legs shake, thighs clamping around his head, but he just grins against your cunt, hands splayed possessive on your stomach, holding you still as he devours you, tongue fucking you, nose bumping your clit until you’re a mess, already dripping down his chin. He spits on you, rubs it in with two fingers, tongue flicking vicious and quick, making you gasp, begging, “Please, Mark, please—don’t stop, fuck, don’t you dare stop.”

He eats you like he’s drowning, like you’re the only air in the world. “Taste so fucking good, baby,” he pants, pulling back just enough to watch your slick pool, then leans in again, sucking your clit into his mouth, humming deep in his chest until you’re nearly sobbing. You grip the edge of the counter, back arching, one heel slipping, toes curling as you grind against his face, chasing every filthy, wet sound, lost in the feel of his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He fucks two fingers into you, crooking them just right, curling deep, fucking you open, stretching you out for his cock. “That’s it, take it, all of it—let me ruin you, let me make you come for me.”

Your orgasm hits fast and mean, pleasure flooding your veins, your thighs clamped so tight around his head he groans, nose buried in your cunt as you cry out, body shaking. He rides it out, keeps licking, doesn’t let up until you’re twitching and oversensitive, begging for mercy, tears slipping down your cheeks from how much you need him, how badly you’ve missed him. He finally pulls back, mouth glistening, licking his lips, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. “So fucking perfect, look at you, ruined just for me,” he whispers, voice raw, fingers still buried inside you, pressing against that spot until your whole body jerks with aftershocks.

He stands, kissing you hard, making you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning when you bite his lip, fingers fisted in his shirt. He grabs you by the waist, flips you around, bends you over the counter, your cheek pressed to the cool marble, ass bared to him, dress pushed up around your ribs. He drags his cock against your slick folds, teasing, rubbing the head through your mess, groaning at the heat, the slide. “Beg for it,” he murmurs, one hand gripping your hair, yanking your head up so you meet his eyes in the foggy mirror. “Tell me how much you want it.”

You whine, voice wrecked, desperate, “Please, Mark, I need you, fuck me, I need you inside me, want you to fill me up, want everyone to know I’m yours—please, don’t tease, just give it to me.” 

He laughs, mean and soft, lining himself up and slamming into you in one hard, smooth thrust, filling you so deep you cry out, clawing at the counter for purchase. “That’s it, baby, take it, take every inch, fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, so fucking wet for me,” he growls, hips snapping, his cock drilling into you over and over, the slap of skin echoing through the bathroom, filth pouring from his mouth as he ruts into you, unrelenting, desperate.

He grabs your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the pace brutal, your breath fogging the glass, your tits pressed flat to the marble, moans bouncing off the walls. “Look at yourself,” he pants, one hand gripping your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, making you stare at the reflection—your eyes wild, mouth open, cheeks streaked with tears and pleasure. ��See how pretty you look getting fucked stupid? See how much you love my cock?” He slaps your ass, watches the red bloom, then soothes the sting with his palm, bending over to mouth at your shoulder, biting down until you gasp, your body shuddering under him.

He slows just to torture you, rolling his hips, dragging his cock out until you whimper, then slamming back in, hard enough to make you scream. “Say it,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Say you’re mine. Say nobody else gets this, nobody else makes you come like this.” 

You sob it out, voice raw: “I’m yours, only yours, fuck, nobody else, please, Mark, harder, I need it, need you, want you to fill me up—” He groans, hips stuttering, hand moving from your throat to your clit, rubbing furious circles, pushing you right to the edge. “Come for me again,” he pants, “Want to feel you squeeze me, want you to milk my cock while I fill you up.”

Your orgasm rips through you, every muscle locked, cunt spasming around him as you scream his name, stars bursting behind your eyes, whole body shaking. He follows, cock throbbing, slamming deep, hips jerking as he spills inside you, flooding you, holding you down so you can’t escape, both of you shaking, breathless, ruined. He stays buried in you, kissing your neck, murmuring every filthy, tender thing he never said, hands roaming your body, worshipping every inch like you’re the only prayer he’s ever known.

When he finally pulls out, your legs wobble, his cum dripping down your thighs, both of you grinning, wrecked and shining, skin sticky with sweat and spit and love. He pulls you upright, spins you around, kisses you slow, hands gentle now, holding your face, thumb brushing your jaw as he whispers, “Mine. Always.” He helps you fix your dress, smoothing your hair, still pressed close, foreheads touching, eyes locked, letting you breathe in the softness after the storm.

You stare at each other, hearts pounding, laughter bubbling up as you realize the party is still raging just outside, your world forever changed behind a locked door. He kisses you again, soft and slow, then grabs your hand, fingers lacing tight. “Let’s go make them all jealous,” he grins, wicked and soft, pulling you back into the night, your body humming, every inch of you branded by him. For once, there’s no question, no fear—just the wild, aching certainty that what’s yours will always find you, no matter how hard the world tries to tear it away.

author’s note

now, if you made it this far, i’d love it if you left me a comment, reblog, or even a like. i read every single one and they mean so much to me—it’s genuinely the best way to let me know what moved you, what you loved, or even what broke your heart. writing is a little lonely sometimes, it always takes me restless nights, and hearing from you makes it all feel worthwhile, like sharing a secret or lighting a candle for these characters. so don’t be shy! every little note is treasured and makes me want to keep going. thank you for reading, and for loving these messy, magical people with me. <3

taglist — @yukisroom97 @fancypeacepersona @jaeminnanaaa17 @shiningnono @junrenjun @honeybeehorizon @neotannies @noorabora @oppabochim @chenlesfeetpic @kynessa @awktwurtle @euphormiia @hi00000234527 @yvvnii @sunwoosberrie @ppeachyttae @dee-zennie @ballsackzz101 @neonaby @kukkurookkoo @antifrggile @dedandelion @fymine @zoesruby @yoonohswife @jessga @markerloi @ryuhannaworld @yasminetrappy @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemjeno @lovetaroandtaemin @yunhoswrldddd @dowoonwoodealer @enhalovie @jenzyoit @sunseteternal @dewyspace @markiesfatbooty @raysofpolaris @sunseteternal @oppabochim @markerloi @xiuriii @neocults26

[vivvangel]

REDLINE — L.HS

synopsis: in the underground racing scene, Lee Heeseung is all cocky smirks and leather jackets — untouchable to everyone but you. you swear you two are just friends with benefits, yet, you’re the only one who sees the soft, vulnerable side beneath the swagger. one night at the track blurs the line between adrenaline and something dangerously close to love.

› pairings & contents: illegal racer!fwb!heeseung x fwb!reader. ✧ warnings: illegal street racing (mentions of danger, adrenaline), on & off fwb, hee gas trust/commitment issues, making out, LOTS OF TENSION, no smut, slight angst & emotional vulnerability, cocky!hee w a soft spot ONLY for y/n, mild language, mentions of alcohol & smoke (atmosphere). wc: 1.7K

@bunnihhoon is literally an icon. they requested such a long time ago, and apologies it's taken me such a long time to come around and do it. this one's for you, enjoy ⭐

The underground was loud enough to swallow thoughts you had tonight — engines snarling, the smell of gasoline clinging to the air, neon lights painting the cracked asphalt in shifting colors.

Lee Heeseung cut through it all like he owned it.

Leather jacket hanging loose, black, undercut hair pushed back just enough to show off the glint of his cross earrings, smirk sitting comfortably on his lips as other racers turned to look. He thrived in this chaos, wearing cockiness like a second skin.

“Try not to choke this time, Yeonjun,” Heeseung called out lazily to a rival across the track.

“Keep talking. I’ll be in front of you at the first turn.”

Heeseung didn’t even break stride. “You can’t lead if you’re too busy eating my smoke.” The crowd laughed, and he basked in it.

But the moment his eyes landed on you standing by the sidelines, that sharp edge of his smirk softened.

You weren’t new here. You weren’t supposed to be, either.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he murmured when he reached you, voice dipping low enough that it was meant only for your ears.

You shrugged, eyes scanning his face like you weren’t supposed to care. “I was bored.”

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning in just a little. “Right. That’s why you’re wearing that. Totally just bored.” (he said, referring to the fact that you opted to wear a denim skirt with mesh leggings underneath)

You glared up at him, but he just grinned and tugged on the edge of your sleeve like he couldn’t stop himself. That was the thing about Heeseung, something everybody noticed, he cocky to everyone else, but around you, there was this unspoken gentleness buried under the smoke and metal.

“You racing or just here to annoy me?” you teased.

He tilted his head, the streetlight catching on his earring. “Both.” Then, softer, his voice lowering into something you almost missed under the engine noise: “Mostly here for you.”

You froze for half a second. That’s what always ruined you with him; not the heat of his smirk, not the rush of his hands on your waist when the doors closed later, but the way his words always slipped past your guard.

You’d been here before.

His passenger seat. His bed. His hands tangled with yours under thin sheets, kisses that tasted like promises neither of you were brave enough to make.

It was on and off, and you told yourself you were fine with that. Heeseung had walls, ones even you couldn’t climb. You knew about the trust issues, the way he flinched away from words heavier than stay.

Still, every time, he looked at you like this. Like he didn’t know how to let you go but didn’t know how to keep you either.

Behind him, someone shouted his name, calling him to the line. Heeseung didn’t look away from you. His hand reached out, fingers brushing over your wrist like a quiet question.

“Come with me?”

Your chest tightened. “And if I say no?”

He smirked again, but his voice stayed soft. “Then I’ll still win. But it won’t mean as much.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, slipping your hand into his. His smirk curved into the smallest, warmest smile.

“Buckle up,” he murmured as he opened the passenger door for you, his usual cockiness tempered by something rare, something vulnerable. “This one’s for you. Always is.”

And as the engine roared to life and the track burned under his tires, you realized he’d just told you more than he ever dared to say out loud.

The race was over, but the night still throbbed with adrenaline. Engines cooled, the crowd’s cheers faded into distant echoes, and the asphalt still smelled like burning rubber.

Heeseung’s car rolled to a stop, engine purring low as if it knew it had won. He didn’t even look at the scoreboard. He never had to.

You sat there in the passenger seat, heart still pounding, fingers curled tight around the seatbelt. The whole race had been a blur— neon lights streaking past, the weightless moments on sharp turns, and Heeseung’s calm, steady hands on the wheel. He drove like the world bent for him, but when he glanced at you mid-race, there was nothing cocky in his gaze. Just something warm. Something you didn’t want to name.

He cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening after the roar of speed. Then, without a word, he leaned over and unbuckled your seatbelt for you. The brush of his fingers against your collarbone was too casual to be an accident, too soft to be just friends with benefits, right?

“You okay?” His voice was low, rough around the edges from the race, but gentle in a way that made your stomach twist.

You scoffed lightly, trying to play it off. “I think my heart’s still back at the starting line.”

He chuckled under his breath, that small, rare smile tugging at his lips as he reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Guess I’ll have to go back and get it for you.”

You hated the way your chest tightened. Hated that no matter how many times you told yourself this was temporary, you kept craving these small cracks in his armor.

Outside, the other racers yelled his name, clapping him on the back, demanding his usual post-race swagger. Heeseung didn’t move. His hand lingered on your jaw for half a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled back, glancing at the crowd like they were an entirely different world.

“Come with me,” he murmured, this time it's more of a statement than a request, voice dropping into something meant only for you.

You raised an eyebrow. “To celebrate?”

His lips quirked. “Something like that.”

He didn’t take you to the crowd. He didn’t take you to the afterparty either. Instead, he pulled you through the back of the lot, away from the noise, until the hum of engines was nothing but a dull memory. The air was cooler here, the night quieter. He stopped in front of an old brick wall tagged with faded graffiti, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

You crossed your arms. “So… what, this your new secret victory spot?”

Heeseung tilted his head, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Nah. Just wanted you to myself.”

Something inside you faltered.

“Hee…”

He stepped closer, slow enough for you to back away if you wanted. You didn’t. His fingers found your chin, tilting it up gently until you were looking at him. The cocky mask was gone. What was left was rawer, quieter, almost nervous if you didn’t know him better.

“You know why I can’t–” he started, voice low and uneven.

“–commit,” you finished softly. You’d heard it before. You knew the script. His trust issues, his walls, the ghosts of people who’d left him with nothing but cracks.

But tonight, it sounded less like an excuse and more like an apology.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “Then why do you keep doing this with me?”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the wind tugging at the edge of his jacket. Then he leaned in, his forehead brushing yours. His answer was almost a whisper.

“Because I don’t know how not to love you.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could say anything, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate, a kiss that tasted like burnt rubber and everything he was too scared to admit in daylight.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you in until your back hit the wall. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound like it was his. When he finally broke away, his thumb traced the corner of your mouth like he was memorizing it.

“This doesn’t mean–” he started, his voice shaky despite the smirk trying to crawl back onto his lips.

You cut him off with a soft laugh, brushing your thumb over his earring. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean anything. Right.”

But the way he looked at you after — soft, raw, yours — made it the biggest lie you’d ever told.

💌 viv's note: hee is so hot and so scrumptious oh my fucking god.

[nayiana0]

“Owned” ₊˚⊹ ᰔ J.YH ⌗ 1

: ̗̀➛ you were raised in blood and champagne — the mafia princess everyone feared, envied, or wanted to ruin. after a break-in shatters your illusion of control, your father assigns you a new bodyguards. yunho is cold, quiet, calculating — and unlike everyone else, he doesn’t fall for your charm. maybe that’s why you fall for him. but falling in love in a world built on power, manipulation, and violence has consequences. especially when your father starts to notice. and especially when yunho starts caring back.

: ̗̀➛ pairing : spoiled mafia heiress!reader × emotionally repressed bodyguard!yunho

: ̗̀➛ wc : 8.7k ...

: ̗̀➛ tags : explicit content, mafia au, fingering, oral (f receiving) , in-car , oc is kind of insane.. wants yh to herself, possessive behavior, light degradation, dom/sub dynamic, consensual but intense rough sex , light choking/throat play, toxic family, bruises and implied physical violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability and power dynamics, possible triggers: physical dominance, verbal degradation, mutual obsession™ : mutual pining, yunho is mean, slowburn (kinda), long fingers. heavy breathing, she’s begging him, he doesn’t want to love her but he does, manipulation, and gaslighting toxic masculinity, references to trauma triggers, verbal degradation, power abuse within family dynamics. omg..

: ̗̀➛ genre : dark romance / mafia au / psychological drama / slow burn / angst / emotional roller coaster / elegant / heavy with foreshadowing.

: ̗̀➛ a/n : wanted to write something for yunho so.. this'll be in 2 parts. this fic dives deep into the messy, raw edges of desire and control—where vulnerability meets danger. slow burn of power, pain, and passion colliding, please remember this fic is 18+ only — consent is complicated but always present, and the dynamics explored are intense. handle with care.

You live in a house with fifteen bedrooms and no love.

The kind of house with imported marble floors, bulletproof windows, and a chandelier so big it had to be lifted through the ceiling by a crane.

A house that’s always too cold, no matter how high the heat is cranked.

One that smells like new money, old power, and perfume that never quite covers up the scent of gun oil.

You’ve had boyfriends. Pretty ones. Popular ones.

Boys who moaned your name against your collarbone and left in the morning with fresh cash in their wallets.

You’ve had parties that roared through the night like war — glitter-stained floors, champagne towers, laughter echoing through halls your parents never walked.

You’ve been touched by a lot of hands.

But never once have you felt truly seen.

Because no one knows the truth. Not your friends, not the girls who call you spoiled, not the men who fall for your curves and your money and your perfectly painted mouth.

They don’t know that your father is a monster in a suit.

That his empire isn’t built on stocks or oil or tech — but blood.

And they don’t know what he did to you when you were twelve.

They don’t know about the night he locked you in the wine cellar for crying in front of his men.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It was cold. You remember that.

You were barefoot, still in your recital dress, sparkly tights torn at the knee from when he shoved you too hard.

He’d grabbed your wrist so hard, there were faint marks blooming beneath the skin — ugly little ghosts of the moment he lost control.

“You embarrassed me,” he’d spat.

His voice was calm. Too calm. The way it always got when something awful was about to happen.

“I said I didn’t want to sing that song—”

“So you disobeyed me. In front of everyone.”

“I’m sorry!”

“You’ll fucking learn.”

Then the door slammed shut, and you screamed.

Your voice echoed down shelves of old liquor and forgotten secrets. He turned the light off before leaving.

You cried until your throat gave out.

You learned something important that night — that you can only scream for so long before you start to go quiet.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You’ve never told anyone. Not even your mother.

Especially not your mother.

She was upstairs the whole time, drunk and humming, drowning in a cocktail dress and denial.

Since then, the rules have been simple.

Your father doesn’t care what you do as long as you’re at the top of your class.

Your mother doesn’t ask questions as long as your photos on social media look expensive.

And you? You party. You flirt. You fuck boys when you’re bored.

But you never sleep. Not really.

Not peacefully.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It changes the night your house gets raided.

It’s chaos — shouting, footsteps, glass breaking, your mother screaming.

You hide in the upstairs bathroom with a knife in your shaking hands, teeth chattering even though it’s summer.

It lasts maybe fifteen minutes.

Your father’s men fend them off, but it doesn’t matter.

It was enough to terrify you. It was enough to remind you.

The next day, your father upgrades security.

Three new bodyguards. One for the house. One for transport. And one for you.

You meet them in the living room, seated with perfect posture while your father talks like a man offering thrones.

All three men are tall, intimidating, dressed in black.

But your eyes lock on one.

“Yunho.”

He’s taller than the others. Broader.

A scar along his jaw. Cold eyes. He doesn’t smile when he shakes your hand.

He doesn’t bow, but your father doesn’t expect him to. Not with the amount he’s paying him.

Yunho is quiet. Calculated. Efficient.

And you hate that he makes your stomach twist when he brushes past you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You’re assigned to him full-time.

He walks you to class. He drives you to functions.

He waits outside your nail appointments.

At first you ignore him, act like he’s beneath you.

But he’s not like the others.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t leer. He just watches. Learns.

He reads your schedule. Memorizes your routine.

And he knows when you’re lying.

“You didn’t eat today,” he says once, as you collapse onto the couch after class.

“I did.”

“Don’t lie to me. You get all mean and bratty when you’re hungry.”

You don’t respond. Your heart’s beating too loud.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Weeks pass. Then months.

Yunho teaches you things your father insists you know.

How to fight. How to shoot.

How to calculate profit margins in dirty business deals.

He’s the one who holds your wrists too tightly during training — and triggers something ugly in your chest.

“Please don’t touch me like that.”

He blinks, surprised. “I barely even touched you.”

“I said don’t—”

But you’re already crying. Panicking.

Shaking like you’re twelve years old again and the lights just went out in the cellar.

He doesn’t speak. Just stares at you, jaw tight.

And for the first time since you met him, Yunho looks confused.

You lie in bed that night, unable to sleep. His voice echoes.

“I barely even touched you.”

You believe him.

You know he didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it doesn’t matter — it felt the same.

That’s what trauma does.

It tricks your body into flinching even when there’s no real danger.

You should be angry.

But all you can think about is the way his voice softened when he realized.

The way his hands stayed at his sides.

The way he didn’t run.

So, after that day, you start watching him .. differently.

How he moves.

How he never lets anyone stand behind him.

How he always glances toward the exits.

How he carries a knife inside his jacket and a burden behind his eyes.

He starts watching you too.

You feel it in the mornings, when your robe slips off your shoulder.

At parties, when you laugh too hard.

In the car, when your skirt rides up and you pretend not to notice.

He never touches you.

But you wonder what he’d feel like if he did.

You’ve had sex before. More than once. More than a few times.

But no one’s ever made you ache like this.

No one’s ever looked at you like you’re the danger.

And deep down, you know what’s happening.

Yunho isn’t just your bodyguard anymore.

He’s your weakness.

And if you’re not careful — he’s going to become your favorite sin.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You’re not listening.

You’re pretending — nodding your head, pen twirling between your fingers, eyes narrowed like you're focused — but the truth is, you’ve heard nothing in the last five minutes.

Yunho is sitting next to you, broad shoulders leaning over your desk, fingers moving smoothly across the paper as he works through the equation.

There’s a slight crease between his brows, that little furrow he gets when he’s explaining something complex.

You’ve noticed it before.

You’ve noticed a lot of things.

Like the way his lashes fan out against his cheek when he blinks.

The way his voice drops a little when he says your name.

How his shirt stretches across his biceps when he leans forward.

And God, the way he smells — like clean soap, gunmetal, and whatever cologne he thinks you can’t recognize.

You’re so wet. You hate how easily it happens around him now.

Hate that just existing near Yunho does something to your body you can’t explain.

You shift in your seat and bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to focus.

He glances at you.

“Are you listening?”

You blink. Swallow. Sit up straighter.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “You said to isolate the variable before you cross-multiply.”

He pauses. Nods slowly. His voice stays flat.

“Good.”

He doesn’t compliment you.

He never does. Not with words.

But the slight dip of his head, the way his eyes flicker to yours for a split second — it’s enough to make you warm.

You press your thighs together.

He moves to the next problem.

Keeps talking. But you’ve completely lost the thread.

Your eyes are on his hands now — the veins in his forearm, the way his fingers grip the pen, the tension in his jaw.

You don’t know why it’s happening like this today. But it’s unbearable.

You want him.

Not just the way you’ve wanted others before.

You want to see him break. You want to see him give in.

You want to ruin him like he’s been ruining you for months now — slowly, carefully, without ever touching you—

“You’re not focused.”

His voice snaps you out of it. You look up, eyes wide. Innocent.

“I am.”

He sets the pen down. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Y/N.”

Fuck.

He says your name like a warning.

A low, controlled rumble that hits somewhere deep in your spine.

Your stomach flips. You can’t help it — you smile. Just a little.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer.

He reaches across the desk, fingers curling around your wrist.

His grip is firm — not painful, but firm — and then he presses two fingers just beneath your palm. Against your pulse.

Your breath hitches.

“Your pulse is racing. You’re lying,” he says softly.

You stare at him. His eyes haven’t left yours. He’s still holding your wrist.

He can feel it, the way your heart is racing.

You try to pull away, but he tightens just slightly, trying to get you to answer.

It’s too much.

It’s too fast.

And suddenly the panic rises in your throat like it always does — thick, hot, choking.

“Stop. Stop—stop—”

You yank your hand away, voice sharp.

You flinch. Back away.

You don’t even realize how much until the chair scrapes.

Yunho’s eyes widen just slightly. His mouth opens — no sound comes out at first. Then:

“Why do you do that?”

He’s not angry. He’s confused. Frustrated.

You can tell he’s trying to keep his voice calm.

“I wasn’t even gripping your wrist that hard.”

You look away. You can’t answer.

You don’t know how to explain that it wasn’t about his grip — it was the moment.

The power.

The cold calculation in his eyes that wasn’t really cold at all, just misunderstood.

He looks like he wants to say more. Ask more.

You panic again — but this time, in a softer way.

A different kind of defense.

You press the intercom button beside your bed.

“Can someone bring me some fruit?” you say, loud enough to cover the silence in the room. “Strawberries. Pineapple. Mango if it’s ripe.”

Yunho says nothing. His jaw is tight. His gaze lingers, still trying to solve you like you’re some equation he can’t balance.

A few minutes later, the maid knocks gently and delivers a silver tray with glass bowls of perfectly cut fruit.

You thank her and pick up a piece of pineapple. Slowly. Casually.

You take a bite.

The juice hits your tongue — bright, sharp, cold.

You close your lips around the rest of it.

Suck a little harder than you need to.

Yunho doesn’t move. But you see it.

The way his eyes flicker.

The way his hand curls slightly on the desk.

Like he’s forcing himself not to react.

You smile. You’re good at this. Too good.

You eat another piece. Then another.

“Are we done with math?” you ask, like nothing happened.

He exhales through his nose.

Picks up the pen again. Opens his mouth.

Begins to explain another problem, voice tight.

You lean in.

Slowly. Casually. Your knees brush under the desk.

Your arm slides across the wood, your hand almost touching his.

He pauses for a second. Then continues.

You shift closer. Until your lips are barely a breath away from his cheek.

You don’t warn him.

You just kiss him.

It’s soft. Barely there. Just enough to taste him.

Just enough to feel the heat of his skin.

And he—

He doesn’t kiss you back.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t shove you away. Just… stillness.

And then?

He turns back to the paper.

“You missed a step in problem six,” he says flatly. “Try again.”

You blink. Stare at him.

He keeps going. As if you didn’t just kiss him.

As if nothing happened at all.

You start giggling. You can’t help it.

It bubbles up in your throat like champagne — soft, dangerous, mocking.

“Seriously?” you say. “That’s all I get?”

Yunho glances up at you, barely.

“You’re not ready for what you think you want.”

Then he keeps going.

Like he didn’t just set your body on fire and walk away from the flame.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Every time you sit down with Yunho for homework, it starts the same way — a notebook, a sharp pencil, a half-done assignment.

You pretend to care. You chew your lip.

You lean in just a little too close when he starts explaining anything with numbers.

You watch him more than you listen. The slope of his neck.

The flick of his pen. The way his lips part slightly when he's thinking.

Sometimes you reach for your water just to give your mouth something to do.

Sometimes you don't even try to hide it — you just stare.

You kiss him now. Every time.

Like clockwork.

Soft. Deliberate. A single brush of lips to cheek.

To his jaw. To the corner of his mouth. Never long. Never messy.

And he never stops you.

But he never kisses you back, either.

He just… allows it.

Like it’s something he’s decided not to fight.

Something he can’t justify punishing. Something that wouldn’t even be worth the argument.

You don’t know what to make of it.

Every other guy you’ve known wanted to own you within ten minutes.

They complimented you like they were afraid you’d vanish.

Reached for your waist. Called you princess.

Fawned. Worshipped. Fell.

But Yunho?

Yunho just lets you.

And the worst part? It makes you want him even more.

⋅���⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Tonight, you’re sprawled on your stomach across your bed, chin propped in one hand, eyes fixed on the way Yunho’s legs are planted wide in the chair beside you.

He’s explaining an economics worksheet — something about interest, probably — and you haven’t heard a single word.

You watch his fingers. His hands.

The vein in his forearm.

You imagine them around your throat. Not rough. Just… firm. Controlled.

Like the way he held your wrist that day.

“Y/N,” he says suddenly, glancing up. “What did I just say?”

You blink. Innocent smile.

“Something about compound debt.”

“Compound interest. Jesus.”

You giggle. Flip onto your side.

Your skirt rides up a little. His jaw ticks.

He looks away. Of course he does.

“You’re distracted again,” he mutters.

“You’re distracting.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

You sit up on your elbows, tilt your head.

“You know I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Don’t.”

“But you’ll let me anyway.”

He exhales through his nose. Doesn’t argue.

So you lean forward. Again. Soft, slow.

You kiss the edge of his jaw, just beneath his cheekbone.

You linger there a moment longer than usual. You feel him tense.

He doesn’t move.

You lean back. Watch him carefully.

He says nothing.

Just circles something on your paper and keeps explaining the formula like you didn’t just kiss him.

Like it didn’t make his pulse jump.

You smile. You smirk, even.

Lean back on your arms, heart pounding. You feel drunk and you haven’t had a drop.

"You're the only guy that I’ve met who like … doesn’t want me.”

“Not true,” he says instantly.

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you, but his jaw tightens.

He flips to the next page like he didn’t just crack his own armor.

“Then why don’t you kiss me back?” you whisper.

The silence is thick. Heavy. His pen stops moving.

“Because I can’t afford to want you. Focus, Y/N.”

There it is.

You stare at him. You blink.

You want to scream. Cry. Crawl into his lap.

Make him take it back. Make him want you out loud.

But you don’t.

You just whisper:

“Then stop letting me kiss you.”

He looks at you, finally.

Eyes dark. Hungry. But still unreadable.

“You’re the one who keeps doing it.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t touch you.

He just sits there, still steady as stone, pretending like he hasn’t imagined dragging you onto his lap and bending you over the fucking desk.

You press your thighs together, hard.

“Fine,” you lie. “I won’t kiss you anymore.”

He just nods. Goes back to the worksheet.

Like he believes you.

Like he’s not begging you to prove yourself wrong.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

For the past two weeks, you’ve barely looked at him.

He still shows up like always — same time, same chair, same notebook.

But you don’t flirt. You don’t touch. You don’t kiss him.

You pretend he doesn’t exist.

And it hurts.

But not as much as watching him pretend you mean nothing.

And now he’s here again, explaining something about supply curves, his voice low and steady like he doesn’t feel the shift in the air.

Like he doesn’t notice the way you’re gripping your pencil like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the room.

But you do.

You feel everything.

And tonight, it breaks.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me back?”

The words spill out of you like blood.

Yunho doesn’t answer.

His eyes flick up from the paper — unreadable, cool, so calm it makes your stomach twist.

“Seriously,” you say. “Why do you let me do it if you don’t want it? Do you like messing with me? Is that it?”

He blinks once. His jaw tightens.

You stand. Move toward him.

“Say something.”

“Stop Y/N. Sit down.”

“No. I’m not fucking stopping anymore.”

And before he can stop you — before you can even think — you grab his face and kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Like your life depends on it.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

He just sits there.

Still. Frozen. A statue beneath your lips.

You rip away from him, throat burning.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper, voice shaking. “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you do this to me?”

He doesn’t look at you. He looks… up.

Into the corner of the room.

“What?”

Your voice is quieter now.

You follow his gaze.

You hadn’t seen it before.

But it’s there.

A camera.

Small. Black. Discreet.

Pointing directly at the desk.

At you.

And at Yunho.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping back. “Oh my god.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

“Listen, no one checks the feed unless there’s a trigger,” Yunho says quickly. “Motion sensors. Alarms. Noise thresholds. We’re fine.”

You’re not fine. You feel like you’re gonna be sick.

“He’s gonna kill me. My father’s going to kill me—”

“Shhh,” Yunho says, grabbing your wrist.

“There’s a blind spot. Over there. Near your bed. Come on.”

You don’t know why you listen. Maybe it’s fear.

Maybe it’s him.

But you let him pull you — away from the desk, away from the camera — until you’re standing near your headboard, half-panicked, half-breathless.

“He’ll kill me. He’ll kill you—”

“Alright then let’s make it worth it.”

Yunho’s voice is low. Controlled. Deadly calm.

And then he’s pulling off his jacket.

Then his shirt.

And you— you stop breathing.

Because you’ve imagined it, of course you have.

You’ve dreamed about it.

Touched yourself to the idea of it.

But nothing prepared you for the reality of how he looks shirtless — lean and hard, all abs and muscle and quiet danger.

Veins in his forearms. That scar near his ribs. Jesus.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

“What?” he says flatly, tossing his shirt on your floor. “Don’t you wanna fuck me before I get fired?”

“You’re not getting fired—”

“Yes I am.”

“No— no, I won’t let him—”

He laughs at you.

Like you’re a child. Like you’re stupid. Like you just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“God,” he mutters, stepping closer. “You really are a dumb little thing, aren’t you?”

The breath knocks out of your lungs.

“What, you think you run this house? You think you can protect me?”

“You think you’re special just ‘cause I let you kiss me? You’re not.”

His voice is low. Cruel. Each word sharper than the last.

You open your mouth to respond— but he grabs your jaw, tilts your face up, and—

He kisses you.

Your back hits the wall behind your bed and he’s on you — pressing into your body, dragging your mouth open, tasting every inch like he’s starving.

You gasp into it.

He grabs your hips. Lifts you. Carries you effortlessly to the bed and drops you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“This what you wanted?” he growls, crawling on top of you. “This what you’ve been begging for?”

You nod. Breathless. Dizzy.

“Say it.”

“Y-Yes—”

“Louder.”

“Yes. Fuck, Yunho— I wanted this, I want you—”

He kisses you again. Rougher. Dirtier. His hand sliding beneath your skirt, gripping your thigh like he owns it.

Your head spins. Your heart races. You’ve never felt so scared and so wanted in your life.

“So what now?” he says. “You wanna keep pretending this is just homework?”

“Fuck no.”

His lips twist into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he grabs you.

You gasp as he yanks you forward by your waist, mouth crushing against yours. It’s bruising—needy—nothing like the delicate kisses you’ve been sneaking past his defenses.

His hands are all over you, under your top, squeezing your tits through your bra, palming your ass like it’s his.

And you let him. You want him.

“Fucking finally,” you moan against his lips.

He pulls away, hand wrapping around your throat, not tight—yet.

“You like this?” he growls.

“Fuck yes.”

“You want me to ruin you, princess?”

“Yes, yes—fuck, please—”

He tightens his grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your legs shake.

He drags your panties down in one rough motion and doesn’t even bother taking your shirt off — just pushes it up so your tits bounce out, then drops to his knees between your legs.

You’re soaked.

He doesn’t even tease—just spits on your pussy and slides two thick fingers in, curling them until you cry out.

“Damn,” he mutters, watching you writhe. “You this wet just from a kiss?”

“For you,” you whimper. “Only for you.”

He curses and stands, unbuckling his belt, eyes never leaving yours.

His cock’s thick, already hard, and your stomach clenches at the sight of it.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he says. “You sure?”

You nod frantically. “Yunho, please.”

The first thrust knocks the air out of you.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust—just starts pounding into you, fast and brutal, one hand on your hip, the other back on your throat.

You moan loud, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You’re so fucking spoiled,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Waving your pussy around like a prize. You don’t even know what to do with it.”

“Teach me,” you beg.

He growls something filthy and leans down, fucking you even deeper now, forehead pressed to yours.

His breath is hot.

Your orgasm creeps up fast—dangerously fast—and when he chokes you harder, your mouth falls open.

“Cum,” he commands.

And you do, with a sob, cunt tightening so hard he groans and pulls out just in time, stroking himself fast until he comes across your belly in messy, hot streaks.

There’s silence.

Your chest heaves.

He tucks himself back in without a word.

You blink up at him, dazed. “...Will you be back tomorrow?”

Yunho pauses at the door.

“Maybe,” he says flatly, but then catches your eyes—wet, vulnerable, confused—and his expression softens. Just a little.

He walks back to the bed, brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, and kisses it gently. “Don’t cry,” he says with a teasing smirk. “You’ll mess up your pretty face.”

Then he’s gone.

Like nothing happened.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You wake up sticky and sore.

Your thighs ache. Your neck too. You don’t even know what time it is, only that the sun is harsh and the silk sheets feel colder without him in them.

You blink a few times at the ceiling, dazed—still breathless from last night.

Like you’re floating in it, replaying every second.

The way he touched you. Fucked you. The way he left.

And maybe… maybe he’ll come back.

You’re still clinging to that hope when the yelling starts.

Deep. Male. Explosive.

It’s not just yelling — its screaming, something crashing downstairs.

You can hear a maid sobbing and pleading.

Your bedroom door swings open without knocking this time.

The maid is pale, mascara running, eyes darting behind her like she’s being followed.

“Out,” you snap, pulling the blanket to your chest. “I’m not—”

“Your father needs you,” she blurts out, eyes wide and glossy. “Now.”

Everything inside you goes still.

You move fast—toss on whatever’s near, a hoodie and shorts, no time for anything else—and follow the sound.

Dread wraps around your spine with every step.

The doors to his office are cracked open.

You walk into your father’s office and it’s dark—no light except the eerie red glow of the security monitors in the corner.

Yunho is there. Standing by the desk.

Hands behind his back and head down like he’s being .. disciplined.

Then your father appears.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at you for an uncomfortably long time. Then—

SLAM.

He walks toward you, slowly, like a predator, like he’s enjoying this too much.

You open your mouth, but he’s too fast—his hand wraps around your neck and slams you up against the nearest wall.

“You disgusting little slut,” he growls, his mouth inches from your face.

You’re choking, panicked, trying to claw at his wrist, trying to scream, but nothing comes out.

“Think I wouldn’t find out? You think I don’t know what goes on in my own fucking house?”

Then, suddenly, he drops you. You fall to your knees coughing, vision blurry. You look up—

And Yunho is still. Still as stone. No protest. No fear. No guilt.

“He told me everything.” your father sneers.

Your gaze darts to Yunho instinctively — something in you searching, desperate, anything—but he’s still looking at the floor.

Still silent.

And then — God — you see it.

The way his lip twitches. The way his cheek lifts.

He’s laughing?

Your heart stutters.

“He said you’ve been throwing yourself at him. Touching him. Moaning in front of him like a fucking dog in heat. He said he pushed you away — again and again. That you wouldn’t stop.”

You try to stand, voice cracking.

“He’s lying — he’s lying, it wasn’t like that, We just—”

Your father cuts you off with a harsh backhand across the face. You reel.

“Dont fucking lie to me,” he hisses.

Your chest caves. “It wasn’t —”

“You think I didn’t see? The way you acted like a cheap little whore every time he walked into your room? You think I don’t watch the fucking cameras?”

You’re frozen. Trembling. “We didn’t even do anything like that. I just—I kissed him. That’s all. That’s all, dad..”

He laughs. Loud. Sharp. Mocking.

“Oh, so now it’s just a kiss? You think I’m gonna let my men look at you like that? Disrespect you in my house? You don’t get to decide what’s harmless. You don’t get to make choices. You’re my daughter.”

You recoil. “Then why’d you leave me alone with him?”

He stops. His eyes go cold. Something shifts.

He grabs the desk and slams it—papers scatter, a heavy object topples—and you jump like he shot a gun.

“He doesn’t give a shit about you!! You’re entertainment. You’re a job.”

You try to speak but your throat closes. Your mouth is dry.

His hand twitches toward his belt.

“Apologize.” His voice drops into something poisonous. “To him.”

Your heart pounds. “For what?”

He shoves a lamp off the table. It shatters.

“Just fucking do it!”

Your throat goes dry. You turn to Yunho, hating him. Hating this.

Your voice cracks.

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Your father’s voice slices through the silence. “I can’t fucking hear you.”

You clench your fists. Your eyes sting.

“…I’m sorry,” you say louder. “Yunho. I’m sorry.”

You swear his eyes flick toward you for a second — just a second. Blank. Like you’re nothing.

And then your father breathes deep, nods once, and speaks.

“Effective immediately,” he says, “he’s no longer assigned to you.”

The floor drops.

You feel it in your knees, in your ribs. “What…?”

“No more Yunho,” he says, too casual. “You’ll get someone else. One of the older men.”

“No—” Your voice shakes. “No, you can’t—”

“Don’t talk back.”

Tears burn your eyes now. You can’t stop them.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you choke. “You don’t even know what he said to me—what he did—”

“Oh, now you’re gonna cry?” He throws a look of disgust your way. “You like to play the victim, huh?”

“I’m not—”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear it. He lifts a hand and starts counting on his fingers –

– “no parties. No phone. No cards. You’ll stay in this fucking house for one week. Maybe more, depending on how much more shit I find on those tapes. One week.”

You stare. “One week?”

He turns on you again, finger pointed. “Say one more word and it’s two.”

Your mouth shuts. The tears spill. You hate that he can see them. Hate that Yunho can too.

Your father waves you off like you’re an insect.

“Get the fuck out.”

You don’t hesitate. You storm out.

The hallway feels colder than usual.

You wipe your cheeks, breathing fast, heart broken and mind racing.

Yunho fucking lied.

And you don’t even know why.

But you’re gonna find out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You haven’t left the house in days.

Not because you couldn’t — but because it felt… off. Everyone looked at you different now.

Yunho hasn’t spoken to you once.

You see him sometimes in the halls, his shoulders squared, eyes straight ahead like he’s guarding something important — just not you anymore.

His posture’s rigid, formal. Like nothing ever happened.

Like your mouth had never touched his. Like he hadn’t laughed while you were being choked against a wall.

He doesn’t even glance your way.

Which wouldn’t bother you, not really — not if everyone else didn’t start looking too long.

The older guards, the ones who used to nod politely and say Miss, now smile too slow.

Let their eyes drag down your legs.

One even said something under his breath when you passed.

“Daddy’s favorite little slut.”

You stopped walking. Whipped around.

But he just laughed and walked away.

No one says anything directly. But you can feel it.

The weight of their assumptions. Their judgment.

Their approval, even. Like your shame had made you one of them.

You’ve stopped wearing anything tight. No makeup. Hair tied back.

You stay in your room unless you have to eat, and even then, you don't go to the dining room anymore — just the kitchen, early, before anyone’s up.

The maids avoid eye contact.

Everything feels sticky. Too quiet. Like the house is watching you.

You lie on your back in bed, staring at the ceiling.

There's a camera in the corner — you know now. You know exactly where it is.

You wonder if it’s blinking. You wonder if it’s recording right now. You wonder if Yunho’s watching.

Your stomach twists.

Why did he lie?

Why did he let him say those things?

Why hasn’t he even looked at you?

And worse: why do you still want to see him?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You keep remembering it in flashes.

His mouth on yours.

The way he never pushed you. Never pulled you closer either.

The tiny twitch in his jaw like he wanted to.

Or didn’t.

You don’t know anymore.

You thought maybe he didn’t kiss you back because he was good.

Respectful. Loyal. Different.

But maybe he wasn’t because he fucked you.

Maybe he liked that your father found out. Maybe he liked watching you squirm under your father’s rage.

Maybe he wanted to hurt you.

And now?

Now the guards still joke when you walk by. One of them winked at you today.

You don’t even know their names.

You don’t want to eat. You don’t want to sleep.

And yet when you do, your dreams are of Yunho again.

Standing at the end of your bed. Silent. Smirking.

And then gone.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You sneak down in a hoodie and socks, hoping no one’s around.

But one of the older guards — Dominic, maybe? — is already there, leaning against the counter, sipping coffee like he belongs there.

He looks at you, long and slow.

“Didn’t expect to see you down here. Still on house arrest, right?”

You grab a glass, don’t answer.

“No need to be shy now,” he says, voice low.

“We’ve all seen what you’re into.”

You freeze. Glass halfway full. Your throat closes. You can’t even look at him.

He chuckles.

“Bet he liked it, too. That one’s quiet, but he’s not stupid.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, backing up.

“Or what? You’ll whine about it?”

He steps forward. “You’re not special anymore. You made yourself real clear.”

Your blood runs cold.

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

And just like that—he does. He shrugs, raises his hands, still grinning.

“Relax. Just teasing.”

You run back upstairs without your glass. Slam your door. Lock it.

You sit at your vanity. Eyes hollow. Lips dry. You haven’t cried yet. You don’t know why.

You keep watching the hallway through the crack in your door.

You keep waiting for Yunho.

Not to save you.

But to explain.

To say anything.

But he doesn’t come.

And you’re starting to wonder if he ever will.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The week has passed. The house feels different. Cold. Quieter. No one talks to you unless necessary. The maids walk around you like you're a live wire. The older guards you used to ignore?

Their eyes still trail your legs when you leave a room. And you hate it.

They think you're a whore.

Yunho’s nowhere. Not on patrol. Not in the halls. Not outside your door. And no one dares tell you where he’s been reassigned. You’re furious. You’re humiliated. You’re obsessed.

Not with what happened—but with how he left you.

Did he lie to your father? Did he do it to protect himself? Or was it to hurt you? You can’t figure it out. You go over it in your head like a ritual. The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. Rough. Like he needed it.

And then he just… left.

When the maid knocks and says your father wants to see you, your stomach doesn’t even twist anymore.

You just get up. Wordless. Numb.

You’ve been like that all week — quiet, obedient, blank.

You walk down the long hallway barefoot, still in sleep shorts and one of your oversized sweaters.

No makeup. No jewelry. The cameras blink when you pass.

You knock.

“Come in.”

His voice is calm.

You step in and it’s exactly like it always is: dim, stuffy, suffocating.

He’s behind the desk, a drink already in hand, phone face-down beside him. He doesn’t look angry.

He looks... pleased.

“Sit.”

You do.

He eyes you carefully — the bags under your eyes, the limpness in your posture.

“So,” he says slowly, swirling the drink. “Have we learned our lesson?”

You don’t answer.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you say softly.

“Good girl.”

His smile grows, sharp and thin. “I knew you weren’t stupid.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxed.

“I’ve decided your privileges can come back. Credit cards, shopping, parties, all of it. Your friends miss you, I’m sure. Or maybe you’ve finally figured out which ones actually do.”

You stare at the floor.

He gets up, comes around the desk, and sits on the edge in front of you. Fingers reach out and lift your chin gently.

“You’re still my daughter. You’re still the future of this family.”

“I’m hard on you because I love you. You understand that, don’t you?”

You nod slowly. It’s not even worth pretending to argue. You just want this to be over.

He kisses your forehead like everything is fine.

“Make good choices this time, sweetheart. You’ve made enough of a mess already. Here’s your phone.”

You say thank you. Like you’re supposed to.

“You can go.”

You get up. Your legs feel hollow. But there’s a strange flicker inside you — something curling awake again. You shut the door behind you and finally exhale.

The silence in the house feels different now. Less like a prison. More like a stage.

You glance at your phone. Messages piling up from friends who noticed you dropped off the earth. Invitations. Selfies. Gossip.

A girl named Rina saying she’s bored and someone just got a new rooftop suite.

You toss your phone onto the bed and pace.

A week. A whole week of silence, shame, paranoia.

And he thinks he broke you?

No.

You're not staying quiet anymore. You’ve been locked in this house like a ghost and it’s time to remind them all who you are.

So you’re going to throw a party. Not just any party — the party. Loud. Indulgent. Shameless.

Let them talk.

Let them watch.

Let them wonder.

You dig out your old group chat. Post a single message:

🎉 back. friday night. mansion. theme: don’t tell daddy. bring your vices.

Within five minutes, replies are flooding in. Excitement. Curiosity. Jealousy.

You text a caterer. A DJ. A guy who owes you a favor for bailing him out last year.

You text your favorite designer. Something short. Something reckless. Something that makes you feel untouchable again.

You pour a glass of wine and lean on the balcony, looking down at the backyard.

The moon is out. The pool is quiet. But not for long.

Your reputation might be dirty now.

Fine.

You’ll make it dirtier.

You’ll drown in it.

And maybe — just maybe — he’ll look at you again.

Because Yunho hasn’t said a word.

And you want him to suffer, too.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Your house is glowing. Music spills out of the windows. Glasses clink. Guests laugh. Hands touch.

And you?

You’re stunning. Makeup perfect. Dress tight. Every step calculated.

You sip wine like it’s vengeance. You haven’t seen Yunho all night but you feel him.

And finally—there he is.

Leaning against the far wall. Black shirt. Cold stare.

Watching you dance. Watching other men flirt with you. Watching your fingers graze arms and chests and shoulders.

Unreadable.

And then—his jaw tightens. His gaze darkens. He pushes off the wall.

He cuts across the room like a shadow and doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your arm gently, firmly—

—and leads you through the crowd. Past the laughter. Past the lights. Onto the balcony. Into the quiet night air.

The music muffles. The sky stretches dark above.

You’re drunk. Swaying a little.

“Let go,” you slur, tugging at his hand. “What, you miss me now?”

He says nothing.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, poking his chest. “You kissed me. You lied about me. Then — then fucked me and disappeared. And now—now you’re dragging me out here like—like—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You freeze.

Yunho’s eyes lock on yours, hard and low.

“I told him what I had to. Because if I hadn’t, he would’ve pulled a gun on me. Or you. Or both. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.”

You blink.

“I didn’t lie about you. I lied for you.”

You stare at him. Mouth dry. He steps closer.

You square your shoulders, defiant. "You’re a coward."

He huffs a dark laugh. "Right. And you’re just some innocent little princess? You’re a fucking idiot."

Your breath catches.

"You think I’m here because I want to be?" He steps in closer. “You’re just some spoiled little brat who thinks sex means something.”

"Then why the fuck are you still here?" you snap, eyes glassy. "You’re the one who brought me out here like some jealous asshole—"

“I brought you out here,” he growls, “because watching you grind on every low-life in that room made me want to break something.”

"You don’t get to be mad. You’re the one who lied—”

“I protected you, you fucking slut.”

Your mouth falls open. His words hit like a slap.

“You let me fuck you and now you think you’re special? You’re just bored. Horny. Desperate for attention. That’s all you’ve ever been.”

You glare at him, fury in your throat, “Fuck you.”

You lunge at him, fists curled, but he grabs your wrist mid-swing and slams you back against the wall.

You gasp.

His hand wraps around your jaw, tight. “Say it again.”

You glare at him, fury in your throat. "I'll fucking — I’ll tell my father you touched me.”

A silence. Long. Heavy.

Then: “Then tell him.”

He leans in. “Tell him how you moaned under me. Tell him how you begged for more. Tell him you cummed so hard you cried.”

You’re breathing hard now. Your whole body shaking.

"Tell him how his perfect little daughter opened her legs for a nobody guard she barely fucking knows.”

And then he kisses you. Violent. Possessive.

His mouth crashing into yours like punishment.

You push at his chest, but it only makes him growl deeper, push in harder, pin you tighter.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen. Your eyes wet.

You glare up at him. "I fucking hate you."

He smirks. “No, baby. You want me. That’s worse.”

And he kisses you again.

“Miss—?”

The balcony door creaks open.

You freeze.

Yunho stiffens, lips still brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth.

His hand releases you slowly—too slowly—as you both turn toward the voice.

It’s Rosa. The maid. One of the newer ones, barely a year into her contract.

And she’s standing in the open doorway, staring.

Mouth parted. Eyes wide.

She’s seen everything—your smeared lipstick, Yunho’s hands still at your waist, the panic flaring behind your eyes.

Her voice wavers. “Someone’s—someone’s asking for you inside. I—I didn’t know you were—”

“Don’t.” You step forward, shaky, eyes begging. “Please, Rosa, don’t say anything.”

She blinks at you. Then at Yunho. Her gaze hardens slightly.

“Please,” you whisper again. “He—he can’t know. No one can know.”

Yunho stays silent. He doesn’t try to explain.

Doesn’t even look remorseful. Just stands there behind you like he owns your body and doesn’t care who sees it.

Rosa’s hands are trembling. “It’s—” her voice drops. “It’s Mr. Navarro.”

Your stomach drops.

Your father’s rival. A man you weren’t even aware had been invited to the party.

Yunho’s voice is low behind you. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”

You don’t even turn around. “I have to.”

“No,” he says. Firm. Final.

Rosa still hasn’t moved.

She’s frozen in place, watching like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t—again.

You grab her hand. “Please. If you tell anyone about this…”

Rosa’s eyes flick to Yunho, then back to you. And something in her expression softens. She nods. Once. Tight.

“I’ll say you were in the bathroom.”

And then she’s gone. The door clicks shut behind her.

Silence again.

Your hands go to your face, shaky. “Oh my god…”

Yunho finally speaks. “Get rid of him.”

You turn on him, raw. “Who?”

“Navarro.”

“I can’t just get rid of him—”

“You’re not hearing me.” Yunho steps in again. “You don’t talk to him. You don’t look at him. You stay the fuck away from him.”

You blink at him. “.. I can't .. he’s .. I’m supposed to marry him to end the rivalry."

His eyes cut into you. Dark. Sharp.

“Men like him don’t want your last name,” Yunho says. “They just want your blood.”

You don’t respond.

You just walk out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The party’s pulse is different now.

You feel it the second you walk back inside — like the air’s gone heavier, like every laugh and clink of glass is covering something that doesn’t want to be seen.

And then you see him.

Navarro.

Leaning against the bar like he owns the place. Black suit, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, a gold ring glinting on his finger as he swirls his drink.

He’s talking to one of your father’s men, but his eyes cut toward you the moment you step in.

He’s been waiting for you.

You steel yourself.

You’re good at this — at performing.

So you fix your hair, adjust your dress, and cross the room slowly, every step rehearsed in your mind.

But when you get close, that smile of his curls in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Ah,” Navarro says, lifting his glass slightly. “The princess finally emerges.”

You keep your voice smooth. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He watches you closely. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“I forget many things,” you reply sweetly. “Not people.”

Navarro chuckles, deep and amused. “Is that so?”

He motions to the seat beside him.

You hesitate.

Somewhere behind you, you feel Yunho watching.

Like a heat against your back. But when you glance over your shoulder—he isn’t there.

Not yet.

So you sit.

Navarro doesn’t waste time.

“I heard you’ve been… restless lately.”

Your eyes flick to him, wary. “From who?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter? Word travels.”

You swallow. “What kind of word?”

He leans in, just slightly. “That the golden daughter of—” he says your father’s name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, — has been reckless — little whispers about your behavior. Late nights. Missing clothes. Boys getting reassigned.”

Your stomach flips.

You don’t answer.

He studies your face. “Your father says it’s under control.”

You lift your chin. “It is.”

His stare flickers downward—slow—then back up again. “Hm. I’m not so sure.”

You shift in your seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Navarro tilts his head. “Throwing a party a week after being locked in the house for ‘disciplinary reasons’? That’s a bold move.”

You clench your jaw.

He leans closer still. “I’m impressed.”

You don’t respond.

“But you should be careful,” he continues, voice low now, like a secret being slid across a table. “Some men in your father’s position might take a disobedient daughter and clip her wings. Others… might offer her new ones.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t look at him. Not directly.

“Are you offering me something?”

“Me?” Navarro smirks. “I’m just drinking your liquor and admiring the view.”

You stand.

But he catches your wrist—lightly, not enough to cause alarm, but enough.

You flinch.

His voice turns cruelly amused. “Do you know how many people saw?”

“Saw what?”

“You know what.”

You can’t speak.

“You’re a ticking bomb,” he murmurs. “And I’m very, very curious to see who you take out when you go off.”

You swallow hard.

Behind you, you sense movement. You glance subtly—

Yunho.

He’s moved closer. His posture rigid, his jaw tight. Watching Navarro now with something lethal behind his eyes.

Navarro notices, too.

He smiles wider.

And then turns to you again, amused. “He follows you like a fucking dog, doesn’t he?”

Your heart pounds.

“I’d have broken him of that already,” Navarro says. “If you were mine.”

“Be careful, princesa,” he says, gaze sharp now. “The wolves in this room don’t just bite. They mark.”

You yank your wrist back, heart hammering. “Enjoy the party,” you say.

And you walk off—fast, heels clicking against marble, not daring to look behind you because your skin still burns where he touched you, and your mind is spinning, and—

Yunho’s waiting for you at the end of the hall.

Silent. Hands in his pockets. Watching you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You storm up to him, breath catching, mascara smudged from how hard you wiped your eyes.

“You told him,” you hiss.

Yunho doesn’t blink. “Told who what?”

“Navarro,” you snap. “He knows. About us.”

His jaw flexes. “There is no us.”

It feels like a slap. Your throat tightens so fast it burns. “Don’t do that—don’t fucking do that, Yunho, not now.”

He shrugs, infuriatingly calm. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop acting like I made it all up!” you cry. “You kissed me. You touched me. You looked at me like—like I mattered.”

Yunho stares at you like you’ve grown two heads. “You think that meant something?”

You stumble a step back, chest rising fast.

“You—” your voice catches. “You’re lying.”

He scoffs.

He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “You’ve been acting reckless. Of course people are gonna start talking.”

“Don’t fucking do that,” you hiss, chest heaving. “Don’t twist this around on me.”

“You’re just bored. Lonely. Daddy doesn’t love you enough so now you want me to pretend I do.”

Your stomach lurches.

“You think this is some epic love story?” he scoffs. “It’s pathetic.”

You flinch.

“I like you,” you whisper, like maybe if you say it soft enough, it won’t sound so small. “Yunho, I like you. I’ve liked you for so long, I—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You like being wanted. That’s not the same thing. You’re playing with me.”

“I’m not playing with you,” you plead, stumbling closer. “We’ve known each other for almost a year—please, Yunho, I’ve never felt this way before, I swear I haven’t—”

“Stop.”

“I can’t,” you breathe, eyes glassy. “I can’t. I think about you all the time, I can’t stop, I—I want you, I need you to say you want me too, please, just say it, just say it—”

Your body is shaking. Completely wrecked.

Yunho’s expression doesn’t change.

“Please,” you whisper. “Say it.”

He stares down at you like he doesn’t even recognize you. Like you’ve turned into something disgusting in front of him.

“Just — Stop..”

“Not until you say it.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he replies, voice clipped. “I don’t want you. I never did.”

You blink hard, tears spilling hot and fast.

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

Yunho steps back. Like the sight of you makes him sick. “You’re an assignment, a job. Nothing more.”

You just stay there. On your knees. Numb. Humiliated.

“You’re not special,” he says coldly. “You’re just good at pretending you are.”

You shake your head. “Yunho —”

But he’s already turning.

Already walking away.

And you can’t breathe.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

That morning, the sun rises without you.

You don’t move.

Your face is swollen, your throat feels like sandpaper, and your eyes sting every time you blink.

The room still smells faintly of last night’s perfume, champagne, cigarette smoke clinging to your skin like a bruise.

You’d crawled back into bed after the party and haven’t moved since.

The silk sheets are damp where you cried yourself to sleep.

And then kept crying long after you woke up again.

A soft knock pulls you halfway out of it.

“Miss?”

You flinch.

It’s the maid. The same one from the hallway.

You curl tighter into the blankets. Hide your face in the pillow.

She steps inside carefully, voice gentler now. “I… I brought fresh water. And toast. You didn’t come down for breakfast.”

You can’t speak.

You try.

But your voice catches in your throat, a broken rasp of nothing.

You suck in a breath and swallow it back down.

She hesitates. “Your father’s asking for you.”

You still can’t talk. Can’t even turn your face toward her.

Your lip trembles. You manage to whisper, barely:

“Tell him I don’t feel well.”

She pauses. Then: “Okay.”

Quiet footsteps.

Then she’s gone.

And you cry again.

Hours pass.

You don’t eat the toast. You don’t touch the water. You don’t get up to pee.

Until—

The door slams open.

Light floods in.

“Get the fuck up.”

Your father.

He storms in like a goddamn earthquake.

Pulls open the curtains with one sharp jerk, sunlight stabbing through the blackout drapes.

“What is this?” he snaps. “Some kind of performance art?”

You don’t move.

“Don’t play dead. I said, get up.”

When you don’t, he storms across the room and rips the blankets off you.

Then stops.

Because he sees your face.

Your red, puffy, hollow-eyed, ruined face.

You flinch at the sudden chill, arms curling around yourself like armor.

He stares at you for a long second.

Then: “…What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You don’t answer.

“I said, what the fuck is—”

“Nothing,” you whisper hoarsely.

He exhales sharply. “No. No, fuck that. Tell me.”

Silence.

Then he narrows his eyes.

“This isn’t about Yunho, is it?”

Your breath catches.

But you don’t answer.

Not even a twitch.

He swears under his breath. Runs a hand through his hair. Paces for a beat like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Then, surprisingly, his voice lowers.

Still sharp. Still rough. But not… angry.

Not this time.

“You let people get under your skin too easy,” he mutters. “You wanna survive in this world, you better toughen the fuck up.”

You swallow hard. Tears well again. Your face crumples.

“Don’t cry,” he sighs. “Jesus Christ—stop that. Stop it, c’mon…”

You bury your face in the pillow, sobbing harder.

Ugly, shaking sobs that rip straight out of your chest.

He groans. “Fuck’s sake…”

Then his voice softens again. Just slightly.

“…You want something? Huh? Come on. I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

You sniff.

Lift your head an inch.

“…Anything I want?”

“Yes,” he says, exasperated, “anything.”

You blink at him.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“…Even if it’s stupid?”

He sighs again. “Everything you want is stupid. Doesn’t mean you can’t have it.”

Your lip trembles.

And somehow, that’s worse.

That he means it.

That his version of love is giving you the world while still making you feel like you never deserved it.

He grabs his phone. “You want a bag? A car? A vacation? Tell me.”

But all you want is Yunho.

And you’ll probably never admit it.

"I wanna spend time with you," you mumble, voice hoarse.

He blinks. “What?”

You look down, eyes burning again, whispering, “I.. wanna go with you. Spend time. Like we used to…”

A silence drags.

You chance a glance up.

He’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

Then—he scoffs, shakes his head like he’s disgusted, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the sneer.

“You wanna go shopping. With me,” he repeats, like the idea alone is offensive. “Jesus Christ. You’ve really lost it.”

You wipe your eyes again, starting to regret saying anything. You turn your face away.

But then he mutters, “Fine.”

You look at him. He avoids your eyes.

“You wanna come? Then come. You’ve got fifteen minutes to clean yourself up. I’m not walking into Dior with a daughter who looks like she got hit by a truck full of feelings.”

You almost laugh—almost—but it turns into a sob as you nod quickly, scrambling off the bed, heart thudding.

“And don’t make me wait,” he says over his shoulder. “You want my time? Earn it.”

But he waits in the hallway.

You move on autopilot at first—bathroom light harsh, your reflection worse.

Puffy eyes, red nose, lips chewed raw from nerves. But you force yourself through it.

You brush your teeth, rinse with cold water, press a towel to your face until the heat of crying fades.

Your fingers tremble while you fix your hair—taming it into something soft, something passable.

You pick out a cute outfit, something flattering but not too loud. Something he won’t comment on. Something safe.

Then mascara. Lip gloss. A spritz of perfume at your wrists. You check the mirror again—still a bit hollow, but alive.

Presentable. The kind of daughter he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with. Maybe.

You slip on sandals, grab your phone, and head to the door before you can second guess yourself.

He's still there. Standing in the hallway with his phone in one hand, sunglasses in the other, suit sharp, jaw tense.

His eyes flick to you. Up. Down.

A pause.

Then: “Better.”

And he turns and starts walking.

You follow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Masterlist Part 2

this wouldve been 20k words if tumblr didnt have that fuckass 1000 word block

[lizardho]

BYU Roommate Part 1

I had a weird experience with Roommates at BYU. My first roommate left overnight one night and about a decade later I found out it was because they left the church and later came out as an enby. Honestly, kinda slay, and it made sense that we got along as good as we did, and I missed them like crazy when they left because my new roommate was a guy who came home from his mission early due to some kind of mental health episode and he acted like I and everyone else was judging him and seeing him as worthless because he came home and I literally didn’t care and actually kinda liked hearing him talk about it because it helped me feel like I could bail if it ever got too weird (which was technically true, but literally false, in the sense that the mission took my passport day 1 so I couldn’t go home without their permission.)

I left, I did my mission, shit was gross and bad and I had a mental health crisis, yadda yadda y’all already know. At the very tip of that mental health crisis iceberg, though, there was the first day back in Provo. I got an apartment that was DIRT cheap - $250/month rent, but I had 3 people living in the apartment with me, including one in my room. Adding to that, the apartment had no lightning except for two lights in the kitchen (and because it was a ’dude’ apartment nobody had a single fucking lamp except the one my roommate’s gf got them). So it was dark. It had carpet that hadn’t been cleaned since Nixon was president, it had mildew, there was one vacuum cleaner in the entire apartment complex and not enough room to store a personal one because the apartment was about the size of fruit fly’s urethra, so everything was dusty as hell.

To add to that – there was one bathroom for four people, and the bathroom was so small I could touch both of the far walls without having to stretch. Additionally, the apartment’s other bedroom was occupied by two people, whom I will refer to as Captain Mormon and The Human Jellyfish, for reasons that will become obvious later. I also had a cool roommate who I got along with because he left me alone, he didn’t make eye contact when talking to me, and his gf was nice and talked to me.

For simplicity’s sake I’ll start with The Human jellyfish. The Human Jellyfish has no spine. He has no opinion unless someone else tells him to have one, and even then they also have to tell him what the opinion should be. He has no hobbies except for work and school. He has no friends except for coworkers.

He wasn’t bad, he was really kind and really helpful, but he was not the person you’d go to if you, say, needed someone to take charge.

Well, one day, his coworker, a smart but shy woman who teaches Japanese classes at the MTC, knocks on the door. She asks if she can talk to The Human Jellyfish and I holler at him to come down. He says he’ll be down in a minute so I tell her she can come in in the meantime. She steps in and I see she’s wringing her hands and keeps checking down the hallway, so I ask if something is up.

She asks if I know a guy named Stalker, and I do, because he is my stalker. He was a 28-year-old man who followed me home after work one day and then moved into my apartment complex and then sat outside my apartment once or twice a week waiting to tell me about how much ketamine he owned and how many people he killed in Iraq, so I was VERY well acquainted with Stalker. So I say I do know Stalker, and she says, “Well, I think Stalker’s hurt? He just stumbled into my apartment and when I came down to see what the noise was he fell down and told me he was going into shock.”

First of all, god bless this innocent innocent woman, too innocent to know that she was actively being robbed by a man with a ketamine problem and a history of violence. Second of all, I immediately realized that she did not need a human jellyfish, she needed someone who could be mean, and I could not only be mean but I also NEEDED a win against Stalker because he had been giving me the willies for months. So I said “Yeah, let’s wait for The Human Jellyfish to come down and I’ll go over with both of you.”

She stopped wringing her hands and looked a lot more relieved as me and Jellyboy walked with her to her apartment, where my stalker was lying on the floor of a ransacked living room moaning in pain. He said he had stubbed his foot and was going into shock (I’m not kidding). He sees two people are now with her and sees that at least one of them is a man and immediately says “If Jellyfish can help me back to my apartment I can treat myself for the shock and I’ll be OK,” and Jellyfish is ALL over that because someone just told him to do something and he loves knowing what to do, so he starts moving towards him to help him up when I chime in.

“No you can’t.”

The room goes quiet.

“What do you mean? I can’t what?” Stalker is mad, but he’s also scared

“You can’t treat your own shock. Jellyfish, he’s delusional from the pain, he needs medical attention. Can you prop up his feet and keep him lying down?”

Jellyfish is confused for a fraction of a second while he computes his new orders, but then dutifully follows them. Stalker is scared now, because he knows Jellyfish is listening to me but he DOESN’T know that Jellyfish has no ability to make decisions and can be counteracted by just giving him a new command, so he thinks he’s outnumbered.

Finally, he says “No, wait, I think I’m feeling better now, I can just get up and go,” and I say “Well that proves it! Jellyfish, push him down, he’s out of it, he’s not gonna make it much longer without medical help,” so Jellyfish pushes my stalker down and then looks back at me for approval, so I give him a thumbs up and tell him he’s disoriented from the pain so his job is just to keep him prone until the ambulance arrives. Then I make direct eye contact with Stalker and call the ambulance.

Stalker panics and starts to try and wriggle free, but Jellyfish has now received the honor of a thumbs up for following directions so he is having none of it. Every time he pushes Stalker back down I give him another thumbs up so I’ve got Jellyfish hooked for life. The 9-1-1 operator takes this as seriously as it deserves, and the ambulance arrives in Go Mode within 5 minutes. I go outside to show them the way in and they are working like a well-oiled machine RIGHT UP until they lock eyes with Stalker and the vibe immediately changes.

I see Stalker’s eyes go dark as he realizes he’s caught, and the paramedic drops his voice from ‘giving orders’ mode into ‘Awwh poor widdle baby” and says “Hey Stalker, long time no see, yeah? Do you need the stretcher, or can you walk to the ambulance by yourself?” And after the slowest, shakiest breath I have ever heard this man make, he chokes out “I think I can walk,” and the paramedic goes “What a champ! Come on guys, let’s head back, this’ll be a quick drive.”

And just like that, it was over. I let Jellyfish talk to building management and I walked back to my apartment. The next day my Stalker moved out of the apartment and into a different one across town, and I only ever saw him again in the parking lot of the place I played D&D after that (Stalkers gonna stalk I guess?) but it also was like such a good experience with that guy and NGL I still think of Jellyman in high regard for that.

[wendichester]

I'm physically ill after finding out that Azazel set up a chessboard to prepare Sam for Lucifer, ever since college. This man never catches a break at all, and the fact that everything was inevitable from the beginning makes me so sad :(

Can I ask you to write a reader that is sort of like a glitch in the system, allowing Sam to have something real with. The one variable Azazel never saw coming. Demons keep failing to kill them. Not because they're powerful, but because they're irrelevant to the plan, and thus, their prophecies can’t see them. Reader doesn't even notice because every day is just normal and mundane.

(For the love of god, Sam deserves to have one single thing that isn't ripped away from him, just because of his existence😭)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 the unwritten line,

pairing. sam winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 581 genre. comfort

warnings. canon-typical angst references (azazel’s manipulation, sam’s trauma, lucifer stuff), existential dread vibes, fluffy comfort to balance it out, protective sam, reader is the soft little anomaly that breaks fate, slightly melancholic, but very healing

Sam stares at you like you’re a secret. Like somehow, you don’t make sense.

Not in the “you’re weird” kind of way. Not even in the “you’re too good to be real” kind of way—which, okay, you’ve caught him mumbling that once or twice when he thinks you’re asleep. No. This is something else. This is deeper. Quiet. Unsettled.

“You okay?” you ask, brushing your hand over his arm. He hasn’t touched his coffee in fifteen minutes. It’s gone cold.

Sam blinks, like you startled him. Then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Just… thinking.”

You sit across from him, sleepy in your hoodie, a little crumb stuck to your lip from breakfast. There’s a flickering candle burning low on the table—not for a ritual, not for protection, not for anything supernatural. Just because you like the smell. “Thinking about what?”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it again. You watch the war happen on his face. He doesn’t want to tell you. But he will—because he always does.

“Azazel,” he says finally. Quiet. Barely above the hum of the fridge. “And how early it started.”

You set your mug down gently. He doesn’t look at you.

“Feels like… I never had a shot,” he admits. “Everything. The demon blood, Jess, my choices—” He swallows, like the taste of it burns. “It was all leading there. To Lucifer. To the cage. And I just—I keep thinking…” His voice falters. “There’s no version of my life where I get to live it.”

You reach across the table. You don’t say anything yet—just touch his hand. Your thumb traces a circle across his knuckles, over the scar he got during a salt-and-burn gone wrong. His hand tightens around yours.

“But then there’s you,” he says, like the words are being pulled from somewhere deep. “And you… you’re not in the plan.”

You blink. “What plan?”

“Exactly.” He lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Demons don’t know what to do with you. You show up in visions—if they even show you at all—like static. Like a glitch. They send hellhounds? You’re out buying eggs. Possessed mailman tries to kill you? Trips over his own shoelaces and knocks himself out. You keep slipping through, like the universe forgot to write you in.”

You furrow your brow. “I mean, I’m not that forgettable…”

“No. That’s not what I mean.” He looks at you now, really looks. “You’re real. You laugh at my stupid jokes. You get excited about pancakes. You hum to the radio even when you don’t know the lyrics. You’re… human. In a way I’ve never really been allowed to be. And I think…” He trails off again, swallows thickly. “I think you’re the first thing in my life that wasn’t designed to hurt me.”

Your breath catches. The weight of his words hits hard, then softens—like snowfall, slow and quiet, but inescapable.

“I’m not part of any prophecy,” you say, reaching to brush his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not powerful. I’m not chosen. I just… exist.”

Sam smiles faintly. “Exactly.”

“And you still want me around?”

He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re the only thing that’s ever felt like mine.”

The candle sputters a little in the background. Your coffee’s gone cold. Somewhere out there, demons probably still whisper about destiny and vessels and chaos.

But here, across the table, Sam Winchester smiles—like for the first time, fate forgot to interfere.

And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[bellapoisonedrose]

i need need need need NEEEEED Ness x reader links 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 rhank u and have a wonderful day!!!

𓂃·˖ ִֶָ ⋆P⚠︎RN LINK —Alex Ness⋆ ִֶָ˖·𓂃

I had way too much fun with this one, hope you enjoy every second of it. Have a wonderful day too! ♡

This post contains explicit sexual content and is strictly intended for audiences 18+. Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, mirror play, breathplay (light choking), video recording during sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominance/submission themes, overstimulation, possessive behavior, soft dom undertones, reader is referred to with feminine terms (f!reader)

All links in this post lead to external content hosted on Twitter/X. Tap at your own risk (⁠•⁠ө⁠•⁠)

Doggy style: You were on all fours at first… but Ness didn’t let it stay like that for long. One hand slid under your belly, gently pulling you back until your chest met the bed and his body followed—pressing against your back, chest to spine, completely flush. His cock stayed buried deep inside you as he settled, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, the other trailing downward, fingers brushing over your clit with expert rhythm.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered against your shoulder, voice low and warm. He kissed the spot right below your neck, lingering as his hips rolled into you with slow, calculated thrusts. “So warm… fuck, you make it hard to take my time.” Your breath hitched when his fingers circled faster, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot with that same maddening control.

“You’re squeezing me,” he groaned softly, burying his face into your neck. “So tight—every time I go deeper, you get louder.”

“N-Ness, I—”

“I know, baby.” His hand left your clit for a moment just to grip your hips, guiding you back onto him as his pace started to pick up, deeper now, stronger. “I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you.” You couldn’t speak, not properly—not with the way your body was trembling, the way he kept whispering filthy promises in your ear.

Oral sex: Ness was always good with his mouth—too good. He was already lying back, arms relaxed behind his head like this was a casual afternoon nap. But the second you climbed on top of him and lowered yourself onto his face, his entire energy shifted. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers sinking in possessively as he dragged you down the last inch—pressing you flush against his tongue. You gasped, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs already shaking.

“Fuck—Ness…” you moaned, breath stuttering.

He didn’t answer. Just groaned low and deep, like you tasted better than anything he'd ever had, the vibrations sending a jolt straight through your core. His tongue moved slow at first, deliberate. Teasing. Drawing long, wet circles that made you grind against him for more. "Faster," you gasped out, tugging his hair.

And he obeyed. Of course he did. Ness always listened. But more than that—he watched. Those sharp magenta eyes never left your face, even when your hips started rocking harder against his mouth, even when your moans turned into gasping cries. He could barely breathe, nose buried in your folds, your slick dripping down his chin—but he loved that. Lived for it.

“Don’t stop—fuck, don’t you dare stop—” you whimpered.

And he didn’t. He just gripped your ass tighter, tongue moving even faster, sucking and flicking exactly where you needed it most. When your thighs started to shake, he moaned again, eyes fluttering shut as if the mess you were making on his face turned him on more than anything else in the world.

Videosex: You were standing, legs parted, back arched just the way he liked—exactly how he told you to. Ness stood behind you, chest to your back, his hand wrapped around your throat with just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

“Look at yourself,” he murmured low, voice rough in your ear. “Look at how fucking good you take me.” The hotel mirror in front of you reflected everything—the way your body trembled with every deep thrust, the way his cock disappeared inside you again and again, slick and perfect. And most importantly, the way his phone captured the entire thing.

His free hand held the phone out to the side, angled to get the view he wanted—needed—something he could take with him.

"Don’t close your eyes," he growled when you tried to look away from the mirror. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, thumb brushing your jaw to keep your gaze forward.

“I want you to remember how fucked-out you looked… when I wasn’t even trying.”

You whimpered, legs shaking as he picked up the pace, thrusts sharper, rougher. The sound of skin slapping, your wetness, your breathless moans—it all echoed in the room, raw and real. His lips grazed your ear again, almost tender. “This video’s for me, baby. Gonna watch it every night I’m gone… gonna jerk off thinking about how you sound when you cry like this for me.”

He shifted the angle, getting the view of your tits bouncing with every thrust, the red mark blooming on your neck from earlier, the way his hand held you steady like he owned you.

“Smile for me,” he whispered darkly. “Let ‘em see how good I fuck you. Let me remember.”

If you wanna see Isagi’s part next, show this post some love ♡

[ccccartoon-askblog]

Redoing the intro post cuz i feel like it

ekhm ekhm

GOOD MORNING EVERYBODY! GRAB YOUR BOWL OF CEREAL AND ORANGE JUICE AND GET READY FOR YOUR FAVORITE SATURDAY MORNING CARTOON! MY NAME IS mARZ AND YOU’RE WATCHING……

CCCCARTOON!!!!

that one cartoon that aired early and only on weekends and unless you pirate it you can’t really watch it because it’s not on any streaming service and there are only 2-minute clips on youtube. i am not referencing anything (lie).

vvvvv MORE INFO UNDER THE CUT vvvvv

CCCCartoon is…CCCC but a cartoon ha! well, actually not really. On the surface the only similiar things are the characters and their relationships (kinda). The entire gimmick is that it’s your favorite characters experiencing looney tunes peripeteia, but there may be some undertones of some more serious stuff. Come and stick around to see their musical journey of self-discovery or other utter nonsense! but who exactly is „them”?

NOW IT’S TIME TO MEET OUR COLORFUL CAST OF CHARACTERS! starting with…

HEART

(he/they) Your typical nice, lighthearted and innocent character. You’d probably see him walking around with a big sign saying „FREE HUGS”. They prefer seeing good in people, mostly. Though being mr. Positivity most of the time he can be really pesimistic and apathetic, you probably won’t see them like that ever so who cares! This goofball can be very impulsive at times which makes him a real disaster magnet. It’s easy to make him cry, well it’s easy to make them feel strong emotions in general, pretty self-explainatory. He hates stubborn, angry, short nerds. He’s a little silly, but that’s okay because they’re adorable like that. Oh, and he plays the kazoo.

next on the list…

MIND

(he/him) Self-proclaimed „the better half”. He’s the definition of the Napoleon Complex. Every day he proudly walks around in his cardboard crown acting like he’s better than everyone else. Despite being an absolute unlikeable, irredimable jerk, Mind still stays logical and rational. At least he tries to stay that way. His deep and passionate HATRED for Heart can lead to him acting very out of his „mr. My logic is the absolute” persona. If he ever makes a choice based on his emotions (which he denies he has), he’d probably deny that too because he’s the most glorious, magnificent and intelligent person EVEEERRRR. When he’s not busy hating Heart, he’s tormenting people with boring science funfacts. Nerd. (please take everything he says with a grain of salt!)

SOUL

(any/all but no it/its please!) Someone has to end the fights between a decent kinda flawed bird person and a guy with opinions. Say „hi” to our buddy Soul! When they’re not busy resolving conflicts between her two idiots, he’s doing a lot of other stuff. Soul is like your cool older sibling, spending entire day reading comics, skateboarding, drinking and eating nothing but soda and frozen pizza, watching bad horror movies and playing loud, cacophonic melodies on a singular instrument they own. That’s how Soul’s life would look like if he didn’t have to be a mediator. They’re super chill (mainly because they’re tired) but they’re also jokingly overconfident and sarcastic. She kinda needs to learn how to say „no” to certain things sometimes. Soul always stays determined no matter how hard things can get. He can play bass guitar and banjo! Soul needs some time for themselves. Yes, they have a chicken named Darrel

WHOLE

(he) What would happen if I tried to fuse three unwell people into one guy? This is what would happen. Referred to as „The Whole” by the parts of him with his real legal name being Charlie Mash. Aspiring musician who’s stuck in a job he hates, freshly adult and wasted all his life already (hey is that a reference). He has different mood every five seconds jumping between extreme anxiety and insane calmness. He’s a mess. Something good happens to him? He’ll jump around in circles joyfully as if it was the happiest day of his life. Something bad happens to him? He bangs his head into the wall and bawls his eyes out in the most pathetic way possible. He uses sarcasm in almost every sentence but instead of coming off as cool and metaphorical, he comes off as stupid. Despite being an unstable menace he still can love and care. He does care and love a certain person a lot… (please take everything he says with a grain of salt!)

LOVE INTEREST

(she/they) Also knows as Li (pronounced „lie”). Highschool friend of Charlie. She is very oblivious to his obvious crush. Li is…well…the bomb! Coolest girl you’ll ever come in contact with. She’s very inpatient and short-tempered though, which results in them having a tough time find one stable job. With their devil-may-care personality it’s not hard for her to sometimes allow herself to be a little too reckless. She does try to stay well-mannered and polite. She’ll always help when someone has a problem, they’re reliable and don’t really like lying. Pretty ironic to their name, huh? She wants to get to know her friend Charlie better, she knows he’s not doing good. They don’t know about the whole „split” thing.

yeah that’s all the characters, the list is over! that’s all!

You can go home now!

wait.

…

oh.

of course…

2OUL

(any prns) (pronounced „two-oul”) the most normal guy you will ever meet! He doesn’t really have any mayor problems. They’re Soul’s „sibling” or at least Soul believes it. Doesn’t have a whole, doesn’t have her own heart and mind, doesn’t have a purpose. They’re just kinda there… watching everything from afar. It’s hard to describe his personality, he doesn’t a have a heart or a mind, he’s just a little crazy weirdo without feelings and logic behind their decisions. I mean who said she’s a weirdo? Must have been the wind. 2oul is soo caring and loving. 2oul knows it’s already perfect and doesn’t need to change anything. 2oul is a very good friend material! (take everything they say with a HUGE grain of salt)

…

hmmm it seems to me there are no other characters left on this list. Well now that this introduction is over, it’s time for the viewers to decide what to do next, right?

ASKS RULES

-> NO NSFW!!! slightly suggestive jokes are fine but guys, really, admin is a teenage girl

-> plllllleeeeeease don’t reference any brainrot stuff from tiktok and shit

-> i’d prefer if you guys wouldn’t reference other asks in asks you send. It’s really hard to understand which ask you’re exactly referencing !

that’s all the rules i think….

TAGS!!

#ask ccccartoon ~ asks answers!

#ccccartoon art ~ you gotta use your brain for this one

#ooc ccccartoon ~ everything out of character

#ccccartoon [heart/mind/soul/whole/love interest/2oul] ~ just character tags!

——

thank you for reading this whole post and i hope you stick around to ask these goofballs some stuff :-]

peace out

[thegreenlynx]

NPC - K.SM

Description: Your best friend Seungmin suggests playing Stardew Valley with you and he's far more into it than you were expecting. 

Pairing: Kim Seungmin x Fem Reader

Genre: Fluff, slightly suggestive

Content Warnings: slight jealousy(of a game lol), suggestive content(just kissing/making out), Seungmin get's a little riled up

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: My submission for the Stay's secret gift exchange event created by @starlostastronaut. This is written for @j-0ne25, I really hope you like it! I enjoyed writing it, this event was so fun! ☆ ☆ ☆

"So I was thinking..." Seungmin starts, hand lightly tapping a rhythm on your cheap wood table as you cook the two of you lunch.

"Oh yeah?" You chuckle, flipping the stir-fry around in the pan lightly with a hum. "Didn't know you could do that."

He doesn't reply, so you turn around to look at him and are met with a very prominent pout. "Fine. Never mind then, I'll do it with someone else."

"No no." Your hand waves at him, still holding the spatula. "Lemme hear first."

"I was thinking we should try Stardew Valley next." He says it with a little smile, the pout going away immediately. Seungmin never stays upset long.

He's referring to a little thing the two of you have going. A thing where the two of you play games together, most of the time games neither of you have played before. It started when Seungmin had invited you, his best friend, to play among us with him and the boys. It was a lot of fun, and ever since the two of you have been playing together regularly. Usually with Hyunjin, Han, Jeongin, or Felix, sometimes Minho, and once in a blue moon someone will drag Chan or Changbin in too.

"Oh, yeah?" You ask, a little surprised at his choice, "I didn't think you'd be into that."

"Well you're wrong." He shakes his head and sighs at you before staring back at his hands that still tap on the table. "Sooo? Come on, say yes."

You roll your eyes as you go to grab the plates to set the table. "Yeah, of course we can play."

And so the two of you did. It had taken you a bit to get adjusted and play through the tutorial but the two of you were actually quite enjoying running your little farm together. Though admittedly neither of you were very good, both messing up pretty frequently at the start. Forgetting when stores close, running out of stamina far more times than would be socially acceptable.

Seungmin has taken to doing the hard part, clearing and cleaning up the overrun farm. While you get to chat with all the villagers. Frequently interrupting his work to force you both to watch cutscenes. One cutscene in particular threw you both off, the scene of Linus digging in the trashcans in town.

"Hey... I've been doing that too! That's my trash Linus!" Seungmin rants, kicking his feet. "What do you mean it's dirty? It's free stuff..."

His one sided conversation makes you laugh, leaning your head against your palm as you watch him and not your own screen.

"Uhhh y/n...?" Seungmin takes you out of your daze a while later. "It's 1:30, where are you?" You look at his character on his screen, now in the farm house in bed, then over at your own in the middle of town right as it passes out.

"Ah fuck, not again."

"Hey y/n?" Seungmin says, voice excited. "Come look, come look!"

"I'm kinda in the middle of fishing Minnie, what is it?" You say, trying to look over at his screen, but he covers your eyes before you can actually see anything.

"No you have to come see yourself! We can fish together after." He gets up and turns you back to your own screen. "Please? It'll just take a second, I swear."

"Okay, yeah fine." You put your hand over his on your shoulder and move your character with the other, wandering on back to your shared farm. "Up here?"

You feel him rest his head gently atop yours, "Yeah, a little to the left." His slender finger points at the screen. "There! I made that! For us!"

"Oh is it a chest?" You ask as you move your other hand to your keyboard and click on the chest to find it's already half filled with a bunch of materials.

"You kept complaining about running out of inventory space, so I made a chest." His arms naturally wind around your shoulders and his cheek rubs against your hair. "You can use whatever you want from it."

You feel your face heat up. Seungmin is normally affectionate but he's gotten especially cuddly with you lately. Ever since playing the game really. His arms are warm against you, the whole room just feels a little too hot. You look away a moment before refocusing on the game. "Isn't it your stuff though?"

"Yeah, but like... you can have it." His hands slide up your collar and rub your neck once before slipping away as he returns to his own screen. "I want you to have it."

"Oh..." You refuse to look at him, he doesn't need to know how red your face is right now. "Thank you Minnie."

When the two of you finally make it to exploring the caves Seungmin takes up the job of being your defender, he fights off all of the monsters while you do most of the ore mining. When you guys leave the cave despite you offering to give him half of your loot he only asks for a few ores.

You tend the crops, he does the cleaning up. You give gifts to the villagers, Seungmin laughs at you when they hate your gift. Seungmin digs in the trashcans, you laugh when the villagers call him out or when he ends up just getting the expected yet utterly disappointing broken CD. Seungmin places every piece of furniture you guys get in the most absurd and inconvenient places he can find, then gets disappointed when they disappear.

Overall, the community center is where the two of you have the most fun. Seungmin has turned it into a little competition, each time you compete to complete it first and whoever does is supposed to get the prize. However, you've begun to notice that if it's a good prize Seungmin never actually takes it for long. He lets you live in your state of being a loser just long enough to see you sulk before giving you the prize anyway so you'll smile at him.

This one time was different. Seungmin could have easily beat you to this bundle, he's far better at fishing. Yet, he had stopped fishing all of a sudden. It allowed you to finish it first.

"Seungmin! Minnie I did it! I got the bundle!" You leap out of your chair and cheer, you finally got one!

Seungmin just watches, silent but smiling wide as you celebrate all by yourself.

Eventually the two of you manage to get the farm cleaned up. Your crops have become more consistent, you've gotten better at fishing and cave exploring, you have bigger inventories, and your tools are upgraded. Everything feels like it's going shockingly well.

"Hey do you know where the prismatic chard is?" Seungmin asks one day while you are continuing your game. You're not at the farm but you walk back to check the chest for it. Yet before you can look a pop up shows across the screen.

'MiniMong has asked you to marry him, will you accept his offer of marriage?' 

You can feel your face heat up even worse than the last time as you stare blankly at the message. You slowly look over at Seungmin to see him staring back at you, not the game. His cheeks are a little flushed. He looks at you like he just handed you a knife and is hoping you don't stab him with it. Doubt with the slightest glimmer of hope roll around like two cats fighting in his beautiful dark eyes.

"Was that an accident?" You ask quietly, wondering if perhaps he was just holding the item and accidentally clicked on your character. Maybe he didn't know what it did. Maybe he did it as a joke. It isn't exactly unlike him to freeze like this out of embarrassment, not necessarily because he is actually nervous.

"No..." he says even quieter, glancing at your screen before looking at you. He takes a shaky breath and continues, playing with his fingers as he speaks slowly.

"I wanted to play this with you because I wanted to spend time with you. Just you. Not with the other guys getting in the way. I like pretending I'm racing you to finish a bundle to see you sulk, just to give you the reward anyway so you smile at me. I like watching your face more than the cutscenes. I like seeing how excited you get when you catch a fish. Every time I do something I want to tell you so you'll be proud of me. Everything I get I wanna give to you. I've had feelings for an embarrassingly long time and I don't want to be just your best friend anymore, I want an upgrade. Haven't I earned it yet?" The question is asked like he's been trying really hard to convince you to say yes. Like this wasn't sudden at all.

You stare at him wide eyed, not quite knowing how to respond. "Why didn't you tell me before?" You're blindsided really, you thought he was just being cute. Seungmin's always being cute. You didn't even consider he was trying to court you. Strange method and all.

"Wanted it to be a surprise. The second I learned you could propose to players I wanted this to be how I confessed. Be my girlfriend? Please?" He gets up and kneels in front of you on the floor. He holds your hands with both of his. It almost feels like a real proposal, you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. "I'll be a good video game husband too. I don't wanna marry an NPC, say yes, please." He tries to sound playful, nonchalant, but the desperation is clear in his eyes and even more with every sweet please that falls from his lips. Really, how could you say no?

You smile at him, toothy and silly. "I'll be your girlfriend Minnie, I feel the same." You squeeze his hands in your own as you see him relax, a breath releasing as he looks at you with a mix of affection and relief.

However, suddenly he smirks at you. Kissing you, quick and brief on the cheek before clicking the yes button on your screen on your behalf. "Gonna be my wife too." His smile is goofy, filled with the signature mischief you should expect from him.

It prompts an exasperated chuckle from you, you shake your head. "I think I can live with that." He smiles at you, pausing the game and pulling you half on top of him on the floor to cuddle with him. A hand on your back and a finger twirling in your hair. "But..."

He quirks a brow, pausing briefly as his arm wraps fully around your waist. "But...?"

"Now I can't marry Harvey..." You tease, pretending to sulk about what would have been your lovely NPC boyfriend. He glares, flicks your forehead almost instinctually.

"Hey!" You go to tickle him but before you can even touch him he flips you over, grabbing both of your hands and pinning them above you on the ground.

"You do realize your little NPC boyfriend won't be able to do anything for you right? Like he's basically useless aside from a few cutscenes and a kid." You gasp, slightly offended at the drag, but he continues before you can say anything. "He won't bring you nice things, won't kill monsters for you when you suck at it, won't laugh at your silly jokes or make you feel better when you forget the time and lose some of your shit again."

You stare up at him, it's not unlike Seungmin to joke like this but for some reason he actually seems a little riled up about it. His eyes narrow a bit as he leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "He's a doctor, sure, but will he understand you like I do?" He asks and his hands shift, one now taking hold of both of yours as the other slides down to your face, finger brushing your lips hesitantly. "He might kiss you but will you feel it like I can make you feel it?"

Your eyes widen as his face leans a bit closer to yours, breath ghosting across your lips, warm and unfamiliar. "Will it feel as good?" His eyes are on your lips now, barely open while his own lips get even closer, brushing against his finger he still has pressed against your soft skin. "Will it feel as soft?" The question is breathy, barely there as his finger slips to your chin.

His lips meet yours naturally the second it does. Not harsh, not fast. Soft, gentle, warm, perfect. Shaking just slightly, though you're not sure if it's nerves or excitement. It's always hard to tell with Seungmin. Your head tilts almost as if on instinct, not quite deepening the kiss but reciprocating by pressing your lips against his a little more. His lips lift into a beautiful smile in the kiss, you feel the breath of relief as he laughs a little against you before pulling away a bit.

"See y/n?" He lets go of your hands as you stare up at him with flushed cheeks, his newly free hand slides to your waist. "You want me, not an NPC." He smiles at you, genuine, not cocky like you would expect from him. "You wanna have me. That dumb doctor won't make you happy. I'm gonna make you so happy."

His smiling lips press softly against yours once more, you pull him into you fully by the collar and he barely manages to not crush you by resting his other arm on the ground by your head. He pulls back just enough to speak against your lips with a breathless chuckle. "Video game or real life, I'll make you the happiest."

He deepens the kiss then, lips pursuing yours again and again. He tests several angles searching for what gives him most access, desperation showing more and more with every part of his lips. It still isn't enough, your hand flies to his hair while you hum against his lips. In response his hand grips your waist a little tighter and his tongue tentatively slips to brush against your lips. The small gasp you let out and the tiny pull of his hair encourage him, he presses it between your lips and the moan he gives you as your tongue meets his rumbles against your chest.

By the time you part he's panting, looking down at you like he'd been waiting to do that for a little too long. When he catches his breath a bit, he lays his head on your chest and wraps his arms around your stomach. Mumbling against the fabric of your shirt in a way that is so adorable, and so Seungmin. "Also... his mustache looks stupid."

SKZ Works

Taglist: @my-neurodivergent-world @possum-playground @m-325

[redacted-00101]

Modern-day DPS Headcanons

These have been rattling around in my head for a while and I desperately need to tell someone

Knox is the most performative man to ever perform: I’m talking matcha lattes, sambas, beebadoobee, the whole shabang, this man definitely owns a fucking labubu

They all defo have a discord server together AND they all play video games together be so fr. Everyone plays except Todd because he’s just not super into gaming BUT despite that he still likes to watch and Pitts always makes sure to share his screen so he can watch.

Cameron definitely has a beef in a random comment section on a random youtube video from 2012 that’s spanned over the course of like 7 years in which they reply to each other every few months. It definitely started as a petty beef but over time their responses have definitely become more coherent and structured, and the thread is definitely over 200 messages long.

Neil LOVES the website Backstage.

Everyone uses and abuses sparknotes and studoc like it’s nobodies business.

Neil and Charlie definitely had a youtube channel together where they posted stupid and borderline offensive videos at the age of like 11

Charlie is an extremely niche microcelebrity in the sense that he accidentally went viral on vine back in the day because one of the other poets (probably Neil) posted a video of his usual shenanigans and it became a meme. Now years later on his tiktok and instagram posts he’ll get the occasional ‘oh my god, are you the [insert whatever stupid shit he was doing in the vine] kid from that one vine?’ (this is the first thing Knox asked him when they met in freshman year 💔)

Kind of irrelevant but KNOX IS A MUNCH!! 🤭

Meeks is definitely super into drones and filming those drone videos and shit where they fly over nice terrain, he also definitely loves a good robotics competition.

Speaking of robotics, all the poets are in their high school robotics club together. The rest of them only really joined because Meeks and Pitts were super into it and really wanted everyone else to give it a try and it sort of became a thing. Something tells me it eventually grew on Todd, but Charlie, Neil, Knox, and Cameron are just there for the vibes, personality hires type shit (they’re fucking useless at competitions)

Todd and Neil are lowkey mindful about screen time but the rest of them dgaf and are super online all the time, and even then, Neil will go through phases where he’s online 24/7 and then he’s all of a sudden reconnecting with nature and opening his third eye. Sometimes the poets will be making references or spewing brainrot, and half the time Todd will get it, but the other half someone has to pull up a video and then he’ll chuckle and be like ‘oh, I get it’ even if he didn’t really get it.

Knox fucks with tarot card but sucks at them. Just to piss him off, Charlie decided to use his talents for good and got really really good at tarot readings, but it got to a point where it genuinely just became a hobby for him and he started to really enjoy it. Needless to say, Charlie can and will read people to absolute FILTH.

They’re all on substacked and letterboxd and use that shit on the regular.

I trust that Neil, Todd, Meeks, and Charlie are super against AI and chatgpt; for Neil and Todd, they don’t really fuck with it due to the implications it has for creative careers, Meeks finds it intellectually understimulating at best and a detriment to academia/critical thinking at worst, and Charlie just doesn’t really agree with the politics surrounding it. Cameron and Knox don’t really gaf and Pitts is indifferent, but he still doesn’t use it out of respect for his friends.

Meeks and Pitts were fs 2b2t veterans, they were in the fucking trenches of that server.

Cameron and Neil are Kumon victims.

Meeks is definitely the guy that’s always playing tetris or cool math games in every class and quickly flicks windows when the teacher walks by, but he still manages to maintain a perfect gpa.

Pitts and Charlie always start every semester swearing up and down that this’ll be their academic comeback and that this time they’re going to be academic weapons, but every time they find themselves four weeks into the term already playing roblox or some shit in class instead of paying attention 💔

I have heaps more shit floating around in my head, so if someone enjoys this post I might do a part 2!

[jackrrabbot]

imagine you're dating robby. it's warm, it's lovely, but so, so fresh.

cw: 18+ MDNI, very toxic jack and robby (but especially jack), robby gets cucked, bad ending... for robby

in the weeks since you've started dating robby, you've also come to know jack is his best friend. he's always there. always mentioned in stories, invited to hangouts, and even goes on double dates with you two and his plaything of the week.

jack pulls robby aside after handovers one evening. he says, "what's yours has always been mine, brother. didn't we agree on that?"

robby pretends he doesn't know who or what he's referring to, but he does.

yes, it's true. he and jack have come to an agreement on this. they've shared partners plenty of times. whether it be at the same time or after they've gotten bored with them and passed them on to each other when they're done using their holes.

but you're different. robby thinks you're the one he'll actually settle down for. he's not so keen on sharing you this time, but he's hesitant to tell jack this.

he'll do anything for jack. anything. be his wingman, help him wrangle some pretty, unsuspecting thing into his life, and turn a blind eye when he quickly decides to move on to the next. maybe all robby needs to do is help find him someone, the someone, to distract him from you.

ultimately, for all of robby's effort, jack is relentless. he refuses to have anyone else but you. his obsession is almost worse now than before robby tried to set him up with a few virgins (his favorite).

everywhere you turn, jack is there. he picks you up from work instead of robby. he goes grocery shopping with you in the evening and helps you cook dinner while robby is at his shift. while he's at work, he starts sending you texts. texts that go from friendly to flirty to downright filthy.

robby has no qualms about invading your privacy, and because he knows jack, he goes through your phone. the familiar sight of jack's cock greets him when he sees hundreds upon hundreds of messages between you two.

he would be upset with you, but jack has a way of painting an unassuming picture. sure he sends you photos and videos of himself, but he hasn't made a move on you, right? he's just releasing his pent-up energy somewhere, and who else to be on the receiving end but his best friend's girlfriend? he doesn't even ask for nudes back. it's all fine and good. or, that's what robby tries to convince himself of.

at least, you're okay with it. maybe you were a little weirded out at first, but jack told you that robby was fine with how close you two were getting. and with how often they're together, you assumed that was the truth.

robby doesn't know what to do at this point. jack will just keeping pushing and pushing until you're underneath him. and when you are, it won't be under duress. you won't figure it's cheating. you'll just think it's a perk of being the girlfriend of a guy who has someone like jack as a best friend.

so he cuts him a deal. he can have you for one night. only the one. and robby has to be there. has to watch and make sure that he doesn't lose you to jack.

he nearly does.

robby has a perfect view of jack thrusting into you, balls deep, with your legs hiked over his shoulders. cum drips from your cunt and asshole and seeps into the bedding below. you're wanton moans pain robby, but he can't help but pull out his cock and fist himself at the sight of you losing your mind to someone who's not him.

jack comes inside you for the umpteenth time, and then it's over. he's done. he's had his fill of you, and the chase should be over. robby finally breathes a sigh of relief when jack pulls out of you.

robby spurts into his hand a final time and quickly gathers himself again so he can use the holes jack warmed up for him. you're passed out by the time he's finished.

when all is said and done, jack's relationship with robby is strained, even if robby says otherwise. he knows he should've never pursued you. but you're the closest thing he's felt to love in a long time. he wants more. moremoremore.

robby soon realizes that too. and he can't stand the distance. which is why they reconcile and the deal gets extended. just for a little while. just so he can still have you both.

jack is his best friend. you're his girlfriend. him fucking you every once in a while doesn't change that. and heck, you enjoyed the experience, so who does this really harm? deep down robby enjoyed it too.

he won't be a bachelor forever, anyway. especially not so he can slowly, but surely, bring you over to his side. right?

"just let me have her for birthdays, man. maybe a few holidays a year." jack pats robby on the back, and he gives him a devilish smirk.

jack is a very, very bad friend. he knows. and when he takes you from robby, he won't be sharing.

[idontcaboose]

Hey there, Kiddo! Part 2

Previous. Masterpost

It, surprisingly, didn't take him long to find Tim Drake-Wayne. It took him longer to figure out how he wanted to do to mess with the jittery mess.

Danny has met with actual sleep demons. They were usually skeletal or wispy shadows, but they never appeared in direct eye contact, and Danny didn't really want to hover in the peripherals. Plus he needs to think of what to say that is just creepy enough to make the young Ceo stop and listen, but not creepy enough to make the guy run for the hills…. Granted this is Gotham so that fine line might either be thinner than usual.

Danny suddenly remembered that game Tucker had him play with him, the one where a space magic kid possessed bio-tech suits that had some sentience and was in reality all kinds of messed up. But after that one mission where you met with a possible elderich being that took your form that smiled, just a little too wide, moved just a little bit too stiffly wrong, and always got your attention with “Hey there, Kiddo.” It was almost perfect. And that game didn't exist here, no one would get the reference and ruin the experience.

Danny changed into to his ghostly form and morphed to look like Tim Drake-Wayne when he was about 9 years old (taken from a picture on his desk with what must have been his parents) and the suit he was currently wearing, but just a little bit off. Danny didn't change his green eyes but made them glow just a bit more, made his teeth just a little bit sharper, and his smile just a bit too wide.

Danny was proud of how well he did. Amorpho will be getting a great present for the winter truce this year, as well as Spectra for teaching him how to be only visible to one person and only in reflections.

Danny startled when Tim turned off the tablet and flinched at the reflection of Danny right behind him in the screen. Tim whipped his entire body around to find no one else in the room behind him. Danny taking this chance, made himself visible to Tim while sitting cross legged on the back of one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Well hey there Kiddo.” Danny said, putting just enough reverb to make it grate the ears a little bit.

He watched as Tim re-tensed after working himself down from the reflection scare, and slowly turn to face a younger version of himself sitting impossibly across from his desk.

“You really should stay awake more often, it's fun when we can play like this.” Danny coo'd.

Tim slowly blinked. Which Danny took as a que to disappear for Tim. He silently giggled to himself as Tim slowly looked around the room, making sure to check the reflections of everything that could reflect, before taking a shuttering breath and slumping down into his desk chair.

Tim sat staring blankly towards the ceiling for a few minutes before finally moving. He called Tam on his desk phone to request for Alfred to pick him up. After that he looked at his mostly full cup of coffee before dumping it into the nearest plant pot, and then waited patiently for his ride to get there.

Danny thought about following him home, but the young man looked like he was going to go to bed, so he figured his mission was accomplished.

Next

[byerfart]

RUNDOWN OF ALL THE DETAILS! vvv (just for you 🩷)

I had the clocks there obviously because vecna is correlated with clocks, so I had the hands pointed towards 7 and 11 (byler and el)!

I added a lot of references to s5 ep7 because of MW705 of course #neverforget. There is also a reference to this on the yellow pricetag and the tv in the middle on the far right. There are multiple stickers plastered on the tvs, including a fireball, a heart (you’re the heart!), a broken heart, and a wizard hat on will’s head (partly covered by the 5 in the top left). There is a 7 up can to reference the scene of byler on the car, where mike drinks the soda, and also.. it was a 7 #bylerendgame.

Vecna replacing one of will’s eyes was not just me being lazy.. (okay maybe a little) but also because there are theories that will may lose an eye, which i thought would be fun to incorporate. Will is also referred to as the spy in s2, and I had a vision of vecna watching mike and everything through will because of this fact (this is also seen on the missing poster).

Speaking of the missing poster, I thought that maybe vecna would use will going missing as a weapon against mike, since the bullying for will translated onto mike as well during this time.

In the sketch, there was going to be a nod to flickergate and churchgate, but I decided against adding them because of clutter and something else. For context, there was going to be a dim lightbulb in the corner to reference flickergate, as i said before. The problem was, I didn’t want anything to distract your attention TOO astray from the fact that Will is the source of light, as that is usually how we see him through Mike’s perspective

(the way he is his light im gagged.. the way his light is shining on him and he’s looking up in awe.. my mind..).

Notice how will is surrounded by a bright white room, I wanted it to look as though he was the reason the light was there somehow, like he was some sort of spirit. Similarly, I wanted it to resemble a school photograph to pull your mind back to s1 and s2.

Mike is also wearing his main s4 outfit because I think vecna would bring him back to one of his s4 memories to torture him.

The tvs are supposed to be from the 70s-80s!

And lastly, if I didn’t forget anything, the moving boxes! It does make sense to think that the boxes are there for tvs, but everything in the drawing is meant to be from mike’s memory. They are supposed to resemble the boxes the byers used to pack up, like the 7 up can being there because of the scene i mentioned earlier.

Omg crazy spam im sorry

Holy word salad

The concept of Mike seeing Will everywhere if he was vecnad..

15 hrs total of time spent on this art

W tumblr debut