#note: writing and posting paces ARE different these days

[beomiracles]

— 𝖨𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖲 𝖠𝖭 𝖠𝖢𝖢𝖨𝖣𝖤𝖭𝖳 𝖨 𝖲𝖶𝖤𝖠𝖱... .ᐟ

𐔌 💥 ꒱ Yeonjun didn't mean to brutally hit you with his car. It was an accident, he swears! He will do anything if it means avoiding a lawsuit — as the consequences, which is him losing his inheritance of his father's company, would be fatal. But when you struggle to make ends meet on a daily basis, the problems of a high income taker seem minimal. "Steal from the rich and give to the poor." And it seems Yeonjun is more than willing to pay the price for his mistakes.

⋮ 🎬 ⋮ 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖱𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦: chaebol!yeonjun x poor!reader (f) 𝖥𝖤𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖱𝖤𝖨𝖭𝖦: assistant!taehyun, court judge!beomgyu lawyer!kai & lawyer!soobin

wc : 16.2k

𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖭𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦 ⚠︎ [ car crash, descriptions of injury and blood, cursing, fake-dating, strangers to enemies to ...?, kissing, lots of tension between the mcs, crack fic ]

🎙️ yello yello, I'm slightly nervous to post this — mostly because I've never written something like this before. my writing isn't as descriptive and in depth as you're used to, the characters are also a lot more lighthearted so it might be somewhat of a switch. so please don't expect too much writing wise — the pacing might also be a little off (?),, I also haven't proofread this at all >< oh and I didn't research at all for the court scene but trust me I will be doing that for criminal conscience lolsies.. but please please comment/reblog/send asks with your thoughts and opinions afterward, that would make me so incredibly happy! I hope it's still an enjoyable fic despite it not being what I usually do, love you lots <33

note, this fic started as a joke to spite my friend cam,, so when I say it's unserious I mean it.

SOME LONESOME WEDNESDAY AT 10:25 PM

The rain bats against your naked arms as you pull them tighter around yourself, a pathetic attempt at keeping the blistering cold away. Your mascara has run down your cheeks, undoubtedly making you look even more of a mess than you felt – it wasn’t like your meek paycheck covered a water-proof one, hell it barely covered your rent. 

On top of the ungodly weather, you had been held back at work for another two hours, making it your third day of overtime this week. Not only did that mean two hours less sleep tonight, it also had you running down the wet pavement as you hoped to catch the last train home. In your haste you’d forgotten your jacket, and despite it being late april, the air was freezing.  

And it was only Wednesday. 

Your steps echo down the vacant street, rain pouring over you like that of a cold shower turned on at full force. Keeping your head bowed as you squint, you focus on your worn out sneakers as they move forward – and in spite of the rush you were in, you still carefully avoid stepping on the cracks. 

The screen of your phone quickly becomes covered in wet droplets when you pull it out, your eyes widening tenfold as you check the time. “Three minutes.. I can make that..” You deluded yourself into thinking you had a chance, your legs were already aching but you still geared up into a jog. 

Your surroundings become a blur, the buildings you pass blending into one another as the dim street lights prod at the corner of your eyes. — Suddenly your foot catches on something, causing you to stumble forward. The shout of what could only have been a most miserable homeless man rings in your ears. But you don’t stop to check on him, merely yelling out a “Sorry!” over your shoulder as you keep going. 

Maybe if you had been more attentive that night, if you had bothered to check your left twice, maybe things would have turned out differently. The red light blares in front of your face, signaling for you to stop, a clear warning sign. But you ignore it. Hell, it was nearing 10 pm, the street was vacant – and you had a mere two minutes to spare. 

You go for it, water splashing around you as your feet hit the road crossing. You’re halfway across, the subway sign ahead illuminating your way – filling your desperate self with hope for the first time today. Your bed was just three stops away, warm and dry, a night's sleep and a freshly brewed cup of tea awaits you. 

But then, just as you think you’ve made it, a light brighter than that of the street lamps suddenly floats into vision. It starts out small, a tiny dot in the corner of your eye. But as it grew in size you quickly came to understand that the source was heading straight toward you – and fast. You barely have time to react, but the sound of screeching tires is deafening, and it’s then you realize your mistake.

It doesn’t hurt at first, but you can clearly feel the heavy vehicle as it rams into you from the side. You hit the ground, it’s cold and the silence that follows is loud. It takes you a moment to comprehend just what had happened. Then pain flares up, and you immediately forget about the cold and the rain. Because it felt as though your entire body was on fire. 

Your breath, previously knocked from your lungs due to the sheer force of the crash, returns and you gasp for air. The once tiny dot of light is now all you see, and it makes you squint, it feels as though you were put under a spotlight, on show for everyone to look at and possibly even applaud, if they wished to. 

The sound of a car door closing echoes into the air, and soon you can make out approaching footsteps. “Holy fuck.” It’s a man’s voice, he sounds alarmed, and you fucking hope he was, seeing as he’d just hit you with his big piece of junk car. — “Shit”, he murmurs under his breath, “No… No I don’t know, she’s not moving…” Was he talking to someone on the phone, the emergency services?  

There’s a brief moment of silence, and all you can think about is how much everything hurts, you were sure you could feel your fucking bones. And even if you wanted to scream, not a single sound would make its way past your bloody lips. 

“What the fuck do I do?” The man hisses, but it’s clear that he isn’t addressing you. You can hardly make out his face, just the faint shadow of his silhouette as he stands above you. — “Oh my god”, he gasps, and you feel your stomach drop, bracing yourself for whatever doomsday news he’s about to deliver. “The paint is chipped!” The man suddenly exclaims and for a short second the consistent pain vanishes and you frown. 

What?

“My fucking car– Shit, this is my most expensive one!” He whines into the phone as he leans over you to rub at the car hood. Your mouth falls open, there is no way he was being serious right now. You quickly understand that he was not on the phone with emergency services, or anyone of importance for that matter. 

Your cough is what finally catches his attention again – blood follows and you cringe at the metallic taste on your tongue. “Oh fuck..” He murmurs as he crouches down next to you, his trembling hand placing against your forehead. Was he checking your fucking temperature? “I’m so going to court for this..” He says as he fiddles with his phone, bringing the device to his ear and emitting a shaky exhale as he waits for his next call to go through. 

This better be 911, you thought with a small grimace, wincing as another flash of pain shot through you. — He’s talking, but you can hardly make out the words, apart from an occasional “shit” or “fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

At least he knew how to curse. 

After that, everything went dark. 

10 MINUTES EARLIER 

Yeonjun’s fingers drum against the steering wheel as he waits for the light to turn green. He sighs, leaning back against the leather seat as his eyes flicker across the vacant streets. The faint buzzing of his phone, coming from the passenger seat catches his attention. He bites back a groan, leaning over and reaching for the annoying device as he swipes to accept the call coming through. 

“Yes?” He drawls as he inspects his cuticles in a bored manner. — “Where have you been all day?” Taehyun’s voice is just as strict and accusing as it always was, despite the late hour. Yeonjun rolls his eyes, his feet pressing the gas pedal with a little more force than necessary as the light finally signals green. 

“Always so happy to see me, are you?” He hums, earning himself a scoff from the other man. Taehyun mutters something unintelligible under his breath before sighing. “You’ve missed two meetings, one dinner and five important phone calls”, he lists them as though he’s reading off of a powerpoint, the monotone yet scolding edge to his tone slicing through the call. 

Yeonjun bites the inside of his cheek, his brows furrowing as his finger taps the back of his phone. “So, reschedule them?” He suggests to which his assistant snorts. “To when? – You’re fully booked all of this week, and the next, then there’s the ball on the 29th not to mention-” — “Alright! Alright! I get it”, Yeonjun cuts him off with a heavy exhale, “Tell them I was sick, or… I don’t know, make something up.” 

A moment of silence follows and Yeonjun watches the raindrops as they race down the windshield, an impassive expression on his face. “You’ve used that excuse three times this week already”, Taehyun stubbornly reminds him and Yeonjun has to fight the urge to just hang up on him. 

“You’ve got to start taking things seriously”, his assistant says, “Taking over the business when your father passes won’t be easy, and it’s…” — “Best for me to get as much experience as I can so that I’m prepared for when the day comes, I know”, Yeonjun finishes with a heavy exhale. 

“Yes, precisely”, Taehyun hums. 

Yeonjun nods, not that the other man could see it – a sense of dread settling within the pit of his stomach at the thought of overtaking such a huge role. His eyes dart from building to building, his nose scrunching at the cheap architecture of the area. Responsibilities had never been his forte, in any sense really. Neither was paperwork or mingling with important people and pretending to actually be interested in a single thing they had to say. Yeonjun often wished he hadn’t been the only child to come out of his parent’s loveless marriage. It would’ve been nice to share the burden with someone else. 

The sound of Taehyun typing away at his computer echoes through the call, the persistent noise only adding to the overwhelming feeling coursing through his chest. He sighs, trying his best to relax and focus on the road ahead, not noticing the growing acceleration of the car he was currently driving. “What’s on my agenda for tomorrow then?” He begrudgingly asks, regretting the question as soon as it passes his lips.

Taehyun quickly goes off to list his schedule for the upcoming days, but all Yeonjun can hear is his future being carved out in stone before him. Meeting this, dinner that, small talking here and chatting people up there. It was exhausting. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking once, twice to shake the sleep from his already drooping eyes. “Are you even listening?” Taehyun asks, his sharp voice clipping him across the face and making him jerk in his seat. “Hm? Yeah, meeting at 11 tomorrow?” — “10”, his assistant corrects and Yeonjun groans. 

“Are you headed home?” He then asks to which Yeonjun hums. “Yeah I’m…” But he can barely finish his sentence before the car suddenly shifts on the road. “Shit!” He curses, but it didn’t matter that his foot hit the brakes with a force that could’ve easily snapped his ankle in half, it wasn’t enough to stop the car in time, the wet road throwing the vehicle into hydroplane. — The screeching noise of the tires ring in his ears, the thud of what could only be another person hitting the hood of his car and then the ground is deafening. 

The car jerks as it comes to an abrupt halt, but it’s far too late. 

For a moment everything is silent. Only the sound of rain batting against the windows can be heard, and Yeonjun watches with his heart in his throat as the windshield wipers continue their pathway back and forth over the glass, as though nothing had happened. “Yeonjun? Are you there? What happened?” Taehyun’s voice, now lacking any sense of composure, is coming from the floor, for he’d dropped his phone in the haste of it all.

“Yeonjun! Answer me!” He demands, and only then is the older male snapped out of his trance as his hands let go of the steering wheel. “What happened?” Taehyun hisses on the other line and Yeonjun winces as he brings the device to his ear once more. 

“Fuck…” He exhales, his voice trembling as he speaks, “I think I just hit someone.” — “And… oh my god my car!” 

FOUR DAYS LATER 

It’s bright. Really fucking bright. The sharp light stings your eyes, making you squint as you peer up at the sterile ceiling. This was so not the afterlife – because if it was, you most certainly wouldn’t be hooked up to a beeping machine and laying flat on your back on a small and hard hospital bed. 

The constant chatter of nurses surround you, and it was to your greatest dismay that you realized you hadn’t even been granted the luxury of your own room. Separated only by thin, teal curtains you glance to the other patients occupying the room. — There was an older man opposite you and two beds to the right, he was staring silently ahead as a nurse tended to his plastered body, it covered both his legs and arms, making him essentially imobile. Upon glancing down at your own plastered arm you suddenly realized that you might actually have been in for more luck than you’d thought – unfortunately for you, it was your dominant hand that was out of order. 

Still, you could perfectly wiggle your toes, and you were relieved to find that your legs obeyed your every command. With a small sigh you lean back against the lonesome pillow provided by the hospital. You glance around, trying to find out where you could possibly be – hopefully not somewhere too expensive, you were already indebted in every aspect of your life, a broken arm was not going to be next on your list. 

Clearing your throat, you try to call for one of the nurses, but before you can even raise your still working hand, the curtain to your right is dramatically drawn aside. The sudden action makes you jump, your mouth falling open in a scream that never leaves your lips. 

“Fucking finally, you’re awake!” A man you did not recognize, occupies the empty bed next to your own, you weren't sure that was even allowed – he hardly looked ill… At least not physically. “I was beginning to think you would never peel those eyelids open”, he mutters as he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress before standing up and approaching you. 

He was handsome, no doubt. The jet black hair on top of his head fell across his face in even sections, framing his already sharp and prominent features. The grin that stretched across his lips displayed a set of perfectly white and straight teeth, almost uncannily so – and his eyes sparkled with what you thought to be relief as he came to a halt by your bed. 

“I’m sorry… Who are you?” The question comes off almost stingy, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t place the man into any of the awful categories of people in your life. The man’s expression falters for a moment, his grin falling as his dark brows raise on his forehead. “What?” He echoes, and he sounds almost in disbelief. “You… Do you not remember what happened?” He then inquired, and this time he came off almost excited – he was probably ready to feed you a bunch of bullshit lies.

You scoff, averting your gaze for a moment as you let yourself recall the events leading up to your unfortunate and current predicament. It was embarrassing to say the least, and you remember the pain, the air being knocked from your lungs, the blood and the bright lights. — Your silence is not well received by the man as he immediately goes on another rant. “Well if you don’t then that’s fine – it wasn’t anything serious really, you just-” His voice was awfully familiar, and the longer you listened, the more pieces fell into place. 

“You.” 

The blunt accusation cuts him short and you turn to him with narrowed eyes. “You fucking hit me.” You jab a finger to his chest, making him grimace as he scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Ah… I see amnesia wasn’t the case then..!” He nervously chuckles to which your frown only deepens. “Excuse me?” 

The man clears his throat, straightening out his shirt before reaching a hand out to introduce himself. “Sorry, I should've probably done this from the start… I’m Yeonjun, Choi Yeonjun.” Your eyes linger on the expensive watch that wrapped around his delicate wrist, then to the perfectly ironed shirt he wore, the brand foreign to your eyes. In fact, nothing he wore was something you’d ever see at the local markets you did most of your shopping at, it was all put together and neat, down to the very detail – which could only mean one thing. 

This guy was absolutely loaded. 

You take his hand, the handshake becomes awkward as you’re forced to use your left hand, seeing as he’d completely immobilized your right one. His grip is firm, and it surprised you, because truthfully he looked like a wimp. But the action in itself feels formal, as though it was something he did on a regular basis. 

Your silence has him holding onto your hand a beat longer. “Not going to give away your own name?” He asks to which you nod toward the foot of your bed, “Says right there doesn’t it?” you mutter unenthusiastically. Yeonjun chuckles, shaking his head as he lets go of you, “She makes jokes I see.” — You send him a nasty grimace in return, but he hardly seems offended. 

He then takes a small step back, creating as much distance between you as the narrow space would allow. But when he glances over his shoulder, his demeanor suddenly switches. It takes him about half a second to have the curtains pulled around you once more, shielding you from the crowded room and leaving the two of you alone. 

“Listen”, he says as he approaches you once more, and this time there’s not a drop of charisma to his voice. In fact he looks almost like he’s about to tell you a secret that might have the both of you beheaded.  “About that night–” He begins in a hushed whisper but is abruptly cut off by the sound of the curtain he had just so meticulously closed, being yanked open. 

A small nurse appears by the opening, the white hat sitting awkwardly atop her head, as though it was too big. She flattens out her robe when she steps inside, a friendly smile plastered onto her face. “I see you’re finally awake!” She exclaims as she grabs the clipboard hanging by the foot of your bed. That was the second time someone had said that, just how long had you been knocked out? 

But you don’t get to ponder that thought any further as the woman takes place on the other side of your bed. “You can imagine it’s been a rough couple of days”, she says whilst shoving the clipboard under her arm to mess with the IV drop attached to you. “Your boyfriend’s been worried sick”, she then says without skipping a beat. — Yeonjun’s cough is almost comically loud as he brings a hand to his mouth, very obviously aware of your beyond baffled expression. 

“My what?” You question, your brows shooting high on your forehead. The nurse turns to you with a perplexed look, her face faltering for a moment, as though she had said something out of line. But before you can further object, Yeonjun has grabbed ahold of your shoulder, pulling you against him in one quick motion. 

The scent of his expensive cologne hits your nose, making you almost dizzy as you brush against his chest. “Darling”, he exhales against the side of your face, “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard.” He glances toward the nurse, sending her an apologetic smile and completely ignoring your protesting huff. “She gets a little disoriented at times.” 

“Oh– Of course”, the nurse nods before shaking her head once, as if coming back to her senses. The remainder of her stay is spent in silence as she quietly checks your vitals, not oblivious to the tension lingering in the air as your eyes practically burn holes into Yeonjun’s figure – the latter, on the other hand, seems completely at ease as he watches the nurse work with an impassive expression, his arms folded neatly across his chest. 

She leaves as soon as she’s done, quickly excusing herself and closing the curtains behind her once more. You don’t waste as much as a second, quickly pushing yourself into a sitting position as you try your hardest to yank the IV from your arm, it proved quite the challenge as your right hand was completely fucking useless. 

“Woah there”, Yeonjun suddenly springs into action as his fingers clasp around your healed arm, keeping the needle safely in place, “I don’t reckon that’s very safe.” — You scoff, brushing him off but refraining from touching the drop again. “I don’t reckon hitting me with your car was very safe either.” 

The comment has him biting the inside of his cheek as he takes a step back. “Touché”, he says as he runs a hand through his dark hair, his eyes darting across the small and makeshift room you were currently in. — “Ahem..” The clearing of your throat hardly deters him as he steps toward the IV drop, watching with great intrigue as the droplets slowly transfer through the plastic tube. 

“I reckon you’ve got some explaining to do.” 

“Hm?” 

Yeonjun cocks an eyebrow as he turns your way, his hand placed thoughtfully under his chin. “Do I? You seem to remember just fine”, he drawls to which you frown. “I’m not talking about the crash-” — “Accident.” Yeonjun firmly corrects. 

“What?” 

“It was an accident. Don’t use the word ‘crash’ it’s too vulgar”, he shudders as he lets his hands drop to his sides. “Besides”, he then says as he takes a seat on the edge of your already narrow bed, “Accident’s make for better sob stories.” 

You regard him with a look of disbelief, your brows pulled deep into a frown and your lips slightly parted. “Are you being serious right now?” You scoff, but the determined expression on Yeonjun’s face didn’t once waver – causing you to groan as you avert your gaze. “Alright, whatever. I wasn’t talking about the accident, because it was a crash – I’m talking about the whole boyfriend thing, what the fuck is up with that?” 

Yeonjun shrugs as he fiddles with the expensive looking watch on his arm. “Oh, that small detail? They wouldn’t let me stay until you woke up unless I was family – figured boyfriend was as close as I could get.” He then glances at you with a small frown, “What, are you a lesbian or something?” 

Your jaw slacked, half in disbelief and half in offense to his sheer audacity. “I… No? But why would it matter if I was!” You shake your head, blinking twice as you try to make sense of your current situation. “You’re telling me no one here knows you’re responsible for my arm being fucking encapsulated?” 

Yeonjun huffs, “Alright now you’re being dramatic. It’s just a cast, you’ll have it off in a matter of weeks.” — “Weeks?” You shriek, “I can’t even type on a computer with this, how am I supposed to work?” 

The man tilts his head to the side as he watches you with slight confusion. “So? Just take a couple of weeks off – I basically gave you a free vacation.” He then adds with a sly grin as he pats your knee. You resist the urge to quite literally kick him off the bed. “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just take time off work, the rent won’t pay itself.” Well, his probably did, you thought with a bitter grimace. 

Yeonjun shifts on the bed with a small sigh, “Listen, I’m sorry about your arm alright – but it’ll heal. What I’m here for is to discuss something of far more importance.” He says as he turns to face you, his expression suddenly morphing into a most serious one. “What happened that night, it was an accident… And you don’t go to court over accidents.” 

You frown as you listen to his words. “What? You’re asking me not to sue your ass?” — Yeonjun rolls his eyes but you catch the flicker of hesitation behind them. “Well, yes, something along those lines.” He runs his fingers through his hair, grimacing as they catch on a strand before he continues. “How do I explain it to someone like yourself..” He murmurs thoughtfully. 

“I’m not an imbecile”, you spit. The comment has him raising a brow as his lip twitches, “Your brain scans beg to differ.” — “What?” But Yeonjun only shakes his head as he bites back a chuckle. “Alright”, he begins as he straightens his back ever so slightly,  “Supposedly, I have a reputation to uphold”, he says with a small shrug, “Nothing serious, just my future and my career depending on it.” He glances toward your injured arm, then over to the scowl plastered onto your face. “And this situation… Let’s just say it won’t look good for me to go public with it.” 

“So you’re begging me not to sue you?” 

Yeonjun frowns, “I wouldn’t use the word ‘beg’..” 

“I would.” 

He rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest as he throws one leg over the other. “Fine. I want to settle this without involving more people than necessary, how about that?” — You regard the expectant look on his face, from his calculating eyes to the subtle twitch of his defined jaw. Your financial situation was already bound to take a blow from this, not to mention that you might even lose your job. There was no way you were just going to let this man walk away with his pockets full and his ego still intact. 

Take from the rich and give to the poor. That was the motto you strived to achieve. 

“Alright..” You slowly begin, watching as his eyes lit up and his head jerk in your direction. There was something undeniably satisfactory in his already celebrated victory – and you have to push down a small smirk. 

“How far are you willing to go?” 

25 MINUTES LATER 

“Come on – I think I can see the top!” You excitedly exclaim as you lean forward. The late afternoon breeze caresses your face, instantly bringing a smile to your lips as you bask in the warm air. Behind you, Yeonjun pants, his heavy breath fanning across your neck. “You’ve said that these past ten minutes now”, he groans as he continues to push you forward. You roll your eyes, not caring for his unenthusiastic attitude. “Well, I mean it this time around!” 

What was probably meant to be a snort comes out as half a whine, half a whimper as Yeonjun begrudgingly pushes the wheelchair up the steep hill. “I don’t… -pant- get it… -pant- your legs are.. -pant- just fine.” His complaints were nothing but background noise to your ears – still, you glance down to your legs, swinging them back and forth to further prove his point. 

The hospital grounds were a lot more terrained than you had initially anticipated, and what had started out as a walk around facilities, had ended with Yeonjun struggling to push you up the large hill that had caught your eye. The wheels of the wheelchair caught on snares and rocks, making it quite the bumpy ride, and you had to grip the armrests tightly with your one good hand to not fall overboard. 

“Mind where you’re going! You’re transporting fragile cargo”, you snap when Yeonjun pushes the wheelchair over yet another branch, causing it to snap under the weight of it all. The man merely scoffs, the sound coming out breathy as he gathers whatever strength he had left. “Fragile my ass”, he mutters under his heaving breath, the words brushing against your neck. “That crash ought to have killed you then.” 

“You wish it did, huh?” 

Yeonjun sighs, “I’m starting to seriously reconsider.” 

Finally, the steep hill pans out into flat ground and with one final push, the wheelchair comes to a stop. Bracing himself on the handles, Yeonjun trembles as he looms over you, panting heavily as he does. “This better have been worth it”, he coughs, completely overtaken by exhaustion. — “We’re about to find out!” You state whilst stretching your legs out in front of you before jumping to your feet. 

“Oh fuck you”, Yeonjun spits as he watches you walk off to inspect the area. You ignore his crude comments, your eyes wandering across the few benches scattered around, none which were occupied. The spot was cozy enough though. With an approving nod you approach one of the larger trees, leaning against its trunk to peer out over the hospital yard. The place turned out to be quite decent after all, the food was good, and your room had been upgraded to a suite - the company however… You glance toward Yeonjun who had taken a seat on the wheelchair, his shoulders slumped in defeat. 

He would do. For now. 

His willingness had surprised you. He really must not want that lawsuit, you thought to yourself as you plucked a leaf from a low hanging branch. Oh well, you would continue to abuse your temporary power for as long as you could – if he could splurge money on a suite then he could surely treat you to a nice dinner as well. 

And who said getting run over didn’t have its benefits? 

“Hey stranger!” You wave him over with your good arm, and Yeonjun reluctantly lifts his head to see you jumping up and down by the nearby tree. With sluggish movements he drags himself from the wheelchair and over to you, his expression already painted with dismay. — “What’s with the long face?” You hum as he comes to a stop before you. 

Yeonjun quirks an unamused brow as he glances between you and the handful of leaves you had picked from the tree. “Oh nothing, just the stock market crashing and my funds losing value while I’m playing nurse”, he shrugs, “But really I’m fine – I’m having loads of fun.” He flashes you a quick smile that drops just as fast as it had appeared. 

“Really?”

“No.” 

There’s a small pause as you both glance out over the hospital facilities, your eyes lingering on the patients out and about as they try to catch the last afternoon sun. The once warm breeze was slowly turning chilly and you could see the sun setting over the horizon. — For a short moment you stopped to wonder what would become of you when you were finally discharged. The call you had to make to your boss upon returning inside would surely not be a pleasant one. How did you explain your previous absence and the one to come? The chances of you keeping your already low paying job were slim… 

“Is this why you wanted to come out here?” Yeonjun suddenly breaks the silence as he crosses his arms over his chest, a displeased look on his otherwise handsome face. “I mean, the view is nothing marvelous – plus it’s fucking freezing.” — “Hm? Oh, yeah.. It’s alright I suppose..” You murmur, your gaze dropping to the ground beneath you. The grass grew wild and untamed, peeking up in uneven sections and brushing against your ankles. 

Your sudden change in demeanor doesn’t pass him unnoticed and you can feel his eyes on your frame as he regards you quietly. “What?” He then huffs, “Don’t tell me I’ve pushed you all the way up here for nothing?” There’s a light-hearted edge to his words but you can also make out the uncertainty behind them – as though the sudden switch in your mood confused him. Accident or not – your financial situation wasn’t his fault. Everything else though… 

“No”, your lip twitches into a small, half-hearted smile, “It wasn’t for nothing.” You say as you walk past him and back to the wheelchair. “Plus”, you throw a glance over your shoulder, “Even if it was – I would’ve made you do it anyway.” 

Yeonjun’s scoff echoes over the hilltop as he jogs after you, “I don’t doubt it.” 

“Are you walking down?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

He sighs, “Should’ve never asked.” —  “Wow! Look at you, you’re learning!” 

Though hardly amused by your sarcastic reply, he still waits for you to take a seat. “Don’t let it get to your head”, he grumbles as he grabs the handles and turns the wheelchair around as he begins your shared journey down the hill. You huff as you lean back in the chair, “Whatever do you mean?” 

Yeonjun doesn’t reply as he steers you down the narrow pathway you had originally ascended from, this time with a lot more ease. The sky, now painted in hues of pink and orange, casts you in a warm glow and makes you squint. — Had it not been for your unfortunate situation, you would have probably found the scene quite beautiful. 

“You know..” Yeonjun begins, his voice ringing out somewhere above you, “I actually don’t know shit about the stock market – I made that up.” The admission makes you grin as you shake your head, “I know.” 

“Alright, fuck off.” 

THAT SAME EVENING 

The sound of footsteps echo down the hall as Yeonjun paces the empty corridor. Surrounded by white sterile walls and flickering bright lights, he battles the headache that had been so persistently following him around these past four days. — And Taehyun’s nagging voice certainly didn’t help one bit. 

“Your father is asking for you”, his assistant says in a curt voice. “Did you tell him to check under my bed?” Yeonjun counters, earning himself a disapproving tsk from the other man. “Do you realize how serious this is? You injured someone- If she died you could’ve been charged with manslaughter!” 

“But she didn’t die.”

“That’s not the point”, Taehyun cuts back and Yeonjun swore he could hear the gray hairs forming on his assistants head. “You’ve got to start seeing the consequences of your actions and… Where are you even?” 

Yeonjun purses his lips as he glances down the hallway, “The hospital.” — “The hospital..” Taehyun sighs, “No, of course, Jesus, where else would you be?” He pauses, “Did she wake up yet?” 

“Mhm”, Yeonjun hums as his gaze fixates on the door opposite him. It was only a matter of seconds before you called for him again, no doubt having him perform yet another task that a nurse easily could’ve done in his place. — “And?” Taehyun presses, the sound of his fingers tapping against what Yeonjun assumed to be the table of his office, echoes over the line. 

“And… I’m handling it.” 

“Handling it how? – The last thing you need is a lawsuit after you. If your father finds out about…” His assistant doesn’t even dare finish the sentence as he instead falls silent. Biting the inside of his cheek, Yeonjun leans against the wall behind him, his free hand reaching deep into his pocket as he exhales. He knew all too well what was at stake – Hell, he’d been lucky enough that you didn’t seem to have a single relative to come look for you, leaving him your only visitor these past days. When he thinks about it, the reality of it all was quite sad. But he couldn’t afford to waste his energy on such trivial matters.  

“She won’t press charges”, Yeonjun finally states. The confidence in his voice is unwavering, but it does little to impress Taehyun who scoffs. “You ran her over.” — “Correction”, Yeonjun says with a frown, “My car hydroplaned and she was walking toward red.” 

“You were speeding.” 

“Was not.” 

Silence. 

“Alright”, Taehyun sighs but it was clear that he thought the conversation far from finished. “Did you offer her compensation?” — The frown on Yeonjun’s face deepens, “Compensation?” 

“Money, Yeonjun. – You’ve got enough to waste, and especially if it means keeping her quiet.” 

“Right.” He throws another glance toward the door which you reside behind, the suite had cost him half a fortune, but then, it was a lot more comfortable to discuss private affairs behind closed doors, especially when said affairs regarded his possible career. “I have compensated her, somewhat.” 

Taehyun tsks, “What does that mean?” — “Oh wouldn’t you like to know?” Yeonjun drawls as he flattens out his shirt. The memory of pushing you up that god forsaken hill was still fresh in his mind and his arms ached just thinking about it. A small grimace passes his face as he imagines what you could possibly ask of him next. 

As if on cue, your irritable voice calls for him. For someone currently hospitalized you still seemed to have loads of energy. “Ooooh Yeonjun~” His name coming from your lips alone was enough to send shivers down his spine. 

“Was that her?” Taehyun wonders and Yeonjun suppresses a shudder as he swallows. “Don’t worry about it”, he says. His assistant makes a noise of disapproval, “I’m serious, you have to be careful with-” 

“I’m handling it, alright? – You just focus on keeping my father away.” With that he ends the call and shoves his phone back in his pocket before pushing himself off the wall and approaching the door. He stops with his hand on the handle, gathering the last of his strength as he prepares to step inside. 

The room in itself was grand, with its own bathroom and shower, a Tv and a fat stack of books. It was accompanied by windows that ran from floor to roof, giving the room as much natural light as possible during daytime. Your bed here was a lot bigger too, with a variety of both blankets and pillows. But despite being bathed in luxury, you seemed intent on using Yeonjun as your primary source of entertainment. 

Propped on said big bed, you lean comfortably against the fluffy pillows, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. “Took you long enough”, you say as your narrowed eyes search his figure. “Where’s my coffee?” — Shit, Yeonjun had completely forgotten about that the moment he’d stepped outside and Taehyun called. 

“Machine was broken”, he shrugs as he approaches the chair not far from your bed. He brushes past the look of disbelief you send him. “Did you even go down and check?” — Yeonjun shakes his head, “No. But they never work in places like these, besides the coffee tastes cheap.” He really was unable to grasp the fascination for such a beverage if it wasn’t brewed to perfection in the comforts of his own home. 

“Cheap?” You retort as you twist on the bed, “What, do you get the beans grinded in your backyard?” Yeonjun shakes his head, “No. I have that done in the kitchen.” — You stick your tongue out in response. He couldn’t quite understand your frustration over such a mundane matter, but he watches as you then flop back down against the mattress with an exasperated sigh. 

There’s a brief silence that follows your short conversation. Yeonjun had realized long before you even woke up that the two of you were very different. He’d spent the majority of these past four days studying you intently. — Your brows grew frantically, like they’d never seen a pair of tweezers, and your lips were chapped. Your nails were short and bitten, the lines on your forehead damn near permanent, as if stuck forever in a slight frown. 

Still, you intrigued him greatly – for reasons still unbeknownst to himself. There was something raw in the way you acted, your words blurting out unfiltered and without a second thought – much like himself, in a way. The only difference was you had the freedom to express yourself without the constant worry of people’s approval. It must be nice, being that uncaring. 

“The fuck are you staring at?” 

Your sharp voice startles him from his thoughts and Yeonjun nearly jumps out of his seat. “Christ, do you intend to wake the dead?” He huffs in an attempt to downplay the fact that his soul just left his body and was on its way up the tenth and final floor. 

You roll your eyes as you regard him with amusement. “Caught you lackin’” — “You- What? No, I..” He shakes his head, tsking as he dismisses you and instead turns his attention toward the black Tv screen. Just as he was about to suggest putting something on, do you interrupt him. — “I’m kinda hungry.” 

“So?” 

“Feed me.” 

Yeonjun’s jaw slacks, his brows shooting high on his otherwise smooth forehead. “What?” He echoes to which you groan. “You heard me”, you point to the large fruit bowl by the Tv bench, “Fetch me those grapes.” 

“You can’t be serious”, Yeonjun grumbles as his eyes flicker between you and the fruit, staring back at him with menace. The smirk on your lips only grows and he feels his heart sink as the reality of his situation dawns on him. — “Come on”, you drawl in a sing-songy voice, “Think about the lawsuit~” 

Those words alone are enough to have him shooting up from the comforts of his chair and walking across the room in order to access the fruit bowl. It’s heavier than he’d anticipated and he almost stumbles over his own feet before reaching your bed. — “Jesus, I bet you weren't picked first in gym class?” You tsk as he places the bowl on your bedside table. 

Yeonjun’s brows twitch in anger as his narrowed eyes find yours, “Alright fuck off.” Though he makes sure not to mention that he was in fact always picked last for football practice – or any other matter that involved some kind of physique. His nine-year old self still lived with a bruised ego, and he would be damned if his 25 year-old self had to live through the same torment, no less by you. 

A flicker of confusion passes his face when you wordlessly part your lips, glancing up at him expectantly. His eyes drop to your round cheeks, the skin soft and smooth – just waiting for him to pinch it and make you squeal. Then his attention shifts to your lips, despite being slightly chapped they were still oddly enticing to look at and Yeonjun catches his tongue darting out to wet his own. 

“Fuckass. Feed me the grapes.” 

The quick and sharp snap of your voice breaks his trance and Yeonjun blinks twice as he shakes his head, “Huh?” You scoff, folding your good arm across your chest as you send him an impatient grimace. “The grapes. What the fuck are you thinking of?” 

Right. Yeonjun coughs as he picks a handful of grapes from the bowl. “Nothing your mediocre mind could wrap itself around”, he spits before shoving a perfectly round and green grape into your mouth. It’s with great satisfaction that he watches you slightly choke on the fruit before angrily chewing it, your teeth grinding together as you shoot him a glare. 

You swallow, “We’ll see how mediocre my lawyer is then.” 

“Funny.” 

“You think so?” 

“Shut up and have another grape.” 

You don’t protest when he shoves the fruit in your mouth, in fact Yeonjun thinks he might’ve even caught a subtle smirk playing on your lips. Whatever. You’ll be back on your feet soon, then he’ll offer you compensation, the case will be sealed off and forgotten about – and his life would go back to being what it had always been. 

“Can you use that fan over there on me?” 

“No.” 

THE FOLLOWING MORNING 

Turns out hospital curtains were shit. Your eyes have barely peeled open and the sun is already stinging them. With a frustrated groan you squeeze them shut once more, intent on getting another hour of sleep. What time was it even, 5am? The bed was comfortable at least, far better than the petty excuse of a mattress you had been sleeping on last night. 

You smack your lips together, cringing at how dry your mouth felt as you swallowed. The pillow felt wet against your cheek and with slight horror you realized that you had probably been drooling. “Ew..” Your attempt at sitting up proved futile as there was something warm and heavy occupying your left leg and greater portion of your right. — Confused, you finally tear your eyes open, squinting against the harsh light as your gaze falls on Yeonjun. 

The frown on your face deepens, your face twisting into a small grimace as you scoff. “Fucking idiot”, you mutter when pushing yourself onto your elbows. Yeonjun, once slouched on a chair, now had his whole torso draped across your legs, his cheek squished against your knee as he snored lightly. 

His once put together hair now lay a mess, a few strands falling across his forehead. The sleeves of the expensive shirt he wore had been pushed up to his elbows, his coat discarded on the backrest of the uncomfortable chair. The warm glow of the sun cast him in bright hues that highlighted the natural flush of his cheeks — his long lashes fluttering slightly as he frowned in his sleep. 

What was he thinking? He should’ve gone home, changed and slept in an actual bed. Did he seriously think you were still suing him? God, you had too much on your plate to worry about arguing with his petty ass in court. — You purse your lips as your eyes linger on his unconscious figure. He looked funny. Slightly… cute, you suppose – he would’ve been a decent 8/10 had he not hit you with his car and immobilized your left arm. 

Torn between wanting to kick him off the bed or watch him sleep just a moment longer, you’re suddenly pulled from your thoughts when the door to your room clicks open. A nurse enters, her robe wrinkled in places and her hair spilling out of the bun she wore, you imagined she’d worked the night shift for she looked absolutely beat. — Her eyes flicker between your unenthusiastic expression and over to Yeonjun’s slumped self. 

A small smile tugs at her lips when she approaches your bed and you resist scrunching your nose in disgust when she says, “Why, aren’t you two the cutest?” — That was highly debatable and you don’t reply, instead settling back against the pillow as she begins checking your condition. You were still in disbelief over the ridiculous lie he’d told. Boyfriend? He could’ve went for distant relative, fuck you would’ve even taken cousin. 

“You’re very lucky..” The nurse begins as she fiddles with the bandage wrapped around your arm. Her voice was filled with adoration and you held back the objection waiting on your tongue. You wanted to argue that you were anything but lucky. From losing four days of consciousness to the possibility of losing your job as well.. All thanks to the jackass shamelessly sleeping on your legs at this very moment.

But the nurse seems oblivious to your silent disagreement, and continues with a lighthearted tone. “He’s never left your side, you know? Barely slept either.” — You give her a tight-lipped smile, nodding quietly as your gaze travels down to Yeonjun by the end of the bed. He’s yet to wake up despite the conversation around him. Pushing the wheelchair must’ve really taken him out, you thought with a small huff. 

“Lucky me”, you mutter. Your un-enthusiasm however, doesn’t seem to disturb your diligent nurse, who despite her rough exterior, works quietly on readjust your bandage. “How much longer until I’m out of here?” You wonder as you try to conceal the desperation laced curiosity of your voice. 

The nurse pauses, her fingers having just fastened the bandage around your arm. “Well, my guess is sometime this afternoon, we need to run another brain scan since you’ve woken up from your coma. If your results come out clean you should have nothing to worry about.” 

Right. Nothing to worry about. You lean back against the pillows with a deflated sigh, must be nice, having nothing to worry about. Your wandering gaze returns to Yeonjun’s sleeping figure, his chest heaving slowly as he takes long and steady breaths. “Bastard”, you mouth with a not-so-subtle sneer, though you quickly mask the grimace with a smile as your nurse gives your shoulder a small pat. 

“I’ll be back to check in on you by lunch time.” She says before heading back out through the door she had emerged from not even ten minutes ago. Once the thick silence of your hospital suite returns, you find that you can’t take it anymore. — “Hey jackass”, your knee twitches under his cheek, making Yeonjun grimace as he mutters a string of unintelligible curses under his breath. 

You groan, yanking the blanket from your legs and kicking him off in the process. Yeonjun wakes with a startle, his eyes wide and alarmed as his hands grip the armrests of his chair. The giggle bubbling in your throat makes its way past your lips without second thought. “At ease soldier, the enemy is still far”, you drawl as you throw him the blanket. 

Yeonjun frowns as he blinks, slowly taking in his surroundings as he realises where he’d fallen asleep. “Fuck”, he grunts as he stretches out on the small chair, “My back is killing me.” His gaze snaps over to you, “Why didn’t you wake me?” 

Giving him a small shrug as you pick at your already chipped cuticles, you say, “I tried — But holy shit you weigh like three tons when you sleep.” You survey his displeased expression with narrowed eyes before adding, “Plus you drool.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Yes you do.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Yes. You. Do.” 

Yeonjun sits up a little straighter, the chair creaking under his weight as if to testify to your previous statement. “Who are you to police me anyway? Last I remembered you couldn’t even eat your own grapes.” 

“And whose fault is that?” You counter to which Yeonjun obliviously glances the other way. You scoff, rolling your eyes as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. “Nurse came, she said I’ll be out of here before dinner time.” With a small exhale you let your fingers dance across the soft pillows, remembering your own stale one at home with slight distaste. 

“That’s good news”, Yeonjun mutters as he shifts in his chair, his dark eyes lingering on your hand for a moment. “Yes,” you hum in agreement, yet for some reason the thought of returning to your cramped apartment didn’t seem so appealing anymore. You were hardly getting any more days off of work, which would mean back to business within the day… Which would make today your last one of freedom. 

Your gaze flickers over to Yeonjun who was currently flattening out his expensive shirt and running a tired hand through his tousled hair. “Soldier”, you say, easily garnering his attention and a small glare. But you merely brush past his lack of enthusiasm. With an exhausted grunt you slide off the comforts of your bed, stretching your sore muscles for a moment. “I think we should go explore the vending machine.” 

Yeonjun raises a brow as he, too, rises to his feet. — You snort, “Oh come on, don’t act like you don’t have a few pennies to splurge on poor o’le me.” But he only shakes head, “I don’t keep small change like that.” 

With your hands on your hips you tsk: 

“Alright. Then we’ll beg the elderly lady next door for some.” 

THAT AFTERNOON 

“What? You mean all of it?” 

Your voice is unsteady as you hold your phone close to your ear. Your legs felt like jelly, your knees buckling under your own weight as you flop back down onto your bed. A distressed frown tugs at your brows and you chew your bottom lip anxiously. “How long will it take for them to get it back in order?” 

With a small nod you hum along to whatever the plumber was reciting on the phone. Bunch of difficult terms, but none of them good, that much you knew. “Alright… Does insurance cover it?” 

“Oh.” 

“I see.”

When the line finally cuts the silence of your hospital suite was louder than ever before. You purse your lips, blankly staring ahead as you ponder your next move. Check into a hotel? Expensive. A motel? You grimace. — Scrolling through your pathetically short contacts list only serves as a reminder of how alone you really were. No place to crash, no place to go, no shoulder to lean on when your own was bandaged. 

Before you can completely spiral, the door opens and Yeonjun stumbles inside. He’s clutching a paper in his hand, presumably your discharge one. “Ready to head out?” He asks as he approaches you, though his steps quickly falter upon noting the distant look on your otherwise expression filled face. — “You okay?” 

Are you okay? No one had asked you that question in what felt like forever. It was always do this, get this done before the deadline, don’t forget that.. And when you weren’t being persistently nagged by your boss, there was nothing. Just silence. His expected question shouldn’t feel so… You give a small shrug, but the second you open your mouth to explain, everything just comes tumbling out all at once. 

“My apartment’s fucking flooded”, you sob as your hands come up to wipe away the tears that forced their way down your cheeks. “Fucking stupid water leakage and– everything’s ruined!” Your words are interrupted by hiccups and small gurgling noises coming from deep within your throat. “C-Can’t go there and I… It’s going to be so expensive”, you whine as you shake your head. 

Your chest heaves in tune with your pathetic sobbing as you aggressively wipe at your face. “Fucking– worst week ever! – Can never even.. Catch a fucking break…” You hated yourself for breaking down like this, for not being able to stop the tears that streamed down your face, your voice refusing to obey as you tried to reign in the helplessness to it. 

Yeonjun’s fingers curling around your wrists as he pries your hands from your face is what finally breaks your trance. Granted you should’ve probably had a little more shame than you did, but nothing mattered in that moment and you immediately buried your face against his chest, sobbing your heart out against the smooth fabric of his shirt. 

His arms are stiff and awkward as they wrap around your trembling frame, his hand patting your back in what was probably supposed to be soothing, but it more felt like he was beating a drum. — “You uh…” He clears his throat, his voice low and uncertain. “Gonna stain my shirt…” He murmurs as you snivel against the fabric. 

“Shut up or I’m gonna use it as a tissue”, you huff between sobs. Yeonjun gives a short laugh, like he wasn’t sure if you were being serious or not. Good. He shouldn’t be. 

It takes you a couple of minutes, but soon the tears subside, leaving behind ugly and wet streaks on your face as you pull away. Yeonjun’s arms release their hold on you, though his hands slide down to rest on your hips, the movement probably subconscious, but you were too beat up to even ponder on it, or slap him off for that matter. 

“It’s fine”, you finally say with a shaky exhale as you meet his gaze for the first time since he stepped through the door. Yeonjun slowly nods as he watches you wipe off the remnants of your tears, blinking twice to clear them from your lashes. — “Yeah”, you then say with a firm nod, straightening back up as you glance over at him. 

Immediately recognizing the mischievous glint in your eye, Yeonjun takes a step back as his hands fall from your hips. “What?” He says as his eyes narrow. You shrug, “Oh nothing… It’s just that, since I don’t have anywhere to go for the time being…” 

“No.” 

“It would be very considerate of my boyfriend to offer his couch for a couple of days.” 

You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he slowly realizes that he’s effectively backed himself up into a corner. “Besides”, you add as you present your still bandaged arm, “I reckon I could use some assistance around the house.” 

Yeonjun’s eyes widen tenfold, “I’m not–” 

“You’ll be wiping my shit, bitch.” 

HALF AN HOUR LATER 

Yeonjun contemplated driving you both off the road approximately seven times on your fifteen minute drive home. This was a terrible idea, one you had decided on without consulting him about for as much as a second. Part of him thinks he deserves it — he did hit you after all… No. He shakes his head, fingers flexing around the steering wheel. You were crossing a red light, actively breaking the damn law. And Yeonjun was only going 10 miles above the speed limit. 

He holds back a fifth sigh when your voice breaks the silence for the nth time. “How much longer?” You chirp, your legs moving restlessly in front of you as you gaze out the window. That was the third time you asked said question, and he knew his answer would be of little satisfaction. 

“Almost there.” 

“You said that last time.” 

“You asked two minutes ago.” 

Silence falls over the flashy vehicle. Yeonjun briefly worried that you might stain his expensive leather seats. But he held back any comments about the way your fingers wandered across the dashboard, you seemed intent on leaving your prints everywhere. “Are you trying to pin a crime on me?” He asks as he glances your way. — “Wouldn’t be pinning it on you if you actually committed it”, you snort.

“I didn't.” 

“The law disagrees.” 

God would you just shut up. It feels like pure bliss when he finally pulls into the familiar driveway of his house. The three floors were a most ordinary and mundane sight for him, as were the big and shiny windows covering the side of the building. But your impressed whistle still makes his ears burn. 

“This is neat”, you say as the car comes to a halt, already halfway out before he even has the chance to turn the engine off. “And you’re telling me you live here all by yourself?” You wonder as you go to scour the cars lined up on the driveway, eyeing them each like a potential buyer would. 

Yeonjun hums as he follows you with hasty steps, much like a parent anxiously waiting for their toddler to break yet another vase. Once you notice his lingering presence you turn around, your hands raised in surrender. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my paws off your shiny toys.” — He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, that hasn't aged well thus far. 

Bringing you inside was an undoubtedly even more frightening experience. Yeonjun had never considered just how much stuff he actually treasured within the four walls of his home until you stepped foot on his marble floors. “Shoes off”, he snaps as you mindlessly saunter down the long hallway. You pause, glancing over your shoulder before your eyes drift to the worn out sneakers you wore. With a small shrug you pull them off, a grin Yeonjun knew all too well playing on your lips. 

“Catch!” 

The dirty shoe comes flying before he can as much as blink and he thanked god for his fast reflexes as he manages to catch it. “Fuck”, he huffs as his nose wrinkles in disgust, “Your feet stink.” Your second shoe strikes him across the face before the insult leaving your lips even has the chance to. 

“I’ve been in a coma for four days, thanks to you.” You spit as you fold your good arm across your chest. 

Yeonjun heaves a sigh as he realizes the devastating truth to your words. With a begrudging grimace he motions down the hall, “Bathroom’s to your right.” You send him a quick smile before disappearing from sight. Left alone with one shoe in his hand he contemplates just how long he would have to keep you here until he could finally get you off his back. Then there was the money too… You had yet to ask but he felt it was only right he offered some kind of compensation. Anything to settle it outside of court he reminds himself as he places your dirty shoes next to his freshly polished ones on the shoe rack. 

The sound of the shower echoes throughout the flat, going through all the vacant rooms, following him around wherever he goes. Your presence is unfamiliar, the sign of life beside himself in this house an unusual phenomenon. — Yeonjun busies himself by preparing one of the guest bedrooms for you. He figured you’d want the biggest one. 

He irons the sheets to perfection, gives each pillow a slap across the middle as he organizes them neatly by the headboard. Should he tell Taehyun that you were staying here — or was that better to be kept secret? He drags a hand across his face, groaning into his palm as he thinks back to a time where he wouldn’t have to deal with this. 

In fact — Yeonjun is so busy with setting up the room for you and mulling over if he should make you dinner or not that he doesn’t even register the sound of the shower turning off. Nor does he pick up on your light footsteps as you descend down the hall. The uncharacteristically quiet knock you deliver to the door, despite it being ajar, is what pulls him out of his trance. 

“Yes-” 

But his words get lodged in his throat as he sees you lingering in the doorframe. Your skin is still wet and glistening as you hug the towel tighter around yourself, your bandaged arm hanging awkwardly by your side. Swaying back and forth on your feet, you release your bottom lip with a quiet exhale. “I uhm… Don’t have any clothes with me.”  

“I can see that.” 

God Yeonjun wanted to slap himself across the face. He quickly shakes his head, “I mean– I probably have something you can borrow…” You give him a small nod, and had it not been for your lack of clothes, and the fact that he was actively struggling not to stare like a kid in fifth grade, he would’ve probably relished in your shyness. 

“Just uh, give me a minute”, he excuses himself as he squeezes past you in the doorway, wincing when your arms brush against each other. “When did you become such a prude?” He mutters to himself as he descends down the hall and to his own room. 

Turns out picking clothes for a woman was a lot harder than he’d ever imagined. Yeonjun finds himself in front of his closet for a good ten minutes, wavering between green and blue like it was his finals. Perhaps he was reading into it too much, you weren’t going to care what he offered. He emits a defeated sigh as he glances over his options once more. 

“Pushing her up a fucking hill, feeding her grapes and picking her damn clothes. Could’ve just hired a nanny”, he grumbles with a frown deep enough to touch the floor. He chews on the inside of his cheek, close to just giving up all together and letting you go naked. That would be a sight. No, ew, it wouldn’t. — “Girls like pink don’t they?” He finally huffs as he folds his arms across his chest. Well Yeonjun certainly didn’t own anything pink. 

Red was close enough right? 

“Fucking red?” You echo as he holds out the hoodie to you. Disgust is written across your face and Yeonjun resists the urge to tell you that the piece of fucking red garment was actually worth more than your months paycheck. Instead he scoffs, “You’re in no position to make demands.” Except you were. With a small tilt of your head you send him a look that could be best described as “Oh really?” 

“Fine. Is green better?” 

“... Red will do.” 

You catch the hoodie with a glare that could slice through flesh. Were women always so angry? Yeonjun never lingered long enough to find out. He watches intently as you twist the fabric in your hands, then down to the naked skin of your thighs. 

“Stop staring you perv.” 

“Your kneecaps look weird.” 

“How would you like them squashing your balls?” 

Yeonjun suppresses a shudder at the mere thought, his hands flexing by his sides as he shakes his head. “I brought you some shorts too, not sure they’ll fit though.” He hands you the pair he should’ve gotten rid of five years ago, not that you had to know that of course. — You eye them skeptically, your lips pursed, another comment waiting behind them. 

“Alright.” 

Huh? Yeonjun blinks, his jaw slacking. 

“No buts?” He frowns. 

“No buts.” 

Before he has the chance to speak, you reach for the towel wrapped around your body, undoing the small knot. It takes him about a fraction of a second to realize what you’re about to do. “Jesus woman! Let me flee the scene first”, he says as he scrambles for the door. — Your giggle echoes in his ears long after he’s slammed the wood shut, leaning against it as he screws his eyes together. 

His hand clutches his chest, the erratic pounding of his heart thrumming against his knuckles. “The fuck…” He mutters as he tries to calm himself down. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen women before, or brought them home for that matter. Usually he wouldn’t offer his clothes, they were far too valuable for that. But you left him no choice — which was becoming somewhat of a pattern. 

With slow and heavy steps he makes his way over to the kitchen. The marble countertops feel smooth under his fingers as he drags a lazy hand over the clean surface. Yeonjun never felt like he took the comforts of his home for granted, but with the way your eyes had followed every single line of furniture like it was made out of gold made him reconsider. 

He should probably make you something to eat. That would be the least he could do, right? Only problem was Yeonjun had never cooked as much as a single meal in his kitchen. It stood brand new, just like it had for the past two years. 

“Where are the pans at?” He murmurs as he pulls cabinet doors open. He’d made sure to stock up on appliances, not that he was planning on using them, but they felt like a part of the house decor. 

Once he’s got his hands on a decent pan he tackles his next obstacle. Turning on the stove. He tsks as he reprimands himself for choosing such extravagant and high-tech luxuries. Scratching the back of his head with a small frown he searches fervently for any button, but there were none. 

“It’s a stove not a fucking ipad”, he grunts as he begins tapping the cool surface — flincing when it makes a beeping sound. 

“Can’t believe it didn’t come with an instruction manual.” 

20 MINUTES LATER 

Yeonjun’s clothes felt light on you. The fabric was smooth against your skin and the garment wasn’t heavy. Admittedly you looked like a kid on the soccer team, but that was the least of your problems — not like there was anyone to dress up for around here anyway. 

Having disappeared off to god knows where, Yeonjun had left you to roam his gigantic house. And you did exactly that. The hallways seemed never ending, sparsely decorated with a few plants here and there, who you all noticed to be made out of plastic when you passed them. “Must not have green fingers”, you hum as you twirl the artificial leaf between your fingers. Your eyes flicker down to the expensive-looking vase, “But a mind for money at least.” 

Upon passing an ajar door, you stop in your tracks. Hesitating for only a moment, you push the door further open as you dare a peek inside. The room you find is nothing short of extravagant. With a king sized bed, clad in silk sheets and a carpet lining its perimeter. Windows lined the opposite wall, going from floor to roof, showing off the setting sun as it basked the room in a warm glow. 

It hit you then that he would get to sleep in here every single night, in the comforts and luxury of such a nice home without a single worry about next week's budget. Your eyes flicker over to the dresser opposite the bed, your fingers twitching by your sides. No, you were no thief. Besides, you doubted there was anything worth selling aside from his plastic plants. 

“Asshole”, you mutter as you step back out into the hallway. 

Just then, a familiar scent hits your nose. It smelled just like a house fire. Joyous. — Yeonjun’s curses echo down the hall, the sound of cutlery clinking together making for a terrible beat to back up his vocals. Your bare feet pad toward the source of his chaos, and the scene you arrive at is far from disappointing. 

Yeonjun stands bent over the stove, the culprit of the burnt smell being the eggs he’d attempted to scramble in the pan. Now all that was left was a crisp mess that had lost all its yellow — which he poked at with a spatula. Sweat pearls on his forehead, his expression stuck in a permanent frown as he pours his full attention onto the failed meal he was preparing.

“Need help?” 

He startles at the sound of your voice, having clearly not expected your sudden arrival. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he finds you watching him with an amused expression. It was impossible to bite back the grin currently splayed across your lips. 

“No.” He quickly retorts, sounding somewhat defensive. 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

You round the marble countertop, stopping beside him as you peer down into the pan. “Smells…lovely”, you murmur, your nose betraying you as it scrunches in disgust. Yeonjun rolls his eyes, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he turns to you. Spatula gripped in one hand like a weapon, he folds his arms across his chest. 

“What?” He snaps, clearly unamused by your silent critique. 

Motioning toward the eggs still sizzling in the pan, “You do know how to cook right?” 

“Of course I do”, he grumbles as he readjusts the grip on the spatula, “I cooked… In college.” 

Your gaze flickers between him and the food, your brows rising on your forehead. “I can tell.” 

You take a step forward, attempting to grab the spatula from his hand, only for him to immediately recoil, holding the utensil out of reach as he shakes his head. — “I’ll do it”, you scoff as you take another step forward, caging him against the counter. “No”, Yeonjun protests with another shake of his head, “You’ll burn the kitchen down.” 

“I reckon that’s where you’re headed.” 

He huffs, opening his mouth to bark out another remark — but all that he manages is a yelp when his free hand comes in contact with the scorching hot stove. The spatula slips from his grasp, hitting the floor with a clattering sound as Yeonjun grips his injured hand. You almost laugh, but the pain striking his face made you waver. Why did you feel bad? 

“Fucking idiot”, you snort as you shake the thought away, grabbing ahold of his wrist and yanking him toward the sink. Yeonjun stumbles after you, muttering curses under his breath as you turn on the faucet. “Ow!” He hisses when you bring his now bright red hand under the lukewarm water. 

“Get over yourself”, you mutter. 

“It hurts?” 

You give him a look of disbelief and Yeonjun’s eyes drift toward your bandaged arm, “Fine.” 

He remains silent after that, letting you run his fingers under the water without complaints. His hands were oddly soft and you tried not to think about it too much, that and the fact that you were still holding on to him when he could’ve easily kept his hand there himself. — The silence seems to stretch on forever, making it the most awkward one yet, and that was saying a lot considering what the two of you had endured. 

You avoid his gaze, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you focus your attention to his hand, your thumb smoothing over his palm absentmindedly. You should say something — but for once you can’t find the words. Not a single remark came to mind. 

Yeonjun clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as his eyes flit between your face and his hand. “I can–” 

“Shut up.” 

He presses his lips into a thin line, likely biting back another protest as he sighs. 

“Do you ever cook?” You ask without looking at him. Yeonjun shakes his head, murmuring out a quiet, “Not really.” 

Glancing at him through the corner of your eye, you find his brows pulled into a small frown, his lips pursed into an almost cute pout. “Then what?” You wonder as you turn his hand under the water. Yeonjun shrugs, sounding almost defeated as he says, “Usually just eat out.” Right. He could afford restaurant worthy meals seven days a week, must be nice. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

“Just a little.” 

The silence returns, it seemed unavoidable at this point — and for some reason it bugged you. He doesn’t say anything when you turn the faucet off, nor does he comment on the fact that you had yet to let his hand go. 

Jesus. 

Yeonjun throws a glance over his shoulder, his failed attempt at scrambled eggs staring back at him from the pan. He turns back to you, his mouth open in a sentence he never gets to finish. 

“I can make–” 

Your lips against his swallows his next words. 

It’s weird. Nothing like the kisses you were used to, it was awkward. His lips were stiff against yours, in fact you don’t think it could’ve even counted as a kiss. It was more a ‘our lips are touching and that’s kinda weird but none of us are gonna pull back’ type of thing. He blinks once, then his eyes flutter shut, his long dark lashes caressing the top of his cheekbone. 

You do the same. 

The moment might’ve lasted two seconds or two years for all you knew. Yeonjun’s hand went lax in your own, his fingers twitching slightly. His lips felt soft, and they tasted almost sweet — like the candy your parents only allowed on special occasions. 

When you finally pull back his jaw hangs slack, his eyes slowly opening as his gaze finds yours. Neither of you speak, and you couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, weirded out or strangely enough, turned on — or all three. You didn’t even know what you were. 

Finally he speaks, “What was–” 

“For letting me crash here”, you quickly say, your voice coming out a lot shakier than you’d anticipated. 

“And for attempting to cook.” 

He clamps his mouth shut once more, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softens. “Yeah?” He echoes, a small grin tugging at his lips. 

“Yeah.” 

“You kinda–” 

“Don’t mention it again.” 

“...” 

You let go of his hand, pulling back like it had stung you. Yeonjun doesn’t comment on it, but you catch the flicker of disappointment striking his features before he covers it with a sly smirk. “Takeout?” He offers, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

“Preferably.” 

THE NEXT MORNING 

The rich slept real fucking comfortable — and as you stretch your limbs out on the mattress, the expensive silk sheets tangled between your legs, you could’ve sworn that at least 23 years of back pain had been cured. Despite it being early morning the sun was already piercing through the thin curtains of the guest bedroom, making you squint against its bright rays. 

Thankfully Yeonjun had gone back to being a self centered and arrogant prick shortly after dinner last night. The kiss was still fresh in your mind, and every reminder was like a harsh slap across your face, more specifically your lips. Luckily he hadn’t mentioned it, and neither had you. It was better to just forget it all together — your situation was messy enough as is. 

With a tired groan, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, gingerly getting up as you trudge toward the door, nature calling you urgently. 

The house is still silent as you step out into the hallway and you glance both left and right to secure the area before making a move toward the bathroom. Every sound becomes intensified in the quiet morning air and you wince when you accidentally knock one of the vases on your descent down the hall. 

Breathing out a sigh of relief only when the bathroom door closes behind you, you go about your business quickly. Yeonjun lingers in the back of your mind — but not for the reasons he had these past two days. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above the sink, you frown at the state of your face. 

“Jesus, I look like shit.” 

He’s probably disgusted with the kiss — well, all the more reason not to bring it up at least. You would talk to him about finding another living situation for the time being. He was practically a stranger after all. It would be weird for you to keep staying here, right? With those exact thoughts in mind you push the bathroom door open, only for it to slam against something — or rather, someone. 

Startled, you let out a shriek as you come face to face with an actual stranger. 

“What the fuck?” You bark as you take a quick step back, your injured arm hitting the wall and sending a spark of pain through your body. — “Who the fuck are you?” 

“I ought to ask you the same thing.” 

The man, who looked to be your age, says as he peers over at you, the glasses on his nose sitting crooked. Then his eyes flicker down the hall. “Yeonjun! What did I say about warning me when you have hookers over?” He shouts, the irritation in his voice palpable. You were almost too stunned to catch the term he’d used to describe you with. But only almost. 

“Excuse me?” 

He gives you a quick one-over, “You’re excused.” 

Your jaw slacks and you’re quick to raise your good fist. 

“Listen here you little shi–” 

Milliseconds away from getting your swing at the man, you freeze when someone grabs ahold of your wrist. Snapping your head to your left, you find Yeonjun next to you with a conflicted look on his face. “Taehyun”, he says through gritted teeth, his grip on your wrist unwavering, “I see you’ve met my guest.” 

The man, Taehyun, gives you another glass, his dark eyes peering at you through his glasses. His lips part once his gaze lands on your bandaged arm — had this been a cartoon, a small light bulb would have probably been lit above his head right about now. 

“Oh.” 

He immediately clears his throat, reaching a hand out for you to take. Snatching your arm back from Yeonjun’s grasp, you awkwardly extend your left hand, making Taehyun mumble out a quiet apology as he, too, switches hand. The handshake is somewhat awkward, as you both exchange names, and you learn that Taehyun is Yeonjun’s assistant. Figures. He looked like a nerd. 

An awful silence settles over you after that as your unfortunate trio shifts in the hallway. Yeonjun is the first to speak, his brows tugged into a frown as he regards his assistant. “Why are you here? Did my father–” 

“No.” 

Taehyun cuts him off with a shake of his head, “Worse.” 

Yeonjun’s frown deepens, “What could possibly be worse than–” 

“The CCTV footage from six days ago.” 

“Oh.” 

Confused, you glance between the two of them. “Footage of what?” You ask. Yeonjun avoids your gaze like it might blind him, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweats as he studies the floorboards beneath him. You turn to Taehyun, an expectant look on your face. 

“The crash.” 

“Accident”, Yeonjun quickly chimes in, though quickly quieting down when both you and his assistant send him a sharp glare. 

Stunned, you blink twice. “Wait, you mean to tell me there was footage of him hitting me?” All this time you had thought it would’ve been your word against his, should you ever bring it to court. And who would trust someone unable to afford their own lawyer? But a video of what had happened that night… It would change everything. 

“Shit”, you say as you turn to Yeonjun who looked like someone had drained the blood from his face. 

“You’re fucked”, you scoff as you give his shoulder a shove. 

Yeonjun shoots you a glare, “Should’ve reversed up on you.” 

You roll your eyes, dismissing him as you turn back to Taehyun with your good hand on your hip. “So, when are we going?” 

“In thirty minutes.” 

“Oh.” 

“I would’ve been here an hour ago if Yeonjun picked up his phone.” 

“Asshole.” 

30 MINUTES LATER 

Court was fucking lit. A little less excessive wigs of course, but the judges were still dressed in robes and one of them had one of those funky little hammers made out of tree, a gavel, your lawyer had said it was called. — Oh right, you’d gotten lawyers as well, epic. Knowing that there was an actual video with hard proof evidence of what had happened that night made you feel strangely at ease. 

“What was your name again?” 

“Kai.” 

Your lawyer did not seem as relaxed — you couldn’t fathom why. 

“Rough day at work?” 

He quirks a brow in your direction, “Something like that.” 

You scoff, “I can imagine. I mean, having to combat that thing.” You motion toward the opposite side of the courtroom where Yeonjun was currently sitting. His arms were folded across his chest, his dark hair neatly styled. He was dressed in a suit, which was a lot more convincing than the simple dress pants and blouse you wore. You had stopped by your apartment on the way, and it was only a miracle that some of your clothes were still intact. 

Yeonjun’s lawyer sits beside him, you think his name might be something on S. He’s talking to him, but Yeonjun hardly looks to be listening, his dark eyes are stuck on you, a damn near permanent scowl on his face. 

You mouth the words ‘Good luck!’ to him. 

‘Fuck you.’ 

You grimace, whatever. He was going down, one way or another. A part of you almost felt a little bad for him. He’d actually been quite helpful these past two days — even though it had all been to avoid your current predicament. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers. You would take your chances today. 

A loud bang sounds through the room, efficiently quieting down the previous murmur. Your head automatically turns to your right where you find that the bangning noise had come from the peculiar little hammer thing. The judge holding it didn’t look credible in the slightest, with an almost boyish grin on his face and eyes that glimmered with mischief. 

“Ahem”, the man clears his throat, coughing into his closed fists as his eyes gaze out over the crowd. You follow his line of sight, noting Taehyun posted up by the very front row, an anxious look on his face. But when the judge starts speaking, your attention returns to him. — “Good day”, he begins in an overly cheery voice, “My name’s Choi Beomgyu and I’ll be leading today’s trial. Let us commence.” 

The sound of the gavel slamming against the mahogany desk rings in your ears, and the air inside the courtroom suddenly shifts. Kai had given you a brief rundown of your rights and how things worked. He’d informed you what you could say and what you should say. That meant bringing up how you’d exploited Yeonjun for two days probably wasn’t a fantastic addition. 

“Alright, we’ll begin with both sides testifying their side of the story, blah blah— uh, and then we’ll play the provided evidence, mhm, and then… some more questions blah blah..” Beomgyu slams the file before him shut as he leans back in his chair. His sharp gaze flickers between you and Yeonjun, his eyes, despite their mischief, oddly calculating. 

“Listen here, the faster you lot solve whatever happened – the faster we can all skedaddle out of here, and I don’t know about you– but I’ve got someone very special waiting for me at home. And yes, she’s a real woman, not a cat.” — The other judges shift uncomfortably in their seats but none of them comment on the head judge’s oversharing segment. 

“You,” 

Beomgyu’s voice is sharp as he directs it your way and you nearly jump out of your seat upon being so suddenly addressed. 

“Let’s hear it”, he says as he stretches his arms out behind his head. 

You glance over at Kai who gives you a small nod of approval and a look that says, ‘Don’t say anything stupid now’. With a small cough you lean forward, adjusting the small microphone placed on the table in front of you. 

“Uh… So I was walking and–” 

Beomgyu’s yawn pierces the air, somehow overpowering your voice on the mic. He gives you a quick wave with his hand, signaling for you to continue. With a small frown you straighten up slightly. “Well, I was making my way to the subway… It was dark, raining too– and my mascara was running. Do you know how much it stings when you get mascara in your eye?” 

Beomgyu shakes his head, “Can’t say I do.” 

“Oh. Well, that made my sight lessen significantly, and did I mention it was dark too? Yeah so I’m making my way down the street, and I run into this homeless man — completely unprovoked he starts yelling at me, and you can imagine I’ve already had a bad day working overtime, and not to mention my mascara smudging too. Anyway then I–” 

“Objection.” 

You frown when Yeonjun suddenly speaks up, it was the first time he had since you’d arrived here. Beomgyu raises a brow but nods for Yeonjun to continue. 

“This has nothing to do with the accident.” 

Beomgyu purses his lips, as if considering Yeonjun’s words for a moment. 

“You’re right.” 

“But I’m intrigued, and I don’t even wear mascara.”

Beomgyu turns back to you, “Continue.” 

Yeonjun’s sigh is theatrical as he slumps back in his seat and you bite back a smirk as you pull the mic closer to your mouth. 

“So as I was saying, whilst I was hurrying down the street, I came to a road crossing. Now me being a role model civilian and all, I check my left and my right before proceeding. But then–” You pause, glancing around the room as the suspension rose, even Kai is looking up from his papers, his eyes filled with both dread and curiosity. 

“There was light, I’m talking real big flashy ones — and they’re coming fast. There was no way for me to jump out of the way, and before I knew it, something, well more like someone, rammed straight into me.” 

Hushed murmurs erupt amongst the crowd, the judges conversing quietly with each other as their gazes flicker between you and Yeonjun, who was currently adjusting his tie nervously. Beomgyu on the other hand stifled a yawn as he blinked slowly. — You lean back in your seat, giving Kai a small thumbs up which was responded to with a subtle nod from your lawyer. 

“Impressive story telling”, Beomgyu hums as he flips the papers before him, fingers tapping against his desk idly, “You should start a podcast.” Then he promptly shifts in his seat, redirecting his attention to Yeonjun. 

“Alright, take the stage.” 

Not late to bite at the opportunity, Yeonjun practically jumps in his seat as he grabs ahold of his own mic. “Your honor, that is not what happened.” He clears his throat, sending you a quick glare before turning back to Beomgyu. “I as a role model civilian was on my way home after a long day of tiring work. I run a business, so you can imagine that I’m exhausted after a long day.” 

Beomgyu’s brow twitches as he leans forward, “You run a business, what kind? Is it like an ice cream shop?” 

Yeonjuns lips part, “I– No, it’s–” 

“Oh, oh, a children’s store?” 

“No.” 

“Hm. Alright, continue.” 

Yeonjun mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and you watch as his lawyer leans over to whisper something in his ear. He responds with a small nod, his fingers flexing around the mic stand. 

“I was driving home, the roads were practically vacant and I was going comfortably at the speed limit.” 

“Objection!” 

Your yell echoes out in the courtroom, making everyone turn your way. Beomgyu nods, motioning for you to proceed. 

“He was speeding, he had to have been. There was no way he wouldn’t have been able to stop if he wasn’t!” 

“Your honor that is the furthest thing from the truth”, Yeonjun fires back as he glares you down. 

“Then how do you explain it huh?” 

“If you would so kindly allow me to get to the part where my car hydroplaned because of the rain, you would know.” 

“That’s a load of–” 

“Alright!” Beomgyu slams the little hammer against his desk, making you both fall silent as you reluctantly turn to face him. “I reckon we watch the evidence sent in by the state, which would be the CCTV footage from the night at uh… 10:27 pm.”

There’s a slight rustle coming from somewhere to your right as one of the staff workers fiddles with a computer, finally managing to connect it to a projector. Beomgyu leans back in his seat as the footage becomes presented on screen, meanwhile both you and Yeonjun lean forward, eyes glued to the projector. 

With a small bruising noise the video begins to roll. It’s showing the road crossing from a far different angle than you had been witnessing it all. Placed about 10 ft tall on one of the corner buildings, it captures the scene with a fishbowl format. — The whole courtroom is silent, everyone watching intently as quite literally nothing happens. 

Beomgyu’s groan is the first to pierce the still air. “Is there a way to speed it up?” 

The staff member mumbles a quick apology before tapping a few buttons, upping the pace of the footage until a figure makes an entrance. You quickly recognize yourself, drenched head to toe in rain, your arms wrapped snugly around yourself as you dart down the street. Ew, why did you run like that? Whatever. 

You watch your past self run toward the road crossing, barely slowing down to glance left and right before proceeding over the white markings on the ground. You’ve barely made it halfway when the familiar sight of Yeonjun’s car cuts through the screen. It’s coming in at an awkward angle, its wheels locked to the left, testifying that it had actually been hydroplaning. 

The collision echoes on the tape, and the whole courtroom lets out a unified noise of distress, everyone but Yeonjun. It almost hurt even more to watch than it had when he’d actually hit you. 

Beomgyu’s whistle is low and dramatic as he motions for the footage to be rewinded. “Ouch”, he says as he parts his hair with the help of his pinky, “That’s rough.” 

“How the fuck did you walk away with just a broken arm?” He then asks as he glances over at your bandaged arm. You give him a small shrug, “Call it luck.” 

“Well, I think that settles it. — You were speeding, otherwise your car wouldn’t have gone into hydroplane.” 

Beomgyu had already grabbed a hold of the gavel, raising it high as he prepared to slam it against the table when Yeonjun suddenly shot up from his chair. 

“You honor! She was walking toward red!” 

The head judge pauses, arm raised mid air. 

“She actively broke the law!” Yeonjun motions between you and him fervently. 

“Oh fuck off, so were you!” You snap as you, too, leap out of your chair. 

“Well I wouldn’t have hit you if you hadn’t walked toward red.” 

“Well you would have actually seen me if you weren’t speeding.” 

“Ladies–” Beomgyu begins as he raises his hands in surrender, a conflicted look on his face. 

“Don’t you think exploiting me like that for two days was a little too far when you were the first to break the law?” 

“You’re talking nonsense.” 

“Your honor, she made me push her in a wheelchair up a hill!” — “Her legs are perfectly fine!” 

“Oh my god are you still stuck on that?” 

“Yes. Yes I am. My arms ached for days.” 

“So you’re calling me heavy?” 

“In a sense I guess I am.” 

“Your honor, are you hearing this?” 

You turn to Beomgyu, your chest heaving with suppressed anger and injustice as you point an accusing finger Yeonjun’s way. But the head judge is merely yawning, his head tiredly propped up on one hand as he watches the two of you battle it out. 

Kai’s hand tugs at your wrist as he urges you to sit back down. But you merely shake him off, snatching your arm back to wave your hand in front of you dramatically. “No! Don’t silence me!” 

Yeonjun snorts, “I reckon it’d take a lot more than that to shut you up.” 

“You know I’m starting to get real sick of you.” 

“It took you that long to come to the realization?” 

“Can you just shut the fuck–” 

The loud and final bang of the little tree hammer rings out into the room, breaking off yours and Yeonjun’s argument as your heads snap in Beomgyu’s direction. The head judge heaves a tired sigh as he leans back in his chair. 

“This is going nowhere – you both are idiots and off the hook. Now get the fuck out of my courtroom.” 

You blink once, then twice, your gaze darting from Yeonjun, whose reflection was a mirror of your own and over to Kai who looked more relieved than anything. “Wait what?” You dumbfoundedly say as you turn back to Beomgyu. “What does that even mea–”

“It means scram. Go!” 

“God”, he mutters as he slumps against his chair, “I need a margarita.” 

APPROXIMATELY 15 MINUTES LATER 

You stand quietly outside the shut doors of the courtroom you’d just spent an hour in. Your back leaning against the wall and your hands clasped together in front of you, you gaze ahead. The hallway was silent enough to where you could hear a pin drop. 

“Well, this is awkward.” 

“No fucking shit”, Yeonjun scoffs somewhere to your right. He was also leaning against the wall, an equally impassive expression on his face. 

“I can’t believe he kicked us out”, you mutter somewhat petulant as your gaze drops to your feet. 

Yeonjun doesn’t reply as he sighs next to you. For a moment you think he might just pack up and leave, you wouldn’t put it past him anyway. But he doesn’t, instead he clears his throat. 

“So, are we going to address the elephant in the room or?” 

“I swear to god if you’re referring to me I’ll–” 

“You kissed me.” 

Oh. Right. That was hardly an elephant, more like a blue whale on land. You cough into your closed fist, avoiding his gaze like the plague as you debate on how much longer you could prolong your reply. 

“Why?” He turns to you, his shoulder leaning against the wall as he peers at you through his dark lashes. 

“Do I need a reason? Jesus.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek before shrugging, “Felt like it I guess.” 

“You felt like it?” 

“Yeah, what else do you want me to say?” 

Yeonjun huffs, burying his hands into the pockets of his suit as he glances over his shoulder. The tension between you two was worse than inside the courtroom itself and in that moment you just wanted the ground to swallow you whole. 

“Listen, I’m not gonna stand here and explain myself to you so you can either–” 

Your words are cut off by his lips on yours. A small strangled noise wriggles its way from your throat at the sudden proximity he displayed, your eyes going wide and your shoulders stiff. Yeonjun doesn’t seem to care as his hand comes up to caress the side of your face, the touch so oddly gentle and tender that you would’ve probably thought you were dreaming if it weren’t for the uncomfortable way your bra was digging into your chest. 

He doesn’t pull away for a long moment, the seconds dragging on far what seemed like forever, but for some reason you find that you don’t want it to end. And when he finally does part from you, his lips hover just a centimeter above your own. 

“Why?” 

You feel him smirk, his breath hot against your own, “Felt like it.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Does that mean I can do it again?” 

“Yeah.”

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࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚˖𐦍˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔ slut him out .ᐟ.ᐟ

synopsis zayne came home exhausted and frustrated. all he can think of is you blowing him off to forget all this stress.

zayne x fem!reader ☆ SMUT ☆ whiny!zayne (MDNI!)

tags blowjob, overstim, cowgirl, teasing, creampie

note it's my first time to post smut and hoping to improve in the future. i wanted to write about my man zayne aka the father of my children so i hope u enjoy reading n luv ya! <3

Zayne has one thing on his mind. He wants your mouth on his cock as you suck the stress away.

He had a long day in the hospital, and it was even more hectic today. He usually can handle this workload, but he can't seem to forget the other night. You, on top of him as you ride him to his third orgasm that night. He needs you.

He hurriedly finished his work and came home rather earlier than usual. As you heard the door open, you greeted him.

"Hey baby, how's work? Is it hectic?" you asked as you placed a kiss on his cheeks.

"It was more hectic today, but it's okay," he replied rather sullenly. You noticed the difference in his voice and asked if he was okay.

"If I'm being completely honest with you, I'm not, but the entire time, I've been thinking about you," he said while looking at you.

"What were you thinking about, baby?" you hummed as you waited for his answer.

"I've been thinking about you giving me a blowjob, having those lips of yours on my cock," he replied.

"Oh, is that why you're acting like this? It's rather rude to say that without asking me about my day," you teased him while making small touches on his neck.

"How's your day, love?" he whined and seemed to be more occupied with your touches.

"Not like that, baby, but I will forgive you today," you hummed as you guided him towards the sofa.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm just so desperate for your mouth. Please suck me off," he pleaded as you situated yourself between his legs.

"I love when you are like this, so desperate for me. C'mon baby, keep telling me what you want," you encouraged him.

"I want you to… ughh," he whined as you started kissing his thighs. "I want you to suck me… please, pull my pants," he begged as you slowly pulled down his pants, revealing his hard cock.

You shower his cock with light kisses as you tease his length slowly. Making him lose his composure as the minutes go by. "Stop teasing me... please, baby," he whined as you continued stroking him.

Without wasting another minute, your mouth met his throbbing cock. As you slowly bob your head up and down while maintaining eye contact with him. His mouth spewed out the most beautiful moan, and you want to keep hearing those moans.

"Don't stop moaning, baby. I want to hear it all, don't you dare cover your mouth," you demanded as you started to fasten your pace. "Uhhhh, miss… don't stop. Please go deeper," he begged as his moans started getting louder.

Your mouth had reached the base of his cock while your hands played with his balls. You can sense that he was reaching his climax by the way his legs are shaking. This signaled you to even hasten your pace; it rewarded you with a slur of incoherent words and fucks from his pretty mouth.

"Fuck—don't stop, miss. I'm close. I'm gonna cum—" and before you knew it, a spurt of cum rushed down your throat. His moans echoed in your shared living room.

"I'm sorry, miss. I couldn't keep it anymore," he said as he tried to calm down. You pulled your mouth off his cock and asked him to lie on the sofa. "I'm still sensitive, miss. Just give me a minute," he pleaded.

His words didn't matter as you quickly sank down his cock. earning you a loud whine from his mouth as he tries to calm himself, or else he will cum on the spot.

"Fuck—don't move too fast or else—" Before he can finish his sentence, you ride him faster as you try to reach your own climax. As the sound of your skin hitting against each other filled the room. After a few minutes, you finally felt your climax reaching.

"Shit, I'm close, baby," you moaned as you thrust into him.

"Fuck, my legs are shaking, miss. I'm gonna cum too," he whined.

After a few more thrusts, both of you reached your climax. He pressed his lips into yours as you felt his cum slowly filling up your pussy.

You slowly pull out of him and lay on his chest as the two of you try to catch your breath.

"Thank you, love. I will make it up to you, I promise. I love you," as he placed a kiss on your forehead.

"I love you too, baby," as you pulled him closer towards your body.

[jorvikzelda]

I only have one more jorvikpov left to write before it's 90% written

Fuck

[jadevine]

Preindustrial travel, and long explanations on why different distances are like that

Update March 1, 2024: Hey there folks, here's yet another update! I reposted Part 2a (the "medieval warhorses" tangent) to my writing blog, and I went down MORE of the horse-knowledge rabbit hole! https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/741423906984951808/my-post-got-cut-off-so-i-added-the-rest-of-it Update Jan 30, 2024: Hey folks, I've posted the updated version of this post on my blog, so I don't have to keep frantically telling everyone "hey, that's the old version of this post!" https://thebalangay.wordpress.com/2024/01/29/preindustrial-travel-times-part-1/

I should get the posts about army travel times and camp followers reformatted and posted to my blog around the end of the week, so I'll filter through my extremely tangled thread for them.

Part 2 - Preindustrial ARMY travel times: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask

Part 2a - How realistic warhorses look and act, because the myth of "all knights were mounted on huge clunky draft horses" just refuses to die: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/732043691180605440/helpful-things-for-action-writers-to-remember

Part 3 - Additional note about camp followers being regular workers AND sex-workers: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/740604203134828544/reblogging-the-time-looped-version-of-my

--

I saw a post on my main blog about how hiking groups need to keep pace with their slowest member, but many hikers mistakenly think that the point of hiking is "get from Point A to Point B as fast as possible" instead of "spending time outdoors in nature with friends," and then they complain that a new/less-experienced/sick/disabled hiker is spoiling their time-frame by constantly needing breaks, or huffing and puffing to catch up.

I run into a related question of "how long does it take to travel from Point A to Point B on horseback?" a lot, as a fantasy writer who wants to be SEMI-realistic; in the Western world at least, our post-industrial minds have largely forgotten what it's like to travel, both on our own feet and in groups.

People ask the new writer, "well, who in your cast is traveling? Is getting to Point B an emergency or not? What time of year is it?", and the newbies often get confused as to why they need so much information for "travel times." Maybe new writers see lists of "preindustrial travel times" like a primitive version of Google Maps, where all you need to do is plug in Point A and Point B.

But see, Google Maps DOES account for traveling delays, like different routes, constructions, accidents, and weather; you as the person will also need to figure in whether you're driving a car versus taking a bus/train, and so you'll need to figure out parking time or waiting time for the bus/train to actually GET THERE.

The difference between us and preindustrial travelers is that 1) we can outsource the calculations now, 2) we often travel for FUN instead of necessity.

The general rule of thumb for preindustrial times is that a healthy and prime-aged adult on foot, or a rider/horse pair of fit and prime-aged adults, can usually make 20-30 miles per day, in fair weather and on good terrain.

Why is this so specific? Because not everyone in preindustrial times was fit, not everyone was healthy, not everyone was between the ages of 20-35ish, and not everyone had nice clear skies and good terrain to travel on.

If you are too far below 18 years old or too far past 40, at best you will need either a slower pace or more frequent breaks to cover the same distance, and at worst you'll cut the travel distance in half to 10 or so miles. Too much walking is VERY BAD on too-young/old knees, and teenagers or very short adults may just have short legs even if they're fine with 8-10 hours of actual walking. Young children may get sick of walking and pitch a fit because THEY'RE TIREDDDDDDDDDD, and then you might need to stay put while they cry it out, or an adult may sigh and haul them over their shoulder (and therefore be weighed down by about 50lbs of Angry Child).

Heavy forests, wetlands and rocky hills/mountains are also going to be a much shorter "distance" per day. For forests or wetlands, you have to account for a lot of villagers going "who's gonna cut down acres of trees for one road? NOT ME," or "who's gonna drain acres of swamp for one road? NOT ME." Mountainous regions have their traveling time eaten by going UP, or finding a safer path that goes AROUND, so by the time you're done slogging through drier patches of wetlands or squeezing through trees, a deceptively short 10-15 miles in rough terrain might take you a whole day to walk instead of the usual half-day.

If you are traveling in freezing winters or during a rainstorm (and this inherently means you HAVE NO CHOICE, because nobody in preindustrial times would travel in bad weather if they could help it), you run the high risk of losing your way and then dying of exposure or slipping and breaking your neck, just a few miles out of the town/village.

Traveling in TOO-HOT weather is just as bad, because pushing yourself too hard and getting dehydrated at noon in the tropics will literally kill you. It's called heat-STROKE, not "heat-PARTY."

And now for the upper range of "traveling on horseback!"

Fully mounted groups can usually make 30-40 miles per day between Point A and Point B, but I find there are two unspoken requirements: "Point B must have enough food for all those people and horses," and "the mounted party DOESN'T need to keep pace with foot soldiers, camp followers, or supply wagons."

This means your mounted party would be traveling to 1) a rendezvous point like an ally's camp or a noble's castle, or 2) a town/city with plenty of inns. Maybe they're not literally going 30-40 miles in one trip, but they're scouting the area for 15-20 miles and then returning to their main group. Perhaps they'd be going to an allied village, but even a relatively small group of 10-20 warhorses will need 10-20 pounds of grain EACH and 20-30 pounds of hay EACH. 100-400 pounds of grain and 200-600 pounds of hay for the horses alone means that you need to stash supplies at the village beforehand, or the village needs to be a very large/prosperous one to have a guaranteed large surplus of food.

A dead sprint of 50-60 miles per day is possible for a preindustrial mounted pair, IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO. Moreover, that is for ONE day. Many articles agree that 40 miles per day is already a hard ride, so 50-60 miles is REALLY pushing the envelope on horse and rider limits.

NOTE: While modern-day endurance rides routinely go for 50-100 miles in one day, remember that a preindustrial rider will not have the medical/logistical support that a modern endurance rider and their horse does.

If you say "they went fifty miles in a day" in most preindustrial times, the horse and rider's bodies will get wrecked. Either the person, their horse, or both, risk dying of exhaustion or getting disabled from the strain.

Whether you and your horse are fit enough to handle it and "only" have several days of defenselessness from severe pain/fatigue (and thus rely on family/friends to help you out), or you die as a heroic sacrifice, or you aren't QUITE fit enough and become disabled, or you get flat-out saved by magic or another rider who volunteers to go the other half, going past 40 miles in a day is a "Gondor Calls For Aid" level of emergency.

As a writer, I feel this kind of feat should be placed VERY carefully in a story: Either at the beginning to kick the plot off, at the climax to turn the tide, or at the end.

Preindustrial people were people--some treated their horses as tools/vehicles, and didn't care if they were killed or disabled by pushing them to their limits, but others very much cared for their horses. They needed to keep them in working condition for about 15-20 years, and they would not dream of doing this without a VERY good reason.

—

UPDATE January 13: Several people have gotten curious and looked at maps, to find out how a lot of cities are indeed spread out at a nice distance of 20-30 miles apart! I love getting people interested in my hyperfixations, lol.

But remember that this is the space between CITIES AND TOWNS. There should never be a 20-mile stretch of empty wilderness between City A and Town B, unless your world explains why folks are able to build a city in the middle of nowhere, or if something has specifically gone wrong to wipe out its supporting villages!

Period pieces often portray a shining city rising from a sea of picturesque empty land, without a single grain field or cow pasture in sight, but that city would starve to death very quickly in preindustrial times.

Why? Because as Bret Devereaux mentions in his “Lonely Cities” article (https://acoup.blog/2019/07/12/collections-the-lonely-city-part-i-the-ideal-city/), preindustrial cities and towns must have nearby villages (and even smaller towns, if large and prosperous enough!) to grow their food for them.

The settlements around a city will usually be scattered a few miles apart from each other, usually clustered along the roads to the city gates. Those villages and towns at the halfway point between cities (say 10-15 miles) are going to be essential stops for older/sick folks, merchants with cargo, and large groups like noble’s retinues and army forces.

Preindustrial armies and large noble retinues usually can’t make it far past 10-12 miles per day, as denoted in my addition to this post. (https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask )

[hoseoksluna]

— WIP 𐙚 test run | jjk

pairing: longterm!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: smut

rating: 18+

about: due to your adult responsibilities, you haven't sucked your boyfriend's dick in a long time, and it shows.

word count: 0.826

note: i started writing this breeding kink fic super late in the week and because i haven't finished it yet, i'm at least posting a smutty wip for you, my babies. i can't leave you starving on a sunday! big kisses mwah.

context: reader is having a bath. prior this scene, they may or may not talked about having a baby. jungkook came back from work horny. (that's all i can say without spoiling the entire thing skfjlsfjlsfsl. it's vague and simple on purpose, the fic has a different plot i promise).

warnings: stomach kisses, blowjob, male masturbation, jungkookie rubs his dickie in reader's face, he low-key degrades her but softly and lovingly.

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

You freed him from his pants. His cock springs in your face, bringing about your drool. You haven’t seen him in the light for quite some time. Your intimacy with him dwells more in the darkness beneath the covers due to adulthood duties, but in the past—when you were still in school, you both used to fuck like rabbits during the day because there was nothing else to do and the sexual attraction was all-too-consuming. It seems as though the test run is changing it, metamorphosing it back to the way it was, so you could devour fistfuls of it before your intertwined life levels up with the baby. 

Everything happens for a reason, huh. 

When Jungkook stands motionless, the material of his hoodie covering the delicious patch of hair that you want to see, you shoot him a playful dirty look. He blushes in response and you catch his hands trembling as he lifts them to the back of the neckline, ridding himself of the outerwear. He lets it plop to the floor, red in the face, stepping out of his sweats. 

Bare, both of you. Emotionally and physically. 

Your mouth latches onto the carved out muscle next to his belly button, swirling circles on that special zone, so terribly impatient and hungry for him. Jungkook doubles over, groaning, the spot you’re making love to secretly sensitive, and if there’s anything you love more in this world other than him, it’s secrecy. Doing things in secret with him. Not telling anyone. Finding things undiscovered on his body that he learns he likes. That type of shit. 

You were just a twenty year old girl when you brought this sensitivity to light. 

His cock twitches on your neck, hardening even more. Out of your peripheral view, you can see him folding his fist around his girth, moving up and down as you descend lower and lower, scattering rough, wet kisses like you scattered the blossoms beneath you. You can’t take your eyes off of it; him pleasuring himself intoxicates you and you missed it. 

You missed it so fucking much.

“Fuck, I love it when you do that,” you exclaim, your mouth leaping over to the side base of his cock, trailing your tongue from there all the way up to his fist. Jungkook hisses, and the sound melts into a moan once he feels your tongue. 

And it’s like you returned his dominance to him by that gesture. 

Taking you by your jaw, he pushes your mouth down onto his cock, but you keep your eyes on his face. While your clit throbs even more energetically by the intrusion, Jungkook throws his head back, his noises becoming louder and louder the more you suck in your cheeks around him—because that’s all you’re able to do. It’s him who sets the pace, who moves your head up and down on him, and when the ecstasy pulls him under, he looks down at you with gritted teeth, growls because you’re watching him. And it’s at this moment that you gag around him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes out deeply, prolonging the first vowel that penetrates you and teases your clit. His chest heaves as he struggles to take the overpowering delight without bursting in your mouth. “We haven’t done this in so long. Can I fuck your mouth?” You’re dazed, too dazed by the severity of the moment and the beauty of him to respond, by the horniness that overtakes you. Jungkook circles your head on his tip, your tongue following the movement around him, and he loses it. He completely and utterly loses it. “You can’t talk, can you? My poor baby has a mouth full of cock.”

It’s not by your own will that you let out such a squeaky moan—you can’t really help it. It vibrates around him, causing him to whimper and tuck his lips under his teeth, rolling his eyes back. Panting hard, he pulls himself out of you, and you know that is the telltale sign that he’s close. His cock that hovers above your face drools, his red mushroom head reaching your hairline, and your eyes go cross, taking in the size of him as if you’ve never seen him before.

Strangely, everything about this suggests everything pure and new and you’re drunk. Drunk on it all, swaying in the milky pink water while the blossoms brush against your needy feminine parts. And his cock. Jungkook brushes his cock on your face, letting his precum drip onto your forehead, which then rolls down the side plane of your temples. You’re hot all over. He’s never done this before; you’ve never felt the weight of him like this. It connects you to him in a deeper way that your brain is able to comprehend at this moment.

“You want it, baby? You want Oppa to use you like that before he puts a baby in you, hm?” 

Your eyes go cross again.

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

WIP masterlist

[hatethysinner]

I had a cute idea for a fic! It would be really cute if the main character would be taking a stroll around at night and come across Remmick as he’s busking with his banjo and she gets him to sing an old Irish folk song 👀

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ᴡᴄ: 2.8k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this song. please see maybe happy ending and all the other musicals on broadway this season if you can, truly an unmatched year! have y'all clocked me as an obnoxious theater kid yet 😭? dare i say it's the reason i have a speck of writing talent. anyways, i adored this idea because serenades have my heart and it'd be my first time writing one (it was so hard omg), so here she is! not too long relative to my other works because it really didn't need to be, but i hope y'all enjoy it all the same. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nauseatingly sweet pathetic remmick fluff, serenading, excessive mention and meaning placed on fireflies

The fireflies were out again.

They drifted low across the tall grass like they had nowhere else to be, blinking in slow, rhythmless patterns. Like stars that had come down to earth, curious and aimless. The night held them close and cared for, letting them hang in the humid air with nothing but time on their wings.

You’d seen them before, of course. All your life. But some nights, like tonight, they moved differently. Slower. Softer. Like they knew they were being watched. Like they were dancing just for you.

The Delta always felt quieter at night.

It was a quiet no one really trusted. Folks whispered about it, said the dark down here wasn’t like the dark in other places. Said the trees listened. Said the water could keep a secret. You weren’t sure if you believed all that, but you knew one thing for certain: the stillness didn’t scare you.

Not the way it should’ve.

You’d made a habit of it, these late walks. When the air got too thick with thoughts, or the day clung too heavy to your skin, you’d slip outside and let your feet wander. Down past the back fields, across the brush-lined path, until the water showed its silver face and the frogs started to hum. Sometimes you’d bring a jar and catch a few fireflies, just to watch them flicker in your palm. Sometimes you’d sit and count how long you could go without hearing a single manmade sound.

It calmed you. Cleared your head. Gave you something to hold onto when the world felt too loud.

They told you not to.

Warned you, gently but often, that a girl out here at night wasn’t safe. That anything could happen. That there were things in the trees older than time and twice as hungry.

But the quiet had never hurt you.

And the moon, hanging full and watchful above the cypress branches, had never turned its face.

So you kept walking.

Your boots crunched gently in the grass, damp from where the dew was already beginning to gather. You brushed aside a low-hanging branch and stepped over the uneven bend in the path, the one you always forgot was there until it nearly caught your ankle. The creek whispered up ahead, a soft, steady hush, like someone trying to soothe a restless child.

And then,

A sound you didn’t expect.

Music.

You stopped.

Not bugs. Not frogs. Not the wind through the reeds.

Something else. Faint and careful. The pluck of strings, soft but clear. A banjo, you realized, but played low and slow, like whoever held it was afraid of being heard. It had no clear tune yet. Just gentle wandering notes, testing the air.

You tilted your head.

The fireflies blinked around you, catching in your eyelashes and drifting past your cheeks. One landed on the fabric of your shoulder, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You took a step toward the sound.

Then another.

The grass parted beneath your feet, damp and forgiving. The trees thinned out just enough to let the moon through in ribbons. You kept your breath even, your pace light. Didn’t want to scare off whatever strange magic had found its way here tonight.

And still, the music played. Threading through the dark like it belonged.

Like it’d been there all along.

And then you saw him.

Closer than you expected.

Much closer.

You’d followed the sound as if it were drifting from far across the creek, notes carrying on the wind like feathers. But when you stepped past the last veil of tall grass and turned just slightly toward the right, there he was.

Not even ten feet ahead.

Seated with his back to you on a split log bench, angled just enough for the moon to catch on the curve of his shoulder. The banjo lay loose in his lap, not cradled so much as resting there like it belonged. His fingers moved slow across the strings, too gentle to make real music now. Just small sounds. Ghost notes.

He was lean. Pale. His shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Collar loose and open, the dip of his neck catching the moonlight in a sharp, wet gleam. Sweat, maybe. Or something older.

Your breath hitched.

You hadn’t meant to spy on anyone. Didn’t want to. But when you realized how close you were, when you caught the slope of his shoulders and saw the way he rocked just slightly with each flick of the strings, something in your chest went tight.

There was no business for a man, any man, but especially one like him to be out so late. It didn’t sit right. There was no law in the woods, and even if there was, it wasn’t made for you.

You shifted your weight back slowly, trying to step away before he saw you. No sound, no sudden movement. Just a soft, silent retreat.

And then, snap.

A branch underfoot.

Loud enough to crack the night in half.

The man turned so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

You froze.

His head whipped toward you like he’d been yanked by a thread, and suddenly you were caught in the full force of his gaze.

He wasn’t just pale.

His skin carried a strange, ageless warmth. Undertones like honey diluted with cream. Touched by moonlight but not drained by it. Like the sun hadn’t reached him in a long while, but hadn’t quite forgotten him either.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. A mouth that didn’t always know what to do with itself when it settled closed. Soft one moment, tense the next.

And his eyes. Lord.

Blue. Not light, not sky. Deeper than that. Like river water just before it turns black. Old. Tired.

Too large.

Too deep.

Too lonely.

With that faint, impossible pulse of red flickering behind the color, beating slow as a second heart. Like the fireflies floating between you.

And his teeth,

You wouldn’t have noticed, maybe, if the moon hadn’t hit just right. But it did. And there, under the gentle curve of his lips, two fangs caught the light. Not long. Not alien. Just... unmistakable.

He stood.

Not quickly. Not with menace.

But slow. Measured. Careful.

Hands half-raised like he meant to calm. To motion that he existed in peace.

You caught the glint of something at his throat. A simple gold chain, sitting warm against his chest, right in the hollow where his shirt gaped open.

Neither of you spoke.

Not at first.

The music was gone now. The banjo left where it sat on the log, strings still reverberating faintly. The wind had gone still. Even the cicadas hushed.

Just your breathing. Just his.

Just fireflies blinking all around you, slow and golden, their pulses barely out of sync with the red behind his eyes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Ain’t know anyone else walked this stretch,” he said, voice breathy and rough, like it had been a while since he used it. Southern, but not quite. Something twisted at the end of each word. Something careful that he was trying and failing to mask. “Apologies if I startled ya, miss.”

His gaze didn’t shift.

Didn’t dart away.

But he looked almost… nervous. Like you’d caught him with something private. Something delicate.

You should’ve turned.

Should’ve run.

But you didn’t.

You looked back at him, heart still thudding, breath still short, and said:

“You didn’t startle me.”

A pause.

“You play real nice.”

His mouth parted.

Just slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thank ya kindly. That's very sweet of ya.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away from you for just a moment. Tried to stand a little straighter too, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding the banjo. Or being watched by another human being.

“I- uh- I'm Remmick,” he said softly. “I like the quiet.”

His voice sounded careful. Like every word had to be weighed before it left his mouth. You caught the way his fingers twitched, half-reaching for the banjo again like it might steady him.

You nodded, finding your own voice beneath the pulse in your throat. “Me too.”

You told him your name.

He repeated it, soft, almost reverent, like he was tasting it. Like he wanted to make sure he got it right, to hear how it sounded in his own mouth.

He seemed to breathe easier at that. But then his eyes darted back toward the creek, then down at the ground, like maybe he’d overstayed already. His voice lowered, small and unsure.

“If ya’d rather be alone, I can go. Wasn’t meanin’ to trouble anyone.”

The words were earnest, almost clumsy. Like he meant them, but didn’t want to mean them. Like leaving was the last thing he wanted.

You glanced down at the fireflies drifting lazy circles around your boots, blinking like they were eavesdropping on the conversation. The moon made the water shine with silver streaks behind him. His banjo sat quiet at his side, one thin string still vibrating softly from where his hand had left it.

You didn’t know why the words came so easily, but they did.

“You don’t have to leave.”

His head lifted a little too fast, as if he hadn't expected that answer.

“Y’sure?” he asked, voice catching just slightly.

You smiled, small. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

The muscles at the corner of his jaw relaxed. He looked down, then back at you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tentative. Not quite a smile. Something gentler.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fireflies blinked between you, soft and patient.

Then his hand slid over the banjo again, almost hesitant. “Don’t usually have much of an audience.”

You tipped your head, voice light. “That’s a shame. You sound like someone with stories to tell.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, the sound almost surprised. Ran a hand through his hair, tugging gently at the strands near the back of his neck.

“I got one or two,” he murmured. “Old ones.”

The quiet stretched again. Comfortable this time. The kind of quiet that felt like the Delta itself breathing around you.

Softly, you asked, “You know any songs with words?”

He hesitated. You saw it ripple across his face. The nervous flicker behind his eyes, the way his fingers hovered just above the strings.

After a moment: “...One or two.”

You didn’t push. Just stood there, letting the space between you settle.

Another firefly landed on the edge of the banjo’s frame, its glow reflecting faintly in his dark blue eyes. He watched it for a moment like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, finally, his voice broke the stillness again. Faint. Shy.

“I can play you one… if you’d like.”

You nodded, breath light. “I’d like that.”

His eyes met yours again. Misty, uncertain, but grateful. You could've sworn a ghost of a smile had appeared on his lips, before it quickly flew away.

His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment longer as he sat back down, like he had to coax himself forward.

And then, soft and low, he began.

“Oh, the summer time has come…”

The words slipped out like a secret. Barely above a whisper. Unsteady at first. You saw the nerves tighten his throat as he sang, as if even speaking the melody was some kind of quiet confession.

The fireflies blinked in rhythm, their lights pulsing soft as the notes floated into the air. You held your breath without meaning to. Something about his voice, so painfully gentle and kind, wrapped around you like warm cloth.

“And the trees are sweetly bloomin’…”

His gaze kept falling to you between the lines, unsure whether to meet your eyes or drop his own. And each time his eyes caught yours, he seemed to find a bit more footing. Like your presence steadied him, grounded him.

“The wild mountain thyme Grows around the bloomin’ heather…”

You wondered, suddenly, how long it had been since he sang for anyone. Or if he ever had at all. The intimacy of it left your chest tight. Not romantic, not quite. But full. Like standing in a room too small for all the quiet things neither of you could say.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The chorus came softer, steadier. His fingers strummed with more confidence now, like the melody was finally guiding him instead of the other way around.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

You watched his lips form each word, how his jaw tensed just slightly with the shape of every vowel. The moonlight caught faint on his chain. The gold glimmered like a second pulse beneath his throat.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

The breeze stirred between you, lifting the humid air off your skin. And still, he played. Like this space, this moment, belonged to both of you and no one else.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

His voice dipped even lower as the next verse began. His eyes didn’t stray this time. They stayed locked on yours, as though the rest of the world had slipped away.

“I will build my love a bower By yon cool crystal fountain…”

The words stirred something in your ribs. Quiet, curious. A fragile ache you didn’t dare name. He sang them like a promise not meant for you, but falling in your lap anyway.

“And round it I will pile All the wild flowers o’ the mountain…”

The fireflies blinked again, drifting closer between you both, like they too wanted to listen.

You didn’t dare look away.

Not when his voice, his fingers, his eyes had all softened into something so painfully vulnerable it made your breath catch.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

The melody carried through the night, through the hush of the trees and the slow lap of the water. Even the frogs seemed to quiet, as though giving him room to finish.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

His hands slowed on the strings as the final chorus slipped from his mouth.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The last note lingered, floating light as a feather before dissolving into the warm night.

Neither of you moved.

The space between you was still there. The gap. But it no longer felt like distance.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. Nothing fit.

So you just smiled, small and warm.

His breath hitched like that smile was worth more than any words you could have given.

And around you, the fireflies kept on blinking.

The silence stretched for a long moment after his final note. The soft night held it gently, like neither of you dared break it too soon.

Then, without a word, you stepped forward.

The grass whispered beneath your feet. The fireflies parted for you like little floating lanterns, blinking gold as you crossed the space between you.

Remmick didn’t move. Only watched. Quiet, careful. As if the smallest shift might startle you back.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the log beside him. Not close enough to touch, but closer. Much closer than before.

The distance between you narrowed to a small breath of air, shared under the wide Mississippi moon. His eyes flickered toward you once. And then back to the strings. Like even that one glance was almost too much.

He swallowed softly, throat working. You caught it out of the corner of your eye.

His voice, when it came again, was even gentler than before.

Another song.

No introduction. No hesitation. Just music.

And you listened.

Song after song, old ones you half-knew, others that sounded older than the land itself. His voice was steadier now. Richer, somehow. The nerves had melted away. He wasn’t singing to fill the air anymore. He was singing to you. Or maybe with you.

And when your lips finally, softly, quietly joined his on a chorus, neither of you spoke of it.

Your voices braided together like threads of silk.

For a while, you simply sang. As if the night had always been meant for this, for the two of you trading melodies under the low hum of cicadas and the blinking dance of the fireflies.

Hours passed unnoticed.

At some point, the moon shifted higher. The breeze cooled. But neither of you made any move to leave.

Remmick’s eyes, every time they lifted to meet yours, were full of something so profound, so reverent, it made your stomach tighten. Not desire. Not hunger. But something deeper. Something that looked like worship.

He never reached for you.

Never brushed your hand.

But you felt him there, anchoring himself to you with nothing but the weight of his gaze, the softness of his song.

Eventually, as the stars began to pull pale against the hint of coming dawn, his fingers stilled on the strings.

Neither of you said a word.

Instead, you both simply sat there as the fireflies blinked their slow farewell.

And for the first time that night, Remmick spoke again.

His voice was barely a whisper, but full of something that made your chest ache.

“Thank ya for stayin’.”

You smiled.

And in that quiet, you both simply stayed.

Together.

[dakusan]

How skz texts you when you're upset

stray kids ot8 x reader | comfort, emotional support, quiet love, soft boys with warm hearts

🌙 synopsis: you're not alone. not ever. eight boys, eight different ways of showing up when the world feels too loud. some send you memes. some send you playlists. some just send a quiet “i’m here.” when you're unraveling at the seams, they don't ask you to hold it together. they hold you instead—in texts, in voice notes, in the silence between words. this isn't about fixing you. it's about loving you exactly as you are—soft, sad, and still worth everything.

💌 a/n: hi hello yes. i promise i have a job (whilst looking for a new one) but i am also a girl with free time and nothing to do, so i write for you people. plus, i just think everyone deserves to be comforted like this, okay?? anyway. if you’ve had a hard day, I hope this felt like a warm hoodie straight from the dryer. or like… a text that says “u up?” but emotionally stable. as always, thank you for reading my little delusions 💗 p.s. i know it’s a short one but like... short and sweet, right?? i hope it’s sweet??? idk anymore 😭 p.p.s. YES I KNOW MY PIC AESTHETICS ARE WEIRD AND DON’T MATCH OR WHATEVER I’M TRYING… I SEE THE VISION IN MY HEAD OKAY THE EXECUTION JUST BE SUFFERING. leave me alone. smh. p.p.p.s no, i haven't made any songs to match this vibe. lmfao, soz •ᴖ•

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "Star Lost" — Stray Kids

Bang Chan // 방찬 the gentle leader energy

[3:14PM] Hey, angel. I know today’s rough. I won’t push, but I’m here. Want to hop on call? We can sit in silence or talk, your pace. [3:17PM] You’re not alone in this. I promise. (You wake up to a Lo-fi playlist he made just for you, titled: “for when your heart’s tired”)

Lee Know // 리노 silent acts of care

[4:52PM] What do you need? Be honest. [4:54PM] I can cook. Or just sit with you. Or send you mean messages about the universe. [5:01PM] Here. Cat pics. Instant serotonin. (He drops off warm food at your door with a post-it: “Eat. Or I’ll be annoyed. 😒”)

Changbin // 창빈 aggressively loving

[5:03PM] WHO. UPSET. YOU. [5:04PM] I will fight them. Emotionally. And maybe physically. 👊 [5:07PM] Also… I’m proud of you. For just… being you. (He sends voice notes of him beatboxing silly rhythms with your name mixed in. Pure serotonin.)

Hyunjin // 현진 the poetic soft boy

[2:27PM] It’s okay to crumble sometimes. Even stars need to rest. [2:29PM] You are still whole, even when you don’t feel it. [2:34PM] Do you want a drawing? Or a distraction? I can write you a silly haiku. (You receive a photo of a messy sketchbook page with your initials in soft florals.)

Han // 한 chaotic comfort personified

[3:59PM] I see you’re feeling like 🍞 soggy bread. [4:00PM] BUT GUESS WHAT. YOU’RE MY FAVOURITE TOAST. [4:02PM] I’m gonna spam you with memes until you smile or block me. (He sends 17 voice memos. One is a fake commercial for “Anti-Sadness Spray,” voiced by him in 4 accents.)

Felix // 필릭스 human sunshine, through and through

[1:36PM] Hey, beautiful. I felt something was off today… Do you want hugs, words, or just my presence? [1:40PM] You deserve kindness even when your mind says otherwise. (You get a video of him baking cookies, captioned: “Saving one for you, always.”)

Seungmin // 승민 realist with a warm heart

[6:18PM] I know you think you’re being dramatic. You’re not. [6:21PM] Want comfort or tough love? [6:25PM] You’re handling more than most would. Let yourself feel it. (He sends a carefully curated playlist titled: “not okay, but surviving.”)

I.n // 아이엔 the shy but intuitive one

[5:40PM] Hey… are you okay? You don’t have to answer. Just wanted you to know I care. [5:46PM] Do you want to watch something later? I’ll even pretend not to hate romcoms. [5:49PM] You matter to me. Just… wanted to say that. (You later find out he stayed up playing your comfort game just to send you tips.)

[silasours]

ৎ⸝⸝⠀FAV POSITIONS ! —

#pairing : lucifer, alastor, vox, valentino, gn reader. #cw : 18+ content, mdni. unprotected sex. different intercourse positions. praise kink. edging. creampie. overstimulation. sub reader. really soft luci!! usage of 'doll' on alastor's part. #summary : their favorite positions to fuck you in bed !! or something. #note : if you're wondering where the male version of giving/receiving head is, it'll take longer to be posted than you might think :3 I currently do not have the spark to write for that idea.

ʚ LUCIFER .

spooning / missionary position. lucifer prefers to hold you whole while fucking, it provides a sense of security and satisfaction to him at the very least. he would have his arms around your body almost throughout the whole session.

the bright, blinding sun peeps through the small gap between the curtains that covers the windows in your shared room. your fingers claw into the soft bed sheets, droopy eyes fighting to lift open considering how you woke up to lazy thrust of lucifer's hips.

it seems that the both of you almost instantly fell asleep after last night's intercourse while having him remain buried deep in you. it wasn't until when he woke up earlier than you did and felt a warm sensation he normally wouldn't feel that he realized that he slept through the night with his length nestled inside of you.

for some odd reason, that thought alone riled him up. he grunted after feeling his cock twitch inside of you, a shaky breath leaving his lips and hitting your skin. feeling his gaze falling onto your back that faced him, he slowly moved his hips, lips leaning in to press sloppy kisses from your shoulder to the back of your neck. he wanted to wake you up, to have you feel good along with him.

and that brings you to where you are now; body held closely against his, his lean arm wrapped around your waist as his forehead leans against your shoulder. he thrusts at a quicker pace compared to before, soft whines and groans spilling from his lips and so does yours.

every time your skin comes in contact with one another, a throaty moan would be drawn from you with your eyes closed tight. the fog in your head has yet to subside completely, and lucifer is already working to add in more haze to your mind. you feel him dragging deliciously along your walls, body still unable to adjust to the burning sensation at this time of the day.

"morning, baby," he whispers against your now flushed skin, a grin growing on his face when he hears you moan. you grasp onto the soft sheets tighter; him spooning you while fucking into you allows him to reach areas that he normally isn't able to. the feeling made your vision grow blurry, unable to focus on anything other than pleasure.

you moan his name weakly, words incomprehensive as they leave your mouth without giving them another thought. you hear lucifer mumbling about him reaching close to his climax, his grip on your hips tightens significantly as well as the pace of his trust. it merely took a couple more thrusts of his hips before he spilled his warm release inside of you, your body shaking as you climaxed along with him.

your breath is hot against the bed sheet, a strong wave of exhaustion hitting you like a ton of bricks. lucifer feels the same thing as you do, his upper body falling onto the bed with a soft thud as his elbow gives out. you feel him pull you in closer into his embrace, soft murmurs of sweet nothings into your neck as the both of you drift into yet another slumber for the day.

ʚ ALASTOR .

doggy style / leapfrog position. he likes watching you from above as he fucks you into a mindless, moaning mess. having a clear view of the effect he has on you is exactly what he aims for especially under activities like this, and this positions provides him just the thing he wants. i used doggy style here :3

you feel cold tentacles wrap around your thighs and push them further apart, legs threatening to give out with the hold of his tentacles being the sole support for your body. today is a day when alastor returns home frustrated; his red locks were slightly messed with splinters of hair poking out, brows furrowed on his forehead and his usual grin didn't seem as bright as they usually do.

you did not have much time to register his situation and ask him before getting lifted up by his tentacles, sharp coldness stings your skin where they wrap around. darkness surrounds the both of you before disappearing when you both appear in the bedroom that you share, your body being tossed onto the bed as the hold of his tentacles on your body remains.

despite being harsh and all, there's always a hint of softness in alastor's actions like vocally asking to make sure you're alright and not hurt occasionally. his clawed hands have a firm hold on your hips, his own snapping onto yours brutally to the point where the bed would creak ever so often. your eyes roll back until it's almost completely white, mouth hanging open as uncontrollable babbles roll off your tongue.

his eye twitches in excitement at the sight displayed below him, the sight of you taking him in so nicely drawing out a groan from his throat. slowly, another one of his many tentacles snakes from his back and plunges itself into your mouth through your parted lips, the dampness of your mouth already coating a layer onto it.

"look at you. such great performance from you, doll." praise falls through his gritted teeth while he thrusts into you, doing his best to contain his noises, avoiding being overly vocal. being less vocal makes him feel like he's more of the one in control, despite wanting to let them out so badly because of how good you feel.

you return with a muffled moan in response, walls clamping down on him while you choke on the tentacle that reaches the back of your throat. alastor's grin widens, allowing his tentacles to grip tighter around your thighs, and the other one curls in your mouth. hot tears slide down your face as you feel a strong release approach closer with each of his hard thrusts, a buzzing sound filling your ears along with a few words that he speaks.

the coil in your stomach snapped suddenly without allowing you to vocally warn him about it, your upper body giving out while your lower remains upright solely from the support of his hold. your body shakes intensely, face pressed far into the bed sheet; a spasming mess is what alastor would describe you as currently.

your consciousness was about to fade before your eyes snapped wide open once again, feeling a sudden stretch with a loud slap of your skin. he has not reached climax yet, so of course he's not done.

"will you be so obedient and allow me another round, hm? i have not achieved my goal yet, you see."

ʚ VOX .

mating press position. what can i say, he's absolutely smitten over how you look when he presses you down while fucking deep inside of you. he gets to hear you moan and ramble about how deep he's in, feeling your muscle tense in his hold whenever the tip of his cock kisses the spot inside of you. he's drunk on the feeling and view, always wanting more of it which results in multiple rounds until the both of you are overstimulated.

"doin' so good f' me," vox's voice is shaky along with a slight glitch, heavily hinting at the pleasure he's receiving. a streak of pink line connects from the corner of his mouth down to the frame of his screen, a wobbly grin plastered on his face.

his clawed fingers hold a firm grip on the back of your knees, pressing them onto your chest while simultaneously rocking his hips against yours. his gaze locks with the thick liquid that oozes out from you every time his cock fully pushes in, forcing the liquid out and rolling down your clammy skin. the demon moans at the sight, significantly increasing his pace and making you yelp in surprise.

you're fuzzy from overstimulation, barely able to comprehend simple sentences as they're all just a blur in your mind. your hands are folded onto your face, tears and saliva sprawled everywhere messily on your face with your knee occasionally hitting your cheeks. every time you'd mumble about how it's 'too much' or 'you can't go for any more rounds', vox would shut you up with a harsh slap on your thigh before resuming on fucking your pretty hole with a chuckle.

he's tired, too, from round after round of ejaculation. it feels like he has nothing more to offer, but god are you unresistible. he craves more of his name spilling out as pretty noises from your lips, craves for the warmth of your velvet walls engulfing his sore erection, craves for another satisfying sight of him filling you up with his seed all the way to the brim.

his eyes light up as an idea pops into him, his fingers gripping tighter onto your legs. the tip of them light up a bright color of blue before vanishing suddenly, a sudden shock of small electricity piercing through your skin from his fingers. your body jolts at the sudden unfamiliar sensation, a different kind of noise slipping from your tongue. your eyes are wide, gaze that met his in confusion and pleasure.

vox grins at your reaction; he loves it. it's obvious that you did, too, feeling how tight you squeezed around him when you felt the sudden electricity shock send through your veins. he leans forward, only increasing his thrusts as he readies to send yet another wave of electricity through his fingers. he found a brand new way to toy with you, to draw out pretty noises that he always get drunk on.

"you like that, huh? squeezing around me like that, s' like you're begging for more my love."

ʚ VALENTINO .

lotus / heatwave position. he either likes to see you struggle to pleasure him properly or fuck you over the kitchen counter or any high tables he has in his office. he finds it hot to limit your movements, watching you helplessly take in anything and everything he has to offer. i used heatwave pos. here :3

“fuck, val, c-can’t we do this in- hngh, bed?” you groan in frustration before getting cut off by a moan, a hand gripping tightly onto his arm and another on the corner of the countertop. your leg was thrown over valentino’s shoulder when he lifted you onto the counter top, giving him a perfect display of you for himself. he gave you a breathy laugh before he replied teasingly. “this is fun, no? It feels better than the bed.”

out of all places, he chose to do it at the countertop, the place where you can barely move around to avoid falling off. he only chuckled everytime you complained and whined, shutting you up with a thrust of his fingers inside of you. 

toying with you like this has always been his favorite. he knows exactly what and where to reach in you just to make your legs tremble and body shudder in pleasure, soft moans of his name that spills as you plead for more. he carries on providing pleasure to you until he feels the gummy walls around his fingers tighten, signaling a close approach of climax; he remove his fingers completely from you and deny your orgasm.

he watches you whine, trying to pull his hand back as you tighten around nothing out of desperation. valentino watches with a shit-eating grin on his face, leaning forward to bite on your earlobe while whispering. “hm, why don’t you tell me exactly why i should give you what you want?” he pauses for a moment before continuing, his voice sweet like honey cooing into your ear. “I’m waiting, carino~” 

you grunt, hating the cheekiness of his behavior yet desperate for a sweet release. giving in slightly, you glare at him with glistening eyes while running your mouth with sweet words in hopes of them being enough to convince him knowing how playful this man could get. he gazes down at you while holding your leg over his shoulder, lips grazing over your ankle as a ghosting kiss. he shows no response to your words, just doing whatever he was with half-lidded eyes.

just as you thought your attempt failed, you feel his sudden thrust into you, a spark of pain and pleasure shoots all the way to your head. your breath gets caught in your throat, a loud gasp leaving your lips, body freezing in place to adjust to the sudden stretch. valentino drinks in your reaction with a hungry gaze, earning a low grunt from him as he pulled his hips back slowly before thrusting forward again. excitement bubbles in his chest, his upper row of sharp teeth biting down on his lower lips.

he doesn’t waste another second on waiting and starts rolling his hips at a steady pace. he moans in great pleasure, both pairs of his arms hold you firmly to avoid you falling off. your face burns more than usual because of how exposed you feel being in this position, yet it also riles you up a whole lot. you already feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten, begging to snap after multiple denies from your partner. 

valentino feels it, of course. instead of slowing down or completely moving himself, he increases the pace to the point where the tip of his cock is able to press on the sensitive spot inside of you. your chest heaves heavily with yet another gasp, gritting your teeth because of how much it triggers the coil in your stomach. your knuckles gradually turn white from how hard you’re gripping the demon, moaning at how close you are to your sweet release. 

everything came to a halt when he suddenly stopped his movements. he has denied your orgasm, again. you groan in frustration, hitting his chest with your fisted hands with a frown on your face. valentino snickers at your reaction, completely unfazed by your annoyance. he has all the time he needs to play with you, after all.

© silas ( @silasours ). all rights reserved. every work posted on this account belongs to me, and only me. please refrain from reposting, plagiarizing, translating, or reproducing my work in any form possible.

[ifyoucandaniel]

favorite fics of 2024/basically just batfam fic rec list

It's that time of year guys, here is my favorite fics of 2024 in no specific order (aka my master batman fic rec list bc that's all i read this year with some spider-man thrown in there lmao). most of these have been in my previous rec lists, but this is just like one big frankenstein’s monster of a fic rec with all of them in one place <3

starting off strong, anything @bluelotuswrites's hands have touched is pure gold. Red is the Color of Sinners placed post UTRH where after being hit by bruce's batarang and now mute, jason decides to leave gotham and go to hell’s kitchen for a fresh start, but he keeps running into daredevil both in and out of costume. this is possibly the best jason of all time i rotate him in my mind like a microwave all day

The Hellblazer's Apprentice is an all blades jason fic where instead of continuing his lost days world tour, he meets john constentine and decides to learn magic to piss of bruce. blue added some lore to jason’s character in this that to this day makes my brain vibrate with excitement and the dynamic between john and jason is just ?? so good. both of these fics haunt me, they follow me wherever i go, i love them. read everything she's written, trust me

going with the theme of my favorite authors i read this year, @cdelphiki wrote my favorite read of the year and possibly all time Life Happens a fic that hit me like a sucker punch where tim and damian are both sent to a different dimension where everyone they know are comic book characters. with no other choice, they have to start a new life in this world while they wait for rescue. words just dont do it justice, please please read this fic. it’s the most beautiful story on growing and life

their other fic Jason and the Three Terrors crosses my mind at least once a day if not three times. jason is still with the league when talia charges him with getting damian, his cousin mara, and his secret sister athanasia to bruce safely from ra's. the rest of the fic is jason going from "i cant wait to get rid of these kids" to "these are my kids, i need to provide for them and keep them safe and i would die for them" 100/10 jason's character development is some of my favorite in any fic.

The Time Before is another of my favorites where jason is sent back in time to when he was 9 and goes to bruce for help and realizes maybe his memories of bruce maybe aren't all accurate. just read everything cdelphiki has ever written, trust me <3

Split by @wolfsbanesparks i have never been hooked on a character i previously did not know much about faster than when i read this fic. Billy and shazam are forcefully separated into separate bodies by black adam and then they have to try to keep billy's identity secret somehow while working with the justice league to fix them. the end of this fic had me sending paragraphs and 5 minute voice notes to my friends, trying to explain why i was so absolutely distraught and obsessed.

also by wolfsbanesparks, From the Shadows is basically everything you could ever want from a billy batson joins the batfam fic. it's got plot, it's got identity shenanigans, it's got badass magical billy, what more could you possibly need! seriously idk what is up with everything wolfbanesparks writes, but the endings are always so fucking good, 100/10.

Something in the Static by @bonerot19 is one of my favorite jason series ever, i go back to it constantly and think about it all the time. this is a series where jason's mom doesn't die and his dad isn't in prison, instead he's 17 working nights at a convenience store when everything changes and suddenly batman won't leave him alone. this is my favorite jason & steph best friends fic ever and the way this fic is paced scratches an itch in my brain, the flow of the story is just perfect

Buy Back the Secrets by @vinelark is the only ship fic on here and it deserves a place of honor. every time i get an email that it's updated an angel gets it's wings and my friends all get texts in all caps. Timkon fic where kon still doesn’t know tim’s civilian identity, but tim keeps calling for superboy when he's in trouble which leads to kon meeting him as a civilian. the identity shenanigans are just so top tier, its a 5 + 1 fic so every chapter is just just a new world of fun tropes. the chapter with tim's fake uncle and jason is actually probably my favorite chapter of a fic ever its so dear to me. as far as i'm concerned, this fic is the only timkon ever <3

Honoring Promises by LananiA3O is the shortest fic on this list and is the most important jason & dick post UTRH fics i've ever read. this fic both scratched an itch and created an itch because i need 100 more chapters and for it to never end. set post UTRH when dick starts to rethink his opinion on a note jason left him and realizes it was jason reaching out and decides to find him and fix things. this goes up there with RITCOS in the post UTRH fics where jason decides to just fuck off and do his own thing, i love them

Adopting a New Plan by A_Silly_Gander is yet another fic where jason winds up with an adoption problem when he first comes back to gotham. however, my favorite part of this whole fic is how the author writes jason making mistakes and being flawed and how those mistakes affect him. absolutely 10/10 character development and jason rejoining the batfam + damian and jaosn meeting in the LOA tag is just a mixture of all my favorite things, i love this fic so much

A Collision of Masks by MOVAZ is my favorite dick grayson fic ever, its set in a young justice AU where batman never joined the JL and YJ never met dick, so when the YJ team is sent to investigate a new vigilante, nightwing, identity shenanigans ensue. this is seriously such a fun fic, i loved all the crossover between dick's many identities and the YJ team

Cards on the Table by @wesslan is just!!! so fun oh my god. the chapter titles are to this day my favorite things ever they enhance the experience. it’s about tim being a scam fortune teller who knows a lot more than he should about the upper class due to his nighttime stalking. he winds up meeting the batfam and giving some scarily accurate advice which leads to him being tied up in their business and lots of lying <3 it’s such a fun fic and i just love the vibes 100/10

Hand in Unloveable Hand (a chokehold) by @a-large-orange-cat is by far my favorite fucked up tim fic! while tim’s out taking pictures of batman and robin as a kid he gets kidnapped by black mask and raised to take over his crime empire. cue 50k of manipulation and angst, the ending is so satisfying and the sequel with jason always makes me :’) very good, this tim lives in my mind in a little house he and jason built

Dark Matter by @mysterycyclone because would it be a fic rec without the loml? i love this fic so much oh my god, it sent me back on my spiderman obsessed bullshit which in turn led me back down my marvel bs. post infinity war peter is dusted and wakes up in the DC universe with the ghosts of the dusted avengers following him. i love this fic so much, nothing compares to this peter in my mind. the dynamic between him and the batfam + the identity angst is just so well done

keeping up with the peter theme, The Teenage Vigilante's Guide to Saving New York (And Making Friends Along the Way) by candlesneedflame is such a good team red/mentor matt fic oh my god. where peter goes against tony’s wishes and starts hanging out with daredevil and his friends and maybe starts getting mentored by new york’s vigilantes. 10/10 i love peter interacting with the other vigilantes and also matt mentoring him

anyways, that’s all folks! 2024 was the year for the DC and marvel fics clearly and hopefully 2025 will be the year of me binding all of these finally and having them sitting pretty on my shelf <3

[4pologygir1]

✶ BEAUTIFUL BOY ✶

spencer reid x reader | angst / hurt-comfort | 2.6k words

cw: post tobias hankel reid, established relationship, addiction/dilaudid abuse, needles mentioned, withdrawal symptoms, emotional distress, intense arguments, mean spencer but he isn’t mean he’s just struggling, themes of codependency, rehab mentions, recovery, brief mentions of vomiting… overall just pretty sad :( but it’s okay! he’s alright! oh and use of y/n.. (i know, i'm sorry!) basically reader loves him and gives him the support our guy SHOULD have had!!!

summary: he used to be all coffee spoons and poetry, soft hands and fast facts—but now he’s gone, and you’re searching. a fic about staying. about what it means to love someone through. heavily inspired by the 2018 film beautiful boy.

---

He hasn’t come home in three days.

You stop trying to sleep. You stop waiting for his key to rattle in the door. You stop wearing the sweater he left on the couch because it doesn’t smell like him anymore—it smells like dust and old coffee and panic.

You pace. You whisper his name to the walls. You turn your phone up so loud it startles you every time it buzzes, even when it’s not him. 

You leave the porch light on. Always. You tell yourself that it’s for safety, but it’s really a lighthouse. If he’s out there somewhere, maybe he’ll see it.

You check in with Garcia—clumsily, cloyingly, ashamedly. She tells you she’s worried too. She won't elaborate when you ask her if the rest of the team has noticed anything off about him.

You leave notes in bookstores, libraries, coffee shops:

He will sometimes send you funny emails. He prefers spaghetti over penne.

Have you seen my boyfriend?

Have you seen my beautiful boy?

Tell him I miss him.

You talk to strangers. You learn the faces of local street people by heart. You ask, gently, over and over:

Have you seen him? Tall, messy hair, talks fast, brown eyes like burnt sugar. Has anyone seen Spencer?

You start writing letters you never send.

I miss the way you talk when you’re tired. I miss how your hands fidget with receipts. I miss you. Please come home. Please be home so that I can come home to you. Where are you, Spencer? What can I do?

And when you finally sleep, you dream of him as a child, wandering around alone and calling your name like he’s the one who lost you.

---

When he returns, it’s like someone else is wearing his skin. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, the way they were after Tobias Hankel. But this is different. Less trauma, more...hunger.

“Hey,” you whisper. He flinches like the sound is too loud. “Where were you?”

Spencer shrugs, shuffling past you, eyes downcast.

You notice the tremble in his fingers, the way he scratches at his arm absentmindedly.

He doesn't want to talk. He wants to pretend. Pretend this is fine.

So you cook him spaghetti. You ask him about a crossword puzzle. You pretend, too.

But later, when you find the vial in his coat pocket, you stop pretending.

---

He gets mean. Not all at once. It isn’t immediate, It's little barbs at first. Corrections that feel more like punishment than help. Eye rolls. Disdain. Cold silence when you touch him. You start to feel like an intrusion in your shared apartment.

“You know,” he says one night, “for someone who reads as much as you do, you don’t really understand people very well.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugs, smirking to himself bitterly, eyes sharp like knives. “Just saying.”

You walk away. Not because you're mad, but because you're afraid you'll cry in front of him. And he's not him when he sees your tears these days. He twists them into guilt trips or throws them back at you like weapons.

But some nights, when he thinks you’re asleep, he holds your wrist like a lifeline. Murmurs your name in apology over and over again.

You keep letting him in. You love him. Even when it hurts.

---

It happens after he misses your anniversary. After you wait in a candlelit apartment for four hours with a trembling glass of wine and a heart that thuds with dread.

When he walks in at 3 a.m., he smells like motel soap and chemical sweetness.

“Where the hell have you been?”

He scoffs, dropping his bag. “Don’t start.”

“No, Spencer. I am starting. I’ve been quiet. I’ve been supportive. I’ve held you when you shook, and I lied to your friends, and I—”

“You lied to my friends?”

“You told me you didn’t want them to see you like this.” 

He throws his keys against the wall. You try not to react, but you can’t help but flinch. “God, you’re just like them! You don’t actually love me—you love some.. version of me that you made up in your head.”

“This isn’t who you are. This sickness. I know you, baby. I know my beautiful boy, and this isn’t him.”

He throws his hands up in the air. You notice the tremors. “You’re just embarrassed ‘cause I was like.. You know, I was this amazing thing, like, your special creation or something, and you don’t like who I am now.”

“I thought we were close,” you sob. “I thought we were closer than most girlfriends and boyfriends! Why?”

“I felt better than I ever had,” he spits. “What am I supposed to do? After that case… I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I feel alive now. You need to quit trying to fix me and just let me be happy.”

“This isn’t us,” you whisper, chest heaving. “This is not who we are.”

He stands there, face twisted in something between rage and grief.

“This is me, Y/N! Here, this is who I am!”

You don’t have the chance to part your lips for your response before he shoots you down.

“What are you doing, huh? You always have to be controlling everything all the time!”

The next hour is spent with harsh words and strained yells confined by the walls that once held nothing but love and domesticity. You confront him about how your shared bank account is seemingly draining more and more each week. He tells you to go through your monthly subscriptions. That’s the moment it becomes even clearer. An alcoholic will steal your wallet and lie to you. A drug addict will steal your wallet and then help you look for it.

You collapse into a chair. You don’t look up when he storms out.

---

You wake up to an empty house.

You check every motel in Alexandria. Every street in Quantico. Every subway station in D.C.

You visit every needle exchange program in a 30-mile radius. You even try shelters, pretending you're his wife, or sister, or... anything that makes it easier to say please help me find him.

You carry a photo of him folded in your wallet. You hold it out like it’s sacred.

You tell stories about him to strangers:

He solves puzzles in seconds. He cuts his own hair. He can read seven languages. He cries during documentaries. He never matches his socks. He writes letters for me to wake up to when he leaves for work. He’s a good man. He’s just... sick right now.

It’s raining the night you find him.

He’s curled up outside a gas station, legs pulled to his chest, jacket soaked. You can’t tell if he’s crying or just drenched.

“Spencer?”

He blinks, slow and vacant.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “You.”

You kneel beside him. “Don’t move. I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t... I don’t think I want to go home,” he slurs.

You swallow your sob. “Why not?” You manage to say in a way you could only describe as weak.

“‘Cause you’ll hate me if I do.”

“I don’t hate you. Oh, I don’t hate you. I hate-” You can’t help but choke up, brushing strands of hair stuck to his forehead back. You force the words out anyway. “I hate what using has done to you. This- This anger, it isn’t my boy. It’s the drugs talking, don’t you know that? Because I do, Spencer.”

He looks at you like you’re a sort of savior, someone who will take this pain away. You catch your reflection in the car window as you carry him to the passenger seat. You look more like a confessional. Somewhere to voice your sins and be cleansed of them. Again and again. A seemingly endless process that you go through every other time you manage to find him.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he breathes. “I just want to be home.”

You press his head to your shoulder and wrap your arms around him.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, honey.”

---

It's hell.

He shakes. He sweats through his clothes. He throws up until there's nothing left and still his body heaves. He cries. He curses. He begs you to make it stop.

“I can’t—I can’t—” he gasps one night. “Please, angel, please just a little—just one more time—I swear I’ll stop after, I swear.”

You kneel beside the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks. “No, baby. You know I can’t do that. God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You say through his incessant begging.

He claws at his chest. “I’m dying.”

“You’re healing.”

He knocks a water glass off the nightstand, thrashing as he presses his fingertips into the dark, hollow circles of his eyes. “You can’t do this to me. Just—” He brings his hands down to his inner elbows, scratching.” “Give me some money. I can get it. I need it.”

“And I need you!” you cry. “I can’t give you any money, and you know I won’t. Where does this end, Spencer?

He turns his face away.

But later, when the sun begins to rise, he reaches for your hand.

---

The worst comes weeks later. He’s been clean. Recovering. Trying.

But relapse lurks. 

Days are spent writing on every online page you can find.

Fortunately, I have a boyfriend, my beautiful boy

Unfortunately, he is a drug addict.

Fortunately, he is in recovery.

Unfortunately, he relapses.

Fortunately, he is in recovery again.

Unfortunately, he relapses.

Fortunately, he is not dead.

This repetitive cycle doesn’t feel any easier now, only different. You miss his call at first—your phone is buried in the laundry. 

When you finally pick it up, your hands are shaking. Partially in fear that he won’t be your Spencer, but also sick with the dreadful thought that there may not be a Spencer anymore.

“Y/N,” he whispers. “I wanna stop... but please, please, please, please, please no rehab, alright? Just let me come home.”

You close your eyes, tears falling freely.

“You know what? I realized it’s actually—I need to be at work. Solving cases, helping people. That’s gonna give me the strength to stop. Alright?”

You breathe out. Steady. Gentle. Grieving.

“I wish that I could do that, Spence. But I can’t.”

The silence on the other end is soon ntrrupted by crackling as he shifts the phone in his shaky grasp. You can almost picture him outside, either laying on the dingy floor of a cheap motel room or sitting out on the steps of some old building. Waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to give him money. Waiting for you to leave. Waiting for his dealer. Waiting for it to kick in.

“Y/N…”

“I wish… I wish that I could do that for you, but I can’t. That’s not what you need, Spencer. You need to go somewhere where they can help you.” You sniffle, and hope he doesn’t hear it. “Help you in ways that I can’t.” You specify, keeping your voice level.

He sobs.

“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll go.”

---

And he does.

It’s hard. It's awful. It's beautiful.

He writes you letters. You visit when you can. Sometimes you don’t talk, you just sit in the sun and read.

He begins to smile again—not often, but when he does, it reaches his eyes.

He comes home different. Softer. Clearer. Tired, but willing.

There are rules. He has a sponsor. You make tea. You learn how to build trust again, slowly, piece by piece.

Some nights, he wakes up crying. You hold him and don’t ask why.

Some mornings, he hums while brushing his teeth.

One afternoon, he cooks you spaghetti and laughs at his terrible sauce. And you know that he is coming back to himself.

---

He’s standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, wearing his sweater with the fraying cuffs. There’s a cracked mug in his hand—lavender tea steeping slowly—and the sun is melting through the windows like honey. 

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s just standing there, staring at the steam.

You watch him for a moment. You memorize him again. The curve of his spine. The slight twitch of his fingers. The way he breathes deeper now, like his lungs finally remembered how.

He turns and sees you. His mouth tugs into a crooked almost-smile.

“This is the first morning I haven’t woken up already running,” he says, voice gentle again. “Like… my body wasn’t bracing for something before I even opened my eyes.”

You cross the room slowly and press your palm to the center of his chest.

“What does it feel like now?”

He looks down at your hand. Then back up at you. And he glows. Like dusk and childhood and safety.

“Like I can finally stand still. Like the noise of it all has quieted. And— And like there’s space inside of me again for something soft.” he whispers.

You lean into his chest, both hands tangled in his cardigan now. He wraps his arms around you. Holds you like you’re breakable and sacred and the last thing tethering him to this world.

“You saved me,” he murmurs into your hair.

You shake your head gently. “No. You saved yourself. I just left the light on.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I want a boring forever with you,” he says. “I’m tired of the battle. I want laundry and grocery lists and falling asleep on the couch. I want a whole life where you’re just... here.”

You smile, wet-lashed and aching. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted too.”

“Thank you. For not giving up on me, I mean. For loving me even when I was...”

You don’t make him ramble his way through that sentence. Instead, you slip your hand into his, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Do you know how much I love you? If you could take all the words in the language, it still wouldn’t describe how much I love you. And if you could gather all those words together, it still wouldn’t describe what I feel for you. What I feel for you is everything. I love you more than everything.”

He kisses you, slow and sure.

“Everything.”

You stand there a long time, swaying slightly in your own orbit. The kettle sings. The sun moves. The planet keeps spinning.

And for the first time in a long, long while—neither of you flinch. The world feels small and safe again.

—

a/n: i’ve always been drawn to stories where love is messy and awful yet still worth it. My first angsty piece… this fic isn’t soft, but it’s devoted. it’s about choosing someone repeatedly—even when it’s hard, even when it hurts. if you’ve ever loved someone who was falling apart, this is for you. if you’ve ever needed to be found, this is for you too. if you like this fic, i recommend watching the film that inspired it! ALSO there are DIRECT QUOTES from the film AND the memoir it is based around written into this fic! i do not take ANY credit for the phenomenal words of david sheff.

with all my aching, awfully sentimental heart,

winona.

[makoodles]

ミ the mightiest

part 1 | part 2

🍓 pairing: neteyam x human fem reader 🍓tags: nsfw, aged up neteyam (obviously), jealousy, alien cultural misunderstandings, oral sex (f receiving) vaginal sex, size kink, voyeurism, brief na'vi oc x reader, mentions of reader sleeping with other na'vi men

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

notes: okay i had to split this into two parts because it surpassed the tumblr word limit 🙃 here’s part 1, and I’ll post part 2 in a day or two!

adult neteyam art created by the incredibly talented @cinetrix, whose work motivated me to write for adult neteyam in the first place!!

The tsahìk’s hut is cool and dark, offering a much needed reprieve from the hot balmy air of the day outside. It’s been a quiet day for you, though you can’t complain about that; it’s a pleasant change of pace from the usual hectic rush of people that usually pass through.

It’s one of the rare days that Mo’at has left you to tend to the duties of the healing hut alone; it had taken years to reach this level of trust with her, and you find yourself almost deliriously proud to be able to help out. Na’vi medicinal practices are very different to human ones, but your training in first-aid has given you enough knowledge and experience to hold your own when it comes to helping out with the smaller day-to-day ailments that tend to pass through the healing hut.

Besides, you’re always happy to give Mo’at a break. She had claimed that she needed time to commune with Eywa, though secretly you suspect that she just likes to take some time to herself in her old age. But that’s fine – you’ve always found helping out in the healing hut soothing, and your heart swells at the fact that Mo’at trusts you enough to leave you in charge, even if it’s only for a few hours.

It also helps when your patient is a big, hunky alien warrior with more muscles than brains, who sits in front of you as you smear a herbal paste over the scratches he had gotten in training earlier that day.

Txeyto is not an easy patient; he flinches when you prod his wounds, whines when you clean them, and complains as you smear the paste on his scrapes. It’s a little irritating, but the sight of his big broad shoulders and chiselled abdomen is enough to soothe the worst of your aggravation.

“Are you nearly finished?” Txeyto complains, flinching away from your fingers once more.

You bite your tongue and force a smile. Patience has never been your strong suit, and Txeyto is certainly testing the short reserves you have left. But he’s very handsome, and very skilled at archery, and you feel that his physical attractiveness outweighs the minor personality flaws.

“Yes, just another few moments.” You murmur, keeping your voice low and soothing as though speaking to a child.

Txeyto settles a little when you use the baby voice on him, and you struggle to keep your face blank at the ridiculousness of it all. Men are such children, even the big strong Na’vi warriors that should be above such behaviour. He’s lucky he’s handsome.

“How did you get these injuries, hm?” You ask, using a light touch to dab some of Mo’at’s specially formulated healing paste onto his scrapes. You keep your fingers as gentle as possible, but Txetyo still winces dramatically.

He perks up at your question, his tails swaying low over the floor where you’re both sat cross-legged. “I have been training very hard. I am one of the best archers in the village now.”

“No doubt.” You murmur distractedly as you work.

“But it is important for a tsamsiyu to be competent in many forms of combat, so I must practice my hand-to-hand combat also,” Txetyo continues, apparently forgetting to wince now that he’s talking. “Neteyam has been helping me train.”

Ah. You can’t help the face you make at that, and you’re thankful that Txeyto’s back is facing you so that he can’t see your expression. You also can’t help the way you cast a quick glance towards the entrance to the hut, as though worried that simply speaking the name aloud will summon Toruk Makto’s eldest son.

“Is that right?” You say, keeping your tone carefully neutral. “So, he’s the one that got you all scraped up like this?”

Txetyo’s shoulders flex under your hands, and you realise without looking at his face that you’ve stung his pride.

“I scraped him up also.” He grumbles, shifting to try and peer over his shoulder. “They are wounds to be proud of, as I got them in combat.”

You don’t think that a couple of minor scratches from wrestling around in the mud with one of the village’s biggest dickheads count as combat wounds, but you don’t argue. You just hum non-committedly, paying more attention to his bruises than is entirely necessary.

“You should be careful,” You say instead, running your fingers carefully over one of the bruises discolouring the pretty blue skin of his defined bicep. “It’s a shame to see these lovely muscles all bruised up.”

There’s a long moment’s pause. It seems as though the cogs in Txetyo’s head are working slowly, because he seems to be struggling to understand your flirty tone of voice. But when it finally seems to click, he turns his head to peer at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Ah,” He says, his shoulders squaring as he seems to preen. “You like them?”

God, he really is a little dumb. But that’s okay. You don’t necessarily need a man with brains.

“Mhmm,” You hum, allowing your hand to rest on the bulge of his bicep. “I like strong men.”

That’s true, if a little bit of an oversimplification. You’ve lived as a human on Pandora your whole life, but it was only in recent years since you’ve reached adulthood that you’ve started really paying attention to the people around you. And good lord, you had some impressive specimens to look at.

You find yourself drawn to their athletic and toned bodies, their radiant blue skin, their cat-like grace and agility. Maybe it’s because you had grown up on Pandora with no humans your age other than Spider, but you find yourself especially drawn to your size. The sheer size of their hands alone are enough to fluster you, especially when your brain is flooded with images of those big hands in other contexts.

And luckily for you, there’s no shortage of Na’vi that are interested in experimenting with humans, too.

Txetyo visibly perks up, his ears twitching forward as he finally seems to notice the way your much smaller hands are lingering on his body as you patch him up.

“I am very strong.” He says, tail thumping against the ground.

You fight the urge to sigh. He’ll never make a great conversationalist, but that’s alright. He’s big and strong and handsome, and you just want to relieve some tension.

“I know.” You murmur, your lips quirking a little as you shuffle around so that you’re kneeling in front of him, your knees pressed close to his thighs. “But I could still kiss your scratches better, if you’d like.”

Kissing wounds better is definitely a human colloquialism that Txetyo doesn’t understand, judging by the furrow of his brow, but he doesn’t seem to care. He reaches out and wraps a big hand around your waist, and you feel a pulse of arousal low in your belly in response.

“You like my muscles so much that treating my wounds has aroused you?” He asks, the smugness in his voice impossible to miss.

His pompousness is a little irritating, but you can ignore that because his hands are big and warm and it’s exciting to feel his palm start to push its way under your cotton tank top. The few Na’vi men you’ve been with before had been absolutely fascinated with the soft squishiness of your human breasts, so your breath hitches in anticipation as his hand reaches up to grope at your tits over your bra.

Okay, you can probably admit that you’re a little pent up. It’s probably a terrible idea to allow Txetyo to feel you up like this in the middle of the healing hut, but you’re horny.

If you’re telling the truth, you’ve been hoping for a chance like this all week – but there’s one thing, one irritation, that has been preventing you by interrupting every damn chance you’ve gotten alone with any man.

In fact, you’ve been interrupted so often and so many times that you’re almost expecting it, even as Txetyo’s big hands squeeze at your tits. He’s a little rough with it, but he’s so much bigger than you that you suppose that’s unavoidable – besides, his strength only adds to the thrill.

Then, just like clockwork, as though there’s some kind of sensor that goes off whenever you’re about to get some, there’s a rustling sound by the entrance of the hut before the little woven drape covering the doorway is pulled back.

And then, who else would be standing there, but Neteyam. One of the few people on the whole planet that can actually ruin your whole day just by showing his stupid face.

His eyes find you, but his expression doesn’t change as he glances over your flustered expression and the hand that Txetyo still has shoved up your top. He tilts his head, and it feels as though he’s examining every damn detail all at once; the ointment smeared all over Txetyo’s bruises from training, the way you’ve shuffled so close to Txetyo that you’re practically straddling his thigh, your unsteady breathing behind your mask.

“Ah. Am I interrupting?” He asks with a hint of wry humour to his voice, as though he hasn’t interrupted every attempt at getting laid you’ve made this month.

It has to be on purpose. That, or he has some sort of nearly supernatural sense for when you’re horny, because he always seems to show up every goddamned time. Somehow it’s gotten worse in the last few weeks, too. You’ve barely been able to get a moment alone with whoever you’ve been chatting up before Neteyam has appeared, snapping at them to get back to training or duties or whatever lousy excuse he’s been able to come up with in the moment.

“What do you want?” You snap, impatient and too strung tight to waste your energy on pretending at politeness.

A very delayed reaction finally hits Txetyo, and he scrambles to remove his hand from the inside of your top. His hand alone is so large that the outline of it is painfully obvious even through your shirt, and you close your eyes with a sigh as he clumsily pushes himself away from you in a rather ungainly attempt at pretending nothing was going on.

“Neteyam!” He blurts, his ears flattening against his skull. He’s clearly mortified at being caught in such a position by Toruk Makto’s son, and he overcompensates by attempting to scoot away as though he hadn’t even been touching you.

You try not to roll your eyes – you’re used to this, after all. You’ve been with several Na’vi men, but they all seem to have the same sort of embarrassment about actually being open with the fact that they’ve hooked up with you. You can’t be all that annoyed about it, you suppose. You understand where it’s coming from. You’ve been around the Omaticaya your whole life, and while the taboo of having Sky People around has faded somewhat, that doesn’t mean that anyone is actually willing to admit that they’ve been with you.

You’re used to it. It’s fine. You’re just a little mortified that Neteyam is currently witnessing the scramble for Txetyo to get away from you.

He’s watching the other man with his head still tilted to the side, his big golden eyes dark in the cool shade of the hut. A muscle in his jaw is flexing, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“I will- I will see you later?” Txetyo whispers to you as he stands. He probably intended for his voice to be low enough that it stayed between just you and him, but the hut is quiet enough that there’s no doubt Neteyam can hear him just fine.

“Mhm. Yeah.” You murmur back, watching Txetyo’s big broad back as he steps away from you, all hasty and flustered.

Txetyo gets as far as Neteyam, who’s still standing with his arms crossed in the doorway. Neteyam doesn’t so much as shift, his eyes dragging with lazy satisfaction over the myriad of scrapes and bruises that he had left on Txetyo during their sparring earlier.

Txetyo shifts on his feet, visibly nervous in the face of his future chief’s judgement. “Ah… Will we train again tomorrow, Neteyam?”

Neteyam hums non-committedly, before finally stepping away from the doorway. He brushes past Txetyo, and you wonder if he’s always so dismissive of his fellow warriors or if he’s just being an even bigger dickhead today for some reason.

“We will see.” Neteyam says shortly, though he’s not even looking Txetyo’s way.

Taking that as the dismissal it so clearly is, Txetyo nods awkwardly before disappearing out of the hut, leaving you and Neteyam alone.

For a long moment, you do your best to avoid looking up. You’re beyond irritated right now, made so much worse by the fact that your panties are kind of wet and you’re so fucking desperate for attention right now. The little wooden bowls knock together clumsily as you try to arrange them without looking up, but it becomes difficult when Neteyam lowers himself down to sit opposite you.

“The tsahìk’s hut is a bold place for such activities.” He says, and you don’t have to look up to know that there’s a stupid smug look on his face. “What would my grandmother think?”

As he sits down, he places a woven bag by your knee. You don’t need to look at it to know what it is; he’s always bringing stuff to the healing hut for his grandmother. Herbs or medicinal plants, fibres for weaving bandages, even animal bones that he had whittled down for needles for suturing.

Even you can grudgingly admit it’s thoughtful; but he only ever seems to bring it when you’re around. It’s like he just wants to rub it in your face that he excels at everything he does – it’s extremely annoying.

You finally look up, your face already scrunched in a scowl. “What do you want?”

He raises his hairless brows at you, an expression he no doubt learned from his father. “I would like my cuts from training treated. What else would I be here for?”

And now you know that he’s just messing with you, because while Txetyo was covered in bruises and abrasions from his tough training session earlier, Neteyam doesn’t have a single visible scratch.

“What exactly am I supposed to treat?” You ask, voice tight.

Neteyam shifts, proffering you his shoulder, and you see a single scrape along his otherwise flawless striped blue skin. You purse your lips, staring at it in mild disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.” You say, deadpan.

But it’s clear that Neteyam is serious, because he’s already stretching out on the comfy woven rugs of his grandmother’s hut as if he belongs there. It’s obvious that he has no intention of moving – he must have come here just to torture you.

You blow out a frustrated breath, the inside of your respirator mask fogging up briefly before rapidly clearing. Neteyam is infuriating. He gets under your skin in a way that no one else does, as though he knows every goddamn little button to press just to aggravate you.

Maybe it’s just a by-product of having been raised as next in line to lead the Omaticaya, or of being Toruk Makto’s oldest son, but you’ve always found Neteyam closed off and distant.

Truthfully, you can’t say for certain if he’s always been this way. When you were young teenagers, you hadn’t had much contact with him; he was always busy with his own training, and then the whole Sully family had left for Awa’atlu. When they had returned, several years later, Neteyam had been more reserved, and yet somehow even cockier and more confident than ever.

“I don’t understand you. There’s no need for you to get this scrape seen to, and you know it. You just like wasting my time.”

He just watches you as you complain, his eyes hooded and dark in a way that honestly leaves you a little heated. He doesn’t deny it, which only irritates you further. You knew he was just trying to annoy you!

“It’s your job to treat wounds when you’re here, isn’t it?” He asks, and you can see the way his tail is lazily undulating behind him, skimming across the woven carpet. He’s enjoying arguing with you.

You huff out a put-upon sigh, before grabbing two of the jars. The ointment is naturally antiseptic but it goes on with quite a sting; you try not to feel satisfied about that as you coat your fingers in it before dabbing it onto the scrape on Neteyam’s shoulder. You’re not as gentle as you’d usually be either, your patience is too thin for you to be considerate with him right now.

But this is not Txetyo. This is Neteyam, and he doesn’t so much as flinch as you rub the paste over his still sluggishly bleeding scratch, even though you know it must sting. You try not to feel irked by his stoicism.

As you work, Neteyam’s head rolls back. In a move that’s almost imperceptible, his nostrils flare and he scents the air. You assume it’s the fairly astringent scent of the herbal paste you’ve just pulled out that’s bothering him, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Problem?”

His lips quirk, though he manages to keep his expression neutral. “No. I am simply enjoying being under your tender care.”

You narrow your eyes at him. He’s mocking you now.

The fact that he had walked in on Txetyo’s hand up your top as he groped at your tits feels like a heavy unspoken weight in between you as you dab at his minor wound. You keep waiting for him to bring it up, to laugh at you for it, but he remains stubbornly quiet as you work, his golden eyes watching you in quiet contemplation.

In fact, he’s never brought up any of the times he’s interrupted you right before you got with someone. He’s caught you in varying levels of undress, with Na’vi men over you, under you, holding you, touching you, kissing you, but somehow just before anything good actually happened. Every time the men had scrambled away from you as though you were something diseased, mortified at being caught with a tawtute by Neteyam, a man that (for some reason you can’t comprehend) they seem to have an awful lot of respect for.

In the beginning, you were inclined to come up with excuses for him; he was Jake Sully’s oldest son, and was inevitably going to keep track of his peers and where they disappeared off to when they had duties that they should be attending to. But now, you think he’s doing it to spite you specifically. It might be a bit of a self-centred thing to believe, but you’re almost certain of it.

You shift on your knees beside him, raising yourself up a little to ensure that you’ve covered all parts of his scrape. You don’t want him returning tomorrow to complain that you didn’t do a good job.

You have to bite back another sigh as you do so, your thighs rubbing together in a way that sends a sharp jolt up your spine. You’re horny and needy and so, so resentful of the fact that you’re now treating the same man that’s the direct cause of your state right now.

Neteyam’s attitude wasn’t the only thing that changed in his time away, however. You have to keep your eyes fixed carefully on his bruising shoulder, because if you didn’t you know that your gaze would wander, and that’s a dangerous game to be playing in the presence of someone as perceptive as Neteyam.

But it’s difficult not to look. Time and ocean air has been kind to him; he’s grown as tall as his father, and whatever sort of training or work he had been doing with the Metkayina has resulted in broader shoulders and a more sturdy build than is typical of the Omaticaya. It’s galling to admit, and makes you feel as though you’ve eaten something sour and unpleasant, but Neteyam is hot as hell.

He might be aggravating and smug and too cocky, but no one in their right mind could deny that he’s attractive. Not even you. Especially you, if you’re being honest with yourself, considering your penchant for enormous blue alien men that could snap you in two with a pinkie if they felt so inclined.

God, you really have to think about something else. You’re so wet that your panties are starting to get uncomfortable, so you focus determinedly on the resentment that’s still simmering over the fact that Neteyam had interrupted what was promising to be a very productive encounter with Txetyo.

Neteyam shuffles a little where he’s sitting in front of you, and your eyes track the way his muscles bunch and shift under his vibrant blue skin. Damn, but seeing Na’vi musculature up close never gets old, even if it’s Neteyam.

You’re almost finished with dabbing paste on the tiny scrape (and you hate to admit that it had taken you longer than it should have due to your distraction), when Neteyam half-turns his head towards you.

“My back is sore, also.” He murmurs, though his eyes remain downcast.

You pause, staring at him. “Okay. And?”

There’s a moment where the two of you just look expectantly at each other. When nothing comes of that, Neteyam speaks again.

“You are playing healer today, are you not?” He asks, and his left ear twitches oddly. “Or is your attention all reserved for Txetyo, hm?”

Your cheeks heat in humiliation and your jaw clenches. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from making some sort of stupid comment.

“Lay down.” You snap, prickly and embarrassed.

“Yes ma’am.” Neteyam purrs, probably all satisfied that he’s gotten under your skin. He reclines, all of those lithe muscles flexing and bunching as he rolls over onto his stomach.

You grab another pot of ointment, and then take a moment to steady yourself.

You know that he’s winding you up on purpose, just like always, but you can never figure out why. He doesn’t treat you like any of the other men in the village do – they might enjoy fucking you, but they’re rarely caught dead in public with you, worried about what it might mean for their own reputations.

Neteyam is bolder, more confident; though the burden of responsibility that he carries is unmistakable, he never seems to get caught up with the petty whispering and musings of the village people. It’s just unfortunate that he seems so set on bothering you.

Your mouth goes dry as your eyes drop mindlessly over the expanse of his long, pretty back. His skin is stretched tight over lithe muscle, little luminescent white freckles glinting like little stars. He looks so smooth, though the flawlessness of his body is marred by thick pale scars that litter his skin, courtesy of the near legendary battle with the RDA that you hear happened off the coast of Awa’atlu.

You glance down, flustered. Fuck. It would be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t physically perfect.

“Problem?” Neteyam’s voice is a little lower in register than it was before, perhaps because he’s lying on his stomach with his head pillowed under his crossed arms.

You twitch. Shit. You had gotten distracted, and had lost yourself staring at him.

“No. Shut up.” You blurt reflexively, dipping your fingers into the oily ointment used for easing sore muscles.

Neteyam huffs quietly, a sound that could be a grunt or a laugh, but doesn’t bother responding. It makes you feel as though you’ve lost a game you didn’t know you were playing.

Antsy and on edge, you lean forward and survey his strong back properly. When he's laying out in front of you like this you can see the way his back is knotted with tension and his shoulders are hiked up around his ears. It doesn't look too bad, but it can't be comfortable either.

You take one more moment to admire the musculature of his shoulders, before gathering yourself and dipping your fingers into the ointment. It's balmy against your fingers and smells a little bit like blueberries, and begins to tingle when your hand is entirely coated.

"Where does it hurt most?" You ask, your voice quiet.

In the silence, you can hear Neteyam’s throat click when he swallows.

"My neck and shoulders." When he speaks, his voice is a little deeper than expected.

The very first touch to Neteyam’s back pulls a quiet sigh out of him; it sounds like relief.

Considering his size, it takes surprisingly little to have him melting under your hands. Your fingers spread under his scapula, finding a knot in the muscle and pressing in hard. It takes a bit of finagling, but after some firm pressure you feel the muscle begin to soften beneath your touch.

Gaining confidence, you return your kneading fingers to his neck. He really is terribly tense, and shivering spasms flit up and down the muscles of his back in regular intervals as you drag the warm palms of your hands over him. As your fingers work into his tense muscles, he lets out quiet little grunts that are muffled by the cradle of his arms.

“Why were you so hard on Txetyo during training?” You ask as your fingers dig into the tense tissue of his back. Your voice is unintentionally loud in the quiet of the hut. “He looked as though he had been attacked by a thanator when he was here earlier.”

Neteyam just grunts. “Txetyo is an overconfident skxawng. He is not nearly as skilled as he thinks he is.”

You click your tongue, dissatisfied with that answer. “I could say the same about you.”

Just like all your attempts to insult him, your words seem to bounce right off him. Stupid thick-skinned bastard. His pretty mouth tilts up in a smile.

“I have the skills to back it up, paskalin.”

Your lips purse at the name, your cheeks hot. God, he’s such an asshole.

When you exert pressure as you run your fingers down his spine, Neteyam grunts softly into his arms. The sound is startling in the quiet, interrupting the steady rhythm of your quiet breathing.

"Does that hurt?" You ask. Your voice comes out a little shakier than you’d like.

"No." Neteyam’s voice comes out in a low, gravelly rumble. The sound of it almost startles you into snatching your hands away, but you manage to refrain yourself. "Keep going."

You just swallow thickly, and try to keep yourself on task. “He just wants to be better. He was excited to train with you–”

“Lower.” Neteyam groans, shifting under your hands.

You clench your teeth. Really, you should probably just walk away from him. There’s no real need for you to be doing any of this. He’s not even injured, and who knows whether he’s telling the truth about his back being tense.

But you’re stupid, and you’ve never been good at walking away, from either fighting or fucking. This strange encounter feels as though it lies somewhere in the middle of those two things. Your palms drag down to his lower back, and he flinches briefly before melting under your touch.

His body is so big that it’s difficult to get a good angle to knead properly at his tense muscles, and before you can think too hard about it you swing your leg over his hips. You settle back, perching your weight cautiously at the base of his spine.

It's a braver move than you would usually make, but you try not to second-guess yourself — like this, you have so much more leverage to rub at the rigid sinews of his back. You drag your knuckles down the length of his spine and he groans into the cradle of his arms.

You try to ignore the excited flutter in your belly. It’s just Neteyam. You’re not actually getting turned on from this; the only reason you’re so affected is because you had been horny with Txetyo. You shift where you’re sitting on his back, but you have to force yourself still almost immediately, because the friction nearly makes your lungs seize.

“Comfortable?” Neteyam murmurs, and you can hear amusement in his voice.

“Shut up.” You say reflexively, before scowling. “I can’t believe you interrupted me and Txetyo just for this. You have, like, one bruise–”

“It’s a very sore bruise.” He murmurs lazily, sounding unbothered. “Do you think squeezing your tits might help? That seemed to help Txetyo feel better.”

You pause, jaw dropping in indignation. “I– shut up!”

Neteyam makes a noise that sounds like a snicker, and you dig your fingers down the planes of his back vengefully. His waist narrows into an elegant taper, and when you reach the part of his back where his ass begins to swell, you exert firm pressure against the base of his tail.

If you had done it to a human, you know it would have hurt. But instead the tightness of the muscle unfurls under your fingers, and Neteyam gives a long, low groan. The sound is delightfully gravelly, and you take a breath as you feel molten heat ooze down into your belly and settle between your legs. It’s not a reaction you had been expecting.

You sit back onto his lower back, avoiding his tail. From here, you have a truly captivating view of how slick his back looks from the ointment, and how his skin glows in the dim light of the hut. His body really is perfect, and your eyes track over the taut shiny scars that litter his skin.

“Mmm. May I get up? Or do you want to sit on me a little while longer?” Neteyam’s low voice breaks you out of your stupor, and you’re horrified to find that you’ve just been sitting there with your wet panties pressed against his back beneath your thin shorts.

You scramble off him quickly, flustered and clumsy. It had been a bold move to straddle him in the first place, and now you feel very stupid about it.

“You should apologise to Txetyo.” You blurt, just to say something into the silence.

“Why are we still talking about Txetyo?” Neteyam has always been a relatively tolerant and even-keeled man, but you can hear irritation beginning to bubble up in his voice.

“Because–” You start to say, but then Neteyam rolls over so that he’s laying on his back.

Now that he's lying on his back, stretched out all long and lithe, your eyes rove over his face and then down his throat, his chest, his stomach, his hips. Your eyes catch on the protrusion between his legs and stick there, your mouth dropping open in surprise when you see that his loincloth is tented.

“Because- he… you were too–” You try valiantly to finish your sentence, but your thoughts have scattered to the wind.

He’s hard. Why the fuck is he hard? Is that just from you rubbing his back? Oh my god, what are you supposed to say? It feels like his hard-on is staring at you.

Neteyam pushes himself up into a sitting position, his hands planted on the woven rug behind him as he pushes himself up so that he’s sitting looming over you. Once he’s upright, Neteyam flexes his shoulders and groans slightly as he goes. It doesn't sound like a pained groan, thankfully.

The movement brings him closer to you than you had been expecting, and you end up freezing. Like this, you can see the way his expression has smoothed into one of relief. His shoulders are looser too, no longer held bunched up around his neck.

Neteyam doesn't seem to notice your close proximity, nor the way you have tensed at the lack of space between them. You’re not touching, but you’re so close that you swear you can physically feel the air between you.

“If Txetyo is so upset about being beaten by me in training, then he should focus on getting better instead of slinking away with his tail between his legs and trying to screw you in a corner of my grandmother’s hut.”

You gape at him like an absolute idiot, floored by the acerbity in his tone. You’ve always thought Neteyam was a bit of a dickhead, but that was mostly because of his nearly insufferable need to always be the best. Always the best warrior, the best son, the best brother, the best future Olo’eyktan. The best role model to his peers.

“So that’s what this is about.” You say, your voice coming out distinctly accusatory. “You don’t like that your friends are fucking a human, is that it?”

Neteyam doesn’t even bother answering. He just rolls his now loosened shoulders and watches you carefully. He doesn't tell you to back off, or wrinkle his nose at you, or act as though he's repulsed by you. He just stares at you across the miniscule space between you, and that only angers you further.

“Is that why you keep interrupting whenever I’m with any of the other tsamsiyu?” You demand, fists clenching. “What, you don’t like that your friends find a tawtute attractive? Is that why you keep cockblocking me?”

Neteyam huffs a quiet snort, as though he thinks you’re being stupid.

“I hear what some of the Na’vi in the village say, about how it’s shameful to be with a tawtute.” You hiss. “I just didn’t think you’d be one of them.”

And if you’re honest with yourself, it sort of hurts. Neteyam has always gotten on your nerves with his confusing mix of overconfidence and jagged insecurities, and he had really infuriated you when he had started to interrupt all of those illicit little meetups you had planned with some of the boys in the village, but you hadn’t actually thought that he had any disdain for you like some of the other Na’vi.

And then you do something so stupid that it shocks even you.

Your eyes drop back down to the tent in his tewng, eyeing it thoughtfully, before reaching out and running your fingers over the hardened outline of his cock through the fabric with purpose.

Neteyam hisses, and his hips actually lift off the floor in an attempt to follow your touch.

“God, you’re a hypocrite, aren’t you?” You breathe, fighting to keep your voice casual. “How can you judge your friends for fucking around with me when you’re this hard after just a backrub?”

“They’re not my friends.” Neteyam grunts, his jaw clenching as his head tilts back. His hips rock into your hand.

Your touch goes firmer, and then your hand slips under his loincloth. You’ve had plenty of sexual encounters with Na’vi men, but this is different.

This is Neteyam. This encounter feels like proving a point. A very sexually charged point.

His cock is silky smooth and hot to the touch, and you feel a little drunk as your fingers close around it. And damn, it feels big. All Na’vi cocks are big compared to your hands, but this… feels different. You were aroused anyway, you’ve been feeling pent up all damn week, but now that your hand is on his dick your nerves are fizzing up.

It’s a surprise when Neteyam’s big hand settles on your waist to tug you closer, and you feel your stomach swoop when he pulls you forward. You don’t release his cock even as he pulls you to settle over one of his thighs, your legs slotted in between his, and you can feel him harden even further beneath you.

You wonder absently if it's really you that's causing his very obvious arousal or if it's just a natural consequence of the massage; either way, when his hips flex up towards you, they press right in between your legs.

You shiver almost violently, the sensation of him pressing hot and hard against your core frying your nerves and wiping your thoughts clean. The part of your brain that had been screaming about what a bad idea this whole thing is has become muffled now, and your own hips jerk against his.

“You’re such an asshole,” You say, though your voice comes out reedy and breathless. “You of all people don’t have a right to talk shit about those guys just cause they’re into humans, especially when your cock is this hard, and especially considering where your dad came from–”

He lets out a soft, quiet noise as you move against him, and uses his grip on the back of your top to pull you tighter against him yet again. “Don’t talk about my father when you have my cock in your hand.”

It takes what feels like a monumental effort to wrench your hand away from him, and he lets out a wordless grunt of dissatisfaction as his hips twitch in an effort to follow your hand. It’s delightfully pathetic, and you feel your ego swell at the sheer sense of power that washes over you; it’s a rare feeling, especially when you’re faced with a big blue alien almost twice your size.

“You should apologise to Txetyo.” You sound like an out of breath idiot. “It’s not like you can judge him for being with a tawtute when you’re that hard from me just touching you.”

Neteyam just stares at you, his jaw clenching and his honey eyes dark as he takes several breaths through his nose. You’ve never seen him like this before; you’ve never seen any of the men you’ve been with like this before. It looks as though he’s holding onto a thin veneer of control, and you wonder if he’s angry with you, if you’ve perhaps pushed him too far.

“That was never the issue.” He says and fuck, his voice has gone so gravelly. “And don’t pretend that you’re not wet beneath those clothes of yours. I can smell it.”

Your thighs squeeze together as you swallow hard, struggling to maintain your aura of indifference and no doubt failing.

“That’s because of Txetyo.” You say, and it tastes like a lie on your tongue. “You interrupted us.”

Neteyam laughs quietly and humourlessly. His expression suggests that he doesn’t find anything about this conversation funny, and his hand is still splayed across your back. You’re so damn conscious of how big his palm is as it spreads across your spine. Why the hell hasn’t he let go of you yet?

“Ah, I see.” Neteyam murmurs. “You would have fucked him in my grandmother’s hut?”

Your mouth is so damn dry, and you swallow compulsively. “It’s not any of your business who I fuck.”

Neteyam’s smile is grim. “Txetyo would fuck his own shadow if he were nimble enough to catch it. You have terrible taste in men.”

You rear back. You’re surprised by how much that hurts. Living as a human on Pandora is lonely, and it’s not like you have people lining up outside the human outpost looking to spend time with you. If you want any sort of companionship or intimacy, you have to accept any attention that you can get. And sure, most of that attention comes from men that only want to get their dicks wet, or the experience of being with a tawtute, but it’s better than nothing at all.

“Well, we can’t all be the Olo’eyktan’s son.” You say, your voice stiff and cold. “We don’t all have countless suitors throwing themselves at our feet. Some of us have to accept attention from whoever’s interested.”

Neteyam’s expression shifts, an odd look appearing in his eyes, and your stomach swoops. You don’t think you could bear to see pity in his eyes, so you pull away from him, shaking his hands off.

“Your scratch is fine.” You say, your voice thin and a little thready. “You’re all treated.

“Hey–”

As you stumble to your feet, Neteyam reaches out as if to stop you. You dodge his hands, unable to look him in the eye.

Panic is starting to set in now; what had you been thinking, touching him like that just after he had chided you for flirting with Txetyo in the tsahìk’s hut? God, you feel like such an idiot. He must think you’re so pathetic.

Like a coward, you turn on your heel and flee out of the hut. You need air, you need to be out of the cool darkness of the hut, you need to be away from the overwhelming weight of Neteyam’s presence. Through the blood rushing in your ears you can distantly hear Neteyam call to you, but you’re too desperate to escape from the whole humiliating interaction to stop and listen.

You stagger out of the hut, squinting at the evening light; it seems blinding after spending all day in the dim musty air of Mo’at’s healing hut. You pat at your rumpled shirt and creased denim shorts, flustered and frenzied as you try to straighten yourself out.

“Tawtute?”

You jerk, gasping, and whirl to find that Txetyo is sitting on a log a few feet away from the hut, apparently waiting for you to finish up with Neteyam. You feel like you’re burning up from a mixture of mortification and confused arousal and you’re certain that Neteyam is about to follow you out.

“I– I have to go!” You blurt, already stepping back towards the forest.

Txetyo frowns, obviously bewildered, but he doesn’t stand. “Don’t you want to–”

You don’t wait for him to finish. You’re already fleeing, disappearing into the trees as you run the whole way home.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

It might be a little cowardly, but you avoid the village for days after that.

You stick to the outpost, watching Norm and Max and the other scientists work. You try not to die of boredom, and you try not to overthink and overthink and overthink.

But you have too much time on your hands as you slink around the outpost, and you can’t stop feeling guilty about abandoning your attempts to help Mo’at out in her healing hut.

You also can’t stop thinking about the shift of Neteyam’s muscles in the low dim light, or the silky hot feel of his cock in your hand, or the soft breathy grunts he had let out as his hips rocked. It feels like the experience has actually rewired your brain, as though you’ll never recover from it.

Growing up on Pandora as a human has been lonely. The only other human your age is Spider, who had become the closest thing you have to a brother – and you love him even when you feel like throttling him, but sometimes you just yearn for more.

You want companionship, you want understanding, you want romance, you want sexual intimacy. You don’t think it’s too much to ask for, and if you have to turn to big nine-feet-tall Na’vi warriors who just want to say they’ve had the experience of sleeping with a tawtute, then that’s… fine. Even if it’s only temporary.

Part of you is honestly relieved when Spider finally manages to force you out of the outpost and back to the village. It’s a relief to get back into the forest, to the village, to the life you’re used to. The outpost has nothing on the vibrancy of the village life, and you feel as though you can breathe for the first time in days upon stepping back into the village, even if it’s through your respirator mask.

There’s been a big hunt today, and the village is buzzing with excitement. You pass by several willowy Na’vi covered in celebratory paint, and follow the sound of the heavy thumping of drums.

The evening after a hunt is always a joyful affair, and you gradually start to relax throughout the night. You feast on collected fruit, hum along to some of the music, and sit comfortably with Spider all evening. At some point you’re joined by Lo’ak, which you don’t mind either; Lo’ak has always been the kind of outcast that fits comfortably between the edges of you and Spider. Those edges have smoothed out as he got older, but he’s always been a cool guy to hang out with.

When he’s not joining Spider in ganging up on you, that is.

“So– so wait, wait, let me get this straight,” Lo’ak is waving his hands as though trying to settle down a group of rowdy children, even though it’s just the three of you present. “Neteyam walked in on you fucking again, but this time it was in grandmother’s hut–”

You’re sat around the large campfire in the middle of the village, tucked away from the main celebrations. Part of you is flourishing being in this environment again, but another part is withering at this damn conversation. You glance around nervously, hoping that no casual observers can hear you guys talking.

“Txetyo only had his hand up my top!” You hiss hastily. “We weren’t actually– and we would have gone somewhere else when it came down to it!”

“Txetyo is a dickhead.” Spider complains, leaning heavily on your side. He’s so frequently dwarfed by the Na’vi that it’s easy to forget that he’s over six-feet-tall and corded with muscle, and his bulk is heavy.

Irritatingly, Lo’ak leans into you the same way on the other side, though he’s more careful about leaning his full weight, and you end up crushed in between the two idiots.

“He isn’t.” You protest, pushing back against their weight. “He’s–”

“Nah, he is.” Lo’ak interrupts before you can defend him. “Total skxawng. You know he keeps telling people he’s the best archer in the clan? And yet he didn’t manage to catch anything in today’s hunt–”

You try not to wince at that. It’s impossible to miss that while Txetyo may not have been successful in the hunt today, someone else is being lauded for their skill and success.

Neteyam has been given a place of honour by the fire next to his parents, and the careful swirls of paint all over his body can’t hide the proud glow on his face. Under the smooth veneer of Neteyam’s smiles and cheer was the jagged edge of his inferiority complex, his need to always be better and to be liked. Funnily enough, his insecurity has always been your favourite part of him. It felt real in a way his cockiness didn’t.

You can’t stop yourself from glancing over. Night has already fallen and there are many couples dancing, the flickering firelight sending wild shadows across the gathering. But even in the unsteady light, you catch the intense golden stare of Neteyam watching you from across the circle.

You hastily turn your face away, pressing your lips together tight as you try to pretend like you hadn’t been looking in the first place.

“–He’s better than Art’alak, at least.” Spider says, continuing on the conversation that you had checked out of for a few moments. “That guy was awful. I mean, what did you even see in him?”

You roll your eyes, sinking further back into the stupidly heavy weight of Spider and Lo’ak in a silly attempt to hide yourself from view. It almost definitely doesn’t work, and you can still feel the weight of Neteyam’s stare on you, even as you fixedly ignore him.

“Pretty sure we don’t want the answer to that one, man.” Lo’ak says, snickering.

His eyes glance around, before flashing across the gathering as though he can also feel Neteyam’s attention. You frown as Lo’ak hastily removes his arm from around your shoulders, even leaning away from you a little.

“I’m allowed to want company.” You say loftily, though you’re certain that your voice is a little shaky.

It feels like your skin is heating up under Neteyam’s eyes, and you feel yourself getting shifty. Why won’t he just look away?

Lo’ak obviously notices his brother’s attention, because he leans a little closer so he can speak quietly in your ear.

“My brother can be unbearable,” Lo’ak murmurs, “But he’s not a bad guy.”

“Gross.” You wrinkle your nose playfully at Lo’ak’s rare display of sincerity about his brother and he hisses at you, swiping at your head.

It’s all in jest, which is obvious given how gentle his hands are with you, and you laugh and lean away.

“I just– I don’t understand him.” You sigh once your laughter has tapered off. “I mean, I get that he doesn’t approve of the whole interspecies thing, but it’s like he goes out of his way to catch me in embarrassing situations. If he finds it gross, why seek it out?”

Lo’ak purses his lips and avoids your eyes. “Uh…”

“Anytime he shows up, the guys I’m with go running.” You continue, your brows knitting into a frown. “I mean, it’s getting ridiculous. Why can’t he just mind his own business?”

Lo’ak’s eyes dart over your head, and you just know that he and Spider are sharing a look together.

“He doesn’t– I wouldn’t say he disapproves of interspecies relationships–” Lo’ak says, but he fumbles a little in his attempt to get his words out and darts another panicked glance across the fire towards where Neteyam is sitting with their father.

You just scoff, crossing your arms defensively across your chest. You feel a little vulnerable talking about this; usually, you’re content to suffer through the embarrassment of having your sex partners pretending they don’t know you in public alone, but since Neteyam had started walking in on you, now he knows that they’re doing it too.

“He scolds them like they’re children whenever he walks in on us, talking about how they’re neglecting their duties and all that,” You mutter, scowling. “But it’s obviously because he’s annoyed that his friends are messing around with a Sky Person.”

Spider shifts at your side, making an odd sound beneath his breath. You turn to look at him, but he’s staring rather fixedly at a tree branch overhead. Lo’ak clears his throat, similarly looking off to the side to avoid your eyes.

You frown. It feels as though they’re hiding something from you, and the thought is unsettling.

“What?” You demand, sitting forward and staring intently at them.

“Nothing,” Lo’ak protests, but his voice is a little too high-pitched to be believable. “Uh… It’s just… well, I really don’t think that Neteyam has a problem with interspecies relationships. Our dad came from the Sky, too!”

You think that Lo’ak probably intended for that to be reassuring, but instead you find your stomach sinking miserably.

“Oh.” You say, pursing your lips. “So it’s me that he has a problem with.”

“No!” Lo’ak protests, but then he pauses. His mouth opens and closes as he struggles to form a response under the weight of your narrowed eyes.

When no explanation comes, you end up just averting your gaze and looking towards the fire. It’s stupid, but you’re not sure what you were even expecting. Neteyam has always been perfect in his personal life, his duties, his relationships within the clan, his looks. It’s hardly a surprise that he’s developed a distaste for you – you know what Sky People represent to the Na’vi, after all.

Across the gathering, two Na’vi girls are shooting looks at Spider. You almost think they’re looking at him in disgust, but when Spider catches their eye and smiles back they both look away giggling.

You click your tongue and roll your eyes. You wonder when exactly it was that the Na’vi your age stopped seeing you as human nuisances that haunt the village, and started instead seeing you as people with possible sexual appeal.

“That is just unfair.” You intone dully. “You get Na’vi girls flirting with you from across the campfire, and I get Na’vi boys fucking me in corners and then pretending they don’t know me. And that’s only if I don’t get rudely interrupted by Lo’ak’s asshole brother.”

“Men.” Lo’ak says in a disparaging tone that sounds as though it’s meant to be sympathetic, but it falls short as he’s biting his tongue to keep from laughing. “Maybe you just have bad taste.”

Spider laughs too, though he’s still looking in the Na’vi girls’ direction. There’s a pink flush in his cheeks, and his smile looks distinctly pleased.

“Yeah,” You grumble, sinking down where you’re sitting. “I’m hearing that a lot.”

The conversation moves on then, Lo’ak nudging at Spider over your head and grinning as he recounts the highlights from the hunt earlier that day, but you’re distracted. You hardly even hear a word they say, too busy staring broodingly into the fire.

Luckily, neither Lo’ak nor Spider mind your silence. They’re perfectly content to fill the quiet themselves, chatting and babbling and joking over your head.

You’re drifting, lost in your own thoughts until you hear Lo’ak and Spider go quiet. You glance over to them, only to realise why they’ve stopped talking – Neteyam is walking your way.

You stiffen, eyes narrowing behind your respirator mask as he comes to a stop before you all. He greets his brother and Spider briefly, distractedly, before his big amber eyes settle on you.

All you can do is wait, tensed. You have no idea what he’s going to do or say, but if he says something about that day in the healing hut you might actually scream.

But Neteyam doesn’t immediately say anything. He crouches in front of you, his gaze as measured and even as ever, and proffers a wrapped utumauti leaf to you. For a moment, you just stare at it as though it’s something venomous.

“A portion of yerik meat,” Neteyam clarifies, not even blinking as he watches your face. “From the hunt earlier.”

Oh. Now you see. He’s just showing off, like he always does. He’s always doing things like this, just to show off his skills, his prowess, how strong he is. It’s irritating; everyone already knows how great he is, and he’s already practically revered throughout the village. You don’t know why he keeps trying to flaunt his greatness in front of you, other than the fact that he must love to annoy you.

Spider nudges you in the side, and you reach out to take the wrapped meat from Neteyam’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” You say, a little tersely.

Neteyam just nods, his tail coiling. He watches your face for another moment, and all the unspoken tension between you from the other day seems to swell to unbearable heights. His ears twitch, and then he glances over his shoulder to where his parents are sitting by the fire. They’re watching, which makes you feel itchy and embarrassed.

“I should return.” He says simply, before standing and nodding at you, then Spider and Lo’ak, before straightening up and walking back to his place by Jake, his tail swaying low.

There’s a long moment of silence, where you can feel Lo’ak and Spider staring at you.

“Don’t.” You say sharply when you see Lo’ak’s mouth open, and he closes it with a click.

This feels embarrassing, as though Neteyam is mocking you somehow. It’s not the first time he’s given you food, always making sure to let you know he caught it himself. It’s like he has a damn pathological need to show off his skills, to try and prove himself, to prove that he’s better than anyone else. It’s aggravating, even more so now that Lo’ak has made it clear that it’s you that Neteyam has a problem with.

Eventually, Spider and Lo’ak return to their conversation and you pull back, sitting silently between them. You pull your mask off for a brief moment to nibble at the meat. You’re a little irritated to admit that it’s delicious, and you sit back to lean into Spider’s side as you chew at it sullenly.

You’ve just begun to wonder if this night is a total bust altogether when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. You raise your head, surprised to see the sight of Txetyo stepping towards you.

At your side, Spider and Lo’ak share a look before sitting up straighter.

“Tawtute,” Txetyo greets, nodding his head at you. He casts a single cautious look towards Lo’ak, before focusing on you properly.

He is keeping his voice purposely low so that no one else can hear, but you can’t bring yourself to care. This is the most public setting that any man has ever actually approached you in, and you can feel your expression brightening already.

“Hello.” You murmur, smiling sweetly at him. The last time you had seen him had been right after you had fled the tsahik’s hut, right after you had touched Neteyam– and no, you are not thinking about that right now.

“I would like to speak with you.” Txetyo murmurs, his voice low as he darts one more quick look between Lo’ak and Spider before settling on you again.

You brighten. You’re under no illusions about what Txetyo wants to ‘speak’ about, and you can safely assume that there will be little to no talking involved at all.

Yes. A distraction. This is exactly what you need.

“Sure.” You say, your lips curving up in a coy smile as you unfold yourself from where you’ve been sitting between Spider and Lo’ak.

“Uh–” Lo’ak starts to say, but you’re already beginning to step away with Txetyo, who’s beginning to lead you away from the gathering.

Maybe it’s a little impulsive, but you’re feeling reckless tonight. You can still feel Neteyam’s eyes boring into your back as you follow Txetyo towards the treeline, but you determinedly refuse to look. The celebration should be enough of a distraction to keep him busy and away from you for a while so you can finally get laid.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

You resist the urge to check the time on your battered old wristwatch as Txetyo slides down your body and repositions himself between your legs.

It feels like such a long time since you’ve hooked up successfully with anyone, with no interruptions, which is probably why you’ve been so affected by all-things-Neteyam recently. You were hoping that this encounter with Txetyo would restore you back to normal, to get rid of all the thoughts of Neteyam’s intense golden stare and pretty face and silken hot cock that are absolutely haunting you.

Yet, so far, the night’s been less than stellar. Txetyo had led you away from the celebrations, and you had to try hard to pretend like you don’t see him looking around compulsively to make sure that no one else has seen him leave with you. You had followed him into the trees, and had brightened up when he took your hand as soon as you were out of sight of the gathering.

Before you knew it, you were on your back on the forest floor with your panties around your ankles and your dress rucked up around your waist as Txetyo loomed over you on his hands and knees.

Txetyo is handsome, and he’s big and strong and he’s not opposed to hooking up with a Sky Person, but he’s not much for conversation and it seems like he’s only really got one thing on his mind. Apparently, your list of criteria might be a little lacking, because Txetyo’s also proving to be woefully bad at sex.

He spreads your legs and buries his face there. You blink at the canopy of glowing foliage overhead, grimacing. Honestly, you’d think that anything tongue-adjacent would feel good against a clit, but that’s just not true. Txetyo seems to have an affinity for moving his tongue rapidly and aimlessly against you, resulting in nothing better than the occasional teasing — definitely by accident.

You shift a little, try to angle your hips so that Txetyo’s mouth is over your clit, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on what you’re attempting to do at all. He just moves his mouth away, jabbing his tongue sort of aimlessly at your left labia.

“Could you– a bit higher–” You say, trying to shift again.

Txetyo’s mouth is rather sloppy against your pussy, but you’re not actually sure what he’s doing down there. He seems to be missing every possible nerve ending that might feel good, which is actually a little bit impressive.

You sigh, and just resign yourself to getting bad head. You let your head thunk back against the mossy forest floor, your legs hanging off of Txetyo’s big shoulders as he hunches between your thighs.

It’s almost imperceptible, but the quiet ‘crack’ of a twig breaking underfoot has your head snapping around in a panic.

Though night has fallen, it’s never truly dark on Pandora. The moss beneath you glows faintly, illuminating the outline of your body as you lay there with Txetyo getting busy between your legs. The trees and foliage around you are similarly phosphorescent, your surroundings all lit up in luminous vibrance.

Pandora’s bioluminescence is beautiful; it also means that you can see Neteyam’s figure all dimly lit up as he leans against the trunk of a tree about fifteen feet away.

Neteyam’s head is cocked to the side as he very obviously takes in the scene before him, his head turning to scan up and down your body. His little luminous freckles are lit up and glowing, and it’s impossible to miss the fact that his golden eyes are fixed on you, so intense that it’s almost breathtaking.

You almost scream. You mean to, but instead you moan, completely by accident, and Txetyo groans between your legs.

You don’t know what to do. You’re gaping at Neteyam, who seems all too content to just watch you, meanwhile Txetyo is totally oblivious. He’s still doing nothing right, but something deep inside you pulses.

Moments later, much to your horror, Neteyam takes a small, tentative step forward. He stands only a few feet away, behind Txetyo and in plain view of you.

Go away! You mouth, staring at him in disbelief.

Neteyam scratches his head, feigning confusion, and then he takes another step forward.

He doesn’t say anything. Why isn’t he saying anything? It’s not the first time he’s walked in on you in a situation like this, but usually by this point he’s started making snarky comments, which in turn makes the men you’re with scramble away from you like you’re diseased.

Your dress is pushed up clumsily around your stomach, exposing your pussy. There’s a man between your legs. You’re in the process of getting fucked and Neteyam is watching, goddammit.

It definitely, absolutely is not hot. And yet… your hips twitch, and your breath hitches.

“That feel good?” Txetyo asks, peering up to grin at you. Your attention is dragged back to him and you blink, dazed.

“Yeah,” You lie. “So good.”

“Mm,” Txetyo hums in satisfaction, slipping two fingers into you. “Good.”

You grunt at the stretch of his thick fingers, breathing deep. His mouth returns, his fingers jabbing kind of aimlessly, but it hardly matters. Your attention is locked on Neteyam, and it’s somehow making Txetyo’s useless attempts feel somewhat invigorating.

“Oh god,” You gasp. You’re so confused. Part of you is still waiting for Neteyam to speak up, to make a sound or to clear his throat. Something. But he just watches on, his pretty eyes dark.

“Mm, so pretty,” Txetyo murmurs from between your legs, still blissfully unaware of your onlooker. “Can I fuck you now, tawtute?”

Despite yourself, you find your eyes darting over to Neteyam. The stupid fucker is still looking, and when he sees that you’ve looked at him his lips quirk. Your whole body flushes deep with heat, and you try to pretend like you aren’t taking direction from him; usually, his appearance would have stopped this entire encounter dead in its tracks. But you’re continuing, and the fact is, you feel as though you need his permission or something.

“Y-yes.” You say.

Neteyam purses his lips, and raises his non-existent brows. Fuck, what does that mean?

“How would you like me to–”

“Just like this.” You blurt. It feels, for some reason, as though you can’t risk Txetyo noticing Neteyam. This is the only way you can see Neteyam without Txetyo noticing him, anyway.

Txetyo shuffles up your body, his bulk dwarfing you. There’s a moment’s struggle as he’s lining himself up against your pussy, groaning low as he pushes into you. The stretch is intense, and a little painful, as always; you never quite get used to the bone-deep satisfaction of that achey biting stretch in your cunt.

The stretch is satisfying, like it always is, but it’s not necessarily special. Txetyo is not as evenly proportioned as he looks, and his cock is smaller than other Na’vi you’ve been with. That is, mostly, a good thing; it means he can fuck you without lube, which you usually have to use to accommodate the shocking stretch of taking a Na’vi cock. It also means that you adjust to having him inside you a little quicker, your muscles easing gradually around the intrusion of his dick.

What is special (or at least unusual) is the fact that Neteyam is still watching. You stare back, maintaining a bewilderingly intense sort of eye contact. Txetyo groans as your cunt clenches down on him, and he lowers his face to bury it in your shoulder; like this, your view of Neteyam is completely unimpeded.

“Ah! You’re so tight,” Txetyo hisses. “This is okay?”

“Yes,” You gasp. “You can move.”

And by God, does Txetyo move. He jerks in and out of you with a complete lack of coordination. You bounce and flop against the luminescent bed of moss beneath you, occasionally throwing a hand over your head to try and anchor yourself to a tree root behind you, just to stay put for a second or two.

Neteyam is undoubtedly amused. He has a hand pressed to his mouth, and the skin around his eyes is scrunched up with mirth. At one point, when Txetyo starts humping into you so desperately that you grunt, wincing, Neteyam doubles over himself completely, laughing silently.

“Oh, oh,” Txetyo groans. “Tawtute, I am going to– you are so tight, so hot inside–"

You smack one of Txetyo’s hands away from where he’d been rubbing determinedly at the side of your vulva. You rub at your clit instead in fast, harsh circles, staring at Neteyam desperately. You don’t actually know what you’re looking for, or what you want him to do… but you want him to do something.

Neteyam reaches down to palm the bulge at the front of his tewng that you hadn’t even noticed until now, and you moan. You rub yourself even faster, attempting to angle your hips in any way that could increase your pleasure from Txetyo. It seems impossible, but you manage to catch one or two good strokes.

“Please, please—!” You gasp, eyes wide as you maintain eye contact with Neteyam over the wide bulk of Txetyo’s shoulders.

Neyeyam moans. It’s low, barely noticeable under Txetyo’s own strangled sounds, but you hear it clearly. Your body seizes up and then you’re coming, gasping high and quick as you drink Neteyam in with your eyes, frozen under Neteyam’s gaze in turn.

“Unnng,” Txetyo grunts as he comes too, thrusting into you through the last shocks of his orgasm.

You barely even blink, your eyes fixed wide open as you tremble, your breaths shaky. Neteyam doesn’t break eye contact either, watching you so damn closely that it feels bizarrely as though he’s watching a show you’re putting on, as though all of this is for him. The worst part is you feel as though you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t.

Neteyam silently turns and slips away through the foliage, and Txetyo flops onto the mossy ground beside you moments later, breathing heavily.

“That was good.” Txetyo sighs, his voice thick with satisfaction.

You don’t reply, still staring at the place Neteyam had disappeared into the trees. You’re partly unable to believe what just happened and partly turned on beyond belief, just knowing it did.

What the fuck?

[daughterwifed]

LOVEY-DOVEY

first comes love

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. established relationship, hurt to comfort, angst, fluff, leon’s mental problems, future smut, ddlg

note. the first of hopefully 3 chapters?!! i have lost the ability to write im ngl,,, i promised this fic over a year ago and never got it out but i forced myself thru it bc it’s been sitting around like unfinished for a year LMFAO so it’s clunky.. doesn’t make sense… and also i do want to make clear this isn’t supposed to be a baby and marriage = happy marriage sort of fic i just see that ending for this couple in particular.. anyway ignore typos,, ignore any mistakes and pretend it makes sense. feedback / rbs always appreciated!

i would also appreciate if you read this post about plagiarism by a user on both tumblr and ao3

lovey dovey

“I used to hear Hola! and jump—Oh, gosh, I’m not racist or anything, I voted—“ Ashley adjusts her monogrammed scarf, looking at him with her new face. It’s the same, but different. Tighter, brighter, when her eyes widen her brows don’t raise and when she pouts her chin doesn’t dimple. 

“Ashley.” Leon interrupts to get her back on track before it gets any worse. 

D.C. does its best to dampen his mood, torrential rain soaking him to the bone, but you’re wearing these tiny winter booties that make his day a little better. 

“I just bet, I mean I know Leon never tells you anything about Spain, or anything at all.” She waves her hands in a flourish, not a hair out of place. “I signed an NDA, I don’t know how long they last, but I’m sure it must be over by now, I don’t really believe in them to be honest–What is a piece of paper going to do? I mean, it’s not like the piece of paper knows who I’m telling.” 

“She’s too little to know,” Leon says out of instinct. He takes the role of Daddy very seriously these days. 

“Leon.“ You frown at him, it’s so cute he’ll think about it for hours. 

“Sorry.” Is all he can come up with. 

“Anyways, I wanted to ask about plans,” Ashley says, the exchange going unheard by her. 

(If she’s not talking she doesn’t really seem to care about the conversation at hand.)

“Plans?” Leon doesn’t follow, and neither do you.

“Oh, you know.” She dabs at the corner of her lip with a handkerchief that matches her scarf, her lipstick leaves a pink smear on the edge of her cup. It’s heart-shaped. Fucking Cupid over here. “Haven’t you ever thought about babies, Leon? You’re pretty old now.” 

That’s not her card to play. Shouldn’t he be asking her about babies? She’s only getting older, not many eggs left in her basket. But, y’know, that’s not very PC, and Leon really isn’t that bad. He’d like nothing more than for her to move at her own pace - it was hard enough seeing Sherry grow up, passing her off to a guy nearly ten years younger than her—And Leon is in no place to talk about age gaps, but guys are immature and stupid, he would know.

“Ashley,” he interrupts once more, though he has nothing to say at all. Marriage. Babies. Jesus Christ, you are the baby. He’s got jackets older than you. 

“We haven’t thought about it—I mean, I ask him about it sometimes, but nothing serious,” you tell her honestly, the corners of your mouth drooping downwards in a frown.

You are one unhappy little girl and he is in for one hell of a ride back home. 

“I never make plans that far ahead,” he says, rehearsed, before your soured mood runs off the edges of your face and into the rest of the room. Distemper in a dogfighting ring. 

“Hm.” You make a noise beside him, knee bumping his under the table. It’s a touchy subject. An untouchable subject, actually, because he refuses to sit down and talk about it, he shuts it down immediately. You can’t make babies with a baby, that’s just plain wrong. 

(But you can fuck said baby every which way. You can spit in the baby’s mouth and spank her raw. That’s perfectly normal.) 

“The next time I see you, Leon, it better be at your wedding,” Ashley warns him, a burnt orange blazer draped over her slender shoulders as she primps herself up enough to face a camera or two. “I’m happy to help with, well, with everything, I have a lot of time and money to waste so don’t think you’re bothering me. Oh and another thing—Leon?”

“Yeah?” He shifts from foot to foot, the arm circling your waist drops to his side limply. 

“You can call me anytime, you know that, right?” She stares at him, right through him with her big brown eyes. “And you know I can see when you’ve read my texts, right?” 

Leon nods stiffly, he stands there like a fucking scarecrow when she wraps her arms around his neck.

“I know,” he mumbles into perfumed hair. 

When you ask him, “Why didn’t you hug her back?”

He tells you, “I didn’t want to make you jealous.”

“I don’t get jealous.” That’s right. You’re a very self-assured little girl with your head screwed on right, he can’t go around telling such obvious lies. 

“Dunno, just felt weird,” Leon admits, plucking the fuzz off your sweater to keep his hands busy, “haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“That’s your fault.” You walk ahead and he knows you’re pissed. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

The air crackles with tension, heavy enough to shift the layout of Leon’s home a little to the left—Or maybe you really have gone and done that without telling him, taking over his world with parts of your own - it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. That’s got to be some form of gaslighting. He can’t even see the TV from this angle. 

“Baby?” Leon calls out.

You poke your head out of the kitchen. 

“Did you move my chair to the left or am I losing it?” He shifts in his seat, moves from left to right, leans back to try and understand what has gone on. 

“You’re losing it, I moved it to the right.” You wipe your wet hands on your skirt, it borders on frumpy, makes your hips look even wider. He pretends that he hasn’t ever thought about knocking you up. 

“Why, baby?” You’re testing his patience, being short with him, huffing and puffing and sticking your nose in the air.

“Because it looks better, but I can’t do it when you’re home ‘cause you never get up.” Carefully, you edge towards him, skirting around the room until you find yourself in daddy’s lap. 

The weight is grounding, his hands find your hips in no time, fingers dimpling the fat as he squeezes down to ease whatever is going on inside of him. “You can’t stay mad at me, baby.”

“Yes I can.” 

“Who’s gonna take care of you then, hm?” Leon asks, sliding his cold hands under shirt to grope your heavy tits. He pretends that he hasn’t thought about running his fingers over your lace bra to find milky wet patches. That he hasn’t thought about you, glassy-eyed and in desperate need of daddy’s help, pushing your leaky tits against his chest and begging him, pleading with him to take on the role of dairy farmer for the day.  

“I can take care of myself.” You shrug. So cold, so cute. “But you, daddy.” You kiss his nose. “Without me, you can’t even remember to take your meds.” 

That’s right. You did well without him. You didn’t need a daddy until you found the right daddy. You wanted a daddy so dearly, but you can take care of yourself just fine. You can pour your own juice and you can tie your laces and fix your hair just fine, it’s just better when daddy does it for you. 

“True,” Leon mumbles, he kneads your breasts contemplatively,  “but it’s good to ask daddy for things, I don’t want you getting hurt doing it on your own.” 

“I have bandaids.” Comes your rebuttal. 

“Baby, you’re being mean.” Leon’s voice verges on a whine. 

“I’m not being mean, Leon.” You let yourself melt into him, fat tits spilling through the gaps in his fingers. His hands are small and there’s too much of you to contain. “Why don’t you want to marry me?” 

That’s a loaded question. One he can’t quite answer because there’s no real answer and he doesn’t really want to answer it.

“You’re too good for me.” 

“Oh my goood,” you groan, rolling your eyes so hard you age backwards, and it really makes you look like a teenager—A little girl—It makes him feel like your father. Not your daddy, but your father. And hell, he’s old enough to play the part. 

“What?” 

“It turns me off when you say shit like that, like ohhh I’m such a old loser, I can’t even get it up, baby, why are you even with me?” You do your best Leon impression, it almost makes him smile. “You literally want everyone to feel bad for you all the time, and you know what, Leon?”

“What?” Leon says again. He’s feeling parched. Lightheaded. Sick. Psychotic. Bad. Just fucking bad. Everything gets so bad when you’re not smiling at him.

“I can’t feel bad for you if you don’t tell me what’s going on—You don’t tell anyone what’s going on so nobody feels bad for you.” You stand up, his hands are left cold and empty. “Only you feel bad for yourself, you literally sit around all day drinking and feeling shitty about sitting around and drinking—You don’t even want to do anything anymore, you didn’t even want to see Ashley today! She loves you so much, she’s your friend and you can’t even text her back because, because… Well, I don’t even know!”

“Baby—“

“You don’t go to therapy and you forget to take your meds, and, and I have to remind you all the time and—“ You take a breath, your lips moving soundlessly as you count to ten. “I don’t mind doing that for you, I like taking care of you and I like when you take care of me—It makes me happy that you let me y’know do that…” You gesture to a stray pacifier on the coffee table. “And I love you, Leon, but it’s just like you never want to fix anything, you just want to stay like this and I don’t want that, Leon—“

“Babe–“

”I told you that I wanted to get married, I told you that it would be a problem for me if you didn’t want kids, Leon—I don’t want to be with you if you don’t want that with me, I told you that before we got serious and you said yes and now—“ You throw your hands in the air, cutting yourself off with a half-aborted sob and splitting his heart right down the middle.

“It’s not like that, baby,” Leon starts gently, pushing up out of his armchair so he can hold you like you need to be held, “I didn’t… It’s not you, you know that don’t you? You’re perfect, you’re a good girl, it’s just…”

“What?” You press your face into his chest, searching for comfort as you run your hands over his back. “It’s what?”

“It’s me.” 

“Oh my god, Leon.” Your voice breaks, and you look up at him. For a minute it’s like you’re in soft-focus, like you’re a love letter gone yellow with time, sepia-stained and unspeakably tender and—and the reel is burning away because you’re too beautiful to last forever. You’re the most fragile little package, stamped to handle with care and he’s tossed you onto someone's lawn and you’re going to be plucked away by a porch pirate and—God, he’s such a fuck-up. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Might be cliche, but it’s true. It’s him, not you. It’s always him. It’s why he’s been alone for so long. It’s not work, it’s not what happened in Spain or Talk Oaks, not even Raccoon City—Not mom, not dad, not Ada or Jack or Ashley or the fucking President, it’s not some grand, tragic circumstance—It’s just him. 

“If I marry you…” Leon’s mouth dries up while he flicks through a mental Rolodex of excuses. 

I drink too much. I’m depressed and probably bipolar. I’m infertile. You’re a baby, I can’t have babies with a baby. You’re too young. I’m too old. Especially for kids. I look like I could be your dad. I’m suicidal and needy and if we have kids what if you like them more than me? I work a lot. What if I put our kids in danger? What if I put you in danger? What if I’m a shit dad? What if you stop liking me after we tie the knot? You’re so young, you have your whole life ahead of you and you want to marry an old man? You should leave me for someone younger. Please don’t leave me. 

All of it is true, although none of it is an honest answer to your question—The answer is quite simple really—Leon won’t marry you because he refuses to be happy. 

“If I marry you,” he says again, eyes flickering from your eyes to your pout, “what will Sherry think?” 

Your hands are in tight fists by your sides, bottom

lip trembling as you struggle to remain impassive—And he knows you like the back of his hand, like the veins in his dick—That wrinkled nose could only mean one thing. You’re not about to cry, you’re mad at him. 

“Leon.” Your jaw tightens, grinding your teeth into a fine powder. “You know Sherry isn’t thinking about you, right?”

“How could you say that?” He asks, somewhere between hurt and confused. 

“I’m just… Like, fuck, Leon!” You angle your face away from him, cycling through every stage of grief as you gather your thoughts. “It’s not about what Sherry wants or what she’s thinking or whatever, it’s about what I want and what you want.” 

“But—“

“She isn't a part of our relationship, Leon, nobody is.” You tilt your head back, looking up at the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut. Praying or doing a breathing exercise. “Like… Like you don’t like Jake and she still married him because he makes her happy, Leon—Why don’t you want to be happy with me, Leon?”

“I am happy,” he lies. 

“Don’t lie to me, Leon—Do I not make you happy, is that what it is?” You look at him helplessly and he stands there with nothing to say. 

“You do make me happy,” Leon insists softly, you’re the only thing that makes him happy. Light of his life, apple of his eye, the centre of his whole entire world.

“I just don’t get it anymore, Leon.” 

Oh, god.

“I don’t… I made it clear that I wanted something serious, I want to marry you and I want to have kids with you—I don’t get why you would lead on me like that.” You cross your arms over your chest, bracing for his answer. “Has all of this been for nothing?”

To be entirely frank - Leon is being selfish. 

He’d rather keep you in limbo than let you move on with someone else. He doesn’t want to think about you in bed with someone else, calling someone else daddy, letting them touch you and take care of you—It makes him dizzy, he’s getting jealous of a guy he made up in his fucking head. You’re the only good thing in his piece of shit life and he has no intention of letting you go—He really should, and he probably would if you asked him a year ago, before the D word but now—

Leon feels out of place. 

If he’s not your daddy, then who is he? 

“You’re just… You’re just freaking out ‘cause Ashley put it in your head,” Leon retorts childishly, “we don’t need a baby to be happy.” You’re the only baby he needs to be happy. 

“Are you kidding, Leon?” Your nose is running and you wipe at your face with balled up fists. “Don’t make this about Ashley, you know that isn’t the problem—I really can’t believe you, if you're not serious about me then why are you still with me?”

Truthfully, he didn’t mean for all of this to go so far - then your toothbrush joined his, your Sylvanians found a nice spot on his mantle next to the potpourri, the whole daddy thing happened—

And all of that means that this is not a midlife crisis or a fling or a distraction. 

It means that you’re his girlfriend, the woman he loves.

“I am serious about you.” 

We just want different things, would be the right way to put it. It’s not entirely true, but Leon doesn’t know how to tell you that peace is unrecognisable to him. He doesn’t know what it feels like, it scares him, the finality of marriage and kids and all of these childish dreams he had so long ago—It’s scary, and it takes a lot and Leon could shoulder the whole fucking world if he had to and the whole fucking world is a lot. He’s done it before. Jesus Christ, he’s fought creatures that go beyond the scope of human understanding, but all of it comes to an end. Fights end. Missions get completed. Damsels are saved and monsters are slain and Leon gets home okay as he can be. 

But this… Marriage. There’s no way out—Like, there’s divorce, obviously, but something about marriage is permanent. He can’t shoot a gun and get out of a marital dispute, and he can’t outrun a missed birthday because ultimately he has to come home to you.

Coming home to you sounds good. It is good. It’s the reason he bothers coming home after work instead of bumming around in bars like he used to. But, but, but it’s about trust and working together and while nothing will really change you’ll legally own him and he’ll legally be yours and that’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young to take on and technically you’re already doing all of these responsible things for him and—Marriage is just different, okay?

“I don’t think you are, Leon.” You blink at him slowly, sadly. 

“I am,” Leon insists because he is serious about this. About you. He loves you and he knows that, but he’s fine with what you have now. Girlfriend-Boyfriend. Daddy and baby. “I am, baby, but don’t you think that we're moving into this too fast?”

“It’s been two years, Leon.” Another slow, sad blink, you look off to the side. “I told you I was dating to marry, Leon, I told you what I wanted, I want kids with you—And I’m sorry but you’re not getting any younger, if you’re just wasting my time—“

Something sharp and ugly takes hold of his chest. ”You just think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a baby, that's all you want from me.” That isn’t what Leon wanted to say, but the room is getting too small and that struck a fucking nerve. 

“Excuse me?” 

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A rotten sole-crushed peach, that's all he is, it’s true. And he doesn’t deserve you, but he doubles down selfishly. “You think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a kid,” he repeats, “that’s why you’re freaking out about this now.” Leon’s so very talented at fucking things up. Paperwork, his liver, his entire fucking life. 

“No… That’s not—Are you kidding me? Is that all you got from this, Leon?” You’re looking at him with these accusatory eyes and you’re not calling him daddy or tugging at the back of his shirt for attention. “How could you say that about me? Is that what you think of me?”

Leon would like to say no and he’d like to apologise, instead he fumes silently, teeth clenched so tightly they’ve started to ache. “C’mon, use your big girl words and tell me the truth.” He’s not very tall, but he’s taller than you - he looks down his nose at you. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, Leon.” The shift in his behaviour is new, you’re used to his self-loathing, his laziness and reluctance and his general unlikeability, but this—Leon has never been mad at you, and he doesn’t want to be mad at you and he’s more mad at himself than he is you—But still, like, he looks mad at you and he can see the way you’re trembling, puffing out your chest and standing your ground to appear so much bigger than you are. It breaks his heart, he’s the worst daddy ever. The most dick-headed jerk of a boyfriend and you’re still here. Fighting for him, well, with him, you’re here and you’re fighting with him, that’s still something. 

“Why not?” Leon tilts his head to the side, his face softening in faux confusion. “You like it so much, don’t you?”

God, maybe he’s not so normal after all, and you haven’t fixed him, and bad thoughts always come back, and if he was normal he wouldn’t be wanting to jump off every balcony and walk into every main road and disappear into bodies of water.

Leon isn’t normal. Big surprise.

He’s just starting to realise that it doesn’t matter how many people love him, it doesn’t matter how many medals he’s awarded, it doesn’t matter that he’s a treasure to some degree, an old gun worth keeping—None of it matters, Leon realises, none of it will ever fucking matter because he is who he is. 

Leon is going to lead a miserable dogshit life because he can and he will and it doesn’t matter how many good or bad things happen to him, it doesn’t matter who he falls asleep next to - he’ll still feel shitty in the morning. 

(At the end of the day, he’s a Kennedy, and no Kennedy has ever been particularly lucky.) 

“I’m trying to be serious, Leon, and you’re acting like a child!” Your bottom lip quivers, and you’re probably wondering where your daddy has gone. “I can’t… I can’t believe you’re talking to me like that right now.” 

Neither can Leon. 

Guilt coils in his gut like a snake, constricting and hissing in the back of his head that he should know better, he’s so much older, he’s your daddy, and he’s meant to take care of you. That’s what daddies are for.  

“I don’t want to… I don’t want to force you into this, Leon, I don’t want to make you marry me if you don’t want me—“ He does want you. He wants you so bad. “—I don’t want to force you to have kids with me if you’re not ready, I just wish you had told me before I moved in with you—“ The hurt that crosses your face strikes him right in the heart, teardrops beading your gossamer lashes. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, baby,” he says softly, quietly, earnestly, not daring to take a step closer because he doesn’t deserve to feel you or smell you or touch you, “I want to be with you, I love you.” 

“I don’t know anymore, Leon.” You look to him helplessly, blinking up at him with these big doleful eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, equally as helpless, “I don’t know.” 

He’s your daddy, he’s meant to know, but he doesn’t, so he just stands there like an idiot. 

“I’m sad,” you tell him honestly, “I’m going to go upstairs now.”

Leon goes to follow you.

“Don't follow me.”

Leon goes back to standing there like a fucking idiot. 

[leejenowrld]

back to you — six

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 47k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers 

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

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

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

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile Jeno is nowhere, and he is running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Nahyun opens hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s only then that you feel it, an unmistakable prickle at the back of your neck, sharp and deliberate, like a live wire strung tight beneath your skin. A gaze so heavy it anchors your spine before you even turn to find it. And when you do, your heart doesn’t leap, it drops. Jeno stands across the room like he’s been there the whole time, waiting for you to notice. He’s backlit by slow-flickering neon, jaw locked, shoulders squared, eyes set on you with a stare so cutting it could flay you open. It’s not curious nor confused, it’s fury carved into bone. His arms are crossed, his posture rigid, like it’s taking every ounce of control not to act. There’s a pulse behind his eyes that doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften—not even when Areum shifts beside him, glass in hand, her glare simmering with poorly veiled disgust. He doesn’t even seem to register her voice. His eyes never leave you—not when you shift on Yangyang’s lap, not when your fingers tighten around his shoulders, not when you throw your head back laughing like you’ve forgotten who’s watching.

Yangyang follows the line of your gaze, his smirk flickering for a split second when he catches the way your eyes lock onto Jeno. He leans in closer, voice low but obnoxious, smug curling at the edge of his mouth. There's something storming in his eyes—something that has less to do with jealousy and more to do with pride, heat, the thrill of being the one touching you while someone else can only look. "What, you think he’s gonna do something?" he mutters, cocking his head, eyes narrowing in Jeno’s direction. Then, more immature now, more crude, he adds, “If he wants to watch so bad, why don’t you just start bouncing on me? Bet that’d fuck him up.”

You snap your head toward him, eyes wide, breath catching with a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Yangyang,” you hiss under your breath, sharp, warning. But he just grins wider, like he’s proud of himself. Like he thinks he’s winning. It’s not funny anymore. Not when you can feel the burn of Jeno’s stare, not when your pulse is skipping and your dress feels too tight and your body’s caught in the middle of a war you never agreed to start.

You shift your weight, untangle yourself from Yangyang’s lap without another word. He doesn’t stop you—just leans back with a smug roll of his eyes, arms spread lazily across the couch like he’s made his point. You pull your dress down, every motion stiff, tense, and you turn, intending to put distance between yourself and the attention still licking up your skin, but stop dead in your tracks.

Areum stands in front of you, silent, still. She doesn’t announce herself, doesn’t need to, her eyes doing all the talking, narrowed and bitter, holding something she clearly thinks you’re scared of but you’re not. You don’t even flinch, already knowing exactly why she’s here, knowing nothing good is going to come out of her mouth, and still, you’re unfazed. She’s small, and whatever rage she’s trying to harness reads more like a tantrum than a threat. You’ve seen storms, Areum looks like drizzle. It’s you she should be worried about, you who doesn’t yell to make a point, you who doesn’t need to raise your voice to end a conversation before it starts. If she wants to light a fuse, fine, you’re already holding the match.

She speaks quietly, but her words hit like a slap. "You have some cheek, you know. Some nerve doing all of that with Yangyang when Jeno’s right there. What’s it been—a few weeks since you broke up with him and you’re already onto the next?”

You almost laugh, the sound bubbling up more from disbelief than amusement. “And what was I doing exactly?” you ask, voice sharp with clarity. “He pulled me onto his lap because there was no seat for me, do you think I should’ve just sat on the floor? And who told you I moved on? I literally haven’t. If you’re gonna run your mouth then at least know what you’re talking about.”

That should’ve ended it but it doesn’t. Areum’s breathing shifts. Quickens. Her brows furrow and her lips part—and then the dam breaks. She doesn’t just speak. She spirals. Words tumble from her mouth faster than she can control them. “You didn’t have to sit there,” she snaps, tone clipped, trembling slightly beneath the surface. “You stayed. You laughed. You let him touch you like that and maybe you haven’t moved on but it looked like you wanted to.” Her voice drops lower, bitter, careful. “And you knew Jeno was watching.”

You blink, once, twice, letting her words sit in the silence she leaves behind. Then you exhale, soft but sharp, like you’re choosing not to raise your voice only because she doesn’t deserve it. “Of course I wouldn’t want him to see,” you bite out, voice calm but edged. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if he did because it means nothing to me.”

Areum scoffs, tilting her head, arms still crossed. “Then why’d you stay on his lap so long? Wanted to feel wanted, is that it?” Her voice is sharp, smug, like she thinks she’s hit something real. “Or was it just the closest you could get to being touched by Jeno again?”

You blink once, twice, more stunned by her nerve than her words. You hadn’t expected her to be this mouthy, this bold but you suppose heartbreak does that to people—it strips the softness right out of them and leaves behind nothing but sharp edges and misplaced rage. You know she and Mark broke up, Mark told you himself, quiet and embarrassed, eyes downcast like he didn’t want to admit it. You hadn’t pushed, you didn’t need to because now, watching Areum unravel in front of you, you see everything he didn’t say. Her eyes keep darting to him—over your shoulder, behind your back, flickering to the corner where Mark still stands with your friends. He’s looking over too, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes locked on Areum with that familiar look that says he’s ready to step in if he needs to. You hold her gaze, but your awareness of him never falters.

She’s not fighting you. Not really. She’s fighting herself and you can tell. You’ve always been able to dissect people, to see the cracks even when they’re trying to be whole. Areum’s voice might be steady but everything else screams chaos—her shoulders tight, her breathing too quick, her fingers twitching like she doesn’t know what to do with them. It’s not anger, it’s guilt, it’s projection. She’s the one who left, she’s the one who gave up Mark and now she’s standing here, trying to act like you’re the problem because it’s easier than admitting she made a mistake. You could laugh. You almost do.

So you let it simmer for a beat. Let her stew in her own silence. Then you speak, slow and measured, every word deliberate. “You’re angry because I sat on someone’s lap, because I laughed. Meanwhile, you’ve been by Jeno’s side all night, pretending you’re not still in love with someone else. Don’t project your guilt onto me, Areum. If you feel bad about what you did to Mark, take it up with yourself. Don’t come for me because you can’t handle the consequences of your choices.”

You don’t blink when her eyes flare with something close to fury, don’t shift even as her stance tightens like she’s bracing for impact. You just stare, unbothered, the way someone does when they’ve already won, arms hanging loose at your sides, posture relaxed—not because you’re calm but because you choose to be, because nothing about her shakes you. Your stillness isn’t silence, it’s power, and it radiates, settling thick in the air between you like heat before lightning. She knows it, sees it in your eyes, in the tilt of your head, in the slight lift of your brow like you’re asking if that’s all, because this is what control looks like and you wear it like skin.

Areum swallows hard, throat bobbing once. “I’m not trying to argue,” she says, voice low and clipped, her gaze darting sideways before settling back on you, something like frustration flickering behind it. “It’s just—he was watching. That’s all.”

You shrug, slow, sharp, like you’re not pressed, like you’ve already run the numbers in your head and come out clean. “Yeah? Well, I’ve seen him with other girls too,” you say, tone cool, edged with something quieter, something that burns lower. “Too close, too friendly, hands where they don’t need to be. Doesn’t matter if he’s not fucking them, he still touches them like I’m not watching.” Your eyes flick back to hers, jaw tight. “So if you’re waiting on me to feel bad, don’t. I’ve already swallowed worse.”

Her expression twists, but it’s not anger this time, not exactly. Something shifts in the silence between you, weightier than anything said so far. She scoffs under her breath, a sound that tries for casual and misses, then mutters, “You’re putting on a show, you know. For someone who made such a fuss over the boy draft, you went all out with his basket. Kinda funny how you haven’t even tried to give it to him tonight. Guess flirting with Yangyang’s the new plan?”

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You tilt your head with that same deadpan control, the corners of your lips twitching like you’re seconds from laughter. “If you think that’s me flirting, you really need to get out more.”

Mark gets up quietly but with purpose and the motion itself is enough to shift the tension. You see him from the corner of your eye as he moves across the room, slipping through bodies that have begun to linger, to watch, to whisper. The weight of too many eyes presses down on the space between you and Areum, and it makes the air tight, claustrophobic. The argument, no matter how low your voices were kept, has drawn attention. The murmurs have started, heads are turned, and Mark feels every bit of it.

He stops beside Areum, doesn’t touch her, just stands close enough to make his presence known. Then he looks at you both. His expression is unreadable at first—tired, maybe—but then he shakes his head, once, slowly, and it’s full of something heavier than disappointment. His voice isn’t loud but it’s firm. "This isn’t it," he says, to no one and both of you. "Not like this. Not here."

Mark’s eyes flicker between you and Areum, jaw tight, and you can tell this hurts him. He’s not mad—he’s uncomfortable, unsettled. You’ve known him long enough to know what that look means. Mark Lee doesn’t do conflict like this well, especially not between people he cares about, and right now, that’s what’s killing him. You. Areum. The two people who’ve been constants in different ways, standing across from each other like enemies. It makes his stomach churn.

He exhales, rubs the back of his neck. His gaze lingers a little longer on Areum, softer, knowing. He gets why she’s like this. He knows it’s not really about the lap, or the laugh, or even the draft. It’s about the fact that she cares—still, deeply, maybe too much. He knows it’s coming from a place of protectiveness but it doesn’t make this right.

He looks at you next, and this time, the shake of his head is gentler. Like he’s asking you not to do this. Not now. Not in front of everyone. Not when the night is already hanging by a thread. "You two need to stop," he says, quieter now, just for the three of you. "This is getting out of hand. You both know it."

Areum doesn’t move, but you see her jaw clench. "She started it," she mutters under her breath.

You let out a low laugh, eyes narrowing. "Please, Areum. You came to me."

Mark cuts in before it can spiral again. "I don’t care who started it. I care that it ends here. Now." The heat between you and Areum still simmers like an open flame. Mark’s trying to put it out with water, but neither of you are sure you’re ready to let it die just yet. You and Areum both fall silent, the tension coiled tight between you, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room exhales with him. But before anything else can settle, the spell breaks with a flick of hair and the sound of heels clicking softly on the floor.

Karina appears like she always does—unbothered, glossed up, and halfway through a vodka cranberry. She slides into the tension with zero regard, glancing between you and Areum like you’re both interrupting her night. "I’m so sorry to cut this catfight short," she drawls, eyebrows raised, tone amused but sharp, "but you two—" she points lazily between you and Areum with her cup, "—are the only ones left on the team who haven’t finished your fantasy boy drafts. The night’s basically over. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes. Tops. So chop chop."

She takes a sip, then continues, voice louder now, like she’s announcing to a room that already knows. "Ningning’s still on Chenle’s lap, whispering God knows what into his ear. Yeji has practically claimed Wooyoung like a stray cat. Mia literally sat on Renjun’s shoulders and fed him grapes, Aisha’s in the lead, by the way. She made Hyunjin get down on his knees and bark for her twice." She pauses, tilts her head. "So what’s the hold up? The game doesn’t play itself. And we’re not about to let you ruin our win streak because you’re both too busy throwing daggers at each other with your eyes."

Before either of you can respond, you catch the movement beside you. Areum leans in close to Mark, lips brushing his ear as she whispers something you don’t catch. Whatever it is, it makes his expression change instantly—his shoulders relax, his mouth tilts up just slightly, eyes softening like he’s remembering something he missed. He nods once, and then she grabs his hand, and they disappear through the hallway together, slipping somewhere more private, fingers laced tight like they’ve already made their choice.

And that’s when it hits you. The night’s still going. You look across the room, and Jeno is still there—exactly where he’s been the entire time. His eyes are on you, not wandering, not searching. Fixed. And there’s something in them you haven’t seen in a while. Something softer. Something that makes your chest ache.

You don’t think it’s for you, you’re completely sure it’s for her—Areum. He saw what she did, how she defended him without pause, how she stood in front of you with her hands clenched and her voice shaking because something in her wanted to protect him. That must’ve meant something to him. Maybe they talked after that party, when he found out about her and Mark, after everything burned down. Maybe they made sense of it, quietly, off to the side where no one else could see. Maybe that look in his eyes now is the aftermath of forgiveness.

And you’re glad. Honestly. If there’s one thing you’ve never doubted, it’s that Jeno deserves to be cared for. Not questioned, not doubted, not held at a distance like you’ve had no choice but to do. He deserves someone who chooses him fully. And if that softness can’t come from you—not anymore—then at least it’s coming from somewhere.

Karina’s lips curve, amused, her voice low and laced with mischief. “Stop staring and do something about it. Take him to a room, lock the door, suck his cock, whoever gets the furthest with their boy wins a prize.” She lifts a brow, eyes glinting, fully aware of what she’s doing. She knows you too well. Knows exactly how to bait you, how to turn your competitiveness into movement, especially when Jeno’s involved. One sentence, and she’s already lit the match.

Your heartbeat stutters, quickens—not just from Karina’s words, but from the way his eyes haven’t moved since. Locked on you, steady, unreadable. There’s heat coiling low in your belly, your throat going dry, skin burning beneath the weight of his stare. He hasn’t blinked, hasn’t flinched, just stands there watching you like he already knows what you’re thinking. You’re seconds from crossing the room, ready to face whatever he gives you—his anger, his silence, his mouth telling you to fuck off while his eyes say the opposite—but then something shifts. The air, the room, the mood. And suddenly, you’re not moving toward him at all.

He doesn’t come from any direction. He doesn’t approach. He just appears suddenly, jarringly, like a hand closing around your throat mid-breath. His presence is unpleasant in the way a shadow grows too fast, swallowing space before you realize it’s even there. You don’t see him until he’s already beside you, until his breath hits the curve of your cheek and something inside you tenses without warning.

You’ve never spoken to Yeonjun before, never had a reason to. There was never any overlap, no need, no interest. Everything you know about him comes secondhand, filtered through the sharpness of Jeno’s voice or the tension in Mark’s jaw. You’ve heard his name often enough, always bitter on Jeno’s tongue, spat out like something rotten. You’ve seen his face on ‘Busan Titan’ posters across the city, eyes cocky, smirk carved into his mouth like a promise. That rivalry runs deep, Seoul Ravens versus Titans but what sticks isn’t the competition, it’s the history. It’s what he used to do every time Jeno and Areum were on a break, fucking her like she didn’t matter, like none of it did. Jeno could never stand it, hated the way she’d fall back into Yeonjun’s arms like it was routine, hated how disposable it made everything feel.

Mark hates him too, not just because Jeno does but because Yeonjun has no concept of boundaries. He’d flirt with Areum in front of everyone, even when she was with Mark, sliding in close, saying things loud enough to be heard, smirking like he knew no one would stop him, like rules didn’t apply to him, like respect was optional.

Now he's looking at you, his eyes raking over you slowly, deliberately, like he has every right to take you in like that. There's something predatory in his stare—not urgent, not hungry, but certain. As if the outcome has already been decided and he's just waiting for you to catch up. You feel it before you hear him, the shift, the pressure, the discomfort settling into your shoulders like weight, prickling beneath your skin. 

“Hi, pretty—fuck, I’ve been staring at you all night. Little dress hugging every curve, that tight ass—driving me insane.” Every syllable lands like a touch you didn’t consent to—sharp, lingering, wrong. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, and it takes everything in you not to flinch. He smells like whiskey and cheap cologne, and he looks at you like he already owns the ending. Like this isn’t a threat, but a promise.

“I’ve been meaning to get my hands on you since that bar performance,” he murmurs, voice low like it’s meant to be intimate. “You up there, all lips and legs, singing like you didn’t know you were putting on a show just for me.” You step back on instinct but he steps forward like it’s a game, like he’s enjoying it. His voice is slurred but smug, breath sticky with alcohol, and the way he grins at you, lip caught between his teeth, is the most revolting thing you’ve seen all night. Like he thinks he’s being charming, like he expects you to giggle and blush but your skin crawls. 

Your hands curl into fists. He doesn’t stop, his eyes dip again, slower this time, and he murmurs, “Bet you sound even prettier moaning than you do singing. Maybe I should take you backstage, see for myself. Bet that mouth would look so good stretched around my cock.” Yeonjun’s words land like a slap, vulgar and shameless as his fingers graze your wrist. “Wonder how tight that pussy is, bet it’s perfect,” he mutters, low and disgusting, his breath curling hot against your cheek. “Wanna feel it squeezing around me.” His hand lingers too long, then grips—tight, insistent. “Come with me,” he says, but it’s not a question. “Let’s find a room. You want to, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go near you if someone paid me,” you say, low and even, every syllable cutting clean. “You think talking like that makes you hot? It makes you pathetic. You’re not charming or attractive. You’re just the guy everyone warns their friends about, the one who doesn’t get told no enough.” Your eyes drag over him, sharp and unimpressed. “I’d rather fuck concrete.”

There’s a beat of silence and then he laughs, not embarrassed, not ashamed but excited. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, eyes gleaming like he’s just found a new game. “Bet it’d look even better stuffed full. Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start thinking you want me to ruin you.” His fingers dig in harder. The more you resist, the more he leans in, breathing you in like he’s savoring the fight. He thinks your anger is foreplay. He thinks your disgust is foreplay. He doesn’t care that you hate him—he likes it. But that’s exactly why he’s going to regret ever thinking he had a chance.

Your stomach twists, bile creeping up your throat. The air feels thick, suffocating, tainted by him. You rip your hand out of his grip with force, shoving him back with a sharp press to the chest. Your voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t rise—it cuts, low and lethal, slicing clean through the static of the room. “Don’t fucking touch me again.” You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Behind you movement surges, it’s not hesitant, it’s not casual, it’s fast, deliberate, and when you glance back, you see the boys you trust most closing in like a wall. Yangyang’s already in motion, face drawn tight with restrained fury, Donghyuck and Chenle shift forward in sync, no words spoken, just a sharp, mutual understanding passing between them, but it’s Shotaro who anchors the space, who steps out from behind the others, no longer soft-spoken or reserved but entirely transformed.

His eyes are locked on Yeonjun, sharp and unblinking, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck strain, his hands trembling where they’re fisted at his sides. There’s no smile, no playfulness, none of the gentle softness that usually cushions his presence. This is something else entirely—this is Shotaro seeing red. “That’s enough,” he snaps, and the sound is louder than anything you’ve ever heard from him. The room freezes. You feel it, like a static charge in the air. People glance over, heads turning, murmurs starting to rise. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink. He steps forward, slots himself between you and Yeonjun like a shield, his chest heaving.

The tone in his voice is ragged and unfamiliar, dragged up from someplace deep and rarely touched. “Enough with the bar shit,” he growls, each word deliberate, heavy. “You think just because she sings she’s yours to touch? Yours to talk to like that? Like she’s some kind of fucking show you can buy tickets to and grab after?” Gasps ripple around you, someone even lets out a stunned ‘oh my god.’ You hear a glass clink hard against the table and behind you Ryujin fans herself slowly, eyebrows raised, the grin pulling at her mouth smug and so proud. She mouths finally, and you almost laugh, even now.

Because it means something, this. It means everything. Shotaro, soft-spoken Shotaro, the one who rarely yells, rarely curses, rarely does more than watch with a kind heart and tired smile, he’s the one losing it and it’s for you, in front of everyone. The room is watching. Your heart is racing but all you can feel is safe.

Yeonjun just scoffs, casual, still smug, like none of this phases him, he tips his head back, raises his voice for the crowd that’s already watching. “Come on baby,” he purrs. “You love my attention, stop pretending, I know that you want it just as much as I do.”

But Shotaro doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t let the performance sway him, his shoulders square tighter, body braced like he might lunge. His voice cuts clean through the tension, and it’s not performative, it’s protective, deadly serious. “Say one more fucking word, go on, see what happens.” He doesn’t yell it, he doesn’t need to, the warning hits harder in its calmness.

Behind him, Yangyang shifts closer, eyes locked on Yeonjun like a second hit waiting to land, Chenle’s hands are clenched at his sides, Donghyuck mutters something under his breath that sounds like “fucking creep” but his stare doesn’t leave Yeonjun for a second. None of them are smiling, none of them are performing, this isn’t for show, this is for you.

But still, Yeonjun smirks, he looks past them, straight at you, and that’s when you hear it, snickers, soft at first, then louder. Your eyes flicker to the side. Aisha. Mia, a cluster of cheerleaders leaning by the drink table, laughing behind their hands, elbowing each other, Aisha catches your eye, grins wider, Mia mouths something you don’t bother trying to read. Your stomach sinks, you thought the slumber party worked, you thought your effort, your vulnerability, your hosting, the drinks, the gift baskets, the confessions and the team bonding meant something. You thought it made you safer, that it earned you space. Apparently not.

You don’t notice him at first. Or maybe you do, maybe some part of you always does, not consciously, not clearly but in the way the air changes— denser, heavier, charged like the hush before thunder. The kind of tension that settles into the bones, not the skin. That’s when your spine straightens. That’s when your breath stutters in your throat. That’s when you know he’s coming.

Jeno doesn’t storm in. He doesn’t shove or bark or announce himself like someone desperate to be seen. He doesn’t need to. He arrives, in the truest sense of the word. Each step calculated. Each breath steady. It’s not dramatic, it’s deliberate. He cuts through the crowd with the gravity of something planetary, like the world shifts slightly to make space for him. You don’t see him at first but you feel him like a stormfront, slow-building and inevitable. By the time he’s near, by the time he’s behind you, close enough to graze his knuckles along your spine, it’s like he’s always been there and maybe he has.

He doesn’t speak right away, he doesn’t have to. His hand is already at your waist, guiding, claiming, moving you behind him with a touch that feels both instinctive and intentional. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, the slow tension in his jaw betraying the composure he’s barely holding onto. Then he speaks and it’s not just a voice, it’s a verdict.

“You’ve gotten on my nerves for a long time,” he says, voice low and dangerous, dragging like smoke over flame. “Fucking around with my ex was one thing but now you’re trying to fuck around with what’s mine?” The words hang heavy between them, laced with something deeper, something unspoken but clear. There’s no hesitation, no show of force—he doesn’t need it. His presence is enough. His anger is controlled, precise, locked down tight like a blade unsheathed just enough to flash. “Touch her again,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dangerous, “and you’re leaving in an ambulance. Try me.”

Yeonjun laughs, a rough, dismissive sound, tossing his head back like this is entertainment. “You’re funny. You didn’t see the way she was sitting on Yangyang’s lap earlier? All sweet and soft like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing and you still think she’s yours? You think she belongs to anyone but herself? Get real.”

His mouth curls, but it’s not a smile. “Yeah, I saw it,” he says flatly. “So what? She’s still mine.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked. “You know why? Because she wouldn’t look at you twice if I was in the room.”

He pauses for only a second but in it, he looks at you. Fully, his eyes raking over you in that dress, tight, glossy and sinful and his mouth parts like it steals his breath. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he sighs, quiet but audible. Like he knows. Like he knows you wore it for him. Like he’s thinking about what’s under it. Like he’s remembering. You gulp because you are his, the way he’s looking at you makes you feel it in your chest, in your core, in your throat. Your thighs squeeze together and he notices that too. It flashes in his eyes, in the way he drags them up your legs, to your mouth, like he wants it on his you can’t deny how much you want him, can’t ignore the slow throb that builds under his stare. 

It’s a reminder of everything he still is to you and that kills you because no matter how much you love him, you can’t be his. Not now. Not when so much of you is still in pieces but the feeling of being his—it obliterates the logic, it makes everything else irrelevant. There’s nothing in the world like that grip he has on you, the way he makes you feel claimed without even touching you. His presence alone, his voice curling through the air, his anger on your behalf all combine into something unbearable, something intimate and sharp, and it makes everything inside you want to give in.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch Yangyang’s gaze, his jaw tight, lips drawn into a grim line. He looks away almost instantly, like it burned to witness, like it hurt in a way he wasn’t prepared for, raw and sudden and sharp enough to leave a mark. But you saw it, clear as day a flicker of envy, the weight of something deeper, darker, the kind of quiet fury that belongs to someone who knows they never had a real shot, not when it’s always been him, not when Jeno was always going to be the center of your gravity, the force you orbit no matter how far you try to drift, even if staying in his pull tears you apart piece by piece.

Yeonjun sneers, head tilting, grin slicing across his face like he knows exactly what nerve to hit. “Oh, I get it now,” he says, voice loud, taunting, meant for the crowd. “What’s the plan, Jeno? You watching or joining? I don’t mind—long as I get to feel your girl’s tight pussy wrapped around me.” His eyes gleam, filthy. “Heard you two like to share, I’ve heard about all your threesomes, isn’t that how it goes?”

Gasps ripple sharp through the crowd, a single line of shock splitting the tension like lightning. The atmosphere shifts, fractures and turns volatile. Jeno doesn’t speak at first, he breathes in slowly and deeply through his nose and lets it go with a calm so eerie it stills the noise around him. He doesn’t yell or flinch, he just raises his hands, smooth and quiet, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows like it’s routine, as if he’s done this before. His jaw tightens, sharp, and the muscle ticks once, then again. He tilts his head just slightly to the side, eyes locked on Yeonjun, unreadable, and then comes the crack of his knuckles—loud in the silence, final, like the sound of something breaking.

The crowd reacts instantly, like animals sensing a predator. Bodies shift, people back up without thinking, clearing a path as instinct kicks in. Phones are already out, lifted into the air like weapons, screens glowing. Whispers ripple like static—fast, sharp, rising in pitch until someone finally says it out loud. Then another. Then a chorus. “Fight.” It rolls through the room like a chant, voices stacking over one another, urgent and hungry. You can feel it in the air, the change, the way everything tilts toward something explosive. This isn’t posturing, this is a threat and it’s real.

“You’ve got one more chance,” Jeno says, voice low and coiled, barely above a whisper but it cuts through everything. “You’ve always been this way. Always slinking around parties, talking like this to girls. You wait until they’re drunk, or alone, or too fucking scared to tell you to fuck off and it works for you, doesn’t it? They don’t know how to make you stop, you count on them being afraid.”

“But I’m not one of them,” he says, every word like iron. “I’m not scared of you, I’m not impressed by you, I’m not gonna let you walk away thinking you’ll do this to someone else.” He lowers his voice further, the kind of quiet that makes your pulse spike. “I’ve seen the way you fold the second someone your size steps in. You’ve always been cocky because no one’s ever shut you the fuck up, right?” He smiles, not kind or calm but slow and sharp, full of something that feels like inevitability as his voice drops lower and he says, “Guess that’s why it has to be me.”

Yeonjun lets out a scoff, loud and dismissive, then shifts his weight, turning his head deliberately toward you. His eyes land on you like a spotlight, dark and invasive, scanning every inch with a hunger that makes your stomach turn. “You must be special then,” he says, voice oily. “Got two men ready to throw punches for you. Makes me wonder what that pussy really feels like.”

His hand moves before you can brace, sliding down the curve of your waist with unwelcome confidence, fingers splaying wide as he grabs a rough handful of your ass, then pulls back just enough to slap it—loud, deliberate, the sound cracking through the air like a spark to dry kindling.

In response, Jeno moves too. Not just moves—unleashes. He growls low, teeth gritted, the sound more beast than man. His entire body coils beside you like a fuse lit too fast, muscles drawn tight across his frame, arms flexing with a fury so raw it hums through the air. His feet plant firm against the floor, every inch of him braced to strike, eyes locked on Yeonjun with a glare sharp enough to split bone. The crowd gasps. The air fractures and for a single breathless heartbeat, time stutters—caught between his rage and the impact you almost expect him to make.

It should be him. Every signal points to it—his locked jaw, the fury carved into his stance, the way his body coils like a wire pulled too tight. He looks ready to snap, to lunge, to land the kind of punch that would knock Yeonjun flat and never let him forget it. The crowd feels it too; phones lift, screens glow, anticipation tightening like a fist around the room. Jeno moves forward, the pressure rising with every step, every breath, every second that passes without a hit.

Except it doesn’t come from him.

The noise doesn’t follow his fist, and the contact isn’t his to claim. The shift is too fast to catch clean, the angle just out of frame, and for a second, everyone blinks, unsure of what just happened—until Yeonjun reels back, stunned and staggering, eyes wide, lips bleeding. All heads turn, not to Jeno but to you.

Your fist hits Yeonjun’s jaw with a force that shocks even you, the crack sharp and satisfying, slicing through the air like a gunshot. Pain explodes through your knuckles, hot and immediate, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of him stumbling backwards, wide-eyed and stunned, crashing down in a graceless sprawl that sends the room into chaos. Gasps ripple out first, followed by laughter, a chorus of cheers, and someone near the back yells loud enough for everyone to hear, “Holy shit—he just got dropped by a girl!” Another voice echoes, cackling, “That’s it, wrap it up! He’s finished!”

Yeonjun scrambles, tripping over his own shoes, one hand covering his bleeding nose, the other reaching blindly for the nearest support. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before, like he can’t comprehend the humiliation washing over him in waves. The cowardice shows in the way he doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare look at Jeno. He just slinks off, face burning, body trembling, too stunned to form words.

You shake out your hand slowly, fingers flexing with the sting, blood smearing red and raw across your knuckle. It burns, sharp and insistent, but you feel steady, taller, anchored by the electricity still rushing through your veins. The ache is hot, heady, almost addictive—the kind of pain that makes you feel alive, makes you feel like something has finally shifted.

Jeno moves without a word, he grabs a tissue from a nearby table and steps in close, closer than anyone else would dare. His fingers are warm as they brush yours, dabbing gently at the bleeding skin with slow, precise pressure. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s tending to something precious. His eyes never leave your face—not once—and when you finally look up, they’re burning. Dark. Starved. His lip is caught between his teeth, jaw tense, chest rising with shallow breaths. There’s a heat in the space between you now, thick and unbearable, not just from the adrenaline, not just from the violence but from the way he sees you. From the way you feel him seeing you. Strong. Untouchable. His.

You see Karina in the corner of your eye, leaning back against the drink table like she hasn’t got a care in the world. She throws you a dramatic thumbs up and mouths the words boy draft with an exaggerated grin, then follows it with something filthier— “get that cock!” lips shaping around every syllable like a punchline meant just for you. It makes you almost laugh, your chest still heaving from the adrenaline.

He’s waiting for you, not with words but with his body, his hand already curling around your waist, firm and familiar like it belongs there. He tugs you close, just enough for your hips to brush, for the air to shift, heavy and electric between you. There’s heat rolling off him in waves, and the way he looks at you, dark eyes fixed and unwavering, it makes your breath catch. Slowly, his other hand lifts, palm up between you like an unspoken dare. It’s not just a gesture, it’s a command wrapped in tenderness, a question he already knows the answer to. You know exactly what he wants, where he wants you. You can feel it in every line of his body, in the way his fingers twitch like they’re already picturing you in his bed, straddling his lap, buried under his touch. And maybe you don’t know what will happen when the door closes behind you, if he’ll kiss you or break you or just hold you through whatever you’ve been pretending not to feel but it doesn’t matter. You want it. You want him. You’re already leaning in, already giving in, and his grip only tightens.

A brush of pressure lands on your shoulder, not forceful but enough to stir the air around you, enough to pull you out of Jeno’s gravity for half a second. You turn slowly, heart still pounding from the aftermath and there he is. Yangyang. His expression is tight, drawn with urgency, eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t blinked in too long. He doesn’t say your name, just leans in slightly, breath shaky and low, voice cracking on the edge of something raw. “Can we have that talk now?” The words fall too fast, too soft, but the way he looks at you—like he’s hanging off the last thread of something he doesn’t know how to fix—makes your throat go tight.

You blink. Once. Twice. Open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Yangyang—” Jeno hasn’t moved but you feel him shift beside you, the slow pull of tension winding through his body. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers pressing firmer into your side like a silent warning, like a claim. His eyes narrow, sharp and simmering with restrained annoyance, the kind that doesn’t need words to be felt but Yangyang doesn’t step back, he lifts his hands instead, not touching, just outstretching them toward you, open, desperate, trembling at the edges with something unspoken, and the gesture makes your eyes widen, just slightly, because it’s not just what he’s asking. It’s how.

Your voice cracks before your composure does, barely above a whisper, but loaded with everything you can’t make sense of. “You had the entire night.” Your eyes go glassy as you stare at him, blinking too fast, like you’re trying to understand why now. Why this moment, why him and why now, when you were finally about to let yourself go where you actually wanted to be.

“Can’t it wait another time?” you ask, not unkindly, but firm.

Yangyang shakes his head fast, desperate. “No. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You know that.”

You hesitate, breath caught halfway between your ribs, pulse thudding loud in your ears. You want to go with Jeno. God, you want to. Your body is still humming from the aftershock of it all—his voice, his eyes, the way his fingers grip your waist. Your skin aches for him, your chest tight with the pull to be his again, even just for the night. You want the press of his mouth, the rough drag of his palms, the ache between your legs answered by the weight of him, the stillness, the dark, the undoing. He’s home. He’s gravity. He’s heat, and you’ve never needed it more.

But Yangyang’s gaze cuts through all of it. He looks like he’s unraveling, one breath away from breaking. His eyes are fractured glass—shiny, desperate, on the verge of shattering—and when they lock onto yours, something sharp twists in your gut. He’s not trying to pull you away, he’s trying to hold on before he loses the last thread and you feel it, a terrible, unbearable guilt, like whatever you choose, you’ll still be hurting someone, you’ll still be breaking something that was never supposed to fall apart.

You take a breath that doesn’t settle. One step forward would take you into Jeno, into everything you’ve been aching for since the moment his voice dropped, since the second he stepped in front of you, as if you belonged to him. His hand is still there, wrapped around your waist, his touch hovering in a way that makes you feel tethered and free all at once and it kills you because you don’t want to move. You just stand there, torn open, swallowing the guilt that rises like acid, burning its way up your throat. “I’ll come find you after,” you murmur, but it sounds thin, barely believable, barely anything at all. A promise made too late, too soft.

Jeno doesn’t look at you, his jaw set with a tension that splinters the edges of his expression, his mouth drawn so tightly it looks carved from stone and even though no sound escapes him, you can feel the violence in his silence, can taste it like metal on your tongue, thick and bitter. The room hums with it, a supernatural stillness, a haunting, like some ancient force has been awoken and tethered just barely in place by the thinnest thread of restraint. When he finally turns toward you, it isn’t abrupt, it isn’t soft, it’s deliberate, slow like a noose tightening, like the pause before a verdict is read, his stare not empty but too full, too quiet, holding more than it’s showing. 

He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to, the silence around him howls and when you take that first step toward Yangyang, when your body leans into the space you carved with your yes, you feel it, the break, the irreversible shift, the ground doesn’t crack it cleaves, clean and devastating, a fault line between then and now, between who he was when he held you and who he’ll be after watching you walk away, you keep moving anyway because you said yes, because you always follow through, because regret is softer than betrayal until it isn’t.

Karina groans, loud and theatrical, tossing her hands in the air. “You are hands down the worst fantasy boy draft player of all time,” she says, voice sharp with mock exasperation. “This is exactly why half the team wants to change the rules next season—so we can steal from girls who can’t close.”

You follow Yangyang across the living room without a word, the air thick and weighted behind you, each step a pull against the heat still clinging to your skin. His hand brushes yours, guiding you toward one of the quieter bedrooms, and you let him, even as your heart stammers. You bite your lip and keep your eyes forward, not daring to glance back because you know if you do, if you meet Jeno’s stare even for a second, you won’t leave at all.

The door clicks shut behind you and Yangyang, quiet but too loud in the stillness, a sound that slices clean through the tension and seals the room around you like a vault, like a secret, like a mistake you haven’t made yet but already regret. Outside the window the party is still pulsing, muffled voices and laughter and music like a heartbeat you’re no longer synced with, but inside it’s deathly quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that demands something be broken just to prove you’re still alive. The room smells like Jeno, that clean heat of his cologne soaked into the cushions and it makes your stomach twist because it’s so intimate, so present, like he’s still here even though he’s not. 

Yangyang is pacing, not frantically but aimlessly, his movements loose like a marionette cut from its strings, pausing in place only to start again like his thoughts are unspooling faster than he can catch them, his eyes flicking to you then away then back again, and it’s not just nerves, it’s unraveling. You don’t sit. You don’t move. You just watch him, your body still buzzing with the heat Jeno left behind, your skin aching from the way his hand had curled around your waist like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there.

Yangyang finally stills and you think he might speak but he doesn’t, he just looks at you, eyes wide and glassy and fixed, and when he reaches for your hand he doesn’t say anything, just laces his fingers with yours like that alone might keep him from falling apart. His thumb moves over your knuckles, soft and shaky, and his breathing isn’t steady, and the silence drags long between you, taut and full of everything neither of you are saying. You let it hang for a beat before you break it, voice low but not unkind, “You really couldn’t wait until another day” you ask, your words cutting through the quiet as your breath catches, the weight of the almost hanging off your ribs, “I was already leaving with him.” 

He shakes his head fast, a hard jerk like denial alone will undo everything that’s unravelled, and you sigh, not because you’re angry but because this is too much, too fast, too late. “Tell me then,” you say, sharper now, because you’re starting to lose patience, “Tell me what’s happened.”

It doesn’t come all at once. He stammers. Starts and stops. His voice gets caught on words that won’t settle and you have to coax it out of him, your tone softer now, trying to untangle whatever’s knotted behind his eyes. You tell him it’s okay, that you’re here, that he can tell you anything and you see the way that gets to him, the way he starts to breathe easier under your voice, how the way you speak to him settles into his spine and drips down like something warm and welcome. He likes this. Likes you like this. It’s in the way his gaze drags across your mouth when you speak, the way he holds your hand tighter when you lean in to reassure him again, saying gently, “Whatever it is, Yang, I’ll help you figure it out. We’ll figure it out together.”

“So here’s what happened,” he says slowly, like he’s bracing himself, like the words are a bruise he’s pressing on just to prove it still hurts, “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad,” he adds quieter, almost like he’s confessing, like it costs something to say it aloud, “I’ve been slipping since the semester started but I kept thinking I could catch up, I was partying too much, missing classes, missing deadlines, skipping lectures but I figured I’d just pull it together like I always do”

His fingers flex at his sides and he looks anywhere but at you, eyes darting from your mouth to the floor to your hand like maybe the right place to rest will make this easier to say.  “Then one of my professors, the only one who still gives a shit, offered me this chance, not extra credit exactly but something to prove I could be responsible, he gave me this external port, secured as hell, loaded with confidential shit—student files, departmental records, grading data, all that, I was supposed to bring it back first thing tomorrow”

He takes a shaky breath and you can see it hitch in his chest before he continues, “I didn’t even go home after class, I was in a rush, just shoved it in my bag and came straight here, I thought it’d be fine, I really did, I thought I was being careful, but somewhere between the drinks and the people and the fucking noise—I lost it, or someone took it, I don’t know, I don’t even remember when I stopped holding onto it”

His voice is tighter now, strained, like guilt is closing around his throat and won’t let go. “If I don’t return it, I’m fucked, it’s an academic breach, a serious one. I’m already on probation with the department and if this goes sideways I’m done, I’ll have to resit the whole year or worse.” Finally he lifts his eyes to yours, wide and desperate and glassy like he’s trying to make you feel all of it too, trying to make you understand how bad this is, how scared he is, “I know it’s not fair to ask you but you’re the only person I trust, you’ve always known how to fix things, you have access, you’re respected, you know how to move through stuff like this, you’re good—too good and I don’t have anyone else, just you”

You blink, eyes wide, throat tight with disbelief, "You’re serious," you breathe, more exhale than question. 

He nods, voice splintering on the first word, "I know, I know I just—fuck, I didn’t know what else to do," his hands tremble where they cling to yours, "It’s gone, I fucked up and you’re the only person I know who can fix this," his voice cracks again, eyes glassy and desperate, "You have access, you know the systems, they trust you, you’re in every circle that matters, you’re the only one who could get into the right places without raising a single red flag, without getting caught."

Your stare hardens, brows pinch, you feel the shift inside you before your voice follows, low, razor-edged, "You want me to fix this?" You bite out, "you want me to break the rules? Breach the system? You do realize I could get expelled, Yangyang," you pull back slightly, but not far, "You really think I’d risk everything for you?"

He swallows like the words burn, "I think you will," he murmurs, "Because you’re good, because you care, even when you don’t want to, even when you know you shouldn’t, that’s why everyone comes to you, that’s why I came to you, because you always come through, for people you care about," his gaze doesn’t flinch, "You always come through for me."

You hesitate, barely, but it’s there, a glitch in your breath when his fingers twitch and yours don’t let go, like your body already betrayed you before your thoughts caught up. Your skin’s too hot, flushed with something synthetic and shameful, nerves buzzing just beneath the surface, pupils blown, heart jackhammering against your ribs—everything too loud, too close, too much. The drugs make it hard to think straight, harder to feel anything clean, but you feel this—his grip, unrelenting, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he eases up even a little and maybe that’s why you don’t pull away. Maybe you like it. Maybe that’s worse.

Your brain keeps saying walk away, get it together, breathe, stop, but your hands won’t listen. They stay locked around his like instinct, like punishment, like guilt in motion, echoing the same mistakes you promised yourself you wouldn’t make again. You tip your head forward before you can stop yourself, a breath slipping out that feels too loud, too exposed, and his thumb brushes the edge of your palm, unintentional but careful. The contact short-circuits something inside you. Something thick and sour crawls up your throat, bitter and wrong, and you swallow it back down with the words you’ve said too many times already. You wait a beat longer, like maybe the silence will say what you can’t. “I’ll sort it out,” you whisper, voice unsteady, raw at the edges. “I’ll fix everything. Don’t worry.”

The sound he makes isn’t just relief, it’s release, a broken, breathless sound like something inside him has finally been unchained. He pulls you in, arms sliding around your back with full, urgent force, holding you like his body decided before his mind did. Your chest presses to his, heart to heart, and you feel the stutter in his breathing when your fingers find the back of his neck. You circle your arms around him and stay there, not speaking, not thinking, just breathing, leaning, existing in the quiet that builds between your bodies. When you finally pull back, it’s only enough to see his face—your hands still anchored to his shoulders, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles into your lower back, like letting go is out of the question. You’re close enough your breath catches on his lips.

He looks down at you, eyes flooded with something deeper than gratitude, something older, heavier. “I always need you,” he says, soft and hoarse, like the words have worn grooves in his throat. “You always know what to do. You always save me. There’s no one else. Not even close. I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you.”

It should soothe you but it doesn’t. The words hang there between you like steam off pavement, warm and rising, but laced with something else—something that doesn't cool. There’s a pulse beneath his voice that you can’t ignore, something crawling under the surface, darker, hungrier, hotter. It coats the silence like oil. It makes your chest feel tight and your spine feel aware of every place his body presses into yours. There’s relief in what he said, yes—but it’s the kind that comes with fire, not calm. The kind that doesn't settle. The kind that asks for more.

You’re still high. Not gone, not spiraling, but everything’s slowed down and stretched too wide. The world feels submerged, warped at the edges, like you’re moving through water—your pulse uneven, your thoughts lagging behind, each breath caught on delay. Guilt buzzes in the back of your skull like faulty wiring, constant and biting, but beneath it, something darker pushes through. Want. Not soft, not careful—want with claws and heat and a blade-edge sharp enough to draw blood if you get too close. It doesn’t ask permission. It just starts taking. The kind of want that roots in your spine and spreads like venom. It coils hot beneath your skin when you realize what he just said—you’re the only one. You’re the one he ran to. The one he trusts with this. Not just the danger, not just the mess but him. And it’s sick, it’s so fucking twisted, but the sound of him saying that out loud does something to you. Opens you up.

He could’ve gone to anyone. He didn’t. He came to you. Because he knows—only you can fix this. Only you can calm the storm clawing at his ribs. Only you can touch the violence in him without flinching. You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the sharp wet heat that builds just from the idea of it. That he needs you. That he chose you. That he’d fall apart without you and has no shame admitting it. It makes your thighs press together. It makes you ache. The ache of being needed. The thrill of being wanted. It’s proof that you matter, that you’re the one he turns to when it all goes to hell. It makes your breath hitch. Makes your jaw tighten. Makes your hands want to stay exactly where they are, because for once, someone sees the wreck in you and still calls it the solution.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just looks at you—unflinching, unreadable—but you feel him. You feel the heat of him pressed low against your stomach, the shape of him already hard, already aching. It’s a question you’re not ready to answer, a hunger that wasn’t supposed to be fed like this. Your hands stay behind his neck, and his breathing brushes your collarbone. His eyes are darker than they were a moment ago. Hungrier. Still soft, but softened like candle wax, not like mercy.

And it’s you—of course it’s you—who breaks the stare first, who swallows, who makes the first wound. “If you’ve always needed me,” you whisper, your voice thinner than you want it to be, your thumb barely brushing the side of his throat, “then why did you disappear the second I started seeing Jeno?” The silence that follows doesn’t offer forgiveness. It waits for blood.

His expression hardens, "What? We still talked."

You shake your head, "You know it wasn’t the same, you disappeared every time I walked into the room, it didn’t feel good."

He laughs, fast, bitter, "And why do you think that is?"

You and Yangyang have always been too close, the kind of close that slipped too easily into bedrooms and backseats, into shared joints and shirts you never returned. It wasn’t romantic—it was routine, something carved into muscle memory. Late nights turned into mornings, your body half-draped over his like it belonged there, like his hands knew the shape of your thighs better than your name. He was comfort, distraction, heat—your safe place when everything else spun too fast. When Jeno entered the picture, he retreated, slowly, sharply, and you noticed every inch he pulled away.

“You just spent too much time with Jeno,” he says, quiet but blunt, like he’s not accusing you—just stating what’s already been obvious. “You didn’t have enough time for me.”

You don’t deny it. You just blink, exhale through your nose, and say, “I know.”

His smirk is slow, bitter at the edges. He leans back slightly, arms crossed, tongue resting against his cheek like he’s holding something mean behind his teeth. “What difference does it make anyway? You were exclusive with him. It’s not like you’d touch me the way you used to.”

You sigh, shake your head once, sharp, like you’re trying to dislodge the weight pressing in behind your eyes. Then your throat tightens, and words slip out before you can stop it. "You’re confusing, when I was with Jeno, you barely looked at me, and tonight? You’ve been everywhere, what am I supposed to think?"

His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice cuts through the air—sharp, raw, cracking at the edges. “What did you expect?” he spits. “You were with Jeno, always draped over him like he was the only thing you needed. You think I could just sit there and watch that? Watch you moan for him, touch him like you used to touch me, like none of it ever meant anything?” He shakes his head once, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “You really thought I could keep pretending we were fine after that?”

His voice drops lower, tighter, mouth barely moving. “You think I could sit there and watch you give him what you used to give me?”

You pull back a fraction, just enough to clear your head, "It’s been a long time, Yang, we can’t do this, not anymore, it’s not right"

He leans in, close enough for your skin to prickle, "Can’t do what?" his voice lowers to a growl, "All I’m doing is looking at you like you’re still the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen."

His words cracks something in you. A dam you didn’t even know was holding. The tension doesn’t snap—it floods. It spills out in heat, in hunger, in the sharp, sudden ache that spreads from your chest to your thighs like wildfire. It’s not about him. It never was. It’s about you—the way he looks at you like you’re a weapon, a solution, a fix for every hollow in his chest. It hits like a high of its own. Makes your skin tighten and your stomach twist and your breath catch, not because you want him, but because being wanted like this feels too good to walk away from. It’s just sex. It’s just the illusion of power, of control. It’s just someone whispering that you’re needed when everything else feels too far gone to matter.

You fist your hand in his shirt because you can. Because he lets you. Because he’s still here. His hands find your hips with practiced pressure, dragging your body into his, and the contact is instant—hard, hot, real. He grips your ass like he never forgot how, squeezing rough, dragging you back against the thick bulge between his legs, grinding slow until your breath hitches and your thoughts scatter. His lips ghost your neck, never kissing, just letting you feel what he won’t say, and it lights something reckless in you. You don’t even flinch when his fingers push beneath your dress. You just let him. Because it’s easier. Because it’s familiar. Because right now, being touched feels better than being left alone with the ache in your chest.

His voice is wrecked when he mutters into your ear. Filthy. Possessive. You don’t remember the words. Just the heat. Just the pressure. Just the way he touches you like you’re still his favorite sin—even if you were never his to begin with. This is how it used to be with Yangyang. That’s why he was one of the regulars you fucked—often, roughly, always on your terms. You’d pull his hair, whisper orders into his mouth, ride him until he begged without shame. You’d push him down and make him say please and he would, every single time. The memory of it slams into you now, full and hot—his hands gripping your thighs, your name breaking in his throat, the way he’d let you ruin him just to feel wanted. Just to keep you for a little longer.

His hands are rough and certain, fingers digging into your hips like he’s staking a claim, dragging your body flush to his with no space left to breathe. Your back arches under the pressure, ass pressing into the unmistakable bulge straining against his jeans. He breathes into your neck, slow and hot, lips ghosting over your skin but never quite kissing, and the heat of it coils low in your stomach. His palm flattens over your stomach, firm and possessive, holding you still while his other hand slides lower, gripping your ass like he’s starved for it. He squeezes hard, then harder, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress to feel how bare you are underneath. A low groan rumbles from his chest when his hand spreads wider, fingertips dragging deliberately over the soft skin where your thighs meet. His hips roll forward, slow and grinding, letting you feel every inch of his arousal as he mutters something filthy into your ear, voice wrecked and shaking. You’re not sure if he’s trying to tease you or ruin you—but either way, he’s getting close.

Your lashes flutter once, twice, eyes heavy as the breath catches in your throat. You look up at him, barely, and the way his gaze pins you there is lethal. Your hips shift against the pressure instinctively, your ass grinding back into the thick, slow drag of him. His grip tightens. Fingers spread wider across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch through touch alone.

You lift your hand, slow and deliberate, and trace a finger down his throat, letting it linger over his Adam’s apple just to feel it jump “Already breathing like that?” you whisper, lips brushing his. “And I haven’t even touched your cock.” You smirk. “Pathetic.”

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters, the words hot against your jaw. “This dress—this ass—walking around like that, knowing damn well what it does to me. You expect me to just stand there and watch?” He breathes out sharp, grinding harder, slow and deliberate, cock pressing right where you’re warmest. “I’ve been hard since the second I saw you tonight. Couldn’t stop staring. Been thinking about bending you over a table since you walked in—tearing this little thing off you, having you dripping all over me before anyone even realizes you’re gone.”

His teeth graze your ear. You stifle a moan, swallowing it down like it’ll help. It doesn’t. Not when his voice goes lower, darker, desperate. “And now you’re here,” he growls, both hands full of you, “pressing that pretty ass against me like you want me to lose it. You feel what you do to me? Feel how bad I need it?”

His hand slides down, palm flattening against your stomach, pressing firm like he’s reminding your body where he used to live. He groans into your neck, low and broken. “Miss this,” he breathes, dragging his hand lower, thumb brushing just under the waistband of your dress. “Miss feeling me here.”

You moan back, soft but shaky, breath catching as your hips press into his on instinct. The friction makes him hiss through his teeth, grinding once, deliberate. “I miss how tight you were around me,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Miss being buried so deep you couldn’t speak.” His lips ghost over your jaw, then lower, filth in every breath. “Miss how your ass used to taste. All of it.” He squeezes your ass again, slow and rough. “I’d drop to my knees right now if you let me.”

He smirks, cock already hard against you, hand gripping your ass like he owns it. “What do you say?” He breathes, voice filthy, “let me fuck you loud enough for Jeno to hear, let him know who’s in you now, let him hear how wet you get for someone who actually knows how to fuck you. Make him listen while I ruin this tight little pussy and fuck the memory of him out of you.

It hits you wrong. Jeno. The sound of his name in someone else’s mouth slices clean through the haze, not gently but violently, sharp as impact, cold as blood. It doesn’t matter how high you are, how close you are, how soaked or needy or reckless—that name drags you out of all of it. Your breath stumbles. Your body goes still. Something deep in your chest twists, sour and instant, like whiplash snapping your spine into place. Your throat tightens. Your heart lurches. Not because you’re ashamed, not because you don’t want this but because that name still owns you, still means something when it shouldn’t. Your mouth opens on instinct, shaky and soft. “I need to go to Jen—”

His mouth crashes into yours before you can finish. All tongue, all pressure, all teeth. It’s messy and wet, more heat than precision, all-consuming in the way it tries to tear your attention from what you almost said. Your lips stay frozen beneath his for one beat, two, stiff with hesitation, tension wound so tight you feel it in your thighs but the second your mouth parts, the second your breath catches and the whimper slips free, something in you gives way. Not to him but to the moment, to the heat that’s already spread between your legs, to the ache that’s been building from the second he touched you like he remembered every way you used to make him beg.

You kiss him back because it’s easier than thinking, because lust is louder than guilt because your body is starved for something and his mouth is right there giving it to you. You kiss him back hard, filthy, hips pressing closer, rolling like instinct, like reflex. His hands tighten. Your thighs shift, grinding into him without shame. Your breath comes out in moans against his lips, his tongue licking into your mouth like he owns it. It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s rough, obscene, a collision of want and impulse and ego and still, under it all, your mind is already screaming his name.

His grip tightens under your thighs as he lifts you with ease, like his body remembers yours, like his hands were made to pull you into this exact shape. You wrap your legs around his waist without hesitation, dress riding higher, panties soaked and sticking to your skin. He stumbles back to the bed with a grunt that sounds more like a moan, his back hitting the mattress, and you’re on him instantly, straddling his lap, thighs spread wide, the heat between your legs pressed right against the hard line of his cock. There’s no hesitation now. Your hips start moving without thought, grinding down into him, slow and nasty, dragging wet friction against the denim of his jeans. Your dress bunched around your waist, your fingers dig into his chest for balance as your body rolls—up, down, forward, back—desperate for pressure, desperate for the edge.

Your breath breaks in ragged moans, thighs clenching around him, your clit catching on the seam of his jeans in a rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. He’s cursing under his breath, hands on your ass, guiding your grind like he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck you or watch you fuck yourself on him. You’re not thinking. You’re not even pretending to. You’re chasing it. The heat. The high. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about momentum, about the illusion of control, about convincing yourself this doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just the drugs, just the body, just something to drown the guilt still scraping at the inside of your chest like it wants out.

The moment starts to splinter. Not all at once, not loud or dramatic, just a crack somewhere deep inside your chest, quiet and precise. It slips in between movements, in the soft drag of his jeans against your thighs, in the way his fingers dig harder like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. Your hips are still rolling, slow and searching, catching every ridge of his zipper, slick soaking through the denim between you, but your mind has already stopped. It’s not his breath you want. It’s not his voice. It’s not his hands. The thought lands like gravity—Jeno. The way he murmurs your name when you’re half asleep, how he touches you like you’re something sacred, The way he sees you, loves you. 

Your hands begin to tremble, it’s subtle at first, a twitch against his skin but it spreads fast. Your breath hitches, shallow and sharp, and the ache in your chest unfurls like a scream. He leans up for your mouth again, chasing it without hesitation, but you turn your head just enough for him to miss. His lips drag across your cheek, warm but unwelcome, clinging to skin that doesn’t feel like his to kiss anymore.

You press both palms to his chest, firm and shaking. The pressure says what your voice hasn’t yet. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. One breath. Two. Then finally, barely a whisper, cracked and soft and final—“I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. You shake your head once, slow, eyes stinging. “I need to go to Jeno.” You lift off his lap like every inch of you regrets how well he still fits. Your thighs brush his jeans on the way down, a last cruel reminder. You tug your dress down with unsteady hands, knuckles brushing your thighs as the fabric slips back into place, the hem dragging slow like it knows it’s too late. Your fingers twitch, fumbling, missing the zipper once before giving up. Your chest lifts hard, like your lungs are trying to catch up with a breath you forgot to take. You keep your eyes on the floor. Not the bed. Not the body behind you. Not the heat you let wrap around you like a second skin.

Your feet move before the rest of you does. One step. Then another. The room feels thicker with every inch you put between you and him, like the air itself is trying to cling to your skin. You feel it everywhere—your lips still damp, your thighs too warm, the curve of his palm stamped across your ass like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet. His breath lingers on your neck, phantom-soft. Your skin burns where it shouldn’t and you don’t look back, not even when the door creaks behind you, not even when the silence swells. It’s already done and you can still feel it.

You don’t run but you don’t slow either. Your thighs are still trembling from grinding down on someone you didn’t want and your lips are swollen from a kiss you regret the second you pulled away. Yangyang’s voice is still echoing faintly in your skull, muffled and messy, but it’s nothing compared to the high still pulsing through your bloodstream. You’re already halfway down the hall before the door clicks behind you. You don’t think, you just move. Instinct drags you more than anything rational. Your body already knows where he’ll be.

Karina’s voice cuts into your haze, low and exasperated, trying to catch up beside you. "Wait—where are you going now? You still have to finish the damn fantasy draft. If you don’t go I’ll send Nahyun, she’s been waiting all night."

You don’t speak, don’t even spare her a glance. Your grip tightens around the gift hamper until your knuckles sting and your steps stay locked in rhythm, fast and unwavering, like your body’s already mapped this route in sleep. It’s not defiance. It’s certainty. Jeno’s not in his room—he never is when he’s unraveling like this and whatever Karina’s saying behind you fades into static, because none of it matters if you don’t get to him first.

When you reach the door, it’s already cracked open an inch like the room’s waiting for you, like it’s always been. Like it knows you. The scent hits first—thick, quiet, familiar. Leather soaked in memory, clean wood polish trying to mask something older, something raw. There’s sweat buried in the grain of the walls, adrenaline fossilized into the corners. It smells like skin, like bruises, like breath held too long and never released. There’s a hum beneath all of it, not from the lights but the bones of the room itself, like the walls are still echoing every word that’s ever been whispered or shouted or bitten off between its edges.

It doesn’t just feel haunted—it is. Not by spirits, but by versions of him that never left, that still pace these floors, there’s still ache through the dust and shadows. This isn’t a place that forgets. This is a place that keeps. The air is heavy with him, thick with ghosts of victories that bled, of silence that burned hotter than any noise and it lets you in like you belong to that past too, like you’re another memory waiting to happen.

The lighting glows low from the corners, uneven and deliberate, carving the space into shadows and shine. Each reflection stretches across the floor like the memory of motion, long and distorted. This isn’t a room built for use—it’s built for reverence. Every detail is preserved, a shrine disguised as stillness. The walls don’t decorate, they testify. There are framed jerseys with old numbers, some familiar, some retired. A helmet split along the side, half-hidden behind a signed photo that’s been handled too much. One case holds a mouthguard, still cracked, still red-stained. You spot the medal, ‘first championship,’ tilted inside its frame, the ribbon curled in on itself like a closed fist.

Your eyes catch on the centerpiece, the jersey, torn at the shoulder, hem frayed, stained deep in streaks that speak of dirt and blood and something worse. It’s warped with time and framed like a relic, like it holds weight no words could ever carry. The glass reflects your face in pieces as you look at it, like it knows what this means. You remember the first time he brought you here, how you tried to pretend you weren’t already falling. How his voice softened when he spoke about this one, low and proud, tracing the tear in the fabric like it meant more than pain—like it meant proof. He told you the story with his body close to yours, shoulder grazing yours, and for once, he didn’t make it a joke. “This one was everything,” he said, and you believed him. Because back then, everything was easier. The season was just beginning, and you were still trying to name the ache he left in your chest. It’s still here, still watching, still waiting and so are you. 

He’s near the back, half in shadow, as if the room itself is trying to hide him and fail. The glass light catches the glint of his chain, the slope of his brow, the cruel sharpness of his cheekbone. He doesn’t move but the power in his frame hums beneath his skin, arms folded across his chest like he’s holding himself together by force. He’s dressed in black trousers that hang low on his hips, the fabric loose but expensive, and a black tank top that clings to every cut line of muscle across his torso. The cotton stretches tight over his shoulders, clinging like it’s learned the shape of him too well to let go. 

His skin is flushed in places, glowing faint with heat, and there’s a shine at the base of his throat that catches the light—sweat, tension, rage, you can’t tell. His chain dips just above his sternum, resting in the dip of muscle like it was made to belong there. His mouth is parted, his jaw locked, his breath shallow, like he’s been holding it this whole time. His eyes have already found you. Maybe they never left. And the way he’s looking at you—sharp, unsparing, starved—makes something deep in your stomach twist hard enough to hurt. There’s no welcome in his silence. Just warning. Just heat. Just that unspeakable charge that rises between two people who know exactly what they could do to each other if they stopped pretending not to.

The last time you were in this room, it was softer. His voice had touched your neck like velvet. Now it’s a blade waiting to be drawn. The trophies around him look less like victory and more like pressure, like they’re watching him with you. You don’t break eye contact as you walk closer to him, your body unreadable—not defensive, not provocative, just ready. You’re ready for whichever version of him is waiting beneath the static. The one who won't speak first. The one who never asks questions he already knows the answers to. He doesn’t say your name, doesn’t even blink, but his silence wraps around the room like a fuse. This isn’t a greeting. It’s a lit match.

He doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move like he’s been standing there too long, like he’s already played this out in his head a hundred different ways. His jaw is locked so tight it ticks when you step closer, eyes dragging over you not with curiosity but calculation, like he’s trying to decide which version of you just walked in—the one who ran or the one who stayed. And when he finally speaks, it’s not loud, not cruel, just low and bitter and so rehearsed it sounds like it’s been chewing through the back of his throat for days, sharp enough to slice right through the quiet without needing to try. “Did he fuck you or did you stop just long enough to come running back to me?”

You don’t rise to it. You don’t flinch. Your voice is steady, sharp. “We didn’t fuck. If I wanted Yangyang, I would’ve fucked him already.” It stops him in his tracks. You follow it up without hesitation. “And you knew about me and Yangyang, I’ve told you about who I used to fuck and you knew it was regular with him. This isn’t news to you. You just hate that it almost happened again, that it could’ve.”

“You really came in here to say that?” he mutters finally, voice low and wrecked, like he’s dragging it out from somewhere deep. “You think I give a fuck that it didn’t happen? You kissed him.” His laugh is short and humorless, more like a bark. “You let him put his hands on you, and now what—you want a medal because you didn’t let him stick his dick in you?”

He steps forward once, slow and heavy. “You think it makes it better that I’ve gotta picture his hands on your waist? His mouth on yours?” His voice drops lower, filthy and furious. “You think I don’t know what the fuck he was trying to do? You let him get hard for you. You let him try. And I’ve gotta live with that?”

You roll your eyes, slow and deliberate, the weight of it cutting deeper than any comeback could. “Don’t act like you haven’t tried to fuck other girls too,” you murmur, voice low but pointed. “I’ve seen it. I've seen you flirt, I’ve seen you try. The point is, neither of us actually did it. And you know why?” You step into him, chin tilted just slightly, your voice sharper now, more grounded. “Because we can't, none of it fucking works.” He doesn't move. His breathing is louder now.

You let the silence stretch, then cut it clean. “If I wanted to fuck Yangyang, I would’ve done it already. I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t breathe. The fire behind his eyes flickers, but it doesn’t lash out because he knows. You’ve never been the type to hesitate when you want something. You take. If Yangyang was what you wanted, it would’ve happened a long time ago. The fact that it didn’t says more than either of you want to admit.

Your voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its bite. “It wasn’t about him. It was about me being drunk, high, horny. I wanted to feel something. And I went to the wrong person.”

His breath catches rougher now, his hand curling into a fist by his side. The jealousy is simmering up his throat like bile. Then after the silence that nearly sizzles with heat—he falters, just slightly. His voice shifts, not soft, but quieter, something uncertain bleeding through the cracks. “How did you even know I’d be here?” Not accusatory, not defensive—just asking. His brows furrow like he’s been holding everything in for too long and this is the only question that matters now. He looks around the room like even he didn’t expect to end up here, like he needed to disappear and didn’t think anyone would follow.

Your answer is immediate, instinctual. “I just knew.” It wasn’t logic, it was instinct—like your body had already made the decision before your mind caught up, like your feet carried you here on muscle memory alone, drawn to him without asking for permission. You add, “I know this is where you go when you need a breather.”

Jeno swallows, slow and rough, jaw flexing with the kind of restraint that doesn’t come from rage but recognition. It lands deeper than he expects, the quiet proof that you still know him—intimately, instinctively—down to the parts he’s tried to keep hidden, even from himself. You see through him and he feels it, like heat crawling beneath his skin. You both feel it, that unbearable closeness of someone who once lived inside your skin and still knows how to get under it.

Your fingers tug at the hem of your dress, slow and distracted, twisting the fabric around your knuckles like it’ll hold you steadier than your knees will. “I brought something.” It’s barely louder than a breath, not confident, not rehearsed. It leaves your mouth like you already regret it, like you’re handing him something fragile and expecting him to crush it. 

Jeno scoffs, sharp and bitter. “What, a goodbye gift?”

You shake your head, the motion small, almost imperceptible. “No. For the draft.”

He laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. Just disbelief, jagged and unfiltered. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Still, you step forward, slow, deliberate, like one wrong move might splinter everything between you. The basket is clutched to your chest like a secret you shouldn't be carrying, but can’t bear to let go of, and it feels heavier now, heavier than when you packed it, heavier than when you practiced what you’d say. Your fingers are white around the handle, and your other hand keeps smoothing over the edge like you’re trying to make it presentable, like neatness might make up for all the wreckage between you. It’s not just a gift. It’s an apology without the word sorry, a confession without breath. Each item inside chosen like a verse, a memory, a thread back to who you were when things didn’t feel like a battlefield.

The basket itself is woven in navy and gold, the official team color. It’s faded in some corners, like the heat of your hands left a mark, like time itself burned through it. Right beneath the curve of the handle, is his number. 23. It’s not scribbled, pinned or easily torn away but sewn into the fabric like a vow—stitched tight with permanence, like even if everything else unravels, this won’t.

“This is a joke,” he mutters, low and scathing, but his voice doesn’t match the rest of him. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, biceps flexing beneath the stretch of his tank, chain glinting faintly at the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t look at the basket, doesn’t touch it. Just stands there, still and sharp, like a blade pointed down but ready to rise. “You think you can hand me some fucking trail mix and erase the last few weeks?”

You don’t move or flinch. His heat rolls off in waves, equal parts anger and ache, and you let it burn. You know better than to interrupt him when he’s building walls. You wait for the silence. Then you slide your words into it carefully, like they might slice both of you open if you don’t hold them right.

“I know you don’t want it. I know it’s stupid. I just…” Your voice falters, not breaking, but thinning, stretched taut like something about to snap. “I needed to do this. For me and for Karina, too. She’s been on my back about it — you know how she is.”

He doesn’t reply, but you can see it in the way his jaw ticks. The way he blinks like he wants to roll his eyes again but knows it won’t land this time. “I’ll leave after this. I swear,” you continue. “Just let me give it to you. You don’t even have to open it now. Please, Jeno. If you want me gone, I’ll go. Just… let me give you this.”

There’s a beat. Then another. The silence stretches, thick and charged, until he rolls his eyes again but this time, it’s too much, too forced, like he’s trying to scrape back control he’s already lost. “You’re serious about this?” he mutters, the words dull on his tongue, feigned disinterest curling around the edges but his hand betrays him. It moves anyway. Not toward you, not directly, but toward what you’re offering. His fingers graze yours—brief, electric, unmistakable—and it’s enough to make your breath catch. You feel him tense when it happens. He felt it too.

He takes the basket with a care that doesn’t match his tone. Like it’s weighted, not just in mass but in meaning. He sets it down slowly, deliberately, like one wrong move might splinter the moment entirely. Then he just stares at it, unmoving, unreadable. For a second. Maybe more. Maybe longer than he wants to admit.

You watch him move through the basket with a pace that feels almost punishing, like each ribbon and carefully folded edge presses against something raw beneath his skin. The tissue gives beneath his touch with a low, strained crackle, pushed aside too fast, like its softness needles at him in all the wrong places. There’s something restless in the way his hands work—too deliberate, like he’s trying to undo not just the gift but the thought that went into it. Still, he doesn’t stop. His fingers find the first item and pull—peach rings, sealed in a clear cellophane bag tied with a navy ribbon, the same kind you used to slide into the side compartment of his car during those brutal away-game weeks. It catches the light, casting soft colors across his knuckles, and for a second, the contrast is sharp—your softness, his tension, colliding in the sugar and plastic between them.

The sugar inside clings to the plastic like memory, like sweat-slick fingers on a steering wheel, like dust that refuses to be wiped away. He holds the bag up for a moment, it's too late to pretend he doesn’t care. The colors catch in the light—orange and pink, sweet and sharp, the same as sunset bleeding across the dashboard while his hand gripped the wheel and your thigh, knuckles sticky from sugar. You used to watch him eat them one by one, slow and smug, sucking the ring between his lips like a dare, dragging it through his teeth while his eyes locked on yours, waiting to see if you’d break first. He said the sour-sweet balance helped his focus. You think he just liked the attention. You think you did too.

Next come the peanut butter bars, foil glinting gold under his fingers. His thumb drags across the edge of one slowly, like he’s testing its seal, like he’s waiting for it to talk back. He always said they made him feel invincible, like the last thing he needed to taste before a win. They were more than routine—they were ritual. He’d unwrap them with his teeth when his fingers were taped, grin at you like he was about to devour the world. You’d roll your eyes and tell him he was ridiculous. He’d just chew slower, watching you.

You remember how he’d toss the wrapper too far from the bin on purpose, just so you’d bend down to pick it up. Your cheer skirt would ride high, the fabric catching on your thighs, and his palm would meet your ass with a smack before his hand slid lower, fingers sneaking under the hem like they had a right to be there. The laugh he’d let out when you gasped—low and lazy, like he wasn’t doing anything wrong—still echoes somewhere low in your stomach. He sets the bars aside now with a thud, careful but final, like he’s putting them down before he drowns in the taste of you—like he’s already tasted the sweetness of your skin, the memory of it lingering on his tongue, and he knows it won’t be long before he gets lost in it again.

The socks catch his attention, unexpected in their simplicity. Rolled neatly, a crisp white ribbon holding them together, they lie in the basket like a relic, soft and almost untouched. At the cuffs, tiny basketballs are stitched, subtle, but there—like someone believed in the old magic, the kind he once swore by. He runs his fingers over the stitching, slow, as if trying to coax something from the threads, as though the magic still clings to them, waiting to be felt again. The fabric is fresh, unworn—new—but the way the light catches the stitching, the way the material flexes beneath his fingertips, makes him feel like it’s a link to something familiar, something that once mattered. His gaze softens for a moment, and the smallest breath escapes his chest, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he just holds them in his grip a little longer, like he’s trying to remember the feeling of them

Next he picks up the tiny black glass bottle, matte and square, it rests cool and heavy in Jeno’s hand—the travel-sized echo of his favorite cologne, spicy and woodsy with that sharp, clean undertone that always lingered in your hoodie long after he’d stopped wearing it. You tucked it carefully into the corner of the basket, nestled between snacks and socks as though it were nothing significant but the truth pulses beneath your skin. You remember slipping the full-sized bottle from his gym bag once, fingers trembling, heart racing, as if you were stealing something more precious than scent alone. It lived in your drawer for weeks after everything fell apart, hidden beneath sweaters and scarves, the cap twisted off whenever the ache became unbearable, just to remind yourself of what it felt like to stand impossibly close to him. Now, as Jeno lifts it carefully, reverently, you’re handing it back in miniature—not because you think he truly needs it but because it’s him. Sweat, swagger, silence—everything you ever wanted to hold onto but couldn’t quite keep. It’s a memory sealed carefully in alcohol and amber, unmistakably yours, even if he never really belonged to you.

Next is the laminated stat card, exact and deliberate, its edges sharp like you measured them twice before making a single cut. Not rushed, not careless but intentional. The plastic sheen catches the light just enough to blur the ink underneath but it doesn’t hide the effort. Every number is written clean, steady, without error, points, rebounds, assists, all laid out with a kind of quiet pride only someone who’s been paying close attention could’ve managed. The sparkly gel pen doesn’t scream here, it glints, framing his scoring average in a soft halo, circling his best performances with thin rings of silver and blue. In the corners, your writing leans small, tidy, folded into the white space with restraint: “Stop fouling, Chenle says you peak at halftime.” Not messy. Not chaotic. Just precise. Personal. The kind of neat that only comes from knowing someone, his stats, his rhythm, his cracks. 

Of all the glittered lines and half-joked stats, one number holds the page like gravity—his scoring average, set near the top in unassuming ink, untouched by circles or stars or playful quips. But it isn’t invisible. It hums beneath everything else, louder in silence, louder because you left it alone. You didn’t mark it because you didn’t need to. You both know it’s wrong. Not bad, but wrong—a quiet dip that speaks too loud now, one neither of you have dared to say aloud. You feel it in the way people talk around him instead of to him. In the way questions trail off before they land. In the way the name Eric flares and fades in corners and the weight of Sunwoo’s name leaves behind something that clings like sweat. None of that is written. There’s no “fix this” or “get better” scribbled in purple gel ink beside it. There’s just space. Laminated silence. You sealed the page like maybe that could preserve who he was before all this, like maybe if your handwriting still wrapped around the truth, he’d feel held by something solid again. Maybe it’s a reminder. 

Maybe it’s not meant to fix anything. Maybe it’s just your way of saying he’s more than the numbers they tally and the pressure they place on his back. The lamination keeps the ink from smudging, but not the feeling that seeps through every word, every circle and underline. Your handwriting curves around each stat like touch, like the way your fingers used to drag slowly down his spine when he was half-asleep and sore from practice, like the way you used to run them across his ribs just to make him shiver. There’s nothing loud about it—just a quiet insistence, a whisper in glitter pen, that he’s not just a scoring average, a rebound count, a line on a spreadsheet.

It’s not a love letter. It doesn’t need to be. It’s something closer to skin, to memory, to all the parts of him you learned with your hands before you ever tried to write them down. You traced his wins and his wounds, catalogued the rise and fall of his breath against your mouth, learned the weight of his body the way most people learn stats: repetition, obsession, devotion. And this—this is your record of that. A reminder pressed between plastic and hope that no matter how far he strays, how many points he loses or gives away, he was never made to be measured. He was made to be felt—and God, you did. With your mouth, your hands, your thighs parted and trembling, you learned every inch of him like scripture, like sin.

He saves the note for last. He Doesn’t reach for it right away, he lets it sit there, like it’s watching him. The paper is soft, folded once down the center with a precision that feels like restraint. His fingers graze the flame-shaped sticker, the one you sealed it with—red-orange with curled gold edges, like something meant to smolder, not seal. His thumb lingers, the pad tracing its shape slow, reverent, like it might burn him if he presses too hard. The edges of the note are warm from the heat of his palm, and something flickers behind his eyes as he finally breaks the fold open. The sound is quiet, barely more than breath, but it slices through the silence like a secret spilling loose. The ink is dark, sharp, delicate in the way a whisper can be. Just one line: I'm always gonna be proud of you. It lands with the weight of every night you used to fall asleep with your face tucked beneath his jaw, with the memory of your hand resting over the beat of his chest before games, when words couldn’t hold what your silence already said.

His eyes track the handwriting like it’s something alive. Something breathing. The strokes curve in familiar ways, slanting just slightly at the end of each word like you wrote them in a hurry, or like your hand trembled. There’s a smudge near the end where your fingers must’ve pressed too hard, like you couldn’t stop yourself from touching the truth of it one last time. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. The paper crinkles faintly as he folds it again, slow, careful, almost tender. He doesn’t tuck it away. He keeps it in his hand, thumb brushing the edge like he needs the texture of it to keep grounded. Like the heat of your words is the only thing left keeping his skin warm. 

He doesn’t say a word when he sets the note down, but it feels louder than anything else. The air between you snaps tight, vibrating with something sharp and dark, something neither of you can name out loud. His eyes are still locked on the basket like it’s laughing at him, mocking him, every careful piece inside it poking at the parts of him he’s tried to keep buried. You can feel it starting to unravel—the silence, the self-control, the version of Jeno that knows how to hold himself back.

When his eyes find yours again, they’re different. Icy, cut deep from something uglier than jealousy. His jaw flexes, one hand curling into a fist before he says it, bitter and precise. “You make one for Yangyang too?” he spits, “Maybe he wants lucky socks. Or a shiny little whistle. Maybe you should go back and sit on his lap.”

“Sure, I’ll throw in a skirt,” you murmur, letting the smile curl slowly at the corners of your mouth, “A cute little skirt that barely covers my ass, it would make it easier to slide right onto his cock without him having to lift a finger.”

He doesn’t give you time to finish the breath behind that smile. The second the last filthy syllable drops off your tongue, he snaps—hands on your hips, back slamming into the nearest wall so hard the trophies on the shelf beside you rattle. His mouth crashes into yours, teeth, heat, hunger all in one brutal collision, the kiss so hard it tastes like punishment. You gasp into him, only for his tongue to swallow the sound, his thigh already wedged between yours, grinding up like he’s trying to erase every inch of space your body ever gave to someone else. His hands grip your waist, drag you down until your cunt grinds against his thigh through your dress, heat building fast and hot and needy.

He pulls back just far enough to growl it against your lips, voice shaking with rage and want, “Is this what you want? Huh? You want to talk about his cock, his hands, while you’re soaking my fucking thigh?” Your only answer is a moan as you rut down harder, grinding shamelessly, hand fisting in the chain at his neck like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. And it is.

You don’t hesitate, don’t flinch, don’t even blink. Your gaze locks on his like a challenge, something darker simmering just beneath the surface—rage, want, something feral and utterly unshakable. Your fingers trail slow down the hem of your dress, nails scratching over skin with just enough pressure to make him watch. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting in a smile that isn’t soft, isn’t sweet—it’s a warning. Then you drag your hand between your thighs, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving his. You press your palm there, over your soaked panties, and grind down just once, the friction obscene, the sound nearly as filthy as the act itself.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” You murmur, moving forward slowly, letting your hips sway just enough to make his eyes drop before dragging them back up, “if I wanted Yangyang, I wouldn’t just sit on his lap. I’d ride him until he begged. I’d make him come so hard he’d forget his own fucking name.” You lean in, voice brushing his mouth, thick with heat. “But I didn’t. I don’t want Yangyang. I don’t want anyone else.” Your breath ghosts his jaw, deliberate, filthy. “I want you. I want your cock. I want to choke on it. I want to feel it tear me open until I can’t think straight.” You tilt your head, smirk tugging at your mouth. “So don’t fucking talk to me about Yangyang again.” 

His jaw tightens like it’s wired shut, but his eyes betray him first—blown wide, black with heat, tracing the curve of your lips like they’re already wrapped around him. His breath leaves in a slow hiss through his teeth, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and do something. “You talk too fucking much,” he mutters, voice low, ragged, dangerously uneven, “but you don’t fucking lie, do you?”

His hand fists in your hair before you can answer, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you feel it. His mouth brushes your ear, not gentle, not sweet, just hot. “You wanna choke on my cock so bad, baby?” he growls, chest pressed tight to yours now, hips already lined up, already hard, “then fucking earn it. Show me you still know how to take it.”

He grips your hips, drags you forward until you feel him, thick and ready through his pants, grinding against your heat like he’s already inside you. “You don’t want anyone else? Prove it.” He’s breathing like he’s trying not to lose it, chest rising too fast, too deep, like restraint is a thread stretched tight enough to snap. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower—tracing the curve of your hips pressed flush against his. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His hands rise slowly, hesitantly at first, but when you don’t stop him, when you tilt your head like you dare him, he touches you.

Fingertips ghost over your waist, just the pads brushing the fabric of your dress, like he’s relearning the shape of you from scratch. His palms smooth over your sides, then down, gripping the backs of your thighs with a pressure that makes your breath catch. He drags you closer, grinding you into the hard line of his cock, and fuck, he’s already throbbing through his pants.

“You think I could even get wet for anyone else? The way you make me wet?” You whisper, breath hot against the edge of his jaw as your lips trail up toward his ear. He doesn’t answer, just fists the hem of your dress and pulls, rough and fast, bunching the fabric at your hips so his hands can slide under. You bite the shell of his ear, hard enough to make him groan, and he pushes his thigh between yours until you’re grinding down onto it, friction and heat sparking sharp and messy through your core.

“You think I’d let him fuck what’s yours?” you whisper again, filthier now, more breath than voice and Jeno growls, low and primal, like you’ve hit something raw. His fingers hook into your panties and tug them aside, knuckles grazing your soaked folds, and when he feels how wet you are, he groans again, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips buck forward. Your hand slides between you, palm pressing against the bulge in his jeans, stroking him slow through the fabric. He’s hot. Thick. So fucking hard it makes your mouth water. You feel him twitch under your touch, and when you look up at him, his eyes are hooded, hungry, ruined.

“I pulled back, Jeno,” you say, voice soft but wicked, “because even drunk, high, and fucking aching—I couldn’t stop thinking about your cock. Couldn’t stop thinking about how full it makes me,” you whisper, desperate now, clenching around his fingers like your body’s already chasing the memory of him. “How fucking good you stretch me out. How deep you get. N-no one else feels like that, no one else sounds like you when I squeeze them this tight—”

You whimper when he thrusts harder, faster, your thighs trembling as he fucks you rough with his hand, thumb circling your clit with perfect, punishing pressure. “Thought about riding you till I blacked out,” you breathe, hips grinding down frantically. “Till I couldn’t think anymore. Till I forgot my own name and only remembered yours.”

He groans like it hurts, like the words alone could make him cum. Then his fingers push between your folds, two slipping in at once like he can’t wait, like he needs to feel you stretch around him, and you moan—head falling back, body arching into him, thighs trembling as he fucks you with his fingers, fast and deep and filthy. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, lips grazing your throat like he’s tasting it, voice thick with something close to awe. His fingers thrust harder, deeper, curling up until your legs jerk and a cry bursts from your lips—raw, helpless, cracked open. “All this for me?”

Your answer’s a sound—high-pitched, breathless, halfway between a sob and a moan. Your hips won’t stop moving, fucking yourself on his hand like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing keeping your lungs working. Your thighs are trembling, slick dripping down onto his palm, soaking his fingers every time he pumps back in. You’re shaking. Mouth parted but slack, lips trembling, eyes glassy and unfocused. One hand claws at his chest, the other buried between his legs, fingers wrapped around the thick bulge in his jeans like it’s your lifeline. You stroke him slow, clumsy, your grip too soft and messy to be deliberate. You’re too gone for rhythm, too far gone to care—your whole body’s chasing the feeling like a drug, jaw slack, breath catching on every whimper you can’t hold back.

His mouth is on your neck, tongue hot, teeth dragging, biting down until your knees buckle. His thumb grinds down on your clit, not gentle, not teasing—demanding. And you jerk forward, hips stuttering, gasping like you’ve been punched. Drool slicks your bottom lip. Your chest heaves. You’re whining now—quiet, desperate sounds spilling from you with every wet thrust of his fingers. No words. Just noise. Your cunt pulses around him, fluttering tight, so sensitive it’s painful, and you’re nodding, nodding, like your body’s answering for you.

He groans when you grind harder, when you roll your hips with frantic, sloppy need. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. Your fingers squeeze his cock through his jeans like you’re trying to feel it through every layer. Your eyes barely stay open. You’re trembling, twitching, coming undone in real time—so far gone you don’t even realize you’re babbling under your breath, half words, nonsense, breathy broken gasps.

“Shit,” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Look at you. Can’t even think, huh?”

You nod again, fucked out, mouth parted, trying to speak but all that escapes is a pitiful little “mmnhh”—a sound so helpless and ruined it makes his breath catch, makes his cock twitch like it feels the desperation pouring off you. Your hips are grinding down on his hand with no rhythm now, just frantic instinct, chasing the friction of his fingers inside you, chasing the stretch, the ache, the promise of his cock—still hard, still waiting, still untouched. You’re soaked, slick dripping down his wrist, cunt fluttering so tightly around his fingers that every thrust feels like a struggle, like your body’s trying to trap him, pull him deeper, keep him there. And that’s when you see it—that flicker. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers curl with just a little more confidence, just a little more force, like he thinks the tide’s turning, like he thinks you’re too far gone now to stop him. Like he’s going to take control. Like he’s about to flip the dynamic, sink into you and fuck you his way.

Wrong.

You move before the thought can even settle in his brain. Your hand presses hard against his chest, shoving him back with you with a command that doesn’t need words. His body jolts beneath your palm, breath catching, muscles tense as you push him until he’s leaning into the chair behind him, completely off-balance. And the look in your eyes changes—sharp now, glinting, focused like a scalpel. That’s all it takes. One shift. One look. And he knows exactly what’s happening. What’s always happened between you.

He freezes. Bites down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep a sound inside, the kind of sound he’d hate himself for making but his body betrays him. His chest rises too fast, too deep, and you feel the twitch of his cock where it rests hot and heavy against your thigh. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t resist. Because he knows this. He knows you. And fuck, he’s missed it. Missed this so much he’s dizzy from it—this feeling of being undone by you, not gently, not lovingly, but completely. The way you don’t just take control—you own it. The way your voice drops low, syrupy and cruel, right when he’s close to breaking. The way your eyes never leave his face when you use him, when you ride him hard enough to make his vision blur, when you say his name like it’s a threat, like he’s yours.

He listens now. He obeys. Just like he always has. Like he wants to.

Because he’s craved this. He’s starved for the way your pussy clenches when you’re on top, using him for your own pleasure. For the way you look down at him when you sink onto his cock like it belongs to you. For the way you ruin him and make him say thank you for it. He’s dreamt about it, fucked his fist to the memory of it, the echo of your voice calling him a good boy, the sound of your cunt squelching every time you bounce on him, the ache of not being inside you for so long driving him out of his fucking mind. He’s missed being dominated by you. Missed being overwhelmed, overstimulated, bent to your will until he forgets how to speak, until he’s only capable of moaning your name.

So he sits. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t dare. He drops into the chair like his knees gave out, wide-eyed and breathless, legs falling open with the kind of obedient instinct that only ever belonged to you. His hands clutch the edge of the seat like he’s grounding himself, knuckles pale, chest still heaving like he’s just been chased down and caught. There’s this raw, needy flush blooming across his face—cheeks pink, lips parted, pupils blown—eyes flicking up to you like he’s waiting for a command. Like he needs one. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself unless you give it to him.

He looks so fucking pretty like that. Messy. Worked up. Trying to be good.

His body remembers you. Every part of him does. The way his legs spread wide, the slight twitch in his thighs, the way his cock is already straining against his stomach, twitching like it knows what’s coming. He’s not trying to hide it—can’t. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his lashes fluttering every time you move. And he doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. He watches you with that soft, ruined awe like you’re something holy, like you’re the only thing that matters right now.

You don’t give him time to adjust. Don’t give him a second to think. You’re already lifting your dress, fingers curling into the hem, dragging it up over your hips and bunching it around your waist like you’ve done this before, like you own this space between you. You don’t care how exposed you are. Don’t care how messy your cunt is—swollen, soaked, dripping onto your thighs with every move you take closer. That’s the point. You want him to see. You want to break him with it and from the way his eyes drop instantly to the slick mess between your legs, the way his mouth falls open wider, chest stuttering on the inhale—you already have.

Your hands are on his waistband next, yanking his trousers down with a sharp, punishing motion, like you’re stripping him of the illusion of control he thought he had. His cock springs free, flushed dark and already leaking, the head slick with your arousal and the cum from before, and he groans—sharp, breathless, eyes fluttering as the air hits him. You drag your thumb over the tip and he jerks beneath you, biting back a moan, his hips twitching like he’s about to thrust up into nothing.

And you’re watching him the whole time, eyes dark and hungry, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, feeling how hard he is, how desperate, how he’s throbbing already in your hand. He’s not going to last. You both know that. He’s soaked in your slick, your mess smeared over his skin, and when you drag his length through your folds—slow, deliberate, teasing—you feel his whole body shiver beneath you. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t move. He knows better. He just stares, mouth open, eyes locked on the place where your cunt is grinding against him, where his cock is slipping through your folds, getting slicker, messier, harder with every second. He’s trembling. Obedient. Perfect.

And he knows exactly what’s about to happen. Because he’s had it before. And now he’s getting it again.

"Look at that," you murmur, dragging his cock through your folds, teasing him with how wet you are, smearing his tip in everything he gave you. "Look how messy you made me. You want to see how deep I can take it?" You reach down, hold the base tight, and press it to your entrance. And then you drop. All the way down. No warning. No pause. Just an immediate, filthy, wet sink that punches a moan out of both of you so loud it vibrates through the floor. Your walls stretch wide to take him, swallowing his cock in one ruinous descent that leaves you both gasping. Your mouth falls open, head rolling back as the heat of him fills you, overwhelms you. His cock throbs deep inside, thick and twitching like it’s trying to mark its place, your cunt clamping down hard around him like it knows exactly what to do. He whimpers, breath catching, eyes rolling back for a second before they flutter open again just to watch the way your body moves on top of him. You grind once, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock against every soaked, aching inch inside you, and he shakes.

“Good boy,” you purr, voice rich with dark satisfaction, syrupy and sharp as it curls through the air between you. You lean down, hand in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to force him to meet your gaze. “So fucking hard for mommy already. So easy to ruin.” You roll your hips again, grinding down so hard he gasps like it knocks the wind out of him, your cunt flexing tight and greedy. His lips are parted, pupils blown, chest rising like he can’t catch a full breath—completely fucked from how deep you’re sitting on him. You shift your angle and bounce once, sharp and mean, and he yelps. The sound makes you grin. You do it again, harder, faster, your rhythm quickening, pace snapping into something brutal. His cock stretches you open perfectly, every bounce making your tits shake, your ass slap down against his thighs with obscene, wet impact that echoes loud and unapologetic.

You’re soaked. The mess between your legs is shameless—slick and cum smeared everywhere, coating his cock, his lap, running down the insides of your thighs in thick, sticky drips. And you don’t fucking care. You ride him harder, faster, your thighs burning as you slam down on him with brutal rhythm, fucking yourself open like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. “You hear that?” you growl through your moans, bouncing on his cock like it’s a punishment. “That’s your dick ruining me. That’s mommy’s pussy taking you how she wants. Look at what you fucking do to me.” You grind your clit down between bounces, letting the friction send lightning through your whole body, chasing that high, losing your mind on top of him while he just takes it.

He’s gone. Wrecked. Moaning beneath you like he can’t help it, hands shaking where they grip the chair, thighs trembling under your weight. His face is flushed, lips swollen, sweat dripping from his temple down his neck as he tries not to cum from the way you’re milking his cock like your life depends on it. “M-mommy—fuck—please—” he chokes out, voice cracking, head lolling against the chair. 

You clench around him just to feel him jolt, his whole body stuttering as he whimpers something close to a sob. “You wanna cum?” you pant, your voice soaked in filth. “Wanna fill mommy up like a good little toy?” He nods so fast it’s pathetic. “Please—please, let me—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good—just wanna feel you cum on me.”

“Then do it,” you growl, slamming down with everything you have. “Cum. Fucking fill me.” He does. Hard. His whole body arches, mouth falling open as he moans loud and wrecked, cock twitching inside you with every pulse, every shot of cum spilling deep into your cunt. You keep riding him through it, your own orgasm crashing into you like a fucking wave, cunt squeezing so tight around him it forces out one last desperate moan. Your legs are shaking, your whole body jerking as you grind through the pleasure, your voice a breathless mess of ‘fuckfuckfuck’ as your head falls forward against his neck.

When it finally slows, when your hips still and all that’s left is heat and sweat and the overwhelming stretch of him softening inside you, the weight of everything sinks back in like poison behind your ribs. You’re still trembling, cunt fluttering around him in the aftershocks, breath shallow, messy, hot against his mouth as you stay right there—filled, ruined, pressed to his chest like you belong there. You press a kiss to his cheek. Then another, and another, slower this time, soft and almost sweet—his jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth. Your lips graze his skin like you're trying to memorize it all over again. “Good boy,” you whisper, voice ragged but dripping warmth, your fingers brushing through his hair. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve left as soon as you came but you stayed. Sat in his lap with your cum-dripping pussy still wrapped around his cock like you were trying to get stuck there, like you wanted to be trapped in this moment, to rot in it. It’s fucked. You’re fucked. There’s no pretending anymore. You knew this was wrong when you showed up, when you pushed him down, when you let him touch you like no one else ever could but you couldn’t help it, you didn’t want to. You wanted to get messy. You wanted to feel him stretch you open, fill you up, take everything from you again just so you could fall deeper into the wreckage you swore you’d crawl out of. You did this. Not because you were weak but because you were selfish because a part of you likes what this does to you. What it does to him.

You kiss his lips again—slow, soft, gentle—and you feel him melt just a little under it. He’s so quiet for a second it almost feels like peace. His arms are around you. His breath is still uneven, his chest still warm. And then you feel it. The smirk. That tiny twitch of his lips under yours.

He tilts his head lazily, eyes half-lidded, voice cracked and hoarse and smug as he mutters, “Mommy rides me like she’s obsessed…” His fingers flex against your hips, holding you there, like he’s testing the limits again, pushing just enough to see if you’ll break. Then he licks his lips, teeth catching the edge in a little grin. “But I think you missed me more than you wanna admit.” His cock twitches inside you, subtle, deliberate, and he raises a brow. “Still inside me,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to where you’re connected, still warm, still dripping, still full. “Guess that means you’re not ready to let me go yet, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to respond. He doesn’t wait. One second you’re breathless and full and dizzy from the filth in his voice, and the next you’re being spun, repositioned, rearranged like he’s already decided how he wants you. His grip tightens—one hand squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise, the other dragging up your spine, slow and firm. You shiver under his touch, and he sees it, feels it, uses it. That’s when everything shifts. The teasing disappears. The smirk fades. His jaw clenches and in a blur of movement, you’re slammed chest-first into the wall, his cock still buried inside you as your cheek scrapes cold plaster. Your knees almost buckle at the impact, and that’s when his voice hits—rough and wrecked. “You wanna test me?” he growls. “Then take it. Take everything.” His hand lands hard on your ass, a warning and a promise, and your body braces without question. This isn’t play anymore. This is him taking.

He fucks you from behind like he’s got something to prove—like every thrust is a punishment, like every moan you let out just fuels him more. Your palms slam against the wall above your head, fingers scrambling for leverage as the impact drives you up onto your toes. The room is hot, air thick and sticky, the wall rough against your skin while his cock stretches you open from behind. He presses against you, breath loud at your ear, hips slamming into you with force and precision. Every stroke is deep, hard, unrelenting, and your body reacts on instinct—arching back, legs spread wider, wetness dripping down your thighs. A mirror catches the scene across the room and you see it: your mouth open, body swaying with every thrust, mascara smudged and eyes half-lidded. You look wrecked. You are. The music plays somewhere beneath the noise, but it’s drowned out by skin slapping, your gasps, his grunts, the sheer rhythm of ruin.

It started with a command, but now he doesn’t even need to speak. His presence says it all—how his hand snakes around your throat and pulls you into an arch, your back bowing beautifully under his control. You can feel him everywhere—his grip, his cock, the heat of his mouth as he drags his teeth down your shoulder. When he finally speaks, it’s low and filthy. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your skin. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His hand drops between your thighs, fingers brushing your clit. “You’re fucking soaking. Soaking my cock. Making a mess like the little slut you are.” You whimper, try to nod, but he shoves you forward again, cheek against the wall. “Say it,” he demands, voice sharp. “Say you’re mine.”

Your back hits the wall with a thud, his cock already buried to the base, hand wrapped tight around your throat like a leash he’s never letting go of. No warning, no pause—just brutal, full-throttle fucking, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel full. Every thrust forces you up onto your toes, spine arching, breath caught high, your mouth open in a silent moan as your body bounces with every slam. His teeth drag down your shoulder, his grip never easing, his rhythm violent and desperate—like he’s trying to fuck something out of you, or into you, something that won’t leave when he’s done. It’s too much. The stretch, the pace, the need—and still, you can’t stop taking him. You don’t want to.

The grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes flutter, just enough to make your body arch, offering him more—shoulders pulled back, tits pushed out, cunt stretched wide around his cock. Every thrust lands punishing and precise, timed to your breath like he’s syncing your pulse to the rhythm of his hips. He presses his body closer, crowding you against the wall, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder like he’s claiming territory. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he mutters, voice nothing but gravel and heat. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His fingers dip between your legs and find you swollen, soaked, already shaking. “Fucking dripping. You were begging before I even touched you.”

You try to nod, try to moan something back, but he slams into you so hard your cheek bounces off the wall with a sharp gasp. His grip on your throat tightens, cutting the sound off halfway—not to silence you but to own it, to remind you that every gasp belongs to him. “Don’t nod,” he snarls, voice cracked and savage. “Fucking say it.” You can’t. Not with the way he’s destroying you—cock punching into your cunt so deep, so fast, it feels like your brain’s leaking out through the mess he’s making between your legs. Your mouth stays open, drooling, glassy-eyed and desperate as he fucks you into a state beyond language. You’re not even sure what you were going to say. Your body doesn’t know how to do anything but take it.

He fists your hair, yanks your head back with no gentleness at all, and drags your face toward the mirror. “Look,” he spits, chest heaving, hips still pounding into you. “You see what you’re doing to me?”

The mirror shows everything. Your body—wrecked, bent, stretched—tits bouncing violently with every slap of his hips, your pussy spread wide around his cock, sloppy and stuffed and leaking down your thighs. His grip on your throat. His cock plunging in and out of you like he’s trying to make it fit deeper, like he’s trying to own every inch of you from the inside out. You blink at the reflection, barely recognizing yourself—your mouth open and wet, your thighs trembling, your whole body glazed in sweat and slick and submission.

“I look…” you whisper, voice trembling, half-cocked and drunk on the stretch, the slap, the choke, the way he feels. “I look used.”

He fucks you harder. Hisses against your skin. “Say it right. Used by who?” 

You choke, a moan ripping out of you as your head tips forward again, eyes locked on the mirror. “By you, I look like I was made to take Daddy’s cock.” 

He snarls, his whole body jerking like your words snapped something loose inside him. “Fuck,” he groans, slamming into you so deep your legs nearly give out. “Say it again. Say it while I fuck you harder than he ever could.” He fucks you harder, meaner, rutting into you like your body’s his to break. 

“You fuck me better than anyone ever could,” you pant, breathless, clenching so tight around him it drags a moan straight from his chest. “Yangyang couldn’t even make me wet. I was bored. I was dry. I felt nothing.” His hand lands hard against your ass, then again, and again, until your skin stings and your pussy flutters even tighter. “But I’m soaked right now,” you hiss, grinding back on him. “And it’s all for you.”

He spits straight down onto your cunt, watches it mix with your slick, then shoves back into you like he’s angry you let anyone else near it. “You feel that?” he growls, palm pressing to the bulge low in your belly. “That’s how deep I am. You take me like you were fucking made for this.” His fingers move to your mouth, pushing between your lips, smearing spit across your chin, then dragging it down to your clit. “You like being used like this?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “Like being pinned and stretched and filled until you can’t think?”

You moan, voice hoarse and breathless, “No one knows how to fuck me like this.” It doesn’t come out sweet or gentle—it leaks out, torn from your throat like a confession, slurred and high, because your body can’t take any more and your brain’s already gone dumb. You feel yourself pulsing around him, your cunt clenching so tight it’s practically drawing him in deeper, and the way his hands tighten on your hips is instinctive, reactive—because it hits him harder than anything else. Knowing that you mean it. That he’s where you come undone. That even now, with your cheek pressed to the wall and your body trembling, you want more. And he gives it.

But the illusion of control shatters when he growls, “But you nearly let Yangyang fuck you like this tonight?” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, thick with disbelief and something darker. Jealousy. His pace falters for only half a breath, like the weight of the image is too much—and then he slams in harder, rougher, angrier. Like he’s trying to fuck the thought out of both your heads. The sound of skin on skin is harsh, merciless, and the jealousy bleeds through his every motion. The thought of someone else seeing you like this—he can’t stand it. The idea of someone else getting close enough to even imagine it makes his jaw clench and his rhythm vicious.

You laugh through a moan, breath hitching, voice smug and sharp. “You’re so jealous,” you whisper, fluttering your lashes, hips rocking back with intention. “You’re never gonna let it go, huh?” The words drip with challenge, and he knows exactly what you’re doing. You tilt your hips in a slow, dangerous curve, fucking yourself onto him like it’s yourpace, your game. Your tone is all tease, bratty and smug, even when you’re gasping. It’s bait, and he takes it.

He grabs your jaw suddenly, fingers rough, dragging your face toward his mouth. His voice is low and lethal. “You still let him get this close.” He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. That quiet fury is worse. You feel his grip tighten, his hips slam forward with sharp precision, and the look in his eyes as he stares into the mirror in front of you is pure restraint fraying. His jaw flexes. His breathing sharpens. You’ve struck something deep.

“I thought I’d want him,” you breathe, voice catching on the next thrust. “I thought maybe it would feel good. Maybe it’d help me forget you.” Your fingers grip the edge of the wall, knuckles white. “He’s got a big cock, Jeno. He used to fuck me good.” You’re not trying to provoke this time. Not really. It’s the truth and that’s exactly why it cuts so sharp.

The slap lands so hard your moan turns into a gasp. His palm cracks across your ass, a sound that echoes through the room like a warning shot. “That’s exactly what I want to fucking hear,” he spits, but there’s no praise in it. Just venom. He yanks your hair back, makes you stare at your reflection in the mirror. “Say it again. Let me fucking watch you lie to me.” You tremble, cunt fluttering around his cock without meaning to. His spit hits your spine, hot and filthy, sliding between your cheeks, down to mix with your slick. And then—he stills. Doesn’t move. Cock buried so deep, hand tight around your throat, breathing ragged against your shoulder. The silence makes it unbearable. Every inch of you pulses with need, desperate for him to move again, to fuck you or finish you or break you.

You can barely form the words, but you do. You need to. “I don’t come for anyone like I come for you.” Your voice is soaked, broken, needy. “My pussy begs for your cock, Jeno.” You grind your hips back, slow and aching, chasing friction. “I can’t stop thinking about how it fills me—how deep you get. No one else can do that. No one ever has.” Your hand reaches for his wrist, the one still around your throat, and you pull it tighter. “I get wet just thinking about how your cock stretches me. How it ruins me.” You’re shaking now, but it doesn’t matter. “Your cock’s the only thing that makes me feel like this. Like I’m losing my fucking mind.” You gasp, wrecked, nails clawing at the wall. “I love it. I love how you don’t stop. I’m made for it. For you. For this cock.”

It happens fast. One second, he’s deep inside you, breath ragged, hips stuttering as your praise ruins him from the inside out—and the next, his moan shatters through the room like it’s been torn straight from his throat. His arms tremble, grip faltering, and you don’t notice it at first—too cockdrunk, too gone, too focused on the pressure in your gut and the slick slide of his cock holding you open but then his hold slips, your back arches too far, and your body twitches, instinctively grinding down like it needs to stay connected—and that’s what breaks it.

The fall is chaotic, graceless, loud. A sharp gasp, the crash of limbs, your moan tearing through the air as his cock jerks inside you mid-collapse. The thud when your bodies hit the floor is jarring, a mess of skin and heat and tangled limbs. His hands fumble, trying to grab at you, to stabilize, to breathe. “Fuck,” he snarls, winded and breathless, the word punched out of him as your weight settles over his chest, his cock still buried deep in your cunt, twitching. His voice comes hot and cracked against your ear. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

But you do. Not to defy him, not to take control. Your body just reacts, hips jerking once, pussy clenching so tight around him it knocks another sound out of him—raw, sharp, needy. His head falls back, mouth open, jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread, and you can feel it—how wrecked he is, how on edge, how close he is to snapping completely if you even breathe wrong again. You’re on top now, legs shaking, thighs twitching, cunt stretched and stuffed so full it aches—but you don’t dare lift off. You can’t. Not when he’s still inside you. Not when it feels this good. Not when he’s gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

He hisses through his teeth, his hand clamping down on your hip like a vice, and his eyes find yours—dark, desperate, drenched in hunger, the sharp gleam of sweat lining his throat making him look carved from something molten. His hair is sticking to his forehead, lips parted and red from being bitten raw, and the hard planes of his chest rise and fall beneath you like he’s burning up from the inside out. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight, straining under your weight, cock twitching inside you with helpless tension. He doesn’t need to speak. That look says everything. He’s about to break but you don’t stop. You lean into the threat like it turns you on, because it does.

You don’t listen.

Your lips curl into a slow, filthy smirk as your hands plant firmly on his stomach, and you start to move—not cautious, not soft. You roll your hips in one long drag, feeling the thick stretch of him all the way to your stomach, and then you lift up enough to feel the cool air kiss your slick skin before you slam back down with a squelch that echoes in the room. Again. And again. Your bounce turns frantic, thighs slapping loud and hot against his as you take him over and over, cunt swallowing his cock like it belongs there. You ride him hard, rhythm messy, greedy, riding like your body’s gone feral, like you need to feel every inch of him bruise your insides. Jeno groans beneath you, deep and wrecked, his hands flying up to grab your tits, your waist, trying to hold onto something as your pace wrecks him. “Fucking whore — fuck,” he chokes, eyes wild as he bucks up into you, cock slamming back into you mid-bounce, his abs flexing under your hands as you pin him down.

You feel everything—his sweat-slick skin, the drag of his cock along every sensitive spot inside you, the obscene sounds your bodies make every time you drop down, and you swear he’s throbbing so hard it’s making your whole body pulse with it. You’re not just fucking him—you’re devouring him, fucking him through the floor, milking every inch of his cock like you’ll die if you don’t. And he lets you, jaw slack, eyes glued to where you’re bouncing on his cock, moaning like you’ve never needed anything more.

Each bounce is a declaration, a punishment, a cry for power. His hands grip your ass tight, letting you fuck yourself on his cock until your moans rise in wild, ragged bursts, and his eyes glaze over like you’ve got him undone. But you should’ve known better. His body tenses. And before you can take another breath, he surges up beneath you, his arm locking tight around your waist as he throws you flat to his chest with a snarl. "You think this is your pace?" he grits out, voice splitting at the seams. Then he flips you. Your back hits the cold floor, air knocked from your lungs, wrists pinned, and he drives into you like he’s trying to fuck the arrogance out of your body. No rhythm. Just punishment. Flesh slapping hard against the floor, the sound of your moans colliding with every thrust.

You growl, bucking up under him, nails digging into his sides, and he grits his teeth as your legs wrap around his waist, trying to force him off-balance. You bite his shoulder, sharp and deep, and he hisses in your ear before slamming back in so hard your scream ricochets off the walls. “That all you got, baby?” he taunts, blood on his lip, eyes crazed. You don’t answer. You claw at him, trying to flip him, panting, snarling, slapping his cheek. And when he grabs your throat this time, he means it—squeezes just enough to still you, his thumb pressing your pulse like a trigger. “Try me again,” he growls, body locked, cock snapping into you with violent precision, sweat dripping down his neck as you arch and bare your teeth back.

You shove at his chest, spit clinging to your lips as he snarls and slams your wrists to the floor, one hand caging both above your head while the other grabs your jaw and forces your mouth open. His spit hits your tongue, filthy and slow, and he drags his tongue across your lips like it’s a fucking threat. “Don’t test me, bitch,” he growls, heat pouring off his body like fire. Your pussy clenches at the word, slick walls tightening around his cock like your body’s begging to be ruined, soaking and shameless as you moan against his mouth. Your tits bounce with every grind of his hips, nipples raw and flushed from the drag of his chest, your body sliding against the floor from the force of it. 

You're slick, thighs slippery with it, your cunt clenching around him with each brutal thrust like it’s trying to keep him buried. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. His fingers shift to your throat, his grip firm, guiding you down as he fucks up into you so hard your tits jolt and sway between your bodies. The burn of the floor fades beneath the weight of his cock, the slap of skin, the choking heat. You're not just being ruined—you're being owned, every thrust punishing, deep, designed to tear you apart and put you back together the way he wants.

You gasp against his mouth, the words slipping out between kisses like you're spitting venom. “You think making me moan means you’re in charge?” You bite his lip, hard enough to draw a hiss. “I ride you better than you fuck me.” 

That’s the switch. His eyes flash, dark and dangerous, his jaw locking as the smirk fades. “Yeah?” he mutters, low and sharp, “Then let me remind you what you sound like with my hand around your throat.” In a blur, his arm coils around your waist, the other fisting your hair. He flips you fast, slams you face-first into the floor, cheek pressed down hard. Then he fucks back in—so deep, so harsh, your whole body jolts. One hand clamps tight around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath stutter, your eyes roll. “This pussy,” he grits out, hips snapping, “knows exactly who it belongs to.” You sob into the floor, back arching, tears spilling as he drags more out of you with every punishing thrust. He’s not trying to make you come. He’s trying to break you—until the only sound left is your scream, and it’s all his.

You slam him down, not just to ride but to win. Your knees bruise against the floor, thighs straining as you sink down on his cock with a filthy squelch, your whole body jerking from the force. There’s no rhythm—just chaos. You grind, bounce, twist, chase every reaction like it’s blood in the water. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, slick, thick, soaked in spit and arousal, and every time you slam back down, your ass smacks his thighs with a sound that makes both of you moan. He grips your hips to stabilize the frenzy but you slap his hands away, riding harder, faster, like you want to break him first. Your tits bounce wildly, sweat flinging off your skin, hair sticking to your face. He tries to meet your rhythm, thrusting up mid-bounce, but you plant your hand on his chest and shove him flat again. “Stay down,” you pant, smirking through grit teeth. “Be a good boy.”

That’s what snaps him. He lunges up, throws his arm around your waist, and lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but not from fear—from thrill. His cock slips out only to be shoved right back in as he flips you over, your back smacking the floor. You claw at his arms, try to hook your leg around his hip, push and pull and bite his shoulder. He growls—deep, animalistic—and bites your tit in retaliation, lips locking around your nipple and sucking until your back arches, your scream cut off by the slap of his hips. It’s brutal. His hands grip your wrists, pin them above your head. 

Your cunt clenches, leaking down your ass, the stretch unbearable, addictive. “You think you can fuck the fight out of me?” you gasp, breath stolen between thrusts. “Try it, daddy.”

He grabs your face, kisses you with teeth, and the fight keeps going—your hips bucking to throw him off, his thrusts pounding so deep you choke. You claw down his back, legs locking around his waist, and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and bending it up to fuck you even deeper. The slap of his balls echoes, slick and sharp. You try to flip him again, muscles burning but he grabs your throat, pushes you down, and spits on your tongue. “Stay,” he snarls, voice broken and wet. You moan, hips grinding up despite the choke, your body responding to every command like it was trained for this. You’re gasping, drooling, begging with your cunt.

When the end comes, it’s not quiet. It’s not clean. You cum first, body spasming, your scream cracking as your cunt pulses around him. He grunts, lets go just long enough to slam deep and stay there, hips twitching, cock buried inside you as he spills. The room’s silent but for the sound of your breath and the drip of slick onto the floor. You're a mess—thighs trembling, skin bruised, hair wild, cum leaking from you both. Still, you’re smiling. “Didn’t think you’d keep up,” you pant, licking his jaw. 

He bites your shoulder gently, still inside you. “I wasn’t trying to keep up,” he whispers, dark eyes gleaming. “I was trying to win.” 

You grin wider. “Then get ready to lose again.”

You only told him to cool him off—a whispered confession in the dark hallway about where Yangyang said he wanted to fuck you tonight. You thought honesty would settle the simmer in Jeno’s jaw, maybe remind him that you were here with him, not back there saying yes to someone else. But it backfires instantly. The moment he hears which bathroom, the main one near the living room with the short mirror and creaky stall lock, he doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your wrist and drags you there, shoulder shoving the door open. 

The music’s shaking the foundations of the house, bass rattling so loud the mirror on the opposite wall trembles. But it’s nothing compared to the way your thighs tremble, the way your body shakes with every drag of Jeno’s tongue across your hole. You’re bent over the metal sink, dress shoved up to your waist, one heel still on, the other kicked off somewhere behind you. Your hands are braced against the stall door, palms sliding every time he licks up—long, filthy swipes that make your knees lock and your spine arch. He’s got your ass spread open wide, cheeks held apart in his bruising grip, nose buried so deep it’s hard to tell where his breath ends and your slick begins. There’s coke residue smeared across the curve of your lower back—his lines laid right on your skin, right where he wants them. He dips to snort off the small of your back, inhales hard, then goes straight back to eating you out like his next breath depends on it.

His tongue is relentless, rough and hot and eager, working in tight, desperate circles around your rim before diving in again, licking so deep you feel it in your stomach. Your body rocks against the metal, hips moving without rhythm, your ass grinding back into his face like it’s instinct. And it is—because the way he groans into you, nose pressed to the mess between your cheeks, the way his fingers sink harder into your thighs every time you moan—it’s addictive. You gasp, voice breaking, “Someone’s gonna hear,” but even that sounds like a moan. And it’s true. 

Everyone’s banging on this door because it’s the easiest one to find—the main bathroom just off the first-floor hallway, straight past the entryway. Jeno’s place is huge, too big for anyone who’s not a regular to navigate drunk or high. Most people don’t even know there’s a second bathroom tucked behind the kitchen or a third near the guest rooms upstairs and many more scattered around but you do. You always have. Now the door’s rattling behind you, fists pounding and voices raised, half pissed and half desperate to get in. None of them know why it’s locked. None of them know he’s on his knees, nose pressed between your cheeks, tongue buried in your pussy, one hand gripping your thigh and the other doing lines off the curve of your ass while you try not to scream.

“Make me come before they break the door down,” you whisper, voice soaked in desperation, cocky with it—and he does. Without even pausing, he drags the flat of his tongue across your ass, then pushes it back inside, eating you out with even more determination, licking and groaning and fucking you with his mouth like he wants Yangyang to hear every single sound you make through the door.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nose still wet with you, jaw slick, eyes dark. The coke still burns in his sinuses, his breath ragged, jaw clenched tight. “You really thought I’d stop with just that?” he mutters, grabbing your wrist before you can catch your breath. You barely manage to stumble upright—thighs trembling, your dress rumpled around your hips—before he’s dragging you out of the stall, pace ruthless. The second the bathroom door swings open behind you, someone hisses, “Finally,” but Jeno doesn’t look back. Doesn’t flinch. His grip doesn’t loosen, doesn’t falter. He hauls you through the winding corridor like a man possessed, past bodies and heat and bass-thick air, up a side staircase even you forgot existed. And then it breaks—the sound, the weight, the heat—as a glass door slams open and you’re pulled into the night.

The balcony is narrow, sky-high, all glass and wind and city stretching endlessly below. The view is surreal—skyscrapers flickering in gold, traffic crawling like stars in motion, distant windows glowing like they’re watching. But you don’t see any of it. Not when your back hits the railing. Not when your dress is yanked up to your ribs. Not when he spits on his palm, fists his cock, and thrusts into you in one cruel, claiming stroke. You cry out, folding forward over the metal edge as he fills you, holds you there, starts to move. Each thrust slams you forward, tits bouncing, cheek pressed to the icy glass. His arm wraps tight around your waist to hold you up, the other hand planted on your hip like he’s anchoring himself inside your cunt. The cold air shocks your skin but the heat between your thighs devours it—every snap of his hips loud, obscene, echoing into the open night like a warning.

His rhythm is brutal. Relentless. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave his name stamped into your cervix, every inch of cock buried so deep you see stars. And still, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His groans are rough, close to your ear, teeth dragging down your neck like he wants to mark you all over again. The only thing you can do is stare out into the skyline, moaning, whimpering, eyes glossed and makeup ruined, your mouth falling open on every thrust. It slips out unbidden—a choked whisper soaked in wreckage. "Please... please don't stop." He hears it and snarls, pulling out just to fuck back in harder, sharp enough to make the railing rattle.

“He said he wanted to fuck me here,” you gasp, voice tight and raw, lashes wet. “Said he wanted to make me scream.” You don’t say who. You don’t need to. Jeno knows. The way his hips start to snap faster says it all. “You are screaming,” he growls, the words low, thick, dangerous. “But not for him.” He slaps your ass, once, twice, handprint stinging as your body jerks. The sound cuts through the city night like a gunshot, your cry right behind it. He leans in, hot breath at your neck, cock dragging against every nerve inside you. “Let the whole fucking city hear it,” he snarls. “Let him hear you break for me.” And you do—your mouth opens on a sob as he thrusts harder, rubbing your clit now, wrecking you from both ends until your knees give out completely, until all you can do is scream and shudder and shake. Your cries spill over the edge of the balcony like smoke, swallowed by the night, carried off into the dark until all that’s left is you, clinging to the railing, full of him, ruined in the skyline glow.

You don’t notice him at first, not until something shifts at the edge of your vision, a flicker of movement just past Jeno’s shoulder that doesn’t belong. You blink through the blur of sweat and rhythm and stretch, your body jolting with every punishing thrust, your tits bouncing with the force of it, your hands slipping slightly on the slick of your own skin against the glass. Then your gaze locks onto it—him—standing still, half in the shadows and fully watching. Your brows pull together, lips parting with a breathy laugh that doesn’t quite sound sane. “Juyeon?” It slips out before you can think, soft and stupid, like the moan that should have come out instead. 

Jeno hears it, hears a name that’s not his fall from your mouth while he’s buried inside you and his hand flies down so fast it’s instinct, slapping your ass hard enough to sting and echo, to punish you for the blasphemy. You gasp at the impact, your body flinching from it but not pulling away, and Jeno snarls without slowing, “What?” his voice rough and clipped and pissed. 

You glance at him from beneath your lashes, half-laughing still, half-daring, then tip your chin back toward the dark, voice low and twisted sweet, “It’s Juyeon. He’s watching us.”

Juyeon was one of the regular guys you and Jeno used to fuck. You remember the first time the three of you fucked—how easy it was, how natural, how Jeno had picked him out from across the room with that look he gets when he wants to ruin something just to prove he can. Juyeon had been cocky at first, all pretty smiles and fast hands but he folded so fast once Jeno took control. You’d ended up sandwiched between them, fucked from both ends, Jeno’s hand in your hair while Juyeon moaned into your cunt like it was holy. Jeno had laughed, low and mean, when Juyeon came too fast the first time, had whispered filthy things about it in your ear while you kept riding him anyway, cock twitching from overstimulation. You liked the way Juyeon listened, how eager he was to touch, to taste, how he waited for permission even when he was begging. But none of it ever stuck after—the kisses, the moans, the mess—except Jeno. He was always the anchor, the gravity. Even then, even while someone else was inside you, it was only ever for him. You’d stare over Juyeon’s shoulder and Jeno would hold your gaze like he owned you, and when he finally pulled you off Juyeon to fuck you himself, it always felt like coming home.

Jeno doesn’t speak for a moment, just turns enough to confirm what you already know—Juyeon’s there, standing in the doorway with his hands at his belt and a cocky glint in his eye, already half-hard. Jeno’s rhythm slows to a deep, deliberate grind that leaves your legs shaking and your pussy aching for more, and even as you whimper at the loss, he tightens his grip around your throat, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Not here,” he mutters, voice low and final, jaw tight with something territorial, something sharp. “We’re fucking in my room.” His palm lands hard on your ass, a warning to stay still as he pulls out, and the emptiness hits you fast and raw. Juyeon blinks, clearly expecting more right there, his trousers halfway down already, but Jeno shoots him a glare and jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Move.” His voice leaves no room to argue. You swallow, breath shallow, legs trembling, and let Jeno haul you up. His arm stays around your waist the entire way there, holding you like he’s staking a claim, while Juyeon trails behind silently, cock in hand, watching the sway of your hips like he’s already imagining his mouth between them again. But even then—walking naked through his house, bruised and leaking—you’re still thinking about Jeno.

As soon as your back hits Jeno’s sheets, there’s no reprieve, no pause, no moment to catch your breath—he pushes you forward until your chest hits the mattress and your knees catch on the edge, arching your back as your spine bows into place, ass high, legs spread, cunt already dripping down your thighs. He doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t ask. He shoves into you like he’s been waiting all night to fill you again, and your head falls forward into the pillows with a sharp cry as your fingers twist in the sheets. Then Juyeon’s there, in front of you, hand curled around his cock, smirking as he brings it to your lips. You open instinctively, tongue out, already spit-slick and desperate, letting him push past your lips until your mouth’s stretched wide. Your cheek is wet, jaw aching, throat working as you suck him, while Jeno pounds you from behind, hips slamming into your ass, one hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you still. You’re trapped between them—one cock stuffed down your throat, the other buried deep in your pussy, your body rocked in rhythm, spine locked in a helpless curve, every hole filled and used.

It builds slowly, almost unnoticeable at first. Your hips twitch every time Jeno drags his cock deep, hitting something inside that makes your legs shake and your moans catch wet around Juyeon’s cock. You’re still sucking him, still stroking him with your mouth like muscle memory but your focus is already warping—your hands slipping from his thighs, your jaw slackening just slightly, eyes fluttering shut each time Jeno grinds in harder. Juyeon leans in, strokes your cheek, murmurs something low you don’t even hear, not with the way Jeno’s fucking you like he owns you, like he’s trying to fuck the shape of him back into your body. Your tongue flattens, movements growing lazier, lips stretched but no longer devoted. When Jeno growls, voice rough in your ear—“You like him watching while I break you open?”—your whole body answers before your mouth can. You choke softly, eyes watering, hips rolling back to meet him harder, deeper. 

Jeno’s already buried so deep inside you your legs are shaking, the stretch dizzying, your pussy fluttering around him with every slow drag of his cock but your mouth is still full—Juyeon’s cock thick between your lips, your chin slick with spit, your throat working around him even as your eyes start to glaze. Then, without warning, you lift your hand and shove him back, fingers digging into his hip as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet, ruined sound. “What the fuck—?” he gasps, breath catching, but you’re not looking at him. You don’t even blink in his direction. Your other hand reaches blindly behind you, clutching at Jeno’s hands, and the safe word you and Jeno had, one you rarely used, slips out like instinct. “Red.” 

You say the word because you know he’ll stop. Red. It’s your safe word, one you rarely have to use with Jeno. It’s not panic, not overwhelm—it’s a decision, one that only Jeno understands. The moment it slips from your lips, everything about him changes. His hands catch your waist instantly, the edge vanishing from his eyes, the bite gone from his breath. He pulls out gently, careful, his touch reverent as he eases you back into his lap. “Shit, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face, voice so soft it barely carries. “Was it too much? Are you okay? Talk to me.” You shake your head, slow and calm, eyes still fixed on his. You don’t answer because you don’t need to. You got what you wanted—him. Just him. Your fingers wipe the mess from your mouth, and then you shift, crawling closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle into his lap like that’s where you belong. You press your face to his neck and whisper, “Hi, baby,” like it’s a secret only he gets to hear, like it’s the only thing that matters. Then you slide down onto his cock again, slow and warm, breath catching at the stretch you already know by heart, and he groans into your skin like he’s never felt anything better, hands tightening on your waist, grounding you, loving you.

He’s confused for a moment, brows knitting, head tipping back slightly, and you see it. The click behind his eyes as he realizes what just happened—what you really meant. You said the safe word not because it was too much but because it was wrong. Because you wanted him, only him and you needed a way to get there without guilt. You thought you were okay when you came into the room. You thought maybe you could do this again, just like before but your body had already made the decision. Jeno sees it now, you’re not interested in any more threesomes. His hands soften at your waist as you roll your hips slowly, intimately, no rush, no performance. Just him. Just you. He exhales into your hair like he’s been holding it in for years.

Juyeon’s still there. Still hard. Still staring. His face twists like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, like something about the quiet between you and Jeno makes him feel like he was never really in it. “You didn’t even make me cum,” he mutters, frustrated, a little too loud but you don’t flinch or blink. Your body moves against Jeno’s like nothing else exists, slow and lazy, savoring the feeling of him deep inside you. You nuzzle against his cheek, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and Jeno doesn’t even look at Juyeon. He just tilts his head toward your voice, completely gone for you. You smile, soft and ruined, and finally glance over your shoulder—not at Juyeon, but past him, like he’s already fading. 

“Get the fuck out,” Jeno adds, eyes never leaving yours. You’re already moaning again, hips rolling slow, lost in the boy who’s never let go of you, the one who always pulls you back. Juyeon stills for a second, stunned, and then the sound of him grabbing his clothes breaks the silence. 

Jeno’s hands are back on you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple. You ride him slow, deep, your pussy clenching with every grind, his cock heavy and thick inside you, warmth blooming through every nerve. The room feels like it holds just you and him now—no past, no mistakes, just now. Just his voice, low in your ear, murmuring, "You're home now, baby. Stay right here."

His cock stays buried inside you, softened now but still refusing to leave as if his body can’t quite bear the emptiness. Your limbs feel heavy and loose with exhaustion, your heartbeat easing into a slow, steady rhythm beneath his gentle touch. His hands wander your skin like he’s trying to soothe every bruise he’s left behind, fingertips tracing softly over your ribs, gliding along the curve of your stomach, brushing tenderly against the sensitive warmth between your thighs. He avoids the spots that ache most, the places where pleasure became pain, caressing you as though he’s afraid you might shatter beneath his touch. His mouth trails quiet kisses, featherlight and careful, over your eyelids, the corner of your lips, your temple, your forehead, each kiss gentle and deliberate, as though he’s silently begging forgiveness for every mark he’s left. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, his breath warm against your cheek as he murmurs softly, “We’re going to be okay.” You exhale shakily, eyes closed, heart clenching at the fragile hope woven into his tone. He repeats himself, stronger now, as though conviction alone could will his promise into reality. “We’re going to be okay,” he says again, and his lips brush yours lightly, lingering, trembling slightly from the weight of those words. You don’t respond, not verbally; instead, you sink into his embrace, allowing him this moment of belief, letting yourself pretend—for just this heartbeat—that maybe he’s right.

His voice softens further when he speaks again, low and intimate, the sound seeping into your skin and settling into the hollow between your shoulder blades. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, lips brushing softly against your back, his breath warm, comforting, possessive in a way that makes your chest ache. “No one else gets to touch you like this again.” His fingers trail down slowly, tenderly, finding the slick heat where his cum drips lazily from your body. He spreads it back inside, his touch unhurried and gentle, reclaiming every drop as if he could keep you this way forever. “It’s all mine,” he murmurs, and his hips move slightly, a delicate rocking motion that speaks less of desire and more of an unwillingness to let go, his cock stirring gently inside you. His lips press another kiss into your neck, lingering softly, desperately. “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he admits quietly, his voice vulnerable, shaking with an honesty that cuts deeper than any wound he’s left tonight. “I don’t wanna fight, I don’t wanna wonder if you’ll leave—I just want you, baby. Wanting you is the only thing I’ve ever done right.” His hand reaches for yours, fingers threading carefully, gripping tight enough to anchor you both. “Promise me,” he pleads softly, almost broken, “promise me we’ll figure it out together, whatever it takes, that we’ll find a way through it all.”

Your heart clenches painfully, because you can’t promise—there’s no way to give him the words he so desperately needs without shattering the fragile moment you’ve built. The truth sticks painfully in your throat, bitter and sharp, so you silence it the only way you know how. You tilt your face upwards, capturing his lips in a kiss that speaks louder than any whispered lie. You kiss him deeply, fiercely, desperately, as if trying to memorize the shape and taste of his mouth, imprinting this moment to keep long after you’ve gone. Tears slip quietly down your cheeks, mingling with the heat of your shared breath, making everything messy, raw, heartbreakingly honest. Yet he smiles against your mouth, a gentle, relieved curve of his lips, as if you’ve finally given him the hope he’s been craving all along. “God, baby,” he whispers breathlessly between kisses, holding you even tighter, his palms sliding reverently along your spine like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I knew you’d come back to me.” And you realize, your chest aching profoundly, that maybe you’ve already left, that the part of you capable of staying behind is lost, no matter how desperately you cling to him now.

The room settles into silence, a fragile quiet punctuated only by the gentle, steady rhythm of your breathing. He cradles you closer, his cock still buried within you, softening slowly, reluctant to part—as if his body believes what his heart desperately wants to. His arms surround you, warm and sure, a sanctuary you’ve tricked yourself into believing you deserve, and just for a heartbeat, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that this isn’t selfish, that you’re not gripping the frayed edges of hope you’ve spun for him, only to unravel them when morning comes. The guilt settles in your chest, dense and suffocating, a stone sinking slowly through the hollow space inside your ribs, drowning out every bruising ache he’s left on your hips, overshadowing the tender sting between your thighs. You’re cruel tonight—not because you hurt him but because you made him believe again, made him think your broken pieces could still fit with his, knowing all along you’d vanish like a phantom at sunrise. Yet he holds you like you’re precious, smiling softly against your temple, murmuring quiet promises into your skin that you can’t bear to hear because they echo truths you can never fulfill. For tonight, you convince yourself you can stay, that the ache in your chest won’t break you both apart, even as you know you’re building him a future made of glass—a fragile illusion, beautiful, shimmering, bound to shatter the moment you slip from his arms.

You don’t leave in the morning, you stay buried in Jeno’s chest like your body’s forgotten how to exist without his, limbs tangled in quiet desperation, the air between you heavy with sleep and something softer. His skin is all heat, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck and for a few stolen moments you pretend this is your life—that this bed, this man, this hold are yours without condition. Guilt prickles beneath your skin, subtle at first then sharper, blooming like a bruise in the tenderness but you don’t flinch, you don’t let go. You let his arm wrap tighter around your waist when you shift in your sleep, let his lips brush your hair like he still knows how to love you in his dreams. You lie to yourself just long enough to stay still, just long enough to believe. Even if your heart aches with the knowing that it’s a borrowed peace you let yourself take it, all of it, even the seconds that were never meant to be yours.

The memory of what day it is breaks through slow, like sunlight bleeding through blinds, hazy and golden, soft but persistent. The river court. It sinks into your chest not just as a name but a whole world, a ritual stitched into the fabric of your youth. Today’s the meet-up—everyone’s bringing food, old playlists, beat-up speakers and weatherworn basketballs, laughter like muscle memory. The plan is to spend the whole day there, sharing memories and teasing each other over games, lounging in half-shade and slipping back into that easy rhythm only this group knows. It might be the last time you’re all together like this before graduation—the last time you’ll trace the same court lines with your feet, toss the same ball into the same rusting hoop, watch the sun dip below the trees from the same cracked bench. You couldn’t miss it. Not for anything.

Jeno stirs behind you, groaning softly, his arms winding around your middle and pulling you back to him like he’s felt your mind slipping away. His lips find your shoulder in lazy, open-mouthed kisses, tongue brushing your skin with sleepy want, and his hand drifts slow over your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He shifts over you, cock pressing firm and warm over your shorts, body draped over yours with the kind of weight that makes you want to stay forever. His mouth finds that spot beneath your jaw that makes you sigh and tilt your head, already pliant, and you giggle through it, breath catching when you push lightly at his chest. “Not now,” you whisper, lips curving, “I have plans.”

He pulls back slightly, face still buried in your neck, and hums against your skin. You tell him, voice low and soft, about the river court gathering, about how important it is. He pauses. You expect the sleepy approval, maybe even a gentle kiss to your cheek. What you don’t expect is him to say, “Mark invited me.” He says it like it’s casual. Like it won’t completely change the shape of the day. You nod, smiling, and try not to let it show. You want to be happy that the two people you care about most are finally in sync, getting along like wildfire and dry leaves, but all it does is twist in your chest. 

You both get ready slowly, lazily, the kind of unhurried rhythm that comes when being apart feels impossible. You’re dressed first, in one of your short skirts that he loves, the one that rides up when you sit, exposing just enough to make his hands twitch. Jeno’s eyes follow your every move as he buttons up his shirt, and when you lean down to fix your boot, he pulls you between his legs and into his lap. You settle easily, thigh on either side of him, his hands gripping your legs with soft reverence. Neither of you speaks at first. It’s just you and him, breathing each other in, noses brushing, mouths almost touching. There’s no rush. Just that glowing, suspended feeling that always comes before you leave something behind. 

"I have something for you," he murmurs and you hum in response, curious. He reaches over to his nightstand, opens the drawer and your breath catches when you see it—a delicate bracelet, fine crystal beading glinting in the light like it’s been waiting for you. He lifts it slowly like it’s fragile, like it means something, and he meets your eyes before saying, “You gave me so much yesterday, made me feel... fuck, like I was yours again. Like nothing else in the world existed but us. I’ve had this for a while, just been waiting for the right moment.” You bite your lip as he loops it gently around your wrist, the crystals catching sunlight, glittering against your skin like promises you never made out loud. “Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs, and you laugh softly, swatting at his chest before curling your fingers around his.

“You’ve given me so much,” you say under your breath and you mean it, even if your voice wavers a little. He’s tracing the edge of your tattoo now, fingertips light, reverent. You glance down at your wrist, the new bracelet nestled beside your charm one and it’s too much—it’s all too much. Your chest aches, your stomach twists and you don’t know how to carry it. You lean in before your thoughts betray you, your lips finding his again, soft and lingering. His arms wrap around you tight and you let yourself sink into it because this might be the last time. This might be the last day. He’s so good to you, always has been, even when he shouldn’t be and you have no right to stay. You taste the goodbye between your teeth and hold him closer anyway, guilt clawing behind your ribs as his hands spread wide across your back like he’s scared to let go and when he whispers against your mouth that he doesn’t want this moment to end, you lie and nod, because you do too but it has to.

The river court breathes like something alive. The cracked pavement yawns beneath your feet, lines of weeds pushing through the concrete like the ground’s trying to reclaim what was stolen. The paint is nearly gone, not just faded but scraped raw, like time itself has been clawing at the edges. The hoop still hangs, lopsided and rust-rusted, its net long since torn away by storms or fights or kids that never came back. The sun doesn’t shine gentle here—it sears, casting sharp shadows through the bare branches, turning the surface of the river into a shimmering, blinding mirror. The air carries heat and warning, thick with the scent of something about to shift. Something about to break.

There’s laughter, but it echoes wrong, swallowed too quick by the wind. The trees lean in like they’re listening, branches tense, waiting. You’ve always thought this place belonged to you all—but maybe that was a lie. Maybe it never belonged to anyone. Maybe it was always on the edge of collapse, and now, as you step back into it one last time, it’s holding its breath. The river court doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a graveyard of what was, and a battleground for what might still fall apart. You can almost hear it—cracks splintering deeper beneath your soles, roots tightening, old ghosts rustling awake.

You arrive hand in hand, the walk feeling far too short. The air is thick with familiarity. Shotaro, Karina, Donghyuck, Chenle, Ningning, Mark, and Areum are already there but no Yangyang. His absence is a silence louder than any words. He’s clearly avoiding you, and you don’t blame him. Not after everything, not after the mess that was last night. The looks come quickly, a mix of surprise and tension. Areum won’t meet your eyes. Chenle offers you a small smile. Donghyuck, ever the dramatist, throws his arm out theatrically. “And here they are,” he declares, “the forbidden lovers returned from exile.” It earns a few strained laughs, but the awkwardness still lingers.

Areum speaks first, surprisingly. “So,” she asks, voice cautious, “are you guys back together?” 

Jeno’s the one who answers. “Just taking it slow,” he says, with that gentle smile that makes your chest ache. 

Areum’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, voice even. Jeno doesn’t let you linger in the conversation. He leads you away before anyone else can speak, arm slipping around your waist, body shielding yours from too many stares. You curl up beside him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

The teasing starts immediately. Donghyuck can’t help himself. He grins at Jeno, then at you, tone loaded with mischief. “So the party was… productive?” he quips, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Laughter ripples through the group, but you can’t bring yourself to lift your head. You bury your face in Jeno’s shoulder, heat creeping up your neck. Your shyness is so unlike you, you’re usually quick with a sharp retort or sly grin but after last night, after the sounds you know carried through the walls and the mess you left behind, you can’t even look your friends in the eye.

Jeno wraps an arm tighter around you, chin resting on your head, voice low but playful. “Alright,” he says with a smirk, “everyone back off, she’s shy now.” That only makes the group laugh harder but there’s warmth in it, a kind of affectionate cruelty that means no harm. Jeno shifts slightly to block more of you from view, hand rubbing slow circles on your back, muttering, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll protect your honour.” You swat him weakly, finally peeking out just to see Karina holding up five fingers, mouthing ‘five positions?’ and Donghyuck dramatically pretending to faint beside her. You groan, burying yourself back in Jeno’s hoodie, while he just chuckles and kisses your temple, proud and unbothered.

Karina leans in, smirking. “Congrats on winning the draft. Five positions, six rooms, and a threesome? You fucked your way to the top, that’s the best result anyone has ever gotten from the cheer team.” The group breaks into loud laughter. You glance down, cheeks hot, while Jeno stays quiet beside you, but the look in his eyes says everything. He’s smug as hell, not bothering to hide it.

Mark’s reaction is instant. He jerks forward, nearly drops his drink, eyes bulging like the words physically hit him. “Threesome?” he echoes, voice cracking, like he’s trying to make sure he heard right and praying he didn’t. 

Karina doesn’t let up—she twists the knife, sweet and cruel. “They used to have them weekly,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “I joined once, too.”

Mark visibly recoils, mouth falling open in horror. “Oh my god,” he mutters, blinking hard, like he’s trying to erase the image from his brain. “I need bleach. Actual bleach.” He turns away, shaking his head so fast it looks like he might pass out. Jeno doesn’t flinch, just leans back with one arm around you, smug and unbothered, like he’s proud of every second. 

The laughter’s still hanging in the air when Chenle steps forward, brushing his hands against his jeans as he walks to the edge of the court. He stops near the dandelion patch just beyond the court, a smile playing on his lips, gaze soft. The breeze lifts his hair slightly as he looks around at everyone, eyes landing on the ones who’ve stood by him since they were kids. “This place,” he starts, voice a little scratchy from laughter and heat and emotion, “this court raised us.” His words settle into the space like ash. “We learned everything here. How to fight, how to lose, how to win, how to stay.” He looks at the dandelions, their delicate heads trembling under the breeze. “It was never just a basketball court. It was a home and it still is. Even when we leave, this place will remember us.”

Before he can go on, Donghyuck snorts. “God, you’re gonna cry again.”

“I might,” Chenle says, unbothered and tries to keep going but the teasing is nowhere near finished. 

“You writing a memoir or what?” Mark calls out, cracking a drink open and dropping back onto his elbows, grinning. “Sounds like you’re about to narrate your own biopic.”

“Bet there’s a slow piano track playing in his head,” Shotaro adds, smirking.

Chenle narrows his eyes, pointing. “You’ve been real mouthy lately.”

“Character development,” Shotaro shrugs, smug. “Ryujin says I’m glowing.”

Chenle scoffs, “She also said you were submissive and breedable like two weeks ago.” The laughter that follows cuts through the air clean and easy. The kind of laughter that only happens when nothing really needs to be said. When being here means you’ve already said it all.

Chenle shakes his head and gets back into what he was saying. “We’re doing something different this time. “We’re writing,” he says simply, “dreams, secrets, whatever’s sitting too heavy. Something you want to let go of, or something you still want so bad it hurts. You write it down, fold it up, burn it over the flame, and let it rise. That’s it. Let the smoke carry it out of you.” His voice is calm, certain, almost reverent, like this is the closest thing he believes in. “We don’t keep them, we don’t read them, we just let them go.”

“You’re so sentimental lately,” You tease, giving him a soft smile. 

“Must be the impending adulthood,” Chenle quips, holding up a lighter. 

Shotaro goes first. He folds his slip with care, then spins on his heel like he’s about to take a shot. He tosses it with perfect aim into the shallow bowl Chenle placed in the center of the court. The flame catches. His eyes don’t leave it. You don’t need him to say what it was. The dance studio he’s always dreamed of building and leading classes in is already etched into the way he carries himself.

Chenle takes his paper last, twirling it once between his fingers like he’s flipping a coin, like the words scribbled inside might decide everything. He kneels by the candle, lights the edge, watches the flame catch and eat its way in. Then, without drawing attention, he lifts his phone and snaps a quick photo—not of the fire but of all of you, bent over your slips of paper, faces serious in the golden light. No one’s looking but the shot is perfect. Everyone’s there. Everyone’s quiet. He smiles to himself, small and private, the kind you tuck away in your chest and keep. “I’ll treasure this one,” he murmurs, mostly to the flame, but it’s real all the same.

Donghyuck presses a kiss to his fingers and flicks them toward the sky before tossing his slip into the flame. He doesn’t say what he wrote, not directly, but you know. It’s the dream job he’s mentioned a hundred times late at night—the one in New York, sports broadcasting, his voice behind the mic while the whole world listens. The paper crackles in the fire, curling fast, and he watches it disappear with a look that’s half pride, half defiance. “If I cry, it’s from the ashes,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard, his mouth twitching like he dares anyone to tease him for it. No one does.

Karina’s takes longer. She holds the slip of paper like it weighs something real, like it knows how badly she wants that spot in the New York fashion program she’s pinned all her hopes on. Her fingers tighten around it once, twice, and for a second it looks like she might fold but then she steps forward, quiet and composed, and drops it into the flame with a breath so deep you hear it from where you’re standing. The edges curl fast, catching quick, and she doesn’t look away until it’s gone.

Areum’s is smaller, more hesitant. She holds hers like it might burn her before it even meets the fire. Her mouth moves—barely audible—but you think you catch the shape of a city, maybe a whisper of a dream she hasn’t shared yet. Something about photographs, about chasing light across the world. She stares at the flame too long, then finally lets it go, and her lips twitch into something that could almost be a smile. Almost.

Mark lingers behind her, the slip trembling slightly between his fingers, crumpled at the corners from how long he’s been holding it. He leans into Areum before lighting his, presses a kiss to her temple like a silent plea, like she’s the thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His eyes don’t meet anyone else’s—too distant, too deep, fixed on a future he’s scared to speak aloud. You know what it is. You all do. It’s in the way his chest tightens every time the ball leaves his hands, in the way he flinches at every strange rhythm of his heart. His secret is simple, and brutal. That basketball won’t be taken from him. That he’ll live long enough to have a life beyond it. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to. You feel it like a pulse in the air. When the flame catches the edge of his paper, he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until it’s ash.

Jeno’s grip on the pen is firm, knuckles pale, and his posture sharper than usual, like the act of writing carves something out of him. His brow furrows in concentration, jaw tight, lips parted like he’s breathing through it, like the words on that slip of paper weigh more than ink should. When he finally folds it, his movements are methodical, almost reverent. He doesn’t hesitate when he drops it into the flame, doesn’t blink as it curls and burns. He doesn’t even glance at it. His eyes are on you.

You know what he wrote. You don’t need to see it. It’s only ever been two things with him—you, and the NBA. In that exact order. His dream isn’t fame, isn’t legacy, isn’t even redemption. It’s making it, and it’s making it with you by his side. Everything else can burn. Every path that doesn’t lead to those two things can be torched. He’ll carry that dream in blood if he has to. Protect it with teeth bared and fists ready. He’ll bend the world to his will or break trying.

When his mouth meets yours, the kiss is slow, deep, a silent vow shaped by the heat of his lips and the firm reverence of his hands cradling your jaw, as if you were the only sure thing left in his universe. You taste it—the fire and devotion, the hunger and holiness—each lingering caress a testament to something ancient and unbreakable. This devotion feels mythic; he would kneel to no one, would spit defiance at gods, would drag demons into sunlight just to keep you safe. To him, you are scripture and rebellion, his origin and endgame, the reason crowds will chant his name like an anthem through echoing arenas. You are the only prayer he’s ever uttered, fierce and unapologetic, never once begging for mercy.

Your own slip feels heavier than it should, weighted by dreams pressed into paper and ink. On the surface, you write your ambition, your future neatly inscribed. But beneath, in looping letters like whispered incantations or the prayers of priestesses begging ancient gods to free mortal heroes from cruel destinies, you write again and again: Let him be free. Let him be free. Let him be free. From chains forged in his father’s shadow, from the torment he’ll never escape on his own, from a story written by other hands. If he cannot ask for mercy, you’ll plead in his stead.

You taste the bitter edge of your own guilt, sharp and unavoidable because you know the prayers whispered between your lips will never be answered. He would kneel to no god, would challenge fate itself but his rebellion is doomed from the start. Neither of his dreams—freedom from his father’s shadow, or redemption from his silent torment—will ever be granted and you know this truth more clearly than he ever could.

When you finally retreat home, it's like sinking into a warm dream, reality softening at the edges. You and Jeno spend the entire evening wrapped up in one another, existing in a world built solely from gentle touches, whispered promises, and slow, lingering kisses that leave your heart aching sweetly. He holds you as though you're something delicate, his hoodie swallowing you whole, his scent clinging to your skin as fiercely as his embrace. The hours blur, indistinguishable from one tender moment to the next, until you're no longer sure where you end and he begins, his heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath your ear like an unspoken reassurance. But peace never lasts, and too soon, the comforting sanctuary of his arms gives way to harsh reality.

Donghyuck, relentless as ever, drags you both back to the river court, insisting the burnt paper wasn't enough to seal whatever desperate hope he’s chasing. Yangyang is there too, looking as though he's holding back something sharp, something violent, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes darkened with resentment directed unmistakably at Jeno. But Jeno is oblivious or perhaps purposefully indifferent, too consumed by you, the warmth of his hand securely anchored at your waist. Every kiss he steals from you ignites the intensity of Yangyang's glare, an unsettling sensation prickling the back of your neck, making you hyperaware of every breath, every heartbeat. The silence between them is heavy, oppressive, charged with tension that simmers but never breaks, hurting more deeply than outright conflict ever could.

Donghyuck ushers everyone into another round of the ritual, this time lanterns replacing paper, delicate vessels carrying hidden secrets into the vast expanse of the night sky. You write your wishes in careful strokes, afraid that too much weight might drag the fragile glow down to earth. You don't glance at Jeno’s lantern, nor do you ask him what he's written, but when his lips find yours again—slow and sure—just as his lantern ascends, you feel your answer: whatever he's wishing, it's about you. His kiss is an affirmation, an anchor, a fragile promise burned brightly into the darkness.

Yet, peace fractures once more when Mark's voice—angry and unusually harsh—splits through the night. Your heart seizes at the venom in his tone, your body stiffening as he snaps, “What the fuck are they doing here?” Eric and Sunwoo’s arrival shatters the fragile calm, the harsh screech of tires piercing your senses as their car halts aggressively at the edge of the court. Instantly, Jeno moves protectively in front of you, his back straightened, shoulders tense. But your observant eyes catch every crack in his facade. His jaw trembles slightly, his clenched fists betray his fear, and though his posture tries to radiate strength, his stance is brittle, poised to shatter under the slightest pressure. 

Eric's mocking laughter fills the tense silence first, bitter and sharp as broken glass, and Sunwoo's eyes glint dangerously as he sneers, "Long time no see, Jeno. Thought you’d forgotten about us." 

Jeno's voice, though firm, wavers with concealed dread. "Leave, Eric. This isn't your territory anymore."

Eric steps closer, invading personal space, forcing confrontation. "You don't decide that," he spits viciously, words laced with threats. 

“We were just passing by. Funny seeing you here all cozy—did your daddy finally loosen your leash?" Sunwoo snickers cruelly beside him, and Jeno visibly flinches. The jab hits deeper than intended, unraveling Jeno's carefully woven defenses. He swallows heavily, his eyes darting briefly back toward you as if checking you’re still safe, before returning to meet Eric’s unrelenting gaze. The exchange continues in heated, hushed tones, an escalating dance of provocations and barely restrained fury, until finally, Eric smirks coldly, withdrawing as though he's made his point. When they finally drive away, leaving Jeno standing alone, he doesn’t look victorious. He looks small, shaken, vulnerable in a way you've rarely witnessed, and the sight leaves a sour ache deep in your chest.

Your friends cluster together instinctively, their voices dropping into tense, anxious whispers as wary eyes dart toward Eric and Sunwoo. Confusion passes visibly between them—Shotaro’s brow furrowing deeply, Donghyuck exchanging uncertain glances with Yangyang—but nobody speaks loudly enough for clarity. The questions hang in the air, heavy and unresolved, a tangible discomfort settling over everyone present. Yet no one dares to break the unspoken rule of silence, letting speculation remain just beneath the surface, acknowledged only through uneasy looks and half-muted murmurs, an unsettled mystery they collectively agree to leave untouched.

Your anxiety spikes sharply—there's less than a week until state championships and Jeno still isn't cleared. You've been working tirelessly to fix the situation, but progress has stalled, bogged down by circumstances beyond your control. You need to accelerate, to resolve everything immediately, to lift this crushing weight off both your shoulders. Today has become your new deadline, a silent vow made in the frantic recesses of your mind.

While Jeno faces Eric and Sunwoo, Mark’s words slash through you, sharp and brutally honest. "I don’t know what the fuck you're doing," he says, voice low and cutting. You meet his gaze defiantly, defensive already, bracing against the sting of his truth. He continues relentlessly, voice laden with frustration. "Why have you been all over Jeno since yesterday? Making him believe there's still a chance? As long as his father holds that threat over both of you, you will never be with Jeno—not fully, not freely. Don’t lead him on; you’ll only disappoint him again."

Your throat tightens defensively, your voice trembling slightly as you snap back, "Shut up, Mark." Yet, the truth gnaws mercilessly at your heart.

Before Mark can press further, Jeno’s footsteps approach, but you're already moving away, purpose clear and urgent. His voice, confused and tinged with worry, calls out to you, freezing your steps momentarily. "Where are you going?" he asks, confusion laced with quiet desperation.

"I have something I need to do," you reply hastily, already turning away. 

His skepticism is clear, eyes narrowing softly. "At 11pm?" 

Your breath hitches, panic flickering briefly before you turn sharply, pulling him close. You kiss him urgently, softly, repeatedly, each press of your lips calming the rapid beat of your heart. He sighs gently against your mouth, frustration warring with longing as you whisper your promise. "I’ll come right back to you, promise."

"Promise?" he echoes, vulnerability edging his voice. 

Your heart twists painfully as you nod, offering softly, genuinely, "I don't wanna be anywhere else." Your fingers brush his chain, grounding yourself in his presence one final time, voice dropping to a whisper. "Only wanna be with you, baby." 

His sigh is heavy, reluctant, tinged with hurt. "I don’t know how I feel about letting you go right now. You always disappear, and then I don’t hear from you for hours." Yet, despite his protests, you pull away, the words unspoken between you thickening the air as you vanish into the darkness, leaving promises behind like fading lanterns in the night sky—beautiful but impossible to grasp. Hours stretch into days, leaving him stranded in your silence.

You find yourself in Coach Suh’s office as quickly as your feet could carry you, the door closing softly behind you, sealing you in familiar shadows and the lingering scent of leather and faded cologne. Silence pulses heavily between you as your eyes lock with his, triggering memories you’d carefully buried deep, ghosts you’d long since refused to acknowledge. You haven’t been alone together in months, not since you forced every heated glance, every stolen breath, every desperate touch firmly into the depths of denial, pretending they’d ceased to haunt you. But now, with his gaze burning into yours, those suppressed moments surge back, fierce and unrelenting, flooding your chest until it aches—each vivid fragment sharper, more alive, more painfully real than before.

You recall nights spent here after classes, muscles sore, skirt bunched carelessly around your waist, bouncing on his cock while he gripped your hips with desperate urgency. You’d ride him rough, ignoring his whispered pleas to be quieter, grinding harder at the risk of discovery, whispering back, “Then let them hear.” The thrill of it always pushed him over the edge too quickly, your name tumbling from his lips like a forbidden prayer. He'd protest weakly when you left marks, but you knew he secretly savored each bruising reminder.

Other times you’d hide beneath his desk during office hours, lips wrapped tight around his cock while he nodded mechanically through mundane meetings. His knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the desk, voice strained, body rigid, his fingers buried in your hair like an affectionate caress rather than guiding your eager mouth. You relished making him falter, humming lightly until he twitched helplessly, whispering “daddy” softly enough only he could hear. His whispered command to behave never held weight; you always left him wanting more.

Standing in front of him now, the heavy silence crackles with charged, unresolved tension. He stares with narrowed eyes, voice cautious yet edged with curiosity. “It’s 11pm.”

“I need your help,” you breathe softly, your voice laden with unspoken promises, the words falling gently into the heavy air between you like embers sparking off neon-lit wires. He holds your gaze for a long, charged moment, eyes burning into yours, a silent collision of past sins and present desperation—desire, guilt, and determination woven together into something dangerously combustible. His jaw tightens imperceptibly, a subtle acknowledgment that pulls the tension taut until the air itself seems to hum.

Without another word, he rises from his chair, the motion fluid yet cautious, as though afraid too sudden a movement might shatter this fragile, perilous truce. You follow him silently, each step echoing with a thousand suppressed memories, fluorescent-bright flashes of nights spent tangled together in reckless abandon. The car ride to his apartment is thick with those very ghosts, desire simmering beneath your skin like a neon sign flickering erratically in a rain-soaked alley, its electric current raw and unstable. Neither of you dares to speak, lest you sever the fragile thread holding back the chaos.

When he opens his apartment door, the quiet creak echoes like a gunshot, your breath catching sharply in your throat. You step inside slowly, your gaze locked onto his, the silent invitation between you blazing fiercely, unapologetically bright—no longer hiding in shadows, but daring you both to face it head-on. And as your eyes meet, understanding settles heavily, achingly clear, raw as an exposed nerve. You know exactly what you’re offering, and he knows exactly what you’re willing to surrender.

Tonight, you’ll burn yourself down if it means securing Jeno’s future. You’ll sink willingly into neon-lit temptation, the aching familiarity of Coach Suh’s hard cock buried deep inside you—surrendering to old patterns and darker pleasures, losing yourself completely in the ruthless heat of his mouth, the bruising grip of fingers that have memorized every desperate inch of your skin. You’ll let him consume you until every boundary shatters, trading each carefully guarded piece of your soul for the raw, electric sensation of his body moving relentlessly against yours, thrusting hard enough to fracture the lingering shadows of your resistance and when it’s over, when you’ve ridden out every burning wave of your sacrifice, all that’ll remain is the scorched, luminous aftermath—glowing in vivid, neon-bright confession against the pitch-black of midnight, unmistakably marking you as his one last time.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[atrologynuances]

Astrology observations pt2 || Planets in their detriment

NOTE: the interpretation of these are solely on the planets. harmonious/inharmonious aspects can change the translation of these planets.

these are based on personal observations as well as acquired knowledge from books, websites, and other observation posts.

𓋼𓍊 Aries/Scorpio Venus- may struggle maintaining a harmonious relationship which can lead to them changing their relationships quite often. aries venuses might posses an either fiery or more grounded energy thanks to the cardinal energy. scorpios on the other hand might be emotionally reserved, and only truly love very few people around them if any, the rest they keep around depending on what they can access from them (very manipulative). Given their possible relationship insecurities these two venus signs will seek for someone going at the same pace and someone with the same mindset, which realistically is hard to find. when they do think they’ve found it, they might later find out they were in fact wrong. When they do get in a relationship they might become possessive as a result of possible insecurities.

𓋼𓍊 Taurus/Libra Mars- these natives might need extreme motivation to get things going, like a 9-5 they don’t like, but the security and responsibility of it keeps them on their toes. these mars signs could also lack sense of security in their actions, which could leave them wondering whether they were right or wrong and as a result they might not fight for themselves as hard as they should. it is important for them to have a big support system that reassures and validates their actions when conflicts arise.

𓋼𓍊 Gemini/Virgo Jupiter- these natives have a hard time seeing beyond logic explanation, they could experience something and until they don’t find logic behind it they won’t be satisfied. get fixated on many things but never seems to finish or find a final answer to any of them. is not that they’re unable to finish them, they’re just no longer interested to. closed minded towards otherworldly subjects, or tries very hard to understand it.

𓋼𓍊 Cancer/Leo Saturn- these natives lack discipline but want it. they might vent to you that they do not like their current monetary situation and are looking to make some changes in that aspect of their life, but the next day you see them spending all their money on clothes. they know this is wrong but will still do it. they may be prone to control people and situations because they think they know what’s best for everyone. however, they do not like people telling them what to do lol. they might be prone to burnouts easily and immune system problems.

𓋼𓍊 Sagittarius/Pisces Mercury- struggles to find something that feels “right” for them, when they do find it they mostly have to work harder than everybody else to catch up. problems with communication; either started talking late or have problems expressing themselves as they get older. prone to saying things that don’t make sense upfront which will make them have to explain themselves often. this might create insecurities that will lead them to express themselves less. this is the reason why I think so many great writers have these placements, they can just erase and reword their writing without being judged for it.

- fyodor dostoevsky, jane austen, james joyce, victor hugo, emily dickinson

𓋼𓍊 Capricorn Moon- find it difficult to be vulnerable, this translates to needing or wanting material security to make sure they won’t need anyone. do not like to rely on anyone for emotional/financial support even if they really need it. despite all this, they are very emotional. the difference between them and their sister sign cancer is that they are not expressive with their emotions or act on them. something I have noticed is that they are not as workaholics as people might expect them to be, however when they work, they splurge on the money they make or might be stingy with it, as either one of these actions brings security to them. most of the times they don’t feel loved by either one of their parents even if they’ve both always been present in their lives.

𓋼𓍊 Aquarius Sun- natives are hard to describe for me because I have not met many of them, I feel like most hideaway at home lol. one thing i’ve noticed is that they cry a lot and are unapologetic about it. these people shine bright like their sister sign leo, the difference is they don’t want to so they avoid situations where they have to or when they are put in these situations they have to make sure their presentation is flawless. however in day to day life they do not really care how they’re perceived. they’re the ones that go to school in pijama pants. they also oftentimes seek some form of validation with other people, which is why they change partners often. very physically beautiful, but doesn’t seem to know or act on it.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope y’all have a wonderful day.

guide

[artytaeh]

honeymoon!Mattheo? Also I'm so obsessed with your pages aesthetic, especially since I've been on this app for like 3 years and just changed my profile picture... anyways adore you and your writing <3

this is so sweet! i melt everytime i reread this rq, i swear. tysm for reading my posts and accompanying my writing, also for requesting 🌷 honeymoon!theo was a silly shower thought— i didn't plan to do a version of it. however, since you're asking, i just can't say no; so i hope that you like it, love! ♡

warnings: includes smut, so obviously it's advised for +18 readers; read at your own risk. brief mentions of trauma from being the son of bellatrix lestrange + the dark lord.

honeymoon!mattheo who felt like these next two weeks outside england, just the two of you, were like a blessing after your wedding day— don't get me wrong, mattheo riddle feels like the luckiest motherfucker to have been the one to marry you, the man who put that ring on your finger and to see you walking down the aisle to him. even so, fucking hell, how can a celebration for your marriage be so, so exhausting for the two of you? mattheo himself begged you to take off those heels; it was paining him to see you in them after so many hours, really!

honeymoon!mattheo who was ecstatic at the idea of going out of the country with you, of all people. sure, he's been out of england: he studied at hogwarts, which is in scotland; italy too, courtesy of theodore's invitations to spend a few weeks or most of the summer break at his family's estate; that one time that draco bragged about his wealth and took all of his friends to spend weekends or some days somewhere through europe. but travelling with you? that's different. this isn't a vacation with the boys; he's on his way to enjoy two paradisical weeks with the love of his life— just. the. two. of you.

honeymoon!mattheo who planned these vacations with you — where do you wanna go? how long would you like to stay? would you rather somewhere to rest and do nothing, or travelling around? truthfully, mattheo had his own preferences; as fun as it is to explore new places and unraveling different cultures, mattheo was a bit (a lot more) into seeing you in bikini most of the day. visiting a city or some nearby mexican tourist attraction is totally fine by him; a few were chosen by the two of you during a rainy day, cuddling on the sofa as you and him daydream about the sound of waves, sunny days and heat tanning your skins. with a laptop in front of you, mattheo checklists and makes notes of whatever was decided that day.

honeymoon!mattheo who jumps straight to the bed as soon as you arrive to the hotel's bedroom. soon, strong arms pull you close to him; mattheo spends some minutes like this with you, cuddling and feeling you close, nevermind how warm it is in mexico during this time of the year, not giving a flying fuck if you two are sweaty. mattheo riddle needs to rest after so many bloody hours inside a plane, and dealing with the airport's burocracy. fuck, there's a fucking spell for everything in the wizarding world, how come no one found a better way to travel between two continents already?!

honeymoon!mattheo who has his arm around your waist at all times. walking together? mattheo is there, hugging your waist, matching his usual long strides to your calmer pace, making sure that you're the one leading the speed of your walk. taking a stroll on a nearby city or exploring the streets? mattheo riddle won't unwrap his arm from your waist, fingers gently tracing the curve of your side, as you two comment about the beautiful streets you walk by and how good all of these restaurants smell. and, well, if his arm becomes bothersome because of the heat, mattheo is happy to hold your hand— as soon as it becomes sweaty, mattheo himself moves to your other side, to take your other hand in his, nevermind if he has to repeat this ritual every five minutes.

honeymoon!mattheo who drags you to play on the beach with him! this man will proudly buy a kid's kit for himself: a set with beach toys, including a bucket, shovels and other stuff to build castles on the damp sand. obviously, the set is green, if there's that color option— hey, all of those years as a slytherin, wearing a green tie on a daily basis, got him a little attached to the color, alright?!

honeymoon!mattheo who looks like a man preparing himself to go to war, as you patiently massage the sunscreen on his face, warm shoulders and back, along with the rest of his body; you don't trust your husband to apply the sunscreen correctly, since mattheo is all too impatient to go have fun. he does the same to you, of course; pulling you to his lap, big hands making sure that your smooth thighs are protected by the sunscreen— maybe a little too much, since you grow suspicious that mattheo caresses your thighs for a moment longer than necessary. hey, he's a man in love; can't a husband appreciate his wife's beautiful body?!

honeymoon!mattheo who lowkey tries to learn how to speak spanish, or at least simple phrases; thank you, hello, please, and perhaps being a little more observant to catch a curse word or two. god forbid mattheo catches on how to compliment you— now, each time you show your outfit, smile or do something as simple as existing near mattheo riddle, he grins and dramatically pronounces: 'guapissima! bonita, muy bonita.' — sneaking a squeeze on your bottom, pressing your body closer to his. you'd be at least a little annoyed, if mattheo's bambi eyes weren't so full of love for you. you know he means every single praise that rolls out of his mouth.

honeymoon!mattheo who sleeps a little more peacefully now, in mexico, far away from london and the looming notion of his ancestry. here, a continent away from his lunatic of a mother, oceans away from the knowledge of being the dark lord's son, mattheo riddle relaxes. you're married now; away from the chaos. during your wedding day, mattheo was terrified that something would tarnish this happiness with you. being physically away from all of that, on a country where no one blinks an eye at the surname riddle, mattheo is able to relax and let go of the overthinking habit he created since childhood. mattheo riddle isn't a cursed child anymore— at least not here with you.

honeymoon!mattheo who buys a lot of souvenirs. at least for theodore, he gets something that he knows that his best friend would find funny too; perhaps one or two things for his slytherin friends. then a lot of bracelets, or whatever the fuck you happen to stare for a few seconds. sundresses become part of your wardrobe, too, since mattheo argues that is sinful to not have you wearing such flattering clothes, choosing colors that you like the most, and compliment you the best.

🗯️ : matt, this is the third dress you're about to buy for me. i already have enough!

m : nonsense. you don't have any on this color, do you? besides, it's fancy to say 'hey, see this dress? my husband got it for me from mexico'; i'm helping you to brag, woman!

honeymoon!mattheo who hugs you from behind in the pool, trailing kisses from your left shoulder, cheek, neck, shoulder blades, until he does the same to the other side. he's not even attempting to convince you to lustful things— mattheo is just so in love with you. should an older couple or bitter tourists side-eye any of you, mattheo will kiss your cheek for a moment longer, staring menacingly to whoever is nosy enough to notice him and his wife. mattheo riddle, as always, doesn't even have to open his mouth; his serious expression and dark eyes being enough of a warning. as soon as they avert their gaze, mattheo goes back to the task at hand: kissing every inch of you with that silly little smile of his.

honeymoon!mattheo who takes full advantage of the jacuzzi on your bedroom. you should have expected it, as soon as dark eyes shine with mischief, a wolfish grin on his lips as mattheo riddle inevitably plans ahead— hours later, you'll find out exactly what was going through that devilish mind of his.

honeymoon!mattheo who is safe to say that fully enjoyed the warm water at night— calloused hands placed on your hips, thumbs brushing soothing circles on your hipbones as mattheo takes in the sight of you, naked on top of him, guiding your movements as you bounce on his length. mattheo fights the urge to tilt his head back and close his eyes, wanting to drown himself in the sensation of you so tight, so warm and wet around him— but then, he'd lose the bewitching vision of you, so mattheo bites his lip while his hands move lower and lower, greedily squeezing your bottom, hands full of the smooth, soft skin. mattheo watches you so intensely, that you're almost shy under his gaze; his strong arms embrace you so close to him, lips bruising the skin of your neck, collarbone, chest (and for a moment, you wonder if wearing a bikini would be safe tomorrow, giving each reddening, becoming purple hickey left on you) as he whispers against your wet skin. 'so pretty— such a good girl for me, aren't you? riding your husband so, so well. so wet and tight for me, huh? moan for me, baby. let me hear all of your pretty moans, hm?'

honeymoon!mattheo who is so gentle with you afterwards. without even having to ask, mattheo carried you back to the bedroom, patting your body with gentle movements so that the towel absorbs the water from your body, cooing at you. despite your tired demeanor, sore legs recovering on the comfortable mattress— mattheo riddle is all too energetic and blissfully satisfied, massaging your smooth skin with a body cream of yours; and trust me, it takes everything within him to not tease you, holding back any 'fun' comments about you after three rounds that got you absolutely wrecked.

honeymoon!mattheo who dedicated a part of these few days to read one of your favorite books. you see, mattheo riddle isn't really one to take reading as a hobby; at most, mattheo would have fun spending the afternoon at some bookstores to read bd, mainly about superheroes, or the ones that blaise brought from school breaks to lend to him. apart from that, mattheo's hobbies mostly revolve around drawing or listening to music— but he's making an effort for you, alright?! he is! look, he read five pages today, while you were tanning!

honeymoon!mattheo who brought a camera with him for the sole purpose to have photos with you during these weeks; as much as he adores all of your wedding photos, either with you, his best friends and other guests— this honeymoon with you must have physical evidence, not wanting to depend on his memory alone. mattheo plans to show most of them (*cough* the appropriate ones) to your children, if you ever have kids together, that is. the camera and him are present at the same place, at all times; like symbiosis, mattheo has the camera by his side to never lose the opportunity of a good photo of you.

photos of you while you're sleeping, dressing up or changing clothes, while you're relaxing on a chair near the pool to tan, swimming, at night with a flower tucked on your hair— one that mattheo picked up for you and fixed behind your ear. mattheo riddle will come back home with enough photos to decorate a wall. there's photos of you two together, too; silly selfies with you, some of them while you're sleeping by his side or on his chest, others blissfully taken by other tourists who offered such a favor. mattheo loves every single one of them.

honeymoon!mattheo who discovered that breakfast could be delivered in bedroom, four days after waking up a little earlier to shower, dress up and go downstairs to have the first meal of the day. ever since mattheo discovered such a wonder, never again— fuck that. he's having breakfast on the bed with you, requesting the staff to put an extra portion of your favorite fruits, which he'd then feed to you while the two of you are lazying on the bed after a shower, talking about whatever.

honeymoon!mattheo who suddenly doesn't hate that much anymore. at hogwarts, first years were a headache; little tiny humans that mattheo had to be careful to not bump against, or else they'd fall to the floor and god forbid professor mcgonagall saw it, should anyone accuse him of bullying. first years were also troublesome at the bloody hogwarts' train, running around like hipper active insects— however, this one little boy that came running up to you, giving you a flower? mattheo riddle couldn't help but smile, a smug grin on his lips as he crouches down:

m : hey, little dude— this beautiful woman is taken. hasn't your mother told you that flirting with a married woman is wrong? the husband might get you in trouble, you know.

honeymoon!mattheo who would complain a little less about the kids running around or simply existing around the hotel. there was this one little girl he saw at the pool, while you were getting drinks; curly hair, soft cheeks that remind him of your beautiful face— mattheo riddle is a weak man, and ever since then... baby fever. suddenly, the idea of a tiny human that is the perfect mixture of you and him, doesn't sound so scary anymore. i mean, if you and him ever had a baby, it'd be the most beautiful kid to exist; mattheo reasons that not having such a blessed child would be illegal, a heartbreaking loss to this world! (correction: a small sized demon that inherits mattheo riddle's troublemaker nature, and your charm that'll get them out of trouble ever. single. time.)

honeymoon!mattheo who tries at least once every single drink and cocktail at the bar. and more than that, makes you try them with him, which becomes a game of creating a tier list of the whole menu. mattheo will get you the colorful ones, being aware of your taste— and should you dislike alcoholic drinks, well, mattheo is a man that is unknowingly considerate, making sure to taste the drink first (so that he's sure that it tastes good, according to your preferences, of course), before giving it to you. lowkey, mattheo riddle who becomes a bit obsessed with those drinks straight from the coconuts— he might have like, seven photos of that, some of them being selfies with you.

honeymoon!mattheo who takes you dancing. hands on your hips, feeling as you sway them, gripping at them each time that mattheo riddle has to take a deep breath to not get a hard-on in the middle of the dancefloor. if possible, he'll learn how to dance the bachata with you— be it by a free class at the hotel or some bar, or even just by staring at an experienced couple dancing with ease. mattheo would be so happy to dance with you, twirling you around and pulling you closer to him, your noses brushing as mattheo looks at you with such intensity; the love of his life, this goddess in his arms. physically can't listen to one of those latino songs without immediately pulling you to dance a little with him; fuck the stares that you might receive.

honeymoon!mattheo who wants to live right here, at mexico.

m : fuck england, let's ditch london.

🗯️ : mattheo, darling, we can't do that.

m : why not?! here's the best— no rain, no people bothering us. why can't we just fuck and chill every day like we do here?

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🌿 ’

౨ৎ spend the summer of a lifetime with me ♡ ͡

let me take you to the place of my dreams . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— ever since i posted my masterlist i've been receiving some requests; i didn't expect so many so soon! tysm for reading and requesting to my blog; i'll do my best to write and post each of them asap. ♡

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[dwaekkicidal]

js had a thought of skz dom-ing usually dom!fem. reader and they fuck her so hard that she cant walk anymore n they laugh at her. please write this one 😭

-👾

First-Time-Subbing!Reader[Hyung Line]

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: 1.8k (in total)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings are under each pic. just keep in mind its fem reader and generally rough, some of them have stuff that comes off as dubcon BUT this is in the context that they spoke about it beforehand so it's 100% consensual

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: OK first, this took me like A WEEK to post because I was trying to get all 8 of them into 1 post 😭(spoiler: i gave up. its too long) I'll post the maknae line version of this in a few days (with an extra part hehe) <3 anyways, this ask is so hot and brings out the brat in me so i got carried away

Maknae Line

𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗

reader was a brat about it, kinda meanie chris?, use of 'pretty girl', Daddy kink (are we surprised)

"Where did all that confidence go?" His hands hold both of yours against the small of your back, pushing you farther into the arm of the couch. You whine into the cushions where your face is smooshed, crying out into them with each cruel thrust.

"What was all that stuff you said earlier, my love? 'The day you dom me is the day pigs fly'? Hmm?" The night and day difference between the nickname and his hips has your head spinning.

"Fuck! Hold on-" His free hand wraps around the back of your neck and pushes you farther into the cushions, muffling your moans. "What's wrong, hm? Can't stand the taste of your own medicine?" You hear and feel his balls slap against your clit as he continues to use you thoroughly.

Once he feels you getting close, his thrusts slow down drastically. He lets go of your wrists and pulls you up, leaning you against his chest as he tediously rolls his hips against yours. "What do we say, pretty girl?"

Your eyes manage to crack open and you turn your head to look at him, "H-Huh?"

His chin rests on your shoulder and his eyes are lidded as they stare into yours. His heavy breath fans on your cheeks as he repeats himself, "Don't you have something to say to me? After being so rude to little ol' me earlier?"

"I-I'm sorry..?" His hands trail down your stomach, stopping at your clit and rubbing soft circles around it.

"Hmm." He smirks cockily. "Are you asking me or telling me? And I think you're missing something, don't you think?" You stare into his eyes confused, until you faintly remember the talk the two of you had about this exact dynamic.

You gulp, not at all familiar with the feeling coursing through your veins, but pushing yourself through it regardless. for him. "I'm sorry, D-Daddy.."

He smiles sweetly, placing a soft kiss on your cheek before he bends you forward again. He holds onto your elbows and uses them as leverage to fuck you, giving you no time to think as he starts another rough pace that has you seeing stars.

"Oh my G-God! Chris-"

"Atta girl. Tell the neighbors who owns this pussy."

𝙻𝚎𝚎 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠

reader was a brat about it, kinda mean dom min, spanking, hair pulling, edging

"Thought you said I could neeeever dom you?" The makeshift ponytail in your hair is held tightly as he holds you in place and mocks you. "Even after we talked about it and you agreed to let me dom, you still have the audacity to say all that in front of the guys?"

"M-Min! I'm sorry-"

"Mmm~ Yeah. You're gonna be sorry, kitty." His hips slam against yours even harder than before as he makes himself even angrier with the memories from the earlier events. He watches your arms wobble, struggling to hold up your body weight, and takes the chance to shove you down. Your cheek is squished against the covers and the angle causes a deeper arch in your back, allowing him to bully himself even deeper into your cunt. Pretty cries and desperate gasps continue to fall from your lips each time he pushes in and out.

Eventually, the hand in your hair is removed in favor of resting opposite of his other, caging in your torso and sinking his fists into the mattress by your waist. His chest swells with pride at the sight of you below him, at his mercy for once, and fucked completely stupid. A hand comes down on your ass cheek once before moving to your hip to hold you in place. You miss the way he licks his lips and watches you squirm below him.

Once your cries turn squeaky and your legs struggle to slam shut around his thighs, he pulls out abruptly. "Min?!? What the fuck??" You crane your neck to make a face at him but he stares down at you with a blank expression, still unmoving, so you take it upon yourself to finish yourself off. You quickly trail your hand between your legs in an attempt to rub your clit, but he catches on immediately. He uses those cat-like reflexes to roughly grab your wrists before they even get past your belly button and holds them above your head with one hand. Then his other comes down multiple times against your ass cheeks, swapping sides and never letting up.

By the time he's finished, his hands are a bright pink and burn when they squeeze and message the red flesh of your ass. Your complaints have died down alongside your disobedience, making him finally allow you a break. A very short one, however, as he slides himself through your sopping folds and pushes back in, causing you to hiss when his hips meet the abused skin of your ass.

"Bad kitties don't get to cum. Be good now and let me use you."

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚋𝚒𝚗

reader was a brat about it, kinda bondage?, hair pulling, dubcon, overstimulation, bin puts reader in a chokehold hehe

"C'mon Binnie~ Surely you can do better than that? My baby boy needs me to take the lead, again?" You laugh as he whines and tenses up, making you bite your lip at the sight of his arms flexing. He's trying so desperately to undo the pink, silk ribbons that currently restrain him to the chair in the middle of your room.

You hop off the bed, legs slightly wobbly from the orgasm you made him sit through, and skip happily to the wide dresser. You go through the more intimate drawer to find your favorite toys when you hear the floorboards creak. You crane your neck to the side only to have your face shoved into the dresser. The things on it rattle as you're held roughly against it and your underwear is pulled to your knees.

He holds you down and pumps himself a few times, lining up with your hole and pushing in slowly. The way he slowly grinds his entire length into you gives you a false sense of comfort, it's almost as if he's trying to make love! Except he's not. The hand on your head pushes you against the flat surface of the dresser top, holding you there as you start to borderline scream loudly from his quickening thrusts.

You squeak out his name with every other thrust and he tightens his hand into your hair. The other reaches into the drawer and pulls out a vibrator, turning it on and holding it against your clit. He holds it there, almost meanly, until your walls start to constrict tightly around him. When you start to cum he slows his thrusts, giving you a moment to ride out your high against the hard silicone's vibrations. But he quickly finds his pace again when you start to twitch from overstimulation.

"B-Binnie! Fuck! Wait- gimmie a minute!"

"I don't think so, Bunny. Wanna see you come again."

"Bin- No I can't, please!" His thrusts falter for a second and the hand in your hair moves to rest his arm around your neck, putting you in a light chokehold as he pulls you backward into his chest. Your bodies are glued together as he thrusts shallowly, still stretching you out as if it were your first time. The vibrator is turned up a notch and pushed back against you. When you start to convulse in his hold, he tightens the grip on your neck and chuckles at your choked cries, watching intently as you come undone again. Your eyes drop down to the mirror, watching his smirk and the way his eyes stare into yours, narrowed and darkened.

"Again."

𝙷𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚓𝚒𝚗

reader is compliant, bondage, overstimulation, kinda dacryphilia, pretty soft sex tbh??

Your legs shake as you cum for the 3rd time that night. Hyunjin finishes right after you and pulls out, backing away from you momentarily to catch his breath. You struggle to rise to your knees, the tight ropes around your chest and arms making it almost impossible. But then you're pushed back into the mattress. "Oh, I don't think so. I'm not done with you yet. You're gonna come until I'm satisfied." Your head snaps to his face and you frown deeply at him.

He simply laughs and flops on the bed, finding a spot against the wall to rest against as he pulls you to hover over his lap. One of his big hands massages your hip as he smiles up at you teasingly. "Sounds familiar? Haha.. You don't remember what you said and did to me the other day? Hmmmmm?" You roll your head, obviously annoyed with the brattiness he's giving off even as a dom. He continues to smile, chuckling as the fingers on his free hand ghost up your body.

It starts at your thighs, then moves almost leisurely upwards. His featherlight touch slithers up your tummy, between your chest, and up your neck, where he takes a firm hold of your chin. He uses the grip to pull you closer to his face, ghosting his lips over yours. "Don't be mad, my love. It's just payback... karma even." You whine loudly and nod, finally giving in to his efforts and he rewards you by pushing his lips against yours.

His tongue pushes past your lips and you give in easily. He smiles against your lips and pulls you closer, allowing the both of you to make out with skin-to-skin contact. After a minute or so you feel his tip run through your folds and he pushes in not long after. You moan into each other's mouths as he pulls you down, slowly but surely.

He takes his time with you, no longer feeling hesitant that you are the one tied up all pretty for him. Your arms wriggle from the position you're tied in, desperate for more of him. He giggles at the sight and pulls you farther onto him, sliding in impossibly deeper as your legs spread farther. He finally disconnects his lips from yours and looks down to watch his cum get pushed out of you with each slow, meticulous thrust.

It doesn't take long for him to become desperate so he begins to thrust his hips upwards into you with more vigor, meeting you halfway as your hips descend to meet his. You moan into his neck as his hands move to your ass, squeezing your cheeks and spreading them in an attempt to go even deeper. His lips meet yours as you both finish, your bodies shaking slightly from the overstimulation. You slump against him, thinking it's over until the hands on your ass tighten their hold and lift you. He continues lifting and dropping you until your eyes prickle with tears. Tears that he kisses away only to use it as a motive to go faster.

"Haha... you don't know what you started princess."

Taglist:

@jiminssluttyminx @changisworld @juskz @linohumina @rylea08

@grandma143 @caught-in-the-afterglow @yaorzu-blog @jabmastersupriseee