#tutor domination

[sincerely-sofie]

*silently slides Twig/Ark content onto your dash* *scurries away into the night*

(Read the rest under the cut!)

[randomnameless]

About that Listhea and Edelgard dialogue on crest and nobles, do you remember how in the begining of the game Hanneman wonders if Byleth as a Crest when they are a freaking commoner/mercenary ?

That's another reason why the doodoo about "crust = nobles" is, well, doodoo.

Thing is, Fodlan verse cannot be that well developed and written because Supreme Leader has to "have a point" for people who buy things at face value.

So we can't have succession crisis when commoners (maybe far far far far removed bastards?) pop up with a crest while the "noble line" doesn't have any to lampshade how the crust system is BaD because it decides inheritence... when Supreme Leader hammers that everyone with a crust is a noble.

Imagine a verse where Hanneman's crest detector machine is used to "discredit" or to give more credit to, say, someone's inheritance by checking if they have a crest or not, or House Goneril having to deal with Bob the fisher who has a Crest of Goneril, thus asks for his part of inheritance of the Goneril estate because that totes means he's part of this family?

In Supreme Leader and her court's views, Bob doesn't exist as a fisherman, Bob is already a noble! And if he isn't, well, he doesn't exist.

Are people anobled because they have a crust? Billy and Jerry are living proofs that no, they're not. But we can't focus on this too much, else Supreme Leader's spiel falls apart.

FWIW, there's a reason why I liked White Clouds, because, while it's a prologue, on its own, it gives a bit of meat to the Fodlan verse - because it's supposed to be a red herring route so you hear everything and yet see the dissonances for the big reveal (Flamey's identity!) to hit as "hard" as it does with all the sad uwus it entails, come the post-TS, we don't give a crap about Flamey anymore, and everyone drinks tea.

So, in a way, Hanneman could only wonder if Billy has a crest despite being a random in WC - because in the post TS routes, Supreme Leader has to have a point (they need those sad uwus!) and we don't care to find out or hear about magic blood, the player is hammered with "magic blood BaD because it exists".

[bisexualastronaut]

just clocked that none of my tutors at uni will be women 👍 love physics and philosophy my normal subjects with normal gender ratios

[freepassbound]

So now after that "talking down sweetly" post, my brain has thought back to my "just a little bit?" tag on the "thirsted after and desired post, linked them, and (inconveniently) provided the idea of a dominant calling me "Little Bit". 😅😳🙈🙈🙈

[ourbastardofsorrows]

well. nothing could have prepared me for seeing one of my tutoring students (who i'd invited to solve an expression on the board) adopt my exact body language and mannerisms while solving

[straw-berrysoju]

STUDY BREAK PART 2: ORAL EXAM (18+)

Part 1 : study break

Pairing: Seungcheol x !female reader

Setting: college classroom (psychology majors)

Themes: study partners, college setting, power play, public risk, control, obedienceD/s dynamics, power play, public risk, Freudian dirty talk, degradation praise mix, voyeurism (soft), obedience, teasing, edging, oral (f receiving), fingering, permission to watch

Word count: \~3.3k

Rating: Explicit / 18+ only

minors dni!

_______________________________________________________

📱 [21:56] Seungcheol:

Lecture Hall B. Tomorrow. After classes.

Oral exam on Freud.

No panties.

You stared at the message so long your phone dimmed twice. You bit your lip.

Not because you were shocked but because you felt your body react immediately.

Heat pooled between your thighs, your core pulsing at the simple dominance in his tone.

---

The next day, you couldn’t focus in class. You didn’t bother wearing anything under your skirt.

Even during lectures, every movement reminded you of it: the raw skin-on-fabric friction, the cool air between your legs, the dirty knowledge that if anyone looked closely, they’d see.

And Seungcheol?

He sat behind you during your shared afternoon elective like nothing was different—cool, calm, taking notes. He hadn’t even looked at you once. The only moment he acknowledged you was when he stood up to leave and leaned down, lips grazing your ear.

“Hope you studied, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I expect you to perform.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

---

When you step into Lecture Hall B later, the classroom is mostly dark except for a few desk lights still glowing faintly. It’s the one they use for after-hours tutoring or private bookings. You glance around. Empty.

Then—

A throat clears.

You turn and find him already seated near the front of the room, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, glasses sliding low on his nose.

“Close the door,” he says.

Your fingers move before your brain does.

He watches as you walk toward him, hips swaying slightly now that you're painfully aware of how little you’re wearing.

“On the desk,” he says. “Facing me.”

You sit at the wide professor’s desk near the podium, heart hammering.

He stands and walks up slowly, placing a stack of note cards next to you.

“Today’s topic,” he says, voice low, “is Freud’s psychosexual stages. You’re going to recite each one. Tell me the age range, the fixation behavior, and what unresolved conflict leads to dysfunction in that stage.”

You blink. “Is this a real test or—”

“Don’t interrupt,” he snaps, but his smirk betrays him. “And no stuttering. Every mistake earns a consequence.”

You sit up straighter. “Consequences?”

“Teasing. Edging. Denial. You know,” he says, voice like velvet. “Motivators.”

You swallow.

“Let’s begin.”

He flicks a note card over. “Stage one.”

You steady your breath.

“The oral stage,” you begin. “Birth to around 18 months. The focus is on the mouth—feeding, sucking. If fixation occurs—”

He cuts you off by stepping between your legs, spreading them wider with his thigh.

“Correct,” he murmurs. “And what kind of behavior results from oral fixation?”

Your breath hitches. “Nail-biting. Smoking. Oral dependence… compulsive eating or talking…”

He leans in closer, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “And what else, sweetheart?”

You know what he wants.

You whisper, “Craving oral stimulation.”

He hums in approval. “Good girl.”

His hand slips beneath your skirt, fingers brushing your bare, already-damp folds.

“God,” he murmurs, “you’re soaked already? You do love being a textbook case, don’t you?”

You gasp as he draws a finger up your slit—not entering, not yet—just teasing the slickness there.

“Next stage,” he says, flicking another card.

“The anal stage,” you pant, struggling to focus. “18 months to three years. Focus on bowel control and retention.”

He circles your clit slowly.

“And fixation?”

“Compulsive cleanliness… or messiness. Control issues.”

“Mm. I can tell you’re not in control right now,” he whispers. “Which means you’re mine to manage.”

You nod, almost dazed, hips bucking slightly into his touch.

He pulls his hand away.

“Next.”

“Phallic stage,” you rush out. “Ages three to six. Focus on genitals. Development of the Oedipus complex in boys, Electra in girls—”

His lips are suddenly right against your neck.

“And how does the Electra complex present?” he asks, voice a rasp.

“Girls desire their father. View mother as rival. Crave male attention to resolve the conflict.”

He tugs you forward. “And what are you craving right now, baby?”

You whisper, “You.”

His breath hitches. “Say it louder.”

“I want you,” you plead. “Please—”

“Shh.” He smirks. “Still two stages left.”

You sob out a laugh. “I can’t—”

“You can. Be my good girl.”

You breathe hard, trying to steady yourself.

“Latency stage,” you say shakily. “Six to twelve. Sexual urges go dormant. Focus shifts to intellectual pursuits—school, friendships…”

He smirks. “Might be your weakest stage. You’re not doing much studying.”

“Shut up,” you mutter.

He pinches your thigh. “Don’t brat.”

You whimper.

“And the last?”

“Genital stage,” you gasp. “Puberty onward. Mature sexual interests. Healthy development depends on resolving earlier conflicts.”

He hums. “Think you’re in the genital stage now?”

“Cheol…”

“Answer.”

“Yes,” you whine. “Please—”

He drops to his knees.

You barely have time to breathe before his mouth is on you—tongue sliding over your soaked folds, lips sealing around your clit. You cry out, legs twitching, thighs clenching around his head.

“Fuck—Cheol—”

His grip on your hips tightens as he devours you. Long licks, firm pressure, alternating with soft sucks that make your vision blur. You buck against his mouth, already so close it’s unbearable.

And just when you're about to come—

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Did I say you could finish?” he asks, mouth slick with your arousal.

You shake your head furiously. “No—please—I’ll be good—”

He’s about to go back in when—

Click.

The door opens.

You freeze.

Seungcheol freezes.

A soft male voice stammers from the back of the room: “Shit—oh my god—I didn’t—I didn’t know someone was—”

It’s Jun.

The quiet kid who always seems to hover near the back row. Always early to class. Always scribbling in the margins of his psych readings. Never the type to make a sound unless directly called on.

And now—

He's standing in the open doorway of the lecture hall.

Backpack slung on one shoulder. Eyes wide.

And those eyes are locked onto you.

Propped up on the professor’s desk.

Skirt hitched above your waist.

Seungcheol’s head still between your thighs.

Your whole body seizes, and your first instinct is to shove your skirt down, scramble off the desk, and disappear into the floor.

But Seungcheol?

He doesn’t even flinch.

His head lifts, tongue slow against his bottom lip, savoring the taste of your arousal like it’s honey. He

doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth.

His hand stays possessively on your thigh as he turns lazily toward the door.

“You're early,” he says to Jun, voice calm. Almost amused.

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then: “I—I left my laptop charger. In the front row, I thought no one—”

“You saw plenty.”

Jun flushes violently, about to step back. “I’m so sorry—I’ll leave, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Seungcheol says, voice suddenly sharp.

Jun freezes.

You, breathless and still dizzy from the orgasm Seungcheol just ripped from you moments ago, blink down at him. “Cheol—?”

Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to you. And it softens, just enough. “You okay?”

Your voice is hoarse. “Y-Yeah.”

“Color?”

“Still green.”

That earns a smile. One he throws over his shoulder toward Jun next.

“You interrupted an exam,” Seungcheol says. “It’s only polite you stay for the rest.”

Jun visibly swallows. “Wait, what?”

Seungcheol stands fully now, brushing his palm along your thigh. His fingers are wet with you, and you feel heat climb back into your chest at the thought of how visible it all is.

“Don’t worry,” Seungcheol tells Jun smoothly, “you don’t have to participate. You just get front row seats.”

Jun looks between the two of you—your blown-out expression, your trembling thighs, the wetness glistening on Seungcheol’s chin.

“I—” he stammers. “She… wants that?”

Seungcheol steps aside, letting you have the floor.

His voice drops. “It’s her choice.”

You swallow thickly, pulse roaring in your ears.

You don’t even look at Jun.

Your eyes stay on Seungcheol.

And you whisper, “Yes.”

His smile turns downright feral. “Good girl.”

“Back on the desk,” he orders.

You do as told—shaky legs lifting as you ease back into position, skirt riding up again, your pussy still twitching from the last round.

He bends over you again. Mouth so close you can feel the heat of it against your core. You glance past him now, to the row of seats where Jun has quietly sunk into the corner desk, his laptop charger now forgotten on the floor by his feet.

He’s leaning forward, expression unreadable, legs slightly apart, hands in his lap.

Watching.

You feel the burn of humiliation lick at the edges of your stomach—and then melt, replaced by something darker. Filthier. Hotter.

Seungcheol starts slow this time. Deliberately slow.

He presses open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh, working his way up, dragging his tongue just shy of where you need it. His breath is warm. His grip is firm.

“You hear that?” he murmurs. “He’s watching how sweet you look like this. Spread open. Dripping. Needy.”

You moan.

“And you love it. Don’t you?” His lips brush your clit—just once. “You love being watched.”

You don’t want to say it. You can’t say it.

But your hips lift, chasing his mouth.

Your body betrays you.

Seungcheol chuckles darkly. “Knew it.”

Then he finally puts his mouth on you again—and this time, there’s no mercy.

He licks and sucks with intention, with heat, his nose bumping your clit as he tongues your entrance. Your thighs are shaking, your toes curling against the cool wood of the desk. You try to bite your hand to stay quiet, but he catches your wrist and pins it to your side.

“No hiding,” he growls. “Be loud for me.”

And god—you are.

Your moans echo through the empty room, bouncing off the walls, reverberating between the seats. Jun doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel his stare—hot and focused and fixed right where Seungcheol is licking you apart.

And then—without warning—Cheol adds a finger.

Then two.

He fucks them into you slowly, curling just right, tongue circling your clit as your orgasm builds again, fast, like it’s sprinting up your spine.

You’re whimpering now, helpless. “Cheol—Cheol—I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop.

Your body bows. Your mouth drops open, and you come hard around his fingers, slick pouring out of you in waves. You’re crying out now—no control, no shame, nothing but pleasure and that filthy, heady knowledge that you’re being watched.

He pulls his fingers from you slowly, deliberately. Brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, never breaking eye contact.

With Jun.

Then he looks at you again. “One more?”

Your head lolls back. “Please.”

He kisses your thigh gently.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Lesson’s not over yet

Seungcheol doesn’t let you breathe long.

He stands, slowly pushing his hoodie sleeves back up his forearms, then grabs your waist with both hands and spins you around on the desk.

Now you’re bent forward, cheek against the cool wood, eyes facing the classroom.

Facing Jun

His knuckles are white around the edge of the seat. His face flushed, eyes locked on the slick mess between your thighs. And the new shape of Seungcheol behind you—his belt already unbuckling with a quiet clink that echoes in your ears.

"Keep your legs spread, give him a good view of this pretty pussy," Seungcheol says behind you, voice calm, dangerous. “Back arched. Palms flat.”

You obey instantly.

You feel the head of his cock against your entrance, hot and heavy, teasing—just the tip brushing through your folds.

Then he leans forward over your back, mouth to your ear.

"You want him to see what a good girl looks like when she gets fucked for real?"

You moan, helplessly. “Yes.”

He thrusts in slow and deep—one smooth stroke—and you choke on a cry.

It’s too much, too thick, too intense after how sensitive you are from coming twice.

Your body clamps around him, involuntary, and he groans against your neck.

“God, you’re fucking tight. You love this, don’t you?”

You can’t speak. Just nod, barely holding yourself up as he starts to move—deep, strong strokes that push you forward on the desk.

And every sound—your breath, your wetness, the slap of skin against skin—is audible. Loud. Raw.

For Jun.

"Eyes up," Seungcheol orders. "I want you to look at him while I ruin you."

You lift your head—and meet Jun’s stare. He’s breathing heavily now. His pants are tight across his lap. But he hasn’t moved his hands.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Seungcheol growls without even turning around. “You haven’t earned that.”

Jun stiffens in his seat. “Y-Yes, sir.”

You gasp—sir.

Seungcheol smirks. “Oh? He learns quick.”

He fucks you harder.

You whimper, body shaking, struggling to keep your eyes on Jun, but the humiliation—the arousal—keeps you pinned in place.

Then Seungcheol stops.

You sob at the loss of friction.

And hear the shuffle of paper.

He’s grabbed your flashcards.

He flips one. Reads it.

“Define ‘reaction formation,’” he says casually.

You blink, dazed. “W-What?”

He thrusts in sharply. You yelp.

“Define it.”

You scramble for the answer. “It’s—a defense mechanism. When someone behaves in a way that’s opposite of their actual feelings.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, rolling his hips deeper. “Example?”

“Someone—” You moan. “Someone hating someone, but acting overly friendly.”

“Mm. Like pretending you’re innocent when you really want to be used like a toy?” he coos.

You whimper, thighs trembling.

Seungcheol turns around.

“Jun. Get up.”

Jun hesitates—then obeys, walking slowly down the aisle toward the front.

You tense.

Seungcheol notices.

“Color?”

You whisper, “Green.”

He nods. “Good.”

“Closer,” he tells Jun. “Stand right here.”

Jun stops beside the desk. You can’t even look at him—face flushed, body exposed, Seungcheol buried deep inside you.

“Hold the flashcards,” Seungcheol says.

Jun takes them with shaky fingers.

“Read the next one.”

Jun swallows. “Uh. ‘Displacement.’”

Seungcheol pulls out halfway and slams back in. You sob.

“Displacement,” you pant. “When someone takes out their emotions on a safer target. Like—yelling at your roommate when you're mad at your professor.”

Seungcheol hums, lips brushing your shoulder. “Guess you’re the target now, huh?”

“Next card,” he commands.

Jun fumbles. “Um—‘Transference.’”

You try to focus, body twitching from the rhythm of Seungcheol’s thrusts, your slick pouring down your thighs.

“Transference is—” you moan, “redirecting feelings meant for one person onto another. Like… projecting parental issues onto a therapist.”

Seungcheol grunts. “Or a professor’s desk, maybe.”

He grabs your wrists, pins them behind your back with one hand. His other hand curls around your throat, gently but firmly.

“Jun,” he says, calm. “Describe what you see.”

Jun chokes. “I—she’s bent over. Y-You’re—fucking her. Her thighs are shaking.”

“Her pussy?” Seungcheol growls. “What’s it doing?”

Jun’s voice is nearly a whisper. “It’s… wet. It’s gripping you.”

“Good,” Seungcheol says darkly. “Now watch what happens when I tell her not to come.”

He leans down to your ear. “You don’t come until I say.”

You bite your lip hard. “Yes, sir.”

And then he ruins you.

He pounds into you harder, rougher, the desk creaking beneath your hips. Your moans are sobs now, pleasure high and sharp, right at the edge—but held back, barely.

“Beg,” he growls.

“Please, please, please—” you chant. “I need to come, sir, please—I’ll be good—”

He slams into you deep and stills.

“Come.”

You break apart.

A scream wrenched from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you—blinding, body-wrecking, wet and messy and loud.

Seungcheol fucks you through it until you collapse against the desk, limp and twitching.

Jun is still frozen at your side, panting, sweating.

“Put the cards down,” Seungcheol tells him. “You’re done.”

Jun obeys silently.

Seungcheol kisses your shoulder, then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod slowly. “Still green.”

He smiles. “God, you’re perfect.”

Then he turns to Jun.

“Leave,” he says. “And keep your mouth shut. About everything.”

Jun blinks. “Y-Yeah. Of course.”

And then he’s gone—almost running out of the room—leaving you panting and dripping on the professor’s desk, with Seungcheol still inside you, smiling like the devil.

He slowly pulls out, hands steadying your hips as he helps you sit up — not rushing, not letting go until you’re upright and leaning back against his chest. You’re still trembling, thighs sticky and soaked, mascara smudged under your eyes, your blouse halfway undone. You feel used. Exposed.

And utterly adored.

He strokes your hair and plants a soft kiss on your forehead.

“You were so good, babygirl”

Seungcheol breathes hard, smirking.

“Today's lesson is over”

_______________________________________________________

tagging everyone who requested part 2:

@cherrylovescheol @coffee4koo @sseungcheols

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 i'll say a hundred and fourty times, | various hsr men x gender neutral reader reader

💌 — ; i think about you or something like that ! you remember your first date with your husband like it was yesterday, what exactly did they do to convince you that they were the one?

love mail — these vary in length cus bless my heart i js cant 💔 i picked the characters who are super popular on this account + mutuals faves so if urs isnt on here am sorry (ノ´Д｀)ノ posting this early hi i love u guys!!!! thank you for so much love and a platform to write as a other yr passes 4 me and i turn 17!!! this is actually so long im going BANANAS 🩷 proper post tmr ! (anaxa, mydei, phainon, caelus, dan heng, boothill, sampo, blade, ratio, jing yuan, gallagher, sunday in that order)

what anaxa had done to seal the deal was fairly simple; he asked for a second date. the professor had somewhat of a reputation, many saw him as a cold man, soulless when it comes to romance. but what you didn't know was that anaxa had been thinking about what to wear the night prior, something he saw as 'trivial' and 'not an important thing to consider'. or how your hand lingered a bit too long after he gave you your favorite coffee/tea/drink (his treat), little and seemingly insignificant details were becoming more and more important to him as the day of the date was building up, and he wasn't sure why.

it wasn't until after the long date—you grabbed his hand, told him that everything he arranged was perfect, and smiled at him so sweetly he was sure he'd wake up with a toothache. the gesture was unfamiliar yet not unwelcomed, it was then he realized that he didn't want to let this go, that he wanted this.. for the rest of his life.

and he got it <3 hooray!

��︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

what intrigued you about mydei was his idea of masculinity. it wasn't toxic, you were VERY relieved at that... he was surprisingly a very gentle man despite his intimidating appearance! his first date being at his place was a bit off putting, but he just wanted to bake you a fresh batch of cookies. he's halfway through the process when you suddenly ask; "what's your favorite thing?" it seems you've brought the crown prince of kremnos into a bit of thought, as he thought long and hard of what to answer. "butterflies, i like butterflies. i don't remember if i've ever seen one before i escaped the river of souls. they're beautiful.. delicate, something i'll never really get to be."

the night goes on and you've gotten close enough to lean on his shoulders while you sit on the couch, enjoying a series in silence with a plate of warm cookies on the coffee table. the lack of conversation isn't awkward, rather welcomed, then it was interrupted by what has been probably the sweetest thing ever told to you. "you uh.. remind me of a butterfly. you possess beauty that is.. otherworldly to me, you're someone i've never seen before and i'd be honored if you.. gave me some more time to bask in your existence. let me be gifted with your ethereal charm."

100% spent the night cuddling together, made you laugh at how nervous mydei was to hold you since he didn't wanna mess up 🙏

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

before real dates became a thing, phainon's FAAAVORITE excuse to spend one on one time with you was study dates. was there any actual studying going on? yes, but was phainon listening? absolutely not! how could he? not when you're trying your best to tutor him yet he still fails this one specific class (enrolled cause you were in it) despite your teaching.

you didn't mind the fact he kept coming to your door, he was your best friend before your 'student'. but it was getting to a point that if you explain a complicated concept one more time, only to see him staring at you and absolutely not listening you're about to pull his pretty blue hair off.

which you did tell him. hair ripping threat and all, and naturally the nameless hero—who dominates battlefields and comes out victorious, is quick to confess his true motive for these frequent visits to your dorm. he just likes looking at you when you're focused, passionately discussing your favorite topic from your favorite subject and he gets to be a part of that experience for you.

he wants to emphasize; he gets to be a PART of something greater that you're DEEPLY passionate about, and understand you more as a person. (when he should be understanding the class but wtv)

taking you out on a date-but-never-officially-called-that date as an apology, which worked in his favor. it turned out so good that you told him you wanted to go out again, which he was ecstatic about by the way!!! super gratful he almost failed that class if it meant you two got together 🩷

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

caelus is a big eater at heart, so of course it felt only right to take you out to a nice dinner, all on him! welt even got him a nice outfit to go along with it, very classy and formal.

and while you two ate, drank, and laughed the night away—caelus was quick to notice that you were getting full. you and him had chosen the same meal (he wanted to try to understand and adjust to your food palette in case of a second date), but you felt bad that you couldn't finish it with so much still on the plate.

the trailblazer, who had already bulldozed almost the entire meal, laughs at your frown. only to switch the meals around, where there was only a little left and he had the bigger portion. "don't want anything to go to waste, y'know?" he flashed that charming smile at you, and it made you chuckle. not for such a sweet gesture, which you really did appreciate, but he had a piece of leaf stuck in between his teeth. it gave off the whole charm he had, effortlessly kind and unintentionally funny. you liked that.. liked that a lot, actually. (enough to spend the rest of ur lives tgt <3)

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

for a portion of your childhood life, you found it hard to be heard. your voice was never loud enough to stand out from a crowd, and you felt ignored. that you weren't good enough to be listened to.

so going on a date was extremely nerve-wracking. you decided to make sure to never try to assert yourself too much in a conversation, just let them take the lead and not try to disturb with your 'uninteresting' input.

halfway through the date, holding hands and talking about your favorite place to visit-you are very quick to realize that you've taken up most of the conversation. and it isn't in a bad way either, since dan heng was adding his own little comments.. adding his ideas in the conversation. but he hasn't.. stopped you. he let you speak comfortably, let you be heard. "sorry, did i give you a weird look? i didn't mean to.. i just.. i really like listening to you. please don't ever stop talking."

your now husband loves to tell the people that said his quietness would never get him someone.. that he has a ring now and a very lovely spouse that has a matching one !

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

boothill doesn't usually have time for dates, always moving on the road and hopping around penacony. but when robin set him up with a good friend of hers, he didn't want to decline. the cowboy was quick to realize you were really cute and interesting, so he didn't mind taking a day off... until it wasn't a day off.. and had to handle a quick bounty a couple of hours before your date.

"don'tgetdistractedandthinkofthemdon'tgetdistractedandthinkofthemdon'tgetdistractedandthinkofthem" is what he repeats to himself before he gets distracted, imagines how you smiled at him yesterday and expressed how excited you were about the date.

got his shit rocked :-( but he still trudged his malfunctioning arm and scarred face to your place. "sorry." he strained a smile as he falls into your arms, grunting. "didn't mean to make ya wait. darlin'.. would never try to leave ya alone on such a pretty night."

his selflessness made your heart soften. he was so uncaring for his wounds, and he was even muttering that he was sorry for getting so much of his bleeding oil on your clothes. the date didn't end up pulling through, at least not properly. since you brought him in to care for him, and honestly just ended up to you flirting all night.

you're more than happy to have a real date when he's all fixed up.

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

sampo had finally gotten one upped. HE got scammed by YOU in an exchange of information. it wasn't even anything out of harsh feelings, you had always been his informant, giving him what he needs for a good pay and go. but tonight, you decided to mess with him a bit. after receiving the money you charged to find whatever he needed on some random, you never sent it. left him waiting at his laptop and blinking at his camera, knowing damn well you were watching.

this became a normal thing, the back and fourth 'scams'. and soon your time together became less for a transaction, more just wanting to spend time with each other. which you told him from the very first day that you couldn't care less about anything as long as he had money (you didn't know his name till 3 months of working together).

so one night, expecting the usual "oops! sent it to the wrong number!" or "hehe, maybe i forgot a few zeroes and sent you like 5 coins!" you get an actual message.

"what a coincidence, i'm paying in full but it all went towards a restaurant near your place with the best table for two and your favorite food. it would really be a shame to let it go to waste.."

you agreed. and this went on long enough where one day his payment became a ring and a promise to love you forevermore.

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

two stellaron hunters slowly growing to be interested in each other is a rather entertaining sight. kafka was quick to catch on, the lingering glances and subtle touches of affection that would slip the average persons gaze. what was unexpected-was blade's initiation of these gestures. how he'd have a protective stance over you during battle, despite your capabilities likely being on par with his. how he allows his hand to be taken into yours, treating his calloused hands gently after a long day of fighting with his sword, or even just the way he looks at you. it's soft, warm, with a hint of tenderness and admiration. despite his nonchalant face.

this becomes more obvious when he finally asks you out, and he's genuinely caring the whole time. he's interested in your discussions about life, entertains him when he asks you for any other details, and you don't make him feel alone. that's the most important thing. and he makes it clear how much he appreciates you with how he tucks your hair behind your ear, murmuring if he could have the blessing to kiss you. it isn't on the lips-he's not pushing his luck.. but just the cheek. it was something small, but for him? an absolutely huge step.

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

the date with the ever so well known dr. veritas ratio had gone well enough that you agreed to go home with him. he was quick to clarify that this wasn't to sleep with him, he wasn't that kind of man to push something so early on in what he described to be: "a relationship that may be something greater than i could ever imagine" but instead to take care of you. it seemed as if you were exhausted from the travel during the date, and a nice bath would usually help.

nice bath was an understatement, the guy had scented candles, soft music, the right ratio from bubbles to water, snacks for you to enjoy and had a whole selection of books to choose from.

your fate was sealed the moment you walked into his bathroom because a man who can care for himself and still have the room to care for others is FOR SURE a keeper. even invited him to stay in the bath w u but he wanted to be respectful 🙏 (caved eventually)

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

jing yuan was the whole reason you got back into dating. after your first relationship fell apart, you found it hard to want to start things from scratch, learning favorite colors and life dreams all over again. but jing yuan swayed you, something that wasn't easy but he always makes sure to tell you he doesn't regret.

he was introduced to you through yanqing, your former apprentice before he was taken in by the cloud knights. he found out you and jing yuan were around the same age, so the blondie tested out his luck playing cupid <3 so even if it wasn't an immediate yes to his shenanigans, jing yuan started slowly. he could see you had walls and he wanted them to go down upon your own hearts decision, rather than bulldoze through them.

that care never went away. not even years later when he tears up at how far he's come, watching you walk down that aisle and knowing you're his forever.

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

gallagher's wasn't even a first date. but you were on one, or supposed to be. till you got stood up and wanted to drink your worries away.

you've been in the bar from the very first hour it opened till now.. aka 3am. and the bartender himself was growing a little drowsy. but you were going strong, probably your 8th bottle of the night, which was starting to be a concern.

one of many, really. for one, gallagher was wondering who could ditch such a person. you clearly fixed yourself up nicely, your outfit was gorgeous and you were so friendly to him up until you realized you were stood up, and the pretty face that made his bar a little brighter went quiet. he couldn't have that.

by the time his shift ended, he slid a drink to you with a napkin. "take care of yourself, alright? come by tomorrow night, and you'll get yourself a real man to go on a date with."

he leaves and the napkin (cliche enough) has his number and name. "gallagher." you say to yourself, making a note in your drunken state to return same time tomorrow.

⏜︵♡︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵♡︵⏜

sunday totally took you out with vip seats to robins concert. did he have to do a LIIIITTLE bit of pursuading to have robin hand over these tickets? no.. but she did tease him for finally catching a date after all this time! and as much as he is a big admirer for his sisters work, the whole concert he couldn't take his eyes off of you. how you effortlessly glowed in a sea of people, how your passion for something as simple as music could rival his dream for eternal rest to penacony. he has dreamed of you, he's sure of it. someone so carefree and kind, a soul opposite to his, yet perfectly fills the other half of his empty heart.

he wrote poetry about you, robin found it, turned it into a song and had to awkwardly explain why robin's song that she specifically clarified to be written about someone he liked included descriptions of your physical appearance and hints of your personality.

found it very sweet, and insisted your next date should be something more personal so you can learn more about him the way he's learned so much about you without even needing to talk to you to do so. (was just happy to go on a second date)

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[chrissssssmut]

Hi hello sir, I kindly ask a story with popular girls Asa and Ahyeon asking shy+nerdy mreader for help studying. No smut obviously and no need for yandere. Just fluffy stuff

Perks Of Being The Nerd

Asa & Ahyeon x Nerdy Male Reader

You didn’t expect much out of sophomore year.

Not fame. Not a girlfriend. Definitely not two.

Your goal was simple: survive AP Chem and keep your manga collection hidden from the occasional hallway tormentor. You were painfully good at blending in—until they happened.

Asa and Ahyeon.

The reigning queens of the junior class. Known for their looks, wit, and tendency to dominate literally every school event. Asa was sharp-eyed, tomboyish, and had a habit of chewing gum like it owed her money. Ahyeon was sweeter, mischievous, and occasionally so charming it felt like she was glitching the simulation.

And somehow, through some cosmic joke, they were now sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your perfectly highlighted notes like they belonged there.

“Okay, so explain covalent bonds again,” Asa said, squinting at the textbook like it had personally wronged her.

“They’re the ones where atoms share electrons,” you muttered, pushing your glasses up and refusing to make eye contact. You could feel both of them looking at you.

“That’s so cute,” Ahyeon said suddenly.

You blinked. “...Covalent bonds?”

“No,” she giggled, “you. When you explain things like you’re afraid we’ll break.”

“I—I'm not afraid,” you said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, not of you. Just, like. Talking. In general.”

Asa smirked and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “You talk more when you’re passionate. Like, just now. You went full anime professor mode.”

Your heart skipped.

You were going to die. Right here. In your kitchen. Surrounded by girls way out of your league and a stack of flashcards.

It all started three days ago when Ms. Kim paired you up for peer tutoring. Apparently, Asa and Ahyeon were “slipping” in chemistry. You’d expected them to blow you off immediately.

But instead—

“Hey, you’re that smart kid, right? The one with the cute notes?” Asa had said, cornering you after class.

“You have the best handwriting I’ve ever seen,” Ahyeon added, eyes twinkling. “Can we study at your place?”

You said yes before your brain could stop you.

Which brings us back to the present.

“You make this stuff sound easy,” Asa said, tossing a pencil up and catching it. “I swear, if teachers explained things like you do, I wouldn’t be failing.”

“I-it’s not really hard,” you mumbled. “Just patterns and logic, mostly. Like code.”

Ahyeon tilted her head. “You code too?”

You nodded. “A bit. Mostly games. Visual novels, sometimes.”

“You’re like, the most interesting guy here and no one knows,” Asa said, stealing one of your erasers.

“Maybe because he’s hiding behind his bangs and hoodies,” Ahyeon teased, leaning toward you slightly. “We’re gonna fix that.”

“Fix what?”

“You,” they said in unison.

Somehow, “study sessions” became a regular thing.

They always brought snacks. Ahyeon liked lying on the floor with her feet up on your bed, whining about reaction rates. Asa always claimed the desk chair and spun in it until she got dizzy.

You tried to stay professional.

Tried.

But sometimes, Asa would lean over your shoulder and ask about a formula, her breath warm against your ear. Sometimes Ahyeon would rest her head on your arm while you explained things, and it was impossible to focus when your heart was beating like a drumline.

“You’re blushing again,” Asa said one afternoon, grinning like a shark.

You immediately buried your face in your hoodie.

“No fair,” you mumbled. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“But it’s cute,” Ahyeon chimed in. “And you never tell us what you think.”

“I—I do!”

“Okay,” Asa leaned in, eyebrow raised. “What do you think of us?”

You froze.

“I—I think you’re both…” You swallowed. “Very…good at learning?”

They stared at you.

“Wow,” Asa said, snorting. “That’s the nerdiest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“I love it,” Ahyeon said.

You peeked up at them.

And found two girls smiling at you like you’d just given them the moon.

“Hey,” Asa said quietly, after a silence. “You ever think about, like…dating?”

You choked on your juice box. “W-what?!”

“Not like that!” she added, laughing. “Okay, maybe like that. It’s just—we were talking, and you’re…kind of great?”

You blinked.

“You help us study, you’re smart, you make the best snacks, and your dog loves us.”

“And,” Ahyeon added, sliding closer to you on the couch, “you make me feel calm. Which almost never happens.”

Your face felt like it was on fire.

“Are you saying… you like me?”

“We like you,” they said in unison again.

“I—I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Ahyeon whispered. “Just let us hang out with you more. Maybe hold your hand sometimes. That okay?”

Your voice came out small. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

So that’s how it happened.

One minute you were the quiet nerd with an anime wallpaper and a carefully curated pen case, and the next you were dating the two most popular girls in school.

Well. “Dating” might be a strong word. It started with long tutoring sessions that turned into movie nights. Hand-holding during breaks. A cheek kiss here, a forehead bump there. Soft “good luck” messages before tests and chaotic selfies from their classrooms.

Sometimes you caught people whispering when you walked down the hall with them on either side.

But then Asa would glance at you, bump your shoulder, and smirk.

Ahyeon would flash you a grin like you hung the stars.

And suddenly, you didn’t care what anyone thought.

Because somehow, impossibly—you were their favorite nerd.

End.

(But they definitely make you teach them anime intros next week.)

[leejenowrld]

back to you — one

pairing — lee jeno x reader

word count — 58k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — lee jeno forces his way into your life, first by pushing into one of your college projects and then refusing to leave. as mark’s best friend, you’ve always hated jeno—arrogant, reckless, and everything mark isn’t. but what starts as reluctant tolerance spirals into a secret affair fueled by lust, obsession, and the thrill of keeping it hidden. as lies and jealousy pile up, your connection becomes a dangerous game that pushes you to confront how far you’re willing to go—and how much you’re willing to lose—for the one person you swore you’d never fall for.

chapter warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, dominant!reader/submissive!jeno (yeah hehe), power struggles and control shifts, forced eye contact, choking, spanking, face slapping, name-calling and degradation, oral sex (male receiving), explicit descriptions of penetration, vaginal sex with deep and rough thrusts, reader rides yeehaw, overstimulation, mutual orgasms, squirting, possessive behavior, cum play, explicit body worship and focus on physical sensations, graphic descriptions, strong language, emotional manipulation and mind games, depictions of toxic relationships and power struggles, angst and emotional tension, forbidden relationships and moral ambiguity, mentions of alcohol consumption, intense arguments and interpersonal conflict, jeno and reader can both be seen as very toxic and always wanting to one up another, very sexually tense scenes, reader can appear very cold, detached but she’s super cool and observant (trust me), haunting descriptions, heated college party scenes as expected, just read it, trust me you’ll love it <3 there’s not much i can reveal, mentions of nct '00 line and other '99 and '00 liners and jihyo!

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

authors note — the word count… i’m sorry 😭 your girl got carried away. but no, i’ve been obsessed with writing this, and it’s been my secret little obsession for so long. i totally tricked you guys by saying it’d come out in spring, but hehe surprise!! i’ve been working on it nonstop for the past two months. every part of this fic is going to be long, and that’s just the way it’s gonna be. this story is a lot—intense, mind-fucking, emotional, and filled with twists you won’t see coming. you’re in for a ride, and yes, it’s going to be detailed and deeply layered. the world-building? the emotions? the tension? yeah, i went all in. it even got so long i had to cut a whole scene from this part 🥲 so please, buckle up and prepare yourselves. it’s going to be a journey. positive feedback, comments, asks, likes + reblog are always welcome :)

this fic is the second and final instalment of the love + games universe, read mark’s here (you don’t need to read mark’s to read this but it’s recommended)

Jaemin doesn’t struggle because he’s stupid—he struggles because he’s impatient. The first thing you noticed about him was how his notes sat in disarray, pages flipped with unnecessary force as if they were to blame for his confusion. His brain outruns his pen every time, leaving words half-formed, thoughts leaping ahead without ever landing. It’s not a lack of intelligence; it’s an inability to tether himself, to pause long enough for clarity. You’ve been tutoring him for weeks now, and it’s always the same: his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet storm waiting to break, while you remain calm and steady, pulling him back to the fundamentals with unshakable composure.

The early morning light streams through wide windows, painting soft, golden patterns across polished wooden tables. The room hums with quiet focus—the scratch of pens on paper, muted whispers of explanations exchanged. You sit across from him, composed and poised, a notebook spread open before you. The pages are lined with impossibly neat handwriting, each equation so precise it feels premeditated, like it existed in your mind perfectly formed before it ever met the paper. Your voice cuts through the stillness—calm, steady, deliberate—as you guide Jaemin through the problem once more, unraveling it into smaller, manageable pieces, your methodical approach leaving no room for confusion.

“Don’t rush,” you say, your tone balanced—calm but unyielding. “You’re skipping this part because you think you already know the answer. That’s exactly why you’re missing it.” Your pen glides smoothly over the paper, circling the overlooked section of the equation with precision. Jaemin leans closer, his brows knit tightly, frustration radiating from him in waves. You don’t flinch; you’ve seen this reaction countless times before.

As you speak, your mind operates on parallel tracks, a seamless machine of analysis and order. You’re gauging his comprehension, dissecting his furrowed expressions, and calculating the next step in your explanation. But even now, your thoughts stray beyond the table—to meetings waiting to be had, deadlines looming, and projects requiring your attention. You’re already arranging them all into the meticulous schedule that keeps your world running. Structure is your sanctuary, the one constant that assures you everything is exactly where it should be.

“This part,” you say, circling the error lightly with your pen, “you forgot to account for the variable here. Try shifting it before you simplify.”

Jaemin’s brow furrows, but he nods and adjusts his work. You wait patiently as he works through it again, the pause in his movements finally breaking with a quiet sigh of satisfaction when he reaches the solution. He glances at you with a small smile, proud but almost reluctant to show it.

That look—the fleeting satisfaction in his expression, the way his tension unravels—sends a quiet jolt through you. It’s not just about teaching him the material; it’s about control, precision, the satisfaction of knowing you’ve guided someone to the right answer, that your effort has been acknowledged. His success reflects on you, a silent confirmation that your meticulousness has value, that you’re needed. It’s not kindness that fuels you—it’s the clarity of seeing your work pay off, of proving, even in this small way, that you know what you’re doing.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence as Jaemin pauses mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the paper. Something had been on your mind since the start of the session, and you figured now was the time to bring it up. “So there’s this project I’m working on,” you begin, keeping your tone casual but deliberate. “An extracurricular for credits. It’s focused on performance under high-pressure environments—analyzing behavioral patterns, stress responses, that kind of thing.”

Jaemin glances up at you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Sounds cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly to the basketball jersey he’s wearing. It’s crisp, his number bold against the fabric, and it clicks—you’d almost forgotten there’s a match later today. Yet here he is, squeezing in a tutoring session, driven and diligent even with the game looming over him. “Basketball,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what this has to do with you. I chose it because it’s high-pressure, fast-paced, and everyone involved—players, coaches, even the crowd—responds to stress in different ways. It’s the perfect setting to measure those responses in real-time.”

You pause, watching his reaction. “I’d be observing things like body language, facial expressions, and decision-making under pressure. Maybe even gathering data about physical signs of stress—like heart rate, if I can get it—but nothing invasive. Just detailed observation, maybe a few interviews. It’s not difficult or complicated, educationally speaking. Actually, it’s a lot simpler than it sounds.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds super interesting, and I know how you’re always doing all these extra projects—like you need the extra credits.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues, “I digress. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m failing. Bad. That’s why you’re tutoring me, remember?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I could use someone on the actual team,” you admit, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. “I could interview and make observations about you, starting with the match later today.”

“What about Mark?” Jaemin’s question lingers, and your lips soften into a quiet smile at the mention of him. Mark. Your best friend. His name alone carries a comfort few things in your life do.

Mark has always been a steady presence—not loud or demanding, but consistent in ways that matter most. He’s the kind of person who notices when your energy dips, quietly handing you water or slipping a snack onto your desk without saying a word. You think of all the moments Mark has been there for you: staying up with you through late nights, even when his own schedule was clear, walking beside you on empty streets just to make sure you felt safe. 

His care never feels forced; it’s a quiet, steady presence that’s simply part of who he is. Mark doesn’t ask for recognition or gratitude—it’s in the way he listens when you vent, remembers the smallest details about your day, and always shows up when you need him. There’s a warmth to him that you’ve never questioned, a constant reassurance that, no matter what, Mark will always have your back.

You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering on your lips. “Of course Mark isn’t insufferable like the rest, he’s my best friend. But he hasn’t been playing in the professional environment of basketball for long at all, so it wouldn’t make sense to work with him for my project.”

He recently joined the Seoul Ravens, approaching the basketball court with the quiet determination you’ve always admired. Mark doesn’t boast about his abilities, but you’ve seen the hours he’s put in, the focus and care he pours into everything he does. Today is his first official match, and you feel proud because he’s doing something that reflects all his hard work and dedication.

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low and easy, pulling you back to the moment. “Makes sense. Also, you know…” His gaze flicks toward you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “The other boys on the team aren’t bad once you get to know them.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t respond, letting your silence speak for itself. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You really want my help for this project?”

“Yes.” Your words are deliberate, purposeful, as you glance at the clock, ensuring your timing is precise. Then your gaze meets his again, steady and unwavering. “It’s a trade-off, really. You help me streamline my work; I give you an edge where you need it. Teamwork, Jaemin. It’s efficient.”

Jaemin doesn’t respond immediately, his lips twitching into a half-smile as his eyes shift toward the door. There’s something unspoken in the way he tilts his head, a flicker of recognition or intrigue flashing across his face. “Looks like your next project just walked in,” he murmurs, his tone light and teasing, but the weight of his words lingers. He doesn’t answer your pointed question about the project; instead, his focus drifts entirely, and you know something—or rather, someone—has disrupted the calm of the room.

You don’t respond, keeping your pen poised over Jaemin’s notebook, but your focus falters. The air shifts, heavier now, more charged. You feel it before you hear him, a presence that has a way of bending the room around it. When the door creaks shut behind him, the quiet hum of pens scratching on paper feels too faint, too distant.

Lee Jeno strides in, his duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, but there’s nothing casual about the way he moves. His duffel bag hangs lazily over one shoulder, the strap digging into his hoodie where it lies half-zipped, just enough to reveal the deep maroon of his basketball jersey beneath. The fabric clings to his frame, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his build. His hair is damp, stray strands sticking to his forehead as though he’s come straight from practice. There’s a casualness to the way he carries himself, but it’s deceptive. He’s too controlled, too aware of the eyes that follow him, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t even glance at Jaemin—not directly, at least. His gaze sweeps the room once, brisk and indifferent, before locking onto you with sharp precision. His attention is singular, cutting through the space like a blade, leaving no doubt about who he’s here for. Jaemin, seated only inches away and his best friend since childhood, might as well not exist.

“Got a minute?” Jeno’s voice slices through the quiet, smooth but carrying an edge that ripples through the air. It isn’t a question—it’s a demand dressed in courtesy, the kind you recognize instantly. His tone doesn’t ask for permission; it takes.

Your pen pauses mid-stroke, but you don’t immediately look up. Instead, you force your attention to linger on Jaemin’s notebook, the deliberate delay giving you a fleeting sense of control. When your gaze finally lifts, it’s sharp and unwavering. “Not really,” you reply, your tone calm but cutting, steady enough to deflect the weight pressing down on the room. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Your eyes meet his, and the tension snaps taut, hanging heavy in the air between you. Jeno doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His confidence is a steady hum, but there’s something deeper, something restless in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze. It’s a quiet storm, restrained but threatening, and it crawls over your skin like a warning.

The stillness stretches, charged and unbearable. His focus is razor-sharp, the kind that demands without words, and it lingers on you like a touch. You hate the way it unsettles you, hate the way it feels like a challenge you don’t want to rise to. But you don’t break—you hold his gaze, even as something hot and volatile simmers just beneath the surface, too close to dangerous for a quiet morning like this.

Unfazed, Jeno drops into the seat across from you, leaning forward with an ease that feels calculated. “I need your help,” he says, his voice low but insistent, laced with just enough charm to almost mask the edge in his tone. “Tutor me. You’re the best in the class, and I could use the boost.”

You arch a brow, finally meeting his gaze fully. “You have the second best grades after me,” you counter flatly, your tone sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need tutoring.”

For a moment, his smile falters, but he recovers almost instantly, slipping into something smoother, more convincing. “Basketball’s eating up all my time,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I’m stretched too thin.”

He keeps his expression neutral, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churn with barely restrained tension. He didn’t come here for tutoring. This isn’t about college, and it never was. It’s about Mark—stepping onto his court, into his world, with a confidence that makes Jeno’s teeth grind. Mark isn’t just a new player; he’s something else entirely. A reminder of things Jeno doesn’t want to confront. A half-brother in name only, an unwelcome shadow creeping into spaces that were never meant to be shared.

The thought makes Jeno’s jaw tighten. Mark doesn’t know what it means to earn a place, to claw for respect under the weight of someone else’s expectations. He hasn’t lived the life Jeno has, yet somehow he’s here, taking up space that Jeno fought for. Worse, Mark isn’t just a part of the team—he’s in Jeno’s way, shifting the balance Jeno worked so hard to control.

Mark’s presence feels like a shadow creeping into every corner of Jeno’s life, and if he can’t push him back directly, he’ll find another way to assert control. You’re part of that plan—a tool, a move on the board, a way to get under Mark’s skin and remind him where the balance of power lies. It’s not about fairness; it’s about regaining control. Winning. And Jeno has no intention of losing.

Jeno sits down without asking, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a muted thud. His movements are precise, intentional, the kind that demand attention without asking for it. He leans forward, his broad shoulders angling toward you as if closing the already minimal distance. The heat from his body is subtle but palpable, a reminder of his proximity, and the sharp set of his jaw tightens as his eyes fix on yours. He radiates confidence, but there’s something beneath it—something simmering, restrained. Frustration, annoyance… and maybe something more.

“I need your help,” he says again, his voice measured and steady but unmistakably pointed. The repetition isn’t accidental—it’s deliberate, calculated. He’s testing you, trying to wear you down in that way he’s so used to doing with everyone else. His tone carries an edge, a challenge just daring you to push back.

“No.”

The simplicity of your response hits him harder than expected. His brow furrows slightly, and there’s a brief flash of disbelief in his expression before he composes himself. “No?”

“You heard me.” Your tone doesn’t waver, each word delivered with cool precision. You level with his gaze, your eyes sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need help, and I’m not going to give you help.”

For a moment, his composure slips. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken frustration. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in closer, the air between you growing thicker.

It’s not just the rejection that unsettles him—it’s the way you deliver it, so unbothered, so certain. He’s used to being in control, used to commanding attention, and your calm defiance throws him off balance. And that, more than your words, is what he can’t seem to shake.

His excuse is quick, almost too quick, like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m juggling a lot,” he says, his tone clipped, brushing past specifics as though the weight of his responsibilities should be self-evident. “Figured you could help me stay ahead.”

His excuse is flimsy, and he knows it. But the way your brow arches, how your lips part to challenge him, it stokes something deep in his chest. You’re too composed, too steady, and it only sharpens his frustration. You can see the cracks in his logic, the way he’s deliberately vague, sidestepping any real explanation. It stirs something in you—part annoyance, part intrigue.

“You know,” you counter, your voice sharp but steady, “you could’ve signed up like everyone else. Instead, you’re here, expecting me to drop everything just because you asked. That’s not how it works.”

Jeno doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in further, his forearms brushing the table, his jaw tight as his eyes meet yours. “I thought you’d appreciate a little initiative,” he bites back, his voice lower now, a challenge lacing every word.

Your gazes lock, the space between you heavy with unspoken tension. His face is so close now, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his hairline, close enough to feel the restrained energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s waiting for you to flinch, to react, but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your expression calm, your voice steady.

“If you’re serious, then go sign up,” you say, enunciating each word with deliberate control. “I don’t have any time for this or you.”

His lips twitch, his composure fracturing ever so slightly. “Right.”

The tension simmers hotter now, your stubbornness colliding with his in a battle neither of you wants to back down from. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The frustration etched in his face is almost palpable, but so is the undercurrent of curiosity he can’t seem to suppress.

Finally, he stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice clipped but laced with something darker, something unresolved. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. “See you around.”

You watch him leave, his shoulders rigid beneath the maroon of his basketball jersey, each step deliberate, charged. The room feels quieter without him, but the air isn’t lighter—it hums faintly, an unwelcome echo of his presence prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

Jaemin leans back in his chair, letting out a low, amused whistle. His lips curl into a smirk as his gaze flicks from you to the door Jeno just walked through. “Didn’t know tutoring included… hands-on benefits,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the curiosity simmering beneath. “Or is that a special service just for him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snap, sharper than intended, though you don’t look up. Your hand grips the pen tightly as you force your attention back to Jaemin’s notes, the strokes of ink digging deeper into the paper than they should. The tension doesn’t settle; it lingers, weaving itself into the quiet of the room, refusing to be ignored. You hate how his presence lingers, how his gaze feels imprinted on your skin, sharp and unrelenting, even now.

For Jeno, walking away feels like defeat, and that’s not something he’s used to. His jaw clenches, his fists tightening against the strap of his duffel bag as he stalks down the hallway. You’ve unsettled him, thrown him off balance in a way that makes his frustration curdle into something sharper, something hotter. Control has always been his, always within reach—on the court, in his relationships, even in the way he fucks. It’s in the sharp precision of his movements, the calculated pressure of his touch, the dominance he wields like second nature. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it, leaving no room for uncertainty. But at the end of the day, control is nothing more than an illusion. 

But with you, he feels it falter. Even after one brief interaction, it slips through his fingers, leaving him raw, exposed in ways he doesn’t understand. You’re a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve, a challenge he can’t resist. There’s something about the way you hold your ground, the way you don’t crumble under his gaze or yield to the power he’s so used to wielding. It unnerves him. Excites him.

And Jeno doesn’t back down from challenges. Not ever. But for the first time, he’s starting to realize that control might not be something he holds—it might be something you’ve taken from him without even trying.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its pale light fractured through the skeletal branches lining the path, pooling on the pavement in jagged patches. The air is sharp, biting, and carries the faint, bitter tang of autumn’s decay—leaves curling at the edges, their scent clinging to the quiet corners of campus. With each step you and Jaemin take, the dry crunch underfoot mingles with the faint echoes of distant conversations and bursts of laughter, sound rising and fading like restless waves.

The campus feels different tonight—its usual rhythm muted, as if the impending game has drawn all attention inward, leaving everything else hollow. Groups of students pass, their faces half-hidden in the dimming light, voices subdued but edged with anticipation. The arena looms ahead, stark against the bruised blue of the sky, its lights glowing faintly like a promise of the chaos waiting inside. The air tightens the closer you get, tension curling into your lungs, weighing heavier with each breath. Even Jaemin, usually irreverent and quick with a joke, is quieter, his focus gradually shifting toward the arena ahead.

“You know,” Jaemin says, his voice finally breaking the stillness, conversational but laced with something knowing, “Jeno’s not as bad as you think.” He glances at you sideways, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he gauges your reaction.

Your gaze stays fixed ahead, mapping the narrowing path with precision, each step carrying you closer to the glowing entrance of the arena. “Didn’t ask,” you reply, your tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an edge that leaves no room for argument. You don’t look at him or waver. 

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low, unbothered. “Just saying,” he continues, unfazed. “Off the court—away from the noise—he’s not what you think he is.” His words linger, insinuations woven through them, but you don’t take the bait, keeping your focus ahead, your steps deliberate and steady.

The arena looms in front of you, massive and overbearing, its sharp angles cutting into the darkening sky. The glow of its entrance beckons, casting shifting shadows on the pavement, but the pull it exerts isn’t welcoming. It’s invasive, pressing against your thoughts with a strange weight. The crackling energy in the air clings to you, sharp and electric, as if the building itself is watching, waiting for you to step inside.

By the time you step through the heavy double doors, the hum has become a roar. The scent of sweat, rubber, and buttery popcorn saturates the air, thick and inescapable. The harsh overhead lights reflect off the polished court, amplifying every sound—the screech of sneakers, the chatter of players, the low pulse of the crowd. Jaemin doesn’t stay long. The moment he spots the team near the court, he’s already gone, drawn like a moth to flame. “Catch you later,” he says over his shoulder, his grin quick but distant, already halfway absorbed into the knot of players and cheerleaders huddled near the baseline. His absence leaves a hollow sting, a sharp reminder of how quickly the crowd swallows its own, leaving you standing alone, untethered, at the edge of their world.

You’ve been in rooms like this before—not arenas, but spaces where chaos and hierarchy hum beneath the surface, where everyone seems to know their place except you. It reminds you of growing up in a house that wasn’t yours, at dinners where polite conversation veiled deeper fractures. Here, as then, you scan the scene for something to hold onto, a point of familiarity to ground you, but there’s nothing. The tension coils tighter in your chest as your eyes sweep the room and land on nothing but movement, noise, and faces that barely register your existence.

The low murmur of conversation, the undercurrent of motion—it all ebbs and flows with a rhythm that excludes you entirely. Your gaze lingers, not searching but absorbing the way the world moves seamlessly without you. No one pauses, no one looks your way, and the absence doesn’t sting. It never does. It’s an emptiness that’s carved itself into you, a weight so ingrained it feels like part of your foundation, like it was always meant to be there. It doesn’t just settle—it grips, sharp and unyielding, pressing deeper with every passing moment, steady and inescapable.

Your gaze moves quickly, catching on the Seoul Ravens huddled near the baseline—a whirlwind of animated shouts, easy laughter, and camaraderie that feels almost theatrical in its intensity. The cheerleaders hover nearby, their bright smiles and poised beauty seamlessly stitched into the scene, like they’re as much a part of the game as the players themselves. And then there’s Mark. He stands slightly apart, his posture straight but detached, his energy quieter than the others. He doesn’t demand attention, but it lingers on him anyway, magnetic in the way stillness can be when surrounded by motion.

Karina stands at the center of it all, her long black hair falling in sleek waves, perfectly framing her sharp features. The cheer uniform clings to her figure, the short skirt swaying lightly as she moves with a deliberate, polished ease. Her beauty is striking, the kind that lingers in your mind even after you look away. She doesn’t need to try to stand out; her presence commands attention without effort. People glance at her cautiously, as if hesitant to stare too long, yet unable to resist the pull. She carries herself with quiet confidence, every step and gesture exuding a natural control over the space around her.

Then there’s Areum, Jeno’s girlfriend. She stands close to him but with a quiet restraint, her posture straight and her movements careful, never drawing attention. Her gaze shifts across the room, focused yet fleeting, taking in everything without lingering too long on anything. She doesn’t speak or engage much, but nothing about her seems uncertain. There’s a composure to her, steady and deliberate, but it’s paired with a distance that feels intentional. She stays on the edge of the energy around her, observing but never fully part of it. It’s not hesitation, and it’s not discomfort—it’s precision. She reminds you of Mark, both of them existing apart from the noise, though her distance feels purposeful, where his feels unguarded.

Your eyes flit briefly to Jeno, standing at the heart of it all, the nucleus of the team’s energy. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and magnetic, the confidence in his movements so ingrained it borders on arrogance. He’s impossible to ignore, not just for the way the team orbits around him, but for the sharp contrast he makes to Mark. Jeno belongs here; he’s thrived in this environment for years, molded by it, commanding it. And yet, even from this distance, his gaze feels like it cuts through the crowd, deliberate and pointed, before shifting back into the fray.

Your fingers curl around the clipboard you’re holding, its weight anchoring you in the moment. Your project isn’t just a distraction—it’s the reason you’re here, the justification for standing on the edges of a world that isn’t yours. A study on the psychological effects of competition on team dynamics, assigned by one of your professors, the kind of work that demands you observe everything: the players, the crowd, the interactions, the cracks beneath the surface. The tension simmering in this arena, the chaotic bursts of noise and movement, all of it is fodder for your research. It sharpens your focus, dulls the edge of your nerves, even as the uneasy energy lingers at the back of your mind.

But most importantly, you’re also here for Mark.

That’s what keeps your feet moving, carrying you closer to the court, even as the weight of the arena bears down on you. Mark has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, the one constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. You’re here because he would be here for you if the roles were reversed, and that thought alone keeps your focus steady. The lingering stares, the unspoken judgment in the room—they don’t matter. Let them assess, let them dismiss. You’ve never cared about fitting in here, and you’re not about to start. You’re here to support him, to remind him he’s not alone in this, the same way he’s done for you a hundred times over. Whatever they think, whatever this space feels like, none of it changes the fact that you’re here for Mark, and for yourself.

As you move closer to the court, Karina and Areum’s attention shifts toward you. Their glances are pointed, sharp, cutting through the noise like a silent commentary aimed directly at you. Karina leans in toward Areum, her voice low but deliberate, and whatever she says earns a quiet laugh. You don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about you. You feel it in the way their eyes linger, assessing, dismissing, as if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t belong in this picture. But you don’t stop, and you don’t give them the satisfaction of even a glance. Their opinions are as irrelevant to you as the hum of the crowd. Your focus stays fixed on Mark, standing near the edge of the team. His posture is straight, his expression unreadable, but there’s a familiarity in the way he carries himself—steady, grounded, it’s what makes him distinctively him. It’s enough to cut through everything else, to remind you why you’re here.

When you reach him, you tap his shoulder lightly. He turns quickly, his brows furrowed for a split second before his expression softens. The tension in his posture eases as soon as he sees you, and his lips twitch into the kind of small, relieved smile that makes you wonder if he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You made it,” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge of disbelief there, like he hadn’t expected you to show.

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm. “What kind of best friend skips this? First game with the Ravens? That’d be friendship treason.”

Mark lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanted a front-row seat to watch me trip and ruin my career before it even starts.”

“Mark, you’re not going to trip,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Don’t even start with that. I’ve seen you work harder for this than anyone else. Freezing nights at the river court, mornings when you could barely keep your eyes open—this is what it’s all been for. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready.”

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze drops to the clipboard in your hand, and he raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Another project? What is this, your tenth one this term?”

You smirk, lifting the clipboard just enough to make your point. “What can I say? Some of us have standards to maintain.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with teasing disbelief. “You know, normal college students go out, party, get drunk, and hook up. You should try it sometime. Might even loosen you up.”

Your smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint pause, barely perceptible, before you answer. “I’ll think about it,” you say casually, shifting the clipboard in your hands, the movement smooth, practiced. “Anyway, I actually like doing these projects. No one forces me to take them on—it’s my choice every time.”

Mark furrows his brows slightly, his teasing demeanor softening just a little. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right?” he says, his voice quieter now, not accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

The words hang in the air for a beat, and you shrug lightly, your smile still intact. “I know,” you reply, quick and even, like that’s the end of it. The tightness in your grip on the clipboard goes unnoticed as he glances toward the court.

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, okay? You’ve always made me proud,” you say softly, your tone steady, before stepping back and turning toward the stands.

For a second, Mark just looks at you, his teasing expression fading into something softer. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and even though it’s just one word, you can hear everything else he’s not saying.

“You’re welcome,” you say lightly, stepping back. “Now, go. Win. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of a real congratulations afterward.”

Mark huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No pressure, right?”

“None at all,” you say with a grin, turning to head to the stands.

As you walk away to get to the stands, you make your way through the cheerleaders, weaving past their perfectly straight lines and perfectly straight teeth. Their gazes sweep over you, eyes narrowing just slightly, quick glances that linger a beat too long, assessing. You can feel the silent commentary behind their stares, the unspoken judgment in the way their bodies shift to make space for you— not welcoming, but begrudging, as though your presence is a disruption to their order. It’s the kind of dismissal you’ve felt before, the silent reminder that you don’t belong in spaces like these.

Your grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, but your steps remain steady, your head high. It’s a practiced reaction, one you’ve honed over time: keep moving, show nothing. Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t matter. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then you cross paths with Karina and Areum, standing off to the side, their conversation halting the moment you enter their space. Karina turns to look at you, her sharp eyes raking over you from head to toe. Areum, in contrast, doesn’t even look at you. She leans away from Karina, her focus on her nails, inspecting them with a casual indifference. 

Karina doesn’t wait for you to pass before speaking. “Seriously? A clipboard?” she says, her voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “What are you doing, running a study on how not to fit in?”

Areum’s laugh comes quick and light, almost like a reflex, but her attention isn’t fully on you. She doesn’t say a word, her gaze briefly flickering your way, her smirk widening for a second before she looks back down at her nails, uninterested. It’s not malice—it’s detachment, like she’s barely invested in the exchange but finds Karina’s remarks amusing enough to entertain. Her presence doesn’t add weight to the moment, but the laugh lingers, brushing against your already-fraying composure.

The weight of their judgment presses against you, but you don’t stop. You bite your tongue, your jaw tightening slightly. Without pausing, you keep your head held high and walk away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. By the time you sit down, your focus is already on the notes in your lap. You start jotting down notes, forcing their words out of your mind. It’s just noise. You’re here for your work, for Mark.

It’s not that you’re unaware of the stares, the laughter, the low hum of judgment behind you—you feel it as clearly as the pen in your hand. But you’ve long since learned to focus through it, to let it blur into the background. You scribble away, pen scratching against paper, your jaw tightening for a fleeting second before you press it down and keep writing. You don’t stop to wonder if anyone might step in. Why would you? People don’t defend you. They never have.

It’s easier this way—to stop convincing yourself that anyone was ever meant to stand with you, to let the fire rise and take what it will without reaching for hands that were never there. The laughter doesn’t cut anymore; it drifts by, hollow and distant, as inconsequential as the faces behind it. You’ve unlearned the need to want, stripped away the instinct to hope, and in its place, something sharper remains—a clarity that feels almost intoxicating. The weight of solitude no longer presses; it stays steady, familiar, like a second skin. This isn’t defeat, nor is it grief. It’s an undeniable truth, calm and unwavering: some paths are meant to be walked alone, and maybe that’s where the strength lies.

But what you don’t notice is that someone does care. Someone does look out for you when you’re not paying attention. Mark had been watching you this whole time—since you walked away from him, weaving your way back toward the crowd. He’s seen this before—the steady but distant way you carry yourself, like you’re holding onto space that always feels just out of reach. He knows the weight it takes to be here, the quiet effort it costs to keep your head high when everything around you seems designed to press you down.

Karina and Areum command attention, as always. Karina’s confidence is calculated, every word designed to wound while her sharp-edged smile masks the intent. Her presence demands space, loud and unapologetic. Areum moves differently, her quiet magnetism effortless and untouched by the noise around her. Mark knows why he’s always noticed her, why his feelings for her linger ever since they were younger, quiet but persistent. It’s not about the way she shines, but the ease with which she moves through spaces that still feel foreign to him. Yet tonight, something in him shifts.

He watches her stand beside Karina, laughing lightly as Karina’s words turn cutting. Areum’s silence isn’t malicious, but it stings all the same, mingling with the precision of Karina’s cruelty. And then there’s you, walking away with your head high, shoulders stiff, the clipboard in your hands gripped too tightly.

It twists something in him, sharp and immediate. He knows that walk, knows how hard you’re working to hold yourself together, and for the first time, it hits him differently. It’s not just about Karina’s words or Areum’s laughter—it’s the sight of you being treated like this, dismissed like you don’t belong, when he knows how much it took for you to be here.

The sting burns hotter, pulling Mark forward before he can think better of it. His footsteps are firm, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the gym as he moves toward Karina and Areum. Their laughter falters as they catch sight of him, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

Karina’s eyes widen first, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with that sharp-edged smile, her confidence curling back into place like armor. Areum’s reaction is quieter—her lips part slightly, her brows knitting together in subtle confusion, but it’s the way her gaze locks with Mark’s that lingers. There’s something unspoken in the look they share, a tension that neither seems willing to name. It feels heavier than the moment, deeper than the words left unsaid between them, but Mark doesn’t let himself sink into it. Not now.

He stops in front of them, his presence carrying a weight they weren’t expecting. The air shifts, the silence stretching just long enough to make Karina shift uncomfortably, her confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “She’s got more of a place here than you do,” Mark says, his tone sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The shift is immediate. Karina falters, her eyes flick to Mark, and her expression softens, her tone changing in an instant. “Relax, Mark,” she says, her voice smoother now, practiced. “It was just a joke.” She steps a little closer to him, her body language shifting—her shoulders turning slightly toward him, her gaze lingering in a way that’s anything but casual. Mark doesn’t miss the way she brushes her hair back, her smile edging into something almost flirtatious.

Areum shifts uncomfortably beside her. She doesn’t speak, her earlier amusement replaced by a kind of unease, her gaze flickering between Mark and Karina before settling on the floor.

Mark doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of hers,” he says, quieter now but no less cutting. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he’s willing to let it go.

Karina’s laugh comes, thin and strained. “Whatever you say, Mark,” she mutters, her smile still in place but lacking its usual bite. Her eyes linger on him a beat too long before she steps back, finally breaking the tension.

Mark doesn’t wait for her to add anything else. He turns sharply, heading back toward his team, his steps firm, his shoulders tense as the weight of the moment clings to him. The gym’s noise begins to swell again, the confrontation fading into the backdrop as if it never happened. But it did, and everyone who saw it knows it did.

Mark doesn’t feel it immediately, but the attention follows him as he walks away, the weight of lingering glances pressing heavier than before. For years, he’s been the quiet one, his presence steady but overlooked, his name spoken in passing while louder, flashier figures like Jeno commanded the spotlight. At the river court, he was a constant, but not the kind of presence anyone lingered on. Yet something has changed, subtle but undeniable. People are starting to notice—not just his game, which has sharpened with every hoop, every deliberate play, but the way he moves now, deliberate and steady, as though he’s no longer willing to stay in anyone’s shadow. There’s a gravity to him that wasn’t there before, something that draws attention and holds it. Even Karina had felt it, her words softening, her gaze dragging over him like she wasn’t used to seeing him this way. She noticed, and so did everyone else. Mark wasn’t invisible anymore, but the weight of being seen is one he doesn’t dwell on—not when something else matters more.

You’ve fully zoned out, lost in your own world. You don’t notice Mark’s eyes following you, the way they try to catch your attention, to anchor you to something outside of yourself. You don’t see him watching, the tension in his jaw or the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something back, something heavier than words. For you, this moment is no different from the ones you’ve endured countless times before—another invisible cut to add to the rest, another reminder of how easily you slip to the edges, always slightly out of step with the rhythm everyone else seems to follow so naturally.

The stares are always first, dragging over you like they’re waiting for the moment you crack. Then come the whispers, deliberate and sharp, just loud enough to reach you but not enough to let you defend yourself. The laughter follows, inevitable and bitter, wrapping around you like an echo of something you’ve long stopped trying to drown out. It presses against you—not crushing, but constant—a dull weight you’ve carried for so long it feels easier to let it settle than to push it away.

And yet, even as you sit there, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, something shifts. Mark watches you from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering as though to make sure you’re okay. He cares—more than you’ll ever realize—and even though you’ve never expected anyone to step in, he already has. You’ll never know that he defended you, and that he would again, without hesitation. For Mark, this wasn’t just another moment to let pass. It wasn’t just about what was said or who said it. It was about a line crossed, one he refused to let go unnoticed. He stepped out of the shadows for you—not for attention, not for recognition, but because you deserved better. Even if you never know it, even if you never see it, it mattered. To him, it always will.

You’re still sitting in silence, the weight in your chest dull but persistent, when a voice cuts through the gym’s noise. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Donghyuck’s familiar tone cuts through the noise, amplified by the mic in his hand. He’s got his portable speaker slung over his shoulder, his grin sharp and full of mischief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of overachieving herself has graced us with her presence. A round of applause, please!”

Your head snaps up, irritation flickering, but it dissolves as quickly as it comes. Donghyuck strides toward you with exaggerated confidence, dragging everyone else in his orbit. Chenle’s already laughing, Yangyang has a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, and Shotaro waves both hands high like he’s signaling a plane to land. Nahyun, trailing behind, nudges Shotaro lightly in the ribs, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Donghyuck, stop,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, she speaks,” Donghyuck drawls into the mic, his gaze flicking toward you. “What’s the matter? Too preoccupied to notice pure brilliance right in front of you?”

Before you can respond to Donghyuck’s jab, Chenle grabs the mic from his hand, cutting him off effortlessly. “Ignore him,” he says with a smirk, his gaze flicking over to you. “But seriously, I can’t believe you almost didn’t show up. What kind of friend does that?” It’s true—you had been close to staying in, the weight of your project and looming deadlines pressing down on you, convincing you there were more important things to focus on. But then there was Mark—his debut wasn’t just important, it was something you couldn’t miss. You’d seen him work for this moment, and staying home would’ve felt like a betrayal. And then, of course, there was Chenle, who had called earlier, his teasing charm cutting through your hesitation and leaving you with no real excuse to stay away.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” you reply, shifting in your  as Yangyang plops down beside you, the popcorn now balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yangyang says, ruffling your hair with exaggerated affection before leaning back into his seat. “I brought popcorn. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, before standing to hug them all. Donghyuck is first, pulling you into an exaggerated, theatrical hug. “Finally, you’ve come to a match!” he exclaims dramatically, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few nearby. “I’ve been saving all my best material for you, and you’ve been missing it. Do you know how much harder it is to narrate these games without my number one audience?”

Donghyuck’s “material” isn’t just his usual sarcasm—it’s his self-proclaimed role as the game’s unofficial commentator. Armed with a mic connected to a portable speaker slung over his shoulder, he spends every match narrating the plays with the flair of a professional broadcaster. He embellishes every move with ridiculous metaphors, overly enthusiastic descriptions, and enough wit to make the crowd laugh—even if half of them roll their eyes at his antics.

Chenle pulls you into a quick, firm hug next, clapping your back in that no-nonsense way that feels more grounding than anything else. Yangyang doesn’t bother standing, just pats your head twice before reclaiming the popcorn like it’s his lifeline. Then there’s Shotaro, who pulls you into a full-body squeeze so intense it knocks the air out of you. You wheeze a laugh as he steps back, grinning wide.

When it’s Nahyun’s turn, her smile is smaller, softer. She reaches out, her hands warm against your shoulders as she hugs you, her embrace unhurried. “It’s good to see you,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You too,” you reply, matching her tone, and for a fleeting moment, the weight that’s been sitting on your chest feels just a little lighter.

When the whistle blows, the gym seems to hold its breath for a fraction of a second before erupting into movement. The ball is tipped into the air, and the game begins with a sudden, sharp energy. Players streak across the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the ball bouncing rhythmically as it moves from hand to hand.

Shotaro leans closer to you, his voice low and steady, explaining the setup. “Mark’s starting as shooting guard,” he says, nodding toward the court. “He’s got to control the pace, look for openings, and capitalize when they find them.” His explanations are precise, but his eyes never leave the court, his focus unwavering.

“Jeno’s in as a small forward tonight,” Shotaro says, his voice low but deliberate. “He’s been the shooting guard since, like, forever. For Coach to move him? That’s unheard of, Jeno’s spot on the team has been untouched… until now.”

You glance toward Jeno, your attention catching on the way he stands just outside the action, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Mark, doesn’t look at anyone, really, his focus locked on the ball as though willing it to find him. There’s an edge to his movements, sharp and restrained, like he’s holding something back.

He fits here effortlessly—physically, at least. The jersey clings to his frame, his stance rooted in the kind of confidence that’s been built over years of owning his place on the court. But something feels off. It’s subtle, the way his posture stiffens when the ball shifts away from him, the way his eyes flick to Mark for just a fraction too long before looking away again.

Mark, on the other hand, is easy to spot. He’s quick but measured, his movements are purposeful as he shifts around the perimeter, scanning the play with sharp focus. When the ball finds him, his hands are steady, fingers splayed as he calls for it, his voice cutting through the noise of the gym. The reaction is immediate as Donghyuck’s voice booms through the speaker, brimming with exaggerated flair. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Number twenty-three, Mark Lee, officially making his debut with a clean pass that’s smoother than butter!”

Your friends erupt into cheers, their voices blending into the crowd’s growing roar. Chenle pumps his fist into the air, Shotaro nods approvingly, and Yangyang leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on Mark as if willing him to succeed.

The ball comes back to Mark seconds later, this time just outside the three-point line. His movements are fluid, his form perfect as he fakes a defender with a quick pivot and drives toward the basket. Donghyuck narrates every second. “Did you see that? A fake that could break ankles—Mark Lee with the drive! Look at him go!”

The shot is clean, the ball arcing through the air before swishing through the net. The crowd surges with noise, and so do your friends.

“Yes!” Chenle shouts, clapping so loudly you think his hands might sting. “That’s how you do it!”

Yangyang exhales sharply, his grin widening. “He’s standing out already,” he says, his tone filled with awe. “First few minutes, and everyone’s already watching him.”

And it’s true. The curious eyes of the crowd seem to stick to Mark every time he touches the ball. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves—calculated but confident, the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it.

Donghyuck doesn’t let up, his commentary a mix of genuine pride and playful exaggeration. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Mark Lee is owning this court. Someone call the league because we’ve got a star in the making!”

Yangyang leans closer, his gaze still fixed on the court. “This is wild,” he says, his voice quieter now, threaded with something heavier. “We used to play until we couldn’t feel our fingers, and now he’s here. Real jersey, real court. He actually made it.”

Chenle nods, his tone softer. “Worked harder than anyone. No one else could’ve done this. He earned all of it.”

Mark glances toward the stands after another clean pass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before pausing, just briefly, in your direction. His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture eases, the tension in his shoulders loosening as if he can feel your presence there.

Your chest tightens slightly, not with worry anymore, but with something closer to awe. You’ve seen Mark play a hundred times before—on cracked concrete, under dim streetlights, with nothing but scraped knees and determination to show for it. But this is different. This is Mark stepping into a spotlight he’s never had before, and already, it’s like he owns it.

The ball comes back to him, and the crowd leans forward as one. Mark moves with ease, weaving through defenders like it’s second nature before going for a layup that’s so clean it feels almost effortless. The scoreboard buzzes, the points adding up, and the gym erupts again.

Shotaro claps, his expression calm but his pride evident. “That’s Mark,” he says simply, like nothing more needs to be said.

Yangyang shakes his head, a small laugh escaping. “We used to joke about this, you know? Like, ‘what if he actually makes it?’ And now…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the court. “Now, it’s real.”

“Meanwhile,” Donghyuck’s voice cuts in through the speaker, “we’ve got Jeno Lee, usually the pride of the court, looking a little out of rhythm tonight. Guess even stars stumble when the spotlight shifts, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, enough to draw a few murmurs from the crowd. Your attention flickers back to Jeno, his movements tense, controlled to the point of rigidity. He’s not playing poorly, but there’s a hesitation in him, a subtle weight that wasn’t there before.

Your gaze catches on Jeno near the baseline, his movements precise yet brimming with a tension that feels almost dangerous. He carries himself with an intensity that pulls focus without trying, each motion deliberate, calculated, but edged with something raw. His shoulders are set, his jaw tight, every shift of his body radiating control that feels like it might snap at any moment. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he commands his space with an unspoken arrogance, like he knows exactly how to draw attention—and keep it.

But it’s the cracks in that control that hold your focus. The slight flare of his nostrils when the ball slips out of his reach, the way his hands flex like he’s suppressing the urge to lash out. His eyes flick to Mark, dark and unreadable, before darting away again as Mark sinks another clean shot. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of frustration, or something sharper, lurking just beneath the surface. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else entirely, but it simmers in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate sharpness of his next move, and it doesn’t let go.

You notice the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s caught between holding back and wanting to dominate. His aggression is layered, restrained enough to stay controlled, but just barely. Jeno doesn’t just play the game; he pushes it, toeing the line between brilliance and frustration. He’s not easy to read, but that’s what makes him impossible to ignore.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement at the edge of the gym. Taeyong Lee—Mark’s and Jeno’s father—stands by the sideline, a stark figure against the chaos of the game. His posture is impossibly still, his sharp features betraying no emotion as he watches the players. He’s not just observing; he’s calculating, the weight of his presence dark and deliberate. There’s something unsettling about him, a quiet menace that doesn’t need words to be felt. The resemblance to Jeno is striking—the sharp jaw, the controlled stance—but where Jeno’s tension simmers, Taeyong’s feels unshakable, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You don’t know if his attention is fixed on Jeno, Mark, or something else entirely, but the unease his presence brings is undeniable.

Jeno doesn’t look at Coach Suh on the sidelines, but you can feel the weight of his coach—and his father—in every movement he makes. Coach Suh, known for his precision and demanding leadership, stands with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the court. A former player turned renowned coach, he’s as much a strategist as he is a disciplinarian, a figure who commands respect without ever needing to raise his voice. He’s shaped players for years, turning raw talent into polished skill, and his expectations are nothing short of perfection—especially for his own players.

You force yourself to keep taking notes, eyes skimming over the scribbled lines, but your focus falters when it drifts to Coach Suh. He stands at the edge of the court, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players with a calm intensity that feels too precise. There’s something about the way he carries himself—steady, deliberate—that makes your stomach knot, a tension blooming in your chest that you can’t quite suppress. Your lips press into a thin line, the motion subtle but instinctive, before you force your eyes back to your notes. The pen in your hand hovers, unmoving, as the quiet weight of his presence lingers.

For a moment, the noise of the gym recedes into a distant hum, replaced by a sharper, more personal tension. It’s not the first time his presence has unsettled you—not the first time your composure has felt fragile under the gravity he seems to carry—but tonight, it feels heavier, cutting through your practiced detachment like a blade grazing too close to old wounds. You don’t look up again, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease, no matter how hard you try to will it away.

Nahyun leans in, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your thoughts. “I know Coach Suh is really hot, but you were really staring just now,” she says, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You blink, caught off guard, before a quiet laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

“Sure you weren’t,” Nahyun replies, her giggle light and teasing, but her tone isn’t sharp. It’s the kind of comment only she would make—honest but harmless, pulling you out of the moment without pushing too far.

For a brief second, the weight in your chest eases, but your gaze drifts back to the court, where Jeno’s intensity hasn’t faltered for even a moment. Mark, on the other hand, is thriving. Every pass he makes is precise, every shot purposeful, and the crowd is feeding off his energy. The gym hums with excitement, spectators leaning forward in their seats as they watch the new addition to the team move like he’s been playing here his entire life.

You catch a glimpse of Coach Suh and his assistant, their wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and approval. They exchange quiet words, their expressions unreadable but focused on Mark. It’s clear he’s exceeding expectations, a standout in his very first game. The spectators clap and cheer louder with every shot he makes, and the gym’s energy feels electric, vibrating with the kind of unity that only a win can bring.

Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, loud and playful as always. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we just take a moment to appreciate number twenty-three, Mark Lee? He’s not just a rookie—he’s a revelation! Someone get this man a cape, because he’s carrying the Ravens to glory tonight!”

Your friends erupt in cheers as the final countdown begins, the seconds ticking down like thunder. “That’s our boy!” Yangyang shouts, pumping his fist in the air. Chenle and Shotaro join in, their voices blending with the roar of the crowd. Even Nahyun claps, her usual quiet demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. It’s not just pride—it’s joy, infectious and overwhelming, the kind that pulls you in completely.

The buzzer sounds, and the Ravens secure their win. The stands explode into celebration, students jumping to their feet, shouting and clapping in unison. And at the center of it all is Mark, the clear standout of the night. His teammates pat his back, their smiles wide as they pull him into a huddle. For a moment, everything feels lighter, the weight you carried into the gym replaced with something brighter as you watch Mark soak in his victory.

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

Your gaze catches Jeno breaking away from his teammates, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful as he moves toward Mark. The celebration continues around them, but there’s a sudden tension that coils in the air, snapping your focus back to the court.

Jeno’s voice is low, his words too quiet to reach you, but whatever he says makes Mark turn sharply, his smile fading into something harder. Mark squares his shoulders, his hands rising slightly as if to diffuse the moment, but Jeno doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his stance confrontational, his frustration from earlier spilling over like a dam breaking.

The punch comes before you can fully register what’s happening. Jeno’s fist connects with Mark’s jaw in one sharp, brutal motion, and the sound of it cuts through the gym like a crack of lightning. Gasps ripple through the crowd, the celebration grinding to a halt as Mark stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face.

“Whoa, whoa!” Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, shock laced into his usual dramatic tone. “Someone call security, because that is not regulation play!”

Mark doesn’t retaliate, at least not immediately. His eyes blaze as he steadies himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his knuckles, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, his voice sharp as he fires back at Jeno. You can’t make out the words, but the intensity between them is palpable, a storm brewing in the center of the court.

Teammates rush to intervene, pulling them apart before it escalates further. Jeno struggles against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Mark with a fury that feels unrelenting. Mark, on the other hand, seems calmer now, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease as he’s pulled toward the sidelines.

The gym is no longer celebrating. The buzz of excitement has drained out of the room, leaving only a suffocating silence as the aftermath of Jeno’s outburst settles like smoke in the air. Spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone tries to piece together what just happened. You can’t look away. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Jeno being pulled toward the bench, his jaw clenched tight, fury still radiating off him in waves. Across the court, Mark stands tall, though his jaw is red from the impact, and there’s a tension in his posture that betrays the calm he’s trying to project. The victory—the joy of the Ravens’ first win with Mark on the team—feels like it was hours ago, eclipsed by the chaos that unraveled in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s go,” Yangyang mutters, already moving down toward the court. You follow instinctively, weaving through the thinning crowd with your friends close behind. Mark is surrounded by his teammates, their congratulations now muted and uneasy, but he’s still smiling when he spots you all approaching. The moment his eyes land on you, the earlier tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, and he steps forward to greet you.

You reach him first, pulling him into a tight hug without thinking. “I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

Mark’s arms tighten around you briefly, grounding you even amidst the chaos. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the weight he’s carrying—the strain behind the composed exterior. “Really. It means a lot.”

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking, your tone softer now. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” you say, the words edged with quiet anger. “Jeno’s an ass, Mark. He’s always been like this, and you don’t deserve it.”

Mark shakes his head, a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. “I’m fine,” he says, the words steady but leaving little room for argument. “It’s part of it, right? Just something I’ve gotta handle.”

You don’t agree, but you don’t push either. Instead, your voice lowers, firm but full of care. “He’s lucky that’s all you gave him.”

That pulls a faint laugh from Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, the tension in his expression easing, even if just for a moment.

The others swarm in after you, the tension easing as Donghyuck throws an arm around Mark’s shoulders, ignoring the red mark on his jaw. “Dude, that was insane,” Donghyuck says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as if the fight hadn’t even happened. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole commentary reel planned for you. Starting with: Mark Lee, the pride of the Ravens—taking hits on and off the court!”

“Cut it out,” Shotaro says, but there’s a small smile on his face as he passes Mark a towel. “You did great out there. Really.”

“Seriously,” Yangyang adds, his usual playfulness absent. “We know what it took to get here, and… well, just don’t let idiots like him ruin it for you.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good, I promise.” he says, but there’s a tension in his tone that none of you miss.

“You sure?” Nahyun asks, her voice softer, steadier. She’s watching Mark carefully, her concern clear in the way her gaze lingers on him.

“I am,” Mark insists, but when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something unspoken. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you all let them sit, knowing he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. The pep talk that follows isn’t just for him—it’s for all of you, a way to push back the nervousness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

“Chenle’s right,” Donghyuck says, his tone lighter now but no less genuine. “Screw Jeno. He’s just pissed because you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

“And because Taeyong knows it,” Yangyang adds, glancing toward the sidelines where Jeno’s father watches with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

“Taeyong’s not playing,” Shotaro says firmly. “This is your game, Mark. Don’t forget that.”

Mark nods, his smile small but real this time. “I won’t,” he says. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

The Ravens’ bench is a stark contrast to your group, the tension between the players palpable. They’re scattered, avoiding each other’s gazes, their confusion and unease as visible as the sweat on their brows. Even Jaemin, who rarely lets his composure slip, exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake off the discomfort of being stuck between Mark and Jeno.

The chaos doesn’t just sit with the Ravens, though. It’s there in your group too, beneath the laughter and teasing, in the way your friends stick close to Mark like they’re guarding him from the fallout. You all know what this team means, what joining the Ravens will cost him. It’s not just about the game. It’s about Jeno, about Taeyong, about the pressure that’s already weighing on Mark’s shoulders.

Chenle breaks the tension with a grin, leaning in to nudge Mark. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re a big star, alright? You might be getting a lot of fans and attention now, but we paid attention to you first.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it, a quiet plea wrapped in humor. Chenle rarely says what he means outright, but the way his gaze lingers on Mark, steady and uncharacteristically serious, gives him away. It’s not just a joke—it’s a reminder of where they started, a subtle way of grounding Mark when everything else around him feels uncertain.

Mark doesn’t even pause to consider his response. “Never,” he says firmly, his voice cutting through the noise around you with a conviction that feels unshakable. His gaze sweeps across your group, and you can see it in his eyes—the promise isn’t just for Chenle. It’s for all of you. “It’s home. Always will be.”

The words are simple, but the weight they carry is anything but. There’s something unspoken that passes between all of you in that moment, a reassurance you didn’t realize you needed until it settles in your chest. Mark might be here, on this bigger stage, surrounded by new teammates and a louder crowd, but he’s still yours. No matter how far he goes, no matter what heights he reaches, Mark’s roots are with you, and he’s not leaving that behind. He’s not leaving you behind. 

He’s still the same Mark who sat with you on the cracked pavement of the river court when life felt too heavy, the basketball forgotten at his feet as he listened without interrupting. The same Mark who stayed until the sky turned dark, the faint hum of the river filling the spaces where words couldn’t. He’s still the same Mark who played with you until the streetlights flickered on, who laughed until his sides hurt when Donghyuck tried to narrate the games like a professional announcer. 

Yangyang claps Mark on the shoulder, breaking the quiet thread of nostalgia with his crooked grin. “You better not,” he says, his voice low but firm, his usual humor taking on an edge of seriousness. “Because if you do, we’ll drag you back ourselves. No way you’re leaving us in the dust.”

Mark’s laugh is quiet, but it’s real, a soft sound that feels lighter than anything that’s passed between you all tonight. For a brief moment, the weight of the fight, the tension in the gym, and the unease that’s lingered since the final buzzer all seem to fade. It’s just you and your group, the people who’ve been there for Mark through everything, and who always will be.

When he turns back to you, his expression softens, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes that pulls at something deep in your chest. “Did Mum come?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

You look at him for a moment, as if searching for an answer, even though you already know it. Finally, you shake your head, matching his tone as you reply, “No. She didn’t.”

Mark nods slowly, his smile faltering for just a second before he recovers, smoothing it out into something steady and practiced. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone even but distant. “It’s not her thing anyway.”

You don’t press, and neither does anyone else. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, before Donghyuck, ever the deflector, slings an arm around Mark again. “Alright, alright, enough with the moody stuff,” he says, launching into an exaggerated monologue about Mark’s “heroic performance” on the court, complete with mock commentary and over-the-top gestures. The absurdity finally earns a real laugh from Mark, one that ripples through the group like a wave, lightening the air around you.

The tension lingers in the background, but it doesn’t define the moment. What stands out is the way your group comes together, the way each of you leans into your roles without even thinking—Donghyuck’s humor, Yangyang’s blunt honesty, Nahyun’s quiet warmth, Shotaro’s steady presence, Chenle’s sharp wit—all of it meshing into something that feels solid, unshakable. It’s effortless, a kind of belonging that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, and for a second, it feels like nothing outside of this small circle could touch you.

The Ravens linger on the court, their movements stilted, their expressions uncertain as they glance toward Mark. Their unity feels like an illusion—strained and held together by necessity rather than genuine connection. The difference is glaring. It’s not hard to see where Mark truly belongs, where his foundation lies. It isn’t with the polished façade of his new team, where harmony feels more like an obligation than a bond. It’s here, among the people who’ve been with him before the spotlight, before the stakes were this high. The ones who don’t need a crowd or a jersey to know who he is, who will stay long after the lights fade and the noise disappears.

But then your gaze shifts, pulled by something darker, something unspoken that cuts through the lightness of the moment like a blade. You feel him before you see him, an unseen ripple in the air that brushes against your senses, cold and invasive, like the first breath of winter creeping through a cracked window. It isn’t sound or movement that gives him away—it’s the weight, a suffocating presence that clings to your skin, seeps into your chest, and settles heavy, like an omen you can’t ignore. He’s a shadow stretching long before dusk, a storm carving silence into the sky, waiting to break. By the time your gaze finds him, it’s almost too late—he’s already there, fixed and unrelenting, a wound you didn’t realize you’d opened. 

Jeno.

He sits on the bench, his body honed and sharp as a predator in stillness, elbows braced on his knees, the loose fabric of his jersey stretching over shoulders that seem carved to intimidate. His posture is coiled, almost too controlled, as if the slightest shift would unleash something you aren’t ready to see. His jaw is tight, the sharp line of it catching the light, and a faint pulse throbs at his temple, rhythmic and precise, like the ticking of a countdown. His eyes—dark, endless, and cutting—are locked onto your group with a focus that feels inescapable.

It isn’t anger flashing in those depths; it’s something quieter, more insidious, a steady burn just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of gaze that knows its own power, that pins you in place, a hunter with no need to chase. He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t soften the sharp edges; it amplifies them. The shadows clinging to him aren’t imperfections—they’re the thing that makes him impossible to look away from.

The gym hums with life around him, the sound of laughter swelling as Mark smiles, as your friends lean into each other’s easy rhythm like nothing else matters. But Jeno’s gaze cuts through it all, invasive and heavy, pressing against your chest like it knows where you’re weakest. It’s not just loneliness—not the hollow ache of solitude—it’s sharper, crueler, the kind of emptiness that demands to be filled.

Even his stillness is deliberate, a quiet defiance against the chaos of the gym. He doesn’t belong here, not among the fleeting ease of laughter or the bright warmth of companionship. He’s the shadow cast by the light, the storm biding its time. The muscles in his forearms flex subtly as his hands curl into fists against his knees, and you realize the tension isn’t just in his body—it’s in the room, in the way everything seems to shift under the weight of his presence.

His stare is slow, deliberate, and every time his eyes lock onto yours, it feels as though the world grinds to a halt. That gaze—it’s sharp enough to slice, dragging over you like a scalpel cutting too deep. There’s no fury, no malice, but it doesn’t need either. It’s the precision of it—the way it peels you open, lays you bare, and leaves you exposed to something raw and unrelenting.

He holds it, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, the air between you charged with something you can’t name but feel in every nerve. The gym falls away; there’s only him, watching you like a man standing on the edge of something he can’t turn back from. His beauty is almost unnerving up close—the symmetry of his features made sharper by the darkness in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a whisper of something dangerous.

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

He leans back, the movement unhurried, fluid, the kind of grace that seems effortless but deliberate, like every shift of his body is crafted to draw your attention. The loose fabric of his jersey pulls against his chest and shoulders as he stretches slightly, his physique etched in sharp lines and hard edges, a perfect blend of power and control. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, the muscle flexing beneath his skin before his expression smooths out, closing off like a door slammed shut. His fists tighten briefly on his thighs, the veins running along his forearms stark and pronounced, a quiet reminder of the restrained strength lying just beneath the surface. When he exhales, it’s measured, calculated, a coldness settling over him that feels more like armor than indifference. But the weight of him doesn’t leave. It lingers, creeping into your skin, slow and invasive, a chill that roots itself deep. Even when his eyes are no longer on you, their imprint remains, like a scar carved by a blade you never saw coming.

A sudden warmth pulls you out of your thoughts. Yangyang’s arm slides around your waist, his voice low and steady. “What’s up? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You blink, shaking off the heaviness that clings to you like a second skin. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yangyang doesn’t push, though the slight tilt of his head tells you he doesn’t believe you. Before he can press further, Donghyuck’s voice cuts through the moment, brimming with energy. “Alright, listen up! Post-victory meal, my treat—unless Mark’s paying, which he should be, considering he’s the star tonight.”

Mark groans, rolling his eyes as the rest of the group chimes in with cheers and playful demands. Chenle nudges your shoulder, smirking. “You coming, or do you have another meeting to attend? You’re always running off somewhere. Deadlines to crush, right?”

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ll meet you guys there. I have something to take care of first.”

“Of course you do,” Donghyuck teases, tossing a glance your way as the group starts to head out. “You practically live on campus anyway. Do they even let you leave, or are you just chained to your deadlines?”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, the weight of your next destination already pulling at you. The group moves ahead, their laughter a distant hum, fading into the background as you take a different path. The echo of Jeno’s gaze lingers, an unwelcome shadow pressed against your thoughts, sharp and piercing. You push it aside, but it clings to you, a reminder you don’t have time for.

The court feels unnaturally quiet now. The noise and energy that had filled the space are gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that settles in the corners. You stay near the sideline, notepad balanced on your palm, the pen in your hand tapping absently as your focus shifts. The remnants of the game—the tension, the collisions, the unspoken hierarchies—replay in your mind as you sift through your hurriedly written notes.

You flip to a blank page, drawing a line to separate the chaos of the match from the clarity you needed now. The fragmented thoughts scrawled earlier in the heat of observation begin to take shape, sharp edges forming where before there had only been loose ends.

Notes from Match Observation:

Team Dynamics — Disjointed. Evidence of strain between players, particularly between Mark and Jeno. Tension palpable during high-pressure plays. Needs further analysis—determine if conflict is personal or role-based.

Mark — Quick on his feet. Adjusts easily to dynamic shifts. Shows natural leadership qualities, but lacks rapport with senior players. Body language relaxed, even during high-pressure moments. Maintains focus despite external distractions.

Jeno — Aggressive playstyle. Repeated possession turnovers suggest emotional interference. Observable frustration when Mark assumes control. Physical responses to perceived loss of dominance (e.g., tightened jaw, clenched fists, heightened aggression). Behavior warrants deeper psychological analysis—potential patterns of territorialism or insecurity.

You paused, rereading the notes about Jeno. The way he moved on the court stuck with you, more than anyone else’s performance. His aggression hadn’t just been frustration; it was personal. His focus had lingered too long on Mark, his movements sharper, almost reckless, when the ball left his hands. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about control.

Potential hypothesis for the project, you wrote, underlining the phrase. Jeno’s performance linked to perceived loss of position and authority. Explore psychological response to shifting team roles.

The project was still forming in your mind, but the path was becoming clearer. The study wasn’t just about the game itself; it was about what happened beneath the surface—the interplay of ego, competition, and vulnerability in a team dynamic. Jeno, whether he realized it or not, had become central to your observations. His reactions on the court offered more insight into the psychological strain of competition than anything you’d seen in prior matches.

But the plan went beyond just observing. You would have to dig deeper—find the cracks in the polished surface and figure out what made players like Jeno tick. It wasn’t enough to watch. You’d have to challenge them, push them, get under their skin in ways they wouldn’t expect.

You scribbled another note on the page, bolder this time: Focus: Jeno. Fractured team hierarchy—monitor response under controlled pressure.

The quiet of the court was beginning to feel heavy, oppressive. You exhaled, pressing your pen to the page one last time. The plan was taking shape, but the weight of it was settling in your chest. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with players like Jeno in the mix.

Closing your notebook, you glanced toward the gym’s exit. The next step was clear, and your meeting was waiting. You square your shoulders, tucking the notepad under your arm as you make your way toward Coach Suh’s office, the project already shifting in your mind, gaining sharper edges with every step.

The walk to Coach Suh’s office was short, but the weight of anticipation stretched it, each step landing heavier than the last. The muted thud of your shoes against the polished floor echoed faintly in the empty hallway, a sound that seemed to grow louder in the silence. Your grip tightened on the neatly stacked notes in your hand, the edges digging lightly into your skin—a grounding sensation against the hum of thoughts swirling in your mind. By the time you reached the door, your mask of composure had settled firmly into place, every movement deliberate as you raised your hand to knock twice, the sound sharp and decisive before you stepped inside.

Coach Suh was both a seasoned coach and an adjunct professor in sports psychology, overseeing several interdisciplinary studies, including yours—a project on the psychological effects of competition. His dual roles made him an intimidating figure, but his insight and fairness were undeniable, and you valued the rigor he brought to your work. It was his belief in the importance of understanding team dynamics and mental resilience that had made this project possible.

His office reflected the complexity of his role, blending academic precision with a personal history rooted in basketball. The polished wooden desk at the center of the room gleamed under the warm glow of a desk lamp, its surface organized with neatly stacked papers, a clipboard, and a single coffee mug faintly stained at the rim. Behind him, shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with psychology textbooks, binders filled with meticulous notes, and scattered awards gleaming faintly in the light.

Framed photos of championship wins lined the walls, capturing moments frozen in time—his younger self alongside triumphant teams, the exhilaration of victory etched in every face. Notably absent, however, was a photo of the current Seoul Ravens holding the state championship trophy. That picture didn’t exist yet; they hadn’t won. The space where it could hang seemed to glare as a reminder of the pressure that loomed over the team, the weight of expectations yet unmet.

Beside them hung detailed diagrams of plays and strategies, their edges worn from years of reference. A basketball, worn smooth from countless games, sat proudly on a stand in the corner, its surface scuffed with the marks of a career steeped in competition.

The room smelled faintly of leather and coffee, grounding yet charged, and the hum of the air conditioning added a low, constant backdrop. It was a space that felt deeply personal yet exuded structured professionalism, every detail chosen to reflect both his authority and his humanity.

But you weren’t prepared for Jeno.

He was slouched in one of the chairs, his long frame sprawled in a way that seemed deliberately enticing—like he was daring the room to notice him. His posture feigned ease, but the tautness in his jaw betrayed him, and the restless rhythm of his fingers against the chair’s arm hinted at a frustration that wasn’t meant to stay contained. There was something magnetic about him, a pull you couldn’t deny, even as his irritation crackled in the air like static. The loose fabric of his jersey stretched over his chest and shoulders, the exposed skin at his neck glistening faintly under the office’s fluorescent lights, and his legs, spread wide, radiated a careless confidence that felt far from accidental.

“…completely unacceptable, Jeno. I don’t care how frustrated you were out there. You’re the captain—you set the tone for the team. This isn’t just about you.”

Jeno’s nostrils flared slightly, his lips thinning as though he was physically swallowing the retort clawing its way up his throat. He didn’t move, but the air around him shifted, charged with something volatile. His gaze burned like a smoldering coal, the weight of it heavy and deliberate as it dragged over you the moment you entered the room. He didn’t look at you like you were interrupting—he looked at you like you were trespassing. And yet, his eyes lingered, dragging over you with a heat that felt out of place in the sterile office, searing and unsettling.

You don’t feel conflicted about interrupting them—not even for a second. Whatever tension you’d walked into, it didn’t belong to you, and you weren’t going to let it settle on your shoulders. Jeno’s sharp gaze might have been meant to unnerve you, but it slid off like water against stone. This was your meeting, your project, and your purpose in this room wasn’t secondary to his reprimand. You stepped forward with steady composure, the cool detachment you’d mastered over the years serving you well now. Whatever storm you’d walked into, you didn’t plan on getting caught in it.

However you apologise out of common courtesy “Sorry to interrupt,” you said evenly, your voice steady as you moved further inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound felt louder than it should have in the tension-filled room. You turned toward Coach Suh, keeping your focus sharp. “I’m here for our meeting.”

Coach Suh’s stern expression softened slightly as his attention shifted to you. His demeanor was still authoritative but carried a familiarity that felt both reassuring and dangerous. He gestured to the empty chair beside Jeno. “Right on time, as always. Have a seat, Y/N.”

You moved toward the chair, acutely aware of Jeno’s eyes tracking your every step. Jeno didn’t adjust his posture as you passed him, but you felt the weight of his gaze tracking you, his annoyance now mixed with something harder to place. You settled into the seat, placing your notes on the table and smoothing them out as if to physically organize the tension crackling in the air.

Coach Suh resumed speaking, his tone sharp but composed as he turned back to Jeno. “Your role as captain isn’t just about skill, Jeno. It’s about leadership. You can’t afford to lose your head during a game. What you did tonight put the entire team at risk.”

Jeno’s jaw ticked, and his hands curled into loose fists on the armrests, the veins along his forearms standing out against his skin. He exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound that felt more like a warning than a concession. His eyes flicked to you again, narrowing slightly, as if your presence added another layer to whatever war was raging beneath his skin. The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept your expression neutral, your gaze trained on Coach Suh.

You didn’t need to look at Jeno to know his body language screamed defiance. You could feel it in the taut silence between his words and his barely restrained movements, in the way his fingers curled and straightened against the armrest like he was trying to grip the air itself. It wasn’t just the reprimand that had him on edge—it was the fact that you were here to witness it.

And yet, he said nothing. For all his irritation, his silence was its own kind of rebellion, simmering and sharp, just waiting for the right moment to explode.

You set your pen down beside your notes and finally broke the silence. “Should we get started?” you asked, your tone professional but with an edge of confidence. You weren’t about to let Jeno’s simmering irritation throw you off. This was your space now, not his.

Coach Suh gave a sharp nod, his focus shifting to you. “Yes, let’s.”

Coach Suh leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his sharp gaze fixed on you as you explained the framework of your project. “The psychological impact of team dynamics and competition,” you began, your voice measured and steady. “I want to examine how roles, rivalries, and external pressures affect both individual and collective performance under high-stakes conditions.”

“And your methodology?” Coach Suh asked, his tone challenging but not dismissive.

“I’ve started with observational data from games and practices—analyzing body language, verbal communication, and physical responses during pressure moments,” you replied, meeting his gaze directly. “That’s supplemented with self-assessments from players and, eventually, post-game interviews to compare their internal perceptions to observed behavior.”

Coach Suh nodded slowly, the gesture deliberate, his approval subtle but palpable. “Interesting approach. And you believe these observations will lead to actionable insights for the team?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “The goal isn’t just analysis. It’s identifying patterns and providing strategies to improve cohesion, reduce conflict, and maximize performance.”

Jeno’s presence, however, was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t moved much—his arm still draped over the backrest of his chair, the other resting lazily on his thigh—but there was an electric undercurrent to his stillness, like a predator waiting to pounce. His fingers tapped against the chair’s edge, an uneven rhythm that grated against your nerves. His gaze burned into you, heavy and unreadable, and every now and then, a quiet scoff slipped past his lips, deliberate enough to make sure you noticed.

You ignored him, for the most part, focusing instead on presenting your findings. But as you reached for your notes to hand them over to Coach Suh, Jeno moved faster than you anticipated. His hand shot out, snatching the pages from yours, the brush of his fingers against your skin fleeting but searing. He leaned back in his chair, unfolding the notes with an air of casual arrogance, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

Jeno’s scoff deepened as his eyes flicked down each page, scanning it with a deliberate slowness that felt almost mocking. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook, his brow furrowing at certain lines. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Finally, he glanced back at you, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“This is what you’re so proud of?” he said, his tone cutting. “Psychological impacts? Team dynamics? What’s next, diagnosing us all with daddy issues?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, your hand darted forward, fingers curling around the other edge of the page to snatch it back. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brushed against his. His skin was warm yet rough against yours, and for that brief, electrified moment, it was impossible to ignore the tension pulling taut between you.

His eyes snapped to yours at the touch, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to say something.

You muttered under your breath, barely audible, “Wouldn’t be hard considering who your father is. He’d give me enough material for a dissertation.” 

Jeno’s head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing, tension coiling around him like a wire pulled too tight. “What did you just say?”

You straightened slightly, meeting his sharp gaze with a coolness that only seemed to stoke the fire in his expression. “I said, if you’re feeling particularly exposed, maybe that’s a reflection of your own behavior,” you shot back, your tone cutting and deliberate, the weight of your earlier mutter still hanging unspoken between you.

“So, basically, you’re just going to watch us, scribble a few notes, and decide who’s the problem?” His voice was low, biting, but his words landed with the precision of a thrown dagger.

You turned toward him, your expression calm but sharp. “Not at all,” you said evenly. “Besides, if there’s a problem, it usually makes itself obvious.”

Jeno’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Sounds like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

“Only for people who give me something to write about,” you shot back, your tone cool and unyielding.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, the air between you shifting, tightening, until it felt like the whole room was holding its breath. He let the words hang for a moment, the tension palpable, before his lips curled into something dangerously close to a sneer. “Right,” he drawled, tossing the notes onto the desk in front of Coach Suh with deliberate carelessness, “because watching us like we’re lab rats is definitely going to help the team.”

“You’re not that interesting, Jeno,” you said coolly, your voice steady despite the fire licking at the edges of your composure. “But if you think my observations might shed some light on your temper tantrums, feel free to keep reacting this way. You’re making my job easier.”

Jeno leaned forward now, the arm he’d draped lazily over the chair falling to rest on his knee. His eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them almost suffocating. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and edged with something darker.

You didn’t back down, your gaze unwavering as you met his. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you replied, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re doing all the work for me.”

The corners of Jeno’s mouth twitched, his lips curving into a faint, taunting smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He leaned back, his body settling into a posture that screamed ease, though the charged air around him told another story. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he murmured, his voice a low drawl, laced with a dark amusement that made your stomach twist. His gaze flicked over you, deliberate and heavy. “Let me guess—you think you’re the smartest person here. That whatever this little project of yours is, it’s actually going to matter.”

You let his words hang in the air for a beat, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of your notebook. Slowly, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm that didn’t waver, though your pulse thrummed in your ears. “I am the smartest person in here and it matters enough to get under your skin,” you replied, your voice smooth but cutting, each word measured. You leaned forward just slightly, the movement deliberate, like you were closing the distance without actually touching him. “For someone who acts like they don’t care, you’re trying awfully hard to prove it.”

Jeno’s expression hardened, the mocking curve of his lips flattening as his eyes darkened. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the weight of your words hang in the air between you. The room felt too small, the tension pressing against your skin like a vice, but you refused to break eye contact, your fingers tightening around your notebook as if it could ground you.

Then, he shifted, rising slowly from his chair. The scrape of the legs against the floor echoed in the tense quiet, sharp enough to set your pulse racing, but you stayed seated, your back stiff and your chin lifting just slightly in defiance. He didn’t say a word as he moved closer, his steps deliberate, calculated, the weight of his presence pressing down on you with every inch he closed.

Stopping just in front of you, he leaned down, one hand gripping the back of your chair, the other settling on the edge of the desk beside you. His scent—an intoxicating mix of cedarwood and something darker, like smoke and the faintest trace of cologne—washed over you, unsettling in its familiarity. The proximity was dizzying, his broad shoulders framing your view, his presence magnetic in a way you couldn’t ignore. The way he loomed over you wasn’t just intimidating; it was suffocating, every inch of closeness a silent dare.

“For someone who claims to have me all figured out,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that slid down your spine, “you’re spending an awful lot of time looking at me. Writing about me.” His eyes flicked down briefly, catching on your notebook still clutched in your lap before dragging back up to yours.

Your grip on the notebook tightened, but you didn’t flinch. “I’m doing my job,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor threatening to creep into it. “If that bothers you so much, maybe stop giving me so much material.”

Jeno let out a low, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in the charged air between you. His gaze dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said softly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your skin. Without touching you, he leaned in, the space between you evaporating as his hand slid along the desk, bracing firmly against its surface. The movement was deliberate, calculated, and as his arm inched closer to your shoulder, the proximity boxed you in completely. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and faintly uneven, and the sheer weight of his presence felt like a challenge you weren’t sure how to answer.

“And you think you’re intimidating,” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as the air between you crackled with tension. Your heart was racing, a rapid, pounding rhythm that betrayed the calm exterior you wore, but you didn’t shrink away. Instead, you tilted your chin higher, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. You leaned forward ever so slightly, your movement instinctive, a flicker of something unspoken drawing you closer. 

Jeno’s reaction was immediate, though fleeting—a slight hitch in his breath, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the tension in his expression. His gaze dropped, sweeping over you as if recalibrating, before locking onto your eyes again, sharper now, darker. His jaw tightened, his grip on the desk shifting subtly, his knuckles brushing the edge as if grounding himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the words almost a growl. Yet, for all the bite in his tone, there was something else lingering in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his gaze swept over the angle of your jaw, your mouth. It wasn’t intimidation he was trying to hold onto now—it was control.

You leaned in slightly, your breath brushing against his jaw as you spoke, your voice calm but edged with challenge. “You know, all you’re doing is proving my point,” you murmured, your words deliberate, carrying a weight that matched the tension between you. Your hand shifted subtly, resting against the arm of your chair, grazing the space where his fingers gripped the desk. The movement wasn’t calculated, but the way his breath hitched, the flicker in his eyes as they dropped to the closeness, told you he’d felt it too. You tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze fully, daring him to say more.

Jeno’s eyes dropped to your lips, the movement subtle but unmissable. He didn’t hide it, didn’t even try, and the deliberate slowness of it sent a jolt through you. The air between you felt impossibly heavy, the heat of his body so close it brushed against your skin. Your hand shifted on the chair’s arm, the movement unthinking, but it brought your fingers close to his on the desk, grazing just barely. His breath hitched, the sound almost imperceptible, but it was there.

His gaze snapped back to yours, darker now, his pupils blown wide. “You really think you have the upper hand here?” he asked, his voice low and biting, the edge of it sharp enough to draw blood.

You didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Your lips curved just slightly, and you answered with a simple, defiant, “Yes. Of course I do.”

There it was—the faintest stifle of a sound in his throat, one he couldn’t quite swallow back. His tongue darted out, dragging across his lips in a way that seemed more reflex than intention, but his eyes were glued to yours—or, no, to your lips. The intensity of his stare burned through the space between you, and it felt as though the air itself had thickened, holding the two of you in place.

The moment stretched unbearably long, charged with an energy that had nowhere to go. His hand pressed harder against the desk, veins tightening against his skin, while his shoulders shifted, leaning just enough closer to make you feel like he was about to say—or do—something neither of you could take back.

“Am I interrupting?” Coach Suh’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and clear.

You didn’t move. Neither did Jeno. Your eyes stayed locked, breaths shallow, the weight of Coach Suh’s question lingering somewhere outside the charged bubble neither of you dared to acknowledge. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, and despite every shred of composure you clung to, your gaze flicked there—just for a moment, just long enough to make the heat between you unbearable.

But you didn’t stop. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flex of tension in his throat as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue ghosted over his lower lip like he couldn’t help himself. Something unspoken crackled between you, thick and suffocating, and when your eyes snapped back to his, they were darker, hungrier, as if he’d caught you staring and wasn’t letting it go.

Still, neither of you flinched, neither of you gave in, your breaths coming too shallow and too close, mingling in the small space between you. His hand, still braced on the desk beside you, tightened briefly, his knuckles brushing against the edge of your armrest. You leaned in just slightly, so slightly it wasn’t deliberate—but the effect was devastating.

His pupils dilated further, the sharp inhale he took barely audible, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. His gaze dragged down again, tracing the curve of your mouth, then slowly back up to your eyes, holding them with a force that sent a shiver skimming down your spine. The room might as well have disappeared.

Coach Suh cleared his throat again, louder, pointed, and still neither of you turned. The tension hung heavy for one more breath before Jeno shifted, leaning back slightly, though the heat of his presence didn’t fully retreat. His fingers stayed braced against the desk, his eyes lingering on yours, daring you to break the moment first. You didn’t.

“That’s enough,” Coach Suh said sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He leaned forward, placing a hand on the notes Jeno had carelessly tossed onto his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Y/N’s work isn’t just about pointing out flaws, Jeno. It’s about understanding how we can work as a team. You’d do well to listen. Right now, your attitude is one of the biggest problems this team has. If you’re so determined to be involved, start by proving you’re part of the solution instead of the reason we need one.”

Jeno didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered briefly to Coach Suh. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease; if anything, it seemed to coil tighter. Slowly, his eyes slid back to you, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though every breath in the room had been sucked away. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk that wasn’t amusement—it was provocation, sharp and deliberate.

Coach Suh’s eyes moved between the two of you, his tone now laced with warning. “If you’re both finished,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we still have a meeting to conduct. I suggest we get back to it before this spirals into something that becomes out of control.”

You straightened in your seat, shifting your focus back to Coach Suh with as much composure as you could muster. But the energy in the room didn’t dissipate. Jeno didn’t leave, didn’t even shift far from where he sat, his presence as heavy as a storm cloud on the horizon. His hand remained braced against the desk, his posture deceptively casual, though his gaze stayed locked on you for just a second too long before he finally leaned back further into his chair.

Even as you resumed explaining the next phase of your project, detailing your observations and plans with measured clarity, you could feel his eyes lingering on you, dark and calculating. It wasn’t over—not by a long shot. Whatever reason he had for staying, it wasn’t just to listen, and the weight of his unspoken motive hung between you like a challenge you couldn’t yet name.

Coach Suh leaned back slightly, his arms folding across his chest as his gaze flicked between you and Jeno. “Alright, Y/N. For this project, I assume you’ll need direct input from the team. Have you decided who you’d like to work with?”

You straightened in your chair, calm and collected, though the weight of Jeno’s stare was impossible to ignore. Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook as you replied, your tone measured. “Jaemin. He’s reliable, and I think his dynamics will give me a well-rounded perspective.”

The creak of Jeno’s chair pulled your attention despite yourself. He leaned forward, his elbow braced against the desk, and his voice broke through with a forced casualness that was anything but. “That’s it? No room for the captain?”

Your gaze didn’t waver from Coach Suh, your expression neutral. “I’ve already made my choice,” you said smoothly. “But thank you for your interest.”

Jeno’s response was instant, his voice dipping lower as he said, “I wasn’t asking.” The sharpness in his words made your shoulders tense. You turned to him, meeting his unyielding gaze head-on. His eyes locked on yours, dark and intent. “If you’re going to be watching us, writing about us, you’ll need the full picture. And last I checked, I’m the one leading this team.”

“Last I checked,” you countered, your voice cooling with every syllable, “I choose who contributes to my project.”

Coach Suh cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. His expression was neutral, but there was a finality to his tone. “Jeno has a point. As team captain, his perspective could be valuable.”

You pressed your lips together, the frustration curling tight in your chest. “That’s not necessary,” you replied, turning your attention back to the coach. “I’m more than capable of getting what I need without his… input.”

Jeno leaned back then, his smirk infuriatingly smug, like he’d already won something you didn’t know was a competition. “Guess you’ll have to deal with it anyway,” he said, his tone smooth, almost lazy, but with an undercurrent sharp enough to cut. “Because I’m joining.”

You didn’t look at him right away, your fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the desk. When you did turn, the weight of his gaze slammed into you, dark and unyielding, daring you to challenge him. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your tone measured but edged, like the calm before a storm. “I don’t need you. I’ve already decided.” 

His smirk deepened, the curve of his lips sharp, deliberate, as his eyes darkened with something unreadable. “And you think I care?” he said, his voice low, edging closer as he leaned forward. The weight of him pressed into the space between you, suffocating and electric. “You’re picking apart my team, pulling us apart like we’re an experiment, and you thought you could leave me out of it?”

“This isn’t your project,” you shot back, turning to meet his gaze head-on, the heat between you immediate and suffocating. “It’s mine. And frankly, I don’t need your temper or your control issues derailing it.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. “Control issues?” he repeated, his voice almost a growl. “You’re writing a whole damn thesis on me, and I’m the one with control issues?”

You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms as you let out a sharp laugh. “You have nothing to give me,” you said flatly. “I need something useful, not someone wasting my time.”

The shift was subtle but immediate. Jeno straightened slightly, his hand pressing against the desk, his fingers brushing dangerously close to yours. “You don’t think you’ll get what you need from me?” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “Or are you just afraid you’ll get more than you bargained for?”

Your stomach twisted, a flicker of heat rushing through you that you shoved aside. “I’m not afraid of you, Jeno,” you said coolly, meeting his gaze head-on. “But I’m not interested in indulging whatever game you think this is.”

“Enough,” Coach Suh’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding, slicing through the tension like a blade. Both of you turned to him, the weight of his authority undeniable. His gaze shifted from you to Jeno, lingering on the latter with a look that was more judgment than approval. “Jeno, you’re joining this project.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Coach Suh held up a hand, cutting you off with a firm gesture. “This isn’t negotiable,” he said, his tone steady but sharp. His gaze shifted to Jeno, his words deliberate and cutting. “Your behavior on the court has been affecting the team. I want to see you take accountability, and this project is an opportunity for you to reflect and improve.”

He cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the tension lingering between the three of you. “And let me make one thing clear, Jeno—if you’re not on board with this, I have no problem benching you for the next game. That includes the second half of the season if necessary.” The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, quieting the unease that had begun to stir in the small office.

“Sure,” Jeno said, leaning back slightly, his tone casual and annoyingly smug. “Whatever you say, Coach. I’m in.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked to you, his smirk widening as if he knew exactly how much his compliance had thrown you off. “Guess you’ve got your player,” he added smoothly, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Should be fun.”

You blinked, struggling to process his reaction, the calm exterior you tried so hard to maintain now wavering. “This is ridiculous,” you said finally, turning to Coach Suh, your voice tight with frustration. “He’s just going to disrupt everything.”

“That’s on you to manage,” Coach Suh replied, his tone measured but firm. “And Jeno—don’t think for a second this means you get to coast through this. You’ll contribute, or there will be consequences.”

“Gladly,” Jeno said, his voice smooth and dripping with taunt. His eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, the satisfaction in his tone curling through the air like smoke. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the retort that burned on the edge of your tongue. Your fingers brushed over the edges of your notes, the motion brisk and deliberate as you redirected your focus to the desk in front of you. “Guess we’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Jeno murmured, his words quiet, but laced with amusement that grated against your composure. His tone was low, meant only for you, and it crawled under your skin.

You didn’t look at him again, forcing your eyes to remain locked on Coach Suh as he resumed speaking. But Jeno’s presence wasn’t something you could simply ignore—it lingered, pressing down on you with an unspoken challenge. It was a storm you could feel building, relentless and impossible to escape.

Jeno’s lips curled into a slow, smug smile, a rare, genuine satisfaction lighting up his features as Coach Suh confirmed he’d be your partner. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it lingered—a quiet triumph glinting in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm over the backrest like he’d already won something, and his gaze flickered to you. But you didn’t notice, too busy jotting notes to catch the shift in his demeanor.

Internally, he was calculating, already deciding how he’d spin this situation to his advantage. You were observant, sure—annoyingly so—but if he could steer your attention away from assessing him, focus it elsewhere, maybe even use your diligence to his benefit, he could get through this project unscathed. After all, it was just another game, and Jeno had always been good at playing the game.

Yet beneath that smugness, Jeno was fuming. He’d never intended to actually participate in your project; his goal had simply been to annoy you and shift your focus. Now, he was stuck, and the idea of spending more time with you—dealing with your sharp tongue and infuriating composure—was already grating on him. And still, there was something there, a flicker of something he refused to name, let alone acknowledge. A part of him—small but persistent—was intrigued by you. You weren’t like anyone else he knew. You didn’t crumble under his presence or fawn over his charm like others did. Instead, you stood your ground, matching his fire with your own sharp edges, and somehow always managing to get the last word.

It was maddening, frustrating in a way he couldn’t quite place, but it was also addictive. The way you carried yourself, the way you didn’t fold under the weight of his reputation or his attempts to push your buttons, only made you more fascinating. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly—but it was something close enough to unsettle him.

Jeno’s smile lingered, masking the whirlwind of conflicting thoughts beneath. He thought he’d won this round, that he’d managed to take control of the situation. But there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, one he stubbornly ignored. He didn’t realize yet how wrong he was. This wasn’t a game he was prepared to lose. And with you, losing might not even be the worst outcome. You were already a step ahead, even if he couldn’t see it yet.

The hallway outside Coach Suh’s office was eerily quiet as you stepped out, the door clicking shut behind you. The air felt heavier somehow, the tension from the meeting lingering like a shadow pressing against your chest. Your pulse still raced, the leftover adrenaline making it hard to focus as you tried to replay the exchange in your head. Relief flickered at the edges, but it was overpowered by frustration—the way Coach Suh’s finality had left no room for argument, and the way the entire conversation had left you feeling unsteady. You rubbed at your temples, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm as you moved down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint hum of the overhead lights gave way to the distant sounds of the campus at night as you made your way toward the parking lot. Your steps felt heavier than usual, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions clawing at your chest—irritation at the unresolved tension, a reluctant satisfaction that the meeting was over, and a quiet unease at what lay ahead.

Near the line of cars, you spotted them—Mark and Yangyang—waiting just outside, leaning against a lamppost. Yangyang scrolled idly on his phone, his face illuminated by the blue light, while Mark stood with his arms crossed, his head lifting as he caught sight of you. The sight of them caught you off guard, and you hesitated, blinking in surprise.

“Finally,” Yangyang said, grinning as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Mark gave you a small nod, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your tone came out softer than you intended, touched by the unexpected warmth of their gesture.

“It’s late, and you don’t drive,” Yangyang replied with a shrug, as if the decision was obvious.

“Ouch,” you muttered, your lips twitching into a faint smile. Yangyang chuckled, the sound light and teasing, and even Mark’s lips curved slightly at your reaction.

Mark pushed off the lamppost, his arms uncrossing as he approached you. “You okay? How’d it go in there?” he asked, his voice low but warm.

His words hit you harder than expected, the genuine concern behind them making it difficult to mask the lingering tension in your chest. You paused, gripping the strap of your bag tightly before finally meeting his gaze. “It went…” you started, but the words felt insufficient. You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine. Just tense. You know how these things are.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly, his concern shifting into something more thoughtful. “You sure? You seem… off.”

You hesitated, the weight of the meeting still pressing against your ribs. “I’m fine,” you said again, but your voice lacked conviction. The truth was, you weren’t sure how you felt—relieved, frustrated, and somewhere in between. And from the way Mark’s gaze lingered, you knew he wasn’t convinced either.

“I know something that can cheer you up,” Mark said after a moment, his voice steady but quieter than Yangyang’s teasing tone. “The group’s at that food place near the river court. Figured we’d wait and head over together.”

Your stomach growled loudly, cutting through the moment and making Yangyang snicker. “Sounds like someone’s ready to eat.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the tension in your chest loosening slightly. “Guess I am,” you admitted, your lips curving into a genuine smile. Mark smiled back, and Yangyang gave a mock bow, gesturing for you to lead the way.

And then you felt it—that shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air had thickened around you. Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second, the sound of Yangyang’s teasing fading into the background as your senses honed in on something—or someone.

And there he was.

Jeno stood beside his car, its sleek, dark frame glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlight, half shrouded in shadow. The contrast between his vehicle and Mark’s couldn’t have been starker—Mark’s car, parked just a few feet away, was practical, unassuming, and a little rough around the edges, while Jeno’s looked every bit the luxury statement it was meant to be. His stance matched his car’s energy: effortless, confident, yet inherently confrontational. One arm rested on the car’s roof, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface, while his other hand hung loosely by his side. The shadows played tricks across his face, obscuring parts of him but never dulling the sharp intensity in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to hide his focus; his eyes followed you as you stepped closer, flicking to Mark just briefly before settling on you again, deliberate and unrelenting.

The space felt charged, and as the three of you approached, the unspoken weight of Jeno’s presence drew a tension so palpable it made Yangyang glance your way, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s his deal?” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you and Mark to hear.

Mark’s posture stiffened beside you, his gaze narrowing as it locked on Jeno. The tension between them was immediate, the air thickening as Jeno shifted just slightly, his movements slow, calculated. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, the kind that barely reached his eyes but still managed to drip with something darker than amusement.

“Something on your mind?” Mark finally asked, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a challenge. He took a subtle step forward, his body angling slightly in front of yours as if anticipating what was coming.

Jeno let out a quiet laugh, pushing off the side of his car and taking a single step closer, his movements deliberate. “Just appreciating the view,” he said smoothly, his gaze sliding from Mark to you, lingering just long enough to make the statement feel personal. His tone was light, but the tension behind it was anything but.

The contrast between them was striking—Mark’s controlled resolve against Jeno’s unsettling ease, his presence like a shadow that refused to be ignored. The difference in their cars felt like an extension of their unspoken rivalry, a visual reminder of the tension simmering between them now.

Jeno’s lips curved slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. The satisfaction in his expression was undeniable. Smug. That was the word. Smug, because he’d forced his way into your project. Smug, because you’d have to deal with him now, day after day, night after night. Smug, because he knew what you didn’t want to admit—that proximity could be dangerous. And yet, there was something darker behind his satisfaction, something aimed squarely at Mark. For Jeno, this wasn’t just about the project. It wasn’t even about you, not entirely. It was about Mark.

Mark had taken something from him. Stolen it. His place on the team, the spotlight, and the validation that should have been Jeno’s. As far as Jeno was concerned, Mark hadn’t paid the price for stepping into a life he had no business claiming. Their rivalry was born in moments like this, where the weight of their shared history loomed like a storm cloud. Two brothers who were never really brothers, whose lives had only become more entangled as time dragged them into each other’s orbit. Jeno resented every inch of it, every loss that he blamed on Mark’s presence. This project? It was leverage, another weapon in his arsenal, another way to prove that Mark didn’t belong.

Mark had a hard time holding back—always had, but especially when it came to Jeno. The tension between them was palpable the moment you stepped outside. You caught it in the subtle way Mark’s body stiffened, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for a hit. Yangyang, who had been leaning casually against Mark’s car, noticed the change immediately. “Here we go…” he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation as he straightened, his easy demeanor fading in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” Mark’s voice was calm but edged with steel as he stepped closer, subtly angling himself between you and Jeno. Protective, as always.

Jeno pushed off his car, his smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Just making sure Y/N got out of her meeting alright,” he said, his tone drenched in mock concern. “Didn’t realize she had an entourage.”

“She doesn’t need you to make sure of anything,” Mark shot back, his jaw tightening as his patience thinned.

Jeno’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, his smirk deepening before he turned back to Mark. “Doesn’t seem like she needs you either,” he said, the words delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit where it hurt. His voice carried something darker—possessive, taunting, a deliberate dig.

Mark stepped forward, his voice dropping. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Jeno didn’t hesitate. His smirk sharpened into something cruel as he met Mark’s glare head-on. “Alright,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and cutting. “You’ve been pretending like you belong here, acting like you’re on my level, but we both know the truth. You don’t belong on this team. You’ve never belonged and I’m not about to let you get in my way.”

Yangyang shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing Mark’s arm in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. “Guys, seriously, this is—”

“Stay out of it,” Mark snapped, shrugging Yangyang off without breaking eye contact with Jeno. His voice was taut, sharp-edged, and his body moved instinctively closer to Jeno’s, drawn in by the confrontation. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Jeno’s head tilted, his smirk darkening as he met Mark’s glare. “Don’t I?” he said, his tone low, deliberate. “Let’s not pretend, Mark. You’re just holding a spot—taking up space that’s not yours.”

Mark’s jaw tightened as Jeno took another deliberate step closer, the air between them heavy with tension. “What’s your problem, Jeno? You can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?” His words were sharp, anger cutting through the controlled tone he tried to maintain.

Jeno tilted his head, his smirk turning colder, crueler. “Center of attention?” he repeated mockingly, his voice smooth but layered with disdain. Then, without warning, his focus shifted, his gaze boring into Mark’s with a sharper intent. “You know, you’ve never mattered to him.” His voice dropped lower, heavier, carrying a weight designed to hit its mark. “He’s never spoken about you. Not once. Not even your name.” Jeno leaned in just enough to make Mark stiffen, the movement deliberate, calculated. “You don’t exist to him, Mark. And you never will.”

Mark’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he absorbed Jeno’s words. The tension in his jaw was visible now, his teeth gritting against the weight of what had just been said. His breath hitched, just for a second, before his eyes snapped back to Jeno’s, blazing with something that burned hotter than anger.

“You don’t get to talk about that,” Mark said, his voice low, strained, but steady. Each word came out like it was pulled through glass, sharp and deliberate. “You think you know everything? You think this is some kind of game?” His body shifted forward, stepping into Jeno’s space, the distance between them evaporating. “You can keep running your mouth, Jeno. Keep throwing shit around like it’s going to break me. But we both know the only reason you’re standing here is because you can’t stand what’s already broken in you.”

The tension crackled, heavy and suffocating, as Yangyang hovered nearby, his eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, holding up his hands as if to defuse the situation. “Can we just—”

“Meet me at the river court,” Mark cut in, his voice slicing through Yangyang’s attempt at peace. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, as was the fire in his eyes. “Let’s settle this.”

Jeno blinked, his expression blank for a split second before a slow, calculating smile spread across his face. He took another step forward, his presence looming as his gaze bore into Mark’s. “You sure about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now but loaded with implication.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Mark shot back, not flinching under the weight of Jeno’s stare.

Yangyang groaned audibly, running a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, but neither of them paid him any attention.

You didn’t step in. You should have—your better judgment whispered it, but something deeper, something darker, kept you rooted. They were two forces destined to collide, and for reasons you couldn’t fully articulate, you let it happen. Let them tear into each other. Let the tension explode. It wasn’t indecision; it was deliberate. Their words were knives, flung with precision, cutting through the air as you stayed silent. Perhaps it was frustration, a morbid curiosity, or the flicker of something more unsettling—an unspoken desire to watch the chaos unravel, to see who would break first. Whatever it was, you didn’t stop them. You simply watched, a quiet conductor letting the storm play its symphony.

Jeno’s smile lingered as he finally stepped back, his hands slipping into his pockets with an air of smug satisfaction. “Don’t be late,” he said, his voice deceptively light, before turning on his heel and walking to his car. Even as he walked away, the weight of his presence clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake.

The rumble of his engine broke the silence, low and menacing as his car pulled out of the lot. His taillights disappeared into the dark, but the tension he left behind didn’t fade.

Mark was still. His shoulders, rigid moments ago, slackened slightly, but his silence spoke louder than any words could. You watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to move, to speak, but he didn’t—not at first.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression steady but his eyes searching, holding a weight you hadn’t seen before. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asked quietly, his voice low and deliberate. “Should I even go through with this?”

You met his gaze, the answer forming before you even had to think about it. “Destroy him,” you said simply, your voice unwavering.

Mark didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his jaw tightening as if the words solidified something in him.

Yangyang groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he stepped back, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, shaking his head as though resigning himself to the inevitable. Without another word, he fell in line behind you and Mark, his footsteps slower but steady, trailing as the three of you made your way to the car.

The river court buzzed with energy as you arrived, the kind of energy that prickled against your skin and made the air heavier, like it was bracing for what was to come. The sky hung low in a muted purple, dusk casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. The court was worn but alive, its faded lines and chipped concrete bearing witness to years of games that were more than games—rivalries fought and friendships forged under the open sky. Just beyond the court, the river flowed steadily, its rushing sound threading through the air like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that time moved forward, even when everything here felt suspended. The streetlights flickered reluctantly to life, their uneven glow spilling across the edges of the court and stretching the shadows of the gathering crowd into long, distorted shapes.

The court wasn’t just a place. For you, it held a kind of familiarity that was hard to explain but impossible to ignore. You’d been here before—countless times. Not as a player, but as a spectator, a supporter, someone who had seen it in every light and weather. Late summer evenings, where the sun dipped low, casting orange streaks across the river’s surface, and the games ran long into the night. Damp mornings, when the court was slick from rain but still drew in the faithful who didn’t care about getting their shoes wet. You remembered the laughter that echoed here, the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, and the rare moments of silence, when the outcome of a game hung in the balance, everyone holding their breath.

It wasn’t just a court; it was its own world, separate from the polished gyms and structured arenas. It was raw, gritty, and completely unforgiving—a place where there were no refs, no rules, only pride and skill. For you, it was also a place of memories, fleeting but vivid. The times you stood on the sidelines with your friends, sharing snacks and commentary, your voices carrying over the court. The way the river glimmered in the background, a backdrop to so many moments that felt small then but monumental now. 

It was where you learned to read people—the way their body language shifted, how tension seeped into a game before the first shot was even made. Watching those games, you’d started piecing together what made people tick: the subtle shifts of insecurity masked as arrogance, the way rivalries simmered beneath seemingly friendly smiles. You didn’t know it then, but those countless hours spent as a quiet observer shaped how you moved through the world now—calculating, precise, always looking for the things unsaid. The river court wasn’t just familiar ground; it was where your instincts sharpened, where you learned that every move, every glance, carried weight. And tonight, as you stood on that same cracked pavement, it felt like the court was daring you to see it all again.

Tonight, it didn’t feel like the same court, though. The tension in the air was almost physical, clinging to your skin like the humidity of an oncoming storm. It wasn’t just a game tonight. The stakes, the crowd, the undercurrent of emotion—it felt like the river court itself had absorbed all of it, as if the cracked pavement carried the weight of what was about to unfold. This wasn’t just about basketball; it was about something deeper, darker, more personal. You could feel it in the way the crowd shifted, their voices louder but more uncertain, and in the way the court seemed to hum, as if it, too, was waiting for the storm to break.

Mark pulled up first, his car’s headlights cutting through the fading twilight. He stepped out with a quiet sort of confidence, his movements deliberate, his face composed but taut. He didn’t need theatrics to announce himself; his presence alone spoke volumes. Your friends had left their food and the warmth of their plans to be here, standing with Mark. They didn’t agree with this conflict—most of them thought he should’ve walked away—but their loyalty was steadfast. That was the thing about Mark’s side: smaller, quieter, but unwaveringly close-knit. Their warmth was palpable, a sharp contrast to the restless crowd gathering for Jeno.

And then came Jeno.

He pulled up late, as expected, his sleek, polished car skidding to a halt and kicking up gravel. The gleaming vehicle, pristine and out of place, clashed against the gritty, weathered backdrop of the river court. He moved with an aggression that mirrored the tension building for days, slamming the car door shut as his group of friends—Jaemin, San, Wooyoung—spilled out behind him. They carried themselves with the same air of superiority, the confidence of boys who thought the world was their playground. But it wasn’t them who caught your eye. It was Jeno’s girlfriend, Areum.

Areum followed behind, her expression tight, her posture stiff, moving with the kind of tension that couldn’t be disguised under the polished image she and Jeno projected. This is what they are. Jeno and Areum aren’t just well-known—they’re desired. They’re the kind of couple people talk about, whispering behind their backs, dissecting their every move. People want to be them or be with them. You’ve seen it—the way eyes linger on them too long, filled with envy and something darker. It’s intoxicating, the kind of attention that uplifts, seduces, makes them untouchable in the eyes of everyone watching. But it doesn’t fool you. They can’t fool you.

Areum didn’t cling to Jeno, didn’t move with the ease of someone who felt at home in his orbit. Their relationship was strange—polished on the outside, like a perfect photograph, but hollow where it mattered. They didn’t touch, didn’t exchange glances, and the space between them spoke volumes. You’d noticed it before, the way Areum often felt more like an accessory to Jeno than an equal. Tonight, though, the cracks in their facade felt deeper, the distance between them more glaring, like even the weight of this night couldn’t pull them closer.

You glanced around. Karina was here too, along with a mix of people who didn’t belong—girls batting their lashes at Jeno, boys who barely knew the river court but wanted to bask in the chaos. And then there were the eyes. You felt them, sharp and lingering, their gazes flitting between you, Mark, Jeno, and Areum. They wanted to see you all fall apart, to dissect the tension.

The stark differences between the two sides were impossible to miss. Jeno’s supporters were bigger in number, louder, their voices already filling the space with jeers and taunts. Most of them weren’t even familiar faces, people who had never stepped foot on the river court before. They were just here for the spectacle, drawn in by the promise of drama. Even some of the Seoul Ravens were here—guys who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on this cracked pavement. The river court wasn’t theirs. It wasn’t shaped by them, and they weren’t shaped by it. 

Mark’s side was smaller, quieter, but there was a warmth to it, a solidarity that made you feel grounded despite the tension swirling around. Jeno thrived in moments like these, you knew. He lived for the attention, the validation of the crowd. Mark, on the other hand, didn’t need it. He wasn’t here for the spectacle; he was here for himself, for something more meaningful.

The air at the river court was electric, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like static. You stood by the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Donghyuck stepped forward with a mix of confidence and unease. His eyes flicked to the unfamiliar faces lining the court, a far cry from the usual crowd. The tension in his posture betrayed him, but when he spoke, his voice was smooth, lighthearted, masking the unease.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Donghyuck’s voice carried a steady confidence, though the way his gaze darted between Mark and Jeno betrayed his unease. ��Tonight, we’ve got a clash of brothers—Mark Lee, the underdog with everything to gain, and Lee Jeno, the Seoul Ravens’ star point guard, the player who’s built his reputation on moments like this. The stakes? As high as they’ve ever been.”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Mark grabbed the ball, his movements smooth and composed. He turned it between his fingers, his gaze calm and focused, a quiet intensity radiating from him. Without breaking his focus, he passed the ball to Jeno, the exchange seamless but loaded with tension. Jeno caught it and slammed it into the pavement, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a challenge. His stance was coiled, every movement sharp, deliberate, and charged with aggression. Where Mark’s focus was inward, controlled, Jeno’s energy spilled over, his eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk, feeding off their attention like fuel. They were night and day—one steady and resolute, the other bristling with raw, unrelenting force.

Donghyuck continued, his voice steadying as he found his rhythm. “On one side, we’ve got Jeno—fast, sharp, a force to be reckoned with. On the other, Mark—focused, precise, with everything to lose.”

You glanced at your friends. Their support for Mark was unshakable, but the nervous energy was palpable. Yangyang shifted on his feet, biting his lip, while Hyeju whispered something to Shotaro, her expression tense. Chenle, standing just behind them, crossed his arms and let out a low whistle, a habit he had when trying to steady himself. You, however, felt none of it. Doubt had no place here—not when it came to Mark. The quiet determination in his eyes didn’t need to be loud or flashy to make its point. You’d seen it before, how he moved in this space like it was built for him, how his focus cut through everything else. This wasn’t just a game—it was Mark in his purest form, and there was no scenario in your mind where he didn’t own it.

Mark dribbled the ball to center court, his movements fluid, every step deliberate, the rhythm of the ball hitting the pavement steady and composed. Jeno shadowed him, his stance wide, his body coiled with tension and energy that seemed ready to snap. The whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding, and Donghyuck’s voice followed, light but laced with gravity. “And here we go—Mark Lee, steady as ever, playing like the court’s an extension of him. Lee Jeno, the Ravens’ star, all fire and precision, ready to remind everyone why he’s the name they chant. This one’s going to get heated, folks.”

The match was unrelenting, a clash of tension that seemed to ripple through the court itself. Jeno was all motion, fast and volatile, his movements a blur of power and precision. Every dribble was sharp, every step purposeful, and his trash talk was a weapon, thrown out with the confidence of someone who’d never needed to doubt his place. “You don’t belong here, Mark. This isn’t your world.” His voice cut through the crowd, loud enough to leave no question of its target.

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His silence wasn’t passive; it was deliberate, like he was saving his energy for something that actually mattered. But when Jeno closed in, his taunts like sparks looking for fuel, Mark finally answered. “If it’s not my world,” he said, his voice low but clear, “what are you doing here?” The words weren’t meant for the crowd; they were for Jeno, deliberate and heavy, slicing through the air with quiet authority. It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.

You didn’t just watch the game—you studied it. Mark moved with a precision that wasn’t flashy, but it made you proud, a quiet reminder of why you’d always believed in him. His shots didn’t just land; they cut through the tension, crisp and clean, like a scalpel finding its mark. Jeno, on the other hand, burned too hot, his aggression almost feral, every step brimming with intensity that verged on desperation. But Mark’s game wasn’t reactionary. He wasn’t here to prove Jeno wrong; he was here to prove something to himself. And watching it unfold, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what this moment meant—not just for them, but for the quiet battle of identities this court had come to represent.

Donghyuck’s voice carried over the court. “Mark with the shot—nothing but net!” His tone was lively, carrying the energy of the crowd but none of the surprise. Unlike the murmurs rippling through Jeno’s side, Donghyuck didn’t sound shocked—why would he be? This was Mark, and anyone who truly knew him understood this wasn’t luck. It was skill, honed and steady, the kind of precision Donghyuck had seen countless times before.

Jeno’s frustration was impossible to miss. His movements grew sharper, more frantic, his dribbles louder, as though he could force the game back into his control. His shots, once fluid and automatic, began to falter, each miss tightening the tension in the air. But Mark didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t look at Jeno, didn’t acknowledge the taunts or the growing desperation. This wasn’t about outplaying Jeno—it was about playing his own game, proving to himself that he could stand tall here, on his court.

You saw it all happen in what felt like slow motion—the perfect arc of Jeno’s shot, the way the ball seemed destined to slice through the net and shift the momentum in his favor. But then there was Mark, moving with a speed and precision that made it seem as though he’d read Jeno’s mind. He leapt, arm outstretched, and the slap of his hand against the ball reverberated through the court like a firecracker, louder and sharper than any cheer. The ball flew out of bounds, scattering the tension like shrapnel, and the crowd erupted.

Donghyuck’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone brimming with excitement. “Jeno shoots… and misses!” He paused, his disbelief almost theatrical as he added, “Holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block, and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

This wasn’t like any game you’d ever watched before. It wasn’t just basketball—it was something raw and alive, every second steeped in stakes that went beyond points on a scoreboard. And yet, as the cheers echoed and your chest tightened with pride, you couldn’t help but feel like this moment belonged to Mark. His focus, his determination, his refusal to bend to the pressure—it wasn’t just impressive, it was something more. You didn’t just feel proud—you felt certain. Certain that this court, this game, this moment, was his.

“Mark with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Donghyuck’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and clear, as Mark’s movements were steady, deliberate, and unrelenting as he drove toward the hoop. Jeno was on him, aggressive and desperate, but Mark didn’t falter. Each dribble was purposeful, each step a quiet display of control that left no room for doubt. The court seemed to shrink around them, every sound fading except for the rhythmic echo of the ball hitting the pavement. When Mark reached the edge of the key, he paused just long enough to find his opening. Then, with a quick shift, the ball left his hands in a clean arc that felt inevitable, as though the basket had already accepted it.

The sound of the ball snapping through the net was sharp, definitive, and the crowd erupted a moment later, the realization crashing over them. “And that’s it! Mark Lee wins!” Donghyuck’s voice rang out, full of triumph, his words slicing through the noise like a declaration.

The celebration that followed was instant and chaotic. Mark’s friends surged onto the court, their shouts of excitement filling the air. Yangyang nearly tackled him, laughter spilling out as Nahyun and Shotaro cheered wildly from the sidelines. Chenle was the loudest of them all, his voice carrying over the chaos as he jumped up and down, grinning like he’d won the game himself. You stayed back, the chaos of the celebration folding into the background as your focus sharpened on Mark—not the noise, not the others, but him. 

His posture shifted, shoulders easing with relief rather than triumph, the subtle curve of his mouth acknowledging the moment without boasting. Every movement was deliberate, as though the victory wasn’t for anyone but himself. When his gaze swept over the crowd, it lingered briefly, grounding him, marking the moment as his own—not for dominance, but as someone reclaiming what had been taken. This wasn’t just a win over Jeno; it was a quiet, resolute statement that he belonged here. You saw it in the way he carried himself—a transformation so understated most wouldn’t notice, but you did.

You lingered at the edge of the chaos, an observer rather than a participant, fingers brushing the pen in your pocket as you replayed the details in your mind. The celebration faded into irrelevance—noise and emotion held no value compared to the mechanics of what unfolded before you. From a distance, you watched Mark, dissecting the subtle shifts in his posture, the small, deliberate adjustments that spoke volumes. His shoulders eased—not in triumph, but in something quieter, more personal, like relief settling into his frame. The faint curve of his mouth wasn’t a smile; it was a fleeting acknowledgment meant for no one but himself. His gaze swept the crowd, steady and deliberate, cataloging rather than basking, grounding him in something inward. You made mental notes, knowing they would translate later into the project you’d dedicated yourself to—the study of body language under pressure, the unspoken truths told through movement. Each step he took, controlled and methodical, fit into your need to understand, to deconstruct moments like this. You weren’t pulled by the celebration but by the precision of it all, the quiet reclamation in his stance, every shift etched in your mind with the meticulousness you pride yourself on.

But there was something else—something you hadn’t expected. Mark was the center now. The shift was sudden, almost jarring, as if the court itself had realigned its axis around him. Those on Jeno’s side—the people who moments ago were silent in defeat—found themselves glancing at Mark, as though he had somehow claimed not just the game but the space itself. He was the orbit, drawing everyone into his pull with a quiet, understated power that felt impossible to resist. You caught Areum’s gaze lingering on him, her expression unreadable, like she was seeing him in a new light. Karina and the other cheerleaders stood off to the side, biting their lips and batting their lashes, their attention clearly fixated on Mark in a way that was hard to ignore. It was subtle but palpable, a whiplash moment where you realized the court wasn’t just his stage anymore; it was his world.

Your friends’ voices called out your name, cutting through the still noise in your head, but you didn’t turn. You stayed where you were, still and unmoving, rooted at the edge of the celebration. The chaos behind you rolled on—cheers, laughter, movement—but it didn’t pull you in. You weren’t drawn to the noise or the excitement. Instead, your focus lingered on the quieter details, the things others wouldn’t notice. The court felt different now, smaller somehow, as if the space itself carried the weight of what had just happened. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was that you cared differently, drawn to the stillness and the meaning left behind after the noise had passed.

But then, something shifted. At first, you barely noticed it, just a flicker on the edge of your awareness—a break in the background noise you’d trained yourself to filter out. You stayed rooted, clinging to the stillness you’d worked so hard to maintain, your focus steady on the court and the aftermath it carried. Yet, an unfamiliar tension crept in, threading its way into your calm. It wasn’t immediate, wasn’t sudden, but like a weight pressing slowly against the edges of your mind, demanding attention you didn’t want to give.

Your senses betrayed you first. A pulse of awareness tugged at your periphery, pulling your focus away from the grounded silence you depended on. You resisted, tried to bury it under the usual steady rhythm of observation, but it was there—persistent, undeniable. Your gaze wavered, almost imperceptibly, before landing on him. Jeno. He was still, rigid, his frame holding a tension that rippled outward like an unseen force. He stood apart, fists tight at his sides, his jaw locked so firmly you could feel the strain even from here.

You told yourself to file it away, to make it part of the project. The mechanics of his stance, the stillness of his form—details to catalog, nothing more. But even as you tried to frame it that way, your thoughts began to fracture. Your gaze lingered too long, no longer following patterns or posture but drawn by something deeper, something that wasn’t supposed to matter. For all his confidence, all the ease with which he usually commanded attention, it was gone—replaced by something raw, something exposed.

You tried to force your thoughts back into order, to rebuild the detachment that had always come so naturally to you. But with every passing moment, the calm you clung to unraveled further. Your eyes betrayed you completely now, tracking the way he stood as though tethered to the court, refusing to move. It wasn’t anger, not entirely. It was something heavier, something that held you in place just as much as it held him.

No one—not your friends, not anyone—had ever drawn your attention away from the steady rhythm of your thoughts, the meticulous focus that always kept you grounded and apart. But Jeno did. His presence reached into that protected space and shattered it, scattering your carefully constructed thoughts until they spiraled in ways you couldn’t control. He hadn’t even looked at you directly, but he didn’t need to. The weight of him was enough—suffocating, consuming, like an unspoken command pressing into the air between you.

You should have stayed rooted in Mark’s win, let Jeno’s loss be a quiet, satisfying afterthought. But the way he stood, so still yet so loud in his silence, wouldn’t let you. His figure was unyielding, locked in place as though the loss itself hadn’t finished with him. He didn’t turn to his friends, didn’t shrug it off, didn’t hide the cracks the way he always had before. He just stood there, unshaken by the noise around him, yet radiating something that made it impossible for you to look away. He wasn’t just in the moment—he was the moment, consuming it, distorting it, and pulling you further from yourself with every second that passed.

You didn’t understand why you couldn’t look away, why the weight of Jeno’s stillness seemed to press against you like gravity. Was it empathy? The thought felt foreign, almost laughable—you weren’t the kind to feel for someone like him, someone who wore his arrogance like armor. Maybe it was curiosity, a morbid fascination with the cracks in his composure, the way someone so sure of himself could falter so completely. But even that didn’t sit right, because it wasn’t just curiosity—it was something heavier, something that twisted uncomfortably in your chest. 

Around him, the court began to empty, the crowd thinning as people drifted toward their cars, their voices hushed, their energy subdued. A few lingered at the edges, stealing glances at Jeno but saying nothing, and even his teammates hung back, hesitant, like they didn’t know whether to approach or leave him alone. And he was alone, his presence towering and isolating all at once, his fists tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as if bracing against the silence. It unsettled you, the way the moment seemed to cling to him, and no matter how hard you tried to dissect your reaction, to rationalize why you cared, you came up empty.

The diner hummed with life, its retro charm illuminated by the glow of neon signs that flickered in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic haze over the checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner cycled through crackling tunes from decades past, its rhythm barely audible beneath the chatter and clatter of plates. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes topped with whipped cream, sweet and heavy like the moment itself.

You slid into a vinyl booth near the back, its cushions worn but inviting, sticking faintly to your skin as you settled in, Yangyang pressed against your side with a closeness that felt familiar. Across from you, Mark claimed his seat, his phone buzzing incessantly on the table, its screen lighting up with every notification. Donghyuck elbowed Chenle for room, while Shotaro balanced precariously on the edge, and Nahyun draped an arm along the backrest as if she owned it. Laughter bubbled up around you, filling the air with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the adrenaline still humming in your veins. The energy was contagious, amplified by the clink of milkshake glasses and the shuffle of servers weaving between tables, balancing trays piled high with burgers and fries.

Mark’s phone buzzed again, the sound cutting briefly through the conversation, but no one seemed to mind. The win had done its job—lifting everyone’s spirits, filling the booth with a kind of camaraderie that felt earned. The river court might’ve been left behind, but its electricity lingered, settling into the diner like it belonged.

“Alright, who’s ordering the milkshakes?” Donghyuck asked, flipping through the laminated menu with exaggerated focus, even though he clearly had it memorized. He tapped the plastic cover dramatically. “I’m thinking vanilla, but if anyone dips their fries in it, we’re fighting.”

“Bold of you to assume your milkshake won’t get stolen first,” Chenle shot back, his grin wide as he leaned over and snatched the menu from Donghyuck’s hands.

“You’re all wrong,” Yangyang chimed in, throwing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’d been crowned the authority on diner orders. “Strawberry milkshakes are undefeated. Right?” He glanced at you, his brows raised expectantly.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Depends on who’s paying. I feel like getting chocolate tonight.”

Nahyun leaned back, her nails clicking against her phone case as she slid it into her pocket. “Order whatever you want,” she said lightly, her tone breezy but definitive. “It’s on me. Consider it my treat for Mark’s win.”

Mark glanced up briefly, his lips twitching into a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Nahyun,” he said, his voice soft. Her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable before she turned away.

“You’re so sweet,” Shotaro teased, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Nahyun with adoration. “Our girl’s out here spoiling us.”

Nahyun grinned, rolling her eyes as though she wasn’t the least bit flustered. “You’re all broke, and someone has to keep us fed.”

Yangyang shot you a quick, knowing glance, his lips quirking up in silent acknowledgement. Nahyun was loaded, after all—her father was a well-established businessman with a name that carried weight in every room it entered. She didn’t like to boast about it, though, always downplaying the resources that made moments like this seem effortless for her.

“Mark deserves it,” Nahyun added, her voice gentler now as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze briefly flicking to him. “The win, the attention—you’ve worked hard for this.”

Mark’s smile softened, though his focus seemed to drift as his phone buzzed again on the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

“Mark’s big now,” Donghyuck teased, leaning over to nudge his shoulder, his tone exaggeratedly playful. “The river court king. Bet half the campus is sliding into your DMs.”

Mark laughed, locking his phone with a shrug. “It’s not that serious,” he said, though the flicker of pride in his expression betrayed him.

“Not serious? You’ve been glued to that thing all night,” Yangyang quipped, tossing a fry in his direction. “Who’s got you so distracted? Don’t tell me it’s Areum.”

At the mention of her name, something shifted—not in Mark, but in you. His response was easy, casual, the kind of thing anyone else would accept without a second thought. “It’s nothing. Just some texts,” he said, and his voice carried the same calm steadiness it always had. But you knew him too well, knew the weight of his pauses, the way his focus drifted even when he tried to stay present. It wasn’t anything obvious, not a conscious change, but you felt it anyway, a quiet pull that instinctively made you hesitate.

The laughter and teasing at the table felt distant, like you were watching it play out from a step behind. You’d known Mark for so long, understood his rhythms in a way no one else did, and this was different. Subtle, but there. The slight shift in how he carried himself, how he let the group orbit around him, how his attention flickered in and out. It wasn’t that he was pulling away deliberately—it was more like a current you couldn’t see but could feel, pulling him toward something else, leaving you tethered in a place that no longer felt the same. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was there, a quiet pull you couldn’t ignore.

Still, the energy around the booth buzzed on, as chaotic and lighthearted as ever, pulling you back into the present. Chenle, predictably, had stolen Yangyang’s burger, holding it just out of reach while Yangyang swatted at him. “You’re insufferable,” Yangyang grumbled, leaning across the table with exaggerated annoyance, his arms flailing dramatically as the group erupted into laughter.

Donghyuck, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, shook his head. “It’s like watching two toddlers fight over a toy. Pathetic.”

Shotaro laughed, breaking a fry in half before tossing one piece at Chenle. “Just share the burger, man. Yangyang’s probably starving.”

“Starving for attention,” Chenle shot back, grinning as he finally handed the burger back.

Nahyun, ever the composed one, glanced up from her milkshake. “You boys are exhausting. Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because you love us,” Donghyuck quipped, winking at her. “And you pay for our food.”

Mark chuckled quietly, the sound soft but warm as he leaned back in his seat. Finally, he had set his phone down and cleared his throat. “I keep getting messages about Jeno’s party,” he said casually, his tone light but purposeful. “I think we should go.” 

The table fell quiet, all eyes turning to him. Donghyuck raised an eyebrow. “Really? You want to party with Jeno after what just happened?”

Mark shrugged again, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that didn’t quite match the flicker of something unsure in his eyes. “Why not? We deserve to celebrate, and he throws good parties. Plus, what’s he gonna do to me? To us?”

Donghyuck snorted. “I can think of a few things. None of them are great.”

Shotaro frowned slightly, clearly uneasy. “It feels weird, though. After the game and everything… would he even want us there?”

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does it matter? He’s not going to do anything. It’s just a party. And honestly? I’m not gonna let him think he can intimidate us. We deserve to have a good time.”

Yangyang hesitated but finally nodded, tossing a fry into his mouth. “If Mark says it’s fine, it’s fine. Who’s going to argue with him after that win?”

The group began to come around, one by one, as Mark’s quiet confidence settled over the table. Even Nahyun, who had initially looked skeptical, sighed and leaned back. “Fine. But if it turns into a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Mark laughed softly, his gaze finally landing on you. “What about you?”

You frowned slightly, your reluctance clear in the way your fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Do I have to?”

“For me,” Mark said simply, his tone softer now, almost persuasive in its simplicity.

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You didn’t want to go. The idea of stepping into Jeno’s world felt wrong, like crossing a line you weren’t ready for. But Mark’s gaze held steady, and you knew the answer before you spoke. “Fine,” you muttered finally. “For you.”

The group’s mood lifted again, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter and teasing as plans were tossed around for what to wear and who would show up. But the unease lingered at the edges of your mind, quiet but insistent. Mark’s growing confidence, his ease with stepping into Jeno’s orbit, felt like the start of something you couldn’t quite name yet—and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

The upscale apartment towered over the skyline, a shimmering pillar of glass and metal that exuded wealth and exclusivity. Even from the sidewalk, it drew stares from passersby, the kind of building that made you stop and wonder who could possibly afford to live there. As you and your friends approached the entrance, the conversation faltered, each of you glancing upward, wide-eyed and momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of it.

Inside, the lobby was sleek and cavernous, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Marble floors stretched out in gleaming, uninterrupted perfection, reflecting the soft golden light of chandeliers that hung like modern sculptures. Every detail was curated—the smooth black leather chairs arranged in precise symmetry, the abstract artwork that lined the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and floral lingering in the air. You hadn’t been here before, but the weight of it pressed against your chest. This wasn’t just an apartment; it was a symbol, a statement of status that felt like it had nothing to do with the lives most people lived.

Yangyang let out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where he lives? Seriously?”

Donghyuck snorted, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Of course it is. It’s Jeno. Did you think he was going to live in a regular dorm like the rest of us?”

Chenle raised a brow, his voice light but tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t even a home—it’s a fortress.”

You stole a glance at Mark, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression as he took it all in. His posture was steady, but his jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the lobby. Indifference. That’s what it looked like on the surface, but you knew him too well to miss the weight behind it. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the dissonance in him. This world, Jeno’s world, was so far removed from his own—a world where appearances and wealth dictated everything.

The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back the tension none of you dared to name. Each passing floor only heightened the unease, and though Mark kept his head high, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. You wondered if he was thinking about the river court, the place he’d claimed as his own, the place he fought to hold onto. The implications were stark—Jeno’s life was one of privilege, his apartment a stark testament to a kind of luxury Mark had never known.

And yet, Mark didn’t falter. When the elevator doors slid open, revealing a hallway bathed in soft lighting and lined with minimalist decor, he stepped out first, his movements steady. You saw it then, the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way he squared them just slightly, like he was ready to walk into another game. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and calm, though his gaze lingered for a fraction too long on the massive double doors ahead of you, the sound of distant bass thumping behind them.

The party hit you before you even stepped through the door, the bass vibrating through the walls in relentless, bone-deep pulses. As the door swung open, the scent hit you—a dizzying mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and something rawer beneath it: smoke, sweat, and the faint bite of something illicit. It was overwhelming, like walking into a storm of excess, where every sensation was heightened, every edge sharpened.

The apartment itself was striking, luxurious in a way that felt almost clinical. From the outside, it had been a fortress of wealth, gleaming and untouchable, but inside, the chaos unraveled its perfection. The once-pristine marble floors were sticky with spilled drinks; velvet cushions were tossed haphazardly onto the ground, stained and trampled underfoot. Sleek black leather couches, carefully arranged for mingling, had been overtaken—strangers lounging, laughing, or passing joints back and forth like they owned the space. A glass-top coffee table bore the brunt of the mess: red solo cups, half-eaten snacks, and the unmistakable burn marks from ash that hadn’t quite made it into the tray. The air reeked faintly of weed, the scent clashing with the sharper tang of alcohol soaked into the upholstery.

Everywhere you looked, the apartment bore Jeno’s mark—modern, sleek, and deliberately impressive. The walls were lined with trophies, sports medals, and action shots of him mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph. Framed magazine covers featuring Jeno in his prime hung near the mounted TV that dominated the living room, but their significance was buried under the noise of the party. A tall bookshelf near the corner displayed a mix of Jaemin’s art books and a few carefully placed plants—small signs of someone quieter, someone who didn’t thrive in this chaos. Jaemin’s reading chair, tucked beneath a tasteful lamp, was the only corner of the room untouched by the storm, its presence almost laughably out of place amidst the mess.

The open space was designed for gatherings—couches arranged for conversation, edgy bar stools in brushed steel pulled up to a sleek black granite counter—but the party had warped it. Furniture had been shoved aside to accommodate the crowd, and the careful curation of Jeno’s life was slowly being erased by the sheer weight of it all. A framed photo of one of Jeno’s biggest wins lay shattered on the floor, symbolic of how his true self—the ambitious athlete, the rising star—was being buried beneath the excess he hosted.

“Jeno’s parties are insane, he has a reputation.” Donghyuck muttered, leaning in close enough for you to catch the hint of tequila on his breath. His gaze swept the room with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Remember that one time someone ended up naked in the pool? Fully dressed when they got here. Ended up naked. In December.”

Chenle, already nursing his second drink, let out a sharp laugh. “That was Jeno’s fault. Pretty sure he dared them.”

“Not Jeno,” Shotaro said, swaying slightly as he leaned against the counter, eyes glassy from the buzz. “It had to be Jaemin. He’s the quiet troublemaker. You know, the ones you don’t see coming.”

Yangyang leaned casually against you, his elbow brushing yours as he scoffed. “Jaemin? That guy doesn’t dare anyone to do anything. He’s probably off somewhere reading. If it was anyone, it had to be Jeno. You’ve seen him—he eats this kind of chaos up.”

Donghyuck snorted, grabbing a shot and passing it to Chenle. “Eats it up? He runs it. Guy stirs the pot, sits back, and watches it all go down.”

“Remember that time someone got caught hooking up in Jeno’s bathroom?” Chenle said, barely containing his laughter. “I swear the guy ran out without his pants.”

Yangyang leaned back, biting back a grin. “Not before Jeno walked in and decided to stay. Didn’t he just… join in?”

Donghyuck barked out a laugh, slamming his drink on the counter. “He didn’t just join in—he locked the door and told everyone to wait their turn.”

Chenle doubled over, tears in his eyes. “The way people were banging on that door for ages, like their lives depended on it. Only Jeno could turn his own bathroom into some kind of sex den.”

“You think that’s bad? Look over there,” Donghyuck added, nodding toward the dark hallway where a couple disappeared seconds ago. “Guarantee he’s set up the guest room for round two.”

You stared at them, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, Jeno is such a jerk. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Hasn’t he been with Areum for several years?”

Mark, who had been quiet up until now, looked up from his drink with a shrug. “Not exactly. They’re on and off a lot. Honestly, they’ve spent just as much time apart as they have together.”

Your brow furrowed, and you glanced back toward the chaos. “That’s… complicated.”

“Welcome to Jeno,” Donghyuck said again, raising his glass like he was toasting the chaos itself.

“Don’t forget the guy who lit a joint with Jeno’s scented candle,” Chenle added, grinning as he tipped his drink back. “High as hell and smelling like lavender.”

You shake your head in disbelief as the group exchange stories back and forth. You didn’t belong here. Not really. But your friends were with you, grounding you in their chaotic way. Donghyuck had already taken a shot and was loudly challenging Chenle to do the same, while Shotaro swayed to the music with a looseness that made him look like he’d been born to dance. Yangyang was at your side, his hand brushing your elbow whenever you seemed to falter, his presence a quiet anchor in the madness. “You good?” he asked, his voice barely cutting through the din, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a tight smile. The truth was, the air felt too thick, the music too loud, the sheer volume of people overwhelming. But you stayed. For Mark. For the group.

Mark was at the center of it all. People you didn’t know—some you recognized from the river court, others from campus—seemed to orbit him, clapping him on the back, offering him drinks, pulling him into conversations. His phone buzzed constantly in his hand, but he barely acknowledged it, his gaze drifting now and then to Areum. She stood with Jeno on the other side of the room, flanked by Karina and Winter, their presence impossibly polished, their beauty almost weaponized in the way they commanded attention.

Jaemin stood near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable as his eyes flickered over the mess that sprawled across the apartment. He sighed, shaking his head, the movement subtle but telling. You only knew Jaemin from tutoring him, but it had become clear early on that he was someone who valued his peace and personal space. He had a calmness about him, a quiet, introverted nature that seemed at odds with the chaos of the wild parties Jeno was known for throwing. He wasn’t the type to seek attention or thrive in the noise—he preferred stillness, his presence subdued but steady. It was almost jarring to see him here, surrounded by the mess and the loud, unruly energy, yet somehow still managing to keep a part of himself separate from it all.

It surprised you that he was on the basketball team at all, let alone so closely tied to Jeno. The bond between them was evident in the way Jaemin moved through the space with a familiarity that spoke of years spent by Jeno’s side. They weren’t just teammates; they were something deeper. Best friends since childhood, practically brothers. There was a loyalty between them that ran deep, even when their personalities seemed to diverge so sharply. Jeno was loud, commanding, thriving on the chaos he created, while Jaemin was his quieter counterpart, the steady presence who stayed even when it didn’t seem like he fit.

In contrast, the other Seoul Ravens dominated a corner of the room, their energy loud and brash, their voices and laughter cutting through the space like a blade. Soobin, San, and Wooyoung didn’t need to dance to draw attention; their charisma was magnetic, pulling eyes and energy toward them like a gravitational force. They were effortless, their confidence bordering on arrogance, but even they couldn’t outshine Jeno. No one ever did.

Jeno was everywhere and nowhere, his movements fluid as he worked the room, drink in hand, a sharp smile cutting through the tension that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—but the anger from earlier hadn’t entirely left him, simmering beneath the surface. You hated how easily he drew your gaze, the way his shirt clung to his frame, the veins in his arms catching the dim light when he tipped his drink to his lips. He was beautiful in the most infuriating way, his presence commanding without effort. But Areum at his side was an afterthought. They barely spoke, her hand resting on the stem of her glass while his attention wandered. It felt… off. Detached.

Yangyang nudged you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need some air.”

You didn’t argue. The party was too much—too loud, too hot, too suffocating. You hated parties for this exact reason: the way they seemed to demand something of you, the expectation to blend in, to enjoy the noise and chaos when all you wanted was a quiet corner and a little distance. Yangyang led you through the throng, his hand on your back guiding you until you slipped through a side door and into the cool night.

This place was a maze, the kind of sprawling luxury that felt both overwhelming and impersonal, but Yangyang moved through it with surprising ease, his confidence unshaken as he led you through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. His sharp jawline caught the dim light as he glanced back at you, his hand brushing against your elbow in a subtle, protective gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. After a few wrong turns, you both stumbled onto a quiet pocket of the apartment: a balcony with a stunning skyline view. It stretched wide, the sleek glass railing giving way to an unobstructed view of the glittering city below. Tall stools were arranged near a brushed-steel bar cart, the surface polished to perfection, though it seemed untouched tonight. The space was eerily empty, a quiet reprieve from the chaos inside.

You leaned against the bar, Yangyang passing you a drink as you glanced around. Small plants lined one side of the balcony—succulents in pastel planters, a tiny herb garden pot nestled among them. They were a gentle contrast to the sharp, high-tech edges of the rest of the space. Inside, the apartment carried the same contradictions: a shelf stacked with sleek, framed sports memorabilia next to an understated stack of art books, and a cold, modern sectional softened by an oversized, well-worn knit throw.

You turned to Yangyang, the question bubbling up before you could stop yourself. “Yangyang,” you said softly, your voice low against the hum of the city, “does Jeno live with anyone?”

Yangyang nodded, taking a sip from his cup before answering. “Jaemin’s his roommate. They’ve been close forever—like brothers, practically.”

You exhaled, leaning back slightly. “That explains it.” The contrast made sense now—the scattered pieces of personality you’d noticed throughout the apartment. The herb garden on the balcony. A reading corner tucked away in the living room. The occasional soft touch amid Jeno’s sleek, modern display of wealth. You could see both of them in the space: Jeno’s need to impress and Jaemin’s quiet search for peace.

Yangyang walked toward the glass railing, gesturing for you to join him. As you approached, the view below caught your breath in your throat. The city lights stretched endlessly in one direction, glittering like a sea of stars. But just beneath the balcony, a hidden garden sprawled—a pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos. String lights draped between the trees, casting a warm golden glow over stone pathways and soft greenery. The scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers reached you even from here, clean and grounding, and for the first time that night, you felt like you could truly breathe.

Yangyang handed you a plastic cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The rim was cool against your lips as he encouraged you to drink. “Better?” he asked, his voice quiet, his gaze steady and warm as it lingered on you.

“Much,” you admitted, exhaling a long breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. These quiet moments were everything—the antidote to the overwhelming night you’d been navigating.

He smiled, soft but with a flicker of playfulness that you knew all too well. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, the tension in your chest loosening just a little more. “You’re a good friend.”

The peace didn’t last. A shout cut through the stillness, sharp and angry, slicing through the muted hum of the city below. Both your heads snapped toward the noise, your breath catching as Yangyang instinctively straightened beside you, his drink set down with deliberate care. His expression shifted, tightening, and you missed the way his jaw ticked when you said the word friend with a conviction you wholeheartedly believed.

You and Yangyang stood above the garden, leaning slightly over the railing as you gazed below. The soft glow of the string lights cast flickering patterns over the greenery, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the voices rising from the apartment. Inside, near the far wall, Jeno and Areum stood locked in a tense standoff. Their words, low and cutting, drifted out, slicing through the muted hum of the party as if the air itself had been stilled by the weight of their argument. Around them, the usual chaos of the party seemed to pause, as though everyone was quietly attuned to the tension radiating from that corner.

“Are you serious?” Areum’s voice rose, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief that carried across the room. “You bet on me?” Her words cut through the air like a slap, and even from where you stood, the rawness in her tone made your chest tighten.

Jeno’s response came in a low growl, the words edged with venom and frustration, though you couldn’t make out every detail. His stance was unyielding, his shoulders squared, but there was no triumph in his posture—only a kind of cold, simmering fury.

“Let’s go to my room,” he bit out suddenly, the sharpness of his voice leaving no room for negotiation. He didn’t look at her, didn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as he turned on his heel. His movements were rigid, his usual confidence replaced with something harsher, more volatile.

Areum hesitated, her expression shifting between fury and humiliation as her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. For a moment, it seemed like she might stay rooted there, but then she followed him, her steps brisk, the tension in her frame palpable. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberated through the space, silencing the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the room.

Yangyang nudged your arm gently, his voice low. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the main room. “Let’s go find the others.”

You followed him reluctantly, your thoughts still tangled in the confrontation you’d just witnessed. Inside, the chaos surged again, but it wasn’t the same. The buzz was different now—hushed whispers, curious glances, and stolen conversations feeding the room like static electricity.

“Did you see Areum storm off?” Donghyuck exclaimed as soon as you rejoined the group. He was already holding a drink, his cheeks slightly flushed. “That was brutal.”

Chenle leaned in conspiratorially, his grin as sharp as ever. “Brutal? Jeno had a full meltdown. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Shotaro, oblivious as always, swayed his way over to you mid-dance move, his hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened? I was on the dance floor!” he exclaimed, his movements loose and carefree, as though he hadn’t just walked into the aftermath of a storm. The contrast was almost comedic, his carefree rhythm completely out of sync with the tension simmering around him.

“Jeno’s a mess, that’s what,” Donghyuck said with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Shit like this is always happening at his parties. This is just another Friday for him.”

Your gaze swept the room, catching sight of Mark lingering near the bar. His expression was hard to read, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his drink as if he were deep in thought. Something about his stillness struck you, and before you could second-guess yourself, you walked over to him.

You made your way toward Mark, your steps cutting cleanly through the noise around you, the weight of what you’d overheard pressing heavily on your chest. Areum’s words replayed in your mind, sharp and cutting: that Jeno had a deal with Mark, one that involved her as some twisted prize. The very idea of it unsettled you, twisting your stomach into knots. “What’s this about you and Jeno betting on Areum?” you asked, your voice low but firm, each word deliberate and sharp, demanding an answer.

Mark blinked, his head snapping toward you. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your arms crossing. “Is it true?”

Mark sighed, his shoulders dropping as he glanced away briefly. “Yeah… before the showdown, Jeno and I made a bet. If I won, I’d get to stay on the team—and I bet I could have Areum. If he won, I’d have to leave.”

The words hit you like a slap, and before you could stop yourself, you jabbed him hard in the arm, your expression tightening with disbelief. “What the fuck, Mark? Betting on a girl? That’s not like you at all.” He winced, rubbing his arm as his gaze met yours, his posture shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your accusation.

“I wasn’t serious,” he defended, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how he is—arrogant, always trying to one-up everyone. I wasn’t going to follow through.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think something like that, whether you’d follow it though or not. You’re one of the good guys, Mark.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, his expression softening slightly. “I would never actually do it. I just… I wanted to put him in his place. That’s all.”

Before you could respond, the sound of murmurs pulled your attention to the surrounding partygoers. Their whispers had grown louder, feeding off the tension in the room like vultures circling prey. You glanced around and realized people nearby were eavesdropping, their gazes darting between you, Mark, and the aftermath of Jeno and Areum’s confrontation, hungry for the next piece of gossip.

Yiren, Aisha, and Mia stood near the drinks table, their voices low but sharp, ensuring their words carried just far enough to be heard.

“Wow,” Yiren muttered, swirling her drink lazily. “That’s… rough.”

“Sucks to be her,” Aisha added, her tone flat, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Mia let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Guess she’s learning the hard way.”

Their remarks hung in the air, dripping with feigned detachment, their lack of sympathy slicing through the atmosphere. They didn’t bother to hide their interest, their words quiet enough to pass as casual but biting enough to linger.

Across the room, Karina and Winter—Areum’s closest friends—stood by the bar. Neither of them looked concerned, their expressions carefully indifferent. It was almost jarring, their lack of reaction, but you could tell there was more to it. Maybe they were used to this kind of drama. Or maybe they blamed Areum for getting involved with Jeno in the first place.

Amidst the heavy drama, you caught glimpses of Donghyuck and Chenle at a makeshift drinking game with a few of the Seoul Ravens guys. They were clearly hammered, Chenle’s laugh carrying over the din of the party while Donghyuck shouted something unintelligible, waving his glass in the air. Every so often, they yelled for you or Mark to join in, but the weight of the night kept you rooted, too consumed by the fallout to respond.

Shotaro, oblivious as ever, was happily dancing among random partygoers, a carefree contrast to the tension that gripped the room. Yangyang, ever the anchor, hovered nearby, his eyes darting between you and Mark. He tried to check on you more than once, his hand brushing against your arm in quiet concern, but each time, something else demanded your attention, leaving him trailing behind, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Nahyun stood further away, sipping from her glass as her gaze flickered between Mark and the chaos. Her expression was unreadable, but she kept glancing at him, her focus lingering longer than it should have. Shotaro, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware, too lost in the rhythm of the music to notice anything beyond the dance floor.

Then Donghyuck appeared, stumbling slightly as he reached you, his words slurred but sharp enough to land. “Word is Jeno just dumped Areum. And for good.” He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “Apparently, she’s sobbing upstairs. He made it clear—this isn’t one of their breaks. It’s done. Over. She’s heartbroken.”

The words hit you, and you gasped, the shock twisting your stomach. You turned to Mark instinctively, searching his face for a reaction, but he was already moving away, his shoulders rigid as he slipped into the crowd without a word.

Your eyes followed his path through the throng of people, bracing yourself when you saw Mark and Jeno crossing paths near the edge of the room. Their interaction was brief—a few words exchanged that you couldn’t hear—but the energy between them was unmistakable. It wasn’t tense, not outright, but it wasn’t friendly either. Somewhere in the middle, simmering with unspoken frustration and emotions that seemed ready to boil over at any moment.

But then, without a glance back, Mark disappeared, his steps purposeful as he ascended the staircase leading upstairs. The room felt smaller, heavier, as if everything hinged on what would happen next. This moment, you realized, was a pivot point. 

It would be the one to change his life forever. 

The party felt like it had been swallowed by a dark undercurrent, the energy pulsing with something heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls. Amidst the clinking glasses, careless laughter, and swaying bodies, one thread of tension stood out: Jeno. His presence loomed, even when he wasn’t in sight, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

The fallout from the river court was still fresh, his loss to Mark an unspoken shadow over the night. Add to that the bet, the breakup, and Jeno was more than just a name on people’s lips—he was the source of the drama everyone had come to revel in. You caught snippets of murmured conversations, hints of his movements through the apartment. Someone mentioned seeing him nearly knock over a table in frustration, another laughed about how he’d brushed off a girl trying to flirt with him.

Jeno wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—he didn’t need to. Even without trying, his energy was volatile enough to crackle through the walls, drawing eyes and igniting speculation. A few bold partygoers seemed almost eager to provoke him, circling closer, testing boundaries. It felt as though everyone was waiting for something—an eruption, a confrontation, a moment where the tension snapped and spilled over.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The party, the tension, the endless whispers—it was all too much. “I’m heading out,” you announced, your voice cutting through the noise. You avoided their surprised looks from your friends, already standing up and brushing imaginary lint off your clothes.

Yangyang immediately straightened, his brow furrowing. “I’ll take you home.”

“Me too,” Donghyuck added, already reaching for his jacket.

You shook your head, offering them a small smile to ease their concern. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ll book an Uber.”

Yangyang hesitated, his eyes scanning your face, but you stood firm. “I’ll be fine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Have fun. I’ll text you when I get home.”

Donghyuck exchanged a glance with Yangyang, then shrugged. “Fine. But if you don’t text, we’re coming to find you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips, more reflex than amusement, as you forced a nod. “Deal.” Without looking back, you turned toward the hallway, the distant pulse of the party fading behind you like an afterthought. But as the sound grew quieter, the weight in your chest grew heavier. Leaving wasn’t just about escaping the noise or the heat of too many bodies pressed together; it felt like trying to outrun something larger, something sharp and inescapable that had settled deep in your chest.

The hallway stretched before you, lined with identical doors and sharp, minimalist edges. Everything gleamed under muted lighting, the kind of cold perfection that left no room for warmth. You moved through it with purpose, but as each turn led to another unfamiliar corridor, your determination began to unravel. The apartment was a labyrinth, designed more for show than function, and you were caught in its web, spinning deeper into its maze-like silence.

You told yourself you were simply searching for the exit, but your steps slowed, hesitation creeping in with each door you passed. Something about this place made you linger—curiosity, fascination, or perhaps the knowledge that leaving wasn’t as urgent as it had first felt.

A door caught your eye. Slightly ajar, it stood apart from the others, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway like an invitation. The handle was cool under your palm as you pushed it open slowly, the breath catching in your throat as the room beyond revealed itself.

It was a monument to his achievements, a gallery of accomplishments that demanded attention.

Trophies glinted under warm light, their metallic surfaces catching and reflecting the glow like captured fire. Medals hung in perfect symmetry, their ribbons vivid against the dark shelves. Framed jerseys lined the walls, their bold numbers standing out like markers of past victories. Photographs were scattered throughout—Jeno mid-jump, his face a mask of fierce determination; Jeno drenched in sweat, his hands gripping a trophy; Jeno smiling with his teammates, the picture of triumph.

But it wasn’t just basketball. Academic certificates were framed alongside the sports memorabilia, their polished plaques and embossed seals a testament to a relentless pursuit of excellence. Engineering awards and science fair ribbons filled the spaces in between, balanced with letters of recognition from world-class institutions you knew well—MIT for engineering, FIBA for basketball. You always knew Jeno was intelligent, but seeing him acknowledged by names of this caliber felt almost surreal. Every piece was deliberate, curated, a seamless display of achievement.

As your gaze swept across the room, it caught on something that disrupted the flawless symmetry—a torn jersey, encased in glass. Small and clearly from his youth, its fabric was frayed and stitched together with uneven, amateur hands. The imperfections stood in stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it, yet it commanded attention. It was the only piece that revealed struggle, rawness—a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of perfection.

Your feet carried you closer without thought, drawn to the display. The jersey’s stitches told a story—of effort, of failure, of resilience. It didn’t fit the flawless narrative surrounding it, but that only made it feel more real, more intimate.

You leaned into the wall’s cool surface, fingers curling instinctively around the spiral of your notebook. The pen moved without hesitation, tracing the polished lines of the room onto the page—the trophies catching the light, the torn jersey stitched with uneven hands, a single imperfection amidst calculated perfection. The motions were practiced, precise, capturing each observation as though the details alone could unlock something vital. 

Your notes shifted, bleeding seamlessly into fragments from earlier: the river court, sharp words cutting through the air, the weight of tension in every movement. The faint bass from the party hummed beneath it all, a distant thread pulling at your focus, but you pressed on, turning the moment into something structured, something useful. This was for your project—at least, that’s what you told yourself, even as the stillness of the room wrapped tighter around you, every detail anchoring you deeper into its grip.

A faint smile touched your lips as you jotted down a final note, your heartbeat finally evening out. Just a few quick observations, you told yourself. Then you’d leave. But you didn’t stop. The pull was stronger than you expected. Quietly, almost guiltily, you reached for your phone, snapping a few photos of the room. The soft click of the shutter seemed too loud, echoing in the silence. This was for your project, you reminded yourself, though the tightness in your chest whispered otherwise.

But the calm shattered when the door behind you snapped open.

Your entire body went rigid, the notebook clutched so tightly to your chest that your fingers ached. Jeno stood in the doorway, his broad frame shadowing the room, shoulders tense and chest rising with slow, controlled breaths that betrayed the storm beneath. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly under the dim light. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, locked onto yours with a heat that made your stomach twist, flicking briefly to the notebook in your hands like it was a weapon aimed directly at him. 

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, dangerous, carrying a jagged edge that scraped against your composure. The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing you in, the sound loud in the silence.

Your throat went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, gripping the notebook as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Nothing. I’m just leaving.”

He didn’t move, but his presence expanded, his gaze cutting through the air and landing squarely on the notebook in your hands. His eyes lingered, heavy and sharp, as if dissecting every inch of it—of you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a brief yet telling betrayal of the tension coiled in his frame. His anger wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. It pressed into the room, hot and suffocating, like a force you couldn’t ignore. You shifted instinctively, no hesitation in your steps, aiming to brush past him without a word, your shoulders back, your head high, but his hand shot out, lightning-fast and unforgiving. It wrapped around your wrist, firm but not crushing, halting you mid-step.

The impact was immediate. In one fluid motion, he pulled you and turned, your back colliding with the wall with a soft thud. A startled gasp left your lips, your notebook slipping from your fingers to dangle uselessly by your side. His body followed, a solid, immovable force pressing into yours, caging you between him and the cold wall. His chest barely grazed yours, enough to steal the air from your lungs, his proximity overwhelming. Heat radiated from him, a searing contrast to the chilled surface at your back.

You tried to inhale, to regain control, but his scent wrapped around you first—Something heady and sharp, a woodsy scent tangled with the faint bite of smoke, cutting through the air like a temptation you couldn’t escape. The weight of his hand remained on your wrist, pinning it just enough to keep you still but not enough to bruise. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

“What the hell is this?” His voice was a low snarl, and he nodded toward the notebook still clenched in your hands.

The words were barely out before you planted your hand firmly against his chest, shoving him back just enough to create space, reclaiming a fragment of control in the process. His sharp eyes followed the movement, narrowing with unrelenting focus, but he didn’t resist. Not yet. The heat of his body lingered, palpable even with the small distance you’d forced between you. Your breath hitched as you steadied yourself, flipping open the notebook with deliberate precision, the pages whispering against your fingers. Then, without hesitation, you let the words pour out, each one landing like the sharp crack of a whip.

“Lee Jeno,” you began, your voice sharp, deliberate, each word calculated to land like a blow. “Arrogant. Reckless. Self-absorbed.” The pen in your hand moved with purpose, its scratch against the paper slicing through the heavy silence. You didn’t just write the words; you said them, letting them hang in the air between you. “Short-tempered. Led by ego, not logic.” Your gaze lifted briefly, meeting him with a challenge, before returning to the page. It wasn’t an accident. It was a provocation.

The weight of his presence pressed against you like a storm building at your back, his silence louder than anything he could have said. You didn’t falter. “Irresponsible,” you continued, your tone colder now, sharper. “Thinks he’s untouchable.” The tension was suffocating, his breath audible behind you, but you refused to stop, the pointed edge of your words cutting deeper with every stroke of your pen.

The tension shattered in an instant. With a speed that left you breathless, Jeno moved, tearing the notebook from your grip before you could even think to hold on tighter. The sheer force of it left you gasping, the sound sharp and startled as your back hit the cold wall behind you. The heat of his body closed in, erasing the space between you, suffocating in its intensity. 

“Your project,” he hissed, the venom in his tone sinking into your skin as his fingers tightened briefly around your wrist before releasing it. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in, while his other hand lifted the notebook, the motion swift and deliberate, like he was ripping away your control. “You mean this?” he continued, his voice low and cutting, the notebook dangling from his grip like a taunt, daring you to respond.

He held it above you, using his height advantage effortlessly, his smirk sharp, deliberate, like the blade of a knife pressing into soft flesh. His body was so close, the heat of him licking at your skin, his chest brushing faintly against yours with every slow, measured breath. His arm stayed raised, muscles taut and flexing just enough to draw your attention, a silent reminder of his strength, his control. The weight of his dominance was physical, palpable—his free hand resting on the wall beside your head, caging you in as his scent, heady and sharp, filled every shallow inhale you managed. His eyes dragged over you like a slow burn, flicking from your parted lips to the slight rise and fall of your chest, as though cataloging every reaction you couldn’t suppress. 

He flipped the notebook open, pressing it against the wall with one hand, his eyes moving swiftly over the pages, the crease in his brow deepening with every note he absorbed. The corners of his mouth twisted into something between amusement and irritation, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he caught glimpses of your observations. He didn’t care that he was invading your space, your secrecy—it wasn’t even about the notebook anymore. It was about peeling back every layer, uncovering every thought you’d dared to put on paper about him, dissecting the way you saw him as if it held the answers to his frustration. His grip on the notebook tightened as he lingered on a particular line, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a way that betrayed his otherwise cool exterior. The need to read everything, to know exactly how you thought of him, burned in his eyes, unrelenting, as though your notes could explain the unrelenting pull between you.

Above you, the notebook became both a shield and a weapon, his towering frame closing the space further, radiating power and dominance as if he knew exactly how to wield it. He snapped it shut with a deliberate flick, the sound sharp and final, before letting it dangle carelessly from his grip, mocking in its weightlessness, his presence pressing into you like a command you weren’t sure you wanted to disobey.

“Every move I make, every mistake—you write it all down, don’t you? You love dissecting me. His voice dropped lower, smooth but cutting, each word dragging across your nerves like a deliberate provocation. “Tell me,” he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your temple, “what did you think you’d find? Something worth understanding?”

“Give it back, Jeno,” you snapped, your voice sharp with rising fury. You reached for it, but he held it higher, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I’m done with this party. I just want to leave.”

“Running away again?” His tone was mocking, the sarcasm cutting. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You always watch from the sidelines, scribbling in your little book. And then you vanish. But not this time.”

He stepped closer, his body pressing more firmly into yours, the heat between you becoming unbearable. You could feel every shift of his muscles, the unrelenting tension rolling off him like static electricity.

“Jeno, stop,” you tried again, your voice faltering but firm.

“Stop what?” he bit out, his voice sharp, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Stop calling out your bullshit? Or stop letting you treat me like some experiment?”

You exhaled sharply, your anger surging past your unease. “Your meltdown isn’t my responsibility,” you spat, your words cutting through the charged air like a blade. “You humiliated yourself.”

His expression flickered—pain, pride, fury—all flashing across his face in a heartbeat before his smirk returned, colder this time. “Maybe I’ll humiliate you next.”

Your chest heaved against his, the sensation maddening as you struggled to gather the strength to push him away. But the storm in your chest betrayed you—frustration, defiance, and something darker tangled together until you could barely tell them apart. “Let me go,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone falling flat beneath the tension, a crack in the armor you were desperately trying to maintain.

Jeno didn’t flinch. If anything, your demand only deepened the smirk on his lips, sharp and dangerous. “You keep saying let me go,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that scraped against the edges of your composure, hot breath grazing your ear. “But you keep pulling me closer.”

You gasped, the sharp sound catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. It was only then that your brain caught up to your body—realizing, with a jolt of clarity, what you had been doing all along. Your hands, which had meant to push him away, fisted into the fabric of his shirt instead. The soft sound that spilled from your lips, unbidden and undeniable, felt like a confession, one he noticed immediately. His eyes flickered with something darker, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding through the thin layers of clothing between you.

The hard line of his cock ground into you, the contact deliberate and unrelenting, sparking a tension so electric it made your thighs clench involuntarily. Your gasp turned into something closer to a moan, half-caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the wall, the cold surface a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. His hips rolled, slow and measured, dragging against you with a precision that felt calculated to drive you insane.

Your hips moved instinctively, grinding into him with a deliberate defiance that matched the fire in your voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, your words trembling with anger, but the heat behind them betrayed something darker—desire, raw and undeniable, pulsing through every deliberate motion.

“What you’ve been asking for,” he bit out, his voice rough. His hand, once braced against the wall, moved with purpose, sliding down to your waist. His fingers curled into your hips with bruising intent, pulling you into him, eliminating any space that might have offered you reprieve. His breath ghosted over your neck, warm and ragged, his lips grazing close enough to tease but never landing. Instead, he focused his weight, pressing you back into the wall, the firm lines of his chest and abdomen crushing into you as though daring you to deny this.

“Don’t play innocent now,” he hissed, his voice low, dripping with arrogance. “You’ve been watching me, writing about me, tearing me apart piece by piece in that notebook of yours.” His eyes burned into yours, daring you to deny it, but you couldn’t find your voice. “So tell me—” he ground his hips against you again, the motion deliberate, devastating, dragging a guttural sound from the back of your throat, “—is this the part you wanted to see? The part you couldn’t write down?”

The grind of his hips was deliberate and devastating, his erection a blunt, heated pressure against your core. He didn’t move cautiously, didn’t hold back. The roll of his body into yours was unrestrained, the friction igniting something raw and animalistic between you. Your gasp broke the heavy silence, high and desperate, and your hands moved without thought, clinging to his shirt like an anchor against the overwhelming tide of him.

Jeno’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you even closer. His hips surged forward, the hardness of him dragging along the seam of your jeans, the layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the shocking intensity of the contact. A low sound escaped his throat—half a groan, half a growl—as if he, too, was unraveling under the weight of the moment. His other hand slid from the wall, trailing down to join the first at your waist, pulling your body flush against his with a force that made you arch into him.

You could feel his muscles tense and shift beneath his clothes, his strength tangible and all-encompassing as he moved. Each thrust was hard and precise, leaving you breathless as your thighs clenched against the wall, your body caught between unrelenting heat and the cold, unforgiving surface behind you. Your breaths came faster, shallow and broken, each exhale brushing against his neck as the space between you ceased to exist.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice rough, laced with a dark edge as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” His words sliced through the air, sharp and cutting, their effect only amplified by the next grind of his hips, harder this time, as though punishing you for every unspoken thought he’d somehow dragged to the surface.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. The push and pull of his body against yours had robbed you of coherent thought, leaving only the heat and tension and the maddening friction that made your head tilt back against the wall, exposing your throat to the warm rush of his breath. Your nails scraped against his chest, desperate for purchase, for anything to ground you, but the smirk tugging at his lips told you he had no intention of letting you find it.

Jeno’s hands slid lower, gripping your hips so tightly you could feel every ridge of his fingertips through the fabric. He pushed you down into him, his next thrust leaving no room for subtlety as his cock ground into the most sensitive spot between your thighs, sending a bolt of electricity up your spine. The sound that tore from your throat was involuntary, a mixture of frustration and something far more dangerous, and his answering groan was a low, guttural sound that made your stomach tighten.

“You don’t get to walk in, fuck with my life, and think you can just walk out,” he growled, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice fraying at the edges with the rawness of it all. “This is what you wanted—so take it.”

His hips surged forward again, harder, faster, his hands pulling you into every punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air, for control, for anything that wasn’t him. But Jeno wasn’t offering you an escape—he was pulling you deeper, dragging you into the chaos he’d been holding back until now.

The tension snapped taut, and Jeno’s voice cut through the charged air like a blade. “You will not analyze me like I’m some kind of lab rat,” he growled, his tone low, firm, laced with a sharp edge of warning. His hand braced against the wall near your head, the other still gripping your hip, a physical manifestation of his need to assert control. “You’re going to listen to me. For once. No scribbling notes. No sideline stares. Just me.”

The heat of him pressed into you, each word dragging against your composure, unraveling it thread by thread. “Say something,” he demanded, his voice dark, dangerous, the kind of command that made defiance feel futile. “Don’t just stand there. You came into my space, took me apart in that little book of yours—own it.”

For a moment, you let him believe it—the commanding stance, the clipped words. His proximity, his intensity, all felt like a calculated act of dominance. And yet, something in the air shifted. Your breath hitched involuntarily, your voice trembling just enough when you tried to counter, “This isn’t—”

“Don’t.” His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to draw a sharp inhale from your lips. “You act like you’re untouchable—like you’re better than all of this—but you’re not. Stop pretending.” His other hand slipped from the wall, curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. “You want to tear me apart? Do it here. Look at me. Say it to my face. No hiding behind your notes. No running away.”

Your hands moved on instinct, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips rolled against his in deliberate defiance. “You want me to say it to your face?” you challenged, your voice darkening with every word. “Fine. You’re messy, arrogant, impossible. You push too hard, take too much, and it drives me insane. And still, here I am.”

The weight of your words didn’t settle; they ignited. The moment hung heavy between you, the heat, the pressure, his commands wrapping around you like a vice. For a fleeting second, your silence gave him the victory he wanted, the illusion that he was in control. But even he couldn’t fully ignore the way your breath wavered, the unspoken tension that pulsed between every defiant inhale.

Jeno leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a low snarl that sent heat curling through your stomach. “See what you do to me?” His hips shifted slightly, the movement deliberate and devastating, the friction between you enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips that you couldn’t suppress.

“This is messed up,” you bit out, your tone sharp but breathless, trying to keep some semblance of control. “You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever I want,” he interrupted, his voice a dark rasp as his grip on your waist tightened, his hand slipping lower with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. “This is my place. My rules.”

When someone called his name from beyond the door, the sound was jarring, slicing through the haze between you. Your heart kicked into overdrive, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your instincts flared with the threat of being caught. But Jeno didn’t flinch; his gaze remained locked on yours, unwavering, burning. The name came again, louder, more insistent, but he didn’t so much as glance toward the door. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, his hips rolling into yours with a grinding motion that stole your breath.

“I’m busy!” he shouted, his voice rough, guttural, carrying a raw edge of impatience that matched the fire in his gaze. The footsteps hesitated outside, the muffled voices trailing off, and the moment stretched between you, charged and unbearable.

The sound of your notebook hitting the floor snapped you back to reality, the weight of his dominance crackling through the room. “Get out,” he commanded, his voice low, vibrating with finality. His hand slid from your waist, leaving a burning imprint behind as he stepped back, the sudden loss of contact a jarring contrast to the heat that had engulfed you moments ago. “Take your stupid notes and go.”

With a sharp breath, you bent to retrieve the notebook, your fingers brushing against the cold floor as his shadow loomed over you, heavy and deliberate. Just as your hand closed around the spiral binding, his presence surged closer. You stiffened when his hand moved, fingers grazing along the curve of your hip and trailing down, settling at the waistband of your jeans. The pressure was firm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt where it met denim. It was a touch that made your breath hitch—not gentle, not hesitant, but entirely purposeful.

Straightening abruptly, your glare locked onto his, fury searing through every muscle, but it only seemed to amuse him, his smirk dark and deliberate. “Fuck you, Jeno,” you spat, your voice shaking with equal parts venom and the heat coursing between you, every word cutting through the suffocating tension that bound you both. Yet, even as you stood your ground, the phantom of his touch lingered, burning hotter than it should have.

You hated how he acted like he held all the cards, as though every move you made was under his control. The way he pressed his dominance into every look, every word, every graze of his hand—it made your blood boil. But what you hated most was the way your body responded, as if betraying the firestorm in your head, craving the very control you wanted to snatch from him.

So you didn’t leave. Not yet. The moment was cut too short, the fire roaring in your veins demanding more—demanding control. You stepped closer, your hands fisting into his shirt as you spun the two of you around with a force that startled him. His back hit the wall with a sharp thud, the sound reverberating through the room. Your body pressed into his, not gently but with purpose, your hips driving forward to meet his with a ferocity that made him inhale sharply.

You wanted him to feel it—the power, the control shifting from his hands to yours. The heat radiating from him only fueled you further, your body moving instinctively as your hips ground against his in a rhythm that felt raw, undeniable. The hard press of him beneath his jeans brushed against you in a way that made your breath catch, but you refused to give it a name, refused to admit what it ignited in you. All you focused on was the way his chest rose sharply against yours, the way his hands twitched as if they didn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your fingers gripped his shirt harder, nails digging into the fabric as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His smirk had faltered, replaced by something darker, something uncertain, and for the first time, you felt it—the satisfaction of making him unsteady, of seizing the upper hand. You wanted him undone, caught in the very chaos he tried to pin on you. And if he thought he could still hold control, the press of your body against his made it clear—he was wrong.

Jeno’s eyes widened briefly, shock flickering across his face before it was overtaken by something darker, hungrier. His hands found your hips, his grip unrelenting as he pulled you closer, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire that burned hotter with every deliberate motion. His breath hitched, a low groan escaping his throat as your movements grew bolder, your hands sliding down his chest with an authority that left no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re not in control,” you murmured, your voice low, firm, each word dragging across his nerves like a challenge. His fingers flexed against your hips, digging into the flesh as though he could tether you to him, his body grinding against yours in desperate, unrestrained retaliation. Your hands moved with purpose, sliding up the expanse of his chest until your fingers found the first button of his shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, you began to undo it, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin with every flick. Each undone button revealed more of his taut, heated flesh, and you caught the sharp inhale he failed to suppress as your touch ignited a tension that went beyond control.

His voice, low and ragged, finally broke through the heavy silence. “You think you can—” he started, but the words faltered, lost in the sharp exhale he released as your hands flattened against his chest, sliding down to his abdomen. The warmth of your palms seared through the fabric of his shirt, your touch deliberate, unhurried. His tone shifted, quieter now, reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe the situation he’d found himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

Your lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, your movements slow, calculated, as you leaned in, your breath skimming over the hollow of his throat. His pulse pounded beneath your proximity, and you could feel it quicken. “And you don’t seem to mind,” you murmured, your voice velvet and sharp, a perfect taunt. The words slithered through the air, unapologetic in their bite, their confidence making his breath hitch.

Jeno knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be—how the cleanest, most composed surfaces often hid the darkest edges. But even then, he hadn’t expected this. You were the kind of girl he’d automatically slotted into a category: a goody two shoes, the rule-follower, the one who kept her head down and did what needed to be done without stepping out of line. You weren’t supposed to be the kind of person who would back him into a wall, your hips grinding against his like you owned him. The disconnect was maddening, and the sheer audacity of it made his jaw tighten, his chest heaving with labored breaths as he fought to regain some semblance of control. But control was slipping fast, burned away by the way you looked at him—eyes sharp, unyielding, daring him to do something about it. You were confident in a way that wasn’t just hot—it was intoxicating. And with every deliberate movement of your body against his, he realized how thoroughly he’d underestimated you. You weren’t just rewriting the image he’d had of you—you were setting it on fire.

His hands moved instinctively, trailing up your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch trembling slightly, caught between hesitation and need. His fingers flexed, brushing the fabric of your shirt, stopping just shy of your waist as though unsure if finally gripping you would set him alight. But the heat between you demanded more, and the tension in his hands betrayed his restraint, every flex screaming a hunger to claim, to ground himself in the chaos you commanded. His lips parted, his breath hitching, but no words came—just a sharp, shaky exhale that betrayed the unraveling control he clung to. The weight of your dominance bore down on him, your presence a palpable force stripping him bare, leaving him trembling beneath your gaze. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the rhythm breaking under the pressure of you. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to you—but the way you moved, the way you dismantled him with every sharp, calculated motion, left him powerless to stop it.

“Why are you so quiet now, hm? You wanted me to listen, didn’t you?” you murmured, your tone so low and enticing that it sent a shiver down his spine. You tilted your head, forcing his gaze to lock with yours, the weight of your command clear in your eyes. “This is me listening. Now what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw twitched, his silence betraying him, the usual edge to his demeanor dulled by the firestorm building in the space between you. The rhythm of his breaths staggered, your nearness, your audacity pulling him under. Finally, he swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragged out like an admission he hadn’t meant to give. “I don’t know,” he rasped, his tone raw, laden with something between awe and frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

And still, he didn’t move. His control, his power—everything he’d used to define himself—crumbled in your hands, and for the first time, he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate that you were the one taking the lead, that you were the one pressing into him with an intensity that made him dizzy. He didn’t know what to do with you—but it was clear you knew exactly what to do with him.

The air between you didn’t shatter—it stretched, thin and taut, vibrating with the weight of something unsaid as Jeno leaned closer. His breath skimmed your lips, warm and deliberate, a quiet threat disguised as temptation. The moment was agonizingly slow, a pull so visceral it felt like gravity itself had shifted to align with the space between you. His gaze burned into yours, daring, dark, and for a fleeting second, you felt the heavy inevitability of his mouth on yours, like it had already happened in another life.

But just before his lips could meet yours, you moved—decisive, sharp, unstoppable. Your palm flattened against his chest, firm and commanding, halting his advance mid-breath. The soft laugh that spilled from you wasn’t gentle; it was a weapon, slicing through the air and carving your dominance into the space he thought he controlled. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch, but you didn’t close the gap.

Instead, you tilted your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you murmured, “You really thought I’d let you kiss me?” The words were slow, each syllable dripping with taunt and precision, as though you were savoring the power of holding him suspended like this. You shifted closer—not enough to close the distance, but just enough for your body to graze his, letting him feel the weight of your control. “Not a chance,” you finished, pulling back just enough to see the flicker of something desperate and undone flash across his face, feeding the fire you had no intention of extinguishing.

His frustration was a tangible thing, a heat that radiated off him, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as his parted lips trembled with words that never came. You leaned in, the brush of your lips barely skimming the shell of his ear as your hand slid lower, gliding over the taut planes of his torso. Your touch was slow, deliberate, and excruciating, your fingers tracing the waistband of his pants with a teasing pressure that made his breath stutter.

When your palm pressed firmly against the rigid heat straining beneath the fabric, his body jerked, the faintest sound—a mix between a groan and a gasp—escaping his throat. “So hard for me,” you whispered, your voice dripping with taunt and power, every word deliberate and cutting. Your fingers flexed slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from him, your lips curving into a smirk as you tilted your head to meet his wide-eyed, breathless gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Jeno?” you murmured, your tone silk and fire, dragging the tension higher as you let your palm press harder, savoring the way his composure crumbled beneath you.

A broken moan escaped his throat, raw and guttural, as his hips pressed into your touch instinctively. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to grip the wall for support or touch you, but he didn’t move. You relished his submission, the way his control shattered under your dominance, the power shifting entirely into your hands.

You crouched slowly, each movement deliberate, your lips hovering mere inches from the bulge in his pants. The tension between you was unbearable, your breath ghosting over the straining fabric, teasing, testing the limits of his control. You lingered there, savoring the way his body reacted—his chest heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides as if restraining himself took every ounce of his will.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against him through the fabric, the heat of him searing against your lips. Your tongue followed, a languid flick over the barrier of his pants, tasting the faint salt of his anticipation. The sound he made—a guttural, raw groan—sent a shiver through you, his hips jerking involuntarily toward your mouth as though chasing the relief only you could provide.

“Please,” he rasped, his voice raw, wrecked, laced with a desperate edge that made the air between you crackle. Your name fell from his lips, not like a prayer, but like a demand barely restrained, broken and yet brimming with need. His hand moved to your shoulder, tentative at first, then tightening with an urgency that betrayed the control he was struggling to hold onto, his grip firm but trembling. “Don’t stop,” he growled, the words dragging rough and low from his throat, teetering between pleading and commanding, as if he couldn’t decide whether to beg you or take what he wanted.

You’d heard the stories about Jeno—late-night whispers curling through dorm rooms like smoke, tales of a man who didn’t just fuck but ruined people, leaving them trembling, insatiable, chasing after something only he could deliver. He was calculated, relentless, a master of control in every movement, every breath. He took his time, they said, dragging you to the edge and keeping you there until your entire body begged for release. His prowess clung to him like a second skin, an invisible crown he wore without effort, without arrogance. You’d seen it, felt it even now—the way his presence wrapped around you, heavy and suffocating, like the air itself couldn’t ignore him. He made you want to step closer, to see if the promises in his gaze were true, or to push him away just to prove you didn’t need him.

But tonight, those promises didn’t matter. You knew why he wanted this, and it had nothing to do with you. His bruised pride wasn’t subtle; it burned off him like smoke from a fire, stoked higher by the sting of losing Areum. This wasn’t about desire—it was about power. About proving to himself that he could still have anything, anyone, if he just reached for it. And if he thought you’d give him that satisfaction? That you’d unravel for him because he leaned in close, whispered your name like a secret, and let his lips hover just out of reach?

Not a chance.

You lingered, lips brushing against the fabric one last time, deliberately slow, leaving the faintest trace of your warmth. The act was intimate and deliberate, each second dragged out until the tension in the air felt unbearable. Straightening, you let your gaze lock with his, the smirk tugging at your lips daring and victorious, a reminder that you controlled this moment. “Maybe next time,” you murmured, your voice soft yet dripping with authority, a silken dismissal that cut deeper than words should.

With a casual motion, you wiped your hands on your jeans, an effortless contrast to the chaos you’d ignited in him, and turned to leave. Each step was unhurried, your exit deliberate, knowing he wouldn’t—couldn’t—look away. Just as your hand touched the doorframe, an instinct made you pause. You glanced back over your shoulder, and the sight that greeted you was nothing short of devastating.

Jeno was undone. His head was tipped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. His lips parted, releasing quiet, wrecked groans, each sound more raw than the last. One hand braced against the wall as if anchoring himself, his knuckles white, while the other was buried beneath the waistband of his pants, his movements slow and desperate, chasing the edge you’d left him teetering on.

The sight was primal, magnetic, every inch of him radiating a vulnerability you’d never expected, and for a brief moment, you hesitated, letting it sear into your memory. But you didn’t stay. You didn’t need to. The image of him—wrecked, ruined, and completely at your mercy—would linger with you long after you left, his soft groans trailing behind you like a confession as you disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

The screen glared back at you, her message cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You didn’t respond, didn’t even let yourself process it, just locked the screen and slipped your phone back into your pocket. She must’ve messaged you by mistake, you told yourself. Tonight wasn’t your night to deal with anyone’s chaos but your own.

You didn’t need to turn back to know exactly where he was—still against the wall, hand working desperately beneath his waistband, chasing what you’d denied him. By the time the night was over, you had no doubt he’d bury himself in someone else, finding release in another body, someone who’d give in without hesitation. That was Jeno’s way—fast, raw, and detached, his pleasure stripped of meaning. But tonight, you weren’t going to be his easy satisfaction, his fleeting indulgence. You could feel it in the charged air you’d left behind, in the weight of his need you refused to satisfy. Let someone else fall into his orbit; you weren’t going to be another mark on his tally.

Slipping past the crowded living room, you kept your head low, avoiding the glances of anyone who might stop you. Your chest tightened as you moved, the apartment’s maze-like corridors taunting you with their sharp turns and identical doors. It felt like you’d never find the exit, like the building itself was conspiring to keep you there. But then, finally, a side door appeared, half-hidden by shadows, and you slipped through it like a fugitive.

The cool night air hit you like a blessing, the weight in your chest easing as you stepped into the quiet. The contrast was stark—inside was a war zone, outside was stillness. The distant hum of city life felt surreal, as if it belonged to a different world entirely.

You glanced around, scanning for any sign of Jeno. His car was still parked where it had been earlier, a sleek black beacon in the dim light. Relief flooded through you; he hadn’t followed. He was still inside, probably oblivious to the fact that you were already gone.

But then your eyes caught something—someone—further down the street. A gasp escaped you before you could stop it, your body freezing as you recognized the figure leaning against a car. Mark. His familiar frame was impossible to miss, even from this distance. Your breath hitched, and instinctively, you stepped back into the shadows, your heart racing. He didn’t see you—his entire focus was on Areum, who stood close beside him. Too close.

They looked… intimate. His hand brushed hers briefly, his posture tilted toward her like he was trying to comfort her. She looked upset, her expression barely visible from where you stood, but the way Mark leaned in, the way their bodies angled toward each other—it told a story you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

Mark and Areum? The thought twisted in your chest as you watched them climb into his car together. You didn’t even realize it had gotten to this point. Whispers from the party earlier floated back to you, snippets of gossip you’d brushed off at the time.

“Did you see Mark leave with Areum?”

“Jeno’s ex hooking up with his rival? Wild.”

You’d dismissed them as rumors, exaggerated drunken chatter—but now the evidence was staring you in the face.

The night felt heavier than before as you called for an Uber, your fingers trembling slightly as you typed in the address. You were drained, every part of you screaming to go home, to crawl into bed and pretend none of this had happened. But as you climbed into the car, your phone buzzed again.

jihyo — hey, can you come over? i really need you right now.

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen, the message from Jihyo burning into your mind like an unspoken demand. You weren’t scheduled tonight. You didn’t have to go. College loomed in the morning, the weight of deadlines and responsibilities already pressing down on you, a sharp reminder of how tightly you’d orchestrated every detail of your life. Structure was your safety net—plans meticulously crafted to keep chaos at bay. But tonight had already upended all of that. Jeno’s touch still lingered like a bruise on your resolve, the firestorm of his presence leaving cracks in the walls you’d built so carefully. To go now would be a departure from everything you tried to hold steady. And yet, staying meant sitting in the wreckage of a night you couldn’t undo, letting it fester.

jihyo — i’ll pay extra. trust me. it’s important.

You exhaled sharply, Jihyo’s words cutting through the exhaustion draped over you, but igniting something buried deeper, something restless. The money mattered, sure, but that wasn’t what made your pulse quicken. Those nights had their own gravity, pulling you into a space where everything sharpened—where the lines blurred between control and chaos, between exhibition and escape. It wasn’t just the thrill of stepping into that world; it was the power it gave you, the way it stripped everything raw. Eyes watching you, wanting you, yet never able to touch what you didn’t allow—it wasn’t just a distraction. It was a reckoning, a way to take back what the day, the world, or even Jeno had tried to steal. It left you electric, a storm gathering force, untouchable yet so dangerously alive.

you — fine. on my way.

The driver glanced back as you changed the destination, his expression unreadable, but you ignored it. No rest for you—not tonight. You were already in the storm; you might as well keep going. The car merged onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window as you braced yourself for what came next.

The door clicked shut behind you, swallowing the last remnants of the outside world and plunging you into the bar’s embrace—a space carved out of darkness, hedonism, and heat. Smoke coiled through the air, not lazy but purposeful, weaving tendrils that clung to your skin like an invisible hand, teasing your senses. The low hum of neon lights pulsed overhead, bathing everything in shades of crimson and cobalt, the colors spilling across the room like spilled wine—dark, intoxicating, and staining everything it touched. Shadows played along the walls, stretching and shifting, hinting at secrets shared in low whispers and heavy gazes.

The leather booths gleamed like ink under the sultry glow, their deep cushions practically inviting bodies to sink into them, to forget everything but the pleasure of proximity. Tables stood scattered like forgotten lovers, their polished surfaces catching flashes of light, betraying the careless fingerprints of those who came here to taste sin and leave nothing behind. The floor, slick and reflective, mirrored the sharp heels of women striding past, the flex of muscle beneath fitted suits, and the languid movements of hands resting too low on thighs.

Behind the bar, rows of bottles glinted like trophies in a predator’s lair, their contents catching the light in amber and emerald hues. The faint clink of glasses, the steady rhythm of liquid pouring into crystal, blended into the room’s soundtrack—an undercurrent of murmured conversations and occasional bursts of low laughter. A mirror stretched across the back wall, catching glimpses of sweat-slick necks, the curve of lips wrapping around the rim of a glass, and the hollow of throats exposed as heads tipped back to swallow.

The air was heavy, oppressive, but not stifling—a perfect, suffocating warmth designed to coax bodies closer. It reeked of whiskey, sweat, and the faintest trace of musk, an unrelenting mixture that clung to your nostrils, seeping into your lungs with every breath. The scent mingled with something sharper, darker, primal—a promise of bodies pressing together in shadowed corners, of hands gripping too tight, of mouths tasting what they shouldn’t.

Everywhere you looked, the bar seemed alive—alive in the way a predator watches its prey. Velvet curtains hung in uneven folds along the far wall, their deep red fabric glowing under the faint light, hinting at spaces hidden behind them where the rules of this room didn’t apply. Low-slung chandeliers dripped with chains instead of crystal, their edges sharp, casting fractured shadows that danced like foreplay across bare skin and rumpled clothes. A faint graffiti scrawled along the wood near the booths read like confessions of sins past, promises unfulfilled, and moments stolen.

This was nothing like the chaos of a college party; there was no raucous laughter or frenzied energy here. This was curated, intentional—a realm of indulgence and raw tension, crafted for those who came searching for something darker. This wasn’t just a bar; it was a temple to indulgence, to raw, carnal desire. Everything about it whispered permission—permission to touch, to taste, to lose yourself. The air itself felt alive, pressing into you, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had. The faint vibration from the bassline crawled up your legs, a visceral reminder of where you were and what this place demanded. It wasn’t just a space—it was a promise, a provocation, daring you to step further into its embrace.

Jihyo caught your gaze the moment you approached. She was a force of nature, her grungy, tattooed frame exuding authority. Dark hair fell in lazy waves around her sharp features, her lips curled into a smirk that carried no softness. She leaned against the bar, one hand braced on the counter as she handed off a glass to a waiting customer without breaking eye contact. Her fitted black tank revealed toned arms, and the silver rings on her fingers reflected the neon haze. “Don’t keep them waiting,” she muttered, her voice low but loaded with intent.

You didn’t respond. There was no need. You knew your role here, the unspoken contract that hung between the two of you like smoke in the air. You moved with precision, slipping through the crowd. Men in tailored suits and loosened ties leaned into their drinks, their gazes heavy with expectation but never once settling on you. They didn’t see you now. You were invisible until you chose not to be. You recognized some of them, regulars whose eyes would burn with recognition the moment the lights hit you. But for now, they were just part of the background.

The hallway to the back room was narrow, quieter, the sound of faint music pulsing in your ears as you stepped inside. The dressing room was small, unassuming. A rack of costumes hung to the side, their vibrant, provocative fabrics glinting faintly under the overhead light. You moved quickly, shedding your everyday clothes with the kind of efficiency that came from practice.

Your outfit was more skin than fabric—a two-piece ensemble of black and crimson lace. The top clung to you like a second skin, the delicate material dipping low enough to frame the swell of your breasts, daring anyone to look closer. The thin straps looped over your shoulders, leaving your back bare, the lace barely covering anything more than necessary. The matching bottoms were scandalous—a high-cut thong that left the curve of your ass exposed, with sheer panels running down your hips. Over-the-knee stockings in the same black lace hugged your thighs, the faint shimmer catching the light. Heels completed the look, sleek and deadly, adding inches to your already commanding presence.

You slipped a sheer cover over the outfit as you stepped out, the translucent material doing nothing to hide the boldness of what lay beneath. The contrast between this version of you and the one who existed outside these walls was stark, but here, you owned it. The weight of the outfit, the makeup, the stage—it wasn’t a mask. It was power, weaponized and perfected.

The air thickened as you moved back toward the main floor, clinging to your skin with an almost tangible heat that promised indulgence. Every detail of the bar seemed alive—the low murmur of conversations, the rhythmic click of glasses meeting wood, and the bassline vibrating through the floor, steady as a pulse. You stepped into it seamlessly, the chaos bending around you, feeding into your calm. This was your world, a place where you thrived, where the night was yours to command.

Jihyo lounged against the bar like she owned not just the room but the energy pulsing through it. Her ripped jeans sat low on her hips, the cropped leather jacket hinting at smooth, taut skin beneath. Her dark waves fell just past her shoulders, intentionally messy, as if the chaos of the bar itself had shaped her. She didn’t need to posture; her presence was enough—a sharp contrast to the haze of smoke and dim light around her. Her eyes locked on you, assessing with the precision of someone who knew the stakes. “About time,” she said, her voice low and cutting, designed to carry. “They’ve been waiting. Don’t make me regret it.”

You offered her a faint smirk, slipping through the crowd with ease. Hands reached out, voices murmuring things you didn’t bother deciphering. They were just noise. You were above it. You were untouchable—at least until the lights hit you, and then you’d become something else entirely.

The room shifted as you stepped onto the stage, a low thrum of noise rippling through the crowd like an electric charge. The smoky haze wrapped around you, thick and deliberate, distorting the neon reds and blues into streaks of fire and ice against the darkened corners of the bar. Men filled the space—leaned against the bar, lounged in leather booths, or stood near the stage, their gazes following you with blatant hunger. Some whistled, some cheered, their voices cutting through the murmur of clinking glasses and low conversations. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t need to. This was your territory, a place where their attention didn’t intimidate but fueled you.

Your outfit wasn’t just something you wore—it was a part of the performance, inseparable from the electric guitar slung across your body. The black lace and bold straps didn’t merely adorn you; they claimed their place under the lights, commanding attention as much as you did. Over it, the sheer slip clung to your frame, translucent in a way that revealed just enough to tempt, every line of your body hinted at with a calculated elegance meant to provoke. It wasn’t meant to conceal—just the opposite. It was a challenge, an invitation for their imaginations to linger, to want it gone, to fantasize about tearing it from you. But you kept it on, a barrier as much as a weapon, daring them to think they could earn the right to see what lay beneath. 

The plunging neckline framed you like a spotlight, drawing attention to every deliberate curve, while your thighs, bare except for the sheen of thigh-high stockings, seemed to catch the glow of the lights as if the stage itself bent to your command. The guitar rested against your hips like it belonged there, its sleek design a mirror to your presence—bold, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore. Each strike of your boots against the floor resonated through the room, not just a sound but a signal, an assertion of control. The stage lights burned hotter here, casting shadows that danced across your bare skin, accentuating the sharp edge of your makeup—smoldering eyes framed by dark liner, crimson lips curving with intent, and cheekbones kissed with gold, gleaming like a challenge to the crowd below.

This wasn’t the controlled environment of a college performance. This was raw, unfiltered life. Jihyo’s bar wasn’t for the faint of heart—this was a world that thrived on indulgence, a crucible of lust and longing. For a music major accustomed to structured critiques and the polite applause of recitals, this was the ultimate test—no safety nets, no scripted feedback, just raw energy and the unspoken challenge to dominate the room. You’d spent nights here, studying its rhythm, commanding its energy, bending its wild currents to your will. Tonight would be no different.

The stage was intimate but powerful, elevated just enough to force their gazes upward, demanding their attention. You draped the guitar strap over your shoulder, the motion deliberate, a slow sweep of control that carried through the room. Fingers lingered over the microphone as you adjusted it, the faint scrape of metal against your palm drawing their focus like a spark in the dark. The subtle glint of your rings caught the light, a quiet accent to your movements that added an edge of elegance, of authority. The crowd stirred, their energy thickening as you struck a single note, the low, resonant hum rolling through the air and settling deep in their chests. Conversation stilled, eyes locked on you, the weight of their anticipation pressing against your skin. You felt it—the shift, the slipping of the everyday you into something sharper, bolder, untouchable. The stage demanded it, and you gave in, letting the persona settle over you like armor, every movement calculated to feed the tension until it was yours to command.

The first chords came slow, deliberate, matching the rhythm of your pulse. Your voice slipped into the room like smoke, low and melodic, pulling their attention closer, deeper. The lyrics dripped from your lips, edgy and provocative, laced with innuendo that lingered just long enough to make them wonder. This wasn’t just a performance—it was control. You let your hips sway in time with the beat, the thin straps of your outfit shifting with each movement, teasing the audience, daring them to want more.

For the first few minutes, you kept to the plan—a carefully orchestrated set that teetered on the edge of seduction without ever tipping over. The bar hummed with its usual energy, smoky and intimate, the kind of place where regulars stayed long enough to blur the line between night and morning. It wasn’t the sort of place anyone stumbled into; it was hidden, unmarked, known only to those who needed its refuge. That was why you came—because the world outside couldn’t find you here. No familiar faces. No unexpected encounters. Just you, the stage, and the pull of the crowd.

Your eyes flitted across the room as you moved, your guitar humming low against your body. The regulars were in their usual places—men leaning back in leather booths, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger you knew how to wield. They didn’t intimidate you; they gave you power, their expectations feeding your confidence as you leaned into the mic, your voice curling around the lyrics like smoke.

But then, the door creaked open.

Your brow furrowed, your fingers faltering over the strings for a split second before you recovered. No one ever walked in this late. The bar wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed wanderers or drew in curious strangers. This was a den for the initiated, a haven for those who knew its rhythms. You cast a glance toward the entrance, the faint glow from the streetlights outside cutting through the haze for a moment. And there he was.

The moment your eyes caught his, it was like the room contracted, pulling all its weight into that single point. Jeno. His name wasn’t a thought—it was a sensation, crawling down your spine and sinking low into your stomach. You didn’t look away, though every nerve in your body begged you to. His gaze was steady, unrelenting, a tether you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t break.

Your stomach coiled, your pulse stuttering with a certainty that was both sharp and undeniable: he wasn’t supposed to be here. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t some calculated move on his part, no deliberate hunt to corner you after the chaos of the party. He hadn’t followed you—you’d left him where he stood, undone and occupied, and this bar wasn’t the kind of place anyone stumbled into without intention. It wasn’t just hidden; it was deliberately unmarked, an enclave you’d chosen for its anonymity. Here, you existed beyond recognition, beyond anyone’s reach. Yet now, his presence fractured that carefully built illusion, the one you’d relied on to ensure this life stayed separate from the other.

He took a seat at the far end of the bar, the kind of spot that seemed designed to swallow a man whole. The broken neon light above flickered unevenly, throwing his sharp features into alternating patches of crimson and stark white. It was a seat of contradictions—a beacon and a shadow, a throne and a confession booth—its placement isolated but deliberate, as if it had been waiting for him. Smoke coiled lazily through the air, softening the sharp angles of his leather jacket, but nothing could dull the weight of his presence. He fit too well here, as though the atmosphere itself bent around him, drawn to the tension coiled in his frame.

The leather creaked faintly under him as he leaned back, his hand curling loosely around a glass of whiskey, its amber surface catching the flicker of light. He didn’t slouch; his posture was a restrained defiance, his shoulders pulled back with just enough tension to suggest a man holding himself together by a thread. The muscles in his jaw shifted, a faint tic betraying the storm behind his calm exterior. He moved like he belonged here, like the low hum of the bar’s indulgent haze was something he had mastered—but you knew better. This wasn’t his world; he hadn’t been here before. And yet, the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass, the calculated ease of his movements, made it feel like he had already claimed it as his own. It was unnerving how natural he looked in a place that thrived on artifice.

His hair was the first thing you noticed, even in the dim lighting—black with streaks of dark blonde, each strand catching the faint neon glow as though it had been deliberately placed to draw the eye. The contrast was intoxicating, rebellion and refinement fused together. The black served as the perfect base, rich and glossy, grounding him in something darker, while the golden highlights shimmered like fleeting promises, perfectly framing the cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The layers of his hair were deliberate, falling in a way that suggested he’d just run his fingers through it moments before stepping inside, each strand a statement of effortless chaos.

His outfit demanded attention. The brown leather jacket clung to his shoulders, every crease and fold amplifying the lean muscle beneath. It was open, revealing a ribbed white tank that hugged his torso, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his chest. A silver chain rested in the hollow of his throat, glinting faintly as he shifted, the simple accessory exuding a quiet power. His pants, black and tailored, sat low on his hips, sharp lines accentuating the languid grace of his movements. Everything about him felt polished but raw, as if he carried chaos beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He exuded a magnetism that didn’t beg for attention—it commanded it. The sharp line of his jaw flexed subtly, tension coiled beneath the surface, hinting at a storm he kept firmly restrained. His gaze, dark and deliberate, moved through the room like a current, assessing and discarding with a precision that felt unnervingly purposeful. The faint clink of the glass in his hand punctuated the stillness around him, his fingers gripping the rim with a controlled force that betrayed the energy thrumming beneath his composed exterior. Every motion, from the subtle shift of his shoulders to the way he leaned just slightly forward, felt charged, deliberate, as though the space bent to accommodate him. It wasn’t restlessness—it was calculated patience, a quiet certainty that wherever he looked, the room would eventually meet him on his terms.

Your gaze caught him from the corner of your eye, but you knew he didn’t see you. Not really. The dim lighting played tricks, the haze of smoke blurring edges and muting details. You were cloaked in stage lights, your face and body transformed by the bold makeup, the provocative outfit, and the sheer persona you wore like armor. This wasn’t the girl he’d argued with at the party or Coach Suh’s office or the girl who left him gasping against the wall. You were someone else here—a performer, a presence, a force he couldn’t yet name.

His gaze skimmed past you at first, hungry but detached, as if you were just another face in the haze of smoke and dim light. He wasn’t really seeing you—not yet. His focus drifted the way it did with the other women in the bar, drawn to the stage out of instinct rather than intent. Lost in the pull of his drink and the muted hum of the room, he seemed adrift, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his attention. For a fleeting moment, you felt an unfamiliar sense of relief. He didn’t know it was you—not under the glare of the stage lights, not with the veil of makeup and the electric energy you wore like armor. It granted you a power you hadn’t anticipated—the freedom to hold his gaze on your terms, unburdened by history or expectations.

But then, something shifted. It was subtle at first—a flicker in his expression, the faint crease of his brow as his eyes lingered just a second too long. There was a rhythm in the way you moved, a note in your voice, the precise way your fingers danced over the guitar strings—it pulled at something buried in his subconscious. The realization unfolded in pieces, each one hitting him harder than the last. His body froze, the glass in his hand stilled mid-motion, and his chest heaved with a single, sharp breath. And then it hit him fully, recognition breaking over him like a storm, his eyes locking onto yours with a weight that made your pulse skip.

Your lips curved into a private smirk, the tilt of your head deliberate, daring him to come to terms with what he was seeing. His eyes burned now, no longer detached but heavy with something deeper—lust sharpened by disbelief, an attraction laced with a hunger that felt almost territorial. He leaned forward, his glass forgotten, every line of his body drawn taut as though the air itself had become charged with electricity. His chest rose in deliberate, uneven breaths, as if he were trying to steady himself but failing under the weight of his own realization.

The noise of the bar faded into the background, the cheers and whistles from the crowd mere static. For you, there was only his gaze, and the way it pierced through you with an intensity that left you breathless. For the first time, you felt seen—not just looked at but truly seen. And it wasn’t just the desire in his eyes; it was something raw and deeply personal, something none of the other men in the room could offer you.

His hand flexed once against the bar, as if grounding himself, but the motion was futile. There was something magnetic in the way his gaze locked onto yours, something unrelenting. It wasn’t just his attention—it was possession, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. His lips parted slightly, as though words might follow, but they never came. Instead, his silence spoke louder, the tightening of his jaw and the dark flicker in his eyes unraveling you piece by piece.

But nothing would ever make you lose focus. Focus. Be the performer now. Forget the party. Forget him. The voice in your head tried to command your body, but it was a losing battle with the way his attention clung to you like a second skin. The crowd roared as one of the regulars broke the tension, his voice cutting through the smoky air with a drunken “Woo! Take it off!”

You tilted your head toward the mic, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “Maybe…” you murmured, your voice dripping with a sensual lilt, “if you tip enough.” The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, the noise folding into itself like waves crashing against the shore, but it only served to highlight the stark silence from him. Jeno didn’t laugh, didn’t cheer—his eyes were fixed, his gaze heavy, his jaw tightening as though trying to hold something back.

The stage had always been a metaphor for your liberation—a place where control didn’t mean confinement but something far more powerful. You weren’t the neat, restrained observer the rest of the world thought you were. Up here, you owned the chaos, commanded the energy, and embraced the wildness that simmered beneath the surface. This wasn’t about pleasing them; it was about owning yourself.

And tonight, as you teased the slip off your shoulders, it wasn’t just about the crowd. It was about him—about the way he looked at you, like he was unraveling piece by piece, like you had shattered everything he thought he knew. You’d never stripped on stage before; you didn’t need to. But this was your stage, your rules, your power. And for the first time, you wanted to see what it would feel like to take it further, to step into that raw, unapologetic space you’d always hovered just outside of.

Plus, you liked the way Jeno was looking at you. 

That was all the reason you needed, the spark igniting something bold, something unrestrained inside you. Your breath caught for a fleeting second, but you didn’t falter. Instead, you leaned into the tension, letting it coil and settle around you like a second skin. His recognition fed your confidence, the weight of his gaze fanning a fire you hadn’t realized you were ready to set loose.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers hooked under the edge of the sheer slip, the movement deliberate enough to pull every eye toward you. The fabric slid from your shoulders, cascading down in a soft, sinful whisper until it pooled at your feet. The crowd erupted, their cheers slicing through the haze like a knife, but it all dissolved into nothingness. None of it mattered—not the noise, not the lights, not the sea of faces below.

The moment was yours, and you owned it completely.

Jeno didn’t move, didn’t blink. His gaze locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as though the air between you had grown too thick to inhale. Unlike the others—whistling, shouting, drunk on the spectacle—he was silent, his reaction starkly different from the intoxicating frenzy around him. It wasn’t the kind of hunger that screamed for attention or demanded more; it was quiet, devastating, consuming. 

His eyes trailed the line of your body like a slow burn, lingering on every curve with a heat that made your skin feel bare in ways the crowd couldn’t match. And when you had stripped into nothing but the lingerie you had on, his gaze didn’t shift, didn’t darken into a baser territory like the others. It remained steady, unwavering, as though he wasn’t seeing less of you but more, something deeper, something only he could touch. It was intimate, maddening, as if he’d reached straight through the noise and lights and found the parts of you no one else could.

You tilted your head again, the strands of your hair sliding under the stage lights, catching glimmers of red and gold as though even the air around you conspired to accentuate your movements. Each shift of your body became calculated, a weapon wielded against the unrelenting intensity of his gaze. The slow roll of your hips was no longer just part of the rhythm—it was deliberate, provocative, designed to make him feel the weight of your control. His eyes followed every curve, every tilt, as though mapping out the exact places where his restraint would falter. And falter it did. His posture betrayed him—leaning forward slightly, his chest expanding with a breath that seemed too sharp for the smoke-filled room. His gaze dragged over your bare shoulders, lingering at the delicate way your fingers toyed with the edge of your slip.

Your hand slid down the mic stand in a languid motion, the small gesture enough to draw his attention downward before you reclaimed it with the arch of your back, the subtle twist of your waist. The lace of your outfit glinted in the light, a fleeting tease that dared him to imagine what it concealed—and what it didn’t. Your fingers danced along the strings of the guitar, the low, sultry hum of sound coaxing the room to quiet, but it wasn’t the music that had him transfixed. It was you, owning the stage and pulling him into a space where he was no longer just a man nursing a drink—he was your audience, your captive. Every breath he took felt heavier, charged, the grip of his hand on the bar white-knuckled and desperate for stability. But his hunger for you was anything but stable.

And then, you parted your lips—a soft, teasing exhale that hovered in the air like an unspoken promise. It wasn’t a lyric, not yet, but the anticipation it stirred was palpable. His chest rose and fell with a rhythm too uneven to be casual, the lines of his jaw tightening as though bracing himself against something inevitable. The heat between you burned brighter, sharper, the distance between stage and bar dissolving in the heavy weight of his stare. Whatever barrier you’d maintained before now felt irrelevant, shattered under the pressure of the moment. His expression shifted, the raw hunger in his eyes replaced by something even more consuming—a blend of want and need that left you unsteady for just a second. But only for a second. Because the power was yours, and you weren’t done with him yet.

For a second, the world stilled, and it was just the two of you—no stage, no crowd, just the raw, unfiltered connection that burned between you like a live wire. His silence spoke louder than the shouts around him, his eyes a promise, a challenge, a plea wrapped in desire. He was unraveling. For the first time, it felt like the entire performance was for one man, and you leaned into that, letting your body speak what words couldn’t, knowing he was the only one who truly understood.

It was in the way he looked at you—like he’d been the one peeling the slip from your shoulders, his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin with an unbearable intensity. It wasn’t just watching—it was devouring, a slow, deliberate claiming of space between you, charged with a hunger that felt almost dangerous. Every shift of your body made his focus darker, heavier, sharper, as though the world around him had dissolved and all that remained was you—bare, commanding, untouchable, and somehow still completely his.

With the last hum of your guitar, the applause crescendos, swelling to fill every crevice of the dimly lit bar, but it barely registers in your mind. Your gaze remains fixed on him, as though tethered by something neither of you can name. Jeno stands near the edge of the room, the smoky haze and flickering neon light carving out sharp lines in his features. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, don’t waver from you, and in the space between your final note and the eruption of cheers, the world tilts, just slightly, aligning you both on the same magnetic plane.

As the sound begins to fade, you slip the thin, translucent layer of fabric back over your shoulders, a deliberate act that feels like a dare. Jeno doesn’t blink, his gaze dragging over the slip as though he’d stripped it away himself and was now punishing himself by watching it return. The weight of it settles over your skin like silk, but the fire in his eyes burns through every layer, searing into you. Your pulse quickens—not because of the applause or the tips that litter the stage—but because of him.

Jihyo gestures wildly from the side, mouthing, “What the fuck are you doing?” You see her, hear her command, but your body moves before your mind can catch up. There’s no logic to it, no plan—only the magnetic pull that drags you forward, deeper into something you know you shouldn’t want. You’re supposed to stay put, bask in the aftermath, rake in tips, flash smiles, but none of it matters. Not when he’s there. Not when the fire in his gaze makes your skin burn in ways applause never could. He isn’t just a prize; he’s a temptation, glittering and dangerous, something you should leave untouched but can’t help craving. Every step closer feels like surrender, like giving in to the bad habit you’ve tried to quit but never truly wanted to. You know better. You can’t stand him, he’s insufferable. He’s made Mark’s life a living hell, torn through everything steady and safe, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake but the ache inside you wants more—wants him.

You step off the stage, moving through the crowded floor, your steps drawn toward him as if the pull between you is something tangible. He moves, too, cutting through the maze of bodies in your direction, but the path isn’t easy. The press of people closes in around you, and suddenly, you’re intercepted.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweet thing,” a slurred voice murmurs, too close, as a hand slides to your waist.

Your smile is polite but forced as you step out of reach. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He doesn’t take the hint, his fingers grazing lower. The tension in the room shifts, heightened, buzzing in your veins. You glance at Jeno, who has stopped, his jaw set, his hands flexing at his sides. There’s a storm in his eyes, a crackling intensity that makes the room feel smaller, hotter, and infinitely more dangerous.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper now, but the drunk man is insistent, leaning closer, his breath heavy with whiskey.

Your gaze snaps back to Jeno, drawn as if by instinct, a fleeting glance that feels more like a confession than a look. His eyes meet yours, dark and commanding, a silent pull that roots you in place and sends your pulse spiraling. The air between you crackles, and before you can think, before reason has any hope of catching up, the words spill from your lips, soft and breathless, like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

The air shifts again as Jeno moves with an ease that feels almost too deliberate, each step closing the space between you with unbearable tension. His focus is razor-sharp, cutting through the chaos around him, but it’s not the crowd he sees—it’s you. The heat in his eyes doesn’t waver, doesn’t drift; it pins you where you stand, as if daring you to look away. The curve of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, the way his body shifts with purpose—it all draws you in, tightening something low in your stomach. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t falter, as though every motion was designed to pull you closer. By the time he reaches you, you’re caught entirely in his orbit, and the man beside you barely exists in the wake of his presence.

“Hi, baby,” Jeno says, his voice smooth, unhurried, as if the word was made for him. He slips into the role so naturally it startles you, an ease you didn’t expect. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, his fingers curling just enough to anchor you to him. The motion isn’t rushed or hesitant—it’s grounding, a quiet declaration. His eyes hold yours with a warmth that burns slow, the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, softer, like he’s letting you in on something meant only for you. “The whole room couldn’t take their eyes off you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, but it’s the subtle ways he moves—angling his body to shield you from the drunk man, the slight press of his fingers against your waist—that catch you off guard. There’s a thoughtfulness in the way he takes off his black jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, the gesture unspoken but so deliberate it feels like second nature. The fabric settles around you like an unspoken promise, heavier than the air around you and infinitely more secure.

He leans closer, his breath brushing your ear, his lips grazing the shell just enough to make your stomach flip. His voice drops, a quiet rumble only for you. “Boyfriend, huh?” There’s a faint, teasing curve to his words, but beneath it lies something deeper, sharper. “I like the sound of that.”

Before you can respond, the drunk man speaks again, his tone laced with disbelief. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. I’d know if you did.”

You arch a brow, your voice steady but razor-sharp. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

He scoffs, stepping forward as if to challenge you, but Jeno moves faster. He turns, his hand sliding up to cradle your face, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss crashes over you, fierce and unrelenting, pulling you under its weight and leaving you breathless. His mouth crashes onto yours with a heat that burns through every barrier. His hand fists in your hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from you, your lips parting instinctively as his tongue sweeps in. The taste of him is intoxicating—warm, electric, and maddeningly assertive as he deepens the kiss without hesitation, claiming every inch of you with each deliberate stroke. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his top, yanking him closer, your body pressed so tight against his you can feel the flex of his chest against yours.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting down just enough to send a shudder ripping through you, before he soothes the sting with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. A low, guttural moan escapes from deep in his throat, vibrating against your lips, and the sound makes your knees weaken. His free hand slides down your spine, the heat of his palm branding your bare skin. His fingers skim lower, gripping at the curve of your ass where nothing but the thin band of your thong separates you from him. He squeezes hard, possessive and unapologetic, pulling you even tighter against him until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The kiss grows filthier, wetter, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s as desperate as it is deliberate. Each drag of his lips against yours feels like fire, each press of his hands against your body a silent command. You meet him with equal hunger, your nails scratching lightly at the nape of his neck as you tug him down, urging him to keep going, to take more. His groans deepen, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he angles his head, capturing your mouth harder, deeper, like he’s devouring you.

His hands roam without restraint—one slipping to continue to knead the bare flesh of your ass, fingers pressing into your skin, the other sliding back up to cradle your face as though to keep you exactly where he wants you. You moan into his mouth, the sound shameless, and his lips curve against yours in response, his control faltering for just a moment as he bites down on your lip again, harder this time. The sting only heightens the need coursing through you, your body arching into him, chasing his heat.

The world falls away entirely, the noise of the bar drowned out by the wet, erotic sounds of your lips and the desperate gasps that escape between kisses. Time stretches, warps, until the only thing that exists is him—the scrape of his teeth, the slide of his tongue, the way his hands hold you like he never wants to let go. When you finally break apart, it’s not because either of you wants to stop, but because breathing feels like a necessity. His forehead presses against yours, his breath heavy and uneven as his thumb grazes your cheek. His eyes meet yours, dark and blown wide, and for a moment, it’s as if the whole world is burning just for the two of you.

The drunk man mutters something under his breath before slinking away, but neither of you spare him a glance. The moment is yours, and for the first time, it’s not about riling each other up or gaining control. It’s about surrendering to the pull, to the unspoken connection that’s been building, crackling, waiting to ignite.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The tension crackles louder, sharper, until the only thing you hear is the thrum of your pulse in your ears. You lean in just enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing tonight?”

His lips curl into the faintest smirk, his hand sliding down to rest on the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. “That depends,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with suggestion. His thumb brushes against your bare skin, teasing. “What are you doing tonight?”

You feel yourself leaning into him, your body responding before your mind can catch up. Your hand slides to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. “You,” you whisper, letting the single word hang in the air, thick and undeniable.

Jeno’s eyes darken further, his grip tightening as he pulls you flush against him, his voice a quiet growl against your lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd outside dissolves into static as Jeno’s hand wraps firmly around yours, his grip confident, his strides purposeful. He tugs you along without hesitation, his broad shoulders cutting a path toward the front door. There’s no pause, no glance back, like he’s certain you’ll follow, falling effortlessly into step behind him. His fingers tighten, the weight of his presence commanding without effort.

But then your heels dig in. The abrupt resistance jolts through his arm, halting him mid-step. His head snaps around, the motion sharp, confusion clouding the dark intensity of his eyes. “My place,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, the words brushing against the static hum of the night. His free hand finds your waist instinctively, sliding there like a reflex, his grip almost possessive. It lingers, coaxing, as though he’s guiding you forward even now, oblivious to the shift in control already beginning to slip from his grasp.

“Too far,” you murmur, the weight of your words pressing like a palm against his chest. His lips part, as if to argue but you’ve already moved. Your hand slides from his grasp, cool and deliberate, only to knot tightly with his own. Your grip is firm, not a suggestion but a command, and before he can react, you’re steering him down the narrow hallway. The air shifts around you, dim light casting shadows that ripple as your steps quicken. His pace stumbles, caught between following and being pulled, and yet he doesn’t resist. The faint scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes the heat in his gaze—smoldering, restless, entirely at your mercy. Every step you take leaves no room for doubt: you’re leading, and he’s already given in.

By the time you reach your dressing room, the tension between you feels suffocating, a palpable charge in the air that crackles like static. You shove the door open, pulling him in behind you, and with one smooth motion, you kick it shut and turn the lock. The metallic click reverberates through the cramped space, the sound echoing in the silence as your eyes meet his.

The room is small, stifling almost, the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the lingering heat from the performance. Clothes hang haphazardly on a rack against the wall, makeup scattered across the vanity, a worn chair tucked into the corner. But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that—his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, and that damn smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Your grip on his arms is defiant, a silent refusal to yield, but it doesn’t matter—his strength eclipses yours, sharp and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he spins you, your back meeting the wall with a jarring thud that reverberates down your spine. The cold surface seeps through the thin barrier of fabric, a biting contrast to the heat coursing through you. His body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting, a force you can’t escape, no space spared between the hard planes of his chest and the soft curves of your frame. His presence consumes, each breath he takes pushing against you, every inch of him demanding to be felt, leaving no room to question who’s in control.

His lips pull away from yours, leaving your skin tingling, as if the heat of him has seeped beneath the surface. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts as his head tilts back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and his gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall holding you there. The chipped paint and uneven surface press into your back, a subtle but insistent reminder of how tightly he has you pinned. His eyes shift again, landing on the worn chair by the dressing table, his brow furrowing as though calculating where he’ll take you—against the wall, where you’re trapped under his weight, or on the chair.

The indecision lingers for a heartbeat, thickening the air, but then his gaze snaps back to yours. The hesitation evaporates in a flash, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and cutting, its teasing edge sending a jolt through your core. The smirk tugging at his lips deepens, sharp as a knife, and he leans in, reclaiming your mouth with a kiss that’s rough and all-consuming, matching the unrelenting pressure of his body pinning you in place.

This time, he descends on you with a force that borders on reckless, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all hunger and demand. There’s nothing careful in the way his lips move—hard and insistent, a clash of teeth and heat, as if he’s determined to strip you down to nothing but raw instinct. His breath mingles with yours, feverish, intoxicating, his confidence threading through every movement like an unspoken dare.

His hands slide over your body, dragging down your sides with a roughness that sets every nerve alight. His fingers curl into your waist, blunt nails digging into the fabric of your dress with just enough force to make you squirm. It’s not just touch—it’s possession, each grip and squeeze leaving your skin hypersensitive, the imprint of him burned into you in ways you’ll still feel tomorrow.

Then, without a word, he shifts. His hands are on your thighs before you realize what he’s doing, spreading wide to anchor your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. The movement is sharp, dizzying, and your breath catches as your body twists mid-air, a startled sound breaking from your throat. Before you can recover, the solid, unyielding surface of the wall meets you again, your chest pressing flat against the cold plaster. The shock bites into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pouring off him as he pins you there.

Your spine arches instinctively, the chill forcing you to react, but his hands are already back on you. They move lower, greedy and deliberate, gripping the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask—he acts, his body crowding yours, his presence so consuming it feels like he’s claiming more than just space.

Jeno’s lips find your neck, his breath scalding as he works his way down with kisses that aren’t soft—they’re bruising, his teeth scraping your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite only to do it again. His hands are everywhere now, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, before settling on your ass. His grip tightens, fingers kneading and squeezing with a bruising intensity, pulling soft, involuntary moans from your lips.

His breath fans against the back of your neck, his voice low and hoarse as he growls, “Don’t move.” His fingers hook into the thin straps of your thong, tugging them down with maddening slowness, the fabric dragging against your skin until it pools at your feet.

The air shifts, thick with anticipation, before the sharp crack of his palm meeting your bare skin breaks through it. The sting is immediate, fire spreading across your ass as you jolt against the wall. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before striking again, harder this time.

You don’t answer, your breath catching as silence stretches between you. The tension snaps with the sharp crack of his palm against your skin, the sting blooming instantly as his hand lingers. “Did you think you could ignore me?” he growls, the sound dark and dangerous, reverberating through the cramped space. He kneads the reddened flesh, his touch rough and possessive, each squeeze leaving your body trembling.

His hand slides lower, slower than before, his fingers grazing the slick heat between your thighs. He moves deliberately, each teasing stroke designed to pull a reaction from you, to remind you who’s in control. A soft gasp escapes your lips despite yourself, and he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing deeper, claiming more, as his grip on you tightens.

He chuckles darkly, leaning in until his lips brush against your ear. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can pretend you’re not loving this, but your body’s giving you away.” His fingers dip further, gathering your wetness before sliding back up to press against your clit.

The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, each strike landing harder and faster, a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning under his touch. The sting spreads like wildfire, the heat intensifying with every slap, every deliberate swing of his hand, until the ache becomes something molten, something you can’t help but arch into. His hand lingers between strikes, fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly, possessively, before pulling back to deliver another.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, each exhale jagged as the relentless pace of his punishment leaves your legs trembling. The warmth radiates from where his palm lands, blooming outward and seeping into your core, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a grounding force that keeps you pressed firmly against the wall, pinned exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into the nape of your neck, holding you still as his other hand continues its torment, the cadence unyielding, every movement a silent assertion of control.

“You take it so fucking well,” he mutters, his voice dark, hoarse with arousal. His lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath spilling across your skin as he lands another sharp slap on your ass. The sound echoes through the room, louder this time, the sting spreading fire through you. “So fucking beautiful—marked up, trembling for me. You take it so well, I can’t get enough of you.”

But he doesn’t see it slipping. With every strike, every grinding roll of his hips, the control he’s convinced he has starts to unravel. His rhythm falters, the confidence in his grip turning just a little hesitant, his actions betraying how lost he is in you, how tightly he’s gripping onto the dynamic he doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

You twist sharply, moving faster than he anticipates, his balance tipping just enough for you to break free. Before he can react, your hands shove him hard, slamming his back against the wall with a thud that leaves him momentarily stunned. His shoulders hit the surface, his breath catching as his lips part, his gaze meeting yours with wide eyes, half-lidded from lust but entirely caught off guard.

Your body presses flush against his, pinning him there, and you don’t give him a second to recover. One hand slides up his chest, slow and deliberate, the pads of your fingers grazing the heat of his skin through the fabric before curling around his throat. Your grip is firm, your thumb pressing against the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his head tilts back instinctively, lips parting in a soft, breathy gasp.

The sharp click of your tongue fills the silence as you tighten your grip on his throat, tilting his chin higher until his eyes meet yours. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggles to process the sudden shift. “What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper, your voice low and deliberate, a calm veneer masking the storm beneath.

His jaw tenses at the sound, the movement sharp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His lips part like he’s about to answer, but all that comes out is a strained, “…Fucking you?” His voice wavers, caught somewhere between confusion and the lingering need that tightens his body against yours.

A slow, mocking laugh spills from your lips, warm and soft against the side of his face as you lean in, your breath brushing his ear. “‘Fucking you?’” you repeat, each syllable dripping with amusement and a condescension that makes his breath stutter. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He blinks at you, dumbfounded, his lips still parted as though searching for a retort that refuses to come. Your hands shift, sliding down his chest, your nails grazing over the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric. The touch is slow, almost languid, a deliberate reminder of the control slipping from his hands.

Before he can react, your grip tightens, and with a sharp push, you shove him backward. His body stumbles into the chair behind him—the one tucked neatly in front of your vanity, its chipped wood and faded upholstery an unassuming witness to what’s about to unfold. The wood creaks loudly under his weight as he lands, his legs spreading instinctively, his body folding into a position that leaves him utterly exposed.

Jeno stares up at you, chest heaving, his expression caught between shock and arousal, the sharp edge of his usual confidence dulled by the realization that he’s no longer in control. “Who said you get to control things here?” you ask, stepping between his legs, the heat of your body brushing against his thighs as you lean forward. Your hands grip the arms of the chair, trapping him in place, your face close enough to feel the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.

The flicker of defiance in his eyes doesn’t last; it crumbles under the weight of your stare, unrelenting and burning with a fire that leaves no room for argument. You drag your fingers down his chest, each pass slower, heavier, before pressing him firmly back against the chair. The reflection in the vanity mirror catches your attention, the image of him looking up at you—wide-eyed, lips parted, completely at your mercy—only fueling the satisfaction curling low in your stomach.

“Do you think you’re in control tonight?” you whisper, tilting your head just enough for your lips to ghost over the corner of his mouth without fully touching. “Because you’re not. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”

Jeno’s groan is immediate, raw and guttural, spilling out like something torn from deep within him. His head tips back against the chair, the tension in his body unraveling in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitating, unsure whether to grip the arms of the chair or reach for you, the uncertainty foreign to someone who has spent his entire life mastering control.

And control is all Jeno has ever known—his constant, unwavering companion. On the court, every move is deliberate, precise; in life, every decision calculated, a performance for everyone watching. Even in bed, he’s always the one steering, leading, dictating. But now, with you standing over him, your eyes sharp, your touch deliberate, and his body pinned beneath the weight of your dominance, that control feels distant, useless, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying—and intoxicating.

His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the tension he’s carried for years fraying at the edges as his body betrays him. He’s never allowed himself to feel this exposed, this vulnerable, but the sight of you towering over him, your fingers sliding lower, commanding his every reaction, sets him alight in ways he didn’t think possible. He’s so used to being the one in charge that the sudden, absolute loss of it is dizzying—and yet, it feeds something buried deep within him, something he didn’t know he craved.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half-growled, half-broken as his body shivers beneath your touch. His hips jerk involuntarily, his restraint cracking with every deliberate stroke of your fingers teasing the waistband of his pants. “You don’t even fucking know… what you’re doing to me right now.” His voice is strained, frayed with tension and desire, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight—can’t think about anything but you.”

Your smirk deepens, the sight of him unraveling beneath you igniting something sharp and primal inside you. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmur, your tone soft but laced with unshakable control. Your hands slide lower, grazing the hard, unrelenting line of him through the fabric, and his breath hitches, sharp and loud, filling the small space between you.

You glance down at him, your vantage point offering a view you could never tire of: Lee Jeno, always so composed, always so in control, now trembling beneath your hands. His head tips back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as though he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. His lips are parted, swollen and wet, the slightest quiver betraying the effect you have on him. It’s a sight you want to etch into memory—Jeno, stripped of his carefully constructed control, utterly undone by the simplest brush of your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning closer until your lips brush the curve of his jaw, your breath warm against his skin, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” Your voice is low, teasing, every word deliberate, and you feel the sharp hitch in his breathing as your lips ghost over him. His body tenses beneath your hands, every muscle coiled and trembling as you drag your palms higher along his thighs, grazing the firm muscle beneath, each touch slow and deliberate.

“You haven’t even had my mouth around you,” you continue, your tone soft but dripping with intent, your teeth grazing his jawline before your lips press against it. The first kiss is deliberate, calculated, and when you hear the faintest sound slip from his throat, you press harder. “Haven’t felt me ride you,” you murmur against his skin, trailing lower, your lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear, “until you can’t think, until you can’t breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides, his head falling back further, baring his neck to you without thinking, and you take full advantage. Your mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath stutters, the sound rough and broken as you work your way back up, your teeth scraping the edge of his throat.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your lips brushing over the rapid flutter of his pulse. “You’re already falling apart—and I haven’t even started yet.”

His breath catches, a sharp intake of air that barely makes it past his lips. His voice is rough, breaking as he murmurs, “I know… fuck, I know.” His head tilts further, exposing more of his throat to you, his body trembling under your touch. “You’ve got me so worked up, I can’t—” His words falter, his jaw tightening as a low, guttural groan escapes. “I’ll do whatever you want… just don’t stop.”

“You’re not used to this, are you?” you murmur, your lips brushing against his skin again. “Letting someone else take the lead.” Your tone is soft but cutting, each word a reminder of just how deeply he’s falling into unfamiliar territory.

“No,” he admits, his voice barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I don’t want you to stop.” 

And that’s when you realize—it’s not just desire coursing through him; it’s need. He needs this. Needs the weight lifted from his shoulders, the persona he so carefully wears stripped away, and the relentless pressure to always lead momentarily silenced. You see it in the way his body trembles beneath your touch, his breaths uneven, his hands clenching as though he’s barely holding himself together. And you? You’re more than happy to take it all from him.

With deliberate ease, you lean forward, sliding onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as your weight settles against him. His breath stutters, and his hands instinctively find your hips, gripping them like he needs something to ground himself. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, even though you’ve already made yourself comfortable in his lap.

You adjust slightly, your hips pressing closer to his, and the contact makes his body tense under yours. Your movements are slow and calculated, your chest brushing against his as you shift, letting him feel the deliberate roll of your body against his. His eyes drop immediately to your chest, his gaze fixated on the swell of your breasts, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“Jeno,” you call softly, your tone sharp enough to pull his attention back to you. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, wide and glassy with arousal. “Eyes up here,” you tease, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You lean in closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his jaw as you tilt his head back slightly. Your lips press softly against his, the touch so gentle it feels almost out of place in the charged atmosphere between you. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still—frozen beneath you like he can’t believe it’s real, like the tenderness is too foreign in a moment so thick with desire.

When he finally responds, it’s hesitant, his lips moving against yours as though he’s afraid the fragile connection might break. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, his body instinctively seeking more of you. The kiss deepens, soft and slow, and you feel the tension bleeding out of him, the weight he carries melting away as he lets himself sink into the moment.

But as you kiss him, something shifts inside you, the heat between you tempered for just a moment by the vulnerability you feel in his touch. His hesitation, the way he trembles beneath you, makes you pause. Your smirk falters, and you pull back just slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as your hands slide down to rest on his chest.

Your palms press against him—not demanding, but grounding—and you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingers. He’s so used to control, to leading, to bearing the weight of expectation. But here, now, he’s unraveling, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble under your hands. And suddenly, you need to know—need to hear him say it.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, your voice quieter now, stripped of the teasing edge you’ve carried so far. It’s raw and unmasked, a question that feels as much about him as it does about you. “Do you want me to lead, Jeno?”

The question hangs between you, the vulnerability in your tone catching him off guard, and for a moment, his breath stills. His eyes meet yours, wide and dark, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile compared to the tension between you. Then, stronger, with a desperate edge: “Yes. Fuck, yes. I need this. I need you.”

The honesty in his voice hits you like a jolt, but you don’t let it show—not fully. Your lips brush his again, firmer this time, as your hands slide lower, teasing over the hard, unrelenting line of him through his pants. His head falls back again, a quiet, desperate groan slipping past his lips.

“You’ve been so good to me tonight, helping me out with those guys earlier” you continue, taking a step closer to him, the heat in your tone softening into something that feels almost like praise. “You deserve something for being such a good boy, don’t you?”

He nods and you take a moment to admire him—flushed, breathless, utterly undone. The sight of him, usually so cocky, now reduced to this trembling, obedient version of himself, sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through you. He’s listening. Actually listening. Not arguing, not resisting, just sitting there, wide-eyed and waiting for your next command.

Your smirk sharpens, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. You press your palm flat against him, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath your hand as you lean in, your dominance radiating in every deliberate movement.

“Then take your pants off,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding, every word laced with heat. You step back, your eyes boring into his, daring him to disobey. “Now.”

His hands move quickly, trembling as he struggles with the waistband of his pants, finally pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs forward, thick and heavy, flushed with need, the sight alone making your breath catch. He’s bigger than you anticipated—bigger than what you’re used to—but you bite down on the flicker of hesitation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing. You won’t let him see the challenge he presents or give him any room to feel smug.

You step forward, pressing one hand flat against his chest and pushing him back until his shoulders meet the chair. He’s perched at the edge, his legs spread wide, his breath shallow and erratic as he stares at you, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. “You’re going to sit there and take it,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the words laced with heat that makes his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs, you drag your hands up his thighs, your nails grazing his skin lightly. He shudders beneath your touch, his muscles tensing as you lean in closer. “You’ve been good so far,” you whisper, glancing up at him, your voice teasing but firm. “Let’s see if you can stay that way.”

His breath hitches as your lips ghost over the tip of his cock, soft and feather-light. His hips jerk involuntarily, a strained groan slipping past his lips. “I didn’t say you could move,” you chastise, your tone sharp, dripping with condescension as your nails dig into his thighs, holding him in place.

“Fuck—sorry,” he chokes out, his head tipping back against the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the edges of the seat. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still, every inch of him taut with restraint.

Satisfied, you let your lips brush over him again, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive head. The taste of him spreads across your tongue, rich and musky, and you hum softly, your hands tightening on his thighs. You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, your tongue swirling around the tip before sliding lower, inch by inch, until the weight of him fills you.

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck—God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck—anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention—a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it—stay just like that.”

“Fuck—fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need—I’m so close—please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Jeno.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock—hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach—sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I—I need you. Please, just—fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t—fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything—fuck, anything—just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything—whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him—not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you—begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I—fuck, I’m sorry—fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck—oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like—shit—I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t—” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t—” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still—his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him—wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No—no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect—so soft, so—fuck—I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Jeno. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this—wrecked and trembling—only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking. 

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention—the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone—blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly—utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Lee Jeno was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes—half-lidded and glazed over—lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this—it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Jeno. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying—I swear—”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Jeno, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck—do whatever you want—just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Jeno? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please—I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck—please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Jeno. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so—fuck—you’re perfect. I need more—I need—”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue—hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it—you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs—the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal—makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so—shit—how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Jeno.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you—shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control. 

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m—Jeno, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Jeno follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw—shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips—he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact—a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him—Mark’s brother—the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate—the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you moves, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @alltimernctzen @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[moonyysgirl]

reader asking soft!remus (isn't even a DOM mostly) to go rough with her when the full moon nears but he's like 'nooo baby i could never use you like that or degrade you' but she's BEGGING him to let go and then bam four hours later she's almost regretting her decisions. almost.

and then he's back to soft cutipie remus

omg waittt this is so good! thanks sm for the request, hope you like it😘😘 pairings: remus x fem!reader cw; smut, rough!dom remus, slight degradation kink, overstimulation

Knee socks - Remus x Reader

Remus was sweet, so sweet. And most of the time you really loved it. His sweetness was the thing that made you fall for him in the first place after all, and you wouldn't trade it for nothing in the world...but.

But sometimes, especially when the full moon was near, you could feel that there was a different force in him. While he usually never took control during sex, during those times he would get more dominant and rough.

But he'd restrain himself, and even if you wanted him to go rougher on you, and you could sense that he wanted that, he would stop himself. You tried telling him to get faster, rougher. But he just couldn't bring himself to. He'd caress your cheek with his trembling hand "I don't want to hurt you baby, I'll go slower" he would mumble in your ear.

And while that made you melt, that made you also sigh in frustration, because you liked that more dominant side of Remus, and you wanted him to embrace it sometimes, just so you could explore it more. You tried to tell him that.

A couple of days after the last full moon, you told him that you could tell he was being tense during sex the last time. "You know you can go rougher if you feel like it" you suggested "you can take control, if you want...I'd like that" you whispered.

Remus immediately blushed, he shook his head. "Baby...come on" he teased, half jokingly "you know I could never" you sighed "I'm not saying you should do something that makes you uncomfortable..it's just-be yourself okay?" Remus smiled condescendingly "baby, don't worry...I could never hurt you" you smiled back, he really was clueless.

As the next full moon was approaching, you decided to take the matter into your own hands. If Remus didn't want to let go, you would make him. You made sure that it had passed some time since the last time you had sex: you waited as much as possible, to make the sexual tension between the two of you grow.

You went to his dorm while he was in the library, after making sure that Sirius and James would be at quidditch practice for the whole afternoon. You wore the last year's uniform, the one that got a little too tight, too much for school 's dress code, but just enough to hug your figure in all the right places.

The skirt was short, shorter than it should have, and you had your knee socks, the one that you knew -even without him saying so- made Remus lose his mind. He would always fidget with the hem of those damn socks, and when you wore them he always found some excuses to get his hands on your thighs.

So you sat on his unmade bed, waiting for him. You knew he'd finish tutoring at half past three. You looked at the watch, he'd be there in ten minutes max. You started going through some homework while you waited, and when you heard him climb up the stairs you smiled, your heart beat increasing.

Remus stumbled inside. He jumped, immediately noticing you, "Baby...you scared the shit out of me" he smiled. He looked so damn hot. His shaggy hair were messily covering his forehead. His shirt was unbottoned, the sleeves rolled on his elbows, his tie hanging loosely from the collar.

He took the schoolbag off from his shoulder. "What a beautiful surprise" he smiled untying his tie, throwing the school bag on the floor. You giggled, as he took off his shoes and got on the bed, crawling next to you.

"Is it my birthday or something?" he said, kissing you, caressing your thighs, "no, it's just that I know you've been feeling kinda tense lately...for the full moon and everything, you know.." Remus snickered "right..." you smiled maliciously "so I just thought we could do something to take the edge off"

Remus blushed, but he was smiling "mhhh...I see...and what did you had in mind?" you laughed, your hands caressing his back "I don't know...I just think, that maybe, it'll be good to unwind for you" he kissed you "that's a good idea"

You grinned getting on top of him "Rem" you whispered to his ear "I want you to let go this time" you felt his body tense up under yours, his fingers pressing on your waist, his breath hitching "just do whatever you want to me" you whispered, your core getting warmer, your face getting flushed.

"Are you sure?" Remus whispered on your mouth, you closed your eyes, and nodded "baby I don't want to hurt you" he repeated, his hands caressing you "Rem, I promise you, just go rough on me, please" you felt his breath stop for a second. His grip on your waist got immediately tighter as he took you by it and switched positions with you. Your breath hitched for the force of his grip.

You looked at him, he was grinning, his pupils blown up, making his hazel eyes look dark. "You have no idea of what you just got yourself into do you?" he said softly, his fingers trailing down your thighs. You bit your lip, excited, shaking in anticipation, slightly scared.

Before you could do anything Remus was unbuttoning your shirt with rushed fingers, tugging your skirt down. He sat up to admire your half naked figure, you blushed as his dark eyes wandered on you. You tried to take your socks off but Remus stopped you "these stays on" he grinned before crashing his lips onto yours.

He kissed you sloppily, roughly, while his skilled hands unclasped your bra and pulled it off. He kissed your neck, sucking the soft skin, trailing kisses down the column of your throat, your shoulders, your tits. He sucked them, making you whine in pleasure. He sat up again, looking at you.

"Look at you" he caressed your cheek "already so desperate for me" you blushed, covering your face, surprised by Remus' words, flustered. "Don't act like you don't like when I talk dirty to you" he continued, stroking your inner thigh "I know you baby" he said "I know you're a dirty little slut" you whimpered.

Remus forced your squirming legs open with his big hands. He moved your panties to the side, and unexpectedly shoved two finger inside of you, without warning, the pain was stingy, but it felt so good. You moaned loudly "oh baby, you're soaked" he cooed, he started pumping his fingers in and out of you "so tight" he mumbled, making you squirm.

"Don't you dare close those legs" he said, his tone suddenly authoritarian, making your guts fill with butterflies. He started to pick up his pace, going faster and faster, soft whimpers and moans started falling from your lips "you're such a desperate little slut" you moaned loudly "you like it huh? when I call you slut?" his fingers were rough, pumping through your wet folds "cause you know you are".

As he got impossibly faster, you started feeling your climax approach. You bucked your hips into Remus' fingers "what is it?" Remus reached for your chin with his hand, caressing your lower lip "are you gonna cum already, slut?" he said softly, his thumb pressed on your lower lip "open up for me baby", you whined, your mouth opening, sucking his thumb.

"Is that it? Cumming already?" you nodded desperately, your thighs squirming together "look at you, all desperate for me" the knot in your stomach started to tighten "a desperate little mess" he mumbled, his eyes wandering on you, his thumb pressing on your tongue.

Remus sighed "alright, cum for me, come on" you shivered, squirming again. Remus forced your legs open with his knee, pressing it on your thigh. You moaned obscenely "come on, come on, come on" Remus encouraged you, and as his thumb went to circle your clit that knot finally snapped, and a wave of pleasure washed over you, making your scream, your eyes rolled back.

"Oh baby, you're so hot" he cooed "throwing that head off, shaking for me" you whimpered, shaking slightly as you slowly came down from your high. You were still lightheaded and your legs were shaking. Remus tugged your panties dow , taking them off "these are soaked" he scoffed. You breathed heavily, your heart was pounding in your chest.

Remus sat on his knees again, and watched you shiver on the mattress, your naked body exposed, your socks the only thing remaining on you. Remus started caressing you, your stomach, your waist, your thighs and your arms. You looked at him, his gaze was soft. You reached for his hair, brushing them lightly.

Remus sighed, his lips curved into a grin "okay baby, open those legs for me" you looked at him confused, your legs still twitching from the orgasm "what?" Remus bit his lips, then he took his shirt off, and tugged his pants and boxer down, his hard dick springing out, swollen and red.

You watched him tower over you in a mixture of fear and excitement. Remus caressed your thighs slowly, then he gripped them with his hands, forcing them open. Your breath hitched, Remus ran his dick through your slick folds, collecting your arousal, making you twitch. "So sensitive still" he aligned his tip with your entrance. You whimpered when he got inside, his length filled you completely, making your knees weak.

He started slowly, your heart was pounding in your chest, your core was getting impossibly warmer, as he started to increase his pace, you couldn't help but moan loudly "you like that slut?" you whined, your hands covering your flustered face. Remus grabbed your wrists forcefully, restraining them over your head, making you unable to move.

"Don't you dare hide from me" a strangled moan fell from your lips, Remus grinned "look at you, breaking under me" he got faster and faster, as your legs started shaking in overstimulation "oh god" you whined. Remus scoffed "what, are you gonna cum again? already?" he teased, rolling his eyes condescendingly. You nodded "oh baby, you really are a desperate slut then"

You squirmed at his words "and you like being degraded" he grinned, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your tits, pinching your nipple, you whimpered, squirming again "you like that huh?" you bit your lip, he pinched it harder, you hissed "you're such a pain slut" you moaned, Remus' lips curved into a cocky grin.

"Are you gonna cum for me?" he grabbed your thighs, pushing them to the sides of your body, your knees almost touching your ears, he kept pumping in and out of you viciously, you nodded "say please" he said, you looked at him half smiling, but he didn't look like he was joking.

He looked at you with lust-filled eyes, his hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty strands, you tried reaching for his hair, but he grabbed your wrist "nuh uh, you have to beg" you bit your lips, your cheeks were flushed, your heart was beating in your ears. "Come on, beg or I'm not making you cum" your breath hitched.

You sighed "p-please" you said, your voice slightly shaking "I can't hear you" "please" you repeated, "is that all you got? You don't really want to cum then" he said, his hand reaching down to your clit. As he started circling it sloppily, jolts of pleasure sent electricity down your spine.

You moaned again "I'm not making you cum if you don't beg" your head was spinning, and you didn't think you could resist any longer, so you just put the embarrassment aside and gave in "please, Rem, please let me cum" you cried, Remus scoffed "look at you, so desperate, all you care about is coming, all you care about is making a mess" "please, please Rem please" you whined, as tears started spilling from your eyes.

"Oh baby, are you gonna cry?" he cooed "you're pathetic" you whimpered, your lower lip was quivering, Remus sighed "you really are a pathetic mess" you couldn't resist anymore "Rem please!" you whined again, loudly, desperate. Remus rolled his eyes "alright, cum for me slut".

Those words were enough to send you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, as a white wave of pleasure took over you. Your body was shaking uncontrollably, as Remus kept you in place, pumping in and out slowly, helping you come down from your high.

Your ears were ringing when you reopened your eyes. Remus was looking at you biting his lip, his eyes dark, dangerous, your heart skipped a beat, he looked almost menacing. You were trying to regulate your breath when Remus finally come out of you. He caressed your cheek, as his smile slowly shifted to a wolfish grin. He trailed his hands down your waist, then his grip tightened around it. "It's my turn now" he groaned, before flipping you on your stomach. Your breath hitched and your heart skipped a beat, as Remus took you by the hips.

"Ass up for me" you were still shaken for the last orgasm, and you didn't know if you could handle another one "but Rem-" you tried to say "shut the fuck up" he interrupted you abruptly. He pressed his hand on your back, making you arch. "Be a good girl for me" he mumbled, aligning his cock with your entrance again.

He slide in with a loud groan, you whimpered, his length filling you up. "Oh god" you whined. Before you could even adjust, Remus was already pounding into you mercilessly. "Rem-oh my god" "I told you to shut the fuck up" he groaned again, pushing your head to the mattress with a hand.

He grabbed your wrist with the other, bending your arms behind your back, restraining you completely. "You're a desperate slut" he groaned, while pumping his dick in and out of you at a mind numbing pace. "You wanted to be treated like one? Here you go then" he said, groaning and whining.

You could hear the sound of his hips snapping into you again and again, without ever slowing down, without ever stopping. At that point you were a babbling mess, unable to form any coherent thoughts. "Say it" he groaned, tugging your hair.

He grabbed you by them, pulling you to his body. Your threw your head back, falling on his shoulder, your eyes were rolling in your skull, as he kept pounding into you. "Say you are my slut" "I'm your slut" you mumbled, barely able to form words. "Oh you're such a sloppy mess" he spewed, grabbing your face.

"I fucked you dumb huh?" he cooed, squeezing your cheeks together. You moaned, as drool started dripping from the sides of your mouth. "Jesus christ, look at that" he scoffed "I never saw such a desperate dirty little slut before" you whined.

Remus hand found your clit again, and when he started rubbing it you felt your mind going completely blank. At that point you were nothing more than a whining mess, blabbering whimpers and moans.

"Who would've thought, that I could fuck you into this desperate mindless little mess" you couldn't even respond anymore, as moans and whines were the only thing leaving your mouth. Remus got impossibly faster, in a way you couldn't even believe was possible.

Your ears were ringing, your body was shaking, as you limped on him, unable to even keep your eyes open. Tears started spilling from your eyes again, and as Remus became inhumanly faster and rougher you started crying in overstimulation, as you felt like your entire body was on fire.

"Rem-ohmygod" you sobbed, your eyes rolling back. "Oh fuck" he groaned, his grip around your wrists got tighter, your elbows were starting to hurt "oh fuck, oh fuck" he repeated. His circles on your clit became sloppy, and as you felt his body tense behind you, you finally let go.

And as he snapped his hips against you one last time, hard, Remus finally let go too, coming with a loud whine, as your mind went blank, and your entire body was washed by a wave of pleasure, your orgasm so intense that you saw stars, almost feeling like fainting.

You both fell on the bed breathless and drenched in sweat. You couldn't move, you felt so weak: your entire body was shaking, and your vision was only then slowly coming back. When you finally came down from the orgasm, you turned to look at Remus. He was a mess too, his hair shaggy and sweaty, his cheeks red, his breath heavy.

He turned to you too. You watched his hazel eyes light up as his lips curved into his sweet smile, that signature smile you knew to well, that smile that made you melt. You immediately felt your chest fill with warmth, as your cheeks blushed.

Remus brought a hand to your cheek, he dried your tears, brushed your hair from your face gently. "Was I too rough?" he asked, suddenly the Remus you knew was back. You couldn't help but smile. "You were perfect" you crashed your lips onto his. Remus laughed "you're the best" he said, his eyes filled with love, while tugging a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You smiled, resting your head on his chest, hugging him tightly. "Oh baby" he mumbled, caressing your shoulder "I love you so much" he said, his tone making your heart flutter. He reached for the crumpled sheets from under him, covering your shaking body gently. He took you in his arms, caressing your messy hair softly, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. You fell asleep like this, feeling safe, feeling loved.

And when James and Sirius came back from practice they found you and Remus like that, in the tightest embrace, barely covered by the tangled sheets, drenched in the golden syrupy light of the late afternoon. They shook their heads laughing, elbow-bumping each other. But they didn't have the heart to wake you up, cause you guys looked so beautiful, so happy, and so in love.

[leneemusing]

HYPER SPECIFIC SMUT PROMPTS

note: some of these may include kinks and fetish dynamics which might be squicks for some (tw for power imbalances, dubious consent, breeding etc), proceed with caution and please feel free to cross out what you don't want to write when reblogging <3

ALTERNATE UNIVERSES

[ ARRANGED ] muses are in an arranged marriage and now have to consummate the union

[ EXES ] our muses broke up a few years ago, they run into each other at a party and end up having sex again

[ INFIDELITY ] our muses used to date but it didn't work out, they're now both in relationships but end up in an affair together. this prompt is for their first time entering the affair.

[ AFFAIR ] our muses have been having an affair and receiver tries to stop but ends up having sex again, claiming it's the last time.

[ POWER ] sender is receiver's boss and knows receiver has a crush on them. they decide to act on it late night during closing.

[ CRUSH ] receiver is sender's boss and knows sender has a crush on them. they decide to act on it late night during closing.

[ TEACH ] receiver is sexually inexperienced and approaches sender to ask them to teach them and help them get more experience after they had a bad date.

[ TAUGHT ] sender is sexually inexperienced and approaches receiver to ask them to teach them and help them get more experience after they had a bad date.

[ TUTOR ] muse A has been tutoring muse B in a subject they struggle with. after a long session which has both of them frustrated, they end up having sex on the table and ruin the books.

[ TUTORING ] continuing the above scenario, the tutor quizzes the pupil while stimulating them. every time the pupil gets a question wrong they are edged or punished in some way.

[ LEARN ] our muses are in college together, muse A is popular and socially adept but has bad experiences with keeping a romantic partner. muse B is shy and has a smaller friend group but the friendships are more emotionally deep than anything A has experienced. the two muses are in a study group together and strike up a conversation in which they come to a deal: muse B will help A become more academically cultured and emotionally sensitive enough to get the partners they want. in return muse A will help with muse B's social standing. they begin a sexual relationship under the guise of helping muse B come out of their shell but really muse A just has a crush on them all while B thinks they're being used.

[ FIGHT ] our muses are leaders on opposing sides of a war. they have known each other before the war and now their sexual tension is worsened while trying to negotiate a truce. while disagreeing on terms they have rough sex, each one trying to dominate the other.

[ BATTLE ] our muses are soldiers and on the eve of a battle they might not survive they have sex together

[ CAPTIVE ] receiver is sender's captive and has been trying to wear them down over time by connecting emotionally. they initiate sex in hopes it will buy them freedom. (up to you if it's genuine on both sides or only manipulation)

[ CAPTIVATED ] sender is receiver's captive and has been trying to wear them down over time by connecting emotionally. they initiate sex in hopes it will buy them freedom. (feel free to specific circumstances of captivity)

[ FRIENDS ] our muses have been best friends for a long time. lately one or both have had bad luck with dating and just want some comfort so they decide to have sex.

[ SPELL ] our muses must have sex for a magic ritual which requires multiple rounds from 3 am until sunrise.

[ HEIR ] muse A is the leader of the nation and has not been able to produce an heir (feel free to specify reason), muse B has been selected by their doctors and council to try and bare their children.

[starlinggirll]

introducing nerd!art x cheerleader!reader . . . ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

꒰ᐢ - ˕ - ᐢ꒱

nerd!art who gets teased alot, not straight up bullied but teased about his nerdiness. sometimes he gets name called, but that's really it.

nerd!art who gets shy with cheerleader!reader whenever she comes up to him asking him for help. with plump lips and cleavage hanging out of her uniform asking him for help in math.

cheerleader!reader who uses him for answers. giving a tiny kiss on the cheek each time he does her packet of homework.

nerd!art who gets hard at the sight of her red lipgloss getting stained on his cheek. he doesn't bother wiping it off, and when it comes to showering he is very reluctant on wiping it off.

nerd!art who is the envy of his friend group when they see the smudge of lipstick on his cheek. specially when you walk past them and give art a teasing wink? they all wish to be him.

cheerleader!reader subconsciously looks forward to seeing him, she tries to tell herself that its just for fun. but something about having a 6 foot, shy, submissive man squirm and blush at the sight of her gives her something to look forward to each day.

nerd!art and cheerleader!reader who get shipped without them realizing. their friends whisper among themselves about their relationship, but they are too busy in their own little bubble to pay attention.

nerd!art and cheerleader!reader who start warming up to eachother, going as far as art giving her private tutoring on math lessons.

𖠁 stuttering problem

𖠁 getting used academically

𖠁 studying

𖠁 janitors closet

𖠁 reward

𖠁 "keep talking"

𖠁 nipple play

𖠁 dominant art

𖠁 proposal

[liuhsng]

✩ˎˊ˗ no-fly zone ( pjs ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ part of the untouchable series | enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — jay x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 14.5k ⤷ taglist for the series — open !

⤷ warnings — a/b/o au, foul language, alpha!jay, omega!reader, fem!reader, enemies to lovers trope, forced proximity, lots of sexual tension, jay’s a menace = you’re a menace, jay is emotinally constipated, jay has issues (but he’s your issue now), jay is confused and lowkey obsessed, mentions of the other parts from this series, not proofread

⤷ a/n — i'm back baby, this is literally my favorite work rn i can’t even lie + I SWEAR, THIS HAS A PART 2 JUST GIVE ME A FEW HOURS, enjoy !!

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — park jongseong—better known as jay, had everything: wealth, power, and a name that carried undeniable influence. a pureblooded alpha and the only son of a family that dominated the aviation industry, he was sharp enough to take over the business and reckless enough to make the upper-ups lose patience. despite his position as student council treasurer, his reputation preceded him: missed deadlines, flawless grades, and a habit of picking the wrong fights. their solution? a tutor. a glorified babysitter. and, of course, it had to be you. an omega with a spotless record, a name as weighty as his own, and an infuriating presence that had always stood in his way. your families worked together, but you and jay never had. now, forced into each other’s space, the line between rivalry and something far more dangerous begins to blur.

The atmosphere in the lecture hall was suffocating, tension thick enough to choke on.

Jay sat back in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him, one arm draped lazily over the chair’s backrest. His expression was unreadable, a careful mask of boredom that only made the fury in his professor’s voice sound more desperate.

“You think just because you have power, you don’t have to put in the effort?” The professor’s voice cut through the silence, accusing.

“That your name alone is enough to get you by? That you can just waltz in and out of this classroom and still expect to be given the same respect as those who actually work for it?”

A few students stiffened in their seats. Others exchanged glances, some barely breathing. No one spoke. No one dared to.

Jay, however, barely looked fazed. If anything, he looked bored. He blinked, slow and deliberate, before tilting his head slightly.

“That’s an interesting accusation,” he mused, voice smooth, laced with something dangerous. “And what exactly have I done to ‘abuse’ my so-called power?”

The professor scoffed, crossing his arms. “Do you even hear yourself, Park? You show up when you feel like it, you turn in work whenever it suits you, and yet you still expect to be at the top of this class. You might be the student council treasurer, but that doesn’t mean you can—”

“—handle my academics?” Jay cut in, raising a brow. His voice was quieter now, but somehow even sharper. “I do my council work, don’t I? So tell me, if I can run the financials of this entire school, why wouldn’t I be able to keep up with my classes?”

His professor faltered, lips pressing into a thin line. But Jay was already done with this conversation.

His gaze dropped, falling to the Cartier watch wrapped around his wrist. He stared at it for a long moment, watching the second hand tick forward, before exhaling slowly.

Then, without another word, he pushed back his chair. The legs scraped against the tiled floor, the sound ringing through the lecture hall like a gunshot.

He stood, grabbing his bag in one fluid motion. On the desk beside him, a thick folder sat untouched; the very project that had been due yesterday. Without looking, he picked it up and strode to the front of the room, his footsteps slow, measured, deafening in the silence.

And then, with the kind of careless precision that only he could pull off, he dropped the folder onto the professor’s desk with a heavy thud.

A few students flinched. The professor barely breathed.

Jay adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, finally meeting the man’s eyes again. His expression was unreadable, but there was something almost amused lurking beneath it.

“Here,” he said simply, his voice dangerously quiet. “On time, as always.”

And then, without sparing another glance, he turned and walked out.

No rush, no hesitation. Just Park Jongseong, unbothered as ever, leaving behind a stunned professor and a classroom full of students who could do nothing but watch in awed, uneasy silence.

Because even when Jay didn’t follow the rules—he never once lost.

Jay moved through the halls with the ease of someone who belonged, not just in the school but above it. His strides were unhurried, exuding a quiet authority that made people step aside without him ever asking. Conversations dipped the moment he passed, whispers filling the void he left behind.

Most watched him with admiration, others with wariness, but they all watched.

It was always like this. Jay wasn’t just a student; he was the heir to a business empire, a pureblooded Alpha; he never begged, never chased, never had to ask for anything. The world bent in his favor.

And even when it didn’t, he simply took what he wanted anyway.

He barely acknowledged the attention, barely registered the murmured voices trailing behind him like a shadow. He had no reason to care. The class he had just left had been nothing short of a joke— lessons he had already known for years. A complete waste of time.

Now, he had better things to do.

The student council room was quiet when he arrived, the heavy doors clicking shut behind him. Jungwon sat at the far end of the room, hunched over his own stack of files, brows furrowed in concentration. He didn’t even glance up. On the opposite side, Ni-ki was slumped over his desk, one arm draped over his face, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

Jay stepped inside like he owned the place, because he did.

His desk stood exactly where he left it, neat and untouched, save for the stack of papers waiting for his approval. The nameplate perched on the edge gleamed under the fluorescent light: Park Jongseong, Student Council Treasurer.

He didn’t waste time. Shrugging off his blazer, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing the toned forearms littered with faint bruises from a fight long since forgotten. Then, without hesitation, he reached for the first document on the pile, flipping through the pages with the same sharp precision he applied to everything else.

The weight of the world balanced between his fingers.

And Jay, as always, carried it like it was nothing.

The room remained steeped in silence, save for the rustle of papers and the occasional shift of Ni-ki’s sleeping form. The quiet was almost welcome—almost.

“Another disagreement with a professor?”

The words came from across the room, flat and unsurprised. Jungwon didn’t even bother looking up from his stack of files, his pen scratching lazily against the paper.

Jay exhaled sharply through his nose, a scoff more than an actual laugh. Not at Jungwon, but at the fact that word had already spread.

“Didn’t take long, huh?” he muttered, flipping to the next page in his file without much thought. His voice held the same easy arrogance as always, laced with something almost amused.

Jungwon smirked, still not looking up. “Dude, it’s you. At this point, it’d be bigger news if you actually went an entire week without pissing off a professor.”

Jay hummed, leaning back against his chair, stretching his arms over his head before letting them drop onto the armrests. “And? What about it?”

Jungwon let out a breath that was more laughter than sigh, finally setting his pen down. He clasped his hands together, resting his chin atop them as he gave Jay a knowing look. “You know, for someone who checks every box of a perfect student, you really need to start giving a damn about these kinds of shit.”

Jay’s eyes flickered up, “Why would I?”

Jungwon merely chuckled, shaking his head. “Because you’re giving the higher-ups exactly what they want.”

For a moment, Jay didn’t respond. Then he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk, voice low and laced with something just shy of amusement. “And what exactly is that?”

Jay let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Jungwon,” he started, voice dripping with something close to condescension, “their salaries come from us. From our families,”

He tilted his head slightly, watching Jungwon carefully. “So tell me, do you really think they’d risk stepping out of line?”

Jungwon only shrugged, picking up his pen again. “I think you’re making it easier for them to try.”

Before Jay could respond, the heavy doors swung open, cutting through the conversation.

Heeseung was the first to walk in, adjusting his cufflinks, his brows furrowed slightly like he had just come from something particularly annoying. Jake followed soon after, his lips twitching with amusement, and Sunghoon strolled in right beside him, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Sunoo had his arms crossed, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Jay,” Heeseung drawled, dropping into one of the empty chairs, “you really need to stop pissing off the professors.”

Sunghoon huffed, tugging at the loosened tie around his collar. “And you say we’re reckless.”

Jake smirked, shaking his head. “I just saw your professor storming into the admin office, he didn’t look too happy.”

Jay didn’t even look up from the papers in front of him. “Should’ve assigned something actually worth my time, then.”

Sunoo let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You are so full of yourself.”

Jay finally glanced up, resting his elbow on the desk and tilting his head slightly. “And?” His smirk widened, voice laced with amusement. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jake whistled lowly, shaking his head. “One day, man. One day, they’re actually gonna pull something on you.”

Jay only chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Then let’s see if they have the nerve.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Jay wasn’t looking for trouble.

Not this time, at least.

He had left the council room with one goal in mind—find a vending machine, grab a drink, and get to his next class before the headache forming behind his eyes got any worse. With his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, he looked more like someone who ruled this academy than simply walked through it.

“Fucking useless council doesn’t even do shit. Bunch of spoiled leeches living off family names.”

Jay’s steps didn’t stop. He’d heard worse. He wasn’t in the mood.

But then—

“And Park Jongseong? That bastard’s a walking headache. Always in fights, never in class. Total burden, that one.”

That made him stop.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as he turned on his heel. Three Alphas. Not just any Alphas—delusional ones. Ones who thought that just because they shared the same title, they were anywhere near his level.

Jay’s gaze swept over them with cold indifference, expression unreadable. A predator surveying prey.

One of them, a bulky second-year with more muscle than sense, met his gaze with an arrogant smirk.

“What did you just say?” His voice was soft. Almost pleasant. Almost.

Jay took a step forward, gaze steady. His bag slid off his shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud.

The guy scoffed, chin raising like he thought this was going to be some pathetic pissing contest. “You heard me. You’re a burden, Park Jongseong. Just throwing your weight around, hiding behind your family’s name.”

Jay’s jaw twitched. Not with anger.

With boredom.

“You really think this is the hill you want to die on?”

Before they could answer, Jay’s fist connected with the guy’s jaw. The crack echoed across the stone path, followed by a sharp grunt as the Alpha stumbled back, crashing into the iron bench behind him.

The other two didn’t waste time—they lunged.

Jay ducked under the first punch, letting it sail over his shoulder before delivering a brutal elbow to the side of the Alpha’s head. The third tried to grab him from behind, but Jay twisted free, slamming his palm against the guy’s face and shoving him backward with enough force to send him toppling over his friend.

Blood spattered across the edge of his collar. Someone groaned. Another cursed.

Jay barely blinked.

One of the Alphas managed to swing wide, landing a weak punch to Jay’s side. He barely flinched. Instead, he turned and landed a right hook that sent the idiot reeling to the dirt.

It didn’t last long. It never did.

Jay adjusted his sleeve, breathing steady as he looked over the mess he left in the grass.

One of them groaned from where he lay curled on the ground, and somewhere in the distance—a shrill cry.

Jay’s head tilted slightly.

A girl, probably one of their mates had appeared from around the hedge, gasping in horror as she caught sight of the scene.

Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my god, what happened—what did you do to them?!”

Jay didn’t even look at her. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and wiped a streak of blood from his knuckle with the corner of his uniform.

“Tch.” He scoffed under his breath, turning away from the mess like it wasn’t even worth the effort of acknowledgment. “Tell them to watch who they run their mouths around.”

The girl’s voice rang out behind him—shaky, pitched with fury and disbelief. “You’re gonna pay for this, Park! You think you can keep getting away like this?”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

The sound of her threats faded behind him, buried under the weight of his own indifference. Her voice was just another noise in a world that had too much of it already. He tugged at the sleeve of his uniform where blood had stained the cuff, and with a quiet scoff, flicked the edge down like it wasn’t even there.

What was she going to do? Cry to the higher-ups?

Jay stalked through the side halls of the academy, his pace unhurried, movements fluid with the same dangerous calm that had haunted the bruised and bloodied trio left behind on the grass. He passed by a few students, some whispered. Some stared. Most pretended not to notice the faint smudge of blood near his collar.

The classroom was quiet when he pushed open the door. Second period. Business Strategy. Another joke of a class with a professor who acted like theory ever meant anything in a real-world empire.

Jay’s eyes scanned the room once, sharp and bored, before they landed on the only person who mattered in the moment.

Sunghoon.

Sitting by the window, legs crossed, silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scribbled something into his notes with a blue pen. His back was straight, posture perfect. He didn’t even need to look up, he already knew.

But unlike him, Sunghoon didn’t indulge in chaos. He didn’t need to. His brand of power was colder, quieter, a silent scalpel instead of a roaring fire.

Jay made his way to his seat without a word, dropping his bag with a thud, the chair creaking under his weight as he leaned back.

Then—

“You smell like blood.”

Sunghoon’s voice broke the stillness, calm but edged with that unmistakable disapproval only he could manage. He didn’t look up from his notes. Didn’t need to.

Jay smirked. The one that twisted the corners of his mouth into something sharp and crooked. The one that came right before someone regretted crossing him.

“Wasn’t my fault this time.”

Sunghoon finally looked up, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing as they landed on the faint red on Jay’s knuckles.

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Jay leaned forward, elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hand as he stared back, amused. “They were talking. Spouting shit about the council. About me.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond right away. Just studied him. Like he was debating whether to call him out or let it slide.

“They’re just jealous.” Jay’s voice dropped into something lower, laced with pride. “No pedigree. No power. Just noise trying to echo louder than it should.”

Sunghoon sighed, setting down his pen.

“You’re going to end up on the university's front page one day, you know that?”

Jay chuckled under his breath, stretching out in his seat like the whole world owed him space.

“Good. About time they started printing things that matter.”

And with that, he turned his head toward the window, letting the sunlight catch the faint smudge of red still clinging to his skin, completely unbothered.

The council room was quieter than usual, the afternoon sun slanting through the high arched windows and casting golden streaks across the dark wood table.

Only seven seats were filled, the rest empty; a rare, informal meeting between the inner circle. Jungwon sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he flipped through several clipped pages of final project proposals, while Heeseung leaned closer to get a better view, murmuring comments here and there.

“We’ll need to finalize the proposals by next week,” Jungwon said, his voice calm but laced with authority. “Heeseung, double-check which department submissions are missing and send a notice before tomorrow’s end. Jake, make sure the permits are in by Friday, I don’t want delays. Sunoo, go over the communications plan, see if it fits the timeline.”

Jake nodded, scribbling something into his notes. “Already on it.”

Sunoo offered a small salute from across the table. “Social media templates are halfway done. I’ll send them for review tonight.”

“Sunghoon,” Jungwon continued, “you’re in charge of marketing coordination for the week. Keep our outreach tight. Ni-ki, check in with the lower-year reps, remind them this isn’t vacation season.”

Ni-ki groaned but gave a thumbs-up, clearly still half-asleep as he twirled his pen lazily between his fingers.

“And Jay,” Jungwon said, his eyes shifting to the treasurer who sat farther down the table, lounging like the meeting was a minor inconvenience. His legs were crossed, one hand twirling a pen while the other balanced the budget folder against the table's edge.

Jay sighed, snapping the folder open. “Yeah, yeah. Budget review. Let’s get it over with.”

He glanced at the numbers and began reading aloud with casual detachment. “We have more than enough to fund this cycle’s cultural and academic allocations, assuming no new surprise expenses show up.”

He flipped to the next page, eyes narrowing slightly. “Also, whoever ordered last term’s light rentals should be banned from touching a receipt again.”

Jake chuckled under his breath, already knowing who Jay was referring to.

Jay paused briefly, his fingers tapping against the wood. There was something contemplative in the way he stared down at the inked numbers, like his mind had wandered elsewhere. “Isn’t it funny,” he muttered, voice low but clearly audible, “how I’m the irresponsible one, and yet I’m still the one cleaning up their mess?”

A knock interrupted the moment.

Jay didn’t bother looking up. “Probably someone wasting my time,” he mumbled, flipping the folder closed.

Another knock came, louder.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Come in,” he snapped.

The door creaked open, revealing a first-year beta standing awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a folded paper like it might protect him. He hesitated before stepping fully inside, his face already pale.

Jay’s eyes locked on him, slow and deliberate. The beta visibly tensed as the scent of sandalwood and tequila thickened, laced with a bitter edge of annoyance. Jay raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Spit it out.”

The boy’s hands shook. “Y-You’re needed at the Head Office, sir. The Headmaster… he said it’s urgent.”

Jay didn’t respond. He simply stared, the silence stretching long enough to make the boy fidget.

Jake reached over and gently pulled the folder from Jay’s hand before the latter’s temper could ignite. “Just go,” he said with a half-smile. “You’ll melt the poor kid with that glare.”

Sunghoon didn’t look up from his tablet. “Try not to start a war while you’re at it.”

Jay scoffed, rising to his full height, his movements smooth and deliberate. He tugged the cuffs of his blazer into place, the air around him still crackling faintly from his earlier irritation.

“Tell the Headmaster he owes me ten minutes of peace,” he muttered coldly, shooting one last glare at the messenger as he strode past, his presence still lingering heavily even after the door clicked shut behind him.

The hallway was quiet, footsteps echoing as Jay and the first-year beta walked side by side—or rather, the beta trailed half a step behind, nervously glancing up at him every few seconds. Jay said nothing. His silence was as sharp as a blade, stretched taut like a wire ready to snap.

They hadn’t made it more than a few turns from the council room when the boy fumbled with the folded paper and held it out, his voice almost a whisper. “S-Sir, the letter… the Headmaster asked me to give it to you.”

Jay stopped. He took the letter slowly, opening it with a lazy flick of his fingers. His eyes scanned the contents. Whatever was written on the paper didn’t seem to amuse him in the way it should have—instead, a sarcastic laugh slipped past his lips.

“Of course,” he said under his breath, crumpling the letter in one hand before stuffing it into his blazer pocket like it was trash. “If he makes me late for my next class, I’m filing a harassment complaint.”

The beta beside him paled even more, sweating nervously under the weight of Jay’s sharp tone and overpowering scent. Jay didn’t spare him another glance, already walking forward again as if the entire thing was an inconvenience unworthy of his time.

By the time they reached the administration wing—tucked at the far end of the sprawling campus like a punishment in itself, Jay was already dragging his feet. The place smelled like polished floors and expensive paper. Too clean. Too suffocating.

The receptionist stood up the second she spotted him, mouth already opening to offer a polite greeting. But Jay walked right past her without so much as eye contact. He didn’t care. Didn’t need the fake pleasantries. And certainly didn’t have the patience for it.

Without knocking, he pushed open the heavy door to the headmaster’s office, letting it swing in with a dull thud against the wall.

Inside, seated like a damn tribunal, were the Headmaster, the Disciplinary Director, and one of the academy’s Legal Advisors.

There was a single, untouched glass of water placed neatly on the desk in front of the empty chair.

Obviously for him.

Jay didn’t sit.

He didn’t even step fully inside yet, standing just past the office with a look of total disinterest.

“If you’re trying to scare me with the full panel,” he said, voice dipped in sarcasm, “you should’ve invited my father. He would’ve appreciated the effort.”

The Legal Advisor raised a brow. The Disciplinary Director narrowed her eyes. The Headmaster just sighed, already bracing for the kind of conversation only Park Jongseong could bring to the table.

“You’ll want to sit, Mr. Park,” the Headmaster offered, gesturing toward the chair.

“I’m good,” Jay replied, tone clipped. “Let’s not pretend we enjoy each other’s company.”

“Suit yourself.” The Headmaster folded his hands over the folder in front of him. “We’re here today because of your recent behavior.”

Jay narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. Recent is vague.”

The Headmaster exhaled, already used to the boy’s theatrics.

“You’ve been in four separate altercations this month alone,” he began calmly, lifting a folder and flipping it open. “Three of which resulted in faculty involvement. One of which resulted in the school clinic being called in. You’ve submitted two assignments this term, both a week late, and there are five courses where your professors have yet to receive even a syllabus outline from you.”

Jay blinked. “And?”

The Disciplinary Director tensed. “Mr. Park, that isn’t—”

“But your council duties,” the Headmaster interrupted, ignoring the tension. “Perfect. Every report on time. Budget reports accurate. Project proposals double-checked. Even your attendance is flawless.”

Jay scoffed quietly. “Because I actually give a shit about that.”

The Headmaster raised a brow but didn’t respond to that. Instead, he closed the folder and folded his hands together.

“No one here is threatening expulsion, Mr. Park. That would be a waste of everyone’s time. You’re not a delinquent. You’re intelligent. Capable. You just lack… consistency.” He paused. “What you need is someone to keep you grounded. Someone who’ll remind you that your brilliance doesn’t exempt you from basic responsibility.”

Jay’s eyes narrowed. His posture stiffened slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re assigning me a babysitter.”

“In a sense,” the Headmaster said slowly, reaching for a second file from beneath his desk. “I’ve spoken with your father about this. He’s agreed.”

Jay finally moved. He dropped himself into the empty chair across the desk with a mockingly loud sigh, slouching in the seat like he had nothing to lose.

He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, tone dripping with fake concern. “So what now? You gonna slap me with another warning? Extra hours in the archives? Gonna pair me with some first-year Omega who’ll sob if I raise my voice?”

He sat back with a grin, fully expecting the usual lecture.

But then the Headmaster slid a new folder across the desk.

And said your name.

“(L/N) (Y/N),” he announced, calm and final. “You’ll be paired with her for one month.”

Jay’s entire body went still.

Gone was the amused posture, the lazy grin, the biting sarcasm—replaced by a cold, simmering silence. His face didn’t just fall; it contorted, the corners of his mouth pulling down into something bordering on disgust, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles ticked.

The glass of water on the desk remained untouched, condensation dripping silently onto the wood.

“You’re kidding,” he said finally, voice low and razor sharp.

The Headmaster merely straightened his papers. “Her academic record is exemplary. No demerits. No late submissions. Excellent conduct and a proven sense of leadership. You both rank highest in your respective year levels.”

“You know your families have been close for generations,” the Headmaster continued. “She’s one of the top students in her year, and her record is—”

“Clean. Of course it is,” Jay snapped, voice low and dangerous now.

The Legal Advisor cleared her throat, flipping open a second folder. “In fact, your records side by side paint quite the contrast.”

She held up the paper, a side-by-side chart. One half filled with distinctions, glowing reviews, recommendations. The other half, Jay’s half, filled with warning slips, missed assignments, and disciplinary notes scribbled in rushed red ink.

Jay just stared, harder and colder than ever before, like he was mentally setting the entire office on fire.

“You excel when you care,” the Headmaster said, voice even. “But you don’t care enough, and that’s the problem. So, for one month, she’ll be tasked with overseeing your academic responsibilities. Any delays or failures in submission will reflect on both of you.”

That made Jay’s brows twitch.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, you want her to babysit me?” he muttered under his breath.

“She’s not a babysitter,” the Disciplinary Director corrected. “She’s your academic liaison for the month.”

Jay gave a dry laugh. Cold. Humorless. Like someone told him the world was ending and handed him a glitter pen to sign the paperwork.

“She won’t last a week,” he sneered. “She’ll run the moment she realizes I don’t play by honor student rules.”

“You’ll be surprised,” the Headmaster replied simply. “She agreed.”

That made Jay’s smirk falter. You agreed?

Jay leaned back again, arms crossed, and stared them down with a look that could've burned holes through solid steel.

“If you’re top of the class,” the Headmaster said, “it’s time you start acting like it.”

Jay gave a short laugh—dry and humorless as he stood.

He didn’t bother collecting the folder. Didn’t look at the water. Didn’t thank them for their concern.

He just turned, the sneer still tugging at his lips as he opened the door again without a word. His shoulder brushed the frame just enough to make it swing back sharply behind him as he walked out, scent sharp and bitter in his wake.

And the silence that followed was louder than anything he could’ve said.

The scent of sandalwood and tequila spiked in the halls like a warning bell.

Students cleared the way without needing to be told, no one wanted to be collateral damage to whatever mood Park Jongseong was in. His bag was slung over one shoulder carelessly, steps heavy and sharp as he made his way toward the admin wing. Again.

“This better be the last damn time,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight.

The moment he reached the polished wooden doors, he didn’t knock. With one swift shove, the door swung open and slammed against the inside wall with a loud crack that echoed through the room.

And then he saw you.

Sitting pretty on one of the chairs opposite the Headmaster’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle, back straight, hands folded neatly over your lap.

Jay blinked once, twice.

You didn’t look at him right away. No, of course not. You were too busy conversing with the Headmaster like you weren’t just assigned to be his personal nightmare for the next month.

He scoffed quietly, stepping further in and letting the door close behind him with a solid thunk.

The Headmaster glanced up. “Ah. Mr. Park. Right on time.”

“If this is another lecture, skip it,” Jay said flatly, “I’ve already heard yesterday’s greatest hits.”

The Disciplinary Director looked mildly amused. The Legal Advisor didn’t even blink.

The Headmaster simply gestured toward the chair beside you. “Sit.”

Jay didn’t move. Instead, he looked at you again, finally catching your eyes as you turned toward him with the smallest smile. Innocent. Too innocent. It made his teeth grit.

And he hated that he noticed how good you looked, you always do.

“Park.” The Headmaster’s voice was firm. “Sit.”

Jay sighed through his nose and dragged the chair back with a loud scrape, dropping into it like it offended him to be told what to do. He leaned back, arms crossed, one ankle resting over his knee.

The Headmaster folded his hands. “Now that you’re both here… Let’s discuss the terms of your arrangement. It’s one month. Ms. (L/N) will be overseeing your academic responsibilities alongside your council work. Every submission, every report, every meeting—you two will handle together.”

The Headmaster continued. “Your records are being compared as we speak. While you may be leading your class in terms of final results, Jay, it’s clear you’ve neglected basic academic structure. Submissions late. Skipped consults. Zero communication with your professors.”

Jay sneered. “They get the work, don’t they?”

The Headmaster ignored him. “Ms. (L/N), on the other hand, has an impeccable record.”

Jay laughed. A soft, breathy scoff that held zero amusement.

“Of course she does.” His voice dropped into something darker. “Perfect little (L/N).”

You turned your head toward him slowly, brows raised just slightly. Not enough to argue. Just enough to say try me.

Jay didn’t look away.

“So,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’m to be micromanaged for the next month by Miss Honors?”

“You’re to be held accountable,” the Headmaster replied, voice stern. “By someone who understands the responsibility your title carries. You're not just a student, Jay. If you're top of your class, it's time you act like it."

Silence.

“Are we understood, Mr. Park?”

Jay didn’t answer.

He stood slowly, the chair scraping back again as he pushed it away, and with one final glare that could’ve shattered glass, he turned on his heel.

And walked out.

You stood the moment the door clicked shut, smoothing the crisp pleats of your uniform and adjusting the bow behind your head. You didn’t need a mirror, you knew everything was in place. It always was. Your image was pristine. Polished. Perfect.

But your patience? Absolutely gone.

The moment they told you who you’d be paired with, something in you snapped like a frayed violin string. Park Jongseong. Park fucking Jongseong.

The bane of your existence since you were little. A pureblooded Alpha with more detentions than he had emotions. The only student who could match your grades and outmatch your blood pressure.

You hated him. Down to your last well-behaved nerve.

But of course, you smiled. Nodded. Bowed your head like the good little Omega everyone expected.

Until you walked out.

Jay was leaning against the wall just outside the office, arms crossed, head tipped back like he was the picture of unbothered royalty. But the moment your heels hit the marble, he lifted his head. His eyes raked over you once, and you didn’t miss the flicker in his gaze, a flash of recognition, followed by instant, irritated regret.

You looked perfect. As always.

Hair pinned into place with your signature ribbon, uniform wrinkle-free and tailored to academy standards, not a single thing out of line. Your heels clicked across the floor with infuriating grace, and your thigh-high socks—dress code approved, of course—drew eyes whether you wanted them to or not.

To Jay, you were the image of a perfect Omega.

Too bad you were a pain in his ass.

You brushed past him without a glance, your lavender perfume lingering in the air like a silent challenge. But Jay’s nose twitched, beneath the floral sweetness was the faint, sterile bite of scent blockers.

His sneer was instant.

And for some reason, that pissed him off more than it should’ve.

“I’m not doing your reports,” Jay muttered after you, voice sharp with disdain.

You stopped and turned on your heel with the calm of someone born to kill with kindness.

“Good,” you bit back, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because I wouldn’t trust you to spell your own name right on a cover sheet.”

Jay pushed off the wall, stalking forward with that arrogant, deliberate stride. “Keep talking, princess. Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll forget you’re the one who begged the Headmaster to babysit me.”

Your jaw twitched. “I didn’t beg. I was assigned. Believe me, I’d rather chew glass.”

He stepped into your space, just close enough to make your skin crawl.

“You’d probably find a way to do it politely.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you’d probably choke on it.”

The tension in the air snapped. His scent spiked, darker, colder.

“Let’s be clear,” you said, voice low. “You don’t scare me. You don’t impress me. And if you think I’m going to fall into line just because you’ve got a title and a family name—”

Jay leaned closer, a breath away from your face.

“You know, Jay, I don’t need you to fall in line. I just need you to keep up.” You laughed once—cold, and walked away, heels echoing like gunshots across the hall.

He watched you go. Jaw clenched. Eyes narrowed. Every inch of his body screamed irritation.

You were going to ruin his life even more than you already did.

It had been a week.

One whole week of walking down hallways like you didn’t want to claw each other's throats out, of sharing study sessions where pens nearly snapped from the pressure of your grip.

And now, here you were. Walking toward the council room, side by side with him.

Whispers followed almost immediately, they were sharp and insistent, bouncing off the marble halls like a chorus of disbelief.

“Are they seriously—”

“No way. They hate each other.”

“Didn’t (Y/N) throw a stapler at him in sophomore year?”

“I swear Jay once said she’d haunt his nightmares.”

You didn’t bat an eye. Jay didn’t, either. But the tension between you both was impossible to miss.

He reached for the heavy wooden doors first, pushing it open with a grunt, shoulders tense as he muttered under his breath, “Get your ass inside.”

You clicked your heels deliberately loud as you stepped in, pausing just long enough to throw him a side glance.

“How chivalrous,” you said, nose tilting upward with a picture-perfect scoff as you walked right past him.

Jay growled behind you, hands tightening at his sides as you strutted into the council room like it was your runway.

You took your usual seat beside Jake’s mate, crossing one leg over the other as you adjusted your skirt like it was second nature.

“There you are!” she gasped, pulling her phone out with a sparkle in her eyes. “Look, they dropped the preview for the new Dior line.”

You leaned in with genuine interest, annoyance dissolving for a moment as you gasped softly. “The saddle bag in navy, is that matte leather?”

“Yes!” she squealed. “But I can’t decide between that or the canvas one.”

“I’d go matte. It’s more timeless. We’re getting matching, right?”

Sunghoon’s mate slid into the conversation with a flawless grin. “I knew you two would be twins again. I’m getting the boots, though.”

Jake’s mate giggled. “We’re just waiting on the others. Where are they?”

You shrugged lightly, not even glancing up from the phone screen. “Saw them heading to the washroom a minute ago.”

As the three of you giggled and gushed over your plans, Jay dropped into his seat across the room with a sigh so heavy it practically echoed.

The chair creaked under him as he sank down, dragging a hand down his face before reaching into his bag to pull out the thick folder of budget reports he’d stayed up half the night organizing.

Sunoo rolled across the room in his chair with Ni-ki right behind him, both of them practically vibrating with the need to be menaces.

“Bro,” Ni-ki grinned, whispering, “we seriously thought you were kidding when you said (Y/N) would be up your ass.”

“She’s not just up there,” Sunoo added with a snort. “She built a house. Probably a pool too.”

Jay didn’t even bother looking at them. “She’s not up my ass. She is the pain in it.”

Despite the chaos, the other boys started to trickle in one by one—Jake, Jungwon, Sunghoon, and Heeseung—each taking note of your presence with quiet glances. They all knew the drill by now: acknowledge you, be polite, and above all… don’t spark anything.

They greeted their mates with soft smiles and casual kisses on the cheek, but when their eyes met yours, they all gave short nods and carefully neutral expressions. Polite, yes. Friendly, sure.

But when Jay was in the room with you, they kept everything restrained, their own mates sometimes exchanging glances that said, not today.

The murmuring died down when Jungwon cleared his throat and looked directly at Jay, motioning toward the front of the table. “Let’s get started,” he said simply. “Jay, you’re up.”

Jay stood with that usual bored elegance, flipping open his laptop and connecting it to the monitor in one smooth motion. The screen flickered to life, revealing a neat layout of monthly budget allocations, proposals, and expense reports.

He scrolled through his slides as he spoke, voice low, crisp, and straight to the point. “Quarterly allocations are being finalized. Clubs requesting additional budget this month include Performing Arts, and Athletics. Most proposals passed the standard review. Here’s the breakdown.”

Bar graphs. Pie charts. More numbers you couldn’t care less about, but you still kept your gaze steady. Even if he was a pain in the ass, Jay knew how to present well. Of course he did. He didn’t get to be top of the class and treasurer of the council without being dangerously capable.

But he wasn’t perfect.

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, eyes narrowing ever so slightly when a certain number blinked across the screen. He clicked to the next slide without pause.

You raised your hand.

Jay paused mid-sentence, jaw clenching for half a second before he forced his voice to stay even. “Yes, (L/N)?”

You uncrossed your arms slowly, tapping a manicured nail against your phone screen as you double-checked the file Jungwon had shared earlier. “You listed the Performing Arts’ costume fund under miscellaneous expenses. That’s a flagged violation from last semester’s audit. It’s required to be under equipment to fall within the allowed allocation.”

The room went still.

Even Ni-ki, who had been quietly fidgeting with Sunoo’s pen, stopped. Eyes darted between you and Jay like this was the moment someone’s house would be set on fire.

Jay blinked once. Twice.

He didn’t look at the screen. He didn’t need to.

His lips curled into a frown. “Noted,” he muttered, switching slides.

Still, you turned your eyes back to your phone with the same calmness as before, like correcting him wasn’t something worth breaking a sweat over.

Because it wasn’t, not to you.

The room stayed quiet even after the meeting wrapped up, the final slide lingering on the monitor like it was scared to leave before Jay did.

Jungwon began to close his notes, his mate already standing from her seat on the far end of the table. Without skipping a beat, she turned toward you with a practiced smile and a glint of urgency in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, sliding her phone across the table to you, screen lit up with soft pastel colors and a fresh Louis Vuitton collection, “they finally dropped the new ribbon line. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. You’re going to love this on, it’d look so good with your white blouse and that nude gloss you wore the other day.”

You blinked—just once—before your eyes lit up, your sharp features softening into something more playful as you leaned in. “Wait, that’s the one you mentioned at brunch? I thought they delayed the release?”

Jungwon’s mate grinned, clearly pleased with your reaction, and shot her Alpha a subtle wink as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Jungwon, who’d been standing by the head of the table with a clipboard in hand, caught the look and smiled faintly

Jay had stayed seated for a beat longer than usual, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. The low buzz of post-meeting chatter picked up as if nothing had happened, but the muscles in his jaw hadn’t quite relaxed.

You were too busy comparing satin tones with the other omega, voice light and sweet, like you hadn’t just called out one of the most feared Alphas in the room mid-meeting.

Then his voice cut through the chatter like a knife. Low, firm, utterly annoyed.

“We need to go. That report for the R&D proposal isn’t going to fix itself.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance, just pushed the door open halfway and walked out like the air in the room wasn’t worth breathing anymore.

The moment it clicked shut behind him, you blinked twice and muttered under your breath, loud enough for the right people to hear, “What an absolute dickhead.”

Heeseung’s mate laughed, hand immediately flying up to her lips, trying and failing to mask her laugh. Sunghoon’s mate nudged her sharply, eyes wide with warning, but even she had her knuckles pressed to her mouth to keep the giggle down.

You, ever the picture of grace, turned back to your girls with a polished smile and the kind of voice used at press conferences.

“Ladies, I’ll see you all tomorrow—don’t forget to reserve our usual table, alright?”

They nodded, still stifling laughter.

You leaned forward, placed polite air kisses on each of their cheeks, then straightened your skirt and flipped your hair over one shoulder with the elegance of someone about to chase after a walking migraine.

Then, with a sharp turn, your smile dropped. You stared down the half-open door like it insulted your entire lineage.

“God give me strength,” you mumbled under your breath, and scowled as you followed the retreating figure of Jay.

The two of you descended from the pristine council wing toward the private university parking lot, which gleamed with rows of high-end luxury vehicles.

Jay walked ahead like the world owed him something, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his white button-up rumpled, the two top few buttons left undone, hair tousled in that deliberately careless way, and his scent…

It had been faint earlier, he was clearly trying to suppress it—but now that you were outside, the sharp, rich scent of sandalwood and tequila started bleeding through.

It lingered in the air, bitter at the edges as his irritation was slipping through in whispers.

“You’re coming over,” Jay said, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your eyes snapped to the back of his head. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t even slow down. “To my house. We’ve got to fix the R&D layouts. I’m not failing just because you’re allergic to being useful.”

You scoffed. “I’ll send my revisions through email. You don’t need me breathing the same air.”

Jay turned his head just slightly, his lips curling into that condescending smirk that made your blood boil. “I already called your dad.”

Your steps halted. “You what?”

“I called him.” He stopped too, finally facing you with the kind of confidence that only someone who knew they were always five moves ahead could have. “He said—and I quote—‘Of course, anything for my favorite son.’”

Your entire body went rigid.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t trust yourself to. But your glare? Sharp enough to slice diamonds.

Jay’s smirk grew. “Aw. Don’t look so hurt.”

You pushed past him, determined to put space between you and his smug little existence, but fate, or something far more dramatic—had other plans.

The moment you spotted your car—your custom pearl-white Porsche Panamera GTS, trimmed in gold accents; your stomach dropped.

Both of your front tires were flat. Completely.

You blinked and looked again, still flat.

“What the actual fuck?”

Jay’s quiet, amused chuckle cut through your spiraling thoughts like a dagger. “Damn. Looks like you’re out of luck, princess.”

You turned toward him slowly. “If you had anything to do with this—”

“I didn’t,” he said immediately, voice too casual. “I don’t have time to sabotage your Barbie car. Besides, why would I? You’re already being forced into my passenger seat.”

He clicked his keys, and his black Ferrari 812 Superfast lit up like a siren call from hell. Powerful and loud, just like him.

You straightened your spine, clenching your jaw. “I could call a driver.”

Jay leaned back against his hood, crossing his arms. “Sure. Call him. He’ll get here in, what, forty minutes? An hour? Long enough for me to finish the whole thing myself and tell your dad you flaked.”

You inhaled deeply through your nose. The bitter twist in his scent was stronger now, like the burn of tequila was stronger. He was annoyed. And suppressing it. He could’ve easily let his Alpha pheromones flood out, scare you off. But he didn’t.

Not because he respected you.

Because he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of reacting.

“I hate you,” you said, voice dripping with venom.

Jay opened the passenger door like a damn chauffeur. “Get in.”

You stared at him for a moment. The door. The smirk. The scent. The absolute nerve of him.

Then you huffed, stepped forward with the grace of a practiced heiress, and climbed into the car like it offended you to touch it.

Jay slid into the driver’s seat without a word. The engine roared to life.

So did the silence.

So did the tension.

The hum of the Ferrari’s engine was a low, luxurious growl as it sped down the private road, headlights slicing through the evening haze. Inside, the silence was suffocating, except for the occasional click of the turn signal and the quiet sound of leather shifting under your movements.

You sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed over your chest, gaze fixed on the window like you could pretend Jay didn’t exist a foot away.

But unfortunately, he did. In his own school uniform, shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins on his forearms, tie tossed into the backseat, collar unbuttoned like the world bent to him instead of the other way around.

“You’re still handling the KBC merger reports?” he asked eventually, his tone low and clipped.

You didn’t look at him. “Obviously. My dad would have my head if I dropped the ball.”

Jay’s jaw flexed, one hand tightening on the wheel. “Yeah, mine too. Legacy, bloodlines, whatever. Apparently, being born rich means your life isn’t yours.”

You scoffed, brushing invisible lint off your pleated skirt. “At least they’re not trying to marry you off to some desperate heir from a dying charter airline.”

Jay’s head snapped toward you, just for a second. A twitch in his brow. A deeper furrow in his jaw. The kind of tension that wasn’t all anger but wasn’t calm either.

“What?” you muttered, catching the change.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes on the road. “Nothing. It's just stupid.”

The silence came again, colder now.

You tilted your head slightly, voice quieter. “It’s not like I’d ever say yes anyway.”

“Neither would I,” he said quickly, sharper than intended. Then he added, almost to himself, “Even if they tried.”

Another pause.

“Because you’re the golden boy,” you muttered.

Jay let out a humorless laugh. “Golden boys don’t get choices. They just get told who to be and when.”

You finally looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You are such a self-righteous ass.”

“And you’re a know-it-all omega with a god complex.”

Your lips twitched, annoyance blooming into something more twisted. “Still predictable, I see.”

“So are you,” he said, glancing at you sideways. “Still impossible.”

The silence that followed wasn’t calm. It simmered. Buzzed.

Because you weren’t just heirs to multi-billion dollar aviation empires—you were rivals. Old friends turned competitors.

You knew how he tapped his thumb against the steering wheel when he was deep in thought. He knew you always stared out the window when you were trying not to say something you’d regret.

You’d grown up together���vacation homes, shared private jet rides to summit meetings, side-by-side seats at galas and charity auctions. Him: the sharp-tongued pureblooded Alpha with the perfect face and a reputation that couldn’t be touched. You: the picture-perfect omega with a brain that could out-deal most adults in the boardroom.

But somewhere along the way, the teasing soured. The closeness cracked. And now, here you were, two loaded weapons in high-end school uniforms and too much shared history.

Jay pulled up to the gates of the Park estate, and even that was overkill.

Black wrought iron, towering and laced with gold detailing. The Park family crest—two outstretched wings around a crown that was stamped on the gate’s center. Guards in sleek black uniforms stood at attention on either side, already confirming Jay’s identity through biometric scanners built into the intercom posts.

The gates peeled open with a soft mechanical hum, revealing a winding driveway that looked more like a runway. Perfectly sculpted hedges ran along either side, interspersed with glowing path lights and imported pines.

The Park mansion wasn’t just big, it was power incarnate.

Limestone and ivory stone. Classical architecture with steel accents. Towering windows, slate rooftops, and a line of vintage jet turbine sculptures flanking the entry path. A private helipad lay just beyond the side courtyard. The entire estate was surrounded by land: quiet, cold, expensive.

Jay parked neatly at the base of the steps, but instead of grabbing his door first, he moved with quiet precision. You barely had time to touch your seatbelt before he was already out of the car and rounding the front.

You blinked as your door swung open.

Jay stood there, not meeting your eyes. One hand on the door, the other shoved into his pocket. His jaw was locked. His eyes fixed on the trees ahead, not you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Chivalry? From you? Again?”

“I’m not a monster,” he muttered.

You stepped out, ignoring the subtle warmth that hit your cheeks. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He let the door close behind you with a soft click. Then, voice dry and low, he added, “My mother didn’t raise a savage. I know how to handle an omega.”

You turned, fixing your uniform ribbon as you looked him dead in the eye. “Good. Handle yourself first.”

Jay’s lip twitched, whether it was a smirk or a sneer, you weren’t sure—and then he was already walking past you, up the stairs.

The massive front doors of the Park estate opened with a soft click the moment Jay reached them, as if the house itself recognized him.

Marble floors stretched endlessly beyond the threshold, gleaming under the glow of the chandelier above. The foyer was immaculate—pristine white walls, polished gold accents, and fresh lilies arranged delicately in a glass vase near the staircase. The air smelled like jasmine, aged oak, and old money.

Jay stepped in first, face unreadable, his blazer now slung lazily over one shoulder. You followed, brushing invisible dust from your pleated skirt.

Despite the animosity that practically radiated off Jay, he slowed his pace just enough to reach back and open the door for you, eyes flat and uninterested.

“Don’t read into it,” he muttered before you could even say thank you. “My mom didn’t raise a monster.”

“You sure?” you hummed back, voice laced with annoyance.

Before either of you could say more, a warm, familiar voice called from deeper inside the estate.

“Ah! Ms. (Y/N), welcome back!”

You turned to find Mr. Cho, the family’s long-time butler, walking towards you with a small, respectful smile. He took your bag as naturally as if he did this daily. “Shall I prepare your usual tea?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“She doesn’t live here,” Jay muttered.

Mr. Cho remained unfazed. “Of course not, Master Jay. I was merely offering Ms. (Y/N) our hospitality. She always enjoyed the Kyoto chamomile.”

“Still does,” you added with a soft smile.

As Mr. Cho disappeared, a young maid passed by and paused when she saw you. “Ms. (Y/N)! I’ll have the blueberry cheesecake sent to the living room, just like last time.”

You blinked. “You still remember?”

“Of course! You always said it helped you focus during study sessions.”

Jay looked like he was physically restraining himself from exploding. The staff adored you. Genuinely. Fully. And not in the polite, distant way they treated him, but with familiarity. Like they cared.

And unfortunately for Jay, things only got worse.

A pair of footsteps echoed from the top of the spiral stairs. “Jay, darling—”

You turned just as Mrs. Park appeared at the landing. She was elegant in a soft blue silk dress, simple and flowing, sleeves delicately cuffed with pearl buttons. Her makeup was fresh, understated, and her smile lit up the room when she saw you.

“(Y/N)!” she practically sang. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise!”

You bowed your head slightly. “Good evening, Mrs. Park.”

Jay’s shoulders visibly tensed. “Mom.”

His mother didn’t even look at him. She descended the stairs with grace and opened her arms, embracing you warmly. “You’ve gotten even more beautiful. And that uniform on you—still so well-kept! You always take care of yourself.”

You smiled, still polite but not overly so. “You look amazing, ma’am. That dress is beautiful.”

She laughed, lightly patting your cheek. “Oh, this old thing? Thank you, dear. It’s one of my favorites, you like it?”

“I do, actually,” you said, fingers brushing the hem with admiration. “I’ve been looking for something similar. It’s the kind of style I’d wear even outside formal events.”

That made her beam. “You’ve always had taste. You’re so much like me when I was your age.”

Jay nearly gagged.

The conversation flowed naturall. It was as if you belonged in the Park household more than he did. Mrs. Park looped her arm through yours and began walking with you toward the living room.

“You know,” she said with a not-so-subtle glint in her eyes, “you’d make such a wonderful daughter-in-law.”

You choked on air.

Jay stopped walking entirely. “Mom—”

“I mean it! You’re smart, elegant, and you carry yourself so well. Our family just adores you, (Y/N). Don’t we?”

As if summoned, one of the estate's gardeners who’d come in to drop off fresh flowers—paused by the doorway. “Miss (Y/N)? Always so kind. The roses you suggested for the east garden look stunning now.”

You nodded, cheeks heating. “I’m glad they turned out well.”

Jay looked ready to combust. His jaw clenched. His eye twitched.

“She’s not here for dinner,” he reminded sharply. “She’s just here to make sure I don’t flunk some projects.”

You smiled sweetly at the older woman. “A job I take very seriously.”

His mother waved him off with a laugh. “Yes, yes. Academics. But it doesn’t hurt to get to know each other better, hmm?”

You chuckled nervously, but before the topic could spin further into dangerous territory, Jay suddenly called, “(Y/N).”

You glanced over. His tone was flat, but his eyes were sharp. “We should start,” he said.

You cleared your throat, nodding. “Of course.”

You didn’t rush after him. Of course you didn’t. You just turned to Mrs. Park with a polite nod and a small smile, excusing yourself with the grace of someone who had no interest in chasing after a moody boy.

Jay’s footsteps were already fading down the hallway as you began walking like the floor belonged to you too. Head held high. Skirt swaying. If he was going to call you princess, you’d damn well wear the crown.

By the time you stepped into the sitting room, the warm golds of the afternoon had dimmed into bluer hues, early evening creeping in with a hush. The chandelier above glowed brighter now, casting a soft sheen over everything, from the velvet couches to the massive coffee table between you and Jay.

He was already on the floor, back against the couch, legs spread like he owned the room, laptop balanced on one knee. He didn’t look at you when you entered, just clicked his pen and muttered, “Took you long enough.”

You dropped your bag on the opposite side of the table with just enough force to make a point. “I don’t run for anyone. You should know that by now.”

“I forgot,” he replied dryly. “Princesses don’t hurry after all.”

You sat down slowly, folding your legs beneath you with practiced poise, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt before pulling out your notes. “And crownless boys don’t get to comment on royalty.”

Jay looked up at you then, eyebrows arching. “That supposed to hurt?”

“No,” you said sweetly, flipping your folder open, “just a reminder.”

Between you, the oversized coffee table gleamed. A silver tray sat in the center, stacked with delicate desserts and a fresh pot of tea. You reached out carefully, nudging a teacup to the side to make space for your things.

Jay scoffed, eyeing the setup. “Of course she pulled out the royal treatment. Blueberry cheesecake, fresh tea… should’ve just set the dining table while she was at it.”

“She’s being kind,” you replied, tone cool, but your fingers tapped once against the table. “Something you could try once in a while.”

“I’m not fake,” he snapped. “And I don’t kiss ass to people who walk in like they already belong here.”

You looked up at him then, full stare. “You think I’m kissing ass?”

Jay met your eyes without flinching. “I think you’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger.”

You smiled, all teeth and ice. “Maybe that’s because I don’t sulk through life like a kicked puppy, Park.”

He barked a laugh. “You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

“No,” you said, pulling your textbook into your lap, “if I did, I wouldn’t waste my time talking to you.”

Jay reached forward without warning, sliding the cheesecake slightly closer to your side.

You blinked. “What, is this a peace offering?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, not looking at you. “You’re just less annoying when your mouth is full.”

You let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh. “Right. That ego of yours must need hourly feeding too, huh?”

Jay didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because the silence that followed said enough.

It had been quiet. Too quiet.

Three hours in, and the tension that once burned like a wildfire had simmered into something else, maybe it was an unspoken truce, or maybe just mutual exhaustion.

Papers were scattered between you both. The once-pristine coffee table was now a war zone of half-solved equations, scribbled graphs, and open textbooks stacked like makeshift barricades.

The cake was mostly gone, your teacup emptied long ago. Even the silver fork had been abandoned at some point, lazily resting on a napkin with a streak of blueberry at the tip.

Jay was deep into the budget projections for next quarter, fingers tapping steadily against the keyboard of his laptop—when he suddenly paused.

Something felt off.

He frowned.

You usually threw in some sarcastic comment every twenty minutes. A jab at his handwriting. A smug comment about how even your cat could organize files better. A dramatic gasp every time he actually agreed with your suggestions.

Jay glanced sideways, and there you were.

Head resting on your folded arms, body slumped slightly forward. Breathing even. Completely still.

Your hair had slipped over your cheek, and the soft chandelier lighting caught on the curve of your nose, the edge of your lashes, the way your lips were ever so slightly parted in sleep. The rise and fall of your shoulders was slow and steady, peaceful in a way that didn’t match your usual fire. Even the stubborn furrow of your eyebrows had softened.

Jay stared for a second too long.

He narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to find a reason to roll them. But nothing came out of his mouth. No insult. No complaint.

Just a long, sharp sigh.

Because for fuck’s sake, even asleep, you had to look—ethereal. And worst of all? You looked peaceful. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

He set the laptop down on the table with a soft click, leaned back, and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, like it was your fault for being like this.

Then, with ease, Jay reached behind him, tugged his blazer off the couch, and stood. The fabric slid over his shoulder in one swift motion, and without a single dramatic exhale, he walked over to your side of the coffee table.

Each step was careful. Silent. Like the heir of one of the most powerful families in the country hadn’t just decided to play blanket-boy for the rival heiress who haunted his every waking moment.

He paused when he reached you, and watched just a second more.

Then he draped the blazer over your shoulders with slow, precise hands—adjusting it so the collar covered the back of your neck, fingers brushing against your arm for the briefest moment before pulling away.

And right when he was about to back away, you moved.

Jay froze. Held in a breath.

His hand stilled mid-air as your body instinctively curled further into the warmth. One soft nuzzle, and then…

You sighed contentedly.

Right into his blazer.

He stared like you’d just committed a crime.

He finally took a step back—reluctantly—and returned to his seat with a scowl trying to eat his face.

You weren’t supposed to be unguarded, you were supposed to be a brat—his bratty little academic babysitter.

Jay sighed again, loudly this time.

About thirty minutes later, you stirred.

It started slow. A flicker of your lashes. A barely-there shift in your breathing. A little crease between your brows as your body tried to figure out why it felt suspiciously cozy in the middle of an air-conditioned mansion that usually felt like the inside of a freezer.

You blinked, sluggish and dazed, slowly dragging yourself out of sleep. The world was quiet, too quiet. Just the faint hum of the AC, the occasional distant clink of dishware.

But more importantly—you were warm.

Your brain stalled. That… wasn’t right.

You shifted slightly and felt the weight of something thick and heavy draped over your shoulders. Your brows furrowed. And then—you inhaled.

And you knew.

The scent hit you like a truck—clean, sharp cologne, with his scent of cedarwood and tequila, something undeniably Alpha, something that was not yours, and it curled through your lungs like a goddamn curse.

Park Jongseong.

No. No, no, no.

You sat up an inch, heart hammering in your chest as your gaze dropped to the dark blazer now resting over your frame. His blazer. Neatly placed.

“What the f—” You didn’t even finish the curse. You were too busy spiraling.

When did he do this? Why did he do this? Was this a pity move? A trap? Was he trying to prove some twisted point? That he could be thoughtful or soft or human?

God, you hated him.

You hated that your first instinct was to pull it tighter around yourself because the warmth was just that comforting. You hated that it smelled like him, and that it wasn’t disgusting. You hated that your cheeks were warm and you didn’t know if it was the blazer or the mortifying realization that he’d seen you asleep and had the audacity to care.

You glared at it like it personally betrayed you.

You wanted to chuck it across the room, you wanted to march over to him and kick him in the shin with your heels, you wanted to scream and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing being—decent.

But just as you sat up, ready to commit violence, your gaze lifted—Jay was asleep.

Head down on the table the same way you had been minutes ago, lips parted just slightly, one arm bent awkwardly under his head, the other still loosely holding onto the edge of his laptop. His brows, usually furrowed in perpetual annoyance or superiority, were finally relaxed. His sharp jaw was tilted your way, soft in sleep, like even gravity didn’t dare ruin his symmetry.

And for a second—you stared, and God, He was gorgeous.

His dark blonde hair had fallen slightly over his forehead, just messy enough to make your stomach twist in frustration. His eyelashes were too long to be fair, brushing softly against his cheeks. His lips were tinted that stupid natural pink, curved in a way that would be charming if he wasn’t, well, him. His nose—the one you had once insulted out of spite for being too perfect, was somehow even more annoying up close.

The kind of beautiful that was cinematic.

The kind of beautiful that made your blood boil because it was attached to a man you actively fantasized about strangling.

You pressed your fingers to your temple, sighing quietly, mind racing with a war of contradicting thoughts.

You were this close—this close—to standing up and throwing the jacket at his face like a grenade. But your body betrayed you and stayed seated, clutching the fabric instead, heart still hammering.

This couldn’t be happening, he was Park Jongseong.

You groaned softly into your hands, blazer still wrapped around your shoulders like some cursed reminder of your ongoing descent into hell.

You had to leave.

Not because you were done. Not because you had calmed down. But because something about sitting here, wrapped in his blazer, watching him sleep, made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you didn’t want to name. Something dangerous.

You didn’t do dangerous with Jay.

You did rivalry. Snark. Academic warfare. Arguments with sharp tongues and bitten-back smirks.

Not… this.

So, you moved.

As quietly as you could, you pulled away from the coffee table, the plush rug soft under your heels. You began packing up your things—the papers, the scattered pens, the flash drive you had almost forgotten. You glanced over at Jay once, just to make sure he was still sleeping. He hadn’t moved. Still slumped over the table like he was seconds away from snoring.

Then you reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the blazer still wrapped around your shoulders.

Returning it now would be the decent thing to do.

Which was exactly why you didn’t do it.

If you handed it back now, it would be simple. Done. Over.

But if you left with it? Oh, he’d hate it.

He’d hate that it would come back smelling like your expensive perfume—the one you wore to events just to piss off old men who said women should dress modestly and stay silent.

The one you wore like a weapon. Sweet, intoxicating, with a cold bite underneath. A perfect contrast to your scent-blockers, which left your natural scent unreadable by anyone—even him.

So yes, you were going to bring the blazer home.

Dry clean it? Of course. You weren’t a monster.

Smiling faintly, you folded the blazer over your arm and reached into your tote bag for a notepad. You scribbled something quickly, your handwriting elegant and infuriatingly neat.

You placed the note where his laptop used to be and glanced at him one last time. He was still dead asleep. You rolled your eyes.

“Of course you sleep like a rock when I actually have something to say,” you muttered under your breath.

With that, you turned on your heel and left the room.

You made your way through the quiet mansion, heels ticking softly against the polished floor, the gentle hum of the chandelier casting warm light over the entrance hall. The foyer was peaceful, bathed in a mellow amber glow that clung to the air like honey.

Jay’s mother sat near the base of the staircase, a tablet resting on her lap, glasses perched delicately on her nose. She looked up when she heard you, her expression instantly brightening.

“Oh, you’re leaving?” she asked, her voice soft but touched with disappointment.

You nodded politely, shifting the bag on your shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. It’s gotten pretty late, and I didn’t want to wake Jay. He looked… like he needed the sleep.”

She smiled knowingly. “He always overworks himself. But I was hoping you might stay a little longer.”

You blinked, a little surprised. “Really?”

“Of course.” She stood, placing the tablet aside and walking over to you, her lips curled slightly. “Your banter kept the house interesting today.”

You chuckled, genuinely this time. “I’m sure Jay would say otherwise.”

She reached out and gently pulled you into a light hug, arms warm and motherly around your shoulders. You stiffened for half a second, caught off-guard… and then relaxed. It was nice. Disarming. Familiar in a way that scraped against the icy corners you usually kept up.

You pulled back with a soft, genuine smile. “Thank you. For the tea. And the cake.”

She laughed lightly. “Come by again. Preferably when he’s less cranky.”

You grinned at that, nodding once. “No promises.” Then, ou stepped out into the evening.

Your driver opened the car door as you approached, holding it just long enough for you to slide in without needing to break stride. As you settled in, you kept Jay’s blazer folded neatly on your lap, fingers idly running over the fabric.

The car pulled away from the estate, disappearing into the night.

Back in the living room, Jay stirred.

His head ached in the weird, groggy way it always did after falling asleep at a desk. He sat up slowly, blinking at the dimmed lights and the stretch of silence around him.

Something felt off.

His eyes scanned the room. The papers had been tidied. Your bag was gone. And so was his blazer.

Then—he spotted the note.

Right where his laptop had been, placed delicately like a landmine dressed in silk.

He picked it up, already exhaling like he was bracing for a slap.

thanks for your stinky blazer, shit head. returning it ASAP. don’t miss me. — (l/n)

His jaw ticked.

“Stinky—are you fucking serious—”

He stopped, the words were ridiculous. Petty. Absolutely you. The handwriting? Annoyingly perfect. Not a single letter out of place.

Jay scowled, letting the paper crumple slightly in his hand.

But then, his scowl faltered.

It softened, not into anything gentle, but into a low, frustrated frown. The kind that twisted deep between his brows and lingered. He leaned back in his seat, note still in hand, blazer gone, and a sudden, unwanted awareness in his chest.

You’d worn his blazer. And you’d taken it with you.

His eyes slid to the spot where you’d been curled up not even an hour ago.

And then they narrowed.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.

He stared at the note for another few seconds.

And then he folded it. Neatly. Slid it under his laptop.

He’d burn it later. Maybe.

Jay was spiraling.

Which was ridiculous, really, because Park Jongseong did not spiral. He was composed. In control. Cool, collected, cold even, especially when it came to you.

But as he stepped out of his sleek black car, designer shoes clicking against the pavement of the academy’s private parking lot, his jaw clenched. His usually sharp mind was fogged up with one thing and one thing only: you still had his blazer.

His personal, custom-fit, dry-clean-only, still-drenched-in-his-scent blazer.

And not just handed to you. No. He had fucking placed it over your shoulders like some old-school, gentlemanly, possessive courting maneuver from a textbook.

Which, in Alpha society, it kind of was.

His inner Alpha had been screaming about it since the moment he stepped out of the shower that morning. The memory hit him like a train—the sight of you curled up, breathing evenly, his blazer slipping slightly down your arm as you unconsciously pulled it closer. His scent wrapped around you.

He stopped walking. Just for a second. Just enough for his eyes to flutter shut and for him to mutter under his breath, “Shit.”

Then he straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and shoved the panic down where he shoved everything else he didn’t want to deal with. You probably still had i. Or worse, you were going to return it drenched in your expensive perfume, just to rub salt in the wound.

His hate for you burned hotter.

By the time he reached the student council wing, his expression was blank again. He adjusted the strap of his bag, reached for the door to the council room—and paused.

There were voices inside. Heated ones.

He slowly pushed one of the double wooden doors open only to be met by the searing glare of Jake’s mate.

Usually the quiet one. Reserved. Soft-spoken. But right now? Absolutely fuming.

She was already standing, arms crossed so tight it looked painful, expression twisted in something close to betrayal under the soft chandelier light.

“Jay, I thought you hated (Y/N)?”

Jay blinked. “I do.”

“Then why the actual fuck would you give her your blazer?!”

He opened his mouth to speak. Then shut it.

She stormed a few steps closer, each one heavier with rage.

“That’s a courting gesture, you moron! That’s like waving a giant flag in Alpha society! Do you not think before you act? Or did your brain short-circuit the moment she looked remotely human to you?”

Jake, from behind her, threw his hands up like a hostage. “Nope. Not getting in the middle of this. She’s gonna kill me, man. Don’t even look at me.”

Jay stared at him. “Get your girl.”

Jake shook his head even faster. “Hell no.”

“You do realize stepping into an omega’s wrath is like signing a death warrant, right?” Heeseung added lazily from the couch, sipping his coffee with a smirk. “Might as well start drafting your will.”

Jungwon didn’t say anything, but he shared a look with Heeseung that said it all.

Jay dragged a hand down his face and sighed heavily, the ache behind his temples pulsing stronger with each passing second. “This is all your fault,” he muttered.

Jake’s mate’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “My fault?”

Jay gestured vaguely toward the air, the universe, toward you—wherever the hell you were. “Yes. Yours. Hers. Everyone’s.”

She looked ready to lunge at him.

Jay turned on his heel and strode right back out of the room, tossing over his shoulder, “Unbelievable.”

The door thudded shut behind him, muffling the noise.

The afternoon sun poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching in the glossy floors as you walked side-by-side with Heeseung’s mate, laughing about something stupid from earlier that morning.

“Seriously though,” she giggled, bumping her shoulder lightly against yours, “you and that old history teacher— I thought he was gonna combust when you corrected him in front of the whole class.”

You laughed, bright and easy, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “Not my fault I actually read the assigned chapters.”

She snorted, tossing you a fond look. “You’re dangerous.”

You grinned back. “Tell that to Park. He still thinks I’m a walking plague.”

Unknowingly, you and Heeseung’s mate stole every pair of eyes in the hall.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. It was impossible not to notice the two of you—two Omegas, looking every bit the part, effortless and untouchable, with unreal beauty and an almost unfair kind of perfection. Every step you took seemed to hum with power, the kind that made even passing Alphas stop in their tracks just to get another look.

Jay caught sight of you just as he rounded the corner, heading lazily toward the vending machines.

He told himself to keep walking. To pretend he hadn’t seen you.

But the second Heeseung’s mate chirped something about using the bathroom and peeled off with a wave, leaving you alone—he moved.

In three long strides, he was in front of you. You barely had time to blink before his fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist.

“Hey!” you protested, yanking instinctively, but his grip was iron, burning against your skin.

“What the hell, Park—”

“Shut up,” he hissed under his breath, casting a quick glance down the hall where classroom doors remained closed and the faint sound of teachers’ voices carried through the cracks. Without waiting, he dragged you with him, your heels skidding against the marble as you struggled to dig your heels in.

“Let me go!” you seethed, twisting in his grasp. “You’re insane—!”

Jay didn't spare you even a look. He hauled you to the very end of the corridor, shoving you back behind one of the thick stone pillars that lined the old architecture of the school.

You stumbled, slamming into the cold stone, only to find Jay caging you in, one hand pressed hard against the pillar beside your head, the other still wrapped tight around your wrist.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, glaring up at him.

Jay’s eyes were burning—not with heat, but with something more violent. Dark, furious. Dangerous.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

You blinked. “Where’s what?”

“My blazer,” he gritted out. His gaze flickered down your figure, eyes narrowing when he saw the clean navy blue blazeryou were wearing —your own—instead of the one he had forced on you last night. His jaw tensed so hard it could’ve been carved from stone.

A laugh tore out of your throat.

“Ohhh,” you drawled mockingly. “That.” You leaned back against the pillar, smirking up at him. “I left it in the council room hours ago.”

“You’d know that if you actually showed up for your own responsibilities instead of lurking around like a damn creep,” you said sweetly, dripping venom with every word.

Something flickered dangerously in his gaze. His hand slammed harder against the stone, right by your ear, but you didn’t even flinch.

If anything, you pushed closer, close enough to catch the faintest trace of his scent still clinging to your skin, stubborn even after all these hours.

“You’re unbelievable,” Jay muttered, his voice low and rough.

“Right back at you, Park,” you sneered. “Next time you want to play knight in shining armor, pick someone who actually wants your damn jacket.”

Jay’s breathing was harsh, every muscle in his body visibly tense. “You think you know everything, don't you?" he bit out.

“I know enough,” you shot back. “I know you hate me. And guess what, Park? I hate you more.”

The tension between you two was electric, suffocating, so thick you could practically taste the anger rolling off him in waves. Your heart hammered in your chest—not from fear, but from the pure adrenaline of it all.

His gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest, most dangerous second.

No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

Finally, with a furious, muttered curse under his breath, Jay ripped himself away from you like you physically burned him, storming down the hall without another word.

You stayed leaning against the pillar for a second longer, catching your breath, a small, wicked smirk curling on your lips.

Without hesitation, you pushed yourself off the cold stone with a deep breath, smoothing down your skirt like it could fix the way your blood was still rushing hot under your skin.

You turned the corner—and there she was, Heeseung’s mate leaning casually against the wall, waiting exactly where she said she would.

She didn’t say a word when her eyes landed on you. Just smiled softly and reached out, fingers deft as she adjusted the ribbon tied at the back of your head.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice light but her gaze a little too knowing.

You just smiled, slow and sweet, like you weren’t still shaking a little on the inside. “Perfect,” you lied easily, eyes twinkling with mischief.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly not believing you for a second, but said nothing else. Only slipped her arm through yours again, guiding you both back down the hallway toward your next class.

The council room was packed.

The long conference table overflowed with council members and their mates—Heeseung and his omega tucked close together at one end, Jungwon whispering something that made his mate giggle, Jake and his tossing casual grins across the table, Sunghoon lounging like a king with his arm slung behind his omega's chair.

Even Sunoo’s mate was there, perched elegantly beside you.

The air was thick with bodies, with heat, with the buzzing undercurrent of alphas, betas, and omegas crowding too close.

But you only saw one person. Jay.

You sat poised, the sharp line of your jaw held high, your nails—perfectly manicured, painted a sleek, mocking black; tapping against the folder in front of you.

You stared at him like you could set him on fire.

And Jay—that cocky bastard, barely spared you a glance.

Sunoo’s mate leaned toward you, voice soft. “Hey, Y/n. After this, can you help me with the decorations list—?”

“Of course,” you answered smoothly, your tone light and sweet, but your eyes never once left Jay.

You watched as he lazily flipped a page, jaw ticking ever so slightly.

He knew you caught the mistake in the proposal you worked on together, the one he touched last without telling you.

You could practically feel the smugness radiating off him, like he thought it wasn’t a big deal.

It was a big deal. And you wanted to gut him for it.

Jungwon’s voice rang loud and clear from the head of the table, “Meeting adjourned.”

Chairs screeched against the marble floor instantly, papers shuffled, and the whole council meeting room turned into a buzzing hive of motion and noise as everyone started packing up.

And just when it should’ve ended neatly—

Jay pushed off his chair with a lazy, almost predatory grace. Slamming his palm hard enough against the table that several people jumped, including you, though you masked it behind a lazy blink.

Heads whipped towards him.

Jay just smiled—that slow, confident, devastating smile that made you want to slap it off his face with your perfectly manicured hand.

“Party at my place tomorrow night,” he announced, voice booming across the council room like thunder.

“Bring everyone. Seniors, juniors—hell, bring half the damn school if you want. I want it packed.”

A collective gasp, then a loud eruption of cheers and whistles filled the air.

Someone from the Public Relations Committee actually banged a fist on the table in excitement. Another kid from Jungwon’s group whooped so loudly, it startled Heeseung.

Jake whistled low and threw an arm around his mate’s shoulders, grinning wide. Ni-ki immediately started planning out a playlist with two of the juniors trailing behind him like excited puppies.

Sunoo’s mate leaned in to whisper something excitedly into your ear about outfits—but your eyes stayed locked only on Jay. You barely heard anything over the roaring in your blood.

Jay wasn’t looking at anyone else. He was looking straight at you, one brow cocked high like a fucking challenge, daring you to say something.

The way he stood there, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders soaking up every ounce of attention in the room like he owned it—like he owned you.

You felt your jaw clench so tight your teeth ached.

Jay’s smirk grew wider.

He was baiting you, he wanted you angry, he thrived off it.

You lifted your chin higher, giving him a lazy, mocking once-over, from his disheveled tie down to the way his expensive shoes tapped against the marble floor like he couldn't stand still.

Jay’s smile faltered for half a second.

Sunoo’s mate nudged you, beaming. “What are you wearing to the party?”

Without tearing your glare away from Jay, you answered smoothly, “Whatever works.” Your voice was sweet as syrup but your eyes spat venom across the room at the boy you hated most.

Jay’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a slow, dangerous movement that made your stomach twist—in rage.

He tilted his head at you, smirking wider, like he was thinking the exact same thing.

The room swirled with laughter and plans and wild energy, but right then, it felt like only you and him existed.

Two storms waiting to crash into each other.

And when he finally tore his gaze away to clap Jungwon on the back and bark out something about making it the best party of the year.

You were left standing there, fuming, heart racing, hands trembling slightly from the effort it took to keep yourself composed.

The war had just begun.

And Jay had just thrown the first grenade.

⤷ read part 2 here !

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© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[anashins]

Can u write a enemies to fuckers Jaehyun smutty smut? 🤭

Pairing: Jaehyun x You

Genre: romance, smut

Warnings: The smut is rougher and there is cheating involved

Word Count: 2,2k

Summary: In university, Jaehyun and you did everything to sabotage each other after a turbulent on-and-off relationship. Six years later, you meet again at your friends' wedding and need to decide whether to make amends or play this game all over again.

A/N: Hiii! This is inspired by "Tell Me Lies" and both are just very toxic. I enjoyed writing this very much though!! :)

“What is he doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I should have told you…”

It has been six years since you had last seen Jaehyun, and your university friends’ wedding was the very last setting you had wanted to meet him in again. If anything, you had hoped to never see Jeong Jaehyun again in your life.

Hadn’t you…?

“I just thought,” your friend, the bride, continued, “after all these years, you could be a little… friendlier with each other. After all, he’s still my husband’s best friend. Be honest, would you have come if you knew?”

No, you wouldn’t have. But you decided to let it slip since it was her special day and took your friend’s hand into yours. “You know I would do anything to support you today.”

Anything… just not this, you ended the sentence in your head, but stayed silent. 

She knew, though. And just like you, she let it slip.

Of course, nobody could understand what you had to endure under Jaehyun’s temper during your time in university. In your first week, you had already hooked up and eventually dated for two months. Everything after that was a blur of an on-and-off whirlwind that was dominated by a lot of screaming, crying and cheating. 

And eventually, you had failed your finals because of Jaehyun’s sabotaging actions for getting a little too flirty with the tutor. Shortly after that, he had enlisted and you had never heard from him again.

Except for the times you had looked him up on social media, and lately, more than ever before, possibly, because you had hoped that this scenario would take place after all.

… that you would meet him exactly here again.

Your friend went on to greet the other guests that were entering the venue, and you suddenly didn’t know what to do, the half full champagne glass nearly shaking in your hands. You sensed his presence with a bit of distance right behind you, sensed his gaze on your back.

Taking a deep breather in, you slowly turned around.

You have grown ever since. You were better than the person you had been in your early twenties, stumbling all over someone’s feelings and getting yourself belittled at the same time. You were mature and not even comparable to the almost-teenager from back then anymore.

You hoped Jaehyun was too.

“Hello,” he said with the familiar, low voice that made your heart jump a beat again. “Long time no see.”

Jaehyun in a suit and with slicked back hair has always been your weakness. 

You were damned.

____

You bit into Jaehyun’s hand, hard. 

But the only sound he let out was a low growl of endured pain before he shoved his palm harder against your mouth to make you stop moaning so loudly. The back of your head hit the wall in the process and a sting of pain crossed that area, but you didn’t pay much attention to it.

“Yes, you sound pretty hot when you shut up,” he murmured into your ear.

Jaehyun’s eyes then narrowed, but the look inside them was unwavering when he lowered his head and kissed the side of your neck, not afraid to use his teeth while doing so. The way they grazed over your sensitive skin was aggressive and tender at the same time. It didn’t make sense. Nothing with him ever did.

No one knew you two had secretly sneaked into one of the rooms at the wedding residency only half an hour after you had met again. How had it gone from a simple “Hello, long time no see” to “Moan again and I will shove something into your mouth to make you stop”?

You didn’t know. But Jaehyun pushing his fingers deep inside between your legs right now made you forget his threat. Instead of moaning this time though, you swallowed down every noise. You, too, didn’t want to risk everyone getting wind of the way you had folded in his arms. Again.

After all the vile things you had done to each other, hooking up again should not be on your list. But after all these vile things too, what had never changed was your nearly unbearable attraction to each other. And in the span of six years, a lot of pent up desire had to be let out. 

Jaehyun tugged your panties aside so that his fingers had better access to their target area, causing your knees to weaken in the process. Your underwear was completely soaked, the dress you had carefully picked out for this special occasion was probably not in a much better shape. But at this moment, that was one of your least concerns.

You had your arms wrapped around Jaehyun’s neck, holding onto him as you tried to hook one thigh around his waist. He adapted to your change and you sank your teeth into his shoulder which you had freed of his shirt shortly before. Still knowing your angles and preferences, he put one arm under your leg and let you grind into his groin.

“The moment I saw you in this dress, I thought I had never encountered a more beautiful woman,” Jaehyun then said before he retreated his frenched fingers and slowly placed your leg back on the floor. “But I also thought that I needed to get rid of that dress as soon as possible.”

Bringing your face then close to his, he cupped your cheeks as you looked at him through half-lidded eyes, lips partially open as they had gotten so dry from all the quiet moaning. Jaehyun kissed you with a wicked  grin, his fingers on your back finding its way to the zipper of your dress in an instant. 

It hadn’t taken him long to have you sprawled out on the bed right in front of him. Your dress was hanging loosely around your waist with your upper body being entirely exposed, yet the fabric of the skirt blocked you from seeing what Jaehyun was actually doing right now, head deep between your thighs.

But what you knew from the feeling of his tongue draping over your sensitive folds, licking and sucking like all the times he had done in university quietly underneath the sheets, he made you come undone in this guestroom, legs kicking around so that he had to hold you in place with his hands grabbing onto your bum. Not only once, but twice. 

Your muscles still shook when Jaehyun arose, wiping the back of his hand over his glistening lips, then letting his tongue collect the remnants of your juices from his face. Chest heaving up and down irregularly, you were trying your best to come down from your heights while Jaehyun was kneeling in front of you and ripped the condom open with his teeth. 

You didn’t question the fact that he had been carrying it around in his suit all this time. Perhaps, you also didn’t want to know his intention from the very beginning, or with whom, as you were aware he was single right as of now.

Jaehyun helped you take off the dress fully before he put on the condom and settled on top of you. For the first time that day, you saw… what? Only fondness mirrored in his eyes? And only that, nothing more? As if that was possible. You loathed each other, still. 

“How dare you look at me that way,” you whispered and stretched out your hand to touch his cheek. “After all the vile things we’ve done to each other.”

Jaehyun nestled into your palm, then took your hand and kissed your fingers. “Don’t let me being nice get into your head. It’s a one time thing.”

A corner of your lip tilted up to a wicked smile. “For sure. Because I will never forget you sabotaging my finals.”

“And I will never forget you sabotaging my relationship.” Jaehyun then shifted your fingers with one swift motion and pinned your hand against the mattress, holding you tightly by your wrists now. “But now I will make you forget your fiancé even exists.” 

Your fiancé…

… never took you like Jaehyun used to. And sometimes you had wished he would, because no one you had shared a bed with after encountering him had even come close to what Jaehyun was capable of.

As before, he started off on top, slow and sensual, and his strokes deep and intimate. You could feel every inch of his body, your legs hooked around his waist and your arms folded behind his neck. His moans filled your ear and you got off on it, imitating his noises. It was your favorite position with him, because only then you thought you were really close, one unity. And sometimes, when he kissed you, it felt like you were being transported back to that fateful night many years ago. 

Jaehyun didn’t make you cum again in the first position, but when you were on all fours with your back turned to him, you had a hard time keeping your body steady as he somehow hit all the right spots from this angle, his hands on your glutes determining the pace. Slapping sounds nearly louder than your suppressed moans filled the room, but at that point, you didn’t really care at all.

“Jae-hyun, plea-se…” you begged when you had already collapsed onto the mattress, only your bottom remaining in that position with Jaehyun’s help who was unwavering with his strokes, hitting you from the back over and over again. “I- want to-”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter,” he interrupted you. “Tell me that only I can make you cum like that and beg again.”

It was one of his favorite mind games, to twist and turn your words to his liking. But when he finally got an “Only you can make me cum like this, please let me cum” out of your mouth, you were gripping the sheets underneath you and screamed into the fabric until your lips were dry and your legs spasmed.

Not much later, you were sitting on Jaehyun’s lap, his length sheathed deep inside you with his arms slowly running up and down your sweaty back, chest to chest. You kissed his ear, then the side of his neck, then his shoulder where you had left an impressive bite mark. This time, it was Jaehyun who was trembling beneath and inside you, eyes closed to chase after his own release. 

You hopped up and down his cock while holding onto his shoulders, the wetness making it hard for you to keep him inside sometimes as you knew he only got off the faster you went, so whenever he accidentally slipped out, Jaehyun got a well deserved breather that he used to kiss you - a little too long, a little too intimate. 

He still came very fast into the condom, and you both collapsed onto the bed. Jaehyun had never been much of a cuddler, and you, despite always having been the opposite, had adjusted to his style. 

But somehow, after this encounter, he was holding you in his arms and his fingers stroked your cheek - a little too long, a little too comfortable. Your head was lying on his chest, and you were able to listen to his heartbeat. It was a little too loud and beat a little too out of rhythm.

“I’m sorry I sabotaged your finals back then,” Jaehyun then confessed. 

“I’m sorry I sabotaged your relationship.” You snickered. “There are probably a lot of things we should be sorry for.”

“I know. But for right right now, this is enough, isn’t it?”

“Mhhm.”

And quietly, holding each other, you made up after years of vengeance and grudges.

Just like that.

___

Sometime later, you got ready in the adjacent bathroom while Jaehyun got dressed outside. 

You slipped back into your dress and smoothed the creases. There were a few stains that you sprinkled with water to clean a bit and just hoped that nobody would spot them. Your hair though… maybe you could ask the bride’s hairdresser to readjust your chosen style and put the blame on too tight bobby pins you needed to get rid of.

You took a deep breath in and opened the door in hopes you would find Jaehyun outside, ready to make up some kind of story for you and talk about who would leave first. But when you exited the bathroom, the room was empty…

… safe from your fiancé standing next to the messy bed, the remains of your contraception on the floor next to it.

You went pale.

“I got a message from your phone a few minutes ago to come here as fast as possible,” he stated dryly. “But I guess it was not sent by you.”

You had always been a creature of habit, same passwords and code combinations everywhere… for many years already. And Jaehyun knew.

“Damn you, Jeong Jaehyun.”

Two could play this game, even six years later.

You had not changed at all.

[st7rnioioss]

𓂅 ♥︎ TUTOR!MATT CAN'T RESIST BRATTY!READER

⋆ ˚ .ೃ ࿔ * pairing... tutor!matt x bratty!reader

𓂃 ֹ ᮫ in which... bratty!reader hasn't been getting any attention from matt all day.. so, when she finally decides to try and do something about it, matt can no longer hold back.

warnings... smut, dry humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, swearing, pet names (baby, matty, brat, sweetie)

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ the faint sounds of matt’s fingers rapidly flying across his controller was faded out as background noise as you panted heavily, your whole body feeling as if it was on fire, melting into matt’s. your arms were looped tightly around his neck, holding onto dear life as you chased your high.

he hadn’t been paying attention to you all day, and even when you’d come into his dorm wearing that one skirt he usually couldn’t resist, he ignored you completely.

hence why you’re sitting in his lap, desperately trying to get off from grinding and humping on him, whining straight into the shell of his ear.

“baby, please— just touch me, do anything,” you mewled, the soft pout you had given him when you stood in the doorway still plastered on your lips, desperately begging for him to touch you.

by now, matt’s favorite skirt had ridden up your waist, your dampened panties on display as you rutted your hips to try and make it feel good, and relieve the building ache between your legs.

he tutted, shaking his head lightly while his focus remained on the screen in front of him—but little did you know, he was fighting the urge to throw that damn controller across the room and have his way with you, to put you in your place.

you whined in defeat as he shook his head, causing him to let out a soft sigh. “stop bein’ such a brat.. you’ll survive,” um, no? you wouldn’t survive.

“no, matt! just do something, i can’t wait anymore,” you were sure you could feel tears of utter desperation start to build, how sexually frustrated you’d been all day, just for matt to deny even looking at you.

it seemed as if he’d gotten enough, because suddenly he turned off his game, swiftly fixing his glasses before pulling back to get a firm grip on you, switching positions so you had your back against his bed, his hips between your knees.

you don’t utter a word, staring at him with round, wide eyes, watching as he starts pushing his sleeves up his forearms. “such a fuckin’ brat.. y’can barely look at me without starting to grind on my lap,” he mumbled while he dragged your soaked panties down your leg, “can’t believe i’m making it this easy for you…”

quickly, matt had hinged your legs over his shoulders, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose for one last time, and without another word he attracted his lips to your swollen clit.

a gasp was pulled from your lips, your hands instinctively going to bury themselves into his dark locks. “matt! jesus christ—“ you panted, his pink muscle swirling over your sensitive bundle of nerves, feeling yourself clench around nothing.

the sounds that left your pretty lips were inevitable, the loud moans that’d probably cause matt a noise complaint being ripped one after one from your throat.

“s-so fucking good, matt.. knew you’d give in eventually,” you carefully rolled your hips against his face, and in return he wrapped his lips around your nub.

matt groaned against your pussy, the vibrations of his voice sending a thrill up your spine. “whatever…” he mumbled, his eyes momentarily opening to catch a glimpse at your expression, your eyes clenched shut, and lips parted.

slowly, one of his arms unwrapped from your thigh, two of his fingers prodding against your leaking, glistening folds, before he pushed both of them through your walls.

a loud cry of his name left your lips easily, gripping tighter onto his hair, letting him know he was doing a good job. you thoroughly enjoyed the fact he couldn’t hold up that dominant mask for too long, easily giving into you.

“feels so good, matty.. keep going f’me, please!” his fingers slowly start pumping in and out of your cunt in a steady, slow pace, your slick arousal coating his digits.

he momentarily pulls back to look at the sight, your pussy raw and wet, watching how you’d clench around his two fingers every time he curled them up in a specific angle.

“f-fuck.. you’re so wet. and so, so beautiful, i-“ he blabbered, his jeans starting to strain uncomfortably as his erection grew at the sight of you so needy, mixed with your sweet moans.

your hips twitched uncontrollably when he kept on curling his fingers to reach your mushy spot, and you knew you couldn’t hold back too much longer when his head ducked back down.

matt peppered soft, gently, and almost shy kisses to your pussy, all while he kept fucking his fingers in and out of your now drooling folds, occasionally flicking his tongue over your clit.

“so beautiful, and you’re all mine.. gosh, i- can i fuck you after this, sweetie? please…”

more tutor!matt x bratty!reader

˚𝜗𝜚 notes... for my sweet angel cutie baby @misssmi you’re welcome mommy

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❛❛ © ST7RNIOIOSS est. 2023 ❜❜

[hjparisian]

white button up- harry j potter x reader

p: harry j potter x fem! reader w: unprotected SMUT (p in v, wrap before you tap), oral (fem receiving), fingering, kinda fluff, dom! harry, harry has a private dorm cause yea summary: after a long quidditch practice, harry enters his dorm to find his girlfriend wearing something of his. a/n: trying to write smut. sorry if its not the greatest. this has been sitting in the drafts for a good minute so i decided to get it out in honor of harry's birthday recently <3

Harry was returning to his dorm after a very long and tiring quidditch practice. The first game was right around the corner and it was against the Slytherins, so Harry had to make sure they were prepared.

All Harry was focused on now was seeing his girlfriend, who is currently waiting for him in his private dorm. They haven't been able to spend time together with Harry's quidditch practices, (Y/N)'s tutoring sessions with the younger years and NEWT classes.

Harry had finally gotten to his dorm room. He lightly knocked it before opening the door and entering.

"(Y/N) love, I'm here," Harry said as he sets down his stuff by the door.

The moment Harry looked up, he was graced with a stunning view, one he wasn't expecting.

(Y/N) sat on his bed reading her charms book. But it was what she was wearing that caught the boy off guard. She was in a white button up, but not just any white button up. It was one of his from his trunk. It was slightly big, hanging off one of her shoulders, exposing the soft skin.

"Oh, hey Harry," (Y/N) responded once taking notice of the boy.

The girl had set the book down on the bed before getting up to greet the boy. Harry stood still, mesmerized by the little clothing on his girlfriend's body. He could feel the blood rushing to his crotch.

"Is that mine?" He questioned, despite knowing the answer.

(Y/N) felt her face get warmer. "Oh, yeah. I just decided to get more comfy while I wait for you. I can change back if you want."

"No no!" Harry responded. "I was just a little shocked that's all."

"You sure?"

"Yes," said Harry as he placed his hands are her waist. "Besides, I think it looks better on you than me."

A small giggle slipped out of (Y/N)'s mouth. "Oh, you think so?"

"I know so."

(Y/N) begun leaning closer to Harry, much to his delight. He followed, meeting her in the middle as their lips touch. (Y/N)'s hands move up to wrap around Harry's neck, pulling him into a deeper kiss. His hold on her tightened a bit, not wanting to let go.

Unfortunately for Harry, (Y/N) was the first to break the kiss.

"So, what did you want to do?" She asked him. "I can help you with your homework since I already finished mine."

"I have a better idea," Harry said, rubbing her waist.

"Oh? What is it?"

"This."

The boy pulled her back into a kiss, his hands gripping her waist. Harry slid one of his hands down to her ass, squeezing it. The feeling made her gasp, allowing Harry to slide his tongue into her mouth. The two began fighting for dominance, but like always, Harry would win.

Harry broke the kiss, leading (Y/N) to lay on his bed. He climbs above her, one of his hands hovering over the buttons of her (his) shirt. He looks at her, gazing into her sparkling eyes.

"May I?"

"You may," she assures him.

Harry unbuttons the shirt on (Y/N)'s body. Once he buttoned the last button, he moves each side of the shirt, revealing what was underneath. His green eyes ogling at her breasts, he brought has hands up to cup them before he knead them.

"You like this?" Harry asked her, knowing she did.

Harry leans down and takes one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking on it while his hand tweak the other one. A small noise falls from her mouth. He felt her hands move up to his dark hair, slightly tugging on it. Now that's how Harry knows that he's making her feel good.

He switches, making sure each one gets attention (as well as purple bruises). He began moving down towards her cunt, covered in lace panties.

Harry looks up at (Y/N), silently asking if he could continue. She nods. The boy hooked his fingers under her panties and slid them off her legs.

"Look at you," Harry groans. "All wet for me."

The boy stuck his tongue out, dragging it up her cunt. The taste of her had invaded his senses.

"And you taste so good."

Harry proceeded to stick a finger inside her and begins to suck at her clit. The feeling was all too good to (Y/N), who was starting to reach her high as Harry was eating her out.

"Harry, I'm gonna-"

But the boy pulled away before she could climax, which left her a bit frustrated.

"What'd you do that for?"

Harry smirked. "Can't let you cum yet. Gotta wait 'til I'm in you."

The girl whined as she pulsed around nothing. "Well what are you waiting for then?"

The boy climbed back over her, a mischievous grin plastered on his face as his green eyes examined her.

"Beg."

"What?" (Y/N) was confused.

"I want you to beg for it."

The girl huffed. "As if-" Her words were caught in her mouth as she left Harry's fingers plunge back inside her.

"Tell me what you want." Harry demanded as he slowly moved his fingers. "Or else I'll leave you be and you can make yourself cum."

(Y/N) pouted, deciding to swallow her pride for her pleasure.

"Please Harry." She says as she tugs on the waistband of his pants. "I want you to make me come. I want to feel you inside me."

"Yea?"

"Harry," she whines out. "Please."

"Help me take these off then," Harry tells her, referring to his pants.

The girl clumsily pulls down Harry's pants and boxers, the latter helping her in removing them entirely. He removed his quidditch sweater, returning to his position on top of her. As (Y/N) looked up at her boyfriend's green eyes, they seemed to soften upon her gaze.

"You sure you want this?" Harry asks her.

(Y/N) nods. "I do Harry."

He positioned himself at her entrance, rubbing the tip against her wetness before pushing in. (Y/N) winced at the slight pain, which caused Harry to stop and look up at her.

"You alright? We can stop if you want to."

"No! I'm alright, you can keep going."

After being reassured, Harry continue to push in until he was completely inside her. He lets out a groan as he feels her pulse around him.

"Bloody hell, you're so tight," Harry says to her. "Feels so good."

Harry begins to thrust into her, slowly but deep. A moan slips from (Y/N)'s mouth, boosting his ego. Harry grabs the back of (Y/N)'s legs, wrapping them around him before he started to move faster. The sensation causing (Y/N) to arch her back, her chest pressing against Harry's. Her hands were wrapped around his back, clawing against it.

(Y/N) brought one of her hands downward, playing with her clit. Harry took notice of this and grabbed her hand, pinning it above her head. The action caused her to gasp.

"Only I get to touch it this time." Harry said to her.

He kept one of his hands pinning (Y/N)'s above her hand as his other one went back down to where the girl originally had hers. The feeling had (Y/N) closer to her high. It was too good.

"Harry, I think I'm gonna cum."

"Shit, I think I am too."

Harry's movements became faster and sloppier as the two reached their climax. (Y/N) was the first to let go, cumming around Harry's cock.

Harry quickly pulled out, pumping himself and letting his cum spill onto (Y/N)'s stomach. He stayed above her for a moment, admiring the view in front of him. His girlfriend covered in his cum as she is recovering from her high. Such a pretty sight to see.

"You're alright?" Harry asks (Y/N).

She responds with a nod. "Yea, I'm alright."

Harry smiles, kissing her forehead. "I'll be back then."

He moved away to grab a damp cloth from his connecting washroom, helping to clean up the mess he left on her. Once the two were cleaned up, they laid back on Harry's bed, his arms wrapped around his girl as he kissed her lips.

"You know," Harry began. "You should wear my stuff more often."

"Oh really?" (Y/N) asked. "Does that mean we'll get more moments like this?"

"Maybe."

The girl giggled before a yawn slipped her mouth.

"You should rest now darling."

She nods, shifting herself to be more comfortable.

"I love you Harry."

"I love you too, (Y/N)," He said to her as he joins her in a much needed rest.