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sunsburns · 2 months ago

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track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x fem!reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.

⟢ wc: 15k+

⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!

You’re such a pervert.

At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.

Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.

You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.

Why did you even agree to this again?

Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.

Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)

Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.

Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.

He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.

He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.

You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.

You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.

He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”

You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”

He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”

“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”

Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.

Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.

By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.

You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.

So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.

You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.

You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.

Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.

You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.

But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.

Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.

You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.

His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.

You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.

You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.

God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.

If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)

You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.

You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.

“I suck.”

You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.

“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.

“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.

His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.

Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.

Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.

“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.

Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.

“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”

“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”

That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.

To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.

“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”

His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”

You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”

“My treat.”

“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”

It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?

Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.

Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.

You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.

You blink. “Holy shit.”

Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”

────────────

You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.

Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.

If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.

If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.

But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.

Totally.

And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).

Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.

As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.

You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.

But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.

Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.

And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.

“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.

“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.

You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”

There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.

And you try to listen. You do.

You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.

You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.

You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.

The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.

You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.

Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.

You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.

The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.

Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.

You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.

Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?

…Right.

So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.

His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.

He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.

You should say something. Anything.

“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”

He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”

Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.

“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.

There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.

“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”

You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”

“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”

“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”

Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”

You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.

Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.

And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.

You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?

Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.

You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.

And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.

He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.

You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.

When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”

And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”

“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”

He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.

“Thanks. You remembered?”

“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.

The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.

You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.

Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.

You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.

And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.

But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.

Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.

Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.

And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.

You glance down.

Oh.

Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.

Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.

“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.

His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.

He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”

A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”

He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.

You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:

You want to kiss him.

And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.

And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.

“Mark,” you say.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”

“I think we should fuck.”

He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.

“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.

Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”

You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”

Mark goes absolutely still.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.

“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”

“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.

“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?

Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.

You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.

“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.

“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.

“Reject you?”

“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.

“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”

The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”

"You're not?"

He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.

“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”

The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.

“So... you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.

Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.

“Yeah.”

Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.

Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”

“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.

“So what... we just do this?” he asks.

“We could... just try it. See if it works.”

His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.

“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.

Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”

You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”

“Please, do.”

He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”

“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.

Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”

You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”

You inhale sharply.

“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”

His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”

You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.

When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.

The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.

By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.

He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.

Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.

You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.

So you do.

You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).

He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).

He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.

You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.

You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.

He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.

The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”

You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”

“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.

You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”

You park in front of his house and kill the engine.

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”

“What?”

You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.

He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.

“I win.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.

The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.

You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.

And then he kisses you again.

No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.

You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”

“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.

He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.

“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.

He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

You think you hear him whisper your name.

You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.

And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.

“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.

God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.

Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”

His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.

He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.

Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.

He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.

Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably.

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.

“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.

The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.

You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not…”

A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”

Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit.

“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”

He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.

“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.

Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.

Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.

He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.

How alien is he? You wonder.

But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.

Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.

His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.

Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.

Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.

Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.

His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.

“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”

You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.

He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.

You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.

He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.

And laugh.

“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”

Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.

Mark’s ears go red.

“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.

“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”

He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.

You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”

“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”

He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.

“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”

You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.

It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.

He twitches again.

The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?

Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.

Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…” he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.

“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”

“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.

Maybe both.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.

Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.

His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.

You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.

You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.

His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.

His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:

“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”

He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.

His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.

You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”

You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.

“That was…”

“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.

His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.

He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.

You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.

Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.

He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.

You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.

The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”

You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”

You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.

And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.

You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.

Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.

Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.

You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.

He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.

You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”

Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”

Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.

Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.

His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.

He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.

You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”

Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.

And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.

You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.

You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.

You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.

And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.

He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.

You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.

A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.

“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.

You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.

“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.

His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.

His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.

A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.

You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.

Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.

It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.

You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.

You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.

Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

Then his mouth finds you.

One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips.

He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.

The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.

“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer.

He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.

“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.

“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).

You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.

“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”

“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”

Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.

A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.

If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.”

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.

His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.

His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.

The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.

He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.

“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”

Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you swear.

“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”

You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.

A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.

“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”

Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.

Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,

Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.

When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.

His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”

“Could be better...”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.

“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.

“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.

He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.

“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”

You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”

He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”

Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ #mark’s empire

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robinsnest2111 · 1 year ago

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kinda missing the shitty little shops and boutiques in the city circa 2007/2008

they've been gone for years but I would like to visit them one last time...

#i remember getting cheap clothes from the og new yorker location with the tacky black/white checkered floor #and the small sales space crammed front to back with racks and shelves of clothes #and the small cabins with the doors that never closed all the way and the too loud music #so many ed hardy knock off designs #and the small knick knack shops a few streets down from there #cheap jewelry and decorations and party stuff and candles and what have you #i remember buying posters and cheap plastic-y neon coloured hair extension clips there #got my tacky bedazzled peace sign necklace there as well when i was in my brief but intense hippy 70s phase #or that other overprized boutique with the most insane size range (XXXS - M/L) where i e #where i exclusively bought jewelry and accessories because i could not fit into any of their clothes (been a size L/XL since primary school)#i still have the black satin bunny ear bow headband with the wires inside you could shape however you wanted that was super popular #and i remember the bedazzled tinkerbell silhouette necklace and the star earrings that were too heavy for my ears so i never wore them #also the leather wares shop when it was still in a side street in the city... i still remember the day i skipped school to roam the streets #went there and bought a raccoon tail keychain. still going strong 15 years later and still attached to my wallet <3 #a true comfort item. used to pet and stroke it in stressful situations #anyway..... feeling very young and nostalgic for a time that's long gone idk idk idk #i wish i could've enjoyed it more. but that was impossible as i was barely surviving at the time. always on edge.#struggling with mental illness and bullying and gender identity issues while not even having any words to describe what i was feeling #i feel i have missed out on so much because i was trying so hard to Just Survive

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woewriting · 1 year ago

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turning point (g!p)

pairing: tara carpenter | reader summary: tara calls you to rescue her from a bad date and things take a surprising turn. word count: 3726 warnings: mdni, +18 only! no ghostface au, reader has a dick, friends with benefits (?), clothed sex, language, smut in general. a/n: will you guys believe if i say the date part was inspired by a terrible date my coworker had? because it was and @wesstars is the proof of it!

masterlist

When the 7th episode of season 4 of Stranger Things started you felt your phone vibrating somewhere in between the cozy blankets. As you blindly looked for it, eyes focused on the TV in front of your bed, you felt it vibrating once again, but this time more than once.

Holding the phone in your hands, the name “tara” followed by a small heart emoji showed on the screen with 4 messages attached to it. Pausing the episode, you unlocked the device.

tara ♥︎ can you come pick me up? please this is the worst date ever 😭

Sewing your eyebrows together, you were quick to reply, asking for her location.

tara ♥︎ im at the motel near the campus, green valley or something chad is showering and i told him i’d take an uber home because i wasn't feeling well and didn’t want to stay anymore please come fast

Typing a simple “omw”, you grabbed your hoodie, throwing it over the white tank top you usually wore to sleep along with sweat shorts that easily became a second skin.

It was easy to spot the building as a gigantic green neon sign took over most of the illumination of the empty street. You parked in front of it, patiently waiting for your best-friend as you sent a message letting her know you arrived. The place seemed expensive and well cleaned, unlike most cheap motels that took over the right side of the street near the campus of your college, still, it didn't appetize you to walk in.

Soon, the younger Carpenter ran towards you, sighing in relief when she jumped into the car.

“That bad, huh?” You asked with a laugh, setting the first gear ready to go back home.

“You have no idea.” Tara whined, turning on the heat, complaining about how cold it was outside in a whisper. “I'll tell you everything when we get home.”

“I'm watching Stranger Things.” The focus on the road in front of you as you took a right turn didn't allow you to see the indignation expression on her face, more dramatic than it was necessary.

“Is Stranger Things more important than me?”

“I’m about to find out what happened at the Hawkins Lab…” You continued, trying to convince her of your cause, but her next words made you look at her with raised eyebrows, a convinced smile of someone who won drawing her lips.

“He has a small dick.”

“I'm all ears, princess.”

The return home didn’t take more than 10 minutes, especially with empty roads and yellow sign lights. Tara started telling about her date from the second it started, which was 5PM, the exact time she started to get ready. Honestly, none of that was necessary to reach the part that it all went downhill, but you didn’t dare to interrupt, you paid attention to every word Tara was saying as you carefully parked your car in your designated spot.

The second the elevator stopped on your floor, Tara had finished telling you about the dinner part of her date.

According to her, the food wasn't bad, but the place was crowded and the music playing was so annoying that it became a bit too much for her. It was already hard to pay attention to anything Chad was saying as the others' conversation was caught in the middle, stealing her attention, all she could was nod and smile, like one of the Penguins from Madagascar.

You laughed at her indignation and the small wrinkle in between her eyebrows, opening the door and giving her space to walk in. Kicking your shoes away, the both of you automatically walked to the door at the end of the small hallway of your apartment, the episode 7 of Stranger Things’ last season still on pause when you sat on the bed being followed by Tara; Jamie Campbell’s beautiful blue eyes on the screen.

“... and after we got to the motel, things were heating up and his hands were on my ass and he kept pushing me against him and…” Tara stopped talking after noticing the disgusted expression on your face as you made yourself comfortable on the bed. The girl sat right by your side. “I will not spare any details.”

“I’m seriously considering automatically deleting every explicit part of it.” You retorted, shifting uncomfortably against the headboard.

Despite the years of friendship you and Tara had, from Junior High all the way to college — where you both were right now, nothing touchy ever happened between the two of you, not even a single, drunk kiss at parties. You two were close, of course, but not this close, and hearing the vulgar words easily slipping out of her mouth was creating a weird feeling inside your chest.

“I don’t care.” The girl rolled her eyes, moving closer to you. “Continuing, Chad is gentle, nice, and it feels good to be with him, but ugh… I couldn��t even feel anything when I was sitting on his lap.” You let out a small laugh, scratching your eyebrow. That wasn’t the first time Tara rambled about a bad date, but this was Chad, a common friend, and someone that the young Carpenter had a genuine interest in. At this point, that interest had disappeared into thin air. “And when he removed his pants, he had this military patch underwear and black socks on and it was a huge turn off.”

“Black socks really do sucks…”

“I know!” The exasperated way she agreed with you made you laugh, her hand resting near your knee. “Can you believe he didn’t want to take them off? He said he has cold feet.” Her face fell against your thigh, a tired sighing leaving her mouth, hot breath hitting your bate skin. “I should’ve ran when he said that.” Tara mumbled.

Your hand naturally rested on her head in a soft petting, “You really should have.”

The brunette moved a little, laying on her side with her cheek still resting on your leg to feel the soothing moves of your fingers on her hair. The new position gave her a small vision of what's beneath the thick fabric of your shorts, the hem of black boxers peeking through. She looked away, crimson color on her cheeks as she continued the events of the night.

“But, it’s Chad, so I decided to ignore that ridiculous sock and continue.” You nodded your head. “He removed that equally annoying underwear and I swear to God! It was smaller than my hand, and my hands aren’t that big! Look.” To prove her point, she held your other hand, measuring it with her own. She intertwined your fingers together after you agreed with her, resting them both on her chest. “But I was like… okay, it’s not big but maybe he can be good with his tongue.”

“Oh, God.” You choke, closing your eyes. “I will never be able to look at him again.”

“Imagine how I feel!” Tara whined. “But then I thought to myself, he’s a terrible kisser; if he doesn’t know how to use his tongue on my mouth, imagine how bad it’ll be when he use it on my pu—”

“Okay! Let’s not use those explicit words, please.” You interrupted her, shifting again. “But damn, is that guy good at anything?”

“He has a nice body… from the waist up.” This time neither of you could hold back the laugh, the delightful sound of her laughing mixed with yours filled the room for a couple minutes, your hand still playing with the soft strands that spread across your leg. “Chad is a nice guy, but… that’s not enough for me, you know? I crave touching, feeling something. And he was so small I would barely feel anything.” Tara cried out, covering her face with her free hand as the other still held yours against her chest.

“I’m not a sexual freak or anything but I agree, at least the kiss has to be good. So that’s when you messaged me?”

“I wish.” It was your turn to sigh loudly. “We kept going and when I asked him to wear protection, you won’t believe it…”

“He didn’t have any?”

“Oh, he did.” She bit her lower lip, hand still covering her eyes as the images played like a broken record behind her closed lids. “After that awkward moment where he put it on, he got soft.”

“Maybe it was too tight or something, that can be an annoying bother.” You tried defending your friend, but the girl denied with her head, pursing her lips together, deciding if she should say it or not, but after all the details she already had shared, this one wouldn’t matter either.

“It was loose. It was the smallest size and it still was big for him.”

“Jesus Christ. I am deleting every photo I have with him. I can’t bear looking him in the eyes after knowing all of that.” Once again, your laugh filled the bedroom, making Tara look at you with narrowed eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Is it me?” You tilted your head to the side in confusion. “Am I the problem?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe I’m a terrible kisser and that’s why it didn’t fit.” She explained, looking at you.”Do you think I’m hot?”

“Where did that come from?”

“The deepest part of my curious brain.” Tara sat back up, resting her hand and yours on her thigh. “Now answer me, am I hot?”

“You are hot, Tara.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure the problem wasn’t you. Maybe he was just nervous to be with you, I don’t know.”

“That does make me the problem.” Her eyes never left yours, looking for a small sign of a lie that was never found; after all, you did find Tara hot. “Why did you never kiss me?”

You let out a deep sigh. “Because we’re friends.”

“You kiss your friends. Amber, Mindy, and I’m sure you tried to kiss my sister once too.”

“Please, don’t bring that to the table.” The pinkish tone that colored your cheeks made the other smile. “And it’s different, they’re just friends, and you’re my best friend.”

Tara moved on the bed, sitting on her calves, still looking at you, and still holding your hand.

“Kiss me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kiss me.”

You let out an awkward, breathy laugh, trying to pull your hand from hers and moving away just a bit, but the brunette was determined, you could see it in the dark brown eyes.

“Stop joking around, Carpenter.” You said one more time, her slender fingers tracing random patterns on your thigh with her free hand, feeling the goosebumps all over your skin, big bambi eyes staring at you. “Tara…”

“Please…” She cried out, the tip of her fingers trespassing the hem of your shorts, only a few centimeters away from your clothed cock. You could already feel it twitching inside your boxers just from those small touches. “I just wanna prove to myself that I can do it and that there’s nothing wrong with me. You, as my best friends, should help me with that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, I truthfully believe you can get someone hard.”

“Then why wasn’t he hard?”

“Maybe it was just a bad day or he was nervous, I don’t know.” You repeat what you said earlier, hoping that it was enough for the small girl. It clearly wasn't though.

“But we were having fun! He was sweet, polite, respectful, and paid for dinner and the motel, which was not cheap. It makes no sense!” She whined like a spoiled kid. Tara sat on your thighs, holding your face in her hands. “Lemme touch you. Please.”

“Can’t we just watch Stranger Things and forget about this terrible date?” You asked in hopes she would let that stupid idea go; she obviously didn’t.

“We can, after we kiss.” Tara fixed herself on top of you, moving up. Your hands instantly grabbed her waist, before she could sit on your hips. “You know I won’t stop.”

“You’re like the donkey from Shrek.” You writhe under her.

“Please…”

“Dear Lord.” Your head fell back, hitting the soft headboard. “Why does it have to be me? And now?”

“Because you’re my best friend.” The girl shrugged. “Plus, you never let me see it.”

“I swear you have the strangest obsession with my dick.”

“I’m just curious about it.” Feeling the loosen on your grip, Tara moved slightly up, sitting right on top of it. “And I can definitely feel it.” The brunette pushed herself down, biting her lower lip.

“Please, stop moving.” You whined, trying to hold her still, but she was determined, you could see it in her eyes. It wasn’t going to take long before your underwear became a bother. “Tara, I’m warning you.”

“You sound so hot, you should use that tone with me more often.” Her hands grabbed you by the collar of your shirt, wrinkling it, pulling you closer until her mouth was yours. You didn’t stop her or kissed her back, but your grip on her waist grew stronger. She smiled against your lips, one of her hands sliding down your body, nails scratching your belly under your hoodie, threatening to trespass the waist of your shorts. “Can I touch you?”

You gulped hard, staring at the brown eyes that looked soft, unlike her hands. “Are you sure you want to do this? There's no point of return.” Tara nodded fast, not giving a second thought to it, playing with the waist of your shorts. “You can touch me.”

When you gave Tara permission to touch you, you thought the girl was going to wrap her hands around your soft shaft, but all she did was kiss you, slowly and enticing, and this time you kissed her back. Your hands on her waist helped her move against your lap, grinding on you at a torturous pace.

You wanted to turn around, change your positions so you could control whatever it was about to happen, but you allowed her to be in charge; this was all about Tara proving to herself she’s not the problem, right? So you held back the urge.

Tara’s hands moved up again, wrapping around your neck as she got closer, pushing herself down on you, moaning against your parted lips when she felt your dick pressing on her even though you weren’t hard.

Her kiss trailed down your neck, gently nibbling on the skin there. You threw your head back, moving your hands down her ass, under the skirt of her dress to push her harder against you, increasing her hips’ speed.

“Fuck…” You let out a sharp breath, completely affected by the delicate touches coming from your best-friend, and that only made her more eager to pleasure you.

“Do you like this?” Tara whispered in your ear, softly biting on your lobule, tracing the cartilage with her teeth. All you could do was nod. She could feel you slowly getting hard against her ass.

Licking your lips, you thrust your hip up in a strong move, making the both of you moan lowly. You could come just with that friction if she continued moaning with her mouth so close to your ear, only for you to hear it.

Tara’s hands trailed down your body once again, but this time she pushed down the elastic of the waistband of your gray shorts, in a silent request for you to remove it. She lifted herself just enough for it to slide down your legs, pooling just before your knees, the black boxer still hugging your thighs tightly.

She didn’t want to look down, too shy to do so, but when she sat back against your bulge, it was impossible to not look at it. She pursed her lips together, the moan choked in the back of her throat as she felt you pressing hard against her. A wet spot taking form on the dark, thin cloth the more she rolled her hips on you.

It was an agonizing pain to let Tara in control of the situation. You could feel the warmth and wetness dripping for her cunt, you would easily slide in her, if she allowed you to. But you didn’t know how far she wanted to go with you, after all, this was just a test to see if she could get you hard, and she definitely could as she felt you twitching against her in desperate need to release.

This could've stopped here and now, you were hard after all, but in a bold move, her hand slipped into your underwear, her hand holding your dick in a hard squeeze that almost made you scream against her mouth. Pulling your length out, Tara wrapped her hand around your shaft, moving it up and down in a provocative way, smiling against your parted lips. Her eyes were dark, staring at you with luxury dripping from the brownish just like she was dripping on your thighs. You could feel the hot, thick liquid oozing on your skin as she rubbed herself on you.

“Fuck, Tara.” You breathed out again, broken, lewdly.

The brunette dipped her hand in her own underwear, eyes threatening to close as she rounded her swollen clit with two fingers, but she kept them open with a wicked expression on her face. Tara pulled her dress up, giving you the privileged view of her ruined underwear, the white fabric completely transparent. You couldn’t help yourself as your finger traced the wet stain, Tara’s mouth hanging open at the agonizing slow touch.

“Stop.” She asked in a trembled voice, shakingly holding your hand with flushed cheeks. “I don’t wanna cum like this.”

“And how do you wanna cum?”

Letting go of your hand, she watched with focused eyes as you took two of your fingers in your mouth, sucking at the slick that coated them with a satisfied hum. Tara seriously considered saying she wanted to ride your face and fall apart on your lips, but she just, messily, removed her underwear. A thin line of arousal followed the cloth as she tossed it somewhere in your bedroom, your mouth watering at that.

Tara pulled your boxer slightly down just enough for your member to be released, proudly hitting your lower belly, before placing herself on top of your cock, the blood flowing in your veins reverberating against her clit, making both of you choke on your breath. She fitted your length in between her slick folds, almost crying at the warm feeling.

She started grinding on you, shaking at every small move.

“This feels so fucking good.”

Throwing her head back, Tara supported her weight on her arms, gaining a fast pace. Your hands held the skirt of her dress up, giving you the perfect view of her shining cunt, smearing herself all over your cock. You could feel that tight knot on your stomach at that.

Moving one of your hands up and taking the dress with it, you crossed a barrier when you exposed her perfect tits, holding the stiff nipple with your thumb and index finger in a hurtful squeeze, earning yourself a crying moan that only made you throb against her center, while the other hand bruised the skin of her ass. You could see the red marks of your fingers all over her waist.

Pulling her torso towards you, your lips wrapped around her other nipple, trembling your tongue on the hardened nub, making Tara’s hands pull on your hair, keeping you close to her chest. Her hips started to lose speed, squirming in your arms as she neared her release; you weren’t going to last much, not when she started whispering your name over and over, shakingly violently in your arms. You came right after her, shooting thick ropes of cum directly into your hoodie.

Your arms were fast to hold her against you, keeping her body close as you came down from your high together. Tara's head fell on your shoulder, her hot breath tickling the skin of your neck, you could feel her smile.

“You okay?” Being the first one to break the silence, you asked in a soft voice, running your hands up and down her back, feeling her heart beating like crazy; yours weren't different, smashing itself against your ribcage.

“I'm great.” She mumbled out, weak and out of breath. “Are you okay?”

Feeling the nod of your head, she pulled away from her hiding spot. When you met her eyes, a pinkish color was filling the skin around her cheekbones, coloring the freckles that spread across her face, and unlike you were wondering inside your head, things didn't look awkward after that; Tara still had that familiar, warm look in her eyes when she leaned in to place a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips.

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“For making you cum without barely touching you?” Tara laughed in a proud voice, avoiding looking down as she felt your length still comfortably placed in between her slick folds.

Your hands were firm on her waist when you lifted her hips, guiding the tip of your cock against her sensitive bundle of nerves before slowly sliding in her cunt at the same time she fell back on your thighs, trying to catch her breath at the sudden invasion. A small smile on her face at the feeling of being full, her velvety walls clenching hard around your shaft, still recovering from her orgasm.

“For the fact that I'm still pretty hard.” Pressing kisses over her jawline, you thrusted up, a surprised moan escaping her throat. “Can you feel it? How hard I am? How good I'm filling you?”

“Yes…” She choked out, wrinkling your hoodie in her fingers, trying to find support on your shoulders when your hands forced her up, your member coated in a thin layer of her arousal before sliding her back down. “I'm very proud of myself.” The breathy confession made you smile against her neck, softly biting on her jugular before your movements gained a steady rhythm, mixing with the wet sounds and the melody tone of her voice calling out your name for every neighbor to hear.

2K notes · View notes

ateezlibrary · 13 days ago

Text

cherry blossom (m) • kys

pairing: street racer!yeosang x tattoo artist!reader

tags/genre: smut with plot, strangers to friends(?) to lovers (except there's sexual tension from minute one), sub!yeo x dom!reader, garage sex, dirty talk

word count: 7.8k words

synopsis: when wooyoung comes in for an addition to his sleeve, he brings along a very handsome friend who says he's got a thing for cars. in a poor attempt to stay in touch with him, you suddenly become the victim of so many car troubles. needless to say, yeosang isn't exactly the best on picking up hints ...

notes: 18+ content (mdni!). for funsies, this yeosang had a cameo in mingi's street racer fic and i thought it'd be fun to do a spin-off for him. enjoy!

the shop was quiet, save for the scratch of pencil against paper. you sit cross-legged on the aged leather couch by the front window, neon lights casting a glow around you while you work on the final details of your next client’s design. sharp, jagged outlines surrounded the blooming rose, something that wasn’t in your usual style but you quite enjoyed working on. you lose track of time by the time you’ve made it to the printer, prepping your station with antiseptic and replenishing your vials when the bells perched over the doorframe capture your attention.

“guess who’s here!” a voice sings, shrill and high and all-too-familiar to your ears. you turn to see wooyoung in his grand entrance, arms outstretched as he beams over at you.

“hello there,” you call out to him, laughing as you set aside your tools and tug the gloves off of your hands. “aren’t you a bit early?”

“yeah, i had a friend drop me off since my car’s at the shop,” he answers, settling into the plush armchair beside your station with a dramatic groan. “he’ll pick me up when it’s done.”

“what’s wrong with it?” you ask, nodding your head towards the bench at the center of your space. wooyoung follows, putting his arm out for you to see his previous work you’d completed not long before. the ink has settled well, no bleeds or gaps in the line work. “seems like it healed well.”

he nods, twisting and careening his arm under the overhead lamp for you to see. “engine’s been sputtering more than usual. figure i get friend of mine to fix it for cheap so i can save my money for better use.” wooyoung blinks up at you with a sickeningly sweet smile, one that forces you to roll your eyes with another laugh as you reach for his stencil.

“well, i’d hate to be the sucker you’re taking advantage of.”

“you’d like him! he’s nice.”

“if you say so.”

for the next few hours, you and wooyoung spend time catching up as you begin the outline of his new tattoo. he grimaces under the needle’s pressure, something he does every time as if he’d never experienced it. you smack his arm, scolding him for twitching and yelping so that he would sit still. you tease him for the cliché choice of a rose tattoo while he shares more details about the time he’d been spending at car meets.

“i’ve got to take you to one of the meets soon,” he continues excitedly, “you’d love ‘em.”

“you think?” you replenish the vial in your hand, glancing at the needle under the light as you assess the next steps to begin shading wooyoung’s skin. the outline is clean, just the way you liked it. “i know absolutely nothing about cars.”

“it’s more than just looking at the cars,” wooyoung tries to explain. “there’s drinks, usually lots of good music. plenty of people who come that aren’t into cars but want to hook up with people who are.” he raises an eyebrow suggestively, leaning into you as you shove him back down onto the bench with a huff.

“i’m not that lonely,” you scoff, glancing back at your reference before pointing the needle at wooyoung. “now, sit still.”

wooyoung has groaned and whined for another good fifteen minutes when the doorbell signals your attention, the dull hum of your needle coming to a stop as you glance up. you don’t even register that wooyoung has called out to the stranger in his usual high-pitched cry, your eyes fixated on what may have been the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

he was unfairly handsome in an effortless way—his burgundy hair fell in loose waves around his face, eyes sparkling under the warm lighting in the shop. his beauty was striking, but it was the contrast from his face to his body that left you speechless. he was incredibly built, strong biceps flexing under the tight black shirt he wore that left little to the imagination.

wooyoung calls out your name urgently and you blink, realizing he’d been trying to get your attention. he notices your surprise, stifling a laugh under his breath as he summons the stranger over. you glare at him, ignoring the nerves that prick at your skin as he comes over and settles into the armchair beside your station.

“this is yeosang,” wooyoung introduces, earning a soft smile from the stranger that makes your heart flutter for just shy of a second. “he’s the one that’s working on my car.”

“sounds like you’re good with your hands,” you joke, and yeosang lets out a chuckle. his voice is deep, but there's a richness to it that you want to hear more of.

“you don’t seem so bad yourself,” he replies, eyes traveling to wooyoung’s arm where you were still working on the shading. “really nice line work.”

you feel your cheeks warm at the compliment, meeting his gaze with your own smile. “you got any tattoos?”

“me? oh, no.” yeosang shakes his head, showing you his bare—his broad, sculpted—forearms as evidence. “i think i’m too scared of needles. and i don’t know if i can commit to something i like enough.”

“commitment issues,” you sigh, shaking your head in mock disappointment. “what a shame.”

“enough talk,” wooyoung interjects and you glare down at him. “i don’t know how much longer i can sit in this chair.”

“keep complaining and i’ll make sure to tattoo something across your forehead,” you threaten, the laugh you evoke from yeosang warming you as you focus intensely on the rest of wooyoung’s shading. you can feel yeosang’s eyes on your work the entire time, an uneasy nervousness settling in your stomach. the two of them go back and forth for a while as you shade in silence, listening to them discuss the details of wooyoung’s car repair and how it’d be ready for their next meet.

“you run your own shop?” you ask as you finalize the last of wooyoung’s shading. your eyes flicker to yeosang’s and you swear you see stars in them for a moment. what the hell got into you?

“it’s small,” yeosang replies, his smile humble as he shrugs. “just something to pay the bills and keep these guys on the road.”

“sounds like i know where to go if my car ever decides to act up,” you reply, setting aside your needles and reaching for the cleaning supplies. wooyoung hisses and writhes at your touch, antiseptic stinging his tender skin as you curse at him and wrap his fresh tattoo carefully.

“you know the rules,” you instruct wooyoung, pointing at his new ink. “focus on your aftercare. come back in about a week so i can see how it’s healed and if we need to fix any of your shading.”

“you got it, boss,” he answers, chipper as he offers his payment and turns to yeosang. “now, let’s get out of here. i’m dying to test out the new fuel injector you installed.”

“you’re gonna run her into the ground again,” yeosang sighs, rising from your armchair and offering you a final smile. “it was great to meet you.”

“you too,” you reply softly, mirroring his smile as you turn to tidy your station.

what a beautiful man.

* * *

the next week flies by, your time occupied by a handful of clients and plenty of time to work on new sketches for your upcoming flash sessions. even so, your mind constantly flickered back to yeosang and how he was genuinely one of the most beautiful men you’d ever seen. you couldn’t help but think about what he’d look like under patterns of ink and line work, or what he’d feel like under your touch as you steadied him to run your needle on the surface of his skin.

maybe you just hadn’t gotten laid in a while.

wooyoung shakes you from your thoughts as he bursts in, arm no longer wrapped and tattoo fully healed as he sings your name. you roll your eyes, setting aside your coffee as you glance up at him from your phone.

“i see the pain didn’t take you out,” you mutter, eyes already scanning every inch of his arm to ensure that the work had healed well.

“what pain? i wasn’t even in pain,” wooyoung bluffs as he settles onto the bench across from you. the overhead lamp illuminates the now-healed rose on his forearm, the lines clean and free of any bleeding or blotches. “took this like a champ.”

“sure you did.” you circle him like a hawk, ensuring his skin was no longer tender to the touch as you set his arm down and look up at him. there was a question you’d been dying to ask him, one that gnawed at you as you fiddled with your fingers to think about the best way to bring it up. “so, uh—”

“i already know what i want next,” wooyoung drawls on.

“wooyoung—”

“we should do something that’s like flames. no, no—roman numerals, no—”

“wooyoung!” you shriek, forcing him to jump in surprise as his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. you sigh, shutting your eyes as you regain your composure. “sorry. there’s just something i need to ask you.”

“you want yeosang’s number?”

“huh—? i mean, how did you—”

“you were eye fucking him the entire time he was here with us last week,” wooyoung scoffs. “he’s just a very oblivious guy.”

“i’m sure i can work past that,” you offer, arms folded across your chest as you chew at your bottom lip. wooyoung arches an eyebrow, reaching for his phone with a shake of his head.

“sure. all i’ll say is good luck.”

that night in bed, you scroll through each of your friends’ stories in your usual routine. some are traveling abroad, others sharing their engagements or baby showers. you finally land on wooyoung’s, the bright lights and loud music behind him a clear indication of the car meet he was attending that night. you freeze, thumb glued to the screen as you squint at the man behind him.

there stood yeosang, clad in a muscle shirt and a backwards cap as he leaned against what you recognized only as a gorgeous car that seemed perfect for him. it shone a striking silver under the garage lights, the glow flickering against his skin and making him seem borderline angelic.

“god, he’s so pretty,” you mutter to yourself, shifting your attention to your messages where wooyoung had sent you his contact information. you stare at the number for a long time, pondering exactly how you’d plan to get yeosang’s attention when you were so far removed from his world. it seemed like he lived and breathed cars and you knew better than to have wooyoung of all people try to get his attention for you.

glancing out your bedroom window, you look down at the street where your old honda civic sat. you’d gotten her as a hand-me-down from your older cousin, with a lifetime of mileage and an engine that fought to stay alive beyond a ten-mile radius. your eyes widen as an idea dawns on you, your hands moving on their own to text yeosang.

[new message to: yeosang] hi! this is wooyoung’s friend, the one from the tattoo shop. he gave me your number because i told him i was having some issues with my car. think you could take a look?

you toss your phone aside, adrenaline rushing to your fingertips as you feel yourself grow giddy in anticipation for his reply. you mentally scold yourself for acting as though you were in high school and had never flirted with someone before. nonetheless, there’s little time for you to overthink as sleep takes you for the night.

[new message from: yeosang] hey! yeah, bring it by. i can take a look after i’m done with my regulars today.

blinking the sleep from your eyes the next morning, you squint at your screen as if you couldn’t believe what you were seeing—he replied. he actually replied. you grin as you like the message, praying you would be able to focus for your flash sessions that day before you’d head to his garage. by the evening, you’d spent ample time in the shop’s bathroom making sure your makeup wasn’t smudged, your hair was perfectly blown out still and your perfume still clung to your skin. even your coworkers commented on how good you’d looked when you arrived for your shift, a welcome change from your usual.

your civic hums and sputters as you turn on the ignition, groaning to life. you sigh, knowing she did actually need a bit of work if you’d planned to keep a car around for some time. reaching for your phone, you put in the directions to yeosang’s garage and fight to settle the nerves gnawing at your stomach.

when you show up, he’s under a car that looks well out of your tax bracket with a wild series of mods and accessories you couldn’t even begin to name. the faint clang of wrenches against metal capture your attention and you clear your throat, afraid to tap on the car to get him out as if the jack weren’t holding it up in place. he rolls out with a soft groan, burgundy waves coming into view as he peeks out and sits up with a small wave.

“hey there!” he calls out, gesturing for you to enter. “come on in.”

“hi,” you reply, dumbfounded as you look around at the garage. he’d commented on the shop as if it were a little hole in the wall, nothing more than a small space for rent in a warehouse complex. this was a full-scale operation, several hundred feet wide with intricate technology and equipment connected to the various sports cars. your civic looked like a dumpster fire beside these cars. from the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of the silver car that yeosang had been propped up against in wooyoung’s story and mentally note how much nicer it was in person.

“so, where’s the damage?” yeosang asks, wiping the grease off of his hands with an old rag that he tosses aside. you gesture through the bay doors, out at the beaten gray sedan that sat in the parking lot. “a ’95 civic, nice! she could be a real beast if you ever thought about getting her into street racing.”

you blink in confusion. were you looking at the same car? the one with the dented bumper and the engine that screamed bloody murder at you if you threatened to go above 50 at any given moment?

“this old thing?”

“you’d be surprised,” yeosang smiles, glancing at you for permission to enter the driver’s side to pop the hood. you nod, watching his every move as he looks down at your engine intensely. there’s a deep concentration etched across his face, something that gets lost in his obviously good looks as you lose track of his questions.

“h-huh?”

“what’s the issue you’ve been having?” he asks, still fixated under the hood.

“uh—” you panic, realizing there wasn’t any one problem you could pinpoint beyond making up the excuse to visit yeosang. you glance down at the engine, the myriad of metal and wires foreign to you as you rack your brain for anything you could think of.

suddenly, you remember wooyoung.

“it’s the fuel injector!” you cry out, almost startling yeosang as you clear your throat. “yeah, it’s been bad. my car won’t run that well because of it.”

yeosang furrows his brows, peering down at a particular section of the engine. you watch his every move, as if you were able to tell what he was doing. your eyes travel, down the expanse of his biceps that flexed freely under the muscle shirt he wore. it was slightly cropped, at least enough to where you could see a hint of a well-defined stomach beneath the fabric. he pulls away, folding his arms over his chest as he sighs.

“looks like it’ll need replacing,” he explains, glancing into his shop before turning back to you. “i don’t have this specific model in shop right now. i’ll have to order it and see if i can get it before the weekend. i wouldn’t drive her until i fix that. it’s a miracle you even made it to the shop from downtown without stalling at every light.”

“oh!” you exclaim, unaware that you’d really had such a dire issue with your engine to begin with. you reach for your phone, ready to text wooyoung to see if he were nearby to take you home when yeosang interjects.

“if you don’t mind waiting for me to close up, i can take you home?” he offers shyly, an innocent smile gracing his features. “i have to head into downtown to meet a friend, anyway. least i could do since i kind of dropped it on you that your car is basically out of service for the next few days.”

“oh, i couldn’t,” you reply almost immediately, cursing yourself for trying to turn down an offer to spend more time with him. his smile grows wider as he gestures to the silver car in its bay at the corner of the garage.

“i insist. i’m already going to be heading that way.”

“… well, if you insist.”

the garage is empty aside from the pair of you, yeosang the last to leave as he turns everything off and puts away a wide range of tools that were left out around his work station. you watch the concentration on his face with admiration, thinking of how you must look when you were prepping your own station at work. he’s quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“ready?” he finally asks, changed into a clean outfit no longer covered in grease or sweat. he looks expensive, a faint cologne of spiced woods wafting past your nose as you relish in the scent. he smiles as you follow him to his car, opening the door for you and guiding you in gently. you gasp as you settle into the passenger seat, eyes darting wildly around the interior of his car. the leather was crisp and smelled brand new, with bells and whistles you’d never seen. the dashboard hummed from the vibrations of the engine at the ready.

yeosang slides in beside you, his scent filling the tight space and enveloping your senses for the second time. you swallow, watching as he relaxes in his seat. he has one hand on the wheel, the other shifting the car into gear as you can’t help but wonder what his hand would feel like on your thigh in his passenger seat.

“what kind of car is this?” you ask, finding a poor excuse to make small talk as you struggle to focus on the stretch of highway ahead.

“2020 toyota supra,” he answers, and you nod at the mention of a car you knew very little about beyond its aesthetics. “i got it not long ago and it’s a lot of fun to work on since it’s really built for speed.”

“very cool.”

“do you actually think so?” he asks, glancing over at you ever-so-slightly.

“i do,” you reassure him. “i don’t know a ton about cars. but i can tell you’re really passionate about your work. i get it.”

“well, thank you,” he replies, smile fixated on his face as he turns his attention back to the road. “what about you? what got you into tattooing?”

“i really enjoy the idea of bringing someone else’s vision to life. it’s interesting to hear what they come up with and how i can make that happen for them. plus, i get paid to draw. i think it’s a pretty good gig.” you realize you’ve been rambling for a moment and clear your throat awkwardly.

“that’s sort of how i feel about working on cars,” yeosang comments. “getting to take what people envision for their cars and the limits they can take it to. a lot of the car meet crowd loves the hype but i think it’s just fun to get under the hood.”

wish you’d get under my hood.

“yeah, that makes sense.”

“think you’d ever come out to a car meet?” he asks, and you look over at him in question. “even if you don’t think you know a lot about cars. it can be fun just to get out there for a little. wooyoung said he’s been trying to convince you forever.”

“he has,” you admit. “i’ve thought about it.”

“well, there’s a meet this weekend. by that time i should have your car fixed up. you should come out.”

“i’ll consider it.” anxiety creeps under your skin as you think about wooyoung’s description of the car meets—loud, bright lights, drinks flowing and music blasting. it wasn’t a scene you’d shy away from, but at least this time there’d be good motivation to go.

* * *

“i need whatever is the strongest drink you have tonight,” you grumble to wooyoung as he pulls into the abandoned industrial complex. you could hear the bass resonate from against the concrete pillars from a good half-mile away. neon lights flickered through the openings in the main garage and you could see glimpses of sleek-wrapped cars lined up along the ground floor. wooyoung scoffs, patting your thigh reassuringly as he pulls into the back end of the complex.

“you’ll like it,” he promises, shifting his gear into park and turning to you. “you really don’t need to know a ton about cars. a lot of people come out just to sit and look pretty, which—” he glances at the outfit you’d chosen. wide jeans, sneakers, and a cropped tank top. a bit of a clash compared to the miniskirts, platform boots, and oversized racer jackets that surrounded you. “—you will. you don’t need to fit into some particular mold. just relax."

“if you say so,” you grumble, nerves clawing at your stomach as you step out of wooyoung’s car and into the humid night. you can’t help but admit the anxiety is quickly replaced by a strange rush of adrenaline at the sight. engines rev around you, guys tossing bottles of liquor back and forth as they pop their hoods and comment on all of the technical ins and outs. the girls are nice, a handful of them complimenting your outfit as they pass by and asking where you’d got your shirt.

“here you go,” wooyoung calls out, offering you a red solo cup where you sat perched on the edge of his hood. you take the drink graciously, the warmth of liquor sliding down your throat much-needed as you release a satisfied sigh.

“this is actually pretty sick,” you comment, your voice hoarse as you yell at him over the music pounding against the walls. “the cars are really cool to look at, too.”

“maybe we’ll get you into racing when you finally get rid of your old car,” he suggests, earning a roll of your eyes and a chuckle.

“i wouldn’t say all that.” your attention flickers over the crowd when a familiar flash of silver catches your eye. yeosang’s supra comes into view, through the main path and down to the end beside wooyoung’s car. your heart hammers against your chest as you sit up, praying the perfume you’d picked out for the night was still strong enough over the smell of gasoline.

“you made it!” yeosang calls out as he steps out of his car, waving over at you with a broad grin. god, he’s cute. you smile, tipping your cup in his direction as he approaches. “was planning to text you tonight to let you know your car’s good to go.”

“good to hear,” you reply, a pang of disappointment at the fact that he’d finished the job so quickly.

“has wooyoung shown you around yet?” you shake your head. “let’s go then. i can introduce you to some of our friends.” yeosang rests his hand on the small of your back to guide you off of the hood, his touch gentle as you slide onto the ground beside him.

he leads you deeper into the garage, weaving through the crowd with a laid-back charm in the way he greets people. you watch the way that he banters with everyone, distracted when someone bumps into him and his fingers brush against yours. he reaches for your wrist, steadying you with a silent glance to make sure you’re alright. you smile, ignoring the thundering in your chest as you keep following him again. the two of you stop by a handful of cars, yeosang commenting on the owners’ mods and the work he could do at his garage if they stop by. you smile beside him, quietly enjoying watching him in his element as you sip on your drink. he’s even so kind as to making sure you’re topped up as you chat with one of his friends.

“is that who i think it is?” a shrill voice interjects, pin-straight, platinum blonde hair and a tight leather fit coming into view as you raise an eyebrow over the edge of your solo cup. yeosang glances over at the girl propped up against the hood of—was it a nissan gtr?—and chuckles under his breath.

“i haven’t seen you since you worked on yeonjun’s engine,” she purrs, leaning over the hood with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “been waiting for you to take a look under my hood.”

oh, brother.

“oh, have you been having trouble? i can take a look,” yeosang offers earnestly, and you almost smack yourself in the face at how oblivious he was to this girl’s obvious attempts at flirting. she catches your eye, in silent disbelief herself as she clears her throat, looking up at him through her lashes with a giddy laugh.

“actually, i think you need to take something off.” she hums, coming over to rest a hand on his shoulder with long claws pressed against his collarbone. he blinks under her touch, wheels turning in his mind as he seems to struggle to make sense of her words. you clear your throat awkwardly, not wanting to be a bystander to this any longer.

“i’m gonna get some air,” you mention to yeosang, not waiting for a response as you hurry back to where wooyoung’s car was parked. he was at the center of the garage with his crew, offering shots of hennessy to a girl that seemed to have just won a race. the crowded garage suddenly felt too expansive, isolating as you tapped against the metal of the hood of wooyoung’s honda.

you don’t know how long you’re lost in thought, fiddling with the rim of your drink when yeosang approaches you with a soft smile. his eyes are sparkling under the neon lights, not a thought behind them as he looks up at you.

“hey! you doing okay?”

“yeah,” you lie, glancing up at the crowd and wondering if the girl had made herself clear enough to earn yeosang’s favor for the night. then again, he probably wouldn’t be standing here talking to you if that were the case. “just a little much for a first car meet.”

“you get used to it,” he reassures, following your gaze before he flashes another smile at you. “would you want to get out of here? i can take you back to the garage to get your car so that i’m not holding it hostage much longer.”

“sounds good.”

the drive back from the garage to yeosang’s shop isn’t quite long, but you still can’t fight off the urge to stare at him and the way he handles his car. the hum of the engine was admittedly addicting on the stretch of highway, his handling of the gear shift and his grip on the wheel almost magnetic as you peeked at him from the corner of your eye. he kept the windows down, cool night air making a poor attempt to calm your unholy thoughts.

there’s a strange sense of comfort as you pull into the bay of yeosang’s garage, his engine slowing to a low purr as you catch glimpse of your old beaten civic. the supra growls beside it and you’re sure you’ll be disappointed with the coughing and sputtering you’re about to hear from your car. yeosang darts out of the driver’s seat to open your door, offering a hand and guiding you to your car where he’s popped the hood.

“so, i installed a new fuel injector and tightened up a few other things that looked concerning,” he explains, not realizing he’s caged you against your fender. his arms circle you, pointing out various parts of the engine he’s worked on as his explanation fades behind the internal screaming in your head at him being so close to you.

“should be running way smoother now,” he continues, stepping back just slightly but still close enough so that you could feel the heat radiating from him. you hum, trying to focus on his work and not the scent of his cologne flooding your senses.

“what are my damages, then?”

yeosang glances down at you, his expression unreadable. “nothing. i just enjoyed working on it.”

“you can’t expect me to walk away with a free repair,” you protest, turning so that you sat against the fender and looked up at him with furrowed brows. “there must be some way i can repay you.”

he blinks, clearly still unfazed by your offer as he shakes his head with a reassuring smile. “no, it’s okay. your injector was shot, it was definitely needed.” his gaze flickers to your arms for a brief moment, as if scanning the maze of tattoos that formed your sleeve. “maybe if i can ever commit to something, i’ll let you tattoo me.”

“that so?” you tilt your head, eyes trailing over the expanse of his broad, sculpted arms that were blank canvases. “i’m sure i can come up with a few ideas.” his hands brace the edge of the engine bay, leaving inches between the pair of you.

“i’ll have to stop by the studio, then.” just as you expect him to take the bait, he pulls away and shifts his attention back to the engine. as if nothing shifted in the tension in the past few seconds. you’re about to throw yourself under the hood and slam it shut out of sheer exasperation. “anyway, you should be good to go. need anything else?”

“no, that’s it,” you grumble, utterly defeated as you snatch your keys from yeosang with your pulse thundering against your ears. “i’ll see you around.”

that night, your hand did little to appease the growing frustration that you desperately needed to release.

* * *

you show up at the garage again a week later—per wooyoung’s advice to get yeosang’s attention with new phantom car troubles—a sheepish smile and keys in hand. he peeks up at you from beneath the hood of another car, surprised but not disappointed to see you as he reaches for a rag to wipe the grease from his hands.

“hey, you,” he calls out, sauntering over to you as you step out of the car. you made sure to wear the shortest shorts you owned, propping yourself against the fender as you nod your head back to your car. his hair is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail that you try your best not to stare at. “everything alright?”

“yeah, but i think something’s off with the alignment,” you lie, as if you haven’t practiced on wooyoung a good handful of times the night before to make sure you sounded convincing. “pulls a little to the right more than usual.”

“you hit a curb?” he asks, tilting his head as his eyes flicker instinctively to your tires.

“huh? no, not that i remember.”

he takes your keys, not questioning it as he hovers over your tires and takes a closer look. you scowl, not getting more than a lingering gaze at your legs as he locks in on the work to be done.

three days later, you’re back.

“i’m positive it’s the brakes this time,” you lie again, popping the hood yourself as if you have any clue what you’re looking for. you hope he likes the scent of orchids and water lilies on your skin as he leans over the engine bay beside you, frowning at the sight in confusion.

“didn’t you mention you got them replaced last month?”

“well.” you bite down on your bottom lip, racking your brain for another excuse. “maybe they were defective.” and then you try again. “maybe my car just likes seeing you as much as i do.”

yeosang chuckles, holding your gaze for a moment before he’s distracted by his inspection of the brake pads. you stare at him, dumbfounded as he begins to ramble on about your rotors that potentially needed replacing.

the fourth visit in two weeks finally does it.

it’s late at night, and you’d gotten on a regular texting basis with yeosang to know he was the only one that would be at the shop. even wooyoung seemed frustrated by this point at his density and had given up on helping you. slamming the door to your civic, you step out onto the asphalt with a huff and storm into the garage.

one last feeble attempt.

yeosang is hovering over the engine bay of his own supra when you walk in. you can hear the clang of wrenches against metal, the only sound over the r&b that hovered overhead from the speakers. you bang your fist against the car’s side door, startling yeosang to drop the wrench as he looks up at you in confusion. you jut your keys out at him, eyes locked on the ground.

“what now?”

“heard a rattle.”

“a rattle?” yeosang scoffs, backing out of the engine bay and folding his arms over his chest as he stares down at you. his expression is blank, his shirt too tight as you meet his eyes. “you’re messing with me at this point.”

“am i?” you laugh dryly, setting your keys on his toolbox as you mirror his stance. “because i’m pretty sure no one is humanly this oblivious.”

“huh?” he straightens, tilting his head.

“yeosang.” you sigh and close your eyes before returning his gaze. “i have been coming in here and flirting with you. for weeks. i’m about to drive over a box of nails for you to look at my tires before you realize that there’s nothing actually wrong with my car.”

“well, there’s still work your car needs,” he answers honestly, and you glare at him.

“forget the car!” finally, finally you see something flicker across his face. not confusion this time, something more like an understanding as the wheels begin to turn in his head.

“are you…” he drawls on quietly, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to make sense of his own question. “are you into me?”

you stare at him in disbelief and throw your hands above your head.

he blushes, actually blushes as he holds your gaze. silence engulfs you, the slow rhythm of the r&b and the faint tick of cooling metal in the supra behind you the only other noise. he reaches for the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours as he stammers.

“you could’ve just told me.”

“i’m sorry, the fuck-me eyes weren’t obvious enough?”

yeosang’s lips part in a quiet exhale, unable to defend himself for being so thick as you approach him with renewed confidence. you stop right before him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to keep him there as he arches an eyebrow in surprise. his hands ghost over your hips, still polite despite the growing tension that surrounded you.

“i’m taking what i came here for,” you order, nails scratching lightly over the skin of his stomach as his breath is caught in his throat. his cheeks are still flushed and he looks boyishly cute despite the fact that you knew you were about to jump his bones.

“here?” he asks hoarsely, as if there were an audience.

“right on the hood of your fucking supra,” you urge in a low voice. a darkness flickers across his eyes, understanding clicking as he shuts the hood and finally rests his hands on your waist. his touch is firm, but gentle. “unless you want to stand here and keep talking about mechanics instead of having me bent over your car.”

yeosang grabs your waist harder this time, determination etched across his face that you ignore as you back him against the edge of the car he’d been working on. his eyes go wide, mouth hanging open in uneven breaths as you ghost your lips over his. you trail your fingers lower, beyond his belt and over where he’s already growing hard. he jerks against your touch and a soft gasp slips past his lips as he presses his forehead to yours.

“fuck,” he whispers, and you scoff against his lips.

“i haven’t even actually touched you yet,” you scold, reaching to undo his belt and the button on his cargos. you wrap your hands around him, warm and hard under your touch as you pump your fist painfully slow to make him twitch in your grip. his eyes flutter shut with a strangled whimper as his hips stagger against your palm, desperate for more. you can see the veins in his arms strain from the way he’s gripping the car beneath him.

“say it,” you whisper, lips trailing from his to the base of his neck. “say you like it.”

yeosang can barely form words, let alone a coherent thought as he throws his head back, his chest heaving in trying to steady his breathing. “i—fuck—i like that.” you laugh against his throat, pleased with the way he shudders under your touch exactly as you’d been imagining from the moment you met him.

just as you’re about to reach for the hem of his cargos and pull them aside, he catches your wrists.

his eyes are fixated on yours, dark and feline as he slowly slides your hand off of his cock and up to his chest. you can feel his pulse thundering against his chest, evidence that he wants this as badly as you do. his other hand comes up, reaching for your jaw and forcing you to hold his gaze as he drags his thumb across your bottom lip. he doesn’t say a word before he spins you around to trap you against the car and press you against the heated metal. you can feel the weight of his entire body on yours, pinning you in place. it’s as if he’s testing you, trying to see if you really were into him.

one hand flattens over your stomach, his breath hot against your ear as the other drifts down to pull your thighs apart just a little further. you writhe under his touch, trying to ease against him for some sort of friction when he tenses, pressing his palm into your skin with a warning.

“easy,” is all he says, and you can hear the low chuckle at the edge of his words. you wanted to fight against his restraint but the heat of his fingers on your skin stole the words from your tongue. he was so deliberately slow in his movements and it drove you insane. he trails his tongue along your neck, catching your earlobe between his teeth and biting down gently. you can feel him smile as he whispers into your ear, “let me take my time with you.”

you gasp, trying to lean further into his touch. his grip on your waist tightens as he reaches the other hand between your legs, fidgeting to unbutton your shorts and slip his own hand in. his fingertips brush against soaked fabric, barely ghosting over them and clouding your mind. every time he presses against your clit, you twitch at the pleasure it sends running down your spine. he pries and prods for a while, refusing to slip his hand past your underwear as he draws tantalizingly slow circles.

“oh, come on,” you whine, your head rolling back and resting against his chest. he chuckles, not letting up on the teasing as he presses a string of kisses along your neck. “don’t make me do your job for you.” out of sheer frustration, you plunge your own hand past your waistband and press against his knuckles, the pressure against you forcing your eyes shut with a satisfied sigh. he groans, forehead resting on your shoulder as he painfully follows your pace in forceful, deliberate strokes.

“that’s it,” you praise, lips brushing against his jaw. “good boy.”

his body tenses at the compliment, breath caught in his chest as his fingers pick up the pace and dip between your folds. he slides two fingers in, knuckles deep as his lips find yours. you reach for his jaw, fingers trailing to his hair as he keeps a steady rhythm pumping in and out of you. a long, drawn-out moan slips out of you and into his mouth, one that he groans at as he moves his hand even faster.

“god,” you moan, head thrown back against his chest as he holds you steady. “you’re gonna make a mess of me, aren’t you, pretty boy?” he curses under his breath, almost like a whimper as his composure slips. you relish in the fact that he’s enjoying the way you talk to him.

“fuck,” yeosang rasps, his fingers working deeper and faster with the sounds of your arousal buried under his shallow breaths. you hum, content as you rock your hips against his hands to meet every thrust of his hand. he groans softly, biting down on your shoulder like it’ll ground him.

before you can tease him again, his hand slips out of you and leaves you empty and aching. he finally turns you, laying you back against the hood as his lips crash into yours. there’s nothing soft or teasing about his movements anymore, his tongue meeting yours desperately as he latches his hands onto your hips. he pulls your shorts off in one swift motion, his knee forcing your legs apart to hold you open for him. you try to reach for his broad shoulders, desperate to sink your nails into them when he pins your hands down for the second time.

“tell me what you want,” he commands, his eyes burning into yours as his hair falls around his face in messy waves.

“you know what i want.”

“i need to hear you say it.”

“i want you to fuck me.”

yeosang lets out a low growl, freeing his cock and sliding his own hand along its length with parted ljps. you look up at him expectantly, looping a leg around his waist and pulling him in so that he’s forced to brace himself on his forearms on either side of you. his eyes never leave yours as he aligns himself with you, sliding in painfully slowly as your eyes flutter shut.

you wrap your arms around him, hands threaded through his hair and pulling him in as he begins to move. his hips rock against yours as he buries his face in your neck, stifling the groans that slip past his lip with every thrust. he trembles under your touch, your nails digging into his back as he begins to thrust harder, deeper.

“fuck, just like that,” you moan, arching your back off of the heated metal and against his chest. he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer against him as he thrusts into you at a steady rhythm. your moans reverberate against the garage walls, the only other sound aside from skin on skin and music blasting through the speakers.

“how bad do you want me, pretty girl?” yeosang asks, lifting himself from your collarbone and wrapping a hand around your neck. his eyes glaze over at the sight of you getting fucked by him, head hanging as he keeps pounding into you. all you can do is moan in response, your stomach tightening as he pushes down on your waist so that you could feel every inch of him.

you can’t form a coherent answer as he wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you from the hood and moving to sit on the edge of his workbench so that you’re firmly in his lap. he drapes his strong arms around you, fingers digging into your skin as he grips your waist. you arch an eyebrow as you look down at him, tugging his head back in a fistful of hair as you begin to grind down on his cock. the sounds that slip out of him are delicious, music to your ears as you rock your hips more intensely.

“i want to feel you come inside me,” you command, watching the way his face twitches in pleasure as you continue to grind against him. you fully lift yourself before slamming back down into his lap, the shock wave of pleasure rocking your entire body as you struggle to stifle your own moans. sweat slicks across his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut, head thrown back as he begins to meet your pace with thrusts of his own.

with a final jerk of his hips, he releases up and into you and you follow soon after with your own climax. the wave hits in one violent swing, pleasure thrumming against your veins as you collapse against his chest with an exhausted sigh. you drop your forehead against his as you fight to catch your breath.

the two of you sit in silence for a moment, working to steady your breathing as your body temperature begins to cool. yeosang’s eyes evade yours, color still flushing his face as he gently lifts you off of him and hurries into the backroom to collect clean washcloths to help clean you off. you smile up at him silently, adjusting your clothing and watching as he settles onto the edge of his supra once more.

you were never going to look at that car the same way ever again.

“next time, just tell me you want me.”

“you know, i think i’ve learned my lesson.” you roll your eyes, finally able to steady your breathing as you approach him with a gentle nudge. “looks like i’ll have to show up to car meets more often.”

“looks like i’ll finally need to commit to getting a tattoo.”

“you know, i think you’d look good with a cherry blossom branch,” you comment, running your fingertips along his forearm as you illustrate your idea. “right here. i think it’ll look particularly good the next time your hand’s around my neck.”

“…oh.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez smut #yeosang #kang yeosang #yeosang fic #yeosang smut

385 notes · View notes

cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

Hi. Would you write for Jeno fucking the lights out of somebody who's a little older (like maybe the girl isn't being sexually satisfied by her boyfriend or husband). They always say that it's the last time they fuck, but the sexual chemistry's just too strong. Jeno strikes me as having really good sexual stamina. 🥵

no better than this

summary: after your marriage crumbles under the weight of scandal, you find yourself drawn back to the one person who makes you feel something real: jeno. a dangerous attraction, powerful enough to break every rule, pulls you both deeper into a world of lust, deceit, and undeniable chemistry.

pairing: bartender!jeno x model fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, smut, angst, drama, forbidden love, cheating, infidelity, age-gap.

warnings: explicit sexual content, dirty talk, dominance/submission, infidelity, emotional manipulation, betrayal, power dynamics, slight public humiliation, toxic relationships, heavy angst, strong language, alcohol, verbal and physical violence (slight), age-gap (jeno is 26, reader 32)

wc: 16,6k

notes: i loved writing this fic, like, seriously. just imagining jeno washing dishes, serving drinks at the bar… omg, it was the best visual ever🫦

the city was cruel at night.

the neon lights, the endless swarm of tired bodies pretending they weren't tired, the polluted air swirling with ambition and failure alike. jeno lee, 26 years old, stood behind the bar of a dingy little place tucked between the shadows of hongdae, polishing glasses that would only get stained with cheap liquor in a matter of minutes.

he smelled of detergent and old grease from his morning job washing dishes at one of seoul’s "top" three-star restaurants. a place he didn’t belong to, a place that made sure he remembered it every day by the way customers looked through him like he was invisible, or worse, like he was furniture.

he was exhausted — not just physically, but soul-deep. it was the kind of exhaustion that settled into your bones when you knew you were never getting out of this life. he had buried any dreams he once had in the same grave as his father, when he was twelve and too young to know that poverty wasn't a phase you could grow out of.

and yet, he smiled sometimes. when his brothers texted him that they got a good grade. when his mother called to tell him she baked sweet bread again and saved him a piece. it was enough. it had to be enough.

jeno had made peace with being a ghost in his own life.

until now.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

jeno had spent the last three hours hunched over a mountain of dishes, the warm stink of soap and seafood lingering thick in the air, when he heard the shouting. a woman’s voice, sharp and high, slicing through the low hum of the restaurant. he froze with his hands wrist-deep in sudsy water, heart picking up in that animal way, because chaos meant someone was going to get hurt, someone was going to get fired, and if he was lucky, it wouldn't be him.

he wiped his hands hastily on his apron, trailing after the others who rushed toward the front of the house, curiosity outweighing caution. the floor was a mess of half-eaten plates, knocked-over chairs, and stunned patrons frozen mid-bite. at the center of it all, like a storm dressed in luxury, was you.

you wore a red satin dress that clung to your body like a second skin, a thin gold belt cinched tight at your waist, the hem daringly high against your thighs. a designer bag dangled from your manicured hand, oversized sunglasses pushed up into your glossy hair even though it was past sunset. everything about you screamed money, glamour, and a certain kind of rage that only came from living too long in a world that bowed at your feet — until it didn’t.

hayoon, the shy server from the kitchen, stood shaking in front of you, eyes wide with tears. you were pointing at her, your voice blistering with insults that jeno didn’t even want to believe someone could spit out at another human being. the reason? a splash of soup on your dress — a barely-there stain that wouldn't even have been visible if you hadn't made such a scene.

jeno felt a hot coil of anger twist in his gut. he hated this. hated the way people with power treated people like hayoon, like they were disposable. he moved forward on instinct, but a hand clamped down on his arm — the captain of the kitchen, shaking his head. "let it go," he muttered. "the manager will handle it."

but jeno couldn’t just stand there. he watched as the manager came out, bending over backward to apologize, offering free meals, free services, free anything just to get you to stop screaming. but you were already halfway out the door, your heels clicking sharply against the floor, your manager scrambling after you, bowing and apologizing to anyone within earshot.

jeno lingered for a moment, staring at the door where you’d disappeared. you were beautiful, yes — blindingly so, in the way celebrities looked in magazine spreads. but there was something broken about you too. something mean and brittle that leaked out in every word you spat.

he didn't know your name, and honestly, he didn't want to.

you didn’t plan to end up here.

the night had started in a penthouse high above the city, where the air smelled like money and lies, and everything was sterile enough to make you feel like a ghost in your own life. he had come home drunk again — your husband, the man whose last name you bore like a brand on your skin — laughing too loud, talking too close, a storm brewing in his blood. there were always storms with him lately. sometimes it was words, sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was just silence so thick it felt like drowning.

every day felt like trudging through quicksand, sinking deeper with every desperate, failing breath. no matter how brightly you smiled on camera, how gracefully you moved under the hot gaze of the world, inside you were rotting, crumbling, losing yourself piece by piece.

you drank to keep yourself together. to forget for a few blessed hours that you hated everything about what you’d become.

you had slipped away while he was in the shower, the sound of water crashing against marble covering your frantic steps. you turned off your phone, tucked it into the deepest drawer of your dresser, buried under silk panties and bras that no longer made you feel like a woman but like a doll on display. the dress you wore wasn’t meant for running away — a stupid, glittering thing you had bought months ago, back when you still cared about being seen, about being beautiful for him. it clung to you now like a second skin, tight over your ribs, the sequins catching every shard of light like tiny knives.

you dressed yourself with reckless hands — black stiletto heels that made you feel powerful and dangerous even as they promised blisters. over it, you threw a heavy blue faux-fur coat, the color electric and defiant, sliding over your shoulders like armor. finally, you hid your face behind oversized black sunglasses, thinking foolishly, maybe no one would recognize you if you wore your sadness like a costume.

you found a bar at the end of a long, forgotten street, tucked between a closed-down laundromat and a yawning alley that smelled like rain and regret. from the outside, it looked abandoned, silent. inside, it was alive with low pulsing music, bodies pressed together in the semi-darkness, a haze of sweat and cigarette smoke blurring the edges of the room.

you walked in, shoulders squared, pretending you belonged there.

you didn’t.

you crossed the room, the click of your heels drowned out by the bass, and perched yourself at the bar, ordering something light — a stupid move, really, because you knew you wouldn’t stop at one.

you sipped your drink slowly, the whiskey burning a hole straight through you, your fingers trembling around the glass. you muttered nonsense at first — complaints, bitchy little comments, the kind of mask you wore so often it had fused to your skin. you could see it in the bartender’s face — boredom, mild disdain. just another rich girl slumming it for the night.

he was there.

jeno.

young, good-looking in a way that was almost boring, except for the way his eyes stayed sharp and careful, like he didn’t trust the world one bit. his black t-shirt stretched over strong arms, veins prominent in his forearms as he wiped down the bar with a casual, detached air. the kind of man who'd seen too much shit to be impressed by drunk girls in sequin dresses.

he barely glanced at you when he took your order, just another blurred face in the river of broken people who washed up here.

but you — you were electric.

you wanted to be invisible. instead, you shone.

jeno’s eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit as he poured your drink, not because he recognized you, but because you stood out like a bleeding wound in a sea of bruises. the coat, the dress, the glasses — it all screamed look at me even as you tried to hide.

but you couldn’t stop yourself.

the words spilled out in a slurred, bitter mess, your voice thick with a sadness you couldn’t cage anymore.

"my life’s a fucking joke," you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing, voice too loud in your own ears. "i used to be someone, you know? i used to be bright. i used to be... more."

the bartender didn’t answer. just watched you, his face unreadable. you went on anyway, drunk on the relief of being heard even if he didn’t care.

"now i’m... this," you said, gesturing vaguely at yourself — at the too-short dress, the scraped knees from running in heels, the mascara smudged under your sunglasses. "married to a monster who treats me like a pet he forgot he owned. locked up in a golden cage."

you nursed your drink carefully, trying to keep your hands from trembling. said stupid, disconnected things just to hear your own voice over the roar in your head.

jeno answered with mechanical politeness, the same way a man answers someone he’s already learned not to care about.

until you started to crack.

"i don’t even know who i am anymore."

the silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable.

you fumbled for your whiskey, took another long sip, your throat working around the burn.

until the alcohol loosened the ties holding you together and you began to spill pieces of yourself across the sticky bar — how you used to dream bigger, how you thought love was supposed to be saving and beautiful and now it was a cage, how nothing felt real anymore except the way the whiskey burned your throat.

and for a moment — just a moment — he looked at you differently.

he didn’t lean in. he didn’t touch you. he didn’t offer pretty lies or cheap kindness.

but he listened.

he listened like it hurt him to hear you. like maybe he knew something about living with broken dreams too.

you felt it, that flicker of attention, and you clung to it like a starving animal.

and then, needing something, anything, you turned toward him, tipping your head slightly, your voice softening into something almost childlike

"do you think i'm pretty?" you asked, your voice cracking halfway through the question, barely more than a whisper under the pounding beat of the music.

jeno froze, the rag still in his hand, his mouth parting slightly as if caught off guard.

he wasn’t used to this — not from you, not from anyone. pretty girls didn’t ask if they were pretty. they already knew.

you watched him struggle, his brow furrowed, his lips pressing together.

he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to lie to you or not. maybe he thought it was safer to lie. maybe he thought you were too fragile to survive the truth.

after a second too long, he nodded.

"yeah," he said, voice low, awkward, a little raw. "you're... pretty."

you laughed. not the sharp, cruel laugh you usually gave to the world — something softer, something sadder. you felt it down to your marrow: he didn’t know if he meant it. he said it because you needed him to say it.

and for tonight, that was enough.

even if tomorrow you would hate yourself for it.

even if tomorrow he would forget you.

you closed your eyes, letting the music swallow you, letting the lie settle over your bruised heart like a bandage too thin to hold.

jeno looked away first, back to his glasses and bottles, pretending like nothing had just happened.

you reached up with trembling fingers and pulled your sunglasses off.

you didn’t do it gently. you ripped them off, like shedding a skin. exposing yourself under the cheap neon lights, letting him see every cracked, broken piece of you.

your eyes were swollen from crying, your makeup a wreck. but more than that, it was the vulnerability that made you ugly — the way your gaze clung to his, desperate and ashamed all at once.

jeno looked at you.

at first, there was nothing — just the bored, impassive glance he gave everyone.

and then his brows pulled together. recognition sparking in his eyes like a slow, dangerous fire.

then his mouth twisted into something cruel, careless.

"you’re..." he started, his voice low, rough.

you watched him realize it.

"you’re the fucking bitch from the restaurant," he said, blunt as a slap.

no hesitation. no mercy.

the words hung in the air, thick and ugly. people nearby glanced over, but you didn’t care. couldn’t.

you just stared at him, your heart collapsing inside your chest like a dying star.

and then — the most surprising thing. you didn’t scream. you didn’t throw your drink in his face. you didn’t insult him back, like you would have earlier tonight, or a thousand other nights before.

your shoulders slumped.

your eyes dropped to the sticky floor.

and you nodded.

because he was right.

because they were all right.

you were a bitch. a trophy. a ghost. a prisoner.

maybe they were right.

you mumbled something under your breath — a pathetic excuse, something about how it wasn’t what it looked like, how life sometimes cornered you until you had no choice but to bite and snarl to survive.

jeno didn’t respond.

he looked away, wiping a glass clean with mechanical efficiency, his jaw tight. you didn’t need him to say anything. you already knew how he saw you now.

the drinks kept coming after that.

you ordered another.

and another.

your legs grew numb. your mind fuzzed out into static. the world tilted on its axis until you couldn't tell whether you were laughing or crying anymore.

jeno served you silently, reluctantly, with the grim understanding of a man who knew he was enabling something ugly but didn’t have the heart to stop you.

by the time the clock behind the bar hit three a.m., the place was emptying out. the music was a low murmur, the lights dimmer, the air thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and regret.

you barely noticed the two security guys approaching.

"hey, jeno," one of them said, nudging his shoulder roughly, "this one's out. get her the fuck outta here before she pukes on the floor."

jeno glanced at you, his lips tightening.

"she's too drunk," he said. "she shouldn’t—"

"not our problem," the guard snapped, already moving toward you.

you tried to push yourself off the stool, but the ground tilted sickeningly under your heels. you reached instinctively for something — for your phone, for a bag, for anything to anchor you — but your fingers only brushed the edge of your small wallet tucked against your side. no phone. no one to call.

you were alone.

hands grabbed your arms roughly. you struggled weakly, mumbling protests that didn’t even make sense to yourself.

jeno swore under his breath, trying to step between you and the guards, but there were two of them and one of him, and they didn’t give a shit about some drunk girl dressed like a fallen angel.

you were dragged outside.

the cold night air slapped you in the face, snapping you into a sharper, more painful awareness of how absolutely pathetic you were right now.

the sidewalk was cracked and wet, the streetlights buzzing overhead like dying stars.

you stumbled, falling hard on your knees, scraping the tender skin through the thin fabric of your stockings.

jeno followed a few steps behind, breathless and furious but helpless too, his fists clenched at his sides.

he finished his shift fifteen minutes later, tossing his apron onto the counter with a bitter, disgusted motion.

he told himself he didn’t owe you anything.

that he should just go home.

you weren't his responsibility.

you weren’t even someone he liked.

but when he walked out onto the street and saw you still there — slumped against the cold wall, legs sprawled, head hanging low, your stupid fucking coat slipping off your shoulders like a wilted flower — something inside him cracked.

you looked so small.

so goddamn breakable.

he muttered a curse under his breath, crossing the street in three long strides.

you barely noticed him until he was crouching in front of you, his hand hovering awkwardly near your arm.

"come on," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "you can't stay here."

your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

"hello?" you slurred, a sad, broken kind of hope in your voice.

he didn’t answer. he just pulled you up, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to keep you from collapsing again.

you were deadweight against him, boneless, trusting him in the dumb, dangerous way that only truly broken people trusted strangers.

he had no idea why the fuck he was doing this.

maybe because he saw too much of himself in you.

maybe because leaving you here felt like leaving a wounded animal to die.

he didn't think about it too hard.

he just walked, dragging you along, toward the shitty apartment he called home, knowing that in the morning, everything would be even messier than it already was.

but for tonight, he would be the idiot who caught the falling star before it shattered completely.

jeno fumbled with the rusty lock of his apartment, keys jingling clumsily as he struggled to keep your half-conscious body propped against his side. the familiar smell of damp walls and cheap detergent hit him as he finally managed to shove the door open, the two of you stumbling into the cramped, poorly lit space.

his apartment was nothing more than a dim square — naked walls, a tiny kitchen barely separated from the living area; the only kind of refuge he could offer you that night.

he kicked the door shut behind him, hands holding you with more care than he ever thought he was capable of. you were light, fragile even, so different from the image you had projected earlier — all glittering sequins, stiletto heels, and that ridiculous electric blue fur coat hanging loosely off your shoulders like some pathetic flag of surrender.

jeno guided you to his messy bed, the only one in the room, and let you fall into it with a kind of clumsy gentleness. you stirred slightly, dragging the rough sheets with you, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. your dress rode up dangerously high along your thighs, exposing smooth, warm skin — raw vulnerability laid bare.

"hey..." your voice was small, uncertain.

jeno turned his head just enough to see you, your body curled into a tight ball, your face half-buried in the pillow.

"what's your name?" you asked.

it hit him harder than it should have — the simple, broken question.

"jeno," he said after a beat, voice rough. "lee jeno, and you?"

there was a pause.

long enough that he thought you’d passed out again.

then:

"does it matter?" you whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

jeno exhaled sharply through his nose, a bitter little laugh catching in his throat. "guess not."

for a moment, jeno couldn’t move. he just stood there, watching the broken, overflowing creature you had become, a knot forming in his throat and something much darker twisting low in his belly. he clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to take a step back. he wasn't that kind of man. he wouldn’t be that kind of man.

he turned toward the worn-out couch, muttering a curse under his breath. he'd have to rough it out tonight, he figured. one last glance toward you, curled up in a ball of sequins and regret, and he was retreating towards the door of the bedroom, bracing himself for a night of painful insomnia.

but then you moved.

a broken little moan slipped from your throat as you pushed yourself up, your electric blue coat sliding off your shoulders to pool at your feet. the sequined dress caught the faint light, flickering like something barely alive. you stood, barefoot and trembling, swaying slightly as you crossed the few steps between you and him.

"don't go..." you slurred, voice thick, syrupy, a dangerous kind of sweetness.

jeno stiffened when your hands found his back — small, warm hands — and pressed your body flush against his. your breasts, soft and full, molded to him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, your breath warm and damp against his neck.

"i know i'm drunk..." you whispered, your hands trailing up his sides, seeking skin, seeking heat. "but i'm also so fucking horny. it's been... it's been so long..."

jeno’s heart punched against his ribs, blood rushing south so violently he almost staggered. he could feel his cock hardening instantly, straining painfully against his jeans.

"fuck..." he muttered, hands closing around your wrists to halt your wandering touch — but with no real strength behind it, his grip trembling.

you laughed, low and bitter, feeling his reaction through the thick denim, rubbing yourself against him with deliberate, reckless need. "you feel that, right? you want me too..."

jeno shut his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose, as if that could somehow erase the vision of you — drunk, aching, desperate for something to fill the void gnawing at your soul. everything inside him screamed to just take it. to lose himself in your body and your sadness.

but not like this.

not fucking like this.

"no," he rasped, pushing you back with a gentle but firm hand. your eyes, glassy and pleading, stabbed straight through him, leaving a wound that might never heal. "not like this, you're drunk"

you wobbled slightly on your feet, confusion and wounded pride flashing across your face.

jeno stepped away from you as if your very touch could burn him alive. he dragged a hand down his face, cursing again under his breath. the hard-on straining against his jeans was a cruel, relentless reminder of what he was denying himself.

without thinking, he turned and fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

he flipped the shower on, letting freezing water crash down without even testing the temperature first.

stripping hastily, he stepped under the punishing cold, gasping at the shock against his overheated skin.

but it wasn't enough.

the images — your soft body pressed against him, the hunger in your voice — wouldn't leave him alone.

with a muttered curse, he braced himself against the cold tiles, his hand sliding down to his aching cock, gripping it roughly.

he worked himself with desperate, furious strokes, biting back moans of frustration.

your face, your lips, the faint trembling of your voice — it all burned inside his mind, even as he spilled himself against the wall with a grunt of broken need.

he wrapped his fingers around himself, jerking roughly, almost angrily, trying to erase the image of you from his mind — but failing miserably.

because all he could think about was how soft your skin had felt when he’d touched your arm. how you had looked at him like he was someone who could save you.

his hips stuttered forward, chasing a release he hated himself for even needing.

he came with a strangled, broken sound, painting the tiles in front of him, his forehead dropping against the cold wall.

he stayed under the icy water for a moment longer, letting it wash away the physical evidence of his failure to control himself. but it did nothing to erase the guilt.

when he finally emerged, wet and exhausted, the apartment felt even colder, even emptier.

you were passed out again on his bed, the ridiculous fur coat now tangled beneath you like some tattered shield.

jeno collapsed onto the couch, dragging the rough blanket over himself, shutting his eyes against the too-bright images still playing behind his eyelids.

tomorrow, he told himself.

tomorrow he’d forget you.

forget the taste of your voice, the shape of your body, the scent of cheap perfume still clinging to the air.

tomorrow.

if he fucking survived the night.

the faint murmur of the city waking up outside was what pulled you from the thick, nauseating fog of sleep.

your head throbbed painfully as you shifted on the unfamiliar mattress, the rough blanket scraping against your bare legs. the world tilted dangerously when you forced yourself upright, one hand clutching your pounding temple, the other searching for anything solid to anchor yourself.

it was then that you noticed him.

sitting awkwardly on a battered old couch across the small room, watching you with a guarded, tense expression.

panic surged through your veins like fire, burning away the last remnants of alcohol in your system. you scrambled off the bed, heart hammering violently against your ribs, and pressed yourself back against the nearest wall.

"where the fuck am i?" you demanded, voice hoarse and trembling. "who are you? did you — did you fucking kidnap me?"

jeno flinched as if you had struck him, the muscles in his jaw tightening. he rose slowly from the couch, palms raised slightly in a gesture of peace, his brows knitting together in a deep frown.

"i didn't kidnap you," he said, voice low, steady. "you got drunk at the bar. couldn't even stand. the bouncers threw you out like trash. i couldn't just leave you there in the street at three in the morning."

you stared at him, breathing hard, trying to make sense of the jumbled memories flashing through your mind — neon lights, the overwhelming haze of alcohol, the taste of desperation in your mouth.

seeing the genuine offense, the almost hurt in his expression, some of the panic drained away, leaving only a heavy, miserable shame. you wiped a trembling hand over your face, letting your forehead thud softly against the wall behind you.

"fuck... i'm sorry," you mumbled, your voice breaking.

jeno just shook his head, as if he didn’t expect much better from you.

after a heavy silence, you peeked at him from beneath your lashes, guilt gnawing at your gut. "did i...?" you hesitated, the words sticking to your dry tongue. "did i say anything... inappropriate?"

jeno froze — just for a second — but it was enough. the way his ears flushed pink, the way he shifted uncomfortably where he stood, looking anywhere but at you.

you felt your own stomach sink, mortification rising like a wave.

"oh my god," you whispered. "i did. i propositioned you, didn’t i?"

jeno scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath. "you were drunk," he said tightly. "you didn’t know what you were saying."

you groaned, covering your burning face with your hands. "i'm so fucking sorry. god, you must think i'm..."

"it's fine," he cut you off sharply. too sharply.

you swallowed, throat raw. then, fumbling toward the nightstand, you found a scrap of paper and a pen.

"give me your bank account number," you said, voice still shaking. "i'll transfer you some money. it's the least i can do for — for this."

jeno stared at you like you had slapped him.

"i don't want your money," he said, voice cold, final. "just... forget it. forget this ever happened."

but forgetting wasn’t possible. not with the way your heart slammed against your ribs every time your eyes met, not with the heavy, crackling silence filling the tiny apartment.

you shifted, the hem of your dress riding dangerously up your thighs, and you caught the way his gaze flicked downward, his throat bobbing in a harsh swallow.

it was all the confirmation you needed.

without thinking, without even breathing, you crossed the distance between you.

jeno stiffened as you pressed your body to his once again, but this time, you were fully aware, fully sober, your mind burning with the reckless, stupid need that had never really left you.

"if you really don’t want anything from me..." you whispered, fingertips ghosting up his chest, "then push me away."

for a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

then —

with a low, guttural growl, he grabbed you by the waist, slamming your body back against the nearest wall. the impact knocked the air from your lungs, but you barely noticed, too consumed by the heat, the sheer violence of it.

his mouth crashed against yours, teeth scraping, tongues clashing in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted of frustration and hunger and something dangerously close to despair.

jeno’s hands were everywhere — gripping your ass, hauling you higher until you were forced to wrap your legs around his hips. you could feel his cock, thick and throbbing through his jeans, grinding hard against the soaked strip of your panties.

you gasped against his mouth, rolling your hips, seeking friction, seeking anything that could numb the hollow ache inside you.

"fuck, you're gonna be the death of me," he growled, dragging his mouth down your neck, biting and sucking harshly until you were sure you'd wear his marks for days.

he barely gave you time to breathe, yanking your dress up to your waist, tearing your panties down with brutal efficiency.

you whimpered when the cold air hit your soaked folds, but then he was there, lining himself up, not even bothering to fully undress.

jeno looked at you once, just once, his eyes dark and wild, silently asking if this was what you wanted.

you nodded, breathless, desperate.

and then he was inside you in one brutal, unrelenting thrust, forcing a broken, keening cry from your lips.

he was big, stretching you wide, filling you so completely it bordered on painful — but you welcomed it, craved it.

jeno fucked you against the wall, hard and fast and dirty, the slap of skin against skin loud and obscene in the tiny apartment.

you clawed at his shoulders, at his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake, and he only fucked you harder for it, growling low curses into your ear.

"so tight," he grunted, hips pistoning mercilessly into yours. "so fucking wet for me."

you could only sob his name, your body burning, your mind shattering with every brutal thrust.

jeno shifted his angle, and you saw stars as he drove into that sweet, devastating spot deep inside you over and over until you were a babbling, incoherent mess.

you came with a broken scream, clenching around him so hard that he cursed, pulling out just in time to spill hot, sticky ropes of cum across your thighs and stomach.

he collapsed against you, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck.

for a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sound the harsh, uneven drag of your breaths mingling in the thick, heavy air.

and in that silence, the consequences of what had just happened started to settle between you like smoke.

your legs were still trembling when he pulled away, but the moment his weight left you, the emptiness hit harder than anything else.

"jeno..." you whimpered, your voice raw and wrecked, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming need clawing inside you. "please..."

he froze at the broken sound you made — half a sob, half a desperate plea — and lifted his head to look at you. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, but his eyes... his eyes burned.

"please what, baby?" he rasped, voice wrecked, teasing even as his hands grabbed your thighs again, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "use your words, pretty girl. tell me what you want."

you swallowed thickly, shame and need warring inside you, but it was so easy to give in — to beg for him, to drop the last shred of pride you had.

"i want more," you gasped, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you upright. "please, jeno... fuck me again. i need you."

jeno groaned low in his throat, like he was in pain, and crashed his mouth against yours once more. this kiss was different — hungrier, sloppier, laced with pure fucking greed.

he carried you to the bed with ease, tossing you down onto the messy sheets, your dress still bunched around your waist, panties somewhere lost on the floor.

jeno stripped then — fast, brutal, shedding his shirt and jeans in seconds until he was gloriously, fucking painfully naked.

your mouth watered at the sight of him — broad chest heaving, abs tight, thick cock still hard and leaking, glistening with his own precum.

he knelt between your trembling thighs, grabbing your ankles and shoving them wide open, baring your dripping cunt to his ravenous gaze.

"look at you," he growled, voice thick with dark admiration. "so fucking pretty. so desperate for my cock, aren't you, baby?"

you nodded frantically, shame burning your cheeks but need burning hotter.

"say it," he demanded, stroking his cock lazily, spreading precum over the swollen head. "tell me how much you want it."

"i want your cock," you sobbed, arching your back, hands fisting the sheets. "i need you inside me, jeno. please, please fuck me — ruin me."

jeno snarled, something savage and unhinged breaking loose inside him.

"fuck, you’re perfect," he hissed, crawling up your body, caging you beneath him. "my perfect little slut, begging for my cock."

your heart stuttered at the filthy words, at how much you wanted them, needed them.

jeno didn’t waste another second — he lined up and slammed back into you with a brutal thrust that punched a strangled scream from your throat.

he didn't give you time to adjust, didn't give you time to breathe — he set a relentless pace, fucking you into the mattress, each thrust driving you higher and higher toward oblivion.

"you're so fucking tight," he grunted, slamming deep inside you. "like you were made for me, baby. made to take my cock."

"yes — yes, i am," you cried, tears spilling over your cheeks, your body arching to meet every savage thrust. "i'm yours, jeno. yours."

his growl was pure fucking sin.

"mine," he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

jeno kissed you then — filthy and claiming — fucking you harder, faster, deeper, until your body was nothing but raw nerve endings, every inch of you burning, every breath a broken prayer.

"you gonna cum for me, pretty baby?" he panted against your mouth, his cock driving into that sweet spot with ruthless precision. "gonna cream all over my cock like the dirty little girl you are?"

you nodded frantically, incoherent, pleasure crashing down on you like a fucking tidal wave.

your orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming, and you sobbed his name as your cunt clamped down on him, milking him ruthlessly.

jeno cursed viciously, losing control, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

with a final, brutal thrust, he spilled deep inside you, filling you so full it leaked out around him, hot and thick and obscene.

he collapsed onto you, both of you trembling, gasping for air, the scent of sex heavy in the room.

he didn't pull out — he stayed buried deep, holding you close, whispering broken praise against your ear.

"good girl," he murmured, kissing your temple. "so fucking good for me."

you clung to him, dazed and shattered, your heart hammering against his.

for the first time in a long time, you felt full.

wanted.

claimed.

as you glance at the clock, you realize it's far too late. Jeno notices it too, the tension thickening in the air as both of you scramble to get dressed in a rush. there’s a strange shift inside you, and suddenly, the cold, distant attitude you had before returns. you stand up straight, smoothing down your clothes, and with a tight smirk, you throw out the words, “this will be the last time we see each other.”

jeno pauses, his eyes narrowing as you continue, your tone biting, “i’ll make sure to remember you have a good dick, but that’s all.” you can practically hear the sarcasm drip from your words, the defiance clear in every syllable.

a sharp click of his tongue escapes him, the irritation in his eyes impossible to hide. he watches as you switch from the girl he’d just been tangled up with to someone almost unrecognizable—distant, untouchable. his jaw clenches, the frustration mounting as he mutters, “fine, then. we won’t see each other again.”

he moves toward the door, ready to usher you out, but before he can say another word, you lift your chin high, your gaze fixed ahead like a queen on her throne.

you glance at him one last time, your words sharp, almost cutting through the air. “obviously, we won’t see each other again. i hardly ever get tangled up with people of your level.” you watch as his face hardens, the words lingering between you like smoke, suffocating any remnant of the moment you just shared.

without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel, leaving him in the room, his annoyance and confusion left hanging in the silence. the sharpness in his gaze follows you, a twinge of something dangerous in the way he watches you leave. it only irritates him more.

the scene shifts abruptly.

you step into the grand lobby of your penthouse, the heavy weight of the night still hanging on you, your heels clicking sharply against the cold marble floor. the lights are dim, the shadows making the room feel colder than it should. your husband, managers, and several other figures of the personal are gathered there, a sea of blurred faces and disinterested glances.

the moment you enter, your husband’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes burning with fury, his expression twisted in a way that makes your stomach churn. he’s on his feet in an instant, his body towering over yours as he grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging you painfully toward him. the suddenness of it catches you off guard, and your breath hitches as he snarls, his words sharp and venomous.

“where the hell have you been, you stupid, fucking bitch?” he spits, the insult stinging worse than the pull on your scalp. you try to free yourself, your hands clawing at his grip, but he’s too strong, too furious. the others? they barely even flinch. they just watch, their eyes glazed, as if this is just another ordinary occurrence.

your body tenses, anger mixing with fear as you try to shove him off. but he doesn’t let go. he keeps shouting, his breath heavy, as the room fills with the sour weight of his anger.

“smelling like alcohol, again. you’re fucking disgusting. you’re going to rehab. i’ll make sure of it, you hear me?” his voice rises with each word, his control over you suffocating, as if his rage is all that defines you now.

you gasp, your voice trembling as you manage to find the strength to shout back, “no! i won’t go! don’t… don’t you dare!” the fear in your voice is clear, but there's something else—something that exposes the cracks in this whole twisted thing. the way he controls you. manipulates you. it’s sickening, and yet, you're stuck in this web, unable to break free.

he doesn’t even flinch at your protest. instead, he drags you down the hall, pulling you toward the bathroom, his hand like iron around your wrist, squeezing until you can barely breathe. his voice is cold as he commands, “you’ve got ten minutes. get in the shower, clean yourself up. you have a session to get to.” the words hit you like a slap, like you're nothing more than an object to be handled and used.

he releases you only to bark at the staff, the low, guttural growl of his command making the air around you heavy. “get everything ready in her room. she’ll be in there when she’s done. we need her ready, now.”

you barely process the words. your mind is spinning, dizzy from the alcohol, from the anger, from the fear. all you know is that you’re trapped in this—this life you never wanted, this marriage you never signed up for. and yet, there you are, bound by the chains he forged.

you walk into the session, completely lost, your mind scattered, your soul feeling bruised. it’s like every part of you is on autopilot, just going through the motions, trying to make it through. you’re not sure who you are anymore, but you push all of that aside, forcing yourself to give them the best version of you, even though it’s so far from who you really are.

they leave your hair straight, simple, and flat against your shoulders. the lingerie you’ll be modeling is put on you, but it feels like a prison, like it’s meant to show off something that’s no longer yours to own. the makeup they do on you is almost natural—just a touch of foundation to cover the pain, and then the red lipstick. cherry red, like it’s supposed to make you feel alive, but it only reminds you of all the things you wish you could forget.

as you stand in front of the mirror, trying to breathe through the mounting pressure, you feel a deep sense of loss settle in your chest. every day, it feels like you’re slipping farther away from yourself, drowning in a sea of expectations, a sea of things you can never fully escape. your anxiety is high, gnawing at your insides, a constant, ever-present hum. all you want is to drown it out—to feel something other than this suffocating emptiness.

you glance into your bag as you wait in the car, alone for a few moments. you can’t stand the quiet, the weight of everything pressing down on you. your hands tremble as you pull out the small bottle of liquor you keep hidden, a desperate, shaky hope that it’ll make everything go away, even if just for a little while.

the first sip is shaky, your heart pounding, fear clawing at your chest that someone might catch you, but as it slides down your throat, it burns. and for the first time today, you feel something other than numb. it’s not much, but it’s enough to calm the panic inside you, to push the anxiety back just a little.

you glance around the car, making sure no one’s coming, and take another quick sip. it’s just a little more, just enough to quiet the noise, to make the world feel a little more manageable.

but then you hear the door open, and you quickly hide the bottle back in your bag, your heart racing as your driver and the others pile in, the awkward tension thick in the air. they try to make small talk, to congratulate you on how great the photos turned out, but you don’t hear them. it’s like their words are just noise, the hollow echo of people who don’t really see you, don’t really know what’s going on inside.

nothing they say can fill the void inside you. nothing they say can stop the ache, the loneliness. you sit there, surrounded by them, yet more alone than ever.

jeno’s life continues, an unremarkable routine he’s gotten used to. by day, he’s washing dishes in the hotel kitchen, the steam and clatter of plates all he hears as the hours drag on. by night, he’s behind the bar, mixing drinks for customers who hardly notice him. nothing changes. it’s the same every day.

but you? you’re different. you’re out there, in a world he can’t even imagine, posing in front of cameras, wearing clothes most people could never afford. your life is glittering, filled with fame and lights. and jeno... well, he’s just trying to get by.

he visits his mom and brothers when he can, bringing them whatever he can afford—money, food, school supplies. his mother always greets him with a warm smile, her tired eyes softening when she sees the small bundles of things he’s brought. one afternoon, as jeno watches her fuss with the groceries, he sees her hands, worn and rough from years of work. her voice is gentle as she talks about the boys and their progress in school, and jeno, despite everything, can’t help but feel a small flicker of pride.

“you’re doing good, jeno,” she says softly, her hand brushing his cheek. “i’m proud of you.”

he smiles, the weight in his chest lightening for a brief moment. “i’m just doing what i can, mom.”

on his way back to his apartment, jeno sits on the bus, watching the city of seoul pass by, the neon lights flickering as the sky darkens. the world outside the window is moving too fast, just like everything else in his life.

but then he spots it. a building with a large billboard hanging outside—an advertisement for victoria’s secret. the image catches his attention, something about it drawing him in. it’s a silhouette, a woman posed confidently in black lingerie. her face, though partially obscured by the lighting, is unmistakable.

it’s you.

your figure, your face, the cherry-red lipstick—it’s all there. beneath the image, the name printed in bold letters: “y/n.”

“y/n...”

the name echoes in his mind, bouncing around like a restless thought he can’t shake.

he sits there, staring at the ad, his heart thudding in his chest. was that you? he wonders. he wasn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized you earlier, considering how little he paid attention to social media or the new faces in the industry. his life was always too busy—work, family, just surviving. he didn’t have the luxury of keeping up with the world outside his own.

he leans back in his seat, the questions swirling in his head. was that why you were dressed the way you were at the bar?he wonders, his mind replaying the night, trying to piece it all together. was that why you didn’t even bother telling me your name?

he shakes his head, frustration building inside. he hadn’t even thought to ask you. not in the way he should’ve. maybe that’s why the whole thing felt like a dream—something too far out of his reach, too disconnected from his reality.

days pass, and jeno can’t shake the thought of you. why couldn’t he get you out of his head? he keeps thinking. his mind keeps returning to that night in the bar, to the way you made him feel in ways no one else ever had. it wasn’t just the physical attraction—though that was undeniable—it was something deeper. a connection, maybe. something that left him wanting more.

and you? did you think about him too? he wonders. he can’t help but wonder what you felt. what was it about that night?

he keeps going through his days, the weight of the routine pressing down on him, but your image haunts him. every time he passes that building, every time he sees a billboard, the thought of you creeps in.

he can’t seem to get you out of his mind. not now. not ever since that night.

days go by, and life continues. you’re caught in your own spiral, wrapped up in your career, your fame, your superficial relationships. but behind the glossy exterior, there’s a storm inside. your anxiety is climbing, your need for control is overwhelming. you can’t shake the memory of jeno, of his touch, the way he made you feel in a way no one else ever has. it haunts you. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to admit it. he doesn’t belong in my world. you tell yourself that over and over, even though deep down you know it’s a lie.

one evening, after a photoshoot, you find yourself at a bar. it’s not glamorous, not the kind of place you usually visit, but something about it draws you in. maybe it’s the need for escape, or maybe it’s just the feeling of being lost, like always. you walk in, the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses filling the air.

and then, as if fate had a twisted sense of humor, you see him. jeno. he’s sitting at the bar, his back to you, but you know it’s him instantly. the same posture, the same way he leans against the counter, the same worn-out look in his eyes. for a moment, you just stand there, frozen. what the hell is he doing here?

he doesn’t see you at first. but when he does, his gaze flicks up, and for a split second, neither of you moves. you’re not sure what to feel. you should leave. walk away. pretend you never saw him. but then something shifts, something almost dangerous flares inside you. why should you leave? he doesn’t belong in your world, but there’s something magnetic about him. something you can’t resist.

you walk up to the bar, casually, as if nothing ever happened between the two of you. your voice is cold, distant when you speak.

"didn’t expect to see you here," you say, your words laced with a bitterness that doesn’t even feel real to you.

jeno raises an eyebrow, his face giving away nothing, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something, something that betrays the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. "neither did I," he responds, leaning back in his chair, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

you take a seat beside him, your body language confident, almost too much so. why does he still make you feel this way? your mind is racing, but you won’t admit it. you won’t show any weakness. after all, he’s not worth it. but still, as you sip your drink, you can’t help but wonder if this will be the last time you see him... or if there’s something else between you two, something neither of you can deny.

jeno, ever so cool, watches you from the corner of his eye, a strange expression on his face. "so," he says finally, breaking the silence. "this is it then? you just walk in and act like nothing happened?"

you tilt your head slightly, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "what did you expect?" you reply, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "you think I’d remember a night like that?"

his jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. he knows better than to push. but still, the way you carry yourself, the way you treat him—it drives him insane. and he can’t help but wonder, why does he still feel drawn to you?

you don't know who moves first, but suddenly you're both on your feet, the space between you charged with something volatile, something dangerous. your eyes lock, a silent dare hanging heavy in the air. and then, like the snap of a rubber band stretched too far, you grab his wrist, dragging him toward the back of the bar without a word.

jeno follows, his steps heavy, his breathing ragged. he doesn’t need you to say anything. he knows exactly where this is going.

the bathroom door slams shut behind you, and before you can even turn around, he's on you—shoving you against the wall so hard the air leaves your lungs in a gasp. his hands are rough, desperate, sliding up your thighs, bunching up your expensive dress around your hips.

"this is the last time," you hiss, even as your hands tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer, needing him like you need your next breath.

"fuck, you’re so full of shit," he growls, his mouth crashing into yours, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. there’s no softness, no tenderness. it’s all teeth, spit, and fury. you kiss him like you hate him, nails raking down his arms, and he groans against your mouth, grabbing your ass hard enough to leave bruises.

he lifts you effortlessly, your back hitting the wall again as he grinds his hips into yours. you can feel him, hard and straining against his jeans, and it sends a rush of wetness flooding between your thighs.

"you fucking missed me," he mutters against your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, to make your head slam back against the wall.

"shut the fuck up," you snap, even as you wrap your legs tighter around him, rocking your hips shamelessly against his. you hate him. you hate yourself even more for wanting this, for needing it.

he fumbles with his jeans, freeing his cock, and the moment you feel him—hot, thick, leaking against your thigh—you lose whatever shred of dignity you were still clinging to.

"beg for it," he growls, one hand squeezing your throat just enough to make your knees tremble.

"fuck you," you spit back, but the way you grind down on him betrays you.

he grins, a wicked, filthy thing, and without warning, he slams into you in one brutal thrust, making you cry out loud enough to echo off the walls. you cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, as he pounds into you, hard and fast and punishing.

"this is all you're good for," he snarls against your ear, hips snapping into yours with vicious precision. "a spoiled little bitch who needs to get fucked stupid."

you moan, high and broken, because he's right. you hate how right he is.

he fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you, like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul. every thrust knocks the air out of you, every rough groan he rips from your throat making you fall apart a little more.

you rake your nails down his back, probably drawing blood, but he just groans, fucking into you even harder, chasing the sick, desperate high you both crave.

"gonna come all over my cock, aren't you?" he pants, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub your clit in brutal circles. "fucking filthy."

you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, your whole body tensing as the orgasm crashes over you, blinding and savage. you shake in his arms, squeezing him so tight he curses under his breath, slamming into you a few more times before he spills inside you with a low, broken groan.

for a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, your bodies still pressed together, sweaty and trembling.

then you shove him away, fixing your dress with shaking hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

"this never happened," you snap, voice hoarse. "it’s over."

jeno chuckles darkly, zipping up his jeans, not bothering to hide the smug, wrecked look on his face.

"whatever you say, princess," he mutters, like he knows you’re both lying through your fucking teeth.

you return to your tables like nothing happened, your bodies still buzzing, still raw from what you just did. but now the bar is more crowded, people weaving through the narrow spaces, laughter and music filling the air.

there's barely room to breathe.

it happens naturally—or maybe fate is just cruel—but without really thinking, you both end up sitting at the same table. the shared silence is thick, electric, both of you pretending to sip your drinks, pretending not to notice how close you are.

jeno stretches his legs under the table, and casually, like it means nothing, his hand slides onto your thigh. slow. deliberate.

your body goes rigid, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. a warning. don't.

but he doesn't stop. if anything, he just smiles lazily, the pad of his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your bare skin, sliding higher, inch by devastating inch.

you should slap his hand away. you should tell him to fuck off. instead, heat coils low in your belly, slow and humiliating. your thighs tense under his touch, but you don't move. you can feel the smirk against your skin without even looking.

fucking bastard.

the air grows too thick, your breathing too shallow. it's like every nerve ending you have is concentrated where his hand touches you. and you hate it. you hate him.

and yet, you lean closer, just enough to let your knee brush against his.

jeno chuckles low, dark, under his breath. he knows he's winning.

you finish your drink in one harsh gulp, slamming the glass down harder than necessary. without looking at him, you mutter, "let's go."

he follows you out without a word, the tension between you stretched tight enough to snap.

the second the door to his shitty apartment clicks shut behind you, it's like a dam breaks.

jeno surges forward, grabbing you by the waist, crashing his mouth to yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and spit and hunger. you kiss him back just as hard, biting at his bottom lip, hands fisting in his jacket, dragging him toward the living room.

your knees bump against the couch, and with a rough push, you shove him down onto it, standing over him, chest heaving, eyes burning.

jeno spreads his legs slightly, slouching back with that cocky, infuriating smirk on his face, like he knows exactly what's about to happen.

and he’s right.

you sink down to your knees between his thighs, never breaking eye contact. your fingers work at his belt, slow and unhurried, dragging the moment out, making him twitch with impatience.

"you’re so fucking full of yourself," you mutter, undoing the button of his jeans, pulling down the zipper inch by torturous inch.

"and you’re so fucking desperate," he shoots back, voice rough, hands fisting the couch cushions instead of grabbing you like you know he wants to.

you free his cock, heavy and flushed and already leaking for you. the sight makes something in you snap, something hot and reckless.

you wrap one hand around the base, squeezing lightly just to watch his stomach tense, to hear that tiny hitch in his breath he can’t hide.

slowly—so slowly it’s almost cruel—you lean in, letting the tip brush against your lips, teasing him, smearing precum across your mouth like lipgloss.

jeno growls low in his throat, hips jerking slightly, but you pull back with a wicked smile, your eyes daring him to move again.

then, finally, you flatten your tongue and lick a slow, filthy stripe from the base to the head, savoring the weight of him, the taste of him. his whole body shudders, and his head tips back against the couch.

"fuck, y/n," he breathes, voice broken, wrecked.

you hum around him, letting the vibration travel through his cock as you take him deeper, inch by inch, until your lips are wrapped tight around him, until he’s sliding against your tongue, heavy and pulsing.

you set a slow, relentless rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, swallowing around him just to feel him twitch. your hands grip his thighs hard enough to bruise, keeping him pinned, even as he bucks his hips weakly, desperate for more.

"look at you," he groans, voice thick with lust. "on your knees for me again... fucking perfect."

his words only make you sink lower, taking him even deeper, your throat tightening around him. he curses, one hand finally tangling in your hair, not forcing, just holding, trembling with the effort to stay still.

you pull back slowly, gasping for air, a thin string of spit connecting your swollen lips to his cock.

"last time, right?" you pant, stroking him lazily, watching him fall apart above you.

jeno laughs, broken and breathless.

"keep lying to yourself, baby."

then you take him back into your mouth, hungrier this time, like you’re trying to erase every rational thought from both your minds.

and you know you will.

after you finish, you both sit there, breathless, ruined, the taste of each other still fresh on your tongues. there's a moment—dangerous, heavy—where your fingers brush against his when you hand him back his drink.

jeno doesn’t pull away.

neither do you.

without really thinking, you slide your phone across the table. he smirks, slow and lazy, and types his number in without a word.

days pass.

the number burns a hole in your phone, in your mind. but you don’t call. neither does he. pride, fear, something darker keeping you both in check.

until your husband leaves for a business trip, off to some distant city, chasing dirty deals and cheap whores. and suddenly you’re a teenager again, reckless, starved, hungry.

your fingers tremble slightly when you dial jeno’s number.

he picks up on the second ring, his voice rough from the noise in the background. he's working. you can hear the clatter of glasses, the low thrum of music.

"come to me," you whisper, not bothering to hide the need in your voice. "i’ll send you the address. i don’t care how long it takes. just come."

you hang up before he can answer, your heart hammering against your ribs.

the knock on your door feels like a gunshot in the silence.

you sprint to open it, heart hammering in your chest. and there he is—jeno, still in his work clothes, smelling faintly of sweat and cigarettes, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his forearms, veins popping, hair messy.

he looks at you—standing there in nothing but a black silk robe, your nipples hard and obvious through the thin fabric, thighs pressed together like you're trying to hold yourself together—and his jaw clenches.

"fuck," he breathes, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "look at you. fucking waiting for me like a good girl."

he kicks the door shut, not even bothering to take off his boots, and crowds you back against the wall. his hands are rough when they grab your face, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"been thinking about me all day, huh?" he taunts, his voice low, rough. "bet your little pussy’s been dripping since the moment you called."

"jeno—" you whimper, squirming under his gaze, needing him more than you need air.

"shh," he cuts you off, dragging his thumb over your lips. "you don't get to talk yet, baby. just nod if you're desperate."

you nod immediately, cheeks burning.

"good girl," he growls, and then he’s kissing you—hard, brutal, messy. his tongue fucks into your mouth like he owns it, hands everywhere at once: squeezing your tits through the robe, grabbing your ass, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

without warning, he grabs the belt of your robe and yanks it loose. it falls open, and you shiver, fully exposed under his heavy gaze.

"fuck, you're perfect," he mutters, palming your breasts roughly, pinching your nipples until you gasp. "so fucking soft. made for me."

you don't even realize he’s backing you toward the couch until he shoves you down onto it.

"spread," he commands, voice sharp, and you obey instantly, legs falling open to show him just how wet you are.

jeno drops to his knees between your thighs, dragging his tongue along the inside of your thigh, slow and filthy, so close to where you need him, but not giving you anything yet.

"such a messy little cunt," he murmurs, nosing against your slick folds. "fucking soaking... and it’s all for me?"

"yes," you gasp, hips bucking.

he laughs against your skin, a dark, cruel sound.

"then you better fucking take it."

and he dives in—licking, sucking, fucking you open with his tongue until you're crying out, writhing, clutching at his hair. he pins your hips down with strong hands, eating you like a man starved, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with every messy, wet stroke.

"gonna cum, baby?" he teases, voice muffled against your pussy. "gonna cum all over my tongue like a good little whore?"

you nod frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it feels.

but just when you're about to fall apart, he pulls away.

"nuh-uh," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "not yet. you don’t get to cum until i say so."

you sob, needy and frustrated, but he’s already standing up, freeing his cock from his jeans—thick, heavy, flushed red at the tip.

"open your mouth," he orders, stroking himself slowly.

you open without hesitation, tongue out, desperate.

"good fucking girl," he praises, and slides the tip into your mouth, letting you taste him, letting you choke on him as he pushes deeper.

he fucks your mouth slowly, watching you with hooded eyes, his thumb wiping away the tears leaking down your cheeks.

"take it all, baby. you can do it. i know you can."

you gag slightly, but you force yourself to relax, hollowing your cheeks, letting him use you until you’re drooling, messy, ruined.

he pulls out with a grunt, grabbing your wrist and hauling you up.

"couch first," he mutters, pushing you onto your hands and knees. he lines himself up behind you, slapping the head of his cock against your soaked pussy.

"you want it?" he asks, teasing your entrance, barely pushing in.

"yes, please, jeno, i need it," you cry, grinding back against him shamelessly.

"beg for it," he growls, slapping your ass hard enough to make you yelp.

"please," you sob. "please fuck me. i need you so bad."

he slams into you with one brutal thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs.

"that’s it," he groans, gripping your hips, fucking into you hard, deep. "take it, baby. fucking take all of me."

the couch creaks under the force of his thrusts, and you’re a mess—crying, moaning, babbling nonsense.

jeno leans over you, one hand grabbing your throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring you.

"mine," he growls into your ear. "this pussy’s mine now. no one else gets to have you like this."

he pulls out suddenly, making you whine in protest, and manhandles you onto your back.

"wanna see your face when you cum," he mutters, lining up again and thrusting back inside.

this position lets him go even deeper, the angle perfect, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

he grabs your ankles, pushing your legs up and back, folding you almost in half, fucking into you with brutal, relentless precision.

"so fucking tight," he pants, sweat dripping from his forehead. "so fucking perfect for me."

you’re close, so close, and he knows it.

he presses his forehead to yours, his thrusts getting sloppier, rougher.

"cum for me, baby," he whispers, voice wrecked. "cum on my cock. show me who you fucking belong to."

you shatter, screaming his name, your whole body convulsing around him.

jeno keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release, until with a broken grunt he buries himself deep and cums inside you, filling you up.

he stays there for a moment, both of you gasping, sweating, bodies trembling.

then, without pulling out, he flips you onto your side, hooking your leg over his hip, and starts moving again.

"not done," he murmurs against your neck. "you said you’d wait for me with your legs open. now you’re gonna take everything i give you. all fucking night."

and you do.

he fucks you on the couch, on the floor, against the wall, until you’re too weak to stand.

he carries you to the bed, lays you down gently, kisses you softer now, but still hungry, still desperate.

and he doesn’t stop.

not until the sun is rising, and you’re ruined under him, full of him, marked and claimed in every way possible.

the morning sun creeps through your curtains, casting soft, golden light over the wreckage of the night.

your body aches in the sweetest way—thighs sore, skin marked with bruises and bites, every part of you still humming with the memory of him. you stir lazily, stretching a little, feeling the empty space beside you.

jeno is sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, still in his wrinkled black jeans, his boots finally kicked off and lying somewhere in the living room. he’s staring at the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like he’s lost in thought.

you push yourself up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around your waist.

"you’re not staying for breakfast?" you tease lightly, voice still hoarse from all the moaning and screaming you did last night.

jeno doesn’t laugh.

he glances over his shoulder at you, jaw tight, eyes shuttered. there’s something unreadable in his expression—something sharp, something raw.

you sigh, brushing your hair out of your face, and swing your legs off the bed, standing up naked in front of him without a second thought.

"look, jeno," you start, voice cool, detached, like you're discussing the weather, not the fact that you just spent the whole night fucking like animals. "this thing between us... it’s just physical."

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even flinch.

you continue, walking toward where your robe is draped over a chair. "you know that, right? i mean, let’s be honest. we’re not from the same world."

you shrug into the robe, tying it loosely around your waist, feeling his eyes on you the whole time.

"i’m a model. i have contracts, photoshoots, events. i travel the world." your tone is matter-of-fact, brutal in its honesty. "you... you wash dishes. you serve drinks."

jeno’s hands curl into fists between his knees.

you know your words are cruel, cutting deeper than you intend, but you can't stop yourself. it’s easier this way. easier to build the walls high and thick before either of you starts to feel something you shouldn’t.

"there’s nothing you can offer me," you say, your voice softening only slightly. "except maybe a good fuck."

the words hang heavy in the air, toxic and ugly.

jeno lifts his head finally, meeting your gaze. there’s a storm in his eyes—hurt, anger, humiliation—but he swallows it all down, burying it under a mask of indifference.

"yeah," he says, voice low and rough. "i know."

you look at him for a long moment, something twisting in your chest. a part of you wants to take it back, to apologize, to say something, anything, that might soften the blow.

but you don’t.

because it’s better this way. it has to be.

jeno stands up, grabbing his shirt off the floor and pulling it over his head.

"i gotta get to work," he says, avoiding your eyes now.

you nod, tightening your robe around you as if it can shield you from the sudden chill in the room.

he lingers for a second, like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he just grabs his boots and heads for the door.

you watch him go, heart pounding in your chest, throat tight.

when the door shuts behind him, you finally let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

the silence that follows is deafening.

you barely have time to process it when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

it’s your manager.

on my way to your place. we have a full schedule today. be ready.

you stare at the message, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

right. life goes on.

you pull yourself together, hiding every trace of last night, tucking it away deep inside where no one can see. you touch up your makeup, fix your hair, throw on a designer outfit.

by the time your manager arrives, you look perfect again.

polished. untouchable.

like last night—and the boy who made you feel something real for the first time in ages—never even happened.

the bar is packed tonight.

jeno moves behind the counter like a machine—pouring drinks, wiping down surfaces, dodging drunk customers—but his mind isn’t here. his body works on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him through the motions.

inside, he’s boiling.

he clenches his jaw so hard it aches, fists tightening around glasses when he thinks about the way you looked at him this morning. like he was... nothing. disposable. just another tool for your pleasure.

just physical, you had said.

you wash dishes. you serve drinks.

you have nothing else to offer.

jeno grits his teeth and slams a bottle harder than necessary onto the counter, earning a glance from one of the other bartenders. he ignores it.

he doesn’t need their pity.

he doesn't need anyone's pity.

he pours another shot for some suit who probably makes more in a week than jeno does in a year, sliding it across the bar with a mechanical smile.

meanwhile, across town, you’re stepping out of a black car, flashing a blinding smile at the cameras.

your manager walks beside you, murmuring the day's schedule—photoshoot in the morning, interview in the afternoon, charity gala at night.

you nod, perfectly poised, perfectly composed. you pose for the paparazzi, flash that million-dollar smile, turn your head at just the right angle to catch the light.

to the world, you’re flawless. untouchable.

jeno’s hands shake when he twists open another beer. he wants to hate you. he really fucking does. he wants to hate the way you used him, the way you looked at him like he was beneath you.

but all he can think about is how soft you felt under him. how sweet you tasted. how your body fit his like it was made for him.

and the worst part?

he’d do it all over again.

even if it breaks him.

even if it makes him feel like less than nothing.

jeno slams the empty bottle into the bin with a little too much force, earning another side-eye from the bar manager.

he wipes his hands on a towel, grabbing the next order slip, throwing himself back into the chaos.

work. distraction. numbness.

it's the only thing he has now.

it’s well past closing time.

the bar is almost empty now, chairs stacked on tables, the floors sticky and reeking of spilled liquor. the neon signs buzz and flicker, the only sound in the heavy silence.

jeno sits slumped at the counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him, one hand wrapped loosely around his phone.

he knows he shouldn’t.

he knows it’s a terrible fucking idea.

but his heart is heavy, his body still aching with the memory of you—your moans, your warmth, your fucking smile after you ruined him.

the whiskey burns as he takes another swig straight from the bottle.

fuck it.

he unlocks his phone, pulls up your contact—the one you insisted on saving after that first night back, after you both swore it would be just sex, nothing else.

his thumb hovers over the screen for a second too long before he types:

"you miss me yet?"

simple. reckless. pathetic.

he stares at the message, finger trembling slightly.

his pride screams at him to delete it, to pretend he never even thought about reaching out. to pretend he’s fine. that he doesn’t dream about you. that he doesn't crave you like he needs you to breathe.

but his thumb moves before he can stop it.

send.

the second the message disappears, dread hits him like a freight train.

he sets the phone face down on the counter with a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

what the fuck is he doing?

you’re probably in bed already, sleeping soundly on satin sheets, not giving a single thought to the dishwasher who was stupid enough to fall for you.

jeno laughs bitterly under his breath, the sound low and broken.

he pushes the bottle away and buries his head in his arms on the counter, wishing he could turn back time. wishing he could forget you.

wishing he wasn’t so fucking weak.

the morning sun pours through the massive windows of your penthouse.

you stir lazily under the expensive covers, stretching like a cat, still half-asleep.

your phone buzzes softly on the nightstand.

you reach for it without thinking, screen lighting up with a few notifications—emails, your manager confirming today’s appointments, a reminder for a fitting later tonight.

and one message. from jeno.

your heart skips for the briefest second, a flicker of something you immediately smother down.

you open it.

"you miss me yet?"

the words sit there, small and needy on the screen.

pathetic.

you stare at it for a few seconds, expression unreadable. there’s no rush of warmth, no surge of longing. just a cool, detached amusement.

he actually thought you would miss him.

a dishwasher. a bartender.

someone so far beneath you it was almost laughable.

you sigh, tossing the phone back onto the bed without even bothering to reply.

your time is too precious to waste on things like him.

on emotions.

on weakness.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, standing gracefully, your silk nightgown clinging to your body.

there’s a whole day ahead of you—meetings, shoots, events. you have an image to maintain.

a reputation to protect.

jeno was just a moment of weakness. a dirty little secret. a mistake you wouldn’t make again.

you walk into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up filling the silence.

behind you, your phone stays dark and unanswered on the bed.

jeno’s message left to rot.

just like him.

your marriage, already a hollow shell, rots from the inside. arguments, cold silences, whispered threats—until the bomb explodes.

then the whisper becomes a headline.

then the headline becomes a full-blown fucking wildfire.

you’re in the middle of a fitting for an upcoming fashion week when your phone explodes with notifications—texts, missed calls, news alerts.

your manager bursts into the dressing room, her face pale, panic in her eyes.

"you need to see this," she says, shoving her phone toward you.

on the screen, a breaking news banner flashes brightly.

your husband—soon-to-be ex-husband—caught leaving a well-known cabaret at three in the morning. hidden camera footage. evidence of embezzlement, laundering money through shell companies tied to shady nightclubs and prostitution rings. links to criminal networks.

your name gets dragged into the mud too—guilt by association.

"model and socialite embroiled in scandal." what did she know? was she complicit?

your face—your face—plastered on every tabloid, every gossip blog, every news channel.

you stare at the screen, heart thudding dully in your chest.

your hands shake slightly as you take the phone, scrolling through the article.

photos of you, smiling beside him at charity events. walking hand in hand at galas. attending lavish dinners.

painted like a co-conspirator.

painted like a trophy wife who turned a blind eye to the filth crawling underneath.

your stomach twists violently.

"i didn’t know anything," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

your manager is already barking orders into her phone—damage control, pulling your name from upcoming campaigns, preparing press releases.

you barely hear her.

your mind is spinning, a thousand miles an hour.

your marriage—the carefully curated image you upheld for years—shattered.

your career—your future—threatened by something you had no part in.

you can file for divorce now, thanks to the mountain of evidence piling against him. but it’s not easy. he has friends, connections, dirty favors tucked away in every corner of the city.

for a while, it feels like you’ll never escape.

but then the police step in. an arrest warrant. handcuffs. flashing cameras. reporters shouting.

he’s taken into custody, charged with fraud, corruption, and solicitation. and for the first time in years, you can breathe.

the police move fast. within days, your husband is arrested on charges of fraud and conspiracy. the photos of him in handcuffs, head bowed, hit the media like a bomb.

your lawyers file for divorce immediately, citing irreconcilable differences and gross misconduct.

still, it’s not easy.

his influence runs deep.

he has friends in high places, money tucked away in hidden accounts, strings he still tries to pull even from a jail cell.

the next few weeks are hell.

interviews. paparazzi hounding you outside your building. brands putting your contracts on hold. people whispering behind your back—was she involved? did she really not know?

you hold your head high through all of it.

because that’s what you do.

you survive.

even as the walls close in, even as the floor crumbles beneath you, you refuse to break.

you show up to every event you can’t cancel, dressed in sharp designer suits, makeup flawless, smile impenetrable.

you answer the reporters’ questions with cold, practiced precision.

"i had no knowledge of my husband’s illegal activities." "i am fully cooperating with authorities." "my focus is on my career and clearing my name."

you’re a fucking machine.

but at night, when the cameras are gone, when the lights are off, when you’re alone in your massive, empty penthouse—you watch it all unfold, wrapped in that same black silk robe, sipping a glass of wine, a wicked little smile playing on your lips.

you think of jeno.

you think of the way he looked at you.

like you were human.

like you were real.

you wonder if he’s seen the news.

if he’s laughing.

if he thinks you deserve it.

maybe you do.

and somewhere, not far away, jeno’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. he smiles when he sees your name. because he knows—you’re his now.

completely.

the media circus dies down eventually, but the aftermath lingers, like a bad taste in your mouth that won’t go away.

you’ve done everything you could to salvage what’s left of your career—multiple PR stunts, interviews, charity work. the world is watching, waiting for you to crack.

but you don’t.

you can’t.

you’re a perfect, cold image again.

you’ve learned how to play the game too well.

but in the dark corners of your mind, when the day is done and the press has left, you think of him.

jeno.

the one thing you can’t control. the one thing you can’t forget.

the thought eats at you like a slow burn.

the media has done its job, your reputation is in shambles, your career on the edge—but you can’t stop thinking about that night.

about him.

about how he made you feel more alive than you’ve ever been, more real. and you hate yourself for it.

it’s a stupid, dangerous thought.

he’s not in your world.

he’s beneath you.

just another distraction. another mistake.

but the ache inside you only grows.

you find yourself back at the bar. alone. this time, it’s a quiet night. the hum of soft chatter and clinking glasses is the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. you’re sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of wine, feeling like a stranger in your own skin. the music plays in the background, but you can’t focus on anything. not the drink in your hand, not the man flirting with the bartender, not the low conversations around you.

just the memory of his hands on you. his body pressed against yours, his breath hot in your ear, the way he made you forget the world for just a few hours. you pull out your phone, half-drunk, and stare at the screen for a few moments.

his name is still in your contacts, buried deep under the noise of everything else.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard. it’s stupid. reckless. but you can’t help yourself.

you tap out a simple message.

“i’m coming to see you.”

no questions. no excuses. just a direct invitation. no more games.

you don’t wait for a response. instead, you gather your things and slip out of the bar, sliding into a dark corner to change into something that will keep you anonymous. a dark jacket, a hood pulled low, sunglasses that hide your eyes. you don’t want anyone recognizing you. not tonight.

you arrive at his apartment about thirty minutes later. the small, worn-down building feels like a world away from everything you know. the scent of cheap takeout, the dull hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the old floors.

and there he is.

jeno.

he looks up as you step inside, surprise flashing across his face. but it’s quickly replaced with something else—something dark, almost relieved. He stands up, running a hand through his hair.

“so, what now?” he asks quietly, his voice rougher than you remember. his tone guarded, defensive.

you don’t answer immediately. you step closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating toward you. for a moment, neither of you speaks.

then you finally let the words slip.

“now?” you let out a shaky breath, fighting the overwhelming pull between you. “now, we stop pretending it was just... nothing.”

he doesn’t move, but you see the way his eyes darken, like he’s trying to process what’s happening. but you’re done waiting. you step into his space, hands reaching for his chest, fingers trembling as you slide them down, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“you’re not like them,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “you’re not like the men i'm supposed to be with. you’re real.”

the words hang between you, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. his gaze flickers, something raw and exposed in his eyes.

“and what does that mean for us?” jeno’s voice is rough, like he’s fighting back something—regret, bitterness, confusion, or maybe something worse. “you’re not the same woman i fucked a few weeks ago,” he adds, the tension in his voice unmistakable.

you swallow hard, feeling the heat surge between you again. “it means...” you say, your voice breathless as you pull him closer, “it means we both need this. we both need something real... and we’re going to do whatever the fuck it takes to feel alive again.”

you push him back against the wall, your hands quick and desperate as you rip open his shirt.

he doesn’t stop you.

and this time, you’re not pretending. you both know exactly what this is.

the air between you is thick with tension, suffocating. the weight of everything—the scandal, the lies, the broken pieces of your life—suddenly doesn’t matter anymore. it’s just the two of you, and the world outside feels miles away.

you drag him closer, your fingers working at his jeans, impatient, desperate. you feel the heat radiating off his skin, the tension in his muscles as he grips your hips, pulling you flush against him.

his mouth crashes onto yours, urgent, hungry. you kiss him like you’re drowning and he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. your hands slide up his chest, tugging at his shirt, tearing it off. there’s no room for subtlety anymore. no games. no pretending.

you step back for a moment, just to take him in—his chest, bare and defined, his eyes dark with something you can’t quite name. but you want it.

you want it more than anything.

"you’re not the same person," he mutters, his voice low, hoarse.

"neither are you," you reply, eyes never leaving his.

there’s something raw in his gaze, something that tells you he’s as broken as you are. but you don’t care. you don’t need the emotional baggage right now. you need him. just him.

you pull him back toward you, lips crashing against his once again, a rush of heat flooding your veins. his hands roam your body with practiced ease, sliding over your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

he’s rough, pulling at the hem of your dress, pushing it up your thighs, as if he can’t get enough of you.

you’re not the same person either—not the woman who had everything under control, not the one who smiled for the cameras. right now, you’re just her—the one who needs this.

you push him back onto the couch, straddling his lap in one swift motion, grinding against him with a soft, needy moan. he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his eyes dark with desire.

"fuck," he mutters, and you smile wickedly.

"do you want me to stop?" you tease, dragging your nails across his chest, watching the way he shudders under your touch.

"don’t you dare," he growls, his voice rough with lust.

you lean forward, lips brushing against his neck, tasting the salt on his skin as you begin to undo his jeans. he doesn’t even try to stop you. he’s just as lost in this as you are.

his breath catches as you finally release him, your hands wrapping around him, stroking him slowly, teasingly, knowing just how to make him lose control. you feel him harden under your touch, his body tense beneath yours, and you smile, leaning in to kiss him again—slow and deep, savoring the moment.

you’re not going to pretend anymore. you don’t care about the past or the future. all that matters is the way he makes you feel. alive.

you lower yourself onto him in one smooth motion, his eyes dark and intense as you begin to move, your rhythm slow at first, letting the tension build.

he grabs your waist, urging you on, his body reacting to yours in the most primal way.

his hands slip to your back, pulling you closer, his lips finding your neck, your ear, anything he can reach.

"you wanted this, huh?" he breathes against your skin, his voice a mixture of cocky satisfaction and raw hunger.

you moan, your body moving faster, needing him closer, deeper, harder.

"shut up and fuck me," you gasp, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you ride him harder, faster, your movements frantic now, just as desperate as your feelings.

he doesn’t hesitate.

he’s the perfect balance of force and control, guiding your hips, meeting you thrust for thrust.

you’re a mess of tangled limbs and desperate breath, lost in the pleasure, in the feeling of his body moving against yours, in the heat of the moment.

you come undone first, your body shaking with pleasure as you cry out his name, the sound of it raw and needy in the air.

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving, keeps fucking you with such intensity that you can barely think, can barely breathe, but it doesn’t matter.

all that matters is this moment, this thing between you, this need you can’t escape.

he comes with a low growl, his grip tightening on you as he finishes inside you, his body shuddering beneath yours.

for a long moment, neither of you moves. you’re both gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling as you cling to each other. finally, you collapse against him, your head resting on his chest, your mind spinning.

you both know this is dangerous, that you shouldn’t be doing this, but right now, in this moment, it feels like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

"you’re fucking perfect," he mutters, his voice hoarse and ragged.

you smile softly, fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

"this is just physical, right?" you ask, your voice steady, even though there’s a hint of something else in it.

"just physical," he replies, but his voice wavers slightly.

you both know it’s a lie. but right now, neither of you cares.

the morning after feels different.

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the quiet. the kind of quiet that rings too loudly in your ears. you’re in his bed, curled up against him, your body still aching from the night before, from the way he pushed you to your limits. you can still feel him, the imprint of his body on yours, the way he made you feel alive when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

but the reality is sinking in.

you push yourself up from the bed, your muscles sore, your thoughts a jumbled mess of lust, anger, and confusion. the sun is just starting to rise, casting a faint light across the room, but it does nothing to ease the storm in your chest.

you glance back at jeno, still asleep, his dark hair messy, his body sprawled out across the sheets.

he looks peaceful.

and for a moment, you wonder what it would be like to have this... without the mess, without the lies, without the broken parts of both of your worlds.

but you shake your head.

you can’t think like that.

he’s beneath you.

nothing more than a distraction from the mess you’re in.

the scandal. the divorce. the pieces of your life that are crumbling away.

you stand, grabbing your clothes from the floor, slipping into them quickly. you can’t stay here. you don’t belong here.

you move quietly, making your way to the door, but before you can leave, you hear him stir behind you.

"where are you going?" his voice is rough, still heavy with sleep, but there’s a trace of concern there.

you freeze, your hand on the door handle.

"i don’t belong here," you say, your voice colder than you feel. "you’re just a distraction. this… was just physical. i never needed anything more from you."

his eyes darken as he pushes himself up in the bed, his expression a mixture of frustration and something you don’t want to acknowledge.

"don’t bullshit me," he snaps, his voice sharp.

"you can lie to yourself all you want, but i know how this goes. we both know how this goes."

you turn to face him, your gaze cold.

"this is who i am," you say, your words biting. "this is all i can offer. just this."

his jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck flexing.

"fine," he says, voice low, almost resigned. "but don’t think for a second that i’m not going to keep coming back for more."

you want to say something—anything—to tear him down, to remind him of his place, but the words don’t come. you don’t know what’s worse: the fact that you want him to come back, or the fact that he’s right. you both need this. and it terrifies you. but you refuse to admit it.

you turn away, leaving his apartment without looking back.

the next few weeks pass in a blur.

you try to focus on your career, on cleaning up the wreckage of your life, but nothing feels right. nothing feels real anymore.

your divorce moves forward, slowly but surely, as the scandal continues to dominate the media. your husband’s arrested, and the reports of his illegal activities make headlines every day. he’s a sinking ship, and you’re still tied to him, whether you like it or not.

but the hardest part is the isolation. the loneliness that settles in, creeping into your soul when you least expect it.

you haven’t seen jeno in days. it feels like a lifetime, but you know deep down that you can’t keep pretending you don’t want him.

he was your escape.

he was the only thing that made you feel real, like you weren’t

drowning in a life that was suffocating you.

the temptation is too much.

you don’t call him.

you don’t need to.

because you know he’ll show up.

and he does.

your phone buzzes, but this time it’s not another report or the nagging questions of your lawyer. it’s a message from jeno.

he’s waiting outside.

you stand in front of the mirror for a long moment, eyes running over your reflection. the woman staring back at you seems so different from the one you used to be. strong, sure—no longer that naive socialite lost in the lies of her own image. the events of the past weeks have shattered you in ways you didn’t expect. but through it all, jeno’s presence, his touch, his voice, has been the only constant, the only thing you can’t escape.

you pull on a black dress, simple yet elegant, before slipping into the hallway. no words need to be exchanged when you open the door and see him standing there, a silhouette in the dim light. the door clicks shut behind him, and just like that, you’re alone in the silence.

his eyes find yours immediately, hunger mixing with something darker in his gaze.

"you can’t keep doing this to yourself." his voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no anger in it. just... truth.

you don’t answer immediately. the silence stretches, thick like the air in the room. you want to say something—anything—but the words escape you.

instead, you step closer, until the space between you two is barely enough to breathe. you see his jaw clench, his hands ball into fists at his sides as he holds back from reaching for you.

"tell me this isn’t what you want." his words are a command, but they feel like a plea too. "tell me you’re not going to walk away again."

you bite your lip, your heart beating louder than your thoughts. the truth is simple. you can’t walk away. you never could.

"i can’t," you whisper, finally breaking the tension. your hands reach up, your fingers brushing his chest as you stare into his eyes, "but you’re not part of my world. you know that."

jeno’s breath catches at your touch, and he lets out a slow, steady breath. his gaze locks with yours, the silent battle between desire and logic waging on in his mind. finally, he shakes his head, the corners of his lips turning into a faint smile.

"neither are you," he murmurs, before pulling you in close, his hands gripping your waist. "but here we are."

the words hang heavy between you. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer as his lips crash onto yours. there’s no hesitation now, no pretense. the kiss is hungry, urgent. his mouth moves against yours with a raw intensity, pulling all the tension from the past weeks into a single moment.

"we can't keep doing this," you breathe against his lips, your hands traveling lower, desperate to feel him again. "you know it’s just physical. that’s all it ever was."

he pulls back slightly, his lips brushing your ear as he growls lowly, "i don’t give a fuck what it was. all i know is this—when i’m with you, i can’t breathe, and i don’t want to." he presses himself against you, and you feel the heat, the undeniable need. "you can pretend you don’t want me, but i know you do. every time we’re near each other, you can’t stay away."

you shiver at his words, the heat coursing through you, spreading like wildfire. you know he’s right. but what does it matter? you’ve already crossed every line.

"then why are you still here?" you challenge, your voice thick with desire and something else—vulnerability? maybe it’s the quiet confession you’ve never been able to say aloud. "why haven’t you left if i’m just someone you’re using?"

jeno steps back for a second, looking at you with something raw in his eyes. "because i know better than anyone else that i can’t stay away from you. and maybe i don’t want to." his hands reach for you again, pulling you close as his lips find your neck, your pulse racing under his touch.

"we don’t need anything else, do we?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper, your hands gripping the back of his shirt. "no strings. no future. just this."

he doesn’t answer with words. instead, his hands glide under your dress, pulling you flush against him. there’s nothing else left but the undeniable, desperate need between you two.

his lips find yours again, slow at first, savoring every inch of you. but then his hands roam, and the kiss deepens, growing desperate, desperate to erase everything but the sound of your breath, the feeling of your skin, and the raw, unrelenting chemistry between you.

"this is all we have," he murmurs against your mouth, as you drag him toward the bedroom. "and maybe... it’s enough."

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. all that matters is that you're here—together, for now, and no matter the consequences, nothing else matters.

this is your world. this is your escape. and for tonight, that's all that matters.

249 notes · View notes

skiesuconn · 4 months ago

Text

Slipping Into Comfort | ONE-SHOT

wc: 10k pairing: paige n azzi notes from author: surprise surprise, i know that many of you are waiting for chpt 3 of ''wdftl'', i promise it's in the making, just give me a few days, or just beat me to it. i had this in my drafts for a few days so let me know your thoughts. love you guys.

Paige didn’t want to be at the party. She never did. But here she was, standing in the midst of a loud, crowded living room, half-heartedly pretending to enjoy herself. The room smelled faintly of stale beer, body spray, and an underlying chemical sharpness from the cheap vodka everyone seemed to be drowning in. The kind of vodka that lingered on the back of your throat long after the taste had faded. Her teammates had practically dragged her here—"Come on, Paige! You’re so uptight. Just relax and let loose!" they’d teased. But she didn’t do 'letting loose.' It was never her thing—too much could go wrong when you weren't paying attention. She liked predictability: the game tomorrow, her workout, sweatpants after practice, and the calming solitude of her room, where she didn't have to pretend she was something she wasn't."

But tonight was different. Tonight, she was standing in the middle of a space she didn’t belong, trapped in the pulse of neon lights and loud chatter. Her oversized Carhartt jacket hung too loosely on her shoulders, a mismatched choice against the flashes of skin and sparkles of sequined dresses. The light baby blue jeans she wore—worn at the knees from years of practice and games—seemed out of place in a sea of heels and designer shoes. The atmosphere was cloying, suffocating with energy, and it made her feel like she didn’t quite fit in with any of it.

People were trying too hard to have fun. Some were already dancing—if you could even call it that. The rest of them were standing in clusters, leaning in too close, and pretending to laugh at inside jokes they had no intention of sharing. There was the usual hum of forced excitement, but it all felt far away to Paige, as if she were watching from a different dimension. The music blared overhead, a relentless thud of bass that vibrated through her chest, but it was a song she’d heard too many times. She rolled her eyes, stepping back to the wall to make herself less visible.

She didn’t mind the solitude. Actually, she preferred it. But then, out of nowhere, her teammates had practically shoved her toward the kitchen. “Go get yourself a drink or something! Stop standing there like a statue!” one of them yelled over the music, hands on her back pushing her forward.

With a heavy sigh, Paige reluctantly complied. She needed something, anything to break the monotony. But the moment she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes locked onto someone across the room. Someone who was out of place in the best possible way.

Azzi.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, her mahogany-colored dress hugging her curves in a way that made Paige feel oddly protective, yet intensely curious. The fabric shimmered in the dim light, and the silver jewelry around Azzi’s neck and wrists—simple, elegant—caught the glow of the low hanging kitchen lights like delicate accents. But it wasn’t just the way she looked that caught Paige’s attention. It was the way she moved, or rather, how she didn’t move.

Azzi had that quiet, effortless grace, the kind that you couldn’t fake. Even with the uncomfortable situation around her, Azzi looked… well, she looked like she wasn’t quite aware of how easy she was making it all look. But Paige could tell. She stood there, laughing with her friends, but something about her posture, the slight clench in her shoulders, suggested she wasn’t completely comfortable in her own skin.

Paige couldn’t help but smile to herself, the corners of her lips curling up in a way that felt like more of a challenge than a compliment. Azzi clearly didn’t belong in this scene—not in the usual sense, at least. Everyone else was loud, over-the-top, pretending to be something they weren’t. But Azzi, standing there in that dress, surrounded by a sea of people who looked like they had rehearsed every move, was different. She was like someone who had the kind of quiet power that didn’t need to show off. Yet, there was a hesitation in the way she held herself, a slight guardedness that felt at odds with the laugh that danced on her lips.

But then, Paige noticed something. Azzi was trying to hide it, but Paige could see through the act. Her eyes were distant, scanning the room as if looking for an escape route—her laughter a little too sharp, her smile a little too rehearsed. She was holding on, but barely. And that unsettled something deep inside Paige, something she hadn’t expected. She couldn’t help it. She had to look out for people who were uncomfortable in places like this, people who didn’t ask for help but needed it anyway.

And then, it happened. Azzi took a sip from her glass of wine—Paige watched, keenly aware of every movement—and instantly winced, just enough for her to notice. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone else would catch, not with the noise and movement of the party, but Paige saw it.

Azzi quickly tried to mask it, giving a slight shake of her head and forcing a smile, but it didn’t fool Paige. Not for a second.

"Oh, this is bad," Paige muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Azzi try and cover it up. But there was no fooling Paige. She had that uncanny ability to read people when they thought they were hiding something. The protective instinct kicked in, the same instinct she had on the court when her teammates were struggling or about to get blindsided.

It wasn’t the first time Paige had stepped in for someone who didn’t ask for help. She’d done it for teammates in need of a pep talk before a game, her little brother when he was too shy to speak up, and even that one time her mom had been too proud to admit she was overwhelmed. So when Paige saw someone struggling, even in a place like this, she couldn’t ignore it. Not again.

But Azzi wasn’t asking for help. She didn’t want anyone to notice. So, she just kept smiling, trying to act like everything was fine.

Paige rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. Typical Azzi. Always trying to hold it together, even when everything around her was falling apart. But Paige had had enough of that. She wasn’t going to stand there and let her get swallowed up by this whole ridiculous scene. Not when she clearly needed someone to notice.

Paige took a step forward, elbowing through the crowd, and, without thinking, called out, her voice slicing through the chaos of the party. “Hey!” she said, tone sharper than she’d intended but purposeful all the same.

Azzi froze for a moment, her eyes darting across the room, clearly caught off guard. Paige could see the flicker of recognition in Azzi’s eyes, followed by a quick, guarded glance.

“Hey,” Azzi said softly, her voice faltering just slightly, as if unsure whether she should acknowledge Paige. She looked like she was trying to remember where she’d seen her before, but Paige didn’t give her time to think.

“I know,” Paige said smoothly, her voice carrying a hint of that signature dry sarcasm. “I’m slightly taller than most people. I get it.” She grinned, clearly teasing, but her eyes didn’t leave Azzi. “But you don’t look so great, Azzi.”

Azzi’s brows furrowed, caught off guard again. She had this way of making everything seem effortless, but right then, Paige could tell she was thrown off. It wasn’t often someone called her out, and it seemed to fluster her more than she let on. “I’m fine,” Azzi said quickly, brushing it off with that familiar smile. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Paige caught the slight tremble in her hands as she placed the glass back on the counter.

Paige didn’t buy it. She could see the subtle shift in Azzi’s posture, the way her shoulders were stiff, the way she held her hands like they were shaking just out of sight.

“Really?” Paige shot back, her voice low and skeptical. “Because you’re looking like you might fall over at any minute. It’s bad form. Not even I’d let myself go out like that.”

Azzi’s lips twitched as if trying to hide a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine, Paige,” she repeated, but this time, her voice didn’t sound quite as certain.

Paige stepped closer, a bit more serious now, her gaze softening. “Yeah, you’re fine… if ‘fine’ means about to faceplant into the counter.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were a little more caring now, a little more intense than she’d intended.

The two locked eyes for a brief moment, and something unspoken passed between them.

Azzi didn’t argue anymore. She just gave a small sigh, leaning against the counter, eyes dropping to the glass in front of her, looking a little lost. “Okay, maybe I’m not fine,” she admitted quietly. “But I can handle it.”

Paige’s smirk softened, her tone shifting just enough to be less teasing and more understanding. 'Doesn’t look like it,' she said quietly, her eyes searching Azzi’s face for something—anything that might show she was okay.

And before Azzi could protest again, Paige was already nudging her, the familiar instinct to protect kicking in. "Come on," Paige said, her voice softening. "Let’s get some air. You can tell me how you ended up in a place like this."

Azzi hesitated, the vulnerability flashing across her face before she masked it with another smile. She wasn’t the type to lean on anyone, especially not someone like Paige. But something in her—the exhaustion of the night, the tension she'd been carrying—made her nod.

Paige wasn't going to let Azzi suffer through this party any longer. As they walked through the kitchen, her eyes scanned the counters, looking for something… anything that could help. Her gaze landed on a bottle of water, just sitting there, half-hidden behind an empty pizza box. Paige reached for it, making sure the cap was sealed tight. No way was she going to risk handing Azzi something that might leave her worse off than she already was. She twisted it open with a quiet satisfaction, checked the expiration date just to be safe—an instinct she’d developed from years of careful preparation. Satisfied, she slipped the bottle into her hand and slipped out the door behind Azzi.

The cool air hit Paige like a refreshing slap, and she breathed in deeply, the familiar city smells of exhaust and late-night food trucks mixing with the crispness of the evening. The world outside felt quieter, more real—just what she needed, what they both needed.

"You ever used a fire escape?" Paige asked casually, tossing the bottle of water in her hand from one hand to the other as they walked toward the fire escape.

Azzi blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “No,” she replied, her voice tinged with amusement. “Should I have?”

Paige flashed her a grin. “Well, you can change that today.” She said it like it was no big deal, but the challenge in her eyes told a different story.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious,” Paige replied with a wink. She stepped toward the fire escape, the metal grating beneath her feet cold and solid, and without missing a beat, she started up the stairs. “Just follow my lead. And for the record, the roof’s great for stargazing. You should try it. It's… calming.”

Azzi hesitated, but as she followed Paige, it was clear that her heels were working against her. She teetered slightly, almost losing her balance as the thin straps dug into her feet. Paige noticed immediately.

"Need help with those?" Paige asked, her voice light and teasing.

Azzi shot her a look, half amused, half embarrassed. “They’re fine,” she muttered, but the heels wobbled dangerously.

Paige chuckled, grinning as she stepped down a few steps. “Don’t make me take them off for you,” she teased, already moving toward Azzi's side.

Before Azzi could protest, Paige knelt down and tugged at the first heel, effortlessly sliding it off. “There you go. Much better. These are weapons, anyway.”

Azzi laughed softly, a little nervous but still trusting Paige’s easy confidence. “I guess so. I wasn’t planning on climbing anything tonight.”

Paige pulled off the other heel, slipping it into her hand. She straightened up, and before Azzi could even think about taking another step, the shorter girl leaned into Paige’s muscular back, steadying herself with her hand on Paige’s shoulder. There was a strange kind of comfort in the motion—like it wasn’t just about keeping herself from falling, but also about feeling safe, grounded.

"You good?" Paige asked softly, her voice suddenly more gentle, a subtle shift in tone as she felt the weight of Azzi’s hand on her.

Azzi hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah, just… didn’t expect the fire escape to be this cold. Feels like I’m walking on ice."

Paige let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, well, it’s not the Ritz. But maybe it’ll be worth it once we get up there.”

Azzi took another step, wobbled a little more, and for a second, Paige thought she was going to stumble backwards. Without missing a beat, Paige stepped forward, her arm slipping around Azzi’s waist to steady her.

"Whoa there," Paige said with a grin, keeping her voice light. "Easy. Don’t fall on me, I’m already carrying the shoes."

Azzi’s soft laughter mixed with the sound of their footsteps on the metal steps, the sound of clinking heels in Paige’s hand echoing in the quiet air. “Sorry,” Azzi said, a little sheepish, but her eyes were laughing now, no longer as guarded. "I swear, I can walk in these when I’m not climbing fire escapes."

Paige smirked, teasing. “Yeah, sure you can. But for now, I’ve got you.”

They reached the top, and Paige looked back at Azzi. She was still holding the heels in one hand, and as she turned to face the rooftop, she noticed Azzi shivering slightly. The air had turned cool, and she was clearly regretting the decision to wear a dress tonight. Paige, ever observant, felt a surge of concern rise up—this wasn’t a girl who showed vulnerability often, but right now, it was written all over her.

"Here," Paige said, slipping off her jacket. "It’s cold up here. You look like you could use this more than I do."

Azzi’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by the gesture. “Oh no, you’re fine. Really. I’m not cold.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, the slightest bit amused. “Sure you are.” She shrugged off her jacket, revealing the gray thermal long-sleeve shirt beneath it. As she held out the jacket, Azzi didn’t argue, pulling it over her shoulders, the fabric swallowing her up, but she still looked beautiful in it, even if it was too big for her.

Paige smirked, slipping the thermal back on. It clung to her athletic frame in a way that was a little too snug for comfort, but she didn't mind. “There,” Paige said, her voice light but full of care. "Now, we’re both good.”

Azzi gave her a shy smile, the kind of smile that felt a little uncertain, but it was enough to make Paige’s heart skip a beat. “Thanks. I guess… it’s not every day someone offers their jacket like that.”

Paige shrugged, her usual confidence back. “What can I say? I’m a giver.” Her voice was full of playful sarcasm, the way it always was when she was teasing, but this time there was something more to it—something warmer.

As they stood there on the rooftop, the city sprawling below them and the stars above them, a quiet moment stretched between them. No awkwardness. No forced conversation. Just the two of them in the cool night air. The kind of moment where anything could happen.

Azzi looked over at Paige, her breath visible in the chilly air. “So… what’s the big deal about laying on a roof, anyway?”

Paige grinned, her gaze shifting to the skyline. “You’ll see.”

The cold air around them was crisp, the kind that made your skin tingle, but the atmosphere on the roof was different—almost soothing. The city buzzed far below, distant enough to make everything feel detached, like they were in their own little world. Paige leaned back against the edge, gazing at the stars, while Azzi stood a little more awkwardly, clutching Paige’s oversized jacket around her.

Azzi pulled the sleeves over her hands, trying to make herself comfortable, but the cold still nipped at her skin. "You really aren’t going to freeze in that?" Azzi asked, eyeing Paige's thin long-sleeve shirt.

Paige smirked, glancing at Azzi. "Nah, I’m tougher than I look." She flexed a bicep, just for the show of it. "Besides, I’ll survive. It’s all about attitude." She gave Azzi a wink, then leaned back, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, you’ve got attitude, alright."

Paige laughed. "That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night. You should hang out with me more often." Her tone was smooth, that dry sarcasm still in place, but there was something else beneath it. Something warmer. She shifted slightly, catching Azzi’s eye.

Azzi shifted on her feet, her eyes tracing the skyline, avoiding looking directly at Paige. There was a slight flush on her cheeks, the chill from the night making it stand out even more. She was still playing it cool, but Paige caught the subtle way her fingers fidgeted with the jacket sleeves, the way her breath came out in small, nervous puffs.

"You’re pretty quiet tonight," Paige remarked, the shift in Azzi's energy not going unnoticed. "I mean, I don’t blame you—this isn’t exactly the place to get deep. But still, something’s up."

Azzi hesitated, then glanced at Paige, eyes soft but guarded. "Just… not really my scene, I guess. I’m not exactly party girl material."

Paige raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "Yeah? And what exactly are you, then?" she teased, her voice playful but with that underlying curiosity she usually tried to keep in check.

Azzi let out a soft laugh, a little nervous but not entirely uncomfortable. "I don’t know, someone who likes to read? Stay inside? You know, boring stuff like that."

Paige tilted her head. "Hey, nothing wrong with reading. You know what? I bet you're the type to finish a book in one sitting and then stare at the wall for a few hours thinking about life."

Azzi chuckled softly, a shy grin tugging at her lips. "I don’t know if I’d go that far, but yeah… that sounds about right."

Paige smiled, her eyes warm. "I mean, I get it. Sometimes it’s nice to just… think."

For a moment, the conversation slowed, and the tension hung in the air. There was a quiet undercurrent to it—something that neither of them had really acknowledged yet but couldn’t ignore. The way their shoulders were so close but not quite touching. The way their words were starting to carry more meaning than just casual banter. They stood there, the city lights flickering below them like a thousand tiny stars, and the cool breeze tugging at their clothes. It almost felt like they were in a different world—one where they could just exist without any pressure. Without any expectations.

Paige glanced at Azzi, her eyes moving over the delicate curve of her neck, the way her skin seemed to glow under the soft light. It was strange, how different Azzi was from anyone Paige had ever met, and yet so similar in ways she didn’t quite understand yet. There was something about Azzi that made Paige want to linger in the moment a little longer.

That’s when she noticed it.

Azzi was still barefoot on the cold metal floor, her feet shifting uncomfortably as she stood there, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort. Paige raised an eyebrow, her voice light but with a hint of concern. "You know, those heels aren’t doing you any favors. You want me to put them back on?"

Azzi looked down at her feet and then back up at Paige, shrugging. "Honestly? I don’t even care anymore. I feel like I’m walking on ice."

Paige chuckled, her tone playful but soft as she leaned down to slip the heels back onto Azzi’s feet. The way she leaned in so effortlessly, the ease with which she moved, made it almost feel like a routine—like they had done this a few times before. Her hand brushed against Azzi’s ankle as she adjusted the heel, and for a brief moment, the air between them felt thick, charged.

Once she straightened up, Paige glanced up at Azzi, noticing something that hadn’t quite caught her attention before. The way the light hit Azzi’s face, the softness of her features. And then it hit her: Azzi was still smiling, but there was something different about it now. It wasn’t the same carefree grin she had been wearing earlier. It was more… genuine. She was letting herself be seen.

And then, without warning, Azzi burst out laughing, a sound that caught Paige off guard. Paige frowned, her lips quirking into a confused smile. "What’s so funny?"

Azzi shook her head, her laughter still bubbling out. "Your shirt," she said, trying to hold back another laugh. "It’s inside out."

Paige blinked, her hand instinctively going to her chest to confirm what Azzi had said. "What? No way." She looked down at herself, feeling a sudden flush rise to her cheeks. Sure enough, the tag was peeking out from the collar. "Seriously?" she muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused. "I thought it felt… off."

Azzi chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re lucky that look works on you… even with the tag."

Paige grinned, her tone dry but filled with that signature, effortless humor. "Well, at least I’m consistent. Can’t be perfect all the time, you know?" She tugged at the hem of the shirt, rolling her eyes as she did so.

Azzi’s laugh faded into a soft chuckle as she looked at Paige, her eyes soft and unguarded now. "Honestly, I like it. You seem more… real this way."

Paige tilted her head, the teasing edge in her voice slipping for just a moment. "Oh, so this is the part where you tell me I’m more attractive when I’m not trying too hard, right?"

Azzi’s lips curled up into a mischievous smile, her eyes twinkling. "I mean, I wouldn’t say more attractive… but definitely less pretentious."

Paige raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Ouch. You wound me, Az.''

Azzi’s eyes softened again, and for a second, Paige felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. But before it could linger, she cleared her throat, deflecting it as she always did. "So, you hungry?"

Azzi blinked, breaking out of the moment. "Uh, yeah, actually. I could go for something."

Paige grinned, the mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "Well, I know the best milkshakes in town, and Minnesota hot dogs like you’ve never had before. I’m serious—they’re legendary." She paused, then added with a wink, "But I mean, my homemade ones? Way better. But the diner’s closer. So we’ll go there."

Azzi laughed at the casual confidence in Paige’s tone, but her expression was more curious now, intrigued. "Wait, you’re from Minnesota? That explains a lot."

Paige rolled her eyes. "Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?"

Azzi grinned, her gaze soft. "I don’t know. You’ve just got that… Minnesota vibe." She bit her lip, trying to hide the grin that threatened to spread.

Paige let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, well, I don’t mind it. It’s who I am."

Azzi hesitated, eyes flicking between the metal steps below her and the figure of Paige, standing confidently at the bottom, her arms crossed, her grin just a bit too knowing. The evening air felt cooler than it had before, the distant city lights flickering like stars in the sky above them. The hum of life continued around them—the soft rush of traffic in the background, the distant chatter of late-night revelers, and somewhere, the rhythmic beat of a club song that Azzi couldn't quite place. But here, on the fire escape, it was just the two of them.

Azzi's heels clicked against the cold metal of the stairs, a constant reminder that this wasn't the smartest choice. The uncomfortable pinch of her shoes against her feet, the cold, sharp feeling of the iron beneath her toes, all of it made her feel a little… unsteady. "This was a bad idea," she muttered to herself.

Paige noticed the way Azzi shifted her weight, her eyes darting between her heels and the dark distance below, and couldn't help but grin. Her voice was light and teasing, but there was something else behind it—something more genuine, like she was trying to break the tension without even knowing it. "You know," she said, "if you're worried about getting down, I’ve got a much better idea."

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. "And what’s your genius plan, exactly?"

Paige pushed off from the metal frame, her posture shifting to that casual, confident stance Azzi had noticed since the moment they met—a stance that made her seem both approachable and untouchable at the same time. "You ready for this?" Paige asked, her voice a little lower now, teasing but with an edge of challenge in it.

Azzi hesitated, her fingers curling around the metal bar of the fire escape, her gaze flicking down at the ground below, then back up to Paige. There was something about her, something magnetic that drew Azzi in more than she'd expected. She had known Paige briefly when they were younger—a year back, when Paige had signed up for the reading club her junior year, only to vanish a couple of weeks later. Azzi hadn't thought much of it then, just another student who tried to fit in before moving on. But now, standing here, with Paige's playful challenge hanging in the air, Azzi found herself feeling something more.

“What if I mess it up?” Azzi asked, trying to joke, but the nervousness still crept into her voice. Her heels felt like anchors, dragging her down with every thought.

Paige’s lips curled into that ever-present, lazy grin. "What’s life without a little risk?" she said, shrugging with a playful glint in her eyes. "And don’t worry, I’ll catch you. Just need you to jump, alright?"

Azzi’s heart skipped a beat at the way Paige said "just jump," like it was the most natural thing in the world. She glanced down again, the ground seeming so far away now, the streetlights below casting everything in soft, golden light. The quiet was almost too loud in the space between them.

“And you’re seriously sure about this?” Azzi asked again, her voice quieter now. There was a shift, the air heavier between them, and Azzi wasn’t sure if it was the height or Paige’s unwavering confidence that made her feel suddenly more vulnerable than she had moments before.

Paige’s eyes softened a little, but the grin didn’t fade. "I promise," she said, her voice gentle, but her smile still mischievous. "Trust me."

Azzi inhaled sharply, trying to quell the fluttering in her chest, and then, with a reluctant, almost embarrassed smile, nodded. "Okay. Fine. Here goes nothing."

Without another word, Paige bent her knees and, with a swift and graceful movement, launched herself down into the cool night air. She landed like it was nothing, her feet planting firmly on the ground with an easy confidence that Azzi couldn’t help but admire.

Paige straightened up, looking back at Azzi, giving her a reassuring smile. "See? That wasn’t so bad."

Azzi, still high on the stairs, let out a shaky breath. The city stretched out before her, the twinkling lights feeling distant, almost unreachable. The fire escape beneath her feet was so narrow, the wind brushing past her ears and tugging at her hair. But it was the way Paige looked up at her, the way she seemed to make everything feel effortless, that made Azzi take the plunge.

"Alright, alright," Azzi muttered to herself, before finally pushing off the rail, deciding to just… go for it.

Paige stepped forward immediately, arms open, ready for Azzi to fall into them. Azzi jumped.

For a split second, everything slowed down. Azzi felt the weightlessness as she dropped toward Paige, the rush of adrenaline filling her chest. The world felt so far away in those moments—just her and Paige. She landed in Paige’s arms with a soft, surprised squeak, her hands instinctively finding Paige’s shoulders for balance. They both stumbled slightly, and for a moment, everything went still.

And then, in that second, the connection between them felt too perfect. As Azzi’s body collided with Paige’s, Paige’s hand, perhaps too eager, slid just a bit too low, brushing Azzi’s ass with a quick, fleeting touch.

They both froze for a second, and the silence between them held a tension that neither of them had anticipated. Azzi’s breath hitched, her heart racing faster than it should have been.

But then, Azzi let out a laugh, soft and surprised, the sound cutting through the moment like a breeze. "Well, that was unexpected," she said, her voice carrying a teasing warmth, the laugh bubbling up before she could stop it.

Paige blinked, a little shaken by the contact but quickly hiding it behind a half-smile. "Yeah, well," she cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. "I didn’t plan on a… touching reunion, but hey, at least you’re safe."

Azzi’s laugh deepened, breathless now, but the tension between them didn’t fade. "I’m not sure if I should thank you or be offended."

Paige raised her eyebrows, shrugging nonchalantly, her grin unwavering. "Take it as a perk. I’m just really good at catching people, apparently." She paused, her voice softening for just a moment, before adding with a slight smirk, "Did you expect anything less?"

Azzi rolled her eyes but smiled, still feeling the warmth of Paige’s arms around her. "You’re something else, Paige."

The space between them felt charged now, like something unspoken lingered beneath their words. Paige glanced down at Azzi, really looking at her for the first time since they'd met again. Azzi’s eyes, those deep pools of brown, flickered up to meet hers, and for just a moment, there was something there—something that wasn’t just friendly banter.

Paige cleared her throat. "Well, chaos is kinda my thing," she said, a little too easily, but her voice was softer than usual.

Azzi shook her head, her smile growing, her chest tightening in that strange, sweet way. "Yeah. I’ve noticed," she said, leaning into Paige’s chest for a moment longer than either of them had planned. The quiet was thick, and Azzi could feel her heart beating faster, as if the world had stopped spinning around them, just for a second.

The evening air was crisp, a chill brushing against their skin as the night started to settle in, the city’s lights gleaming brightly on every corner. The streets felt alive with movement, but the world around them seemed quieter now, like the soft hum of everything fading into the background. Azzi and Paige stood close, the weight of the moment hanging in the balance as their gazes lingered, still caught in the unspoken energy that pulsed between them.

Paige, with her Carhartt jacket a little too baggy around her shoulders, gave a half-grin. The oversized jacket added to her laid-back aura, but the light from the streetlamps cast shadows that only emphasized her athletic frame, her arms muscular beneath the white, cream beige thermal shirt that hugged her long limbs just right. Her messy bun, somehow perfectly imperfect, framed her face as her dark blue eyes flickered toward Azzi, softened by the dim lights. She casually tugged at the cuffs of her jacket before speaking.

"So, you think you can trust me to lead the way to the diner?" Paige asked, a teasing edge in her voice, though her eyes glinted with something softer, something she wasn't sure how to name.

Azzi blinked, her deep brown eyes still gleaming with the remnants of that intense moment, before she offered Paige a small, amused smile. She was acutely aware of how the cool air made her skin tingle, and how the short but heated exchange had left her feeling like her heart might’ve raced just a little too fast.

Azzi nodded, her lips curling into a soft grin. "Lead the way, Paige."

The slight smirk she wore deepened when she added, "But don't expect me to believe you're as good at directions as you are at catching people."

"Hey, I do what I can," Paige shot back with a wink, her grin stretching wider. "Besides, it’s not about directions. It’s about the experience."

Azzi raised an eyebrow, slipping her arm into Paige's as they started walking. The movement felt almost natural, the connection between them more tangible than it had ever been. Azzi’s bodycon dress, a rich mahogany shade, clung to her form, every curve accentuated by the fit. The dress contrasted the baggy, light blue jeans Paige wore, which were already showing a little wear with a small hole on the back pocket. Azzi’s stiletto heels clicked against the sidewalk as they walked, the faint sound almost drowned out by the hum of city life.

"I have to admit," Azzi said, her voice light, yet there was a quiet curiosity in the way she spoke, "I didn’t expect to be walking through the city at night, much less with someone who… isn’t afraid to get a little close."

Paige’s lips curved upward, but she kept her eyes on the road ahead. "You should know by now," she replied, her tone laced with playful confidence, "I’m always ready to get close."

Azzi let out a soft laugh, her gaze shifting to the sky above them, which was mostly hidden behind the urban sprawl. It was late, but the stars still peeked through the gaps between the buildings, like little sparks of light in the distance.

"Honestly, this semester’s been draining," Azzi muttered, the conversation shifting slightly as she let out a breath, feeling the weight of her words. "So many papers, so many deadlines… I just want something to take the edge off."

Paige nodded, her gaze flicking sideways at Azzi. "I feel you," she said, her voice quieter now. "I thought college was supposed to be fun, but it’s like they keep throwing more stuff at us. And I’m only here for a little bit longer before it all goes insane again." Her grin returned, though, lightening the mood. "But hey, at least we’ve got Christmas creeping in, right? That’s gotta count for something."

Azzi smiled, the mention of the holiday making her feel warm inside, a sharp contrast to the cold air that surrounded them. "Yeah, Christmas… Feels like it’s right around the corner, doesn't it?" She glanced sideways at Paige, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips. "Are you one of those people who starts decorating early?"

"God, no," Paige chuckled. "That’s way too much commitment. But I’ll gladly get into the holiday spirit with some hot chocolate and good company." She tilted her head at Azzi, her grin widening. "Not that you need an excuse, right?"

Azzi laughed softly, the warmth between them undeniable. "I think you’re right. I’ll take the hot chocolate if it means getting out of the craziness for a while." She pulled her arm closer, the touch both casual and comforting.

The conversation, the connection, and the easy banter between them continued, but Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling that something else lingered in the air, like a spark waiting to catch fire. The way Paige’s eyes flicked toward her every now and then, the soft brush of their shoulders, the warmth that came from just being in the other’s presence—it was all slowly simmering, like something more was just waiting for its moment.

The neon lights of the diner reflected off the glossy, checkered floor, the hum of the city outside blending with the soft clink of dishes inside. The faint smell of greasy comfort food filled the air, mixed with the faint scent of coffee. The space was small but cozy, the booths worn with age, each one a small oasis of comfort and nostalgia. The round tables with their red vinyl chairs gave the place a timeless, almost retro feel, as though it had been frozen in time. A jukebox stood by the corner, waiting to be fed some change for a song, but for now, it was silent.

Azzi stood by the entrance of the diner, her hand absentmindedly brushing over the cool chain of her heart-shaped necklace. The warmth of the silver against her skin was grounding, like a constant she could hold onto. She allowed her gaze to wander around the diner—old, with cracked leather booths and a neon sign that flickered overhead. It wasn’t the fanciest place, but it had that cozy, comforting vibe that made you feel at home, as if the world outside didn’t quite exist here.

She turned her head slightly, catching sight of Paige behind her, a few steps away, waiting patiently with that signature look of quiet encouragement, the space between them comfortable yet full of potential. It was in these moments that Azzi could feel the pull between them—the way the simplest things, like the cool breeze brushing against her skin or the soft hum of the diner, seemed to amplify every thought, every word they shared. Azzi couldn’t help but think that if she could, she’d hold Paige’s hand right now—just to feel the warmth between them, something real, something solid.

“You want to grab a spot?” Paige asked, her voice light and teasing, but there was something in the way she said it—an unspoken invitation to step into something deeper.

Azzi nodded, offering a small, almost shy smile, before heading toward an empty table by the window. The worn red vinyl chairs squeaked slightly as she slid into one, feeling the soft padding press against her thighs. The low hum of the city outside faded, and for a moment, the world felt still. The table in front of her was small, intimate, just enough for the two of them. She ran her fingers over the edge of the wood, feeling the grain under her touch, the smoothness of it grounding her. There was a sense of quiet in this space, like the city outside couldn’t quite reach them here.

Paige’s footsteps followed behind her, the rhythm of her movements unmistakable. Azzi couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder as Paige made her way up to the counter. The Carhartt jacket she wore was a little too big, the sleeves hanging loosely off her muscular arms, but the way Paige carried herself made it look effortlessly cool. The jacket paired perfectly with the baggy jeans that hung low on her hips, their faded denim almost blending into the worn surroundings. Everything about Paige seemed to radiate a kind of relaxed confidence, but Azzi noticed the subtle shift in her posture when she reached the counter—the way she leaned slightly forward as she caught the cashier’s attention, her voice confident but playful.

“Two milkshakes, chocolate,” Paige said, giving her order with a teasing, casual tone, as if they were sharing a private joke. “Dark chocolate for me, with a couple cherries on top. And four hot dogs, Minnesota-style.”

The young cashier behind the counter, a girl with messy ponytail and bright blue eyes, nodded enthusiastically, a smile tugging at her lips. "Got it! Coming right up."

Paige stood there for a moment, her hands in her pockets, casually scrolling through her phone. Azzi could see the slight furrow in her brow as she read the texts that appeared on the screen. Her fingers moved quickly, typing out a response, her eyes focused on the phone with a slight edge of distraction.

Aubs: Yo, where’d you disappear to?

Caroline: You good? Everything okay?

Ice: Get your head in the game, Paige. Hope you’re alright.

Paige’s fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, her thoughts clearly on something else. She quickly typed a reply, her thumb tapping across the screen as she wrote.

Paige: Yeah, I’m fine. Just grabbing some food and taking a breather. I'll be back soon.

She hit send, slipping the phone back into her pocket just as the cashier called out, “Your order’s up!”

Paige grabbed the tray with one fluid motion, the weight of the food barely noticeable as she slid the twenty-dollar bill across the counter with a casual ease. Before turning away, she caught the cashier’s eye again, offering a playful grin.

“Hey, can you put on ‘Dreams by Fleetwood, Fleetwood Mac?” Paige asked, her voice light but certain. "Good song for the vibe."

The cashier nodded eagerly. “Sure thing. Great choice.” She tucked the bill into the register with a smile. “Enjoy your meal, and have a good night!”

Paige nodded in appreciation and made her way back to Azzi, the soft, melancholic tones of the song beginning to filter through the diner’s speakers. It was one of those songs that always felt like it belonged to a moment—slow, wistful, and full of that quiet yearning that seemed to mirror the unspoken words between them.

Azzi’s attention was still on the table when Paige arrived, the soft clink of the tray a welcome distraction. Azzi hadn’t noticed her return, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the heart-shaped pendant on her necklace as she sat quietly. There was a distant look in her eyes as if her thoughts were elsewhere, but when she met Paige’s gaze, something shifted. Her smile softened, the corners of her mouth lifting in a way that made Paige’s heart skip a beat.

"Chocolate milkshake, Minnesota-style dogs," Paige said with a grin, setting the tray down in front of Azzi. "Special delivery, just for you."

Azzi’s eyes sparkled as she raised an eyebrow. Her lips curled into a teasing smile, the kind that always made Paige feel like she was in on some private joke. "You spoil me."

Paige shrugged, a little bashful now, but still playful. "Only the best for you," she replied. Her eyes flickered to the jukebox in the corner, the soft hum of the music creating a lull in their conversation. She let the silence stretch between them, long enough that it felt meaningful.

"So," Paige began, her voice a little quieter now as she leaned in slightly, “ready for our moment of ‘milkshake and hotdog’ bliss?”

Azzi couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and light, something that felt like it could melt the edge off any lingering tension. "For sure," she said, lifting her milkshake to her lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip. The cool chocolate slid over her tongue, a familiar comfort.

Paige watched her, an unspoken pull drawing her attention, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. There was an electricity in the air now, something lingering in the space between them that felt almost too heavy to ignore. It was like a question neither of them had dared ask yet, but both could sense in the quiet moments.

“So, I’ve got a question,” Azzi said suddenly, her fingers tapping absently against the edge of her milkshake glass. Her voice was playful, but there was something more in it—something that felt like a secret.

Paige raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s up?”

Azzi hesitated for a second before speaking, her gaze shifting to the side as she tried to find the right words. “You ever think about getting a dog?”

Paige blinked, surprised by the question. She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “A dog? Me?” she asked, the disbelief clear in her voice. "I’ve never been much of a dog person. I don’t think I could handle the responsibility."

Azzi’s lips curved upward into a teasing smile, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Really? I think you'd make a great dog mom."

Paige snorted at the idea, her amusement clear. "A dog mom? Not me. I can barely keep my plants alive, Azzi. I’m not cut out for pets."

Azzi laughed, the sound light and musical, but there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she was teasing but also seriously considering the idea. "Well, I think you’d surprise yourself. You’ve got a way of making everything seem… effortless."

Paige laughed again, but this time there was something more thoughtful about it. "I don’t know. I think I’ll leave that to someone else."

Azzi smiled, leaning back in her chair, a fond expression crossing her face. "Well, I’ve got one. A dog, I mean," she said, her voice softening. "His name’s Stewie. He’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel."

Paige blinked in confusion. "A what now? A Cavalier… King Charles… Spaniel?"

Azzi nodded, a warm, affectionate smile spreading across her face as she spoke about him. "Yeah. They’re small, super affectionate, and really gentle. He’s got a ton of personality for such a small dog. He’s a service dog—helps me with mobility. And, he’s just… always there for me."

Paige’s curiosity piqued, her brows furrowing. "So, like, he’s with you all the time?"

Azzi nodded again, her fingers gently tapping on her glass. "Yeah. He’s my little buddy. Always by my side. He makes everything feel… easier, somehow. Just having him there makes the world a little bit brighter."

Paige’s expression softened as she took this in. “That sounds… really nice.”

Azzi smiled, a quiet, proud look in her eyes. “He’s the best. I couldn’t ask for a better companion.”

Paige leaned back in her seat, considering this for a moment. "You’re right. I don’t know. Maybe I could see myself with a dog someday. Just not now."

Azzi chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You’d be a great dog mom, Paige. I’m sure of it."

Paige raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a smile. "Maybe… but you’ve definitely got the dog mom thing covered."

The diner was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the jukebox playing in the background, the muffled chatter of distant voices, and the sizzling sounds from the kitchen. The air between Paige and Azzi was thick with unspoken words, an undercurrent of tension that neither could ignore.

Azzi shifted in her seat, her fingers tracing the rim of her milkshake glass absentmindedly, but the energy in the air was too strong to ignore. She caught Paige’s eye, and for a split second, everything slowed. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening as Paige’s gaze swept over her body, lingering on her lips before meeting her eyes.

“So, what about you?” Azzi asked quietly, her voice slipping easily into that familiar, vulnerable tone she only used when she was certain no one would interrupt. “What’s your… what’s your thing? Besides basketball, I mean.”

Paige blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t used to being asked such personal questions, not in the way Azzi had phrased it. Usually, people either asked her to talk about her athletic achievements or steered clear of anything deeper. But Azzi’s curiosity felt different—it wasn’t out of obligation or small talk. It was genuine.

Paige shifted slightly, a small laugh escaping her. “Well, there’s not much to me besides basketball, to be honest. But I guess I like books… and movies… that’s about it.”

Azzi tilted her head, raising an eyebrow as though she didn’t believe her. "Just books and movies? You're telling me there’s nothing more?" She leaned in a little, the playful spark in her eyes tugging at the edges of Paige’s curiosity. “I don’t know, Paige. You’ve got this whole… intensity about you. I feel like there’s a lot you’re not saying.”

Paige hesitated, her mind swirling with thoughts she hadn’t really let surface in a long time. She could brush it off, keep the walls up, or—just for a moment—let herself be a little more open.

“I guess,” Paige began, her voice quieter now, “I think I’m always trying to figure out what’s next. I never really stop to enjoy what I’ve got right in front of me, you know? It’s like, all my focus is on the next game, the next practice… it’s exhausting. But I don’t really know how to stop.” She shrugged, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her words. “I guess that’s why I get so… caught up in my own head. I don’t know how to let go.”

Azzi’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the air between them felt thicker, heavier. It was a truth neither of them had fully voiced, but it hung there, palpable. Azzi knew all too well what it felt like to keep going without really living in the present.

“I get that,” Azzi murmured, her voice low and steady. "It’s hard to stop when everything around you is pushing you to keep moving." She paused, looking away for a second, as if she were thinking about her own struggles. “But, Paige… sometimes, you need to stop. You need to breathe. You need to be okay with where you’re at, even if you’re not where you want to be yet.”

Paige felt her chest tighten. There was something about Azzi’s words that seemed to cut through the noise in her mind, that felt like an invitation to relax—if only for a moment.

“I don’t know how to do that,” Paige admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve always been… on edge, you know? Always waiting for the next thing.”

Azzi’s lips parted, her expression softening as she studied Paige, her eyes carrying a mix of understanding and something deeper. Without saying a word, Azzi reached over and placed her hand gently over Paige’s, her fingers warm and steady.

“Maybe you don’t have to have all the answers right now,” Azzi said softly. “Maybe the next thing isn’t the answer. Maybe it’s just… letting yourself breathe. Letting yourself just be. Without the pressure.”

Paige froze for a moment, her heart beating louder in her chest. She hadn’t expected Azzi to say that—not in this moment. But the warmth of Azzi’s hand on hers felt grounding, a lifeline Paige hadn’t even realized she needed. She looked up, meeting Azzi’s gaze again, a spark of something unspoken flickering between them.

“Yeah,” Paige murmured, her voice almost trembling. “Maybe I need to learn how to just be.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was comfortable, stretching between them as they sat there, connected not just by words, but by the vulnerability they had both shared in that quiet space. It felt like something had shifted, something important. The tension that had once pulsed between them had melted away, leaving behind only the gentle, unspoken understanding of two people who saw each other more clearly now.

Azzi gave her hand a slight squeeze, offering a small, soft smile. “I think you’ll figure it out, Paige. You’ve got time. We all do.”

Paige couldn’t help but smile back, the corners of her lips lifting in a way that felt more real than she had in a while. There was something about Azzi’s calm presence that made her feel like it was okay to slow down. Maybe, just for tonight, she didn’t need to be in a hurry.

The jukebox shifted, its soft, haunting melody filling the space between them. "Now here I go again, I see the crystal vision…" The lyrics seemed to linger in the air, adding a weight to the moment that neither of them could ignore.

Before Azzi could even process the shift, Paige was already moving. Her hands slid to Azzi’s waist with a steady, confident pull, bringing their bodies closer. The heat between them was instant, a spark that neither of them could deny. Azzi’s milkshake teetered dangerously on the edge of the table, but neither cared; the world outside seemed to fade as Paige’s grip tightened.

Azzi’s breath caught in her throat as her fingers brushed the silver heart necklace resting against her skin, a small, comforting weight. Her gaze flickered up to Paige, who was watching her with a look that made Azzi's stomach flip. “Paige… What—”

Paige’s lips twitched into that teasing, mischievous grin Azzi had grown so used to, though there was something darker behind her eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” she murmured, voice low, her breath almost mingling with Azzi’s as she spoke. Without waiting for a response, Paige closed the distance between them.

The kiss came as a shock—immediate, urgent, and raw. It wasn’t tentative or soft. It was a force, and Azzi, caught off guard, responded instantly. Her fingers curled into the fabric of Paige’s shirt, pulling her closer, desperate for more. Paige’s hands slid to Azzi’s back, the weight of her body solid and unyielding against hers, making Azzi feel anchored in a way she hadn’t expected.

Azzi moaned quietly, her fingers slipping to Paige’s thigh, pressing against it as though she needed to ground herself. She was losing herself in the moment, her heart hammering in her chest as the kiss deepened, becoming more desperate. Paige’s body was firm against hers, and the touch of her hands was possessive, guiding the kiss with an energy that made Azzi dizzy.

Between kisses, Paige pulled back slightly, her lips brushing against Azzi’s with a half-smirk. “You know… No one ever told you how beautiful your dimples are?” she asked, voice a little breathless but still teasing.

Azzi blinked, her own lips curling into a smile. “What?” she asked, clearly caught off guard by the compliment. “I… never really hear that.”

Paige leaned in again, pressing her forehead against Azzi’s. “Well, I think they’re cute as hell,” she said with a soft, genuine smile. Her fingers gently brushed over Azzi’s dimples as if she couldn’t help herself.

Azzi let out a laugh, the tension easing just a little. “You’re such a dork,” she teased, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.

“Yeah, but I’m your dork,” Paige shot back, grinning before kissing Azzi once more. The kiss was slow at first, tender even, as though they were savoring the moment. But it didn’t stay that way for long. The pressure between them built again, and Paige’s hands moved lower, resting on Azzi’s hips as if she couldn’t get close enough.

Azzi's hands gripped the back of Paige’s shirt, tugging her closer, her body pressed into Paige’s as they both lost themselves in the heat of the moment. Paige’s hands were steady, veiny, gripping her tightly but with a tenderness that Azzi didn’t expect. She couldn’t help but laugh, breathless.

Paige paused, looking down at her, and Azzi steadied herself with a soft chuckle. She took a moment to breathe, her hands still resting on Paige’s chest. She looked up at her, her smile softening. “You know,” Azzi said, voice light, almost shy but warm, “I really like the way you make me laugh.”

Paige’s lips quirked into a small smile, her hands still resting on Azzi’s hips, fingers brushing the curve of her body. “I like the way you laugh,” she replied, her voice softer now, the playful teasing gone and replaced by something deeper.

The moment hung between them, electric, filled with a tenderness neither of them had quite expected. Azzi’s heart was still racing, but the sound of Paige’s steady breathing against her was a grounding comfort. They stood there, staring at each other for a moment, as if seeing each other anew.

And then, without another word, Paige leaned in again, this kiss slower, more deliberate, like she wanted to savor every second of it. Azzi, smiling against her lips, couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was where she was meant to be.

Paige shifted in her seat, her eyes glinting with that familiar, mischievous sparkle. She motioned toward her lap, her hand gesturing in a way that was both casual and undeniably commanding. “Come here,” she said, her voice a little rough but with that unmistakable confidence.

Azzi hesitated for just a moment, her heart skipping a beat as her eyes flickered between Paige and the open space next to her. “Are you sure?” Azzi asked, her voice quiet, almost shy. She didn’t want to assume, didn’t want to push any boundaries, but the way Paige was looking at her made the world seem smaller, more intimate.

Paige gave her a reassuring grin, her tone low and assured. “Yeah, I’m sure,” she said, her words confident but soft, like they had all the time in the world. She leaned back in her seat, settling in as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “C’mon, sit.”

Azzi smiled, a soft blush creeping across her cheeks as she slowly made her way onto Paige’s lap, her knees brushing against Paige’s legs as she settled in. Paige’s hands instinctively slid around her waist, pulling her close, and Azzi couldn’t help but feel a flutter in her chest. It was both grounding and exhilarating at the same time.

Paige shifted slightly, her movements casual but intentional, and grabbed her glass with the leftover milkshake. She tipped it back without hesitation, chugging the rest of it like she’d done it a million times before. Azzi couldn’t help but watch, her eyes tracing the way Paige’s throat worked with each gulp, the muscles in her neck flexing with each swallow. It was strangely mesmerizing, and Azzi found herself studying Paige in a way she hadn’t before—tracing the lines of her jaw, the glint in her blue eyes as they flickered between the glass and Azzi’s face, and the way her shirt creased over her chest.

“Hey,” Azzi said, her voice almost playful. “Your eyes… they have different shades of blue in them.” She was smiling now, the words leaving her lips before she could fully think about them. There was something about Paige that had her feeling bold and honest in a way she hadn’t expected.

Paige paused mid-drink, glancing at Azzi with a confused look. “What?” she asked, her mouth still a little stained from the dark, rich chocolate. The sight made Azzi smile wider.

Azzi couldn’t help it anymore—she let out a laugh, her shoulders shaking a little as she buried her face in the crook of Paige’s neck, completely unable to stop herself from laughing. She could feel the warmth of Paige’s skin against her cheek, the slight tremor of Paige’s laughter as she responded, still a bit confused. “What’s so funny?” Paige asked, trying to sound serious, but the tone of her voice was all dorky charm.

Azzi pulled back slightly, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, still smiling. She gently reached up and wiped a finger across the corner of Paige’s mouth, removing the small chocolate smear that had remained. Paige was still looking at her with a perplexed expression, but there was a softness in her gaze now. Azzi’s finger lingered there for a moment, and Paige couldn’t help but admire the way Azzi moved—like everything was deliberate, gentle, and intimate.

Paige raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a grin. “Was that an excuse to touch me?” she teased, her voice light, but the warmth in her eyes was unmistakable.

Azzi’s face flushed just a little, but she couldn’t help herself. “You had chocolate on your face,” she said, voice teasing but soft, her smile wide and genuine.

Paige gave a small chuckle, her hands resting comfortably on Azzi’s waist. “Guess I’ll let it slide,” she said, her voice playful. “For now.”

They both sat there for a moment, the quiet between them comfortable, the air between them charged with that subtle but undeniable connection. Azzi smiled softly as she adjusted slightly in Paige’s lap, and Paige shifted just enough to look at her.

“So,” Paige said, her voice still light, “can you move just a little so I can return the tray? Gotta get rid of our boxes and these milkshake glasses before they start looking like a disaster.”

Azzi nodded, shifting just enough to let Paige stand. Paige grabbed the tray, her veiny hands steady as she balanced everything in one hand. Azzi watched her, a small smile playing on her lips. She couldn’t help but think how natural it all felt—like this, whatever this was between them, was meant to be.

As Paige made her way to the counter, Azzi followed, her eyes catching the young woman behind the counter. She had a messy ponytail, and her blue eyes sparkled as she smiled at Paige.

“Thanks for the food,” Paige said, setting the tray down and offering a grin.

The woman behind the counter chuckled softly, nodding. “No problem, enjoy the rest of your night,” she said, before pointing out with a small laugh, “You’ve got a little something on your face, by the way.”

Paige blinked, wiping her mouth absentmindedly. “Seriously?” she said with a laugh, turning to Azzi for reassurance. Azzi couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst into laughter, shaking her head.

“You’re a mess, Paige,” she teased, still grinning widely as she reached out to adjust a stray lock of Paige’s hair.

Paige, chuckling along with Azzi, returned to her seat with a smirk. “Guess I’ll never hear the end of it, huh?”

Azzi, still smiling, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek lightly. “Probably not,” she said softly. “But that’s okay. I kinda like it.”