#now he’s feeling more affirmed in his control

[daydreamerdrew]

Iron Man (1968) #50

[kurooh]

I LOVE UR WORKK

ANYWAYS MY REQUEST IS

how mha guys are in bed when they're mad or jealous 😋 (please include shinso im begging 🙏)

-💕

JEALOUS, JEALOUS, JEALOUS BOY!

☆ includes: midoriya izuku, bakugō katsuki, todoroki shōto, kirishima eijirou, shinsou hitoshi, takami keigo.

☆ warnings: 18+ content, fem! reader, rough sex, mild degradation.

☆ notes: TY FOR THIS REQUEST NONNIE <33 jealousy is such a turn on!!

— IZUKU gets particularly energetic whenever he sees someone getting a little close to you or being flirty. he nicely pulls you away from the person and glares at them, but then he’s all jittery with pent up irritation and energy. he uses your pussy as an outlet, as soon as possible.

“feels so tight,” izuku whines into your neck as he ruts his hips against you, his cock head pounding into your gspot fervently. “i-i’m gonna fill you up—ugh, fuck!—and you’re gonna walk around and keep it inside you.” you bite your lip hard, head falling back against the wall of his agency’s staff room. you’re standing on one leg, pressed against the wall, one leg hiked up and being held by izuku. “i promise i will, zuku, just cum inside me, please!” the door is halfway open and his hand clamps over your mouth in an attempt to keep you quiet so you’re not discovered in such a compromising position. sweat runs down his forehead, and he grips you harder, determined to send you to your meeting late and dripping with his cum.

— KATSUKI is explosive, of course. the moment he sees someone getting friendly with you, he’s quick to snap at them and kiss you hard, then fuck you later. he asks for sexual affirmations while he’s railing you so hard you can barely breathe.

“you like it when i bend you over like this, huh baby?” a hard spank to your ass makes you whine loudly, your pussy clenching on katsuki’s thick cock. “i love it, katsuki!” your head hangs down weakly, and you look between your legs to watch yourself get fucked. a mixture of your slick, his spit, and his cum from early drip down from your hole, and his balls smack against your clit while his cock pistons in and out of you mercilessly. “how’s it feel, takin’ my cock like this?” dazed from the pleasure, you don’t answer as quickly as he expects you to, and his hips stop instantly. “no!” you exclaim desperately, starting to babble thoughtlessly. “it feels better than anything, katsuki.. please don’t stop fucking me, i need you so bad.” “go ahead and beg some more for me,” he laughs a little, his balls clenching at your words.

— SHŌTO is a little passive, talking neutrally to the person who’s getting too close. the second you’re both out of sight of others, he kisses you hard and makes out with you. while fingering and teasing you, he sucks dark hickeys into your skin.

“sho, don’t think about that disrespectful asshole, i—” strong arms pull you close, right into his chest, and sweet lips shut you up before you can say any more. letting yourself savor his touch, your eyes close, and shōto’s tongue slips between your lips with practiced ease; his kisses are controlled yet wanting. you whine shakily when his hand slips into your pants and into your underwear, his fingers brushing at your already sticky slit. shōto transitions, his lips moving to your neck eagerly, and he begins to suck at the supple skin. “oh, that feels good,” you whisper when two of his fingers press inside of you, another massaging your clit. “i wish i was inside of you.” he bites down on your skin particularly hard and you squirm. “later,” you say, palming his cock through his pants and pressing closer to him. “for now, mark me up.”

— EIJIROU is friendly when he pulls you close, kissing you in front of the person who’s making him fight a war internally with jealousy. but he’s actually angry, wondering how they hadn’t seen you together before they started getting flirty with you. so, he makes you suck his cock to help him get over it.

“can i suck it, ei?” you feel yourself salivating at the sight of him gripping his hard cock through his pants, the outline sending heat through every inch of your body. “hmm, okay,” he shrugs, slowly sliding his pants and boxers down his thighs. his tip is messy with precum, and despite his nonchalance he’s desperate for your mouth. wanting to tease him, you wrap your lips around him and very slowly take his length into your mouth. but eijirou’s hand pressed against the back of your head gently before he slams you all the way down. immediately, tears well in your eyes and you choke, your throat tightening. his crimson eyes roll right into the back of his head, and he twists his fingers in your hair, yanking you up and down on his cock. “let me use your pretty mouth, baby. this is what it’s for, isn’t it?” he groans when you tearfully look up at him, nodding. “fuck, take it deeper.”

— hitoshi is clearly unhappy when you return to him after purposely engaging with someone flirty, in hopes of him seeing you. he becomes uncharacteristically rough with you when you’re in bed together, and reminds you not to act like that again (but now you want to even more cause you love the way he treats you).

“i bet you talked with him like that on purpose, just so i could fuck you like a slut.” he spits, his hips pounding into yours, pace quickening by the second. one of hitoshi’s large hands slowly wraps around your throat, and he squeezes lightly, then harder when your eyes roll back. “i-i did, toshi! don’t stop, please!” he groans, his head tipping back, and his free hand pushes your knees into your chest harder. you’re folded into a mating press and tears well in your eyes, the pleasure overwhelming. you gasp, “i’m so close! hitoshi, you’re gonna make me—” and his free hand slips between your pelvis and his, and his fingers start to rub at your swollen clit. you grab his hand that’s resting on your throat and look at him with such desperation that he squeezes your throat hard, drawing gasping moans from your lips. hitoshi’s cock throbs when your pussy tightens, and his fingers fall away from your clit, and he slaps it instead. “no, you don’t get to cum until i do.”

— KEIGO swoops in, says “she’s mine, dude” and literally picks you up and flies off. overall, he’s pretty laid back and doesn’t get jealous, but when he does, he fucks you in hearing/seeing distance of the guy. for example, on a rooftop, in a nearby alley, etc.

“fuck you, dabi!” keigo shouts from the rooftop overlooking the man, his wings spread out and buffeting strongly. then he wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you against him and into a kiss. “kei,” you murmur against his lips, “i’m already ready, jus’ want you inside.” he almost cums right then and there, and before you know it, he’s yanking his clothes off and tugging down your shorts. your panties are pushed to the side hastily, and he’s quick to push inside you, but even faster to start fucking you. “be loud for me, baby,” keigo bends you right over, so you’re looking out at the city’s skyline and over all the roads. you’re shaking already as you mewl in pleasure, arms trembling as you try to hold yourself up. “keigo!” you moan, wanting to scream at how deep he’s fucking you. “good girl,” he whispers, “let the whole city know i’m making you feel this good.”

[omgeto]

☆ WHEN YOU HAVE SEX WITH YOUR PROFESSOR — NANAMI, TOJI, GETO, GOJO.

summary: you have sex with your professor. for many different reasons.

wc: 4.2k (each of these were meant to be 500 words long so idk what happened)

cw: smutty smut afab!reader who's in university, mutual masturbation, spanking, semi public sex, toji is not a professor but a gym coach who rails you in a supply closet, but theres a lot of sex on a lot of desks so mdni.

an: theres actually a smidge of plot in this just a tiny bit if you do a deep squint, but the smut id personally say is my best yet. so give it a chance people, but come for the smut stay for the dialogue. hope you enjoy! not proofread ignore mistakes pls

☆ NANAMI

nanami kento, was the strictest teacher you have ever had. you couldn’t get away with your usual tricks that you did with some of your other professors — strutting past their office during office hours in your skimpiest clothes to get a better grade. it was as if nanami was immune to all your devices.

but with a big exam coming up, you knew you had to make something happen since studying was not your forte. so you were prepared to do anything to get that A.

“come in," his deep voice calls from inside.

as you enter his office, you are met with the sight of your professor, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, reviewing a stack of papers. he glances up at you briefly before returning his attention to his work.

"what can I help you with?" he ask, his tone professional.

“i wanted to see if we could talk about the exam you set for us tomorrow,” you start to say, his eyes still focused on his papers, not sparing you a glance. “i was thinking we could figure out a way for me to get extra credit… sir.” 

you had his attention now. technically you’ve always had his attention — yes nanami was different to all the other professors you’ve ever had but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a man at the end of the day. 

he always noticed the way you’d sit in his classroom, your pouty mouth always gnawing at your pencil as you never had a clue what was going on. nanami always had to hide his dick feeling tight in his trousers whenever you walk into his classroom. little did you know that you actually would’ve failed his class a long time ago, but because he just couldn’t let go of the sight of how your pretty tits bounce everytime you raise your hand, he always made you pass. 

“well what are you willing to do for that extra credit?” he says, his tone slightly amused.

“whatever you want” you respond a bit too eagerly, you were coming onto him hard. but it was working, you could already see the crack in his usual stoic facade. “c’mon professor nanami, i need to pass this class,” you practically beg. 

“oh yeah, you definitely need to pass this exam, you’re one more failed exam to flunking my whole class,” he affirms — lying through his teeth. “so i think you should come sit up here, and show me what you’re willing to do huh.”

suddenly, you start to feel nervous. usually you’d have control of the situation, you’d flaunt your ass, fuck your teacher and get an A, easily. but this time, you could see in nanami’s eyes that from when you entered his office — that he was running the show.

you saunter over his desk, and he pushes his seat back allowing you to have room to perch on his desk in front of him. “take off your shirt,” he commands, and you’re quick to fling off your top — that was barely covering anything anyways, “wow no bra, why am i not surprised.” he stares at your hardened nipples smirking as he continues to say, “you know i see your nipples peeking at me through your shit all the time in class.”

“really?” you question coyly.

“you don’t think i see how you practically fuck yourself in your seat when i’m doing a reading,” he continues, his arms folding as if he was telling you off, “a bit disrespectful, right?”

“no i-it’s just i really like the sound of your voice,” you stammer, embarrassed at him calling you out. you couldn’t deny that your professor was hot, everybody thought so and you hated school the only thing that got you through your classes was your day dreams of him fucking you.

“oh really, well i wanna see you get off to it for real this time.”

“wha—”

“touch yourself,” he demands with a grin, “fuck yourself on your fingers, put on a show for me,” he loosens his tie, and unbuttons his cuffs, ready to watch you perform for him, “and if you do well, then we could talk about your extra credit.”

you take off your pants, your hands moving directly to your throbbing pussy — since of course you had no panties on. you press your thumb down on your clit as your fingers work their way into your cunt. you were already soaked, just from hearing your professor speak to you, so it was easy to slide your digits in and out of you. 

nanami’s grin grows wider, loving the way your work your pussy,  “you not gonna play with your tits?” and you take his hint, your other hand sliding up to cup one of your boobs, your fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. “good girl,” he praises.

you add another finger inside of you, writhing down hard on his desk against your digits. you quicken your pace, rubbing your thumb vigorously against your clit. his gaze on you served as an encouragement, your ultimate goal was shifted, at this point you didn’t care whether he passed or failed you — you just wanted to put on a good show for him.

“you gonna cum for me?” he taunts, the sound of your pussy squelching around your fingers as you drive them in is like music to his ears. you barely even noticed him fisting his dick, stroking it hard — matching the pace of your fingers hammers your cunt.  “you gonna make a big mess for me all over my desk?”

“professor i-” you whine, wanting more than just your own fingers inside of you, “please i need—”

“professor? what was it that you called me earlier?” he teases, “remind me of that and then maybe i’ll give you what you’re begging for.”

“s-sir please,” you sputter, barely being able to string a sentence together. you could feel you were about to cum hard. your fingers were still drilling into your pussy, and your hands were still suctioned on your tit and nanami's dick was taunting you. “i need you.”

“you need me hmm?” he mocks, his eyebrow tilting as he stares at your fucked out face.

“yeah p-please i need your dick,” you beg, your pussy was gushing all over your fingers, as your strokes got sloppier, “i need you i-in me.”

“oh really?” he asks with a smirk, a slight chuckle as you nod eagerly, “well too bad.”

“wha—”

“you really thought i’d put my dick in a slutty student that’s not even smart enough to even pass my class?” he lectures, he tuts his teeth, shaking his head, “now finish off for me and leave office hours end in a few minutes.”

“f-fuck,” you moan out, you could barely even process his words, too busy focused on cumming all over your fingers to think about how he just denied you of what you really wanted, your hand falls off your tit, your head jerking back as your release over his desk. he’s quick to cum too, biting down on his fist to surpress the loud moan threatening to come out

“you really made a mess for me huh,” he observes, swiping his fingers across the pool of cum you left on his desk and bringing it into his mouth, “sweet.” you were at a loss for words, you were just coached through one of the best orgasms you ever had from your professor — and he didn’t even touch you — yet you still don’t know whether he’s gonna pass you or not.

“so about that exam…?” you voice trails, as you put back on your shirt, hopping of his desk.

“i’ll think about it, sit the exam first and i’ll see what i can do,” his voice turns serious, and he nods his head in the direction for you to leave indicating for you to get up out of his office. but just before you're about to leave the room he calls out to you, “oi.”

“thanks for the live show.” 

☆ TOJI 

“why do we always have to fuck in such awkward spaces,” you complain nearly tripping on a basketball as toji holds you upright.

“you know you love it baby,” he smirks, pressing a kiss to your cheek, thrusting up into you further. 

you were in the gym supply closet, having your weekly sex with your university's gym teacher. you don’t even know how your little routine came about but once he started to hammer into you every friday after basketball practice, you’ve never missed a meet up.

“don’t call me that,” you groan out at the use of his pet name.

“why not?” he grumbles, cupping your tits with his hands as he stands behind you, “aren’t you students s’pposed to listen to your teachers and all that.”

you take a sharp inhale as his large hands smother your boobs, his thick things toy with your nipples, “but y-you aren’t a real teacher, in case you forgot.”

“am too,” he mutters like a child.

“a-are not,” you spit back just as childishly.

“am, too,” he persists, thrusting into you hard. pushing you down by your nape, forcing your hands to grip onto some random gym apparatus. he uses his foot to spread your legs apart wider so he can fit right behind you. fucking into you with something to prove.

“you teach gym to a bunch of brain dead j-jocks, wouldn’t say that classifies as being an actual professor toji.” you continue riling him up, biting your lip as his hammers into you harder. “you’re more like a glorified personal trainer than a teacher.”

he drives into you deeper, “oh and your just an uppity bitch, who still ended up fucking this ‘personal teacher,’ in a gym closet,” his mouth moves close to your ear, as he whispers, “so what does that say about you baby?” he presses a kiss underneath your ear lobe, before lightly sucking on it.

his words go straight to your core, him calling you an ‘uppity bitch’ had the exact effect he intended them to have — you throwing  your ass on his dick, fucking him back as hard as he was fucking you. 

he sends a smack to your ass, biting his lip as it ripples at the contact of his palm. his slaps were merciless, having you scream out every time he hits your cheek. “how’s this for a glorified personal trainer huh?” he coos in your ear, feeling dignified as you rut against him more feigning for more of his dick in your throbbing pussy. 

“ah you f-fill me up s-so so good,” you mewl out, as his dick pumps in and out of you stuffing you with every thrust. his mouth latches onto the nape of your neck, sucking on it as he ploughs into you deeper, hitting your spot with pinpoint accuracy.

“i know i do baby, i always stuff you good don’t i?” he groans out, your pussy was a vice grip on his dick, had him suppressing his moans whenever you clenched around him, “don’t know why you fuck around with these lame ass boys in your classes, they can’t fuck you like i do. do they?”

“well…” you voice trails in a teasing tone.

“dont f-fucking play with me,” he sputters, feeling himself about to bust all inside of you, “i’m the only one you fucking right,” when he doesn’t hear an immediate answer, he shoves himself into you his hips pushing right against your ass, “right?”

“y-yes fuck, right,” you sigh rolling your eyes at his act of possessiveness — ignoring how you pussy got even wetter at his words. “you’re the b-best i ever had, toji.”

“you’re damn right i am,” he scoffs out giving your ass one final slap as he says, “you going finish all over my dick, c’mon baby coat my dick with your sweet sweet,” and you do just that. you cum with a cry, releasing all over toji, as he shoots into you a loud groan leaving his mouth.

“aww i forgot how loud you get for me,” you tease him as he pulls out of you, turning to look at him with a grin, which he huffs out, “anyways what did i tell you about cumming in me, i'm not one of those cheerleaders you run around with,” you fuss swatting at his chest.

“yeah you aren’t one of the cheerleaders i run around with,” he repeats, “hence why i can cum in you, you know you’re my favourite fuck out of all my students”

“ugh you’re so gross.”

“you say that with my cum running down your legs,” he says, giving you a pointed look, his eyes staring down at your thighs, “i do have another hour till my next class i gotta teach, so i could clean it up for you?” he offers, already going down to his knees, knowing that was a suggestion you would not deny.

“if you insist.”

he starts to suck against your thighs as you lean against the wall, sandwiched between a goal post and a hockey stick, but just before his lips latch onto your pussy, he looks up to you with a pout, “do you really think gym coaches aren’t teachers?”

“oh shut up toji,” you mutter, pushing his head to your cunt.

☆ GETO

you storm into your professors office, pissed off. professor geto was the worst teacher you’ve ever had. he was cocky, arrogant and most of the time he didn’t have a clue what he was teaching. 

“ah miss know it all,” he muses, his personal nickname he created for you during his first semester of being your professor, “to what do i owe the pleasure this time.” you were no stranger to geto’s office, you were practically the only student that actually used his office hours. geto didn’t mind it though. the unplanned visits, your impoliteness — he was amused by it. 

“could you explain why you gave me a B, on my last paper?” you interrogate, waving said essay in his face furiously, “when we both know that this is easily worth an A.”

“i just think you could do better,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “i just think you haven’t harnessed your true potential, that’s all.” geto knew you were smart, the smartest person he’s ever taught. he just needed to get you in his office. and he knew a below average grade on an essay, that didn’t even matter, was the way to do that.

“and what do you know about potential?” you mutter, more to yourself than anything, “i don’t even know how you managed to get this job.”

he rolls his eyes at your comments, “do you really want this A?” 

"of course i want the stupid A," you reply, your tone determined. "i've put in the effort, and i've met all the requirements for this paper. there's no reason for you to give me a B except for your own personal bias against me."

“personal bias? some may argue that you’re actually my favourite?” geto leans back in his chair, a sly grin on his face. "but alright, then. here's the deal," he says, folding his arms. "if you can convince me right now, in this very moment, that you deserve an A for this paper, i'll change your grade. but you'll have to persuade me.”

“persuade you?” you retort, “what you want me to do a powerpoint presentation or something…?” 

he chuckles, shaking his head at your naivety, for someone so smart you somehow lack social awareness, “no i wanna see if you taste as good as you look.”

“you mean…” your voice trails, finally catching on to what he was getting at.

“come lay down on my desk,” he says casually as if this was a usual ordeal between the two of you. he could see you hesitating, “you do want that A right?” 

your feet were stuck in the ground, you never wanted to be one of those girls — ones that had to fuck a teacher just to get through university. but, regardless of your below A grade, you were more curious about what it would actually be like. especially with a professor that looked like geto. 

you lay down on his desk, nervous, you could feel his breath on your stomach as he slides down your jeans. he was kneeling down, his face at the same level as your pussy. he toys with your underwear, pulling at it and snapping it against your skin, giving you a smile of approval in your choice of panties. but just before he pulls them off you he asks, “you sure you want to do it smarty? you can run back to your dorm if you want?”

“anything to get the A,” you grit out, basically lying, since getting your grade improved was the last thing on your mind as he pulls off your underwear. 

he takes his hair — that was usually tied up in bun —  down, releasing his long hair, “just in case you need something to pull on,” he smirks.

his fingers slide across your wet slit, spreading your lips. he presses a kiss on your clit, slightly nibbling on it before working his mouth down to your pussy. you gasp at the contact as he latches his mouth on you, his tongue darting into your cunt at a quick pace. 

geto hums in satisfaction as you hands immediately go to grab his hair, pulling at it as his tongue gives you long strokes, lapping up all the juices already spilling out of you. “i didn’t think my star student would be this needy, if only the class could see you now.” he taunts lifting his head up, “i guess they wouldn’t be surprised though, your as hungry for my tongue as you are to answer questions in class,” he finishes with a chuckle pressing a kiss to your thigh.

but you’re quick to silence him, clenching your thighs against his head, “s-shut up,” you whine, thrusting your hips up in his face to meet his tongue. your head was swirling, you could barely remember how you ended up on your professors desk in the first place. but all you were focused on was clawing your fingers through his scalp as he slurps and sucks on your pussy.

“oh m-my god,” you murmur, soaking his face. he could tell by the way you pushing his face deeper into your cunt, his nose forced into your arousal that you were close.

“ready to let me taste you” he asks, his voice sending vibrations over your pussy, “wanna taste you so fucking bad.”

“fuck d-didn’t think it’ll be this g-good,” you whine out. he brings his thumb to you clit rubbing it as fast as he could taking you over the edge. you moan out, practically squealing, as you squirt all over his face. he smirks, trying to get as much as it as he can.

“i didn’t know my star student could squirt,” he teases, his mouth glistening with evidence of you, “or should i call you my star squirter.”

“haha, very funny…” you deadpan, becoming slightly shy at seeing him lick his lips wiping the last remains of you off of him.

“i guess my theory was right,” he concludes.

“what theory?” you ask, puzzled, forgetting the whole reason you let him eat you out in the first place.

“you do taste as good as you look,” he comments with a pleased grin, already reminiscing about you squirting all over his face.

“so about my A?” you ask pulling up your jeans, and collecting your things.

“yeah i’ll expect your rewrite on my desk by friday,” he shrugs, going back to his nonchalant persona.

“rewrite? did you not promise me an A if i can ‘persuade you,’ at how badly i want it?” you question, going back to your original state of being pissed off, “did i not persuade you mr ‘you do taste as good as you look.’ this is so unfair”

“ask me if i care about fairness?” he smirks, a laugh leaving his lips as he watches you storm out of his office, “hey! you left your underwear,” he calls out behind you, his laugh growing as you say nothing, putting up your middle finger at him and slamming his door shut.

☆ GOJO

“do you want to lose your job?” you chastise, “shut the fuck up.”

“but i can’t help it,” he purrs, nuzzling into your neck to suppress his non stop moans and whines that he was doing as he pushed his dick in you, “your pussy’s just too good.”

you were leaning against the desk of your professor gojo’s lecture hall, your legs wrapped around his bag as he hoisted you up, grinding his body against yours as his dick drives in your pussy. 

it was after hours, and gojo forgot to lock his classroom doors. as soon as your peers left the room he was quick to put his lips on yours, throwing all the stationary on his desk on the floor in the most dramatic fashion ever. 

you don’t know how you got entangled in a relationship with your teacher. since you didn’t actually benefit from it, and he was needier and clingier than an actual student your age. but the mind blowing orgasms he gave you every now and again made you forget all of his ‘bad qualities.’

“c’mon don’t tell me it’s not making you feel wetter,” he murmurs in between kisses, “the idea of someone walking in on me fucking your pretty little pussy.” you ignore him, your arms tightening around his neck as you bounce on his dick. “tell me that doesn’t make you hot,” he eases his dick out of you slightly, drawing both of your attention to his member already covered in your juices. his eyebrows raise when you look back at him as if he’s just proved his point.

“whatever, i guess the idea of us getting caught isn’t that bad,” you lie, knowing it was causing you to get better, “but if we do get caught then it's your ass gojo.”

“aww you’re so thoughtful,” he coos, “you really care about me and my job, will you miss me if i get fired?”

“well i’ll miss my on campus dick,” you mutter, scratching at his back, as he thrusts into you deeper, “but i’ll be able to replace you quickly i guess.”

“oh how you wound me,” he mocks, pulling you into a deep kiss, desperate to taste you. that was gojo’s favourite thing to do to you, of course your pussy was great, but your lips were his favourite thing. sometimes he’d even drag you out of the hallway into his office —not a care in the world if anyone was around— and pull you into his lap just shove his tongue into your mouth and fondle your tits.

for a lousy professor, gojo sure knew your body well. he knew every spot to hit, every place to kiss, every stroke to make and you loved it. the scratches you were giving him on his back, encouraging him to go deeper, stuffing you to the brim. “f-fuckk you take me so so well,” he moans in your ear, whining and grunting as you tighten your hold around him. 

“i’m close,” he mutters, his pace slowing. he lowers you down so your back is laying on the desk and he swoops his mouth down to your tits. enveloping your left breast with his mouth, greedily suckling at it. 

“wow already?” you taunt, “you’ve really lost your touch professor, when i was an undergrad we could go at it for days.” his mouth pauses, as he looks up at you with a pointed look that reads as ‘girl really? as if you aren’t close.’ he wasn’t wrong, from his deep long strokes in your pussy, and his tongue twisting on your nipples, you were ready to cum all over him.

“gojo shit,” you curse, your hand coming down to your clit, flicking at it fast to speed up your orgasm. but gojo slaps your hand away, almost offended that you would try to cum off of something other than his hands and mouth. he bites down on your nipple, punishingly and that sends you overboard. you let out a shriek as you cum all over his dick, your hand quickly coming over your mouth to suppress your whines.

“what happened to being quiet huh?” he mocks your warning from earlier, “don’t want to get caught, do we now?” but he’s quick to let out a deep moan, as he releases into you, spraying your walls with all your cum. he slumps over you, exhausted, and wanting to just feel you — gojo was always needy after sex.

after you both come down from your highs and clean up — thankful that nobody stumbled across you. gojo pulls you into his lap, dabbing kisses all over your neck, “so when you gonna let me take you out, outside the classroom?”

“y’know that’s not allowed right?” you remind him, looking at your professor as if he’s lost his mind, “what we’re doing now isn’t allowed, but out in public is a no go, gojo.”

“not allowed?” he retorts, as if it’s news to him, “i thought it was just heavily frowned upon?!”

an: sooo what did you think? which one was your favourite. me personal lame gym coach toji really did it for me. tagging my girl @jabamin mainly just for nanami. but yes ALSO IDK WHY I MADE THE READER DUMB IN THE NANAMI FIC, but I juxtaposed it by making you super smart in the geto fic so it balances it out. anyways lmk what you thought, thanks for reading!! DONT USE MY DIVIDERS

[kissedsuns]

JUST THE TIP, LANDO NORRIS.

cw: SMUT, p in v, virgin!reader, crying, established rel

"i'm nervous, lan." you bite down on the inside of your cheek, nerves fluttering in your stomach as you watch lando push his boxers down. your eyes rake over his tanned skin, adorned with a few freckles here and there. he looks so eager, so hungry, but you're still a virgin.

"i know, baby," lando's voice is soft as he gently pats your thigh. "but i'll be gentle. i promise."

you swallow thickly, your mind racing with uncertainty. the sight of him, so big and ready, makes you debate if this is really a good idea. the last thing you want is to be split in half during your first time.

sensing your hesitation, lando leans down and plants a small kiss on the top of your head. "alright, baby, why don't you turn around f'me?"

you comply, shifting your body to give him easier access. lando carefully positions himself, lining up with your entrance, but a wave of anxiety churns in your stomach.

"wait—lando, i'm not sure if i can do this," you suddenly blurt out, making him halt instantly as you begin to feel self— conscious.

"aw, y'gonna be fine. just gotta trust me, kay?" he says, hands coming down to anchor your hips in place.

you squeeze your eyes tightly shut, bracing yourself as you feel his cock press against your entrance. you're already wet, but the anticipation makes you jump when his fingers slide down to rub on your clit.

"mm, lando!" you gasp.

"'s alright, pretty girl. just wanna feel how wet you are," he murmurs. after a few more teasing strokes, he brings his hand back up to steady your hips.

you're excited, sure, but you're still a little queasy at thought of him stretching you out with his size. just the sight alone of his fat cock would be enough to make any girl nervous.

"just the tip," you manage to say.

"just the tip, got it," lando affirms.

he eases the tip of his hard length inside you. the rest of him hangs outside, but it's clear that lando's control is starting to waver. you're starting to grow impatient. the tip isn't nearly enough to satisfy you, but admitting that you crave more—that you need more—feels impossible.

sensing your frustration, lando pauses and asks, "do you want me to move—?"

"yes." you quickly interrupt him.

a smirk tugs at lando's lips as he slowly inches his length deeper inside, responding to your desperate plea. then you finally feel it—his thick cock practically prodding against your cervix. it's euphoric. "ohmygod—lando!" you cry out.

he shifts slightly, and the movement sends his cock dragging against your gummy walls, pulling a deep, almost animalistic groan from you.

"'s okay, 's okay, angel," he soothes, his grip on your hips tightening as he begins to thrust more harshly inside you.

he glances down, watching his cock disappear in your little cunt. "fuck, she's sucking me right back in," he groans. "this is much better, yeah?" he coos, unable to contain the smirk forming on his stupid face. you nodded dumbly as tears begin to pool in the corners of your glossy eyes. nothing could ever compare to the way you're feeling right now.

© kissedsuns

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #13

"So?" Red Hood asks, arms crossed. "Was I right?"

"Yes," Phantom says, deepening his voice, "this is one of mine."

"One of your what?" Robin growls. Nightwing's hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from invading Phantom's personal space, which, please, continue to do so Mr. Nightwing, Sir.

Phantom would take a deep calming breath if a) he wasn't trying to appear as otherworldly as possible which means no human breathing and b) if that wouldn't so obviously telegraph how uncomfortable he is in the Batcave surrounded by the entire Batfamily.

Next to him Red Hood shifts in slight discomfort. His ties to the spectral realm mean he's picking up on Danny's unease even if he can't fully translate the feeling. Which is good. Danny needs to maintain what little control he has over this situation.

"There's a gh-spirit in my...realm," Phantom says, letting himself drift gently to the other side of Batman's medical table which just coincidentally puts more distance between him and the the rest of the clan staring him down. Black Bat leans forward and he violently suppresses a flinch. "They're known as Nocturne. They wield power over dreams. Their signature is all over this."

And Danny means that literally. Their ecto-signature couldn't be more apparent if they'd written it in sharpie across Batman's suit. This is what Jason—Red Hood, because Danny couldn't have been dealing with a simple civilian case of ecto-contamination, nooo, he's got to have connections to the superheroes Danny has spent the better part of his afterlife avoiding—managed to pick up on, even being the low level entity that he is.

At which point he'd called Phantom in, even though Danny had spent the better part of two weeks trying to intimidate the guy into never contacting him, Ruler of the Spirit Realm (lightning crash!), again, but here is his calling card just in case (thunder and creaking noises!!), but again, you should never use it unless things are very serious, OoOoOoOo~~~

Damn it. It's been like 10 days.

"So how do we fix it, Your, uh, Ghostliness?" Nightwing says, ducking his head in a sort of half-assed supplication when Phantom turns to him. Nightwing glances at Jason for affirmation who shrugs out of the corner of Danny's eye.

"Phantom is fine," Danny says, waving his hand and letting his upper lip curl in an expression of distaste. "Remember, it's like you're Vlad when Dad offers him a glass of eight dollar wine!" Jazz's voice reminds him. Robin growls lowly, likely meaning he's nailing it. He looks away dismissively ("Honestly, it's like you're Vlad, anytime, ever." Sam notes dryly) and thanks god he doesn't have a heart in this form because it would be beating so loud right now.

Beside him, Jason scratches compulsively at the back of his neck. Huh, his anxiety is manifesting physically as an itch. Good to know.

"You can't fix it," Phantom says. "I can."

"At what cost?" Red Robin asks. "Red Hood mentioned you'd want something in return?"

Frick. His other contingency to keep Jason from ever contacting him again. Phantom had lightly hinted his taste du jour was, uh, souls.

Something Red Hood has apparently let slip, because now Robin shakes off Nightwing's hand, puffs out his chest and declares "I will trade myself for my father's safe awakening, Spirit!"

The other members burst into denials which almost covers up Danny floating sharply back and saying "What? No!!!"

Key word: almost.

Danny coughs as they stare at him.

"That is to say, I have no desire for a child," he puts a bit of snarl into it, showing fang. The mood in the room plummets drastically as Nightwing gently grabs Robin by the arm and pulls him back to his side.

"We see," he says. He steps forward more assertively, placing himself in front of the others, all of which are now eying him warily. "Then, is there a gender you prefer?"

It takes a second to click in Danny's head and then he swings his head wildly away from his audience to hide his reaction, nausea and embarrassment turning his face bright green. "Fika Kristo," he mutters in Esperanto as quietly as he possibly can, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He gives himself a moment to settle and game plan before turning back around. "I have no desire for any of you, and it matters not. In this instance, a deal need not be struck. Nocturne is my subject, and they have done this without my permission." Danny blinks, eyes widening. "Not—not! that I would give them permission to do such a thing. In the first place. Ahem."

"Okay...so you'll do this for free?" Jason asks. "Seems like a bad business practice since you also fixed me up for nothing—"

"What he means to say, Your Majesty, Phantom, is thank you!" Signal says in a rush as Nightwing starts, "Wait, Hood, what do you mean—"

"Enough!" Phantom says loudly (nearby bats take off and Jason's itch migrates to his forearms) "I have little time," read: he has a test tomorrow and he's only one-third of the way through the study guide "And I grow tired of this...dilly-dally." Frick! Is that an old-timey word?

"Of course. Thank you again, Phantom." Nightwing says stiffly, eyes still narrowed in Hood's direction.

"Wait, sorry, Phantom, Majesty, I'm Spoiler by the way," the purple-caped vigilante Danny already knew was Spoiler says. "How do we keep this from happening again? To any of us? Is there a way to defeat this Nocturne?"

"Moreover, why Batman?" Red Robin asks. "Why would a spirit from another dimension want him asleep?"

Phantom sighs. "Nocturne was trying to send a message. To me. Through you," he says, nodding at Red Hood. "They...how do I put this. They like attention. Being the spirit of uh, dreaming, they don't receive that attention. And you were in my realms for quite some time. And they wanted...attention."

The lackluster explanation sits for a moment before "They were jealous? Of me?" Red Hood asks skeptically.

"It's more complicated than that. Your...physiology," Danny puts it as delicately as possible, watching regretfully when Red Hood still stiffens at the mention, "Is particular. You gather attention in our realm. And having my attention is...special. But not!" He says to the group at large, a touch panicked, "Romantic!"

Jesus, he's never gonna hear the end of this from the others.

"Anyway, I will ensure it does not happen again."

"By paying them attention," Spoiler says under her breath, wiggling her eyebrows at Black Bat, Red Robin shooting them both a glare. Nightwing ignores them in favor of staring at Red Hood and Phantom. Danny is unsure what Red Hood has disclosed about how he knows Danny, but now he feels confident the answer is close to nothing.

Before Nightwing can ask whatever uncomfortable thing he's about to ask, Phantom disappears. Invisibly, he hovers over Batman's sleeping body and silently apologizes for the intrusion before intangibly slipping into Batman's REM realm and finding the man...oh...

Probably thirty minutes later he reappears to the group, who all perk up at the sight of him. Their eyes bounce from him to Batman; who does not move, to the monitor; which shows no change in his brain activity.

"I'm going to need your help," Danny says to Jason, getting to the point.

"Why? What can I do?"

"It's easier if you come with me," Danny says, grabbing his arm.

"Come with—"

Danny wastes no time in turning them both invisible and flying them into Batman's mind.

"What the—" Red Hood twists and turns, taking in the hallways of the manor. From afar, they can hear the tinkling of a piano. "You, I had your word—"

"This isn't where you think it is," Danny says hurriedly. "We're in your—Batman's dream." He walks quickly down the hallway, towards the music. Jason follows.

"What?"

"The way to break a dream spell is to wake the dreamer. You can't do that externally so you do it internally. Usually you wake the dreamer by turning the dream into the nightmare, scaring them awake."

The hallway stretches on longer than realistic, the dream attempting to divert them. But it can't outrun Danny. His power seeps into the halls, ice creeping along the paneling and freezing the way behind them.

"Batman, however, is hard to scare."

"So you want me to do it."

"What? No." Phantom shoots him a confused look. "Why would I—Ahem, The other way is to convince the dreamer they are dreaming. They break the dream themselves."

"Alright..." Jason says slowly, now keeping pace with him. His breath forms a cloud as he speaks. "And you think I'm the person to do it? I'm not the one he listens to you know, that's more Nightwing's schtick, or hell, anyone other than me."

"This isn't just Batman's dream, Jason," he says. Hood's eyes narrow at his real name, but now the truth is necessary. "This is The Dream. The perfect life. Everything he could ever want."

They're approaching an opening on the right side of the corridor. A bright light emanates from it, alongside the noise of stumbling piano keys and laughter, deep and male and unrecognizable. The Dream.

"Thomas Wayne," Jason breathes. "You want me to convince Bruce it's worth walking away from the center of his universe? It'd be easier if I put a bullet in their chests."

Danny stops abruptly before the doorway, turning to face Jason.

"You know, I fixed you," he says, head cocked. "Those feelings you felt, you shouldn't be feeling them anymore."

"I...I don't."

"Then why do you act like it?" He lets himself drift up, reaching beyond their planes of existence and extending a metaphysical hand to Jason's spirit. It shivers away. "You don't have to hide behind what was."

"I'm not hiding! And I don't have to explain myself to you!" He tries to move forward but Danny puts a hand out and he cannot move past it. He growls in frustration.

"I'm grateful to you, but with or without the Pits I'm fucked up. This is just who I am. This is just what he made me."

"You've never asked why I look like this. But did you know my form is malleable?" Phantom says, letting his legs shift into a tail, letting two eyes become three. "What I believe is what I am."

And then he takes several steps back, putting the doorway between them. "From here on out, the Pits can't tell you how to think or feel. Your decisions are wholly your own. Starting with this one."

Jason stares at the doorway, then Danny.

"I won't make you," Danny says simply. "And if you desire, I will retrieve Nightwing instead."

Jason scratches at his arms, grits his teeth, and stomps through. The light resolves into the sitting room, massive windows letting in sunlight so bright it streaks yellow-white across the room. Bruce sits on the maroon versailles couch next to Cassandra, who sits cross legged, excitedly watching Alfred pour her a cup of tea. To their right, in the open space, Damian barks instructions at Tim on handling a katana. Stephanie and Duke sit on the ground besides the coffee table, homework sheets sprawled across the surface, suffering their way through a calculus problem.

Bruce, smiling softly, looks across the room to where the atrocious playing is coming from. Red Hood follows his gaze.

Sitting at the piano, trying to play while Dick distracts him with a pair of chopsticks, is Jason. He puts a hand on Dick's face and shoves, both of them hitting the wrong keys.

"Get—away—dumbass!"

"No, see, it's a duet! Jay!"

"That's not why it's named—" and Jason Todd-Wayne tips his white-tipped head back and laughs.

[minswriting]

West Coast - Aaron Hotchner x Reader

About: The team is in L.A, investigating a case where an unsub is killing couples involving an older man and a younger woman outside of clubs. You and Aaron end up undercover at a club, dancing together. What was an undercover investigation quickly becomes something of a different nature when a certain tension gets involved. And after the unsub gets caught and everything is settled, you get a visit from Aaron at your hotel room.

Warnings: NSFW Content, Minors Do Not Interact, regular criminal minds topics and violence, sexual tension, grinding, unprotected sex, p in v, lana del rey coded fr.

Word Count: 2,500 Words

Down on the West Coast they got a sayin'

"If you're not drinkin' then you're not playin'"

But you've got the music, you've got the music

In you, don't you?

Your hips moved graciously to the music as you danced sensually against Aaron. His hands gripped your hips, holding them close to you while his breath hit your neck. The moment was hot to say the least, literally and metaphorically. The club lights were blue and dimmed, the dance floor filled with fog and sweaty bodies. The club scene in Los Angeles was artistic, edgy. Perhaps you would’ve enjoyed it had the circumstances been different.

The BAU was in L.A, investigating a series of murders that involved couples outside of nightclubs. The couples were always with an older man and a younger woman. And after days of no luck in catching the guy, it had been agreed upon that Hotch and you go undercover. So here you were, grinding against your boss with your coworkers in the room, scattered around.

Down on the West coast, I get this feeling like

It all could happen, that's why I'm leaving

You for the moment, you for the moment

Boy Blue, yeah, you

As you swayed your hips to the music, your ass grazed Aaron’s crotch. You’d love to say it was accidental but you knew yourself. The heat of the moment was getting to you. You heard the shaky breath that escaped the lips that were right near your ear, his bulge pressing against you. The heat of the moment was getting to him too.

To say you had always had an attraction to your boss would be a bit of an understatement. Aaron was a constant presence in your fantasies ever since you had joined the team. With his authoritative presence and the way he took control, you often found yourself wondering if he were the same in the bedroom. And now that you’ve gotten yourself in this situation, those thoughts are skyrocketing.

“Keep dancing. There’s a man looking at the two of you on the other side of the room,” came Morgan’s voice in the ear piece that you were wearing. “Reid, are you able to get a clear view?”

“Affirmative,” said the genius over the ear piece.

Maybe you should be more concerned. You are in fact working. You’re supposed to be catching this unsub. But when Aaron grips you tighter and his lips are to the shell of your ear, your brain could hardly comprehend the rest of what’s going on around you. “Can you feel what you did to me?” He murmured into your ear, pressing himself closer to you. “Perhaps I should take you home later.”

It’s all just an act. You’re both professionals, putting on a facade to catch the bad guy. And yet it felt so real. With the obvious hard-on that Aaron was sporting, the obvious shakiness in his breath, the weakness you felt in your knees from his voice. It was all so much. And yet, it was all an act.

You're falling hard, I push away, I'm feeling hot to the touch

You say you miss me and I wanna say I miss you so much

But something keeps me really quiet, I'm alive, I'm a lush

Your love, your love, my love

I can see my baby swinging

His Parliament's on fire and his hands are up

On the balcony and I'm singing

Ooh baby, ooh baby, I'm in love

I can see my sweet boy swaying

He's crazy y cubano como yo, la-la

On the balcony and I'm saying

Move baby, move baby, I'm in love

I'm in love (I'm in love)

I'm in love (I'm in love)

That night, after the successful catching of the unsub, you had gotten back to your hotel room absolutely beat. Usually, after catching the bad guy, you guys are on the jet, going back to Virginia. But Aaron had requested that you all leave in the morning, exclaiming that you all deserved a night of genuine rest before traveling. So you had gotten back to your hotel room, took a shower, changed into pajamas, and were now sitting on the bed, reading when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

You frowned, checking the time. Who would be knocking at your hotel door at one in the morning? You got up from the bed, walking over to the door. You checked the peep hole, seeing Aaron standing out there still dressed in the outfit he wore at the club. You unlocked the hotel door, opening it. “Sir?” You said, looking confused at your boss. “Is everything alright?”

Aaron looked at you, eyeing you up and down for a moment as he took in your form. You were dressed in a tank top and shorts, revealing much more of your skin than he had seen before. You couldn’t help but feel a bit self conscious under his stare and yet you did nothing to move. Because you secretly loved it. After a moment of silence, Aaron cleared his throat, looking at your eyes. “I wanted to see how you’re holding up after tonight,” he said, his voice a bit rough.

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you bit your lip. “I’m good,” you said softly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m good too,” he replied, nodding his head.

It was silent between the two of you. The tension was obvious at that point. Or maybe you were just tense. Who really knew? Nothing was said or done as you both just looked at each other. Until a few moments later.

You don’t really know who made the first move. All you knew was that your lips crashed with Aaron’s and he pushed the both of you into the hotel room, closing the door behind himself without his lips leaving yours. Clothes flew across the room, soft noises escaped your mouth as Aaron kissed you harshly and passionately. It had most definitely been pent up.

Down on the West coast, they got their icons

Their silver starlets, their Queens of Saigons

And you've got the music

You've got the music in you, don't you?

Down on the West coast, they love their movies

Their golden gods and Rock 'n' Roll groupies

And you've got the music

You've got the music in you, don't you?

You push it hard, I pull away, I'm feeling hotter than fire

I guess that no one ever really made me feel that much higher

Te deseo, cariño, boy, it's you I desire

Your love, your love, my love

The back of your legs hit the mattress as Aaron gently pushed you towards it. The both of you were naked, kissing passionately. The tension from the whole night just building up inside the both of you. Aaron pulled away from the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours. “If you want me to stop, now would be the time to let me know,” he whispered against your lips.

“Please don’t stop,” you whispered back, your hand trailing down his chest.

Aaron let out a shaky breath. “I want you so bad,” he said.

“Then have me.”

A statement that held so much power. It was all the consent that Aaron needed. “Sit down,” he commanded softly, gesturing to the edge of the bed. And of course you obeyed with no questions asked, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.

It felt surreal to say the least. Your fantasies of your boss were becoming a reality. It had certainly been the energy from the club that really caused so much tension. Part of you was nervous about what would happen afterward. Sleeping with your boss is never a good idea. But whatever happened on the West Coast, stayed on the West Coast.

Aaron dropped to his knees in front of you, looking up at you with his beautiful brown eyes. He trailed his fingers from your ankle to your thighs, leaning down to press a small kiss on your right thigh before kissing the left thigh. He slowly pulled your legs apart, revealing your cunt to him. It was glistening, wet from nothing but just kissing him. And he adored it. “You’re already so wet for me,” he murmured.

“Only for you,” you murmured back.

“Yeah?” He asked, giving you a small smirk. “Good girl.” And without any hesitation, he dived in, licking a stripe from your clit to your hole and then back to your clit. You gasped and moaned, reaching to grip Aaron’s hair. When you say you had never gotten your pussy eaten this good, you truly mean it. Aaron was eating you out in ways you’d never felt before, diving into it as though he were a starving man who had just gotten food for the first time.

His nose was against your clit, rubbing it as he tongued your hole, lapping around your pussy. He let out his own soft noises, gripping your thighs so that you couldn’t move. And you? You most certainly were moaning like a whore.

I can see my baby swinging

His Parliament's on fire and his hands are up

On the balcony and I'm singing

Ooh baby, ooh baby, I'm in love

I can see my sweet boy swaying

He's crazy y cubano como yo, la-la

On the balcony and I'm saying

Move baby, move baby, I'm in love

Your first orgasm was absolutely gorgeous. Aaron had made you cum on his tongue in less than five minutes. You had clenched your thighs so hard around Aaron’s head that he thought for just a split second that he would pass out in between your thighs. And honestly, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. You tasted heavenly, like nectar blessed by the Gods above.

“Aaron,” you moaned after your orgasm, desperately needing his cock inside of you. “Need you so bad,” you said, looking down at your handsome boss.

He looked up at you, face glistening with your juices as he slowly stood up. You couldn’t help but look at his cock, wanting it so badly. Aaron certainly wasn’t below average. His cock was about seven inches but my god was it girthy. It will stretch you out so nicely, in a way that you desperately craved. Your hole clenched at that very thought, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Aaron.

“You need my cock, pretty girl?” He asked softly, reaching down to grip his cock, pumping it slowly.

You nodded your head, giving a sultry pout as you looked up at Aaron. “Need your cock so bad, sir,” you exclaimed.

Aaron let out a soft moan at your words, especially to you saying ‘sir’. It sent a rush down to his cock. Your sultry and whiny voice, begging for him to take you. You calling him “sir” just was the cherry on top. You were perfect and he adored it. He adored you. “I’ll give you my cock, baby,” he exclaimed, moving so he could align himself to your pussy. He slowly eased himself inside of you, careful to not hurt you while also letting out a low moan.

You let out a loud moan, gripping the sheets below you as you clenched around his cock. The stretch certainly hurt though that was expected. You truthfully hadn’t had sex in quite awhile and Aaron was bigger than most people you’ve been with. Regardless, you were just glad to be filled. You craved it. As Aaron bottomed out, he stayed still for a few minutes, waiting for you to adjust to his size. You took a few minutes to get used to it, allowing your body time to relax. And soon, you were ready for him to move. “You can move,” you licked your lips, looking up at your boss.

Aaron took a moment to look at you, admiring your beauty. He couldn’t help it. You were just so beautiful. However, without any further hesitation, he began thrusting his hips slowly inside of you, making you both groan in pleasure. To say Aaron craved this was an understatement. He had wanted you since the day you had joined the team. It had taken everything in his power to make sure your relationship stayed strictly professional. And perhaps it will remain so when you guys get back to the East Coast. But tonight? Tonight was the night for indulging. Because the desire was simply just too much.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned underneath Aaron, closing your eyes in pleasure as his hips began moving faster. His cock thrusted in and out of you, stretching you so good and hitting that sweet spot inside of you. “Feels so good,” you whimpered in pleasure.

“God, you’re so tight,” Aaron let out a choked moan. Your pussy was clenching his cock, adding to his pleasure. “And so wet.” Your cunt was perfect, clenching him as though it were made for his cock and his cock only.

Aaron’s thrusts were hard and fast as he fucked you. The room was filled with the loud moans of the both of you while skin hit skin. The squelching of your pussy was echoing in the room. You could feel that heat building in your abdomen as Aaron’s cock hit your g-spot repeatedly. “Oh my god!” you moaned, throwing your head back.

Aaron could feel the pleasure building inside of him, ready to erupt inside of you at any given moment. “I’m so close, baby,” he groaned, looking down at you as he fucked you. Your tits were bouncing, your cheeks were flushed while your eyes were closed. You were moaning his name as a mantra just as he moaned yours. And soon, you were cumming around his cock with your back arching and your toes curling. Aaron followed suit, letting out a long “fuuuck,” as he came. His cum shot inside of you, rope after rope as he filled you.

When you both came down from your highs, Aaron pulled out of you slowly before collapsing onto the bed right next to you. You looked up at the ceiling, finally comprehending the fact that you fucked your boss and now the unknowns of what will happen afterwards were integrating your mind. But as Aaron took you into his arms, those thoughts slowly crawled away. It doesn’t need to be so complicated.

I can see my baby swinging

His Parliament's on fire and his hands are up

On the balcony and I'm singing

Ooh baby, ooh baby, I'm in love

I can see my sweet boy swaying

He's crazy y cubano como yo, la-la

On the balcony and I'm saying

Move baby, move baby, I'm in love

I'm in love

I'm in love

What happens in the West Coast stays in the West Coast.

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (4)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Ewan wants to clear things up about the night out and his mystery companion, and the reader gets another surprise in LA. Will the two finally have their first date or will something get in the way once more?

Ewan's publicist Donna has never had any issue with her client before. Always present and accounted for, on time for whatever interview, photoshoot or audition he has booked for the day.

But she hasn't been able to get a hold of him in the past two days, which is worrying her to no end, because he is set to meet with a major casting director in New York some time in the coming week.

Donna may have a clue as to why. It's only been two days as well since the pub incident, when The Sun ran a story speculating on Ewan's lovelife - the exact kind of thing he's always been trying to avoid.

It had taken a life of its own, with fans taking it upon themselves to track down every clue of the girl on the internet. Her instagram. Her relation to the cast - apparently she is a cousin of Luke and Elliott. Even the marketing agency where she works. Louise, a 26-year old graphic designer, admittedly harbours a crush on Ewan, and when she heard that her cousins were hanging out with him at a pub nearby, she almost immediately invited herself and her friends over.

But that's all, according to Ewan. After talking to Luke, memories of the night came rushing back to him.

Stumbling out in the alley to send you that voice message. Rejoining the boys to see that they've got new company. Being introduced to Louise, with Tom joking that he should be careful with the missus. Wouldn't want her - you - to think that he's flirting with anyone else.

Even though that's exactly what happened. Not the flirting, per se. Not from Ewan's side, at least. Louise had been brazen with admiration, barely leaving his side the rest of the night. Asking him a bunch of probing questions he had neither the interest nor the patience to answer.

They had all thought the pub was safe from prying eyes. No one approached them for anything, not even a single look of recognition followed by the question, “Are you that guy from House of the Dragon?” Unfortunately, it only takes one rat for a headline to surface. Ewan Mitchell’s mystery girl has been the talk of the fandom and Donna has been trying hard to quell the rumours. 

Such is the nasty nature of the business, as she knows Ewan has quickly learned.

She dials him again, and to her surprise, the call actually patches through.

Her client's throaty voice is heard on the other line, "Hey, Donna, sorry if I've missed your calls."

"It's alright, it's alright, Ewan," Donna stammers. "Just glad to hear from you. Where are you? I've managed to do some damage control about those rumours and - "

"Oh, I'm in LA. I just landed about an hour ago," Ewan responds casually, not mirroring the stress in Donna's tone. Has he gotten over the fuss so easily?

"LA? You know your meeting is not till next week, right? And it's in New York. It's very, very important that you don't miss it, Ewan."

"And I won't," Ewan affirms, laughing dryly to console his worried publicist. "I just need to see about something over here."

Someone, he thinks. He's got his priorities straight.

"Work-related?" Donna asks, curious.

"Uhhhm," Ewan dithers, but decides against telling her about you. Not just yet. "Just visiting a friend. I'll stay here for a while then fly out to New York, don't worry."

"Okay, just keep in touch, alright? I'll send more details about the meeting soon."

"Sure thing. Thank you, Donna."

"Talk soon, Ewan. Take care of yourself."

Donna feels a huge sense of relief wash over her when the call ends, knowing the whereabouts of one of her biggest clients. But why LA? Perhaps Ewan just needed some time off after the flurry of annoying headlines put out in the UK.

Or maybe he's visiting with a friend? Who is stateside right now? Fabien's filming in Philly. The rest of the boys are still in England. But then...

Her thoughts land on the one thing - the one person - that would make him fly out on such short notice. Without giving thought to anything else, especially after the speculation on his romantic life.

Ewan's never been one to share about personal affairs, not even to his close-knit team, but no matter how reclusive he is, no one can deny the way he looks at you. The way he lights up when you're brought up in conversation. The number of times he had excused himself from their meetings to make a call, standing in the corner with a permanent smile etched on his face.

Oh, Donna knows now just who he is in LA for.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Like inevitable spectres haunting someone of his profession, Ewan noticed the papparazzi snapping away as he arrived in LA.

He told no one he would be coming, so it must be an automatic thing in the city. The photogs are always scurrying in the periphery, ready to catch anyone of note, no matter the degree of fame or notoriety.

If you were keeping up with such news, you would know he is in the city.

But according to your assistant Clara, who was kind enough to inform him of your schedule, you are still finishing up on another day of rehearsals for your upcoming rom-com. Ewan checked in the same hotel as you, planning to seek you out as soon as you arrive back from work.

He hasn't spoken to you since the voicemail, and since those false news broke out. Not that he can blame you - wouldn't anyone be suspicious of a drunken confession made by a guy who was allegedly in the company of another girl?

He hates it, being subject to all of this. This nonsense that is keeping you from him, not even worth any consequence.

But he will deal with the blows. As long as he sets things right with you. As long he gets you in the end.

He settles in his suite, getting ready to meet with you once more. He showers, shaves, tousles his hair. He even checks whether he smells decent after all of that - once, twice, and another time. Being nervous to stand in front of a crowd is one thing; it's a whole other conundrum for him finally see you again.

Maybe the crowds are more manageable, and it baffles him to realise so. He can put on a persona, be the actor, and disappear inside himself as the cameras flash bright enough for him to disassociate.

But not with you. He wants to show you everything that he is, who he truly is, and it scares him. There is no team to help him get ready now. It's all him, just Ewan.

Clad in his trusty black jeans and a comfortable hoodie of the same dark colour, he looks in the mirror one last time after receiving a text from Clara that you've arrived at the hotel about half an hour ago.

He contemplates opening the bottle of bourbon from the minibar and taking a shot of liquid courage - something to help him get his explanation ready. Just so he wouldn't stammer in front of you.

Just so you he can make you see, without any error or trace of doubt, that he meant every word in that voicemail, no matter how embarrassing it might have sounded.

He decides against it, imagining the wrinkling of your nose as you catch a whiff of the alcohol. It's cute when you do it, and he adores it so dearly, but he knows that it isn't the right moment.

He rights himself, rolls his shoulders, and he's out the door.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Jacob trails you inside your hotel suite, laughing at some shared remark about the scenes you rehearsed for the day.

They were emotionally demanding and even after tossing around ideas for hours, the two of you were unable to achieve a satisfying approach to the scenes.

Which is why he had proposed practicing well into the evening, and you found yourselves heading back to your suite together. He has his own house in LA, but your hotel just happened to be closer to the rehearsal studio.

"Care for a drink?" you asked him.

"Why the hell not?" he immediately assents in that easy, Aussie drawl. "We might need it for this shite."

You laugh in agreement, "Indeed. I've got some canned gin and tonics if that's alright.. or beer... or whiskey... " you trail off as you study the contents of your fridge.

"G and t, please, mate," he settles down on the couch, legs stretching in front of him. "We were so unproductive today. I just could not get that line right."

"Tell me about it." You hand him his drink, and he clinks it with yours with a mumbled cheers. "It was me who can't land the right tone," you say. "I mean, is my character supposed to be confused in that moment? Or angry? Or sad?"

"Or all of 'em." he shrugs. "Tricky, isn't it?"

You hurriedly fetch your script from a table, getting right down to it. "So for the first scene in the third act..."

Moments later, with cans of gin and tonic discarded on the coffee table, you and Jacob sit with legs crossed on the couch facing each other. Scripts in hand, you go through the lines over and over, with only seemingly minor tweaks each time. To an actor though, even just the slightest change of pitch or expression makes all the difference.

"Is that better? I think we almost got it," you say after a read-through.

"Yeah, so much better," he grins, holding his hand up for a high-five. Just as your hands smack in the air, another sound echoes faintly from the door.

"Someone's knocking?" Jacob asks. "You expecting anybody? Room service or anything?"

"No," you shake your head, trying to think of whether your assistant or publicist said anything about dropping by. "Maybe it's just housekeeping?"

"I'll get it," Jacob states, already padding his way to the door.

A beat later, you hear Jacob loudly exclaim, "Ewan, mate! It's good to see you!"

Ewan? A shiver runs up your spine. Craning your neck to get a view of a doorway, you catch sight of him, half-obscured by Jacob's tall frame.

Confused, surprised, and feeling some other emotion you can't pinpoint, you head over to greet him.

"How are you doing?" Jacob greets, shaking Ewan's hand, oblivious to the poorly hidden distaste in his eyes.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Ewan finds himself asking Jacob, a bit rudely, just as you ask him the same.

"What are you doing here?" you mirror his question at the exact same time.

"Oh!" Jacob breathes out a laugh, "Well, I'll go first. We were just practicing lines."

"In her room? Isn't it a bit late for rehearsal? I thought you're supposed to be off work." Ewan asks, and it sounds like an accusation. He starts to feel all kinds of uneasy - were the twins right about life imitating art?

You narrow your eyes at him. "We decided to continue running lines after rehearsal. There's a scene we can't get right. It's quite tricky - "

"Just the two of you? Alone, here?" Ewan tilts his head, gesturing towards the room like it's some forbidden place.

Jacob shakes his head, smile steady on his lips. If he's caught on to how Ewan must be feeling, he doesn't let it affect him. He gives you a look, as if to check your reaction, and you give him a reassuring shrug.

Ewan does not overlook this exchange. He clenches his jaw, irate from the assumptions popping up in his mind. Before he forgets his manners, he says, "Excuse me, I just... wasn't expecting... I just wanted to speak to you."

"I didn't even know you were in LA," you say, before moving aside to usher him in. "But I'm glad you are, of course. Come join us - "

He nods, making his way to the seating area, where he spies the discarded cans of alcohol and dog-eared scripts. Maybe he should have taken that bloody shot after all.

He laughs joylessly to himself, shaking his head. "Sorry, you guys. I just flew in today, and I must have been exhausted from the flight."

"Hey, no worries, mate," Jacob says. "You know what, I'll be on my way. Give you time to catch up and all." He picks up his own tattered script then gives you a kiss on the cheek, bidding you with a, "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night, sweetheart."

If looks could kill, and if his dear mother hadn't raised him right, he would have incinerated Jacob in that moment.

He is snapped out of his thoughts when Jacob claps him on the shoulder, "Great to see you again, mate. Have a good night, eh?"

Ewan knows he's being ridiculous. There's nothing wrong with two friends and co-stars spending some time alone to rehearse. Besides, last he heard, you were adamant that you and Jacob are just friends.

So why is he being so irrational? Why does the idea of you spending more time than necessary with Jacob, possibly falling for him, bother him so much?

Ewan realises that this is what jealousy must feel like.

He's had career envy before. Another actor landing a role he vied for. Someone else getting the praise he deserves.

But nothing like this. It's petty and possessive.

He wants you to just be his.

You stand in front of him once more after you walk Jacob out of the suite.

"Hey," you say, smiling weakly.

"Hi, darling."

Both of you want to do more. Say more. Usually you would greet each other with a hug and a kiss on a cheek, his hands lingering on your forearms even after you pull away, but the air is thick with tension.

You look at him with those bright, expecting eyes of yours, and Ewan just wants to cave in and make a sloppy confession. But not after that voicemail, no. He's determined to do this right. Words not slurred, head clear.

"So I got your voicemail," you finally say, smiling coyly. "That was... something."

"Hmm," he can't help but mirror your smile, as always. "It was, wasn't it?"

"I understand," you continue, taking a step closer, "if you were drunk. We all say things when we're off it that we maybe don't mean - "

"But darling, I meant every word," he says, way too quickly.

You laugh, the sound of it erasing whatever apprehension remained in him. "Do you even remember what you said?"

"I do," he counters, moving even closer to you. Another step and he'd be able to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you to him. "At least, some of - no - most of it."

"Oh yeah?" you ask cheekily, aided by the effect of gin. He still has your heart racing, but a part of you now knows that the feeling is mutual. "What did you say again?"

He sees that glint in your eye, and it causes him to smirk. "Why don't I make it simple for you, darling?" He closes the distance, one hand brushing the hair from your face.

"Okay," you swallow, getting lost in his blues.

"I missed you." He kisses your cheek. "I like you. A lot." He kisses the other. "And I, uh, I would like to take you on a date."

His eyes meet yours. His voice is steady, but you notice some nervousness in his gaze. How the tables have turned. You make Ewan Mitchell's heart go awry.

"Please, darling?" he timidly adds, the sentiment so sweet you want to blurt out yes immediately. Before you can, he's already leaned back, an explanation rushing out of his lips, "And... I'm not sure but you must have seen those headlines? They're not true, I swear. We were out drinking and - "

"I know, Ewan." You cut him off with a hand pressed gently on his chest but he keeps going.

" - some other people joined us. One of them being - "

"Luke and Elliott's cousin. I know. Elliott called and told me everything."

"Oh. He called you?" A huge sense of relief washes over him, better than any comfort he might have found in a shot or three of bourbon.

"Mhmm, he called me yesterday. So, you know, you didn't really have to fly out. I was about to call you eventually."

He smiles bashfully, eyes cast down as a blush spreads across his cheeks. Damn it, Elliott, you brilliant lad. He reminds himself to treat Elliott to a pint the next time he sees him.

"I still wanted to see you," Ewan maintains, pressing a kiss to your forehead and you're immediately enveloped by the familiar comfort of his scent. Surprisingly without the staple hint of cigarette smoke, due to his frantic scrubbing after the flight.

"I'm happy you're here," you say, wrapping your arms around his waist, cheek pressed against his chest. "And no offence to Louise or anything, but she needs to learn some boundaries with my - "

Ewan looks down at you fondly, squeezing your arms to prompt your next words, "Yeah, darling? Your what?"

"My - " you attempt to bury your face in his hoodie, but he keeps your gaze with a hand cupping your jaw. So you end up saving yourself with " - my Aemond."

"Hmm," he hums, lips curling, and it's so very Aemond of him it makes you feel warm all over. "Your Aemond.Your Ewan. I'm all yours, love."

The whole thing couldn't have gone any better, all things considered, and Ewan feels content to have gotten over his first brush with the rumour mill. What matters is right in front of him, and you know the truth.

"Are you staying in this hotel? How did you even know I was here?" You take his hand, guiding him over to the couch.

"Clara," is all Ewan says by way of explanation.

"Well, thank you, Clara," you declare. Ewan shuffles closer to you and rests his arm around your shoulders, planting a kiss on your forehead again. The gesture is already becoming instinctive, providing the both of you with a sense of ease.

"Darling?"

"Yeah?" you respond absentmindedly, fingers toying with the soft fabric of his hoodie.

"Is that a yes?"

You exhale deeply. As if it wasn't clear enough already. "What do you think, handsome?"

"I don't know, angel. You tell me," he counters cheekily, his fingers playing with your hair as you playfully glare at him.

"What if I say no, baby?"

"Then I'll have to work hard to change your mind, princess."

"And how would you do that, honey?"

His gaze darkens, and something flashes across his blue eyes as he whispers intensely, "Use your imagination, bunny."

"Ri-right," you bite your lip, then shake your head to snap out of it. "We'll have to draw the line at bunny."

He laughs at your flustered state, pleased by the effect he has on you. "What's wrong with bunny?"

That elicits a groan out of you, but you smile anyway. "I already said yes, Ewan. Quit it with the bunny."

"Alright, beautiful," he relents, making you lean even closer against him.

The haze of gin after a long work day starts to subside and the rush of emotion is coming back to you. You find yourself gazing at Ewan in mild disbelief, in awe that he just confessed that he wants you.

Feeling antsy, you stand and pace around the room. You start tidying things, putting your scattered knick-knacks back in your handbag. If you sit with him any longer, you just might end up hurrying things through and jump his bones already, kiss him the next time he does that hmm.

"Can I get you anything?" you ask.

"No," he says smoothly. "I just need you." The words make you stop in your tracks. He still sits in the same position, looking at you with that undeniable desire in his eyes.

"Uhhhm," your mouth feels dry all of the sudden. Nothing his tongue past your lips can't fix, your intrusive thoughts barge right in. "So... the... the media rollout's still going on isn't it? Should we check and see?" You take your laptop and plop back down next to him. He doesn't miss a beat and cuddles against you once more, wrapping his arm around your tense frame.

"I think so, darling." The media rollout is how the interviews and promotional material filmed by the cast is being released gradually, on a weekly basis, after each new episode comes out.

A simple search on Youtube confirms it, and the first thing that popped up is the Where is The Lie? video you did for Elle.

It was slated for just Tom, Phia, and Ewan but your Blackwood character became such a fan-favourite that they asked you to join in. Not to mention the frenzy you and Ewan caused online with the initial interviews you did together.

"Shall we watch this?" Ewan offers, solely for the intent of seeing you in the video.

You click on it, and for the next 8 minutes or so, all you can take note of are the signs that had clearly already been there. The fans were on to something when they claimed that you and Ewan are a really good ship.

The video starts with a clip of Phia hitting her head on the overhead lamp when she stands, prompting her to uncontrollably giggle along with you and Tom. Ewan, being the exception, is beside himself with worry, and he appears to instinctively reach for your hand as you sit beside him.

"Huh," Ewan smiles, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

Tom is the first to be put on the hot seat, and he slowly recites the three statements he prepared. "Ewan, pay attention," Tom blurts out when he notices that Ewan kept sneaking glances at you. "Sure, I'm locked in," Ewan says right back, as you and Phia share a look.

"What were you looking at?" you ask playfully, poking him in the side. "You seem plenty distracted there."

He snorts at himself in the video, when he ends up smiling as he caught your eye. "It was your fault. You were distracting me."

"I was not!" you exclaim. "I thought you were just being competitive then."

Phia is next to have a go. She tells you of a Wifi repellent necklace, a wrestling career, and saving a squirrel from a drainpipe. "The Wifi thing sounds like something Ewan would have," Tom jokes. "Oh sure," you concur, "except that he'd actually keep it so he can watch films." Ewan smiles at your acute observation.

"I'd also keep it to stalk your Instagram," Ewan mumbles from beside you. "And you know, just stalk you in general."

"I'm sure you do, Mitchell," you respond casually, but your face warms up anyhow.

It's Ewan's turn, and as he sits on the hot seat, you see Tom and Phia casting a look at each other then at the two of you, a secret message shared between them. "I bet she will know the answer right away," Phia says. "Yeah, how do we know the two of you didn't conspire together?" Tom asks. "Are you kidding me, you guys?" you laugh at them, thinking how silly they were being, not knowing then that they were definitely on to something.

"Darling, you have to know this," Ewan tells you specifically as you all try to guess the answer. "Oh, darling!" Tom mouths to Phia, dramatically flipping nonexistent long hair over his shoulder. Phia laughs at his antics, before nudging you and saying, "Which one is it? Which is the lie? I trust you." You respond, "Why me? You two should know this too!"

"Because I wasn't trying to date them, my love," Ewan says, smiling at the screen.

"Oh, come on now." You crane your neck up to press a soft kiss against his cheek before turning your attention back to the video. So you don't notice the switch in Ewan's breathing. The jumps in his heartbeart. The way he subtly clears his throat to deal with his flustered state.

The video comes to a close after your turn and even at the very end, Ewan can be seen admiring you as you give the closing remarks with Phia.

Admiring you, as he does in the moment.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he says, when you turn to look at him.

"Thank you," you reply softly, your voice barely audible.

Some time passes with the two of you catching up, talking about your upcoming projects, his big meeting in New York - all the while his fingers trace patterns on your exposed skin, his arm wrapped around you snugly.

"Have you been keeping up with the show?" he asks.

"The last episode I saw fully was... the second one? I got pretty busy after that. How about you?"

"Oh," he looks down in thought, piquing your curiosity, "so you didn't get to see the third episode yet then?"

"No, not yet," you shake your head, "but I've seen some stuff here and there."

He hums again and he wants to ask, have you seen his stuff? There are around a dozen or so potential jokes at play here. He has an inkling to tell you to watch the episode so you can see just what you're in for. So you can see him and all he has to offer. He'd also fumble through a justification, as he had done in some interview, about the new studio they had filmed in being cold as a fridge freezer.

What to say? What to say? He picks at some lint on his jeans, smirking to himself.

"Yeah," you eventually giggle at his obvious hesitation. "I've only seen some of the episode. But what I've seen... is enough to make me jealous of Madame Sylvie."

He stiffens, throat suddenly dry, but one look at your smile does away with his concerns.

He soon finds himself laughing, a muffled, "Oh, darling," whispered lovingly against your hair.

"That was very brave of you, Ewan," you express sincerely.

"Thank you, love."

"So... just how cold was it in there?"

Your shared, unrestrained laughter echo throughout the room.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Your first date was meant to happen the following night, but such is the nature of the job that Ewan's schedule gets moved up all of a sudden.

Once the bigshot casting director in New York found out that Ewan is already stateside, he requested that the meeting be held at the earliest possible opportunity.

He calls you while you are in rehearsals, profusely apologizing and promising to fly back to LA in the next two days, right after his meeting is all sorted.

"It's okay, Ewan," you reassure him, genuinely understanding. "I will see you when you come back. Good luck, I know you're going to smash it, whatever opportunity this is!"

"Thank you, darling," he says, already wanting to have you back in his arms already, mentally kicking himself for not kissing you when he had about a hundred chances to do so. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too," you respond, blushing silly with the phone pressed to your ear. "But it'll only be two days."

"Hmm, doesn't matter. I need to take you on our bloody date, darling. I've already taken so damn long."

"Don't worry," you say, "I've already seen you way more than I should before the first date."

"Wha - " a protest forms on his lips, but he gets your point right away. "Oh. Clever, darling."

"I know."

"But I'm planning to give you something that's just for you. That the whole world won't ever be privy to."

You swallow hard, your very being heating up at his insinuation. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Mitchell."

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

Bonus chapter!

Nocturnal file 🤫

💌 next chapter

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The cast's Where is The Lie? video is an actual thing! I hope yous got the reference!

Notice how the two nerve-wrecked shites didn't have their first proper kiss yet??? Will they ever?? 😩😩😩

Taglist is officially closed for this one. Please bookmark this series or the masterlist (or follow my page) to keep up with updates <3

I can't even overstate how mad all the love for this series has been! I'm always looking forward to hearing from you guys - suggestions, comments, complaints are always welcome!

See you in part five! (preview: something will happen in NY that might cause Ewan to question things!)

[lace-coffin]

Hi! Can I ask how the slashers would feel if they ever accidentally hurt their s/o? Gender and everything is up to you!

How slashers would react to Accidently hurting their S/O

Thank you so much for my first ever request ah! I hope you enjoy 💖

Requests are open!

Warning for blood/injury - mild sexual content/reference to sexual activity and power dynamics -unhealthy relationships (I think?)

Reader is gender neutral!

Bubba sawyer

Most likely happened via Bubba playing too hard and Accidently pushing you over or being a bit too heavy handed with you. If it’s a case of them mistaking you for a victim and catching you with their chainsaw before being able to stop then they’ll be even more in inconsolable : (

Stops and stares for a minute to process what’s happened before devolving into full blown panic.

She’ll drop whatever she’s doing to carry you back to the house, even if that means letting the victim escape and having Drayton yell at her.

Will hurriedly explain in rushed sign to either Choptop or Nubbins to go take care of the victim as he’s busy caring for you.

Checks you over frantically. Please explain you’re going to be ok and help them calm down.

Once he knows you’re not in any danger he’ll feel absolutely awful about it and whine apologies to you even if you tell him that it’s ok and it wasn’t their fault.

Please comfort them once you feel better and reassure them.

Will insist you come up with a verbal and nonverbal sign to give if they’re accidently messing around to hard.

Will make you agree to stay in the house out of the way when victims are around so you don’t Accidently get hurt again.

Thomas Hewitt

After another night of Hoyt berating him for things out of his control, Tommy storms off to the basement to cool off. You follow after him, intending to comfort and wanting to help. You place a hand on his shoulder without thinking, forgetting he doesn’t enjoy physical touch without warning, thinking it might help. Whipping around he grabs your wrist a little too hard, causing you to wince.

He snatches his hand back as soon as he realises what he’s done.

Tommy will bring you to Luda may to have her check you over and assess the damage.

Once he knows you’re safe he’ll confine himself to the basement for a few days, only coming out to eat but even then it’s tense.

He’s truly sorry and feels like all those people who called him a monster and an animal were right, he hurt the one he cares about most, after all.

After a few days apart, a lot of hushed words of affirmation and kisses/nose bumps he’ll feel comfortable being with you again.

You know to let him cool off by himself and come to you when he’s ready after a heated argument now.

Michale Myers

You jump out at Michael thinking it would be funny to catch the shape off guard for once and not the other way around. Unfortunately this backfires and he swings his knife at you, thinking it may be an intruder since you’ve never pulled something like this before, You manage to jolt out of the way but the knife still catches you in the shoulder. Thankfully, it’s only superficial and will heal, but it still looks like it needs medical attention.

Initially Michael looks at you unamused, granted it’s hard to tell what he’s feeling underneath the mask. He gives you a kind of “well If you weren’t being dumb this wouldn’t have happened” attitude. However this is a front for the actual panic he refuses to show on the surface.

Having a few cuts and scratches isn’t super uncommon when your with Michael considering his tastes involving knives in bed ; )

Usually hurting others comes naturally and without remorse to Michael, so it shakes him to his core that he’s actively worrying about your wellbeing instead of feeling the usual indifference.

It disturbs him that he actually cares about someone enough to feel remorse for his actions.

After unceremoniously pulling your shirt off and looking the wound over he forces you go to A&E, practically marching your ass out the door.

Since he’s basically an escaped criminal he can’t exactly casually walk in the hospital with you, however he will stalk you the entire time, lurking close by to make sure you arrive and leave safely.

Although he usually has his guard up he vows to try be a little less bristly with you from now on if it means he doesn’t have to see you hurt and feel that awful tug of regret/worry in his chest.

Jason voorhees

You went out looking for Jason one night after he hadn’t returned to the cabin by his usual time. You were worried he’d been overpowered by a group of trespassers or caught in a trap and didn’t have any way to communicate that to you. The woods were beautiful but so dense and vast, getting lost or injured in the thick of them may as well be a death sentence.

Whilst searching for your missing partner you get your leg snagged in a bear trap he had set out previously for the trespassers. You howl in pain as you hear the sickening snap of your ankle between the traps jaws.

Jason was trudging his way back to the cabin when he heard it. Knowing that wasn’t a rougue teen as he’d cleared them out already, alarm bells went off in his head. He stormed to scene as fast as he could.

He could have sworn his undead heart stopped for the second time as he saw you sitting there in agony, murky blood seeping into the forest floor.

He rushes to your side and looks frantically between the trap and your teary face, he knows he’s going to have to disengage the traps and for you it’s going to be..less than pleasent.

He signs for you to grip onto his arm for support. Since he’s already dead and regenerates fairly quickly he feels it’s the least he can do to let you grip his arm for dear life as he wrenches the trap from your shattered ankle. If you cause any damage to his arm (which is very unlikely) it will heal up in no time anyway.

Once he’s carried you back to the cabin he’ll be frantically following Pamela’s directions in his head for what to do and how to clean/ wrap it.

If the damage is extensive he’ll relent and let you go to the hospital, only if a trusted friend takes you though, he’ll be sitting by the window of your shared cabin every minute until you return back to him.

You’re no longer aloud to be out in the woods after dark alone if he’s set traps. You both carry whistles now so if he’s not home and you need to know he’s safe you can whistle to each other and feel more at ease.

Billy Lenz

Interacting with Billy when he’s having an episode is never a good idea. You thought it would be fine to just be in the room though, providing you stay out of his way. As you enter, Billy is in the midst of trashing his attic once again, the disgusting feelings bubbling in his chest too much to bear. You enter just as he’s angrily thrown an old glass christmas ornament at the floor that the sorority had kept in storage. It shatters and flecks of sparkling glass scatter along the floor. One piece catching you in the hand in a nasty glass splinter. You swear under your breath and rush off to take care of it.

Billy doesn’t even realise what’s happened until you return to him, him now having exhausted himself and you knowing it’s safe to try do some damage control. You bring him a sandwich and juice knowing he’ll need it after all the energy and tears he just used up.

Your hands touch as he’s accepting the plate from you with a muted “thank you” and he notices the bandage.

Billy essentially bristles up like an angry cat at the idea of someone hurting his piggy and demands to know who did it and what happened.

Once you tell him it was actually from the ornament he feels horrible. He doesn’t even remember it happening with the state he was in.

He snuggles into the crook of your neck and mumbles apologies into your skin.

Billy will place sloppy kisses over it as an apology until you forgive him. (Not exactly hygenic since it’s an open wound but i mean…you’re dating the attic rat)

Brahms Heelshire

When living with Brahms there isn’t usually much to injure yourself on considering the estate is fairly out of the way from the rest of the village. You most likely caught yourself on a pair of sheers. Brahms is being stubborn about you being out of the house and slings the sheers in your general direction from the door frame when you ask for them. You don’t even notice you sliced your hand when catching them until you see a patch of blood soaking through your gardening gloves about ten minutes later.

You come in to grab a tea towel to wrap your bleeding finger in, not really fazed as it’s only a small cut. Brahms was lurking from the window as you tended to the hedges, not wanting to be away from you but not yet brave enough to tempt leaving the house he’s been in all these years.

As soon as he sees it he’s panicking, it’s only a little cut and you’re not concerned in the slightest but to Brahms you may as well have just came in with an arm missing. He’s instantly flittering around you asking if you’re ok and if you need a hospital.

You stifle your laugh at his over the top concern, you find it rather sweet, it’s not his fault he’s a little bit sheltered.

After cleaning the cut and bandaging it, it’s totally fine. If anything Brahms needs more reassuring and coddling than you do to get him to settle.

He apologises a thousand times for his attitude because he knows If he hadn’t been stroppy about you leaving the house and passed the sheers nicely then you wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. He promises to try be more composed when he starts getting antsy.

He may need some ✨punishment✨ in order to encourage his behaviour change and to feel forgiven.

He begrudgingly lets you back outside to garden after about a week.

Asa Emory

If you’re the pet of Asa then it’s likely that most of your injuries are purposefully given from him and are no mistake. You’re poked and prodded often considering your residency in the collection. Wounds from experiments and correctional punishments when you disobey or refuse to submit are not uncommon at all. So it doesn’t bother him since he inflicted them. This also assures he cleans them with clinical precision. If you were anyone else he would leave the wounds to fester, if you died from a complication then that was just inconvenient. Not you though, you’ve caught his attention and heart. He loves you in his own domineering way.

If the wound was created by him on accident then he would give himself a hard time, chastising himself for his carelessness.

For example, if he had more trouble with law enforcement than he thought and that led to you to spending way more time in the trunk than you usually do, causing you to develop a sore from sitting in one cramped position for too long.

Asa would realise you’re injured once you’re let out of the trunk, hissing in pain as you stretch. He makes you show him where you’re hurting so he can inspect over it.

Despite Asa’s stony face his stomach is actively sinking. He knows you’re hurt because of him and it wasn’t purposeful or measured like it would be during a punishment. He sees this as failure in his pet care and it takes a blow to his god complex. Gods don’t make mistakes, but here he is, hurting his dolly by being so out of it.

He’ll make sure to clean it for you and even stop putting you in the trunk for a while. This does however still mean you’ll be attached to him via leash or chain connected to the ring sitting on his belt. Just because you’re hurt and his favourite toy, doesn’t mean he will except anything less than your complete and total submission.

He’ll be more tender and soft handed with you than usual for a while after. Punishments will be withheld until you heal. Then it’s back to normal routine as expected.

Predator/yautja

You were wearing a new perfume you’d picked up at the market during the day, You were only supposed to be getting meats and maybe a new fur for the bed but once the alien at the stand had convinced you to sample it you fell in love with it.

Your mate picks up on an unknown scent entering the house, hackles raising and stalking towards it. As soon as they catch the heat signature they throw a wrist blade in warning.

Their eyes widen in horror, rushing to the door as they catch scent of your tangly blood dripping onto the hardwood floor of your shared home.

The new perfume masked your familiar scent from them, making them believe the house was in danger and being intruded on. If their face could loose colour it would, cringing as they see the wrist blade sticking through your palm, groceries discarded at the door.

They start talking at you in rapid clicks before they realise you can’t actually understand. After making sure to keep the object in your hand so you don’t bleed out and that you’re not going to pass out on them, they insist on carrying you their medic instead of going to an ooman one.

They argue that their medicine is far more advanced and will heal your wound much more efficiently then your “ primitive ooman medicine”

Thanks to yautja medicine being far more advanced, It will heal like nothing ever happened in around two weeks. The wound stitched shut and given some kind of injection.

Your mate purrs and clicks for you deep from their chest the entire time you’re having the blade removed to try calm you.

They beg for forgiveness despite it literally being an accident and will need some reassurance that they haven’t failed you as a mate. Once you’re all healed up they’ll bring back an impressive skull from a hunt as an apology even if you’ve already forgiven them.

Whilst it’s healing you’re probably going be kept in the nest of furs and pulled tightly against them whilst they purr and sooth you.

My requests are open if you’d like to send any prompts or ideas for me to write!

[astarionmylife]

18+

When you and Astarion first have sex, it's all an act. It's a carefully precise performance he is putting on. Perfectly timed grunts and groans, pretty seductive language. He puts up a domineering front, disassociates like he always used to. It's second nature to him now, sex is not a tender act of affection anymore. It's a deal, the only thing he can offer in a trade. He's in control, simply exists to make you feel good.

As the two of you get closer, when you start experiencing feelings for each other, he doesn't know what to do. He feels lost, and the sex is much gentler. He's starting to feel comfortable with you, sometimes allows you to top and take control as he surrenders. His mask of pretense is dropping, his perfectly manicured act falling apart. He finds little whiny moans escaping him as he finishes. He finds himself clinging to you more and more, trusting you with more parts of his past.

After awhile, the two of you are open with each other, very much in love. You take care of him when necessary, and while the sex is never the same ideal as it was, it's so much more satisfying. And sometimes he can cry during sex, sobs falling down his cheeks as he sloppily thrusts into you, head buried in the crock of your neck as you stroke your fingers through his hair and whisper affirmations into his ears. And on the less emotional but just as horny days, you can spend days in bed, alternating between just holding each other, and pounding into each other. Life is good.

[leejenowrld]

in your eyes — part 2 

word count — 43k words

genre — angst, smut, fluff 

part 1 — part 2

synopsis —  campus life was just a series of fleeting connections until he found you. now, it’s you who he can’t forget, it’s you he wants to be known for, it’s you he wants to belong to.

chapter warnings — explicit content, swearing, mature language, sexual jokes, heated smut, unprotected sex, mutual masturbation, voyeurism (yn gets off watching a video of jeno’s cock yeehaw), oral sex, intense emotional scenes, ‘daddy’ name calling smut scene, hard dom jeno, choking, jeno fucks reader in headlock, mirror smut, jeno pussy eater, reader sits on jeno’s face, degradation, slapping, spitting, exhibitionism, orgasm control/denial, name-calling, dirty talk, intense and graphic descriptions of sexual activity, emotional vulnerability, hard angst in this one, tear jerker moments, really emotional scenes, heated confrontations, heated fights, a lot of secrets and exposed, heavy reliance on drugs and alcohol to cope, lots of smoking, drinking, getting high, so many college parties, so many band shows, jeno and arin revelations, confused and misleading jeno, jeno and arin moments, reader, jeno and arin moments, girl boss yn, girl moments🫶, possessive sexy jeno, jealous jeno, full penetrative sex, soft soft smut, deep intimacy and emotional connection, size kink, with emphasis on fit and fullness, praising and reassurance during sex, consensual and tender dynamic, heightened emotional depth, including tears and deep affection, slow pace with meaningful, deliberate thrusts, nudity in a semi-public, playful and loving interactions with a focus on mutual satisfaction, declarations of love and monogamy, soft and passionate kissing, emotional climax with affirmations of love and fidelity

author note — it’s here 🥹🥹 thank you for all your love and support, this is the final part and it’s making me so emotional. i hope you all enjoy <3 get your tissues ready lol. please interact with this part and lmk what you thought!! means so much more to me than you’d know mwah enjoy 💋

in your eyes masterlist

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Silence fills the room.

You let out a hollow laugh, your body tensing as you prepare to stand up and walk away. However, Jeno's soft, pleading eyes root you to the spot. “What is this, Jeno?” you ask, your voice unintentionally gentle, betraying the firmness you had intended.

Jeno reaches out, attempting to pull you back onto his lap, but you shake your head firmly, maintaining your distance. He lets out a weary sigh, his expression a mix of frustration and sadness. “Y/N, just hear me out, please,” he pleads.

“You have two minutes,” you respond, your tone flat, as you glance at the phone, the silence hanging heavily between you.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he grabs the phone from the table, an electric charge of contact that sends a shiver up your spine. He turns off the phone decisively, silencing it before Arin’s call can go to voicemail. You watch, puzzled and slightly overwhelmed, as he places the phone facedown on the table, ensuring that nothing distracts him from this moment with you.

Arin’s relentless calls continue, the phone vibrating insistently on the tabletop, but Jeno doesn’t give it another glance. His eyes, dark and intense, are locked on yours, conveying a seriousness that commands your attention.

“Those photos and videos shouldn’t be there, and I’m sorry I didn’t delete them. Honestly, I had a lot of photos and videos like that, with Arin, on my phone. I thought I had deleted them all, but obviously not. Some might still be there and I know how careless that is, I’m really sorry.” He says with a mix of regret and sincerity, his voice carrying a hint of apology and concern for your feelings. He's straightforward yet gentle, acknowledging the mistake and taking responsibility for it.

You take a deep breath, your gaze fixed on Jeno. His eyes reflect a sincerity that tugs at your heartstrings, warming the cold edges of your doubt. As he waits patiently for your response, the quiet empathy in his expression helps steady the whirl of emotions inside you.

“You really didn’t mean to keep them?” you ask quietly, needing just that bit of reassurance. 

“No, not at all,” he replies quickly, his voice firm. 

Feeling the warmth of his hand encasing yours, the sincerity in his voice helps tilt the balance of your emotions towards trust. You nod slowly, trying to process his words. It's not anger or disappointment that fills you, but a mix of confusion and uncertainty. You're unsure how to react, torn between wanting to believe him and feeling a pang of doubt nagging at the back of your mind.

“Why do you still have her number saved?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s hard when a storm of emotions is raging inside you.

Jeno pauses, looking thoughtful, as if he’s sorting through the right words. “When we—when we split up, a lot of things went wrong. It wasn’t just messy, it was painful, and I blocked her number to help myself move past it. That was over a year ago, and it took a while, but I’ve been trying to get over it,” he explains, his tone reflecting a mix of regret and contemplation.

“And when exactly did this conversation happen?” your voice shakes slightly, the weight of his words settling in.

“It was about six months ago,” he replies, the timeline aligning just before the two of you had started seeing each other more seriously, you sigh in relief. 

“So, you’re okay with her now?” you probe gently, needing to hear him say it.

He shifts slightly, making eye contact with you as he continues. “A few months back, she reached out. She apologized, and it seemed heartfelt. We had a long conversation, and it helped me see things from a different perspective. I’ve always found it hard to maintain bad blood with anyone, even if things ended badly. I’m a people pleaser. So, I forgave her,” he adds, a softness in his voice that tells you this isn’t just about moving on but about healing.

“Oh.” You mumble, a deep frown plastered on your face. "She keeps on calling, Jeno," your voice comes out softer, tinged with a hint of fear as the words hover between you, carrying more weight than intended. Your eyes shift to his phone on the bedside table, its screen lighting up insistently with each ring, the vibrations echoing the tension in the room.

He sighs, a deep sound filled with a mix of frustration and resignation. As he leans forward to grab his phone, which continues its insistent ringing on the bedside table, you move faster. Your hand snatches it up before he can touch it, pressing the answer button with a sharp jab.

“Hi,” you say, your voice flat, giving nothing away.

“Who is this?” the voice on the other end is light, confused, but undeniably sweet.

“Me,” you reply tersely, as if that should explain everything. There’s a pause—a moment of silence where the simplicity of your answer hangs in the air.

“Is Jeno there?” The voice on the other end is light, tinged with a hopeful note that makes it harder to stay indifferent.

You hesitate, the simple inquiry echoing oddly in your chest. “Yeah,” you admit reluctantly.

“Could you tell him Arin wants to speak to him?” Her voice is sweet, almost disarmingly so, and her words are polite, her request reasonable.

You turn to Jeno, relaying the message with a stiffness in your voice, “Arin wants to talk to you.” You watch his expression for any sign of what he’s thinking, but he remains inscrutable.

He doesn’t respond verbally; instead, he simply extends his hand for the phone. The ease of his gesture, the quiet acceptance, it isn’t what you wanted. You had hoped for a denial, a refusal, some affirmation that the past was just that—the past. Yet, here he was, ready to slip back into old conversations as if they were nothing.

Jeno's fingers gently curl around the phone, the action deliberate and calm. The warmth in his gaze as he met yours moments before shifts as he brings the device to his ear. There's a flicker in his eyes, something unreadable before they settle into a determined glint. You watch, almost holding your breath, as the conversation unfolds.

"I'm busy," he states simply, his voice firm, leaving little room for argument.

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. Despite the chaos of emotions swirling inside you, Jeno's blunt dismissal catches you off guard. It's a sharp contrast to the gentle way he usually speaks, and it anchors you back to the moment with a jolt of unexpected approval.

On the other end, there's a pause—a momentary breath of silence that feels charged with tension. "Will you call me later?" Arin's voice filters through, her tone a mix of hope and hesitation.

"Probably not," Jeno replies, his response as clipped as before. The simplicity of his words, the casual dismissal, it adds layers to the scenario unfolding before you.

"But, Jeno, it’s important," Arin insists, her voice pressing for something more, something beyond the brief exchange.

"Ok?" His intonation rises slightly, a question in the guise of a response, signaling he’s not committed to the promise of another conversation. His fingers tighten slightly around the phone, a visible sign of his discomfort or perhaps his resolve.

As you observe him, a mix of feelings courses through you. There’s an unexpected surge of relief that he’s not engaging more than necessary, yet a lingering doubt nibbles at your thoughts, wondering what was so important that Arin still reached out despite his clear resistance.

He ends the call swiftly, the screen going dark as he places the phone back down. His gaze returns to you, searching, perhaps unsure of how much you've interpreted or how deeply the brief exchange might have affected you.

"You handled that... differently than I expected," you venture, your voice a careful blend of curiosity and subtle approval. 

Jeno exhales, a long, deep breath that seems to release some of the tension that had built up. "I didn’t want to drag things out—there’s no point. It's better to keep it short and clear."

His response makes you nod, understanding his approach but still processing the entire interaction. The simplicity of his handling was reassuring, yet the complexity of his past relationship with Arin still hung in the air, an unspoken chapter that was slowly coloring the edges of your own story with him.

"You think she’ll call back?" you ask, a trace of concern threading your words.

He shrugs, his expression a blend of indifference and slight irritation. "Maybe, but it doesn’t change anything. I meant what I said."

His hand finds yours, the warmth familiar and comforting, and in that touch, you find a silent promise—a commitment to face whatever comes, together. "Why don't you want to talk to her anymore?" you ask softly, your curiosity tinged with a need to understand his perspective.

Jeno’s gaze locks with yours, his eyes reflecting a deep seriousness that seems to draw you in. “I’ve gotten closure from what happened with her. I have nothing left to say to her. I'm here with you now, and you deserve my full energy and attention,” he says earnestly, his hand reaching up to gently caress the side of your face, his touch conveying the depth of his commitment. The way he looks at you, so intently, makes it clear that he's fully moved on, though he adds, “I can't speak for her, but I’ve put it all behind me.”

You nod, feeling the sincerity in his touch and his words, but still a bit puzzled. "I don’t get it though, does she call you a lot?"

"A few times, but I always say I’m busy and end the call. You know, a lot of people reach out to me; I don’t pay special attention to her calls. They just blend in with the rest," he explains, his tone dismissive of the significance of her attempts to contact him, emphasizing his focus is entirely on the present and specifically, on you. His hand remains on your face, maintaining a gentle but affirming touch that reassures you of his priorities.

He releases your face gently and reaches for his phone, which lay forgotten on the table beside you. His movements are deliberate, each action punctuated with a silent promise of transparency.

You watch, your heart in your throat, as Jeno unlocks his phone. The screen lights up, casting a soft glow in the dimly lit room. He navigates with familiar ease, a few swipes bringing him back to the gallery. His thumb hovers over the photo of Arin—a brief pause, a final acknowledgment of the past—and then he presses down, selecting the option to delete.

The action is simple yet profound. He doesn’t look away from you as he does it, his eyes holding yours, ensuring you understand the significance of the gesture. “It’s gone,” he says, a finality in his tone. He doesn’t just delete the photo; he also takes a moment to clear it from the recently deleted album, erasing all possible traces of her image.

He lifts your chin gently, guiding your gaze back to his. The warmth of his hands radiates comfort as they cup your face, the rough pads of his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. His eyes search yours, seeking to convey everything his words might have left unsaid.

He pulls you closer, his arms enveloping you in a warm embrace that feels like a safe haven from the storm of emotions brewing inside you. You lean into him, your head resting against his chest, where you can hear the steady beat of his heart—a reassuring rhythm in the midst of your turmoil.

He wraps a blanket around you as he notices the slight tremble in your shoulders, the soft fabric adding another layer of warmth. His lips find your forehead, planting soft kisses that make their way down to your closed eyelids, each touch light but filled with intent, as if trying to kiss away your worries.

You’re enveloped in his warmth, feeling the security of his hold tighten slightly when he feels you shiver, not from the cold, but from the emotional chill the photo has left in its.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks you softly, you feel his fingers brushing over your eyelids, his touch gentle and comforting, yet there’s an underlying tension in the air. You hum in confusion, not fully registering his question as your mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Arin.

“She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?” you finally voice, the words slipping out almost involuntarily, echoing the turmoil inside you.

“Y/N—” he begins, but you cut him off, your curiosity burning within you.

“What’s happened with you and Arin? Why did you break up?” you press, needing answers to quell the unease in your heart.

“Y/N, it really isn’t relevant anymore—”

“You obviously used to love her at one point. It’s relevant. I’ve heard from many people that you and Arin were serious. Is it wrong if I want to know how you got together and why it ended?” you challenge, your voice firm with determination.

He exhales slowly, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “What do you wanna know?”

“Everything,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with an intensity that demands truth and clarity.

“We were never officially together. She was never my girlfriend. But I loved her. I cared a lot about her and always wanted her around, but I knew there were a lot of problems with us,” he begins, his honesty setting the tone.

“How did you meet her?” you ask, curiosity weaving through your tone.

Jeno’s gaze softens, a reflective smile briefly passing over his lips. “I first met her when we were 16. We’ve known each other for a long time. We grew up in the same neighbourhood, always in and out of each other’s houses. We always found our way to each other.” 

As you listen to Jeno describe Arin, a tight pang clenches in your chest, but curiosity propels you forward. Questions spill from your mouth before you can stop them. “What was she like? How did you fall for her?”

He looks off into the distance, his expression softening as he reminisces. “She was like summer in a person—bright, warm, impossible to ignore,” he begins, his voice soft and reflective. “She had this laugh that could light up a room, and she was always so… alive, you know? Full of energy and love.”

You notice how his face lights up when he talks about her, the warmth in his voice unmistakable as he drifts back to those days. It’s clear from his tone and his faraway look that those memories hold a special place in his heart, even now.

He sighs, shifting slightly as he continues, Jeno’s smile widens a fraction, tinged with a youthful nostalgia. Pausing, he looks at you, ensuring the story is not overwhelming. “And yeah, we were each other’s firsts,” he admits, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone.

"I asked her to be my girlfriend and she said no because she was moving away. That was the first time she ever told me," he sighs. "When she left, it felt like I was losing a part of me I didn’t know could be lost."

Jeno says, his voice tinged with a touch of sadness. "I dealt with it by trying to move on—I had sex with a lot of different girls, kissed others. It was my way of filling the void she left."

“Three years later, by some twist of fate, we ended up at the same college. It was like no time had passed at all, and all those old feelings came rushing back. We reconnected instantly, drawn to each other all over again.”

“But you were never official?” you probe gently, picking up on his earlier thread.

He shakes his head. “When we were 16, we were only together for a summer before she moved away. We were never boyfriend and girlfriend. We were exclusive though, when we were 16 and then in college.” 

“Nayoung mentioned that you guys used to casually fuck, that you were fuck buddies… friends with benefits?” you inquire, needing to understand the dynamics of their past relationship.

"It was more than that," he replies softly, his voice showing a slight frustration with the label. "It wasn't just about casual hookups. When we got back together in college, it was comforting and familiar. We slipped back into each other's lives effortlessly. It was like a habit, almost too easy."

Jeno’s eyes held a vulnerable honesty as he spoke, his fingers absently tracing the back of your hand, seeking a reassuring touch. “You probably think I sound so pathetic, so caught up in someone who I fell in love with when I was 16 and feeling the effects of that even after all this time.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his honesty. It’s difficult to acknowledge that he’s not in the wrong for his emotions; they are a part of his history, part of what has shaped him. “I don’t think you’re an idiot at all,” you assure him gently, meeting his gaze with a supportive smile. “It’s a lot of history, a lot of significant moments. It makes sense.”

He exhales, a sound mixed with relief and appreciation. Jeno’s eyes soften, the gratitude evident as he looks at you. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your skin in small, grateful circles. “You’re incredibly understanding, always.”

Silence overtakes the room and the eye contact you hold is intimate, the way he’s looking makes goosebumps run all over your skin and you suddenly feel so shy; his gaze is so heated and intense. You cough, averting your gaze. You feel him smile at your reaction, calling out your name softly as he leans forward to press his lips against your cheeks in a soft kiss.

“You were telling me?” you try to change the subject, wondering how he still manages to make you so shy and flustered.

He chuckles softly, his amusement clear as he appreciates your efforts to steer the conversation away from the deep. “Right, where was I?” Jeno teases gently, his voice low and soothing, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

“You were saying you were more than ‘friends with benefits’” you remind him, finding your voice again despite the strain you feel inside. 

He nods. “When we reunited in college, at the start, yeah, it was very much friends with benefits. She wasn’t ready to commit. But then, I started catching feelings; I fell for her. God knows what she felt; she was never good at communicating or expressing her true feelings. I think she fell for me too,” he admits, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. 

“What happened? Why did it all end?” you ask, your voice carrying a note of finality, needing to know the closure.

“I needed more,” he admits, his voice firm but pained. “I wanted something stable, something real. She was still caught up in having no labels, no commitments. And I...” He sighs deeply, the weight of the memory pressing down on him. “I loved her. I really did. But loving her and always wanting more than she could give... It was draining. I ended it because I couldn’t continue halfway between what we were and what I needed us to be.”

He looks at you, his eyes clear and earnest. “It hurt, but it was the right thing to do. For both of us.”

“Oh?” you mumble, trying to process his candidness.

He hums, a hint of a smile breaking through the solemnity. “Not what you expected?”

You shake your head slowly. “I thought she did something wrong.”

“She wasn’t perfect, don’t get me wrong. I had a hard time getting used to such a negative side of her, especially because when we were younger she was nothing but kind. But when we started seeing each other in college, I noticed that she grew into something else completely, she had a lot of flaws. She was irrational, immature, and refused to communicate. We’d argue, and her way to fix it would be by trying to fuck me or suck my dick. It just infuriated me how childish she could be. She was also so jealous, to the point it was off-putting. She didn’t want to be my girlfriend, but she also got so annoyed if I ever spoke to another girl or did so much as look their way. She’s made a lot of girls feel uncomfortable because of how possessive she can be,” he explains, a mixture of frustration and resignation evident in his words.

“Nayoung mentioned something like that,” you murmur, memories surfacing from past conversations. “She said that she hated Arin because you stopped fucking her to go back to Arin.”

He nods, his expression serious. “Yeah. When I ended things with Arin, I went back to sleeping casually and fucking around, to deal with heartbreak, I guess. She became so jealous; it was ridiculous. At first, I used to fall for it. She’d try to tell me that she wanted me back, tried to convince me that she was serious about her feelings for me, that she wanted us to be together. And I would always go back to her. I was still in love with her at this point, so I’d drop anything and anyone for that chance. But then I realized she was just toying with me. She was never serious about it. She’d only say that because she didn’t want to see me with another girl, even if it was only just for sex. But she’d completely disrespect me,” he admits, his voice carrying a weight of past disappointments.

“She really did break my heart, I feel like a part of me is still broken. It took a long time to get over her.” 

You swallow hard, absorbing the weight of his words. Avoiding his gaze, you gather your courage to ask, “Do you still like her?”

He chuckles softly, surprised by the question. “God no, I’m over it.” You want to sigh in relief, but something in his voice leaves you hesitant. Was he really over it? He answers so quickly you don’t know if you can believe him.

Really?” you probe, needing reassurance.

“I wouldn’t be here, with you, right now if I still liked her. I’m over her, trust me,” he assures you, his tone softening with sincerity.

“Do you still love her?” you blurt out, unable to suppress your curiosity.

He sighs, his tone serious. “Y/N.”

“Jeno,” you press, needing clarity.

“No, I don’t love her anymore. I stopped loving her a long time ago,” he states firmly, his words carrying a sense of finality.

“What if she told you she was ready? That she wanted a relationship?” you inquire, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

He shakes his head firmly. “Nothing she says will ever make me change my mind. I will never feel the way I used to. I don’t trust or love her anymore.”

“Oh, very nice,” you respond bitterly, not quite knowing what to say, you were at a loss for words.

“You sure?” he says, amusement lacing his tone at your understated reaction.

His gaze softens, and he shifts your positions, guiding you until you’re sitting on his lap, your chest pressed against his. His hands settle on the small of your back, pulling you close to his chest, his touch soothing the tension he senses within you. Cupping your face gently in his hands, he brushes his lips against yours, a soft peck that leaves you craving more.

“You don’t need to worry, okay? I would never go back to her,” he assures you, his voice laced with sincerity. “You’re so important to me, you mean so much to me. I cherish you so much. Don’t ever worry about Arin.”

All you can manage is a nod in response, overwhelmed by his words.

“Has she said anything to you? Has she tried to make you feel uncomfortable?” he probes, concern evident in his tone. “I’m only asking because she used to say a lot of rude stuff to girls I used to sleep with and you mean so much more to me than those girls, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Arin knew that and tried to get to you.”

You shake your head, the weight of the situation settling heavily upon you. “She hasn’t said anything to me yet but she always stares at me.” 

He hums softly. “If she ever does say something to you, don’t let her affect you, okay? She likes to do whatever she can to get into someone’s head but you’re stronger than that, right?  Don’t let her make you upset. Just ignore her and tell me if she bothers you, yeah?” he urges, his protective instincts kicking in.

You nod, “What would you do?”

He lets out a dry cough. “Whatever needs to be done. I’d do anything for you without a second thought, and I know you’d do the same for me.” His confidence and self-assurance make you hold back a moan.

You nod. “Of course I would.”

In a heartbeat, he responds, “You’re my priority, you’re my special one. You mean everything to me.”

“You’re so — you’re so cute, but you’re also very corny. Imagine if the guys heard you.” You snort. 

“I have nothing to hide, I’m not —”

But before he can finish, you cut him off with a kiss. The moment your lips meet, the atmosphere shifts, electrifying the air between you. His hands instinctively find their way to your waist, pulling you closer, while your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him impossibly nearer.

The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more heated, as desire courses through your veins. Your bodies pressed together, heat radiating between you, as if you’re trying to merge into one. Every touch, every caress, sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body, igniting a fire that burns hotter with each passing moment.

Breaking away from him, you’re both left breathless, panting heavily as you stare into each other’s eyes. The intensity of the moment hangs between you, thick with desire and longing.

“I cherish you more,” you whisper, the weight of your words hanging in the air, stress evident in your heavy breathing. But even as the words leave your lips, you know that they hold a depth of emotion that goes beyond mere words.

“Good girl,” he whispers in response, his voice husky with affection, as he peppers soft kisses all over your face. You lean into his embrace, revelling in the warmth of his affection and the closeness you share. 

“Why are you so hard?” you giggle, running your fingers teasingly along the bulge in his pants. Leaving hot and heated kisses alongside the curve of his neck. 

“Because there’s a hot girl sitting on my lap and grinding against my cock,” he responds with a smirk, his eyes dark with desire. You feel a surge of satisfaction at his words, knowing you have this effect on him.

“Yeah, but I sit on your lap all the time, it doesn’t get you hard like this,” you tease, your voice low and sultry.

“Yeah, it does,” he huffs, his hands sliding down to grip your hips firmly.

“Not this hard,” you challenge, biting your lip as you continue to rub against his bulge, feeling the growing hardness beneath you. With a swift motion, you reach for his shirt and pull it off, revealing his toned chest.

“Everything you do gets me hard,” he admits, his voice husky with need, his gaze locked with yours in a primal intensity. “I haven’t had sex in a long time.”

Your heart skips a beat at his confession, a rush of desire coursing through you. “Wait — have you not fucked anyone else in the last few months?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“But the time between the two times we had sex was around 3 months” you ask, a hint of surprise in your voice.

He nods, his expression serious. “Yeah. Just you,” he confirms, his gaze unwavering.”

“Why?” you laugh incredulously, a snort escaping you. “Even I would’ve fucked someone else if I were you. I kept ignoring you and walking the other way after our first time because of how nervous you made me. If I were you, I’d give up and go back to fucking.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he says simply, his sincerity evident in his eyes.

“Have you fucked anyone else but me since our first time?” he asks you now, curiosity tinged with desire in his voice.

You shake your head, leaning in to leave a soft kiss against his lips. “Just you.”

“You used to have so much sex…” you trail off, feeling a mix of emotions at the thought.

He smiles, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. “It’s okay though. You know I don’t mind. I’ll wait for years if it means the only one I’ll fuck is you.”

“You should’ve told me that you’ve barely gotten laid in the last few months,” you tease, deftly unbuttoning your shirt and letting the fabric fall to the floor, revealing the curve of your body.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, dark with desire.

“Well, let’s make up for lost time, let’s have sex now.” you purr, your voice dripping with heat as you close the distance between you.

A boyish grin spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, your own excitement matching his.

“I don’t have any condoms, baby,” he murmurs huskily as he shifts his body over yours, his hands tracing the waistband of your skirt, eager to explore further.

“Just fuck me,” you breathe, your voice heavy with need, your hands already reaching for the waistband of his trousers, ready to pull them down and lose yourselves in the heat of the moment.

You swear it was so close to happening—the moment was right, the energy was electric. But then Donghyuck had to come barging into his room, asking for his headphones. Jeno groans in frustration, his irritation palpable. “Donghyuck!” he yells, tossing the headphones in his direction with more force than necessary.

──────────────────────────────

Your preparation for the band show feels more special tonight, infused with an unspoken anticipation. You put meticulous care into every detail of your appearance. You want to make a statement, not just on stage but also afterward, Jeno was going to take you somewhere, it was a ‘surprise.’

Nayoung is by your side, curling your hair into perfect waves that frame your face beautifully. The warmth from the curling iron is a stark contrast to the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You carefully apply your makeup, choosing colors that enhance your features—bold, smoky eyes paired with a soft, glowing complexion and rosy lips that promise subtlety yet allure.

As you blend your eyeshadow, Nayoung watches you through the mirror, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You’re going out with Jeno after the gig?” she probes with a casual tone, but her eyes are too sharp, too curious.

You nod in affirmation, your focus momentarily shifting from your makeup to her reflection in the mirror. “On a date?” she presses further, her tone teasing yet probing.

You pause, brush in hand, and shake your head slightly, “It’s not a date, it’s—”

She interrupts with a playful roll of her eyes. “Yeah yeah, you’re not official yet. You guys should really have the ‘what are we’ talk,” she suggests, her voice laced with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

The suggestion hangs in the air, a subtle push towards a conversation you know is inevitable but aren’t quite ready to initiate. Yet as you turn back to the mirror, applying a final stroke of mascara, you can't help but wonder if tonight is the right time to define what Jeno really means to you.

The outfit for tonight was meticulously picked out and laid neatly on the bed behind you. The choice for tonight is daring, a black off-shoulder top with long sleeves that falls just right, It’s cut low enough to hint at the curves of your breasts, a tease of what lies beneath, paired perfectly with a plaid mini skirt that flares at the hem, playfully showcasing your thighs.

You stand in front of your full-length mirror, nerves racing through you as you slip into the outfit, the fabric clings and contours to your form, complementing your figure in an eye-catching way. The knee high boots you choose add an edge, their chunky heels lending height and attitude, while your chosen jewelry—simple yet elegant—adds a sparkle that catches the light as you move.

Nayoung watches your transformation, her reaction a mix of approval and a hint of pride. “Jeno’s not going to know what hit him,” she says, her voice tinged with excitement. “You look hot—he’ll love it.” Her words are a boost to your confidence as you give yourself one final look in the mirror, feeling ready to take on the night—and maybe, just maybe, ready to take on whatever conversation awaits you with Jeno

As you stand there, ready, you feel a blend of nerves and excitement. “Do you think he’ll find me pretty?” you ask, the innocence in your voice catching you by surprise.

“He always finds you pretty,” Nayoung replies confidently.

You can’t contain the blush that spreads across your cheeks. “I know,” you admit softly, a secret thrill at the acknowledgment.

Nayoung watches you, her expression shifting to one of curiosity. “I’ve never seen you put so much effort into looking this sexy for your shows,” she observes.

You find an excuse, one that doesn’t quite reach your own ears convincingly. “I want to look good for photos, plus a lot of people will be there.”

“But is that all?” Nayoung probes, her voice gentle yet insistent.

“What do you mean?” you deflect, not quite ready to confront the truth.

“It’s nothing bad,” she assures you. “It’s just that you’re very much giving ‘girlfriend who wants to look pretty and dress up for her boyfriend.’ It’s cute seeing you make so much effort because you know he’ll appreciate it and make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world, no matter what you’re wearing. It’s for him, isn’t it? You like dressing up for him.”

The realisation strikes you, and you’re left speechless. You gulp, searching for the right words. “It’s not just that, I—I like dressing up for myself too,” you assert.

She nods, understanding the complexity of your feelings. “Of course, but when you have someone who likes you as much as Jeno likes you, it’s nice to dress up for them, to feel seen and beautiful in their eyes.”

You bite your lip, willing the tears not to fall, the delicate balance of your carefully applied makeup at stake. Your eyes shift downward, catching the glow of your phone as it springs to life with a message from him. Jeno’s face smiles back at you from the lock screen. In the simple act of seeing his name, a realisation crystallises, breaking through the layers of your apprehension.

It’s a truth that has lingered at the edge of your consciousness, a whisper you’ve silenced for fear of the upheaval it might bring. But it’s undeniable now, demanding to be acknowledged with a force that feels as natural as breathing and as terrifying as falling.

With a tremulous voice, barely louder than the brush of butterfly wings, you admit to Nayoung, to yourself, to the universe, “I have feelings for Jeno. I’m falling for him.” The words are a confession, a release, a testament to a heart that refuses to be hushed any longer.

Nayoung’s reaction is a gentle laughter, rich with the warmth of shared secrets and sisterly bonds. “I know you do,” Nayoung kisses your cheek and then groans at herself for doing that as she’s just messed up your makeup. As she’s fixing it, she tells you how proud she is of you for being true to your feelings and understanding who and what you want, for being mature and honest. “You know, I thought you’d be more emotional. I thought you’d cry,” she laughs, expecting you to admit you liked Jeno with tears due to the heavy confession.

“I’m fine. I’m happy. He makes me happy and I trust him,” you speak with so much innocence and trust.

“So you don’t want it to be casual anymore?” she probes.

You shake your head. “I didn’t mind at first but now? Fuck, yeah, he’s mine. I need him to be mine. I really wanna ask him tonight, or hope that he asks me,” you say with a determination in your eye.

“No, Y/N, you should wait until he asks you,” Nayoung gives you friendly advice, her voice sweet.

“Why?” you inquire, curious about her reasoning.

Nayoung pauses, her hands still as she meets your gaze in the mirror. “Because it’s important that he makes that commitment too, without any pushing. It shows that he’s not only ready but eager to take that step. You want it to be his decision, coming from him wanting you just as much as you want him. It’s not about playing games; it’s about ensuring that his feelings match the depth of yours. Plus, it will mean more if it comes from him, don’t you think?” Her words carry the weight of experience, gentle yet firm, aiming to guide you towards a decision that solidifies the sincerity of your relationship.

You nod, a flicker of hopeful naivety shining in your eyes. "I really think it's going to happen soon. We had quite a moment last night," you begin, your voice dropping to a whisper.

"Oh?" Nayoung leans in closer, her interest piqued, sensing the significance in your tone.

Taking a deep breath, you confide, "I stumbled upon a photo of Arin on his phone. It was... intimate, and it made me feel all sorts of ways—jealous, upset, and then to make things worse, Arin happened to call him at that very moment." You pause, collecting your thoughts. "Jeno was open about it. He said he used to have a lot of pictures with her and probably missed some when he was deleting them."

Nayoung's eyes widen as she registers what you just said. "She called him? She what? Why does he still have her number?"

You huff, frustration evident. "God knows why. And I picked up the phone because I got angry, and Arin was kinda sweet?"

Nayoung scoffs, her disbelief clear. "Sweet? Please, she's nothing but a bitch, pretending to be all innocent."

You laugh at her blunt assessment. "She asked to speak to Jeno when I picked up."

"And??" Nayoung presses, leaning forward in anticipation.

"He said he was busy and ended it," you respond, trying to mask the mix of relief and confusion in your voice.

Nayoung is visibly stunned, processing the information. "Well, at least he didn't entertain her," she finally says, a slight nod indicating her approval.

Nayoung’s eyes widened, taken aback by what you’ve just spilled. “So they were serious? Not just fuck buddies?” she asks, her voice tinged with surprise.

You nod, feeling the sting of the admission. “He told me he loved her once.”

“Wow, that’s deep,” she exhales, processing the weight of your words.

“He made it clear they’re over. He ended things because she wouldn’t fully commit, and he’s been over her for a long time now. I want to believe him when he says he’s moved on… Am I naive for that?”

Nayoung considers this, her expression serious. “Do you trust him?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“He told me he wouldn’t ever go back to her, even if she changed her mind. He said I mean too much to him, that he wouldn’t ever do that to me, that he wouldn’t hurt me, that I’m his priority and that he cherishes me,” you confide in Nayoung.

Nayoung’s eyes widened in surprise, a rare moment of speechlessness. “If a guy ever said that to me, the words ‘I love you’ would be slipping from my tongue.” 

“We also nearly had sex but Donghyuck walked in, and I’ve never seen Jeno get so mad. You should’ve seen his face.” you add with a laugh, sharing the absurdity of the situation.

“Yeah, and get this—” you lean in, a playful glint in your eye, “—since meeting me, I’m the only girl he’s fucked.”

Nayoung’s mouth falls open, her surprise genuine. “Seriously? For Jeno, that’s… that’s huge. Normally he’s having sex twice a week, sometimes even more.” 

──────────────────────────────

The bar is a canvas of shadows and dimly lit corners, where a mingling scent of aged wood and spilled liquor permeates the air. It’s an ambiance that speaks of stories untold, a place where many nights have unfolded in the haze of neon lights and reverberating music. Strings of Edison bulbs drape across the ceiling, offering a warm glow that dances off the well-worn surfaces of the bar and tables.

The crowd tonight is unusually thick, a sea of faces swaying to the rhythm of the music. You glance around, perplexed and a little overwhelmed by the number of people gathered. It’s as if the whole town has decided to show up. Despite the usual anonymity afforded by the dim lighting and the casual chaos of the bar, tonight feels different. As you scan the room, your eyes catch glimpses of familiar faces mixed with strangers, but what surprises you is the number of eyes that fleetingly meet yours, quickly looking away as if caught in the act of watching you. The realisation dawns on you slowly—the crowd isn’t just here for the usual Friday night revelry. They’re here for you.

You don’t blame them, you’re on stage and you’re in your element, the throb of the bass vibrating through your fingers as you blend into the fabric of the music. Your band plays with such harmony and rhythm that the crowd can’t help but sway to, captivated by Yeji’s beautiful voice, a melody that tugs at heartstrings.

You're also singing, harmonising with Yeji. While you haven't done a solo in front of anyone before, you love to sing. You enjoy it. Sunwoo has heard you sing and has tried to convince you to lead one of the performances, but you're too shy to take the spotlight.

And there he is—Jeno, your unspoken muse, the silent force behind every note you play. His eyes are locked on you, and even from the distance, you can feel the warmth of his gaze, the silent support in his smile. When he blows you a kiss, a current of exhilaration shoots through you, and for a fleeting moment, it’s just the two of you in the room.

Your eyes are only for him and he means the world to you. Tonight feels like the perfect moment to ask him to be your boyfriend.

Your eyes fix on Jeno once more but you notice a shift. instead of the usual supportive smiles, his gaze is elsewhere—fixed on Arin, who’s laughing, looking effortlessly breathtaking beside someone new. You didn’t even realise she was here, why was she here? 

The knot in your stomach tightens as you watch his expression change. There’s a hardness in his eyes, a tension in his jaw. The way he watches her speaks of unsaid words and unresolved feelings. Jeno’s look is one of jealousy, mixed with a hint of regret, as if he’s reconsidering every decision that led him away from her.

Your fingers falter on the bass strings, the melody souring. The room spins slightly as you try to refocus, to lose yourself in the music and Yeji’s harmonizing voice, but the scene unfolding offstage captures all your attention. Why now? Why here? 

With each jealous glance Jeno throws Arin’s way, a cold fear grips you. The joy of playing, the thrill of the music, fades into the background as a single, painful thought pierces through the confusion: What if he still wants her? What if tonight, the night you planned to ask him to be yours, ends with your heart breaking in front of everyone?

As the last notes of your performance fade into the din of applause and chatter, the glow from the stage lights seems to flicker out with your spirit. You feel drained, your usual post-show buzz overshadowed by a dull ache in your chest. The image of Jeno’s gaze drifting away from you and onto Arin is etched painfully into your mind.

You're barely off the stage when Jeno finds you. He pulls you into a hard kiss, the kind that usually melts away any remnants of stage fright or leftover adrenaline. But tonight, the kiss doesn’t reach the hollow feeling creeping up inside you. As he pulls back, his eyes scan your face, his joy at your performance shadowed by concern at how quiet you are.

“What’s up?” he asks, his voice soft, threaded with worry.

You shake your head, trying to dislodge the tightness in your throat, the words refusing to come. He doesn't push, but his eyes narrow slightly—a silent acknowledgment of the tension he too can sense.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you from behind. His lips find your cheek in a gentle kiss, and he murmurs. “I’m so proud of you.” The warmth of his breath against your skin sparks a contrast to the cold knot of doubt inside you.

But the images from earlier—the way he looked at Arin—haunt the edges of your happiness. “You were amazing tonight,” he continues, his hands sliding down to compliment your skirt, his fingers tracing the fabric around your hips. “I love this look on you,” he adds, voice rich with admiration.

His praises should have lifted your spirits but tonight they fell flat. Why was he looking at her like that? 

As he guides you through the crowd, his hand firm on your back, his actions are everything tender and protective, yet your mind races, trapped in a spiral of what-ifs and why-nows. His intimacy and affirmations, though genuine, feel overshadowed by the brief flash of something else in his gaze earlier—a complexity you hadn’t anticipated and aren’t sure how to navigate.

Sometime later, you find yourself with the band, leaning your head against Eric’s shoulder as laughter and chatter fill the air. The atmosphere is relaxed, almost festive, but you can’t shake off the weight of the evening’s events. Despite the alcohol flowing freely, you force yourself to stay present, mustering a smile to blend in with the group.

Jeno is engrossed in conversation with some friends, his animated gestures catching your eye from across the room. You take a moment to admire him, the way his eyes light up when he talks, the easy charm that draws people to him.

Needing a moment alone to gather your thoughts, you excuse yourself and slip away to the toilets. Leaning against the sink, you take deep breaths, trying to calm the turmoil swirling inside you. The events of the night replay in your mind, each moment etched vividly in your memory.

Emerging from the bathroom, the lingering energy from the gig vibrates within you, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the sight of Arin waiting by the corridor. Her smile is warm, seemingly genuine, as she clutches her purse. “You were just wonderful tonight,” she starts, her voice sweet, complimenting each of your band members—Yeji’s powerful vocals, Eric’s intense drum solos, Sunwoo’s infectious energy. Yet, when her eyes finally rest on you, the warmth subtly shifts.

She steps closer, her voice still soft but carrying an undertone you can’t quite place. “You know it’s not gonna last, right?” she murmurs, almost kindly, as if she’s sharing friendly advice rather than planting a seed of doubt.

You gulp, feeling stunned as it takes time for her statement to register and digest. You look at her in confusion. "What are you—?"

She laughs, the sound joyful and bright, and the twinkle in her eyes makes her look so beautiful and carefree. You understand why she's so adored by everyone. Yet, you can't tell whether she's laughing with you or mocking you. "I'm talking about you and Jeno," she says, her voice lilting as if discussing something trivial, not the bombshell she just dropped.

Managing only a faint reply, your voice comes out hushed and shaky, betraying your rattled nerves. “Why would you say that?” you ask, your question more of a whisper, as if speaking louder might confirm her 

She gives a gentle, patronising laugh. “Oh, honey, you shouldn’t get your hopes up too high,” she says, her eyes pitying. Her tone is nurturing, but the words sting, undermining the intensity of what you feel for Jeno.

Feeling a tightness in your chest, the words barely escape your lips, “Do you really think it’s not serious?” Your voice quivers, laced with insecurity and a lack of confidence as you seek validation for the intense feelings you harbour for him. 

Arin nods slowly, her expression morphing into one of feigned sympathy. “I can see how much you like him, and that it’s serious for you,” she begins, her tone soft, as if trying to cushion a harsh truth. “I’m really sorry he doesn’t feel the same way” Her words aim to sympathize, yet the empathy doesn’t quite reach her eyes, making her sincerity questionable.

You want to scream at her, to tell her that she shouldn't undermine the feelings you and Jeno very clearly have for each other. It is serious, but all you can do is swallow hard and nod slightly, unable to muster the courage to speak your disagreement. The weight of her words hangs heavy on your chest, suffocating you with their arrogance.

"Has he asked you to be his girlfriend?" Arin presses, her voice dripping with skepticism, her eyes boring into yours, searching for any sign of weakness.

"No," you admit, your voice barely audible, feeling the weight of her scrutiny bearing down on you, making you shrink further into yourself.

Arin's tone shifts, carrying a hint of nostalgia as she leans in slightly, her voice tinged with a hint of pride. 

"He asked me to be his girlfriend only three months after we met. How long have you two been seeing each other now? Six months?" Her words, meant as mere conversation, hang heavily between you, laden with implications she doesn't fully grasp.

You nod, feeling a pang of disappointment as her statement sinks in. The comparison stings, underscoring your own uncertainties about where you stand with Jeno. Arin's smile broadens, her eyes bright, oblivious to the discomfort she's unwittingly evoked.

Arin's expression softens, a wistful sigh escaping her lips as she leans closer, her voice lowering to a more intimate tone. "Honestly? I want him back. I’ve always felt like I’ve been his and he’s been mine. Like he’s my soulmate. Our connection and love is too strong for us to tear apart. Even if we distract ourselves with others, like what he’s doing with you, I know we’ll always find our way back to each other. Jeno is the one for me. He’s kind, caring, funny, smart, always puts me first and—don’t even get me started on how it feels to be kissed by him. And sex with him? God… I’ve really missed him."

That sounds like a ‘you’ problem, you wanted to mutter out loud. “Did you really just call me a distraction?” you question, your voice soft, not raised or rude at all. You weren’t going to stoop to that level.

She nods, apparently unaware of how harsh her words sound.

“I’m not a distraction, you can’t talk to me like that,” you defend yourself, your tone still even.

She giggles and shakes her head, her demeanour light as if she hadn't just dismissed your feelings. “Don’t be like that, you know what I mean.”

You shake your head, genuinely confused and hurt. “I really don’t.”

Arin’s conviction seems to solidify as she speaks, her tone sharpening, not catching the strain in your eyes. “You don’t get it,” she says, her voice rising slightly with a mix of frustration and certainty. “He’s still in love with me,” she declares, her hands casually smoothing her hair as if to emphasise her nonchalance. “That’s probably why he hasn’t taken it further with you.”

The tears well up in your eyes, but Arin remains utterly unfazed by your distress, her expression as composed as if she were discussing something trivial.

“I’m just waiting for him to come back to me, honestly, because that’s what he always does. But for some reason, he’s been infatuated and hooked on you for so long now. I guess the sex is that good, right?” Her words drip with insinuation, her smile sly and assuming.

Your laughter catches her off guard, and you can see the confusion in her narrowed eyes. Was she serious right now? Did she really think the only reason Jeno could ever be interested in you was for your body? In truth, you and Jeno haven’t had a lot of sex. You haven’t been ready for it, and he’s respected that. If only Arin knew. But you wouldn’t tell her. It’s frankly none of her business, and it’s incredibly intrusive of her to speak about your relationship with Jeno.

"I knew you'd understand," Arin smiles, her tone light but loaded with insinuation. Her words catch you off guard.

"What?" Your confusion is palpable, reflected in the slight furrow of your brow.

"Well, I know how much of a girl's girl you are—how sweet and loving. I have no doubt in my mind that you'd step away from whatever situation you’re having with Jeno," she continues, assuming a camaraderie that isn't there.

You huff, irritation spiking. "It's not a situationship, don't you dare—"

"It doesn't matter what it was," Arin cuts in dismissively. "The point is, I love Jeno and I deserve another chance with him. I know you'd understand. It's not like you feel anything for him, and he doesn’t like you either. It's obvious, why else hasn’t he asked you to be his girlfriend? He’s still in love with me."

Her words sting, a mix of arrogance and misguided assurance in her belief that she could manipulate your feelings. The audacity to suggest that your relationship with Jeno was anything less than genuine makes your heart race with a mix of anger and hurt.

Seconds later, your name floats across the room, spoken with a warmth that tugs at your heart. Jeno's presence cuts through, drawing every ounce of your attention. You force a smile as he approaches, though it feels hollow against the turmoil within you.

Jeno doesn’t hesitate as he reaches you, his gaze locked intensely on yours. There's a fervor in his eyes, a seriousness that chills you even as it pulls you closer. Without a word, he wraps you in his arms and kisses you passionately, his lips firm and insistent. As he pulls away, his lips find your forehead, pressing against your skin in an act so tender it sends shivers down your spine.

"Are you okay, baby?" His voice is a soft rumble, filled with genuine concern. You look up at him, your eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Just a bit overwhelmed," you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of emotions. You're acutely aware of Arin's lingering presence nearby, her shadow casting a pall over the moment. Jeno seems oblivious to her, his attention undividedly yours, his hands holding you with a protectiveness that feels both comforting and profound.

You shiver, whether from the cold or the intensity of the situation, you can’t tell. Jeno notices immediately, his brow furrowing with worry. "Are you cold, beautiful?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. Before you can answer, he gently slides his jacket over your shoulders. The fabric is warm from his body and you get lost in the scent of him. 

"Thank you, Jen," you manage, a small smile playing on your lips, touched by his thoughtfulness.

"I’ve been trying to find you, where did you go?" he asks, his tone light but his eyes searching yours for deeper answers.

You take his drink from his hands before you can answer. He rolls his eyes, telling you not to get carried away with drinking tonight, but you wouldn’t listen, especially when he tears the cap off with his teeth and holds it for you, leaving a soft kiss on your lips before you down it.

As you down the drink, the alcohol burns your throat, causing you to choke and cough. "Slow down," he chuckles, his hand rubbing your back gently to soothe you. He wipes away some of the alcohol that had dribbled down your chin, his touch tender and affectionate.

He leans in for another kiss, his lips meeting yours in a sweet, lingering embrace. When he tries to take the drink from you to slow your pace, you pout playfully, earning another affectionate peck on the lips. The two of you are lost in your own little world, you allow

yourself to forget about Arin just for this moment.

“Why are you so stressed out?” Jeno’s voice broke through the air 

“Because Arin here is telling me to back off and stop fucking you,” you replied with a nonchalant tone. Your voice was steady, but your hands betrayed you, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

That’s when Jeno’s eyes shifted, landing on Arin for the first time since he came over. His look was a mix of disgust and confusion, tinged with an unmistakable uninterest. She had been so silent, her presence had almost slipped your mind. But there she was, just observing, as if waiting for a crack to appear in the facade of your evening.

“Don’t listen to her,” Jeno said firmly, his voice raised just enough for Arin to catch every syllable. It was as if she wasn’t even worthy of his gaze, let alone a direct confrontation.

He then leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, a stark contrast to the chill that Arin’s words had left behind. “We haven’t even been fucking. Half the time she’s living in another universe, so don’t give her any attention, okay? Don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s bothered you,” he whispered, his words a soft but potent shield against the chaos Arin tried to sow.

Jeno's reaction is sudden and sharp as he hears your words, his face contorting into an expression of disbelief. “What else did she say?” he asks, his voice tinged with an edge that makes you hesitate. When you reluctantly admit, “Apparently you still love her,” a laugh bursts from him—one you’ve never heard before. It's not filled with amusement but rather a harshness that makes even you feel a sting of guilt for Arin. The sound hits her visibly, the impact evident in her faltering demeanor. 

Jeno’s grip on your hand tightens, his frustration palpable as he turns towards Arin with a piercing glare. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands, his voice booming in the small space, drawing the attention of those nearby. 

Arin, trying to defuse his anger, pleads with a shaky voice, “Jen, don’t be angry—”

But he cuts her off sharply, “Don’t call me that.” His response is so cold, so final, it makes you flinch; you've never seen him this furious, this detached from his usual warmth.

Realising the scene might escalate, you turn his face to meet yours, cupping his cheeks gently. His eyes, which had been hard and unforgiving, soften immediately under your touch. His breath evens out as you whisper soothingly, “Jen, don’t make a scene, okay?” 

Jeno hums, his brow furrowed in frustration, his body tensing as he turns back to Arin. There's a cold sharpness in his eyes now, a clear signal that he's far from finished. "What else did you say?" he demands, his voice low and threateningly calm.

Arin swallows hard, visibly shaken by his intensity. "Me and Y/N just had a heart to heart," she stammers, attempting to paint a picture that never existed. "We talked about how she'd take a step back from whatever situation you two have gotten yourselves into. That way, I could tell you the truth, show you how much you mean to me, commit for real. I know you don’t trust me yet, and that it will take a lot of work, but I’m willing to try. Are you? I really do love you, Jeno, and I always have."

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with tension that makes the air thick and difficult to breathe. Jeno's face cycles through emotions rapidly—humour gives way to disbelief, and then a scorching anger that flares intensely in his eyes. The transformation is so sudden, so severe, it sends a chill down your spine. You want nothing more than to reach for his hand and pull him away, but the moment demands your presence, your witness to his raw, unrestrained emotion.

"What is wrong with you?" Jeno's voice cracks like a whip, each word dripping with disdain and incredulity. His stance is imposing, the muscles in his jaw twitching with barely restrained anger.

Arin, teary-eyed, looks up at him. "Jeno, am I so wrong for being true to my feelings?" Her voice breaks, a mixture of desperation and manipulation.

"You're pathetic," Jeno responds, the harshness in his tone slicing through the tense atmosphere. "You’re so pathetic. I can’t believe it." His words are not just a dismissal but a condemnation, delivered with a brutal honesty that even makes you gasp.

Arin's voice is a soft, broken whisper, almost pleading as she clings to a sliver of hope, tears streaking her face. "I know you’re still in love with me."

"I don’t love you, and I never will," he states firmly, his voice void of hesitation or doubt.

Arin’s plea intensifies, her emotions raw. "You used to love me, you used to love me so much—"

"And you're making me regret ever feeling that way," he interrupts sharply, his tone laced with a harshness that draws a startled gasp from you. The situation escalates quickly, his anger palpable.

Through her sobs, Arin struggles to comprehend the finality in his voice. "How can feelings like that just disappear? How can you move on so easily?"

Jeno’s anger simmers into a cold, controlled calm. "Honestly, just stop talking now," he commands, the tension in his voice still evident but more restrained.

"Jeno—" Arin tries to interject, desperation tingeing her voice.

"Arin." He warms, the bitterness in his tone a stark contrast to the sweetness with which he usually says your name. "I don’t want to hear anymore. I don’t want to talk to you ever again. We're going around in circles, and it’s clear I’ve moved on. You should too."

“Look, if you ever upset Y/N again, if you make her feel this way again, I won’t stand for it. I’m not just upset because of what you said about us, but because you hurt someone important to me. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into our past. You need to respect that and stay away.”

Jeno's confrontation had echoed loudly through the bar, drawing eyes from every corner. As he turns around and pulls you into a tight hug, you feel the weight of those stares, the lingering tension from the audience that had gathered. His arms wrap around your waist firmly, holding you close. Even as he releases you, you sense his reluctance, his smile barely held back as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, bringing him even closer.

The curiosity and concern of the onlookers press on you, and your only thought is to take him away, to calm him down. You gently lay your hand over his, feeling the stiff muscles beneath his skin. Leaning in, you whisper into his ear—words only for him, soothing and meaningful. You watch his eyes close, a nod acknowledging your comfort, but his face remains tense, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Seeking to lighten the mood, you kiss his eyelids gently and ask with feigned casualness, "How much sleep did you get last night?"

"About two hours," he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion.

"That explains why you're looking like a zombie," you tease gently, hoping to draw out a real smile. He lets out a low chuckle, not quite his usual laughter but appreciated all the same. Normally, your jokes would have him laughing heartily, but tonight it's forced, you were only trying to cheer him up. Yet, you feel his gratitude radiating back to you; he's thankful for your efforts to ease his mind, for trying to make him forget the stressful confrontation.

"Let's go home now, yeah?" you suggest softly, each word laced with concern, eager to leave the charged atmosphere of the bar behind. He nods silently, the agreement solid and sure.

As you both prepare to leave, Jeno drapes his arm protectively around your shoulders, guiding you through the crowd. The physical closeness comforts you both, a silent promise of support as you walk out of the bar together, leaving the whispers and stares behind in the dimmed lights.

The second you’ve guided him away your hands find his cheeks, cradling his face with a tender touch that you hoped would soothe his ruffled emotions. In the dim light of the parking lot, his eyes searched yours for reassurance, finding solace in the calm you offered amidst the storm.

As you led him to the car, your fingertips lightly traced the contours of his face, planting soft, reassuring kisses across his forehead, cheeks, and finally his lips. "I'm so proud of you," you whispered against his lips, the warmth of your breath mingling with his. "You got everything off your chest."

He nodded, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and residual tension as he pulled you closer, sealing your affirmations with a kiss that spoke volumes of gratitude and a lingering trace of sadness. 

As you reached for his car keys, Jeno's hand covered yours, stopping you gently but firmly. He finally spoke up, a hint of laughter in his voice to ease the tension, "No way, I don’t have a death wish," he joked, but his tone quickly turned serious, the humor fading as he looked directly into your eyes. "You mean so much to me," he continued, each word weighted with earnestness. "I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you, but I'm not letting go. You're all mine."

"All yours.”

──────────────────────────────

You catch the hoodie Jeno tosses your way and pull it over your head, replacing your top with the comforting scent and warmth of his clothing. Watching him make his way to the edge of the bed, you notice how the night had etched itself into his form—the tension in his muscles, the fatigue in the set of his jaw, his skin glistening slightly under the dim room light.

Approaching quietly, you sit beside him, close enough to share warmth but giving him the space he seems to need. You reach out tentatively, resting your hand lightly on his back. The skin under your touch is warm, slightly damp with the sheen of stress. You start to move your hand in slow, comforting circles, trying to soothe the tension that has him so tightly wound.

The room is only filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing, each exhale slightly shaky as he tries to regain his composure. "Jeno?" you whisper, breaking the silence gently as you wait for him to meet your eyes. When he finally looks at you, the heartbreak in his gaze is palpable, and it strikes you deeply. The dim light from the bedside lamp catches the tears brimming in his eyes, a rare display of vulnerability.

"Oh, Jeno," you whisper, your voice thick as you fight back your own emotions. Seeing him this vulnerable disorients you—Jeno, always the strong one, now so clearly in need of support. He draws you closer, 

As Jeno gently pulls you onto his lap, the physical closeness brings an immediate sense of comfort and security. Settling into this favored position, you can feel the warmth of his body radiating against yours. The firmness of his thighs provides a grounding stability, while his arms encircle your waist, drawing you even closer. His embrace is protective, his hands resting lightly on your back, a touch that’s both reassuring and tender.

Every breath he takes is a shared experience. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle tension in his body as he tries to relax. His heartbeat, strong and steady under the palm of your hand, beats a comforting rhythm in the quiet of the room.

“I hate seeing you like this,” you whisper, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his. The closeness allows you to see every detail of his face, the vulnerability in his eyes more apparent than ever. Your fingers gently push back a lock of his hair that had fallen across his forehead, and you wipe away a tear with your thumb. Each touch is filled with concern and a deep need to comfort him, to ease the distress that so clearly weighs on him.

"You can always trust me, you know?" you add softly, looking into his eyes for a moment of connection, hoping to reassure him of your support.

Jeno responds with a small, appreciative nod, his eyes briefly closing as if to savour the comfort your words bring. Then, with a gentle nudge, he shifts your positions on the bed, guiding you both to lie down. He settles back against the pillows, and you naturally find your place on top of him, your body aligned with his in a close, comforting embrace.

His arms wrap around you securely, a protective gesture that pulls you closer into his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, the warmth of his chest enveloping you. Each breath he takes is a subtle rise and fall, a rhythm that you find yourself syncing with as the tension slowly begins to melt away from both of you.

He gives you a tight-lipped smile and nods, a silent acknowledgment of your words but also a sign that he's still guarding his thoughts closely. “I know I can, baby.” 

“I can feel how tense you are, what’s up?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, making you shiver slightly. His arms tighten around you, drawing you even closer, his body language reflecting his concern and deep care.

You gulp, caught off guard by his perceptiveness. You’ve been trying to hide your own unease to put him first, but he always knows when something’s on your mind, just by looking into your eyes.

Taking a deep breath, you weigh your options but decide it’s better to be open with him. "Jen, I have been trying to tell you something and I've been worrying about how to say it," you begin, the weight of your confession making your heart race a bit.

He looks at you, concern flickering in his eyes as he senses the seriousness in your voice. "What’s up?" he asks, his voice rough, filled with both concern for you and the weariness of his own troubles.

“Nothing,” you lie softly, a sad smile touching your lips as you lay your head back down on his chest. “It’s not important.”

“You can always talk to me, you know,” he replies, his tone gentle, using your own words against you in a playful yet sincere way.

You giggle at the role reversal, the light moment bringing a flicker of warmth to the heavy atmosphere. “I know, I know,” you whisper back, allowing yourself a moment to just be held by him, feeling the steady beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his breathing.

“Do you wanna talk about your thing?” you suggest after a while, hoping he trusted you enough to share his heart with you. You would always listen and respect his feelings, they were so precious to you.

“No.” He says immediately, shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he insists in a tone that doesn’t match his heart. “Just feeling tired, it’s nothing more than that.”

And that was his first lie.

──────────────────────────────

Walking across the university campus feels different today. The echoes of last night's band performance seem to have followed you, with noticeable traction and attention specifically directed at you, almost as if the applause and cheers have spilled over into the daylight. It’s been gradually building up, this increasing visibility, but today the weight of it truly sinks in. Each step feels more observed, each glance carries a hint of recognition, making the campus pathways feel less like passageways and more like stages.

The change isn't loud or sudden, but the weight of it is undeniable. People notice you, recognize you. It's not because of anything you've done, but because of who you're seen with: Jeno. Your relationship with him, not quite defined but visibly close, has unwittingly thrust you into a spotlight.

You're aware of the looks, the whispers as you pass by. Your previous anonymity has been stripped away, leaving you exposed to curious eyes. Your connection with Jeno is evident in your affectionate gestures both on and off campus. Whether it's hugging, kissing, hand-holding, or sharing laughs, people often mistake your closeness for a romantic relationship. Despite this, neither you nor Jeno correct them, leaving the nature of your bond open to interpretation.

This spotlight isn't confined to the walkways of the campus; it extends into your online world too. Your Instagram, which once felt like a personal photo album, now buzzes with activity. Posts featuring Jeno, which you uploaded without a second thought, have attracted more attention than you could have imagined

Messages and interactions flood your inbox, each one just a variation of 'hey' from people who never noticed you before. You see through the thin veil of their sudden interest—it's insincere, a shallow attempt to connect with you, not for who you are, but for the company you keep.

The newfound attention is dizzying, but it's also exhausting. Each interaction, each forced conversation, drains you. What used to be simple walks to class are now peppered with stops and small talk, leaving you feeling more like a public figure than a student.

Some of them were bad interactions and attention—really bad. You’re working on a university project with Jiwon, someone you recently befriended. But she’s cool, and you need a partner for this project. The way you met wasn’t the nicest:

“So, you and Jeno have been getting close, right?”

Your stomach twists at the unexpected question, and you shoot Jiwon a puzzled look, trying to gauge her intentions. She meets your gaze with a knowing smirk, and you can’t help but feel a tinge of unease creeping up your spine.

“Who are you?” you respond cautiously, the edge in your voice betraying your suspicion.

“You know who I am,” she counters, her tone dripping with confidence.

But that’s the past. You always thought she was a bit weird, but she works hard, and you guess that’s just her way of being friendly. Little did you know what her true intentions were. 

As you typed away on your laptop, surrounded by stacks of musical textbooks, you couldn’t help but smile at the messages popping up from Jeno. A thousand thoughts whirled in your head, and none of them were focused on this project; you were utterly unfocused. Jiwon tapped away at her laptop across from you, occasionally glancing over with a too-curious gaze that prickled your comfort. The air between you, once filled with the soft clicking of keys and the rustle of pages turning, now carried a charge of tension.

“That was quite the show last night,” Jiwon started, the curiosity evident in her eyes as she peered at you over her laptop screen. “I saw you leave with Jeno.”

“Yeah, figures, we are seeing each other,” you responded dryly, not lifting your gaze from your screen, hoping your tone conveyed your lack of interest in discussing it further.

Jiwon's eyebrows quirk upwards, a mix of surprise and something else—a calculated interest—flashing across her features. "Really now? That’s... interesting. How long has that been going on?" Her tone is casual, but her eyes are too sharp, too keen, as if dissecting your every reaction.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, not liking the scrutiny or the direction this conversation is taking. "A while," you reply vaguely, keeping your eyes fixed on your laptop screen, hoping to convey your disinterest in continuing this line of discussion.

"But are you guys serious?" Jiwon presses, leaning forward, her voice lowering as if sharing a secret. "Because, you know, Jeno and Arin were a pretty intense thing. Everyone thought they were endgame."

“But they never were a couple. They were never boyfriend and girlfriend.” you say, keeping your tone deadpan.

“Oh honey, is that what he told you?” Jiwon responds, her voice dripping with sweet, mocking condescension.

“Is it not true?” you say, a hint of irritation seeping through, feeling foolish for even having to defend what Jeno told you.

Jiwon pauses, as if contemplating how much to reveal, her gaze sharp and calculating. "Well, it's complicated," she starts slowly, each word measured. "They weren't officially a couple, no. But they might as well have been. They were everything but in name. And sometimes, that's even stronger, don't you think?"

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You feel a knot tighten in your stomach, the doubt she's planting beginning to sprout. Struggling to keep your voice steady, you confirm, "So, they were serious then." No matter what Jeno tells you, this confirms that he still had lingering attachment to her. 

Jiwon nods, a feigned sympathy in her eyes as she leans closer. "They were inseparable, everyone knew it. Just because there wasn't a label on it doesn't mean it wasn't real. Jeno... he's someone who feels deeply, you know? When he's in, he's all in. And he was all in with Arin."

You press your lips together, feeling the sting of her words. "But that's all in the past, right?"

"Sure," Jiwon replies, her tone noncommittal. "But the past has a way of sticking around, especially with feelings that intense. It's hard to just cut that off completely, don't you think?"

Her words echo in your mind, sowing seeds of insecurity. You wrestle internally with the implications of Jeno’s past with Arin, questioning whether the affection he shows you could truly eclipse his history with her. Across from you, Jiwon observes your reaction with a slight, knowing smile, her point landing effectively without the need for further elaboration.

Frustration and a touch of defiance rise within you as you process her insinuations about Arin. Clenching your jaw to quell the irritation, you assert firmly, “It’s different with us.” Your tone is resolute, an attempt to dismiss any comparisons she might be suggesting. “We’re happy. That’s all that matters.”

Jiwon nods, seemingly satisfied with your discomfort. She taps a finger against her lips thoughtfully. "Sure, sure. Just seems sudden, you know? Jeno moving on like that. Makes you wonder if it's really over with Arin, or if you're just a... distraction."

The word stings more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but frown. "I'm not anyone's distraction," you snap, more sharply than intended, your fingers pausing above the keyboard.

"Hey, no offence," Jiwon raises her hands in mock surrender, her smile a little too wide to be sincere. "Just making conversation. You guys look cute together, really. Just hope it's for the right reasons, you know?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to calm the rising annoyance. "We should focus on the project," you suggest coldly, turning your attention back to your screen, signaling the end of this unwelcome discussion.

Jiwon shrugs, the smile still playing on her lips as she turns back to her laptop, but not before giving you a look that says she's not quite done digging. You exhale quietly, tension settling in your shoulders as you try to refocus on the work in front of you, Jiwon's words echoing uncomfortably in the back of your mind.

“Has he asked you to be his girlfriend?” she prods further, her gaze piercing as she waits for your response.

It’s none of your fucking business. 

“We’re just taking it slow,” you respond, your tone polite but laced with a hint of caution, unwilling to divulge too much.

“And you think he will?” she laughs cynically, the sound grating on your nerves as it echoes in the small room.

You shake your head in frustration. “Stop asking me such personal questions,” you implore, trying to keep your patience intact even as annoyance gnaws at the edges of your composure.

She ignores your discomfort completely. “Do you think he’s over Arin?”

“I—”

“Let me show you something,” she interrupts, a smug grin spreading across her face as she pulls out her phone, her eyes gleaming with malicious intent.

As the video plays, the image of school lockers floods the screen. You instantly recognise a younger Jeno steps into view, clad in his crisp school uniform, his face alight with youthful hope and nervous energy.

He's holding a single rose, his stance awkward yet sincere as he speaks to Arin, the words muted but his intentions clear in his earnest expression. The scene is painfully romantic, set against a backdrop of blooming flowers and classmates passing by with fleeting glances. You can't help but feel a sting as you watch him put himself out there, so vulnerable and open. He was asking her to be his girlfriend. 

But then, Arin's response comes—a shake of her head, her voice lost in the silent video, but her rejection palpable. The rose hangs limply in Jeno's hand as he nods, trying to mask his disappointment. The video ends with him turning away, a figure retreating in the face of unreciprocated feelings, leaving you with a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Jiwon grins at your reaction, revelling in your discomfort. It’s what she wanted, and you’re giving in. Doubt creeps in as you wonder why she approached you in the first place. Was this her ulterior motive all along?

“You’re just trying to get into my head, and it’s not going to work,” you retort, your voice stronger now, determined not to let her shake you. “Why would

that video hurt me? Jeno was a fetus in it and he’s moved on, he wouldn’t ever ask Arin to be his girlfriend today.” 

"But if he's moved on, why hasn't he made it official with you?" Jiwon probes further, her tone mockingly sympathetic. "You're just the girl he's with now. Not the one he wants."

"That's your opinion," you respond crisply, closing your laptop with a snap. "It doesn't matter to me. What Jeno and I have is between us."

“Ok but he’s never asked you to be his girlfriend, has me? I mean… that must sting. I know why he’s never asked, it’s because you guys don’t have anything in common—”

“Yeah, we don’t,” you agree, refusing to let her see how much her words are affecting you. She wants you to disagree and reflect so much so you don’t give her the satisfaction.

“Especially sexually. You’re some Christian virgin girl who’s into vanilla sex—”

“How do you know? Have you fucked me?” you snap back, your frustration boiling over.

“—and Jeno is wild and rough in bed,” she continues, her smirk widening at your discomfort. “You know, once me, Arin, and Jeno had a threesome. I bet he’d never be able to experiment like that with you.”

Jiwon's grin widened, a mix of satisfaction and malice in her eyes as she closely observed your reaction. It was exactly what she had hoped for, and you felt like you were inadvertently falling right into her trap. As you grappled with maintaining your composure, you couldn't help but wonder about Jiwon's motives for approaching you initially. Was this all some twisted strategy on her part? The thought made you feel both jealous and underappreciated, particularly stinging given Jeno had never formally committed to being your boyfriend or shown the kind of grand romantic gestures that Jiwon seemed to enjoy bringing up.

"I just wanna look out for you, girl to girl," Jiwon said, her voice dripping with false tenderness. "I have no clue how he’s wound up with you, you’re not what he’s used to, he’s more into girls like Arin so brace for heartbreak. You’re probably just someone to keep his bed warm; he'll go back to Arin, he always does."

Her words were a calculated strike, designed to undermine and provoke. Anger and frustration bubbled inside you, and impulsively, your hand slammed the laptop shut. The sound echoed sharply through the room, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. For a brief moment, Jiwon's satisfied expression flickered with surprise. But her smirk quickly returned, as if your reaction was a minor amusement.

"You're just trying to get into my head, and it's not going to work," you retorted sharply, your voice firm and your gaze steely. "You need to watch it."

The room fell silent, with a few scattered gasps from onlookers. Someone whispered loud enough for others to hear, "That's Jeno's girl," fueling a renewed sense of confidence within you.

Jiwon leaned back, her expression cooling into something more calculating. "Oh, I'm just concerned, that's all," she replied smoothly, feigning innocence. 

Finally, you had enough. When Jiwon casually suggested, "Yeah, we should continue working," you laughed in her face, a mix of disbelief and disdain coloring your response. "Can you leave? I don’t want to work with you anymore. Get out," you said assertively, leaving no room for her to argue.

Jiwon, caught off guard but maintaining her smug composure, quickly gathered her things and left, her departure marked by a silence that filled the room as everyone watched. You breathed a sigh of relief, proud that you stood your ground, yet unsettled by the seeds of doubt that lingered.

──────────────────────────────

The autumn leaves crunched under your feet as you walked through the campus, a crisp reminder that two weeks had already slipped by since your unsettling conversation with Jiwon. The vibrancy of the season felt at odds with the dreariness settling in your heart. You kept walking, your gaze fixed ahead, but your mind was anything but calm, cycling through recent events that had started to feel like weights around your neck.

Choosing to keep Jiwon’s words to yourself seemed like the wise choice initially, avoiding unnecessary drama. But now, that decision gnawed at you, breeding a loneliness that clung stubbornly to your thoughts. The mistrust it fostered wasn’t just about what Jiwon had said; it was the doubt about what else might be unsaid, the secrets that might be whispered behind closed doors or shared in hidden glances.

You sighed, thinking about the conversations that never happened—the ones about Arin, the discussions Jeno had with her, the ones he never brought up with you. They hovered in the air, palpable but unacknowledged, like specters of mistrust between you two. These matters had remained unspoken, transforming gradually into silent witnesses of your growing isolation.

The campus was bustling around you, students moving between classes, lost in conversations or laughter, a stark contrast to the solitude that felt like it was enveloping you more tightly with each passing day. You hadn’t really spoken to Jeno much, not about things that mattered. The once easy conversations, filled with laughter and deep confessions, had dwindled to nothing more substantial than hurried greetings and vague promises of ‘I’ll text you later’ as you passed each other in the hallways. The rarity of his presence, both physical and emotional, was becoming painfully evident.

You missed him. Not just the physical presence but the emotional connection that once seemed unshakeable. It felt as if he had receded into a shell, or worse, into a world where you could no longer reach him. Each brief kiss, each fleeting touch, left you more frustrated and flustered than before. They were mere echoes of what you used to share, reminders of the distance that had grown between you.

Jeno's reasons for being distant were valid, not just convenient excuses. It was evident in every hurried conversation and the rare, weary smiles he offered between his classes and study sessions. You had seen the tangible proof of his commitment—his desk, perpetually buried under books and papers; the late nights you caught him in the lab, soldering and sketching long after everyone else had left and his apron; always stained with oil or littered with bits of metal and wood.

He had made a clear choice to cut out distractions, putitng a hold on drinking, getting high and partying to buckle down on his engineering projects. There was no question about his discipline or his focus on the future. It was admirable, truly, and part of what you adored about him—his ability to commit so completely to his goals.

You always felt a surge of pride watching him, his determination palpable. Supporting him was never a question; you wanted his dreams for him as much as he did. Yet, despite your pride in his achievements and your awe for his aspirations, a small part of you felt sidelined.

As much as you admired his dedication, it pained you to feel like an outsider looking in. His life was filled with calculations and projects, and somewhere along the line, it felt like there was less and less room for you. It wasn’t that you doubted his affection, but his absence left a void that was hard to ignore. You supported him unconditionally, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling of being excluded from the very life you were cheering him on to build.

As you walked, a leaf drifted from a branch, spiraling down to land softly beside your shoe. You stopped, looking down at it, its vibrant reds and oranges stark against the gray pavement. It was beautiful and yet, so transient. A sudden fear gripped you, unbidden and sharp—was this what was happening to your relationship with Jeno? A beautiful thing, fading before it really had the chance to grow?

──────────────────────────────

As you and Sunwoo navigate the bustling pathways of the campus, his arm occasionally drapes around your shoulder, steering you clear of the occasional student and backpack that seem to emerge in your path like sudden obstacles. His touch is grounding, but you’re barely there, your gaze downcast, lost in a swirl of somber thoughts.

Sunwoo has been watching you closely, and his voice breaks the silence, tinged with concern. “Hey, you haven’t said much today. What’s going on?” He looks at you intently, giving you a gentle squeeze to reassure you that he’s there, really there for you.

You glance up, meeting his gaze, the familiarity of his earnest concern makes the words spill out of you, almost against your will. “I miss Jeno,” you confess, the words heavy with unshed emotion. “It just hurts a lot, not talking to him for so long. I’m always here to support him, even help him study… But it feels like he’s just shut me out.”

Sunwoo’s expression softens as he exhales deeply, trying to offer comfort. “I’m sure it’s not like that,” he says, although his voice carries a hint of doubt, sensing the depth of your distress.

Your next words are laced with a raw vulnerability, your heart overriding the logic you strive to hold onto. “It’s like… I can see it in his eyes, Sunwoo. He’s losing interest in me.” You pause, swallowing hard, the fear evident in your voice. 

Before Sunwoo can reply, his eyes shift past your shoulder, focusing on something—or someone—behind you. “He’s right there,” he says, nodding towards a figure in the distance. “Let’s go see if that’s true.”

You catch sight of Jeno through the sea of students, his laughter ringing clear, each chuckle like a melody you've yearned to hear. His back is to you, shoulders relaxed among friends. Heart pounding, you hesitate, then muster the courage to approach, tapping gently on his shoulder.

"Jen," your voice barely a whisper, yet it slices through the laughter, halting conversations. He turns, his friends drifting away, leaving you both in a sudden quiet. His smile is tight-lipped, a strained semblance of normalcy that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which dart briefly as if searching for an escape or an excuse.

"You okay?" His words are automatic, the customary concern laced with an undercurrent of weariness. He seems poised to keep moving, to brush past this moment.

"Yeah, I just—I just miss you, that’s all. I hope you’re taking care of yourself," you say, the words more of a plea than a statement. Each syllable is heavy with unspoken emotion, a blend of longing and subtle accusation.

"I miss you too. I’m sorry for how busy I’ve been—" Jeno starts, his apology cut off by the earnest, almost desperate look in your eyes.

"I know you're busy, but can you please come over later? Or I can come to yours. We don’t even need to do anything, I just wanna be with you," you press on, your voice soft yet insistent, betraying your need for him, for the connection that has been fraying at the edges.

He sighs, his face a canvas of conflict and affection. "I have to study so I won’t be able to give you the attention I want to," he admits, his voice low.

"That’s fine… I just wanna be with you," you persist, a frown knitting your brows. "I’ve really missed you, I fear I’m going crazy. Haven’t I, Sunwoo?"

Turning to Sunwoo, who's been hovering a respectful distance away, he mumbles awkwardly, "Yeah, batshit crazy." 

"Don’t do that face," Jeno says softly, his hands cupping your face gently, steering your gaze back to him. His expression softens into one of deep affection, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. He pulls you into a hug, the motion swift yet full of intent. 

You exhale sharply, sinking into his embrace, your body finally relaxing after weeks of tension. His scent envelops you, familiar and comforting, grounding you in the moment. The world narrows down to the feel of his arms around you, the steady beat of his heart against yours.

"How about I see you tomorrow night?" he suggests, his voice a soothing balm.

You pout, longing for more immediate comfort, but he chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. "Just wait an extra day, okay? Can you do that for me?" His lips graze your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine.

"Tomorrow is when all my exams will end, so I’ll be all yours from that moment onwards. Yeah, baby? You like the sound of that?" His words are husky, promising not just his time but his undivided attention.

"All. Mine," you affirm, leaning up to capture his lips with yours, initiating a deep, fervent kiss that you both have missed. The kiss is intense, a mingling of relief and longing, drawing out the weeks of separation into a single point of connection.

The sensation that passes through Jeno at your words is ineffable, a surge that sets his very soul quivering like a plucked string. It’s an ancient rhythm, a silent symphony that whispers of something more profound than desire—too deep to name, too sacred to voice. His heart recognizes it, the strange alchemy of fear and longing intermingled, and it terrifies him. Yet, as his gaze locks with yours, there's an unspoken understanding, a yearning to surrender to this unnamed emotion.

He watches the happiness blossom on your face, and it dawns on him—the decision has already been made in the quiet spaces of his heart. “Come over tonight,” he finds himself saying, the words shaped by a newfound resolve.

Your smile, open and luminous, fans the flame within him. “I thought that you were busy tonight.” 

“I will be, but you can just sit on my lap while I work, and then we’ll stay up together when I’m done. I could take you somewhere nice, yeah? Or we can just chill. Just come over. I wanna be with you. I’m sorry I haven’t given you much time in the last two weeks; that’s all gonna change. I’ll never do that again. I don’t want you to feel like you’re not my priority. Let me make it up to you, tonight and tomorrow night.”

The promises tumble from him, each one a pledge to do better, to be better. And in that moment, he means every word with a fervency that startles him. The smile that dances across your lips is a beam of pure joy, igniting a similar glow within him.

The kiss you share is intense, a physical manifestation of all the unspoken words and pent-up emotions between you. His lips press against yours with a fervor that conveys his urgency, his need to make amends. The taste of him is familiar yet charged with the electric current of your shared anticipation. You respond with equal fervor, your own desire an echo of his own.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. His hands roam across your back, drawing you in until there's no space left between you. The heat of the moment rises, every movement of your lips and every glide of your tongues stoking the fire. Your breaths mingle, each gasp and sigh amplifying the hunger.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, to the sensation of his body aligned with yours, the soft sounds that spill from your lips into his. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, a testament to his intensity. And even as he whispers apologies against your lips, each kiss he plants is a silent promise of more—more time, more attention, more him.

But time, relentless and unforgiving, intrudes upon the moment. Jeno breaks away with a soft, lingering peck on your cheek, an endearment whispered into the air between you. “I’m already late,” he says, and though the words are an apology, his tone carries the weight of a promise. "I’ll see you tonight. Beautiful." You nod, a smile breaking through your earlier frustrations. As he turns to leave, a sense of anticipation fills you, the promise of tonight and tomorrow holding not just his presence but the revival of the intimacy you've both missed.

──────────────────────────────

As you sit on his lap, the room hums with the sound of his focused efforts, the occasional rustle of papers and the soft clicks of his laptop keys filling the air. He's immersed in his studies, his brow furrowed in concentration, a look of determination etched across his face. Every so often, he lifts his eyes from the screen to meet yours, offering a soft smile or a quick kiss—a silent acknowledgment of your presence.

The seriousness with which he approaches his work is undeniably attractive, adding an edge of admiration to the warmth blooming in your chest. His dedication reminds you why you fell for him in the first place. It's in these moments, even amidst the silence of concentration, that you feel a deep connection to him.

Suddenly, his voice breaks the quiet, a whisper so soft it pulls you from your reverie. "Turn around," he murmurs, his tone low and inviting. You hum in response, a sound of contentment that fills the small space between you.

"I'm taking a break. Turn around on my lap." His hands guide you gently yet firmly, ensuring your cooperation without needing to push. You can't help but smile as you obey, feeling the shift of his body beneath you as he helps maneuver you to face him. The movement is smooth, almost practiced, showing his familiarity with your body. 

Once positioned, you find yourself straddling him, your gaze locked onto his. His eyes, dark and intense, pull you in, and without another word, his lips find yours. The kiss is deep and consuming, igniting a fire that had simmered quietly while he studied. His lips move with a sureness that speaks of deep familiarity and longing, each press against yours a silent message of desire.

As the kiss deepens, his hands wander up your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. His touch is both gentle and demanding, a contradiction that only he could manage so perfectly. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin material of your clothes, the warmth radiating between you creating an envelope of intimacy that shields you from the outside world.

"Good girl," he whispers against the shell of your ear after your lips part for a moment. His breath is warm, tickling the sensitive skin and sending shivers down your spine. He plants a soft kiss on your cheek, his lips lingering slightly as he speaks again. "You've been so patient with me while I work, not disturbing me. I should do this more."

"Do what?" you ask, your voice a whisper that matches his own.

"Have you on my lap," he responds with a hint of mischief in his voice, his hands tightening around you slightly. 

As you lean in, eager for another kiss, he pulls back slightly, a small crease forming between his brows—a silent signal of his concern. "You okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine care. Your eyes narrow playfully, trying to mask the flurry of emotions his simple question stirs within you. 

"I am, yeah." You attempt to bridge the distance for another kiss, but he resists gently, his gaze piercing deeper.

"Is there something on your mind? Talk to me, baby." His words halt your motions, a gentle reminder of how attuned he is to your feelings, sometimes catching nuances you haven't fully acknowledged yourself. As he looks into your eyes, it's as if he's peering into the depths of your soul, seeing beyond the facade to the tangled mess of thoughts and emotions you've pushed aside.

His gentle probing breaks through the facade you've maintained. Suddenly, emotions you've suppressed surge to the forefront, triggered by his keen perception. It’s not merely the closeness of his body that reassures you, but how deeply he sees into you. Beyond the physical intimacy, it's his emotional attunement to you—his ability to sense and respond to your unspoken thoughts and hidden feelings. In his gaze, you find a refuge for all that you've held back, a realization dawning on you of how profoundly connected you both are, far beyond the everyday exchanges of affection.

You sigh, gathering the courage to address the tangled feelings you've harboured over the past few weeks. As someone who values open communication above all in a relationship, you feel it's crucial to not let this pattern of silence persist with Jeno, especially when he matters so much to you.

"It started when you talked to Arin after my performance," you begin, watching his reaction closely. "I appreciated how you handled it—being clear about your feelings and moving on right then and there. It meant a lot to me."

Jeno nods silently, his eyes locked on yours, signaling his attention despite the surprise that flickers briefly across his face.

"But since then, something's changed," you continue, the words flowing more freely now. "You’ve seemed distant, harder to read. I understand the pressure you’re under with exams, and I see how hard you're working. I’m really proud of you for that." You pause, ensuring he's still with you. Jeno's nod encourages you to press on.

"However, I can’t help feeling that part of the distance might be due to what happened with Arin. Has it left you feeling confused or lost? I wouldn’t know as we haven’t really talked about it, and our communication has suffered.” 

"Speaking of which," you add, shifting slightly to gauge his reaction to what you’re about to reveal, "there’s something else you should know. Do you know Jiwon?”

"Arin's best friend?" Jeno asks, a trace of caution in his voice.

You nod and Jeno lets out a huff. “Yeah, she’s a bitch.” 

You hold back your laughter and continue. “She approached me recently, and she wasn’t kind. She implied that what you and I have isn’t serious. She told me I was just keeping your bed warm, that you weren’t over Arin and that you’d always go back to her."

Jeno's expression tightens, his jaw clenching slightly as he processes your words. "Oh, that’s what that was about," he murmurs, referring to something evidently on his mind.

You're puzzled. "What?"

"I heard a rumor around campus that you hit Jiwon. I meant to ask about it but forgot. So, did you hit her?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "No, I'm not violent. I wouldn't do that."

His gaze then sharpens, becoming more serious and focused. “Listen, don’t let her get to you. Jiwon doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s clueless about us, about what we have. It’s so much more than she could understand.” His reassurance is firm, meant to fortify you against the doubts seeded by outside voices.

“Is it?” You couldn’t help but question, the words slipping out softer than intended.

He hummed in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. “Is it so much more? Because there’s been no real progression in our relationship, no steps forward.”

“We’re exclusive,” he replied quickly, as if that settled the matter.

But the conversation was already veering into deeper waters. “I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if you still had some lingering attachments or feelings for Arin. She was a huge part of your history, and it’s tough to just let that go. Is that why we haven’t had the ‘what are we’ talk? Because of Arin, because of what you might still feel for her?”

He didn’t see that coming. The shift in the room was palpable.

Sitting on his lap, you fiddled with the edge of his shirt, the physical closeness contrasting sharply with the emotional distance that seemed to widen with each word. the silence stretching painfully between you. It was unfortunate, really, that despite the serious conversations and the mutual admissions of wanting only each other, Jeno hadn’t moved things forward. He hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend yet, and that omission hung heavily in the room, a silent wedge driving doubt into your thoughts.

"Are you being serious right now?" Jeno’s voice sliced through the air, his sudden movement slamming his laptop shut so forcefully it made you flinch. His expression morphed into one of disbelief and annoyance. The intensity in his fiery gaze made you wince as he faced you, his voice thick with frustration. "After everything we’ve been through, every time I’ve opened up to you, you’re really gonna accuse me of that?" His laugh was sharp, a sound you'd never heard from him before, void of humour and filled with disbelief.

You swallowed hard, the weight of your accusation—that he was still not over Arin—hanging between you. "I just—I can't think of any other reasons and you’ve been acting differently ever since you confronted Arin," you countered, your voice raised in frustration, desperate for him to understand the insecurities that his hesitations had fostered.

Jeno's stance hardened, the muscles in his jaw working as he processed your words. "This is unbelievable. You know that's so far from the truth. You crossed a line, Y/N," he retorted, his tone a mix of anger and hurt. His eyes, usually so comforting, now mirrored the storm brewing within him.

You were a bit taken aback by his reaction. Sure, you expected him to be shocked, but not angry and offended. You weren’t used to this side of him, especially when directed at you. “It’s not a bad thing, Jeno, we can move past this.” You tried to hold his hand but were met with his clenched fists, so you placed your hand on top of his, soothing out his muscles and feeling relief when you saw him relax slightly beneath your touch.

“I didn’t say that you still loved her, it’s just obvious that you’re not fully over her. But it’s okay, no one is holding you to account for it and I understand, truly. Maybe to fully get over her you have to take the leap and be with me seriously.”

“It’s— it’s more complicated than that,” Jeno murmured, his voice heavy with a mix of emotions.

The question finally slipped out, “Why haven’t you asked me to be your girlfriend?” you pressed, feeling your heart thump painfully against your ribs.

His silence was telling, and when he finally spoke, his voice was weary, “I don’t know. I’m just not ready to be in a relationship, especially after what happened with Arin.“​

The room's stillness was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city through the open window. As you breathed in deeply, your voice, though shaky, cut sharply into the silence, "Then I’m done with this, with ‘us’." Your hands motioned in the space between you two, the severity of your own words washing over you, sending tears streaming down your face.

Jeno's expression softened, the earlier anger melting into a quiet desperation as he reached for you. "Baby—" he started, voice calm, trying to bridge the gap with a kiss, but you recoiled, stepping back.

"I want something serious. I want to settle down and commit. I want a boyfriend. But I obviously can’t find that in you, so I’m walking away before I’m even more hurt than I am right now." Each word was punctuated by a sob, the tears flowing freely as the realisation of your statement sank in. Could you really walk away from him now, especially when he had become the most important person in your life? His presence had intertwined so deeply with your own happiness that the thought of severing it felt like tearing part of yourself away.

Jeno stepped closer, his voice soft and urgent, "Look at me, please." Hesitantly, you lifted your eyes to meet him, and the vulnerability etched across his features stirred a deep, aching empathy within you.

"Don’t walk away from us, not yet," he implored, his voice soft and earnest. "You mean everything to me, more than I've ever let on."

He reached for your hand, his touch gentle, seeking connection. "It’s not about her—it’s about me. I’m scared of being hurt again, of diving in and finding myself lost," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion.

"You think I’d hurt you?" you asked, the hurt in your voice mirrored in your eyes. The idea seemed to widen the chasm of misunderstanding between you.

"No, that’s not what I’m saying," Jeno quickly clarified, his tone desperate to bridge the misunderstanding. "I’m just... I’m trying to protect my heart, but not at the expense of losing you."

"Because hurting you is the last thing I would ever want," he continued, his words sincere. "Please, just give me a little more time. I promise, I’m not letting go without a fight."

He looked earnestly into your eyes. "Just wait until tomorrow night, okay? I need to show you how much you mean to me. I don’t want us to end like this. I'll make everything right."

Your heart thudded painfully at his plea, torn between the fear of future pain and the undeniable bond that still pulsed so powerfully between you. Could you dare to hope that tomorrow might bring a new beginning, or was it just another promise waiting to be broken?

──────────────────────────────

“What’s up?” you hum to Sunwoo as he looks at you with a concerned expression.

“What’s wrong? I can tell when you’re not yourself,” he responds, his voice laced with worry.

You sigh, knowing there was no hiding your feelings from him. “It’s just—I kinda had an argument with Jeno and I think we left it on good terms but I’m still scared.”

“What was it about?” Sunwoo asks, his brow furrowing slightly.

“A few things, he’s been really distant lately and about the whole ‘Arin’ thing,” you reply, hesitant to delve into the details, and thankfully, Sunwoo nods in understanding, sparing you from having to elaborate.

“Aren’t you supposed to spend some time with him tonight?” he inquires.

You nod. “I am. I’m already feeling awkward about it but I want it to be good. I want to celebrate his end of exams with him. I want him to be able to relax and I want to forget about our argument just for tonight, and then we can have a more serious conversation.”

Feeling a momentary lift in your spirits, you grin mischievously at Sunwoo. “I wanna have a good time with him tonight, and I think you can help,” you suggest, segueing smoothly into your request.

“Sooooo, you know how you’re my best friend and you love me so much that you’d do absolutely anything for me?” you tease, sneaking up behind Sunwoo and draping an arm around his shoulders.

He rolls his eyes, already anticipating the favor about to be requested. “What do you want?”

“You’re throwing a party tomorrow, right? For Yeji?” you ask, your tone playful.

A smile breaks across his features, his fondness for Yeji never a secret. “Of course, I am,” he replies, his tone carrying a mix of pride and affection—it's probably the 10th party he's thrown for her.

“To celebrate her finishing exams?” you continue, nudging him gently to keep the mood light.

He nods in confirmation, his smile still wide.

“Jeno’s finishing his exams too…” you trail off, giving him a meaningful look.

“Throw him your own damn party,” Sunwoo retorts quickly, guessing your next words before they even leave your lips.

“No! That’s not what I want,” you protest, your voice full of earnestness. You pull out a piece of paper from your pocket and hand it to him, your grin mischievous. “I’m just kindly asking if you can do all of these things before tonight.”

Sunwoo’s eyebrow arches as he scans the list, visibly taken aback. “You’re really doing all this for him?” He can't hide his surprise as he reads through the detailed list, which includes all of Jeno’s favorite snacks, drinks, and even specifics on the type of alcohol and drugs. It’s clear you’ve put a lot of thought into personalizing the party for Jeno as well.

“Just go to your usual dealer; I’ll send you the money once you’ve got them,” you plead, your voice a blend of determination and hope.

He pauses, looking at you with a mix of admiration and skepticism. “Are you guys boyfriend and girlfriend yet?” he probes, his tone teasing yet serious beneath the surface.

You beam at him, your face alight with hope and a touch of nervous excitement. “I wanna ask him tonight,” you confess, your expression one of innocent trust, eyes sparkling with adoration for Jeno. Your enthusiasm is infectious, and even Sunwoo can’t help but feel a bit moved by your dedication.

──────────────────────────────

The evening had started with a flutter in your heart, excitement flowed through every motion as you prepared for what was supposed to be a memorable night. Each stroke of the makeup brush on your cheeks, each swipe of mascara was laden with anticipation. The mirror reflected back a hopeful version of yourself. Tonight isn’t just any night; it’s the night you’ve been counting down to, the night when all the pieces are supposed to fall into place with Jeno.

In your bedroom, the air was perfumed with your favourite scent, a subtle floral that Jeno had always loved. The dress you slipped into was a soft, figure-hugging mini that he had picked out on one of your dates, remembering how his eyes lit up when he saw it on you. It was more than just fabric; it was a reminder of his taste, his touch, his presence. As you adjusted the straps, the silky material felt like a whisper against your skin, each movement a call to the night’s potential.

Descending the stairs to the living area, every detail you had arranged caught your eye and tugged at your heartstrings. Jeno’s favourite snacks were arrayed meticulously on the counter, his preferred drinks chilled to perfection, the soft glow of the ambient lighting setting a cozy, inviting scene. 

As the doorbell rings and guests start to fill the space, the atmosphere shifts from quiet anticipation to vibrant festivity. Laughter rings out, glasses clink, and music swells—a perfect backdrop for what was meant to be a perfect evening. But as hours slip by, your smiles begin to stretch too thin, your laughs sound too forced. With each passing moment, the weight of Jeno's absence grows heavier.

Leaning against the wall, your phone felt like a leaden weight in your clutch. The screen lit up with each anxious glance—no new messages. Your heart sank a little more with each passing minute. Mingling through the crowd, you tried to engage, to be present, but the buzz of conversation around you felt distant, muffled by the growing dread that he might not show up.

"Hey, enjoying yourself?" Sunwoo nudges you with a smile as you both lean against the wall, watching the crowd.

"Yeah, so much," you reply, your voice hollow. You want to tell him, spill everything about how you're waiting for Jeno, how he promised he'd be here, but the words cling to the back of your throat, unspoken.

As the party hits its fifth hour, reality settles like a cold shadow across your spirit. He's not coming. He forgot. The realisation severs the last thread of hope you were clinging to, and quietly, you retreat to your room, away from the noise, away from the reminders of what tonight was supposed to be.

The transition was brutal. The hallway to your room seemed longer than ever, each step heavier than the last. Inside, the dimly lit space greeted you with its meticulously planned romantic ambiance now feeling like a stage set for a play where the lead actor would never show. The candles flickered, casting shadows that danced mockingly on the walls. The playlist you had carefully curated played low in the background, each song a reminder of what the night could have been.

Your gaze inevitably drifts to the corner where you had arranged everything just for him. Among the glowing candles and cozy ambiance lay several small baggies, each containing Jeno's favorite drugs and pills—a special treat you had secured to celebrate the end of his exams and enjoy together. The sight of them, still untouched, hurts, you had carefully chosen each one, you paid attention to his likes yet he didn’t show up. 

You hadn't touched a drop of alcohol all night, resisting the temptation of the freely flowing drinks at the party. You wanted to be fully present, fully aware, to take care of him, to celebrate with him, to be there for him in every way you could..

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you dialed his number again, the ringing tone echoing in the hollow room. No answer. The phone fell from your hand, landing softly beside you. Around you, the soft fabric of the pillows, the dim glow of the candles, spoke of a solitude that was both physical and emotional. The tears come then, unchecked, the sobs shaking your shoulders as you curl up amidst the pillows. You try his number again, the sound of the ring hollow in the quiet room.

He promised. 

Outside, the party raged on, oblivious to the quiet devastation unfolding just floors above. The contrast between the external joy and your internal desolation painted a vivid picture of your current reality. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration of beginnings, yet it felt like an acknowledgment of an ending.

As you lay there, curled in the darkness of your room, the decorations you'd so carefully arranged transformed into stark reminders of your solitude. In the silent echoes of the night, you were left to confront the painful realization that perhaps you were never as significant in Jeno's life as he was in yours.

The door creaks open, and Eunji’s concerned face appears in the doorway. She doesn’t say a word at first; she simply walks over and envelops you in a warm embrace. As you lay your head on her lap, the floodgates open, and you let the tears flow freely.

“What happened? Is it Jeno?” Eunji’s voice is soft, filled with worry.

Between broken sobs, you manage to speak. “He was—he was supposed to meet me but he never showed up.” You tell her everything that’s been on your mind, things you’ve kept caged inside: how you planned this to celebrate the end of his exams, how excited you were for tonight, and how you’ve felt his growing distance these past weeks.

Eunji strokes your hair gently, her touch soothing. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, handing you tissues and letting you cry it out without judgement.

Nayoung bursts into the room just then, her expression turning from concern to outrage as she pieces together the situation from the remnants of your tear-streaked explanation. “I’m gonna kill him,” she declares, kneeling in front of you with fierce protectiveness.

You can’t help but let out a weak giggle, despite the tears, as Eunji and Nayoung begin to playfully argue about how to handle the situation.

“If you give me the word, I swear I’ll march right over there and knock some sense into him. Heck, I’ll threaten to cut off his hands and his cock with his own engineering tools if that’s what it takes to show him he can’t treat you like this!” she exclaims, her voice a mix of frustration and protectiveness.

Eunji immediately interjects, her tone soothing yet decisive. “Let’s take a breath here, Nayoung. Threatening violence isn’t going to help anything. We need to think clearly and not let anger cloud our judgment.”

“But he’s making her miserable!” Nayoung argues, waving her hands emphatically towards you. “Someone needs to teach him a lesson, and it needs to be loud and clear.”

Eunji sighs, her expression softening as she looks between you and Nayoung. “I know he does, I really do. But let’s focus on being here for Y/N. Adding more chaos to the storm won’t help her heal.”

Nayoung grumbles but sits down next to you, her energy simmering down slightly. “Fine, but I’m serious. If you just nod once, I’m out that door to give him a piece of my mind. Who forgets a night like this after everything she’s done for him?”

Eunji gently squeezes your hand, her voice warm and reassuring. “We’re right here with you, for whatever you need. It’s perfectly okay to let it all out. Cry, get angry, express how you feel. We won’t leave your side.”

Nayoung’s earlier fire turns to a gentle firmness. “And hey, if yelling at him ever seems like the right move, just give me a nod. I’ve got plenty of volume for the both of us.”

Nayoung’s expression turns serious as she holds your hand tightly, her usual bravado giving way to a look of concern. “I need to show you something,” she says, her voice soft and hesitant.

She pulls out her phone and opens Instagram, scrolling through a series of stories posted by Jeno's friends. Handing you the phone, her touch lingers, as if unsure whether to let go. As you watch, a timeline unfolds, capturing a night that diverges sharply from the one you had planned together.

The photos and videos start innocently enough, with Jeno and his friends toasting to the end of exams. He had told you about this part—just a few drinks to celebrate their freedom before he was supposed to come over. But as you swipe through the stories, the images reveal a night that quickly spiralled beyond a simple celebration.

Each update shows Jeno progressively more engulfed in the festivities. He’s laughing loudly, surrounded by a crowd of equally drunk friends. The videos show them clinking glasses repeatedly, the table cluttered with empty bottles—a clear sign of the night’s excesses. Jeno appears increasingly carefree, his eyes bright with the uninhibited joy of the moment, so drunk and visibly high, completely absorbed in the revelry around him.

The pain of seeing him this way—so lost in a moment that doesn't include you—cuts deeply. Tears cloud your vision as the realization sinks in: he was too caught up in his own fun to remember his promises to you.

You cover your face with your hands, unable to watch anymore, as sobs shake your body. “I hate him,” you manage to whisper, each word choked out between cries of heartbreak.

Nayoung wrapped an arm around you, her presence a comforting counter to the sharp sting of the images, trying to lighten your heart with a gentle joke. But you couldn’t muster a laugh, not with your heart in such turmoil. “We had an argument last night… it got quite tense, but I thought we aired it out; he even promised to make things right the next night,” you explained through tears, your voice trembling. “What if he’s angry at me because of what happened and what I said to him?” The worry in your voice was palpable, the fear of his anger making you second-guess the harsh words that had passed between you.

Nayoung holds up her phone hesitantly, knowing there’s more you need to see. “Y/N, I’m not done…” she murmurs, her voice thick with sympathy. She swipes to a new set of photos, and there’s Arin, looking effortlessly stunning among a couple of her friends. They’re laughing, sipping drinks, the glow of the party lights casting a radiant sheen on her face. Your heart sinks further, the pain twisting like a knife as involuntary sobs wrack your body once again.

But Nayoung quickly interjects, her tone turning analytical, a sharp contrast to the emotionality of the moment. “They aren’t together in any of these pictures,” she points out firmly. “And I can text some people who can tell me if they were close tonight. They’ll tell the truth.” She types rapidly on her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration.

The longest few minutes of your life crawl by until Nayoung’s phone buzzes. “Okay, so Winter messaged me back. You know Winter, right? The really sweet and shy girl who’s always with Karina? She doesn’t drink much, so we can trust her word.” You nod, urging her to continue with a desperate glance.

“Okay,” Nayoung exhales with a measure of relief. “She told me that Arin and Jiwon just kind of turned up unannounced. Nobody really wanted them there. Everyone was pretty hostile and cold to them, especially Jeno and his friends. Apparently, they kept a good distance the whole night, and Jeno acted like she wasn’t even there.”

Your breath hitches at the news, a mix of relief and residual pain swirling within. Nayoung quickly adds, “Ooohh, okay, Karina also messaged me back.” She sighs, reading the new message. “Karina said that Arin kept trying to get close to him, to push into his space, but Jeno was having none of it. Even though he was high, he kept telling her to back off, literally saying, ‘Get the fuck away from me’ and ‘Don’t fucking touch me.’”

Your eyes widen slightly, processing this new information. Yet, despite the assurances, a hollow feeling lingers. “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Nayoung nodded, her expression softening in understanding. “I honestly just think he made a stupid mistake,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s not a bad guy, and we all know that. Obviously, he needs to be more mindful, and he deserves the cold shoulder from you for a while to realise the impact of his actions.” Her words, meant to be comforting, still left room for your conflicted emotions to simmer.

Nayoung’s words hung in the air, giving you a bit to ponder, but it was Eunji who broke the silence, her voice as soothing as ever. She squeezed your hand gently, offering a calm anchor in the storm of your emotions. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you,” she assured you with a warm smile. “We can eat all his favorite snacks, drink his drinks, and talk all night. Or we can just sit here quietly. You tell us what you need.”

Nayoung nods, her earlier anger now replaced with a somber, supportive silence, and Eunji pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you. The three of you sit in a quiet huddle, the noises of the party fading into the background as you lean on each other for support in the dim light of your room, finding solace in the presence of friends in a moment fraught with heartbreak.

“I wanna get high,” you whisper suddenly, a stark contrast to the comforting scene. You rise from the huddle, your hands shaking slightly as you reach for the baggies you had set aside for Jeno. Each packet crinkles under your fingers, the sound unusually loud in the tense silence.

Nayoung and Eunji exchange a glance, concern etched deeply on their faces. “Y/N, maybe that’s not the best idea right now,” Nayoung says, her voice soft but firm.

Ignoring their caution, you briskly fix your makeup, trying to wipe away the trails of tears, preparing to face the remainder of the party with a different kind of numbness. “I need to forget tonight, just for a little while,” you mutter as you pocket the pills.

Descending back to the party, the lights and music assault your senses, a vivid contrast to the dark stillness of your room. You start downing shots, the alcohol sharp on your tongue, each swallow a burn that you hope will erase the sharp edges of your hurt. The pills in your pocket feel like a promise of further escape, a temporary relief from the pain that now consumes you.

After what feels like hours, your senses dulled by the mix of pills and alcohol, a sudden stir pulls you from the haze. There he is—Jeno. His arrival slices through the crowd, an unwelcome shock to your numbed heart. He’s not alone; a swarm of his friends buzz around him, their laughter and cheers a stark contrast to the heavy silence you've wrapped around yourself. They are celebrating, oblivious to the wreckage of your evening, to the fact that he's already too late.

You turn away sharply, a reflex to shield your heart from further damage. The sight of him brings a rush of anger and hurt, emotions you're not ready to face. You don't care why he's here now; his presence feels like an intrusion, a painful reminder of what you'd hoped this night would be.

Moving to a quieter corner of the party, away from the boisterous group, you try to disappear into the shadows, to find solace in solitude. But the fragments of overheard conversations tug at your attention.

"Jeno! Man, chill!" It's Jaemin's voice, laced with stress and concern. You glance back, catching a glimpse of him running a hand through his hair, his expression one of someone who didn’t plan to spend his night this way. He’s dressed casually, as if he’d been dragged here against his will, but he came for a reason—Jeno.

From the snippets you catch, it's clear Jeno is far from alright. He’s staggeringly high, more lost to the world than you've ever seen him before. Jaemin tries to manage him, to somehow bring him back from the edge where he teeters. The scene paints a picture of chaos, of a night gone terribly wrong. Jeno had lost control, spiraling in a way that none of his friends had anticipated.

The party's clamor surrounds you, a din of laughter and music that feels alien to your current mood. "Y/N," a voice calls out, tugging you back to the present. It's Jaemin, his expression marked with concern.

You manage a weak smile, your gaze darting anywhere but into his eyes. A surge of anger bubbles within you, though you remind yourself that Jaemin isn't the one to blame.

"Have you seen Jeno?" he asks. 

You shake your head, your response terse. The less you say, the better you can manage the simmering frustration.

"Did you throw this party for him?" Jaemin probes, his eyebrow arched in suspicion.

"No. It’s Sunwoo’s party," you reply, sharper than intended. The last thing you want is for anyone to know this was all for Jeno—a party he never even planned to attend.

"You don’t need to lie to me, you know. You did all of this stuff for him," Jaemin continues, his voice softening as he glances at the table laden with Jeno’s favorite drinks and the pills protruding from your pocket. "I bet you’re even wearing some pretty lingerie under—"

"I’m not," you interject, cutting him off before he can finish. The humiliation of it all is too much to bear.

"And he only showed up now?" Jaemin's voice is tinged with disbelief.

You nod, unable to muster the energy for more words.

Jaemin sighs, his eyes filled with a mix of disappointment and apology. "I know it won’t mean much coming from me but I’m really fucking sorry. That’s not fair, and you don’t deserve that from him. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him, I’ll make sure he makes things right—"

"Please don’t," you interject, your voice small yet pleading. "It’s embarrassing. Seeing how much effort I put in all to be stood up... I just want to forget about it all. I don’t want him to know. Please promise me you won’t say a word."

Reluctantly, Jaemin extends his pinky. You know you can trust him, and he solemnly agrees with a pinky promise.

"I’m not trying to justify what he did, because it’s unacceptable and he needs to make things right. He needs to realize that on his own," Jaemin continues, his tone serious. "But he’s been really focusing on his exams these last few weeks, shutting out everyone, even me. He’s been an academic weapon. He hasn’t smoked, gotten drunk, or done drugs since exams started, so I guess tonight was his blowout. He always goes overboard when exams finish. When he’s that high, not a single thought goes through his mind."

"That doesn’t make anything better," you reply coldly.

"I’m sure he was supposed to meet you and go but forgot, like genuinely. It doesn’t make anything better, but I’m sure it was an actual mistake from him. It wasn’t intentional. I know Jeno; he’s not a bad guy. He wouldn’t do that for no reason," Jaemin insists, trying to offer some solace, however small.

"Tell him not to call or talk to me from now on," you say, the finality in your voice echoing your resolve.

"Come on, he really likes you," Jaemin tries again, but you're already walking away, distancing yourself from the conversation and the painful realities it confirms. As you merge back into the shadows of the party, Jaemin's words linger, but they do little to mend the ache that has firmly settled in your heart.

The music thrums through the room, each beat a relentless echo of the night’s unraveling. You’re still reeling from the conversation with Jaemin, your mind a tangled mess of anger and sorrow. In your haste to escape the intensity of the moment, you turn sharply, your movement quick and unthinking. The sudden motion sends you crashing into someone. Stabilizing yourself, you look up, ready to apologize, but the words die on your lips as your eyes lock with Jeno’s.

It’s him. The very person who’s at the center of your turmoil, standing right in front of you, almost as if fate had cruelly steered you into his path. His presence strikes you with the force of an unexpected wave, overwhelming and disorienting. For a second, the world seems to slow down, the noise of the party fading into a dull roar in the background. 

He looks so good it hurts. There’s an effortless charm to him even now, disheveled as he might be, with his t-shirt slightly askew revealing a hint of his collarbone, and those jeans that always seem perfectly fitted, suggesting the contours of his toned legs. His hair, usually neatly styled, hangs loosely around his face, strands falling over his forehead in a way that somehow highlights the sharpness of his cheekbones and jawline.

He’s a vision, undeniably handsome—every inch the kind of distraction that has always drawn you in, despite tonight’s circumstances. His eyes, though dilated and clouded slightly by his indulgences, still hold that familiar warm glint when they meet yours, making it hard for a moment to remember the disappointment simmering inside you.

"Hi baby," he says, his voice smooth despite the noticeable slur, his words tumbling into one another yet filled with a warmth that pulls at you. He reaches out, attempting to pull you into his embrace, his movements confident yet slightly uncoordinated.

You instinctively start to lean into the comfort he offers before the reality of the evening snaps you back. "Go and fucking touch Arin," you retort sharply, pushing against his chest, forcing some physical distance between you as a barrier to the emotional torrent threatening to spill over.

Jeno pauses, his arms still outstretched, his expression morphing from affectionate to puzzled. "What? No, it’s you I—"

"Don't," you cut him off, the firmness in your voice belying the ache in your chest. The sight of him so carefree, so unaffected, stirs a tumult of emotions within you. His shirt, slightly lifted from the motion, reveals just a hint of the abs you've traced so many times, a reminder of the many moments of intimacy now overshadowed by the night’s revelations.

"I'm here for you," he continues, his voice earnest, a stark contrast to the blithe disregard his actions have demonstrated. His eyes try to meet yours, searching for an in, but you divert your gaze, unwilling to get lost in the depths of blue that have always seemed to see right through you.

He’s beautiful, infuriatingly so, and even now, clouded by substances, there’s a sincerity in his effort to connect that makes your resolve waver. But the hurt of being forgotten, of being secondary to his celebrations, hardens your heart once more.

Your heart throbs painfully against your ribcage, a silent echo of the night’s crushing disappointment. You stare at him, the dim party lights casting shadows across his handsome features, deepening the hollows of his face, and for a fleeting moment, you see the boy you fell for, not the aloof figure before you.

With a sharp intake of breath, you turn away, leaving him in the swirl of the party, his image etched into your mind like a bittersweet photograph. The conflict between the pull of your heart and the weight of your disappointment leaves you reeling as you step back into the crowd, away from the warmth of his confused gaze.

──────────────────────────────

The house had emptied out, the noise and chaos of the party finally fading into a strained silence, only punctuated by Sunwoo’s concerned gaze fixed on you. “What the fuck happened?” he asks, his voice laced with worry as he hands you a glass of water, his gestures pointedly trying to ground you back to sobriety.

“Go to my room,” He mutters, the words slipping out before you fully register them.

Sunwoo follows, once in the comfort of his room, you spill everything and he listens, his expression a mask of patience and anger as you unravel every thread of the evening—the plans you had made for Jeno, the crushing disappointment, the despair. You tell him everything, each confession punctuated by a shared understanding of past comforts and missed connections.

He wraps an arm around you, a familiar gesture that feels like a lifeline. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs.

“Can you stay here?” you whisper, your voice small in the vast quiet of the room.

“Yeah, I can, it is my room.” Sunwoo replies, already tossing a pillow onto the floor to make himself a makeshift bed.

“I meant next to me.” The words are out before you can stop them, a raw, needy whisper in the dark.

He laughs, a disbelieving sound that fills the space between you. “Y/N—”

But you’re already moving, driven by a surge of loneliness and a desperate craving for something to fill the void Jeno left. Your lips crash against Sunwoo’s, a fierce, messy kiss that cuts him off mid-sentence. You pull him down, and he lands heavily on top of you, his body instinctively responding to yours. It’s not the first time; there’s a rhythm to your desperation, a remembered path of least resistance.

You’re moving together now, a dance of old habits as you straddle his lap, grinding against him in a rhythm that’s as familiar as it is forbidden. You start to peel his top off, caught up in the momentum, but he catches your hands, his grip firm.

He pulls back sharply, the motion almost violent in its intensity. “Y/N, we can’t—” His voice is ragged, breath hot against your face.

“I’m really hard, so please get off my lap,” he adds, a strained chuckle belying the tension in his voice. You can feel his arousal, a hard line against your inner thigh, a testament to the physical response he can’t control.

Reluctantly, you slide off him and curl up beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill that seems to seep into your bones. He notices, draping a blanket over your shivering form.

“Why?” The word is more of a sob than a question, hurt coloring your tone. “Nothing has ever stopped us before.” 

“Because you’re upset at him, and this isn’t the way to deal with it,” Sunwoo says gently, the earnestness in his voice making you look at him. “You need to talk to him instead of trying to fuck me.”

You frown, frustration and confusion mingling with the remnants of desire. “I’ve come to you crying a hundred times in the past, before Jeno, and you always used to fuck me to make me feel better, so why won’t you do it now?” Your voice is raw, each word a slice of vulnerability.

“This was our thing,” you continue, the history between you spilling out in a rush. “We used to come to each other whenever we were stressed or upset and used to fuck each other for release. Remember the amount of times I’ve sucked your cock because something pissed you off so you’d always show up at mine or call me over?”

He laughs, a sound that’s half nostalgia, half resignation. “Yeah, and why do you think we’re both shitty at dealing with emotions?”

“I’m not shitty at dealing with emotions—” you start to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Y/N, all of the fucking is left in the past. You should know that. I’m trying to be with Yeji, and this won’t help anything. I know how hurt you are, just, let’s watch your favorite show, okay? I promise I won’t leave you alone, but I can’t fuck you, not now.”

Resignation washed over you as you nodded slowly, the fight draining out of you as the reality of his words settled in. Together, you settled under the blanket, the TV flickering on as you leaned against him, his presence a steady comfort in the swirl of your chaotic emotions.

──────────────────────────────

──────────────────────────────

Sunwoo flings the door open, his face a mask of barely contained fury. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, his whole body rigid with the effort to keep his anger in check. The air is thick with tension, every muscle in his frame poised for a confrontation.

Jeno’s eyes are pleading, and he starts to speak, his voice thick with urgency, “Please let me see her—”

That’s all it takes for Sunwoo’s restraint to snap. His hands shoot out, fingers tangling in the fabric of Jeno’s shirt, pulling him close with a jolt. He pins Jeno against the door with a force that echoes through the silent hallway. Jeno, for all his faults in this moment, offers no resistance. There’s a glimmer of acknowledgment in his eyes—he knows he’s earned this.

Sunwoo’s voice is a low growl, his words like bullets. “You fucked up. I’ve never seen her this upset.” Each word is punctuated by a shake, Jeno’s head knocking softly against the door.

Sunwoo’s voice drops to a hiss, venomous and revealing. “She was serious about you. She even stopped fucking and sucking my cock when she started seeing you and trust me, she’s never done that for any guy before. But she did it for you, we both agreed to stop our meaningless fucks whenever we were horny and needed a release… and this is how you treat her? After all the patience and kindness she’s shown you? After she opened up her heart to you? You’re fucking pathetic. A fucking idiot.”

Jeno’s voice breaks through the tension, rough with emotion, “You’re the one who’s fucked her?”

Jeno had always suspected, in the back of his mind, that there was history between you and Sunwoo. He’d noticed the way you both interacted, a familiarity that went beyond mere friendship. Your closeness with Sunwoo was obvious — the personal jokes, the way you’d lean on him, the comfort in each other’s space. He’d never brought it up; after all, it was your past, and he had no place digging into it.

Yet, now, faced with the stark reality, it hit him harder than he anticipated. Sunwoo’s words, dripping with contempt and protectiveness over you, ignited a blend of anger and guilt in Jeno. He knew — he’d always known, really — that whatever you and Sunwoo had shared was purely physical, a no-strings-attached arrangement. But the raw jealousy that clawed at him now was unexpected, unwelcome.

He grappled with the images his mind conjured, unwanted scenarios of you seeking comfort in Sunwoo’s arms, just as you had in the past. It was a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that his actions, his neglect, may have driven you back into a familiar orbit, one that he could not stake any claim over, not anymore. The mere possibility that Sunwoo might touch you again, that you might seek solace in the intimacy you once shared, stung him with a sharp sense of loss.

In a desperate plea, his words tumbled out, a mix of demand and weakness, “Please don’t touch her. Don’t fuck her.” His voice broke, betraying the turmoil beneath his usually composed exterior. He was in no position to make requests, to set boundaries, and he knew that. But the heart doesn’t heed such logic.

Sunwoo’s response was curt, a reflection of his disdain. “She’s sleeping. She’s not okay, and it’s all because of you.” The gravity in his voice was a sobering slap to Jeno’s conscience. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Sunwoo was right. It was his fault, and the road to redemption seemed like a steep climb from the abyss he’d stumbled into.

Sunwoo steps back, releasing Jeno completely, leaving him to grapple with the gravity of his missteps. In the quiet aftermath of their confrontation, Jeno stands alone, the corridor stretching out endlessly before him, a physical representation of the distance he’s put between himself and you.

There’s a pounding in his head, a relentless drumbeat of guilt, and the sobering knowledge that he’s just stumbled upon a crossroads. One wrong move has the potential to unravel everything he holds dear. And as he stands there, he knows the path to redemption is steep and uncertain, but it’s one he must walk if he hopes to make things right.

──────────────────────────────

Jeno has been different since you. 

Donghyuck watched Jeno from across the kitchen table, stirring his noodles absentmindedly. The transformation in Jeno was stark and troubling. Gone was the uplifting spirit that Donghyuck was used to; in its place sat a withdrawn figure, his eyes often glazed over with a distant, pained look.

Jeno still hung out with them, but there was a palpable distance, a barrier he had put up. He would listen, occasionally engage, but his laughter was rare and his departures early. Even now, sitting across from him, Donghyuck felt the gap, as if Jeno was miles away instead of just across the table.

Jeno sat hunched over his food, his usually sharp eyes dulled, mindlessly swirling noodles around his fork. His usual vibrant demeanor had dimmed noticeably since your departure. Donghyuck eyed him with a mix of concern and mischief, catching the drift of his friend’s mood.

“So, I heard your girl is available now, you guys broke up?” Donghyuck teased, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes twinkling maliciously.

Jeno’s reaction was instant; his expression turned icy, a chill settling over his features as he shot Donghyuck a look that could freeze boiling water. “No? You just said she’s my girl, didn’t you?” His voice was low, carrying a warning that was impossible to miss.

Undeterred by the serious tone, Donghyuck leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I have a master plan, do you wanna hear it?” Silence hung in the air, Jeno’s disinterest palpable, but Donghyuck plowed ahead regardless. “I’ll fuck her for you—”

“What the fuck? No. How the fuck is that for me? You’re talking about putting your disgusting dick in my girl and you’re saying it’s for me?” Jeno’s anger flared, his words sharp as knives.

Donghyuck chuckled, unfazed by the hostility. “Nah, man, I’ll be so shit in bed and I’ll purposefully not make her cum, so she’ll want to go back to you because I know you’ve made her squirt, filthy boy!!” He slapped Jeno on the back, trying to coax a smile with his twisted logic.

For a fleeting second, a smirk twitched at the corner of Jeno’s mouth, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a scowl. With a swift motion, Jeno smacked Donghyuck across the back of his head. “Your fucking plan to bring my girl back to me is by having sex with her? Fucking dumbass. Don’t fucking touch her. If you do as much as look her way, it won’t be good.”

Donghyuck’s demeanor shifted slightly, his voice lowering to a more earnest tone. “It’s not me you have to worry about.” He leaned back, eyeing Jeno seriously. “Apparently, Y/N is trying to move on from you.”

Jeno’s eyes narrowed, his jaw setting tight. “Apparently she’s texting guys all over campus,” Donghyuck continued, the smirk returning as he watched Jeno absorb the information.

“Your girl is hot. She’s getting attention from a lot of guys on campus, everyone wants to fuck her, and apparently she’s actively looking for that, to move on.” Donghyuck’s words were calculated, designed to provoke, and Jeno could feel the sting of each syllable, a mix of pain and rage building within him.

“What kind of guys are chasing after her?” 

“Hyunjin, Felix, Yangyang, Yeonjun to name a few,” Donghyuck rattles off casually, observing Jeno's reaction closely.

Jeno's expression hardens at each name—each one synonymous with casual flings and fleeting interests. These weren't the type of guys he wanted around you, especially not now.

“If they touch her, I swear to God...” Jeno's voice trails off into a growl, his hands clenching instinctively.

Donghyuck smirks, sensing the protective surge in his friend. “You’d make them regret it?” he probes, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent of seriousness.

Jeno only nods, his jaw set firm, the muscles in his neck tensed with the restraint of his anger.

“Want me to warn them off?” Donghyuck offers, his smirk widening slightly.

“Don’t make it a big deal, just subtly let them know that Y/N is off limits,” Jeno instructs, his tone serious. He pauses, a conflicted look crossing his features. “But I want her to be happy, you know? Maybe... maybe get someone decent, like Soobin, to take an interest. Someone who'll treat her well,” he adds, almost reluctantly, but with a clear desire for your happiness shining through his troubled expression.

──────────────────────────────

Donghyuck had definitely made it a big deal. 

Another dry response, another guy who wasn’t interested. Frustration simmered beneath your skin as you threw your phone aside in anger. This pattern was becoming all too familiar. You’d messaged guys across campus, your intentions blatantly clear: you were looking for a quick, no-strings-attached release. Yet, each time, your openness was met with disinterest. No one seemed to want you; no one seemed eager to take you up on your offer.

“Another guy turned you down?” Nayoung asked, her voice laced with concern as she popped a pill and casually tossed it back. You both sighed heavily, the disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

Tonight, you’d both dressed in your most enticing outfits—short, curve-hugging skirts that ended just at mid-thigh, paired with matching crop tops that left little to the imagination. Your hair was done up in loose, carefree waves that framed your faces beautifully, enhancing the sultry makeup that accentuated your features. Every detail was meticulously planned to enhance your appeal, from the glossy finish on your lips to the smoky shadow around your eyes.

Despite the rejections, you couldn’t deny the power of your own reflection. Standing there, you both looked irresistible, the embodiment of desire and confidence. Yet, the night’s efforts seemed in vain, the cool rejection from your phone screen clashing sharply with the hot allure of your appearance.

Now, more than anything, you just needed someone to rip this outfit off your body. Since Jeno left, you’d been craving something—anything—to fill the void, and you hadn’t been touched in so long. You just wanted cock.

As you and Nayoung readied for the party, taking your fill of the pills she’d brought, the two of you posed for some seriously sexy photos. You were in the midst of adjusting your top when Nayoung suddenly made a noise as if she’d just remembered something important.

“I forgot to tell you!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide as she turned to you. “I did some asking around campus, and I think I know why guys haven’t been reciprocating your want to fuck them.”

You turned to her, curiosity piqued. “Why?”

“Okay, hear this,” she began, leaning in closer as if sharing the juiciest secret. “Apparently, Donghyuck made a joke to Jeno about wanting to fuck you, and Jeno got all protective, warned Donghyuck not to ‘touch his fucking girl.’ Then Donghyuck mentioned that other guys had their eye on you since you and Jeno broke it off—like the notorious fuckboys, Hyunjin and Yeonjun, not the sweet ones like Jeno. You know, the ones that only want your pussy and once they have that, they’ll throw you to the side and disregard you. I fucked Yeonjun once, and he didn’t even make me cum; he just fucked me to make him cum.”

“What’s your point?” you ask, shaking your head as Nayoung’s gossip draws a smirk from you despite the irritation brewing inside.

“Yeah, so basically,” Nayoung continued, “Jeno told Donghyuck that if those guys ever lay a fucking hand on you, they’d regret it. And Donghyuck, being the shit-stirrer he is, spread that around campus. Jeno is scary when he’s mad—he can really make you regret doing something when he warns you not to. So, I guess they listened to him and stayed away from you.”

You hissed with anger, fists clenching as you paced slightly. You should’ve known. It had been him all along. “He’s the one behind this? I’m seriously gonna strangle him.”

Nayoung burst out laughing at your reaction. “I’m so fucking hot and sexy, and all the guys on campus know that, yet they’re not going for me because of Jeno. Fucking hell, Jeno, when I get you…” You mimed a strangling motion with your hands, your frustration palpable.

“You’re the new buzz on campus, a lot of guys want you, especially after seeing how sexy you and Jeno looked together. But Jeno scared them all away, even if he didn’t do it intentionally. That’s how much power he has,” Nayoung mused.

“He’s so fucking annoying,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“He’s quite possessive, isn’t he?” Nayoung added with a smirk, popping another pill and watching you with a mix of amusement and sympathy.

“I know he’s trying to look out for me, and part of me can’t help but find that kind of possessiveness kind of hot… It's like he still cares, a lot. But it’s also frustrating that it’s scaring everyone else off.”

Nayoung's eyes flicker with curiosity as she watches you pause, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Do you think Jihoon would be scared of Jeno? I mean, he dated Winter, right? I'm sure he knows how to make a girl feel good—" you muse out loud, seeking her opinion before committing to send the message.

“Aren’t you seeing Soobin?” Nayoung interjects, her eyebrows arching in surprise at your continued exploration of options. Her voice is tinged with a mix of amusement and concern.

“Yeah,” you mumble, the word barely more than a whisper, your enthusiasm waning at the mention of Soobin.

“So, you’re messaging other guys because Soobin’s bad in bed?” Nayoung's tone is playful yet probing, as she connects the dots.

You burst out laughing, nodding in agreement, the humor momentarily easing the tension. “Exactly.”

Nayoung hums thoughtfully, tapping her lip. "It’s weird to me that Soobin wasn’t scared off by Jeno. He’s actively trying to pursue you. Does that mean he’s the only guy who isn’t intimidated by Jeno?”

Shaking your head, you reply, "I don't think so." The situation puzzles you as much as it intrigues Nayoung.

“Maybe Jeno didn’t warn him because he thinks Soobin’s too cute to be a threat,” Nayoung suggests, a smirk playing on her lips. “He probably doesn’t expect Soobin to hurt you.”

You scoff, the frustration bubbling up again. "He may be cute but he can’t do shit in bed. We've had sex but it's barely sex. He has no technique, just sticks it in and expects magic to happen. He doesn’t know how to use it. Sure, he’s got a big cock, not as big as Jeno’s, but impressive. Yet he doesn’t know how to make a girl come, and he can't even kiss properly. I’ve tried dropping hints, even suggested he watch porn, tried to get Eric to give him some tips, but nothing changes. He’s just so bad, Nayoung."

Nayoung laughs, a low chuckle. “Yeah, you don’t even make a noise when he’s over.”

“Exactly, I don’t even try to fake it. He should get the hint, but he doesn’t. And he’s too sweet for me to just outright tell him, learn how to use your cock.’ It’s frustrating.”

Nayoung leans in closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “You were so loud whenever Jeno was over.”

You nod, the memories vivid and insistent. “Jeno knows how to make me feel good,” you admit, a pang of longing colouring your voice. It’s a reluctant admission, laced with the ache of missing him—the way his touch electrified your skin, the assuredness of his hands roaming over you, knowing just how to drive you wild.

“The way he used his fingers,” you continue, your voice dropping to a whisper, “and his lips… God, I miss how he made me feel.” Your body reacts just at the thought, a warm flush spreading across your skin. “He had this way of pulling me close, his grip strong yet so careful, as if I was something precious.”

Nayoung watches you, her expression a mix of sympathy and curiosity. “And his cock,” you add, your voice thick with desire and frustration. “He knew exactly how to use it, every thrust just right. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like that… touched the way Jeno used to touch me.” The words spill out, unfiltered and raw.

You lean back, your eyes closing as you allow yourself a moment to dwell on the vivid images of past encounters. “I just need that again, Nayoung. I’m so fucking horny and frustrated. I need to feel wanted, to be devoured, not just… touched absentmindedly.” Your hands clench in your lap, the physical manifestation of your inner turmoil.

“I need a release, a real one,” you say, your eyes opening, meeting Nayoung’s with a fierce, almost defiant look. “I need someone who can make me forget, even if just for a night.” Your voice is firm, the edge to it cutting through the playful atmosphere that had lightened the earlier part of your conversation.

Nayoung nods, understanding your needs without judgment. “Let’s find you that someone then,” she says, her tone supportive, ready to dive back into the night with a renewed mission, to help you find the release you so desperately crave.

──────────────────────────────

Walking into the bar, the familiar clamor of laughter and music greets you, but it’s Donghyuck’s voice that cuts through the din. “Girl, I’ve missed you!” His arms wrap around you in a tight embrace that lifts the lingering shadows of the past weeks.

“So have I!!!” Your words come out slurred, the warmth of the reunion melting the coldness of recent days. You’d been avoiding him, unfairly linking him to Jeno’s actions, but realising your anger was misplaced had brought you back to him, someone who had unexpectedly become one of your closest friends.

Soobin is there too, awkwardly waiting his turn. His greeting stumbles out, “You—woah—you—so pretty.” You muster a polite smile and murmur thanks, his gaze flickering over you with polite admiration but lacking the intensity you crave.

If this was Jeno, his reaction would be unmistakable. He’d probably gasp, taken aback by how stunning you looked, his eyes greedily taking you in. He wouldn’t be shy about it; his hands would find their way to your ass and your thighs almost instinctively, his touch bold and admiring. Whispering a stream of compliments, he’d make you feel irresistibly sexy, especially when you dressed provocatively, his appreciation both vocal and palpable.

Nayoung leans closer, her voice low. “Jeno’s here.” Her eyes flicker with concern. “He’s staring at you. Do you wanna stay or go?”

A sigh escapes you; of course, Jeno would be here. Donghyuck had mentioned it might turn into a larger gathering before moving on to Sunwoo’s party. You allow your gaze to meet Jeno’s for a brief moment, taking in his undeniable allure. He looks irresistible, the dim bar lights casting shadows that accentuate the contours of his face, making him appear both mysterious and impossibly handsome. His reaction to seeing you is palpable; you catch the sharp intake of his breath, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in your appearance.

“No, it’s okay, I can deal with him,” you assert, settling into the role of the provocateur. Perching yourself on Soobin’s lap, you make a show of laughing a little too loudly, your hand casually brushing against the exposed skin of your thigh. It’s a performance, each movement calculated to draw a reaction from Jeno.

Leaning back into Soobin, you shift subtly, feeling the fabric of your top stretch tight across your chest, accentuating your curves. Every adjustment seems accidental but is steeped in intent. Casually, you gather your hair, twisting it into a high ponytail as you catch Jeno’s gaze. You know he loves it when your hair is up, exposing the slender curve of your neck and the delicate line of your shoulders. As you secure your hair, you tilt your head slightly, a silent invitation for his eyes to wander over the places he used to kiss. Your movements on Soobin’s lap are deliberate, a slow grind that suggests more, ensuring Jeno is acutely aware of every provocative shift of your body.

Was it petty? Perhaps. Did you care? Not in the slightest.

As the night progresses, you catch Jeno’s gaze locked on you multiple times, his expression a mixture of nostalgia and something darker, perhaps jealousy. He converses with others, his laughter ringing out, yet his eyes betray a distance, a detachment from the mirth around him.

You revel in the attention, the power of making him watch, unable to touch, to engage. It’s a cruel game, but after everything, it feels like a justified rebuke for the pain he’s caused.

Soobin was incredibly timid; even with you sitting on his lap, his hands hadn’t dared to explore. They remained awkwardly at his sides, as if he was unsure of what to do next. In sharp contrast, if this had been Jeno, his approach would have been entirely different. His hands would have confidently roamed over your thighs and ass, his touch assured and provocative. Jeno would have already whispered sultry promises into your ear, his fingers skillfully bringing you to climax, each move calculated to draw out the deepest moans of satisfaction from you.

Frustrated by Soobin’s passivity, you slipped off his lap with a swift, fluid motion and sauntered over to the bar to drown your dissatisfaction in alcohol. As you waited for your drink, a searing gaze burned into your back. Turning around, you caught Jeno’s eyes fixed on you with an intensity that scorched. His stare was predatory, unlike Soobin’s uncertain glances, igniting a thrill of excitement through you. His gaze traced the contours of your body so fervently that you could almost feel his touch.

You followed his stare down to your ass and realized he wasn’t even attempting to be subtle; his eyes were glued to you, unashamed and raw. You gasped, taken aback by his audacity, yet a part of you reveled in the attention.

With a few heated steps, you closed the distance between you, standing defiantly in front of him, arms crossed. Jeno met your gaze with a playful grin, as if he wasn’t just caught staring at you.

“Were you just checking out my ass?” you challenged, your tone a mix of amusement and accusation, your eyes narrowing slightly to match the teasing yet confrontational energy of your stance.

He responded with disarming honesty, his eyes locking onto yours, not even flinching as he admitted, “Not the first time and won’t be the last.”

Your frustration bubbled into a huff, and you shook your head, at a loss for words for a moment, before you pointed an accusatory finger at him and sharply said, “No!” as if scolding a misbehaving dog, the irritation mingled with an unspoken delight at his undivided attention.

You turned on your heel to walk away, but not without adding a final flair to your exit. Casually, you tugged your skirt up slightly, just enough to give Jeno a fleeting but tantalizing glimpse of more. Over your shoulder, you shot him a mischievous smirk, ensuring he caught every bit of the provocative gesture.

His response was immediate—a sharp intake of breath as he bit his lip, a classic sign of restrained desire. His eyes, dark and intent, tracked every movement you made, clearly affected by the provocatively playful challenge you'd thrown at him. The smirk that played on your lips grew wider as you savored the visible effect you had on him. Feeling bold and empowered by his reaction, you turned on your heel, giving your hips an extra sway just for him, pulling up the hem of your skirt ever so slightly as you glanced back with a teasing smirk. Leaving a visibly flustered Jeno to stew in the heat of the moment you had just ignited, you walked away, the thrill of the encounter sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine.

As you mingled effortlessly with his friends, Jeno's gaze held a mix of frustration and admiration from across the room. Every laugh and gesture you shared with the group only highlighted your comfort and charisma, adding to the allure that seemed to captivate everyone, including him. Despite the noise and energy around him, his attention was firmly on you, his thoughts a blend of appreciation and yearning.

Throughout the night, your vibrant energy seemed to draw more people into your orbit, leaving Jeno somewhat isolated, his eyes following your every move. The way you interacted with his friends, the ease with which you laughed and danced, struck a chord within him, a reminder of the connection you once shared. Occasionally, your eyes would meet, and you’d offer him a playful yet distant smile, a nod to your shared past and the complex feelings that lingered.

With one final glance that night, you caught Jeno looking your way. Instead of another teasing gesture, you gave him a soft smile, acknowledging the undeniable tension. Returning to the laughter and conversations around you, you left Jeno with his mixed emotions, the distance between you both more poignant than ever.

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The party was alive with energy, vibrating with the pulse of loud music that filled the crowded room. Flashing lights painted the dancing crowd in waves of color, each flash cutting through the dark like a strobe. The atmosphere was electric, everyone letting loose, their semester’s stress dissolving into a night of wild fun.

Bodies pressed close in the dim light, moving with a rhythmic intensity that pulsed through the crowded room. Flashes of skin glinted under the strobe lights as revelers danced provocatively, their movements suggestive and unabashed. Couples lingered in the darker corners, their embraces deep and lingering, lips locked in fervent kisses. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and sweat, a tangible reminder of the night’s indulgence and the uninhibited release of pent-up desires.

As you entered, Sunwoo was the first to greet you, planting warm kisses on your and Nayoung’s cheeks—a customary greeting that felt comforting amid the chaos. Yeji was next, her arms wrapping around you in a tight hug, and the two of you exchanged rapid-fire compliments, each one amplifying the night’s festive mood.

While mingling, Sunwoo leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper over the music. “Jeno’s here,” he murmured with a concerned glance, “do you want me to get him out?” 

You shook your head, offering him a thankful smile. “It’s okay, I can handle him tonight,” you assured him, feeling a mix of apprehension and determination.

The dance floor was a whirl of bodies, and you and Nayoung were right in the thick of it, high both on the atmosphere and the subtle assistance of the night’s earlier indulgences. The two of you danced provocatively, uninhibited and playful, your hands occasionally grazing each other’s bodies—over hips, across backs, and playfully squeezing at asses and boobs. 

Soobin, on the other hand, seemed lost on the edge of the action. His awkwardness was almost palpable, his eyes wide as he tried to figure out where he fit into this display of carefree debauchery. It was becoming increasingly frustrating to watch him just stand there, not knowing how to engage with the wild energy you and Nayoung thrived in.

As the beat of the music dipped into a sultry rhythm, Nayoung’s touches turned more daring, mimicking the kind of attention you had been craving. Her fingers danced along your curves, a teasing precursor to the more intimate contact to come. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in closer, her lips hovering just inches from yours. The tension between you built with the thumping bass, both playful and charged with an unspoken dare.

You could feel the heat of her breath, mixed with the laughter and shouts of the party-goers around you, creating a bubble that seemed to encompass just the two of you. With a smirk, Nayoung closed the gap, her lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss that was more than just a peck but less than a promise. It was flirtatious, a hint of sensuality wrapped in the guise of jest, drawing a few cheers from those nearby. You both break away at the last second with giggles, unable to take the gesture seriously.

Soobin, all flushed and visibly aroused from watching you and Nayoung playfully dancing, tapped your shoulder, a hesitant offer in his voice. “Hey, can we go to the bathroom?” His attempt at sounding seductive fell flat, failing to stir the excitement within you that he was probably hoping for. Nevertheless, you agreed, hoping against hope that perhaps this time would be different, that somehow he’d find a spark of passion that matched your own urgent desires.

As you entered the bathroom with him, the reality of the situation set in quickly. There was no need to even lock the door; there was little risk of your moans being overheard because, simply put, there wouldn’t be any. Soobin’s attempts at pleasing you were lackluster and uncoordinated. As he tried to navigate what he thought was pleasurable, his movements were uncertain and ineffective, lacking the assured touch that could drive you wild. His technique was so basic and mechanical, merely going through the motions without any real understanding of how to build intensity or respond to your body’s cues.

The disappointment was crushing. Not a single man since Jeno had managed to truly satisfy you, to make you come alive with desire. Self-pleasure had been a poor substitute for the intoxicating physical connection you had experienced with Jeno, whose every touch, every kiss, was perfectly attuned to your needs.

“Please go,” you found yourself whispering to Soobin when it became too much to bear, your tone firming up when he didn’t react immediately, “Please get out!” The words were harsher than you intended, driven by a cocktail of frustration and desperation.

Soobin looked up, his expression one of wounded confusion. “What’s wrong? Was it not good?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

You shook your head, softening slightly at his genuine naiveté. “I just need to be by myself for a while,” you explained, forcing a smile to lessen the blow of your rejection. He nodded, hurt but understanding, and exited quietly, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts and unmet needs.

In the solitude of the bathroom, the stark reality hit you once again. No touch, no encounter had come close to what you had with Jeno. The absence of that deep, fulfilling connection left you longing, your body crying out for a touch that seemed now more distant than ever.

The reality of your unfulfilled desire weighed heavily on you. You wanted to cum, needed to feel that overwhelming rush, the kind that leaves you breathless and satiated. More than that, you longed to feel loved, to be touched in a way that made every nerve in your body come alive, igniting your senses like a firestorm.

You miss Jeno. 

Driven by a mix of frustration and raw need, you reached a decision. It might have seemed foolish or impulsive, but in that moment, it felt like the only option left. You were high, your body was tingling with a sexual frustration that couldn't be ignored, and every fiber of your being ached for Jeno. 

Your hands trembled as you pulled out your phone. With each shaky breath, you navigated through your contacts until his name appeared. It was crazy, perhaps, but desperation had a funny way of pushing you to the edge. You missed him terribly—not just his touch, but his presence, his intensity, the way he made you feel utterly alive.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the message screen, your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your heart pounding with a cocktail of dread and anticipation. You typed out his name, a simple but loaded gesture that felt like a crossroads:

He didn’t respond right away, and you were left staring at the screen, wondering if he’d seen your message or simply chosen to ignore it. Your heart raced with a mix of anticipation and disappointment, the tension building with each passing minute. In an attempt to distract yourself, you began scrolling through old messages—a habit you had found yourself indulging in more often than you cared to admit.

Your thumb paused over a particularly enticing thumbnail, a video he had sent weeks ago during a particularly steamy exchange. The memory of it alone was enough to make your pulse quicken, but you needed more than just memories tonight. You tapped the play button, and the screen filled with the explicit image of Jeno pleasuring himself, his hard cock prominent and demanding attention.

As the video played, your eyes were glued to the rhythmic movements of his hand along his length. His cock was impressive—thick and veined, the head flushed and glistening with pre-cum. It was a sight that had always driven you wild, and tonight was no exception. His moans filled the room, low and husky, each breathy sound a direct line to your core.

You couldn’t help but let out a loud moan at the sight, the sound of your own voice mingling with his from the speakers. Watching him like this, so vulnerable and unabashedly turned on, sent a wave of heat through your body. You imagined what it felt like to have him inside you, the stretch and fill of him, the way he moved with such a perfect mix of urgency and precision.

As you watched him bring himself closer to the edge, his hand moving faster, his moans growing louder, you felt a deep, aching need uncoil within you. You reached down, your fingers tracing the lines of your own arousal as you mimicked the actions on the screen. The thought of being the cause of his pleasure, the focal point of his desire, was intoxicating.

You were so lost in the moment, so caught up in the raw, palpable sexuality of it all, that the rest of the world seemed to fade away. It was just you, the flickering light of your phone screen, and the undeniable evidence of his desire for you. It was overwhelming, it was carnal, and it was exactly what you needed to feel connected to him once more, even if just through a screen.

Before conscious thought could catch up, your hands were already making their way beneath the delicate lace of your underwear. With a swift motion, you hitched up your skirt, giving yourself easier access. Your fingers slid effortlessly along your slick folds, exploring the wetness that had gathered in eager anticipation.

You dipped a finger inside yourself, relishing the warm, tight sensation that enveloped it. The feeling was electric, a direct line of arousal shooting through your body as you added another finger, stretching yourself deliciously. You mimicked the rhythm you saw on the screen, your movements becoming more deliberate and urgent.

As you pumped your fingers in and out, the slick sounds of your own wetness mixed with the visceral audio from the video, creating a symphony of arousal that echoed around the room. Each thrust of your fingers hit just the right spot, sending jolts of pleasure radiating through your core. You angled your fingers, seeking that sweet spot that always made your breath hitch. When you found it, you massaged it fervently, spiraling towards an overwhelming crescendo.

Your breathing became labored, matching the heavy, lust-filled breaths that filled the room from the video. The tension in your lower belly wound tighter and tighter until you were teetering on the edge of release. With a few more expert flicks of your wrist, you tumbled into a powerful orgasm, your body convulsing with wave after wave of intense pleasure. As you rode out the sensations, your mind was filled with vivid flashes of being beneath him, of Jeno’s own heated expressions as he moved within you, his cock driving you towards ecstasy just as your fingers were now.

In the aftermath, you lay breathless, a sheen of sweat coating your skin, the lingering buzz of your climax slowly ebbing away. You were left flushed and satisfied, yet the ache for his actual touch—his body against yours—remained poignant, a stark reminder of the physical connection you both shared and deeply missed.

Jeno’s entrance into the bathroom is marked by a dark, mocking glint in his eyes, his gaze instantly locking onto your exposed, quivering form. The air thickens with tension and raw desire as he takes in the sight of you—fingers paused, breaths shallow, your arousal evident and inviting.

“Oh? What do we have here?” His voice is laced with a blend of mockery and unmistakable hunger, the words rolling off his tongue slow and deliberate. He steps closer, the deliberate echo of his footsteps mingling with the rapid beat of your heart, his piercing eyes devouring the sight of your exposed, slick arousal.

You try to find your voice, but all that escapes is a breathy, involuntary moan. Your eyes, heavy and lust-drunk, meet him with a plea silent yet screaming.

“Why did you stop? Keep going, show me.” he commands, his voice low and merciless, dripping with sadistic satisfaction. “Touch yourself, show me how desperate you really are,” he commands, his tone dripping with sadistic pleasure. 

Compelled by his words, your hand drifts back between your thighs, resuming the slow, deliberate circles around your clit. Each movement sends jolts of pleasure radiating through you, and you moan louder, more unabashedly. Jeno watches intently, his lips curling into a smug, satisfied smile.

As you continue to touch yourself under his demanding gaze, Jeno watches intently, his breathing growing heavier. The room fills with the sound of your moans, each one echoing off the walls, driving him wild. He bites his lip hard, a low grunt escaping him as he watches you writhe in pleasure.

“Fuck, look at you… so needy, so desperate,” he growls, the raw desire in his voice palpable. He can’t help but adjust himself, his hand moving to the growing bulge in his pants, squeezing it through the fabric. His eyes never leave your trembling form as he begins to massage himself, his movements becoming more pronounced as his excitement builds in response to your unabashed display.

Your fingers quicken, driven by his gaze and the filthy encouragement falling from his lips. “Please, Jeno, please touch me,” you whimper, the frustration and need tangling into a sharp, sweet ache.

Jeno’s smirk widens, his gaze sharpening with a sadistic pleasure. “No,” he drawls, his voice low and commanding. “Beg for it properly. Show me how much you want it, how desperate you are. What’s the magic word, princess?” His tone teases, challenging you to humble yourself further in your plea for relief.

 “I need you, Jeno, please…” you gasp, your voice breaking with desperation.

With each stroke, each swirl of your fingers, you feel yourself spiraling closer to the edge. His words, degrading yet oddly affectionate in their own twisted way, push you further, heightening every sensation until you’re teetering on the brink of release.

Overwhelmed by the building crescendo of your arousal, you finally shatter under his watchful eyes, a loud moan escaping as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you shuddering and spent, yet craving more. Jeno’s expression, a mix of satisfaction and insatiable hunger, tells you this night has only just begun.

As your breaths begin to even out and you attempt to gather some semblance of composure, Jeno’s gaze shifts towards the bathroom door, which remains slightly ajar—an oversight you hadn’t noticed in your frenzied state. His eyes narrow slightly, the earlier amusement mingling now with a sharper, more commanding tone.

“You left the door open? Really?” His voice is both teasing and scolding, rich with disapproval. “Look at you, so desperate and whiny that you couldn’t even remember to close it. You really weren’t thinking at all, were you? Just a desperate cum slut needing attention so badly you forgot the world outside.”

You feel a flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks, mixed with the residual warmth of your climax. The open door, a detail so minor yet so risky, underscores just how reckless your need had made you.

Jeno steps closer, his body nearly touching yours, his breath hot against your ear. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? Too desperate for my cock, for my touch, to even care who might see? You’re lucky it was me who walked in and not someone else.” His fingers trace a slow, deliberate path down your arm, sending shivers across your skin.

“Would you have stopped if it were someone else, or would you have let them watch you fall apart?” he murmurs, his words a taunt that digs deeper into your psyche, making you squirm under his intense gaze.

The implication of his words, the idea of being so exposed, so out of control, only adds another layer to the complex tapestry of humiliation and arousal that Jeno weaves around you. You find your voice, small and breathy, “I… I didn’t mean to—”

"Quiet," he commands sharply, his hand swiftly connecting with your cheek in a firm spank. The sudden sting sends a shiver through you, causing you to gasp as a wave of blissful shock rolls through your body.

“You’re only mine to watch, remember that,” he adds firmly, the possessive edge in his voice leaving no room for argument. The door remains open, a silent testament to your oversight and his control, adding yet another thrilling element to the night’s already charged atmosphere.

"We're going to play a game," he announced, his tone commanding as he laid out the rules with a wicked grin. "We watch each other. No touching." His strokes matched the rhythm of your own hand as you both fell into a silent contest of wills, each movement more desperate than the last.

"If you lose first," he murmured, voice strained as he held back his own climax, "you’re going to suck my cock. And if I lose," he paused, a deep growl punctuating his words, "I'll eat you out right here on this countertop."

The challenge was intoxicating. You felt every stroke echo through your body, each moan slipping from your lips pushing him closer to the edge. His eyes, dark and intense, never left your face, watching every flicker of pleasure that passed over your features.

The game had been a torturous delight, and losing felt almost as exhilarating as the anticipation of winning.

As you moaned Jeno’s name, your hands couldn’t resist the magnetic pull toward him. Your fingers wrapped around his firm, eager cock, your touch bold and hungry, driven by an intense need.

"Baby,” he breathed out, his voice husky with arousal as he watched the slick evidence of your pleasure glisten. The sight was too much for him to simply observe passively. He unbuckled his belt, his actions deliberate, pulling out his cock swollen with need. With slow, tantalizing movements, he began to stroke himself, his gaze fixed intently on your quivering form.

Your breath caught in your throat as you lowered yourself, eyes fixed on him, drawn irresistibly to his arousal. You brushed your lips against the tip of his cock, savouring the hint of his arousal, your moans soft against his skin. Your movements were deliberate, filled with the desire to take him into your mouth, to feel him deep and completely.

But Jeno’s firm grip on your chin halted you, his dark eyes piercing yours with a commanding intensity. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice low and firm. “You seem eager… But remember, you only do what I say, when I say.”​

"Open your legs," he murmured, his voice low and seductive as he guided you back up to stand before him. He kissed your inner thighs softly, each kiss closer to your heat, building anticipation. His breath was hot against your skin, each exhale sending shivers down your spine as he teased you mercilessly. 

“Climb up here,” Jeno commands, his hands gripping your hips firmly to help hoist you onto the cold marble countertop. The sharp contrast between the cool surface and the warmth of your flushed skin sends another shiver through you, heightening your anticipation. His fingers linger on your thighs, squeezing gently as he adjusts your position, ensuring you’re perfectly displayed before him.

"Tell me, who’s been lucky enough to have you since I've been gone?" he asked, his voice a deep whisper against the sensitive folds of your arousal. His words were a deliberate provocation, designed to unravel you completely. 

You shook your head, breath hitching, "No one but you,” the lie slipping out amidst your shaky breaths as you struggled to maintain composure under his intense gaze.

Jeno paused, his eyes searching yours for a moment longer than necessary, the corners of his mouth twitching as if deciding how to interpret your words. “Are you sure about that?” he asked, his tone soft yet edged with a faint trace of skepticism, almost teasing yet earnest enough to deepen the fluttering in your chest.

You nodded, the words slipping out in a quiet whisper, shy to say it, acting extra shy and timid. “Yes, daddy,” your voice barely rose above a whisper, each word trembling slightly as if afraid of being fully heard.y” 

Jeno’s smirk deepens as his hand moves with intense purpose, each motion reflecting his hungry desire. His fingers tighten around himself, every touch deliberate and charged with raw passion. Biting his lip, his eyes never leave you, burning with a lust that’s both fierce and unabashed. “Say that again. Louder,” he commands, his voice a deep growl, thick with need and the urge to hear you once more.

Driven by the intense atmosphere, you scream out, “Daddy!!!” Your voice is louder, laden with your own undeniable longing and the palpable sexual tension that crackles fiercely in the air between you. Your call is passionate, filled with a raw, aching need that resonates powerfully in the charged silence that follows.

Jeno smiled, a knowing, wicked curve of his lips before he dipped his head. His tongue traced the delicate lines of your folds with expert precision, his movements deliberate and focused. He savoured the taste of you, his moans vibrating against your skin as he expressed his approval of your flavour. The room filled with the sounds of your wetness and his persistent licks.

Every flick of his tongue sent electric shocks that radiated from your core to every part of your body. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, holding you open, utterly exposed to his hungry gaze and eager mouth. Your hands found his hair, pushing him closer, guiding him to the spots that made your body arch and your breath catch.

"Daddy," you gasped, the edge approaching rapidly as his tongue swirled around your clit, then pressed flat against it, the change in pressure dragging a loud moan from your lips. He intensified his efforts, encouraged by your responses, his own arousal palpable in the urgency of his actions.

As you neared your climax, your voice broke, "Please, Daddy, please," your plea barely a whisper, yet it echoed in the small space, filled with the steam of your desire.

In the heat of the moment, your actions became wild and uncontrolled. Each thrust of your hips against Jeno’s face was driven by raw desperation, your body chasing the climax that tantalized you just at the brink. His expert tongue worked relentlessly, drawing moan after moan from your lips as he explored every fold with precision. The room spun around you, filled with the sounds of your labored breathing and the wet, slick noises of his devotion.

As your pleasure mounted, your movements grew more frantic. You ground yourself against him harder, each movement more urgent than the last, effectively face-fucking him in your need to reach that peak. Jeno, undeterred, met each of your thrusts with a surge of his tongue, pushing you closer to the edge.

But the wildness of your actions came with consequences. In your fervor, you lost track of your balance. Suddenly, the world tipped sideways. Jeno’s grip on your hips faltered, and the two of you were sent crashing backward in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter. The abrupt fall didn’t dampen the fire between you; if anything, it stoked it further.

Lying on the floor now, Jeno’s expression mixed frustration with raw desire. His voice was rough, tinged with both admonishment and lust as he spoke. “Only good girls deserve to cum,” he chided, his hands steadying your shaking form. “You’re being too needy.”

Yet, the smirk that danced across your lips betrayed your enjoyment of this chaotic intimacy. His next command was a growl, thick with promise, “Sit on my face.”

Scrambling to comply, you positioned yourself above him once again, your heart pounding with anticipation. As you lowered yourself onto his eager mouth, his hands firmly guided your hips, setting a punishing rhythm that you eagerly followed.

His tongue resumed its fervent dance, exploring you deeply, each stroke a deliberate provocation. You rode his face with abandon, each movement more deliberate, grinding down to meet his upward strokes. The sensation of his lips and tongue, combined with the urgent grip of his hands, drove you towards delirium. The room echoed with the sounds of your mutual desperation, a symphony of slick, muffled noises and your increasingly sharp moans.

His tongue and lips worked in unison to bring you to the brink. And when he added a finger, curling it inside you, hitting that sweet spot, you shattered, your body convulsed in an intense orgasm, and you felt yourself squirting forcefully. A burst of warmth splashed across Jeno’s face, streaking down his cheeks and chin in rivulets. He maintained his position, his mouth and tongue still at work as the surge drenched him, his face slick and shining with you. 

His initial shock morphed into a broad, triumphant grin as he reveled in the wet, messy evidence of your pleasure. His eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and arousal, fully immersed in the raw, erotic display of your climax.

Jeno’s strong hands guided you down gently, ensuring your shaky legs found stability before pulling you onto his lap. Your hands, still trembling from the aftermath of your release, found his hair, gripping it tightly as you leaned in close. Your lips met the slick, wet trails that your climax had left on his skin, tasting yourself on him—a mingling of sweet and heady that made your head spin.

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer as your hands roamed, dragging nails along his scalp, eliciting a rough groan that vibrated against your lips. The kiss wasn’t just a clash—it was a claim, each of you hungry for dominance, for the reassurance that this connection was as unbreakable as ever.

From the intense tangle on the bathroom floor, Jeno’s eyes locked with yours, filled with a fiery determination that signaled a shift. He stood abruptly, his strong hands gripping your arms, pulling you up with him. Without breaking eye contact. Jeno’s hands gripped your hips, he forcefully spun you around to face the wall, your hands pressing flat against the cool, reflective surface of the mirror.

He hoisted you slightly, just enough so your feet barely touched the ground, your body bent at a perfect angle for him to enter. As he positioned himself behind you, his presence loomed large, and his cock teased at your entrance before he thrust forward, burying himself deep inside you with a primal urgency.

The cold glass of the mirror kissed your skin, contrasting with the heat emanating from every pore as Jeno began to move. His thrusts were deliberate and rough, designed to remind you of his control and your surrender. With each deep penetration, he grunted, a low sound filled with both satisfaction and dominance. His hands moved from your hips to your hair, tugging your head back to expose your throat, which he leaned in to bite gently, marking you as his.

“Look at us,” Jeno commanded, his voice thick with arousal. Your eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze in the mirror. The sight was raw—your body bent, his hands claiming you, your expressions twisted with pleasure. “No one fucks you like I do, isn’t that right?” he taunted, punctuating his words with a sharp slap on your ass, the sound echoing in the small room.

You moaned, the sting from the slap tingling pleasantly as he continued to drive into you. “Yes, Daddy, that’s right,” you gasped, the mirror fogging slightly with the heat of your breaths.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. Without warning, he spat directly onto your back, the sudden wetness stark against your heated skin. His hand followed, spreading the saliva smoothly across your skin, a cold contrast to the warm press of his body. This deliberate act heightened the raw intensity of the moment, each movement slick and unrelenting.

Jeno’s gaze captured yours in the mirror, his eyes glinting with fire as he turned your face to meet his. He studied your flushed, overwhelmed expression with a satisfied smirk. His hand then cupped your chin, tilting your head back as he forcefully opened your mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he spat directly into your mouth, the act bold and commanding. Quickly, he sealed his lips over yours, his kiss swallowing your gasps, merging the sharp tang of his dominance with the heat of your shared arousal.

The mirror captured every raw emotion, every hungry gaze, magnifying the intensity of the moment. As Jeno’s hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming, you watched, captivated by the sight of his muscles flexing with each movement. His grip tightened, and suddenly he was moving you, one hand splayed across your chest, the other gripping your hip, controlling the rhythm.

Then his hand clutched at your hair, yanking it back to arch your neck sharply, exposing your throat to the cool air of the room. The sudden, assertive pull sent a rush of adrenaline through you, heightening every sensation. His other hand encircled your throat, his hold firm and unyielding, squeezing just enough to send a thrilling rush of danger through your veins. This mix of pain and pleasure, the sharp tugs and the constricting grasp on your neck, amplified every sensation, making each thrust feel deeper, more desperate.

Jeno tightens his grip around you. His forearm presses firmly against your throat, locking you securely under his control. You feel the strength of his arm, each muscle taut and alive, as he manoeuvres you, anchoring you in place with a confident hold. His body is flush against yours, his chest heaving against your back with each breath, his movements precise and intent on keeping you precisely where he wants you.

As the intensity grew, he reached around to press a firm hand against your throat, squeezing gently, heightening every sensation. “I want to hear you say it,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Shuddering under the dual assault of his cock and his hand, you managed to reply through ragged breaths, “I’m yours, only yours.”

Satisfied, Jeno released your throat and focused on driving you toward climax. His thrusts became erratic, more desperate. He pulled you up against him, your back flush with his chest, and his fingers found your clit. As he rubbed in tight circles, his other hand wandered over your body, exploring every curve with a possessive touch.

Just as you felt your orgasm looming, he bit down on your shoulder, a sharp, sweet pain that sent you over the edge. Your legs trembled, and your body clenched around him as you came hard, your cries loud enough to draw curious looks from outside the bathroom. But the sound of your pleasure was drowned out by Jeno’s own climax, his hot release filling you as he groaned your name.

The bathroom door remained ajar, forgotten in the heat of the moment. A curious crowd began to gather outside, drawn by the unmistakable sounds of ecstasy echoing from within. Nayoung and Eric, vigilant and protective, stood guard. Nayoung’s eyes flashed dangerously at anyone who dared get too close, her stance aggressive and ready.

As murmurs and whispers filled the hallway, Nayoung turned her gaze towards Arin, who stood a few feet away, her face a mix of shock and curiosity. With a wicked grin, Nayoung leaned closer to her, her voice loud enough for only Arin to hear but with a sharpness that cut through the buzz. “You hear your boyfriend who loves you so much screaming out that he loves Y/N’s pussy?” Her tone was taunting, the words a deliberate jab meant to twist the knife of jealousy and claim.

You and Jeno have parted ways, but not before he takes you against the kitchen countertop and the walls of one of the spare bedrooms. Now, you find yourself unable to walk around properly, each step a reminder of the fervent and fleeting moments shared in the throes of passion.

As you navigate the crowded party, the weight of your recent actions with Jeno hangs heavily on your mind, but the high from the encounter keeps the reality at bay. Every step reminds you of how good he fucked you, leaving you with a mixture of satisfaction and discomfort that makes it hard to walk properly.

You overhear whispers and can feel glances thrown your way—Nayoung wasn’t exaggerating when she said that the entire party heard you two. There’s a flush of embarrassment that should be creeping in, but it’s overshadowed by the buzz of the high and how vividly good Jeno made you feel.

As you try to steady yourself, your eyes catch Sunwoo and Yeji in a tender, ‘wrapped-up-in-each-other' moment. That spark of jealousy flares again. They seem to have what you long for but can’t quite grasp—genuine connection and unwavering affection. Observing them together stirs a mix of longing and regret inside you.

Your mind flashes back to the night you tried fuck Sunwoo, an impulsive act driven by loneliness and perhaps too much to drink. The guilt starts to seep in as you consider the potential fallout of your actions—how close you came to complicating their relationship. You’re relieved now, thankful that Sunwoo didn’t reciprocate your advances. They deserve happiness, the kind that’s free from the turbulence of your current state.

──────────────────────────────

Nayoung's compliments fill the room as she applies the final touches to your makeup, her skilled hands enhancing your natural beauty. She opts for a sultry look: a subtle smokey eye that makes your gaze captivating, paired with a nude lip gloss that adds just the right amount of shine, complementing your soft curls. 

As you giggle and blush at her flattery, the nervous excitement for the upcoming performance bubbles within you. The show tonight is to the biggest audience you’ve played to yet, it’s monumental,—not only for the band but for you personally as it’s the first time you’re performing a solo. 

You’re wearing a black sheer top with a plunging neckline and flowing sleeves that billow with each movement, you slip on a black mini skirt that’s both short and incredibly tight, clinging to your curves in a way that makes you sigh in pride. It's a look designed to captivate, to announce your presence unapologetically as you take the lead mic for the first time.

As Nayoung skillfully applies the last of your makeup, her hands move with a familiar ease that only a best friend's touch could provide. "You're so pretty," she declares, each word a testament to the care she's put into helping you look your best.

Her continuous compliments send a warm flush across your cheeks, the kind of bashful response that has always come so naturally to you in moments like these. "Nayoung!" you giggle.

With a grateful smile, you meet her gaze in the mirror and say sincerely, "Thank you."

Eunji strides in, a grave look etched across her face, slicing through the casual atmosphere of the room. “Hey, have you seen this?” Her voice is heavy with concern as she places a comforting hand on your back, the other holding her phone out. “I normally ignore this group chat, but Yeji insisted I check it out.”

A message flashes across the screen, a taunt from Arin: "Me and Jeno are nearly back together ;)"

A laugh, bitter and hollow, bubbles up from your throat. "She’s so delusional. She’s completely out of touch with reality, it's almost amusing," you snort, though the humour doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Look, that’s an old photo, from two years ago. Jeno would never go back to her."

"Are you sure you’re okay with this?" Eunji's voice pierces through the quiet, her eyes probing, concerned.

"With what?" Your response is automatic, faint, the words barely a whisper as you mask the turmoil beneath.

"With you and Jeno being fully done." Her tone is gentle, coaxing out your true feelings.

"Yes," you reply, a little too quickly, a little too sharply. It's a lie you tell yourself as much as you tell them, a facade to protect your crumbling resolve.

After the party, where lines blurred under the influence of alcohol and a high that made the world seem less daunting, you and Jeno crossed paths in a way that was meant to be fleeting—just sex, a declaration of it being a one-night mistake, despite the undeniable connection. You’d insisted it was nothing more, even if every touch argued otherwise. It was supposed to be just a slip, a lapse in judgment not meant to mean anything, yet the memory of how right it felt lingers, challenging your assertions with silent, persistent whispers.

Tears well up, blurring your vision, threatening to break the dam of your composure. You blink them back furiously, determined not to let them see how deeply you're cut, how raw you still feel. The façade cracks just a bit, but you shore it up swiftly, desperate to appear unshaken.

"Apparently Arin is coming to the show tonight," Nayoung mentions, tactfully shifting the topic to distract you from the lingering sadness. Both of you roll your eyes in unison, sharing a brief, knowing laugh. "I think she’s more obsessed with you than Jeno at this point," she adds, her tone light, trying to inject some humor into the situation.

"And Jeno is coming," Eunji chimes in, her smile cryptic, a mischievous twinkle in her eye that you can't quite interpret. You shake your head, dismissing the notion with a wave of your hand.

"He won’t be there," you say flatly, the idea seeming almost absurd now.

"Didn’t he promise he would?" Eunji presses, her voice gentle yet probing, reminding you of commitments made under different circumstances.

"Yeah… when we were together. We’re not anymore," you mumble. 

──────────────────────────────

You should’ve known. 

Jeno isn’t one to break promises, especially not to you. His commitments are etched in stone—unyielding, devoted. Every action he's taken, every word he's spoken to you has been filled with an honesty and depth that few can muster. And tonight, he's here, just as he said he would be, a steady figure in the flux of faces, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on you from the audience.

As you take the stage, the weight of his gaze is like a warm blanket over your shoulders. It's here, in this bustling venue filled with the echoes of chords and melodies, that you feel his support envelop you. The lights cast shimmering halos around you, but none shine as bright as the look in his eyes—a blend of admiration and quiet sorrow for the distance that has grown between you, yet filled with hope.

He agreed that the two of you probably needed time away. He needed time to think, to realise what he truly wanted, and to fully understand and appreciate his feelings towards you and how real and serious they were.

Jeno stands beside Jaemin, lost in the sight of you commanding the stage, his gaze locked on you with an intensity that even Jaemin notices, chuckling softly at his friend's undisguised adoration. There's a softness in Jeno's eyes, a warmth that spreads through his chest as he watches you. He hadn't realised just how deeply he missed you until this moment, seeing you shine so brightly in your element, your confidence cascading over the crowd like a wave. 

Every note you sing, every move you make, seems to draw him in further, and he can't help but smile, a genuine, heartfelt expression that speaks volumes of the pride swelling within him. You've grown, blossomed into this magnetic presence on stage, and it fills him with an overwhelming sense of pride and joy. Jeno feels a warmth spreading through him, so profound and stirring that his heart aches pleasantly with every beat. Watching you now, radiant and captivating, he realises the depth of his feelings, each one laid bare in the soft glow of the spotlight that envelopes you. 

For Jeno, this moment crystallizes everything he feels for you—admiration, pride, and an affection so deep it transcends the music and the noise. It's as if the world falls away, leaving only the echo of his heart affirming what he knows deep down: that you mean everything to him. 

You are everything to him—breathtaking, irreplaceable, deeply cherished. The curve of your smile, the intensity in your eyes, and the passion in your voice all remind him of what he's been missing. He was only here for

you, he'd do anything for you. He misses your body, the close warmth of your body against his. Your laugh, your touch, the way you move—memories flood him, vivid and stirring. Seeing you now, so confident and radiant, intensifies his desire. Only you can make him feel this way. 

As you take the stage for your solo, the spotlight casts a gentle glow around you. Jeno, watching from the audience, feels a surge of affection and pride swell within him. He sees Yeji give your hand a reassuring squeeze, and his heart echoes that support from afar.

The moment you begin to describe the song, your voice trembles slightly with vulnerability. "It means a lot to me," you say, "it’s about someone that means a lot to me. This song is what falling in love feels like." Those words, so simple yet profoundly sincere, resonate through Jeno's very soul. He can feel the emotion pouring from you as you start to sing, each note laced with the raw, untamed feelings of love you hold.

As the melody fills the air, Jeno's eyes remain fixed on you, taking in every movement, every expression that flits across your face. To him, you embody everything breathtaking about being in love. The love he feels for you is a transformative force, a tidal wave of emotion that has reshaped his world. It's a feeling that lifts him higher than he’s ever been, yet grounds him more profoundly than he ever imagined possible.

He loves you not just for who you are to the world, but for who you are to him: a source of light, joy, and endless wonder. This love makes him feel alive, every beat of his heart synchronized with the rhythm of your song, every breath a shared moment between past and promise. Watching you there, the embodiment of passion and grace, Jeno's appreciation deepens. 

As you finish your song, the applause still ringing in your ears, you turn around to find Jeno already on stage, his presence both unexpected and unmistakable. "You did so well, I’m always so proud of you," he says, his voice brimming with pride. The closeness is overwhelming, and you avert your gaze, not ready to dive into the flood of emotions his presence brings. 

Your response is muted. “Thank you," barely audible, not quite reaching him. The anger that has been simmering inside you bubbles up. "Why are you here?" you ask sharply, the words slicing through the tension between you. 

"Just hear me out," Jeno whispers, his voice soft, trying to bridge the distance your words have created. You groan, frustration evident. "I promised you that I’d come, didn’t I?" he continues, his gaze intense, causing your head to spin with a mix of irritation and unresolved feelings.

"Jeno, you’re messing with our set, you need to go—" you start, trying to maintain your composure, but he cuts you off.

"Was that song about me?" he asks directly, looking for truth in your eyes.

"No," you reply through gritted teeth, anger flaring. "Why would it be about you?" your voice rises involuntarily.

"I love you too," he says, the softness in his voice attempting to bridge the gap your arguments had built. His words are a direct answer to the emotions you poured into your song, but they hover in the air, momentarily lost to you.

"You can’t just come on stage and do this, come up to me and act as if everything is okay," you retort, your focus more on the disruption than the message he's trying to convey.

"I love you too," he repeats firmly, his declaration halting your defences.

"What?" you whisper, the fight draining out of you as the realisation of his words slowly sinks in. He grins, his confidence reaching out to you across the void of your doubts.

"I love you—" 

His words dissolve into a heated clash of your lips, an urgent collision that ignites a primal hunger between you. Your mouths meld together in a frenzy, each kiss deeper and more desperate than the last. There’s a raw intensity to your connection, a magnetic pull drawing you closer with every touch. You can feel the heat of his breath mingling with yours, the taste of desire lingering on his tongue.

His kisses are fierce, a symphony of passion and longing as your lips move in sync. There’s an urgency in his touch, a hunger that matches your own as you lose yourselves in the heat of the moment. His hands roam over your body, igniting sparks of pleasure with every caress.

You gasp against his lips, the sensation overwhelming as he pulls you closer, his touch setting your skin ablaze with desire. His mouth moves hungrily against yours, each kiss leaving you breathless and wanting more.

With a low groan that vibrated against your skin, Jeno lifted you up effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His strong arms anchored you to him as he navigated off the stage, the world narrowing to just the space between you two. The pulse of the music and the heat of the spotlights faded into a distant hum, replaced by the racing of your hearts and the shallow breaths.

The audience’s laughter echoed faintly behind you, spurred by Sunwoo’s announcement through the mic, “I guess we’re doing the rest of the show without Y/N!” 

Navigating the cluttered backstage was a challenge, with Jeno’s arms securing you and your fingers tangled in his hair. The dimly lit corridors were a labyrinth of shadows and echoes, crew members dodging out of your way with rolled eyes and knowing smirks. But you and Jeno don’t care; you haven’t been together like this in so long. It couldn’t wait; you had to have each other here and now.

“Baby, tell me where the spare rooms are,” Jeno murmured against your stomach, each word a brush of hot breath that sent shivers down your spine.

“That room on the left, I think,” you whispered back, your voice a mixture of laughter and breathless anticipation.

He wasted no time, steering you toward the indicated door. His hand found the knob without breaking the kiss. “Really?” His voice echoed slightly in the cramped room, filled with musical and stage equipment. It was less a room and more a small storage space, instruments and cables haphazardly stacked around you.

Jeno navigated the clutter with ease, his lips finding your cheek in soft kisses as he surveyed the surroundings, an amused sparkle in his eyes. Your legs, still securely wrapped around his waist, tightened as you pulled him closer, craving the warmth of his mouth against yours. Your lips met in a desperate kiss, reaffirming the connection that buzzed electrically between you.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Jeno held you against it, your back pressed against it, pinning you between the solid wood and his solid chest. His hands roamed with purpose, tracing the curves of your body as if recommitting every detail to memory. 

“Please, Jeno,” you whispered into the kiss, your fingers fumbling at the hem of his shirt. The tight space made it awkward, and you laughed softly in frustration, your breath hitching as you tugged the fabric upwards. He hummed, a low, vibrating sound that seemed to stir the air itself.

“I need you,” you moaned, the words vibrating through you as you ground against him, feeling his arousal firm against your core. He caught the hint of urgency in your voice, his movements becoming more deliberate. With a fluid motion that spoke of his eagerness, Jeno stripped off his shirt, then helped you shed your top, the garments discarded carelessly among the instruments.

After a playful struggle with Jeno’s trousers and your tight skirt, you both finally shed the last barriers of clothing, now standing fully exposed. The room is filled with your shared laughter and affectionate eye smiles, echoing the deep connection you both feel in this cramped, instrument-cluttered space.

You don’t waste any time, When he looks into your eyes, he sees the same desire mirrored back at him, confirming that you want nothing more than to feel him inside you. “Fuck, baby,” he moans softly as he gently enters you, the initial connection drawing a deep, shared breath.

He’s tender with you, cooing praises and whispering words of adoration into your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. Sensing your discomfort as you adjust to him, he remains still for a moment, allowing you time to acclimate to his size. It’s been a while since you’ve had anything of his size in you, and Jeno is more than understanding. “Good girl,” he praises with each careful, slow thrust, his hands gripping you securely, reassuring you of his presence and support.

Now, unlike the distant haze of the party where you were too drunk and high to truly feel anything, you are completely sober. The only intoxication now comes from the drug of love itself. You feel all of him—his love, his heart, his touch, and the profound intensity of his cock that fills you completely. This is a stark, beautiful contrast to the numbness of before, making every moment, every movement, deeply significant.

“You’re so big,” you manage to say, your voice a mix of awe and overwhelmed pleasure, your eyes slightly unfocused from the intensity of the moment.

Looking down together at the place where your bodies meet, you both take in the sight—the profound intimacy of the connection. It’s almost overwhelming, the feeling of being so closely joined, and it brings tears to your eyes, not just from the physical sensation but also from the emotional depth of the moment.

“You’re barely in me,” you whisper, the slow stretch a sharp contrast to the deep need you both feel.

“It’s okay, my love. We’ll go slow. I just wanna take my time with you,” Jeno responds, his voice full of love and patience. His every move is calculated and tender, designed to reassure and pleasure you, making every second a slow, beautiful dance of intimacy.

He sighs in bliss, his eyes rolling back as the pace intensifies. His hips rock into yours with a steady, building rhythm. Each powerful thrust pushes deeper, aligning perfectly as your bodies move in perfect sync, rising and falling in unison.

The room fills with the sound of your ragged breaths, intermingling with the unmistakable slap of skin on skin, a primal melody of desire. With each thrust, he delves deeper, his movements precise and skillful, hitting all the right spots. Waves of pleasure radiate from where you’re joined, cascading through your body in a relentless tide.

“Fuck, you feel so good, so tight. I don’t ever wanna leave again,” he groans, the raw need in his voice vibrating against your skin.

You reach up, pulling him down for a soft, deep kiss. “You never left me,” you whisper against his lips, breathless and smiling. 

He chuckles softly, kissing your nose. “I meant my cock in your pussy, beautiful.”

“Oh,” you reply with a light laugh, your cheeks flushing with a mix of arousal and affection.

His hands grip your hips firmly, anchoring you as he thrusts deeper, each movement deliberate and profound. “You take me so well, don’t you, baby? Like you were made just for me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, breathless. “Made just for you,” you echo, pulling him down for a passionate kiss. This pace, slow and patient, carries a warmth that fills you completely. It’s different for you and Jeno, it’s slower, allowing you to savor each moment, to actually talk and maintain eye contact with the man you love as you make love to him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he drives into you relentlessly, each thrust deep and meaningful. “I’ve missed this so much,” you whisper, and the two of you can’t hold back your grins, your chests and mouths aching from smiling so much.

He nods, his eyes alight with affection. “I haven’t had sex since you,” he admits, and you gasp, thinking he’s joking at first but soon realizing he’s earnest.

“You — you — really? You haven’t slept with anyone but me?” you question, your surprise evident.

“I haven’t even wanted to. You’re the only girl I’ve had sex with ever since meeting you. Why would I have sex with anyone else when I’m in love with you?” he responds, his voice soft yet resonant, clear and full of truth. His straightforward honesty leaves you speechless, overwhelmed by the simplicity and depth of his feelings. “It’s always been you, it’s you,” he clarifies, each word punctuating the space between you with its significance.

“I love you so much.” His declaration comes easily, filled with an earnestness that wraps around you like a warm blanket. He continues, his words a caress to your soul, telling you how much he cares, how beautiful you are to him, and how deeply he desires to make you feel cherished and adored. The intimacy of the moment, enriched by his heartfelt confessions, deepens the connection, transforming a physical act into an expression of love and commitment.

As you murmur your reciprocation, “Mmm, and I love you,” his movements grow even more focused. His cock slides deeper into you with every thrust, stretching you deliciously, making you feel every inch of him. 

“You feel so perfect,” he groans, his voice low and husky. The warmth of his breath against your ear sends shivers down your spine as he continues to move within you, slow but intense.

Each thrust pushes him deeper, your body eagerly welcoming him, adjusting to his size and the depth of his penetrations. Your intertwined legs enable him to reach angles that send waves of pleasure radiating throughout your body, each push a testament to his words of devotion.

Your response to his movements is instinctive and unrestrained, you smile back, meeting his thrusts with your own. The room is filled with the sound of your connected bodies, the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin punctuating the air with the reality of your physical and emotional union.

Your laughter and whispers mingle with the warmth of your breaths. “We’re going to have so much sex now,” you laugh against his lips, feeling his smile in the kiss as you add, “we have a lot of making up for lost time.”

He pulls back slightly, locking eyes with you, a gleam of excitement and affection in his gaze. “I’m sorry you’ve gone so long without having sex. I’m gonna make it up to you though, don’t worry,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

He shakes his head, his smile deepening, filled with a sincerity that tugs at your heart. “It’s all worth it. You’re worth the wait, and you don’t need to make anything up to me, you’ve never done anything wrong,” he assures you, his hand gently caressing your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“I love you so much,” you whisper, your voice laced with the desperation of nearing climax. The vulnerability in your tone makes his heart swell.

“Say it again,” Jeno breathes out, his voice rough with his own need. His hands grip your hips tighter, guiding you to meet each of his thrusts. The sound of your bodies moving together in desperate rhythm fills the room, a testament to the depth of your connection.

“I love you, Jeno,” you repeat, louder this time, each word punctuated by his thrusts. “I love you so much.”

He moans in response, his forehead resting against yours as he looks into your eyes, seeing nothing but the raw emotion reflected back at him. “And I love you, more than anything,” he says, his voice breaking with emotion. “You’re everything to me.”

The pace quickens as you both near the brink, the pressure building to an almost unbearable intensity. You feel him swell inside you, and you know he’s close. His eyes never leave yours, holding your gaze as if to memorize every detail in this perfect, fragile moment.

Your back arches against the wall, pushing you even closer to him. “Jeno, I’m—”

“I know, baby, me too,” he whispers, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that steals your breath away. His movements become erratic, a sign he’s lost in the sensation, driven by the overwhelming love and desire he feels for you.

With a final, deep thrust, you feel him tremble, his grip on you tightening as he reaches his climax. The warmth of him spills inside you just as your own climax washes over you, a wave of intense pleasure that leaves you clinging to him, moaning into his mouth.

As you both ride out the waves of your climaxes, soft whimpers and sighs fill the air, each breath a whisper of the love you share. Gradually, your breathing slows, and Jeno’s embrace softens around you, holding you as if he could shield you from the world forever

The room is filled with a charged silence, broken only by his earnest words. "I'm sorry about everything," he says, his voice thick with emotion. 

You shake your head gently, your hands finding comfort as they run through his hair. "You don’t need to be," you reply softly, feeling the weight of his apologies and the sincerity in his eyes.

He meets your eyes, his own filled with a raw sincerity. “But I do need to be. I’m so incredibly sorry for standing you up. I should have been there, and I wasn’t—no excuses,” he confesses, the honesty in his tone underscoring the gravity of his apology.

He holds your gaze, his eyes earnest and filled with a quiet intensity. "I've spent a lot of time thinking about how to make this right," he begins, his voice steady and sincere. "I'm not going to make excuses or try to justify my actions—there’s no point in that. Instead, what I can do is promise you that I'll be better from now on. I won’t hurt you like this again." His commitment rings clear in his tone, showing his determination to mend things and move forward.

You nod, a smile breaking across your face as you lean in, eager to seal your understanding with a kiss. But he just chuckles softly, evading your lips with a playful ease that only heightens your affection for him.

His hands cup your face, thumbs gently caressing your cheeks as he continues, "I just wanna explain myself to you, baby, so you know where I’m at, so you know how serious I am. I’m over Arin—completely. There’s no part of me that still wants her; every beat of my heart is for you now. You don’t need to worry about me feeling attached to her anymore."

Your heart swells with his words, and you lean in to press your lips against his in a reassuring kiss. "I believe you," you whisper against his lips, sealing your trust in him with the warmth of your embrace.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours, vulnerable yet hopeful. "I was hurt after what happened with Arin, I had never experienced heartbreak like that. I just pushed down the pain and I didn’t deal with it. But then I met you... you changed everything. You were so magnetic, so perfect in my eyes. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way you do, not even Arin. I knew that you were someone important and that I had to keep you close."

Listening, you nod, understanding more of his past and feeling the depth of his revelation. His voice grows softer, "But the entire thing with Arin still made me doubtful, not of you or our love but a part of me wasn’t over what she did, a part of me hadn’t healed. But every second I spend with you, being loved by you, I feel that part of me healing. I don’t know why I was so scared to become official with you but all I know is that I’m ready to be yours, I want to belong to you. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize, but I’m here now, yours for a lifetime. I want to love you forever, in this universe and every other one we might find ourselves in."

Tears stream down your face as you grin, touched by his declaration. "You’re so romantic," you giggle, your voice shaky with emotion. His presence, the gravity of his words, and the love in his eyes—it all makes you feel a rush of shyness and excitement.

Despite the deep connection you share, he still has this incredible ability to make you feel giddy, as if every encounter with him is like the first. His gentle touch, his soft laughter in response to yours, it reassures you and intensifies the butterflies in your stomach. And you don’t see that ever going away; it’s a part of the magic that makes your relationship feel perpetually new and thrilling.

He smiles, his own eyes glistening, and then he begins to kiss every inch of your face. Each kiss is soft, affectionate, a silent promise, and a whisper of his love. He kisses your eyelids, each one a gentle blessing, then down to your nose, making you laugh with a light peck that tickles. His lips travel over your cheeks, leaving a trail of warmth, before brushing a kiss on your chin. Finally, he returns to your lips, this kiss deeper, more punctuating. 

“So, what now?” you ask, your hands moving to cup his face, drawing him close enough that you can feel his breath mingle with yours.

“I wanna take you everywhere,” he responds with a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.

You hum, a sound filled with contentment and anticipation.

His eyes light up with excitement as he continues, “I want you to meet my parents, my family. I wanna take you on so many dates, getaways, holidays. Every experience I can think of, I want to share it with you.”

"That sounds like a good idea," you start, a glint of excitement and curiosity lighting up your eyes as you lean in a little closer. "And anything else?" you ask, your voice a playful whisper, inviting him to reveal more of his dreams for the two of you.

He shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eye, as he pretends to think hard while scratching his neck. “I don’t think so,” he whispers playfully, drawing out the moment just to tease you a little more.

You tut, rolling your eyes at his antics. “Ask me to be your girlfriend,” you whine, your voice carrying a mix of playful sternness and impatience.

He softens, his eyes locking with yours as he replies earnestly, “I want it to be romantic. I wanna make you feel like the most special girl in the world; I want it to be memorable. It’s what you deserve.” His words flow warmly, filling you with an indescribable feeling of love and anticipation.

Looking into his eyes, you find all the romance and significance the moment needs. “Looking into your eyes is all I need, that’s romantic enough for me,” you admit, your voice soft and sincere.

He chuckles, his hold on you firm and reassuring. “Are you sure? Right now, I’m holding you against the wall, my cock is still in you, and we’re surrounded by drums and guitars.”

You smile up at him. “And I can’t think of anything more romantic,” you wink, affirming that every aspect of this moment—unconventional as it may be—is perfect in its own right.

He gives in, his voice soft yet filled with conviction. “I want to be yours, I want to be your boyfriend,” he declares, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Are you ready for that?” you ask, the seriousness of your question tempered by the excitement in your tone.

“I’m more than ready,” he responds in a heartbeat, his assurance unwavering.

The sound you make is girlish, bright, and brimming with hope—a sweet giggle that speaks volumes of your love and excitement. You nod giddily, your hands reaching out to pull him closer, longing to seal his words with a kiss. But as you lean in, he gently pulls back, a teasing sparkle in his eyes. 

"I need you to ask me. I wanna hear it coming from your lips. You're going to be my first girlfriend, after all," he says, his voice a tender mix of nervousness and anticipation

“You’re so annoying.” You huff.

He ignores you. "And am I going to be your first boyfriend?" he teases further.

You nod, your eyes locked on his, filled with affection and a deep, unspoken promise. "My first and last," you whisper softly, finally closing the small distance between you to press a gentle, loving kiss on his lips. The kiss is a mingling of smiles and slight laughter, light but filled with the depth of your feelings.

"Will you be my boyfriend?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes searching for his answer.

"I’d want nothing more," he smiles, his voice warm and resolute. Finally, he leans in to give you the kiss you've been waiting for, his lips meeting yours in a sweet, firm embrace that feels like a sealing of everything you've promised each other. His hands gently caress your back, pulling you closer as if trying to merge your heartbeats. The kiss deepens, fueled by the joy of his acceptance and the shared eagerness for what lies ahead.

His touch is gentle yet eager, exploring the curve of your back, tracing the lines of your shoulders as you deepen the kiss, reveling in the closeness. It’s a kiss filled with the promise of new beginnings, of adventures to come, and the silent vow of being each other’s first, last, and everything in between. As you pull away slightly to catch your breath, you rest your forehead against his, both of you smiling, breathless and exhilarated by the shared affection and the thrilling prospect of your future together.

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The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the campus as you finally step out, the last of your exams behind you. Your mind is still buzzing with residual stress, but as you spot Jeno waiting nearby, a smile breaks across your face. He hasn't seen you approach yet, his attention momentarily caught by his phone.

"Hi," you whisper as you close the distance, slipping your arms around him from behind and pressing a gentle kiss against his cheeks. He's momentarily surprised but recovers quickly, his arms encircling you in a warm, welcoming embrace. You giggle softly against his mouth, breathing out, "Happy birthday, baby."

"Thank you," he replies, his voice soft, a wide smile spreading across his face as he turns to pull you closer. You pull back just enough to look him over, biting your lip as you take in his carefully chosen outfit, perfect for the celebration you've planned. "You look so good," you say, letting your eyes roam appreciatively.

He chuckles, a sound that fills you with warmth. "Let’s celebrate your special day," you suggest seductively, your voice low enough only for his ears. Hand in hand, you start walking, his arm finding its way around your waist, drawing you into his side. You feel as though you're in your own little world, the campus around you blurring into the background.

As you pass by Arin and Jiwon, you notice their sharp glances. They seem unable to hide their disdain, but today, their reactions don't touch you. They're nothing more than background noise. Today is about Jeno, about celebrating all that he is, and nothing, especially not petty jealousy, can detract from that.

As you and Jeno walk towards the car, the quiet of the sun wraps around you, enhancing the intimacy of your connection. His arm is draped securely around your waist, pulling you close as your bodies move in sync. Each step seems to draw you even closer, his warmth radiating against you, his fingers occasionally tracing small, comforting circles on your hip. When you reach the car, he maintains that tender contact, his other hand reaching to open the door for you, his eyes locking with yours in a look that makes your heart skip a beat. You slide into the seat, the soft leather cool against your skin, and he closes the door with a soft, deliberate thud that seems to echo the quickening of your pulse.

No sooner does he slide into the driver’s seat than the atmosphere shifts palpably. With a fluid motion, he pulls you across to straddle his lap, his movements confident and filled with intent. His hands settle back on your hips, his grip firmer now, decisively possessive as he draws you flush against him. The soft leather of the seat embraces your sides, and you can feel the strength of his body beneath you, solid and reassuring. You look down at him, a smile spreading across your face, and he mirrors it, his eyes alight with desire. The space between you crackles with electric tension, your proximity eliminating any barriers as you lean in. The kiss you share is deep and consuming, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His hands roam your back, pressing you closer, deepening the kiss to a fervour that speaks volumes of the night ahead.

As you break the kiss to catch your breath, your eyes remain locked on his, shining with a mix of affection and residual excitement. “The exam was intense,” you confess, your voice a breathy whisper that only he can hear, “like, really draining. But right now, it feels like a distant memory.” Your hand gently caresses his cheek, the touch light but loaded with meaning.

Jeno listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands steady on your hips. He smiles reassuringly, squeezing you a little closer. “I’m just glad you’re here now,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. His concern is palpable, making you feel cherished and safe. As you settle deeper into the moment, Jeno leans over slightly, reaching into the backseat. He pulls forward a bouquet, his movements smooth and practiced. Your curiosity peaks as he hands them to you with a proud grin.

"What's this for?" you ask, your smile broadening as you take in the surprise. Gently pulling the bouquet closer, you breathe in the scent. The roses are lush, each petal velvety and richly colored in a deep, vibrant red that speaks of passion and careful selection. Their fresh, sweet aroma fills the car, enveloping you in the essence of nature and romance. "My favorite," you giggle, still grinning as you admire the thoughtful gift. Jeno has a habit of surprising you with such gestures, each one unexpected and delightful.

"I know," he replies, his smile wide and genuine, pleased with your reaction. “It's your birthday, why are you giving me gifts?" you question playfully, pressing your lips against his in a tender, loving kiss, savoring the moment before pulling back just enough to speak.

"Just happy and grateful that I’m spending it with you," he admits, his voice sincere and filled with warmth. The intimacy of his confession adds a special depth to the atmosphere in the car. "So am I," you respond, nudging your nose affectionately against his. "Don’t worry, I got so many gifts for you waiting back at home."

He shakes his head, a laugh escaping him. "You didn’t need to, you don’t think the expensive New York trip is enough?" he teases, his tone light yet touched with appreciation. Smiling, you look into his eyes, filled with affection. "You're my boyfriend. You deserve all the gifts and love in the world." The statement hangs in the air, a testament to your deep feelings for him, sealing the exchange with a promise of continued devotion and celebration.

The drive home was urgent, the need between you palpable; you both were desperate to fuck. But, constrained by time, you had to improvise once you arrived home. As you rushed inside, you made a beeline for the bedroom, where Jeno took a seat, ready and waiting. You didn’t waste a moment—immediately, you slipped out of your clothes and gently eased back onto Jeno, taking him inside you. This wasn’t the wild ride you both craved, but the intimacy of cockwarming, sitting down slowly, feeling every inch as you adjusted to his size, created a different kind of intensity.

As you gently settle back onto Jeno, easing down onto his cock, the connection deepens with the controlled intimacy of the act. The heat between you amplifies as you adjust, sinking slowly until you’re fully seated, enveloped by the warmth of his body. His breath hitches, a soft, involuntary sound that mirrors the slow-building tension. His hands, warm and reassuring, glide over your hips, securing you against him. This isn’t just a momentary touch; it’s an extended embrace, maintaining this intensely personal connection as you start your routine at the vanity. Jeno’s gaze through the mirror is intense yet tender, a silent dialogue of looks and subtle smiles that says everything words cannot.

As you started applying your makeup at the vanity, Jeno's presence was a constant source of warmth behind you. Perched comfortably with him inside you, you could feel his gaze on you, filled with admiration and affection. His compliments flowed freely, making the corners of your mouth turn up in a constant smile. While brushing on a bit of blush, you caught his eye in the mirror and flashed him a meaningful look.

“I promise we will go on a proper date sometime soon,” you said, extending your pinky towards him in the reflection. “I’ll take you out someplace really nice, and we can celebrate your day just the way it deserves.” He hummed in approval, the sound vibrating warmly against your back, and he leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on your cheek, his stubble brushing lightly against your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, his hands on your hips squeezing gently, reinforcing his words with tender touches. Each compliment he uttered only deepened the flush on your cheeks, not just from the makeup, but from the glow of being so cherished and adored. This intimate setting, underscored by his loving words, made the moment feel like a delicate pause in time, filled with the promise of all the evenings to come. Reluctantly, you slide off Jeno’s lap to finish preparing for the night’s plans. The room is set perfectly: the bed is decorated with rose petals and flowers, creating a romantic ambiance, and his gifts are all carefully arranged, each one chosen with care to celebrate the occasion. As you stand to lay out your lingerie—a final touch for the evening—he watches you intently. His gaze is full of desire as he follows every movement, his appreciation evident in the way his eyes widen.

The lingerie, delicate and inviting, is spread across the bed. You pick up a piece, running your fingers over the silky fabric, then glance back at Jeno with a playful challenge in your eyes. Returning to his lap, you settle back down onto him, feeling his arousal distinctly as you resume the intimate contact. Your hands roam over your curves, accentuating each line as you lean closer to him and whisper suggestively,

“Want me to wear it now?” Your voice is low and teasing, your lip caught between your teeth as you tilt your head towards the lingerie. Jeno’s response is immediate and filled with raw desire. “Mmm, I’d rather take it off from your body,” he growls softly, his hands gripping your hips more firmly. The promise in his words sends a shiver of anticipation through you, setting the tone for a night that promises to be as intense as it is intimate.

As the evening approaches, the anticipation is tangible. Jeno's presence is magnetic, the way his shirt hangs open just enough to reveal the contours of his muscled chest, each line accentuated by the dim lighting. Notably, a tattoo graces his chest—one of his new ones, it’s a design that echoes the one inked on your own body, a silent testament to your love and commitment. The sight of him, so effortlessly handsome, stirs a deep desire within you. You're drawn to the strength evident in his biceps, traced under your fingers, feeling the solidity of his presence. Overwhelmed by his allure, and unable to resist the pull of your attraction, you press him against the wall in a quiet corner before you leave. There, in that secluded space, you sink to your knees, driven by an intense desire to be even closer.

The moment is electric, his hands finding their way to your hair, guiding you gently yet fervently. As you take him into your mouth, the heat between you deepens. His response is immediate, his breath catching in sharp intakes as he encourages your movements with a subtle, appreciative pressure that intensifies the intimacy of the act.

The drive to the venue is charged with an electric tension, the confined space of the car making every touch feel more intense. Once again, you lean towards him, your actions marked by an intimate familiarity that only deepens the connection. As you dedicate this moment to him, his sharp intakes of breath and the low, appreciative sounds he makes are muffled only by the soft hum of the engine. Each motion is a celebration of his birthday, a personal tribute that makes the night unforgettable, your dedication clear in every deliberate touch and whispered vow of affection.

As you step out of the car, Jeno's lips find the back of your head, planting a soft kiss that sends a shiver down your spine. He murmurs a compliment on how beautiful you look tonight, his voice a warm whisper that wraps comfortingly around you. But before you can respond, he produces a blindfold—the very one you both use during sex. Surprise flits across your face as he gently places it over your eyes. The world goes dark, and a thrilling shiver of anticipation runs through you. Guiding you silently by the hand, Jeno leads you forward. Your heart beats a tad faster, fueled by a mix of excitement and curiosity. "Jeno, what are you doing?" you ask, your voice tinged with both amusement and slight apprehension. He only smirks in response, his silence intriguing and mysterious.

"Just trust me, baby," he breathes softly into your ear, his words tingling down your spine as he reassures you once more. A few moments later, he carefully removes the blindfold, and you're greeted with a sight that takes your breath away. Your eyes widen, and a gasp escapes your lips as you take in the scene before you. He's rented out your favourite bar and transformed it into a personal celebration space. The room bursts with your favorite colours and decorations; soft music that you love fills the air, creating a perfect backdrop. The bar is stocked with your favourite drinks, and tables are laden with dishes you adore.

The warmth of the surprise envelops you, and as you cover your mouth with your hands, a wide grin spreads across your face. Turning to Jeno, your eyes sparkle with unshed tears of joy. He stands watching your reaction, his own smile mirroring your happiness. "Jeno!!! What is this for?" you exclaim as you throw your arms around him, holding him close. You look up into his eyes, seeking an explanation for this unexpected celebration.

"Celebrating your end of exams. I’m so proud of how hard you’ve worked," he says simply, his thumb caressing your cheek tenderly. You lean into his touch, feeling utterly cherished.

"But it’s your birthday," you giggle, a playful note in your voice.

He shakes his head, his eyes soft with affection. "I don’t mind. We’re going to celebrate that eventually. I just wanted to make this day special for you. I’d rather show love for my girl on my birthday anyways," he confesses, his words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. First, Nayoung and Eunji greet you with open arms and bright smiles, their laughter mingling with the soft music in the background. The hug you share is tight and warm, a testament to the countless days you’ve spent together, supporting and enjoying each other’s company.

Nearby, Sunwoo and Yeji stand together, hands intertwined, sharing a look of contentment. You join them with a gentle tease about their new official status, and their happiness adds a joyful note to the atmosphere. Eric waits with a knowing grin, ready with a supportive embrace. His steady friendship has been a cornerstone of your college life, always there through thick and thin.

Everywhere you look, it’s a manifestation of Jeno’s love and thoughtfulness—a night dedicated not just to your achievements but to the joy of being together. The entire evening is a celebration of your hard work and his unwavering support, a beautiful testament to the depth of his feelings for you. As you take in the surroundings, filled with everything and everyone you love, you realize just how deeply Jeno understands and cherishes you, making the end of your exams an unforgettable milestone.

As you rest your head against Jeno's shoulder, you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek, a soothing pulse that syncs perfectly with the hum of voices and laughter around you. His arms wrap around you, a secure and comforting embrace that makes the rest of the world fade away. Jeno leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "You make everything complete," he whispers, each word a soft melody that dances along your nerves, sending shivers of delight through you. His lips brush lightly against your earlobe, a tender gesture that makes you melt further into his embrace.

You tilt your head to look up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes are deep pools of affection, reflecting a love so profound it seems to envelop you entirely. The way he looks at you, with such admiration and care, fills you with a warmth that radiates from the inside out. Jeno's hand gently cradles your face, his thumb caressing your cheek softly. He leans down, closing the small distance between you, and his lips meet yours in a slow, purposeful kiss. It's a kiss that speaks of years of love and promises yet to be kept, soft and sweet yet filled with an intensity that makes your heart swell. As you kiss, the noise of the bar fades into a distant murmur, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

As he pulls back slightly, he smiles, that heart-stopping smile that always seems to say so much more than words could. "I love you," he murmurs, so softly it's almost lost beneath the swell of music and laughter, but you hear it clear as day—a vow, a declaration, a truth shared between soulmates. You nestle closer, the simple joy of this moment encapsulating everything wonderful about your life together.

As the moment lingers, you nestle closer into Jeno's embrace, feeling the contentment and love that fills the air. "I'm so happy," you whisper, the words a soft exhalation against his skin. The simple admission feels like the most profound declaration, carrying with it all the weight and wonder of your shared journey.

Jeno's response is immediate and tender, a reflection of the feelings that shimmer palpably between you. He nudges his nose gently against yours, a playful yet intimate gesture that draws a light laugh from you both. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy," he says, his voice low and resonant with emotion. His words echo the depth of his commitment, each syllable reinforcing the bond you share.

He gazes into your eyes, his look intense and full of promise. "You make me happy.” he continues, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw softly. The warmth in his eyes and the sincerity in his voice envelop you like a soft blanket, comforting and secure. The connection you share deepens with these small exchanges, each touch and word weaving a stronger fabric of intimacy. The world around you—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the laughter—blurs into a background soundtrack to the profound scene unfolding between you and Jeno. Here, in his arms, surrounded by friends and the echoes of shared laughter, you find a profound sense of belonging and happiness. His presence is a steady pulse in your life, the heartbeat that syncs perfectly with your own.

You watch everyone, all your friends who you love and cherish so much—some slightly swaying, others boldly singing along to the music, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic beats pulsating through the space. They're all here, each person delightfully lost in the celebration, some drunk, some high, all radiating sheer joy.

You turn back to Jeno, drawing closer to him, feeling the secure embrace of your loving boyfriend. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into a world that feels separate from the chaos around. In his eyes, you find a home, a safe haven where you can let go of everything else. The noise, the music, the jubilant shouts of your friends fade into a soft backdrop to the silent conversation held in his gaze. "I love you," slips easily from your lips, a simple truth that resonates deeply between the two of you.

"I love you more," Jeno replies, his voice steady and sure, echoing the commitment in his eyes. He leans in, his nose gently nudging yours in an affectionate gesture, his breath mingling with yours, drawing a gentle laugh from your lips. "Thank you for this," you add, gesturing subtly at the joyous chaos he orchestrated just for you, making the night unforgettable.

The night deepens, and the atmosphere thickens with more than just smoke and laughter; it’s heavy with the intangible, yet palpable, love that you share with Jeno. He holds you closer, each beat of the music enhancing this intimate connection. As you rest your head against his shoulder, feeling the rhythm of his heart, you think about how profoundly he has shaped your world. In the midst of friends who are celebrating with abandon, your focus remains tethered to him, the architect of your happiness.

Lee Jeno, the maker of your universe, stands with you in the center of a whirling storm of joy, his presence a constant force, grounding and uplifting. And as you lose yourself in his embrace, you realize that this is exactly where you belong, in the arms of the love of your life, surrounded by friends who share your joy. This realization isn't just comforting—it's a declaration of your shared future, bright and promising, under the watchful eyes of the stars.

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it’s over :((( i feel emotional. this was my baby fr and i loved writing every single second of it. i feel so heavy with love, thank you so much for all of your support with this part <3 i cannot tell you how much it means to me. the love i’ve gotten for this in such a short amount of time will never fail to blow my mind. i love you and thank you. 🫶🫶 hopefully you stick with me in the future and i can impress you with my other work <3 

please interact with this part and lmk what you thought!! means so much more to me than you’d know mwah. also had to format the epilogue in big para’s or else it wouldn’t have posted

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[pin-k-ink]

how about Kenma getting addicted to the taste of reader's tits? 🤭

refuge // kozume kenma

tw ⇢ tooth-rotting fluff, cuddling, needy!kenma, praise kink, nipple play, fingering, kenma’s love for apple pie, anything else i missed

wc ⇢ 4.2k

The bedroom was awash in the warm, honeyed glow of the bedside lamp when Kenma shuffled in, steps heavy with exhaustion. You glanced up from your book to take in his appearance, heart immediately going out to him.

His normally bright eyes were glazed and half-lidded, dark smudges underneath standing out starkly against his pale skin. Strands of hair, still slightly damp from his post-practice shower, had escaped his messy bun to frame his face in wispy tendrils. The black roots were starting to show through more prominently, bleeding into the bleached ends.

"Hey you," you greeted softly, setting your book aside and opening your arms in invitation. "Long day?"

Kenma made a vague grunt of affirmation, clambering onto the bed and immediately collapsing onto you. His chin dug into your sternum as he nuzzled close, seeking comfort, and you bit back a wince.

"We had morning practice, then classes, then more practice after school," he grumbled, voice muffled by your sleep shirt. "I think Kuroo is trying to kill me."

You made a sympathetic sound, fingers finding their way into Kenma's hair to scratch lightly at his scalp - something you knew always helped him relax. "I'm sorry, baby. That sounds brutal."

"Mmmph." Kenma shifted a bit until his head was pillowed more comfortably on your stomach, arms loosely curled around your hips. "S'okay. This helps."

Warmth bloomed in your chest at his admission. Kenma wasn't always the most verbally demonstrative with his affections, so hearing him say that - knowing he found solace in your arms - made you feel cherished.

For a while, the two of you just lay there like that, breathing together in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. Your fingers continued their soothing ministrations, gently combing through silky strands and lightly scratching at Kenma's nape and behind his ears. Every now and then he'd let out a barely audible hum, melting further into you as the tension gradually seeped out of his muscles.

These were some of your favorite moments - just holding Kenma close and feeling him unwind, knowing you were his safe harbor. Whether he was stressed from volleyball practice, drained from too much social interaction, or just stiff from too many hours hunched over a game - he always seemed to seek you out, craving your soft, grounding touch.

Usually, Kenma was content to rest his head in your lap while you sat propped against the headboard, dozing as you ran gentle fingers through his hair or massaged his scalp. Or he'd stretch out between your legs on his stomach, face pillowed on your thighs as you rubbed his back in long, firm strokes.

But today, as the minutes ticked by, you began to sense a restlessness in him, a dissatisfaction in the way he kept shifting minutely against you. His brow was furrowed, nose scrunching slightly, like he couldn't get completely settled.

"Everything okay?" you asked quietly, smoothing your thumb over the wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"Mmm." Kenma's answer was decidedly noncommittal. He turned his face more fully into your belly, nuzzling the soft pudge like a cat trying to make a bed more comfortable. "Just...I dunno. Can't relax."

He huffed out a frustrated breath that tickled your skin through your thin cotton tee. Then, in a move that surprised you, he pushed himself up on his elbows to frown down at your midsection almost accusingly. "It's too...this isn't soft enough."

You couldn't help it - a burst of laughter escaped you at his petulant expression, so at odds with his usual controlled stoicism. "Are you calling me bony, Kozume?" you teased, poking him in the side.

Kenma squirmed away from your prodding finger, nose wrinkling adorably. "No," he denied, but the flush rising on his cheeks said otherwise. "I just...I need..." He trailed off, clearly frustrated with his inability to articulate what he wanted.

Patient as ever, you just watched him, one hand rubbing soothingly up and down his spine as you waited for him to sort out his thoughts. Kenma's eyes darted around, landing everywhere but your face as he struggled for words.

Finally, he sat up fully, knees bracketing your hips as he hovered over you. His gaze roamed your body slowly, almost appraisingly, and you fought the urge to squirm under the intensity of it. When his eyes landed on your chest and widened fractionally, a glimmer of interest sparking in their golden depths, your breath caught.

Kenma licked his lips, an unconscious gesture that made heat prickle under your skin. He reached out a tentative hand, fingertips grazing the curve of your breast through your shirt. "Maybe..." He swallowed audibly. "Maybe these would be better?"

It took you a second to compute his meaning, brain momentarily stalled by his touch, light as it was. When it clicked, you couldn't contain your amused grin. "Are you asking to motorboat me, Kenma?"

"What? No!" His response was immediate and adorably flustered, cheeks going pink. He snatched his hand back like he'd been scalded. "That's not - I wasn't - I just thought -"

Taking pity on him, you gentled your smile and reached for his hand, guiding it back to your chest. "I'm just teasing, baby. Here..." Maintaining eye contact, you placed his palm more fully over your breast, shivering slightly when his fingers reflexively curled around the soft mound. "Is this what you wanted?"

Kenma's blush intensified, creeping up to the tips of his ears, but he didn't pull away. He nodded shyly, thumb rubbing almost reverently over your nipple. It stiffened under his touch, the thin fabric of your shirt doing nothing to mute the sensation, and you bit your lip to stifle a gasp.

"Well, in that case..." Reaching up, you curled your fingers into the loose collar of your sleep shirt and tugged it down a bit, exposing the gentle swells of your breasts. "Mi casa es su casa."

Your playful tone startled a laugh out of Kenma, breathy and warm against your skin. The sound made affection swell in your chest, bright and buoyant. He so rarely laughed fully; each one felt like a gift.

Slowly, giving you time to change your mind, Kenma lowered himself down until he was stretched out on top of you, head coming to rest on your chest. You felt his hesitant exhale, the flutter of his lashes against your skin as his eyes slid closed. A heartbeat passed, two, three...and then he relaxed fully against you, a sigh of bone-deep contentment escaping him.

"Oh," he breathed, sounding a little wondering. "This is...wow."

You couldn't help but agree. There was something profoundly intimate about holding him like this, his lean body a line of warmth against yours from chest to toes. You felt surrounded by him, enveloped. Safe. Cherished.

Winding your arms around Kenma's narrow shoulders, you pulled him incrementally closer and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of his head. "Comfy?" you murmured into his hair.

"Mmmm." It was more a purr than a word, drowsy and utterly content. Kenma nuzzled into the valley between your breasts like he was trying to burrow into you. "Very. You're so soft. And warm. And you smell good."

Your heart turned over behind your ribs, so full of tender affection you thought it might burst. Kenma was rarely so artless with his praise, the sincere words made clumsy by impending sleep. It was painfully endearing.

"Glad to be of service," you whispered, unwilling to disturb the cocoon of hushed intimacy enveloping you. "Sweet dreams, lovely boy."

Kenma made a small, agreeable noise and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin. His limbs grew heavy and lax as sleep pulled him under, one arm curled possessively around your waist and a leg thrown over your thigh.

For a long while you simply held him, cheek resting against his silky hair, drinking in the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. Your fingers traced idle patterns over his back and shoulders, following the dips and planes of lean muscle and the delicate ridges of his spine. Each steady, trusting exhale fanning over your skin felt like a precious gift.

This beautiful boy, so reserved and guarded with the rest of the world, felt safe enough in your arms to let himself be vulnerable. To seek comfort and care without fear of judgment. Your throat tightened at the thought, overcome with tenderness.

Shifting carefully, trying not to jostle Kenma, you craned your neck to study his slack features. The ever-present furrow between his brows had smoothed out and his lips were parted slightly, long lashes fanned over his cheekbones. The late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds gilded his skin and set his pale hair aglow, surrounding him in a hazy nimbus.

He looked so young like this, untroubled and ethereally lovely. You felt almost breathless with the need to bundle him close, to shelter him from anything that might dim the contented glow suffusing his face. Kenma carried tension in every line of his body, a quiet sort of melancholy that broke your heart.

If you could give him respite from that, even just for a little while...if you could be his safe harbor, his soft place to land when the world become too much...you would consider yourself the luckiest person alive.

Careful not to disturb Kenma's rest, you fished your phone off the nightstand and set an alarm to wake you in an hour. As much as you would've loved to let him sleep as long as he needed, you knew he'd be upset if he missed dinner. Growing boys needed their fuel, as he often reminded you with a wry smile when you questioned his truly heroic food intake.

That task done, you curled your body more securely around Kenma's, savoring the warm solidity of him in your arms. With a sigh of utter contentment, you closed your eyes and let yourself drift, surrounded by the boy you loved.

The shrill chime of your phone alarm roused you some time later. You groaned softly, nose scrunching in displeasure, and fumbled to turn it off. Beside you, Kenma stirred, making a sleepy sound of protest at being disturbed.

"Sorry, baby," you rasped, voice thick with disuse. You ran a soothing hand up and down his back. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Kenma grumbled something unintelligible and burrowed deeper into your cleavage like he could block out the world if he just tried hard enough. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile. Who knew Kozume Kenma was a secret cuddle monster?

The rumbling of your stomach broke the drowsy silence a moment later, seconded almost immediately by an answering growl from Kenma's. You huffed out a laugh, carding your fingers through the cornsilk hair at the nape of his neck. "Sounds like it's dinner time for us. Want me to order something?"

"Nooo." The petulant whine was muffled by your skin. "Don't wanna move. 'M comfy."

"I know, lovely, but we need to eat." You stroked your knuckles down the knobs of his spine, gentling him like a grumpy kitten. "Tell you what - if you let me up, I promise I'll order from that place you like with the apple pie. And you can use me as a pillow again while we eat."

There was a considering pause as Kenma clearly weighed your words. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head. Finally, he heaved a tremendously put-upon sigh and rolled away to flop on his back, one arm slung over his eyes.

"Fiiiine," he dragged out, peeking at you from under his elbow. "But there better be pie or I'm staging a protest."

"So demanding." You grinned, leaning over to smack a kiss to his cheek before sliding out of bed. "You're lucky you're cute."

Kenma's outraged sputter followed you out of the room, making you giggle into your palm. Riling him up was entirely too much fun. You knew you'd pay for it later - he'd probably rope you into being his player 2 for some new co-op game he'd been obsessed with - but it would be worth it. Time spent with Kenma was never time wasted.

When you returned to the bedroom, bags of takeout in hand, it was to find Kenma propped up against the headboard in one of your old, oversized sweatshirts, tapping away at his PSP. He glanced up when you entered, nose twitching appreciatively at the savory scent wafting from the bags.

"That was quick," he commented, setting his game aside to make grabby hands at the food.

"I may have bribed Yamamoto with a free teriyaki bowl to sprint over here. And before you ask, yes - I got the pie."

"My hero." Kenma's smile was tiny but genuine, eyes soft as he watched you unpack containers of gyudon and steamed veggies. "Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"

You paused, chopsticks hovering over a piece of beef, and tilted your head at him. "Are you talking to me or the pie?"

Kenma's lips twitched like he was fighting a grin. "Can't it be both?"

That startled a bright laugh out of you, head tipping back with the force of it. "Wow, okay, I see how it is. Nice to know where I stand."

Setting the food aside, you crawled up the bed and swung a leg over Kenma's hips to straddle him. His hands settled automatically on your thighs, thumbs rubbing circles into the sensitive inner skin. Cupping his face in your palms, you dipped down to touch your forehead to his, noses brushing.

"I love you too, you brat," you murmured against his mouth. "Even if I have to compete with baked goods for your affection."

Kenma's lips curved into a rare, full-blown grin, cheeks rounding out under your palms. "No competition," he said simply, tilting his chin up to slot your mouths together.

He kissed you slow and deep, a leisurely exploration that made your toes curl. Slender fingers crept under the hem of your- his shirt to stroke the skin of your lower back, making you shiver and press closer. You sighed into it, arms sliding around his neck as you sank into him.

After long, drugging minutes, Kenma drew back to rest his forehead against yours again. His eyes were soft and hazy when they met yours, full of quiet adoration. "Apple pie's got nothing on you."

The words were light, a little irreverent, but you heard the deeper meaning under them - the steadfast devotion, the promise inherent in each syllable. Your heart swelled, straining against the cage of your ribs with the force of your love for this beautiful, brilliant boy.

Unable to articulate the depth of your emotions, you simply kissed him again, winding your arms tighter around him as if you could fuse your bodies into one being. Kenma sighed against your mouth, melting into your embrace like coming home.

Later, bellies full and limbs heavy with encroaching sleep, you watched through drooping lids as Kenma set aside his empty pie tin with a satisfied sigh. He caught you looking and cocked an eyebrow, mouth curving into a lazy smirk.

"Good?" you asked.

"So good. That pie never lets me down." Kenma patted his stomach, then held his arms out to you in clear demand. "Now c'mere. I need my human pillow."

Stifling a laugh, you obediently crawled into his arms and let him arrange you to his liking - head nestled on your chest, arms banded around your waist to hold you close. He nuzzled his face into your softness with a contented hum, already boneless and pliant with impending sleep.

"Hey," he mumbled a moment later, voice muffled by your chest. "Wanna try something else…"

You pulled back slightly to look at Kenma, a curious tilt to your head. "Oh? What did you have in mind?"

Kenma ducked his head, peering up at you through his lashes almost shyly. A faint blush dusted his cheekbones, but there was a glimmer of heat in his golden eyes that made your pulse kick up a notch.

Slowly, deliberately, he slid his hands up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaked nipples through the thin fabric of the shirt. You inhaled sharply at the sensation, back arching into his touch.

"Just wanna feel you," Kenma murmured, gaze heavy-lidded and intent on your face. "Wanna make you feel good."

Your breath hitched, arousal unfurling hot and syrupy in your veins at his words. Wordlessly, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. Kenma's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as they raked over your bared skin.

Leaning down, you captured his lips in a searing kiss, licking into his mouth with purpose. Kenma groaned softly, fingers flexing on your breasts as he kissed you back just as fiercely before pulling back for air.

Kenma's heated gaze raked over your bare chest, pupils blown wide with desire as he took in the sight of your breasts. Slowly, almost reverently, he cupped the soft mounds in his palms, relishing the weight of them. His thumbs grazed your nipples, circling the dusky peaks until they pebbled under his touch.

Kenma's eyes were riveted to your chest, pupils blown wide and dark with desire as he took in the sight of your bare breasts. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, tongue darting out to wet his lips unconsciously.

"Can I...?" His hands hovered just shy of touching, fingers twitching with the effort of holding back.

"Please," you breathed, arching your spine in clear offering. "Touch me, Kenma."

Permission granted, he wasted no time in cupping the soft mounds again, relishing the weight of them in his palms. Your flesh spilled between his fingers, impossibly smooth and warm. He squeezed gently, wonderingly, thumbs grazing the dusky peaks and feeling them stiffen further under his touch.

Leaning down, Kenma traced the tip of his nose along the curve of your breast, breathing in the scent of your skin. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the silken flesh, tongue darting out to taste you. Your breath hitched as he moved higher, laving the sensitive underside before finally closing his lips around the straining peak.

A low moan escaped you at the sensation of wet heat enveloping your nipple. Kenma suckled gently at first, tongue lapping languidly as he savored the feel of the taut bud in his mouth. His free hand palmed your other breast, rolling and plucking at the nipple until you were arching into his touch with a needy whimper.

Kenma released your nipple with a soft pop, blowing cool air over the damp flesh and making you shiver. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the rosy peak, glistening with his saliva and swollen from his ministrations. Pride swelled in his chest at how responsive you were to him, at the way you trembled for his mouth alone.

"So perfect," he murmured, voice low and rough with want. "I could spend hours just worshipping these pretty breasts. Sucking and licking until you can't take anymore..."

You keened high in your throat, fingers tangling almost desperately in his hair. "Please, Kenma..."

Compelled by your breathy plea, he dipped his head again to lave attention on your other breast. He licked broad stripes over the soft flesh, trailing the tip of his tongue around your areola before drawing lazy circles over the straining peak. Your answering moan was music to his ears, urging him on.

Kenma increased the suction, hollowing his cheeks as he suckled harder. He grazed the sensitive bud with his teeth, soothing the sting with flicks of his tongue when you cried out. He alternated between lapping kittenishly and sucking deep, until your nipple was red and throbbing, until you were writhing beneath him and panting his name like a prayer.

Only then did he release you, admiring his handiwork through heavy-lidded eyes. Both of your breasts were heaving, the flesh damp, nipples swollen and glistening obscenely. The sight made heat spark through his veins, desire throbbing insistently in his core.

"Kenma," you whined, back bowing as you shamelessly presented yourself for more. "Don't stop, please..."

"Shh, I've got you baby." Kenma smoothed his hands over your sensitive flesh, massaging gently. "I'm nowhere near done with you yet."

True to his word, he ducked back down to mouth at your nipple again, suckling ardently as his fingers plucked at its twin. He kept at it for long, blissful minutes, until the world narrowed down to the heat of his mouth on you and the ache building between your thighs.

Kenma's mouth was unrelenting against your sensitive flesh, alternating between soft suckles and firmer draws that made your toes curl. He seemed determined to map every inch of your breasts with his lips and tongue, leaving no patch of skin untasted.

You arched into the wet heat of his mouth with a throaty moan, your hands fisting in his hair to hold him close. Each pull of his lips sent sparks of electricity zinging down your spine, stoking the fire smoldering in your core. You could feel yourself growing slick with arousal, empty and aching for his touch.

"Kenma," you panted, voice wrecked and needy. "Feels so good, don't stop..."

He hummed against your breast in response, the vibrations making you gasp. Encouraged by your reactions, he redoubled his efforts, suckling harder and grazing the sensitive peak with his teeth. His tongue swirled around the pebbled bud, flicking rhythmically in a way that had you seeing stars.

Just when the pleasure was verging on too much, Kenma released your nipple with a final lingering lick. You whimpered at the loss of his warm mouth, back arching in wordless invitation. He soothed you with soft kisses peppered across the swell of your breast, hands kneading gently at your flesh.

"So perfect," he breathed reverently, nose nuzzling the valley between your breasts. "I could worship these for hours and never get my fill. Love how responsive you are, how easily you come undone for me..."

Your only response was a shuddering moan, head tipping back against the pillows as Kenma continued his sensual assault. He seemed fascinated by the weight of your breasts in his palms, the plushness of them against his lips. Like he was determined to memorize every dip and curve, every hitch in your breathing.

And you were more than content to let him take his fill, to lose yourself in the magic of his mouth as he laved attention on your aching nipples. Every draw of his lips sent molten heat flooding your veins, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. You felt unbearably empty, desperate for friction where you needed it most.

As if reading your mind, Kenma released your breast with a final suctioning kiss. He raised his head to lock blown-black eyes with yours, his thumb sweeping maddeningly over your nipple.

"I've got you," he rasped, voice like gravel. His other hand skated teasingly down your stomach, over the trembling plane of your abdomen. "Gonna take care of you, give you what you need. Gonna make you feel so good, baby..."

The broken keen that spilled from your lips was completely involuntary, torn from someplace deep inside you. "Please, Kenma... need you."

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a small, wicked smile. He looked utterly debauched hovering above you, lips red and slick, golden eyes molten with desire.

Without breaking eye contact, he dipped his head to close his lips around your nipple once more. At the same time, his wandering hand slipped lower, fingertips grazing the lace edge of your panties. Your hips canted up in shameless offering, a silent plea for more that he was all too happy to answer.

Kenma took his time working you up with lips and tongue while clever fingers slowly teased your entrance, until you were writhing beneath him, until you were balanced on a razor's edge and begging for release. He brought you to the brink again and again, only to ease you back down, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your trembling form.

Through it all, his mouth never ceased its worship of your breasts, suckling and licking until you were boneless and overwrought. Until the world fell away and your entire existence narrowed down to the pull of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue, the feeling of his dexterous fingers sliding between your soaked folds.

And when his fingers finally delved into slick heat of your pussy and crooked just so, when his teeth grazed your nipple in tandem with a particularly devastating thrust, the coil in your belly snapped. Ecstasy crashed over you in a tidal wave, Kenma's name a broken litany on your tongue as he worked you through it, wringing out every last aftershock until you collapsed against the sheets.

Kenma released your breast with a final soothing lick, pressing a tender kiss over your thundering heart. He watched you come down with a soft, reverent expression, fingertips tracing idle patterns on your overheated skin.

"Gorgeous," he murmured, pressing his lips to your collarbone, your throat, the hinge of your jaw. "Absolutely stunning. I'm so lucky you're mine."

You hummed contentedly, threading your fingers through his hair to pull him down for a slow, sweet kiss. You poured every ounce of adoration and gratitude you felt into it, hoping he could taste the love on your tongue.

"I'm the lucky one," you whispered against his lips. Hooking a leg over his hip, you rolled your bodies until he was nestled in the cradle of your thighs, exactly where he belonged. "Now it's my turn to worship you."

[jenosbigtoe]

mdni. nsfw 18+

pairing: na jaemin x reader

warnings: cockwarming, making out, unprotected sex, clingy bf jaem

im ovulating rn and i get so horny for jaemin specifically when im ovulating like yall dont get it 😭😭😭😭😭😭

“you know you’re my baby, right?” jaemin is almost suffocating you at this point, laying his beefy body right on top of you while he wraps his arms around your waist and snuggles his face into your neck. his legs are tangled with your own underneath the mess of the sheets. he peppers little kisses on your collarbone while you giggle into his hair. “and i love you forever, my baby.”

your heart flutters at his affection. “yes jaemin, as if that’s not the fourth time you’ve told me already today.”

he picks up his head to give you an exaggerated pout. “okay say you love me then.”

you roll your eyes and press short pecks on his lips. “i- kiss love- kiss you.”

before you can pull away again, he holds your chin to deepen your kiss. you moan when he sucks on your lip, biting it lightly with his teeth. you always love when he does that. he uses his other hand to cup your cheek gently while you loop your arms around his neck to caress his soft brown hair.

the air in the room grows heavy and the tension thickens as he continues to kiss you passionately, like he can never get enough of you. with his legs still intertwined with yours, he starts to lightly rub his crotch against your thigh. you can feel his cock harden beneath his sweats as you roll your hips up to meet his.

he pulls away from your lips with a wet smack, a lustful gaze in his half lidded eyes. “sit on me baby, let me feel you.”

you give him a cheeky grin and lift up at his shirt to expose his toned abdomen. he chases your lips again with a bright smile on his face, kissing them hungrily for more. he lifts you up and places you on his lap with ease, never breaking away from your lips for even a second. his hands explore every inch of your body, groping at every bit of exposed flesh from your thighs to your tits. with your legs wrapped around his waist, you slowly peel every layer of clothing off your body until your bare cunt is rubbing on his hardened cock through his boxers and you leave a wet stain on the material.

he pulls his boxers down and his cock springs out, hot and red and leaking with precum at the tip. when you reach down to stroke his length, you struggle to wrap your hand around it. his cock is fat and veiny, ready to split you open.

he groans at the contact. “fuck, baby, i need you to sit on it. right fucking now. can you do that for me?” he wraps his larger hand around yours to guide your strokes up and down his length, his cock getting impossibly harder with every stroke.

you give him a sly look. “of course, baby. anything for you.”

you sit up to guide his needy cock to your entrance, letting the fat tip tease your hole. your cunt starts to drip on his cock as his cock rests just outside your hole. you pause, wanting to see him get all needy and antsy for more action. he pouts. he was going to let you take control but it seems you just want to keep teasing him.

he suddenly grabs your hips to hold then in place and bucks his hips upwards, sheathing almost half of his length inside your little cunt with a single thrust. you both moan at the feeling of your gummy walls stretching around his thick cock.

“f-fuck,” you hiss, trying to adjust to his size.

you’re still so tight despite being so wet and ready for him. he can’t get enough of the way you feel around him, clenching around his length and dripping on his cock. he leans forward to give you another sweet kiss on the lips. “ready, baby?”

when you nod in affirmation, he guides your hips to slowly sink the rest of his length into your tight cunt. he bottoms out when you can finally rest your hips back onto his. you feel so stuffed, full of his cock as he reaches deep in your cunt and pressed up against your cervix.

“fuck, let’s just stay like this, hm? you just feel so good for me, baby.” he coos into your ear, tickling the shell with his warm breath.

when you whisper a soft yes, he pulls you closer to his chest so he can wrap you into a bear hug. he has to shift his hips so you can rest comfortably on top of him, causing his cock to jerk inside of you as you gasp from the feeling. his tip is kissing your cervix, reaching deep to the entrance of your womb from the sheer length of his cock.

you stay snuggled on his chest, burying your face into his bare chest. he’s so warm and soft, you think to yourself, as his arms hug you close to his body. his hot cock is still nestled deep inside of you as your cunt flutters around his thick length, making you feel so full and content. he presses a sweet kiss to the top of your head. “i love you. you’ll always be my baby forever.”

[salemlunaa]

USING SATS FOR THE VOID OR ON ITS OWN:

a guaranteed “method”, where all that you desire is owed to you

IM BACK BITCHES!!!

DID YALL MISS MEEEE?? BC I MISSED YOU

anyway, i know i talk alot about not needing methods, and its true, you don’t need anything but yourself to tap in to the void/“I AM” state. However i dont really see SATS as a method and i think it’s great to consider when looking at loa and shifting

“what is SATS?”

you may ask, well, that is the abbreviation for the “state akin to sleep”

as you can see, the word “akin” means something of a similar nature to, so the state akin to sleep is basically the name to describe the lightheaded, woozy state before you go to bed bed

You can visualise what you want in this state, or you can affirm, you don’t need ten thousand affirmations, one can get the point across you’re a god and the operant power so even with one vague affirmation, your subconscious mind knows exactly what your talking about.

“when will i be able to see my results?”

you may also ask, and let me tell you it is guaranteed that you why what you want as soon as you wake up. This is why this “method” is popular in the loa community because it one of those where your subconscious mind is in full control.

An example of this could be Neville Goddard’s manifesting class. He asked that his students affirm/visualise climbing a ladder during SATS. He then told them to affirm against it during the day, telling themselves that they will NOT climb a ladder. He told his students not to come back if they didn’t climb a ladder and everyone returned.

This example just shows how powerful we can be when we let our subconscious mind take the wheel. All our doubts and fears cancel out and whatever we desire becomes real and no longer remains a desire. You can use this to enter the void, visualise your void and affirm for it and you will wake up there. You can do this for absolutely anything you desire. you can use SATS on its own, a lot of people just love the void so they use SATS to get there, but affirming for your dream life or visualising you waking up in the bed of your dream reality is another method other than the void.

A lot of you may struggle with this because you either, “can’t fall asleep” or you “fall asleep too quickly” while your mind was wondering and to that i say STAY DISCIPLINED!! The same way you would stay disciplined while studying for a test or while working a shift at your job is the same way you must stay disciplined while doing this method. It’s okay to “fail” the first time, and you’re more than allowed to feel upset waking back up in your shitty “reality”. But don’t beat yourself up about it and know that you can always do it again. You can simply decide that SATS is easy for you and it will reflect. always.

And as i always say, you don’t have to wait for the night to do this, ofcourse if you have things to do you don’t need to put them on hold but you don’t need to wait for the night to come, you. an fall into this state at ANY TIME OF DAY, so there goes another excuse for you to procrastinate. Now get to it love, because i KNOW that you can do this.

WAKING UP WITH YOUR DESIRES GUARANTEED SOUNDS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE, BUT DONT LET THAT SCARE YOU. 🔮💋

[eevees-hobbies]

Suo , Kaji and Umemiya are the type to grind your pussy on their crotch while making out , methinks ...

I’m feral. It’s 6AM, and I am READY, Megumi!!!

Ok, but can we truly analyze this??? Because these men have three distinct personalities so I truly feel in my vagina of vaginas that they do it with different intentions. Let’s talk about it.

Content Warning: Making out, teasing, being called a brat, heavy petting, dry humping, it’s smut! Minors Do Not Interact.

Hayato Suo grinds your pussy against his crotch while making out because he revels in teasing you. Suo isn’t enjoying himself unless he’s drawing out your pleasure, making you beg in your sweet, whiny voice that he has come to love personally, ripping from your throat. His headstrong, badass girl is brought to tears from friction and kissing? How cute. No amount of begging for more of him will save you.

“Now, where’s the fun in that? We’ve only just gotten started.”

You, in fact, have not just gotten started, but that’s a non-issue for Suo.

So while his hand is pressed against the back of your head, tongue in your mouth, with you laying flush against his chest where you fit perfectly like lock and key, he’s giving you slow, drawn-out rolls of his hips. Your core squeezes almost painfully every time you feel his hand press down against the small of your back, and he drags himself against your essence-dressed panties. 

And the contrast between you, who is panting, sweating, and groaning from a simple make-out and dry humping session, to him, who still looks perfectly put together, unbothered, and like he can keep doing this for hours, will have you feeling a little panicked—because Suo is nothing but patient.

But don’t worry, Suo just has a really good poker face. If you read him, which you can because you’re a clever girl, you’ll feel the occasional grumble of his chest when you bite his lip, and when he grinds against you, you’ll feel something so ridiculously hard, and is that a wet spot in his pants? 

Because Suo is still a man, after all. A man who is deliriously infatuated with you. And he can only be kept at bay for so long until that mask slips, and somewhere along during the making out and grinding, your panties and his boxers have disappeared, and he’s now guiding your heat-radiating, drooling mess of a cunt onto his throbbing dick.

“S-see? Doesn’t it feel so much better, o-oh god…when we wait, my love?”

Hajime Umemiya grinds your pussy against his crotch while making out because every part of him needs to come in contact with every part of you at all times. Umemiya loves a good, passionate makeout session. The taste of you? His favorite thing.

So when you’re sitting on the couch, and he pulls you in his lap, pressing firm lips against yours, lips that communicate their innate and irrevocable desire for you, who are you to refuse? 

And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but Ume is an amazing kisser. His kisses always start deeply sensual, lips slotted against yours, moving languidly in between gentle words of affirmation.

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“You look so beautiful today.” 

“Your hair looks so pretty. Let me mess it up a little?” 

And unlike Suo, Umemiya doesn’t wear a mask to hide how much you affect him. He wears his desire for you on his sleeve and carries it like a badge of honor. 

Don’t get me wrong, you have a lot of power here. When you suck on his tongue, he’s moaning unabashedly into your mouth. When you slide your fingers into his coiffed hair and pull it at the roots, he’s shivering against your touch.

But Umemiya is still a big, powerful man who allows you to have control—until he doesn’t want you to anymore. 

Eventually, he’ll become so engrossed and taken over by how you make him feel that you’ll notice two firm hands gripping your hips in a way that makes it hard to move. You won’t have much range of motion as he drags his clothed cock against the seat of your panties.

Luckily for you, you don’t have to wait long to have Ume inside of you because torturing you is also torturing himself—and Ume can’t say no to you. If at any point you tell him that you need him, he’s nodding feverishly in agreement because:

“Y-yeah, I need you too, baby girl.” 

“Here, let’s just slip these panties to the side and-“

“Fuuuuck, ah, I better…give me a second, ok?” 

“I a-almost lost control there.”

Ren Kaji grinds your pussy against his crotch while making out because he likes to torture you both. 

While the previous two would grind you with clothes on, you and Kaji are both naked, lying side-by-side in each other's arms. He’s holding your face firmly in place with a well-placed hand gripping your chin, full-opened mouth kissing and allowing you to lick at his canines. 

And you’d think it would be just so easy to wrap a leg around his waist, shift yourself a little bit, and then slip him inside you.

But do you really want to face the wrath of Kaji? I mean, maybe you do because you’re into that, but while it might sound tempting, it may not give you the desired result.

“You brat. You’re going to have to work for it before I fuck you.”

So, let’s pretend you don’t do that. You’re just going to have to come to terms with the fact that Kaji is nibbling on your bottom lip as he slides his dick in between your puffy pussy lips, groaning from the heat, the feeling of your sensitive clit rubbing along the vein of his cock and having the power to slide inside of you—something you both desperately want—but denying you regardless.

“I’m not gonna put it in until she’s drooling on it, bratty girl.”

Say less, Kaji. 

Because the way he’s pinching your folds together and jutting his cock between them has your cream lathering up every inch of him. And you’ll think you’ve won because he’s finally pushing the fat tip of his cock inside of you, stretching your aching little hole around the bulbous head—but then, with a hiss from him and a whine from you, he’s pulling out and repeating the motion, reveling in that sound. 

The wet, gooey sound that happens when you slowly press a dick inside a creamy pussy over and over. It’s a sound that makes Kaji lose his mind, a sound that almost has him saying fuck it, and stuffing you up to the hilt of his cock. Almost.

“F-fuck, I love that sound. Do you hear that? You’re so wet for me.”

“Stop complaining, and let me put the tip in for a little longer.”

Amazing idea @melancholymegumi

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Hobie Brown, Emotional Preparation, and the Art of Great Dialogue

Nearly all of Hobie's dialogue is written with his goal - protecting and preparing Miles for Miguel's abuse - in mind, even if it may not be obvious at first watch.

Here's an unhinged breakdown where I over-analyze literally every one of Hobie’s lines and explain how every sentence was written to contribute directly to Miles’ radicalization.

Hollywood. Pay your writers. (:

___________________________________________________

Hobie has around 10 minutes screentime total, but for the sake of introductions and this analysis, let's start at the end of the battle, and the beginning of the quantum hole.

Starting with his first line in the scene:

"I don't follow orders. Neither does he."

All morals considered, Hobie doesn't seem like the type to speak for someone who can speak for themselves - he's a punk after all. But here, he speaks for Miles. This line serves to tell Miles 'I don't respect them, why should you?', but funnily enough, it can also be a point to Jess, as if to say 'Miles isn't interested.' - even if he is.

"Bit much, innit?"

While, Hobie and Mile's next interaction is their exchange in the elevator, the scene leads to Mile's introduction to the Society. Miles gawks at the lobby, obviously impressed. Gwen affirms this awe, telling him 'this is just the lobby.' However, Hobie feels the need to chime in. His next dialogue 'Bit much, innit?' is a subtle nudge to Miles that the society is not a place to be in awe off. It's a spectacle, one that's a bit overdone. Knowing Miles now sees Hobie as cool, Hobie makes it known - he sees the Society as uncool.

"Gwendy, How much have you told him? About his place in all this? Maybe not enough."

'So what happened about that small elite strike-team?' - 'Most of these are part time.' This is by far one of Hobie's more interesting lines, and I wrote about it here. But in short, this is Hobie's soft but direct confrontation of Gwen. After Gwen lies to Miles in front of him, Hobie immediately asks how much Gwen has revealed to him. And when she tries to play it off, he openly says 'Maybe that's not enough.' He's not angry with Gwen, but he is disappointed, which in turn motivates him to have his discussion with Miles.

"Super humane, and not creepy."

One of my favorites, because it's hard to catch and to the point. After talking about Hobie and Gwen's mission history, they're taken to Margo and the control room. As Miles marvels at Margo and the Go-Home-Machine, and Gwen says she voted against it. However, Hobie says blatantly: 'Holy shit, Miles isn't this inhumane and weird???', validating that the Society is willing to do inhumane, hurtful stuff to those it deems 'misplaced'.

Next comes Hobie's confrontation with Miles.

Because Hobie knows this is his last movements with Miles before he meets Miguel, and this is where if final push of emotional support kicks in, before he goes quiet in front of Miguel.

And because this conversation is so well layered, I think it's best to go line by line. ______________________________

H: "Bet this doesn't even do anything." M: "Maybe it did before you ripped it out of a wall!"

Hobie has now confirmed that he'll be making an exit soon. And he begins his finally sweep of parts he needs for his watch, stocking up his pockets. He's not stealing to steal. He knows he's leaving and this is his last chance to get what he needs before he's out the door.

"Propaganda, bro! It's to distract you from the truth!"

HOLY SHIT I missed this one. Notice how in this shot, Gwen is not visible at all. Hobie notices they're out of hershot of her for the first time. And his first line is - 'Propaganda.' Their watches can take them anywhere. When Gwen needed to, she was taken to exactly where she needed in Mumbattan. But when they're heading towards HQ, Jessica makes them walk through the lobby. They could have been sent directly to Miguel's station, but instead she makes them do the whole tour, which serves as a flex of muscle. In order, Miles was shown the massive number of members in the Society, then their prisoners, then the go-home-machine. Only THEN can they see Miguel. All of which was intent to intimidate Miles on purpose. Hobie tells him directly: 'Everything you just saw was propaganda.'

M: And what's that?

"I ain't got a Scooby Doo, mate. Cause that's what they want."

One of the most iconic and notable of his quotes. Cockney aside, this line ties back in with his discussion with Gwen just a couple minutes before. They've done their tour and walk. Both Jess and Gwen have been given a chance to prime or explain to Miles anything, and both have chosen not to. So Hobie simply tells him, 'They want you in the dark. And they're sending you into a fight.'

The next line is:

H: Why do you want to be part of this lot? M: To get a watch. H: Make your own watch.

Miles sucks his teeth at Hobie.

Because of this - Hobie begins to change methods. Which I cannot stress is incredibly perceptive of him.

Miles is exasperated with him. So instead of dissuasion and making the society out to be uncool, he tries to turn Miles' attention towards his family.

"Bet you got a nice setup, huh? Nice parents?"

This line is a very well done one, with two things of notice. First, I find it interesting that the screenplay phrases this line as a question, not a sentence. Hobie is asking. He's taking a shot in the dark here. And this is backed up by his delivery; Hobie hesitates while saying this. The only line in which he does so. He may not know about Miles' mom and dad, because Gwen hadn't met them when she met Hobie. But still, Hobie asks, hoping the reminder of Miles' parents will dissuade him from continuing.

M: They're fine. H: [After this line, Hobie turns black and white momentarily. Potentially a nod to the fact that this conversation is the only 'black and white' one Miles has had so far.] M: But we got into a fight. They just want what's best for me, so...

[Hobie frowns. The scene and dialogue REALLY starts to pick-up from here.]

"That's a bloody shame. Because you're not ready for everyone else."

As the scene progresses Hobie goes from behind Miles, to beside him like an ally. Then, when Gwen finally comes back into frame, Hobie crosses in front of him. When Miles mentions his parents wanting what's best for him, Hobie warns that everyone else does not want what's best for him. At the same time, visually Gwen has her back to Miles, and Hobie puts himself between Miles and Gwen, trying to block his path. The scene is set up to show that in Hobie's eyes, Gwen is turning her back on Miles. She does not have his best interest in mind. Hobie is telling Miles 'They're using propaganda on you, they're keeping you in the dark, and they do not have your best interest at mind. You're not ready for this." And he physically tries to block Miles from continuing, one last time.

Miles goes through Hobie, and now within earshot of Gwen again, this is Hobie's final chance and push to get as much information into Miles as he can - without freaking Miles out. Above all else, he needs Miles to be prepared, confident, and willing to fight back.

His voice becomes more serious, and he starts speaking more straight-forward and a lot less cryptically.

"Listen to me, bruv. The whole point of being Spider-man is your independence. Being your own boss, you don't need all this!"

I think Hobie saying this reveals a lot about his character, especially understanding the context where he's from. While many Spider-men would agree that being Spider-man is about responsibility and power - to Hobie, it is about independence, and freedom. Hobie is a freedom fighter, and one of the only Spider-men besides Noir that knows how to fight systemic threats as well as physical ones. To him, being Spiderman is about being able to free yourself and others. It's about independence and freedom, and he's trying to nail that in Miles' head one last time.

M: Then why are you here?

"Looking out for my drummer, is all."

As the scene is coming to a close, the writers chose this time to reveal some of Hobie's motivations, starting with the independence comment, and now this. Despite knowing about Gwen's deception towards Miles, he is still looking out for her - and Miles. This is the writers' and Hobie's last push to solidify himself as an ally to Miles and the viewer.

M: I want to be in a band. I want to see my friends, and I need a watch to do that. G: Guys, come on.

"Alright, Squashed. Just don't enlist until you know about who you're fighting."

I genuinely had to sit and ask myself why the writers would choose to leave Hobie's collective effort - a LOT of effort - with this line. And honestly, I think it's a perfect segway. Hobie chooses his words very clearly; He doesn't say 'what', he says 'who'. The next scene leads into Miguel's intro, and up until this point, Miles doesn't know who he is. He only knows about the Society, but never who is at the top. We know about Miguel, but all Miles knows is his name. That's why Hobie says 'who you're fighting'. Because the Society isn't really a Society, and this isn't really between Miles and the Society at all. It's a dictatorship - and the person he's enlisting to fight is Miguel. The perfect introduction and warning to the person he's about to meet. He's telling Miles, 'Don't rush into it. Wait until you meet Miguel first'. And when Miles does meet Miguel, he finally sees that this isn't the place he thought it was, just like Hobie said. ALSO EVEN MORE INTERESTINGLY - THIS is one of the lines that is changed between the two versions of spiderverse (there are two theatrical versions on release.) In the alternative he says 'Don't enlist unless you know what war you're fighting.' And I think that the fact the writers chose to publish two different versions of this line goes to show how powerful they knew this line would be in Miles' characterization. There is so much Hobie has left to say to him, but only one line - and so we get two versions. How fun!

With the scene now over, we see a change in Hobie's demeanor, and I love the writers' choice to have the shot linger on Hobie.

We see him give Miles a look that isn't exactly full of confidence, but from this point forward, Hobie chooses to hang back, no longer having any motivation to instigate. He knows his work here is done, and now all he can really do is wait for Miguel to reveal his true colors, and hope that he got through enough to Miles that he will react, and fight back.

And closing out the scene - I noticed that when Peter B. arrives Hobie pointedly says

"Oh boy, Humbling Reality Spider-man has arrived."

All I'll say about this is Hobie has to be Jamaican cause that was so mfing rude shgjfkghjgjkdfjk

Hobie has about three lines between this point and then end of his screentime - Two of which were his lines to Mayday, and his comment during the canon events.

But there is one shot of him before it all happens. And after this shot the movie begins staging Hobie in specific a very different way than anyone else.

The moment begins with Miles' line 'My Dad is about to be captain.'

The camera pans to each character. Gwen, Peter, and Jess all avert their eyes. Miguel looks at Miles. And Hobie is the only one who looks at all of them. Instead of looking down, he looks to the others, in anticipation of whats going to happen. It's also important to note that this was probably news to Hobie. He probably didn't know Miles' dad was a cop - or at the very least going to be captain. So the understanding of just how much trouble Miles is in kinda multiplies in this moment.

Then, this happens

From this point forward, every time Hobie is portrayed, he is shown as separate from the other characters, always being divided from the group - with Miles as the divider. Even as the camera moves, Hobie visually remains - quite literally - as the only person in Miles' corner. And as the scene goes on, he moves farther and farther into that corner.

Until finally the scene comes to a climax, and Hobie gets two shots to himself - delivering his final lines.

"Here we go." - "Hobie, You're not helping." - "Good."

GUYS IM GONNA CRY OKAY IM GONNA CRY

This is Hobie seeing his work pay off. This is him knowing that he got through to Miles and that it was worth it. He's proud of him.

Hobie knew what he came to do, and he used literally every line he said to Miles to the FULLEST extent. He doesn't give a fuck if he's not helping the Society. He's helping Miles. And now he knows his work is done.

Being a punk is not about being a hero, it's about empowering those who feel powerless. HE UNDERSTOOD THE MOTHERFUCKING ASSIGNMENT.

IN SHORT - HOLLYWOOD PAY YOUR FUCKING WRITERS I SWEAR TO GOD.

if you read this far let me know :) thanks bye

[stupidlittlespirit]

Rating: NSFW (kissing) Type: Long form, Stanford Pines x Reader Tags: Enemies to lovers, Academic rivals to lovers, arguing that turns into making out, bullying, no pronouns used, minor injuries, making up, injury care, art student!Reader Word count: 19,567 (yikes!) My other works: here on tumblr and here on Ao3!

You're forced to work with Ford, your sworn rival, for a college project. Things quickly get out of control.

@sleeplessdreamer14 asked for this so I hope it's okay dude!

Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pines’, joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading ‘MID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.’

Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesn’t miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.

Oh no no no no no.

There is never, and will never, be anything wrong with a little bit of friendly competition.

Competition drives innovation, innovation drives achievement and achievement drives happiness. A harmless rivalry can benefit just about anybody, provided it stays as just that: harmless.

Whatever you have going on with Stanford Pines, however, is decidedly not that.

Naturally it's all his fault, of course.

You've shared a space with the man for only a couple of months now, since the beginning of the second college semester of Backupsmore, and you're absolutely positive that you've never met such a stuck up asshole in all your life.

Pines had joined your Fine Art class late. Significantly so, in fact. The course had already been halfway through its first year when he had darkened the doorstep of Studio 1B with his stupid tweed jackets and his fluffy hair, and even at the time you can recall how taken aback you'd been when Professor Stonepoor had announced his joining.

Stonepoor, a surly old chap with bright silver hair and a penchant for chain smoking indoors (one which you’re not sure you can begrudge him, honestly, because if you had to work in a place like Backupsmore, you’re sure cigarettes would be the mildest form of distraction at your disposal), had announced Pines’ unorthodox arrival to the studio one wet September afternoon.

Before any of you had had the chance to take your usual seats for the afternoon, Professor Stonepoor had clapped his hands together from behind his cheap desk and caught everyone’s attention the moment you had all filed inside. Standing at his side, Stanford had shifted uncomfortably from one loafered foot to the other under the abrupt attention of the room.

“Kids,” Stonepoor had said, in his bored, trademark voice akin to gravel being dragged across concrete. “This is Stanford Pines. I trust you’re familiar, yes?”

And of course, the entire class had nodded their affirmation, yourself included.

Barely six months into the year and Pines had already left quite the impression upon his fellow student body, a far less complimentary achievement than it might sound. Stanford had garnered a reputation of sorts, almost from his first day of term, and unlike most other rumours that run alongside young men of fraternity age, Stanford had become known for being the exact opposite of the trope: Extremely intelligent and extraordinarily lame.

Stanford Pines was, as the kids say these days, a Square. As strait-laced as they came: He never attended parties, not even when he managed to garner pity invites from some of the nicer students on campus.

He didn't take drugs, he didn’t skip classes, and he didn't drink. All Pines ever did was flex his abnormally large brain on every other student at the school. Everyone on campus knew Stanford Pines was a genius, but no one knew it more than Pines himself. Belligerently and exceptionally intelligent, and utterly obnoxious about it, Stanford never cared to let others forget it.

Professor Stonepoor had nodded at the collective hum of acknowledgement from the other students and gestured vaguely to Stanford. “Well, fortunately for you lucky people, Mr Pines will be joining the class for the remainder of the term.”

With little care for the rudeness of the action, you’d scoffed aloud and questioned exactly why a student with no artistic inclination would join a fucking fine art class halfway through term. Everybody knew Pines was a die-hard scientist wannabe, what on earth would he be doing here?

You can still recall how Stanford had frowned down his aquiline nose at your comment, despite the disinterested air he’d displayed suggesting he felt similarly.

You’d scowled right back and held defiant eye contact with him for as long as he dared.

Mr Stonepoor had rolled his eyes and replied, very simply: “Ford has…. Run out of classes to take.”

“What?” You’d laughed, disbelieving and mildly confused.

“He’s completed significantly more of his major ahead of schedule and the dean thought it might be good for him to, and I quote, ‘soak up as much education as possible’ during his time with us.”

Which was, of course, utter bullshit. The dean had probably panicked about not receiving a full year’s worth of tuition and tried to drag out his stay in this desperately underfunded shit hole for as long as possible.

You hadn’t offered more than a sceptical arch of your brow and Mr Stonepoor had met you with a disinterested shrug before simply ushering Pines towards the free desks.

At first, you'd tried to play nice despite your initial annoyance at being disturbed. Perhaps Pines would be willing to take a back seat in a class that wasn't his forte? You'd approached him as he'd stood awkwardly by an empty desk on the far left of the room, a hand outstretched in a stiff welcome and your name on the tip of your tongue.

Stanford had regarded your hand like it was covered in bees, his big, brown eyes flicking from your fingertips to your eyes, before turning away to rifle through his briefcase (and honestly, who carried a briefcase in college?) as though you'd never even said a word. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

In spite of his lack of manners, you can recall how surprised you’d been at the sound of his voice. You’d never crossed paths with him before and certainly never held a conversation with him, and it had come as a mild shock that such a voice belonged to somebody so….

Well, somebody so like him.

You’d expected a nasally tone, something more fitting of such a nerdy exterior, but instead Stanford sounded…. Strong. So completely at odds with his unimpressive stature and awkward aura, that for half a second you had been too surprised to respond.

And then his snarky address had caught up with you and you’d found your tongue well enough.

Teeth gritted, you'd applied your best faux smile and steamrolled over his rudeness. “You know, you'll need to catch up on last semester's work. I'm the highest ranking student in this class, I'd be happy to show you some of my-!”

“No need,” Pines had dismissed you without looking up. “I completed it last night. Professor Stonepoor has my folder.”

You'd laughed, until it had become clear that he wasn't actually attempting a bad joke. “You…. Are you telling me you completed an entire semester's worth of work over the summer?”

It had been Stanford's turn to laugh then and finally he'd faced you. “Oh, no,” He’d scoffed. “I did it in two weeks.”

“Sorry, you what?”

“No need to apologise,” Stanford had said before giving you the kind of smirk that screamed just how much he knew his words were intended to provoke.

Your teeth had been ground further down.

“The dean asked me to join the class a few days after we returned for term and well, as much as I consider it a waste of my time, he said it might benefit me, so I figured why not.” Stanford had shrugged.

“‘A waste of your time’?” You'd frowned.

“Of course,” Stanford scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, who pays thousands of dollars to study something as menial as art? College should be used for education, not for daydreaming and doodling.”

It had taken every ounce of decorum you owned not to punch his lights out, and from there, things had only gotten worse.

The next time you'd attended class, motivated to simply ignore Pines (and maybe to show off your extensive knowledge of your chosen subject to him to ensure he knew who he was sharing the floor with), you'd made a beeline for your usual desk only to find the object of your ire already sitting in it.

The seat by the East window of the studio was yours. Nobody else’s. You’d had a claim over it for the better part of the school year and nobody in class had attempted to challenge it. Not until Pines’ arrival, anyway.

At your insistence that he find somewhere else, Stanford has brushed you off yet again: “Your name isn’t on it. Can’t you take the one in front?”

Somewhere behind you, a classmate had hissed through clenched teeth and another had choked on a poorly stifled laugh; your exchange with one another was apparently entertaining enough to warrant a minor audience.

“No,” you’d snipped. “The light here is best, that’s why I sit in this one.”

Pines had hummed thoughtfully before finally meeting your eyes. “Well, now I’m definitely not giving it up.”

And so, he had commandeered your own seat from you in front of the entire fucking class.

But he hadn’t stopped there, oh no.

Your top student status had been more or less demolished in the space of a week.

You’ve always prided yourself on your work, on being number one amongst your classmates. You work hard and it has always paid off, as evidenced by your grades and your standing. Except, Stanford had practically appeared out of thin air and blown you out of the water immediately.

He raised his hand faster, he was quicker with his answers, more precise with his art history timelines and to make matters even more utterly miserable: he’d turned out to be an exceptionally talented artist.

His work was near-photorealistic in its detail, his anatomy was excellent and he’d picked up his colour theory in less than two classes on the subject. A significant improvement on the time it had taken you.

Stanford Pines absolutely dominated the classroom. Your classroom.

Your passion, your talent, your achievement. All of it had been bulldozed by the guy.

Of course, never having been one for going down without a fight, you had bitten back hard: pulling all nighters and skipping parties to ensure you’d still topped the charts in your scores. You’d even beaten him a couple of times, and the tangible frustration you’d felt from him had been enough to encourage you to keep at it.

That’s how the entire thing had started: You and Stanford Pines vying for top dog status of Studio 1B, horns locked and grievances held, no matter the day, no matter the project, no matter the reason. You absolutely had to beat him.

Today has been no different.

Class is coming to a close for the evening and you've spent most of it battling with Stanford, as per usual, over answers. The two of you have been going back and forth together for the better part of forty minutes before Mr Stonepoor manages to cut in whilst Stanford is taking a breath.

“While I appreciate your passion for Winckelmann, Mr Pines,” Stonepoor says, with little enthusiasm to match his words. “We really ought to be finishing up. I need to discuss the upcoming projects with all of you.”

Stanford's mouth shuts with an audible click! and you shoot him a smug look, pleased to have gotten the final word in class.

Stanford rolls his eyes.

“As you all know, in the next week you’ll be beginning work on your mid-term projects. Alongside your mini-exhibition, you’ll be expected to complete a short presentation on your chosen topic and explain the sense of meaning behind your themes.” Professor Stonepoor continues, oblivious to your exchange. “Except, this time things will be a little different.”

Stonepoor’s words are enough to get you to halt in your gloating and pay abrupt attention again.

“This won’t be a solo project, as the others have been. This time, you’ll be partnered up and expected to work together with a classmate to show how well you can collaborate with your peers.” Professor Stonepoor takes a seat in his creaky chair and procures a lighter from the top pocket of his suit jacket. He’s clearly preparing to deal with the stress that will inevitably come his way.

You raise your hand. “Will we get to pick our partners, Professor?” You ask, cautiously hopeful. You’ve only a few friends in Backupsmore: Jennifer, who you sit beside currently, and Melissa, who attends opposing classes to you but who technically counts as a peer. If you’re going to have to work with anybody, it’ll be them.

Stonepoor lights his cigarette and fixes you with a look that makes something cold settle in your stomach. “No,” he says simply, and the amusement in his voice fills you with uncomfortable concern.

Before anybody can question him, the shrill sound of the bell rings out and the rest of the students dutifully begin to pack their things away. As much as you’d like to question Stonepoor further, for now you’ll have to hope he does himself a favour and sticks you with somebody you’ll get along with.

It’s not like he’d partner you up with Pines of all people anyway. It’s unlikely he’ll want to cause himself more stress, right?

Right?

You’re lounging on the Quad later that evening, killing time with a couple of classmates and sheltering from the bright sun under the shade of an ancient oak tree, when the topic comes up again.

Thumbing through the battered copy of Pride and Prejudice on your lap, you listen to your friends complain back and forth about the strife in their lives until their annoyances invoke you directly.

“I can’t take another day of you two arguing like that, y’know,” says Jennifer, your fellow artist in 1B.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you mutter, picking at the corner of the novel and only barely paying attention.

“You and Stanford Pines,” she clarifies, and you can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “You’re driving everybody nuts.”

“It’s his fault,” You shrug one shoulder. “If he wasn’t such an asshole about, like, everything, I wouldn’t-”

“Be such an asshole back?” Jennifer finishes. “God, why don’t you two just fuck it out already?”

Her comment is enough to get you to snap your head up, attention on your novel shattered instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” You exclaim, almost choking on your tongue.

“Oh, come on,” Melissa snorts. “There’s enough tension between you two to kill the Professor ten times over.”

“And the rest of us,” Jennifer adds, high fiving the other girl. “Poor Stonepoor always looks on the verge of a breakdown when you guys start fighting.”

Melissa laughs. “Yeah, and besides, everybody’s noticed it. You’d win me ten bucks if you jumped his bones.”

“What do you- Are you taking bets on my non-existent sexual chemistry?!” You ask, appalled. “You’re not even in the same class as us, you’ve got no idea about my…. Thing, with Pines.”

Perhaps that isn’t the most ideal choice of words, but still.

As though she can read your mind, Melissa shoots Jennifer an amused look.

You scoff, shaking your head vehemently. “You’re wrong. I can’t stand him and he definitely can’t stand me. I’d rather puke in my hands and clap than touch that guy.”

There’s absolutely no way you’d consider anything of the sort with Stanford Pines. Sure, objectively he isn’t too bad to look at: He’s tall and broad shouldered, with a stocky form in spite of his lack of sporting ability, and he’s got a nice enough face, but he’s nothing special. Puppy dog eyes and strong features are ten a penny, aren’t they?

“Anyway, I think he’s kind of cute,” Melissa says, bumping shoulders with you. “Y’know, in a loser type of way.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re dating Jamie,” you grumble under your breath. The less said about her blockheaded jock boyfriend, the better…. “You like losers a little too much.”

Melissa opens her mouth to defend her pet idiot, but she’s cut off by someone shouting your name.

You glance up just as someone skids to a halt in front of your group, their trainers sliding on the poorly maintained lawn. You can vaguely recognise him as a kid from the studio…. Danny? You think. Darryl? “Oh, hey, uh….”

“Damian,” says Damian, looking a little annoyed. “We’re in Studio 1B together. Have been for a while now.”

“Right….” You give him an apologetic smile. “What’s up?”

Damian pauses, like he hadn’t expected to actually have to voice his reason for catching your attention. He looks uncomfortable and it sets your teeth on edge.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, shifting to stand up. “Has something hap-”

“Have you, uh….” He clears throat stiffly. “Have you seen the partner listing for the mid-term project yet?”

You frown. “No, I didn’t even know it was up.”

Damian flinches again and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. It went up like twenty minutes ago….You might wanna take a look. Figured you’d want to know..”

You’re not sure you’ve ever moved so fast in your life. Without more than a thanks to Damian, you toss your paperback into your bag and leap to your feet, barely hearing the annoyed shout of your friends as you scramble past them to head straight for the arts building. You take the stairs two at a time, weaving between crowds of other students, your heart beating so hard you think it might burst right through your shirt.

Why would Damian bother to alert you? You’re fairly certain you’ve only ever exchanged niceties with the guy over the paintbrush station, he’d have no reason to bother you about something like this unprovoked. Not unless….

“You’re driving everybody nuts….”

As you round the landing of the stairs, you spot the old stained door that leads to Studio 1B, along with the bulletin board that’s positioned right at its side. There's a small gathering of students around it, all talking amongst themselves, and you slip right through them to get up close to the A4 pieces of paper that's tacked to the cork surface.

Your eyes scan it, desperately searching for confirmation that you're overreacting and that Damian is probably just being helpful, right? Not forewarning of an incoming storm like you fear he might be, until….

Oh.

Oh, no.

Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name, and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pines’. Joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading ‘MID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.’

Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesn’t miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.

Oh no no no no no.

You can feel the eyes of other students of 1B burning into your back. Clearly your predicament is common knowledge already. You feel a warmth burn on the base of your neck and very carefully, you avoid meeting their gaze.

Perhaps there's still time to talk your professor out of it. It's not even 5PM yet, he'll still be knocking about in the classroom for a while and if you’re quick, it might be your best and only opportunity to talk him into reconsidering. Surely he'll be easily convinced to change his mind? It's not a secret that he's more than a little fed up with your bickering; you're certain that the only reason he allows you and Stanford to go back and forth so often is because it means he can put less effort into teaching the rest of the class. He practically owes you both one!

Ditching the throng of students, you press your ear to the door of the studio. It sounds like somebody is already talking to Stonepoor , but whoever it is will have to wait. Right now, you're on a mission to ensure your sanity stays intact.

You hammer a quick series of knocks on the door before wrenching it open and ducking inside without even bothering to wait for a welcome, your protests already loaded in your mouth: “Professor Stonepoor , there's some kind of mistake on the-!”

Your words die a quick death on your tongue when you realise who it is that's currently talking to him.

Stanford Pines looks over at you from where he's standing, arms crossed and brows furrowed, in front of your teacher's desk, evidently as equally as annoyed as you are. He's wearing a blue button down shirt and brown corduroy pants, and his hair looks messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it in distress.

You know how he feels.

Stonepoor leans sideways slightly in his chair, another cigarette in his mouth (he really must be stressed), and peers around Stanford's broad form at you. He doesn't seem very pleased to have you here.

“A mistake?” Asks Stonepoor, tiredly.

“Yes,” you say assuredly, ignoring the way Stanford watches you approach. “On the partner list. You put me and…. Him,” you struggle to keep the disdain from your voice and Stanford scoffs. “Together.”

Stonepoor laughs and for once he sounds genuinely amused. “No mistake there. You'll both be working together on this project.”

Instead of vomiting your heart, it drops out through your ass and a cold dread settles in its place. “What?!”

“Precisely my sentiment,” says Stanford, nodding. “Why on Earth are we being paired up? I could do far better work alone, I don't need someone dragging me along-”

“‘Dragging you along’?!” You snap, scowling over at him. “I'm perfectly competent, thank you. I don't even see why we'd need to work together out of everyone else in the class! If Stanford wants to work alone, why can't he-”

“Because this is a paired assignment,” says Professor Stonepoor slowly, like he's talking to an idiot. “And you two are top of the class. I'd like to see what you can come up with when you put your heads together willingly, instead of butting them back and forth.”

Stanford huffs, petulant. “But I-”

“But nothing, Mr Pines,” Stonepoor sighs, exhaling a long cloud of smoke and sitting back in his chair. “You're an excellent student, Stanford, truly-”

Stanford puffs out his chest at the acknowledgement and you have to force yourself not to pull a face to illustrate your disgust.

“-But you're still a student,” Stonepoor goes on. “And I'm your professor. It's my call, and I say you two need to learn how to work cooperatively for once. You won't get anywhere if all you do is piss each other off, so the decision stands. Work together.”

You want to argue more and you can tell that Stanford does too, but Stonepoor isn't having it. It quickly becomes clear that you'd each have better luck arguing with the stack of still-drying canvases in the corner rack of the room.

The moment you open your mouth, he holds a hand up to silence you. “If you can't get along and you can't produce something worth my time, I'll give you both the lowest grade and you can fight it out over who gets to hang that on their wall. Do I make myself clear?”

And just like that, your fate is sealed.

You're going to have to work with the one person you like least, whether it destroys your sanity or not.

Stanford sighs, long suffering and put upon, and once you've accepted your situation, he follows you from the classroom and out into the hallway. Thankfully it appears most of the people who had been lingering around initially have moved on, leaving the corridor uncomfortably quiet and the perfect place to lay down some organisation.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to Stanford.

“So, here's the deal-”

“Why don't we just-”

You both speak at the same time, words rushing out in a hurry to beat one another to the point, and Stanford sighs.

“Look, I'm as apprehensive about this whole thing as you are, believe me,” he says. “I'd be perfectly happy to work alone but it seems as though we're just going to have to get along for this whether we want to or not.”

As much as it pains you to admit it, he's right. Stonepoor has made that perfectly clear. You’re not going to let this fucker leave a blemish on your record and you’re sure he feels similarly.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning against the classroom door. The stress of all this has already exhausted you and you haven't even had one on one time with him yet. God, this is going to suck. “Let's just…. Agree a truce for now, right? We get through the next few weeks, get our heads down and then we can go right back to how things are supposed to be. Deal?”

Stanford nods. “Deal.”

You mirror him and yank your bag up your shoulder. “Starting tomorrow, meet me in the library. The art history section. We can work out what we want to do and build from there. Sound good?”

It doesn’t look like it sounds good to him, but to his credit, Stanford nods stiffly. “Be there at six.”

“Done.”

..

As expected, Stanford is utterly unbearable to work with. If, that is, what you’re doing can even be compared to working together.

From the moment your ass touches the seat opposite him at the library table, he rubs you the wrong way. For one thing, he doesn’t even greet you. He doesn’t even so much as look up at your arrival, for god’s sake. Instead, he keeps his big nose buried in a dusty book he’s reading and says: “You’re late.”

You cast a glance at the wall clock to see that you are, technically, about four minutes behind when you said you'd be here for. That doesn’t mean you’re going to take the heat for it though.

“Barely,” you mutter, dumping your bag onto the table and making his thermos wobble.

That’s enough to get him to look up.

Stanford frowns and catches it before it can fully tip over, avoiding a spill. “If we set a meeting time, I’d appreciate it if you kept to it,” he says snippily.

You nod, but you’re not really taking his chastisement on board. You’re too busy checking out the array of books he has splayed open in front of him like a weathered old cheeseboard for his perusal. You’re expecting them to be books on the Renaissance or maybe some old masters biographies (he seems like the type to enjoy the classics), but when you peer closer you’re surprised to see that they’re predominantly all physics books. Even the yellow legal pad at his elbow is full of mathematical equations.

“Not interrupting something, am I?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at his work.

Stanford clears his throat and snaps his book shut before you can gawp much more. “Of course you are,” he murmurs, beginning to clear them away. “Art is hardly my most prominent area of work, you know. Some of us are studying for more than one thing, hence the importance of time management.”

“And just how many things are you studying for, Stanford?” You say, amused by how easily you can get under his skin. “I hope they won’t get in the way of this project.”

Stanford furrows his impressive brows at you. “Just because I don’t care about art, that doesn’t mean I’d let my work slip,” he says as he piles the textbooks up. “And I’m taking five degrees, thank you.”

“Five?!” You say, a little bit louder than is appropriate for the setting.

Stanford shushes you, as do a few more students at other tables, and you offer them an apologetic wave before repeating yourself at a more suitable stage whisper: “Five degrees? How the fuck are you managing that?”

Stanford scoffs, sitting forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the table. “With a great deal of talent and commitment, of course,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

Holy shit, you think. That’s insane. As much as you want to fire off a snappy comment about big headedness, you have to admit that perhaps some of it is warranted if the man can manage five fucking degrees in one go.

“I intend to take more but I’m focusing on those for now. I plan to make it to PhD as quickly as possible so I need to concentrate and manage my efforts accordingly. I’d hate to throw off my groove by picking up random, useless classes that I’ll never use again.” He pauses to bark a laugh. “Not that this isn’t exactly that, mind you…. No offence.”

You roll your eyes. “Every offence taken. Art might not be as academically lauded as science or maths, but it’s just as important.”

Ford snorts as he shoves his books into his briefcase, mildly amused by your comment.

“I’m serious, Stanford,” you say, defensive. “How do you think you get those illustrations in your anatomy textbooks, for example?”

“Those are different,” Stanford says, waving you off. “They serve a purpose.”

Jesus.... This guy’s grandiosity knows no bounds. “All art serves a purpose for somebody. Just because it doesn’t serve your every purpose, doesn’t make it useless,” you scoff. “Art informs science just as much as science does art.”

Stanford opens his mouth to answer back but he seems to fall short of actually finding the words to fire off at you. Behind his eyes, you can practically see the gears whirring and ticking as he weighs up your statement in his mind, and after a moment, he exhales the air he’d saved to fight back with through his nose, sharp and short. The tips of his ears are a little pink and he looks decidedly annoyed.

It strikes you suddenly that you might have just accidentally bested your sworn rival over a ridiculously simple concept. Your skin prickles with righteous pride and you fix him with an assured smirk, absurdly pleased to have beaten him so casually.

Rather than apologise, Stanford simply ignores your statement and flips through his yellow legal pad, settling on a clean page and placing it between you both. “If you're done debating me,” he says, clearing his throat. “I suppose we ought to figure out our roles, yes?”

“I’m not debating you, Stanford,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. Sure, technically you won your point, but you’re not actually trying to beat him in this discussion any more than you are just bringing the truth to his attention. He really can be a misanthrope sometimes. “We’re socialising. Normal people do it all the time, so I’ve heard.”

He looks a little taken aback at that, and you can't help but think the owlish way he blinks at you suits him quite nicely in comparison to usual scrutinising stare. “Oh,” he says. “Right.” He nods quickly and averts his gaze downward to the pad.

It's painfully clear he isn't used to being spoken to on such a level. You almost feel a little bad for him. It must be hard to make friends when you're all work and no play, and especially when someone has the aura of a person who'd rather be laying on train tracks than holding menial conversation….

Mentally, you yank on the reins of that line of thought: you are absolutely not going to feel bad for someone that's always such a jerk to you, and to everybody else. No way.

Stanford taps the pad of paper between you both. “I can do most of the work. You’ll just follow along and I’ll write in some speaking parts for you, so that way you’ll still be included in the grade,” he says, rolling his shoulders and slipping back into the usual aura of asshole-ness.

There goes that empathy.

“What?” You stare at him like he’s gone mad, the smile sliding off your face. “Absolutely not. This is as much my project as it is yours! We can go fifty-fifty, that way it’s totally fair.”

“No disrespect,” says Stanford, and you can tell he’s about to say something that intends fully to illustrate how much he doesn’t mean that caveat. “But your history and research is lacking, and you tend to focus more on the intricacies of the piece than on the entirety of the project. I’d be happy to shoulder most of the work. That way we’ll have fewer weak points.”

You grip the edge of the table, hard. Weak points? Who does this guy think he is?!

“I want to earn my grade, Stanford,” you say, quite admirably keeping the anger from your tone. “Maybe you’re used to working with people who are happy to sit in for the ride and get top marks for doing fuck all, but I’m not that kind of person. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me as such.”

He regards you for a moment, seemingly nonplussed by your adamant refusal to accept the easiest option, and for a moment you think you’re going to have to fight it out with him.

You’d rather not get banned from the only library Backupsmore owns for beating him to death with his own physics books, but you’re not going to just let him take control like he so clearly wants to.

However, much to your surprise, once he’s finished turning over your words in that big brain of his again, he nods. “Fine. If you think you can do it, have at it.”

You’re astounded he’s given in so easily until he adds:

“But if you start to drag me down then I won’t hesitate to scrap whatever you’ve come up with and do it all again from scratch myself.”

There it is.

As an afterthought, he tacks on: “And if we're going to be partners, you might as well call me Ford. I prefer it.”

A nickname? That's awfully familiar of him…. But you suppose if he prefers it then you'll bite.

“Fine,” you say. “Then let’s do this, Ford.”

And if you’re not mistaken, he might even smile a little at that.

This is going to be a weird couple of weeks….

Nothing much changes in the classroom.

The two of you still go back and forth like your lives depend on it, much to the visible chagrin of your professor and peers.

At first, your pairing with Ford had been the talk of the studio. The other students had made offhand comments about it all behind your back, but none had brought it up to your face.

Melissa and Jennifer had been as amused as they were apprehensive about it all, both of them begging you to at least try and get along for everybody’s sake, but of course all you’d manage to do for the first week or two was complain and lament to them about the entire situation.

“He’s a total nightmare! A complete control freak and a perfectionist. I can’t survive another day with him, I swear,” you froth to the girls over lunch one afternoon, after yet another frustrating session spent with Ford.

The entirety of the study time had been spent arguing back and forth about painting techniques, and you had had to leave before you’d throttled him with a cleaning rag.

Every complaint fell on deaf ears, of course. Both Jennifer and Melissa only ever exchanged mutual looks of exasperation with one another any time you moaned about him and neither seemed to offer much more than a conciliatory ‘that sucks’ with each grievance you bring them.

Eventually, you and Ford had come to the agreement of using ‘uniqueness’ as the basis of your project.

The idea had been brought up at the start of the third meeting, once everything had been arranged for responsibilities and chores, when Ford had dropped into conversation that he held a penchant for the strange and unusual.

Although your initial reaction had been to disagree simply on principle, the idea had been interesting enough that you’d caved without much argument.

When you questioned why his interest lay in things like cryptids and paraphenomena when he clearly lauded himself as a serious scientist, he’d given you a strange look that you had struggled to decipher.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he’d asked toward the end of your second week together, watching as you’d painted fine details onto the fur of thylacine one rainy Tuesday evening.

You’d shrugged. “Because you’re a nerd?”

That was the most obvious answer, wasn’t it? Excluded by his peers and his own intelligence, he probably felt a kind of kinship with things that others didn’t accept. Perfectly understandable, you supposed.

Whilst you’re no genius, you’ve never been immune to exclusion. You can recognise traits in monsters that you might share with them, in the ways that nobody ever believes in them.

His interest made sense and for some reason, it had even made you feel a little more…. Connected to him. And while you’d rather die than admit that aloud to anyone, a secret awareness of empathy for the guy wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“No,” Ford had replied, coming to stand behind you. “It’s because I…”

You’d lifted your head from your work, glancing over your shoulder and craning your neck to stare up at him expectantly.

Ford had paused as he’d met your eyes, unsure of an answer for only the second time in your presence, before he’d cleared his throat and looked away again. “It hardly matters. I suppose you’re right.”

He had stood so close behind you after that, silently observing; the scent of his cologne, all spice and musk, filling your nose and making your mouth water.

You had struggled to concentrate then, but you’re sure it had been for no specific reason, of course. Just a simple case of being uncomfortable with having someone in your personal space. That was all. Nothing more.

Still, Ford pushed harder for results than any other project partner you can recall having. Possibly even harder than any teacher you'd ever had, too.

Despite giving you the grace to put your own touch on the project, it had become clear very quickly that Ford was decidedly not very good at collaborations.

He worked at a break-neck speed and with laser precision in everything he did, whether he was passionate about the subject or not, and if you couldn’t keep up? Well, that was a personal failing on your part, obviously.

His intensity had built up very quickly and it hadn't taken long to feel less like you were partnering equally on a job and more like you were being dragged along in the dirt by an unruly workhorse.

Long hours in the studio weren’t unheard of for you, but pouring over your canvases until the wee hours of the early morning every night? Less so. Arguments over techniques and methods weren't uncommon, and unrequested criticism from Ford quickly became the norm.

Lack of sleep and total dedication to the project combined with all your other classes had begun to take a toll on you. For Ford, it seemed he barely needed sleep or lunch breaks, but for your much more average ability, you couldn't quite say the same.

Even your arguments in class had become less and less heated as you'd lost the free energy to fight it out with him.

The first time you'd almost dozed off during a study session in the library for background research, Ford had clicked his fingers in front of your closed eyes with the loudest snap known to man, jerking you awake and almost causing you to fall out of your seat.

“If you can't keep up, just say so,” Ford had quipped, going back to his elegant cursive-filled page of notes. “I told you I'd be happy to take over.”

Of course, you'd told him to fuck off. No way would you be seen dead giving him what he wanted. No matter how exhausted you got, regardless of the pressure on yourself, you absolutely would not give in…..

Which is why today, you find yourself slumped before your half finished canvas, vision blurring at the edges from lack of rest and head throbbing painfully.

There's only one week left of prep time for the project and you're not even sure you'll live to see the fruits of your labour at this point. Your back aches from sitting at awkward angles and leaning over your work for one too many hours a day, your hand is painfully stiff from gripping pencils and paintbrushes 24/7, and alongside the pressures of this project, you've still got to contend with your other classes too.

Fine Arts degrees aren't all about painting nice pictures and using free time to kick back and slack off, despite what some people may think. Your grades are important to you and you're pushing yourself in every other class you have too: history, sculpting, printmaking and more. You're spread as thin as you can be and it's taking its toll.

At this rate, you'll fail in several of those. Even a few of your teacher's have pulled you aside to ask about the abrupt decline in your attendance (late nights lead to oversleeping, who knew?) and you're not sure you can bear another ‘are you taking this seriously?’ scolding from them again.

You've arrived early today. Typically you meet in the spare studio with Ford at six o'clock sharp, but today you'd decided to try and come in sooner in order to get a head start.

You've fallen behind with some of the work; the oil piece currently propped up in front of you is still only in its early stages and it'll take you a while to get it finished to the standard you hold yourself to, plus you still need to draft your speeches for each painting and write your cue cards out too.

If you can push yourself to complete the best part of this painting today, though, then it will be one less thing to worry about. Not to mention that you haven't even started on your presentation rehearsal yet.

Miserably, you dump your paintbrush in the glass of murky water on the trolley beside it and sit back with a groan, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. You're so fucking stressed you want to cry.

Your eyes burn when you lower your hands and distantly, you realise that you already are crying. Wetness trails down your cheeks and you can feel the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment. Crying over a fucking presentation. Pathetic.

You cast a glance over to the corner of the room where Ford has left out one of his own pieces of work to dry, and it only makes you feel worse. He's so precise with his brush strokes and colours, and so effortless with what he does.

It's enough to encourage more tears; his skill is admirable, even if you'll only ever concede that through brutally gritted teeth, and knowing that he's so talented even in a subject he doesn't care about only makes you feel worse.

“This is ridiculous,” you groan aloud, voice thick with distress.

Why hadn't you just taken Ford up on his offer? Stupid fucking pride, always getting in the way of an easy ride and making things harder than it needs to be….

You sniffle and heave a great, shuddery sigh. Could be worse, you think miserably. Ford could be here to see me be all pathetic and snotty.

And because the universe is a cruel and unforgiving mistress with a sick sense of humour, the door to the studio opens at that exact moment and the man himself barrels in with an arm full of textbooks. “I hope you're here early because you plan to make back the time on those diagra-!”

Ford stops mid sentence, eyes going wide at the sight of you. The door bounces off the wall behind him and slams shut as he stares in your direction, taking in your downtrodden appearance.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You feel your entire face go red, and roughly, you wipe at your eyes. You attempt to duck back behind the safety of your canvas and hide your tear stained face from the exact person you'd hoped to avoid, but Ford has already seen the state of you. There's not much you can do to hide it.

You clear your throat, head ducked to conceal your face. “I'll get them done,” you say, only slightly croaky. “Relax.”

Ford stands rooted to the spot, his textbooks hugged to his broad chest. He's silent for a minute, only staring right at you with wide eyes, and then he mirrors your awkward throat-clearing. “Are you…. Okay?” He asks, stiffly. “Did something happen?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,” Ford says, finally wandering over. “And people don't tend to cry when they're just ‘fine’.... Something must have-”

“I'm stressed, Ford,” you cut in, a little sharper than is necessary. You're not really in the mood to explain everything to him like he's your therapist, but maybe he'll back off a bit if you give him something to sate his (evidently unstoppable) curiosity. “I have other classes as well as the one we share, you realise? Other projects. It's- It can be a lot. I'm tired and I'm stressed.”

Ford frowns, his confusion palpable. “Stressed?” He repeats, putting down his armful of textbooks on a nearby desk. “About art?” He sounds so baffled, like it's impossible to imagine someone might struggle with such a ‘lesser’ pursuit than his own.

It’s enough to get your back up so high that you instantly forget to measure your response before you open your mouth. Maybe it's the tiredness, or the mounting pressure, or maybe just a combination of all of it, but you just can't take his obnoxious way of addressing you anymore.

“Ford, give it a fucking rest would you?” You snap, standing up from your chair in anger and finally meeting his gaze. He already knows you're upset, there's little point in hiding it anymore.

“See, this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you! You just don't get it! You're so fucking intense about all of this,” You gesture vaguely towards your canvas and the rest of the room, confident that he'll pick up what you mean. The entire fucking project. “I'm not used to it! I've never worked with somebody so- so like you, before.”

Ford flinches and somewhere within you, you feel a little guilty at your choice of phrasing. It's probably not the first time he's had someone say such a thing, judging by his reaction.

Undeterred, you push on, unable to stop the exhausted word vomit: “Staying up every night, pushing me on everything I do, it's relentless! You're relentless! I'm not like that, Ford, I can't just burn my candle at both ends when there's nothing left to burn.”

Ford seems surprised by your outburst. It's hardly the first time you've yelled at him, but it is the first time he looks out of his depth about it. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead of answering, he runs a hand through his messy chestnut hair, forcing the strands to stick up, and blinks back at you, deer-like.

Under any other circumstances, you'd find it funny how blatantly nervous he is at your display of emotion. Ford is the sort of person who runs solely on logic, on equations and science, and definitive answers.

He's never once given you the impression that his IQ extends to EQ and seeing him try to figure out how he ought to approach such a difficult problem would be comical if you weren't so upset right now.

After a moment of silence, filled only with you sniffling, Ford finally finds his voice again. “I told you, I can handle the workload alone if you can't-”

“Oh, sure!” You scoff, before he can finish his stupid sentence. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Then you can totally win this stupid thing by yourself and leave me in the mud.”

You shake your head and turn away, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “I knew I shouldn't have said anything, you're just gonna use this against me now, aren't you?” You mutter.

Ford, unexpectedly, looks a bit hurt by your unfounded accusation, and guilt nibbles at your gut again the moment you've said it, even if it is a genuine concern of yours.

“I would never do that,” he says defensively. “We're partners, aren't we? It wouldn’t be…. Fair for me to use your emotional state against you like that.”

He sounds so genuinely certain in his words that you find yourself unable to answer him. You'd expected him to laugh and snatch the project out from underneath you instantly, with little care for your wellbeing.

Not necessarily out of spite, but out of indifference. The way he rejects your assertion so defensively is enough to make your eyes water all over again.

“I'm not a robot, despite what some people may think. I know how it feels to work under pressure,” Ford says, and you suppose he must, what with the extortionate number of degrees he’s currently juggling. “Maybe not from art,” he admits. “But I’m not immune.”

“I told you, I can take on what you struggle with,” Ford continues on, and at your attempt to interrupt, he steamrolls on. “And before you say anything, no, I don't mean that because I think you're not good enough. I just mean that I can help.”

You raise your brows, surprised, and turn to face him. “I thought you thought my work was shit,” you say, picking up on his comment instantly.

Ford frowns. He takes a deep breath and comes to your side, a bit hesitant to get closer than within arm's length of where you stand at your station.

“I don't think that at all,” he says, like it should be obvious to you. “Why would you-”

“Ford, all you do is criticise the stuff I create,” you say, exasperated. “You spent forty minutes telling me my shading was bad on that fucking sketch last week alone.”

Forty minutes is conservative. The drawing hadn’t even been part of the mid-term line up. It had been a warm up piece before you’d started on your actual project work, and yet he’d still gone off about how your light source had been inconsistent, that the still-life had lacked depth et cetera et cetera.

You’d seethed in the corner and attempted to burn holes through the back of his head with your venomous gaze for the rest of the evening, but he hadn’t noticed a thing. He rarely does.

To his credit, Ford looks embarrassed now that you’ve brought it up. He adjusts his glasses nervously. “That's not- I don't do that because I think you're bad,” he assures you. “I do it because I can see where you'd be even greater. I just… Thought it might help.”

You stare at him. Out of all the reasons for him to be so pushy, he thought he was helping? “We hate each other, Ford, why would you even want to help me get better?”

“‘Hate each other’?” Ford says, only growing more confused. “I don't hate you. On the contrary, I thought we were having fun…. Are you…. Not having fun?”

You stare at him as though he's just sprouted a third eye. “But, in class- all we do is fight and argue, and-”

“That's just good debate, isn't it?” Ford says with an awkward laugh. “Did you- Don't tell me you thought I hated you?”

Well, now you feel like a total fucking idiot. “I mean, can you blame me?” You say defensively. “You’re hard to get a read on. I’m not exactly a telepath.”

Ford gives you a shy, lopsided grin and rubs the back of his neck, bashful. “Right, right. Sorry,” he says, the first apology you’ve ever heard from his mouth. “I suppose I assumed you could handle the way I am sometimes, what with the way you work in class,” he admits.

“Fiddleford, my roommate,” he explains, “He says I can be… What was the word he used?.... ‘Difficult’,” Here, Ford puts dramatic air quotes around his roommate's statement and it’s enough to make you smile a bit, watery and weak.

“How very diplomatic of him,” you hiccup a laugh and Ford smiles again, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. There's a compliment hidden in his words when you turn them over in your mind: I thought you could handle the way I am.

“He’s much better at being tactful than I am,” Ford admits, looking a bit sad about the fact. “I’m afraid I’m not the best at all this social stuff. If I gave you the wrong idea about it all then….. That wasn't my intention.”

He's looking at you strangely, his eyes searching yours in the silence. He almost looks guilty. It's as though something has flicked a switch inside of him and for a moment, the impossibly high walls with which he surrounds himself have lowered fractionally. Only a little, but enough for you to catch a glimpse of something…. Softer.

Up this close, you can read the minute changes of his expression far easier than when he's across the classroom or buried behind a book. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so near to him before, not face to face like this, anyway, and you can see all the shades of brown in his eyes.

He’s got wonderfully long lashes, thick and curved in a way that would make even a beauty queen weep with envy, and a smattering of very light freckles across his strong nose. The bridge of it is curved and convex, a Roman-esque quality that only adds to the subtly strong features of his face and balances out the harsher lines of his face.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, brain caught in a loop of cataloguing his features. He really isn’t all that bad looking up close….

Ford’s gaze drops to your mouth. The movement barely lasts point-five of a second, hardly long enough to even really take note of before he aborts it in motion, the two of you sharing a slightly awkward laugh. A redness tints the tops of his cheeks.

The familiar scent of his subtle aftershave wafts towards you again, and you’re reminded of when he’d stood behind you during that studio session a week or so ago.

You swallow thickly and look away to quell the funny feeling that makes your stomach flutter nervously. You’ll blame your vulnerable state for that.

Desperate to find something to distract yourself with, you look down to where he's nervously toying with the brown leather band of his wristwatch. The sleeves of his chequered shirt are rolled up today, exposing his forearms and showing off the threads of veins that stand out under the skin, and you follow them down to his hands in the hopes of finding a way to avoid examining from whatever dangerous territory your thoughts are trying to wander into.

And boy, do you find one.

Momentarily, you wonder if the tears in your eyes are blurring your vision too much to see straight. You've no idea how you’ve never noticed it before. You’ve seen him painting, seen him gesticulating wildly when he’s gotten passionate about something you’ve challenged him with, and yet somehow, the realisation has completely slipped past you.

When you react, you don’t think about what you’re doing. You're too caught up in your desperation and your shock to really consider that the move might be unwelcome or rude: You just do it.

“Oh, my god,” you murmur, reaching out for him. “You do have six fingers.”

Rumours about Ford’s hands have always floated around school, but you’ve never given them much credence. You’re not one to care about physical features like that; life isn’t a freak show and you’re not part of a baying townsfolk who want to point and laugh at someone else, so you’ve always glossed over them. But when the realisation takes you by surprise so suddenly, you act without considering the consequences.

Like your touch has scolded him, Ford yanks his hands back and steps back, away from you. He looks panicked, as though you’ve just announced his worst fears aloud, and you watch in real time as those castle walls come crashing down all over again.

The redness on his face burns brighter than ever before, a deep rouge that soaks across his cheeks and ears like watercolours on paper, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so humiliated. His eye contact drops and his expression shifts from panic to anger.

“Look, hate me if you must but I’d rather you not make a big deal about that,” he says stiffly.

“What? What are you talking about?” You frown, shaking your head. His demeanour has changed so suddenly that it makes your head spin more than the smell of white spirit does after cleaning your oil palettes. “I wouldn't-”

Ford bumps into your abandoned chair in his haste to retreat, sending it skittering backward until it rocks onto its side with a clatter. He hurriedly snatches up the textbooks he'd left on a nearby desk earlier and shoves his glasses up his nose again, righting them from where they've slipped down in his hurry.

“If you need time to catch up on your end of the project, then just- Just say the word and I'll finish it alone,” he snaps.

And then he's scrambling from the room, shoulders up around his ears and posture slumped as he wrenches the door open and exits as quickly as he'd entered, leaving you to stare after him in utter disbelief.

What the fuck?

..

Ford doesn't show up to the next study session. He leaves a note on your desk that reads ‘caught up in physics, will see you next time’, which really makes no sense because he'd have to come all the way across campus from the science labs to deliver it. If he was that busy, surely he'd have just left you to it?

Alas, he doesn't make an appearance at the session and he doesn't approach you afterwards to check on your progress, either.

You can see that he's finished his paintings, however. They sit at the back of the spare studio, right near where you work after hours, and you've been admiring them all week.

He has a nice little collection of pieces now, including a moody looking wendigo oil painting and a very pretty study in watercolour of a type of flower that you're not botanically inclined enough to know the name of, but you've a sneaking suspicion it's the gross one that smells like corpses.

You're even mildly disappointed that you haven't had the chance to ask him about it and then watch him passionately lecture you on its ins and outs and whatever else he might find fascinating about unusual flora.

It’s not like you miss him, though. Obviously not. If he was here, he’d just be insufferable about it all, of course, and throw off your creative vibe with all his science talk. At the start of the project, after you’d seen all the physics books he carried on his person so often, you’d made the mistake of politely asking about his lab work and then been subjected to a full hour of listening to him harp on about topics that might as well have been in a foreign language to you.

But then the way he’d just sort of….Lit up about it all had been strangely breathtaking. He had practically burst into fucking flames of passion about molecules and dimensions and all sorts of things the moment you’d shown even the most tepid bit of interest that you hadn’t had the heart to stop him.

He’d looked so alive, so much more animated than you’d ever seen him, and something about it had been horribly endearing.

Still, you totally don’t miss that. Not his wild gesticulating, not the way he would run his hands through his hair in concentration and leave it all fluffy and stupid right after. The way he would chew his lip as he watched you paint.

Definitely not. Too annoying and far too distracting, for reasons you’d rather not study too closely.

In class, Ford barely looks at you. He doesn’t say hello, he doesn't bring up the project, he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence when you attempt to talk to him on the way out of class, either.

It feels awful.

You try to tempt him into debate a few times but shockingly, he doesn't rise to it. Instead, he looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight and head bowed, and he even pretends not to notice when you purposely get a history fact wrong in the hopes he might feel compelled to correct you. That’s the moment you realise that something is seriously wrong.

You hate to admit it, but the lack of challenge and his avoidance is making you so fucking miserable that even the other students have begun to pick up on it.

You’ve been moping about so much recently that Melissa and Jennifer have dragged you along to a party under the guise of getting you so insanely drunk that you might either admit what’s pissing you off or forget about it altogether.

As far as you’re aware, none of them know the real reason for your melancholy and they’re putting it down to academic stress. They’re not entirely wrong in that vein anyway, and you suppose it might be good to focus on something else (and chug free booze), so you agree.

Which is why you find yourself standing about on the quad this evening, dressed up as nicely as you can be bothered to be, and milling around while you wait for the others to get their act together and head over to the East Wing dormitories where the party is taking place.

The group is made up of yourself, Jennifer, Melissa, and Melissa's boyfriend Jamie, plus one of his idiot friends that you're too annoyed by to ask their name.

The others are already drunk enough that it's been a challenge in and of itself to herd them downstairs and out into the open night air, and getting them to actually follow you across campus is proving equally as hard.

You're only slightly buzzed; barely a couple of clear-liquor drinks in so far and not at all as wasted as you'd like to be if this is going to set the tone for the evening.

Frustrated, you roll your eyes at where Jamie and his buddies are attempting to show the other girls how many people they can lift with just one arm, and step away. “Are we planning on actually making it to this dumb party, or do I have to watch you guys try and put your backs out all night?” You ask, not even attempting to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Melissa laughs and shakes her head. “Oh come on, you're no fun!” She says, coming to your side to hang off your arm. “Live a little!”

The bag on your shoulder, the one you carry with you everywhere, slips down a little at her insistent touch and you huff, pulling away to correct it. It's less filled than it usually is tonight, only holding your purse, your keys, and the small, reliable, battered sketchbook that you always keep close just in case inspiration hits.

“I'm living vicariously through you,” you tell her dryly. “But right now I'm cold and I want a fucking drink, so can we please just get a move on already?” The night air is cool enough to prickle gooseflesh on your bare arms and you rub at them insistently.

“Take my jacket, babe,” says the other jock, lumbering over in the hopes of winning favour.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” you refuse, wrinkling your nose a little. You really don’t want to give him the wrong idea and let him think he’s got an in with you. You know how these types are, after all.

“God, lighten up already!” Jamie scoffs, swaggering along with one arm thrown around Melissa. “You're being such a bitch tonight.”

You open your mouth to inform him that you're most assuredly not being a bitch but that you'd be very happy to show him what you're like when you are, when Jennifer cuts you off.

“Working with Stanford Pines for whoever-the-fuck knows how long will do that to a person,” she snorts. “That's enough to turn anyone into a dick.”

Jamie and his buddy gawp at you. “No kiddin’?” The jock says, a broad, blonde spectacle with unsettling blue eyes. “You’re in with that fuckin’ loser? Bummer, dude.”

“Oh yeah,” Melissa giggles. “All we hear these days is how much he sucks. Says he's a real asshole….”

“What's he doing in an art class?” He asks. You think his name might be Riley. “Isn't he like, a total math geek or whatever?”

Before you can interrupt, Jamie laughs, obnoxious and scathing. “Oh yeah, totally. I bet he only gets hard for science, right?” He says, grinning nastily toward you. “Or have you been- What's that guy called…. Purlow? Pavlov? That's it, Pavlov!” He snaps his fingers together, clearly pleased at the chance to flex some of his psychology minor in front of the girls. “You been Pavlov-in’ him to get hard another way?”

“Ew!” The girls collapse into giggles.

You grit your teeth. “Wow, Jamie, it's so cool that you know such a big word!” You grind out, jaw flexing. “I didn't know they taught Psych 101 in Kindergarten.”

“Hey, fuck you-”

“And,” you keep going, temper rising not least because of the topic. “For your information, we've just been doing a project together. It wasn't exactly by choice and anyway, he won't even talk to me anymore so problem solved, I guess.”

“Wait, is that why you two stopped fighting in class all the time?” Asks Jen, suddenly intrigued. “Did something happen?” Her intonation is suggestive and you know she's probably coming up with wild theories in her mind already.

Melissa squeals. “Oh my god, did you finally fuck him?!”

“No!” You say immediately, shaking your head. “Nothing like that!”

The boys guffaw and shove each other around, jeering and laughing. “That's fuckin’ gross,” says Riley, “Who would wanna screw him?”

“Hey, I heard he’s got six fingers,” sniggers Jennifer. “I bet that makes a difference, huh?”

“God, shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I told you, it’s not-”

“What a fucking freak,” laughs Jamie.

“He’s a loser, babe,” scoffs Riley, attempting to put an arm around your shoulders again. “You need a real man, not a fuckin’ dork like that. I bet he-!”

“Look, he’s not that bad!” You interrupt, raising your voice a bit and shucking the boy’s arm off of you. “He’s not- He isn’t a total asshole all the time, okay? And he’s not a freak, that’s not cool. Don’t talk about him like that.”

Truthfully, you say it accidentally. You don’t mean to defend him and especially not to this particular group of people, but they’re being so mean spirited and these jocks are such dickheads that you feel dirty even allowing them to say as much as they have.

All’s fair in love and war between you and Ford; going back and forth with one another is purely business. It never reduces to calling the other person names or taking low blows like this, and it feels weird to let other people outright bully him. Especially over his hands.

You think that might be the cause of his whole meltdown earlier this week, and even the thought of him overhearing such cruelty makes you feel sicker than any amount of alcohol could.

The others stare at you like you’ve announced you intend to swan dive from the campus clocktower and momentarily, all of them are silent. That is, until Jamie opens his big mouth again: “What are you, like, in love with him or something?”

You feel your face suddenly begin to get very warm. “What?” You laugh, trying to sound dismissive. “No! God, no! Of course I’m not! I just-”

“Holy shit,” Jennifer says, a slow grin spreading on her face as she puts the puzzle pieces together. “You’re totally into him, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been so lame recently! You’re all sad that he won’t talk to you!”

“No!” You refute, holding your hands up defensively. “No! It’s nothing like that!”

Your bag slips down your shoulder again and Jennifer grabs it without warning, dragging it off of your person and procuring your sketching journal.

“You’re such a liar,” she says, laughing, “Look, here,” She opens the journal to the page that your pencil is lodged into and flaunts it to the others. “I saw you drawing these last free sesh’ when he wasn’t in class! Makes total sense now….”

You instantly know exactly what she’s showing them: In free sessions, you’re given time to practise areas you might need to improve upon, and Ford had mentioned your anatomy a while ago. You’d taken it on board, however testily, and found yourself sketching away that afternoon.

Only, what you’d been drawing had been Ford’s anatomy. Nothing lewd, obviously, but something still intimate: his hands.

Ever since noticing them, you’ve been intrigued. Call it fate from the theme of your project, but something about them has drawn you in and you’ve struggled to forget them. They’re fascinating and beautiful and very weirdly him, and maybe yes okay you've been having some complicated feelings about him recently but does everybody need to know?!

Jamie laughs at you, snatching the book from Jen and inspecting the sketches up close. “Holy shit,” he says. “You’re made for each other, pair of freaks!”

“Fuck off, Jamie!” you snap, face burning. You try to snatch the book back and he holds it aloft, out of your reach. “Give it back!”

“No way!” He jeers, and then he glances off above your head and his ugly grin grows even wider. “Hey, check it out…. There’s your boyfriend now! Why don’t we ask Fordsy what he thinks of these?”

Much to your utter horror and absolute distress, when you turn to see where Jamie is pointing, you spot Ford striding across campus. He’s wearing an argyle sweater and brown slacks (and bless him, he really does look like a nerd), and he seems to be heading towards his own dorm.

He hasn’t spotted your group yet and silently, you pray that Jamie is just trying to rile you up.

Except, Jamie gives less of a fuck about your prayers than the universe itself does. He raises one shovel sized hand and yells out to him: “Yo, Stanford! Hold up a minute there, buddy!”

Ford freezes on the spot and turns your way, eyes wide like a rabbit in headlights. He looks confused.

“Jamie, don’t you dare!” You hiss, attempting to kick at the bigger man’s shins as he strides past you. It does nothing to stop him and instead, you turn to Jennifer. “Do something!” You say, and you hate how much it sounds like begging.

“Take a chill pill already,” Jennifer laughs. “He’s just kidding around.”

It takes great self control not to tear your own (or her) hair out as the rest of the group trot after Jamie.

Petrified, you jog along to catch up with them and by the time you reach them again, they’re already collaring Stanford.

Jamie slings a heavy handed arm around Ford’s shoulders, knocking his glasses askew, and he jerks him about a bit. “How’s it hangin’, buddy?” He asks, grinning. “Up to no good?”

“What?” Ford says, both annoyed at being stopped by such a group and awkward about how to deal with the interaction.

Jamie rolls his eyes and shakes his head, dramatically playing it up for the sake of the others. “What are you up to tonight, man?”

“Oh,” Ford shrugs. “I just finished at the library, I was going home. That’s all.”

Jamie laughs and the others join in. “On a Friday night, dude?”

“Is…. Is there a more suitable night to do it on?” Ford asks, sounding genuinely curious, and oh god your heart breaks for him.

The boys share a look of incredulity and laugh amongst themselves as you elbow your way through them. They part after a second, with some sharp elbow pokes to persuade them to move, and you stop in front of Ford and Jamie, hoping you don't look as distressed as you feel.

Ford's expression hardens the moment he notices you. It's obvious he's about as pleased to see you as he is to see the others and although, admittedly, that stings more than it has any right to, you half hope it might work in your favour to get him to leave.

“Hi, Ford,” you say, hoping you sound both casual and suggestive enough to let him know he should run for the hills. “Why don’t you get outta here and we’ll just-”

“Woah, woah,” says Jamie, cutting in before you can finish your sentence. “Not so fast, man. I have a question!”

Ford's frown deepens and he looks over at Jamie. Although the jock is tall, Ford matches his height well enough that, other than his lack of muscle, means that he doesn’t seem to be quite as intimidated as somebody of a smaller stature might be. That being said, he still looks decidedly uncomfortable with the whole affair.

“Uh, sure…?” Ford says, shrugging one shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

Jamie stifles a laugh and looks to the others, who similarly struggle to keep their laughter contained.

You know where he’s taking this topic. He’s still holding your sketchbook, waving it around to punctuate his words. “Jamie, leave it alone, stop being-”

“Come on, don't be such a square!” Melissa laughs, and Jamie is quick to agree.

“Is it true you've got extra fingers, Fordsy?” Asks Jamie, through the most horrible shit-eating grin you've ever seen. “According to certain sources,” He winks dramatically at you, implicating you in his plan. “You're rockin’ six on each hand, right? That’s far out, man. ”

Ford pales and simultaneously turns a deep shade of crimson, and his gaze snaps immediately to you. “What?” He says, his usually deep voice suddenly weak.

“You heard me, check it out,” Jamie flips open your sketchbook and you know he's showing Ford the pages of your sketching study.

Ford's brows knit upwards as he realises what he's looking at, distress and anger clear on his handsome face, and your blood turns to ice.

He looks devastated, eyes scanning back and forth over your work like he can't believe what he's seeing. Rather than seize the book for a closer look, you watch as he slips his hands into the pockets of his pants, hiding them from the view of everyone else, and your heart squeezes unpleasantly in your chest.

The subtle way that he does it makes you realise this is probably not the first time he's pulled such a move.

“You…. You drew these? Of me?” He asks in a small voice, glancing up at you. There's such a dejected sadness in his eyes that you almost want to be sick.

“No!” You say immediately. “I mean- Yes, I did, but not- I didn't draw them like tha-!”

“Some people must dig freaks, man, you're all over this shit!” Jamie chokes out through his laughter and the others follow suit.

“Shut up!” You snap at him before turning your attention back to Ford. “You don't understand! Yes, I drew them, but not because-!”

“I understand perfectly,” says Ford stiffly, and something steely and cold flashes in his gaze. He presses his mouth into a thin line and you can tell he's not just upset, but furious.

“Yeah,” Riley grins, stepping forward for his turn in the ring. “If you weren't doing it because you thought they were fuckin’ weird then why were you drawing them?”

“I….” Your voice dries up. What are you supposed to say? Because I think they're really stellar and unique, and I think you are too? Jamie and the others will eat you alive. The words just won't come and all you can do is stare back at Ford, equally as red faced and humiliated.

Jamie is still harping on about the sketches, pointing things out to Ford who isn't looking at anything he's being shown. He's just…. Staring right back at you with a mixture of genuine sadness and utter betrayal on his face.

You have to look away after a moment. It's too much to bear and you feel so awful that meeting his eye feels shameful. Although you know you haven't done anything with the intention of hurting him, you know how it must look.

When you tune back in, Jamie is still going: “-should be grateful you got to work with her, buddy. What other chance would a guy like you have to be friends with-”

You're not sure what makes you react, whether it's the combination of guilt and embarrassment, or whether it's simply because you've had enough of all this, but almost automatically, you step forward and shove Jamie away from Ford.

“Jamie, shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him as hard as you can manage in his stupidly broad chest. “Don't talk to him like that, asshole, it's not fucking cool. You're a piece of shit, man.”

Thankfully, the push is just about strong enough to get Jamie to stagger back a couple of paces and relinquish his grip from around Ford's shoulders. He stumbles and his laughter dies, along with the others.

“Hey!” He growls, stepping toward you and puffing out his chest. “What did you just say to me?”

This is exactly the reason you hate his type. They're loud and braggadocious and cruel, and they absolutely cannot take the heat themselves.

You square your shoulders back. You're nowhere near his size and if he decides to hit you then it'll be a permanent lights out for sure, but you're hoping he might at least realise his girlfriend would be upset if he knocked out her classmate. Desperately hoping, in fact….

“I said, stop. You're acting like a loser, leave him alone,” you say, admirably firm in spite of your nerves.

Jamie stomps over to you, teeth bared in a grotesque grimace. “You fuckin’ bitch, who are you callin’ a loser?!” He stretches out one hand as if to grab you and you brace yourself for the final nail in your coffin, when Ford abruptly steps between you both.

“That's enough,” he says firmly, sounding more fierce than you've ever heard him. “If you want to act like a child and bully me, do it. I don't care.” Ford glances back at you. “But don't drag other people into it just because you're a fucking drunken manchild who can't take it.”

For half a second, everything goes deathly silent. No one says a single word. All you do is gape at Ford in utter disbelief at his cutting words, as do the others. Even Jamie looks completely blindsided by it.

Clearly not finished, Ford keeps going, and this time it seems he’s talking more to you than to everyone else. “I don't need anyone to stick up for me, I'm not a child anymore. I’m perfectly capable of arguing against idiots like y-!”

Unfortunately for Ford, no matter how much you deserve his ire, with his attention on you instead of the threat, he completely misses Jamie reeling one of his big fists back and you watch in horror as he swings it in Ford’s direction.

You barely get the chance to let out an aborted shout of warning before Jamie’s knuckles collide solidly with Ford’s nose and send him stumbling back past you. They make a sickening crack! as the hit lands perfectly across his face, and Ford is sent sprawling on his ass in a lightning quick second.

Jamie moves as though he intends to follow Ford to the floor and keep hitting, but one of the other boys thankfully catches his fist and prevents him from going through with it. The group shout amongst themselves about it, evidently surprised by the sudden turn.

Instantly, you drop to your knees in the damp grass beside Ford and hover anxiously around him. Blood gushes out of his nose as soon as he hits the floor, cascading down over his lips and smattering onto the wool of his sweater, and his glasses are thrown from his face with the force. He groans in pain, his once hidden hands flying up to cradle his injury and to stem the bleeding. It does little to help.

“Oh, my god!” Your hands hover around his face helplessly, unsure where to touch him. “Fuck, Ford, are you-!”

“He’s fine,” says Jamie, waving away the concerns of the others. “Forget about him, we’re leaving.” He leans down to grab you by the arm but you smack him away angrily.

“Fuck off!” You shout, voice wavering. “You hit him!”

“So? He shouldn’t have mouthed off like that,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. “Whatever, you wanna stay with him? Fine. Be two fuckin’ freaks together for all I care.”

He gestures for the others to follow him as he begins to walk towards the party dorm, carelessly tossing your sketchbook into the dirt beside Ford. You look up to the others for help, yet they only spare you a half-hearted sympathetic look before following the ringleader.

You want to yell after them, to tell them how pathetic they are laughing along, but for now you’ll have to save your anger. Instead, you root around in your bag for some spare tissues and quickly hold them up to Ford’s bloody face. “Shit,” you breathe, noticing just how much blood there is. “I’m taking you to the medical office, Ford.”

You grab his glasses and attempt to help him to his feet, however he shrugs you away. “Get lost,” he says thickly through the wall of blood on his mouth, snatching his glasses from your hands and shoving them into his pocket.

“What?” you say, confused as though you’re the one who’s just had your shit rocked. “Ford, you're hurt, let me help you!”

“I don't need your help!” he snaps, struggling to his feet.

You’re taken aback by his reaction, however he’s a little shaky, clearly discombobulated by the hit and the entire event, and even though he doesn't seem open to your touch, you catch him by the elbows to steady him.

He wipes his lips with the sleeve of his already-ruined sweater, dark blood swiping across the wool. It’s a fruitless effort; the gore is simply further smeared around his face. It does little to reduce the mess and everything to spread it, and Ford turns his head away from you to spit out the blood that's gathering in his mouth.

As soon it's clear that he can stand unassisted, Ford shakes off your tentative touch as though you're some kind of leper. He meets your eyes and the look he fixes you with is so searing that it's enough to turn your insides to liquid ice. He shoulders you aside and takes off across the lawn, ignoring a few curious onlookers and striding towards his dorm.

Momentarily, you’re too stunned to follow him. He’s never looked at you like that before and frankly, it fucking hurts. After all this time, after all of your disagreements and squabbles, Ford has never been quite so…. Disgusted with you.

As much as you might like to crawl under a rock in your ashamed state, you just can’t leave things like this. Besides, he might be seriously hurt beyond what you can see; that punch was solid and Ford isn’t much of a fighter, not to your knowledge anyway. If he dropped dead of a brain bleed or something equally as awful and dramatic, you’d never forgive yourself.

Frankly, you’re not sure you ever will anyway.

You shove your sketchbook back into your bag and take off after him, jogging across the damp grass to try and catch up with his purposeful movements.

“Ford!” You call out to his retreating back. “Wait up!”

He does no such thing. His stride doesn’t even falter at your request.

You push onwards, trying to tamp down the frustration you feel and speeding up just enough to reach his side as he swings open the door to his building, leaving a smear of blood across the handle. “Stanford!”

“Stop following me!” Ford snaps over his shoulder. He lets it fall heavily back onto you without even glancing in your direction.

You ignore him, chasing after his back. The building is surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening; there are usually at least a few students milling about in the halls, whether they’re looking to party or just avoid studying for a few hours, most of the time there’s someone about.

Not tonight though, it seems. Perhaps they’re all off to the party you’re supposed to be attending…..

As you follow Ford down the North hallway, past the walls of pigeon hole letterboxes and glass cases of alumni photos, you try again to stop him. “Ford, come on, you’re bleeding everywhere. Just stop a second, please,” you cajole. “What if you have a concussion?”

Ford still doesn’t answer. He keeps power walking down the corridor, taking a sharp right and barrelling into what seems to be a common area.

There are couches and chairs pushed towards the corners of the room, arranged around mismatched tables and strewn with remnants of earlier life: styrofoam coffee cups and screwed up pieces of paper, and even a couple of crumpled beer cans.

As he passes through, Ford shows no signs of slowing and your frustration rises. “Look, you can be mad at me all you want but please just let me take you to the nurse’s office!”

“I’m fine,” Ford says, voice strained in a way that betrays how much he definitely is not fine. It’s a sick parody of your last conversation in the studio.

He starts to speed up again, nearly jogging now in his determination to escape you as he approaches the farthest side of the room, and despite the way your breath is already burning in your lungs, you force yourself to match his stride.

The shaky way he dismisses your worry only upsets you more and in your unfit desperation, before he can reach for the exit, you jerk out a hand and grab the sleeve of his sweater, snatching him back by the fabric at his elbow. “No, you’re-!”

“Let go of me!” Ford rounds on you, shoulders squared and chin jutted upward like he expects you to be the next person to fight him. He halts so suddenly that you almost crash into him, stepping into your space and causing you to stumble back a few paces.

He’s tall enough to be intimidating when he draws himself up fully like this but you refuse to let him make you back off.

“No!” you shout back, keeping a firm hold of his sweater as best you can. “Let me help you, Ford, I can explain-!”

“Did you all have a good laugh?!” Ford asks bitterly, cutting you off. He seizes your wrist, his grip tight over where you’re clutching onto him. “About my hands? About me?! When you showed them those sketches, did it feel good to win their stupid approval?”

He squeezes your wrist tightly and you grit your teeth, acquiescing your hold on him and releasing his sweater. The blood on his fingers smears across your skin, cool and coagulated, and he uses a strength you didn’t know he possessed to hold you still.

“It's not like that!” You say, breath hitching. “I didn't draw those for anybody but myself.”

“Bullshit!” Ford snarls, jerking your wrist back and forth. “I know you're lying!”

“It's the truth!” You snap, hackles rising at his roughness and his accusations.

Tonight has been full of mistakes on your part, sure, but if Ford won't even let you explain then how are you supposed to even try and fix all this?! “Jamie and the others grabbed my sketchbook off of me, Ford. I didn't give it to them! That stuff was private!”

“Then why would you even have things like that in there?!” Ford yells back, scowling.

“Because I- It wasn’t supposed to be-” You stumble over your words as you shout back at him, anger and humiliation lodging them in your throat, and Ford seizes the opportunity to scold you further.

“Exactly! Stop lying to me!”

“I’m not lying to you, Ford!” You wrench your hand from his grip, fed up with his claims. For all your guilt, you’re not going to let him just shout and scream at you in a public hallway until he deigns you with the opportunity to explain yourself. “I wouldn’t do something like that, no matter how little you think of me!” You say, jabbing him in the chest with your finger a few times.

You rock up on your toes to try and draw your faces level as you bark back and forth at each other. “They were the ones who brought it up, not me! I was telling them to stop!”

Ford’s jaw flexes with each jab of your finger, lip twitching with anger. “Yeah, right.” He laughs, scathing. “You think I missed how you reacted in the studio earlier this week? I mean, was that even the first time you realised or was it just the first time you saw me up so close that you couldn’t help yourself? I know you think I'm a freak, just like everyone else does! That's why you drew those- those fucking caricatures of my hands and you laughed it up with your stupid little friends about me!”

“No, I-!” idiot

Ford jabs a finger into your chest, right above your heart, mirroring your pose to him and pressing down hard as he shouts in your face, like a haughty parent telling off their unruly child. “You know, I hate to admit this, really I do, but I'm actually disappointed in you! I had hoped it wasn’t like that between us! I enjoyed that you disliked me because I’m smarter than you, because I’m a better artist than you are, and not because of my hands. Everybody else goes straight for the obvious bait because they can never compare to the rest of me, but I suppose you must be just like your asshat, jock buddies afterall!”

“I am not-!” You attempt to shout over him, to interrupt his tirade, but Ford keeps going, poking you hard again.

“And do you want to know the worst part about all of this?” He demands, looking borderline insane with wide eyes and blood all over his face. “The worst part is that your sketches were fucking terrible! Your anatomy is just as shitty as it was the day we met!”

Like a dam, your limited composure breaks. The insult is small in comparison to all his other harsh words, some of which you can even admit you might deserve, but his obnoxiousness has grown steadily like a snowball careening down a slippery slope and gathering mass, and that’s the final nail in the coffin for you.

“You know what, Ford? Fuck you!” You shout, driving your own finger back into his broad chest as hard as you can and poking him with every word. Your breath comes in short, sharp pants as you lay into him, your noses almost touching as neither of you back down to the other.

“Fuck you! You fucking idiot! You don’t know anything about how I feel. Do I think you're an asshole with a god complex? Absolutely! Do other people say all kinds of shit about your hands? Of course they do! But I never cared enough to actually check how many fingers you have! The other day in the studio, that was the first time I ever even noticed it! ! I never thought that you were a freak, Stanford, not even once!”

Something strange falters in Ford's expression but you barrel onward, refusing to give him the chance to come back at you.

“Our entire project is about uniqueness, you stupid fucking idiot!” You continue, desperately fighting the thick lump that rises in your throat and the burning that prickles the corners of your eyes. You're so exhausted and worked up, so humiliated and angry, and this is the fallout of everything at once. There's no stopping it now.

“I mean, for god's sake, we talked about how much we both like unusual things! That's why we picked that fucking topic, Ford! I like odd shit! I wasn't drawing your hands so that I could show my so-called friends and laugh about it with them, you moron! I was drawing your hands because I can't stop fucking thinking about them or how pretty they are, or how fucking pretty you are and if you just listened to me for once in your stupid-!”

You don't even get to finish your sentence before Ford's mouth is on yours, hot and determined, in the fiercest kiss you think you’ve ever experienced.

You're not sure who moves first.

With barely a whisper between the two of you it's hard to tell, but in a flash the distance is closed and your hands are twisted in the front of his dirty sweater, leveraging him down as he backs you up into the closest wall.

Ford makes a guttural sound, the kind that rumbles in your chest, and one of his hands gropes blindly at your waist as he returns the kiss whilst the other plants itself beside your head on the wall.

He’s clumsy and unskilled, and you’re pretty certain you can feel wet blood smearing across your own face as he presses into you, yet he’s so enthusiastic that you can’t bring yourself to care much about any of that right now. It just feels so fucking good.

He tastes like coffee and copper, and his musky aftershave overwhelms your senses again, enveloping you as he presses even closer along your front. Ford's broad form is warm against your exposed skin where his weight pins you up against the wall. He's clearly been tipped off of balance by the motion and without his quick thinking of walking you back to the surface, you're sure you'd have bowled over by now.

Your hands slip up from the front of his sweater to tangle in his thick, curly hair, fingers catching in amongst the strands to pull him in until he's melting against you, pliant under your touch. It's evident that he doesn't have much practice at this and that, combined with the fervour of the motion, makes the kiss sloppy.

As foggy as your brain is right now, you manage to conjure just one silly thought as you coax his tongue with your own: Finally. Something I am better than him at.

Ford gives another groan at the sensation and almost instinctively, he slides a leg between yours. It's not clear if he knows how arousing it is or whether he's simply trying to balance himself better, but it does wonders for you all the same.

Warmth burns in the pit of your stomach, a molten hot interest that takes you by such surprise it practically has stars blooming behind your closed eyelids.

It feels like this is the catalyst: the final moment that’s been building and building between you both ever since Ford arrived in Studio 1B. Rivalries and arguments that on the surface, had appeared to everyone but the two of you as a sign of more than just academic passion and the desperate need to be right. Everything has led to this and god, does it feel spectacular.

The tangy flavour of blood begins to overwhelm Ford's spit and just as you tilt your head to up the ante, sighing happily against his mouth, your nose catches his in the motion and Ford rips himself away with a yelp of pain.

“Fuck!” He cries, letting go of your waist and pushing off the wall to cradle his nose.

You start, completely having forgotten about his injury, and rush to his aide. “Shit! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think-”

More blood trickles out from his nostrils, though thankfully not quite as much as on the initial hit, and winces. “Probably not the wisest of ideas in this state,” Ford mutters thickly, but he's giving you a lopsided smile that's big enough that you can tell he doesn't seem to mind too much. You can even see the blood that's settled in the gaps of his teeth.

A similar expression crosses your own face: a shy, stupid grin tugging at your mouth as you both share the same pleasantly surprised, if disbelieving, look. A few moments of silence follow the halting of the kiss and your situational awareness creeps back in.

The abrupt reminder of his injuries and the fact that you're likely equally now covered in blood, coupled with the fact that you're both still in a public space is enough to kick the sensible part of your brain into action.

You clear your throat and push up off the wall, straightening your clothing where Ford has left it rumpled with his wandering hands. “We should probably get you cleaned up before we….” You trail off, unsure of exactly where you mean for your train of thought to go.

Ford nods, understanding. “Right. Of course.”

“I’ll walk you to your room,” you say, gesturing for him to show you the way. “If you won’t go to the nurse then at least let me fix you up a bit.”

Ford nods again, cheeks flushed, and takes you through the double doors you’d stood by barely five minutes ago, leading you deeper into the building. He’s only living on the second floor with his roommate and thankfully, it doesn’t take too long for you to reach his dorm.

There still aren’t many students hanging around up here and the ones that are are far too preoccupied with their own business to even spare a glance at you both. You suppose that without engaging in a screaming match, you can pass by covered in whatever substance you like without drawing attention.

“F is out visiting his parents this weekend,” Ford explains as he unlocks the door to his room and lets you inside. “It’ll just be us.”

“‘F’?” You ask, stepping into the darkness.

“Fiddleford, my diplomatic roommate,” Ford says, and even in the dark you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Ah, I remember,” you grin.

Ford fumbles around until he finds his desk lamp, flicking it on and filling the room with a soft, warm glow. It makes the mess on his face look an otherworldly black. He busies himself with rummaging around in the bottom drawer of what you presume to be his personal desk that sits at the side of his bed, and you take the opportunity to absorb his living space.

All the dorms in Backupsmore are built the same: cheaply and efficiently with the bare minimum added, and Ford’s is no different. The far wall is exposed brick, with a broad window in its centre, while the other walls are covered in drab, ochre wallpaper.

Above Ford’s half-made bed is the navy BMU flag along with a few posters that are, frankly, quite adorable. There’s one of Tesla posed before his famous coils and another of Sagan, with what you can only describe as an alarmingly seductive look on his face. Admittedly, Sagan is quite the looker, as is Tesla when you really consider it, so you can hardly blame Ford for his choices.

Nestled around the posters are books. Lots of books. All packed in tightly on cheap shelves and those that won’t fit with their partners are stacked up around the room in untidy piles. You can count at least six different stacks by his bed alone, most of which seem to vary from physics to astronomy to advanced mathematics.

Ford must catch you taking it all in because he clears his throat awkwardly and you break away from your staring to look at him directly. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t really get any company in here besides Fidds, so it’s a little messy.”

You laugh quietly. If only he could see the state of your room…. “Don’t worry about it,” you assure him. “Nobody comes to college to be tidy.”

Careful not to disturb their precarious resting places, you pick your way around the book piles and take a seat on the edge of his bed.

Ford joins you after he adjusts the desk lamp to shine directly over you, carrying a small white plastic box and setting it between you both. He retrieves his glasses from his pocket and puts them beside the box so he can sit comfortably.

You realise it’s a proper medical kit. “Do you just happen to carry around a first aid box with you all the time?”

Ford huffs a laugh as he clicks it open and roots through it to find what he needs. “When you get bullied enough as a kid, you start to learn that carrying around things like first aid come in pretty handy sooner or later.”

He says it so casually that your heart squeezes in your chest. “Ford….” You say, soft and slightly pained. “That’s awful, you know that, right?”

Ford shrugs one shoulder, procuring some sterile wipes and plasters from the kit. “You get used to it.”

You want to tell him that that's ludicrous, that he shouldn't have to do any such thing, but you know how cruel people can be. It's not like he can do much to stop them anyway; Ford fights back intellectually, not physically, and talking back to someone in the way he has done tonight has only worked out poorly for him. Rather than reply, you put your hand on his knee and he pauses in his motion of opening the wipes.

“If anyone gives you trouble again, tell me,” you say with a smile. “I'll put white spirit in their coffee.”

“Thanks,” Ford laughs and you can see the upset tension leave his shoulders a bit. “I’d rather not kill anyone over it, but that’s very kind of you…. In a weird, unethical sort of way.”

He goes to use the wipes on his face but you stop him, taking the packet from his hands and plucking a couple out. Ford lets you do it without any quarrel, watching you closely.

The blood isn't too thick when you begin to wipe it away, although it has begun to oxidise into a more congealed state, and carefully you start to swipe it away underneath his nose.

For a few minutes, Ford observes you in silence before finally speaking up again: "Did you really draw my hands because you like them?" He asks, voice quiet.

You don't meet his eyes as you take hold of his chin, gently tilting his head towards the light a little more. "Yes," is all you reply, praying he doesn't pick up on your embarrassment.

The area you're working on is close enough to his mouth that you catch him bite down on a smile, and you try to fight your own grin by doubling your focus on your work. Neither of you press the matter.

You clean up over his philtrum and his lips, covering your thumb with the wipe and swiping it across his closed mouth slowly. You swear you do it only to ensure that you’re being gentle, but you can hear Ford’s breath catch in his throat with the movement and you’re not immune to the intimacy of the act.

Despite not looking directly at him, you can feel his gaze boring into you. You imagine this must be how his science experiments feel, pinned down under his watchful eye and dissected by observation. Admittedly, it’s not the worst feeling in the world….

Once the blood is gone from his face, you turn your attention to the rest of his injury. The hit must have been solid; a strong blow square on the nose. There’s a fairly clean cut across the bridge, probably from both the force and the metal of his glasses biting into the thin skin there. The edges are raw and reddened, and already you can see a purplish bruise beginning to spread from the cut outwards towards his left eye.

“I don’t think it’s broken, thank god,” you murmur, dabbing the cut gently. “But you’re gonna have one hell of a bruise for a while.”

Ford winces slightly. “That’ll be humiliating to explain.”

“People will think Jamie is the embarrassment, Ford, trust me,” you assure him. “All you did was stand up for yourself…. And for me. Thank you for that, by the way. You really didn’t need to-”

“He was going to hit you.” Ford interrupts. “I didn’t want that, no matter how upset I was.”

“Maybe, but it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.”

Ford catches you by the wrist where you’re finishing with his nose, lowering your hand, and you meet his gaze. He's looking at you like you've said the stupidest thing imaginable. “No, you didn't,” he says, so firmly that you find yourself unable to argue.

“I still should have done something sooner, Ford. This whole thing is my fault,” you say, shaking your head. “I swear that I didn't draw those sketches of you because I wanted to show the others, and definitely not because I think you're weird. I'm sorry that I didn't just admit everything before things got so out of control, but I meant what I said earlier.”

“I think it's fairly clear that we both misunderstood each other, wouldn't you agree?” Ford says with a tiny smile. “I overreacted in the studio without thinking and I didn't want to bring it up in case you really did think I was a freak. I'm not sure I could've taken it, to be honest.”

“Is that why you've been avoiding me all this time? Skipping sessions and stuff?” You frown.

Ford's cheeks stain red, visible even in the low light, and he looks away with a nod, abashed.

“Why not just talk to me, you idiot?” You say, not unkindly.

It's evident that he's embarrassed to go further into detail, but he's piqued your interest now. It's too late to play coy and he probably knows it.

“I….” Ford huffs, still not meeting your eye. “Fidds is my only friend here and, well…. Even when you and I argued in class you were never cruel about it. You held your own and I respected that. I still do. That's why I assumed we were having fun,” he says, recalling your discussion in the studio last week.

“And then we started working together. I suppose I expected it to be terrible but you talked to me like I was just another normal person. You asked me about myself. No one ever does that….” Ford says, looking so wistful that your heart threatens to break further. “Usually it’s about my hands or my brain, or ‘Ford, can you do my essay for me?’, ‘Ford, can I copy your test?’, and it was just so different that I suppose I hoped we might eventually become friends. When you saw my hands and reacted out of nowhere, I worried that you'd wind up being just like the others, so I avoided asking so I didn't have to have my fears confirmed.”

You struggle to form the words that you desperately want to say. Not out of humiliation or fear this time, but because the lump in your throat is so big that nothing seems to be able to get past it beyond a weak sounding: “Ford….”

“That was wrong of me, I know,” he continues. “Old habits die hard and all that…. Plus, I can't say my intentions were wholly pure, but that is mostly your fault.”

That's enough to startle a laugh from you. “Oh?”

Ford smiles to himself and takes a deep breath, like he's finally admitting to a deep secret. “You're very attractive, I couldn't really help it…. Why do you think I kept standing so close to you in the studio?”

You can feel your cheeks burn and you smile, stupid and shy. Slipping free of his grip, you take his hand in your own and lace your fingers together. The fit is unusual with his extra appendage but you find that it's quite nice to have your palm so entirely encompassed.

Ford is surprised by the action, staring down at where you're holding him.

“Look at me, Stanford,” you command, and he does exactly as you ask without hesitation.

You use your free hand to grab his glasses from the bed and, mindful to avoid irritating the cut, you slide them onto his face gently so that he can see you properly.

“You almost drove me mad with that, you know?” You smile and Ford does too, hope dawning on his handsome features. “I admit that I thought you were a total asshole at first. You made me look like an idiot as soon as you started in class and I hated it. You didn't even want to be there but you were better than everyone else, and I took it personally. I mean, you were also kind of a jerk about art and that did get under my skin….”

Ford winces, looking suitably guilty, but you smile.

“The more we spent time together, though, the more I realised that you’re not so bad…. Still a bit of an ass but it’s not like I’m always an innocent party either,” You grin. “And for what it’s worth, in the studio that day? I only noticed your hands while I was looking for something to distract myself with because you were so close to me. I was worried I’d make an idiot of myself and do something stupid that I couldn’t take back.”

“Oh….” Ford’s brows raise. “And…. Do you want to take back the- Our- I mean, what happened earlier?”

It’s sweet that he can’t quite say it. “You mean when you kissed me?”

“Technically, you kissed me,” he argues back without hesitation.

“I don’t think that’s how it went down,” you smirk. “Fairly certain you were the one who started it.”

“I'm afraid I only work with cold, hard facts.” Ford grins. “You'll have to prove it.”

“Make me.”

Ford takes a sharp breath in, gaze dropping to your mouth. “You have no idea how much I want to, but…. You're still covered in my blood.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten about that.

“Shit,” you mutter, grabbing one of the wipes and blindly smearing it over your mouth. You must look crazy.

Ford laughs under his breath and takes it from you, making quick work of the spots you've missed. After a moment, he speaks again: “That was my first kiss, you know,” he admits.

You're too polite to voice your lack of shock, but you had suspected it might be. Ford is hardly the type to get about in such a way if his behaviour at Backupsmore is anything to go by.

Even in the flurry of action it had been easy to pinpoint a certain lack of grace. Not that it's an issue for you, of course, it certainly feels nice to possess a skill that he doesn’t for once. “And how was it?” You ask, tactfully avoiding any insecurity he might have over it.

“Besides hurting my nose?” Ford says, tossing the wipe onto the soiled pile. “Better than correctly calculating a hypothesis before anyone else has even started the experiment.”

You stare at him blankly.

“Thrilling,” Ford clarifies with a grin, and then he's kissing you again. It's gentle and nervous, yet hungry enough that you can feel how desperate he is to return right back to that earlier moment.

You make a soft, happy sound, your eyes falling closed and hands reaching up to cup his face. Again, Ford takes a hold of your waist and leans into you, exhaling heavily through his sore nose. You'll have to remind him to take some painkillers before he loses himself completely for the evening….

The rest of the night passes just like that: Exchanging slow, delicate kisses with barely restrained heat and talking about life. Ford (just about) apologises for his anatomy comments ("They're better than the other ones, at least....") and you take it in gracious stride; a lot of things have been said (or not said, as the case may be) tonight that neither of you mean.

It won't do to hold them against one another now and anyway, you can pick a better time to help him work on his constructive criticism delivery than right this minute.

Things don't progress further than that, though. You're too concerned that his brain might still be rattled from the punch and even he confesses he's a little nervous about bleeding all over you again.

You stick to chatting, punctuated by measured makeouts and hesitant touches, and somehow it’s impossibly more arousing than jumping into bed with him immediately.

Hours go by before you can bring yourself to leave, and when you do Ford is polite enough not to beg you to stay even though it's blatant that he wants to. You’re both completely rumpled, hot from toe to tip and wound tighter than a drum, but Ford doesn't pressure or guilt you to come back in the way others have before.

He offers to walk you home again, but the temptation to bring him inside your own dorm would be too much; you decline and assure him that for both of your sakes it’ll be better that he stays here, and Ford, being the smart cookie that he is, understands immediately.

“Would you like to come over after our next study session? We could practise our presentation, hang out for a bit,” He suggests when you're standing on the threshold of his door, ready to leave. “Maybe listen to some records….?”

You hope that's code for ‘fuck each other's brains out’.

“That sounds groovy,” you say, smirking. “Are you bringing the vinyl's or should I?”

Ford flushes pink from his throat to the roots of his hair at the heavy innuendo in your question, but he keeps it together admirably, leaning on the doorframe as casually as he can. “Well, you’ll be my guest,” he says, trying not to grin. “It would be awfully rude of me to make you bring them yourself, would it not?”

Oh, that is so definitely code for ‘fuck each other’s brains out’.... This is going to be fun.

The two of you share a long, charged look, all barely restrained smiles and electric hope, before the slamming of a door down the hallway is enough to spur you back onto your original course of action.

“I’ll see you in class, Ford,” you say, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, and then he’s closing the door and leaving you out in the hallway alone.

That night, your dreams really are the sweetest they’ve ever been.

In the end, your mid-term presentation with Ford is a resounding success. Professor Stonepoor seems pleasantly surprised by your cooperation, though he gloats a little about it being his plan all along, and all your hard work pays off when he awards you both top marks. He does also pull you aside to ensure that you aren’t the one responsible for giving Ford his black eye, but Ford is quick to assure him that it’s quite the opposite.

Everything else between you both stays a secret, at least for now. Not because you’re ashamed or because Ford is unsure, but because it’s just too much fun to play along with the rivalry narrative. The back-and-forths stay the same in class, though now they serve closer to full on foreplay than academic fighting, and despite the fact that you’re sure a few people might have caught the little glances you throw at each other, nobody pulls you up on it. If they’re still placing bets on your chemistry, you’ll be damned if you give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure.

When Stonepoor catches the two of you making out in the spare studio after hours one evening, however, said plan falls apart. He declares, very jovially, that at least two other faculty members are going to owe him twenty bucks before he shuts the door on you, and as much as you want to complain about his lack of professionalism, the moment you meet Ford’s eyes neither of you can keep it together for long enough to form the words.

All’s well that ends well, you suppose.

A/N: and yes, Stonepoor's name is a play on Rockwell, a famous artist from the 70's (man standing up meme!). I thought it was funny and I'm not sorry.