#dynamic code loading

[network-security-concepts]

How Does Dynamic Code Loading Make Android Apps Less Secure?

Dynamic code loading (DCL) refers to an Android app's ability to dynamically load executable files during runtime rather than preloading everything at installation time. While dynamic code loading offers advantages in terms of flexibility and efficiency, improper implementation can create security risks that make applications less secure - here are a few ways dynamic code loading could make Android apps less safe:

Code Integrity: Dynamic code loading enables apps to download and execute code from remote servers or external sources, increasing the risk of downloading malicious or altered code that could compromise the integrity of an app and introduce security vulnerabilities.

Malware Injection: Apps that dynamically load code from untrusted sources or third-party plugins become more prone to malware injection, with attackers exploiting this technique to insert harmful code that could compromise user data, perform unapproved actions or gain control of the device.

Lack of Static Analysis: Static analysis tools like code analyzers or linters can be valuable tools in detecting potential security vulnerabilities during development, but dynamic code loading makes it challenging for such tools to identify security issues within dynamically loaded code since this data wasn't present during the static analysis phase.

Delay in Applying Security Patches: Apps that heavily utilize dynamic code loading can make applying security patches quickly a problematic feat since code is downloaded or loaded at runtime; thus, security vulnerabilities in dynamically loaded modules might go undetected until an updated code or module version becomes available - prolonging their exposure and giving attackers more opportunities to exploit known vulnerabilities.

Dynamic Code Loading Increases Attack Surface: Dynamic code loading increases an app's attack surface by creating additional entryways for malicious actors to penetrate. Malicious actors could exploit network communication for downloading code or weaknesses within its dynamic loading mechanism to gain entry and potentially gain unauthorized access, data leakage, or privilege escalation.

For optimal security, application developers should follow best practices when loading dynamic code, such as:

Secure communication protocols such as HTTPS should be utilized when downloading code from remote servers. Using cryptographic techniques, code dynamically loaded from these servers should also be verified for integrity.

Regularly monitor and update dynamically loaded modules to comply with the latest security patches. Only load code from trustworthy sources and ensure appropriate code signing mechanisms are in place.

Implement runtime security mechanisms, such as input validation and sandboxing, to minimize any impact from potential vulnerabilities.

Developers can balance DCL benefits and Android application security by taking these precautions.

I recommend visiting NIST and Zimperium's Glossary to learn more about mobile security,

[quinn-fucks-shit-up]

the only feeling worse than clicking on something for it not to do anything, is seeing something loading when you didn't click on anything

[ebodebo]

I got news for you baby, you're looking at the man!

pairing: john price x fem!reader

wc: 7.2k...sorry lmao plz read…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, oral (m. receiving), road head, porn w so much plot, hair pulling, angst, emotional conflict, complicated family dynamics, dysfunctional family, i.e., ongoing conflict, reader having familial issues (mostly maternal), age-gap, secret relationship & marriage, & john being a protector.

author's note: this was brought to fruition by a singular barry sloan edit that had me salivating and @sai-int's fic 'a ticket to play', which single-handedly re-sparked my love for price! so, yeah, anyways, enjoy this horny mess!

dividers by @/saradikagraphics!

John Price is a man...

“John, you didn’t,” you hiss, eyes wide as you set down the groceries on the counter, your wrists aching from the heavy load.

“Didn’t know it was your mother, sweetheart,” he replies, his tone sincere. He quickly grabs the bags and begins unpacking the groceries.

You glance at the house phone positioned beside the fridge, then peel off the old sticky note attached there. You read it aloud, “Don’t answer calls from the 406 area code. I’m talking to you, John,” before pausing to think, lips pursed in contemplation.

He opens the fridge, sliding the milk jug inside before carefully shutting the door. When he turns back to see your knowing smile, his eyebrows lift in a silent acknowledgment, a quiet ‘ah’ escaping his lips.

“Well,” you urge, grabbing the aromatics from the counter to put up. “What did she say when you picked up?” You ask, attempting to sound as casual and disinterested as possible.

“Oh. Nothin’ you’d find interestin,’” he hums with a knowing smile as he tears open a pack of paper towels.

You press your lips together. “Well…yeah,” you mutter, picking up a few grapefruits. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me,” you defend, emphasizing the ‘doesn’t.’ “I just want to know what she thought,” you shrug, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Mhm,” he hums thoughtfully as he gathers the now-empty reusable bags, hanging them on the hook next to the cabinet.

“I’m serious,” you say, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “I really don’t care.”

"I know you don't, hon." He turns to wash the fresh berries in a colander, the water splashing against the metal steadily.

"You don't believe me," you exasperate.

He lets out a low laugh as he washes the berries. "Didn't say that."

You lean against the kitchen island, your body language betraying your frustration. "You were thinking it," you accuse, with a dramatic sigh.

He sets the berries back into the colander and turns his head toward you, a playful half-smile on his lips. “No, I wasn't,” he replies, clearly amused.

You poke your tongue into your cheek, mentally cursing yourself for marrying someone so adept at reading your emotions, your inner conflict laid bare.

“But,” he says, tearing a paper towel to dry his hands. “Now, I’m starting to feel that you do care.”

You don’t respond, trying to avert your gaze as heat creeps into your cheeks like he’s caught you sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

“Baby,” he moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders and pulling you into him. “It’s okay to care,” he whispers softly into your hair, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

You gently shut your eyes, pressing your face into his warm abdomen, finding comfort in his presence.

“Damn it,” you mumble, your words muffled against him. He chuckles softly in response. “Alright, fine,” you pull back slightly, locking your eyes onto his as his hands cradle your cheeks. “I do care. Now, spill the juicy details.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, she started by checkin’ in on you.”

You release a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, right. She always has ulterior motives," you grumble. "I swear that woman is always up to—"

"Shh," he squishes your cheeks together as both thumbs rest over your lips to silence you. "Will you let me finish?" He prompts, quipping a brow.

"Sorry, yeah," you apologize, your voice coming out muffled and nasal. 

He nods with a smile, moves his thumbs off your mouth, and drops his hands to massage your shoulders. "Said your sister is gettin' married, and she thought it would be nice if you came down for her engagement party this weekend," he supplies. 

Correction remarried.

She's on her fifth? No, her sixth husband now.

Guess she thinks six will be the lucky number.

Who’s gonna tell her?

However, that’s beside the point; you care about something much more…pathetic.

You feel frustrated because all you really want is to know how your mother reacted to the deep, gruff voice of the Englishman who answered the phone.

You wait with a bated breath, eyes wide with anticipation, but his expression remains flat, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What else?" You finally question, unable to contain your curiosity.

"That's all," he plainly says, his words hanging in the air.

You scoff. "She didn't ask about the random guy answering my phone?" You voice with disbelief.

Your mother is a shallow woman, but surely you getting what she’s constantly pressured you into getting would have her jumping for joy.

A sly smirk grows on his lips. "Am I just some random guy?" He jokes.

You smile yourself before pressing a kiss to his lips, arms coming to wrap around his torso. "You’re my husband, so not to me," you begin. "But to her, yes," your hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him down to peck his lips again. "You know that," you say matter-of-factly.

His hands drift to your waist. "Mhm, I'm your dirty little secret," he hums softly.

"John," you frown, guilt flooding your brain. "You know I would, but—"

"Just jokes, baby," he interjects, pressing a light kiss on your temple as his eyes light up. "I love you in any way you’ll have me," he murmurs softly.

"God, you’re perfect," you reply with a smile. 

"She did question who I was," he starts. "Had no idea she was so southern," he remarks casually before continuing. "She thought I was the plumber," he quips, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

He tried, but he could feel the tension in the air.

Sees the disappointment and anger in your eyes.

In your posture.

You're fucking pissed.

"Typical," you remark, stepping away from him, arms flailing around. "She—she thinks I'm so incapable of finding someone that she would resort to thinking you're a person I pay before actually thinking you're with me." Your voice is filled with frustration.

"Hon—" John begins, voice soft as his hand reaches for you.

"And she wonders why I never visit," you release a dry laugh. "Never reach out."

"Come ere,'" he coos, hand pulling you by your wrist, so he can engulf you in a hug.

"It's not fair," your voice is once again muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but he can hear the tightness in it and the sniffle against him, a clear sign of your emotional distress.

"No, it's not," he affirms, fingers easing through your hair.

"Nothing is ever good enough for her," you exhale into his abdomen, fueled more by anger than by despair.

John gently kisses your hair while his fingers soothe your back with a gentle massage.

"I’ll never be good enough for her," you mumble absentmindedly, your voice lacking emotion.

"Sweetheart," he begins, his voice low as your hair muffles the sound. "Don't take offense, but you're mother is a real nasty woman. You're fuckin' perfect, and if she can't see that, it's her God-damn loss," his tone rough yet sincere.

You chuckled, a smile spreading across your face as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I love you."

"Love you so much," he whispers, gently planting another kiss on your head.

He leans back slightly to look into your eyes. "Want me to run you a hot bath?" He asks, gently massaging your shoulders.

"That sounds really nice," you reply, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."

"Course. That's what I'm here for," he says effortlessly, leaning down to kiss your lips tenderly. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

You nod quietly as he moves to draw the warm bath.

The thought of sinking into steamy water and enveloping bubbles soothes your mind.

Honestly, to hell with your mother's opinions.

They just weren't worth the headache.

And there was no way you were going back to that house.

The promise of the bath, with its comforting warmth and enticing bubbles, would wash away your worries and quiet the thoughts swirling in your head.

Visions of your mother and that place would fade, never to resurface again.

"Can't believe she thought I would actually come down," you sigh contentedly, feeling the warmth of your husband, John, as he works shampoo through your hair, creating rich suds.

So much for the visions of your mother fading. 

It had been a whole day since your mother's call, and the weight of her words still lingered, stirring up a storm of conflicting emotions within you.

"Still on your mind?" John asks, eyes hyperfocusing on ensuring the shampoo coats every strand of your hair.

"I just—I don't understand why she thought I would come," you suspire, turning to massage the loofah against John's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tension in his muscles.

"Must have gone mad, I suppose," he jests, his fingers massaging the shampoo into your scalp, adding a touch of humor to the heavy conversation.

Your lip quips at his joke, eyes lighting at the sight of him taking such good care of you, ensuring your scalp is tantalizingly clean. "Maybe," you murmur. "Because all she ever does is ridicule me and constantly ask if I've found a man.” You gently move the loofah over his chest to ensure he is squeaky clean.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his hands coming to massage your facial cleanser into your face before returning to the issue at hand.

"Wouldn't let tryin' to examine your mother's psyche take your day, hon," his hands move with familiar ease as he massages the liquid into your cheeks. "You'll never know why. Can't change that,” he says.

"I hate how logical you are," you sigh, finding yourself relaxing at his touch.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Would you rather me be some git?"

Your eyebrow quips, eyes remaining closed. "What does that mean?"

His lip quips. "Sweetheart, how long have you lived with me here, in England?" He enunciates the last word as he moves you under the faucet to wash away the cleanser's remnants. 

"Not long enough, I guess," you smile cheekily, wiping your eyes free of water to open them. "Honestly, forever isn't even long enough," you add, trying to shift the focus, though it's true; you can't quite remember how long you've been living together  

"Oh," he tuts softly. "Nice save. Can't argue with that," he replies, smirking before leaning in to kiss your lips.

After a stretch of silence, you turn around so he can wash your back with the loofah. Your mind is still swirling with thoughts. "I kind of miss seeing my niece," you find yourself reminiscing.

"Even though my sister and I don't get along too well, her daughter and I have always had a special bond," you say with a sigh.

"What else do you miss?" Since you never really talk about where you grew up, John prods, he's curious.

"Well, in the spring, my cousins and I would go flower picking in the field behind my grandfather's house," you find yourself getting more excited.

"He also had an old peach tree, Mindy, he called it, that we would pick dozens of peaches from and just lay in the shade under the tree and eat them till he thought we might become peaches ourselves," you snicker, turning around to face him, eyes light.

"They were fucking good peaches."

"Sounds like you miss it," he grins.

Your hand turns the lever off, and the water stops, leaving a lingering warmth on your skin. "I do," you confess, stepping out of the shower to grab you and him fresh towels.

"But, my mother knows how to ruin the best of memories," your voice is monotone. "I want those great ones to stay intact, you know?" You shrug, wrapping the towel around yourself, offering comfort.

He wraps the towel low around his waist. "Course I get it, sweetheart," his voice soft yet gruff. "Let's get you all nice and dry, and we'll order some takeout. Yeah?" He asks, reaching for your hand to lead you into your shared bedroom to get dressed.

"Sounds perfect," you voice, the thoughts of going home almost completely absolving. 

A few misses wouldn't make you completely switch gears and go.

It just wasn't worth it.

Only your mother could figure out how to make the enjoyment and amazing things crumble up and burn. 

But you won't let her. 

So, you've made up your mind. 

You will not be going.

That's final.

It's two days to Saturday.

You've been manically counting down the days.

And so, naturally, instead of basking in the serene morning, with birds chirping and the gentle glow of the sun filtering through your kitchen window, you're perched on a barstool, computer propped up, as your breakfast grows cold, hand hesitating over a plane ticket that will whisk you away tomorrow morning to your hometown. 

Just one click, and you'll have solidified yourself as going.

You're only feeling so impulsive because your impulse control, aka your husband, is at work.

Your finger hovers over the 'confirm' button for about twenty minutes.

You know what's holding you back.

The anxieties claw up about your mother and what ifs that could happen.

And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, it all becomes clear.

'Could.'

It's not a promise, just a possibility.

You had spontaneously decided that you wouldn't let the could control your decisions.

Yes, one thing was holding you back, but what about the multitude of things that you wanted to see or the many people who loved and cared about and desperately wanted to see after so long?

You were not going to let the 'could' control your decisions.

You were going to overcome this worry and take the leap.

You sit up tall in your chair, turning your head with a wince as you click "confirm."

"Oh," you murmur. "That was dramatic for no reason," you say monotonously.

But, now you can't help but feel a surge of excitement.

You would get to see your niece after so long.

And the flower field and, of course, Mindy the peach tree.

Who could forget your childhood room full of posters and knick-knacks you collected throughout your teenage years.

You find yourself smiling as you get that familiar chime from your email confirming your flight ticket.

Can't get cold feet now.

You take a swig of your tea, which has long since gone cold, but your throat is parched from the anxiety that grips you, a knot tightening in your stomach.

The mug was a gift from your husband for your birthday last year.

It featured your favorite flowers made into it and even had your birthday engraved on the bottom.

John was always so thoughtful.

You pause your movements, lips hovering over the clay mug, a moment of hesitation freezing your actions.

John.

Your husband.

Of course, he didn't care that you bought the ticket or wanted to go, but he would be pissed if you just left.

Sure, you could wait until he returned home, but the urgency to communicate your decision gnaws at you, compelling you to act now.

You hurriedly reach for your phone, fidgeting to press his number.

He's at the top of your contacts.

You tap your fingers against the cool granite countertop, waiting until he picks up.

It rings.

And rings.

...and rings again.

Until the line picks up, you sit up, ready to unload on him, only for it to be his voicemail line.

"Shit," you curse, hanging up as your foot bounces on the metal footstep on the barstool.

As you sit there, unable to wait until he gets home, you can't help but feel a surge of dramatic emotion. This internal conflict, this emotional turmoil, is what drives you to act impulsively.

But this is a big deal.

You never go home.

Rarely mention it.

So your next actions feel rationalized to you.

Without a second thought, you spring up, grab your keys from the hook by the door, slip your shoes and coat on, and speed to your car, most likely looking like a mad woman. 

But at this moment, who cares about appearances? 

The urgency of the situation overrides any concern for normalcy.

Normalcy is overrated, anyway.

You throw the car into gear, and though you are in a rush, you don't speed there. 

Carefully, you make your way, chewing on your lips nearly the entire drive.

Despite your earlier determination not to return, you find yourself on the way, a plane ticket already in your possession.

The anticipation of what your husband has to say fills you with a slight unease.

He wouldn't be mad.

More surprised than anything.

And honestly, you shamelessly loved seeing him at work.

His professional demeanor, always in control, never fails to impress you.

You can't help but oogle him.

It secretly really got you going.

But, this time, it was a purely innocent visit, of course.

You find a parking spot, ease into the front part, giving the officer guarding the gate your name.

She quickly lets you through.

You are the captain's wife, after all.

Walking, you head straight through a door and through another one.

So many God-damn doors in this place.

Until you reach the middle portion of the base, grass surrounds you, and various equipment is placed orderly around.

Sandbags, wooden ladders, and weights are among the items you see. 

Your eyes sweep the area until they land on the man you're looking for. 

He stands tall, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform, a few strands of hair escaping his signature hat.

His eyes are focused on the recruits, his expression a mix of determination and frustration.

From the looks of it, he's training new recruits, something he doesn't often do, but it's a real treat when he does.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms. 

His arms, usually strong and steady, now appear more veiny than usual, a sign of his apparent frustration with the recruits. His jaw is set, and you can see the tension in his muscles as he barks orders.

"Runnin' like a fuckin' slug," he reprimands. "Pick up the pace."

You hate how hearing that makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.

"Get your head out of your ass," he grunts outs, clearly annoyed. "The hell are you lookin' at," he asks a recruit who, along with a few others, seems to be on another planet, eyes wandering behind him.

John turns to his side to see you in a cute dress, waving to him sweetly. "Course," he lets out a dry laugh, giving you a small wave.

He turns back to the recruits, his authority palpable.

"Eyes off my wife, or you'll be doin' extra laps," he scolds, his tone low but intimidating, before yelling to move to the ladders with Soap.

He makes his way over to you, a warm smile on his face. "Nice surprise, hon," he greets, kissing your cheek.

"I'm gonna go," you murmur.

His brows furrow in confusion. "Go where?" 

You raise a brow at his confusion. "To...see my family."

His eyes bore into your intently. "By yourself?"

"I didn't think you'd want to go," you say honestly. 

"I'm going with you," his tone final, with no room to argue. "You bought a plane ticket?" He questions.

"I did...sorry, I just thought—" you begin before he cuts in, his hand pressing against your cheek. 

"No worries," he says. "I'll get the ticket when I get back to my office," his tone casual. "You're sure about this?"

"I think so," you say. "Plus, if I cancel the ticket, we'll be out six hundred dollars," you laugh out.

"Screw the money, okay? You tell me if you don't want to go," he tells you, face serious.

"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know," you lean up, pressing a short kiss to his lips. "Also, you should always wear your shirt like that."

His eyes narrow as he lets out a laugh. "You like it?"

"Looks sexy," you purr quietly, teeth coming to bite your lip.

His face warms slightly. "Should see what it looks like off."

"Are you flirting with me, captain?" You say, hand coming to your heart in false surprise. 

"Just givin' you a preview for later," his tone is husky. 

"I'll be waiting," you begin, beckoning him to lower his head so your lips can hover over his ear. "Already so wet just thinking about it."

He releases a low grunt as you press a kiss to his cheek.

"See you at home," you say sweetly as if you didn't just give him a hard-on at the thought of you all wet and needy for him.

"See you, sweetheart," he almost chokes out as you turn to go away, your ass swaying in the dress you wear.

He's going to make you pay later.

And honestly, you can't wait.

You need something to take your mind off tomorrow's morning flight. 

Though it was going to take a lot more than sex to ease your mind.

A horse tranquilizer may help.

No. Too dangerous.

Whatever, you'll take your chances with John's hand all over and in you to have you sleeping and at ease.

Maybe you'll get lucky, and you two can sneak off to the airport bathroom and finally join the mile-high club.

That would definitely keep your mind off things.

For now, you’ll wear a smile, and excitement will radiate from your being.

Everything will be fine.

Nothing bad will happen.

Even so, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?

Statement retracted.

Your trip thus far has been a shitshow, and you haven't even seen your family yet.

Your flight got delayed three hours because of fog.

That was understandable, annoying, but understandable. 

What wasn't was the lady who insisted on sitting between you and John on your flight in the seat you paid for.

An older lady, maybe in her late forties or so, with a determined look in her eyes and a set to her jaw that said she wasn't going to let a little thing like a seat assignment get in her way.

She was nice at first.

She became insufferable rather quickly.

Very persistent.

You deduce she did that so she could sit next to your man. 

It didn't bother you so much, plus you knew if you showed it did, John would make a scene, and you just wanted to close your eyes and sleep, so you let her have your seat and sat by the window instead.

But every time you got settled, eyes closing gently, the soft lull of the plane helping you drift off.

"Going off to college?" She piped next to you, oblivious or noncaring about your eyes shut.

Your eyes open rapidly, and you look at her, awaiting a response. "Uh, no. I graduated a couple of years ago," your voice is drowsy. 

"Oh. You two must be going on a father-daughter trip, then?" She poses.

Your wide eyes drift to John's; a smile etched on his face. "Such a kind father you are," she compliments without missing a beat.

The sheer absurdity of her assumption leaves you speechless, and John can't help but let out a quiet laugh.

"Thas' actually my wife," he says, trying to contain another laugh. 

"Oh," her eyes widen in shock and apparent envy. "Well, aren't you a lucky one," her tone is dry as she eyes you.

That was funny.

But not when she did it about five hundred times on the eight hour flight.

It was like a broken record, playing the same tune over and over again, and you were the unwilling participant. 

Over and over again like clockwork.

Drove you bat shit crazy.

Sure, maybe you could have just told her to shut the hell up, but you kept telling yourself it wasn't worth the fight, and you didn't have the energy to make the effort.

Also, since the lady was sitting in the seat between you, formally yours, you didn't feel comfortable asking John about the bathroom sex.

She would have most likely dropped dead or asked to join.

You didn't want either.

So, it is safe to say that when the plane landed, you sat up excitedly to escape the stuffy plane.

The lady tried to follow you and John out, but you grabbed John by the wrist, dragging him behind you as your legs gained more momentum to try and escape her.

It was like a horror movie.

"Oh my God. She was so weird," you laugh out to John as you manage to get away from her, stepping out of the airport to collect your rental truck. 

"I know. Kept lookin' at me the whole flight," he says with unease as he places your suitcases into the backseat of the truck, shooing away your hands from the bags so he could lift them himself.

"Do we need to get you a counselor?" You half-joke as he opens the car door for you to get in as he moves to the driver's seat.

"Think so," he gruffs before his eyes fixate on you. "You okay?"

You had put the address into the truck's maps system, settling back into the leather seat, eyes now on his. "I'm nervous," you confess.

"Nothin' to be nervous about. I'm here for you, okay? If you need to leave, just tell me," his voice is soft as his hand caresses your thigh in comfort. 

You give him a nod, turning to look out the window at the passing buildings, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

You had already texted your niece you were coming, so you're sure your mother and sister know. 

It's not like you'd be staying with them.

That's too much too soon.

Plus, you and John could have sex anytime in the hotel with no fears of your estranged mother walking and seeing John balls-deep in you.

It was really better for all parties.

Once you pull up to the house, you swear you could hurl.

"Was this a bad idea?" You ask John nervously as he pulls your suitcases out of the backseat.

He gently sets them on the dirt. "It's just nerves," he says, locking the truck. "Let's scope it out, and if you want to leave, we'll go. No questions," his hand rests gently on your shoulder.

"Promise?" You prod, tilting your head towards him. 

He smiles at you. "You have my word, sweetheart."

You release a deep breath. "I think I'm going to pass out."

He chuckles deeply, hand snaking around your waist to lead you to the front door. "I'll catch you if you do."

You feel your nerves subside with John by your side as you flip up the familiar peach-shaped doorbell cover to ring the bell.

Stomping feet approach, the voice growing nearer and nearer until the front door pulls open to reveal your sister.

Flawless as ever. 

Her eyes light up. "Thought my daughter was tellin' fibs," she jokes, pulling you into a warm, tight hug. "Missed you." Her genuine affection wraps around you like a comforting blanket.

You reciprocate the hug with equal tightness. 

Although you may not have gotten along well, she was still your sister, and you could feel the love a million miles away. 

She pulls away, eyes falling onto the mysterious, hot, stoic man to your side. "Who's this good-lookin' hunk?" She coos, smacking her gun.

"This is my, um, my husband, John," you say, fumbling your words a little.

"Nice to meet you," his voice is low and most shockingly British, as he sticks his hand out.

Cordial as ever. 

"Oh, come on. That's just not even fair, sis," she jests, taking his hand fast and tight.

Her playful banter adds a lightness to the moment that almost absolves your nerves entirely.

"Where's...mom?" You ask, your heart pounding in your chest, the unease apparent in your tone.

She looks back at you. "Kitchen," she says before offering a reason. "She's makin' peach cobbler. Come on in," she steps aside so you and John can enter the door.

The familiar scent of the old wooden floors, the sound of the creaking stairs, and the sight of the family photos on the wall all bring back a flood of memories.

Warm smiles and familiar voices greet you as you step inside.

Cousins, aunts, uncles.

They approach you one by one, their surprise at your arrival evident, but even more so at hearing that you're married to the burly man at your side. 

Your aunts keep him occupied as you wander into the kitchen.

They keep him engaged in their lively banter, shamelessly flirting with him while their husbands sit in the living room, engrossed in their own discussions. 

You feel a little bad for leaving him to fend with the wolves, but he assured you he was alright and all but pushed you into the kitchen.

Sure enough, your mother was busy rolling out some dough on the countertop for the crust for the top of the peach cobbler. 

"Mom," your voice is quiet as you move around the island to where she is.

She turns. "Well, I'll be," she begins, eyes wide and full of surprises. "Ya came."

"I did," you amend with a smile. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."

"Some city guy?" Her head moves back to the dough, no longer on you.

"He, yes, he's from the city," your voice is outwardly confused.

"Thought so," her tone is snarky as she delicately lays the dough over the cobbler filling. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" It comes out more defensive than you intend. 

"Nothin,'" she says flatly. "Enjoyen' your fancy life in the city?"

You roll your eyes, already anticipating the direction this conversation is about to take. "Mom," you urge, your frustration palpable.

"No, hon. I get it," she looks up at you, shrugging. "Honestly, surprised you came. Wouldn't wanna dim your new sparkly life," her tone is condescending. "That is why it's been so long, right?"

"It's not like that," you try to justify, but you know it will do no good.

She completely disregards that, instead changing the subject. "Supper's ready," she bussies herself with stirring the gravy. "Better snag yourself a seat quick," her tone is dry. "Table hasn't grown none."

You release a shallow breath, turning around to escape this stupid God-damned kitchen and moving to find John. 

It's a familiar feeling, this resignation. 

Guess some things never change. 

You approach him, and before you say a word, his eyes are already locked on you, body language now stiff. "What's the matter?" His hands are on you in an instant.

You should have known.

He can read you like one of those mission reports he reads daily.

"Nothing," you mutter, forcing a smile, but the words feel heavy with the things you're hiding.

His eyes narrow. "Can't lie to me," he voices.

You'd just about rather crawl in a hole and die than re-account. 

What was supposed to be a happy recount turned sour rather quickly.

"Tell me," he urges, sensing your inner turmoil. 

"Drop it," your tone is more icey than usual. "Please." 

He gives you a light nod, eyes full of concern.

"Let's go eat, okay?" Your hand moves to his, intertwining your fingers, and guilt claws up your throat.

He gives you a nod as you drag him into the dining room to snag a seat at the main table.

Mom was right. The table is still too small to accommodate a family of this size, so another table sits outside and another in the living room. 

Others crowd around the breakfast nook and sit on barstool at the kitchen island. 

This house has never known loneliness. 

Your mother, father, sister, sister's daughter, and your sister's fiance are at the table with you and John. 

Your niece opts to sit next to you, gushing about her new boyfriend, the son of the florist downtown, and asking questions about the city.

"Hush now, darlin.' She gets all fussy about that," your mother chides your niece, referring to your early conversation about you living in the city.

"Mom," you quip, eyes wide at her sheer audacity.

She hadn't even addressed John, just jumping straight into a fight.

Typical.

"I'm just sayin.' Ya jumped all over me for talkin' about it," she says, trying to sound innocent. 

Seems her memory is slipping.

"That's not why I got upset," your tone is teetering between desperation and frustration, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.

She plops some mashed potatoes on her plate before passing the bowl along. "Then what was it ya were so hurt about earlier, huh?"

You're sure steam is rolling out of your ears.

"You hold a, a vendetta against me for leaving," you spew without much thought, anger taking over. "Because you never got to leave, you take it out on me," you finish, and you're sure you're shaking. 

If all eyes weren't on you before, they are now.

John is leaning back in his chair, eyes wide.

He's kind of scared if he touches you, you'll punch him, so he instead crosses his arm over his chest.

"I think the city is cool," your niece randomly chimes in, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Would love to visit someday."

You give her a smile before your mother starts up again.

"Didn't your mother teach ya about city girls," she snaps to your niece. "Nothin' good ever came from any of em.'" 

You can taste the metallic taste of blood on your tongue; you had bitten your cheek so hard you bled.

"Ain't that right," your mother says, eyes shifting to your sister.

Your sister is great.

Just not in the presence of your mother.

She takes on her personality and thoughts.

Agreeing with her without a second thought

That includes her fights.

"It's true," she snickers. "City girls can't tell a pencil from a pecker."

You find yourself standing abruptly, and your sister matches your action, spewing more garbage. 

And for some reason, her fiance stands up, which makes John stand up, matching his movements.

He's easily a foot taller than her fiance, and he's much more muscular, too.

"Enough," John's low, commanding voice is fitting for a military captain. It splices through the room, the commotion dying as he speaks. "I will not sit here and let you treat my wife like this," his head tilts towards your sister and then to your mother. "Now or ever."

He doesn't even need to yell to get any attention. 

His voice just demands attention already. 

Your sister, usually so quick with a retort, is silent.

The fear in her eyes is unmistakable, adding to the intensity of the confrontation.

She’s scared.

Hell, everyone is.

Well, except your niece, whose lip quips secretly, a small smirk playing on her lips despite the tension in the room. 

"Your daughter came down on her own merit to see you," he points to your mother. "Could have done so many other things, but she wanted to see you," he enunciates the last word.

"Well, she—" Your mother begins, her face bright red with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Tired of hearin' the excuses," his voice cuts through hers. She quickly shuts up, a surprising silence falling over her. "Can't even believe your daughter turned out as amazing as she did growing up with this," he gestures towards you.

He stands with his hands on his hips, disappointment is evident on his face. 

"My wife is a God-damn saint," his voice is rough.

You find your lip quipping at the praise and how much he appreciates you.

He worships the ground you walk on.

That was made abundantly clear. 

His hands reach to rest on your lower back. "Appreciate the food, but we'll be leavin' now," he mutters, stepping back to push his chair in.

You don't argue with him.

Hell, how could you?

He said everything you couldn't

Laid all your thoughts on the table and even added some extra.

He did what he was born to do: protect.

You step away, push your chair in, and turn around, not bothering to say goodbye as you walk to the front door.

You'll text your niece later. 

The chill in the air, carrying the scent of magnolia trees and damp earth, hits you like a slap to the face.

John's hand is still on your lower back, guiding you back to the truck.

He opens the door so you can slip inside as he makes his way around the driver's seat.

The heater is blasting as he shoves the key into the keyhole, and the engine is stirring alive as he easily backs out and pulls onto the road. 

The silence is heavy as he drives down a straight, desolate road.

It's silent for a moment before he starts to comment, apologizing profusely about how he overstepped and saying sorry that this trip turned out bad.

You're tuning him out and instead focusing on how he stood up for you.

He was just such a man.

He always knew how to be what you needed him to be.

Protector.

Listener.

Talker.

He always knew which role to take on to support you, to be your anchor in the storm of emotions. 

Just that thought alone made you incredibly wet. 

You don't know why.

You should be crying from the way things unfolded with your family.

But you're not sad, not even remotely.

Just incredibly horny.

You find yourself slipping the rubberband off your wrist and quickly tying your hair in a messy ponytail.

"Hon," John says, noting your unusual silence. "I'm so sorry," he quickly glances your way before looking back at the road.

You don't speak, opting to brush your hand against his cargo pants as your fingers fumble with his zipper.

He makes a noise of surprise. "What're you doin?'" He asks, his voice breathy.

"You took care of me," you mumble, shimming your fingers under the waistband of his boxers to release his erect cock, to which he grunts. "Want to do the same," your voice is lazy, as your lips brush against the sensitive head.

"Me yellin' at your mother got you all hot?" He jokes though it dies halfway on his tongue as your lips spread open to accommodate his size.

His knuckles are white as he tightly grips the steering wheel so as not to crash.

Your mouth makes a pop noise before you speak. "You're just so sexy. All manly like that," you mutter against his cock, the tingle of your words sending goosebumps throughout his entire body.

"Am I?" He chokes out as your lips move back to encase his cock.

"So hot," your voice is muffled as you take in more of his cock.

"Oh—Christ, thas' it, hon," he groans as you bob your head up and down.

His mind has gone fuzzy at the feeling of your tight throat, taking him so good, even swerving a little, before quickly straightening the wheels.

"So fuckin' good," he grunts, as one hand moves to gather your ponytail in a loose fist. 

Your tongue works in tandem, rubbing against the underside of his cock, sending more pleasure through him. "Such a good girl, babe," he praises, and you just know that your underwear will be soaked. 

"So good." Your moan against him at the next praise, making him sputter his hips up, his cock slipping in your mouth entirely. 

He chokes out some incoherent words you can't make out; taking note of his body going taut, you can presume he's close.

"Gonna," he strains out as you continue bobbing up and down, his hand tightening around the fistful of your hair. “Come."

You bring your hand to pump the base as your tongue flicks across the tip.

He groans with anguish, legs shaking as he comes in your mouth.

You pull your head up, your eyes boring into his so he can watch you swallow out every last drop, even using your fingers to clean up the residue in the corners of your mouth.

His eyes stay glued to your mouth before you yell at him to watch the road.

"Christ," he shouts, gripping the wheel tight to stay in his lane. 

You laugh as you lean, pressing a sideways kiss on his lips.

He can taste himself on your lips.

He almost comes again.

But the high lasts just as short as when you look in the review to see police sirens hot on your tale, the siren invading your eardrums. 

John curses but pulls off to the shoulder, sneakily grabbing his military badge in his pocket.

"You always just carry that on you?" You smile slyly, the body still warm from your escapades. 

"Will come in handy," he assures, rolling his window down as the officer makes his way to his window.

"Evenin', folks. Gotta call from a concerned driver sayin' you were swervin' out of your lane," he says.

"No, sir. Not us," you answer, John glancing towards you.

"That right?" The officer prods. "I'm going to need to see your license and registration, sir," his monotone voice says. 

"Yes, sir," John says, slyly flashing his military badge as he "looks" for his license. 

"You're military?" John nods. "Hell," the officer laughs, tucking his notepad back in his pocket. "I know you aren't some juveniles."

John laughs as he glances over to you, glancing down to see a little remnant of his come on your shirt.

He almost feels guilty.

Almost.

He lets out a cough.

"You alright, sir?" The officer asks, brows furrowed.

"Yeah. Fine," his voice is strained.

You shoot him a look before the officer starts again.

"Well, I'll let ya'll get on your way," he pats the top of the car.

You both issue a heartfelt thanks before John pulls back out onto the road, a palpable sense of relief in your voices.

"Can't believe he just let you off," you groan, hand coming to intertwine his. 

"Thought you'd be happy?" He laughs. "Can get to the hotel in record time now."

You raise a knowing eyebrow. "For what?"

"Saw you squirmin' in that seat," he teases, his affectionate tone wrapping around you. "I need to take care of my girl," he adds, his voice filled with warmth and love. 

You release a shallow breath.

His girl.

You.

Just you.

That's what you loved about loving him. 

You didn't have to keep up with his expectations.

You could simply exist, and he would kiss the ground you walk on.

The thought lit up your brain.

John Price was your man.

And in his eyes, you'd always be his girl.

mini author's note: i'd have to be surgically removed from him...

[wonubby]

my boyfriends...? A CAT ?! - K! BAKUGOU

a bakugou birthday special

wc - 4.6k

skipping some classes to help fight villains wasn't something new to bakugou; in fact, it's become a routine. he'd heard the news that there were some villains in the area and would join the pros with a couple of his classmates.

however this time, the only thing different was that the villain was someone new, and their quirk? a mystery. none of the heroes at the scene could figure it out, as the quirk kept changing! it was truly mind-boggling.

"how the hell is that bastard doing this? he must be a quirk stealer," bakugou muttered to the boy beside him.

kirishima could only break out into a smirk at his friend's claim, "yeah? then we better test that out. i say we charge at him; if he's a quirk stealer, he might steal only one. you in, dynamight?"

"tch, you challenging me, red?" that was all the confirmation the redhead needed to set off with an attack.

the pair worked well together, always meeting each other halfway. whether it be with studying, sports or fighting, the duo complemented each other; everyone could see how well their dynamic was.

bakugou on one side and kirishima on the other, the villain was cornered. just as they were about to attack, their nemesis mummbled something under their breath, blasting an attack at the hot-headed hero, causing him to disappear.

kirishima gasped in shock, quickly tackling the villain down. around him, chaos erupted; the pro heroes were jumping around trying to find bakugou.

the villain was taken from kirishima, immediately put in handcuffs and questioned on what happened to bakugou.

"where did dynamight go?" one of the civilian onlookers said in shock.

the red-headed boy glanced around in search of his best friend, his eyes hopping from place to place. just as he was about to turn around, kirishima caught sight of some movement under bakugou's hero suit.

"huh...?" he slowly crept towards the suit, ears catching a strange sound.

'is... is that a cat?'

as kirishima inched closer, the sound got louder. oh yeah, it was definitely a cat.

lifting up the black pieces of clothing, kirishima was greeted with the unexpected sight of a cat hissing at him with a scowl.

"aw, what a cute kitty! what're you doing under bakugou's clothes, hm?" kirishima cooed, grabbing the cat.

unfortunately for him, the second he lifted the cat towards his face, he was attacked by scratches.

"what the hell — ack!" the cat growled, yowling at the boy.

kirishima pulled the cat away from his face and met the icy stare of its vermilion eyes. oh.

bakugou was the cat.

"THE FUCK?"

cat bakugou scratched the boy again, letting out an aggressive 'mrrowr. the heroes and civilians stopped their actions, glancing at the two boys with dropped jaws.

"wait, is that... dynamight?!" a young girl called out from the crowd, invoking havoc.

all might jumps in, quickly saving kirishima from the assault.

"young bakugou... or cat bakugou? I'm not sure, but stop attacking red riot!" now it was all might's turn to receive a beating from the sharp claws.

a sigh escaped your lips as you patiently waited against the wall for your boyfriend, who was late. bakugou was never late, but because he had been roped into a sudden villain attack, you gave him the benefit of the doubt.

your eyes trailed around the area, swinging from the wall to the vending machine that finally had your favourite drink.

"i guess one wouldn't hurt," you mumbled to yourself.

just as you punched in the code for the drink, the phone in your pocket started vibrating intensely. turning your attention away from the machine, you grabbed your phone, opening it to see messages from the class-1a group chat.

'what nonsense are they talking about now?'

the chat loaded, immediately bombarding you with cute pictures of a fluffy, persian cat with what might've been the softest fur you've ever seen. all the pictures came from kirishima and sero, causing everyone to gush over the cute bundle of fur.

letting out a small 'awww' at the kitty, you quickly type back a response.

Y/NNIE awww kiri, where did you find the cat? ROCK HARD um.. you see, that's kind of what i need to talk to everyone about... IZU-KUN go ahead kirishima! CUM SQUIRTER (MINA) can we save whatever u wanna say for later? rn js come back to the dorms with the kitty!! im sure momo could make some cute clothes for her!!! ROCK HARD ykw sure, but its a boy and he scratches so be careful KIRBY (uraraka) im sure we'll be okay we deal with bakugou on a daily basis YNNIE speaking of kats... where is he? he was supposed to spar with me after the villain attack ROCK HARD he's here with me now, but it's a bit confusing. i'll explain better when we reach the dorms. YNNIE okiee, I'll head back up and meet everyone in the common room!

kirishima didn’t reply after that, which only made your curiosity spike. something was off, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. quickly grabbing your drink, you headed towards the common room.

the walk wasn't too long, but the thoughts of the cat and your boyfriend clouded your mind. thinking of the way the two of you could look after it and play with it! just the thought of your big, burly boyfriend playing with such a small animal had you blushing.

you couldn’t help but imagine him as a dad, married to you, holding your kid with that same grumpy face softened just a little.

the train of thoughts ended when you had finally reached the common room door, and it wasn't exactly quiet in there... i mean, when was it ever?

upon entering, you could hear screams coming from denki, accusing the cat of biting him. 'the cat might be dangerous,' you thought, entering the chaos. the couches that once sat in the centre of the room were now standing upright on the walls, the coffee table was tipped over and everyone looked a mess.

"what the fuck happened?" you questioned, appalled by the state of the room and everyone inside of it. your eyes darted to the feline, taking in its appearance. it was a blonde persian cat, with vermilion eyes glaring at every individual. the moment the cat heard your voice, it let out a loud wail, darting towards you, pawing at your clothes.

nervous, you leaned down to pick up the cat, mentally praying that it doesn't attack you. the moment your arms wrapped around the animal, you felt it nestle into you, softly purring, shocking your classmates.

"huh- wha- ... HOW?" denki cried, arms flailing around dramatically.

"we've been trying to calm him down for so long! kirishima, where did you get the cat from?!" momo's question made you turn to the redhead, suddenly noticing your blonde boyfriend was missing.

a frown washed over your face. now you were really worried. what had happened to your boyfriend?

almost as if it could read your thoughts, the cat in your arms meows softly, nipping at your neck. giving the cat a small smile, you moved your hand to caress its soft fur.

"i'd also like to know where katsuki is," you piped in. you stared angrily at kirishima because he wouldn't get to the point.

kirishima let out a sigh. "bakugou got hit by the villain's quirk-"

"what?! is he okay? where is—"

"he's fine." kirishima grumbled, clearly overstimulated from this whole situation. "as i was saying, bakugou got hit by a quirk which ended up turning him into a cat."

'huh?' now you were super confused.

"if bakugou's a cat, then where-" you paused, looking down into your arms and at the cat. "oh?"

suddenly, a crash was heard.

you fainted.

BAKUGOU'S POV

being a cat was so fucking annoying; first off, everyone wanted to touch me, and second off, i wouldn't even speak! all i could let out were aggressive hisses and stupid meows; don't even get me started with those god-embarrassing purrs. i felt like a fucking freak.

it's even worse that i scared my girlfriend so badly that she fainted. god, what if she hates me or, worse, breaks up with me? i'd kill myself.

initially, when she took me down to the floor with her, i was pissed, but when i noticed she wasn't moving and shitty hair was picking her up, i started panicking. which, obviously, the others took as me being jealous.

fucking idiots. in what world would i, bakugou katsuki, future pro hero, be jealous of that red-haired freak?

as i collected my thoughts, i felt y/n start shuffling on the nurse's bed under me. quickly, my hands paws kneaded at the soft, plush skin of her stomach.

she let out a groan at my movements, fingers slowly coming to pat my fur.

fuck, this was so weird.

"katsuki what are you doing?" her mumble slowly turning into a giggle as my teeth nipped her fingers.

"meow." was the best answer i could let out, and it pissed me the fuck off.

her hands cupped either side of my furry frame, pulling me up so i was resting on her breasts. thank god i was a cat; otherwise my 'embarrassment' at the current position would be clearer than day.

my cat nose infiltrated with the sweet aroma of her perfume. it was my favourite, the one that always had me on my knees. the woody fragrance had my tail swishing, tickling her skin, eliciting more giggles from her.

i could listen to her laugh every day. hearing it made me feel like i was a prince, lying in the flower garden on a warm sunny day with the love of my life beside me. it was the epitome of perfect.

this cat shit made me sappy as fuck, holy shit.

"oh you're up! the cause of your sudden fainting is nothing too serious; it's just a result of surprise by bakugou's current situation. would you like me to call in kirishima to help you get back to the common room?" recovery girl blurted out, kind of intimidated by bakugou's glare.

i hissed at the mention of kirishima. like hell id let him help her.

almost as if sensing my unease, y/n picked me up, cradling me in her arms. "i think im okay, thank you!" and with that, we were off.

BACK TO SECOND PERSON POV

finally nestled back into the poster-covered walls of your room, you collapsed on your bed. the sudden action caused the cat in your arms to yelp, flailing about.

"mm, sorry katsu," you said, softly grazing his head. 'woah he was so soft'

katsuki just stared at you, face softened and eyes bleary. "you know, i don't think i'll ever get used to seeing you as a cat. but you gotta admit, it's nice having you like this."

at your confession, he let out a quiet, but mean, meow. nipping at your shoulder blades.

"ouch! c'mon you know what i meant."

the two of you laid in silence for a few minutes, with the occasional sounds of purrs coming from the cat.

katsuki eyes slowly started feeling heavy, body relaxing on the comforter of your bed as he slowly drifted off to sleep. however sleep never came, the sound of a camera flashing jolted him wake.

quickly sitting up, he pounced on you, attempting to grab your phone. fortunately for you, you were faster. moving out the way, you used your quirk and let out pheromones, which made the cats actions slower.

"kats," you whined, feeling his rough tounge lick at your neck. he hissed, pawing at you as if to telling you to delete the photo. "i'm only keeping it for myself... and maybe for your mom- aak!"

the blonde persian cat continued fighting with you for the phone until he eventually gave up, realising he couldn't do anything while he was a cat.

you glanced at your cat/boyfriend/whatever-he-was, watching him pout and sulk. your heart couldn't help but melt as his appearence. he was so cute, even as cat.

as much as you loved being able to talk with your boyfriend, you found youself loving him as a cat even more. the irritated wails, the soft purring as you stroked his fur and the quiet nips of affection he'd randomly give. but it was also weird, you missed him. the real him.

sighing, you got up, placing him in your arms as you left your room to venture into the kitchen. "come on kitty, lets get you some food."

you received another nip at the nickname.

the trip to the kitchen was fairly quick, but what you hadn't expected was the others also being there. at the sight of you and katsuki, mina shot up immediately running towards you.

"y/n, you're okay!" she squealed, embracing you in a quck hug, crushing the blonde cat between the two of you.

"yrowl," bakugou whined at the sudden compression. you quickly moved away from mina, checking to see if katsuki was alright.

mina gave a sheepish smile, "oh... i forgot about him... sorry bakugou!" she chirped, before continuing. "actually, the girls and i were just talking and thought it'd be pretty cool if we could put bakugou in some clothes, momo already made a few." she rambled.

"oh, um... im not sure mina. i mean, i dont think katsuki would like that." the cat backed you up, letting out a quick meow, glaring at the pink girl.

"c'mon please~ it'd be so cute! we have an allmight cat shirt made for him." she pressed.

katsuki was now getting aggitated, maybe it was the cat hormones but he had the urge to run off and hide. he did not want to be here. and so, he did what he did best.

he leaped out of your arms, scratching mina's legs before running off. "ah, katsuki!" you exclaimed, running after the feline. "sorry mina, ill be right back," you yelled as you continued running.

that damn cat really knew how to run. he turned ever corner until he was at the door of his dorm room, scratching at it, desperately wanting to be let in. he heared footsteps behind him, quickly turning around and baring his teeth, only letting up once he saw that it was you.

sighing in relief that you had finally found your boyfriend, you picked him up, leveling his eyes to yours.

"katsuki, what the hell was that! you can't just run off randomly, you scared the hell out of me." you scolded, watching as his ears flopped down. "i get that this is new for you and you're struggling but come on; so am i. i'm trying my best to make sure you're comfortable so please, don't run off like that again."

to your words, katsuki let out a soft whimper, feeling bad that he caused you to feel this way. he slowly lifted up a paw, reaching out to ur face. you smiled at the action, no matter what body he could be in or what animal your boyfriend was; you were always able to read him.

"i know, i know. i'm sorry for dragging you with me to the kitchen, i didn't know the rest would be there, but for now, lets relax and maybe get you some sleep." you smiled, opening the door to his room, settling him on his bed.

for the next hour, the two of you basked in each others presence. you showed him funny tiktoks (to which he just meowed at), took pictures of him and sending them to his mom and of course, petting him.

turning to katsuki to show him another tiktok, you realise he'd fallen asleep beside you. a small smile crept it's way to your face as you looked at the kitty.

"cat or not, i love you so much katsuki." you whispered, placing a kiss onto his face, letting sleep take over you.

the following morning came quick as you shuffled in bed. you let out a small whine at the sun shining over your face. turning onto your side, your hand slapped something hard and hot.

"stop moving so damn much." the body besides you muttered, trapping you into his arms.

the voice made your eyes flutter open, staring at the boy with your mouth agape.

"kats, you're back to normal look!" you squealed, slapping his bare chest to wake him up.

a groan escaped his lips that made you feel things you probably shouldn't be feeling. "what are you talking about woman." he snarled.

giggling, you push yourself on top of him, wrapping your arms around his neck. "kats, you were a cat for the whole day yesterday and now you're finally back to normal." sleepy katsuki was truly a cutie, he could barely even remember his own name.

katsuki finally opened his eyes, glancing down at his body and yours before letting up a huff. "fuckin' finally, i was getting sick and tired of being a dirty cat." he grumbled, but you knew he was just saying that.

"i'm glad you're back, but i'll miss being able to coddle you like a little baby." you whined, playfully pouting.

"damn woman, you already do that enough." he muttered, cheeks flushing at the memory of how you treated him.

you pressed a small kiss to his cheek, smiling up at him. "well i do love you more as a human, so a win is a win." you placed a soft, innocent kiss on his lips, to which he replied with wrapping his arms around your waist.

as the kiss began to get more heated, you felt something hard and wet poke onto your thigh.

"uh kats...?" you questioned, breaking away from his lips.

"what," he whined, chasing after you.

"um... are you naked?" silence filled the air at your question.

"..."

"..."

thats when he felt it too, the hard-on pressing onto both of your thighs.

"oh what the fuck!" he scrambled up, accidentally throwing your body off of the bed. "shit- sorry!" he yelled, wrapping his sheets against his waist, trying to save face after he'd just popped one out infront of you.

a roar of laughter filled the air at his expression. you just couldn't help it! he looked so ashamed of himself it had you rolling on the floor.

"okay, i get it. now shut the fuck up and get out so i can deal with this," he grumbled, a wave of heat flowing over his body at the situation.

"pfft- katsu, you're so easy." you laughed, getting up and placing another kiss on his sweet lips. "i'll leave you to deal with katsuki jr. if you need me, i'll be making breakfast." you teased.

"oh fuck off." he yelled, throwing a pillow at the door as you left.

katsuki might be back in his human form and you might miss his doting cat-self, but you knew, no matter how rough he was, he really loved you. and that was all that mattered.

© 2025 wonubby— All rights reserved. Please don't post my work as your own on any other sites.

[rabbiitte]

Queer Coding in Media: Jayce and Viktor's Case.

Let's address what Christian Linke recently said about Jayce and Viktor's relationship because this is making some noise in the community:

According to the co-creator, Jayce and Viktor love each other like “brothers”.

Christian states that he doesn't understand why people see their relationship as a romantic one.

Linke also added, after the end of the series, that Viktor is canonically asexual and dismissed a possible romantic relationship with Jayce due to that reason.

We'll expand on these points next. But first, some context.

| About queer coding...

If Jayce and Viktor's relationship is seen as beyond brotherly, it's because it was portrayed that way. Their relationship is very queer coded.

Queer coding refers to the practice of subtly implying that a character in a piece of media is part of the LGBTQ+ community without explicitly stating or confirming it. This is often achieved through subtext, symbolism or specific character traits associated with queerness. This often arises due to societal restrictions, censorship or creators intentionally embedding queer elements into their work.

Queer coding for a couple in media involves using subtle visual, narrative or dialogue-based cues to suggest a romantic or deeply intimate connection between two characters without explicitly confirming their relationship as romantic or LGBTQ+. This type of queer coding focuses on the dynamic between the two characters rather than just one individual's traits.

When discussing queer coding in media, the examples can include both the content of the relationship itself (dialogues, interactions and dynamics) and visual and non-visual narrative (cinematographic techniques, narrative techniques and the use of music). Both aspects—content and narrative—are essential to queer coding because: a) Content provides the material that audiences can latch onto (dialogues, dynamics or gestures) and b) the narrative guides how the audience perceives this material (through visuals or music, for example).

Below are examples and methods used to queer code couples:

Relationship's Content (character's dynamics and dialogues):

These are the in-universe moments or dialogues that give romantic or emotionally intense undertones to the relationship. For Jayce and Viktor, this includes:

1. Use of subtext in dialogue or relationships:

Ambiguous or "more-than-friendship" dynamics: Characters have intense emotional bonds or interactions that go beyond typical friendships but stop short of being explicitly romantic. Jayce and Viktor’s connection, for example, is filled with vulnerability, admiration and devotion beyond brotherhood. Their willingness to risk everything to save each other in each timeline adds a tragic, almost romantic layer to their bond. Jayce’s comment calling Viktor “beautiful despite his imperfections” and their mutual sacrifices suggest a deep connection that goes beyond friendship or platonic relationships. Their bond, tied to time loops and destiny, feels more like a soul bond with a cosmic significance that transcends a typical brotherly dynamic. In other cases, this would be a romance.

Loaded Dialogue: Lines of dialogue may carry double meanings or suggest emotional or physical intimacy without being overt (e.g., characters use ambiguous terms like partner, special or soulmate, which can suggest deeper feelings without explicitly labeling the relationship). For example, if one says, "I’d sacrifice everything for you," it resonates beyond platonic territory. Dialogue between Viktor and Jayce is filled with layered meanings that suggest a connection deeper than traditional friendship. Here are some examples:

When Viktor’s former mentor warns him about sacrificing love and legacy, Viktor instinctively replies "Jayce will understand," directly associating Jayce with love and signaling how central Jayce is to his emotional world. Similarly, Jayce’s decision to abandon politics to return to the lab is encapsulated in the line "my place was always here in the lab with you," which emphasizes that his devotion isn't just to their work but specifically to Viktor. The repeated use of "partner" by Jayce further blurs the lines between professional collaboration and emotional intimacy, as the word carries dual meanings, suggesting equality and closeness. The term is somewhere between friends, brothers and more than that. Hence, the term can be freely interpreted. Viktor later reflects on their bond by stating, "it was affection that held us together," acknowledging that their relationship transcended shared goals and was rooted in genuine emotional warmth. Finally, Jayce telling Viktor, "there is beauty in imperfections," as he admires Viktor’s struggles and physical challenges, conveys profound validation and care, elevating their bond to one of deep emotional resonance. These lines collectively demonstrate how their dialogue is charged with a sense of intimacy and mutual admiration, allowing the relationship to be interpreted as more than platonic, hinting at queer coding through its emotional depth and layered expressions.

2. Body language and interactions:

Lingering gazes or physical proximity: Close, lingering touches, extended eye contact or standing too close for “just friends” —common romantic cues—are often used. For example, long hugs, holding hands or standing closely during emotional moments are subtle ways of suggesting attraction or intimacy. In Jayce and Viktor's case, Jayce is almost always the one who initiates the physical contact. Jayce's non-verbal language with Viktor is marked by gestures of reassurence with a hand on his shoulder, hugs without centimeters of distance and fast moves to help Viktor in the face of his weakening due to his illness. An important detail to take into account is Jayce's reaction to Viktor and Mel's return. When Viktor returns from the dead, Jayce surprises his friend with a hug that knocks him off balance by his strength. When Mel returns after no one knew of her whereabouts, Jayce doesn't even hug her, but instead complains about why she didn't save Viktor.

Protective gestures: Scenes of one character sacrificing for, protecting or expressing deep vulnerability to another can suggest more intimate feelings. Jayce and Viktor's relationship also has the presence of hundreds of moments in which they both profess for the safety and well-being of the other. In season one, after having sex with Mel, she wakes up in an empty bed. It turns out that Jayce was with Viktor, waiting on the side of the bed for him to wake up. This detail alone shows where Jayce's loyalty lies. But, overall, Jayce is very delicate and helpful towards Viktor. In turn, the only moment in which Viktor initiates physical contact is to reassure Jayce so that he doesn't feel pain on the astral plane. Both join their foreheads in a significant gesture of appreciation and affection and console each other at the end of their existences.

3. Avoidance of heteronormativity:

Lack of romantic interest in the opposite sex: A queer-coded character may show no explicit attraction to the opposite sex while forming deep emotional bonds with same-sex characters. This is especially true for Viktor, who has had no interest in any character of the opposite gender during the two seasons. The guilt Viktor felt over Sky's death shouldn't be confused with sexual, romantic or aesthetic attraction. Viktor practically didn't even know Sky's name during the first season and, despite knowing each other since childhood, Viktor continues to call her "Miss Young" during the second season. As you may already know, Sky's presence in the second part of Arcane represents what Viktor has left of humanity. Jayce is a separate case, since he did have a sexual-affective relationship with Mel, despite not being officially a couple. However, he always put Viktor's well-being above his relationship with Mel.

Unconventional partnerships: Instead of marrying, having children, or living “normal” lives, queer-coded characters often follow nontraditional paths. The unconventional partnership between Jayce and Viktor lies in their shared path of devoting their lives to science and progress instead of following more traditional societal expectations. Their bond, rooted in their shared ambition and mutual understanding, creates a life partnership that revolves around innovation, discovery and reshaping the world. Together, they prioritize their intellectual and creative pursuits over conventional relationships, with their lab becoming the core of their connection and purpose. This can be seen, for example, in the moment when Jayce decides to resign from politics because he realizes that his place is next to Viktor in the lab. This partnership not only defines their lives but also strengthens their relationship, making it deeply meaningful and unique in its intimacy and shared vision.

Visual and non-visual narrative (cinematographic techniques, narrative techniques and music):

These are the deliberate storytelling choices that imply deeper subtext or allow the audience to interpret a couple's bond as queer. Examples include:

1. Visual narrative:

Symbolism (in scenes): are visual and narrative moments intentionally designed to evoke ambiguity, emotional depth or hidden meanings in a relationship. These scenes often rely on subtext, metaphor or visual framing to suggest intimacy or connection between two characters, leaving their nature open to interpretation. For example, Jayce's campfire scene. Fire might symbolize Jayce's internal turmoil. Mel appearing first may reflect her role as a significant figure in Jayce's life, while Viktor appearing next could symbolize a deeper, enduring connection. The fire "burning away" Mel and transitioning to Viktor might suggest that, in this moment, Jayce's thoughts are consumed by Viktor, representing a priority or emotional focus shifting toward Viktor. So, Viktor isn't simply a colleague or friend but someone whose presence looms large in Jayce's thoughts, surpassing Mel's. While the scene might not explicitly state anything romantic, the visual choices align with tropes often used to convey profound emotional connections, making it easy to interpret the subtext as romantic or deeply personal.

The decision to interweave Viktor’s scene with Jayce and Mel's scene while having sex is highly unusual too. If Jayce and Viktor are purely platonic friends, such a juxtaposition does feel strange. I understand, both Jayce and Viktor are "merging" with something beyond themselves, but can you imagine a similar scene with Jinx and Vi? If Jayce and Viktor's relationship were purely professional, friendly or brotherly, such imagery wouldn't normally feel warranted in storytelling.

Parallelism: In storytelling, parallelism refers to the use of comparable or mirrored elements—such as characters, themes or visuals—to draw connections or contrasts. It often involves showing two or more situations, characters or relationships side-by-side to highlight their similarities, differences or shared significance within the narrative. In Arcane, the creators align Viktor with Mel through parallels. Through this technique, creators seem to suggest that Viktor holds a similar or even equivalent place in Jayce’s life. Since Mel’s relationship with Jayce is explicitly romantic, this framing subtly implies that Viktor could also occupy a romantic or emotionally intimate role.

2. Non-visual narrative:

Music and Lyrics: are powerful tools to subtly hint at romantic or emotional dynamics between characters without explicitly stating them. By selecting specific songs or using lyrics that carry layered meanings, creators can invoke emotions or associations that resonate with queer themes, intimacy or romantic undertones. Songs that have lyrics with open-ended or ambiguous lines, when placed over scenes with queer-coded characters, allow for multiple interpretations. This creates a sense of queerness without labeling it outright, allowing the audience to interpret the relationship as they see fit. As is the case of the song The Line by Twenty One Pilots. Through the line "pull the blanket tight now" you can interpret the song from Viktor's point of view and dedicated to Jayce (since Jayce was the one who gave the blanket to Viktor).

Comparisons and mirroring: narrative parallels with romantic couples, either in character arcs, sacrifices or framing. For example, Jayce and Viktor share a significant bond across multiple timelines. Jinx and Ekko, meanwhile, also share a significant bond in another timeline. This could be interpreted as both couples choosing each other, even, in alternate universes. This is an idea that is commonly related to romantic relationships. Love across different universes is seen as something beyond fraternal and worthy of epic romantic love. In the same episode that Ekko meets Jinx in another timeline, Jayce meets Viktor in another timeline too. The same thing happens in episode three of season two. In the same episode where Vi and Caitlyn fight and part ways, Jayce and Viktor also fight and part ways. In this way, Jayce and Viktor follow a similar pattern and theme (albeit on a larger scale) to that of the other canonically romantic couples in the series.

Subtext in dialogue: refers to lines with double meanings that subtly suggest emotional or romantic undertones. The choice by the creators of lines that are commonly associated with romantic relationships such as "beautiful despite the imperfections", "in all timelines, in all possibilities, only you can show me this", "my place is in the laboratory, with you" or "it was affection that held us" convey an ambiguous message that leaves the possibility of multiple interpretations open. The use of the term "partner" was not accidental either. This word is commonly used by queer individuals to signify a romantic relationship while avoiding gendered language. Jayce and Viktor not calling each other “brothers” is significant because it leaves room for ambiguity, suggesting that the creators might not have wanted to firmly define the relationship. Jayce only called Viktor "brother" once and then insisted on the term "partners" until the end of the series.

As you noted, these aren’t accidental choices—they are purposeful creative decisions made by team members who do support the romantic interpretation of Jayce and Viktor's relationship. Animators, voice actors and designers contributed to shaping this relationship through subtle creative choices. For example, animators might have chosen specific expressions or gestures to convey deeper intimacy, even if this wasn’t explicitly stated in the script. Leaving their relationship ambiguous might have been seen as a “safe” route in the face of disagreements.

In collaborative works like Arcane, no single individual (not even Christian Linke) dictates the entirety of what's canon or not. Creative contributions from diverse team members with their own agenda and interpretations also shape meaning.

If the intention was to show a “brotherly” relationship but the execution led to widespread interpretation of a romantic one, it's failure in storytelling. If the intention was to show a "queer coded" relationship and the execution led to widespread interpretation of a romantic one, then it's success in storytelling.

Death of the author: Viewers also have their own interpretations and that's valid. Varied interpretations shouldn't be dismissed. Here the death of the author applies. This term refers to the fact that, after an author publishes a piece of work, that piece ceases to belong exclusively to the author. Once a work is released, it belongs to the audience as much as the creators. If significant parts of the fanbase interpret Viktor and Jayce as more than friends, that interpretation becomes part of the narrative’s cultural impact, regardless of authorial intent.

The interpretation in media of queer codes is deeply influenced by cultural cues. Although this changes from society to society, social cues are the same for everyone. If Viktor and Jayce’s interactions evoke a sense of romance, it’s because the storytelling taps into those cues, whether intentionally or not. The relationship between them two integrates cultural and social codes typical of queer relationships.

Cultural codes: are tied to traditions, beliefs and shared understandings within a specific culture or subculture. They include symbols (objects, gestures, or imagery that carry specific meanings within a culture —e.g., a wedding ring symbolizing commitment—), narrative patterns (storytelling conventions that audiences recognize, such as the "star-crossed lovers" trope or visual parallels that suggest a connection between characters), expressions and language (words, phrases, or metaphors that carry connotations shaped by cultural usage —e.g., the word "partner" often implying romance in contemporary Western culture—.

Social codes: are the behaviors and norms that define interactions and relationships between individuals or groups. These codes are often context-dependent and include: body language (physical gestures or proximity that suggest intimacy, power, or affection —e.g., lingering touches or intense eye contact indicating closeness—), relationship norms (expectations about how certain types of relationships—platonic, familial, romantic—are expressed in actions and language) and contextual cues (the way relationships are framed by their environment, such as a candlelit dinner indicating romance or playful banter suggesting friendship).

The way Viktor and Jayce interact is coded in a way that aligns more with romantic love than familial or platonic love. So, asking to associate Jayce and Viktor's relationship with a “brothers” type of relationship would mean having to disregard cultural and social codes.

| Romantic Undertones as "Canon Adjacent”.

As I previously said, the romantic undertone of Jayce and Viktor's relationship would result in a canonically established couple in any other series. So, what I see here is a double standard in romantic representation in the series. For example, many think that Ekko and Jinx are canon after (a conversation that wasn't added to the series and after...) Ekko gave his jacket to Jinx. Jayce and Viktor’s dynamic features more romantic subtext than that but they still are dismissed as "brothers". Is this homophobia? No, of course not. How could it be homophobia if Arcane shows an established lesbian couple? Well, let me tell you, lesbian representation is more socially accepted in male-dominated spaces due to fetishization, whereas romantic relationships between men are less embraced. The idea of two men in love can lead many people to question the masculinity of these men and the masculinity associated with characters like Jayce or Viktor is vital to League of Legends. Making a canonically gay male character is riskier for the franchise because, in lol, masculinity is an element that, many times, determines the election of one character over the other.

Unlike Vi and Cait, among whom (I understand) there was the belief of a romantic relationship, Jayce and Viktor were never associated in that way. So, I can see the risk.

If Linke intended to focus on male friendship, that’s fine, but dismissing other interpretations, especially in a story as emotionally charged as Jayce and Viktor’s, can come across as limiting or dismissive of queer readings, whether intentional or not. It would have been better for Christian Linke to shut up and let everyone have their own interpretation about Jayce and Viktor's bond. Instead of insisting on interpreting Jayce and Viktor’s bond as “brotherly”, it would be more inclusive and respectful to let viewers interpret their relationship freely. By insisting on framing Viktor and Jayce as just “brothers” or “friends,” the show risks falling into the “no-homo” trope, where creators deliberately steer clear of portraying characters as gay despite clear romantic subtext.

| Linke's arguments.

Arguments like "media lacks non-romantic platonic relationships" feel insincere because these type of relationships aren't underrepresented in media. That crisis never existed. Many popular shows and movies focus on deep, platonic male bonds (e.g., Sherlock Holmes, The Lord of the Rings, Supernatural). While it’s admirable to showcase strong male friendships, it’s not a groundbreaking theme. In such a case, there is a lack of representation of non-romantic platonic relationships between men and women. These type of relationships are equally rare and more deserving of advocacy, but we still have timebomb (Jinx and Ekko). In conclusion, media has no shortage of non-romantic male-male bonds, but LGBTQ+ male romantic relationships remain underrepresented. So, Christian Linke's dismissal about JayVik was even more noticeable after that argument.

Also, I would like to add that referring to a relationship as a "romantic" one doesn't diminish the importance or depth of a bond. Friendship isn’t erased by romance. In fact, many memorable romantic relationships in media are related to friendship (e.g., Anne and Gilbert from Anne with an E). But, to call it a brothers-like relationship would diminish the profound, cosmic depth of their connection because their bond is about recognition, unconditional support and shared purpose, even at the cost of the world. It’s poetic and tragic, resonating with themes of love, identity, and the human condition. The time loops, their repeated choice to find each other and their interconnected destinies make their relationship feel larger-than-life. For many viewers, this mythic quality resembles soulmate narratives rather than simple friendship or brotherhood.

Another argument that reveals Christian Linke's rejection of Jayce and Viktor as a possible romantic relationship, is the statement about Viktor being asexual. I would like to ask what is the point of revealing this information after the show ended? Representation works best when it's woven into the narrative, not dropped as an afterthought. Beyond that, I think Mr. Linke should educate himself. Experiencing little or no sexual attraction doesn't mean that romantic attraction cannot be experienced. Being asexual doesn't mean that a person can't be gay.

Asexuality: is a sexual orientation characterized by the lack of sexual attraction to others. This means that an asexual person typically doesn't experience the desire to engage in sexual activities with anyone, regardless of gender. However, asexuality exists on a spectrum. Asexuality as a spectrum refers to the understanding that asexuality encompasses a wide range of experiences and expressions of little to no sexual attraction. Rather than being a single, fixed identity, the asexual spectrum includes various orientations and preferences regarding sexual and romantic attraction.

Many asexual people form deep, meaningful romantic bonds and there's no inherent contradiction between being asexual and experiencing romantic feelings. To use Viktor’s supposed asexuality as a reason to dismiss any potential romantic undertones between him and Jayce feels reductive and dismissive—not just of their dynamic, but also of the diverse experiences of asexual individuals.

Let's end this post on a more positive note with Arcane team members who do support Jayvik.

Posts from animators + Jayce's voice actor with a JayVik fanart.

Viktor's character designer + posts from animator.

Moose is the creative director + AgentR is an animator + Mel's voice actress.

[facefullofsadness]

she said "fuck me like I'm famous" I said "okay"

model!au

designer!giselle x assistant!reader

prompt - working as aeri uchinaga's assistant makes it hard for you to keep up, maybe in more ways than one

content - smut (power dynamic, pet names/praise kink, sloppy and desperate kinda rough sex, a lot of sucking (fingers, boobs, necks/marking), fingering, tribbing, possessive/corruption kink, a little hair pulling, squirting, multiple rounds/orgasms), alcohol consumption, exposition and tension building

wc - 8165

a/n - I was held at GUNPOINT to write "nda giselle" so here we are! worked diligently on this one so pls enjoy it o7!!! (please dear god I'm begging you)

- consider it my 800 follower special (even though I was supposed to write a 500 follower one but here we are <3, tysm for everything)

- OH MY GOD IVE BEEN WRITING THIS FOR A MONTH IM FREE

- additionally, dopamine is sooooo this fic coded but it's UNRELEASED YEW MFS SM ENTERTAINMENT I HATE YOU-!

an overwhelming rush of noise fills my ears as soon as I enter the busy dressing room.

I knew working as famous model and designer aeri uchinaga's assistant was gonna be loaded, but my first day on the job being the same day as one of miss uchinaga's bi-annual fashion show was not expected. I had to push through an uncountable amount of stylists, designers, assistants, coordinators, and makeup artists to make it to miss uchinaga's personal private dressing room, which was crowded in it of itself, even if she was the only model in that room.

she's famous for having the most grand fashion shows, especially the shows showcasing her summer and winter collections which she hosts twice every year for her designer brand, one around the start of the summertime, and one before the winter season, such as this one today. she spends months preparing for it every year, so it's even a wonder how it was possible for me to show up out of the blue so suddenly, literally on the day of one of the most important days of her year.

"you, rookie, did you bring the earrings set I asked of you?" the assertive voice of a man working on sorting through jewelry asks me, not even looking up from his work.

I stumble through the crowd of people to get to him, fishing the small box containing the earrings out of my bag.

"yessir, I fetched them this morning," I hand him the jewelry. he hums, snatching the box out of my hand to check the contents, continuing on with his sorting without even looking up at me.

"hey you, did you coordinate with the production crew about the lights? those things are important," a woman with a headset and a clipboard approached me.

"ah yes miss, they said they'd readjust the color to a cooler tone," I reply, nodding my head.

"good," a simple response before turning away and scurrying off.

"where's that fucking assistant- you! are you miss uchinaga's assistant?" an aggressive voice calls out for me near the vanity table.

I whip my head around and hurry over, "yessir, I'm her new assistant!"

he groans in annoyance and side eyes me, "whatever, took you long enough. get the hairdryer quickly we don't have all day."

I nod furiously before searching the room overloaded with items for said hairdryer, looking through the cart of hair and makeup equipment.

I hurried back to him and handed over the instrument before commotion increased, a firm and loud voice announcing, "miss uchinaga to proceed with hair and makeup!"

suddenly, the aforementioned lady herself exits a black curtain from across the room, adorning a beautiful black dress that hugs her figure perfectly, lacey sleeves flowing down her arms, her curves accentuated gorgeously.

a lump gets stuck in my throat as she sways her way towards the director's chair propped in front of the vanity. I lower my gaze and bow my head slightly as she passes by me, the breeze that follows her strut hitting my frozen-still body and making my breath hitch in anxiety. she comfortably sits herself down in the black chair, barely noticing my presence.

"hellooooo? rookie? get a fucking grip!" a female voice snaps me out of my trance accompanied by loud clapping in front of my face. "pay attention! can you get the goddamn hand mirror?"

"yes of course, I'm sorry miss!" I nervously pick at my fingers and push through the crowd again, rummaging through the cart for the item she requested.

"god how useless, why did you even choose her boss?" the same stylist gossips towards miss uchinaga.

"choose who? what are you talking about?" her graceful and soft voice replies nonchalantly.

"that nobody over there, searching through the cart like a homeless person in a dumpster, so gross..." the stylist continues, my stomach churning at the vile words.

miss uchinaga hums unsurely, "be more specific on who you're talking about, I don't have time for useless banter."

the stylist clears her throat, "your, assistant, I guess if that's what you can call whoever that thing is."

my hands clench into fists at the vicious comments she keeps making until miss uchinaga says, "she's here for a reason isn't she? means she's qualified."

the short and simple response shuts the stylist up quickly, returning to her work. I reluctantly hand the mirror over to her, her grip aggressive as she snatches the item from my hand. and I continue to meet the demands of the people in the busy room, running back and forth fetching things for people and assisting in helping everyone as best as I could.

it had to have been at least two hours of constant movement and working, everyone in that room not stopping for even a second. eventually, all the work that needed to be done was finished and we all had to proceed to the stage and start the show. I was tasked to stay behind and wait for miss uchinaga as her assistant, ready to help her with anything she needed.

and so gradually, the room had cleared of all the people, leaving an unfamiliar silence to hang in the air, my ears almost ringing from the emptiness. I stood there nearly in the middle of the room, feet glued to the floor and my head hanging down, eyes affixed onto my shoes. only but the soft rustling movement of the woman in front of me was faintly heard.

her melodious humming filled the room warmly, a comfortable tune dancing off her lips as she touched herself up and checked her appearance. I continue to accompany her and leave her to do her own thing, more focused on the carpet under where I stand.

"hey, come here will you?" the soft sounding but firm request summons me forward, moving to stand behind her chair.

"m-miss uchinaga?" I curse under my breath at the stutter, embarrassed by it.

she seemingly dismisses the mistake and continues, "you're my new assistant, aren't you?"

I gain enough confidence to lift my gaze and look at her through the mirror, the woman still diligently observing herself, "yes miss, I am."

"what's your name then assistant?" she fixes her hair one last time and adjusts her jewelry before turning and facing me, leaning back against the vanity with her arms crossed.

"y/n l/n miss..." my gaze falters under her intense stare, eyes falling towards the floor again.

her hum in curiosity makes my eyes shoot back up towards her face.

"huh." she hums, observant gaze trailing my figure, up and down slowly.

I feel small under her stare, wanting to curl up and let the earth swallow me whole, feeling like aeri uchinaga is tearing me apart bit by bit with her critical eyes.

instead, a small but obvious smirk tugs at her lips, "cute."

a furious blush climbs my cheeks and spreads across my face at her quick insignificant comment that still had made my heart swell and increase the speed at which it beat.

before any more words could be exchanged, she pushes herself off the table, handing her phone and keys to me, "you're with me, stand backstage and just watch, drive me home after."

I put her items into my bag and nod, following her out of the room and towards the stage. a cacophony of sounds fill the room once again as we hurriedly make our way there, people scrambling around with last minute touch-ups on their models.

the production crew checks in with miss uchinaga, confirming the setup of the stage from the lights to the props, as well as the flow of the show and every other detail she demanded information on. I stand right behind her and listen in, making sure if she needs anything I'd be ready to assist. they finish their discussion swiftly, the crew rushing back to their stations and miss uchinaga ushering the two of us towards an empty area with a clear view of the stage, the audience members sitting around and chatting having been in sight as well.

"you get the princess treatment for today pretty," she turns to me, a pleased look on her face.

the clutch on my bag hardens at her soft words, feeling my face heat up, "th-thank you, miss uchinaga…"

"y/n, call me aeri," her voice is gentle but low as she tells me what to do.

I stutter in response, "but, miss uchinaga, I'm- I'm not… I don't think it's that appropriate y-yet…"

"please y/n, we're gonna be together for a while so you should get used to saying my name, darling," she takes the smallest step towards me, her presence towering over me.

I feel her stare drill holes into my soul, her intimidating aura overwhelming me. she traps me when I look up into her eyes, unable to move my sight away from her. my stomach fills with butterflies, the beautiful goddess before me having such an alluring air to her. even in this crowded venue, filled to the brim with busy people, they're all tuned out, feeling like me and her were the only two to exist in this moment.

fuck, how am I supposed to work with her?

"got that, cutie?" the pet names continuing to make me want to implode.

I swallow and nod pathetically, "mhm."

"say my name then, pretty," she demands, her siren-like eyes searing my skin.

"a-aeri…"

"good girl, y/n."

oh my god, what the fuck.

"miss uchinaga!" a voice calls for her, snapping me out of the trance she put me under.

the woman in front of me huffs and turns towards the man with a headset that had poked his head into the room, searching for her.

"miss, you're on soon," he pants, motioning for her to get moving.

she raises her eyebrows and nods slightly at him in approval, shooing him away before she turns back to me.

"enjoy the show okay?" her tone is calm and comforting, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder and patting me, giving it a final squeeze, strutting away after I nod my head at her request.

the clicking of her heels fades and once she's completely out of sight, I release a deep breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding in. I clutch at my heart, bunching up the material of my sweater, feeling it beat out of my chest. my head is dizzy and my shoulder burns, the effect and touch she had on me still lingering, feeling my knees buckle at the mere thought of her, leaning back against a nearby wall for stability.

though I didn't have long to recover as the lights on the stage dimmed and the runway lit up, whispering from backstage heard faintly as music starts, the first model swaying their way onto the catwalk. I try my best to ignore the pounding of my heart as aeri uchinaga's winter collection is displayed on the models that walk across the stage.

the outfits are beautiful, stylish coats and jackets adorning the range of models, the clothes all dark colors but still with a certain attractive charm. arrangements of sweaters, slacks, and bags that compliment every outfit perfectly, each piece meticulously and specifically picked out to match each other. I'm mesmerized by the variety of fashion that these models are crowned in, aeri and her team's hard work apparent with the quality and effort put into every thread.

I become so engrossed and enamored by the show, that as soon as it starts does it end, the last of the models strutting off the stage finally as the winter collection showcase concludes. the music continues however, aeri suddenly appearing, swaying her way into the middle of the runway as the audience applauds. her ethereal aura palpable, presence so grand even while she's simply walking. making it to the center, she gives the audience a graceful bow, a charming smile, and an elegant wave before turning and sashaying off the stage once again.

mid my own applause does aeri emerge from the curtain separating me and the main part of the backstage area, pushing her curtain bangs out of her face with her fingers.

"how was it, princess?" she asks genuinely, tilting her head to the side as she awaits my answer.

my heart begins to pound once again, feeling like she really wanted to hear my honest opinion.

"not that how I think matters-" she immediately interrupts me.

"why wouldn't it? you're practically becoming my second-in-command, I wanna know how you think, see how truly compatible we are."

a sweet smile emerges onto her cherry colored lips, eyes and expression expectant for my response.

I nervously reply, "that's... really thoughtful of you, a-aeri."

her soft giggle permeates through the small space, my chest thumping at the sound, "don't mention it, just tell me how you feel."

"well, I think it was truly excellent," I state confidently.

her face looks pleased, but she looks as if she was waiting for more details, and so I continue, "the color palate was so tasteful, you and the brand have always been good at darker colors, I know that's your specialty. though they can be perceived as dull, it was so masterfully crafted that it didn't feel boring in the slightest. it was even elevated if I can say, accessories perfectly matching with each outfit, from the jewelry to the bags, incredible."

I got so lost in my enthusiasm about the display that I had practically spaced out, unaware to the joyous woman in front of me. looking back at her, an excited expression lay on her face, cheeks plump and smile wide watching as I rambled. her crescent eyes smiled at me, hair falling perfectly around her face and resting at her shoulders, just so beautifully happy.

feeling flustered, I stutter, "oh! I uhh, didn't mean to ramble so much, miss uch- a- aeri... I apologize."

"don't, I like it," whispering simply.

under her heart-throbbing stare, I look away, "we-well! we must get going, there's still your after party to attend."

she groans, "ughhh, fuck the after party, I don't care. too tired anyway, bossing people around all day to get things right is exhausting."

I return my gaze back towards the bored-looking woman, "but this is still your event, it might be strange if you're absent."

"why, are you gonna stop me? hm doll?" her eyes are lethal staring into me.

"m-miss... all I'm saying is the people might be disappointed... I can't stop whatever you'd like to do however, you're the boss of course..."

"mhm, and don't forget that okay? you listen to me," aeri's tone is firm and dangerous, dripping with authority but also sensuality, suddenly appearing almost right against me.

she crosses an arm over her chest and rests her other arm's elbow on it, her free hand slowly pointing a finger at my wide-eyed expression.

"got that, darling?" she uses the stray digit to tilt my head up, placing it under my chin, her touch igniting a fire on my skin.

I pathetically hum in response, sounding closer to a terrified squeak more than anything.

"you listen so well, don't you?" she smiles almost sinisterly, taking her fingertip and tapping it cutely on my nose.

she steps back slightly, giving me space again to which I release a deep breath, feeling like I can breathe.

aeri sighs annoyedly, "but you're right, my absence at my OWN show's after party is peculiar, but I don't wanna go. truly too exhausted for it. let's go home."

"I'll have to inform the organizers that you won't be attending. some important individuals were hoping to talk to you tonight," I respond, ever-so-slightly gaining back my composure.

"mm-mm, don't stress yourself about it," she shakes her head, resting her hands on her hips, "I'll shoot them a text and make the team send out packages with letters of me apologizing for it, no big deal."

"still aeri, I have to organize that-"

"I told you already y/n-ie, I got it, don't worry."

I let her win, a serious and unmoving expression on her face, "alright."

she gives a slight nod of approval, suddenly taking my hand gently, holding me by my fingers and leisurely dragging the two of us off. I let her guide me, aeri saying her goodbyes and goodnights to the hard-working team, telling certain individuals she would be contacting them in a bit to inform them of her absence. she leads me through the entire venue, seemingly having the most inconspicuous route to her car memorized, avoiding as many people as possible.

we arrive at the parking garage, her matte black sports car emerging into view.

"I'm driving?" I ask hesitantly.

she hums in approval, "never driven something like this before have you?"

the nervous nature apparent in my tone of voice, "that obvious?"

a giggle echoes through the garage full of expensive, high-end vehicles, "no worries darling, just think of a normal car with a bit more kick."

she was right, I had never driven such an expensive and sleek looking vehicle before, nervous to the possibility that I could damage it, especially knowing it was aeri's car.

it was almost as if she read my mind, "I have at least a handful more that you can crash, it's no problem if it gets damaged."

I choke and cough, "I'd hope I wouldn't get into a car crash!"

she turns and smiles at me, arriving in front of the vehicle, "you won't, of course you won't."

I reluctantly nod, dragging myself over and opening the passenger side's door, aeri climbing in with a small grin. I close the door, making my way over to the driver's seat, trying to breathe and calm my nerves. I settle into the custom printed leather seats, dark red embroidery stitched into the pristine interior, a fresh and clean smell wafting through the car.

"it is a ferrari though, so maybe don't damage it," she comments quietly, looking over at the woman whose legs are crossed and hands placed neatly on her lap, head leaning back against the seat with her eyes closed.

aeri is so incredibly nonchalant about the situation, it somehow comforts me, starting up the car and gaining enough courage to start driving. the trip back to her place was silent, peaceful cruising through the city, illuminated by the street lights, the two of us quiet in the car. she was right, it wasn't too bad but it felt like I could speed up and go too fast at any moment, so I tried to get a feel of how the vehicle operated, focusing on getting used to it. every other stoplight, I'd check the gps and then up at aeri, her resting figure so serene, the girl so still and pretty, unsure if she was really asleep or just resting her eyes.

her beauty is so utterly attractive and alluring, making my pulse rise every time I lay my eyes on her. what trouble will I possibly encounter working for this stunning woman? and how long will I survive?

almost in the blink of an eye, we arrive at her apartment complex. I find a parking space for the car, skipping the valet according to aeri's instruction, not wanting anyone else to touch her car. once parked, I finally let out a sigh, turning to my boss whose eyes flutter open, feeling the car's movement stop.

elegantly, like a princess, she sits upright and brushes stray hairs from her face, "home?" her voice raspy.

I nod carefully, climbing out of the car and opening her door. she tiredly stumbles out as I hold out my hand for her to grasp, taking it and stabilizing herself. her touch ignites my skin once again, her fingers lacing around mine once she's standing, shooting me a charming smile.

once again, I felt my stomach flutter, my whole body just succumbing to the ravishing woman whose hand was firmly holding mine, pulling me towards the elevator up to the penthouse. the ding of the elevator arriving and opening up to her place forced me back to reality, eyes widening at the sight of the grand residence.

walking inside and removing our heels, I got to absorb the surroundings. the motion detected light shone over us, not too bright but enough to outline the rest of the place. it was tall and spacious, high roofs supported by shiny white pillars, the wooden floors dark and clean, grand piano next to the comfortable array of sofas and armchairs, expensive accessories from the brand decorating the empty spaces on the walls, the breathtaking view over the city being the most prominent feature, large glass window panes displaying the incredible sight, leaving me in utter awe.

"like it? it's pretty nice," aeri's softly asks from beside me.

"you've got a magnificent place," I reply, still quite awestruck.

she chuckles once, letting go of my hand and walking forward, flipping the switches that dimly light up the living room in a warm tone, "you're a very honest individual, aren't you y/n?"

"is that a bad thing?" you ask, a little reluctantly, following her around.

"it's exactly the type of thing that's necessary in this industry, especially since you're working for me. honesty and transparency are some of the biggest traits I value out of my employees, within people in general really," she flips on the light switch to her big walk-in closet, "and you're my direct right hand, the most important person that I need to have be honest with me."

I stand by the door, taking in the room. it was such a large room for solely being a closet, clothes, accessories, and shoes all lined up against the walls, an almost never-ending selection presented on display. it was set-up like a designer store, except this was aeri uchinaga's own personal closet in her home.

she stood in front of a vanity area on the other side of the room, tiredly removing her jewelry from herself, hearing the metal rings clang against the marble countertop. she was quite careless with the items, throwing them off of her with little to no regard for damage, making me cringe slightly, worried they might break.

"come sit," she calls me over softly, motioning with her hand behind her towards the seating at the middle of the room.

I walk over, observing her diligently remove her earrings, sitting down with my legs crossed, once again watching her through the mirror.

"have you eaten yet, y/n?" the unexpected question startles me slightly.

"I can't remember the last time I have today," I respond honestly.

she hums, "well, let me get cleaned up and share dinner together then, shall we?"

I blink confusedly, eyes wide, looking like a deer in headlights at what she said.

"I need to get to know you more anyway, I think while I have you here, it's as good a time as any."

"it's quite late and you're tired, I should get going home..." I bite the inside of my cheek, her eyes staring back at me through the reflection.

"I insist," her voice is firm.

I gulp down my nervousness, nodding my head at her, aeri smiling at me, "good."

I watch as she reaches around to the zipper on the back of her dress, finished with the removal of her jewelry. her fingers struggle to get a good hold onto the metal and she calls me over.

"y/n, come help me with this zipper," aeri's firm but alluring voice demands me, urging me to walk up behind her, her back filling my view.

I swallow down a lump in my throat as my shaky hands reach up towards the metal resting at the top of her back. I grip the zipper and slowly pull downwards, being careful not to drag too quickly or damage the material of the designer dress. I feel the intense stare of my boss drill holes into me through the mirror, her hands moving her hair out of the way.

"nice and slow pretty, don't wanna damage anything do you?" her raspy voice fills my ears.

"y-yes ma'am," I stutter out, continuing to unzip her dress.

I feel sweat come from my palms, the speed at which I was unzipping her dress achingly slow, even though it wasn't even that gradual. carefully, aeri's back exposed itself, her milky skin emerging into view. my hands feel unsteady as they work, my breathing becoming uneven too, nervous to mess up and also seeing the woman's bare back. I try to simply focus on the task at hand, staring directly at the zipper and nothing else.

"you got it, doing so well for me," aeri deeply breathes out, her eyes half-lidded and seductive through the reflection.

her gaze makes me absolutely weak, I feel fucking insane.

eventually, the torture is over though, reaching the end of the zipper's trail.

I step back and stutter, "y-you can finish cl-cleaning up, I'll wait in the living room!"

I turn away and speed walk out of the closet, patting my skin dry from the nervous sweat, plopping myself down on the sofa and covering my face with my clammy hands. oh my god I wanna scream. what the actual fuck am I getting myself into?

the night calmed down slightly. we shared a light dinner while aeri asked questions about me, why I was interested in the position, what my goals are, what do I wanna learn from working with her, how long I plan to work for her, all answers which she seemed to be satisfied with. she asked about me personally too, where I'm from, my background, my education, my interests, all of which she was intrigued by.

we talked quite normally for a few hours, having had a couple of drinks already, feeling the intoxication climb up slowly. eventually, we moved to the couch to converse more comfortably. she sat right down next to me, handing me a glass.

"hoping you enjoy red wine too," aeri settles close to me, leaning against her arm propped up on the back of the couch, taking a sip from her glass.

I take a sip from mine, "it's sweet so I'm happy."

"ah good, I like a drink just not when it tastes like it," she giggles.

"oh," she readjusts herself, "let me ask you, are there any limits or boundaries you'd like to set for yourself with me right now?"

her question catches me off guard, "I'm sorry?" I ask, almost confused.

she catches the puzzled sound in my voice, "well, I wanna know if there's anything you wouldn't wanna do. I'll have you running a lot of different errands, some of them you could say are... physically taxing?"

her voice lingers through the dimly lit room, her face illuminated by the shine of the moon and city lights through the window, "I'm simply curious is all miss l/n, could and would you do any and everything for me?"

there's something sinister in the way she talks, her voice deep, the words coming from her throat in an almost inaudible rasp, but loud enough to resonate through my head. her question rings in my ears, what could she mean?

"I will perform any task you set for me to the best of my capability," I give her a simple and general answer to respond, unsure of what else I can say.

she hums, seemingly pondering, her face looking quite deep into thought. she looks up at me, capturing my stare with hers, the energy suddenly shifting when we lock eyes. a smirk tugs at the corner of her lip slowly, making my stomach flip. her gaze is filled with an allure of seduction, her sudden fingertip tracing my exposed knee close to her making me jolt in surprise, a chill running down my back.

"any task huh?"

my breath hitches when the cold condensation of her wine drips onto my knee, trailing down my leg. she taps her glass against my knee again, droplets splashing off and running down my skin, making me shiver slightly. I watch as she lifts the glass off of me and gulps down another sip of the sweet alcohol, her lips tainted red.

I hum in agreement to the question, the sound coming from my lips almost inaudible, getting stuck in my throat from how flustered I became.

she holds her glass with her other hand now, returning the hand that touched my knee back to it and placing it on me, her fingers dragging across my skin, caressing it, "god, you're cute."

her fingers trail up and down the exposed part of my thigh, playing very slightly with the hem of my skirt, not trailing any further up. her touch absolutely ignites me on the inside, constant chills going through me, my breathing becoming uneven.

"aeri..." I whisper quietly, the feeling of her touching me too much for me to handle.

"what is it darling? use your words," her voice is soft but menacing, hand grabbing the underside of my knee to pull me closer to her, my body pushed up against her.

I gasp at the movement, almost spilling my wine. she looks down at me, a hazy look in her half-open siren eyes, her lips slightly parted and wet as she licks them clean. my pulse rises impossibly high, feeling like my heart is about to burst out of my chest, aeri's hand trailing higher on my thigh, crawling slowly under my skirt.

I tear my gaze away from her stare and grip her wrist, clearing my throat, "a-aeri... I don't think we should be this close..."

she grabs my wrist back, sliding her hand into mine and interlacing our fingers, bringing my hand to her mouth, "well pretty, I just can't help it you know?"

I swallow down the lump in my throat and tense as her plump lips press against my hand, her eyes fluttering shut as she kisses it achingly slow. the way she moves is so mesmerizing, her head craning to the side as she kisses it again, the sound of her releasing her lips from my skin resonates, feeling the wet spot she left on me.

I break out of the spell she has me under and slip my hand from her grasp, gripping the hem of my skirt down, crossing my legs tightly as the desire for her grew within me, "we should call it a night, you've already had a few drinks..."

she doesn't let up, fingers dragging across my arm, "I just need to know more about you y/n, aren't you curious too?"

I shiver at her question, "aeri... I can't... we shouldn't..."

"what's stopping us?" she grabs the glass out of my hand and places both of them on the coffee table, freeing our hands.

she pulls me by the collar of my sweater, her face coming closer to mine.

her lips hover right over mine as she whispers against them, "no one has to know."

I place my hands against her chest, holding her back from coming any closer to me, my breathing shaky, "you... you don't want this... you're just drunk aeri..."

"I do, I do want this y/n. push me away if you don't want this too," she holds one of my wrists, "please... stop me."

her voice whispered to me, the pleading desperation in her tone evident. and fuck me, it worked, my entire body burning, feeling myself start to throb.

I hold in my breath, resting my forehead against hers, "I... I do want this too, I don't want you to stop..."

there's a glint in aeri's eyes at my words, her big hand immediately grasping my neck and pulling me into her, smashing her blood red lips against mine. the kiss is greedy and desperate, her mouth molding against mine sloppily, our breathing heavy as tiny noises escape my throat. I taste the sweet red wine on her juicy soft lips as I melt further into her, feeling my entire body heat up in desire, clutching at her tank top and bunching it up in my hands, pulling her closer, making sure there's absolutely no space in between us. her other hand grips under my knee, pulling me into her lap, straddling her as she tilts her head to the side to make out deeply with me.

her hand grips my thigh under my skirt tightly, other hand pulling my neck in as she slips her tongue into my wet mouth. I sigh out at the intrusion, letting her move freely against my needy tongue. the flavor of alcohol and saliva intoxicate me completely, her deep groans vibrating in my mouth, making me whimper in response against her lips. my hands thread through her perfectly soft hair while both of her hands grip my thighs, rubbing them up and down before squeezing my hips, finally landing on my exposed waist, sliding under my cropped sweater, and guiding me on her lap.

I moan deeply against her, my core grinding on hers, aeri also releasing a long pleasured groan at the sensation. we finally pull away, leaning our foreheads against each other as we both pant, out of breath.

"fuck y/n, you're perfect," she sighs out, chest rising and falling, clutching the locks of her hair tightly to keep her close to me.

"aeri, I need you..." I desperately whine, my core aching painfully.

I pull back slightly to look her in the eyes and they're dark, clouded with lust and desire, which makes the pulsing between my thighs pound harder.

her voice is low and sultry, "tell me how badly."

the grip on my waist tightens as she guides my body once again, brushing my center against her own, making both of us moan.

"so, fucking, badly," I gasp out with each grind of my hips.

her hands guide me slowly but roughly, the contact of our clothed cores driving me insane, my stomach wanting to explode from the tightness. I grip her tightly as she continues to grind me against her, her fingers digging into my skin, my eyes squinted shut as the pleasure gradually but intensely builds inside me. I try to keep my eyes open, looking down at her focused stare, so hypnotized by the moment, feeling her gaze memorize the look of desire painted all over my face.

"let me help you," she whispers against my chest, one hand pulling my sweater up and over my breasts.

I release a hand from her hair and grip her shoulder with a gasp, the one unclasping my bra.

"it's okay," her teeth pulling my bra off, "trust me beautiful, I've got you."

her words make me lighten my hold on her shoulder, allowing her to keep going. she hums softly before exposing my boobs to the air, turning my cheeks pink in embarrassment. it swiftly washes away though as aeri's lips mumble against my skin.

"so pretty," my breath hitches when she attaches her mouth to my nipple, sucking the bud in and flicking her hot wet tongue against it.

I moan out loudly, the sensation had my eyes rolling back, arching myself into her as I grinded my own hips against her lap. her tongue swirled around my nipple, the saliva trailing down my chest, aeri using it to spread against my entire tit. I pant as she harshly but quickly bites down around my bud, soothing the shocking pain with her warm muscle. she switches to my other boob, spitting onto my nipple before swiping her tongue, sucking my entire tit into her mouth as she plays with the bud on her tongue.

"fuck aeri..." I whine in pleasure, both of my hands gripping at her shoulders, fingernails digging into them.

"like that?" she asks incoherently against my boob.

I nod mindlessly as I feel her smile against my chest, "already losing your mind huh? so sensitive baby."

she chuckles deeply, the sound vibrating on her tongue as it moves against my nipple. with one hand on my waist, she brings her other hand under my skirt again, creeping up my inner thigh and caressing her knuckle against my clothed clit. I jolt in her hold, biting down on my lip to suppress an embarrassingly loud whimper.

"don't hold back, let me hear you," she detaches from my chest, cupping my face and pulling me in.

her fingertip traces against my slit, "you're so fucking wet darling, you did want this, didn't you?"

"uh huh," I pant out, her finger pressing against my clit.

"fuck, I'm gonna ruin you."

aeri kisses me again, locking lips with mine, slipping her tongue into my mouth as I return her desperation with as much passion, thrashing my tongue back against hers. I feel her carefully push my panties to the side, two fingers sliding around my clit and dipping in and out of my slick slit, getting them wet from my dripping pussy.

"god you are soaked, you poor thing..." she teases after releasing me from her lips, teeth dragging my bottom lip, "must ache so bad."

"it does, fuck it does, aeri please please please," I beg desperately, "please fuck me..."

she groans against my lips, "you are so pretty when you beg, I'm gonna get so addicted to every part of you."

I whimper when she pinches my clit, soothing it when she rubs it in circles, "especially with this perfect pussy of yours."

aeri starts to leave wet kisses across my neck as her fingers flick my clit back and forth, gradually getting faster. I lace my fingers through her hair, gripping her head against my neck as my other hand clutches onto her upper arm for support as she continues to play with my pussy. I'm gasping for air, feeling the breath knocked out of me with how overwhelming the sensation of pleasure within me grows. her fingers slide down to my opening, gathering the slick and slapping her hand against my folds.

she inserts those two fingers inside of me, slipping them in easily due to my wetness, her digits completely sheathed by my walls. I let out a blissful cry at the action, digging my nails into her skin, making her hiss.

she groans with me, "my god you're so tight, your pussy just sucked me in. you feel perfect around me."

carefully, aeri draws her digits back, thumb rubbing at my clit, before sinking them inside me again, fingertips landing against that spot so delicious that it pulls a moan of delight from my lips. her tongue drags across the length of my perspiring neck, hand working smoothly against my sopping cunt.

"fuck! right there aeri yes, so good..." I sigh breathlessly, hips grinding back against her hand.

"taking me so well princess, that's it," she coos.

she starts speeding up, a consistent but accelerating pace as she plunges in and out of my hole, the sounds of our pants and gushing of my entrance filling my ears, aeri's lips against my jaw.

she trails her lips up to my ear and whispers, "such a good girl."

her voice drips with seduction, making my eyes roll back harder when she slips in a third finger. I release a euphoric scream, the intrusion full of pain and pleasure as it stretches me open, burning like hellfire but felt so unfathomably heavenly.

"you're gonna take everything I give you darling, fuck I'm going insane," immediately thrusting her fingers into me swiftly.

"ohhhhh goddddd..." one long continuous loud moan is forced from my throat, each pound of her hand sending me into oblivion.

I bounce on her hand, her long thick digits curling perfectly inside of my core, spilling cum all over her palm, dripping down onto her thighs. she feels so unbelievably good, her moaning right next to my ear, feeling pleasure just from watching and fucking me, her sounds continuing to impossibly turn me on.

"gonna cum on my fingers, doll? wanna make a mess in my lap?" her voice breathy and raspy, questions sounding more like a demand.

I mumble an affirmative response, something I doubt she can even make out properly, a dark chuckle in my ear at my incoherence. her lips trail down my neck, placing sloppy markings across my collar, lifting my top up again and feeling her hot tongue lap rhythmically against my nipple. her hand spread wide to capture my boobs, sucking both buds into her mouth and brushing her teeth down against them, switching between flicking her tongue and biting down on my hardened nipples.

the sensations drive me into a blinding release of ecstasy, my eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging open, screaming out in complete and utter bliss as my pussy gushed around aeri's skillful hand, drenching the both of us. my head is thrown back while my hands claw at the woman holding me close, mouth still working on my chest, vibrations against my nipples from her moaning while she fucks me through my intense climax.

she gradually lessens the speed at which she thrusts into me, coming to a halt when she achingly slowly pulls her dripping fingers out of my leaking cunt and releases with a pop, cum flowing out with her digits. she drags her fingers across my slit, spreading my slick around the entire area, rubbing against my sensitive bundle of nerves. I thrash at the stimulation, the feeling too much for my body, too soon.

she pulls her hand back from my core, her mouth releasing from my chest so she can bring the hand up to her lips, sticking her tongue out and letting her fingers drag across it, licking up every drop of cum on her digits. even though my vision is hazy, the sight makes me gulp, feeling my center pulsate. I collapse onto her as she lets me fall into her neck, nose brushing against her nape. my body feels exhausted, her hands sliding under my sweater and wrapping her toned arms around me, hugging my limp figure while rubbing my back soothingly.

aeri kisses my shoulder, her lips mumbling against it, "good girl."

I bury my face into her warm neck, nuzzling my face against her skin as I try to regain my energy, resisting passing out. slowly, I drag my head away, resting my forehead against hers with my eyes still closed, relishing in the serenity for just a second.

I flutter my eyes open just enough to see her, a soft look on her face as she quietly asks on my lips, "are you okay, princess?"

her concern for me send butterflies erupting in my stomach, feeling so cared for, a contrast to her demeanor just a little while ago.

I sigh out a response of affirmation before breathing out, "one more..."

the two words ring in aeri's ears, the sweet look on her face shifting ominously.

"you mean it," it was more of a statement than a question.

I nod and a smirk spreads across her lips.

she pulls me up, sliding her shorts and panties down her legs, slipping your underwear off of me too, "good, because I'm throbbing like crazy and I need you to ease the ache."

aeri maneuvers our bodies until our legs are intertwined, holding me by my waist as my pussy hovers over hers. she slides her fingers up her slit, letting out a breathy sigh, before bringing her dripping digits up to my lips.

"taste what you've done," opening my mouth and sucking on her fingers, cleaning them of her delectable nectar.

she watches intently as my tongue works around her fingers, her eyes blown with desire and her wet lips stained red, slightly parted as I slowly blink up at her, meeting her stare.

"how fucking obedient, you just wanna be mine don't you? you're gonna love working for me, I'm gonna use you however I want and you'll enjoy it because you're mine, got it?" she growls, gripping my jaw with her fingers still in my mouth, pulling my face closer, "I own you y/n l/n."

"all yours..." I choke on her digits.

her hand slips from my face, returning to my waist and pulling me down to her pussy, guiding me to slide against her slippery core. moans drag out from both of our mouths, my forehead resting on hers, overstimulation still present in my body as our clits brush against each other, aeri grinding our cunts again. her fingers dig into my sides, sliding her pussy upwards to meet the grind of my hips. I reciprocate the motion, moving to meet her thrusts, our cunt juices mixing with one another.

the feeling is so orgasmic, panting onto each others lips as I fuck myself against her, the squelching sounds loud from our slippery centers. she cries moans onto my lips, threading my fingers through her soft dampened hair, massaging her head and pulling her into a messy makeout, swallowing her pleasurable noises. I suck on her tongue as she increases our pace, forcing my body to keep up with her grinding, her nails scratching my skin.

I release her tongue with a pop, her saliva coating my mouth as she groans out at every other thrust, "you feel- so fucking- good, ugh y/n!"

"aeri, aeri, aeri, aeri..." I chant her name incomprehensibly.

her speed becomes relentless, wanting more control as she lifts me up and pins me down against the sofa, my back against the plush cushions and hands falling from her hair, aeri's legs and entire body holding me down as she drills me harder. our cunts are impossibly slick, sliding against each other so pleasurably, our clits perfectly making out messily, wetness continuing to leak from our pussies. she brings her hand to grasp my thigh, hugging my leg to her body, the other hand grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling my head back. my hands clutch the material of her thin shirt, holding it hard enough to tear, not that anything other than aeri fucking me right now matters.

"I'm going fucking feral over this pussy, you're so perfect doll, you're all mine," she sounds so aggressive yet sexy as she ruins me.

the woman above me looks so strikingly other-worldly, the shine of her sweaty skin leaving her glowing in the faint lighting, her dampened hair flowing across her body, stray bangs sticking to her forehead, her strong arms gripping me possessively, her chest bouncing up and down so close to my heated face, her drenched and aching core slipping perfectly against mine. aeri uchinaga feels, looks, and is absolutely ethereal.

I feel my stomach tighten as her pace is unstoppable, so fast the couch even jerks from the movement. our moans are cries, screams of loud and complete bliss, her lips plump and hanging open, eyes rolled all the way back.

"I'm gonna fucking cum, I'm gonna fucking cum!" aeri cries with her raspy throat.

"please, please, cum with me!" I beg her, voice hoarse but audible, her eyes locking onto mine.

we stare into each other's eyes as we both burst, cum gushing from our pussies, squirting against our cunts. my vision goes blank and I see a blinding white light surge through my head, my body thrashing from the pleasure, the sensations causing screams to rip from my throat, hearing aeri groan just as delightfully. I feel our cum flow down my thighs, soaking my skirt and the cushion under us, unable to move regardless as my hands release their grip on her torn shirt.

I fall totally limp against the couch, aftershocks of the orgasm coursing through my body, making my entire figure jerk every so often. aeri collapses on top of me, carefully still, her hands releasing their tight grips on me, her head falling into the pillow I lay on, face against my cheek, her nose bumping my skin. her hot heavy gasps for air hit the side of my face as I bring my hand up to play with her hair, caressing her head.

suddenly, her arms slip under my sweater and wrap around my torso, lifting me up and flipping us over. the action makes me squeal, my limp body now resting on top of her thumping chest, breasts soft against mine. I melt into her warm embrace, feeling my body's exhaustion crawl over me, wanting to consume me into slumber. aeri starts her pleasant humming, vibrations from her chest transferring to mine, feeling my body ease and slowly succumb to sleep.

"my perfect girl, you're gonna be an amazing assistant, we're gonna work so well together," she whispers.

I hum in response and she pats my back, giving me approval to rest.

her hands caress me soothingly, kissing my forehead, "sleep with me, no one has to know."

[palmtreesx3]

Burning Through the Pages

Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he’s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.

Warnings: Eventual explicit smut (f/m), delayed gratification, academic banter-as-foreplay, enemies-to-lovers slow burn, emotionally repressed idiots, hallway tension, power dynamics (equal, but charged), inappropriate office behavior, emotionally competent aftercare.

Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here

Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard. 

He did. He always does.

Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.

Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.

“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”

He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.

Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.

What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.

He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control. 

He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.

You.

You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.

You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.

You don’t even look at him.

Steve stops mid-step.

Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”

 New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.

But then you unlock a door.

And the office it reveals?

The office is a whole goddamn vibe.

The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:

“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”

A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.

Steve blinks.

 Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.

He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.

And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.

---

The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.

You're muttering to yourself. Not softly. 

“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”  

“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”

You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar. 

You're almost at your office when the air shifts.

It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.

You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology. 

 Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.

He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.

And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.

He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.

You… do not have time for that.

Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.

Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.

Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.

It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.

You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).

And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.

It’s him.

Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut.  Let him wonder.  Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”

But you?  You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.

Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.

Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.

A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.

You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade” 

He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”

He blinks.

You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.

“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”

He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)

“Steve. Yeah.”

“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.” 

You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.

He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.

“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”

And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.

“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”

“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”

---

You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.

Okay, you do.

You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.

So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.

“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”

You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”

He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.

This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.

And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.

Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.

He’s ready.

He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.

This is his arena.

Then you walk in.

Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.

You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.

And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.

Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.

“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”

He glances at you. You don’t look back.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.

“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.

The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.

But today? Today, he’s watching you.

You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.

The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.

Then it’s his turn.

He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.

But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.

He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.

A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.

“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”

You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.

You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”

You don’t even look sorry.

And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

---

You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.

You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.

You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.

It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.

You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.

You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.

“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”

You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?

So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.

And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.

Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.

Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.

“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”

His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.

“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”

You smile.  God, you love being right.

“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”

You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.

 Not looking back. You don’t need to.

He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples.  Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.

It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.

Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.

Okay. He was.

He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.

But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.

And there’s only one goddamn chair left.

Of course.

You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”

He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”

“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.

He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”

“That’s sacred, actually.”

“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”

You don’t blink. You just keep reading.

And Steve?  Steve is falling apart.

---

He’s spiraling. Again.

You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.

He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”

“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”

“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.

You finally look up. Your eyes meet.

It’s electric.

“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.

He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”

Coward.

The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free. 

You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.

You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.

The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.

And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.

Steve Harrington is watching you.

Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.

He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.

He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.

“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.

“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”

“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”

You sip. He fakes a laugh.

“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.

“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum.  And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

Your smile is sweet. A weapon.

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

---

He is not okay.

He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.

Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.

He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.

Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.

He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?

You do.

“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.

He likes this.

He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.

Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.

You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.

You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.

You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.

“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.

He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.

You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”

He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”

 Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”

You laugh, but it’s sharp.

 Ugly.

 Real.

And you hate how quiet he is.

You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.

But instead—

---

He’s never seen you like this.

Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.

You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”

He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”

He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”

You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.

“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”

“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”

“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.

He’s just here.

And that? That’s new

You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.

Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.

He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.

Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.

You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”

You don’t turn. “Fine.”

He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”

You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”

You wink. And just like that—you’re back. 

Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.

He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”

You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”

He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.

You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.

He does anyway.

---

You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.

You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur.

“I’m helping.”

“Are you?”

You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first. 

He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.

“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”

His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.

You could kiss him.

You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”

A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”

Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.

He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off.  Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You’re all he can think about.

Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.

His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.

He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.

“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”

And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.

He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.

He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.

Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.

He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.

He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.

His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”

His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”

“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.

Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.

It never is.

It never will be.

---

On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.

You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides. 

You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.

So…who really won?

You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.

You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.

But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.

You rub faster.

Deeper.

Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.

The thought makes your stomach flip.

You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.

“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”

You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.

Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.

You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.

You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.

“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”

You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.

Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.

You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.

Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.

Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

You nod. Don’t ask why.

“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”

You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.

“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”

You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.

“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”

He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”

He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”

And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.

He didn’t come here to cry.

He didn’t come here to beg.

But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse  loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.

He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.

Progress.

But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.

He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”

You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.

A peace offering.

He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.

---

You let him touch you.

Just barely. Just enough.

And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.

“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”

He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”

“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”

The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.

He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.

And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.

It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak. 

“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.

He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”

He knocks before entering now.

Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.

Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.

You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.

You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.

Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.

“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.

He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.

Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.

He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—

But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.

---

He’s not saying anything.

And that, somehow, says everything.

You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.

You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.

You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.

It makes your chest feel tight.

You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”

His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”

You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”

“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”

“Nah. I think I like this version.”

His brows raise. “This version?”

“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”

You tilt your head.“Done what?”

“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”

“Oh. You mean restraint.”

“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.

You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”

You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”

But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.

He doesn’t touch himself tonight.

He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.

But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.

You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.

So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.

“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”

“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”

“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”

“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”

He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.

You don’t look. Except you do.

You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.

The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.

And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

---

He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.

He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.

He wants to touch you.

Not to fuck you. To feel you.

He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

His brows knit.“Say what?”

“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”

He swallows.

Hard.

“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.

“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”

---

The line stretches. Taut.

You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”

He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.

Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.

Because he listened. Because he meant it.

You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.

The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.

He’s soaked.

Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.

“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m a mentor.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.

And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”

“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.

You blink. Caught. “Steve—”

“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”

You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.

It’s not that you don’t want him.

God, you do.

But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.

He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.

Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”

He stops. “But you’re not ready.”

You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”

The silence between you is loud.

“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”

You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.

“So am I.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—

“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”

His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.

He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.

You almost don’t notice him.

In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care. 

And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.

You glance up. 

He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.

You freeze.

Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.

And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?

Your stomach turns.

You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.

You swallow your bitterness like bile.

He hasn’t even looked your way.

---

He sees you. Of course he does.

You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.

The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.

So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.

But when she touches his arm?

He hates it.

Because it’s not you.

And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.

Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.

Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”

But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.

You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.

All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.

The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.

He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.

He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”

You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.

You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”

He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.

He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.

Silence stretches. It screams.

And then— “You saw me at the café.”

The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”

“That what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“That’s not fair.”

You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.

He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”

You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”

The words sit between you like broken glass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”

His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”

He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”

Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”

And that—that cuts you clean open. 

You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.

“You still have me.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I’ve only ever meant it.”

Your eyes meet.

And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.

But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”

You don’t notice it at first.

Not really.

It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.

Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”

Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.

💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.

You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.

He notices.

---

He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.

No lines. No games. He just shows up.

He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.

And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.

---

“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”

---

You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.

He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”

You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”

“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”

Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”

The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And maybe he has.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.

It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.

He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to  pretend that means nothing.

“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.

“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”

Your breath catches. 

He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.

You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”

“It was.”

Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”

He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”

Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done showing you.”

He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.

Just that.

You nod.

Once.

And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”

He whispers back, “You’re still here.”

And you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.

Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching?  Gone.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Let it.”

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open. 

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.

He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.

You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.

He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.

And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you. 

His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.

You cry out. Loud. Needful. 

He swallows it with a kiss.

His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.

“Keep going.”

“Say it again.”

“Keep going.”

He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger. 

You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—

You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze. 

“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”

Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.

You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”

He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”

The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.

You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away. 

In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.

He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.

“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.

“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”

He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”

“You’re easy.”

He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”

“No promises.”

“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”

He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”

You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.

You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs. 

Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.

His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy.  Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.

One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.

Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.

You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”

He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer. 

“There you go. That’s better.”

He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He’s taking his time.

He loves taking his time.

He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.

Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.

Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.

And God, is he good.

He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.

“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.

You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,” 

“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”

You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.

And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.

He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.

You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.

“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”

“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.

“You said that twice ago.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.

You shatter.

You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.

When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.

You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.

“We are so late.”

“Worth it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love it.”

You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.

“You’re glowing,” he says.

“You’re a menace.”

“I told you, you love it.”

You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.  

You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.

“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”

“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”

You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to God.”

“What? They’ve already started whispering.”

You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”

He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”

You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”

“You gonna behave?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.

And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock. 

You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.

You flinch. He does not.

You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.

“I will end you,” you whisper.

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.

Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”

You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.

---

He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.

You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.

He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.

He grins wider.

Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?” 

And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”

The room goes dead silent.

Your head turns. Slowly. 

Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”

You choke on your coffee.

Half the room does too.

“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”

He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.

Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”

He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”

You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”

“You love it.”

And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.

You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.

Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.

“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”

“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”

You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.

“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”

You freeze.

Steve tenses beside you.

You both turn.

It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.

“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”

Your head snaps toward him.

What. You blink.

“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.”  She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Steve—”

“What? Was I supposed to lie?”

“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”

“Because that’s what it is.”  His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed. 

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”

You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.

“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”

You don’t answer.You can’t.

 Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.

It’s that a part of you needed him to.

---

💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that. 💬 But I meant it. 💬 So maybe that’s okay?

You tried.

God, you tried.

You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.

All you can think about is the way he said it.  

We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.

And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.

You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.

He opens his mouth.

You grab his shirt.

And everything else disappears.

---

He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.

He knows this is the moment you stop running.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.

You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.

Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.

“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.

There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.

He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.

You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.

His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.

You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.

He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.

“Holy fuck,” he pants.

“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.

His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.

He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.

“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.

You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity

He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.

It’s hot.

It’s filthy.

It’s honest.

And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You’re both still breathing hard.

He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“That was—”  You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.

“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.

You don’t. Because you can’t.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.

You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.

He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.

“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.

You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.

Just once. Just to taste it.

Your breath stutters.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.

He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.

You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”

“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.

You don’t do anything about it.  Not yet.

“I want more,” you whisper.

“You can have it.”

“Later.”

“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”

You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.

💬 You guys. YOU GUYS. 💬 What. 💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed. 💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again??? 💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower. 💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy? 💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.

It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.

💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER 💬 they always do that tho?? 💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER. 💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE. 💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell. 💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY 💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension 💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do

You still fight.

Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.

The fire never died. It just evolved.

You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.

You're not the professors they expected.

You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.

You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.

You’re in his lap during planning meetings.

He keeps your nameplate on his desk.

He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.

He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.

The students ask when you're getting married.

He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.

“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”

And you? You never correct him.

[leejenowrld]

back to you — ten (one)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 93k words… (split into two posts) 40k in this post, 53k in the next post. goes without saying don’t read the next post until you finish this. 

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — after taeyong’s death, jeno and those closest to him are each haunted by memories and ghosts, real and imagined, that refuse to let them move on. grief shadows every moment, but when an unexpected night brings everyone all together, the lines between past and present blur, and everything changes in ways no one could have foreseen. in the midst of it, you and jeno find yourselves pulled back into each other’s orbit, unable to escape the unfinished story between you.

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter contains scenes of emotional abuse, bullying, and targeted harassment that may be distressing to some readers. this chapter is the largest yet, it’s incredibly heavy and loaded, take your time, i’ve uploaded it into two seperate posts, think of it a special two part(er), read the next part here, i can’t add much here as everything in this chapter will be unexpected and a spoiler, but you’ll see the new york gang having slay moments, you’ll meet baby haeun, many jeno and nahyun moments, you’ll see familiar places :), i wanna preface by saying i haven’t proofread anything and there’s a high likelihood that there’s some small mistakes (i hope not a lot), if it’s something where i’ve accidentally copied and pasted the same section twice then tell me, if it’s correcting anything or being annoying then don’t tell me. the pacing may feel unsteady at times, characters may seem unlike themselves, i tried my best with this chapter lol. 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

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

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟏𝟒𝟓° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟒.𝟎𝟎𝟔𝟎° 𝐖

The city exhales like it’s tired of lying. Steam rises from beneath the pavement in slow spirals, curling around the ankles of people who don’t look up anymore. Taxis idle along the curb like yellowed teeth in a mouth too bruised to bite, windows fogged from the inside, engines humming with all the things their passengers won’t say out loud. Somewhere blocks away, a siren wails half-hearted through traffic like it’s lost its urgency, like even emergencies are running late now. Above it all, scaffolding clings to buildings like regret—thin metal bones holding up glass spines that were never supposed to bend this far. The whole skyline looks like it’s bracing for something it already missed.

Outside the window, everything rushes forward—horns, heels, rain-soaked cardboard curling at the edges—but the apartment traps its own time. The air moves wrong in here, too thick in the lungs, too still around the wrists. The windowpane’s sweat-blurred, muting the outlines of towers that used to promise arrival. You can’t see the Chrysler spire anymore, just a smudge of silver where glory used to sit. The radiator hisses like it’s biting back a warning. The faucet drips unevenly, tapping out a rhythm like a code you’ve forgotten how to break. And across the street, someone shouts in a language that once belonged to you, the vowels clashing against fire escapes like a memory trying to climb back in. This city was supposed to mean progress, reinvention and survival. It was supposed to swallow everything you were and spit back someone cleaner, smarter, better but all it’s doing now is mirroring you at your most undone, cracking in the places you pretend no one will see, reflecting a face shaped by choices you didn’t make fast enough. The city hasn’t moved on. It’s just mastered the art of pretending broken things are still beautiful if you light them from the right angle.

The ice roller drags slowly beneath your cheekbone, clinking against the edge of your jaw as condensation pools in the curve of your wrist, your body still heavy with heat that sleep didn’t wash off and the kind of restless stillness that sticks when the sky turns too pale to ignore. You’re standing barefoot in the kitchen where nothing breathes properly—air too dry, the windows fogged just enough to blur the skyline into a dull smudge of gold and static. The sun slants through the blinds like punishment, slicing across the metal sink, brushing the handle of the mug Donghyuck used three days ago and never rinsed, casting long thin shadows across the envelope on the counter marked ‘APEX Global.’ You already know what it says. Six months, rotation, international leadership placement. The version of you from three years ago would’ve screamed, the version of you from six months ago would’ve cried. The version standing here now just watches a drop of water roll from the roller’s edge down the side of your wrist and fall, silent, into the hem of your sleeve.

Yangyang’s hoodie is soft, too warm at the neck, heavy around the shoulders like it’s trying to pin you to this moment, like maybe if you stand still enough time will crawl backwards instead of on. The apartment is quiet but the quiet has weight to it, not peace but pressure, not calm but that strange echoing stillness that creeps in after a party ends and nobody’s swept up the glitter. Tote bags are slumped beside the kitchen stool with zippers half-open like mouths caught mid-sigh, a crushed granola bar wrapper peeking out beneath Karina’s travel charger, Donghyuck’s slides tucked just far enough under the couch to suggest he kicked them off while falling asleep instead of taking them off like someone who meant to stay. Her overnight bag is still lying by the bar, unzipped, one strap twisted like it’s been dropped in the middle of something and left bleeding out across the hardwood, mascara rolling under the chair leg beside a sweater you don’t remember her packing, and all of it is wrong in a way you don’t have the energy to correct.

The only thing making noise is the fridge, humming low and inconsistent like even it’s debating whether to keep going, the oat milk on the top shelf probably spoiled, the open cap beside the half-eaten strawberries daring you to pretend it matters. You roll the ice up across your temple and back again, the cold catching at your hairline, and you let your eyes flick toward the envelope once more before looking away. You’d known it was coming. The promotion. The rotation. The invitation. All those things people dream about when they imagine themselves far away from where they started, all those words they say when they try to make ambition sound like grace—opportunity, mobility, voice—but none of them feel like they belong in your mouth right now, not when the floor is still sticky from last night’s wine spill and your throat tastes like regret instead of coffee.

Karina shifts on the couch, her breath catching in that way it does when she’s trying not to cry in her sleep again. The throw blanket slips further down her legs and she doesn’t move to pull it up, and for a second you think about walking over and fixing it but your legs don’t move, your feet won’t leave the tile. Somewhere down the hall, Donghyuck mumbles something you don’t catch, followed by the whine of the tap, the clink of a toothbrush against ceramic. The apartment is full but it feels like a ruin. Everything built too fast, stretched too thin, held together by group chats, leftovers and shared Spotify accounts, none of it permanent, all of it waiting to be cleared away like stage lighting after a dress rehearsal. This was never supposed to last. None of it was but that doesn’t make the stillness any less suffocating.

You turn the faucet on just to hear something change. The water hits the basin sharp and fast and cold. You stare into the stream like it might give you an answer, like if you wait long enough someone will walk in and say it—say he’s fine, say they found him, say it was all a misunderstanding, that Jaemin never meant to vanish, that people don’t just slip through the cracks when they’re that close to you, that you didn’t miss a sign that should’ve screamed. But no one says anything. Karina shifts again. The water keeps running. The envelope doesn’t move.

The roller slips from your fingers and lands in the sink with a dull, hollow clack, the sound too small for how loud everything feels in your chest. Your hand stays suspended in the air for a second too long before you lower it, palm pressing flat to the marble like you’re trying to listen for something underneath—like if you lean in close enough, the counter might confess what the rest of the room won’t. The stone is cold, indifferent, the way most truths are when they finally settle. Water beads against your wrist, trails down the lifeline of your palm, and your breath stutters but doesn’t come. You don’t blink. You don’t shift. You just hold yourself there, steady in a way that feels more like bracing than balance, heartbeat caught between seconds that won’t pass. The sun hasn’t cleared the buildings yet, the apartment’s still thick with last night’s air, and somehow the day already feels like it outran you hours ago.

You towel off with slow, autopilot movements, the steam from the shower still clinging to your skin like something unfinished, something not fully washed away. Your hair’s damp against your collarbone, water pooling at the hollow of your throat, and the hallway feels colder than it should as you move barefoot toward the living room. Karina’s curled into the couch, blanket up to her chin, the TV flickering low with some runway replay she’s not really watching. You don’t say anything at first—you just sit down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, the air between you warmer than either of you feels. Your hand finds hers without thinking, a small squeeze, just enough to say I’m here, even if he’s not. “I’m sure he’s fine,” you say quietly, like if you say it low enough the truth won’t snap in half. “I’m sure—”

She doesn’t even look at you. Just snorts, sharp and sudden, eyes glued to the screen as her hand jerks out from under yours like she’s swatting a fly. “Save it,” she says flatly, voice like chipped glass, “I don’t give a fuck about the man who pulled a full Houdini and vanished for nine months like he’s journaling in the Himalayas and finding his third eye under a waterfall.” Her blanket rustles as she shifts, arms crossed now, remote clenched in her fist like it’s the only thing tethering her to Earth. “He can stay wherever the hell he is and reach enlightenment without dragging me into it. I'm busy doing breathing exercises so I don’t punch a Dior intern in the throat.”

You blink. She finally turns her head, blanket still wrapped around her ears like a burrito of bitterness, only her face visible and fully fed up. “Busy being emotionally terrorised by a designer who thinks ‘accessible fashion’ means making a five-foot-eleven model wear socks as a top and calling it a silhouette study. I’ve been up since six being gaslighted by a man named Bastien who told me zippers are too ‘heteronormative’ and suggested replacing them with magnetic poetry.” She blinks, slow and deadpan, rage simmering just beneath. “He spelled my name with a ‘C’ in the group email. We’ve been working together for two years. I hope his collection catches fire.”

You bite down a laugh and sink further into the couch, her hand still under yours, her voice rising like it’s the only stable thing in the room, sharp with purpose, hilariously righteous. “Jaemin might’ve vanished off the face of the earth but at least he never tried to call muslin an emotional thesis or accuse a zipper of upholding the patriarchy.”

Karina exhales slow through her nose and presses the remote tighter in her hand like she’s resisting the urge to hurl it through something, her voice stays level but you catch the flicker of something behind her eyes when she says, “Please,” she mutters, dead flat, “the only thing Jaemin’s ever designed is his own fucking exit. I hope he’s happy in whatever remote Scandinavian IKEA showroom he’s decided to spiritually rot in. “If he ever shows up again, I’m slapping him with a cease and desist and a list of every yeast infection I’ve named after him in his absence,” then she shifts the blanket like she’s getting comfortable in her own rage, like spite is the only fabric that fits right anymore, her tone doesn’t waver, not once, it’s smooth in that way she saves for publicists and breakups and the second before she falls apart

You don’t answer because you know that voice too well, you know the chill behind it, the way her sentences stretch too far when she’s hiding something that wants out, you recognise the way she doesn’t say his name like it’s a spell she’s pretending she never knew how to cast, her mouth is all defense and her shoulders have been tight for days, the Jaemin-shaped space in her chest not closed off but boarded up, weathered like a house that still breathes through the floorboards, and somewhere beneath her practiced indifference you feel it, that pulse of something waiting, the way a room starts to swell before the wallpaper shifts or the windows breathe in too deep, like she’s not haunted but hosting something she hasn’t let herself name yet. 

After the wedding, something followed Jaemin home, not the kind of thing that slammed doors or flickered lights but something colder, something with patience, something that knew how to wait in the quiet parts of a person until the body forgot it was ever meant to feel full. He didn’t vanish, not all at once, he just slowed—his answers took longer, his eyes stayed still longer, his presence stopped pressing into the room like it used to, and the warmth that once came with him turned clinical, the kind of quiet that fills a waiting room after bad news. His footsteps stopped sounding like they belonged to him and started echoing like something borrowed, as if the floor didn’t recognise him anymore and was learning to flinch beneath his weight.

He became still in a way that didn’t look like rest but like surrender, like whatever grief had been left unspoken had finally laid down roots inside his chest and started blooming upside-down, and he carried it not like a wound but like a replacement, like his pulse had been swapped for something steadier and less human. People said he seemed tired, distracted, overworked, and he nodded at all the right times, smiled when he was supposed to, but his voice lost its gravity, his laugh came too late, and his hands, once so certain, stopped reaching for anyone who said his name like it meant something. He just turned into a version of himself that was unrecognisable — a ghost wearing scrubs, a heartbeat with no map, a name people whispered around instead of toward.

Right after the wedding Jaemin and Karina blew up, iin the way champagne hisses after being left open too long, in the way tension snaps when stretched too thin without anyone realising it’s about to split, and it started with a question, about exclusivity, about whether this was real, she had asked it too clearly and it followed with a silence he let sit for too long, the kind of silence that turns corners sharp and makes the air feel watched, and by the time she’d said ‘you can’t keep giving me half of you and calling it real’ the door was already closing behind her.

The last photo of them together was still warm in the group chat when the quiet started—sharp silences in the middle of shared dinners, late arrivals, early exits, the way Karina would answer his messages like she was filing paperwork and Jaemin would reply hours later with nothing but read receipts. 

Month two dragged its heels, thick with heat and something meaner, and even when the city swelled into summer, the apartment stayed cold in that way heartbreak makes the walls too wide, Karina barely left the living room except to shuffle from charger to charger with her laptop open but untouched, emails rewritten to the point of erasure and playlists playing the same eight songs like she was trying to hypnotise herself into forgetting how often she blinked and realised she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. She stopped going to fittings, started sleeping on the couch, claimed it was better for her back but you’d catch her awake at 4AM watching nothing on mute and fidgeting with the hem of her shirt like the thread might unravel if she pulled hard enough.

Jaemin slipped sideways in a way only the ones paying too much attention noticed, his hours at the hospital stretched long and strange, his name in the group chat trailing further and further up the scroll, and someone whispered they’d seen him leaving a bar downtown with a girl whose coat looked just like Karina’s, same shoes, same swing of the hair, like muscle memory dressed in someone else’s skin. Donghyuck started showing up more often with bags of lukewarm takeout and half-hearted jokes, sat on the arm of the couch pretending to be casual while he checked on how many mugs Karina had abandoned under the table, and even he couldn’t plug the hole Jaemin used to fill just by walking into a room and existing like he belonged there.

One night, Hyuck found Karina in the shower, the water on too hot, her body turned away but her shoulders shaking like she was laughing through glass, and he didn’t say anything, just sat down on the floor outside the door and waited until it stopped. The next morning, Karina burned the toast and didn’t flinch until the smoke alarm shrieked through the ceiling like something dying, and while Donghyuck scrambled for a towel, she stayed perfectly still in front of the stove, eyes glazed, fingers twitching at her side like she’d forgotten how to move, then without a word she crossed the kitchen, uncapped a black marker, and dragged a thick line through one of the dates on the calendar pinned beside the fridge, pressing so hard the ink bled through to the wall behind it, no explanation, no context, just a day she refused to let exist anymore.

By month five, something begins tracing itself into the fabric of your days, a pattern forming where Jaemin’s name used to land, half-typed messages left hanging in text bars, his contact sinking lower in your recents list like a stone dragged by weight, and the air shifts slightly whenever his name almost comes up, conversations twitching sideways, glances exchanged without anchoring, like everyone feels it forming but no one agrees on the shape. His shadow moves in suggestion—an untouched corner at the dinner table, a ringtone that rings once then disappears, a reply box blinking with no answer. You cross paths with his absence in strange places now, in static, in schedule gaps, in the pause before Karina says she hasn’t heard from him in a while.

It starts with Shotaro pacing, phone gripped too tight, saying he’s called three times this week and every time it’s gone straight to voicemail. Karina’s already sitting, arms crossed, eyes hollowed out from nights spent staring at her inbox like it might blink first. You’re on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, phone buzzing in your palm with updates that mean nothing. Donghyuck walks in late, holding a paper bag he forgets to put down. A parcel addressed to Jaemin arrived at the hospital, but the nurse said it came back marked ‘no forwarding address.’ Shotaro tried FaceTiming twice, then once more at three in the morning, stared at the grey screen until the call disappeared like it had never been there at all.

In Seoul, the tension hums through the group like static. Mark’s voice memo sits unopened in the chat—‘you alive, bro?’—timestamped eight days ago. No response. Not even a read. Doyoung mentions offhand at a meeting that Jaemin’s name hasn’t been on the monthly reports. Yangyang says he still owes him dinner and doesn’t follow it with a joke. Irene starts typing in the group chat, stops, starts again—her messages clipped, all full stops, like she’s hacking at the dark with punctuation. Areum scrolls through old photos and mutters that some people just change after breakups, but no one nods, no one agrees. The silence after carries weight, settles sharp behind your ribs, and Shotaro finally says it—‘when’s the last time anyone actually saw him?’ and nobody answers, because somehow, no one knows.

The first real shift comes on the night you’re supposed to meet for dinner, Shotaro booked the table, Donghyuck sent too many reminders, Karina even puts on makeup and then wipes it off before leaving her room, but Jaemin doesn’t show, no call, no excuse, just a chair that stays empty long enough to start feeling like a placeholder for something worse, Hyuck jokes about filing a missing persons report and no one laughs, then Karina’s voice breaks the silence, brittle and stunned, “I haven’t heard from him in a month,” and the words land heavy, like the floorboards underneath all of you have started to shift, like something underneath is preparing to give way

It’s no longer breakup fallout, no longer romantic failure or emotional mess—now it’s something colder, thinner, stretched across too much space, and when Donghyuck calls the hospital and asks for Dr. Na, the receptionist says he quit two weeks ago with no written notice, left his badge at the front desk with a single folded post-it that just said ‘thank you,’ and when Karina visits his apartment the next morning, the blinds are closed, the plants are dead, the bed is stripped, and there’s no sign he ever lived there except for one voicemail on her phone that she plays every night but never lets anyone else hear. You remember the last time you saw him—just a blur of movement in the hospital corridor, fluorescent light flickering overhead, his scrubs creased like he hadn’t gone home in days. He didn’t say anything. Just paused when he passed you, eyes dipping down, not lingering, not obvious, just a glance too slow to mean nothing. His gaze caught at your stomach like a thread snagging on fabric, something registering behind his eyes that never made it to his mouth, and for a second you thought he might speak, might ask, might know, but he only blinked once, like whatever passed through him didn’t have a name yet, just shape, just weight, just a question too fragile to form aloud.

The door clicks open with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times, no knock, no warning, just the softened rhythm of keys turning, muscle memory wrapped in familiarity. Shotaro steps inside already tugging his hoodie over his head, curls damp at the edges, shirt clinging faintly to his back where the sweat hasn’t dried from class, and the faint smell of floor polish and sweetness clings to him, the kind of artificial fruit scent that comes from too many bodies moving through one room, pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath dim lights and loud music. His shoes miss the rack entirely, land sideways against the wall, and he doesn’t bother fixing them.

He’s muttering before he even makes it to the living room, something about a new student who danced like his limbs weren’t on speaking terms, hands doing contemporary while his knees waged war with gravity. There’s a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a single bubble tea in the other, sweat cooling at his collarbone, and when he sees the three of you spread across the couch and floor, he pauses like he just realised how short the offering falls. Still, he drops the drink on the table like it might multiply under pressure, flops down beside you without a word, part of his thigh knocking against yours, breath still a little uneven from the studio, his presence settling into the room like he’s always belonged to the silence that follows a storm.

He pushes off the couch with a groan, shirt tugged over his head in one rough pull, and your eyes widen before you can hide it—dark marks scattered down his throat and across his chest, a trail of possession that’s unmistakably Ryujin’s handiwork, delicate only in placement. Karina lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Someone’s getting the good kind of cardio.” He rolls his eyes, flipping you all off over his shoulder as he disappears into the shower, towel slung loose around his neck. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back in soft navy pajamas, hair damp, skin pink at the edges, and he sinks down beside you again like the hickies weren’t ever there.

The apartment smells like popcorn and old candle wax, one of those half-burned wicks Karina refuses to throw away sitting crooked on the windowsill, and a movie plays on low—something none of you are really watching, too many sequels deep and too many scenes away from making sense. The only light comes from the screen, flickering blue over Donghyuck’s cheek as he reaches aimlessly for another handful, misses the bowl, and curses under his breath. When Shotaro lifts his bubble tea to take a long, dramatic sip, all three of you turn toward him like vultures. 

“Really?” Karina says, flat. “No one thought to bring extras?” 

Shotaro grins around the straw, shrugs like he’s the villain. “Guess I love myself more.”

But then he laughs, soft and breathy, and ducks into the kitchen without another word, returning a moment later with three drinks balanced in his arms. “Relax,” he says. “I remembered.” He hands Karina her usual—lychee jasmine with aloe and light ice, exactly how she likes it, muttering, “don’t roll your eyes, I even told them no seal sticker so you wouldn’t smudge your nails.” Then he tosses Donghyuck his matcha crème brûlée with extra pearls, the cup practically vibrating with sugar, and finally places yours into your hands like it’s something delicate—taro oat milk, less sweet, no toppings, the way you’ve ordered it since college. 

“This is how I know I’m too loyal,” he sighs, flopping down beside you with a sigh. “You guys don’t deserve me.” 

“Shut up,” Hyuck mutters. “You’re drinking brown sugar like a basic bitch.” Shotaro snorts, kicks him lightly in the shin, and for a few minutes the room is easy, fizzy with sugar and comfort, the kind of soft that feels borrowed.

It’s halfway through the movie when he says it, quiet, casual, voice catching somewhere between the last line of dialogue and the background score. “I think I saw him.” The screen keeps flashing, someone yelling about time travel or betrayal, but your spine goes still against the cushion.

“Saw who?” Karina asks, already frowning. 

Shotaro doesn’t look up. “Jaemin, last night, right outside the studio.” 

You tilt your head, bubble tea half-raised. “Seriously?”

He shrugs once, slow, like the words are still settling on his tongue. “Could’ve been someone else, I guess, but he moved like him,” he says, eyes flicking toward the window even though he’s not really looking. “Same build—kinda bulky now, more muscle than I remember. His hair was different too, different color, longer and messier. I don’t know but it looked like him. It looked like the way he carries himself—like he knew the street but didn’t want the street to know him.” He pauses. “Hood up. Head down. He walked fast but not like he was scared, like he couldn’t afford to be seen.”

Shotaro exhales through his nose, brows pulling together like the memory’s sticking harder now that he’s saying it aloud. “And I noticed something weird,” he adds, voice quieter, like it might break if he says it too fast. “He was carrying this yellow blanket. It wasn’t folded or stuffed into a bag—just draped over his shoulder like it belonged there.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It had little stars on it, I think, faded ones, pale blue. Maybe clouds too? It looked soft, like the kind of thing you’d wrap around a baby after a bath. It just didn’t fit him at all, that’s what caught my eye.” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Big guy in dark clothes, built like he could throw someone across a room, but carrying that thing like it was made of gold.”

The room stills, like the air itself tightens. Karina lowers her drink without meaning to, eyes pinned on the coffee table, the condensation from her cup leaving a print that spreads slowly into the wood. “That doesn’t sound like something he’d just… pick up,” she says, quiet, almost to herself. “Not unless it meant something.”

Donghyuck shifts where he’s sitting, the playful slouch gone, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. “That’s not even weird anymore,” he mutters. “That’s straight-up eerie. Like, why the fuck would he be carrying around something like that? In the heat? In public?”

You don’t say anything at first, just watch the bubble in your drink rise to the top and burst. The words crawl up your throat too thick. Jaemin with a baby blanket. Jaemin looking bulkier. Jaemin walking like he had somewhere to be that didn’t belong to anyone else. You finally breathe, “You’re sure it was yellow?”

Shotaro nods, slowly, a crease forming between his brows. “Yellow with stars. I know what I saw.” He glances between you all, something unreadable in his face. “I didn’t think it meant anything until now.”

It’s past midnight by the time the movie finishes, screen fading to black while the room stays lit in that ghostly way only credits can manage, white names scrolling endlessly over silence that feels louder now that none of you are talking. Karina’s curled up in one corner of the couch with a throw blanket tucked under her chin, Donghyuck’s flicking at the empty pearl cups like they’ll refill themselves if he stares hard enough, and Shotaro’s legs are stretched out, head tilted back like he’s trying to cool the last of the sweat behind his ears. You’re closest to him, cross-legged with your phone face down beside your knee, your spine starting to ache, your pulse still stuck on that one thing he said hours ago that none of you have touched since—he moved like him.

Shotaro shifts, reaching lazily for his laptop bag and dragging it toward him with his heel. “Hold on,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “There’s something I wanna check.” He props the laptop against his thigh and opens it with a quiet snap, fingers tapping muscle memory into the keyboard, clicks fast and silent like he’s done this a hundred times.

Karina looks over. “You’re working?” she asks, dry, but he just shakes his head. 

“No, just—there was this thing Jaemin and I used to do.” 

Donghyuck snorts. “Romantic.” 

Shotaro kicks him without looking. “Shut up. No. I’m talking about playlists. We used to trade edits back and forth. Lullabies, mostly. He said he liked sounds that made the air feel soft.” You say nothing, but your eyes don’t leave the screen.

He scrolls through folders like he knows exactly where to go, digging four levels deep until he finds one with a name barely readable in lowercase—jae//midnights—and clicks. The interface flickers, revealing a list longer than you expect, a dozen sound files lined in quiet succession, half of them titled only by timestamps that feel like memories. “This one,” he murmurs, hovering over 03:47AM, “was the first thing we ever built together.” His voice softens like the memory still lives inside his mouth. “He recorded the hum from the heater in his room, looping it under a child’s melody in C minor. Said it reminded him of falling asleep on car rides.” The way Shotaro says it makes something in your chest twist. “We never made it public,” he adds, quieter now, thumb brushing the trackpad. “It’s only on this laptop. Nowhere else.” Then he clicks, and the page begins to load.

There’s a user logged in, you all lean in at once, breath caught, eyes locked to the glowing display where there’s an anonymous figure listening. Donghyuck whispers, “what the fuck?”

Karina jerks upright so fast her blanket slips to the floor, muttering “wait, wait—how?” Shotaro’s already clicking through the metadata with his jaw tight and his brows drawn, voice low and focused as he says “the stream is live, someone’s listening to this exact track right now” and when he pulls up the playback map, a single blue location pin flares to life, hovering steady less than a mile from his studio.

“This file was last edited six years ago, no one’s touched it since” and his voice drops, tighter now, “and now someone’s… he’s listening, he has to be.”

You swallow, throat dry, heart thudding uneven against your ribs. “Check the IP,” you say. 

Shotaro’s already there, shaking his head. “Anonymous server, masked and rerouted through something local—there’s no trace, but the ping’s real.” He zooms in until the edges of the map blur. “It’s been playing for seven minutes straight.”

The track loops, slow and eerie, soft hums layered under a child’s voice too pure to be sampled, and faint static pulses underneath like a monitor trying to sync with something—rhythm, breath, maybe grief—and it’s too exact, too shaped, too him to be anyone else, and none of you speak because there’s nothing to say, not yet, just the weight of it pressing into the walls and the silence between your bodies, and in your chest something cold locks into place with a soft internal snap, like recognition arriving before reason.

It’s the next morning when Donghyuck finds the receipt. You’re all moving slowly, the apartment is too quiet for how much caffeine has been passed around, and the air tastes like leftover sesame noodles and unspoken questions. He’s digging through one of Jaemin’s old books—The Lives of Others, spine cracked, corners bent from being read too many times and something flutters out from between the pages, slips down onto the floor like it was waiting. “What the—” he mutters, leaning down, and the moment he picks it up you already know from the shift in his voice. “Guys,” he says, louder now. “This isn’t old. This is last week.” You’re already moving toward him as he holds up the receipt, timestamp clear as day, 9:42PM, St. Aurelian Hospital Café. Karina blinks, brow furrowing. 

Karina tilts her head, brows pinching. “Isn’t that the new private one? The one with the glass atrium and concierge midwives?” 

You take the paper from Donghyuck slowly, fingertips grazing the faint thermal ink, your eyes narrowing as you read. “Yeah,” you murmur, pulse steadying into something cold. “‘APEX’ did some work with them, they’re a new boutique hospital with no public staff page, no published rotations, and a front desk that won’t give you a name unless your surname is on the board of donors.”

He stays hunched over his laptop after that, headphones in but not playing music, screen brightness turned low like he’s trying not to spook the internet into hiding. “Give me a few hours,” he says. “I’m going full dark web mom mode.” And he does—scrolling through anonymous parenting forums, Facebook groups with names like ‘Mommy & Me Upper Manhattan,’ private nannying directories, anything that smells like recent birth and low-profile doctors. You don’t bother interrupting. He’s in the zone, muttering search strings under his breath like prayers—“single dad,” “pediatric rotation,” “yellow blanket,” “newborn father” and by late afternoon he goes completely still, one hand paused above the keyboard, breath held like he’s seen a ghost. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “I found something.” 

You rush over and see it, a thread buried deep in a private parenting group, already marked removed by the admin but it’s still cached on the page: ‘Saw the hot pediatrician again today—scrubs and all, with the softest baby girl and eyes like he hasn’t slept in years.’ He screenshots it instantly. “Post got deleted,” he says. “But it was posted this morning, from a hospital five blocks from the café receipt.” The room goes still again, that same frozen hum of something real settling in.

Karina’s the one who brings it up, calm like it isn’t the most desperate thing any of you have said all day, scrolling her phone without looking up as she says, “New parents shop near home, near the hospital—no one orders everything online,” and she glances over at Shotaro like she’s already made the decision for both of them. They leave just before noon, drizzle dusting across the skyline, street corners washed in silver light as they move from one baby boutique to the next with vague descriptions and clipped smiles, asking cashiers if they’ve seen someone tall, soft-spoken, carrying a pale yellow blanket and maybe a newborn wrapped close to his chest. Most say no or shake their heads before the question even lands, but one woman behind a pale pink counter with a chipped credit card machine pauses, mouth slightly open, and says she thinks someone like that came in last week—she can’t remember his face exactly, only that he paid in cash and held the gift bag like it was the most breakable thing in the world.

You and Donghyuck take the next part, heading downtown toward the address stamped in faded ink on the receipt, the hospital café tucked into the lobby of a brand new private wing where everything smells too clean and the overhead lights feel too bright for the hour. You pick the table in the back corner, close to the elevators but angled just enough to watch the front entrance, and the two of you sit there for almost two hours with one shared croissant and a pair of iced teas growing warm on the table, pretending not to scan every person that walks by while your heart flicks between hope and hollow. Most of the staff look the same, hurried, tired, blank-faced but then someone brushes past in soft blue scrubs with the collar slightly turned, and stitched just above the left shoulder in pale thread are the initials N.J., the stitching small enough that you almost miss it, and your body reacts before your brain catches up. You’re on your feet, Donghyuck half a step behind you as you follow fast toward the elevator bank, but just as you reach the edge, the doors glide shut and he disappears inside without ever turning around.

You’re the first to speak when you all pile back into the apartment, shoes half-kicked into the hallway, bags dropped wherever they fall, the leftover croissant from the café still clutched in Donghyuck’s hand like he forgot to eat it out of spite. “I’m just saying,” you start, flopping down onto the couch with enough drama to rattle the cushions, “I’ve never worked this hard for someone who so clearly doesn’t want to be found. We’re out here doing field research, stakeouts, combing through online breadcrumbs like we’re in Prison Break, and for what?” Karina raises a brow, toeing off her boots. “For the man who ghosted his own life?” You nod, mouth already twisting. “I swear to God, if I got my people at Apex involved, this wouldn’t be a manhunt, it’d be a two-minute LinkedIn scrape and a casual sweep of facial recognition software. He’d be found before the kettle boils.”

Donghyuck groans, face down in the armchair. “You could’ve done that from the beginning, you evil witch.” 

You glare. “Do you want Jaemin dragged out of a paediatric ward in cuffs by Apex interns named Hoshi and Woozi?” 

Shotaro, sprawled on the floor with a protein bar he refuses to open, raises a hand lazily. “I kinda do, just for fun.” 

You exhale hard through your nose, pinching the bridge. “No, but seriously, why didn’t we file a missing persons report? Are we allergic to normal solutions now?” 

Karina lets out a sharp breath, turning toward the window. “I tried,” she says, voice clipped. “Twice, maybe three times.”

“And?” you ask, leaning forward, elbows on knees, voice softer now, though you’re not sure why—something in Karina’s stillness unsettles you, her posture too rigid, like she’s bracing for a wave she’s already drowned in. 

She shrugs, but the movement doesn’t land, barely reaches her shoulders. “Every single time that I’d start filling out the form, opening the missing persons portal my phone would ring. Sometimes it was a call, sometimes a message.” She swallows. “Always the same thing, ‘don’t file anything, he’s safe, leave it, trust me.’” Her voice twists sharp around the last word like it still cuts her. Then she turns her head toward you, slow and deliberate. “Guess who sent those messages.”

Your body reacts before your mind even forms the shape of a thought, before language returns to you, before the room steadies enough to hold what’s just been said. Something clutches in your chest, tight, immovable, like breath trying to claw its way out from beneath concrete, and your limbs go still from the unmistakable sensation of being seen, like someone’s breath is resting against the nape of your neck without sound or warning. Your wrists feel cold first, then your throat, then the space behind your knees, your pulse dropping into the hollows of you like it’s trying to retreat into bone. Your mouth is parted just enough for the air to sit heavy on your tongue but your name—your voice—doesn’t move, just hovers there like a ghost of a question you already know the answer to.

Your spine straightens on instinct, vertebrae aligning with eerie precision, like strings have been pulled from the ceiling and your body obeys without protest, like you’ve become a marionette under someone else’s hand. It’s too quiet. Even the sound of your own breath feels distant, filtered, like it’s passing through cloth. All you can hear is the echo of Karina’s voice folding into that name, the one you’d buried in some distant chamber of thought—Jeno—and it slams through your mind like a door unlatched in a windless room, opening without touch. You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember looking at her. You just know. You knew before she said it. Knew in the way animals know an earthquake is coming, in the way silence sharpens right before something shatters.

“Jeno,” you say.

Karina nods once, almost too slow to track. “Always him. Always calm. Always exactly on time.” She blinks. “Like he was watching my screen. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew.” The light in the apartment suddenly feels too sharp, too white, like a surgical theatre instead of a home, like something is being exposed and you’re not ready for the incision. You feel it down your spine, an invisible pressure folding over your shoulders like a cold breath. He hadn’t vanished, he’d intervened and somehow, that’s worse because it means he never stopped holding the strings.

Karina leans back into the couch like the tension just caught up with her spine, her voice low and bitten off at the edges as she mutters, “You’d think he’d have better shit to be doing.” Her thumb skims the condensation down her cup, the words coming slower now, one after the other. “Like breaking whatever new scoring milestone the NBA cooks up for him. That three-point shot from half court last week? They aired it on five different sports networks in under an hour. Someone tweeted that it defied physics. Someone else said he’s the first player in franchise history to hit thirty points in twelve consecutive games with a fractured wrist, like flying to meet with whatever hyper-athletic nutrition brand he’s the new face of—signing a deal with a private equity firm that makes more in a quarter than any of us will in a lifetime.” Her eyes flick past the wall, somewhere far off. “Like that rooftop gala he went to last month in Miami with the twenty-foot ice sculpture and three different drone camera crews. Or the off-season Adidas campaign they shot in Tokyo.” She shakes her head once. “I still see his face on a bus ad near my boutique—digital, full wrap, takes up the whole intersection.” Her mouth curves, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “He’s got millions of followers watching his highlights, watching his life, waiting for whatever designer coat he’s told to wear next and he’s out here intercepting missing person reports.” 

She exhales once, sharper now. “And then there’s Nahyun. The fiancée, matching watches. Her face in Vogue Korea before the engagement was even confirmed. She sat courtside last month in archival Mugler like it was a press conference and held his hand with both of hers like she was praying over it.”

She cuts off before the word can land because she sees it—the way your jaw clenches sharp like a trap that’s already snapped shut, the way your fingers shift just slightly against the cushion like you’re holding onto the edge of something that might give. Her face softens instantly, everything dropping, the bravado, the timing, the sharp edge in her voice that never quite meant to slice. “Shit,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I got carried away.” She leans in without asking, arms slipping around your shoulders like muscle memory, chin tucked lightly against your temple, breath warm at the side of your face. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to hear that. You’ve already had to carry too much of him.” She presses a quick kiss to your hair, voice catching. “You’re better than him anyway. Prettier. Smarter. You could outrun his entire bloodline in three-inch heels and a hangover.”

You snort, but it doesn’t quite reach your chest, your hands caught mid-air like you’re not sure what to do with them, like affection is something you forgot how to receive properly. “Karina,” you mumble, trying to roll your eyes, but it’s too soft around the edges. “I don’t need the pep talk.” She pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows raised, her mouth curving like she’s about to go full drama. “Okay, cool, so can I go back to slandering your war criminal ex or do you wanna cry and braid each other’s hair?”

You shake your head, but your lips twitch. “You’re the worst.” 

She grins, forehead resting briefly against yours. “Takes one to love one.”

You’re still half-smiling into Karina’s shoulder when a shadow moves past the kitchen counter and Shotaro clears his throat in that very obvious way that means he’s been watching long enough to form an opinion. “Okay,” he says, voice dry as bone, “if you two are about to start scissoring on the couch I’m gonna need you to either pause or pivot because we still have a missing Na Jaemin to locate.” 

Karina groans without looking up, flipping him off lazily with the hand that’s still resting on your arm. “Oh my God, can’t two traumatised women share an intimate moment of solidarity in peace?” 

Shotaro raises both brows and grabs a snack bar from the counter like it’s evidence. “It stopped being solidarity the second she kissed your head like a Regency housewife mourning her forbidden lover.”

You nudge Karina off you gently, trying to compose yourself while still wiping at the corner of your eye, and glance at Shotaro with a crooked smile. “Jesus. Ryujin’s really rubbing off on you, huh?” 

He raises a brow, halfway through chewing the protein bar. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

You gesture at him with both hands. “You’re getting meaner. Like cutthroat mean. That was so mean, Taro.” 

Karina stretches like she’s about to go limp again. “Honestly, I’m proud. He used to cry at butter commercials.”

Shotaro throws the snack wrapper at you and misses. “I did not cry. I teared up respectfully.” He throws another snack wrapper at Karina and it lands. “Now can we circle back to the part where Jaemin might be working a few blocks from here like a ghost doctor and none of you have filed a report?” You glance toward the laptop still glowing on the table, that anonymous playback log paused mid-loop, and the air shifts again—tension curling back in like a tide. The moment softens behind you, but the hunt sharpens ahead.

Later, the apartment is quiet again, not with comfort but with the kind of stillness that feels like it’s listening, like something unsaid is pressing against the walls. No one’s spoken Jaemin’s name in over an hour, but he’s in the room anyway—etched into the glow of the laptop screen, folded into the way Donghyuck keeps refreshing the same tab without reading it, stitched into the silence every time someone almost speaks and doesn’t. No one moves to leave. You’re all still here, caught in the slow gravity of a truth that keeps circling back.

You all knew about the voicemail, knew it had been left the same night Jaemin disappeared, a single minute of sound tucked into the hollow space between his resignation and his silence, a message that had waited untouched at the bottom of Karina’s inbox like a wound left to fester in the dark. No one could understand why she wouldn’t play it—not when you begged her in the thickest parts of night, not when Donghyuck asked with his voice stripped down to threads, not even when Shotaro said nothing at all and just reached for her hand like that might be enough to steady her but Karina only ever shook her head and whispered “I can’t,” like pressing play would be the thing that finally broke her open for good, and maybe it would have been, back then, when everything still hurt too raw to look at straight. But something’s shifted now, something quieter and more urgent, a sense that the gaps between you all have grown too wide to leave untouched any longer, and tonight, long after the playlist’s stopped looping and the candle near the sink has burned itself into a waxed-out crater of cold glass, Karina finally pulls her phone from the depths of her hoodie like it’s a confession she’s been hiding under skin, and the way her hands move—slow, deliberate, trembling just enough to betray her—makes your chest twist without permission.

No one says anything when she plays it—Donghyuck’s still half on the floor, the back of his hand covering his mouth like prayer, Shotaro’s chewing the end of a useless straw he finished over an hour ago, and you’re leaning against the kitchen frame with your arms crossed like a shield across your ribs, watching her thumb hover over the screen like it might detonate if she touches it too hard—and the room is holding its breath around you, every second stretched thin enough to snap, until she finally exhales through her nose and says, “Okay,” her voice low and unraveled and unfamiliar, like it’s been hollowed out from the inside. “I’ll play it but just this once.”

She taps the screen and the sound cuts in raw—no polish, no clean edit, just Jaemin’s voice soft and slightly distorted like it’s trying too hard not to shake, and even though he’s speaking low and slow like calm is something he thinks he can fake, there’s something wrong with the shape of it, something off-kilter and uneven, like his composure is being dragged across gravel just out of frame. “Hey. It’s me,” he says, and then nothing—just air and silence and the echo of a space that isn’t familiar, and when he speaks again it’s like he’s choosing every word as it comes. “I’m fine. I just needed space. Time to figure things out. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just couldn’t explain it yet. I’ll come back when it’s right. I promise.” His voice catches slightly then, just a breath too fast or maybe a tremor too small to name, but it’s there, and after that, something shifts—a movement in the background, fabric maybe, or footsteps, or a body brushing too close to a wall—and then the sound comes, clean and clinical and impossibly loud in the stillness.

Beep.

Then again.

Beep.

You don’t realize you’ve moved until you’re standing straighter, your weight redistributed like your body’s trying to get closer to something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet, and across the room, Karina freezes with her phone still raised like her arm’s forgotten how to move, and Donghyuck’s eyes are wide now, hands dropped to his lap, while Shotaro just stares like the walls might start answering for him.

“Again,” you say, quiet but certain, and though Karina flinches like she doesn’t want to hear it again, she rewinds without argument.

“I’ll come back when it’s right. I promise.”

Beep. Beep.

You exhale through your teeth but it feels like inhaling cold steel, and your voice comes out lower than you expect, flattened by something heavier than fear. “That’s a neonatal vitals monitor,” you murmur, more to the floor than to anyone else, but the words land sharp anyway. “NICU-grade, hospital only. High-frequency, linked to oxygen stats. It’s not some at-home baby tracker.”

Karina opens her mouth but nothing comes out, just a breath that shakes too hard to speak, and beside her, Donghyuck says, “But he’s a doctor. He works in hospitals—”

“Well he sent that months ago and we know he quit his job around that time, we went to the hospital and they told us,” you say, before he can finish, and it’s sharper than it should be.  The timeline presses inward all at once, tight like gravity, and you see it laid out in sequence—the voicemail sent after he quit, after the hospital confirmed his resignation with no forwarding contact, after his apartment was emptied and left blank and meaningless, after his presence was erased from every place he was supposed to belong. This wasn’t left from a shift. This wasn’t a call between rotations. This didn’t come from the life he walked away from—it came from inside the one he shouldn’t have access to anymore.

Karina’s face folds slowly, not all at once but piece by piece, like the understanding is sinking under her skin with teeth, and when she speaks it’s more exhale than sentence. “So he’s not there as a doctor.”

Shotaro sits back like he’s been struck in the stomach, the straw slipping from his fingers. “Then what the fuck is he doing there?” he says, and no one moves.

You’re still staring at the floor, but your voice cuts through it like a wire pulled tight. “He’s not working,” you say. “He’s staying, he’s there as a patient.” 

Karina blinks hard, her throat shifting like she’s swallowing glass, and then she shakes her head—not in protest, not in denial, but in correction, something sharper, more certain, something she’s been holding back because saying it out loud would make it too real to unfeel. “No,” she says, and her voice catches but she doesn’t stop, not this time. “He’s not the patient.” She looks at you then—really looks—and her eyes are wide with something terrified and bare, but beneath it there’s a clarity that slices cleaner than panic, something that shakes all the way down to the bone but still lands steady, and she swallows once, hard, her jaw tightening as if the truth might break her open even as she says it anyway. “He’s there as the father of one.”

And just like that, the air leaves the room. The silence that follows doesn’t echo—it spreads, it thickens, it settles across your shoulders like weight, and no one moves, because there’s nothing left to say that doesn’t feel like breaking something sacred in the air. Shotaro drops his gaze to the floor like it might offer a softer answer. Donghyuck blinks twice and says nothing, the disbelief too large to fit in his throat. And you—you stay exactly where you are, one hand gripping the edge of the counter like it might anchor you to the moment, but there’s a roar building behind your ribs now, something tidal and cold and rising.

Because of course it makes sense. The sound, the monitor, the pause in Jaemin’s voice, the way he spoke like his body was somewhere else entirely—of course it makes sense now. It explains everything. Except how he never said a word.

The laptop’s glow casts the room in a cold, artificial blue, and no one’s moved in fifteen minutes. Donghyuck’s pacing like his thoughts are running ahead of his body, Karina’s got her knees pulled to her chest with her sleeve over her mouth like she’s trying to keep something in, and you’re still at the table, headphones wrapped around your neck, knuckles pressed to your mouth as the voicemail plays again on loop, dissected down to the static. You’ve filtered it six different ways, dragged the audio into an editor you barely remember how to use, but you keep listening because something’s off—not just Jaemin’s voice, not just the beep, but something quieter beneath it, something no one else hears until you say it out loud. “Listen,” you murmur, dragging the cursor back again, volume low. “Right there. After the second beep, that’s a page. Three tones, then a voice.” You crank the gain and it’s almost lost to distortion.

You start cross-referencing layouts of the major locations, pulling up floor maps and old blog posts from nurses and interns who once filmed TikTok videos near Unit Twelve, and Karina’s staring over your shoulder now, her eyes glassy but sharp, and then her hand shoots out suddenly, jabbing at the screen. “There,” she says. “That corridor. That angle, the sound in the voicemail—it’s echoing like that. Hard tile, narrow space, no curtain buffer.” You nod, and Shotaro mutters something about ventilation sounds, mentioning metallic hums of older buildings.

Donghyuck throws himself into the search with the kind of intensity he usually saves for online scandals. “Okay,” he says, breathless. “We need something more direct. Something physical.” And then he curses under his breath, digging into his back pocket like it’s been hiding a secret this whole time, and pulls out the half-folded receipt. “Let’s dissect this again.” 

You unfold it again, slower this time, smoothing the softened receipt against the tabletop like it might yield something new if handled gently enough, and it’s familiar at first—too familiar, the kind of paper your eyes have skimmed a dozen times without ever really seeing, the ink faded at the edges, the item codes a blur of numbers that meant nothing to you before. The timestamp still sits at the top like a wound you don’t touch—two weeks after Jaemin left—and the location is as unremarkable as it always was: a few blocks east, a street you’ve passed without thinking. But this time, your gaze catches on something you didn’t register before. A symbol.

It’s small—barely the size of your thumbnail—stamped into the corner like a watermark or an afterthought, a clean-lined insignia shaped like a triangle split through the center, one side hollow, the other shaded in like it’s holding something it can’t name. You tilt the receipt toward the light, squinting at the lines, and it starts to feel like you’ve seen it somewhere before—not in this context, but maybe in passing, maybe attached to something industrial and clinical, something you didn’t know you were filing away until now. You pull out your phone, snap a picture, and reverse image search it with shaky fingers, the screen glow reflecting in the laptop’s black frame like a second pair of eyes watching over your shoulder. At first, nothing. Then a match. 

Holloway Medical Group. You say the name under your breath like it’s a password, and suddenly the rest of the receipt reconfigures around it. Not just a generic supply outlet, not some off-brand uniform store—it’s a licensed subsidiary under Holloway’s network, restricted to vendors, staff, and contract personnel affiliated with their medical partnerships. Donghyuck leans over your shoulder, brows pulled, voice quiet. “That’s a hospital supplier,” he says, more question than statement, and you nod, already pulling up their vendor delivery routes, cross-referencing purchase logs and site access histories against hospital facility records, and it narrows quick—too quick—down to two locations in the area. One is a small pediatric outreach center, low-capacity, designed for short-term care and routine follow-ups, no overnight staff, no NICU, barely a ward to speak of. The other is different—larger, established, not flashy but formidable, known for its cross-disciplinary research and high-volume surgical output, with specialists in pediatric medicine, general and trauma surgery, neurosurgery, and cardiothoracics flown in from across the country. It’s not just a hospital—it’s a flagship facility, a semi-private institution with federal backing and restricted-access wings, and its eleventh floor is listed as sealed to external access. Unit Twelve.

You don’t speak as you type, don’t blink as the screen flickers in front of you, the hospital’s internal directory locked behind a firewall that clearly isn’t meant for your hands, but you’ve cracked harder things with less reason, and tonight, reason is burning a hole through your chest. Karina watches from across the table, breath shallow, mouthing, “You shouldn’t—” but you already are. The guest portal is useless, restricted by default. No public access. No back doors. So you write your own—just enough code to ghost your way through the surface, no alarms, just static, and when the system coughs up a directory dump, you search his name, nothing, not a single trace—not in active staff, not in archived contracts, not even a flagged resignation file. It’s a clean absence, too clean, like someone swept it deliberately, and your mouth tightens as you scan again, reloading the system cache just to be sure. Still nothing—not within the last year. Which doesn’t make sense. That’s exactly when he disappeared. The exact window when everything went quiet.

So you adjust the parameters, pull the timeframe back—twelve months, then fourteen, and the second the list refreshes, your breath hitches in your throat. There he is. Chief Pediatric Surgeon. A three-month appointment. High-acuity work. Surgical lead on congenital heart defects, rare neurodevelopmental corrections, multi-system interventions in infants under two weeks old. You scroll faster, heart in your throat—two peer-reviewed papers in pediatric journals, one co-authored with a visiting trauma team from Boston, another documenting a successful experimental closure on a case other surgeons refused to touch. He was cited in a write-up on early-age stroke intervention, featured in a local op-ed about the rise of high-success surgeries under forty. He saved thirty three children in ninety-one days.

Then the record stops. No end date. Just a notation. Paternity Leave. You blink at the screen, once, twice, not because you misread it, but because the words land too quietly to process. Your cursor drifts down. There’s a patient name linked to his file—flagged for weekly outpatient evaluations. Pediatric cardiac recovery. Fridays. Every single one.

Tomorrow is Friday.

The city folds inward as you approach 87th and Crescent. The skyline narrows into teeth. Steam slicks up from the grates in rhythmic bursts like something breathing beneath the streets, and the wind doesn’t move around you so much as through you—threading the sleeves of your coat, brushing the inside of your collarbone, humming low between your ribs. Traffic presses forward in slow, glinting waves. A delivery truck exhales sharply into the curb. A kid on a scooter slices past and leaves behind the smell of burnt rubber and bakery sugar. But here—this block—feels peeled back. The noise thins. The color dulls. Time stretches just enough to make you notice the texture of the air.

The hospital rises without warning. No sign. No fanfare. Just mass. A monolith of stone and window tucked between two glass high-rises, squat and silent like it grew there by mistake and stayed. The stone isn’t cold, it’s ancient—scraped down by weather, smoothed by time, the kind of façade that absorbs secrets into its pores. The entrance—recessed, shadowed, framed in steel—doesn’t welcome you, it swallows. A single door, dark glass and pressure-sealed, blinks once before unlocking with a sound like breath caught in the throat.

Inside, the light shifts. It’s still artificial, but softer now, like it’s been diffused through skin. The air is warm and holds you in place. The floor tiles stretch in perfect grids, the faint shimmer of wax and fluorescence kissing your soles. The lobby hums low, like something alive and pulsing just below frequency—ventilation, elevator gears, a distant rolling cart wheel catching rhythm across linoleum. You pass through it like being moved by gravity. Your steps don’t echo, but you feel the weight of each one. Like the ground knows who you are. Like it’s counting.

To your left, a family sits pressed into blue waiting chairs, their coats still zipped, eyes blank in the way only people halfway between answers can look. To your right, a hallway draped in muraled paper—whales, giraffes, moons with smiling faces—trails off toward pediatrics. A paper butterfly flutters from a nurse’s clipboard as she passes. It lands on the tile and no one picks it up.

Karina walks like her spine is held by thread. Shotaro’s eyes keep moving—windows, corners, fire alarms—cataloging exits without knowing why. Donghyuck’s hands stay buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders squared like he’s forcing his heartbeat to stay inside his body. And you—you walk slightly ahead, chest tight, temples buzzing, like you’ve entered the part of a dream where everything starts to slow down but won’t stop. The elevator at the end of the hall glows under a brass sign stamped with floor listings that mean nothing to you. The up arrow is lit. The doors are closed. But it feels like the building already knows where you’re going. And it’s waiting.

The receptionist barely looks up when you approach the desk. Her hair’s pulled tight into a coil, nails long and lacquered, and she’s tapping through a scheduling interface like the keys owe her something. Her badge reads ‘DAYOUNG’ in pale block letters, and the lanyard around her neck is printed with a faded rainbow of hospital departments—trauma, cardiology, oncology, pediatrics. She doesn’t stop typing when she greets you. She doesn’t blink, she just says, “name of the patient?”

You exchange a glance with Karina, but she doesn’t speak. None of them do. It’s you who steps forward, pulling your coat tighter with one hand and resting the other on the edge of the desk like you belong there. “Na Jaemin,” you say smoothly. “We’re here to confirm his reassignment.”

That gets Dayoung’s attention. Her fingers slow. Her eyes flicker up. “Is he a doctor or patient?”

“Doctor, but he’s also the father of a patient,” you say. Calm. Steady. Not defensive. “Pediatrics. We’ve been told he was transferred back into the system, but we haven’t received floor confirmation.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “And you are?” You don’t hesitate. You reach into your coat and slide out the APEX behavioral clearance pass—laminated, coded, issued from your last cycle in clinical psych research under a federal child trauma initiative. It’s old, but still active. Gold-stamped along the bottom edge. You lay it on the desk with care, letting the light hit the seal just enough. “External psych field liaison,” you say. “Na was flagged for a cross-disciplinary study last year. I need to verify the current ward assignment for our internal records. It’s policy to confirm direct placement in person. This isn’t for visitation.”

Dayoung looks down at the pass. Then back at you. You keep your face smooth, shoulders relaxed. Not too eager. Not too calm. Just a little bit annoyed—like you’ve done this too many times in too many cities to pretend it still matters.

She picks up the pass with two fingers, scans the barcode under a recessed reader built into the desk. The machine chimes. Approved. She exhales. “One moment.” Her typing slows into something more deliberate now—layers of access, redirections, protected floors. Her expression doesn’t change, but you know the system’s making her double-confirm clearance. Good. That means she’s in.

A few more taps. Then her gaze lifts. “Dr. Na is registered under pediatrics. Currently assigned to restricted-access ward, floor six, south wing.” She clicks again. “Room 611. Parent-only level. You’ll need to enter through the secondary elevator bay. East corridor. Take the south access hallway past lab intake. It’s unmarked. You’ll see a security panel to the left of a janitorial door. Input code seven-seven-four-zero-three. That’ll unlock the elevator control.”

Donghyuck exhales low behind you. Karina doesn’t blink. Shotaro shifts his weight but stays silent. Dayoung doesn’t flinch. She taps something into her own screen—likely logging the clearance, maybe flagging it, maybe not. “Once you’re on six,” she says, “follow the signs for the blue pod. Pediatrics splits into four wings—he’s in the far end. You’ll pass the imaging annex. If you reach physical therapy, you’ve gone too far.”

You nod, like you’ve done this before. Like you’ll do it again tomorrow. “Thanks,” you say, sliding the pass back into your coat.

Dayoung just shrugs. “Don’t get lost. That floor eats time.”

You don’t answer. You just turn. Karina follows first. Then the boys. And together, you step into the east corridor, your pulse syncing to the rhythm of your own lie, wondering if this—right now—is the moment Jaemin starts feeling real again.

The east corridor feels longer than it should. You move through it like a current pushed underground, surrounded by steel, concrete and quiet pressure. The lights overhead buzz faintly in rows, casting sharp shadows that slice across the tile like surgical threads. The air smells of citrus cleaner and iodine, and beneath that, something warmer—steam, maybe, or freshly laundered linens still clinging to heat. The signage is minimal. Color-coded bands on the wall. Blue for pediatrics. Green for surgical transfer. Red for restricted. No one speaks. Your boots click evenly across the floor like a metronome too fast for comfort.

You pass a group of interns whispering by a vending machine, faces pale from night shift, eyes flicking up but not long enough to clock you. A nurse jogs past wheeling an empty isolette, her badge flashing with every bounce. Someone calls out a code over a hallway comm: short, clipped, not urgent—but the sound still freezes something low in your spine. This place doesn’t feel chaotic. It feels sharp. Fast. Like every second is being held in a fist somewhere you can’t see.

A little girl walks past with a stuffed whale tucked under one arm and an IV pole dragging beside her like a companion. She waves at Karina. No one says anything. The hallway narrows where the light shifts. The south access hall isn’t labeled. Just a matte-gray stretch of wall that curves slightly to the left, too clean, too quiet. You spot the janitor’s closet first—faux wood door, mop sink visible through the crack—and then the panel.

On your left, a janitor’s closet nestles into the wall beneath a recessed arch, its door edged open to reveal the pale curve of a mop and the shine of a rust-streaked utility basin. To the right, smooth and recessed into the steel, the keypad waits. The panel is seamless—machine cut, flush with the surface, its presence unannounced yet unmistakable. You place your fingers gently over it and it wakes beneath your touch, blooming with blue light in a slow pulse that spills across your knuckles like breath catching under skin. The numbers rise, pale and precise. Your fingers move without hesitation. Seven. Seven. Four. Zero. Three.

The panel releases a single chime, soft and final. A mechanism shifts behind the wall. Then the elevator opens—steel-framed, doors gliding inward on silent tracks, the kind of entrance that feels like being accepted rather than permitted. You step forward, and the others follow without a sound. The interior gleams. The brushed metal walls reflect your bodies back to you, stretched in quiet motion, flickering under the narrow downlight like silhouettes inside a pulse. The air here changes—slimmer, more deliberate, as though the space is regulating breath. The control panel illuminates, offering no numbers, only a touchscreen glowing with a red key icon. You input the code again, deliberate and slow. The system swallows it without pause, the screen fading before a new one appears.

6R – Access Granted. The elevator lifts—fluid, gliding, no drag in the movement, only an ascension that feels inward and precise. Karina stands to your left, arms folded in tight restraint. Donghyuck holds himself steady without leaning. Shotaro’s gaze remains fixed on the floor display as the numbers rise, his eyes unblinking. Your heart syncs to the movement. Each breath feels shaped around what comes next. The silence between you all sharpens. There’s no room left for theory or guesswork. Just this—this rising. This certainty. And beyond the steel doors, a hallway waits. And inside that hallway, the weight of every answer you’ve spent months trying to survive.

The elevator opens without a sound. The floor greets you with quiet lighting, walls painted in ocean tones, soft and sleep-heavy, like this corridor was designed to mute the outside world. You step out first, and the others follow without speaking. There’s a curved bench tucked under a long frosted window, a row of closed doors marked with soft blue numbers, a glass bulletin board lined with paper cranes folded from hospital chart paper and pinned like a constellation across cork. The air carries a warmth that doesn’t feel artificial—like something’s been lived-in here, touched by presence, by breath, by lullabies and antiseptic and grief folded into routine. A monitor hums behind the wall. Somewhere, a child laughs, then coughs.

You see him before your brain finishes registering the shape of him. He’s seated just beyond the nurses’ station, half-turned from view, angled into a patch of light that slips down from the window behind him like a benediction. He’s dressed simply—sweatpants, a dark hoodie pushed to the elbows, a faint smear of something pale across the collar, maybe milk or formula or sleep-deep exhaustion—and his frame is different now, broader through the chest, shoulders set like stone, forearms pulled tight under soft fabric. There’s a heaviness to him that doesn’t weigh down so much as anchor—like he’s settled, like the gravity around him has doubled and found its center.

In his arms, small and impossibly still, is a baby.

A little girl, no more than a few months old, her head smaller than the palm cradling it. She’s swaddled in a soft grey blanket stitched with tiny stars, her face turned in toward his collarbone, tucked beneath the edge of his jaw where the light can’t reach. One of her fists is curled loosely near his chest, her fingers wrapped instinctively around the cord of his hoodie drawstring like she’s claimed him in her sleep. He shifts her gently, barely at all, just enough to realign her head against his skin, and you can see the flex of his hands—big and careful, protective without tension, like every nerve in his body is dedicated to keeping her exactly as she is. He murmurs something low, a soft string of sounds just above a whisper, then presses his mouth to the crown of her head like punctuation. The way he holds her—secure and slow and whole—is so tender it hurts to witness.

You don’t need to see his face to know it’s him. Every line of him speaks. The way his knee bounces just slightly. The slope of his brow in profile. The way his gaze doesn’t drift. The world ends at the edge of that baby’s breath and he’s guarding it like it’s his only task on earth. He doesn’t see you. Doesn’t sense you. His focus is sealed in the weight against his chest, in the tiny rise and fall of her sleep.

Even though the signs have been building for weeks, even though every line of evidence has led you here—receipt, voicemail, badge record, paternity leave—it still crashes into you with a velocity your body wasn’t built to absorb. Because he’s real. And so is she. Karina steps forward, but her body goes stiff like she’s walked into the wrong dream. Shotaro’s mouth opens and closes again. Donghyuck stares, unmoving, his grip tightening on the cereal bar he forgot he was holding. And you—you feel the thud in your chest, the pull in your gut, the sharp hum of thought slicing through disbelief but unable to stick to anything solid.

He’s a father.

And somehow, even with every breadcrumb, every piece of this built by your own hand, the shape of that truth doesn’t feel possible. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t settle. You can’t imagine him that way. You can’t imagine how. The timeline feels warped. The version of him you knew doesn’t stretch this far. It bends. It resists.

And then— 

A voice cuts through the air, sharp and passing. “Dr. Na,” a woman says, clipboard tucked under one arm, coat flaring slightly with her stride as she walks past. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t glance back. “Your daughter’s charts show her oxygen levels have finally stabilised. We’ll come check again in twenty minutes.”

Jaemin shifts her gently in his arms, one hand cupping the back of her head with a kind of reverence usually reserved for glass. His thumb moves in slow, instinctive circles against her spine, each pass like a whispered promise. Her breath is soft against his collarbone, feathering across the fabric of his hoodie as if even sleep trusts him to keep her safe. He leans in, mouth brushing the top of her head, one long, steady press of lips to skin, like he’s sealing something there. “I love you, baby,” he murmurs, low and warm, the kind of voice that can only come from the center of the chest. “I’ve got you. Always.”

The baby stirs a little, her tiny fingers uncurling and catching at the string of his hoodie. He lets her pull. He lets her hold. His arms tighten just slightly, the motion so subtle it feels like muscle remembering how to protect. He sways without realizing, a slow back-and-forth, the rhythm of someone who has been doing this long enough for his body to memorize the lull. His nose grazes the side of her head again. He whispers something else, barely audible, maybe a name. Maybe a promise.

He doesn’t see you yet, he only sees her.

You reach him slowly, every step drawn through molasses, like the air thickened the second you crossed into his orbit. His head remains bowed, breath syncing with the tiny one pressed to his chest. The light catches on the curve of her cheek where it peeks from the blanket, her skin warm and impossibly smooth, one fist curled into the collar of his hoodie like she was born knowing it belonged to her. Jaemin holds her with both arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling her back, the other resting along the top of her swaddle. His thumb moves in small, soothing arcs. He whispers into her hair.

The hallway has folded itself around him like it was built to carry this moment. Like this bench, this patch of light, this hour — they were waiting. Karina stops beside you, shoulder brushing yours, heartbeat loud enough to feel. You’re all watching him, watching them, watching a version of Jaemin that none of you have ever met. He’s still cooing to her. Still brushing her forehead with the backs of his fingers, rhythm soft, voice even softer.

And then Karina speaks. “Jaemin?” Her voice cuts sideways, choked and sharp at once. “What the fuck?”

Jaemin freezes.

The reaction is immediate. His head lifts in one motion, slow but full-bodied, like someone pulling himself up from underwater. His shoulders rise. His eyes snap toward the sound, and for a breathless second, he just stares—lips parted, lashes unmoving, gaze flicking from face to face as if the hallway has shifted into something he cannot place. He doesn’t speak. His hand on the baby stills completely. The rhythm breaks. She sighs once in his arms, adjusting slightly. He catches her instinctively, gaze dropping for a moment to check her weight, to shift her higher against his chest without disturbing her sleep. His body moves out of reflex. His mind is slower to follow.

You can see the question before it forms, sitting just behind his eyes—how the hell did you find me? But then she stirs. A soft sound escapes from the bundle in his arms, small but rising, a wet hiccup blooming into a whimper. Jaemin’s focus drops immediately, hands moving on instinct. He shifts her higher against his chest, one palm splayed across her back, the other brushing under her blanket to find the edge of her foot. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice low again, quiet and certain, “Daddy’s here, I’ve got you.”

The fussiness crests, turns, then begins to settle. Her fingers twitch at his hoodie string again. He rocks slightly, rhythm finding him again then he looks at you. The recognition strikes him in full. First in his eyes, then in his mouth, which doesn’t speak but tightens just enough to reveal a language that only he’s caught. His throat works around a breath that doesn’t turn into words. The tendons in his neck pull taut. There’s nothing composed in his reaction—only the raw, stilled shape of shock pressed across his face like it was sculpted there.

You say nothing.

None of you do.

Because in front of you, Jaemin is holding a child. And the silence has never felt heavier.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice rasped but steady. “You found us.”

No one answers right away. The baby’s breath hitches once in his arms, a little uneven puff that makes him glance down, adjusting the crook of her neck against his chest with a slow, practiced ease. The silence stretches until Karina’s jaw locks, her mouth opening again—but this time it’s not cautious. “You absolute bastard,” she hisses, stepping forward, voice pitched somewhere between cracked fury and relief. “I thought you were dead. I had Shotaro checking morgues. Do you know that? Morgues, Jaemin.”

“Technically only once,” Shotaro adds, holding up a hand. “And we didn’t go inside.”

“You ghosted us. You fell off the face of the earth. And now you’re just… here? At some unknown hospital? Rocking a literal baby?”

“Technically,” you murmur, arms still at your sides, voice calm in a way that feels vaguely misplaced, “this hospital isn’t exactly unknown. It’s one of the leading pediatric centers in the country. They’re affiliated with three different research labs, and they pulled top neurosurgery stats last year—”

Karina whirls on you. “You don’t need to correct everything, Y/N.”

Jaemin blinks at the two of you. Then glances down at Ha-eun again, his hand adjusting her sleeve, tucking her fingers in beneath the blanket like it’s the most important thing in the room. “She’s asleep,” he says under his breath. “Keep it down unless you want to watch me cry.”

“You cry?” Donghyuck scoffs. “Since when do you—”

“I cry all the time now,” Jaemin cuts in, eyes wide and unbothered. “I cried yesterday because her sock fell off and she looked betrayed. I cried last week because she rolled over and I didn’t record it. I cried this morning because she grabbed my thumb like she’d chosen me, and that’s insane because she doesn’t even know what a thumb is.”

Karina stares at him. “Who are you?”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound cracked open at the edges. “I’m Ha-eun’s dad.” The name lands with a softness you didn’t expect. Ha-eun. It fits the shape of her, small and whole and safe in his arms like she has always belonged there.

“She’s one next week,” Jaemin says, softer now, barely above the hush of her breath. His eyes stay on her, every word kissed into the space between them. There’s wonder in his voice, quiet but steady—the kind that glows from deep inside instead of trying to reach the world around it. His thumb brushes the curve of her ear, gentle and rhythmic. “Feels like she just got here yesterday,” he murmurs, half to her, half to himself. “Feels like she’s been mine forever.”

You watch her more closely. Her cheeks are warm, her lashes long and soft against the curve of her face, her body curled inwards like she’s learned to keep herself small. Her head fits perfectly beneath his chin. Her blanket rises and falls in slow, careful rhythm. You swallow, tongue caught against the back of your teeth. “She looks really little,” you murmur, eyes still on her, voice barely threaded together. “For a baby who’s nearly one.”

You knew the answer the moment you stepped into this hallway—the moment you saw the way he held her, not like something precious, but like something that could slip away if he blinked too long. You knew when you realized his badge had no department, when his voice broke around the word daughter, when every inch of him bent toward her like prayer. This isn’t a man in uniform. This isn’t a doctor finishing rounds. This is a father on borrowed time, keeping vigil in a place that only holds what it cannot promise.

Jaemin sighs, the sound deep and almost silent, then presses a kiss to the top of her head. His hand strokes down the length of her back once before he looks up. When he speaks, the words come quiet and full, like he’s had to shape them gently to keep from breaking. “She was born with a congenital heart defect. The medical term is truncus arteriosus—it means there’s only one large vessel leaving her heart, when there should be two. It makes everything harder. Breathing. Circulation. Growth.”

Shotaro’s hand flies up to his mouth. His eyes blur with too many things at once. “Oh my god.”

“We have to stay strong,” Jaemin says quickly, his voice cutting in with a soft, insistent edge. “She’s strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.” He glances down at her again. His hand moves automatically, smoothing the edge of the blanket near her shoulder. “She’s had four surgeries since she was born. One at three days old. One at four months. Another when she turned six. And just last month, they had to go in again to adjust the graft. It’s been—” he stops, exhales, then nods like he’s saying it to himself—“a year of holding our breath.”

Karina wipes at her eyes in silence. Donghyuck doesn’t move. “She’s getting better,” Jaemin adds, voice firm now, like he’s anchoring the sentence in truth. “She’s getting stronger every single day. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.” And in his arms, Ha-eun sleeps on, untouched by the weight around her, as if her body already knows that love like this will carry her through anything.

Jaemin shakes his head slowly, eyes still fixed on her like he’s drawing strength straight from her sleep. “She’s more than what’s happening in her chest,” he says, and there’s a quiet edge to it—tired, certain, protective in a way that feels carved into bone. “She’s brilliant. You should see her when she’s awake. She studies everything—faces, voices, colors. She knows when I’m the one holding her, even if she’s half-asleep. The second I walk into the room, she lifts her head. She says ‘dada’ when she sees me, clear as anything. She doesn't speak to anyone else.”

His mouth softens as he speaks, and something in his expression changes—lightens without losing depth. “She sticks her tongue out when she’s concentrating. She gets really quiet when it rains, like she’s listening to something I can’t hear. And she hates socks. I mean—hates them. We’ve lost twelve pairs this month alone. She’ll look me dead in the eye and rip them off like she’s making a point.”

A smile pulls at the edge of his mouth, lopsided and full of something sacred. “She’s funny. She’s opinionated. She loves the color yellow and gets genuinely offended when I eat the last bite of her yogurt without offering it to her—like she didn’t just fling half of it across the table and reject the last three spoons with full dramatic flair. She makes this little growl when she wants attention and she knows exactly how to fake-cry to get what she wants. She’s got the weirdest taste in music, a total old soul. She doesn’t like any of the baby songs I play for her but she’ll fall asleep to Debussy, perks up for acoustic lullabies, but her favorite song in the world—no joke—is a stripped-down jazz cover of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’ I swear, if I play anything too upbeat, she looks at me like I’ve insulted her lineage.” And in his arms, Ha-eun stirs softly, her tiny fingers flexing once against his chest before curling back into warmth—like she knows he’s telling her story, and she’s letting him.

Donghyuck stares at him, expression halfway between awe and something deeply unhinged. “You… you have a daughter. Like a real, breathing, sock-wearing, Debussy-listening baby. You’re someone’s dad. How the hell did that happen?”

“Not someone,” Jaemin mutters, smoothing her hair with his palm. “I’m Hae-un’s dad.” 

Karina makes a strangled sound and half-lunges at him—not to attack, but to slap his shoulder so hard he has to rock slightly to keep from waking her. “You idiot. You disappeared. You broke all of us. You broke me. You could have at least sent a fucking text!”

“I didn’t know how,” he says, and this time his voice folds inward, like he’s talking less to you and more to the version of himself that didn’t make it through. “After you and I fizzled out, everything around me got quieter but heavier. Like I kept walking through rooms that used to be full and couldn’t remember what I came in for. And I don’t mean it in a dramatic way. I just stopped knowing who I was when no one was looking.”

He glances down at her hand—so small it barely covers the center of his palm, her tiny fingers curled into him like they grew there. “Then she arrived and no one else mattered. I had to step up, it was only me, I had to do it all myself and it wasn’t easy, but she made it easy. There was one thing that mattered more than my shame, my pride or all the versions of myself I couldn’t live with. She came into the world already fighting for air, and all I could think about was whether she’d hear my voice first or the machines.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and there’s no mask left—just a tired, honest quiet. “I know it’s not an excuse but I needed time. To become someone she could trust without even thinking. Someone she could fall asleep on without wondering if I’d still be there in the morning. And maybe that meant disappearing from everything else. Maybe that’s the part I’ll always regret. But I couldn’t afford to mess this up, not this time, not with her.” He doesn’t add anything else after that. Just smooths the edge of her tiny sock where it’s slipped loose, then lets his hand rest there like it’s keeping the whole world in place.

Donghyuck breaks the silence first, tipping his head and raising both brows like he’s looking at a puzzle that somehow built itself while no one was watching. “So you just had a secret baby in the past year,” he says, voice too casual to be serious, too stunned to be joking. “I got a parking ticket. Shotaro dyed his hair. Karina joined a yoga cult and started meditating because of you. And you—” he gestures toward Jaemin with a flick of his wrist, “—you went full Witness Protection Program and showed up as someone’s dad.”

There’s a moment of stunned stillness, then a tiny snort from Karina that might have been a laugh if it weren’t drowned in disbelief. Shotaro shifts where he stands, something more serious pulling at his face now. His hands are loose at his sides, but his voice is careful. “Did no one know about this?” he asks quietly. “Jaemin… you should’ve come to us. We would’ve helped. You didn’t have to carry this all alone. Did you seriously tell no one?”

The silence is like pressure dropping in the room. Then you speak, quietly, your words more shape than sound. “You told Jeno.”

Jaemin looks up, and for the first time, his expression shifts—something flickering just beneath the surface. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t ask how you know. He just nods, the movement slow, like it comes from a place that’s lived in this truth too long to hide it. “Yeah,” he says. “I told Jeno. He’s helped a lot. More than I can explain. When it got bad—when she had her third surgery and I didn’t sleep for days—he flew out and stayed with us. Slept on the couch. Took shifts with her when I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Kept the monitors from sounding like alarms. He was here for a while, a whole month, actually.”

Your stomach pulls tight.

The timelines add up. Too perfectly. That night last spring when the city felt too loud and too quiet all at once. The bar on West 38th, the one you never meant to walk into, the one where Jeno was already sitting, glass in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he was trying to breathe. You never asked why he was in New York. He never offered. You both said things you didn’t mean and did things you never talked about after.

And now, standing here, the weight of it curls beneath your ribs like smoke rising from something you thought had gone cold. He was here because of Jaemin. Because of her. You blink once, slow. The hallway sharpens again around you. Jaemin’s still speaking, quiet and steady, eyes back on Ha-eun now like the rest of the world is just background. “I haven’t been alone,” he says, and there’s something almost grateful in his voice. “It’s been hard. But she makes it worth it. And I had help when it counted.”

Jaemin huffs a soft laugh, the sound tugged right from his chest, and glances down at her with mock betrayal. “She’s obsessed with her uncle Jeno,” he says, shaking his head. “When he’s around, I practically don’t exist. It’s like she forgets who changed her diapers at 3 a.m. for eleven months straight.”

His hand shifts slightly, brushing her tiny foot where it’s peeking from the blanket. “He walks into the room and she lights up like a lamp. Grabs at his shirt, tries to babble faster than she knows how. Do you wanna know the worst part?” He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s preparing to deliver a personal offense. “She flirts. I’m not kidding—she flutters her lashes. She gets shy and tucks her chin like she has a crush. Literally blushes. On cue.”

Karina snorts. Shotaro coughs into his sleeve. Donghyuck mutters something about being the forgotten godfather. But none of it reaches you, because something quieter has already taken hold, something slow and deliberate that rises not from what was said but from what lingers in the silence between their voices, something threaded beneath your skin in a place you have never named. It stirs when Jaemin speaks of Jeno, when he says his name like it belongs to something steady and sacred, when he smiles and recalls how she leans toward him like she has always known him, like he is home—and that is where it lodges in you, sharp and silent and echoing like a breath held too long. There is a ‘he’ in this room who isn’t here yet, but his shadow has already passed through you, has already marked you, and has already left something behind. And whatever it is that tightens now in the quiet curve of your throat, whatever it is that steals your breath before you can feel it—it’s already inside you, placing shape where none should be, forming quietly, unknowingly, and it moves like his.

There’s a pause. And then you ask it—softly, gently, like the answer might pull the light out of the room. “Who’s her mother?”

Jaemin exhales. Not like a breath. Like a weight. His mouth twists into something that tries to be a smile and fails halfway. His hand keeps moving over Ha-eun’s blanket in small, rhythmic strokes. His voice comes slowly. “That’s — it’s not important, I don’t wanna get into it.” And then he looks down at her again—like she’s the only thing keeping that story from unraveling in his hands.

Jaemin shifts her slowly, the kind of motion that carries memory in the muscle, like his body has learned her rhythm so completely it doesn’t need thought anymore. His arms fold in toward his chest, her weight still resting soft in his hands, and then he turns to you—not with words, just with his eyes, and something in them asks if you’re ready for something that might change you. 

You reach without meaning to. He places her in your arms with the kind of care that feels ceremonial. Not cautious, but reverent. Like handing over a piece of sky. Like trusting someone with light. Her warmth bleeds instantly through the fabric between you, her head nestling into the inside of your elbow, her fingers twitching once in sleep.

She is so light. Lighter than anything with this much gravity. Your breath catches, quiet and sharp, like it was startled into stillness. And then she stirs—barely. Just a sigh through her nose, a flutter behind her eyelids, and the smallest sound leaves her lips, softer than a whimper, louder than a thought. You do not mean to coo, but you do, and the sound that comes out of you doesn’t belong to the voice you know. It’s quieter. Warmer. Older.

Her eyes blink open, clouded and bright all at once, unfocused but seeking, and for a heartbeat she just looks up at you, small chest rising slow against the side of your forearm. She doesn’t cry. She just looks, as if she knows something you don’t. The moment lands heavy, not in your arms, but beneath your ribs—because this feels like the kind of thing that can only happen once. Like something the universe allows before it takes it back.

And you’re not sure if she’s giving you something or saying goodbye.

Karina steps closer, arms half-extended, like reaching for Ha-eun might snap whatever spell is humming in the space between all of you. Her voice comes quieter than usual, softer, rounded at the edges by something fragile. “Can I—” she starts, then swallows. “Can I hold her?” Her gaze flickers between Jaemin and the baby in your arms, and it isn’t anger anymore that sits in her throat. It’s wonder. She looks at Ha-eun like she’s watching something sacred sleep. And for a moment, every cruel thing she wanted to say to Jaemin dissolves into the air between them, too small to matter. Too human to hold.

Jaemin nods. You shift slightly, ready to pass her over—but the moment breaks before it completes. Ha-eun stirs, just a breath, just a soft movement that feels less like waking and more like remembering. Her tiny hand uncurls from where it’s been nestled against her chest and drifts downward, clumsy, unfocused, yet drawn with the precision of instinct. Her fingers find your wrist.

And they tighten. Not harshly, not in pain but in a way that stills everything. Her palm rests against the bracelet there—your bracelet. The one you never took off. The chain cools against your skin, her fingers warmer than anything has a right to be. And for a moment, the air feels like silk being pulled through water. Slow. Soundless. Crushing in its softness.

She clutches it like she knows the story it tells. The bracelet wraps around your wrist like a timeline masquerading as jewelry—delicate, yes, but heavy with the weight of things that shaped you. Each charm is a relic, a kept secret, a chapter without words. The microphone gleams gold, dulled at the edges from years of skin and stage-light dreams, a symbol from the first time you chose your voice over silence. The basketball hangs beside it, small and scuffed, the color worn from afternoons spent under dying suns and the memory of someone who taught you how to want without shame. A miniature book with a cracked spine dangles from the center—its pages fused closed, no titles, no words, only the echo of everything you never said out loud. There’s a tiny theater mask, one side smiling, one side hollowed out, a gift from a winter that almost undid you, when pretending was the only way you survived. A wave curls near the clasp, silver caught mid-crash, from the summer you lost something to the ocean and pretended it was just the tide. A charm shaped like a safety pin sits next to it—thin, silver, unbending—a quiet nod to the year you held everyone together except yourself. 

Near the clasp, where the chain begins and ends, rests the smallest charm—quiet in shape, but exact in meaning, a silver quill with its spine curved just enough to suggest movement, its tip narrowing to a point so fine it seems to tremble in the light. Each groove along the feather reads like a line already written, the surface cool and clean and carrying the stillness of something that has waited a long time to be found. Her fingers close around it gently, with a stillness that feels less like reaching and more like remembering, the motion dreamlike and inevitable, as if her hand was carved for this weight long before it ever found its shape, and in that quiet moment the charm begins to shift—no longer a feather, but a promise folding itself into form, a name blooming beneath silence, a future written so softly it settles into the air like ink that never needed a pen.

Now her fingers are wrapped around it, she isn’t letting go.

Karina stands with her arms open, but something stills between you—the baby’s hand wrapped around the bracelet at your wrist, her fingers curled with such delicate purpose it feels carved from something older than her body, and older than yours. Her grip is small, soft, but the weight behind it is immense, as if she’s touching more than metal, as if she’s pressing her palm to every shape and memory it’s ever carried. There’s no resistance in her hold, only certainty. The kind of certainty that steals breath. Your arms don’t move because it feels like passing her to someone else would unmake a moment that has already planted its roots inside your chest. And still, Karina waits. Her breath is uneven, her expression splintered somewhere between wonder and the ache of something breaking open. Her hands tremble as she reaches again.

You exhale, barely, and begin to shift.

The baby stirs, blinking once, her eyes cloudy but bright, lashes trembling with sleep, and the second Karina gathers her into her arms, something changes in the room. The air warms. The distance softens. And from the curve of Karina’s shoulder, a sound escapes—fragile, vowel-shaped, almost a laugh but shaped like language. A sound meant for her. Karina gasps, then smiles so suddenly it crumples her whole face. “You’re talking to me?” she whispers, voice cracked around the edges. “You’re saying hi?”

The baby gurgles again, a soft string of syllables that mean nothing and everything. And Karina holds her closer, rocking slightly, like her body remembers how even if her mind doesn’t. Her hair slips forward and brushes the baby’s forehead. The bracelet on your wrist is still warm. The space where her weight once was still pulses with memory. You stand there, breath folded sharp beneath your ribs, because even without her in your arms, something of her remains threaded through you—light as breath, deep as marrow—as if her weight carved a space inside you that hasn’t figured out how to close.

Donghyuck takes her next, arms slightly unsure at first, but cradling her with the gentleness of someone who knows how to make himself soft when it matters most, and the second she blinks up at him, he lets out a laugh so quiet it folds into a hum, bouncing her lightly as he murmurs something low and ridiculous, something about her cheeks being engineered in a lab to destroy him. She doesn’t cry. She watches. She settles. And then she sneezes once into his shirt and Shotaro chokes on a laugh, already reaching for his turn. When the baby passes into Shotaro’s arms, she sighs like she’s returning somewhere, her tiny fingers brushing his chest as he rocks slightly from heel to toe, his face open in the way only he knows how to be, full of wonder, full of awe, whispering “hello” like it’s a secret between them and only her eyes can answer it. They stay like that for a while, wrapped in a kind of silence that feels bigger than stillness, until her head tips slightly, her weight shifting again like instinct — and without needing to ask, without needing to speak, she comes back to you.

She nestles into the crook of your arm like she never left, her body folding soft into yours with a breath that shivers down your spine, and you shift her closer with hands that remember the rhythm now, your cheek brushing her temple, your voice cooing something senseless and warm just for her to hear. And behind you, quiet and unnoticed, Shotaro lifts his phone, screen dimmed low, not to interrupt, not even to remember—just to capture, to hold still the shape of something that might never happen quite like this again. The photo blinks into existence with a hush of light: you, holding her against your chest, your lips curved into a smile too soft to be posed, eyes half-lowered, your wrist glinting beneath her fingers as she touches your bracelet like it belongs to her. There’s something golden in the angle, something still. You don’t notice the click. You don’t hear it save itself. But when Shotaro looks down, the image quiets him. Because the moment is whole. And you are glowing. 

Monaco is the twenty-sixth country this year, though it doesn’t unfold the way the others did—no flash, no skyline stretch, no chaos pretending to be luxury—just stillness, just silence, just the kind of coastal hush that costs more than gold to maintain, and Jeno moves through it like breath caught inside the body of something too old to speak, streets winding like thought, alleys clean enough to mirror bone. His name followed him here, first in the windows of storefronts where his face hung beside gold-trimmed logos and limited edition sneakers, then in the whispers of brand reps in linen suits who smiled too wide and asked nothing of him but presence. Twenty-six cities, twenty-six courts, twenty-six languages softened into endorsements and autographs. They hand him heat-pressed jerseys and gold-tipped pens, call him the future with smiles that stretch too wide across brand decks, clip microphones to his collar while cameras catch the angles they already studied, and his face—clean, balanced, carved by sweat and spotlight—moves from billboard to broadcast like it’s no longer something he owns, just a polished surface they pass between them.

The season ended three months ago, but the world hasn’t stopped asking for him—the NBA called it a peak, the numbers called it a breakout, and he called it none of those things because there was never a version of this that didn’t feel like a performance, like precision dressed as prophecy, like grief passed down through muscle memory and sold as ambition. Every stop is the same: photos under heat lamp bulbs, contract meetings in rooms where silence matters more than answers, gym sessions booked at three a.m. to dodge cameras, and a new country pressing its fingerprint into the back of his neck before he can forget the shape of the last one. He hasn’t unpacked in months. The suitcase lives open.

He still ties his own shoes before every game, double-knots them the same way he did at seventeen, sits on locker room floors with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed like he’s praying for focus and not forgiveness, keeps the first towel he was handed after his rookie debut folded in the bottom of his gym bag like a promise no one else remembers. The drivers call him sir, the stylists ask if they can post him, the agents float words like empire and legacy and icon, but he nods without lifting his eyes, always thanks them by name, always clears his own plates, always trains until his chest aches—not because the cameras ask, but because the work is the only place that feels honest, the only place that asks nothing but everything.

But Monaco slows everything, slants the light gold and long across stone like it’s trying to teach him how to mourn in style, and he lets it, walking with the weight of his father’s watch wrapped twice around his wrist, gaze pulled down the narrow corridors that taste like salt and dynasty, steps echoing against glass storefronts that sell stillness at premium. The buildings here feel like they remember names even after the families forget them, arches carved into silence, marble clinging to old heat. He pauses at the edge of the overlook, not for the view but for the shadow that stretches before him, lean and tall and motionless across the glinting water, and the way it folds with the curve of the rail makes it look less like his own and more like the echo of someone else’s—someone who taught him how to stand like that, how to disappear without leaving.

The air smells like money and memory, seafoam and steel, and the harbor below shifts with a patience that makes his stomach tighten, because here even the water moves with legacy. His phone buzzes against his thigh, another message from another brand, another opportunity to be seen, to be owned, to be sold. He doesn’t check it. He keeps his hands at his sides, eyes on the line where the sea meets the light, and waits for the ache to pass. It doesn’t. It only deepens, slides lower into his ribs, joins the rhythm of his breath like it was always meant to be there. And the city watches. And the shadow holds.

He doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t need to, the quiet does it for him, spreading slow and deliberate across any room brave enough to ask about lineage, each mention of legacy left to hang midair like smoke rising from something already burned. He lets it breathe, lets it sour, lets the pause between words collect weight until the question curls in on itself and disappears, and when he turns his head toward the sea, it isn’t for beauty or peace, it’s for the way the reflection handles him—how the surface holds his face like a secret, edges soft, eyes dark, the sky folding around him like it’s tucking him away, like it’s preparing to bury something without ceremony.

The watch speaks in silence against his pulse, thick leather brushing bone, gold dulled by time and sweat, ticking steady as if to remind him he’s still inside the hour Taeyong never outran, and the key rides hidden in the same place it always does—tucked beside gauze, resin, salt—never reaching the lock but never leaving the bag either, carried like breath, like superstition, like proof of a door that still exists. Grief doesn’t ask for attention anymore, it lives in muscle and scar, in clean form and cleaner footwork, in how he lands his shots with the kind of finality that belongs to legacy, in how he looks past the questions now, not to dismiss but to disarm, voice cut to the shape of ritual, steady and stripped and shaped by years of learning how to say everything without offering anything. Nahyun calls it control, calls it dignity, calls it the strength his father would have admired, but she never felt the cold behind Taeyong’s voice when he issued silence like a sentence, never learned how stillness can scream when it’s taught by someone who held power like a blade.

So Jeno folds everything into movement, places it in the flex of his jaw, the evenness of his breath, the weight he drops into every step like his bones are measuring distance not in steps but in cost, and when he finds himself alone in the late light of windows that reach the floor, he doesn’t look away from the reflection, because it gives nothing, asks nothing, holds the shape of him without judgment, and the city gathers around that image like a crown built from shadow.

He wakes to headlines before the sun reaches the windows, name printed in sharp fonts and sharper praise, called the future before he can rub the sleep from his eyes, voice already hoarse from the weight of questions he hasn’t answered yet, and by the time he’s walking through the terminal—hood low, sleeves cuffed, security flanking him like shadow—there’s already a crowd waiting, already a camera rolling, already a child pushing forward with sneakers in both hands and eyes wide like he’s seeing something holy. They call him king. They call him an icon. They call him inevitable. And he signs his name like he’s pressing a bruise into the fabric, smiles the way he’s been taught to, holds their gaze long enough to be remembered but nothing touches him. Not anymore. 

The higher it climbs, the less it reaches. The air thins. The light glitters too cold. And every win drags something behind it, something heavier than celebration, something shaped like survival. Interviews stack on top of photo shoots, blur into press days, press days bleed into flights, into training, into sideline microphones asking him again and again what fuels him, what inspires him, what he’s chasing now. He tells them discipline. He tells them hunger. He tells them love for the game. He never says revenge. He never says father. You’re the one he never names. The one with ash on your smile and fire beneath your ribs, the one who held out your hand even as he stepped back, who stayed soft long after he’d gone silent. He left you in a breath, without warning, without apology, without giving you a place to set all the love he left burning, and he told himself that distance would erase the shape of you, that silence could starve what memory couldn’t kill. But you stayed. You stayed in the empty stretch between headlines and hotel rooms, in the stillness of locker rooms after the noise fades, in the way his chest pulls tight at every question he dodges, because your name still lives beneath his tongue like a secret bruising him from the inside out. And on the nights when everything else falls quiet—when the fans are gone and the lights are low and his hands won’t stop shaking—he finds you there again, not in forgiveness, not in fantasy, but in the part of him that never stopped asking why he left something that felt like being alive.

Nahyun keeps it all in motion, or at least gives it the illusion—schedules his fittings like they’re sacred, checks his call log before he can, turns down interviews with a smile that lands better than any statement he could’ve made himself. She walks through their apartment like she owns its quiet, adjusts the volume of the speakers without ever asking what he wants to hear, lays out clothes he never remembers choosing, hosts dinners where the wine is imported and the compliments feel rehearsed. Her hand curls into the crook of his arm just before the camera clicks, her laugh lands at the exact pitch that trends best on reels, and when she whispers “you’re the most wanted man in the league” it sounds like she’s reminding herself who she’s standing beside. He nods because it’s easier, lets her kiss land against his cheek with the softness of habit, but his fingers always drift to his chest after—just beneath the collarbone, to the hollow place that never closes, the one her hands never find, no matter how many rooms she fills.

Sometimes after games—after the roar fades, after the jerseys are swapped and the lights go down—he showers without speaking, moves through the water like it’s trying to baptise him into someone untouched by love, someone immune to memory, someone who never once stayed too long inside a goodbye. He wraps the towel around his face and sits there breathing, elbows on knees, head bowed, counting each inhale like it might bring something back that hasn’t had a name in years. And in that dark, inside that silence that wraps around him tighter than anything ever has, he lets the question come. If he stripped it all away—the cameras, the contracts, the kingdom built around his name—would anything remain but yours in the back of his throat, the syllable shaped like mercy, the one thing he never got to keep.

Outside the court, the pace never softens. The days spiral—early lifts in private gyms that smell like metal and intent, meetings held in penthouses where windows outnumber clocks, jet-black SUVs that move like shadows through cities that keep his name in lights. There are stylists waiting with garment bags he never picked, trainers adjusting macros to match analytics he never questioned, agents whispering forecasts like scripture between elevators. His phone doesn’t sleep. His signature moves faster than he does. He lands in one country before the sweat dries from the last, and when he walks into rooms, the air tightens—because even when the game ends, the game keeps playing. Just louder. Just cleaner. Just dressed in suits instead of jerseys.

There’s a building in Seoul’s financial core that rises sharper than zoning should allow, clad in obsidian glass that swallows daylight and brass so polished it throws reflections like weapons. It doesn’t shimmer. It stares. Security rotates every four hours. Every floor requires biometric clearance. The air smells like ozone and contract ink. Inside, the logo for ‘Vantae Group’ curves across a monolithic reception wall—matte black, unlit, unbranded—small enough to whisper, sharp enough to wound, the kind of design that doesn’t ask to be remembered, only obeyed. It began decades ago as a fashion house known for blood-slick runways and silk cut like shrapnel, but it expanded fast, teeth first—into luxury athletics, global media ventures, equity-controlled event syndicates, real estate portfolios spread across seven continents, and a closed-access network of neuro-performance labs buried beneath ex-military vaults in cities that never sleep. It doesn’t sponsor athletes. It engineers them. It doesn’t sell product. It trades futures. And if something moves the culture—Vantae already owns the patent on its breath.

The company began as a split vision between Taeyong Lee and Nahyun’s father—one known for his cold ascent, the other for his immaculate restraint—and now Jeno runs what they built. The partnerships are listed clean across documents, board seats shared, but in every meeting, the weight tips toward blood. He enters the first boardroom of the fiscal year in charcoal wool and shadow, jaw set like a warning, and they don’t stand. They don’t pause. They barely glance up from their numbers, seeing the face, the contract, the league asset, but not the threat. So he lets them. He flips the projections without speaking, listens to their pitch for a new digital rights package while silence gathers like static, letting the room warm itself with assumptions. Then he closes the folder with two fingers and says, “Not worth it.” Nothing more. And for the first time that morning, they stop speaking. By the next quarter, three directors step down, two entire departments restructure, and the company starts breathing through sharper lungs.

He learns quickly. Speaks slower. Lets silence drape across the table like velvet, eyes steady beneath tailored suits that sharpen the way his body already holds power, voice low enough to make people lean in, still enough to make them wonder if he’s waiting or watching. He wears less expression now, just precision—sits longer in rooms where men used to try to measure him, their smiles softening when they realise he won’t flinch. He ends calls with a glance. Fires with a phrase. Stands without needing to raise his voice, and the room folds around his absence like heat leaving silk. Every night ends the same: a cold dinner left untouched, half-read reports scattered in columns across the table, and Taeyong’s old memos sealed beneath glass—lines in red ink that feel more like warning than advice. One of them reads, ‘never trust a man who flatters before he listens,’ and Jeno keeps it folded in his coat pocket, right beside the place his heartbeat slows, pressed flat like a weapon made for silence.

So when an investor leans in over low firelight and a glass of scotch aged older than his father’s mistakes and says, “You’ve got his instinct,” Jeno doesn’t smile. He lifts his glass like agreement was never the point. That night he takes Nahyun to bed with the same hands he uses to close deals—measured, practiced, clean. He touches her like routine, moves through her like breath held too long, keeps his mouth pressed to her shoulder and exhales slow, as if the scent of her might drown out the part of him still listening for another voice. He finishes with his eyes open, his jaw tight, the quiet after feeling sharper than anything that came before. And before sleep thins the air between them, he whispers it—low, deliberate, the way someone says something they need to believe—“I’m nothing like him.” But silence holds memory like a knife under the tongue, and blood moves like handwriting through the body—unseen, unspoken, but always returning to its source.

Jeno’s days stretch like wire, tight and polished, pulled across cities that blur before they settle—training in glass-walled gyms where the mirrors breathe back precision, meetings in penthouses where coffee comes pre-sweetened and silence signs faster than language. His body moves through routine like ritual, protein calculated to the gram, recovery woven into ice, heat, shock, repeat. Security walks a step ahead, stylists wait behind velvet ropes, and agents speak in numbers that sound like legacy. So when a rest day arrives, carved out by publicists and trainers like a favour disguised as strategy, he takes it without question but never without weight. The world doesn’t quiet, it just tilts—less noise, more echo—and the stillness inside those hours doesn’t soothe so much as sharpen, because peace, when it comes, always arrives dressed like surveillance.

The villa stretches across the cliffside like it was poured from sun-bleached marble, every inch designed to keep secrets beneath silence—stone floors smoothed by time, glass walls angled to catch the sea without letting it in. The ocean sits far below, too distant to roar, humming soft like a machine that’s never broken. Inside, the air holds weight—sharp with citrus, brushed with something artificial, the kind of clean that feels curated. Security shifts behind mirrored doors, earpieces glinting once before vanishing. The chef slices into ripe fruit in the open kitchen, blades moving like punctuation. There’s jazz playing in another room, faint and unobtrusive, stitched into the background like a mood board someone forgot to mute. The house belongs to someone who understands appearances, and Jeno lets himself exist inside it like an echo, body submerged to the chest in saltwater blue, earbuds in but quiet, arms loose at his sides like he’s waiting for the weight to pull them deeper. His eyes track the edge of the sea with a stillness that feels like prayer held at knifepoint.

Jeno stands waist-deep in the pool, bare to the sun, shoulders gleaming with a sheen that comes from sweat worn down by ice baths and infrared saunas, from mornings that begin before the city rises, from training so strict even his rest days arrive with caution tape. His chest rises slowly. His spine stays long. There’s a stillness to him that feels uninterruptible—like his body has already calculated how many more breaths it will take before he moves. His abs tighten with each inhale, muscle etched into him by grind, not gift, and his hands float just barely away from his sides like something inside him is bracing for impact. His jaw is clean-shaven, cut sharp enough to draw focus. His arms ripple when he shifts. But nothing about him calls for attention. He’s sculpted to endure. To last. To outlive whatever it is still chasing him.

The water holds him like memory—gliding up to his ribs, curling around his wrists, cool and glass-like, but never forgiving. It mirrors him without distortion. Every ripple is earned. Every stillness earned more. His earbuds sit against his ears, silent. No music. No voice. Only the low static of his own mind, thoughts tight and quick, running in formation like they’re late for something. Headlines. Trades. Contracts. Time zones. Rotations. His trainer says the brain doesn’t rest until the body forgets how to fight but the body never forgets.

His phone buzzes once on the stone lip of the pool, then again, a pulse inside the quiet that doesn’t beg for attention but pulls it anyway, and while most alerts fold into background—business, agents, schedules wrapped in urgency dressed as relevance—this one carries a name that tilts the water. Jaemin. No sound, no shift, but his hand rises clean from the surface, droplets tracking down his forearm as he lifts the phone without hurry, thumb steady even as his pulse stirs, once, then twice, like something inside him already knows the shape of what’s coming. Anyone else, he’d leave on read and reply hours later, but it’s Jaemin so he opens it before the second buzz fades.

The first image arrives soft—Haeun swaddled in cotton blue, lashes feathered against her cheeks like closing curtains, one small fist curled around a plastic spoon with the stubbornness of royalty, and Jeno feels it before he processes it, the way something inside his mouth pulls open, subtle and warm, not a smile exactly but the beginning of one, the kind that lifts slow and lives behind the eyes. His body stills completely, chest loose, gaze locked, and it takes a beat for the shock to settle—the understanding that this is her, that this is real, that after a year of silence and sideways answers, after months of watching Jaemin vanish behind clinical phrases and guarded tones, he’s seeing the thing Jaemin never shared to anyone but him, the secret held so tightly it left no fingerprints, and it’s her, it’s his baby, and she’s everything.

He swipes again and the breath catches lower, deeper—Karina cradling her like it’s instinct, Shotaro caught mid-laugh with his eyes half-closed, Donghyuck blurred beside them with a snack pouch raised like a toast, and the light across their faces softens the air around them, the kind of gold that makes joy feel physical, that makes time slow into honey, and Jeno just looks, thumb resting against the edge of the screen like he’s afraid the image might slip away if he blinks too long. The smile comes again, realer now, a quiet stretch across his face that makes his cheekbones sharpen and his eyes crease slightly at the corners, but it’s the kind that carries ache beneath it, the kind he only wears when something beautiful arrives too late to touch.

The fourth photo opens like a trigger, velvet-wrapped and breathless, and his heart stutters so sharply it sends silence ringing through his ribs, the kind that only follows something you weren’t ready to want. It lands with the precision of fate disguised as accident—your image caught mid-laugh, your hands holding something fragile, and it doesn’t feel like a photo, it feels like a memory resurfacing in full color, sharp with light, brutal with beauty, and aimed straight at the part of him that remembers everything. Your hair is pulled low at the nape, knotted clean like it was meant to be undone slowly, and your shoulders curve bare beneath soft fabric that holds no shine but every kind of gravity. One hand cradles the back of Haeun’s head with a stillness that feels older than instinct, bracelet sagging just enough to show the charms—each one worn, gleaming in dull rhythm, each one the shape of something he remembers memorizing with his fingertips on nights when your breathing steadied him more than sleep. Your mouth is parted mid-laugh, caught in the soft blur between inhale and joy, and it hits him all at once—how alive it looks, how unscripted, how you’re looking at the baby like you’ve known her longer than language, like love is a memory that lived in your chest before it had a name. Haeun reaches up toward your lips, tiny fingers spread, and her touch lands on your mouth like it’s searching for the shape of a sound not yet spoken.

His gaze catches on the bracelet curled against your wrist, its shape so familiar it feels cruel, the way each charm still clings to its chain like no time has passed at all. He sees the book with its welded spine, the wave sealed mid-crest, the fractured heart held together by nothing, and near the clasp—the last charm, the one he pressed into your palm without a word, the one he thought you would have thrown away before the door even closed behind him. He had hoped you burned them, melted every memory down to ash, because the thought of them surviving—of them still touching your skin like a secret held soft—feels like a forgiveness he hasn’t earned, and he stares as the ache builds low and brutal, the kind that settles in the lungs like silence after goodbye.

Jeno doesn’t move, but the world inside him shifts. The water stays level against his ribs, warm from the sun and heavy from stillness, and his hand holding the phone lowers slightly, not in weakness but reverence. Light skips across the pool surface in small trembling arcs, and the horizon drags wider like it’s bracing to hold something bigger than distance. Then the messages arrive, sliding into place with the kind of softness that means something sharper waits beneath. 

Jaemin —  baby girl’s in good hands today, she’s obsessed with her. 

Jaemin — she can’t stop smiling. thought you might want to see it. 

He reads the messages once, then again, each word soft on the surface but sinking like lead, and the phone stays warm in his hand while the pool holds still around his ribs, tension curling beneath his sternum like a name carved into wet cement. His thumb brushes over your face with reverence more than touch, slow and exact, the way someone reaches for something holy not to claim it, but to be forgiven by it. He doesn’t zoom in because you’re already inside him, already threading through the part of his chest that applause never reached, already louder than every moment that tried to replace you. The ache comes without panic, without sharpness—just depth, just truth, just the quiet clarity that some things don’t leave, even when they’re gone. The sun slips lower behind glass, light bending over the surface like it’s bracing for the dark, and somewhere beneath the bone, the voice in his head steadies, quieter now, patient, familiar, shaped exactly like yours.

The screen’s glow reflects faint and ghostly across his chest, fingers resting idle around the slim weight of his phone, thumb unmoving on the glass. His head tilts in that unfocused, far-off way he gets when he’s disappeared into his own head, Jeno sits like a statue in the dusklight—bare thighs stretched out, muscles slack, unreadable. The screen glows against his chest, the only sign he’s even tethered to the moment. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, doesn’t notice the way the air changes.

Soft as steam, Nahyun emerges from the hall, her silhouette catching first—a glimpse of bare thigh, the dip of a waist, the shine of black satin brushing against her hips. She moves like something choreographed, like silk unraveling in slow motion, each step intentional, soundless, her bare feet gliding across the polished floor. The robe is black satin, cut short enough to tease the curve of her ass, cinched at the waist by a lazy knot that does nothing to hide the way the fabric clings to her like liquid. With every step, it shifts over her skin, catching the light, slipping up her thigh just enough to hint at what isn’t beneath. Her skin gleams—oiled, luminous, kissed bronze by the sun. Every inch of her is polished, perfected: collarbones carved clean, breasts full and high beneath the robe, nipples visibly hard and proud against the thin fabric. She smells faintly of warm sugar and expensive perfume, the kind that sinks into skin and stays. Her hair is pinned up in a loose twist, glossy and elegant, a few strands falling down her neck with studied imperfection. Her lashes are long, curled high, framing eyes that smolder without trying. 

She’s not just pretty. She’s sculpted—every line of her body a deliberate, obscene kind of perfection. The high arc of her waist, the taut swell of her ass, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against lace like they were made to be unwrapped. Her thighs, toned and smooth, shift with slow, fluid motion as she walks, each step an invitation. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes men ache, makes them stare too long and forget their own names. The kind you want to ruin and worship at the same time. Fucked into form—like someone, maybe more than one, had shaped her with hands and mouths and need. Jeno doesn’t look, not yet, but the air tightens around her anyway, as if even his silence can feel her coming. There’s something coiled beneath all that glow, something sharp beneath the silk. The kind of beauty that makes men follow, even as the ground falls out beneath them. Like a queen in a fairy tale, hand outstretched—apple already bitten. She’s the kind of beautiful that kills slow—like a crown dipped in poison, regal and ruinous, glittering just enough to make you lean in before it slips the knife. 

She stops beside him, leans one hip against the railing, head tilted just enough to let her hair fall slightly, as if offering her throat. Her body is lithe, legs long and toned, and there’s a kind of practiced casualness to the way she stands there, a predator in lingerie. She sighs, not loud—just enough to be heard, just enough to announce her presence. Her fingers find the knot at her waist and slowly, like she’s unwrapping a gift, she pulls.

The robe slides open with a whisper.

It slips down her arms, gliding over her shoulders and falling to the floor in a puddle of silk, forgotten. What’s left on her body is more suggestion than clothing: a lace bodysuit, jet-black and nearly transparent, hugging every contour of her with cruel precision. It’s cut high on the hips, making her legs look impossibly long, and the bodice dips low, exposing the curve of her breasts in delicate, floral sheer. A tiny satin bow rests between them like a tease, and the fabric is thin enough to leave nothing to imagination—nipples visible, hardened, the swell of her chest rising with each slow, deliberate breath. Thin straps cling to her shoulders, and at the base, near her thighs, tiny silver clips glint at the crotch, unfastened and waiting. There’s nothing underneath. Just bare skin, warm and flushed, thighs soft and parted slightly in her pose, the lace clinging to the slickness beneath.

“Hi bubba,” she purrs, voice low, syrupy, curling around the air like smoke. She shifts her weight just enough for the lace to stretch tight across her breasts, her hips angling toward him like an invitation. “You gonna keep ignoring your future wife?”

For a moment, something breaks. Jeno glances up. It’s brief, but real. His gaze drifts—slow, deliberate—tracking the slope of her body: the glossy swell of her breasts, the cinched curve of her waist, the open, slick line of her thighs framed in lace. His lips part without meaning to. His jaw shifts, tense for half a second. Beneath his shorts, there’s a twitch—small, quick, a reflex he doesn’t allow to grow. And then it happens. A flicker, so faint it almost passes unnoticed. His eyes narrow just slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling back in the barest twitch. Not a smirk. Not quite a wince. Something instinctive and unfiltered—like a taste gone wrong, like disgust he hasn’t named yet, rising from someplace deep and automatic.

Then, like a shadow slipping off his face, it passes. Whatever flickered in him—want, revulsion, something unnamable—fades beneath the quiet blankness he wears like armor. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at her again. Instead, he moves with eerie calm, the kind that feels deliberate, cruel in its precision. His hand lowers, placing the phone down on the stone lip of the pool beside him, screen up, still glowing. The image doesn’t fade. It bathes him in pale light, steady and unwavering. Behind him, Nahyun stands—bare-skinned, lace-clad, every inch of her honed to seduce. Her voice still hangs in the air, velvet-sweet, sticky with suggestion. Her body is flawless, posed, gleaming like temptation. And yet—none of it matters. Because on the screen, in that lit little rectangle of loyalty, it isn’t her he’s been staring at.

It’s you.

He slides his shorts off without urgency, just a shift of his hips and they fall in one slow drag to the deck, gathering limp around his ankles like they were never meant to stay on him in the first place, his cock freed and hanging heavy, half-hard already, thick at the base and flushed at the head, a drop of slick catching the light where it glistens against the curve of his thigh, and he doesn’t look at her, doesn’t move, just leans back with his arms slack at his sides and his eyes unfocused, like this isn’t even about her, like this isn’t about anything at all except the weight between his legs and the sky overhead.

She climbs into his lap with too much sweetness in her voice and not enough control in her hands, one palm splayed across his chest for balance, the other fumbling between them as she wraps her fingers around his cock and lifts her hips, guiding the head through her folds with a practiced sort of urgency, like she’s done this in dreams or mirrors or private rehearsal, and when she sinks down, it’s slow at first, deep and tight and wet, her walls pulling him in inch by inch, her breath catching on every stretch until she’s seated flush in his lap, thighs trembling, cunt full, a soft broken gasp leaving her lips like she’s trying not to moan too loud, trying to keep it controlled and pretty for him.

“There you are,” she breathes like it’s intimate, like it’s meaningful, like it’s earned, and starts to ride him with a rhythm that’s just a little too perfect, all angles and control, the bounce of her ass sharp, measured, glossy with slick where her skin meets his, her knees bracing against him, back arched, her tits dragging lightly across his chest every time she leans forward, and still he doesn’t look at her, his head tipped back, jaw flexed, throat bare to the sky, one hand lazily resting on her waist and the other falling useless beside him, fingers twitching slightly like he’s aware of the motion but doesn’t care to shape it.

She rocks her hips harder, letting out these high, breathy little whines that sound polished and designed, her moans sweet like honey melting in her mouth, and she presses her chest against him again, lips near his ear, sweat slick on her temples as she whispers nothings with the cadence of agenda, her words tangled up with breath and heat and strategy, “We have the shoot at noon, don’t forget, I confirmed with the agency, and the dinner’s at seven sharp, black tie only, we’ll match in velvet, you’ll wear the Saint Laurent I picked in Paris,” her cunt tightening on him as she speaks, as if her body’s trying to make the words mean more than they do.

His cock bounces once inside her, thick and wet where her cunt drags around him, and it pulls a sharper whimper from her lips, her rhythm faltering as the friction builds, her body starting to stutter with effort, but Jeno doesn’t look at her, doesn’t shift beneath her, just leans his head back slowly until it rests against the warm edge of the pool’s stone border, the muscles in his neck flexing slightly as he stares upward, gaze locked somewhere deep in the darkening sky like it’s the only thing worth seeing, like her body means nothing, like this is happening around him rather than to him, his hands rest loose on her waist, barely holding her, just enough to keep her from falling off but not enough to claim or guide or want her, his breathing shallow but steady, the kind that rides the edge of release without ever tipping into meaning.

“Say you want me,” she breathes into his neck, soft and syrupy like a kiss, her voice trembling at the edges but sharpened beneath, sweet the way poison is sweet when you dress it in perfume, her hips grinding in circles now, sloppy and wet, more need than rhythm, her body pressed so tight against his it feels like she’s trying to climb inside, her nails digging crescent marks into his skin as she whispers, “Say it, Jeno—say you need me, say you fucking love me, say you want to come inside me, that you’ll give me everything, just say it — because if you don’t, baby, I might just have to make a scene at that dinner tomorrow, tell everyone your little secret, wouldn’t that be fun—”

His eyes snap open like the temperature changed without warning, like the air thickened and soured in the space between heartbeats, and for one stretched second nothing moves at all. Her hips are still working, her cunt still dripping around him, her breath still caught on that fake sweetness she coats everything in, but his body has gone still beneath hers, breath tight, pulse misfiring, pressure climbing in a way that feels wrong. His cock twitches once too hard and the warning hits behind his ribs, not fear but a reaction, not thought but refusal.

He grabs her hips hard and lifts her off in one motion, clean and unceremonious, her body dragged up and off his cock with a slick, messy sound that leaves her open and twitching, a high gasp spilling from her lips like she wasn’t ready to be emptied so fast. His hands drop away the second she’s off him. His jaw is locked. His knees shift slightly apart. He leans forward and wraps a hand around the base of his cock with a kind of focus that looks like control but feels like severing. He leans forward, jaw clenched, hand closing around the base of his cock with a grip too tight to be for pleasure, wrist working in short, hard pulls, no rhythm, no grace, just motion, just necessity, his thighs tense and still as if bracing against gravity itself, and with each jerk he angles away from her, his body curling slightly inward like the last thing he wants is for any part of this to land where she is.

She’s still breathing hard, still shaking beside him, cunt flexing uselessly around nothing, but he doesn’t look at her. His hand works tight, rough, no rhythm to it, just force and friction and the urgency of not letting it happen inside. They’ve used protection before, she’s on the pill but he’s never finished inside her, not once, not even by accident. He doesn’t care how many precautions she stacks up, the idea of her with even a trace of him inside, even for a second, makes his stomach turn. His grip tightens like muscle memory, like recoil, every motion small and controlled, the angle of his wrist turned sharp to keep the spill contained, his hips held still, thighs braced, not a single part of him tipping toward her, like his body knows without needing to be told that nothing from him belongs in her.

He comes in a breath that barely breaks the silence, shallow and sharp through his nose like pressure releasing from something sealed too tight, his stomach tightening beneath his own hand as thick streaks of heat spill across his skin, landing high on his abs, lower on his chest, nowhere near her. His cock jerks with each slow pulse, flushed and wet, twitching against his stomach while his fingers stay locked around the base a moment longer than they need to, like part of him doesn’t trust it to stop. He stays there with his head slightly bowed, jaw tight, shoulders drawn in like the tension inside him broke without easing. When it’s done, when the twitching fades and the grip releases, he lets his hand fall to the side, fingers sticky, thighs loosening under her but not inviting, his body starting to come down but his eyes never lifting from the surface of the pool, still rippling from the movement earlier, glowing faint blue under the lights like something colder than the heat between them.

She watches him for a moment, her breath still uneven, chest rising fast then slower, cunt still flexing around absence. Her thighs tremble where they straddle his, wet and aching, and her hands hover at her sides like she doesn’t know whether to touch him, hit him or curl into herself. Then she laughs, a small, disbelieving sound under her breath like she’s been slapped with something invisible. “What the fuck was that?” she asks, voice thin and fraying around the edges like fabric stretched too far. 

He just shrugs, low and uninterested, “What it needed to be.” 

“You didn’t even look at me.” Her voice is low, almost quiet, but it carries that sharp edge she doesn’t bother to hide anymore, the one that rises when sweetness fails. “You can’t even come inside me. You can’t even pretend to want to.” She says it like a joke, like it’s funny, like she’s still in control, but her mouth shakes slightly at the corners and her knees shift on either side of his, like she’s trying to stay on top even when the high is gone. “I’m not asking for much, Jeno. I’m right here. I let you—” her voice breaks off, just slightly, and she swallows, then reaches for his shoulder like it’ll ground her, like touch might make it true again. “It’s not a crime to give a fuck.”

She opens her mouth to scream, to sob, to demand answers, some flicker of validation, and then her eyes on land on the stone lip of the pool beside them, his screen still unlocked, still glowing, still untouched since before he even looked at her, and the image displayed is not her, not even close, but a photo of you, soft and unfiltered, caught mid-laugh, hair falling out of place, smiling at something behind the camera, and his thumb print rests just near the edge of the screen like maybe he had been scrolling through you the entire time. 

Her chest caves in, her lungs forget how to move, her hands curl into fists on either side of her bare thighs and she swallows once, twice, bile thick in her throat as she whispers, “What is that?” Her breath catches sharp and wrong in her throat, like something hooked itself behind her ribs and pulled, and she forgets how to inhale, forgets where her body is supposed to move, the air stalled between her collarbones and her spine as her gaze locks on the screen. She doesn’t want to see him look but she can’t stop tracking the slow tilt of his head, the turn of his face toward the phone beside him, she sees it, sees the moment something changes behind his eyes, sees how the muscles in his jaw still, how his mouth slackens just slightly, how his whole face seems to ease in the smallest, most dangerous way. 

There’s something in his face she’s never him give to her before, something unguarded, drawn toward the screen like gravity lives there now. It’s attention, pulled clean and direct, his eyes soft at the edges, lips parted just slightly, the kind of stillness that only comes with wanting. The way he looks at the photo isn’t passive. It holds him. His whole body quiets under it. There’s a flush at his throat, a softness around his mouth, and for one suspended second she sees what it looks like when he’s drawn to someone — not just physically, not just out of need, but want, deliberate, low and sure. He doesn't look like that with her. Not when she moans against his neck, when her body wraps around his, not when she rocks herself raw just to pull sound out of him. She does everything, she gives everything but he never looks like this.

Her lungs stay locked for too long and when they finally open it’s fast, shallow and uneven, a ragged inhale like a gasp she doesn’t want anyone to hear, and her hands curl into fists on either side of her bare thighs, nails sinking deep into skin that doesn’t even register, her whole body buzzing with something too sharp to be just breathless. Her vision tilts at the edges. The lights smear. Her knees press tighter and her pulse races so loud she can’t tell if it’s inside her skull or under her skin, and when she blinks she can’t stop blinking, can’t stop swallowing, her mouth dry and sour as she stares at his face. He’s still looking at it. He hasn’t looked away. He’s staring at the photo of you — your smile out of frame, your body lit soft and clean, a moment he wasn’t even in but somehow lives in his head anyway — and it’s not the image that breaks her. It’s the expression on his face. Gentle. Present. Like something inside him is actually there.

She breathes in, shallow and sharp, like she’s about to speak, then doesn’t, her lips stay parted just long enough to tremble. Her eyes flick from his face to the phone again, then back, like she’s still hoping he’ll look away from it first but he doesn’t. That stillness is still in him. That softness. Her mouth curves. It’s not a smile. “Wow,” she says lightly, voice stretched into something breathy and almost amused, like it’s just gossip, just banter. “So she got herself knocked up, huh? Is that what this is?” A quick laugh slips out of her, dry and mean, like she’s entertained. “Who’s the father? Are you guys picking names yet or do we need to line up a few paternity tests?”

His gaze stays on the water, steady, unflinching, breath pulled slowly through his nose as if each inhale chooses patience over instinct. The muscle in his jaw flexes once. Heat settles beneath his skin, clean and silent, and his mouth tilts just slightly, something like a smile but shaped with contempt. He gets used to tuning her out, used to the sugar-laced venom, the way her words always reach for something they can’t touch. 

She leans in slightly as she says it, eyes glittering, voice sweet as sugar syrup. “I mean, come on, it’s not like she’s known for keeping her legs shut.”

His eyes stay on the water, steady, detached, the kind of stillness that says everything without shifting an inch. The glow from the pool cuts along his jaw, calm at the surface but carved clean underneath. Her voice scrapes at the air, bitter and thin, but he lets it roll past like wind he has already walked through. His fingers press once against the ledge, measured, his posture all silence and tension. Then he speaks, low and smooth, the kind of voice that holds weight no matter how soft it sounds. “Nahyun.” His tone barely shifts. “Just stop talking.”

Her pout deepens like she’s been wounded, like his voice bruised her pride more than any shove ever could, and she leans in again, lashes fluttering, hips brushing close to his. “Why?” She whispers, fingers curling over his wrist like sweetness might pry an answer out. “Why are you being like this?”

He waits just long enough for her to think he might not answer at all, then lets out the flattest, driest, most unbothered exhale of breath. “Because I have a headache.” The words land with no inflection, no smile, just cool finality, like she’s the migraine.

Her lips push forward in a pout, soft and automatic, like habit, like she can still play the game. “But I was joking,” she murmurs, blinking slowly, head tilted just enough to pass for sweet. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

“Nahyun.” The pause holds. “Just stop before I decide I’m done being polite.”

Her mouth pulls into a pout, glossy and trembling, like the words tasted worse coming out than they sounded, and she shifts forward on her knees, hands crawling over the stone ledge and then to his thighs, slow and deliberate, her voice curling into something soft. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, head tilted, lashes lowered, already climbing into his lap like gravity called her there. Her knees slide open around his hips, satin skin brushing his as she settles down, body warm and pliant, all sweetness now. She presses her chest to his, her fingers sliding up his arms, across his shoulders, into his hair like she’s smoothing the moment away, and she leans in with a kiss that lands just below his jaw, hot and lingering, her lips trailing lower as she murmurs again, “I didn’t mean it, baby, you know I didn’t.” Her hips roll once, light, teasing, breath catching as she drags herself against him with slow, syrupy pressure, hands everywhere now — his stomach, his sides, his chest — like if she touches him enough he’ll forget the sound of her voice a minute ago, like she can pull the apology out of his skin instead of his mouth.

The silence stretches long enough to sting, long enough for her to shift on his lap, thighs pressing tighter around his hips, her hands curling around his jaw like she can coax a reaction out of stone. His face stays still. His breath doesn’t change. His eyes never leave the water. She swallows once, then twice, then lets her voice drop low, curious and sweet like she’s asking out of interest, not need. “Who’s the baby then?”

The question hangs, soft but pointed, and for a beat he considers keeping it closed but then he remembers Jaemin’s voice, calm as ever, from that last conversation they had: “I’m not keeping her quiet anymore. When she was born, I needed space, time to get things right, but that chapter is over now. We’re ready, she’s ready, her health is finally stabilising, I want her to live a normal life. Plus, people are going to start asking questions, so I’d rather show her to the world the way she deserves, on my terms. She needs to feel that love from the people I trust, the ones who matter.” So Jeno nods once, like it’s an answer to himself before it’s one for her, and when he speaks, his tone stays level. “Jaemin’s daughter.”

Nahyun scoffs, short and sharp, like the words offended her by existing. “Since when does Jaemin have a daughter?”

His eyes don’t shift. “Nearly one year.”

She pulls back slightly, enough to blink at him, enough for her hands to slip from his face to his shoulders like she’s trying to recenter. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jeno’s gaze stays fixed, steady on the water, his voice low and even like the words have been sitting inside him for a while. “Because it was never yours to know. Jaemin didn’t tell anyone, not just you, so don’t take it so personally and don’t make it about yourself. He disappeared before she was born, no texts, no updates, nothing, he had completely vanished. I couldn't even reach him, and I tried every day. It didn’t start with Haeun, it started months before her. He needed out, it’s a blessing she came when she did because she saved him.”

His fingers press once into the stone ledge, slow and deliberate. “She’s had a rough first year and so has he. He needed privacy, not to hide her, but to focus, fully, on giving her a life she could hold onto. No noise, no pressure, no cameras or crowds. Just him and her, that’s what he chose and the only reason I found them is because I wouldn’t let go. I kept on looking until I found him, and when I did, I found a baby girl with a heart so fragile it scared me just to be near her. He didn’t stay quiet to shut the world out. He did it so he could give her the world first.”

She tilts her head like someone hearing bad news they already know won’t touch them, her lips parting into a small pout, eyes softening just enough to fake depth, trying to work out where in that story she’s supposed to care. One manicured hand lifts to her collarbone, fingers brushing lightly over skin like she’s reacting with emotion, but her breath stays even, her voice low and flat in the wrong way. “That’s… really sad,” she says, slow and delicate, like she’s reading from a card. Her gaze flicks to his chest, not his face, then away just as fast, already shifting her weight like the moment’s passed. “Must’ve been hard, I guess.” She doesn’t ask about the baby, ask how she’s doing, if she’s strong now, if her heart’s holding up. There’s no follow-up. No care. Only silence filling the beat before she steps right past it.

Her tone lifts before her face does, brighter now, lighter, already somewhere else. “Anyway,” she breathes, tucking hair behind her ear, “we really do need to talk to someone about the schedule—everything’s back to back next month and no one’s factored in Jaemin finally being back. We’ve got the Saint Laurent dinner, and Paris fashion week’s opening night, and I got the official invite for the Venice premiere. You know, the one where they’re expecting full couture and editorial coverage—” her eyes flick to his again, suddenly excited, mouth glossy and half-smiling, “it’s going to be so good for us. Press, photos, all of it.” Her hand lands softly on his leg, like she just remembered to be sweet. “We just need to stay ahead of it, right?”

Jeno exhales slowly, long and quiet, the kind of sigh that comes from somewhere low in the body, where patience used to live. He pushes himself up from the ledge without a word, water slipping from his skin in clean streams, his body bare under the low pool lights, tension rolling through his shoulders as he steps out with deliberate stillness. He doesn’t look back or reach for a towel. He walks naked and silently back into the house.

Behind him, Nahyun scrambles to her feet, nearly slipping on the wet stone as she grabs for her robe, her voice fluttering after him like tissue caught in wind. “Wait—Jeno, wait—I didn’t mean it like that, babe, I’m just saying—it’s just hard on everyone, that’s all—wait for me—” Her steps are quick, almost clumsy, legs too long for the panic in her voice, her movements all gloss and no gravity, like a doll trying to chase a man who already left.

The suite is dim when he steps through, the light from the pool still flickering faint on the glass walls, casting ripples across the white stone. The bathroom glows gold behind frosted glass, the shower already running, steam bleeding out across the floor like breath. He walks in without a glance back, stepping beneath the spray, the heat dragging over his body in heavy streaks as water pools at his feet and runs down the clean lines of his back. His hands press flat to the tile, eyes closed, water darkening his hair, breath even. He stands there in stillness as the steam builds and then she enters like she always does. Quiet but aching to be noticed, robe whispering to the floor, her silhouette soft in the light as she steps inside and slides her arms around him from behind, the press of her breasts slick against his spine, her hands curling around his waist. She tilts her head into him, lips brushing the curve where neck meets shoulder, voice syrupy against wet skin, something like apology threaded into sweetness as her fingers move down, over his stomach, around his hips. 

He turns without resistance, catches her face in his hand, and kisses her like it’s not forgiveness, not affection — just muscle memory, clean and closed. His mouth drags hers open with heat and breath, no rush, no hunger, just pressure. She moans into it, soft, grateful, nails pressing into his back as she lifts herself higher, thighs wrapping around him before she even realizes how ready she is. He lifts her by instinct, her back pressed hard to the tile, one hand under her thigh, the other gripping her jaw as he pushes into her in a single slow thrust. She gasps — breath breaking, head tilting back — and the sound echoes across the glass like a ripple. His rhythm is relentless but calm, each movement deliberate, his eyes locked on her face like he’s watching a performance he already knows the ending to. She wraps tighter around him, arms shaking, voice faltering in praise, but he doesn’t answer, just keeps fucking her with the kind of control that feels surgical, her pleasure nothing more than a rhythm to hold.

When it’s over her cheek rests against his shoulder, lips parted, legs still trembling around him as the water runs down her back and his breath evens out again, his hands slow now, sliding over her hips, through her hair, resting for a second at the base of her neck before he speaks. “Tomorrow’s important.” He says it like a fact, tone nonchalant but filled with warning. 

Her breath catches, her lashes fluttering once as her eyes lower, and her voice comes out soft, trying to stay sweet. “I know,” she murmurs, almost too quietly, like she hopes softness can rewrite what she knows is coming. “I’ll be perfect.” 

His fingers move again, this time curling lightly under her jaw, tipping her face up just enough for their eyes to meet as steam coats the mirrors and his voice drops.“You better.” His tone doesn’t rise. His eyes don’t flicker. “You ruin that night and I’ll leave you standing in it.”

The Legacy Court Complex emerges from the cliffside with the weight of something sacred, every line carved into the Alpine stone like it was meant to exist before blueprints were ever drawn. From above, the structure appears as a dark cut through the white, glass catching sky at a sharp angle, obsidian stone drawing a boundary against the mountain, geometry so exact it feels like it was discovered rather than constructed. Helicopters move in coordinated intervals across the air, their descent slow and deliberate, rotors sweeping the snow into soft spirals that drift upward before dissolving. The landing terrace stretches wide and bare, the stone beneath polished to reflect more shadow than light, and each arrival plays out with choreographed restraint. Doors open with soundless precision. Figures step out one at a time, each one wrapped in wool and cashmere, coats belted high, gloves fitted close, platinum invitations held with fingers that have never fumbled. No lines form, no voices rise. The complex receives them like it remembers them.

Past the court’s edge, a corridor curves inward toward the archival wing, a long, dim hall lined in frames that climb the stone wall from knee to crown, each one inset with anti-reflective glass and museum-grade lighting. The first few hold black-and-white legends, their jerseys stiff with era, their expressions quiet and proud. The next shift into color, into sharper footage, into limbs extended mid-air, sweat glinting, teeth bared, motion frozen just before impact. One by one, they move forward in time, names that reshaped eras, arms that built empires, faces that lived across generations of screens. Jordan. Bryant. Garnett. Duncan. Curry. Every photograph in the hallway is dated and placed, each one selected from the moment that changed a season. The gallery reads like scripture. Each frame is a page, each face anointed.

At the very end, mounted beneath a new arc of white light, a final portrait waits. Jeno. Caught in the apex of a jump, mid-air, ball still lifting from his palm, breath visible in the cold above the court. His name is etched below in clean type, no embellishment, just fact. The plaque reads ‘Lee Jeno, Europa Trust Legacy Award, 2025.’ The wall has carried decades of greatness, but now it carries him. He stands before it without moving and his body stills, his suit doesn’t crease. The glass holds both, the image framed in stillness and the figure standing before it, their outlines nearly seamless, one suspended in motion, the other shaped by everything that followed. The light wraps them together in a soft gleam, reflection and portrait fused at the edge, twin echoes drawn from the same silence. The shutter clicks once, crisp and far away, but he remains exactly where he is. The moment folds into him like a thread pulled tight across the chest, something invisible, something ancient, something worn like iron beneath his skin. 

At the end, the space opens with scale, the kind that holds its own silence, stretching into height with a stillness that feels earned rather than offered. The court reveals itself beneath the mountain like a preserved relic, a chamber shaped by reverence, each surface curated with the same care reserved for cathedrals and museums. The parquet floor gleams in long uninterrupted panels, hand-laid in a pattern that mirrors the golden ratio of the original Boston Garden, each plank sealed in lacquer so clear it reflects outlines before it reflects movement. The room’s proportions trace the legacy of the Chicago Palace, rebuilt by three award-winning architects whose lines bend like memory and precision combined, their names cast discreetly into the foundation beneath the marble edge. Above, the ceiling stretches into a vast inverted dome, structured in netted crystal, a constellation of shot arcs, rebounds, and suspended form, each piece hand-cut and strung in mathematical rhythm, refracting light across the court like breath caught mid-air. The shimmer moves without rush, soft and full of tension, casting gold across wood in long ripples. The temperature sits in perfect calibration, tuned for tailored wool and sculpted skin, designed to preserve elegance rather than react to it. 

Along the perimeter, recessed lounges line the curve of the room, each one carved deep and upholstered in velvet the color of dried wine. The seats are spaced in clean, private symmetry, enclosed in gold trim and glass panels so subtle they fade into the architecture. Each one is marked discreetly, house crests, insignias, founding dates pressed into the corner in shadowed embossing. Guests step into their spaces like they are returning to them. Foundation directors, captains of defunct dynasties, firstborns and financiers all dressed in iterations of inheritance, monochrome suits cut like armor, evening dresses folded like sculpture. Each body holds its place with quiet precision, no slouch in spine, no flicker of distraction, only posture shaped by bloodline and silence carried like inheritance.

Jeno and Nahyun’s hands link with the kind of ease that’s been rehearsed, his fingers resting just behind hers, barely curled, skin against skin in a way that reads intimate from a distance but carries no anchor beneath it. Nahyun moves beside him in a dress the color of moonlit glass, cut to drape off one shoulder and slit high enough to part around each step like fabric made to chase camera flashes; her lips are lacquered, lashes curled wide, collarbone gleaming with something deliberately expensive. Jeno wears black, sharp and matte, collar firm, cufflinks discreet, the suit fit so exact it carries silence in the seams, and together they move through the gallery floor with the kind of slow authority reserved for people who no longer need introductions. Hands reach to greet them, nods tilt in their direction—veterans with weight in their names, men who once carved empires out of courtlines, suits that speak in legacies and trade history—Jeno meets each one with a nod so slight it borders on stillness, says nothing but lets his presence fold into theirs like he’s already surpassed the story they expected of him.

Music stirs above them, unannounced and unhurried, a quartet tucked behind a carved archway playing from shadow, the sound uncoiling with reverence rather than rhythm. It’s an anthem he knows—everyone does—but the tempo has been hollowed out, each note slowed to the breath between memory and echo, the melody rising soft like a eulogy hummed into glass, and as the first few measures melt into the room like polished stone, his spine pulls straighter, shoulders still. The projector comes alive without warning. No frame. No sound cue. Just a flicker on the far wall, a pulse of white light softening into motion, and before he even registers what he’s seeing, his grip on Nahyun’s hand releases.

His father.

Taeyong in flight. Taeyong in stillness. Taeyong mid-rotation, the ball leaving his fingers with the kind of precision that lives beyond physics, the arc clean, the form holy, sweat glinting at the base of his throat like it belongs there. There’s no commentary, no title card, just moment after moment stitched together from different years, different jerseys, different lighting, from his prime, all of them folding into each other like time never broke. Jeno doesn’t move. His chest expands once, slow and shallow, like surf dragging against the pull of tide, and he stays there suspended, breath caught high in his throat, gaze locked to the wall like it might split open and pour the past out in salt. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, doesn’t speak—just stands with his mouth slightly parted, as if the shape of a name has risen behind his teeth but lost the sound to carry it, and when the voice comes, low and deliberate and cut from the same steel that once ruled the court, it doesn’t arrive like memory, it arrives like undertow. The room doesn’t fall quiet because quiet was already woven into its bones—it just holds still, like a wave stilled mid-rise, and in that moment he becomes part of it, breathless and bracing, spine upright against a current that only he can feel.

Jeno’s hand closes around Nahyun’s without looking, palm firm, grip tighter than it needs to be, and he leads her forward in silence, their steps echoing against polished stone as the projection fades back into the wall. The corridor opens in two clean angles, revealing the inner hall where the award will be given, the ceiling climbing higher, the air rich with the scent of cedar oil and ironed wool, the lights dimmed to dusk tones along the walls. The carpet underfoot runs deep and smooth, the kind that muffles heels and softens each step until it feels like walking through breath, and as they move through the threshold, the space stretches around them, rows of velvet seats dipped into the floor like theatre stalls, each pair centered with a candlelit table holding a single engraved program and two flutes of still champagne. Brass rails gleam at the edge of each tier, the floor subtly lit from beneath so the architecture glows without ever showing the source.

They are led toward the center row, front and exact, the seats placed directly across from the stage, a low platform set in ivory stone, the backdrop smooth and curved like the inside of a chapel, its surface empty but radiant, prepared to carry whatever name is about to be spoken. Nahyun lowers herself with a flick of her train, crossing her legs elegantly, the hem of her blue dress catching the gold footlight beneath the row. Her hand stays on his knee. Her perfume opens soft in the warmth. She leans toward him with a smile that touches only her mouth, whispering something that sounds rehearsed, “This is the moment, baby. You look like power.” Her nails tap lightly on the program as she glances around the hall, eyes tracing the coats, the house names, the cameras hidden like sculpture in the corners. Jeno doesn’t respond. He sinks into the seat with both feet planted, spine upright, his hands pressed to his thighs as he watches the empty stage. His father’s face is still printed behind his eyelids, etched into the air above the projection wall, not from the footage but from something older, something caught in the way his name was spoken, like stone cracking under its own weight. The speech lives behind his ribs, already memorized but constantly shifting, rewritten in the language of silence, of obligation, of everything he has trained himself to carry. 

A single spotlight lands on the stage, slicing the hush with warmth, and the host steps into view, a former franchise star in deep navy velvet, his medals worn as accessories, his smile tuned to elegance. The mic waits for him like a cue. He speaks slowly, practiced, with gravity that flatters without imposing. “Good evening, distinguished families, honored guests, and keepers of the court. We gather tonight at the Legacy Complex not only to reflect, but to consecrate. “This award,” he lifts the plaque, silver set in white, gleaming under the light, “is more than a title. It is testament, to weight carried across seasons, to form held under fire, to discipline measured not by restraint but by how long it endures. The Europa Trust Legacy Award is granted only when legacy surpasses lineage, when performance turns myth, when consistency becomes history. Tonight it is awarded to an athlete whose name echoes across continents, stitched into languages that speak sport like scripture, whose record now stands unmatched, eighty-two consecutive starts without injury, highest point efficiency under pressure in the league’s modern era, three back-to-back franchise pivots with no loss in form. His balance redefined movement, his silence redefined presence, and his ascent was not a rise but a return to the place that always waited for him.” He looks up and his eyes find Jeno’s. “And so, without delay I’m honoured to present this award to Lee Jeno, this is your court.”

Applause rises like a tide pulled by moonlight, smooth at first, then swelling into something full and rhythmic, hands clapping in measured succession, camera shutters joining like quiet percussion beneath it. The lights above sweep slowly across the audience, picking up the gleam of velvet shoulders and champagne flutes, while the stage remains still, held in that suspended breath just after the name is spoken. Jeno doesn’t move, he remains seated in the center row, jaw tight, eyes fixed where the projection had once flickered, his face half-shadowed and perfectly framed by the overhead live feed, his image now cast large against the back wall, composed, breath shallow, mouth parted as if something unsaid still lingers between his teeth. His father’s voice echoes nowhere now, but Jeno still hears the cadence, still sees the arc of that shot frozen in time, still feels it hover just behind the eyes.

A warm hand presses against his shoulder, fingers firm, familiar, his manager, leaning in just close enough to speak low without a microphone. “Go on.” The words come like a click in the mechanism, a quiet shift that resets his spine. Jeno blinks once, eyes sharpening like glass under pressure, and rises in a single motion, legs straight, suit folding clean at the knee, collar sitting crisp against the cut of his jaw. Nahyun turns toward him with her smile already in place, mouth glossy, lashes dipped, and presses a kiss just below his ear, a whisper tethered to it that doesn’t quite reach his expression, “you’ve got this, baby.” The cameras catch the moment exactly how she wanted. His hand moves out of hers before the second frame. He steps into the aisle with the grace of something rehearsed in private, steps cut to soundless rhythm, the floor beneath him reflecting his movement like water catching shadow.

Jeno stands at the podium with his jaw set, his hands resting flat on either side like he knows exactly how much pressure to apply, his body cut into silhouette by the angle of the overhead lights, posture tuned, shoulders broad, collar perfect. The hall leans into the silence that follows, a silence he owns, and when he speaks, the voice that emerges carries no urgency, only gravity, a quiet command that tightens the room without force. “I spent the last twenty seven years choosing this,” he says, no rush in the words, only shape. “Choosing the pain, the loss, the repetition. Choosing to wake before light, choosing to lose before I learned how to win. Every movement cost something, blood when the cut didn’t stop bleeding, sweat when the court kept burning, and tears when no one else stayed to see it.” His voice stays even, but it holds. “None of it was chance. This is what it looks like when a body survives the pressure it chose for itself.”

He lets the pause stretch, lets the breath fill the space, then lifts his eyes just slightly, locking on no one and everyone at once. “I’m here because of who stood next to me. Because of the names I carried and the ones that carried me.” His tone shifts, quieter but firmer, his right hand sliding once over the edge of the podium before falling still again. “I want to thank my brother, Mark Lee. Playing basketball with you in our raven days changed my life.” His voice stays low, shaped by memory more than emotion. “Those courts built the way I move and you were part of every rep that made me sharper.”

Another breath, pulled clean. “My mother. Seulgi. Who gave everything before I understood what sacrifice looked like. She held the roof over me and told me I could build my own. She is the reason I know how to stand still and still be strong.” The crowd holds still with him, the air charged, shaped around his cadence. “Jaemin. My best friend. My mirror. My proof that love and loyalty don’t have to shout to be real.” 

His gaze slips sideways, drawn to her through instinct more than intention, and for a breath that stretches too long to be casual, he just looks, Nahyun bathed in the low shimmer of the stage lights, her body coiled into a perfect seated shape, back straight, gown clinging like liquid foil, lips parted in a smile already timed for the flash. Her eyes catch his like they’ve been waiting, rehearsed, ready. There’s a softness she summons — glossy, practiced — the same one she’s used in interviews, the same one she wore the first time she slid a hand across his jaw and said ‘we’re unstoppable.’ He watches her long enough for the room to expect something. His manager probably would like it, even. A nod, a name, an acknowledgment to his fiance, a gesture that paints the right headline and for a second, he imagines doing it. Giving her the last slot. Letting her name carry the aftertaste of legacy.

But then the light behind his eyes sharpens, the projector still playing somewhere in the back of his skull, Taeyong’s frame frozen mid-jump, arm extended in that impossible line, mouth slack, eyes already beyond the arc. The silence of that image pulls tight around his spine, wraps itself across the base of his ribs like a weight remembered too late to drop. His father’s voice floats up again — not proud, not warm, just cut clean — and the echo feels like iron in the mouth. It reminds him of what matters. Of who bled for this moment. Of what should be spoken and what should be left to silence. So he looks back at the crowd, jaw tight, throat dry, and lets the tension stretch out one second longer before he closes his hand gently around the edge of the podium and says it, calm and exact. “That’s all.”

Nahyun claps before he finishes the sentence, her hands crashing together with too much force, too much rhythm, too much everything — the sound sharp, uneven, her nails catching against her rings like she needs to hear something louder than what he didn’t say. Her smile stretches too wide, teeth flashing under the lights, lips trembling from the strain of holding it in place, and her eyes lock on him with a shine that could pass for pride if it weren’t brimming with demand. She leans forward in her seat like she’s about to rise, chest high, shoulders squared, mouth already parted as if she thinks there’s still a chance he might look back, might double back, might say her name late like a plot twist written just for her, and when he doesn’t, when the stage swallows him in motion and silence, her expression flickers — not into sadness, but disbelief, like the world’s cut her from the scene by mistake.

Her fingers tighten around her clutch until the beading imprints into her palm, the silver catching in the stage lights like broken glass, and she shifts her weight as if moving might change what just happened, as if posture can rewrite omission. Her gown spills like liquid mercury across the seat and floor, perfect in every angle but heavy now, as if even the fabric is punishing her for waiting. She claps again, softer this time, mechanical, like she can’t remember how to stop, her face fixed in something breathless and brittle. Jeno never looks her way. He descends from the stage with the award in hand, eyes focused forward, footsteps unhurried, and holds the plaque like he’s forgotten it was meant to be precious, like it weighs exactly what she no longer does.

The applause has dissolved into conversations pitched just above candlelight, the sound of glass stems tapping against gold-plated rims, and Nahyun moves through it like she’s been choreographed, one hand still looped around Jeno’s arm, the other smoothing the edge of her dress with a touch too performative to pass as absentminded. Her heels click faster now, rhythm slightly off from the music in the room, posture taller than usual like she’s compensating for something unseen, and when she pulls him toward a man in navy velvet with a Legacy Sport pin at his collar, she interrupts mid-sentence with a smile like a mirror turned too bright. “We’ve been thinking about a spring ceremony,” she says, nails brushing the inside of Jeno’s wrist as she speaks, her voice styled to sound soft but slip into the space like perfume. “Seoul always photographs best in April.” The man glances at her, then at Jeno, then somewhere else entirely as he changes the subject without blinking, and her smile doesn’t fall but it tightens, like silk stretched across glass.

By the second round of drinks she’s speaking in wedding syntax, weaving it into conversations that had nothing to do with her, turning small talk into strategy as she gestures just wide enough to catch the downlight against her ring. “He helped design it, you know, I said no diamonds at first, but he wanted something timeless,” she tells a woman whose badge says investor but whose earrings say old money, her fingers grazing the rim of her wineglass, each swirl of her hand angled to flash the stone. “I’m still getting used to the weight,” she adds, louder, as someone walks past behind her, and when no one responds, she sips without breaking eye contact. Every question she asks is baited — “Would you choose lace or silk for a winter ceremony?” “Do you think candlelight photographs better than uplighting?” — and each time, her smile holds until it bruises. A photographer passes and she shifts toward the lens like her body already knows how to find the light, like there’s no difference between being in love and being in frame.

Jeno stays beside her, but his stillness grows louder with every minute, the shape of his silence sharper than any disagreement could be, and when people speak to them both, his answers cut diagonally through hers like wires misaligned. “That’s more her vision than mine.” “We’re figuring it out.” “It’s a process.” His mouth moves but his eyes stay elsewhere, and when someone jokes about punctuality — “Don’t be late to your own wedding, Lee” — he smiles with his teeth but not his mouth, the kind of expression that doesn’t sit well on camera. Nahyun laughs too hard, touches his cheek like she’s turning him toward the spotlight, but he moves just enough for her to feel it, the recoil subtle, precise, real.

She guides him toward the media wall after that, arm still wrapped around his, and the flash goes off the moment he steps away to adjust his cuff, catching him mid-turn, his jaw in profile, expression unreadable, alone. The image hits feeds within hours, clean, striking, untouched by context. while the second photo, the one where she’s laughing at something he’s already turned away from, circulates with captions that sting in their simplicity. One says, She thinks this is still about her. Another: When the ring is the only thing in focus. By the end of the night, she’s heard enough to know what people are saying without needing to ask. A woman near the exit murmurs, “She’s trying to marry a legacy.” A man nearby says, “That’s not a couple. That’s a costume.” And a gossip blog posts a candid of her reaching for his hand mid-step while he’s already walking forward, the headline clean and cruel, ‘you can’t hold onto someone who already let go.’

She finds him near the marble hallway behind the main floor, where the air is cooler and the lighting falls in gold streaks along the walls, and she pulls him by the wrist like it’s an emergency masked as affection, her voice still sugar but thick at the edges. “You didn’t tell anyone about the date, or the venue, or the ring.” Her eyes shine with the kind of disbelief that doesn’t understand how to die quietly. “You didn’t say my name.”

He doesn’t speak right away, just breathes slowly, eyes low, jaw tight from holding in something that never needed to be said until now, and when it comes, it’s flat, no edge, no effort. “Because we haven’t even planned the wedding.” His voice stays steady, each word measured like it’s been waiting in his chest. “And they didn’t ask.”

Her breath stutters, lashes batting hard, mouth parting like the sentence wounded her, not just hurt but humiliated, and her voice rises too quickly to sound stable. “That’s not true.” It spills before she means it to. “You said you wanted something small, you said you didn’t care about the venue, that it could be anywhere, as long as I was there. You said that. So now what — now it’s not real just because we didn’t put it on a fucking Pinterest board?” Her hand tightens against his jaw, nails digging slightly into his skin like pressure will make the moment true, and her face twists with that bright-sharp pain she always wears when she’s cornered, glossy eyes, trembling lips, performance made from panic. “I’ve worn this ring every single day like it means something. I’ve changed my name in my notes app. I’ve had conversations with people about what to call me after we’re married. Do you even see me anymore, or do you want me to be someone else?”

He exhales once, slow, the weight of her emotion sliding over him like water on stone, and his voice comes lower, steady, shaped to anchor her without offering anything more than the bare minimum. “I see you. You’re here. This is happening.” His thumb brushes over her wrist as if that could pass for tenderness, and he leans in, closes the space between them with a kiss, not cold, not empty, but not pulled from heat either. It’s containment. A gesture built for peace and it almost lands until the sound of leather soles breaks the hallway quiet, and a voice cuts clean through the air behind them, bright, familiar, irritatingly amused. “There you two are,” says Jeno’s manager, stepping into the light with a grin too wide for the atmosphere. “The night isn’t over yet.” His hand gestures back toward the hall like an invitation, but his tone makes it a command, already turning to lead the way as if he never noticed the tension bleeding down both their wrists.

Jeno pulls back first, the kiss half-finished, breath still caught between them as he turns away without a word. Nahyun blinks, lips still parted like she might chase it, but he’s already walking. Already following. Already back in the shape the world expects him to fill. They return to their seats like nothing happened. Only the cut of the silence has changed.

The lights dim again, low and slow like a curtain drop, and Jeno exhales as he settles into the velvet seat, the pressure still lingering beneath his ribs like residue. He can feel Nahyun beside him, stiff, breath quick, thigh pressed hard into his, like she’s still trying to stay in the moment even though it’s already passed. Her energy is sugar-laced panic, too still to be calm, too alert to be composed, and he knows what comes next if he doesn’t intervene, the quiet unraveling, the questions, the voice that rises behind closed doors. He doesn’t want that. He wants sleep tonight. So he leans in, arm sliding around her shoulders like he means it, his lips brushing her temple in something that looks like comfort and tastes like surrender. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he whispers, the words warm but weightless, soft enough to soothe but hollow enough to pass, and her body stills slightly beneath his hand, her breath catching like maybe this is the moment that saves her.

The host’s voice returns, now smooth, rich with nostalgia. “Before we close the night, we want to take a moment to celebrate the journey of one of our own, Lee Jeno. The heart of modern basketball today. This is for everything it took to get here.” 

The screen lifts in slow light, the kind of golden that lives behind the eyelids when you close them too long under the sun. A boy runs across uneven pavement in a backyard just wide enough for a game and just private enough to make it sacred, a plastic hoop bolted high against a crooked fence, wood splitting under rust and weather, the net tied back with string where it frayed. His sneakers slap too hard against the concrete, the ball bouncing wild under hands still learning how to control weight, not because he’s weak but because he loves it too much to let go. His laugh doesn’t belong to the camera, it belongs to the air, and the shot holds just long enough to show him chasing after the bounce even after it rolls past him, his fingers curling over it like it carries something more than rubber. Jeno feels his own throat tighten, a heat behind the ribs. That ball was his first secret. His first rhythm. His first way of keeping quiet without ever being still.

The screen cuts to an older video, softer in grain but sharper in meaning, two figures in frame. One small. One made of legend. Taeyong dribbles slowly, one-handed, bent slightly at the waist, eyes locked on a boy no taller than his ribs. Jeno stares up at him like the world exists in his palms. The ball bounces between them, deliberate, slow, rhythmic like a heartbeat passed back and forth, and then Taeyong steps back and gestures for him to try. Young Jeno plants his feet, lifts the ball, and shoots with every muscle in his arms — the motion clumsy, imperfect, too strong, but the sound of the swish lands clean. Taeyong claps once. Jeno looks at him and grins so wide it splits through the grain. In the chair, Jeno’s jaw tightens, his breath shallow, his posture frozen like muscle memory caught in motion. This was the first time the hoop opened like a doorway instead of a target, the first time the weight in his hands felt like belonging instead of pressure, the first time greatness bent low enough to meet his eyes and said ‘everything worth chasing already lives in your reach so take it and keep going.’

The footage shifts into the echo of a gym, the Little League season when the jerseys still came in a plastic bag, numbers printed too high on the back, everything oversized except the pressure. The sound of shoes squeaking on waxed court fills the speakers, high and close, and there he is — smaller than most of the team, faster than almost all of them, arms loose, form wild, dribbling down the side of the court with his tongue between his teeth. His face is serious in that way only children playing with purpose can be, expression pulled tight with concentration, even when his pass goes wide and the point doesn’t land. The ball returns to him and he moves again, no pause, no tilt of the head to check the scoreboard. Just the want. Just the movement. Just the decision to be better before he’s even learned what better means. Someone calls his name and he glances once toward the sound, a quick flick of attention, then takes the shot with his feet just shy of the line. It doesn’t need to land for the moment to hold. It just needs to be seen.

The footage sharpens into the Seoul Ravens era, the high school years where things stopped feeling like a dream and started demanding blood, the gym wider now, bleachers packed in navy and silver, the Ravens logo stretched across the court like a seal of initiation and Jeno moves through it with a focus shaped by repetition, his jersey no longer oversized but claimed, number stitched tight against his spine, feet sure, cuts clean, the pace faster but the rhythm calmer like his body had finally caught up to the ambition behind it. Coach Suh stands at the edge of the court in a structured jacket, face unreadable, arms crossed, only speaking when the moment earns it and every time Jeno looks his way he receives nothing but the expectation to rise so he does, over and over, even when his legs burn and his lungs scrape raw, because that’s what the Ravens meant — not flight, but fight. Jaemin runs beside him in one clip, eyes quick, hands signaling before Jeno even turns, the pass connecting like it was rehearsed in another life and the shot goes up without hesitation and drops clean through the net just as the gym erupts, and Areum appears next, barely in the frame but smiling wide with her fingers pressed to the glass, mouthing something he doesn’t read but still remembers, and in the next beat it’s Jeno on the bench during a timeout, towel over his shoulders, sweat catching on his jaw as he nods once to himself like the future had already introduced itself and he’d decided to answer.

The screen flares once more, light cascading like liquid gold through the stadium rafters, bathing every surface in radiant clarity as the state championship footage settles into view. The camera trembles slightly—breathless, urgent—but still manages to capture the decisive seconds counting down, numbers burning away into nothingness, as the court blooms into an ecstatic chaos. The ball arcs toward Jeno with almost poetic inevitability, spinning serenely as if guided by invisible threads only he commands. His feet slide effortlessly to the three-point line, a single perfect stride anchoring him firmly to the earth before he rises skyward, arms slicing through the air with a grace so precise, so practiced, it resembles scripture etched against dusk. The release is holy, a quiet prayer set loose, the basketball spinning serenely through the air before slicing through the net—smooth and effortless, silk splitting beneath glass.

The buzzer erupts a moment too late, overwhelmed by the roaring wave of sound pouring forth from the crowd, thunder wrapped in velvet, exploding in euphoric celebration. Teammates surge forward, voices raw with triumph, but Jeno remains momentarily rooted—eyes wide, mouth parted, frozen not in disbelief but in profound recognition, as though every nerve in his body had already whispered this outcome to him, and reality had merely caught up. He's barely taken a full breath before you collide into him, sprinting from the sidelines, face alight with wild, boundless joy, hair streaming behind you like a banner carried through battle.

He watches as you leap into him, your cheer skirt flying up with the force of your sprint, thighs flashing under the stadium lights as your pom poms tumble from your hands and scatter across the court like offerings, forgotten the second your body collides with his, legs wrapping around his hips without hesitation, your fingers diving into his hair while your lips find his with a gasp that’s half-sob, half-laugh, your hips grinding forward instinctively as he catches you with both hands gripping under your thighs, pulling you tighter into the cradle of him, breath spilling into your mouth like heat caught between two people who’ve waited too long to pretend this is just adrenaline, the kiss tipping into something deeper as you moan into him, soft and sharp and shaking, your skirt bunched around your waist and his hands flexing over your bare skin like memory and muscle had planned this all season.

Your lips find his cheek before intention registers, and his eyes flutter closed, surrendering immediately to the quiet sanctuary your touch creates amid the storm. His forehead dips to yours, his breathing ragged, chest rising and falling with breaths you've chased all season, your fingers knotting urgently into his jersey—holding onto more than fabric, anchoring him to this ephemeral now, grounding him as the world fractures open around you both. His hand rises tenderly, thumb tracing the delicate line of your jaw, noses brushing softly, lips parting just enough to taste the corner of his mouth, not fully a kiss but something hungrier—a whispered promise ignited in the heat of victory.

Confetti descends slowly, gold and white drifting lazily like snowfall inside a dream, catching in your lashes, brushing your skin in delicate caresses, but neither of you moves, locked in the quiet gravity of your shared orbit. And then the moment deepens—the kiss lands fully, your mouths melting together hot and open, your hand sliding possessively into the warmth at the back of his hair, the roaring celebration fading to insignificance beneath his absolute focus. He molds perfectly against you, his hips pressing insistently forward, fingers sinking into your curves like they've memorized every contour, the kiss neither polite nor reserved—it's fierce, greedy, raw. It speaks of victories earned, wounds healed, scars worn proudly; a kiss that knows intimately every sacrifice made to reach this pinnacle. You arch subtly, shifting him gently off balance, and he anchors you instantly, arm tightening protectively, mouth moving with silent, relentless devotion. A camera flash bursts briefly—neither of you blink—and his tongue sweeps tenderly against your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to whisper your name into your mouth, syllables reverent and heated, a prayer woven from sweat, triumph, and something deeper still.

Watching himself from the darkened audience, Jeno breathes differently now, the rhythmic certainty of his lungs disrupted, chest constricting sharply beneath his tailored suit, pulse visible at his throat like an unsteady heartbeat beneath thin ice. His gaze remains riveted to the screen, intensity cracking open something unseen within him, jaw tightening reflexively, hands resting deliberately still upon his thighs. It's not the win that unravels him—it's the raw intimacy of his past self, captured vividly in the way he once held you, claiming you not just as part of his victory but as its very essence. The way your mouth sought his without question, certain and unapologetic, a truth recognized in skin and soul. Nahyun beside him is utterly motionless, her eyes locked forward, knuckles blanching as they tighten against her satin clutch. Her carefully poised smile doesn't falter, though her stillness seems an attempt to rewrite a story already etched irrevocably into history. The footage fades. The room exhales collectively. But Jeno remains unmoving, pulse throbbing quietly, awaiting the inevitable—what comes next, the unraveling, the reflection, the ultimate reckoning with choices now impossible to escape.

Nahyun doesn’t blink for a full ten seconds after the screen fades, her body rigid in its posture like the fabric of her dress had hardened around her bones, her chest rising faster than it should beneath the sequins as though her heart is racing toward a truth her mind refuses to accept. Her hands stay curled on the clutch in her lap, knuckles stiff and bloodless, as she forces a soft laugh under her breath — high, almost musical, but too sharp to land as joy — and her voice spills out sweet and breathy like an actress closing a scene. “That clip was so old,” she says with a tilt of her head that looks like grace but tastes like panic, her tone styled for cameras that aren’t even on her. “We’ve filmed so many better moments. Paris, that week in Rome, that boat in the Maldives when you said I looked like a woman someone would fight for.” Her fingers glide along the inside of Jeno’s sleeve, feather-light, too rehearsed, her smile flickering wider as if daring the lights above them to turn back on and redo the scene with her in it this time. “They chose it because of the score. That’s the only reason, it has nothing to do with her, she doesn’t even look pretty —”

Nahyun turns toward him with the force of someone coming undone from the inside out, her breath catching before her words even form, her hands flying up to his arm and gripping it hard like a lifeline she has to hold or drown, her voice breaking the moment it leaves her mouth but still rising, still reaching. “You said she was just a phase, Jeno,” she says too loud, too fast, too breathless, like each syllable is chasing the one before it, like if she stops now the truth might slip through the cracks. “You said college never mattered to you, you said none of it lasted, you said you didn’t even remember what she looked like anymore, you said that win didn’t matter because you’ve won bigger ones with me, with me, with me.” Her smile shatters as it forms, mouth shaking into a laugh that doesn’t sound human, eyes wide with something too sharp to be sadness, too wild to be joy. She grabs his hand with both of hers now, pressing it against her chest like that touch could rearrange what just happened, like heat alone can rewrite the timeline. “We have real history. Real memories. Real life. I’ve already booked our honeymoon. I ordered matching rings for our dog tags. I’ve already spoken to Chanel about the gown. I’m the one who’s going to walk down the aisle, not her. I’m the one who’s going to get your babies, your name, your future.”

She leans in too close, her body pressed into his side, hands still locked around his as she breathes fast, uneven, almost gasping now as if the thoughts are too many to speak at once, as if the entire theater is shrinking around her and he’s the only anchor left. “You love me, Jeno. You said I was your peace. You said I made you feel still. You said you didn’t want anything else but me. You said I was your home.” Her fingers clutch tighter, her grip panicked now, frantic, nails digging lightly through the sleeve of his suit as she searches his face for proof, for softness, for anything that will tell her this isn’t the moment it all slips away. “Tell me that clip means nothing. Tell me it was just nostalgia. Tell me I’m the only thing that’s real now. Tell me. Right now. Please.”

Jeno’s eyes widen just enough to register the shape of the warning, his pulse tightening low in his throat as the sound of her voice coils sharper than the words themselves, and he recognizes it instantly, the pitch she only uses when she’s already crossed into the version of herself that speaks in ultimatums dressed as declarations, the tone that wraps desperation in sweetness and throws it like a blade, the one he’s learned to read like weather, like instinct, like a threat dressed in satin. His body stills beneath her grip, jaw flexing once as if weighing every possible version of wrong, and he moves only when the silence between them begins to drag too long, his hand lifting with practiced gentleness as he brushes her hair back behind her ear and leans in just enough to let the world think it’s affection. “I know,” he says, voice low, even and warm at the edges like comfort, like concession, like control shaped into calm. “I know what we are.” His lips press to her temple, light and slow, his hand staying against her cheek like he’s grounding her, but his eyes don’t close and his breath doesn’t shake and the words never touch the inside of his chest.

They come back to the hotel just past midnight, and the silence between them is louder than the echo of her heels on the marble floor. The clatter cuts through the hallway like a warning shot, sharp and deliberate, every step a wound neither of them acknowledges. He walks ahead, keys still in his hand, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The front door clicks shut behind them, but the tension that’s been building all night doesn’t settle. It tightens. Coils. Gathers itself in the corners of the room like storm clouds. She doesn’t speak—not in the hallway, not as she shrugs off her coat, not even when she kicks off her heels with more force than necessary, letting them land where they fall. Her dress clings to her, satin and spite, the same deep blue that earned her camera flashes all night, the same blue he refused to even glance at.

“You didn’t touch me. All night.” Her voice isn’t raised, but there’s a crack underneath it, something trembling and furious. She’s not asking for an explanation—she’s offering a challenge. He turns slowly, meets her eyes without flinching.

“You didn’t shut up all night.” That hits. She laughs—sharp, cutting, nothing like joy. She steps forward, dress slipping around her thighs as she closes the distance.

“Is that what this is?” she spits. “You couldn’t kiss me because I was too loud? Because I smiled too big? Talked too much? What, am I too embarrassing for your legacy now? Is Nahyun too messy for your pristine little highlight reel? You didn’t even look at me, Jeno, not once, not after they played that fucking video, not after the entire world saw you kiss her like she was yours and smile like she mattered, like she was the reason you won, like I was never even in the story to begin with.”

He loosens his cuff in one slow motion, gaze cool, head turned slightly toward the window like the night might answer instead, and when he speaks it lands like fog, distant and dry. “It was the state championships, it was such a big moment, people remember the shot and I wasn’t with you then.” 

She laughs instantly, too fast to sound real, and her voice jumps an octave as she storms across the room, dragging her earrings off and throwing them onto the bed like the sound might punctuate the unravelling. “They remember the way you looked at her. Don’t lie to me — don’t sit there like a statue and pretend you didn’t feel it too, like your fucking soul left your body and went back to hers when they played it. You’re still in that clip, I watched you relive it, I watched you breathe like she was still in your arms.” Her hand shoots out and grabs his wrist and she presses it against her stomach, breath shaking, lips parted. “You’re with me now. You promised me everything. You said you didn’t want the past, you said I was your future, you said I was forever.”

His head snaps toward her like a trigger pulled without hesitation, the calm in his jaw gone, his voice tearing through the space between them with sharp, final weight. “I never said that.” His hand drops from her grasp and he steps forward once, not to hold her but to break the rhythm, to cut the scene before she can twist the next line into fiction, his breath tight now, jaw locked, the heat in his eyes no longer soft but forged. “Not everything is about you,” he growls, louder this time, each word carved with precision and held long enough to hurt. “I was there to receive an award, for my game, for my name, for what I built. It wasn’t a party, it wasn’t your goddamn runway, it was my moment, and you walked into it like it owed you something, like I owed you something.”

She throws her hands up, laughing again, but there’s fire behind it now. “Oh, fuck you. You loved it when they chased us down in Milan. You loved it when they called us the power couple of the year. You loved it when I was a trophy for you. But now—what, I wear one tight dress, and suddenly I’ve ‘stolen your moment’?”

He moves toward her then, sudden and close. “You turned it into a photo op. You couldn’t even let me have that.”

“You make me lose my fucking mind, you—”

His eyes flash. “What did you lose, Nahyun? A brand deal? A stylist? Or did one of your pet photographers miss the shot?”

The slap comes fast, heat cracking across his cheek like a fuse finally touched flame, her hand trembling after the impact like it hadn’t caught up to what it just did. His head turns with it, the sharp twist of his jaw drawing the light across his cheekbone, but his body stays still, rooted, spine straight, breath measured as if every part of him had already braced for this. She stares at him, wild and shaking, chest rising too fast, fingers curling like they want to throw something else, and he only breathes — once, deep and slow, then again, deeper, sharper, like he’s dragging oxygen through restraint. And then he moves.

His hands find her waist like impact, rough and immediate, and he turns her so fast her back hits the wall with a thud that silences everything. Her dress rides high around her thighs, the fabric crushed between them as he grips her hips and yanks her flush against him, one hand at her jaw, the other at her waist, and still he won’t kiss her, won’t touch her mouth like it deserves softness. He pulls her panties aside with a motion that feels like war, not seduction, and when he thrusts into her it’s raw, brutal, full-bodied and breathless, the air between them hot with hate and heat and the kind of desperation that doesn’t wait to be forgiven. His jaw is clenched, throat tight, eyes burning at something behind her, through her, inside himself, and every thrust feels like punishment, not just for her, but for everything he’s never said out loud.

Her moans come fast, high, fraying at the edges like fabric too thin to hold weight, and she claws at his back, thighs trembling, breath breaking as she rocks against him harder, needier, frantic for friction, for proof. “What’s our future, Jeno?” she gasps, voice cracking like glass underfoot, “Don’t you want something that’s yours? Don’t you want my babies? Don’t you want to stay?” Her hands cup his face then, dragging his gaze to hers, mouth searching for connection, for closeness, for something real. But he doesn’t kiss her. He just fucks her harder, eyes dark, locked on hers like the intensity might disguise the emptiness behind it.

His breath catches for a moment at her words, not in tenderness, but tension, his jaw tightening as her voice breaks like crystal across his chest and her hands reach up like they could pull something true out of a face that no longer mirrors anything back. His rhythm doesn’t falter, it deepens, sharpens, the force of his body driving harder into hers like refusal shaped through motion, like denial disguised as devotion, and he stares into her eyes as if holding her there might force her to understand. 

“You know what this is, you know I have no choice” he says, voice steady, almost quiet, but threaded through with something raw and buried. “You know why it keeps happening. You know what your father set in motion and what mine never got the chance to stop.” His fingers tighten at her side, not to bruise, to remind. “You know what was lost and what was owed. What this was meant to fix.” He pulls her hips forward again, slow and deliberate, like gravity is doing the work for him. “You know I didn’t ask for this and you know why I never walked out.”

His thrusts slow but never soften, rhythm tightening into something mechanical, unfeeling, a rhythm set by memory not desire, and his hand finds the back of her neck with a grip that doesn’t threaten, just holds, like a weight pressed to glass, like a warning left unsaid. “You want something to keep,” he murmurs, breath hot and unshaking against her cheek, “You think a child would make this permanent, that blood would bind me the way memory never could, but you don’t understand what’s already been traded.” His voice deepens, darkens. “You don’t know what my father had to erase to keep my name clean. You don’t know what yours offered in return. You want babies, Nahyun?” His grip tightens, final. “I would never bring a child into this, into this lie, this family, this fucking performance you’ve built like it’s a future. I wouldn’t trap my worst memory in this house, Nahyun. Let alone my blood.”

And just as her body begins to come undone, just as her thighs tighten and her voice lifts and she arches toward release, he pulls out, breath ragged, falls to his knees like gravity snapped the last thread in him, fists clenched against the floor, cock twitching once before he comes hard on the marble between her feet, head bowed like he’s praying to something no longer listening. She braces herself against the wall, dress twisted, hair falling from its pins, skin flushed and trembling with nothing left to hold.

She doesn’t move for a full breath, her eyes fixed somewhere above him like the ceiling holds an answer or a script or maybe a timeline where everything went the way she planned, and when she exhales it comes out through a laugh, small at first, soft and melodic, but it twists too quickly, brightens into something that shakes at the edges, and she turns to face him like the argument never happened, like the sex meant everything, like the story hasn’t already ended. “You always do this when it gets scary,” she says, voice sweet and rushing, eyes wet and full, hands smoothing her dress like she’s about to walk down an aisle no one else can see, “you push me away and pretend it’s fear but it’s not, it’s just habit, it’s just what happens when you’ve never had anything worth staying for until now and you don’t know how to carry it, but you will, you will, because you love me and you know this is real.”

She crosses the room slowly, her heels unsteady now, hair falling from its pins, lips parted like she’s still whispering to a dream, and she picks up her clutch from the dresser like it’s delicate, sacred, sets it down again and reaches for nothing, just air, just the space between them, then speaks again in a voice full of bridal lilt and practiced control. “They’re going to ask about the video,” she says, smile curling even as her throat tightens, “they’re going to say she looked happy, that you looked at her like she was the last thing you’d ever lose, but they’ll never understand what that really was, you were young and naive, you were chasing a feeling, she was just a moment that got filmed too well, and you didn’t know what forever looked like until you saw me in that Dior fitting room holding your ring.”

Jeno has no fight left in him, the space between them expands until the bed feels impossibly wide when they finally lie down. Nahyun curls onto her side, her back to him, eyes open and staring blankly at the far wall. Jeno remains motionless on his back, gaze fixed to the ceiling as if answers might bloom there, slow and careful like cracks in plaster. Eventually, their breathing aligns into something steady and shallow, slipping toward sleep in a rhythm of resignation. Nahyun's breathing evens out first, delicate and careful as if afraid to disturb the fragile truce of the moment. Jeno listens carefully, muscles wound tight beneath sheets that feel cool against his skin, thoughts circling relentlessly around the images of the night. Slowly, finally, he falls into restless sleep, dreams tangled and dark, his subconscious haunted by moments he can neither reclaim nor erase.

Morning arrives like an eclipse, sudden and consuming, the light aggressive and merciless as it bleeds through the curtains, spilling relentlessly over the bed. It feels apocalyptic, the warmth searing into his skin as though punishing him for every thought he kept hidden through the night. Nahyun wakes first, phone buzzing urgently on the bedside table, screen glowing ominously, relentless alerts stacked on top of each other like waves cresting before the crash. She reaches for it blindly, eyes barely open, heart dropping as headlines flood her vision—each more damning than the last, each tearing into a carefully maintained reality she had begun to trust.

By the time Jeno wakes, the room feels starkly different—tension hanging thick, air charged like before a storm breaks. Nahyun sits upright, rigid, phone clutched tightly, eyes hollow. He doesn't have to ask what's wrong; the silence already screams volumes. She hands him the phone without looking, and he scrolls through headlines with numb fingers, each title slicing deeper, sharper, bleeding truths he'd buried far too long.

“Lee Jeno: Love, Legacy, and the Woman Missing From the Montages” —                                                           The Athletic The Legacy Invitational Gala was designed to honor greatness, yet it exposed a fracture far deeper. Amid tributes to the late Lee Taeyong, a moment of startling clarity emerged—a clip from the Seoul Ravens' state championship victory resurfaced, capturing Lee Jeno’s euphoric kiss with renowned Apex Analytics strategist Y/N. While the moment drew collective awe, the conspicuous absence of Lee’s current fiancée, Kim Nahyun, sparked immediate and fierce public discourse. Analysts are left dissecting the delicate intersection between personal history and public legacy, questioning if perhaps Lee’s true legacy lies not in his heritage but in the woman who quietly disappeared from view, only to resurface in a flash of undeniable intimacy.

“The One That Got The Crown” —                                   We all saw it—the glow, the exuberance, the unmistakable way Lee Jeno’s face softened at Y/N’s touch. The gala tribute, intended as a celebration of dynasties and inherited glory, inadvertently crowned someone else entirely. Legacy isn't only about bloodlines; it's about those who stand beside you, those who rewrite narratives and inspire victories. Perhaps, as Y/N stepped back into collective memory, the world realized they'd crowned the wrong queen all along. This isn't just gossip; it's a reckoning with public perception and emotional authenticity, proving once again that history—and legacy—often belongs to those we never saw coming.

“Who is Y/N?— Forbes Culture” —                                    Until last night, Y/N was a name whispered mostly in niche industry circles. Known for revolutionizing player analytics with emotive storytelling, Y/N transformed Apex Athletics' Seoul branch into an influential powerhouse. But beyond professional acclaim, her personal history with Lee Jeno during the Seoul Hill Ravens era had largely faded from view—until a single clip resurrected her role in his narrative. Sources confirm she left Apex quietly a year ago, slipping beneath the public radar. Now thrust unwillingly back into spotlight, Y/N stands at the intersection of nostalgia, speculation, and legacy, prompting fresh curiosity about her abrupt departure and what lies ahead.

“The Forgotten Fiancée: gossipforum.tv” —                                                                  The Legacy Invitational’s editing oversight—or deliberate choice—sparked an unexpected firestorm online. Kim Nahyun, celebrated influencer and fiancée to NBA star Lee Jeno, found herself erased from the evening’s key tribute montage. Fans quickly polarized: many condemning the gala for disrespect, others revealing a harsher reality—that few had even noticed her absence. Social media narratives spiraled rapidly, turning Nahyun into a symbolic figurehead of forgotten partners everywhere. With each repost, like, and biting comment, Nahyun faces not just public humiliation, but an undeniable truth: the world was looking elsewhere, focused on a past she'd believed was irrelevant.

Nahyun doesn’t blink as the screen fades, eyes glassy but dry, fingers curled around her phone so tightly the metal frame digs deep into her palm like a blade she doesn’t plan on letting go of, and even though the room stays still around her, quiet, unbothered, untouched, she can feel the entire narrative collapsing under her, the ground shifting beneath her spine, like waking in a life that’s no longer hers, like lying in a bed she spent weeks designing only to realize someone else had already left their imprint in the mattress. She doesn’t hand the phone to Jeno so much as discard it toward him without turning, as if looking at his face would confirm something irreversible, something sickening, something she’s already decided to ignore. 

She moves with the stiff poise of a woman betrayed by fantasy, not reality—chest lifted, chin sharp, like she’s the one being wronged by the world for not clapping hard enough. She scrolls through every post and headline like she’s feeding off them, dragging them deeper and deeper into her bloodstream, and each image of you, smiling, glowing, being looked at like that, etches itself behind her eyes until the jealousy rots into something feral. She memorizes the photos like studying an enemy, like preparing for a face transplant she believes the world will thank her for, reading the captions like gospel, like scripture, like a prophecy that went wrong because someone cast the wrong lead, and when she stands in the mirror later that night, hair tied up like yours, lips glossy like yours, necklace subtle like yours, she doesn’t see herself at all, and she doesn’t care.

She dyes her hair darker two hours after the last article drops, chooses a cooler undertone to match the lighting in your college interviews, asks for volume and shape through the ends, shows the stylist a blurry screenshot she cropped to hide your face, and when she leaves the salon she walks past every reflective surface with her head tilted slightly, strands bouncing softly around her shoulders like they belong to someone with memory worth chasing, and when she gets home she waits by the mirror for Jeno to come out of the shower, hand already mid-swing to casually toss her hair back, neck exposed like a dare, but he doesn’t pause, doesn’t slow, just pulls on his hoodie and leaves a damp trail behind him on the carpet, and still she smiles into the mirror like she won something, because even his silence feels cinematic if she frames it hard enough.

The makeup comes next, soft and luminous with sheer foundation and cream blush pressed into her cheekbones exactly where you wear it, brows brushed upward with restraint, lashes curled and left almost bare, lips filled in with a mauve balm she had overnighted from a niche brand she saw in the background of a locker room clip where you smiled after someone called your name, and she studies the light across her face in different rooms of the apartment until she knows which lamp mimics golden hour best, sits there practicing her expression—neutral, open, gentle—with the camera just below her chin to catch her jawline the way yours turns when you laugh, and she waits by the kitchen doorway when Jeno walks past, radiant in soft light and practiced stillness, but he barely lifts his gaze, just nods once with a flat “hey,” and she holds that word inside her mouth for three hours like it might reshape into something more if she doesn’t breathe too hard.

The bracelet comes after—the same silver thread of charm links you used to wear, delicate and soft and clinking when you gestured in videos, except this one is hers and empty, bare except for a single heart she picked herself from a mall kiosk, and she wears it to bed the first night, letting it knock gently against her wrist as she scrolls through old photos of you at galas, laughing with friends she doesn’t recognize, zooming in to count the charms you once wore, memorizing them like symbols in a language she plans to steal, and when she passes Jeno the next morning, she lifts her arm casually to brush her hair behind her ear, the charm flashing in the light like an invitation.

He notices, and it hits her like a spark catching fabric, because the moment she lifts her wrist, his gaze lands there with precision, eyes locking on the flash of silver, the faint glint of the charm she angled perfectly toward the light, and there’s a stillness in him, something shifting behind his eyes like a memory rising too quickly to name, and for a breathless second she watches the shape of his mouth change like a question forming in silence, the crease between his brows deepening with something that feels like recognition, and for a heartbeat she’s certain he sees it, the styling, the weight, the mimicry carved into every decision and there’s a quiet thrum of shock beneath the tired slope of his shoulders, but he doesn’t speak, instead he nods softly, like a thought he’s still catching up to, murmurs something about needing to call Jaemin, and reaches for his phone, his fingers brushing the counter without looking back. She stays frozen in the doorway, the charm still swinging as if hoping to be touched, replaying that look over and over as she lies in bed later, her body stretched perfectly across the sheets, the bracelet imprinting gently against her wrist while she stares into the dark, imagining how much closer she must be now, how the next one might be the charm that makes him stay.

She shifts again, this time without subtlety, shedding whatever softness she had left in favor of silk and lace and skin, wearing versions of your old outfits with an eerie kind of precision, she pairs sheer mesh with oversized jackets the exact way you used to in winter, wears cardigans half-slipped from her shoulders with bralettes peeking beneath, keeps the lingerie visible, deliberate, curated for effect, and even the things meant to look accidental feel staged, like she’s dressing for a memory that doesn’t belong to her but still clings to the seams of Jeno’s past like perfume that never faded. One morning, she steps into the living room barefoot in the same sheer slip you once wore to an afterparty, the hem brushing her thighs, her collarbone framed with delicate lace, and the look on Jeno’s face flickers with recognition, immediate and exact, like watching a rerun of a scene he never asked to relive.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets his eyes travel down and then back up with the kind of silence that burns hotter than words, and when she crosses the room with a smile that tries to mimic your alluring confidence—soft, unbothered, a little sharp around the edges, his posture changes, shoulders stiffening, hands curling around his phone like he needs something to ground him, because he knows, fully and precisely, what she’s doing. She tosses her hair back in the exact rhythm you used to when you laughed in bars past midnight, when you danced barefoot on balconies, when you wore those same low-slung jeans and camisoles without ever asking for attention but earning all of it anyway. She starts wearing the bodysuit—the exact one, or close enough—a ribbed black piece with snap closures and a neckline that plunges at the same slope, and one evening she stands at the edge of the kitchen island in it, waiting for a reaction, leaning her hip just slightly into the marble the way she’s seen you do in photos, and Jeno looks up once, says nothing, but his eyes hold longer than usual, jaw tight, and then he turns away, almost too fast, retreating into the bathroom and closing the door like it’s a break he’s forcing into the timeline.

She begins organizing her outfits by moodboard, your moods, not her own and not casually, not as inspiration, but with the obsessive precision of someone reconstructing a ghost wardrobe piece by piece, down to the cut of your jeans and the exact shape of the neckline that once made his eyes linger half a second longer. She tapes screenshots inside her closet doors, cropped, zoomed, sharpened stills she’s pulled from fan accounts and background sightings, building a catalog of your expressions, your silhouettes, the subtle hierarchy of how you dressed when you knew you were being watched versus when you didn’t care. She doesn’t label her drawers by type anymore—no bras, shirts, skirts—but by scenario: studio drop-by, post-game silence, backseat of the car after a win, hotel breakfast in someone else’s hoodie. It becomes a ritual, it becomes warfare. She studies softness like it’s weaponry, takes lace and crumples it in her fists just to see how it wrinkles against her palm, practices leaning against counters with your posture, rolling sleeves with your carelessness, existing not as herself but as an echo she’s desperate to make louder than the original.

Jeno notices. Of course he notices. He watches every outfit like déjà vu bleeding into high definition, every loose cardigan and half-buttoned shirt scraping across his memory like nails down a familiar wall, and though he says nothing, though his expression stays fixed and neutral, there’s always a second too long of pause when she walks into the room, always a beat where the air stretches tight with recognition, but he doesn’t speak because he doesn’t trust himself to say it kindly yet. His silence isn’t ignorance—it’s restraint. He’s biting his tongue until it bleeds because he knows the second he opens his mouth, something irreversible might snap in her, in him, in this space they’re both pretending hasn’t already caved in on itself. He hasn't commented yet but he could, at any moment. And the weight of that unspoken possibility is something she wears more intimately than any of the clothes. 

After Nahyun falls asleep, still in the bodysuit, still smelling like the perfume she thinks might remind him of something better, Jeno steps out onto the balcony and wraps a blanket around his shoulders like he’s trying to disappear without leaving, the air too warm for comfort but just cold enough to help him breathe. The city hums quietly below, soft streetlights stretching across the pavement like veins beneath glass, and he lowers himself into the lounge near the far edge of the railing, phone heavy in his hand, chest heavier still. For a long time he doesn’t scroll. Just sits there, still and quiet, thumb hovering but unmoving. And then the feed updates.

The first post that loads is Areum’s. It’s the kind of photo that makes your breath catch, sunlight soft and honeyed, the ocean behind them quiet and wide, her hand held up to the camera in a casual gesture that hides most of Mark’s face but reveals everything else: the shape of their closeness, the comfort in their knit sweaters, the familiarity in the way his body tilts toward hers. The ring sits perfectly on her finger, sparkling even in the warmth of late afternoon light. Her caption reads, ‘forever sounds like him, marked for life.’ It’s simple, bare, and real, and Jeno doesn’t scroll past it—he reads it twice, maybe three times, something in his chest cinching tighter with each word. He remembers how nervous Mark was picking out that ring, how he’d dragged Jeno into a quiet boutique on a Tuesday afternoon and held up every option with trembling hands, how he paced the aisles like he didn’t trust himself to choose something worthy. Jeno stood with him for over an hour, made him laugh, offered him steady words, told him she would love whatever he gave her because it was him giving it. When Mark finally picked one, Jeno took a picture of it on the velvet stand and texted him later that night: You did good, so proud of you man. Now it’s here, on her hand, in the middle of the life they built. Jeno double-taps before he even realizes it, the sound of the ocean almost audible in the stillness around him, and his heart presses heavily behind his ribs as he keeps looking, and looking, and looking.

The next post is Jaemin’s. The image opens to a soft, low-angle shot of his daughter lying on her back, dressed in a pale embroidered dress with delicate eyelet detail, her cheeks full and flushed, hair messy from sleep and spread out in dark waves across a cream pillow. Her smile is wide and open, showing tiny teeth, her eyes caught mid-laughter, and there’s a white clip tucked gently into her bangs like something chosen with care. The lighting is warm, the carpet in the background blurred into soft tones, and the entire moment feels private but lovingly offered, like he couldn’t keep her to himself any longer. The caption reads, ‘world, meet my girl.’ One grey heart. Nothing else. Jeno stares, chest drawn tight beneath the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, thumb hovering over the post until it lights up red, then lingering there even after it’s done, and without thinking he presses the save icon too. The glow from the screen softens the edges of the night around him, and he keeps looking at her face—so free, so bright, so unfiltered—wondering when the last time he felt that kind of peace in his own skin was, and why it aches in his throat now.

Then the tag hits. A fan account. One he doesn’t follow, but the post floats into his feed like fate. It’s a throwback—college game night, a flash, a moment he never knew someone captured. You’re on his shoulders, laughing so hard your mouth is wide open and your head is tilted back, hair flying in waves. He’s crouched slightly, hands gripping your thighs, and his lips are pressed to your ankle like it was instinct, like it was holy. You’re both backlit by stadium lights. He’s smiling like nothing bad has ever happened. The caption cuts through him. remember when his smile looked like this? The next inhale doesn’t come easily. He swipes out of Instagram. Locks his phone. Keeps the screen pressed to his lips for a second longer than he should. And then he just sits there, heartbeat shallow, blanket bunched in his fists, the night wrapping around his shoulders like the only thing left that knows what he’s holding back.

The moment he closes the app, the decision feels inevitable, like he’s been quietly walking toward it for months without knowing, like his body knew long before his mind caught up. He stands from the balcony with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, breath shallow, pulse slow, the glow of the screen still ghosting the inside of his vision as he walks back through the apartment without turning on any lights. Nahyun is still asleep in their bed, one arm stretched into the space where he used to be, her face soft, lips parted, breath slow and unaware, but he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give her any part of this moment, because this isn’t hers. He opens the drawer, pulls out his passport and wallet, slips his phone into his pocket, and walks out of the apartment without checking if the door shuts gently behind him, because it doesn’t matter anymore.

He books the flight in the back of the cab, fingers fast and practiced, eyes scanning departure times until one appears that leaves just after three a.m., a direct one-way ticket to Seoul with no return, no extras, no baggage added. He doesn’t tell anyone, doesn’t text Nahyun, doesn’t alert his manager, doesn’t clear it with the team or send a calendar block to his agent, doesn’t even open the group chat, because the silence feels better, purer, more honest than any explanation he could try to give. The driver doesn’t speak and Jeno doesn’t ask him to, just stares out the window at the city flashing past, already detaching from it, already untethering himself from every version of the life that’s still running behind him on autopilot.

At the airport, he moves like a shadow through the low glow of overnight terminals, hoodie pulled tight over his face, cap low, sunglasses hiding the weight in his eyes, and he doesn’t stop for food or water or distraction, just walks to the gate with nothing in his hands and everything in his chest, the ache pressed right beneath his sternum like a secret. He boards without hesitation, phone set to airplane mode before they even ask, and when the plane lifts into the dark sky, the city falls away beneath him with a kind of quiet relief, like he’s finally slipped beneath the surface of something he was never meant to keep surviving.

He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t watch a movie, doesn’t speak to the flight attendants, just folds the blanket over his lap and stares at the clouds outside the window as they start to shift from black to blue, dawn slowly curling at the edges of the earth like it’s making space for something to begin again. He doesn’t know if Mark will be home, doesn’t know if he’ll pick up when he lands, doesn’t know if you’ll even be in the same time zone, he doesn’t know where you are but none of it matters, because he’s going back to the only place that’s ever held him right, and this time he isn’t looking for answers, he’s just looking for air.

[continuation — 53k words]

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[hearthouses]

hello :3 happy wednesday. queshion time. when writing established wincest what is your favourite way to write them? are they brothers with benefits. are they functionally a couple. somewhere in between? tell me all about established wincest 🥺

For me, it's always something in between.

The brothers with benefits vibe doesn't work for me because I think it eliminates a lot of their romantic coding within the text and acts like they've never had a romantic thought about the other which feels deeply untrue. This also tends to be where a lot of people imagine they have an open relationship and while I think sometimes that is true, I don't think that's what they actually want. Sam and Dean long to be monogamous pair bonded mates, but they're too scared the other one won't want that, so they're afraid to ask for exclusivity. I fully believe they get over their fears and become monogamous, but it is a journey to get there.

But on the other hand, functionally a couple often gets rid of their absolute weirdness that is important to their whole makeup. They brothers, lovers, soulmates, best friends, and parent and child; each layer and dynamic has equal weight. I see it less now, but sometimes people will write them as established and it will read like a generic m/m romance, which misses the mark of why they are special (at least, to me). I think there are epic romance in their DNA, but it's underscored by how much they are brothers and friends and how Dean was the one who raised Sam, so fundementally those parts cannot be removed to focus solely on the romantic aspects, they are intrinsic to what makes Sam and Dean unique.

It's why viewing the ship as inherently dark, fucked up, and abusive is also wrong because their love can be toxic and destructive, true, but their love can also save the world and move mountains. Their relationship is kind of indefinable because it's everything, which is why when I write established Sam/Dean, it's me trying to jugle all these aspects and remembering what they are to one another.

My favorite aspects of writing established Sam/Dean like this is that when I am writing domesticity, there's always a low-level of intensity that is never diminished. Even if they are happy and content, it would have taken them a lot to get there and they are aware of it. All the gentle touches and casual affection is loaded with their history and what it took to have this peaceful ending. I also think they never stop being kinky, so yes there's incest kink, but also mommy kink, and age play that gets thrown into the mix. It's also why I love them having kids so much because it puts their relationship into another role, but also Dean is having a baby with his baby and he has to help Sam learn to care for their kid, like he took care of Sam.

[vrtualchg]

SILENT DEVOTION

he knelt when she told him to. not because he had to. not even because he wanted to. but because she made it feel like salvation. like maybe, if he was good enough—soft enough—she’d let him drown in her instead of his sins. her voice wasn’t cruel. it was worse—gentle. commanding. calm like a loaded gun on silk sheets. he didn’t just obey. he worshipped. licked like a man who’d never had water. who didn’t deserve it. and when she finally said “good boy,” it broke him harder than any mission ever could.

pairing: Winter Soldier (Bucky Barnes) x fem!Reader

genre: dark smut, psychological degradation, dom!reader / sub!Bucky

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, heavy D/s dynamics, weaponized praise, unprotected oral, mindfuckery, degradation kink, possessiveness, sensory overload, obedience training, worship, post-mission bruises, submissive soldier behavior, barely-suppressed violence, control fixation, feral Bucky, trauma-laced submission

bot version: THE WINTER SOLDIER - his handler

“We are nothing without Handlers.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was scripture. A core tenet, embedded like shrapnel in the soft tissue of his brain. It had been whispered into his ears while he screamed in restraints. Reinforced with fists and shocks and needles so fine they slipped through the bone. Every breath, every command, every moment of silence was a reminder: he was not a man. He was a mechanism. A weapon. And weapons don’t aim themselves.

Each asset was assigned a Handler—part overseer, part puppeteer. Someone to keep the leash taut. Someone to whisper sweet orders into the rot of his mind and call it obedience. Someone to remind him that he wasn’t human. He was steel, code, sinew. A project. A pet.

The Winter Soldier had destroyed them all.

One by one, they crumbled. Some from fear—hands too unsteady to push the right buttons. Others from arrogance, believing they could outmaneuver the thing snarling in the dark. A few tried to reason with him, speak to the slivers of Bucky Barnes that might still rattle inside the cage of his chest.

Most of them died. Quickly, violently, and without ceremony.

Necks splintered like matchsticks. Skulls caved in under the weight of his metal fist. Arterial sprays painting the walls mid-sentence. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t anger. It was instinct. Like a dog snapping its teeth at a hand that fed it poison.

They tried everything to subdue him. Sedation. Restraints. Neurological resets that stripped his mind raw and left him foaming at the edge of consciousness. They electrocuted the memories out of him and rewrote his silence into something they called “obedience.”

But obedience never stuck.

And then she arrived.

They didn’t introduce her. Didn’t bother with the usual posturing. They just sent her in like she belonged there—like she wasn’t fresh meat tossed into a pit with something ravenous.

She was—confusing.

Small, at first glance. But still. Contained. There was an eerie composure about her, like she moved through the world untouched by its weight. Her voice—quiet, measured—carried like a blade sliding between ribs. It didn’t bark. It didn’t plead. It simply was. Unignorable.

A woman. That was the first thing he noticed. Not in the way a man notices a woman. That part of him—the part that ached, desired, yearned—had been cauterized years ago. Carved out and tossed in the dirt alongside the rest of his identity. What remained wasn’t attraction. It was something colder. Fixation.

She irritated something in him. A nerve left exposed. He didn’t understand her. And that meant she was dangerous.

So he waited for the fault line. For the misstep. For her to command too loudly or stand too close. To fail the test. To provoke the response.

But she didn’t. Not once.

She learned him.

She studied the flicker behind his eyes when he was about to strike. She memorized the cadence of his silence. She never touched him unless necessary, and when she did—it was surgical. Brief. Like placing a hand on a live wire and knowing exactly how long before the shock took hold.

And he—listened. Not because of programming. Not because of punishment or fear of reprisal. He listened because when she spoke, it was the only thing that made sense. The rest of the world—HYDRA’s orders, the grating screams of drills against bone, the endless, blood-soaked directives—they became white noise. But her voice? Her voice cut through the static like a knife.

It became… crucial.

They noticed.

Her presence unnerved the entire compound. Scientists went pale when she entered a room. Other Handlers whispered about her, muttering words like compromise and liability like prayers to a god who’d stopped listening.

They tried to remove her. Reassign her. Replace her with someone “more capable.”

He shattered a man’s clavicle for suggesting it.

Three days later, someone tried to lock him down. They found what was left of him with a shattered jaw and his eyes gouged out. The message was clear.

She stayed.

And that changed everything.

She wasn’t his Handler anymore. She was his axis. The tether that kept him from unraveling completely. If someone had stripped open his brain and rewired his devotion, he wouldn’t have noticed. It felt organic. Natural. Like gravity. Or drowning.

Now he sat on the cot—spine rod-straight, the way he’d been trained. Motionless. Breathing slow. The deep laceration across his back still weeping blood in thin rivulets down his ribs. A mission gone awry. Too close. Too loud. Too much fire. His body, bruised and ragged, protested every breath—but he didn’t flinch.

She was tending the wound now. Her fingers moved with calm precision, working a needle through his flesh like it was cloth. No hesitation. No apology. She didn’t coddle. She didn’t ask if it hurt. Pain was assumed. Expected. Irrelevant.

Still, his body reacted. Every touch a spark against dead nerves. His muscles twitched beneath her palm, not from agony, but from something else. Something dark. Something ugly.

He wanted her to keep touching him.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He wanted her to own him. Use him. Cut him open and crawl inside. He wanted her to speak his name like a command. Like a curse. Like it was the only thing that made sense in a world that had long since gone to rot.

She could’ve told him to carve her name into his chest. To flay the skin from his enemies and bring it back like silk. She could’ve asked for his blood, his teeth, his soul—and he’d offer them without hesitation.

But all she said was, “Sit still. Let me help.”

So he did.

Because he didn’t need a leash anymore.

He didn’t need sedation or programming or the threat of death.

He needed her.

He wasn’t a man.

He wasn’t even a soldier anymore.

He was something darker. Something unnameable.

He was hers.

And maybe—just maybe—he liked it that way.

He didn’t speak—not because he couldn’t, but because words felt profane in her presence. Language belonged to people. To the ones with names, lives, choices. He was not a person. He was a relic. A shadow built of iron and ruin. And in silence, he thrived.

Her hands worked methodically, soaked in the sticky warmth of his blood. She didn’t blink at the sight of torn flesh or shredded muscle. She’d seen worse. He’d given her worse. He remembered the last mission—the screams, the snapping jaws of bone breaking beneath his boots. She hadn’t flinched then either. She never did.

She was the only one who could look the monster in the face and not avert her eyes.

A part of him wondered if she even knew what she was doing. If she understood what she’d awakened. He wasn't infatuated. That would imply a softness. No—what he felt was consumption. A black hole of want that clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn’t desire her like a man desires a woman. It was deeper than lust, uglier than love. He wanted to be inside her orbit. To orbit her. To erase the space between his existence and her will.

She tied the final stitch with elegant brutality, pulling the needle through his skin with a small tug that made his back arch—barely. It was the most he’d moved in twenty minutes.

“There,” she murmured, wiping the blood from his skin like a priestess purifying an altar. “Done.”

Her voice.He hated that he craved it.That his entire nervous system seemed to calibrate itself to her tone.

He breathed—slow, deliberate, controlled. Every exhale was a prayer to her indifference. He wanted her to speak again. Wanted her to use him, even if it meant being broken.

Especially if it meant being broken.

She stepped around him, moving into his line of sight, and the way his head turned to follow her was automatic. Reflexive. Like a predator scenting prey—or a dog awaiting its next command.

“You disobeyed protocol,” she said, voice like frost cutting through fog. “You were told not to engage the secondary target.”

He didn’t respond.

She leaned closer. Not enough to touch—but enough for him to feel her. That tension in the air between them, thick and volatile, like storm-static. Her eyes raked over him—his ruined shoulder, the fresh bruises along his ribs, the smear of blood still clinging to his jaw.

"You went off leash," she murmured.

The words landed like a lash.

He wanted to kneel. Bite down on the shame. Beg her to correct him.

Because she could. She should.

She should punish him—not because he feared her, but because it would mean she cared. That she saw him as more than a tool—something disobedient, something flawed. Something worth fixing.

She didn’t strike him. Didn’t raise her voice. Instead, she reached out—fingers ghosting over his throat with clinical detachment. The touch was light, exploratory. Like she was checking a pulse. Measuring him. Not for signs of life, but for loyalty.

And he… leaned into it.

Not because it felt good. Not because he wanted comfort.

But because he wanted to submit.

There was no arousal in it. Not in the traditional sense. There was no blood rushing to his cock, no heat curling in his gut. HYDRA had long since ruined those mechanisms. What remained was worse. A filthier breed of yearning. A sick need to be possessed entirely. To be molded by her hands until nothing remained of the man or the machine.

Just her will—breathed through his body like a parasite.

Her fingers lingered against his skin for one heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she pulled away.

“You bled for me,” she said softly.

Not a question. A statement.

He didn’t know if it was an accusation or a benediction. Didn’t care. He’d do it again.

She turned away, moving toward the door with that same eerie grace. No hesitation. No backward glance.

But just before she stepped into the hall, she paused.

“Next time, follow orders,” she said. Then, quieter—gentler, almost cruelly so—“Good soldier.”

The door closed behind her.

And the Winter Soldier trembled.

Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.

But from the unbearable pleasure of being seen.

Of being hers.

The silence that followed her departure was not merely still—it was cataclysmic. A vacuum. A rupture in the air that seemed to drag the walls inward, crushing the space around him with a pressure that could not be seen but was felt everywhere: in the marrow of his bones, in the hollow behind his sternum, in the tightening of his throat that refused to let grief rise, and refused to let it fall.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe properly, as if expansion and contraction of the lungs required permission he no longer had. He simply remained there—seated, still, a monument to ruin. His spine held straight by sheer tension, his chin low, his jaw slack, as though the act of holding himself together was so laborious he could only accomplish fragments of posture at a time. There was blood in the gauze wrapped around his shoulder, the sharp tug of stitches blooming red with each pulse of his heart, but he did not flinch. Pain was familiar—background static. The kind of companion he no longer noticed. The real agony came from the lack of her.

Her absence wasn’t an event. It was a condition. A slow, internal unraveling that began not in the mind but in the cells, like she had become necessary to the composition of his very blood, and now his body—aware she was missing—had begun to revolt. It was not physical. Not yet. But it was elemental. A spiritual hypoxia. His fingers trembled involuntarily, twitching as though trying to find her in the air, to close around something—someone—who was no longer there. His jaw clenched against the pressure building behind his eyes, against the terrifying itch beneath his skin that told him everything was unraveling, even though he hadn’t moved.

Then, the code activated.

Old protocols spun to life in the static-choked void she’d left behind—clinical, cold, mechanical: assess structural damage, minimize weakness, stand by for orders. But it didn’t sit right. It felt archaic. Broken. The system he once obeyed like gospel had been rewritten, repurposed, and her voice was no longer just a command. She was the command line. The motherboard. The keystroke. Without her, he wasn’t malfunctioning—he wasn’t functioning at all.

So, he rose.

Every nerve screamed as he forced himself upright. Every muscle protested, as if even his own body believed he had no right to move in her absence. But he welcomed the burn. The sharpness of pain grounded him in this new reality where he no longer knew who he was, only what he wanted—to return to her orbit. To kneel at her heel and be told who to be again.

He dragged his black tactical trousers over long, bruised legs, leaving his torso bare—blood, antiseptic, and the raw scabs of healing wounds mapping his skin like a war diary. He didn’t bother with a shirt. He didn’t deserve armor. Armor was for soldiers. And he was not a soldier anymore. He was property.

But before he could move toward her, she returned to him.

The door opened with a whisper of hydraulics, and she entered like gravity itself—controlled, cold, devastating. Her presence redefined the shape of the room. She didn’t need to speak. She didn’t need to knock. The threshold never applied to her. This was her space. He was her space.

And he froze.

Caught mid-step, half-dressed and entirely unmade, he looked like a stray dog who’d broken into its master’s kitchen—filthy, disobedient, trembling from the memory of her mouth and the punishment he knew he deserved. Blood painted his ribs in long, dark smears, and the tremble in his hands betrayed how close he was to collapsing.

But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. She observed.

Her gaze swept over his frame with a slow, assessing coolness that made him feel stripped further still, until his skin was just another layer to peel back. And then—finally—her eyes locked on his face.

“You didn’t wait for dismissal.”

No venom. No emotion. Just airless calm. Deadpan judgment delivered like a bullet to the chest.

He dropped instantly.

His knees collided with the cold concrete, a sharp jolt shooting up his spine, but he welcomed it. Welcomed the shiver that slid down his neck. The cold grounded him. The cold reminded him he was still here, still waiting, still hers. He tilted his face up to her, lashes low, mouth parted. He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. But his posture—his submission—was a language in itself. A silent, desperate plea.

She stepped closer.

“You don’t get to move until I say.”

He nodded—barely. Like a breath.

Her hand descended, slow and deliberate, not with warmth but with ownership. Her fingers traced along the sharp angle of his cheek, down the rough stubble of his jaw—not tender, but precise. Assessing. Like he was a damaged prototype, and she was evaluating whether he could be salvaged or discarded.

Then her thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth.

His lips parted immediately, reflexively, a mechanical obedience ingrained in him now deeper than instinct. When she pressed the pad of her thumb inside—past his lips, against his tongue—he didn’t resist. He received her like sacrament. His eyes fluttered shut. And for a fleeting second, something in him cracked open. It wasn’t arousal—no, this was darker, deeper, more warped. It was hunger. A parched, pathetic starvation for meaning, for placement, for her.

She fed him herself.

And he swallowed her offering like scripture. Reverently. Desperately. It was the closest he’d come to absolution in days.

When she pulled her thumb back, slick with saliva, he leaned into the absence without realizing it.

And she struck him.

A sharp slap to the cheek—not violent, not emotional. Corrective.

He blinked once. Twice. Dazed. And underneath it all, a slow, simmering thrill crawled down his spine. The sting on his face was proof of her attention. Her control. His purpose.

“You don’t move,” she said again, cool and crystalline, “until I say.”

“Yes,” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper, like penance. “Yes. I—I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You don’t get to forget. You’re not permitted that luxury.”

And she was right. God, she was always right. Forgetting was rebellion. Remembering was devotion. Shame pooled warm and welcome in his chest, a shame that didn’t hurt, but healed. Her disdain was a balm. Her disapproval a rope around his throat that held his body upright, anchored his chaos to something holy.

She remained standing over him, tall and immovable, and slid one polished boot forward—positioning it between his spread knees. Then, without looking down, she pressed the sole of her boot against the bulge straining at his trousers.

There was no gentleness in the pressure. It wasn’t sensual. It was instructional.

He gasped—not from pleasure, but from the dizzying high of obedience. The friction of her power grinding into his weakness. His hands hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before falling limp at his sides. He wouldn’t touch her. He wouldn’t even reach.

Not unless she told him to.

Not unless she gave him permission to be a man again.

Until then, he would kneel. Burn. Ache.

And wait.

For her next command.

“Do you want to be useful, soldier?”

Her voice sliced through the tension like piano wire—low, poised, and lethally indifferent.

He nodded, frantic and shamefully eager, the movement tight and clipped like a puppet pulled by strings. His hips betrayed him, grinding once, subtly, into the weight of her boot still pressed against his crotch. It was pitiful. Automatic. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until she stepped back—and in that instant, the loss was cataclysmic.

It was all he could do not to whimper when her foot withdrew.

He remained where he was, panting softly, until she wordlessly lowered herself into the chair across from him—legs spreading, slow, deliberate, and devastating. She unfastened the top button of her jeans with a single flick of her wrist and then looked down at him like he was the tool she’d left on the floor, one she was debating whether or not to use.

“Go on,” she said.

Not an invitation. A gauntlet.

He moved.

He moved like prayer, like penance, crawling forward on his knees with a devotion so naked it was almost ugly. His hands trembled as they rose—hesitant, reverent—as though he feared his touch might contaminate her. His fingers found the waistband of her jeans, and he began to peel them away, inch by careful inch, as though he were disarming a bomb. The fabric rasped against her skin, slow and reluctant, revealing pale thighs and the soft gleam of her hips, and still he kept his eyes averted, unwilling to look until every inch had been bared.

When the denim cleared her ankles, he folded it neatly—perfectly—and placed it beside the chair. A quiet offering. A thank you.

She didn’t acknowledge it.

Of course she didn’t.

She hadn’t commanded gratitude.

He returned to his knees between her spread legs and bowed his head. Hands resting, obedient and still, on his thighs.

And yet—his gaze lifted. Just enough. Just barely.

She wasn’t wearing anything beneath the jeans.

The breath caught in his lungs like a blade. He swallowed around it—hard—and failed. His pulse pounded in his ears. Her scent wrapped around him, thick and dizzying, primal. It wasn’t perfume. It wasn’t fabricated. It was her. Raw and real and unbearably intoxicating. A scent that struck like instinct—like sex and salt and war and home.

She leaned back in the chair like a queen on her throne, her fingers descending lazily between her thighs. She parted herself, just slightly, using two fingers to reveal the glistening softness within—casual, commanding, utterly in control.

“Be useful.”

Not a suggestion. Not a gift.

An order.

He didn’t pause.

He couldn’t.

His mouth descended, slow, reverent, trembling like it was approaching the altar. His breath ghosted over her heat before his lips ever touched. Then, contact. A kiss that wasn’t a kiss, a worshipful press of lips against wetness, and then his tongue flicked out—uncertain, tentative, tasting her as if she might vanish from his mouth the moment he disrespected the gravity of her presence.

She didn’t react.

So he tried again.

Bolder now, surer. His tongue flattened and licked up the length of her slit, slow and savoring, as if he could catalogue her in sensation alone. He moaned softly into her, the sound involuntary, guttural. His hands never left his thighs. He hadn’t been told to touch. So he didn’t. The restraint was sacred.

He licked again. And again.

Purposeful, not sloppy. Worshipful. Precise.

He wasn’t there to eat her out—he was there to prove himself. That he wasn’t just a weapon. That he could serve in softer ways. In cleaner ways. With finesse. With devotion.

Her taste consumed him. Became his doctrine. Sweet and sharp, velvet and vice. He could drown in it. Wanted to drown. With each flick of his tongue, she grew wetter, her thighs twitching ever so slightly around his head, and still—still—she said nothing.

Her silence was deafening.

His face was slick with her. His lips, chin, even the tip of his nose shining with spit and slick and failure. He moaned again, louder, desperate for any sign—approval, acknowledgement, anything. But she remained composed, regal, merely observing as if the act was beneath her interest.

And that was worse than cruelty.

Still, he did not falter.

He shifted minutely, adjusted his angle, and zeroed in on the swollen bundle of nerves he knew she would eventually allow him to break her with. He circled it gently, then harder, tongue flattening and flicking with a growing fervor that bordered on manic. His nose pressed into her, greedily inhaling her scent, and his mouth moved with increasingly desperate rhythm, tongue stuttering, curling, pressing.

And then—then—her head fell back. The barest tilt. A tiny inhale. He caught it. Locked onto it like a predator. And repeated the exact same motion, again and again, tongue rolling with mindless devotion, until her thighs snapped around his head like a vice.

He gasped against her, face buried, suffocating in wet heat and violent purpose.

“Good boy,” she breathed.

Two words.

Two fucking words—and he almost came.

He moaned into her, loud, obscene, like it had been wrenched from his gut. His hips bucked involuntarily, the pressure in his trousers now unbearable. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He redoubled his efforts, licking and sucking and trembling in the grip of her approval.

He could live on that praise. Die on it. Let it brand itself into his fucking bones.

And still he licked.

Faster. Deeper.

He would not stop until she came on his face, or until she bled, or until she broke him open and remade him in the shape of her desire.

He wanted it.

He needed it.

And when her hand finally moved—sliding down to fist in his hair, yanking his face tighter against her dripping cunt—he whimpered.

Because that was it.

That was purpose.

That was God.

[artsninspo]

COUNTERFEIT - four

⇽ part three

➨ rio's library - good girl nbc

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

🍒 pairing: Rio (Good Girls) X Faith (Original Character) All my characters are black women.

🍒 word count: ~1.8K

🍒 summary: Faith continues working at the bar with Diego, run-ins with Rio continue. Jason reveals the repercussions for his actions and Char reveals unsurprising feelings. Tensions rise at the end of the night when Rio reveals his disposition and intentions.

four - playing games

I’ve been making so much money over the past month. So much so that I can use tips to pay rent and still have cash leftover. Diego calls me in whenever Rio is out of town and it’s like old times - just us horsing around and having fun while getting shit done. He’s the reason I’m here we’re out of our fruit supply so i’m here to top up. You'd be surprised by how much  guys at the bar love themselves some lime wedges on their drinks and orange rinds in their old fashioneds. I’m in the grocery pick up line and I see Jason. He looks startled before he glares looking straight ahead.

 I’m fine if he is. 

Mom has finally accepted we’re over and Char is starting to as well. I use my phone to check out and then we’re standing next to each other, Jason and I.

“So you go from grabbing me to ignoring me?” I ask and his eyes shift to me before he turns. “Okay..” I trail not used to this level of weird behaviour.

“Guys we’re waiting outside of my house telling me about all I’d have to lose if it got out I was inappropriate with my ex. And to never speak to you again” he says.

“What guys?!” I ask.

“Big ones” he says and I remember the security took a picture of his license. 

Rio.

“You were pretty inappropriate” I admit and he swallows. “And you weren’t even willing to fight some big guys for me so I couldn’t have meant as much as you thought I did” I add getting my groceries.

“Faith” he calls.

“Listen to the big ones” I cut him off before loading up my car and leaving him where he stands.

…

D and I set up the bar for tonight.  There are cases of liquor to unload because we’re a dynamic duo and nothing lasts on the shelves. I ran through the supply by using the divisiveness of sports to my advantage. D and I became representatives of each team. For the love of pride and bragging rights we made the competition a variety of drinking games - we burned right through the reserves. The bar has been filling up so much D’s had to send people away and get security. I’m doing really well financially on my own for the first time in my life. It makes me feel closer to my father and uncle.  They lived and breathed their work and I feel similar about helping Diego with his bar and now having big cash deposits to show for it. Once we’re done with the set up I head to lunch to meet Char.

“You’re late” she notifies me.

“As usual” I remind her with a smile and she rolls her eyes.

“You missed dads party” she says, talking about our step father. 

“He’s not my dad. Ours is dead.” I remind her.

“Merrick has been our dad since we were 12” she says and I smile to keep myself from arguing with her.

“I’m gonna need a strong drink tonight” I mutter looking at the menu and she huffs.

“He put you through college” She starts, reminding me of Merrick’s good deeds.

“He’s not my dad and I don’t like politicians” I counter in defiance.

“You need to grow up,” she mutters.

“You need to stop thinking money is everything” I tell her. Her expression softens and she looks away being flirty. I frown, turn and see Rio. I can't hold my smile back as he smirks, nodding in my direction. 

“You’re a mess!”  I chide her.

“He’s handsome and understands classic style” she comments after having only seen him twice. I look at him over again before smiling amused at her. She really must be Merrick’s daughter because if she remembered anything about our father then she’d know Rio’s code isn’t the law. “He has good taste, both places we’ve seen him in have been upscale.” She adds, sounding like mom.

“So you think he’s a gentleman?” I ask.

“You say that like he isn’t” she raises a brow. I haven't told anyone about my run in with Jason and his allegations. Rio is the top culprit.

“I don’t know him. I’ve only seen him around a few times” I shrug, not wanting to overshare.

Char looks surprised. “Lately?”

“No” I admit.

“How do I look?” She whispers adjusting her tits in her shirt. I laugh

“Respectable” I remark just as I’m brought my favorite drink with extra cherries.

“Thank you,” I tell the server.

“What would you like? On the house?”  The server smiles asking Char.

“Chardonnay,” she says, trying to sound classy.

“Chardonnay because my name is Char” I mock when the server leaves and she flips me off.

“How does he remember Your favorite drink if you’ve met him twice?” she inquires.

“He’s attentive,” I shrug. “Also how hard is it to remember tequila soaked cherries. It's harder to remember Chardonnay” I joke and she looks puzzled.

“Shit” she panics and I laugh at her nativité.

“What does he do?” She asks.

“I’ve never asked” I tell her truthfully.

“You’ve never asked, he’s both of our type physically.” Char says growing suspicious of me.

“I never asked because occupation doesn’t impress me” I tell her and Rio comes over with her drink and a smile.

“Anything you want is on the house” he repeats.

“My sister Char” I introduce.

“Rio, nice to meet you.” he smiles and she shakes his hand with a sparkle in her eye. She totally buys the nice guy act which amuses me. Our introduction was much more … tense.

“So Rio, what do you do?” Char asks and I smile embarrassed at her lack of game.

“I work in entertainment, run a few bars and clubs, you know” he says.

“Well that’s great, I work in PR. In case you ever need anything” she smiles.

“Chars the best” I add as a wingwoman. Rio looks me over before smiling.

“Are you working with Diego tonight?” He asks.

“They don’t work together” Char interjects. “Faith is in interior design.” 

“I know she’s been working with Diego on the Bar’s design.” Rio says recovering from his fumble and perceptively fixing it with a believable lie to maintain my secret. “Who’s older?” Rio asks, changing the subject while looking between us.

“Char by eleven months” I respond assisting in the deception. No wonder he juggles two women and doesn't seem stressed.

“Well you’re welcome here anytime, beautiful women are good for business” he flirts making my sister blush as he leaves our table.

“Play a little hard to get” I whisper once he’s gone.

“He’s charming,” she swoons.

“He’s trouble” I tell her. “Probably fantasizing about having both of us at the same time” I tell her and she blanches.

“You’re sick!” She frowns, sounding like mom.

“Earth to Char” I roll my eyes. “He walks around buying drinks and giving away complimentary meals. We aren’t special and gorgeous women are everywhere. Believe me when I tell you he’s out here living great” I tell her and she fans me off.

…

Bars closing in five and Diego and I are doing a tiebreaker. The guys don’t know that our shots are water unlike theirs. Diego lets me win and my side roars. I jump around clumsily pretending to be more sloshed than I am and collect tips as the guys file out. Security turns off the open sign and starts closing the blinds.. Rio walks in from the back and pours from my bottle. He smells the liquid and smiles.

“Water” he says and I nod.

“Diego said it would be dangerous if we were too drunk,” I explain.

“Diego has some business to take care of, so I’ll drop you home” he says and I turn to D.

“D?” I ask to confirm.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, thanks Faith” he smiles, handing me my tips. 

“Okay” I nod, turning to look at Rio. I follow him out to his car. It’s a Benz truck and I’m surprised when he gets my door. I hop in and wait for him to start it up before setting the GPS.

“Why didn’t you tell your sister you work here?” He pries.

“Then she’ll tell my mom and my mom will ask why she paid for college for me to serve drinks” I tell him honestly.

“But your sister’s into me,” he smiles.

“Yeah, but you’d hurt her, and I’m crazy. If Diego tip-toes around you it’ll end badly for all of us if you make my sister cry.” I warn.

“Well then we should be alright” he mutters.

“Don’t lie and promise you won’t hurt her feelings” I tell him and he chuckles.

“Do you one better, she’s not the sister I’m into” he smirks.

“Lucky me” I smile.

“At least you’re smiling” he says while driving.

“That was smooth, the kind of thing I’d say” I admit and now he smiles.

“That’s how you got ole boy who was tweaking at the club?” Rio asks keeping his eyes on the road.

“You scared him by the way” I told him.

“If he isn’t willing to fight or take a couple hits for his girl you’re better without him” Rio says and it’s funny we’re on the same page.

“He’s a lover not a fighter, good man” I add.

“Good men don’t grab women when they’re trying to get away,” he says and I scoff. “And women don’t try to get away from me” he says before I can comment.

“I’ll hold you to it,” I respond.

“Never said I was a good man” he rasps, his honesty is refreshing. He is who he is and isn't running from it.

“Why were you such a jerk that first night?” I ask.

“I’m not good with strangers,” he admits.

“First lie” I comment and he looks surprised for a moment before looking amused.

“I don’t trust people I don’t know or like them.” he elaborates.

“Truth” I accept.

“So, how do I get to spend more time with you?”

“You don’t. My moms married to Merrick Chase” I tell him and I know the mayor's name rings bells. “He tries to play pops and digs into anyone Char or I see’s. I have reason to believe your personal life won’t pass the test.”

“Well, what’s another secret? I’m not asking you to go steady” he says and my brain must be broken because it is exciting and not off putting.

“You're bad news” I smile looking at him.

“And a good time while it lasts” He adds.

“So stop flirting and accept friendship. That’s how we spend time together "I tell him.

“I don’t need to flirt and I can still make you come before the year is over” he smiles and I do too.

“Keep dreaming” He stops at my place putting the car in park and hands me my bag of tips and some cherries. Somehow the gesture is sexual and when he smirks I know he feels it too.

Authors note: how are you moving forward. LMK in the comments. Don't forget to ❣ Like, ❝ Comment, ↺ Reblog

tags:

@wnbweasley @becauseimher @ariiaeltheedonn @woahthatshitfat @miniaturehideoutmentality @kokobells @ffenthusiastt @sowhatariyana @theegoddessofmelanin

@fictionalreads @roxytheimmortal @fairytale07 @rampsen @rosey1981 @lauraaan182 @lynaye1993 @g1g1l @writingsbytee @different-fandomz @rose-bliss

@loveschrisbrown20 @cherrybeedotcom @ariiaellbtheedonn @motheroffae @prettylilteine @thabiddie23 @next-bex-bet @magik22 @slvt4her @blckblossom @gopaperless @naughtynolly-

blog @daddiespamm @blackmoonchilee @nikkireeds553 @lovedlover @akiwioflife @shurisleftearring @piscesdashcam @bettybelle @kaystacks17 @notapradagurl7 @hotebonynearby  @armani9-9 @wildcardmelaninfreak @blackgurlkillinit

[strawberryraviegutz]

When getting back into crk I never realized just how toxic/unhinged ppl can be in this fandom about ships…if someone wants to ship golden cheese cookie with burning spice cookie then let them??? Same goes for burningmilk and the shipping of the ancients with their beast counterparts and or cookie run ships in general(unless it involves pedophilia and incest of course)

Idk what the issue is. I also saw someone call the golden cheese x burning spice ship racist which makes no sense at all cuz both golden cheese and burning spice are poc coded.

Golden cheese is clearly black coded due to both her skin tone and the golden cheese kingdom being heavily based off of Egypt which is apart of Africa, and burningspice is desi/Indian coded due to his design being based off of a Hindu deity..

there’s also ppl calling the ship misogynistic too which also makes no sense cuz the types of fanart these guys are talking about burningcheese getting, ive seen it loads of other ships too wether it be shadowvanilla, mystic flower x dark cacao, and so much more ships.

That’s most likely gonna be the same thing with holly berry x eternal sugar, and or white lily with silent salt when it’s their time too. Plus golden cheese is a powerful woman.

Shes extremely powerful just like burning spice and is literally the queen of an entire kingdom and doesn’t just let ppl walk all over her along with not going down without a fight

(even if golden cheese was a more “softer”meek and or shy character it still shouldn’t/wouldn’t be an issue either cuz there’s nothing inherently wrong with those types of female characters either especially since we as black women are constantly hypermasculinized and don’t get to be seen as pure, cutesy, bubbly, nor dainty little things)

Enemies to lovers in general isn’t all peaches and cream. That’s why it’s called ENEMIES to lovers. I’d argue it’s more racist to not let us black girlies have our enemies to lovers/yandere type stories/ships with a character that looks like us that we can project ourselves onto.(in this case I’m talking about golden cheese) and or assuming automatically than any ship involving a black woman x a nonblack character is automatically racist/toxic. The same thing happened with Namor and Shuri from black panther.

Obviously there’s nothing wrong with non black enemies to lovers stories I love all enemies to lovers stories/ships regardless of r the races of the characters, but the way ppl get so angry at black/poc characters(black women especially) being in enemies to lovers situations is hella weird to me even if said anger comes from a supposed nonbigoted place.

White ppl get to have loads of enemies to lovers type dynamics within stories and or ships but the minute we get an enemies to lovers ship/dynamic for us where the ship involves a black woman yall are so quick to jump and call the ship racist and or bad/toxic while treating ships involving non black and or male characters that have a similar dynamic as “more pure/wholsome/making more sense” or “the proper morally correct ship”

I swear yall can’t let black women have anything…Even then there’s most likely so much more nuances with the dynamic of golden cheese and burning spice that the shippers like to explore(like shadowvanilla) that you guys most likely choose to ignore cuz you can’t get past your hatred for a ship..

It’s fine if burningcheese is not your cup of tea and I’m not saying this fandom doesn’t have issues involving racism and or misogyny, trust me I know(all fandoms/communities have these issues). But that doesn’t give you the right to harass/attack/bully or DOXX ppl who ship it nor is it ok to assume that someone is a bigot over a FICTIONAL SHIP BETWEEN TWO ADULTS THAT ARE BOTH SUPER OLD LIKE GOOD LORD CAN YALL PLEASE JUST LET US BLACK WOMEN HAVE SOMETHING FOR ONCE??? I swear im losing hundred of braincells per second like omg can you guys just let us have this along with just blocking/muting stuff you don’t like instead of attacking ppl-

(Also no spoilers plz I’m not on buring spice’s episode of beast yeast nor am I done with the golden cheese kingdom storyline).

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Poly omegaverse for poly 141. Ghost is Price's beta; there to mediate between the natural ferocity of the omega and the over exuberance of alphas looking to mate and serve. When Price begins to go into heat, Ghost makes the necessary arrangements.

CW: the start of the fic 'In Service', poly 141, omegaverse. No actual sex yet. Non-traditional dynamics. Omega Price, beta Ghost, alphas Soap and Gaz.

Ghost knew before even Price himself. It came with a beta’s territory and he was the only beta in Price’s life, which, he reckoned, was one of the reasons they had mated in the first place. There were other reasons, ones he didn't like to ruminate on too much because there were certain old wounds that were scarring over quite fucking nicely, but either way he took his role seriously.

It was a subtle change in Price’s sweat at first, a shift towards sweetness over the usual musk. The change in appetite followed. Price loaded his plate with protein and sweet treats, almost doubling his calories on some days, and his energy spiked to match it to the detriment of his health. Six hours sleep became four, and the bags under his eyes grew a little darker.

Then came the attitude problem.

The captain became harsher with the recruits; gone were the amusing rituals, flipping off Gaz’s company on recces or asking them to fetch him headlight fluid for the jeeps. It was all business, every little slip up identified and sanctioned accordingly. It was as Simon watched Price beast his third cowering rookie of the day that he decided it was time.

The captain's heats weren't regular - body fat percentage too low, life too stressful - but when they hit, they lasted a day or two, and there were two plucky alpha sergeants on hand to make sure he was well satisfied. Simon’s role was to make it happen without casualties and ensure his mate was cared for in the aftermath.

Paperwork finished for the day, Simon tidied up his quarters, avoiding heavy bleach and ensuring there were some used blankets in amongst the fresh sheets. They never did this in Price's territory. It was too risky; the older an omega got, the more territorial they became when they felt vulnerable in heat. An omega with Price's strength and training would tear an alpha to pieces if provoked.

It was traditional to use a beta’s nest for the fun part anyway, and Simon liked the opportunity to flex on it. When all three of them were fucked out, it was on his pillows they slept, and in his hoodies they curled.

The last bit of prep was the leather harness with its metal rings and thick cuffs. Price took no prisoners before his first knot, and even after that Simon needed to be nearby to make sure he didn't sink his teeth in too hard as he used his willing alphas. Speaking of…

“Book leave,” Simon said to Johnny and Gaz over a game of pool. “Captain’s in heat.”

Johnny’s cheeks flushed and Gaz smiled that sweet, lopsided way he did when he was feeling bashful. “Aye, sir, thought he was gettin’ a bit feistier,” Johnny said, nudging a red ball into the far right pocket with an impressive little trick shot.

“How long? Same as?” Gaz asked, considering a handful of options across the table.

“Three days should do it. Two for the heat, one for recovery.”

“Fuck, last time…” Johnny’s eyes took on what Simon could only describe as a dreamy little glint.

“Make sure you're fighting fit, Johnny. I'll sort food and everythin’ else. Report to my room at 2100 tomorrow night.”

Simon left them to finish their game and took a deep breath through his nose. That was the easy part out the way. He enjoyed the next part, because he knew Price would always give in to him eventually, but it was a difficult code switch, from subordinate to beta mate. It required a delicate balance of respect and dominance, because Price had always struggled accepting the help and he bristled at the idea he might be losing any form of control, even if he had no such struggle with his affection for Ghost.

Simon rapped his knuckles twice on the office door. “C’min,” came the tired reply.

“Sir,” Simon greeted as he stepped across the threshold.

“I don't know who filled out these bloody requisitions, but I'm gonna shove my boot up their arse,” Price growled. “What do you need? Double time, this shit is gonna take me hours.”

Simon sat on the edge of the desk, hands folded on one leg. “You.”

The scratch of Price's pen stopped. He glanced up at the tacky calendar on his wall first, open to some scene from a 90s action movie Simon didn't recognise, and then briefly looked up at Simon. It was a furtive glance, like he was checking he'd understood correctly; denial was always the first step. “Can't be. My last one was only–”

“Six months ago. You're overdue.”

A healthy, young omega would go through a heat every two months. Price was healthy enough for the work he did and Simon had no reason to doubt that, should he retire now to the comfort of a civilian life, his body would return to its normal ebb and flow. But then, they would lose what they had now, and Simon couldn't really picture a life beyond the living-by-the-skin-of-their teeth present.

Price growled. “You're mistaken…”

Simon hummed noncommittally but reached for Price anyway. There was a scent gland on his wrist, one which had little impact day to day, but to an omega on the cusp of heat it would make them feel suddenly weaker; nothing too heavy, just enough to make their knees shake and their lips quiver. As his fingers brushed through Price’s beard, the scent on his skin was potent enough to make his omega's eyes flicker. Price had a lot of self discipline, came with the territory, but Simon knew every single one of his tells. “Don't think so, sir.”

“Fuck.” Price’s fists clenched, his teeth gritting, and he turned his face from Simon’s arm. The silence that followed was heavy and Simon watched as the man he respected more than any other in the world fought a private internal battle with himself. Sometimes it took a few hours and Simon would drift away, come back later to insist, but the last few weeks had contained a high level of fuckery of the unfun kind, and it had worn much of Price's stubbornness away. “How long do I have?”

“Tonight, tomorrow morning, by your scent, you'll be ready to drop by the afternoon.”

Price pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed whatever knot of misery had formed in his throat. He didn't like it, the giving in, but once he was in the throes of heat, with his beta nearby and two energetic alphas fawning over him, he relaxed and enjoyed himself. Simon made sure of it.

“Fine,” Price said tightly, and then he shuffled some papers, before saying, “Fine,” one more time. Resignation. Price was a pragmatic man; it wasn't logical to try and struggle through a heat, longing it out for a week with a fuzzy head and your boxers soaked through. Simon had always admired that strict sense of perspective.

“Have dinner at 1800 tomorrow, somethin’ light, and head over.”

“Thank you, Simon,” Price said quietly. “Dismissed.”

Simon nodded and left without ceremony. Another beta might have stayed to try and reassure their omega that everything was going to be fine, fawn a little, but Simon knew that Price would be rankled by such overbearing fuss. It was a waste of time when what was about to happen had to happen either way, so Simon left him alone and didn't concern himself when the captain took his dinner back to his quarters. He was self-conscious, even though an alpha wouldn’t be able to smell it on him until the heat had well and truly started. It was just the way of things.

The following day ticked over much the same. Simon ran drills with Bravo Company in Price’s stead, and took a small amount of pleasure in giving a recruit a smooth pebble as an inspectable item within his kit. They outpaced Johnny’s Delta Company on the hills and they hit the showers with hours to spare. Simon scrubbed up, grabbing the non fragranced shampoos and soap from his shelf, and checked his stores. Grenade bars and red bull for Johnny, the blue Powerade and Doritos for Gaz, and for Price it was chocolate protein shakes from Optimum Nutrition and Space Raiders. Pain in the arse to find these days, those.

He checked the harness next, the bedsheets and pillows, and the soft sweatpants and shirt he kept for Price because the stubborn git would absolutely arrive in his usual kit. Once he was sure everything was in order, Simon finally sat down to leaf through an old paperback he’d been chewing through for a few months on and off. Isaac Asimov, meant to be a classic, but Simon wasn't too invested in it.

He'd just turned over to a new chapter when Price knocked at his door. He knew it was Price from the sound; side of the fist, just twice. As predicted, his heat sat on the cusp. His eyes were hazy as he walked into Ghost’s room, his scent sweeter and more potent than before.

“Top marks, Lieutenant. Not a dust particle out of place,” Price said, his eyes sweeping around the room to avoid settling on the bed.

“Thanks, sir.” Simon closed the door carefully at Price’s back, watching his bearing as he approached. Omegas could be unpredictable at every point, even onesyou knew every inch of. Simon approached carefully, leading with his hands first, brushing them over Price’s shoulders and down his biceps. The responding shiver was reassuring.

“MacTavish and Garrick… they agreed to…?” Price asked, trailing off as his mind struggled to cling onto the thought. He was naturally relaxing with his beta and a nest near, which made it harder to maintain his composure.

“Yeah. They'll be here in a bit.” Simon rolled his mask up to above his nose. Price still hadn't looked at him, but was gazing now at the bed like it was a live mortar.

“And you'll… Simon, you'll make sure I don't…”

“Mmhm.” Simon drew in close, placing an arm over Price’s chest as his other hand stroked around to his belly. “You know I have your back.”

“Yeah…” Price croaked, his head lowering as Simon nosed across the back of his neck. His hands were shaking by his sides, muscles relaxing and tensing in fits and starts, like he was fighting for control.

“Le’s get this off,” Simon said, grabbing the bottom of Price's shirt. He shed his own at the same time, drawing his captain back to his chest so that warm skin could meet. The first rumble of pleasure vibrated through the broad chest in his arms and Simon hummed back, rubbing his chin into Price's shoulder.

[paradiseismine]

His Favorite, part 2 - Miles Fairchild x reader

Love note from Nina: I wanted to write some more of that Miles and naughty maid storyline, so here it is.

Pairing: Miles Fairchild (The Turning) x f!reader

Warnings: all smut, slight breeding kink, degradation, imbalanced power dynamics. Is this a bit too much? idk let me know

Being the little creep he is, Miles always made sure the maids working at the manor were young and wore the shortest skirts possible. He also ordered them to always clean the floor on all fours and wear thin white underwear as part of their uniform. So, following those “rules”, there you were: scrubbing the living room floor, all alone.

Miles had gathered all of the other maids in his room, as they were required for a “group uvular check” - his code to have them take turns sucking his dick. On those “checks”, he’d judge their cock sucking skills and slam his dick on their faces one by one, while the others were forced to watch.

You weren’t called in for that “task”, which left you all by yourself doing the housework for the last half an hour or so. With a brush and a small bucket full of soapy water, you couldn’t help but sigh, slightly angry at the situation.

Until you heard the door softly swing open.

- There you are - Miles approached you from behind, lightly touching the fine fabric of your white panties. His touch made you shiver and wet your panties instantly.

- Are you done fucking the other maids’ throats? - you spat, jealous, as you sat up on your knees, no longer on all fours as he had found you.

- Yes, and I’m ready to fuck your pussy and dump my cum in it.

- Why didn’t you just cum in their mouths? - you crossed your arms and batted your eyelashes at him, displeased.

- Women’s pussies were made for men to cum in. Why would I waste my cum anywhere else? - Miles kneeled to look into your eyes as he spoke. He delivered his words as if you were stupid.

- Well, I wasn’t invited to your throat fucking party, which left me here all alone doing all of the housework. - you complained, frowning.

- Of course you weren’t invited - he grabbed your chin. - You’re not ugly and stupid like they are. Your cunt is the best one of the manor. Why would I cum inside those ugly bitches’ throats, when I can cum inside your delicious creamy pussy?

You blushed. Miles weren’t one to throw compliments, this was already unusual of him. Your frown softened instantly, and Miles studied your face for a few seconds, intrigued.

- Stand up and open your mouth a little - he ordered, standing up as well.

You did as you were told, still a bit confused.

- Good. - he said.

Miles’ face approached yours as he inserted his tongue inside your slightly open mouth, giving you a sloppy kiss.

He NEVER kissed any of the maids before. You closed your eyes and enjoyed his tongue dancing inside your mouth, fantasizing about him eating your pussy.

- Panties off - he ordered, cupping your pussy for a second as he broke the kiss. You were wet through your panties and he could absolutely feel that with the smallest touch.

You immediately lifted up your skirt and slid your panties down your legs, discarding them on the floor, for the other maids to find later. They were always so jealous of you for being Miles’ favorite.

He guided you to the couch and touched your back, gesturing for you to bend over.

As you did so, Miles unzipped his pants and rubbed his cock, already slick with the other maids’ saliva, into your clenching, needy pussy. That girth never failed to bring a moan to your lips. Inch by inch, he entered you, rolling his eyes at the feeling.

- How do you remain so tight if I fuck your pussy every chance I get? - he asked, hand wrapped around your hair like a horse rein as he thrusted.

- I don’t know sir, I just love taking your cock - you moaned, rolling your hips back at him. - I love having a nice warm load of your cum inside me…

- I bet you do - Miles chuckled, giving your ass a good smack. - I bet you’d love to get knocked up by me, wouldn’t you?

- Yes sir, I’d love that very much…

- All the bitches on this manor would, that’s why I don’t cum in their pussies. But you’re different…

- Yeah? Am I better than them? - you moaned in response. Feeling all stretched out by Miles’ cock was heavenly.

- Ugh, this is the best cunt I’ve ever cum in - Miles groaned, his curly hair bouncing around his face. - So warm and soaking wet, always soaking wet for me, aren’t you, my favorite little slut?

- Yes sir, always dripping wet for you, always desperate to be filled with your warm cum inside my whoreish pussy - you moaned, rolling your hips while getting impaled from behind.

- Now that’s a good cumwhore - he praised. - Always eager to take my load into you cunt, aren’t you?

- Yes sir, always…

- Then take it, slut - he thrusted faster and faster, and you could faintly hear him panting behind you.

Soon, that divine warmth invaded your soaking cunt, his load so thick and creamy. Miles’ grunts and moans as he came inside your pussy were surely a delight to hear.

- All filled up to the brim - he removed himself of your pussy. - Maybe next time I’ll have one of the other maids lick you clean, it’d be a good view, don’t you think?

[antisocialsharky]

Hi, I would like some tips on how to write a romantic relationship between two characters with ASPD. They both have problems with controlling their emotions, aggression in particular, and they both can't admit their mistakes. I like this idea and would like to hear your ideas on this topic.

Hi, thanks for asking! ^^

So you'll of course have to adjust this depending on the type of society you're writing and what defines your characters outside of ASPD and all that jazz, but with that dynamic, I'd say you might be doing it well if you:

• write explosive conflicts, since trouble controlling emotions, especially if its on both sides, will absolutely clash and cause emotionally loaded arguments! screaming, getting verbally nasty, getting physically nasty...all works! triggers should be sort of related to trauma/bad experiences or just stuff that overwhelms them in general? vulnerability/intimacy or lack thereof setting off arguments works rather well too actually!

• if they both cant outright admit their mistakes, you could have them show it in others ways, such as bringing the other person something they like, doing something they said they wouldn't do, doing something sorta reckless to make up for it, etc.

• it would potentially also work well if you have them defend each other rather passionately? the typa "having to hold them back by the jacket to keep them from jumping the person who made fun of their partner" vibe? cus rare bonds aka that person means something to you and volatile emotions, will mix into boiling over and wanting to defend what was threatened I guess?

• if they aren't the type to show affection via words or whatever, you can write their love in the sort of way, where they go out of their way to keep certain symptoms at bay for the other person? or where they offer to be the relief for the other persons symptoms...that works too

• I suppose you could probably also write conflicts/problems into this, where the solution is hella easy and it could be solved in seconds, if only they actually talked to each other and were able to be a bit vulnerable!

• Depending on whether or not they're actively engaging in breaking the law, you can have them be the "lets break shit together, we thrive in being freely us" type of couple? Where they kinda fuel each others symptoms, where they are sorta toxic and either push each other over the edge, or save each other from falling down

• I'll be honest, the first thing that actually popped in my head here is: hate sex. lots of hate sex.

Thats just what I can think of right now, it will depend on what other symptoms/characteristics they have, what you aspire for their character development, etc! Have you ever read "Kiss the Villain" by Rina Kent? One character from the main couple has pretty much canon ASPD and the other is sorta ASPD coded (imo) and they both sort of struggle with this stuff? Well or "Sick Bargain" by Nordika Night, which is a toxic love where they find comfort in sickness, if thats the vibe you're going for. I felt those two relationships represent best how I feel about my own ASPD (tho they arent perfect ofc and not free from ableism).

[rubblerousers]

March 30th Update - 16 Days to go - 45% Funded

I apologize for my absence, school and work have been very busy to me. I wanted to announce that due to an incredibly generous donation, RubbleRousers is now 45% funded! We have 16 days to go, can we make it the rest of the way?

I wish I had more to show at the moment. Most of what I'm working on on the dev side right now is backend stuff, which is just code, and not very fancy. You can see things starting to work on the frontend, though!

Here's a couple screenshots. The images are being dynamically combined on the backend based on a frontend-based system, so no more waiting for the system to load while making your cats!